Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels)

by William Brown

  “It’s like that, huh?” Van Zandt looked at him and smiled.

  Shaw gave him an embarrassed shrug. “Sometimes you get lucky. What can I say?”

  “What do you mean you didn’t know him?” Greenfield asked.

  Shaw put his feet down and sat forward. “He and I are both new here; we’ve only been on the faculty a year or so. Other than smoking a few joints with him at a department mixer… just kidding. I didn’t know him because I had no reason to know him. Besides, you said you found his body in the city landfill? I don’t even know where that is.”

  “It fell out of a dumpster that had been parked at a club on Bragg Boulevard, a place called My Secrets,” Greenfield answered. “You heard of it? You ever go there?”

  Shaw smiled. “That’s a cute way of asking me something you shouldn’t be asking me, isn’t it, Detective? As everyone on campus knows, My Secrets is one of the more notorious gay bars in town. And as everyone on campus also knows, I’m notoriously heterosexual. But for the record, no. I’ve never been there. As for Professor Bloomberg? I have no idea. But what happened to him? Do you think it was murder?”

  “Do you think he climbed into that dumpster by himself?” Greenfield snorted. “He had a big contusion on the right side of his head. Best guess is he was struck there by something hard — a board, a metal pipe, something like that.”

  “His right side? Then you’re looking for someone who is left-handed, aren’t you?” Shaw asked innocently as he held up his hands and wiggled the fingers. “I’m right-handed.”

  “You’ve been watching too goddamned much television, Professor. That doesn’t mean the perp was left-handed; it just means he had the weapon in his left hand when he used it, or maybe he attacked him from behind,” Van Zandt countered. “Besides, what killed the guy was a broken neck. Somebody snapped it like a dry pine tree branch.”

  “Oh, gross!” Shaw shivered and turned toward Special Agent Pendergrass. “But tell me… Tom, if I may call you that, what makes this a federal issue? Abuse of landfill? Dumpster overloading?”

  “No, a little local assistance.” Pendergrass smiled. “But righty or lefty, snapping a man’s neck like that isn’t easy. You were a Marine as I recall, weren’t you?”

  “But not a very good one, as I’m sure you also recall.”

  “Bullshit. Good or bad, unarmed combat and silent killing were taught in Marine Boot Camp at Parris Island when I went through, and probably always was,” Greenfield interjected. “It’s called a neck crank or a hangman’s fracture, and what it takes is strong hands, good technique, and a really bad attitude.”

  Shaw held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Detectives, I use these for far more pleasurable pursuits, as the girls around campus will be happy to attest. But if you have no further questions, I need to get back to my class prep.”

  The three men looked at each other for a moment and then stood. “Okay, Per-fesser,” Harry Van Zandt said as he and Greenfield walked out the door. “That’ll do for now, but let us know if you’re planning on going anywhere.”

  “Sounds like Law and Order, or CSI,” Shaw answered with a confident smile.

  “Maybe,” Pendergrass said as he paused in the doorway and smiled back at Shaw. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you and I will be seeing each other again before long, Professor.”

  As Pendergrass and the other two turned and walked out, Henry Shaw didn’t blink but he felt his smile fading. They were right. The Marines taught him a lot of things, including how to snap a man’s neck, but they also taught him to never underestimate an enemy, and his own monstrous ego had just done that. He had underestimated Pendergrass since Cyprus, and that was stupid. The man might look like Leonard Hofstadter from The Big Bang Theory, but how smart was he? Anyone can solve a crime when they know who did it and can work their way backwards. That was probably what Pendergrass was doing at that very moment, and Shaw knew he had to put his plans into overdrive and go on the attack if he wanted to stay ahead of him.

  Anticipating this day might come, Henry Shaw had been constantly evaluating his recruits from both his college classes and from Fort Bragg. Four in particular had caught his eye. Two were military and two were civilians: Farrakhan Muhammad, Sameer al-Karman, Shahid Halabi, and George Enderby. Muhammad was a black supply clerk with an attitude from Fort Bragg who had been in and out of trouble his whole career. Most recently, he had been busted down two grades to E-2, and that wasn’t the first time. He had attended one of Shaw’s classes the previous semester. Shaw had seen him several times since at the mosque, and knew he was still in the Army. He was a venal, mean-spirited racist, who blamed white people for all his many problems. After several conversations with the young man, Shaw still couldn’t tell whether he was congenitally retarded, or simply lazy and uneducable. All in all, the private could be a poster child for birth control, abortion, or even the societal benefits of inner-city drive-by shootings.

