At one point, he sent the boy on an errand, got himself a cup of coffee, returned to the table, and just sat. He didn’t appear to be unusually wary or agitated. It was clear he trusted the kid, who, after all, could have sold him out as a way of walking away from flattening Theola Peppers’s face. But the kid was back, and the sack revealed—another freeze, thank you—that he’d bought a phone.
“Disposable,” said Nick. “One call, then into the river. If we track the phone, the GPS signal just takes us to the river. Standard operating procedure.”
The two rose to leave. Upright, Juba was large for his ethnic grouping, with that linebacker’s body and the sparkle, the large and powerful muscles evident with each step, even though he was slightly pigeon-toed. He and the boy ambled out of Mickey D’s, back into the world, all proteined-up for fresh outrage.
“Is that it?” Nick asked.
“One more segment we think is them. Another camera, looking down the hall toward the west parking lot exit, number 2B.”
“Please,” said Nick.
This one, at least, explained something. The two were shuffling nonchalantly to the doors, Juba with fourteen inches of sawed-off shotgun wrapped in what appeared to be a hoodie. They opened the doors, stepped out, the doors closed behind them, and—
A second later, they were back, their postures changed radically. Now their faces were clenched, in fear or anger, clearly alarmed, bursting with a palpable need to move or flee or pull guns on something.
“Freeze it,” said Nick. “He saw us. The kid, I mean. Mr. Supervisor, as far as I can make out, that entrance looks directly east?”
“Yes, sir,” said the security chief.
“That’s exactly where we were laying off, goddammit. So the kid sees the chopper, and the plan is shot. Little fucker. Look at the time.”
According to the data window, it was 16:13:34 p.m., thirty-seven seconds before the moment the SWAT truck and its five wingmen began to rush the Impala.
“Okay,” said Nick.
The images started moving again. Juba was speaking urgently to the boy and seemed to reach into his package as if to unlimber the Remington and get ready to go to war. But the kid grabbed him and began to pull him. They advanced toward the camera—another freeze, unfortunately, didn’t provide a better facial of either—and disappeared, clearly to exit, one way or the other, off camera.
“So the kid talked him out of going jihad on Greenville, Ohio,” said Bob. “Saved a lot of folks from getting whacked.”
“I’ll be sure to mention it to his parole officer . . . Mr. Supervisor, that’s it? You don’t have any exteriors of these guys pulling away in the seconds before the squad cars arrived?”
“Nothing my people could see,” said the supervisor.
Nick gestured to Chandler, who’d made it down by car and joined the party a few minutes earlier.
“Jean, I want people to go to every retail outlet on every street surrounding the mall and check the security cameras. Maybe somewhere there’s coverage on who picked them up and in what kind of vehicle. Meanwhile, arrange for our tech people to get the stuff Supervisor Gray’s cameras covered back to D.C. for analysis.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nick’s phone rang. It was D.C.
“Fuck, not again,” he said. “How many times can I resign?”
He slid it on, ID’d himself, said, “Yes,” and listened, nodding. It was a detailed conversation, perhaps three minutes long. “Yeah,” he finally said, “good. Late but good. But it points the way.”
He hung up and turned to Bob and Chandler.
“It was Cyber Division. The kid emailed his buddy. Fifteen fifty-nine. Off a disposable. Juba sends him to buy a disposable, he does, but he sneaks in a quick update to Johnny Jones, to give his mom a heads-up. They just accessed the GPS to give us the location, which, unfortunately, is where we’re standing right now.”
“The jihadi who missed his mom,” Swagger said.
“Yeah, but it’s the pattern. Whenever Juba needs to make contact with whoever, he sends Jared out to buy a disposable. One call, then into the river. But Jared sneaks in an email or a call to his pal, to reach his mom, and we’re on that. See, if we can nail the area, get our reaction team in place, ready to chopper to the site, we can nail him. That’s how we’ve got to do it.”
“So we’ve got to anticipate where he’ll be,” said Bob. “We get the area tight enough, everything falls into place.”
“He’ll do it again. He misses Mom. He’ll always miss Mom. So you’ll work with the computers to come up with a filter to pinpoint the area, we’ll scour the wires for reports, and also look at it from the weapons acquisition point of view, all of which will point us to an area. The kid is the key to the whole thing.”
26
On the road in Iowa, maybe Kansas
The dream again. Now, after so long.
In this version, he is trapped. He is unarmed. He cannot move his arms. The American sniper smiles, fiddles, takes his time, locks himself into the weapon skillfully, slowly. He peeks up from the scope just for the pleasure of seeing it all laid out before him.
The flash.
Juba awoke. Where was he? It was dark, someone was near to him, he felt the closeness, the movement in and out of the other’s lungs, their limbs tangled, the sourness, the vibration, the motion, they couldn’t move, they were oppressed under some kind of lid. The coffin’s?
“You are awake?” asked the boy.
“I am. We are still in the truck?”
“It’s been so long, I hardly remember. I’m numb. I’m also very hungry.”
“I’ll tell them to stop for more French frieds,” said Juba.
“French fries,” the boy corrected.
