by Rachel Brune
“We need to get moving.” Alan’s voice startled Dodger.
Said looked up. He and Abdel wore matching navy blue coveralls with the generic name of an official-sounding package-delivery service embroidered on the front above the left pocket. Embroidered nametapes labeled him as “Juan” and Abdel as “Jose.”
“The truck is ready,” answered Said. “Abdel and I will be at our target in about an hour.”
“Good,” said Alan. “Leave now. Give me a call when you are in position.”
Said nodded. He stood up, jerked his head at Abdel. The boy stood up. He was slightly nervous, and it took him two tries to push the chair back away from the table. Said smiled at him.
All three Muslim men had freshly shaved and washed in preparation for the day. Alan shook their hands, and then they were gone.
Alan looked down the table. Dodger and Marcus contrasted with the neat grooming of his comrades. They hadn’t showered since they reached the apartment. Dodger stubbed out a cigarette in a bowl already overflowing with ashes and butts. Marcus reached into his dreadlocks to scratch.
“What do you want us to do?” asked Dodger.
Alan stared at him. This was the point where his original plan called for their deaths. After all, he only needed Eddie to follow the plan he had drawn up. Eddie wasn’t yet a true believer, but he was on the path to the faith. His friends were a different matter. Even Alan had to admit that they were criminals, not martyrs.
“Do either of you know how to use a computer?” asked Alan.
Dodger looked at him blankly.
“Yeah, man, I know how to use a computer,” said Marcus. “What you need?”
A plain manila folder rested on the table. Alan slid it down to Marcus.
“In there, you’ll find step by step instructions,” said Alan. “Where to go, what bus to use, which train to hop, and where to stop along the way.” He handed Marcus a phone and some money.
“What am I doing with this?” asked Marcus, holding up the phone.
“You’re going to be receiving some messages,” said Alan. “You’re going to take those messages, and send them to the e-mail address programmed into the texting function.”
“What are these?” asked Marcus. He pointed to the various addresses listed on a paper stapled to the inside cover of the folder.
“Those are lists of places you’re going to be sending the messages from,” said Alan. “If anyone is tracing the location, they’ll be looking for the café, not the phone.”
Marcus frowned, trying to process the information.
Alan closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. “Look, if you run into any trouble, or having any questions, there is one number programmed into the contacts. Call it.”
Marcus shrugged, putting the items into his messenger bag. “No problem, man. I can do this for you. But I need something.”
“What’s that?” asked Alan.
“Whatever you did to the apartment, my bike was there,” said Marcus. “When I get back, I want another bike.”
Alan decided not to mention that the only thing waiting at the safe house for Marcus and Dodger to return would be another explosion. “I can do that.”
“Good, man,” said Marcus. He turned to leave. “Oh, and I get to pick it out.”
He winked at Alan, high-fived Dodger, and left.
“What about me?” asked Dodger.
Alan frowned. He considered. He hadn’t had a chance to soundproof this location. Thus, Dodger escaped an immediate bullet to the center of his forehead.
“I have something for you,” said Alan. “A special mission, if you can handle it.”
“Cool,” said Dodger.
Kyle MacAllister had turned his phone off. The ass-chewing he was currently receiving from his boss would be infinitely worsened if his ringtone cut Nina Morris off in mid-conflagration. He couldn’t blame her. He himself wanted to find Scott and tie him to a chair for a long period of time. With no bathroom breaks.
“Not only did he utilize Task Force resources to follow up this lead, which I may remind you, you explicitly told him to drop, but now I find he’s off the reservation, and it seems like everywhere he goes, some shit blows up after him,” said Nina. “Literally. Blows up.”
With heroic effort, Mac stifled a grin. He was pretty sure his boss didn’t mean that with any humor whatsoever.
“Gina tells me, he hasn’t reported for work in three days,” said Nina. “And now you’re telling me, you have no clue where he is?”
Mac shook his head. “I left him five voicemail messages.”
“And nobody else has seen him?”
“No.” Mac hadn’t yet tried Marisa. On purpose. He didn’t want to know—yet—what he didn’t know.
“What about that reporter?” asked Gina. “He was just on the news tonight with those arsons. You tried calling him?”
“Yes,” said Mac, truthfully. “He’s not picking up either.”
Gina frowned. “Listen MacAllister. I want you to find those two. I want you to find them soon. And I want you to personally deliver the news to Mabry that he is off this Task Force. Once I get finished with his chief, he’s going to be lucky to work law enforcement anywhere in this city except maybe as the night security guard on Good Morning America.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
MacAllister let himself out of her office, closing the door gently behind him. He closed his eyes and turned his phone back on. The first waiting message was from Mabry.
“Son of a bitch.”
Scott was once again struck by the feeling of an antique, historical emptiness as he and Mark topped the stairs into the Grand Central Station Terminal. He had left his car at the scene of the apartment explosion, and Mark’s cameraman had driven the news van back to the station. The two men elected public transportation as a fast, anonymous method of making their way to midtown.