  Before they met, Muhammad had tried his hand at the Nation of Islam and other radical black nationalist groups, and was doing his best to get out of the Army because of his repeated visits to the stockade. Shaw had always thought he was semi-useless, but the big private proved to be the entrée to a half-dozen other disaffected black soldiers.

  Sameer al-Karman, on the other hand, was a quiet, extremely intelligent, and very radical Yemeni immigrant, a civilian who was working on his Master’s degree in advanced chemistry. He sat in on one of Shaw’s classes for a few weeks and then dropped out. When Shaw later met him at the local mosque and asked why, al-Karman politely informed him that he grew up knowing the class material and had decided it would be of little benefit to him now. Interesting, Shaw thought as he mentally “bookmarked” him for further study.

  Another student he met at the local mosque was Shahid Halabi. He was an angry, spoiled, disaffected son of a mid-level Saudi government bureaucrat in Riyadh. Not intelligent, he had no academic interests or abilities whatsoever, and had already flunked out of two previous American universities. Were it not for his father’s intercession, whom Shahid hated, he would have lost his student visa and been forced to return to Saudi Arabia, which he hated even more than he hated his father.

  Finally, there was George Enderby, a late recruit from Fort Bragg and his finest catch. Enderby was African American, an E-5 Army sergeant in the 82nd Airborne Division who had served in Iraq. He had been a squad leader and had led men in combat, which, to be perfectly candid, was more than Henry Shaw could say about himself.

  He knew Pendergrass and his two cop friends would come back and thoroughly search the office once they got their search warrant, which in a small town like this should not take very long. When they did, they’d be disappointed, because he intended to leave nothing of an incriminating nature behind. There was a very ordinary-looking Merriam Webster dictionary in the bookshelf behind him. He pulled it out and saw the torn slips of paper he used as bookmarks in various parts of the book. Most were meaningless, except the one at page 333, which contained a handwritten list of three dozen phone numbers. There were no names, only numbers, with the digits reversed. Only every other one was real to begin with, but keeping the list secure was worth the effort.

  He stuck the list in his pocket, grabbed his notebook computer, and left his office. He took a twisting, turning route through the neighborhood side streets to see if anyone was following him, and then drove to a discount electronics store near Cross Creek Mall, where he bought a half-dozen cheap, generic, prepaid cell phones. Back in his car, he pulled out his list and began making phone calls to set up separate meetings at separate places with Farrakhan Muhammad, Shahid Halabi, and George Enderby, hopefully that evening. Sameer al-Karman would be more difficult. He was inherently paranoid and did not even own a cell phone, internet connection, or e-mail, convinced that the American NSA was tracking his every move. Very soon, he might be right. But until then, Shaw knew that the clock was ticking, and time was no longer on his side.

  CHAPTER SIX
TEEN

  Fayetteville, North Carolina

  On Saturday, Shaw’s first meeting was at 8 p.m. with Farrakhan Muhammad at a sports bar on Route 401. The place was crowded and noisy, and featured chicken wings, dozens of brands of draft beer, and a wall of large TV screens, mostly carrying baseball games, the perfect place for a black man and a white man to sit and talk without being noticed or overheard. Shaw arrived first, taking a rear booth where he could watch both the front and rear doors to see if he had been followed. He ordered two beers and a couple of baskets of chicken wings, fully expecting Muhammad to arrive late to make some point. Under the circumstances, Shaw didn’t really care. Angry was good. Angry and committed would be even better. Angry, stupid, arrogant, and disrespectful would be a disaster.

  At 8:15 p.m. Shaw saw Muhammad stroll in. What he lacked in intelligence, he more than made up for in size. Short, fat, and tipping the scales at around 250 pounds, he squinted through his dark sunglasses until he finally located Shaw and walked back to his table. “Okay, Doc, what’s so damned important you won’t tell me on the damned cell phone?” He continued to bluster until he saw the beer and chicken wings, and quickly sat down. “Okay, looks like you just bought yo’self a basket-full of my time. Wings? How you know thas my favorite? And beer? Wings and beer? What, you profilin’ me, or somethin’?”

