Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

  “Like this?” she asked.

  “Just like that! Excellent. You are blessed to martyr yourself on this mission, Fatima,” he continued. “I wish I could participate directly. Soon you will be in paradise. You certainly look the part dressed like that, but my concern is your demeanor. You must cast aside all religious modesty and blend in with the nonbelievers. You know, a woman who has had sexual relations carries herself much differently. Perhaps that is something I can help you with …”

  So it’s true. Not even devout Muslim men can control themselves in the presence of an uncovered woman.

  She cut him off and ended the meeting without rejecting him outright. She would raise suspicion if she did not change out of the sinful clothing and return to the university quickly.

  Later, at the hospital, Fatima mentally reviewed her instructions.

  “If you think you will be compromised, detonate the bomb immediately. Do not be taken into custody. Otherwise, wait until the casualties start to arrive. Then detonate the bomb.”

  She began to sweat.

  Eighty-five

  Amir said a final prayer, closed his eyes, and pressed the button with his gloved thumb.

  The heavy ambulance and fire truck parked next to the bomb helped to contain the blast, but the two EMTs who had been using the hood of the stolen public works truck as a lunch table disappeared in a cloud of pink vapor. Shrapnel-ridden victims tumbled through the air as the stage collapsed. Eardrums shattered and bled. The peculiar, almost peaceful blanket of silence that had spread across the field in the seconds following the explosion was soon pierced by bloodcurdling screams of human suffering.

  Amir waited several seconds for the blast debris to disperse before slowly opening his eyes and raising his head to survey the damage. The stage area was draped in a thick black cloud of smoke and fire. Victims screamed in anguish and struggled to move away from the explosion any way they could—running, crawling, clawing their way across the warm, blood-soaked grass with their bare hands.

  Some froze in place, their eyes wide, unsure of what had just happened, their brains scrambling for explanations. A handful of others came running out of the dark cloud, their final moments spent as red and orange balls of flame. Amir smiled and let out a muffled cry of “Allahu Akbar!” before directing his attention to his warriors.

  They had been told to lie down on the ground behind their equipment fifteen seconds before detonation and to remain in place for ten seconds after the blast. They were then to retrieve their rifles, spread out, and kill as many people as possible before being killed or taking their own lives. There were two key goals: maximum casualties, and nobody is taken alive.

  “Allah will be watching, and so will I,” were Amir’s final words to them.

  By Amir’s count, it was fifteen seconds since the blast and the three men continued to hug the ground next to the equipment. Twenty seconds. Twenty-five seconds. At thirty seconds he cursed them and spit, disgusted that three such men—losers with no futures—would squander the opportunity to martyr themselves and spend eternity in paradise. He reached back and gripped the Ruger .45 in his waistband.

  Where did these unworthy pigs come from! Why? When there are so many truly worthy brothers! Why these fools! Why not me? Why not me—right now!

  He hesitated to draw the weapon, resisting the urge with every ounce of his faith. He was not even supposed to be there. He was to simply train the men and send them on their way from the safe house while he continued onward to D.C. But after seeing the mental capacity and pitiable skills of the chosen martyrs, he had had no choice but to thin the ranks and alter the plan. Drawing attention to himself now could jeopardize the Washington mission and the only thing he truly cared about—martyrdom. As he slowly released the pistol from his grip, he saw one of the three warriors raise his head to peer over the equipment and became overjoyed.

  Yes! Now do it! Do it!

  Eighty-six

  The three gunmen fired into the crowd and fanned out across the field as Amir watched from his perch.

  Initially, the shooters sent bullets through the air in an undisciplined, adrenaline-fueled frenzy. All three were halfway through their second thirty-round magazines before they remembered their leader’s instructions.

  “First, take several long, deep breaths to calm the nerves. Then shoot at specific targets. Spray and pray only works in the movies, and you have limited rounds. Make them count!”

  Amir praised God at the sight of the warriors and kept his eyes on the carnage as he began to crawl backwards from the edge of the roof to make his escape. But he froze when one of his soldiers stopped firing, held his rifle above his head with both hands, and disappeared into the smoke, sprinting toward the burning stage.

  One of the remaining gunmen broke formation and headed for the edges of the field. He fired rapidly, choosing targets carefully and methodically as he walked slowly along the tree line with a psychotic smile pasted across his face.

  Eighty-seven

  Officer Charlie Worth had been chatting with a rookie cop on the far side of the field when the bomb exploded. Both immediately took cover in the tree line. When the gunmen opened fire, the rookie called on his radio for help and drew his pistol.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  Worth stood expressionless, frozen stiff as a board.

  “Let’s move, Charlie! It looks like the crowd near the stage took one of them out, but the other two are chasing people down. We gotta do something!”

  No response from the veteran officer.

  “What the fuck, Charlie! Let’s go buddy. Time to get into the fight!” he pleaded, slapping his colleague firmly on the back to try and snap him out of his funk.

  “Fuck it! I’ll go alone.”