“You get anything yet?” asked Scott.
Mark took out his phone and tapped the screen to wake it up. He was hurrying to keep up with Scott’s purposeful strides, and squinted to see the bouncing icons.
“Nope, nothing.”
The conversation took the two men out into the dark New York City landscape. Streetlights haloed through the gloom of the still-falling flurries. Scott pulled a black fleece hat out of his pocket and put it on. He took his phone out, flipped it open. There were no messages from MacAllister, but sometimes it took a while for his voicemail service to deliver when he had been underground for any period of time. He shrugged and put the phone away.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come by the station?” asked Mark. “Grab a cup of coffee or something?”
“No,” said Scott. “Our friend in the room said the plane was scheduled to leave in a couple hours. That doesn’t give me a lotta time to get there, look around, and see what I can find.”
“And if you don’t find anything?” asked Mark.
“Then I’ll try to get the plane grounded,” said Scott.
“And how are you going to do that?” asked Mark.
“Flash my badge,” said Mabry. “And if that doesn’t work, an anonymous bomb scare is always good for a delay until I figure out plan C.”
Mark fell silent, breath coming quickly in clouds as he kept up with the detective.
Marisa watched again from the observation room as a large man in a suit attempted to get Eddie to talk to him. The man wasn’t having much success. Eddie had put his head down on the table and gone to sleep. The suit grew frustrated, but Marisa had made it a point to inform them that all their interview room cameras were working—a warning that Eddie Lopes was an American citizen, and the methods that such anonymous men employed in other countries were not allowed in her precinct station. She watched, fascinated, as Eddie appeared to snore through his interrogator’s temper tantrum, a tantrum that upended his chair and caused him to pound his meaty fists on the interview table.
The policewoman was no longer alone in the observation room.
In fact, she had been shunted to the back of the room and threatened with expulsion by the shadows that had gathered to watch. The men in the shadows hailed from a number of organizations, some of which were not much more than shadows themselves.
“Excuse me …” Marisa found herself once again ignored. She continued to watch as the interviewer abandoned his tactics of intimidation, righted his chair, and sat down across from Lopes. Eddie looked up at him, but continued to say nothing.
Marisa gave up, and left the observation room. At the desk she shared with another police officer, she logged into the computer and inserted the thumb drive Mark had given her. At this time of night, there were very few people left in the station. Still, she turned her screen so it would not be visible from anywhere else in the room.
After twenty minutes of reviewing the documents, Marisa picked up the phone and called a fellow Army Reservist who worked for the Times Square precinct.
“Lou? It’s Marisa.” She listened to the pleased surprise on the other end. “Yeah, I know it’s been a long time. Listen, I’ve got guys who don’t exist interviewing a suspected terrorist in the room down the hall.”
She listened to the other end a little while longer.
“Yeah, I know. The guy isn’t giving them anything,” said Marisa. “But I’ve got something to send you. He talked to the guy who gave me this. And I think there is a credible threat that there is going to be some sort of attack around midtown—probably in the next few hours.”
An explosion of profanity assaulted the phone lines.
“Like I said, I know it’s thin,” said Marisa. “But while the guy has all these spooks tied up here, it couldn’t hurt for you to put out an alert. Yeah, thanks. Okay. Bye.”
The man on the other end of the phone hung up. An eight-year veteran of the force—who had deployed twice with the Army to Middle Eastern combat zones—he knew the value of trusting one’s instincts and one’s partners. The alert he sent out wasn’t the most extreme, but it would keep any patrol around the midtown area a little more on their toes.
Twenty minutes of fast walking put Scott and Mark at Penn Station. A lone military police soldier patrolled the entrance, bundled in cold weather gear against the night. Someone had upped the threat level. Scott wondered if their efforts were panning out.
Scott looked at his watch. “The next shuttle to Jersey leaves in about twenty minutes. I should have about an hour, then I’ll call you from Newark.”
“I still don’t understand this,” said Mark. “I thought we had enough intel to get someone else to back us up on this.”
“Intel?” Scott laughed shortly. “Intel is well and good, but in the end, it comes down to who shoots first with the biggest gun.”
“Is that what we’re doing now?” asked Mark. “Shooting first?”
“If that’s what it takes to take away the other guy’s gun,” said Scott.
Mark’s face showed his fatigue. Scott was sure he himself looked just as tired.
“It’s just…I would have thought that after all this time…”
“You’re finding out what it’s like to hold all the pieces to the puzzle,” said Scott. “And right now, we’re the only ones who know what the top of the box looks like.” He looked back at his watch. “Do me a favor. Get yourself to your office. As soon as I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Shouldn’t I come with you?” asked Mark.
“And do what?” asked Scott. “Last I heard, you were on the no-fly list. How do you plan on not getting arrested at the ticket counter?”