  “Just a wild-assed guess, Farrakhan. And the beer? There’s devout, and then again, there’s devout, eh?” Shaw grinned.

  “Yeah, thas what Ah call Dee-troit dee-vout,” he said as he downed half the glass.

  “So, how’s it going?”

  “Sucks, man. The Big Green Machine got me by the balls and jes won’t let go.”

  “Enough to make you mad?”

  “Hell yes, ah’m mad! Whatchu think?”

  “Real mad?”

  “Damn right!” he said as his eyes narrowed. “Whatchu want?”

  “To see if you’re mad enough to do something about it.” Shaw leaned in and whispered, “You mad enough to get even?”

  Muhammad looked at him suspiciously, and then his eyes narrowed. “You wearin’ a wire or somethin’, trying to trip me up? Well, I ain’t that dumb, man.”

  “Here, check me out,” Shaw said as he stood, stepped closer, and put Muhammad’s hand on his chest. “Go ahead.” Muhammad felt around and found nothing.

  “Okay.” Muhammad’s eyes narrowed and he glared at Shaw. “But you be messin’ with me, it’ll be the las’ dam thing you do, Doc.”

  Shaw sat down, opened his notebook computer, and looked around at the adjacent tables and booths to see if anyone was watching them. “Despite the beer, you’re a good Muslim, right? You follow events in the Middle East, and you’ve heard of ISIS, haven’t you?” Muhammad slowly nodded. “And you’ve heard of the Caliph, Abu Bakr al-Zaeim?”

  “Waddayou think ah’m stupid? ’Course ah do; ah have even heard one of the dude’s tapes.”

  “And you’ve seen a picture of him on the news? You know what he looks like?” Muhammad nodded again, so Shaw typed in a lengthy internet IP address of a security-protected website that Batir Khan had given him. The only thing that appeared was a small box, into which Shaw typed a long password. He turned the screen toward Farrakhan and almost instantly, it showed Henry Shaw and al-Zaeim standing next to each other in front of the Black Flag. The Caliph began speaking in Arabic, but his words were translated into English subtitles that ran across the bottom of the screen. The Caliph said, “My dear friend Professor Henry Shaw is working with me and with his brothers in the Islamic State to help build the Caliphate. His work is vital and he needs your help. He would not be showing you this unless he trusted you and you are also important to what we are doing. Please help him, and do what you can.” The Caliph and Shaw shook hands and then the screen went black.

  Shaw immediately closed the cover of the notebook and looked at Muhammad. “Are you going to help him and join with us?” he asked.

  Muhammad thought it over a minute, and said, “Okay. Whatchu got in mind, man?”

  “Create a little mayhem, kick the big green machine in the ass, and maybe even kill a few of the bastards. Like I said, whatever it takes to help you get even and deliver some justice they’ll never forget.”

  Muhammad looked at him and slowly began to nod. “Okay, whatchu want me to do?”

  “We need some guns. I could go to Walmart and buy them but that leaves a paper trail. What about on post? You’re working in the arms room; what are the chances of stealing some pistols, maybe some rifles?”

  “They got all the guns and that other stuff locked up tight in the arms room, man. The doors are reinforced steel, the windows got bars, and it’s all lit up outside. Inside, everything’s in cages. And the doors, the cages, the racks, and all the rest got big case-hardened steel padlocks.” Muhammad shook his head. “Times have changed, man. Be a whole lot easier to break into a Walmart if it’s guns you want. But how much money you got?”

  “As much as I need. Why?”

  “ ’Cause it be a whole lot easier to just go buy ’em.”

  “Like I said, I don’t want a paper trail that’ll lead back to us.”

  Muhammad laughed at him. “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no paper trail, man. I know guys who’ll sell you what you want — no paper, no permits, jes a lot of cash.”

  Shaw smiled. “Somehow, I thought you might. I need some 9-millimeter pistols, Berettas or Glocks, maybe a dozen, and I want at least a dozen automatic rifles, M-16s or M-4s, two dozen if you can get them, with ammunition.”

