by Rachel Brune
Times Square was the crossroads of the world, but right now nothing on the road was doing much crossing except for the pedestrians threading their ways through the crawling traffic. Said had driven a truck for years, but even he found the first-gear stop-and-go to be difficult and ground the transmission more than once.
Once near their destination, Said put the hazard lights on and slowed even more. He pulled next to the sidewalk as another large truck pulled away from the curb. In the shadow of the VH1 studios, Said let the engine idle.
Abdel got out went around to the back of the truck. He unlocked the door and released it to roll back into the ceiling. A few boxes were stacked against the wall, secured with bungee cords. He hopped up into the truck and grabbed the ramp.
Said appeared around the back of the truck and helped Abdel wrangle the ramp to the ground. With the hazard lights still blinking, Said and the teenager each took a box out of the back. To a casual observer, they appeared to be unloading the vehicle.
Leaving the back of the truck open, as if returning shortly, Said and Abdel walked around the corner and down the block. They added another few blocks between them and the truck, then stopped by a pile of garbage collecting on the sidewalk.
“I think that’s enough,” said Said. He used a knife to open the tape on the box. It was empty. He slit the tape on the other side, unfolding the box flat, and stuffed it into the trash. Alan had surmised that two men of Middle Eastern descent leaving packages anywhere might be cause for concern among the good citizens of New York City, but two construction workers getting rid of garbage would go unnoticed.
“Let’s go,” said Said.
The older man led the way around another corner. Walking in a random pattern, he and Abdel made their way down several long blocks. After about half an hour, they had circled completely around Times Square until they were several blocks across from where they had left the truck. They stopped at a vendor’s cart.
“Can you see the vehicle?” asked Abdel.
“Yes, it’s a few blocks up, but I can see it,” said Said.
He and Abdel each bought a pretzel. He wasn’t sure if it was halal, but it was a good prop.
Finding some scaffolding, the two men parked themselves out of the way of the foot traffic and slowly ate their pretzels. Against the construction, their work clothes blended in.
“Can you still see the truck?” asked Abdel.
“Yes,” said Said.
“Is anything happening?”
“No.” Said ate a piece of pretzel. “Wait … there is a police officer approaching.”
The two men watched as a traffic cop approached the truck and looked around. Finding nothing, the officer pulled out her ticket pad. The longstanding belief of New Yorkers that the traffic Gods could be held at bay with blinking hazard lights was put to the lie as the officer wrote out a violation and placed it under the windshield wiper.
“That’s it?” Abdel’s voice cracked.
“Wait a while longer.” Said finished his pretzel, crossed his arms, and watched.
After about an hour, and a few changes of position so as not to raise suspicion, Abdel and Said watched as the meter maid returned. Finding the truck still there and no one around, she lifted a radio to her mouth. About twenty minutes later, a tow truck arrived. The driver wrestled the ramp back into the truck, rolled down the back door, hitched up the vehicle, and drove away.
Abdel and Said watched the truck roll away. Once it was gone, they melted into the crowd.
Eddie walked up the steps of the subway station into a steady drizzle. A glance at his wristwatch showed him to be thirty minutes behind schedule. The Atlantic Avenue stop just added too much time.
“Shit,” said Eddie. He was probably going to find about five or six voicemail messages on his phone once the wireless service caught up to his subway-hopping. Figuring to skip listening to five messages of Alan’s irate voice, he reached in his pants to make a call.
In disbelief, he reached into his other pocket, then patted himself down. He triple-checked each pocket, but came up empty.
“Shit!” Eddie closed his eyes, hit his forehead with his fist. “Shit, shit, shit.”
He began walking again, much more slowly. He was pretty sure of Alan’s reaction and wasn’t in a hurry to walk into the man’s fists.
Marisa Kent and her partner arrived later than Scott expected. She pulled the NYPD sedan around to the front of his car, headlights looming through the sleeting rain. She blocked him in next to the sidewalk and got out.
“One car?” asked Scott, rolling down the window. “That’s all you brought?”
“Listen hero, I’m here to arrest a traffic violator,” said Marisa. She had her coat hood pulled up over her head against the weather. “If he gives me trouble I’ll bitch slap him with my baton.”
“He’s a traffic violator, but he’s also a member of a homegrown terrorist cell,” said Scott.
“Allegedly,” said Kent. “If something happens, I’ve got Josh in the car to call for backup.”
“It’s your district, it’s your call,” said Scott.
“Damn skippy,” said Marisa.
“You want to knock on the door or you want me to go up there?” asked Scott.
“You know he’s in there?” asked Marisa.
“No, but it could be a way of meeting unknown acquaintances,” said Scott.
“Forget it,” said Marisa. “No offense, but you’re not even supposed to be here. When—if—we see him walking up the block, I’ll make the arrest. Then, once we get back to the precinct, I’ll slip you a few minutes of time with him.”
Tucked away behind the corner of the street, Eddie missed the police sedan. Despite the cold, he slowed and stopped one doorstep away from the apartment building. He really did not want to go inside and face Alan.
