Soft Target

by Rachel Brune

  “Yeah.” Mark took his device back and looked again at the picture, willing it to make sense.

  “Mr. Granger?”

  “Yeah, sorry?” Mark said, distracted.

  “This was just delivered for you.”

  Mark looked up, confused. “There’s a courier service delivering this late?”

  “I guess so,” said Jewel. The package was large and bulky. “The bike messenger said it was a special service. I gave him a pretty good tip.” It was a hint for Mark to reimburse her.

  Mark never picked up the hint. Instead, he looked at the box. It was plainly wrapped, addressed to him, with no return address. A switch inside him flipped.

  “Shit.”

  “Mr. Granger?”

  Time stopped. Mark found himself in a place where every movement seemed painfully slow, like a dream where no matter how fast he pumped his legs, he couldn’t seem to move an inch.

  “Get out.” Mark barely choked out the words.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get out, now!”

  “What’s your problem?” asked the tech.

  “Not out of the room,” said Mark. “Out of the building. Get out, now!”

  He grabbed the package from Jewel, tossing it under the desk and physically yanking the tech out of his seat. He pushed the man and Jewel toward the door.

  “We need to evacuate the building, now!” Mark’s edge of panic got through. Jewel darted into the hallway.

  The three stood at the edge of the newsroom. Mark suddenly felt ridiculous.

  “Hey everyone!” Mark shouted. No one looked up from what they were doing. “People! Listen to me!”

  A few heads turned, but nobody paused in what they were doing.

  “Screw this,” said Jewel. With a purpose, she moved to the wall and pulled the fire alarm.

  The clanging of the siren and the red flashing light finally pulled people out of their own private worlds. They looked up to see Mark, Jewel and the tech charging toward the staircase.

  One person began to follow, and then the inexorable pull of mob action exerted its full force, and the rest of the newsroom began surging toward the exit.

  “Hey, what the hell is going on?”

  Mark looked up to see Taggert coming towards him. He paused and let people pass by as he waited for his boss.

  “Mr. Taggert, someone just delivered a bomb and if we don’t leave, we are all going to die.” Mark shocked himself at how evenly he was able to say the line.

  “A bomb?” asked Taggert. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Get down the stairway, asshole,” said Mark, not looking up as he dialed 9-1-1.

  Taggert looked in shock at Mark. Mark grabbed him by the arm. He pulled the man into the stairwell, which was far from filled, but still had enough occupants to impede their progress. Most of the people shuffled wearily, believing the alarm to be a prank by some late-night jokester.

  “People!” Mark shouted. No one turned to look. “People you have got to move!”

  No one paid attention. Through the phone he heard the dispatcher pick up and inquire as to the nature of the emergency.

  Mark tried again, raising his voice loud enough to be heard by both the dispatcher and the crowd. “There’s a bomb! It’s about to go off! You have got to move!”

  A middle-aged woman turned on him and dressed him down with a severe look. “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s not a joke,” said Mark. “Move faster!”

  He held the phone to his ear as he gestured with his other hand to move the flow of traffic along. “Yes ma’am, we’re at the New York Central News—the building right off Times Square. We are evacuating due to a bomb threat.”

  The small flow of people stalled and stopped as the stairs suddenly shook under their feet. Mark felt the tremor reach up through his legs and shake him to the deepest core of his body. The muffled roar of the explosion reached him moments later. He looked up the two flights of stairs they had traveled to see a wave of flame engulf the windows of the heavy steel door.

  “Holy Jesus…” His heart, racing to begin with, almost went into hallucinatory overdrive as he saw the fireproof glass crack but hold firm.

  “Move!”

  This time Mark’s shout caused the herd to stampede. The front line of evacuees tore down the stairs. The group began to take off without him.

  “Holy shit,” said Taggert. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

  “Yeah,” said Mark. “Move faster.”

  “Fuck,” said Taggert. “You forgot to bring a camera, didn’t you?”

  “Unbelievable.” Mark voiced his opinion out loud. He realized the emergency dispatcher was still squawking in his ear. He said calmly: “The bomb went off.” He pressed the “End” button and stuck the phone back in his pocket.

  The flight down to the first floor seemed to take an eternity. A woman, a veteran of the attack on the World Trade Center, reached the bottom floor and refused to go any further. The crowd of people parted around her.

  She sank to the steps. Mark saw her face. She had tears on her cheeks, but seemed more stunned than weepy.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” asked Mark.

  “It’s happening again,” said the woman, staring past him. “Don’t let the building fall on me.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” said Mark.

  “Granger! Come on!” Taggert tugged at his sleeve.

  “It’s worse outside,” said the woman.

  “Granger, we gotta get out of here,” said Taggert.

  Mark turned on him angrily, his response cut off by the sound of gunfire.

  Taggert put his hand on the door. His attempt to yank it open and look out was foiled by Mark body slamming it shut.

  “Are you crazy?” asked Taggert. “We need to leave.”

  Mark waved him quiet. He looked out the window. People cowered behind whatever they could find.

