“Your family is safe.”
“Good.”
“Jerry took them to his friend Claire’s house, over by Harvard.”
“Yeah, I know where that is. We had a picnic there last summer.”
“And David. Don’t go home. Some men were coming up your front steps as we were leaving out the back. I think it was the terrorists. Apparently they’re interested in more than just eavesdropping.”
“Great!” The elevator doors opened. “Well, I hadn’t planned on going back there anyway. Man! I hope they don’t break in!” He stepped off the elevator and headed toward the back door of the station.
“I had to leave my car there. I hope they don’t mess with that. If they mess with it, I’m gonna be ripped.”
“Are you going to miss your meeting?”
“No. Jerry dropped me off at a rental place. I’m all set for the moment. Although, at this point I’m pretty sure I’ll be late.”
David looked at his watch. “It’s quarter to six. Where are you now?”
“On 93, heading into Boston.”
David passed by the newsroom, it was still roaring with activity. “Well, call me as soon as your meeting is done.”
“Better believe it. I won’t let you get killed alone.”
David had to smile. “Yeah. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Stay safe till I get there. See ya.”
David flipped the phone shut and held in the button on the side. If Alex was going to call him later and meet up, he wanted to make sure the phone was set to vibrate. It buzzed in his hand––then buzzed again. The readout said, “Incoming Text Message.” He flipped it back open and looked at the screen. “I will kill you, Kafir. Mind your own business.”
David’s heart froze.
Did they know he was going to the wrecking company? How? Maybe they only knew he had looked up information in the computer and shared it with the FBI. Maybe they didn’t know where he was headed. He reached out and steadied himself on the wall. What if they were watching him right now, waiting to kill him? Suddenly, the hall to the back door seemed like the throat of an enormous beast, expanding and contracting, in anticipation of swallowing him whole. He forced himself forward, gripping the wall as he went. The messages had told him to go to the industrial park. The author of the messages, whoever it was, had clearly shown a knowledge of future events. If the messages said go, then it had to be possible for him to go. Otherwise, why send him?
He reached out a shaking hand, gripped the door handle, and turned it. The door creaked open a crack. Cold air and the smell of oil and tar hit him in the face. There was no one in the carport. He pushed further and peeked out at the hill on the other side of the service road. No movement there either. His muscles loosened, but only slightly; there was still a lot of distance to cover from the station to the garage––and the terrorists could be anywhere. He rubbed his face with his hands. This is going to be a LONG night.
Chapter 21
A low tone came again from somewhere in the distance beyond the wall of storage boxes where Brad Knight sat on the floor hugging a rusted metal pipe. He strained to listen, hoping to decipher its source, but the transient sound drifted away into numbing silence, for the third time.
He rested his groggy head against the pole, allowing his neck a break. One eye opened sluggishly and studied the tiny camera on the tripod five feet in front of him. Its cold lifeless stare scrutinized his every move. They had warned him, any attempt at escape would be punished severely. So he remained still, and waited. The duct tape on his wrists forced his hands into a praying position, and the continual pressure had caused his fingers to turn a dead shade of blue. The feeling had left them, and that concerned him, but he remained calm.
This was not the first time he had faced horrors in his job as a field reporter. Sometimes at night when he closed his eyes to sleep, he still heard the bombs and the wailing of air raid sirens outside his hotel in Baghdad. He saw images of the decay in Somalia, and smelled the blood in the subterranean torture chambers of Uganda. Yes, he had seen his share of horrors, and somehow he felt he would get through this one as well.
A door slammed, and a scratchy voice spoke in Arabic on the other side of the wall. Brad listened intently. He had continued studying Arabic, even after his time in Iraq, and had become quite adept.
“Get up, we are going,” the voice said.
“Are we going to the bomb site?” said the guard.
“Not yet. Now we will move the hostage to the truck, and wait.”
“Wait? Why can we not go now?”
“Afif says to wait. So for now, we wait. But we will move to the truck. When it is time, we are ready.”
“Has the bomb site been secured?”
“Soon. If the arms dealer does his job.”
The guard kicked something. “Why do we trust that Kafir?”
“Must I say it again? We only trust him to a point. For now, his goals are our goals, so we will work together. Have you not heard the old saying, ’The enemy of my enemy is my friend?’”
“I don’t trust him. He should have killed the American by now.”
“He will do what he is paid to do. We are on the brink of our finest hour. Soon, every city in America will be begging for mercy.”
“Allahu Akbar, brother.”
“Allahu Akbar. Now, let us move the journalist.”
A bolt slid, and the storage door creaked open. Brad looked up at the outline of the man vibrating in the doorway. The drugs they had shot into his arm made it difficult to concentrate, but he forced himself to focus. The guard was wearing a black shroud but was otherwise dressed in normal street attire, blue dress shirt, jeans, black shoes. Without the head covering, he could have been any college student.
“Get up. We go,” he said in English. He pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, gripped Brad by the wrist, and cut into the duct tape.
Brad winced as the tape ripped ample sections of hair from his arms. He rubbed his eyes with rubber fingers, then attempted to focus on the knife in the man’s hand. Under normal circumstances he would have made a move for it, but in his current state, he decided against it; his brain was doing somersaults in his head.
