by David Spell
“That’s shady,” O’Reilly commented, dropping the loaded magazine from the Sig and locking the slide to the rear. “The serial numbers have been removed.”
Jen didn’t answer, knowing where the gun had come from. The Agency always removed the serial numbers from any weapons they issued to their people.
“This is interesting,” the CIA agent said excitedly, holding up a piece of paper. “Here’s a statement from Safe Space Storage in Falls Church. He’s renting a storage unit there.”
“Five by fifteen feet,” Joe read out loud. “I wonder what he’s got hidden in there?”
“Only one way to find out,” Jen smiled. “Let’s go see if we can get into it.”
O’Reilly looked hesitant. “I don’t know. We really shouldn’t even be here without a warrant.”
Hughes shrugged. “I get it. This is probably enough breaking and entering for the day for you. If you want to take me back to your HQ, I can grab my car and go check that storage unit alone.”
The slight emphasis she put on “alone” wasn’t lost on Joe. Years ago, a young Agent O’Reilly had tracked down and arrested a serial killer who had preyed on teen prostitutes up and down the west coast. During the interview, the murderer had shown no remorse for his crimes, even facing life without parole in a maximum-security federal prison.
“You don’t seem to care that you’ll die in prison,” Joe had told the killer in their last interview before the trial.
The murderer had just laughed at the agent and said, “After the first one, the rest are free. It didn’t matter if I killed one girl or twenty, I’d still never see the light of day.”
Now, O’Reilly pondered the truth of what he had been told. “After the first one, the rest are free.” I’ve already broken the law by entering this apartment without a search warrant. What does it matter if I go break into Richards’ storage unit?
The beefy G-Man sighed. “We’re already in the neighborhood. Let’s go check it out.”
Jennifer had turned on the tears for the young man wearing thick glasses behind the counter of Safe Space Storage, showing him the bill they had recovered from Richards’ apartment. Joe hovered protectively next to her, an arm on her shoulder.
“My ex-boyfriend cleaned out my apartment when he left,” she sobbed, tears pouring down her face. “He took all my clothes, furniture, everything!”
The name tag identified the gangly, pimple-faced employee as “Bobby.” He stared at the statement, pulling up the account on his computer, stalling for time.
“According to the computer, he was in here yesterday morning,” Bobby commented, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I must’ve been giving someone a tour because I didn’t see him.”
“If you’ll just let us in, my dad and I’ll get my stuff and leave.”
O’Reilly frowned down at Bobby, the younger man wilting under the stare.
“I’m sorry but your name isn’t on the account…” he started.
“I know,” the pretty girl interrupted, placing her hand on his forearm. “I found out he was cheating on me and when I confronted him, he threw me down and hurt me. I’ve got bruises.”
“I hope he shows up while we’re here,” Joe muttered. “I’ll break his neck!”
Bobby’s eyes grew wide at the drama he was witnessing. The bell on the front door tinkled and an older couple walked in, their eyes taking in the young woman with red eyes and tear-streaked face.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” the Safe Space Storage employee told the newcomers.
“Please, Bobby, you’ve got to help me! Just let me get my stuff and I won’t bother you anymore. I don’t want to get the police involved, but you’re not leaving me any choice.”
The older couple shifted uncomfortably, not hearing the entire dialogue and not knowing if Bobby was the reason for the young woman’s tears or not. The bell rang again as another woman entered the small waiting area, also wanting to rent a storage room.
Bobby finally decided to take the path of least resistance and reached under the counter, retrieving a wooden stick with a master key on it, handing it to Jennifer. He pointed to a map on the counter, showing her where Richards’ unit was located.
“Thank you!” Hughes gushed. “We’ll be back in a little while.”
It was too late. The only real item of interest in the storage room was the large gun safe, hidden behind stacks of boxes. Jennifer had it open in less than ten minutes, the two of them marveling at the selection of weapons and ammo inside. After looking through all the cardboard boxes, they realized that if the fugitive had been there the previous day, he had already retrieved everything he needed. A few minutes later, they were heading back to FBI headquarters.