  The rookie moved out swiftly, using the trees for cover as he closed distance with the shooter. When the gunman paused to change magazines, the officer fired a single 9mm round into the middle of his back. When the terrorist simply paused, he fired three more rounds into the upper back and base of the skull. The gunman was dead before his body hit the ground. The officer sprinted to the other side of the field and disappeared into the smoke.

  Eighty-eight

  Mark reached Founders Field moments after the blast and paused in the tree line to assess the situation and catch his breath.

  Helpless mothers and fathers shrieked. Bloody townspeople scurried in all directions. For a lucky few, t-shirts became bandages and belts became tourniquets while the majority of the wounded simply screamed and thrashed on the ground.

  Landry scanned from left to right and checked his six o’clock position twice. He noted one active shooter in the center of the field and watched a police officer bounce from tree to tree on the other side before dropping one of the gunmen with several rounds to the back. Interpreting the data from the scene as quickly as he could, he formulated a plan and sprang into action.

  Explosion. Likely a bomb. At least two gunmen. One still active in the center of the field, approximately ninety meters in front of my current position. I see no other threats. I see two cops giving first aid near the stage area. Gunman firing into the crowd has his back to me. I have a 9mm and can make that run in under ten seconds. Neutralize the threat. Go!

  Amir redirected his attention from the stage area to the center of the field just in time to see a man sprint out of the tree line toward his only remaining warrior. With each stride, the runner dug his toes into the ground and pushed off with all his might. His eyes were locked decisively on his target and he pumped his arms madly as he closed the distance with remarkable speed and determination. A mesmerized Amir slowly rose to his feet with his eyes locked on the mysterious man.

  Eighty-nine

  Mark had briefly considered using his 9mm to neutralize the threat, but the distance was less than ideal, and too many civilians were passing through his line of sight. The only other option was to get up close and personal as quickly as possible. As he approached the threat, he lea
pt high into the air, extended his legs, and violently planted both feet squarely in the small of the unsuspecting warrior’s lower back.

  Landry felt the man’s lower spine snap on impact as his body folded like a cheap card table. When both hit the ground, Mark immediately took control of the terrorist’s rifle—a Sig Sauer M400—and rose to his feet.

  The young terrorist was motionless, but his eyes showed signs of life and he was mumbling. Mark pulled the rifle into his shoulder, pointed the muzzle in the young man’s face, and quickly fired two rounds. He felt the bolt lock to the rear and looked to confirm the magazine was empty. Then he dropped to his knees and started patting down the dead terrorist to find another magazine. He found one in the man’s cargo pocket. The magazine contained only one round.

  You gotta be kidding me.

  Ninety

  When he saw the mysterious man fire two high-powered rifle rounds into his warrior’s head, Amir knew that the attack phase of the mission was over and it was time to get the hell out of there. He put the cell phone detonator into a cargo pocket and quickly looked around to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything.

  As Amir turned to leave, he heard the main door of the structure below him burst open, followed by the sound of a man screaming authoritatively. He peered down from the roof as a large man exited the building with a pistol in one hand, waving a badge in the other.

  “Blue! Blue! Blue!” he screamed.

  Amir’s training and instincts told him he needed to leave the area immediately. Survivors would be taking pictures and recording video on their cell phones. Authorities would descend on the field rapidly, and escaping unnoticed would become more difficult with each passing moment. But his feet remained frozen on the roof as a small voice in his head chided him.

  The bomb damage had been less than optimal. Had the last-minute appearance of the emergency vehicles suppressed the blast? Or were his bomb-making skills to blame? How many were dead? He had hoped for a record but that seemed unlikely; the gunmen had been silenced too quickly. Had they been poor choices for such a mission? Or had he failed to train them adequately and doomed the mission by cutting the number of shooters in half? Why not add one more dead American cop to the tally? Are you a warrior or a babysitter?

  I am a warrior.

  Amir rapidly drew the .45 from his waistband, aimed for the center of the plainclothes officer’s back, and quickly squeezed off three rounds. The target continued for several steps before collapsing to his knees and slumping forward into a determined crawl. Grudgingly impressed with the undercover officer’s determination, Amir raised the pistol again and aimed for the head. He breathed deeply, closed one eye, and tried to steady his front sight on the back of the man’s head.

  But his attention involuntarily refocused on the kneeling man with the rifle in the center of the field before he could pull the trigger.

  Amir turned his head to the side to get a better look as the scene unfolded in slow motion. All sound was muted. Tunnel vision. As if someone had turned out the lights and shined a single spotlight on the center of the field.

  With blinding speed the man jammed a magazine into the rifle and slapped the bolt release with the palm of his hand to chamber a round. Without pause he pointed the muzzle directly toward Amir and took aim. Amir dropped to his stomach, hugged the roof, and lay motionless for several seconds. When he lifted his head just enough to peer out over the field, he froze.

  The man with the rifle was running straight toward him.

  Ninety-one

  Amir cursed himself for caving to his ego and getting involved unnecessarily. He should have detonated the bomb and then left during the initial moments of chaos. Now he was being pursued by what appeared to be a very capable and determined man. He considered trying to stop him with gunfire but hitting a moving target at such a distance was tough even under the best of circumstances. Better to let him get closer. He kept his head down and said a quick prayer.