“Get up!” the man said, waving the knife in the air.
Brad rolled onto his hands and knees, pushed himself to a stand, and steadied himself on the pipe. The room dipped and swayed uncomfortably.
“Let’s go.” The guard gripped him by the shirt at the shoulder and pushed him into the other room. “Kneel and put your hands out.” Brad knelt. The guard held him down by the shoulders as the other man peeled off strips of duct tape and re-taped his wrists.
It struck Brad as odd that these men would use duct tape. If these were the same Arabs responsible for the recent theft of nuclear waste from Pilgrim Station on Cape Cod Bay, he would have expected handcuffs. Breaking into a secured depot and making off with two cases of plutonium, he was sure, took a level of professionalism several grades above duct tape. Could this be a different terrorist cell?
He was gripped under the arms and lifted to his feet. He teetered a moment, but when he found his balance, the men led him out of the room and down a short hallway. Brad couldn’t tell what kind of facility it was. There were metal doors with glass windows, but the walls had been stripped bare. They turned a corner and went through a door leading out to a large bay containing a mid-sized U-Haul. The back was empty.
“Get in,” said the man with the scratchy voice.
Brad walked up the ramp with slow unsteady steps and stole a few last glimpses of the bay. The swimming pools of color kept him from clearly identifying anything. The man climbed up behind him, forced him to a sitting position, and crouched down. “If you are not bound when we open this door, we will shoot you. Understand?”
Brad gave a heavy nod, though he suspected it was nothing more than an empty threat; they needed him alive. He was their bargaining chip with the television station, assuming the
broadcasting of their tapes was still crucial to their plan.
The Arab reached up and grabbed the canvas belt on the sliding door. It rattled all the way to the bottom, and sealed with a clunk––leaving Brad alone in utter darkness.
32221
The glaring sun was nearing the horizon when David nudged his car up to the chain link fence across the street from Ace Wrecking and Repair. The industrial park was always busy, and today was no exception. There was activity up the street at the GE plant, and behind him in the large glassed face of the cable company. But on the other side of the road, in and around the garage, all was quiet.
To the left of the building sat a silent fleet of tow trucks, not a space empty. The bay doors facing the trucks were closed up tight. David didn’t know much about towing companies, but he was fairly certain they didn’t close up shop before seven on a Friday night.
David gripped the steering wheel. Was he late? Had they already moved the bomb? He’d expected at least some kind of activity, something he could observe. The message said, Danger at the West Downs Industrial Park, where the diesel flows. Go alone. So, here he was, at the park, against the more prudent course of heeding the terrorist’s threat and bugging out of the city. Once again he was stuck with no idea what his next move should be, walking around with a big fat target on his chest.
Rage boiled in his veins.
This is RIDICULOUS! I’m putting my LIFE in danger, the least you can do is give me what I need to get the job done! He looked around the interior of the car. There were words, but nothing spoke to him. He reached down and flipped the glove box open. Inside was a small stack of napkins, an old hide-a-key box, and the manual for the car. He pulled the manual out and opened it. “Please,” he spoke through clenched teeth, “a little more information would be helpful.” His eyes bounced around the page, but there was nothing. The next page was the same, and the next, and the next. All the way to the back of the book, nothing! Not one usable message in the entire manual. He gripped the book and threw it against the door.
So what are my choices? Stay here––or go over to the scary looking building and peek in through the windows? Yeah like THAT’S ever going to happen! Maybe I’m supposed to wait. Maybe I’m early. Maybe, maybe, maybe! It’d be nice to actually KNOW what I’m supposed to do next!
He folded his arms and settled in to watch the building––but as he waited, his imagination began to get the better of him. There were a hundred elaborate and graphic ways the terrorists could sneak up and kill him. His eyes moved continually from the rear view mirror to the side mirrors and back again. Fear rose inside him like a tide, building and building, until he could take it no longer. He jumped out of the car and crouched next to the door.
Behind him, three people walked in the direction of the cable building, to his right a man was getting into his car. Otherwise, the lot was quiet. David straightened, realizing how obvious he would look if he was the only one walking around crouched.
He followed the narrow pathway between the fence and the row of parked cars to the gate. The man inside the ticket booth noticed him and nodded. David gave the man a pressed smile and a robotic wave. A red car came up the road; David tracked it with his eyes. It slowed and pulled into the entrance. A bearded man rolled his window down and grabbed a ticket. Feeling self-conscious, David took a few steps back, to give the car plenty of room. The man stabbed the ticket into his visor and proceeded into the lot.
David looked again at the parking attendant, then back at the lot behind him. FLASH! Light from the setting sun reflected off the side mirror of a car, and the word flash jumped into his mind. The message from that morning suddenly came back, loud and clear, reciting itself with rhythmic automation. Flash, one, two, three, drop.
DROP!
His legs buckled, and his body hit the ground as a bullet ricocheted off the fence behind him. The sound echoed through the parking lot, and gravel bit into David’s forearms as he scrambled next to a car. Another shot glanced off the hood. His breath came in gasps. His heart pounded in his ears. He put his back to the car and looked up at the window of the ticket booth. The attendant had dropped out of sight. Only a coiled black wire could be seen wavering in the window.