“Your dad, huh?” O’Reilly growled, as he maneuvered the SUV through the heavy traffic.
Hughes laughed. “You did pretty good, Dad.”
“That’s not funny,” he answered, a small smile creeping onto his face. “How do you do that? You can just turn on the tears at random?”
“I’ve been into acting my whole life. That’s an important job skill at the agency. You never know when you’ll be asked to play a certain role. I imagine you have to act from time-to-time as an FBI agent?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Building a rapport with a bank robber or serial killer is important if you want to get their cooperation. You’ve got to make them think you like them or at least understand them.”
“Exactly. For us, though, playing a part well is often the difference between life and death.”
Joe nodded glancing over at the woman, his respect for her growing by the minute.
EMPIRE LUXURY APARTMENTS E 44TH ST, NEW YORK CITY, FRIDAY 2255 HOURS
“So, are we in agreement?” Abdallah Bamya asked, holding the phone to his ear as he stared out of his thirty-fifth floor apartment at the stunning New York City skyline.
“Of course! Now is the time to strike the infidels,” Mohammad Yusuf answered, angrily.
“Saman, you have been very quiet during our entire conversation,” Abdallah addressed the third person on the conference call.
“If anyone has a reason to hate the Americans, it’s me,” Saman Shirazi replied from his Tehran residence. “The bastards took everything from me when they destroyed my country. Now that we’re starting to rebuild, I’d hate to see them come back and knock down what we’ve managed to put back together.”
“I understand,” Bamya said. “As we have discussed, though, if we keep the pressure on the infidels, they’re going to be too focused on licking their wounds to worry about starting another war. Plus, there is nothing to link any of this to Iran. I’ll call our friend and give him the order to proceed.”
“May Allah be praised!” Yusuf commented.
“Yes, may Allah be praised,” Shirazi agreed, less enthusiastically.
“Thank you for your time, my friends. I look forward to seeing you in-person at our meeting later this year,” Abdallah said, disconnecting the call.
Bamya was a Palestinian delegate to the United Nations, located two blocks away on the East River in Manhattan and visible from his bedroom window. While during the day he functioned as any other delegate, his posting to the UN was a cover for his role as the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood. Giving Musa Khan the order to proceed with launching his five terror cells was his biggest decision since being elected to the top spot two years earlier.
Along with Mohammad and Saman, the three men composed the inner circle of the radical Islamic group. Yusuf was a colonel in the Egyptian Homeland Security. He had joined the organization when it was known as the State Security Investigations Service. It was still one of the most feared and hated institutions in the nation.
Shirazi was serving his fourth four-year term as a member of the Iranian Parliament. As a politician, he was well-known in Iran and was considered a moderate among many of the more radical representatives in the elected body. In reality, he was a fundamentalist through and through. As a mem
ber of the inner circle of Brotherhood, however, it was important for Saman to maintain his cover as a career politician.
The previous year, the Brotherhood came close to scoring its biggest victory ever, this one without firing a shot. Democratic Presidential Candidate Saleem Bashir had been leading by a wide margin in the polls until his running mate, Maxwell Sterling, had been arrested for a variety of horrific charges. Musa Khan had paid Sterling a visit after he had posted bail and returned home to await trial. It had not ended well for the former CIA Director.
All three of the inner circle had wanted Bashir executed, as well. Khan was able to talk them out of it, arguing that Saleem could still be useful to their cause. Time would tell as to whether Bashir could redeem himself. Musa might still have to deal with the former presidential candidate, but for the moment they were allowing him to live.
The former Pakistani agent had put together an excellent terror network over the last year and a half. Now was the time to pull the trigger and send the soldiers of Allah to war. Very soon, there would be blood flowing in the streets of America.