At that point, at last, the lid above them raised.
Three men peered down at them, the silhouettes of their cowboy hats showing against the highway illumination.
“All right, my friends,” said one in Arabic, “it’s time to come out.”
Slowly, hands helped Juba unwrap himself from the boy, supported him as he searched for power in his legs and arms, hoisted him clear so that he could almost stand, though his legs were soft and weak, and one momentarily gave out.
“Where are we?” he said.
The vehicle sped through the night. Outside, an occasional light slid by, nothing prominent, merely a sign of human habitation. He looked forward, saw nothing but the cone of headlights illuminating a road with a pair of lines down the middle of it. The lines flashed by like tracers. The beat of the engine came through to him, concealed under every surface he touched.
“We’re going west,” said the Arabic voice. It seemed one of the Mexicans was along as translator, for he had Arabic skills, and even in the dark, squinting, confused, Juba could tell that his face had significantly different features. He was some kind of transplanted Syrian, judging from the accent.
Next, they pulled the boy out.
“About time,” said the kid. “I am so thirsty. Got anything to drink?”
“Who is this?” said the Syrian. “We were told only one.”
“He is with me,” said Juba. “He is fine.”
Jared jumped in with, “I’m his go-between. I’m the guy who introduced him to America. I happened to be with him when the shit hit the fan, that’s why I’m here.”
“He is jihadi,” said Juba, in English.
It was the best thing anyone had ever said about Jared.
* * *
• • •
They stopped, and a man ran in an outlet for food. Burger King, not McDonald’s. Better hamburger, French frieds not so good.
They drove again, through the night.
The Syrian caught them up.
“We got you guys out just in time. How’d they know? Is there a leak?”
“
This is what they do,” said Juba. “It is their job. No leak, just them reading the signs.”
“Maybe so,” said the Syrian. “Anyway, we were stuck at a roadblock for a while, they were doing a search of vehicles headed out of Greenville onto the interstate. We thought we might have to use this.”
He patted something on the floor covered with a tarpaulin, pulled the canvas back, exposing a Russian PK on a bipod, its long belt of 7.62 RPD gathered in a heap under the receiver.
“Bad news, but then a few car lengths before we got there, they tore it up and pulled out. I don’t know why.”
“The hand of Allah?” said the boy.
“Possibly they didn’t want a gun battle on the highway,” said Juba.
“Ever since, we’ve been driving without incident. The radio says something about murders in Detroit, three dealers.”
“It was necessary,” said Juba.
“It’s of no importance. All the same, I wouldn’t return to Detroit anytime soon.”
“Who are you guys?” asked Jared.
“Cartel,” Juba said. “They have the capacity to support my enterprise. They have been paid a great deal for their interest.”
“You will meet Señor Menendez shortly,” said the Syrian. “He is a great and powerful man. A visionary. With his might behind you, you cannot fail. We will also abandon this rattletrap van and continue our journey in comfort.”
“Where are we going?” asked Jared.
“Little boy,” said Juba, “you do not ask men like these such questions. They are professionals. You show them respect by allowing them to do their jobs.”
“Anyway,” said the Syrian, “you should know that all items you requested have been acquired and are where they need to be. Your rifle came in from Mexico with a recent large shipment and awaits for your hands to assemble it. You will not be bothered at the shooting range we have for you. All things will happen as they have been planned.”
Juba sat back. He settled into the seat. He seemed, for the first time, without tension. The van rolled through the dark.
* * *
• • •
Dawn cracked the eastern horizon behind them. Gray light spilled from the sky. They shared the road with semi-trailers, a few SUVS, all of which flew by them in the left lane. Lights came and went, and the only sound was of men breathing. Jared was full of questions, but he asked none. Cartel? That bothered him. They were ruthless, had no ideology except greed, and became allies only via payment. But Juba clearly trusted them, and without them, he’d be sitting in a Greenville cell, waiting for his father’s lawyer to arrive, wondering if he had the guts to take the fall for the woman or sell out Juba for less jail time. He hoped he never had to discover the answer.
They slowed, the blinker was activated, and the van left the highway, taking an exit, somewhere in the vastness of rural America. He wanted to ask, “Are we there?” but thought it a bad idea.
The van pulled into a farm, drove around the back of the house to the barnyard, where a large black SUV awaited. The van came to a halt.
The Syrian said, “Sir, that package still in the compartment, that is a weapon, no?”
“It is,” said Juba.
“You must leave it there. You must not be armed in the presence of Señor Menendez.”
“I understand. I have no other weapons.”
“And you?” he asked Jared.
“No, of course not.”
“All right, out. Enjoy the fresh air.”
They climbed from the van, and indeed the fresh air seemed like a reward. Jared inhaled, almost becoming dizzy from the pleasure of it. He was still ticking, despite it all.
A man got out of the SUV and opened the back door. Another man got out, thin, handsome, Hispanic, of grandee heritage, in a well-tailored blue suit and black loafers. His Rolex was gold as were his tie clip and his cuff links. His teeth were white and perfect, his hair thick and well cut, his manner smoothly aristocratic.