Oh, God! Oh, GOD! What do I do! Panic threatened to overwhelm him. Do I stay? Where’s the shooter? Can he see me? God help me. Please! His head swam, and he felt like he might pass out. –Okay. Be calm. Be calm. Calm. Think, David. THINK! He squeezed his eyes shut. The shots couldn’t be coming from the cable company; the angle was wrong. They had to be coming from the right corner of the parking lot, from the old shoe plant.
He reached up, wrapped his fingers around the glass of the side mirror, and pulled. The mirror snapped from the socket, just as the sniper took two more shots. The windshield cracked and the driver’s side window exploded. He cupped his arms around his head as glass rained down.
Carefully, he leaned on his elbow and raised the mirror up to see over the hood. Shards of glass fell from his arm as the image in the mirror wobbled erratically. He could not stabilize his trembling hand. He squinted at the shifting reflection of the old shoe building. He had to be there. No other angle made sense. There! A pinpoint of light glinted from a fourth story window; was it the scope of the shooter? He repositioned and concentrated on the spot; the glimmer was still there.
He brought the mirror down and dug his shaking hand into his pocket for Cooper’s business card. Coins and car keys dumped out onto the pavement. As he fished around, a loud noise began to reverberate from the garage across the street. One of the bay doors was opening! A large diesel engine rumbled inside.
David slid under the car and craned his neck to see out around the tire. A large U-Haul truck was pulling out. Were they moving the bomb? Where would they go? Two men of Arab descent were in the U-Haul, but he didn’t recognize either one of them. The driver glanced in David’s direction as the truck came to a stop. David jerked his head aside and slammed it hard against the tire, causing a stab of pain to shoot down his neck. He ignored it and scrambled further under the car. His heart pounded harder. Do they know? It looked like he saw me. Will they come after me? He needed to be on the other side of the car. From there he could sprint back along the fence––and maybe outmaneuver the shooter. It was a slim chance, but it seemed to be his only option. The diesel gunned its engine and again began to move. David froze and waited breathlessly. The gears shifted as it pulled out of the lot, then it turned and lumbered off down the road.
Why didn’t they stop and finish the job? They saw me looking right at them! Were they rushed by an impending raid? Neither had looked nervous or rushed. David slid out from under the car and reached back into his pocket. His shaking fingers retrieved the card along with his cellphone. He had to let Agent Cooper know what he just... The license plate! “How STUPID am I?” His teeth ground in his mouth as he pushed the numbers with a frustrated finger and put the phone to his ear.
“Cooper here.”
“Agent Cooper this is David Chance. I spoke with you a little while ago.” The words came out fast and furious.
“Yes, David. What’s wrong?”
“I’m at the West Downs Industrial Park...”
“What? What are you doing there?”
“–Uh, following a lead.”
“A lead? You shouldn’t be there! We have a team on the...”
“They’re too late.”
“What? What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything! I came to watch the place and saw a U-Haul...”
“What place?”
“Ace Trucking and Repair. A U-Haul truck just left the building with two Arabs in it. I thought you might want to know.”
“Did you get the plate?”
David bit his lip. “No. –I was, kinda busy being shot at.”
“Shot... By who?”
“A sniper. I think he’s on the fourth floor of the old shoe factory.”
“Why on earth! Hold on.” Cooper spoke to
someone in the room. “Have West Downs Bravo divert to the old shoe factory. Watch for a sniper exiting the building.” He spoke into the phone again, “Where are you now?”
“Hiding behind a car across the street from Ace. There’s a parking attendant hiding in the booth next to me.”
“Alright. Stay put. The team should be there any minute.”
“Thanks.” The call dropped and David shut the phone.
Sirens sounded in the distance, and the phone buzzed on his chest. David looked at the digital display––another text message. He gathered his courage, and flipped the phone open.
“Do you feel safe?”
His chest constricted. Had the sniper come closer? He could be anywhere. David rolled onto his belly as a car pulled up to the entrance of the parking lot. He slid his body over and tried to get a look at it. It was a blue mid-sized compact, but he couldn’t see the driver. Alright, David. Just because the car pulled in when the text message came, doesn’t mean it’s the sniper. Get a grip!
The car door opened, a set of shoes touched down on the ground, and David’s optimism flew right out the window. Frantically he started crawling toward the fence. He would stay low and keep moving. Not a great plan, but all he could come up with at the moment. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted full force. If he could just get to his car...
“David!”
It took several frantic steps before he recognized the voice. He dove between two cars. “Alex! Get down!”
“What’s going on?” Alex shouted.
“There’s a sniper in the old shoe factory.”
David watched Alex’s feet as he ran along the fence. He reached David and crouched down. “What? A sniper?”
“He shot at me from the old factory behind you.” Alex ducked down more. David crawled closer to him. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“I saw your car.”
“You scared me half to death! Why didn’t you call?”
“I did call!” Alex smacked him.
David rubbed the phone through the fabric of his pants. “I must not have felt it.”
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