Eddie jumped in response to the sudden blare of a siren. He looked up from his funk in disbelief as Kent and her partner pulled in front of him, flashing their lights. He poised to run, but the two cops coming toward him looked fit and ready to pursue.
“Eddie Lopes, you are under arrest for the felony of ignoring a shitload of parking tickets,” said Marisa.
“What the…” Eddie stared at her.
Kent’s partner handcuffed his arms behind him, frisking him against the car. Marisa read him his rights.
“At this time, do you wish to waive your rights and speak to us?” asked Marisa.
“Fuck you, bitch.” It was the only thing Eddie said as he was loaded into the back of the cop car.
“Is this your apartment?” asked Kent. He didn’t reply.
“What the hell is that?” Said looked up at the question. Alan was looking out the window.
“What is it?” asked Abdel.
From his vantage point, Alan watched as the police officers loaded Eddie into the back of the car. The woman officer was asking Eddie a question, pointing up at the apartment.
Across the street, Alan spotted two familiar figures. Scott and Mark had gotten out of their vehicle, and were watching the show.
“We are done here,” said Alan. “Grab your things, we need to leave.”
Said and Abdel stared at him.
“Now!” said Alan forcefully.
The edge in his voice sent the two running into the back room. He followed as they picked up two bags each. He pulled a folder from the desk and stuffed it into the bag with the weapons.
“Hurry,” said Alan unnecessarily, as the two other men had hastily gathered what they owned and were standing by. The last item he took from the room was the Koran, placed gently into his clothing bag.
The only other window in the apartment was in Eddie, Marcus, and Dodger’s room. There was no fire escape handy—an overlooked violation of the fire code—but Alan had planned for a hasty evacuation. From under the bed, he took a fire ladder, attaching one end to the window and rolling it out to the ground.
“Go.” Alan drew a weapon, standing guard at the door t
o the room as Abdel and Said started down. “Hurry!”
As the two men disappeared down the ladder, Alan took two quick steps toward the television.
The door buzzed. He hesitated, aiming his weapon at the door. The buzzer sounded again, followed by a heavy knocking.
“Police! Open up!”
He looked down. Behind the television was a small black box with a big red button. He pushed the button and held it for exactly six seconds.
Letting go, Alan aimed the weapon at the door again and backed toward the bedroom. The doorbell rang again, and he threw himself through the window, scrambling down the ladder. The drizzle had turned into a full-fledged sleet storm, and his hands froze against each slippery rung.
Said and Abdel waited for him below.
“Run,” said Alan. “Now.”
Alan ran. Said and Abdel followed. He hadn’t expected to activate his contingency plan this soon, but there was another anonymous apartment ready for a quick evacuation.
Dodger and Marcus received a text message at the same time. They had been out all day, wandering around the five boroughs with a shopping list of things that Alan had been adamant they not buy at the same store—or even on the same block.
The text message simply read: 9111325A North Y Ave.
“Shit,” said Marcus. “I left my bike at the apartment.”
No one answered Marisa’s knock. She tried the handle but it was locked.
“They’re lucky I don’t have a warrant,” she said, turning and walking down the steps.
The air exploded in fire around her.
The force of the blast propelled Marisa down the stairs, colliding with the wall at the bottom. The crack of her ribs was drowned by the roaring in her ears. She felt a sharp pain as she tried to rise to her knees, collapsing again on the sidewalk.
Inside the police vehicle, the fire from the explosion refracted through broken glass as Eddie stared in horror at the remains of the building. The explosion gutted the entire building, demolishing every trace of the men who had once lived on the ground floor.
Marisa tried to get up. Nothing worked. Her limbs flopped uselessly.
“Marisa! Marisa, can you hear me?” Scott formed the words with his mouth but no sound came out. He was sure he was yelling, but nobody could hear what he said, not even him.
He stood over Marisa. Something inside the burning building exploded again. He threw himself over her as more debris rained down.
Small pieces of building burned against Mabry’s unprotected neck and arms. He felt the hot cinders mix with the sleet against his skin. He held Marisa until the debris shower had finished.
“Josh…” Marisa pushed away, turning her head to find her partner.
Scott knew Marisa was lucky to be alive, but that luck did not extend to her partner. Josh lay behind the police vehicle.
Scott left Marisa sitting against the car, and ran behind to see if he could help. Josh lay prone, one hand to his throat.
“Don’t move,” said Scott. “Stay still.”
Josh’s eyes widened. He struggled to breathe. He stopped.
“Don’t move,” Scott said again. It was unnecessary.
Mabry got up. He opened the door to the car and pulled out the radio mic. Putting the call through to dispatch, he gave his badge number and the phrase that no officer ever wants to hear come over the air: “Officers down.”
The dispatcher came back, requesting the status of both officers. Scott closed his eyes. “One critical. The other possible DOA. Hurry.”
He hung up the mic. Crouching down by Marisa he began searching for other injuries.
She held up a hand, fumbling, trying to stop him.
“Josh?”