“I’m still a reporter,” said Mark. “This is still my story.”
Scott shook his head. “Trust me. If things turn out the way they’re heading, the story is going to be right here.”
“All right,” said Mark. He held out his hand. “Good luck.”
Scott shook his hand. “You too.”
Mark watched as the detective vanished into the bowels of 34th Street.
In the next borough over, Marcus emerged from a different set of stairs. He glanced at the map and directed his path two blocks down to a 24-hour coffee shop. He bought a coffee, wincing at the strength of the beverage.
Settling into a chair with a view of the street, Marcus pulled out his phone and waited for the first message to appear.
Said and Abdel were still in downtown Manhattan. They had gotten turned around somewhere after coming out of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. Abdel, still trying to hide his anxiety about the mission, had almost vomited when he realized his navigation failure.
Smiling at the boy, inwardly seething, Said had driven back through the tunnel, turned around and headed back into Manhattan. This time, he simply kept heading north. Eventually, he would end up somewhere around midtown. Once he hit the numbered grid of streets that kept most of the city easily navigable, he would be able to make his way to the intended target.
“No problem, my friend,” Said assured Abdel. “Allah is with us.”
The traffic, even at this time of night, was horrific. The truck inched forward with the rest of the vehicles. Said began to sing softly under his breath.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The majority of people working in the news station at this late hour were interns from the local colleges, broadcast hopefuls willing to work insane hours for no remuneration except resumé bullet points, recommendation letters and, if they were lucky, credit hours. Mark cast his eyes over the newsroom carefully, trying to spot Taggert lurking anywhere, but all he found was the night crew.
The heat inside the station caused Mark to sweat instantly beneath his wool coat. He pulled it off, prickly, welcoming the glow of the stuffy warmth against the chill of the outside. With hands still semi-frozen from walking through the cold, he logged onto his computer.
“You’re here late, Mr. Granger,” said a female voice.
Mark looked up to see one of the interns looking at him curiously. He couldn’t place her name—Julie? Julia? “Running down a lead.” He smiled at her. “Let me know if you see Taggert, will you, Julie?”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure thing.”
“Hey listen,” said Mark. “Are you working on anything?”
Julie lit up in excitement. “Not right now. Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “Do me a favor. Start monitoring every 24-hour cables news network. Do a search on their pages, but it should pop up as one of their most recent stories.”
“What am I looking for?”
Mark scribbled some phrases and names down on a piece of paper. “Any and all of these. I’m looking for something happening in midtown Manhattan.”
The intern took the paper, noting the foreign names and affiliations. Her eyes grew worried. “Is this a terrorist attack? Is it happening now?”
Mark frowned. “Nothing to worry about. Just trying to monitor something.”
“Okay…”
“Don’t worry, Julie,” said Mark. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“It’s Jewel,” said the intern. “I’ll look into it.”
Mark sighed as she marched away without waiting for him to reply. His next task was to call his cameraman and put him on standby. He knew the man would be pissed at being awakened so late, but would be even more pissed if Mark called someone else.
As expected, Mark endured a short burst of profanity, a promise to be ready to go, and another burst of profanity before the line went dead. He closed and rubbed his eyes and went in search of a cup of coffee.
On his way back from the coffee machine, Mark spotted the back of the balding head he dreaded. The thought of facing Taggert was suddenly more than he wanted to deal with. Instead, he ducked into the chatter room.
The chatter room was a small communications center manned by a tech with a headset and various radios. The tech nodded at him, watching the incoming news feeds. Mark watched the broadcast stories coming over the wires, the various video packages sent in from remote locations to be selecte
d based on their ability to sell as much advertising space between stories of destruction and dyspeptic Chihuahuas. Mark wondered when he became so cynical about his profession. And why he couldn’t imagine leaving it. Ever.
A burst of static drew his attention. It came again from the radio set to monitor the police broadband.
“Anything coming over the cop channel?” asked Mark.
“Nah,” said the tech, shaking his head. “It’s been quiet. Guess the cold is keeping all the criminals inside.”
“Pussies,” said Mark.
The tech laughed.
“Oh hey, Mr. Granger.” It was the intern, Jewel. She poked her head in the office.
“Hi Jewel,” said the tech.
Mark paused in his greeting, interrupted by the vibration of his smartphone. He pulled it out and opened the text message. It was a picture. He frowned at the screen, puzzled. The return phone number was “unavailable.”
Mark looked closer at the screen. He recognized the background of the street. It was the glass front of the MTV studios. The logo of the television music channel was partially obscured by the image of a large box truck. He frowned.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry?” the tech asked.
Mark showed him the picture. “Someone just sent me this picture.”
The tech looked at it. He looked back at his screens. He tapped the keyboard. All four of the news wires now displayed the somewhat blurry truck picture. “That’s weird.”