  One intern Mark barely knew tried to hide behind a potted plant. Others crouched in the elevator well or behind the security desk or the jumbotrons in the glass window, anything to escape the automatic fire that sprayed death in a rapid back and forth pattern from the darkness outside those windows.

  Mark instinctively cowered at the sight of breaking glass, blown inward in glistening shards by the bullets from the Kalashnikov rifle Dodger aimed at the lobby.

  One of those bullets caught Jewel in the temple, collapsing her across the body of the student who had tried to hide behind the plant.

  “At least I won’t have to reimburse her for the tip.” Mark caught himself from speaking the words out loud, flinching in horror at the part of himself that could come up with such a thought.

  The lobby was open, but there was still enough concrete to echo the sound of gunfire and deafen the men and women who crouched, trying to evade the bullets that came their way. Mark held his arms over his head, his world collapsed into this small ball of sweat and fear and darkness. He didn’t dare lift his head.

  Gradually, Mark realized that stabbing beams of alternating light punctured his vision. He lifted his head. Trying to avoid the broken glass, Mark slowly got to his knees, then to his feet. He opened the door slowly and looked out across a scene from a madhouse. The bodies of his former colleagues littered the freshly waxed floor of the lobby. Some of them staggered to their feet, others remained still.

  Mark led the way into the lobby. Taggert followed on his footsteps. For once, the man had nothing to say.

  A man dressed in a bulky protective suit ran by Mark, trailed by several more men and women in various uniforms. A patrol officer grabbed the reporter’s arm, shouting something unintelligible. Mark shook him off. The officer tried to reach for him again, then let him go as he stumbled in the right direction.

  Mark made it to the pavement and looked around. His hearing was starting to come back. The temporary deafness had been due as much to shock as to the gunfire, and the normal sounds of the city started to reassert themselves.
/>   A few feet down, emergency responders drew a piece of tarp over another body. Before they concealed the bullet-ridden corpse under the bright yellow material, Mark recognized the man. He had been one of the attackers in the parking garage; he one his buddies had called something beginning with a “D”—Dodgers, like the baseball team.

  And then, paramedics were pushing and pulling Mark to a waiting ambulance, placing an oxygen mask over his mouth, shining lights in his ears and eyes and shouting at him to stay put and not go anywhere. He nodded.

  Beyond the yellow caution tape, the rapidly expanding phalanx of news cameras stared in at them like so many silent intruders.

  In the haze of the aftermath, Mark didn’t remember calling Scott. He had no memory of leaving a message on Scott’s phone, which went straight to voicemail.

  Mark only vaguely remembered Taggert’s despair at the fact that his station could no longer report on the most exciting story in his career, due to every piece of equipment they owned evaporating in the explosion.

  On the other hand, Mark clearly remembered calling Kyle MacAllister.

  MacAllister listened to Mark’s narrative, succinct and to the point in spite of the two concussive poundings he had taken in the past twenty-four hours. As Mark concluded, MacAllister had only one question: “Where is Scott Mabry?”

  “He’s at the airport,” said Mark. “Newark International.”

  Nina Morris frowned in irritation at her cell phone. With the city exploding around her, she had more to deal with than random pictures of trucks appearing on her text message inbox.

  “Goddammit.” She punched the delete button again. The huge police vehicle rocked as it turned the corner, sirens blaring. She held one hand to steady herself against the wall of the command truck and used her other to speed dial another number.

  “Ma’am?” MacAllister’s voice came on the line.

  “Mac, I keep getting the weirdest pictures in my text box,” said Morris.

  “Picture of a truck?” asked MacAllister.

  “How did you know?” asked Morris.

  “I’ve been getting the same message,” said MacAllister. “So have half the guys on my team. Point of interest—news agencies all over the city have also been getting these messages.”

  “What the hell do they mean?” asked Morris. “Forget that question—listen, you think this has something to do with what Scott and that reporter have been running down?”

  “Likely,” said MacAllister. “I just called Mark and he got more than a picture. He was on the ground where that bomb just went off in midtown.

  “Where is Scott Mabry?” asked Nina. “And don’t bullshit me, Mac.”

  “Newark International Airport.”

  For a full minute, Nina did not say a word. Mac stayed on the line, wondering if he should say something. He opted to remain silent.

  Nina weighed her options. The time for arguing against a potential situation had come and gone with its actualization. But there was a reason she had been entrusted with the leadership of the task force.

  “Mac, I’ve already scrambled our teams,” said Morris. “I’m on my way to midtown. I want you to meet me there, with all Task Force elements assembled in half an hour.

  “And Mac?” added Nina. “Call Newark. Tell them we’ve got a situation and to look for Detective Mabry and render all assistance.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marcus hated to run. On his bike, he lived to ride at top speed, gliding effortlessly through the city, but he hated to put his feet on the pavement—exerting more effort yet going slower than he knew was possible. It was also a certified fact that a man of his appearance running at full speed down the street at three in the morning drew a certain amount of attention. But it couldn’t be helped.

  Drawing deep breaths to control his lung spasms, Marcus drew up at the next café on the list. The establishment was closed. Clearly, the timing of this plan was way off. He stood, his breath calming, under the overhang to get out of the weather. The flurries had misted into a soft rain that was still cold, if not as penetrating.