Abdallah scrolled through his contacts for the number that represented Musa. He marveled at the technology that allowed him to have sensitive, encrypted conversations with colleagues throughout the world without fear of the CIA, NSA, or Mossad listening in. Wang Lei Chen had proven to be a trustworthy ally and had provided the encrypted smart phones that the Brotherhood used. The Chinese government had long maintained ties with the Palestine Liberation Organization.
Bejing had also been secretly funding many of the Brotherhood’s operations when those activities lined up with China’s own goals. By supporting these terror attacks in the United States, the Chinese hoped to create chaos and uncertainty in American society. This would hopefully cause a downturn in the stock market and force the Americans back to the negotiating table in the area of import and export tariffs.
Chen had also provided the weapons and ammo that Khan would be distributing to his cells. Bamya had taken care of the suicide vests. One of his most trusted friends in Gaza had built the vests for him. Thankfully, Abdallah’s diplomatic status made it easy to smuggle the deadly implements into the U.S.
“Hello, brother,” Musa Khan answered.
“Allah be praised, my brother.”
“Allah be praised. Have you made a decision?”
“It is time to act,” Bamya replied. “When will you be ready?”
“Everything is in place and we can move swiftly,” Khan answered confidently.
“Where will you strike first?”
Musa hesitated before answering. “I’d prefer not to say over the phone, my brother.”
The leader of the Brotherhood knew which cities where Musa had established cells. He did not know the order in which Khan would schedule the attacks. It was probably better that way.
“Of course,” Abdallah laughed. “It is good to be cautious. Our Chinese friend assures me that these phones are more advanced than anything that the infidel Americans have and cannot be listened in on.”
Now it was Musa’s turn to laugh. “And I’m sure he’s right, but I learned long ago to never underestimate an enemy. Let’s just say that when it happens, you’ll hear all about it.”
“I understand,” Bamya answered. “What I would like you to do is launch two attacks within a week of each other and then take a break. I want to keep the infidels off balance. I don’t want them to be able to predict a pattern.”
Khan was silent. “I would prefer to keep things moving. How long do you want to wait between the second and third attacks?”
“Two or three weeks should be enough. That should have them thinking everything is back to normal.”
“As you wish, Sayyid,” Musa said, reluctantly.
“It will make your next attacks even more devastating. Peace be upon you, and may Allah give you favor.”
“Thank you, brother,” Khan said. “Before we disconnect, I have one more thing that I need your help with.”
“By all means. What is it?”
“Our Chinese friend let me know that the last shipment is ready for pickup. I need them transported to Detroit. Can you have someone handle that?”
“Certainly. Do you have the location for pickup and delivery?”
“I’ll text the coordinates to you. A trustworthy brother will accept the delivery and store them until we’re ready.”
“You have created quite a network, my brother. I’ll get to work on this immediately.”
After they disconnected, the Palestinian continued to stare out the window at the majestic light show spread out around him. Why had Allah blessed these infidels with such prosperity? Bamya’s position allowed him to partake in a lifestyle that very few of his countrymen would ever experience.
At the same time, he had sacrificed much for his faith. At forty-three years of age, he had not married after his divorce ten years earlier. Most of his contemporaries had large families of which they were understandably very proud. As a true believer, however, Abdallah had made a vow to Allah that he would devote his life to killing Americans and Jews.
He was still a man, though, and had needs. One of those needs had not been satisfied in a while. Maybe tomorrow I’ll call the escort service, he thought. The last two girls from there had been wonderful.
WASHINGTON, D.C., FRIDAY, 2345 HOURS
Now that the leadership of the Brotherhood had finally made a decision, Musa Khan wanted to act quickly. The safe house was located on Minnesota Avenue, near the Masjid Ali Mosque. At one time, the rental had been a boarding house and was larger than most of the other homes in the area. The neighborhood was depressed and the crime rate was high. At the same time, the residents tended to keep to themselves, handling their own problems to avoid having the police show up.