“Sir,” he said, “I welcome you. I am Menendez.”
The Syrian translated from the English to the Arabic.
“It is an honor, señor,” replied Juba.
“As you have been told, all is in waiting. From here on, things will go smoothly. Your visit is much anticipated.”
“Excellent,” said Juba.
“And this young man?”
“He is my assistant. Young but eager. Has proven himself in action twice during the past few days. Jihadi to the core.”
“I am Menendez,” said the grandee. “Welcome, and congratulations on your accomplishments. If you have impressed the great Juba, you have impressed me.”
“Thank you,” said Jared.
“You are a very brave young man,” said Menendez. “And you are safe now.”
He clapped him on the shoulder to point him on the path to deliverance, but the hand had a gun in it, and he shot the boy in the back of the head.
PART 3
27
Zombieland
It got big fast after Greenville and Detroit. It wasn’t just the three murders; it was the concordance of the Juba prints with Israeli intelligence files, a wide circulation of his curriculum vitae at high echelons, as well as Juba’s own awareness that he was being hunted. The zombie posse, as Swagger had christened them, decided to move into a larger operation.
Task force MARJORIE DAW ceased to exist. It was seconded to the Counterterrorism Division, which put unlimited manpower and computer time at the disposal of those hunting Juba. But the unit wasn’t broken up. Instead, Nick and his assistant Chandler and consultants Swagger and Gold were moved to a suite of rooms on the Counterterrorism Division floor in the Hoover Building, and Nick had direct access to Ward Taylor, the Assistant Director in charge of CTD. They were to be the intelligence staff, the out-of-the-box thinkers, who provided guidance and zeal to the larger, more plodding operation. Taylor and Nick were friends. Taylor had worked under Nick in Dallas and done very well, while at the same time not being one of those guys who could never be wrong and had to get ahead or die. He was okay.
Swagger’s first matter of business under the new setup was to meet with the computer genius Jeff Neill, another Nick ally from way back, and see what could be teased from the mysterious machines on the floor down one flight.
“Not much,” Neill explained to him and Gold, whom Bob had dragooned for his elegant speech and manners. “Mr. Gold’s people had a village name, therefore a specific area in southern Iraq. Their possibility index was quite limited, a few square miles. They didn’t even have a program. They just took pix of everything.”
“Our program was Mr. Swagger,” said Gold. “He performed exceptionally well, up to the point of carrying an Uzi on a commando raid against the target.”
“I wish we could get ours to do that,” said Neill with a laugh. “But ours just sits there, hums and filters and occasionally freezes up.”
“So,” said Swagger, “if we run the attributes against imagery from the U.S. national weather satellites, we’ll come up with too many.”
“By a factor of several million, I’d guess. You need a more precise limiting function. The smaller, the better. Region: too big. State: too big. County: probably too big. Sector of county: now you’re talking. We can task a bird to snoop it out, we can design a program to hunt for the things your eyes looked for and saw, all that shooter stuff, and we could probably find it. But until you get me that, I can’t do much for you.”
“Okay, I’ll put that one on hold for a bit. Now, another question.”
Bob explained about the sustenance of a long-range shooting program, via reloading tools, powder acquisition, premium bullets in .338 caliber, perhaps virgin shell casings, a chronograph, wind direction vanes, a Kestrel Pocket Weather Meter, perhaps a computer and app for solving the necessary algorithms for sight adjustment, as well as
the optics and mounts and cleaning tools themselves, and other things too numerous and Mickey Mouse to mention. “Not available at your local Sportsman’s Warehouse,” he said. “A couple of retail outlets, one in Colorado, one in Pennsylvania, both of which also do considerable mail order, plus a bigger outfit, called Sinclair International, all of which service that community. It’ll grow; we’re lucky it’s still pretty small. The big lick in competition shooting is something called Precision Rifle Competitions, popping up wherever there’s room, the west mostly, but the big suppliers haven’t really gotten on that bandwagon yet.
“If we can we get into their mail-order systems and determine if anyone has made a big purchase of this stuff recently. If we come up with something odd, we could check his name against the lists of competitors at various competitions and see if he’s legitimate. If he checks out, okay. If not, if it’s a sophisticated order from an unusual person—say, a city address, an address next to a mosque, something like that—then that would be worth looking into.”
“You didn’t come up with a question.”
“Sorry, too tangled up in my own thoughts. The question—two of ’em, actually: Can we get into those records from here and is it legal? And if it’s not legal, can we get away with doing it anyhow?”
“It’s legal,” said Neill. “We can put it before the FISA court for a ruling. FISA is the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, passed in ’78 but punched up after nine-eleven to give us some latitude in our pursuits. Juba is clearly a representative of a foreign intelligence agency, no matter who he’s working for now. The Israeli documents prove that. So you’d work with Legal—Chandler’ll set it up for you—and you’ll draw up a request. It has to be tight, limited in scope, not a fishing license.”
“I can live with that.”
“It’ll be limited in time, so you’d better have your team ready to hop in and ride hard. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. The act is designed to help you hunt for one thing and one thing alone, not as a general scouting expedition.”
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