  Drawing his phone out of his pocket, Marcus checked for a new message. There was nothing yet. A twenty-four hour deli was open across the street. He decided that sending a message from the warmth of that establishment would be preferable to freezing in the dark.

  Halfway down the beer aisle, the phone vibrated. A new picture of the truck, this one from a wider angle showing a slight crowd gathering, filled the screen. He pressed the forward button and sent the picture on its way. Immediately, another picture arrived on his phone. This picture showed only the illuminated sign on the highway exit to Newark International Airport.

  “Shit,” said Marcus, and sent it anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mabry arrived at the airport just before Marcus sent the text picture to every major news agency as well as the Joint Task Force. The timing of Alan’s plan, already buffeted by the effects of contingency, was now a thing of chance. Still, the man had arrived at the airport twenty minutes earlier and sent the photo to Marcus, banking on the confusion in Manhattan to cover his tracks, giving him enough time to implement the second phase before the Task Force gathered its wits enough to shut down the airways.

  At separate ends of the terminal, Mabry and Alan faced banks of data screens, displayed long columns of red, showing “DELAYED” next to almost all flights in and out of the terminal. The weather, playing its merry havoc with travelers, effectively shut down most of the runways.

  Alan scanned the list of flights. His original flight was listed as one of the delayed trips.

  “Sir? Sir?”

  Mabry tore his eyes away from the screen to see a worried looking security officer heading toward him. The man held a clipboard and a radio. Mabry noticed he didn’t carry a weapon on his belt.

  “Yes?” asked Mabry.

  “The gate told me you badged your way past them,” said the short, stocky guard. “Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mabry. He flashed his badge and Task Force identification card. “I’m with Joint Terrorism Task Force Eden, operating out of Manhattan. We got a tip that one of your flights might be compromised.”

  “Compromised? How? Which one?”

  Mabry pointed to the screen. “It’s been delayed, but I would still like to check it out.”

  “Are we going to need to ground all flights?” asked the guard. “I can’t do that without an official memorandum from DHS.”

  Mabry looked at him. “I’m not here officially.”

  “Well, what should we do?” The guard seemed frozen in bureaucratic hesitation.

  “Can you make sure that flight doesn’t take off?” asked Mabry.

  “Yes, yes, I can do that.”

  “Then call them and hold them at the gate,” said Mabry. “Don’t let anyone on or off. You might want to call a squad to check it out.”

  “For … for?” asked the guard.

  “For anything suspicious.”

  “Got it.” The security guard nodded. Mabry looked at him. He nodded again and got on the radio.

  “Go ahead,” said Mabry. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  The guard flagged down a passing transportation cart, speaking into the radio the whole time.

  Alan’s choices as displayed onscreen ranged from dismal to unworkable. Even with the weather abating, the only air traffic currently cleared for takeoff consisted of small commuter planes. There were three leaving in the near future.

  At the ticket counter, the woman in the smart uniform willingly exchanged Alan’s ticket for the New Jersey–Washington, DC hop for one on the next flight to Albany. The demand to head to the northern city was nonexistent.

  “Thank you,” said Alan, taking his new boarding pass.

  “Thank you for your patience,” said the attendant, smiling at him. “You’re the best customer we’ve had all night.”

  Alan headed for his gate. He had one more stop t
o make before boarding the flight. In taking the ticket, his hand had brushed that of the female ticket agent. He felt a sudden need to wash his hands again, and detoured to the men’s lavatory.

  Mabry was not a gambling man. He never could see the point of spending money for nothing but the probability of losing. Still, as he turned away finally from the bank of screens, he realized he was about to roll the dice with more than a few dollars at stake.

  There were only five flights still open and taking off within the next few hours. He calculated that at this point Alan the terrorist was going to have to find a new flight due to the weather and the fact that had probably hadn’t heard from Eddie in almost twenty-four hours. Scott couldn’t be sure Alan knew Eddie was in custody, but if he were going to gamble, he was going to walk on the safe side of a wild-ass guess.

  At the counter, he badged the agent and asked if they had recently sold or exchanged tickets on any of the flights.

  The agent frowned as she checked her computer. Mabry held his breath.

  “Yes, sir,” she said finally. “We just exchanged a ticket for the four a.m. to Albany.”

  “What gate does that leave from?” asked Mabry.

  “Gate twelve,” said the agent. “It’s boarding now.”

  “Thanks,” said Mabry. He took off at a dead sprint.

  “Sir!” the agent called after him, but he didn’t turn around. She picked up the phone and called the shift supervisor, informing her that an NYPD detective had just inquired about a flight and taken off at a dead run.

  The supervisor called security, who informed her that there was a question about a flight, and they were taking care of it. She frowned. During emergency response exercises, her superiors were always warning about bureaucratic miscommunication, and how someone’s reluctance to speak up might cost them. The supervisor decided to call the emergency alert number, which routed her to the night desk at the Port Authority. She was still on hold as Mabry arrived at the gate.