by K D McNiven
“We are on the watch for a 1959 Chevy Impala,” Brock told Raymond. “It was painted blue, but my guess is the color will be changed. However, it’s an easily identifiable model. Keep your eyes peeled. If you spot one, call for backup and pull it over. It’s our only solid lead at the moment.”
“Roger that,” said Raymond as he left the three of them.
“I’m thinking Dax and I might head back over to where we found Callie’s cell phone. At least we know it’s the direction they went. I doubt if they would drive too far for fear of being spotted. They’re probably holed up somewhere in that vicinity. We’ll park the car for a time and keep a lookout.”
“Good idea,” Brock said. “And do your best to stay out of trouble. I’ve got enough on my plate right now.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Dax said.
“Yeah, right.” Brock swept his hand in the air, dismissing them. He had learned enough about these two men to know they would stop at nothing until there was closure. They went after antagonists like bloodhounds after a fox.
Chapter 15
⁂
Seated next to a round table, Rafiq looked to see what the morning’s newspaper headline would be. He gulped a drink of coffee from his mug and mulled over the devastation they had caused. A smile turned the corners of his mouth. Their attack could not have gone better, he mused, with the exception of that salvager man and detective spotting him at the docks.
After a short while, Rafiq fitted himself in disguise and grabbed his assault rifle. Moving to the door, he said, “I’m going to scout out a possible location for us to plant the next bomb. There’s going to be a wedding ceremony down along the docks in one week from now according to the local paper. I think that would be a great opportunity to set off a bomb. There will be a large gathering because the couple is employees for the Department of Defense.”
“Sounds good, Rafiq.”
“Stay here and watch over the girl. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” Rafiq opened the door and turned back. “And Ismael…leave the woman alone. We need her for the time being. At least until I’m able to deposit the money into our foreign account, then you can have your fun with her.”
Ismael took to his feet. He put together a quick breakfast of toast, instant oatmeal, and coffee to take to Callie. He shoved his pistol into his waistband, placed the food on the metal serving tray, and stopped outside her door.
When he unlocked the door and went inside, he set the tray on a small side table. He saw Callie curled in a fetal position on the bed.
“Your breakfast,” he said.
She rolled over slowly, a glowering expression on her face. In slow deliberation, she got out of bed and walked over to the table, simply staring at it, but made no attempt at taking a bite. The last thing she wanted was food. She had since lost her appetite.
“Doesn’t matter to me if you eat or not,” he told her. “You’re short for the world anyhow.”
His arrogance outraged her. It was difficult to imagine how anyone could live with themselves after murdering innocent people and thinking somehow, they would be rewarded for it.
When he turned to leave Callie yelled, “Hey!”
Ismael turned only to find scalding hot coffee thrown into his face. He howled from the pain, and as his hands flew up to wipe it off, Callie smashed the metal tray squarely into the side of his head, following up with a snap kick into his kneecap. She rammed both palms into his chest, hurtling him backward, watching as he stumbled into the wall, then crash to the floor. Not wasting any time, she bolted through the door, running madly, knowing Ismael would be at her heels once he regained his composure. She ran frantically down to the end of the hall and flung the door open. She nearly cried out loud when she found herself free of the confines.
Beyond was the lake, and though she had no idea which way to go, she chose a direction and sprinted across the tall grass along the waterfront and into a copse of trees, her heart pounding so fiercely she wondered if it would rip free of her chest. Sheets of rain pelted over her, soaking through her cotton shirt. Thunder rumbled loudly overhead and she jumped with a start when she heard a sharp crack overhead. Lightning had struck a tree nearby and it exploded into a ball of fire.
She pushed herself even harder, trying to put as much distance between her and Ismael as possible, wiping wet strands of hair from her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted the silhouette of a man lunging out of the door some distance behind her. All she could think of was getting away. Run hard, Callie...run fast and don’t stop, she repeated over and over in her head.
The banks of the lake were knee-deep in mud. As she leaped down a three-foot slope, her feet sank in the muck and mud-spattered across her face. She dropped to her knees and began pawing madly at the muddy incline until she made a large depression. With what energy she had left, she tucked her body inside the wallowed-out area and began drawing the sludge up around her until she was completely buried.
“I know you’re out here,” came Ismael’s voice.
Callie stayed paralyzed. She didn’t dare move. She heard him walking within a foot of her and her whole body tensed, fearing he might discover her. The sloshing of his feet along the lakefront signaled he had not spotted her. The downpour battered against the bank and began to draw the outer mud away from her hiding spot. She prayed he would not return the same direction.
“You can’t hide forever,” he called out again, his voice more distant now. “You know I’m going to find you.”
***
Decker drove while Dax kept on the lookout for anything suspicious. They stopped in the area where they found Callie’s cell phone and spent time walking around the area for any clue they may have missed the first time. Nothing. They knew the authorities were beginning to go door-to-door. With any luck, they would discover where they were holding Callie.