  “That’ll cost you some serious coin, man, but yeah.” He grinned. “I can do that.”

  “How much?” Shaw asked as he leaned closer.

  Muhammad thought about it for a moment. “I ain’t bought Army guns in a while. Used to buy ’em down in South Carolina and sell ’em up in New York and New Jersey. You could make some nice money makin’ that run on the weekends, but it’s been a while. I’d say they’d want maybe $500 each for the pistols, and maybe $900 for an M-4. Then you got the magazines and ammo, too.”

  “And some noise suppressors, if you can get them,” Shaw told him as he ran the numbers in his head. “What do you think? $25,000 for all of it?”

  Muhammad blinked. “Yeah, yeah, thereabouts. ’Course dat depends on how much hurry you’re in, and how much you want to risk getting caught.”

  “I’m in a hurry, but I don’t want to get caught.”

  “Figured dat be the case. Best make it $30,000, then.”

  “What about C-4? I want at least five pounds, maybe more. Can you get that too?”

  “C-4? Nah, ah cain’t get none ’a dat no mo’. They took all dat stuff out of the arms rooms a year ago, and gave it to the engineers. We only see it out on the range or in demos. Maybe you can steal some from a construction site or somethin’.”

  “Or find someone who knows someone in the engineers,” Shaw told him.

  “Maybe, maybe I can work on dat stuff too,” Muhammad laughed.

  “Can you get the guns tomorrow? At least two pistols and ammo, and maybe two M-4s to start?”

  “Lemme talk to some people. Ah’ll call you.”

  “On the number I called you on. Tomorrow. We’ve got to move on this.”

  Confident he had his first gunman, Shaw drove to the Campus Student Union around 9:00 p.m., to the nearly-empty basement coffee shop. As he expected, he found Sameer al-Karman sitting by himself at a table along the rear wall. His feet were propped up on a nearby chair and he had two advanced chemistry textbooks open on the table in front of him, as well as a top-of-the-line laptop, two pads of paper, a half-dozen pencils, and a cup of tea. Like most of his other recruits, Shaw had met him at the local mosque and briefly in one of his classes. On the surface, al-Karman appeared to be a quiet, intelligent, and very serious young man. Boiling underneath, however, he was a shrewd, focused, and very religious Yemeni immigrant, a civilian who spent most of his time in the mosque or on campus working on his Master’s d
egree in organic chemistry. He had already applied for the doctoral program at NC State and appeared to have little use for politics, revolutions, or westerners.

  Sameer al-Karman did not own a cell phone. He believed the NSA was listening to everything everyone said over the internet, and he had no interest in helping them deport him. If anyone wanted to find him, they knew he held court at his table in the basement of the Student Union. It was open 24-7, and he could be found studying there almost every night. Shaw walked over, pulled up a chair, and sat down next to him.

  “How come I never see you with the other Arab students?” the professor asked.

  “Because they are fools. All they do is sit in the food court upstairs and argue Arab politics, and I have better things to do with my time.”

  “An excellent answer, and very accurate,” Shaw chuckled. “I have little toleration for fools, either, and I know you are not one. But would you like to do something that’s a much better use of your time than sitting here alone all night drinking tea?”

  “I like tea. Besides, I am studying.”

  “I think you have already gleaned everything there is to glean from those textbooks. It’s time you put that extensive chemistry knowledge to work for me.”

  The young Yemeni stared at him suspiciously. “What is it you want, Professor?”

  “I need you to cook up a batch of C-4 for me.”

  Al-Karman cocked his head and stared at him for a moment. “You surprise me, Professor. I did not realize you had turned radical.”

  Shaw placed his laptop on the table in front of al-Karman and showed him the same video with the Caliph that he had shown Muhammad. When it was over, al-Karman looked up at him and shook his head. “You are traveling in interesting company these days,” al-Karman said with a smile. “Have you become a revolutionary? Or are you merely another America-hating dilettante who took the ‘Grand Tour’?”

  “Perhaps a bit of both, but what are you, Sameer? I know you are smart. With everything that’s going on in Yemen and the rest of the region, are you ready to come out of your basement hide-away and help us?”