Khan would finish training the five-man cell on Saturday. He had already been prepping the Islamic warriors for their mission. Now that the order to proceed had been given, Musa would speed up the timetable. The longer they waited, the greater the chance for American intelligence or police agencies to somehow interfere.
The Pakistani had been as cautious as he knew how to be in his preparations. He hated having to rely on a Chinese phone to communicate and hoped that the device lived up to its hype. At the same time, he had been very careful not to give many specifics in regards to the missions he had planned. If the Americans had somehow managed to listen in on any of his conversations, they would know that something bad was on the horizon but would not know what, when, or where. On Monday, Musa Khan would declare war on America.
CHAPTER THREE
NEAR THE METRO POLICE HQ, WASHINGTON, D.C., MONDAY, 9:45AM
Benny “Bad Press” Martin maneuvered the delivery van through the stop-and-go DC traffic, moving in rhythm to the hip hop soundtrack playing through his earbuds. The interior of the vehicle was filled with pungent marijuana smoke. BP took a long drag from the thick blunt before placing it in the ashtray.
He was glad the boss had seen things his way. The Arab, as he thought of Musa Khan, had spoken in each of their meetings about the glories of becoming a martyr in the war against the great Satan, America. The other four men in the DC cell had all agreed to wear suicide vests to kill the maximum number of infidels.
Martin had met with the boss privately, sharing his concerns.
“I’m cool with killing some cops and white people, but this martyr shit ain’t for me.”
The Arab had stared at him before giving him a slight nod of the head.
“Yes, I understand. For recent converts to Islam, martyrdom can be a difficult thing to swallow. There is another way that you can serve. I need a driver for the van. I’ll have you park it between the two buildings and you’ll have ten minutes to get away before the bomb goes off.”
“That sounds good. I’m not scared of dying or anything. There’s just something about blowing myself up that don’t seem right. But I can do that. Just put the van where it needs to go and then
disappear?”
“That’s right. Park the vehicle and disappear,” the Arab had smiled.
BP had a long arrest record for everything from burglary to drugs to aggravated assault. It was all good, though, he thought. What rap star didn’t have a rap sheet? He laughed out loud at his pun. That’s a good one! I’ll have to put some music to that. He had already recorded a few of his original pieces and had them for sale on the internet, but was hoping to eventually make it big in the hip hop business.
The idea of getting some payback against the cops was appealing. In most of his arrests, BP had gotten pummeled by the arresting thugs. Sure, it always started with him resisting arrest but that was no excuse for going all Rodney King on him. That time they’d locked him up for punching his pregnant girlfriend, though, the pigs went too far. They had kicked his ass at the scene when he took a swing at one of the officers. He got tased and beaten again at the jail when he spit on a jailer. That was totally uncalled for, he thought, looking forward to seeing how many of those punks with badges they could take out today.
It was during his ten-month stint in jail for that assault, along with an outstanding warrant for probation violation, that Martin had found Islam. BP felt like he was joining an elite club with so many of his incarcerated brothers. He didn’t understand the Koran but loved the idea of a holy war. Benny just didn’t want to blow himself up to participate in the jihad. That seemed like a tough way to win a war if all your best soldiers kept exploding.
In a strange way, the idea of getting shot didn’t bother him nearly as much. All of his musical heroes had gotten shot at one time or another and that was the ultimate street cred. Sure, the possibility existed that he might die, but the heavy body armor he had purchased on-line would stop anything the cops threw at him.
With the metal stock folded, the AK-47 had just fit inside his backpack. After parking the van, BP would hurry around the block to cover the others and to wait for the explosion. The Arab had told him he could provide backup for the other dudes when they started doing their thing. Just pull out that AK, slam a thirty-round clip into it, pull back the handle, and then kill some pigs. It’ll be just like that video game, Grand Theft Auto, he thought with a grin.