Disappointment flooded Decker as he slid back behind the wheel. He waited for Dax, pushed the key into the ignition, fired up Brock’s blood-red Mustang he had loaned them for the day and sped back onto the road, the rear end fish-tailing. Though they were probably on a goose chase, they refused to give up and continued to glance at every house they saw in hopes of spotting the 1959 Chevy Impala.
At this point, they were thinking their hunt might be all in vain until a green Impala passed them in the other lane heading back toward the city. Decker threw on the brakes, whipped the car around and headed back. He kept a distance from the car. If it happened to be one of the terrorists, Decker didn’t want to clue them to the fact they were following.
“I’ll phone Brock and keep him informed,” Dax told him as he hit Brock’s number.
“Don’t take matters into your own hands, Dax,” Brock warned.
“We’re only tagging behind.”
“You have a lot at stake,” Brock answered. “I understand that. But if you interfere, you may well cost us an opportunity to apprehend them.”
Dax glanced over at Decker’s profile, whose face was set like flint. His eyes were fixed on the car ahead, and Dax wondered if it turned out to be one of the terrorists, what Decker would do should he catch up to him? Dax would have loved to tell Brock they would sit on their bums and wait for the feds, but he wasn’t sure Decker could live up to the promise.
“Look. I’ll keep you updated. Besides, it may not be them at all,” Dax said.
A span of silence followed. “Make sure you call.”
“Copy that, Detective.”
They turned onto Madison, still tailing the Chevy. It appeared the car might be heading towards the docks. They followed for a time and a few miles down the road, the Chevy pulled into a parking lot not far from where Brock had been shot, and a man stepped out of the car. He headed around the side of a warehouse and out of sight.
“I don’t know,” Dax said. “The man appears to have long hair. He doesn’t look the same and he appears heavier than Rafiq.”
“What if it’s the Ismael guy? You’ve never seen him,
except for the photos Brock showed you. Maybe he had his hair pulled back?”
“Maybe. Can’t hurt to check it out. First, I’m calling Brock.”
Dax filled Brock in on the details and gave him their coordinates. “We’re going to check out the car, first,” he told Brock. “The man slipped around the back, so we’re going to see what he’s up to.”
“Stay put! Wait until police officers show up.”
“What was that, Detective? I can’t hear you. Static or something,” Dax replied, grabbing a piece of paper and crunching it next to the receiver.
Decker shook his head as he stepped out of the car. “I’m sure we’ll hear about this one.”
“I’m sure we will, mate.”
They hustled over to the car. Decker got on his hands and knees to inspect the undercarriage, and just under the lip, he saw dark blue paint. It had been repainted. He even smelled the fumes.
“We’ve got him!” Decker said, standing up. “Let’s head around to the back.” He pulled his pistol from the holster, as did Dax. They hurried across the parking lot and cautiously went down a side alley, the sounds of sirens could already be heard in the distance.
Slowly, Decker craned his neck at the corner of the building. He saw the man standing on an old barrel peeking into one of the warehouse windows. When he finished, he tried opening one of the doors in the rear. It must have been the sound of the sirens startling him because he took on a nervous carriage and began walking in rapid strides the opposite way.
“Let’s head back toward the parking lot,” Decker said.
They took to their heels until they got to the end of the building. Decker waited until he saw the man make a beeline for the car.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Decker yelled.
The long-haired man’s head snapped around. From out of the long coat he was wearing, he pulled out a Sig 550 rifle and began bombarding them with bullets. The sound of shearing metal and concrete exploding reverberated in the air. When the shooter’s magazine ran dry, Decker leaned out around the corner of the building and popped off a couple of rounds. One of the bullets struck the front windshield. Another bullet pierced the front tire of the stolen vehicle. Decker knew he wouldn’t make it far.
Reloading, the shooter turned, discharging another assault on the side of the warehouse and within seconds, a police vehicle came squealing around the corner heading straight toward the perpetrator, forcing him to make a quick decision. Taking on Decker and Dax would probably be an easier task than law enforcement, he calculated. He barreled toward them, firing his weapon at the same time. To his left, there was a paddle-locked door on the warehouse. He took aim, popped off two rounds and the lock exploded. Without stopping, he rushed through the door, dropping to the floor, and on all fours, he scuttled behind a broken-down crawler tractor.
Decker scrunched down as he saw the perp make a run for it, and dive through the warehouse entrance. He realized they would have to dodge bullets and duck out of the line of fire. He motioned for Dax to follow as he zig-zagged toward the building, his heart racing. On cue, the two of them opened up fire, rushing through the door and dove to the floor, belly crawling behind a large welding machine, as the perp’s bullets sang past their heads.
The man shot off a succession of bullets that pinged and ricocheted off the welding machine where Dax and Decker were hunkered down. AK flashes lit up the room like fireworks on the fourth of July.
“When he’s finished firing, take a few shots his way and cover me,” Decker whispered to Dax.
“Got you covered, mate.”
Decker bent low and ran further into the building in hopes of circling back and catching the shooter off guard. He knew with as many rounds as the man had discharged, he’d eventually run out of ammo. At least Decker hoped, giving them the opportunity to overtake him.