Scott shook his head. He closed his eyes but could still see the jagged edge of wood that still burned even as it lodged in her partner’s throat. The blood coating Scott’s hands had come from the ever-widening pool beneath Josh’s neck that even now continued to seep toward them. The lights from the patrol car flashed, alternating blue and red across the scene.
“Try not to move,” said Scott. He shouted again, feeling the rasp in his throat. “I think you may have cracked some ribs.”
“What?” shouted Kent back at him.
“You may have cracked ribs!” Scott shouted. “Your ribs—” He broke off.
A thought occurred to him. He looked up and around. Eddie was still securely handcuffed in the back of the patrol car. The man stared at him, at first with recognition and then with an expression that melted anger into frustration.
Eddie mouthed a profanity.
Scott ignored him. He couldn’t see the reporter, and an instant vision clouded his mind of the kid on the ground with a piece of burning wood in his throat.
“Mark!” Scott shouted. “Where the hell are you?”
Mark was shaking but otherwise unhurt. He had felt the explosion and instinctively dropped into a small ball on the sidewalk.
Looking over the car, Scott found him in the small, but growing crowd gaping at the flames. He was holding his tablet up to the spectacle with one hand, shielding it from the sleet with his other hand. Scott frowned in relieved confusion, then realized the reporter was taping the explosion’s fire with the device’s camera.
“Mark, dammit, keep those people back!” Scott grew angry as Mark turned and trained the camera on him. The people behind him began inching toward the police car. One woman pointed at Josh.
Scott shouted again. “Put that goddamn thing down and keep that crowd over there on the sidewalk.”
Mark ignored him. He taped a few more seconds of the car, of Josh lying there, of Scott tending to Marisa, with the backdrop of the flames in the cold winter afternoon.
The tablet beeped. The memory had run out. Mark pressed a few buttons and e-mailed the footage to his cameraman and Jeff Taggert. He put the device away and ran up to the car, being careful to stay out of Scott’s reach.
“Are you all right?” asked Mark. “Do you need a coat?”
“I’m fucking fine,” said Scott. His voice was scraped raw. “I need you to keep those people on the other side of the street.”
The approaching sirens drew their attention. The first ambulance made its way down the road, followed by a fire truck, two police cars and a news van, not from Mark’s station.
“Shit,” said Mark. “I better call my producer.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Think he’s asleep?”
Marisa Kent asked the question. Behind the glass, Eddie rested his head on the steel table in the interview room. He cradled his face in one hand. The other was handcuffed to the table.
Mabry wished he had a cigarette, but he had burned through the last two in his pack waiting for Kent to be treated by the paramedics. His hands were still numb from the cold.
Marisa refused to go to the emergency room. She stood next to him in the darkened observation room. Her uniform was still torn and singed. The paramedics had taped her arm, warned her that she might have a fracture, and that she should make it to the hospital at her first chance.
“You should quit anyway.”
At first Scott thought she had read his mind. He realized he was rolling the empty packet back and forth in his hands. “I keep meaning to.” He shoved the pack into his pocket. “You should go to the emergency room.”
“The worst I have to worry about is finding someone to fix this,” said Kent, gesturing to the burned patches of her hair. “Everything else will heal.”
The two cops observed Eddie through window some more.
Scott felt an old, familiar sense of power. He recognized the sensation as a cheap thrill, but the short time of observation of a suspect, watching them without being in turn observed, never failed to give him a sense of control over what was about to happen. The sensation never lasted long, but the feeling of knowledge was usually enough to propel him into the room. From there, experience and aggression would take over.
“You take the lead,�
�� said Kent.
Her statement surprised Mabry. He had assumed he would take the lead; he had seniority of rank and experience. But he had expected some pushback.
“You sure?” asked Mabry. “You don’t want to sit in?”
“I don’t trust myself in there,” she said. “If I walk into that room, he’s never walking out.”
Mabry nodded. “I can respect that.”
“All right, then,” said Kent. “Get in there, get your information, and get out.” She looked at her watch. “And hurry up. I’ve got guys from every alphabet soup agency on their way to the circus, and they’re going to be really pissed if they find you here.”
“I’m going,” said Scott. Still, he hesitated. He never knew where this reluctance to enter an interview room came from, but in all of his years of experience, the feeling still remained. He didn’t call it fear, but didn’t have another name for it, either.
“Then go,” said Kent, opening the door. She poked her head out. “And listen, if anyone asks, you’re sweating him about his parking tickets.”
Scott said: “Damn, but I hate those traffic violators.”
Eddie lifted his head up as Scott opened the door and walked in.
“I want a lawyer,” said Eddie.
“Tough shit,” said Scott.
Eddie stared at him in astonishment.
“Let me break this down for you,” said Scott. “You’re not going to get a lawyer. No one is worried about contaminating the case we have against you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Eddie.
“Officer Kent arrested you for unpaid parking tickets,” said Scott.
“Yeah, so what?”
“Nobody gives a shit about your unpaid parking tickets.”
“So what do they give a shit about?”
“The terrorist cell you’ve been a part of for the past five months.”
Eddie stared, then burst out laughing. Scott didn’t twitch. Eddie’s laughter faded and stopped.