  Dear God … forgive my selfishness … and if you deem me worthy, give me the strength and wisdom to finish this day so that I may martyr myself for your glory in Washington. I will not fail you again. I beg for your mercy!

  Amir took a deep breath and peered over the rooftop to check on the running man’s progress. When he surveyed the scene, his anxious expression turned to a wide grin. God had answered his prayers.

  Thank you. Allahu Akbar!

  Ninety-two

  Mark made a hard right turn as he neared the structure and took cover behind a tree. He quickly scanned the area and raised the rifle to cover the roof.

  Come on, Buddy. Pop up just one more time for me. Do it. Take a peek. You know you want to.

  Mark took several deep breaths to calm his nerves and prepare for the one shot he’d be able to take with the rifle before having to switch to the 9mm, which was still concealed in the small of his back.

  Come on, asshole. Take a peek. Just one little …

  Ninety-three

  The rifle dropped from Mark’s hands as soon as the probes from Officer Charlie Worth’s Taser hit him squarely between the shoulder blades. He screamed, dropped to his knees, and shook as 1,800 volts traveled through his body for a full five seconds.

  “Don’t move!” said Worth.

  Still kneeling, Mark turned to face the officer. “Get that fucking thing off me!”

  “I said, don’t move!”

  Another surge of electricity followed. Landry rolled onto his back and screamed. Worth removed the nightstick from his duty belt and fumbled for his radio. “I have one of the shooters! I have one of the shooters by the bathrooms. I need backup now!”

  Mark lay flat on his back after the second shock and tried to catch his breath. He saw movement on the roof out of the corner of his eye and rolled onto his side to get a better look.

  A young man gazed down at him from the edge of the roof with a faint grin on his face. Mark turned to Officer Worth, pointed at the roof, and screamed as best he could.

  “Shooter! Shooter’s right there! Look!”

  Mustering all the strength he could, Mark rolled onto his stomach and tried to get up on all fours. When he looked up at the roof again, the shooter was gone.

  “He’s getting away! God dammit! He’s getting away!”

  Charlie Worth dropped the radio, stepped forward, and brought his nightstick down on Mark’s head with everything he had.

  Ninety-four

  “Hi Bill. How’s it going?” asked the young receptionist from inside her glass booth.

  The thirty-seven-year-old security guard stuffed as much of his face as possible through the circular hole in the glass and whispered softly. “I’d be a lot better if I was on the other side of this glass with you.”

  “Not gonna happen,” she answered without looking up from her computer terminal.

  “That’s okay. I get it. You’re shy. Would you prefer I find us somewhere more private? Perhaps a nice little broom closet on the fourth floor?”

  When she didn’t respond, he blew a kiss and turned around to scan the emergency room’s waiting area as he had done hundreds of times before, rotating his gaze back and forth with a neutral, somewhat disinterested expression on his face.

  Approximately forty people sat, stood, or paced about in the waiting area. Kids with ear infections. Adults with nasty coughs. A bunch with cuts and scrapes, but nothing that couldn’t wait while the more seriously injured or sick were seen first.

  Bill was about to move on and check the pediatric wing when a young woman sitting in the corner with a backpack on her lap caught his attention. Visitors to the ER are somewhat predictable. They read, talk, watch TV, or keep themselves otherwise occupied. This young lady was different. She was just sitting there, holding the bag with both arms and avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked in her direction. The air conditioning was pumping but she was visibly sweating. Bill knocked twice on the receptionist’s glass barrier.

  “See the brunette by herself in the corner?
How long has she been here?”

  “Jesus, you sure got over me fast.”

  “No, seriously.”

  The receptionist glanced over at the young woman. “She got here like an hour ago but never checked in. I haven’t had time to chase her down. She must be waiting for someone.”

  “She’s been in this AC for an hour, wearing nothing but a little t-shirt, and she’s still sweating like that. She looks nervous, doesn’t she?”

  “It’s the ER, Bill. Everyone is nervous.”

  “Yeah, but not like that. I’ve seen that kind of nervous before.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Baghdad.”

  Bill walked across the waiting area to the drinking fountain, where he bent down and took a long drink of cold water. Then he casually walked toward the girl.

  “It’s a hot one today, hey?”

  She didn’t respond, so he moved closer, stood directly in front of her, and repeated himself.

  “I said it’s pretty hot today. Don’t you think?”

  Fatima looked up with a forced smile. “It’s not so bad.”

  “Not so bad? Whew! I’m burning up in here. Looks like you are too,” he said pointing to the sweat running down her forehead on her nose. “The water in the bubbler is cold if you want any.”

  “I’m fine,” she answered, casually wiping her brow with one hand while keeping the other hand wrapped firmly around the backpack in her lap.

  “Yeah, it’s city water. Kinda rusty tasting. There’s a cafeteria right down the hall if you’d prefer something else. Want me to show you where it is?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine,” she answered abruptly.

  “Suit yourself. I’m not bothering you, am I?”

  “No. I just … I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Oh yeah? Sorry to hear that. You waiting for someone?”