In a moment of silence, Dax heard the magazine being ejected and clanging to the floor and before he had the chance to reload, Dax pushed himself upward and shot off several rounds in his direction.
As Dax distracted the terrorist, Decker took the advantage and slipped around one of the large tractors to his right. He caught sight of the man’s gray shirt. Decker did not want to kill him. Not yet anyhow. He needed to find out Callie’s whereabouts first. Decker raised his Glock 26, stabilizing it on a stub wall and trained his gun on the shadowed silhouette, then took his shot. A low moan followed. He was positive he’d put a bullet through the man’s shoulder.
In retaliation, the perpetrator answered with a rain of fire lasting for more than a minute. The sound was nearly deafening as ammunition deflected off the heavy metal machinery inside. Decker hit the floor and rolled behind a grader’s blade, covering his ears with his hands to dull the noise. He heard the hiss of bullets singing inches from his head. Another sweep of intermittent gunfire was unleashed on Decker, forcing him to keep his head low behind the steel blade. Muzzle flashes sparked throughout the room. It sounded like a war zone.
When everything went quiet, Decker had to wonder if the man’s gun had finally exhausted all of its bullets. He motioned for Dax to fire again with his hand. When he did, Decker rushed forward, again dropping behind a farming swather for protection, his heart hammering in his chest.
Hundreds of sirens circled the building outside and Decker knew they would be rushing the warehouse at any moment. He kept his eyes fixed on the door waiting for the eruption of S.W.A.T. teams to barge through the entrance and take them down.
“You don’t have a chance,” Decker called out. “Drop your weapon and come out into the open!”
Slowly the terrorist stood up, pulling off the wig. They had him dead in their sights, no way could he escape. Decker pushed himself to his feet and kept the barrel of his gun aimed squarely on him. “Where’s my wife?”
A deadly, contemptuous smile twisted his lips and before Decker discerned what he intended to do, Rafiq pulled a handgun from his waistband, put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed on the wall behind him.
“No!” yelled Decker swaying on his feet.
At almost the same time, the SWAT team burst through the door. Decker and Dax tossed their guns to the floor and raised their arms to prevent being shot. Like a swarm of wasps, heavily armed men rushed forward and forcefully took them down onto the cement floor.
Decker’s cheek ground into the cement floor, a sharp pain driving through him as one of the men stationed his knee in the center of his back while pulling his arms behind him and slapping the cuffs on. The steel cut into his writs, but he determined to be as cooperative as possible and simply grit his teeth. He passed a quick glance over at Dax who was also sprawled out on the floor, hands bound.
They were held at gunpoint by two of the SWAT team officers, while the rest of the elite forces combed the semi-dark warehouse searching for anyone else who might pose a threat.
Brock rushed in seconds later, stopping abruptly when he saw Rafiq sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood. Rafiq’s eyes were open, void of any life. A sense of disappointment washed over Brock. He’d hoped they would take him alive in order to gain more information. He scanned the room, catching sight of Decker and Dax in cuffs, face down on the cement floor. He walked slowly over to where they were being held, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
“You’re lucky as hell you’re not dead as well. I should let them lock you up for a few days until you learn the meaning of what ‘don’t pursue’ means.” Brock was notably agitated as he pulled keys from out of his back pocket. He bent down on one knee, removing the cuffs. “I don’t suppose you got any feedback as to the whereabouts of Ismael and Callie?”
Decker shook his head. “Thought we had him dead to rights. He took me unaware when he blew his head off. Didn’t see it coming. Believe me, no one wanted him alive more than me.”
“My guess is he would have blown his head off once the S.W.A.T team cornered him.” Brock sighed and rubbed his hand through his gray flat-top. “Back to square one.”
“Have they found anything going door-to-door by the lake?” asked Decker.
“Not as yet. I’m going to head back to the station and let these capable men gather whatever Intel they can dig up. Hopefully, when I get back to the station, some good news will be waiting for me.” Brock’s face was grim.
Dax patted Brock’s shoulder. “You look tired, Detective. A little rest would do you some good.”
“Sure it would but it’s not in the cards,” Brock said. “It’s evident Rafiq had his eye out for a new location to exact another terrorist attack. We know Rafiq is part of a larger cell. There are more individuals involved than we’re aware of. I can’t chance resting. I have to do whatever possible to stop them before more innocent people are killed.”
Brock flipped his brown tweed jacket over his shoulder and shuffled slowly toward the exit, his shoulders slightly rounded as if the weight of the world was on him. On the way out the door, he slammed his fist into one of the wooden stations, his frustration evident.
A sense of futility shadowed Decker and Dax as they followed quietly behind Brock, their heads hung introspectively. They had nothing left to go on. Every bit of evidence they had obtained thus far had been exhausted. However, the CTITF had many back doors available to gather Intel that Decker and Dax weren’t privy to. With some luck, perhaps they would come up with some new resources.
Decker could not still his mind and the questions spun like a carousel in his brain. How would this new revelation about Rafiq’s death pan out for Callie? Would they get spooked and rid themselves of her, or would they reconsider a drop? Ismael would be frantic for a way out, at least that would be the best scenario considering the circumstances.