by David Spell
Here we go, Benny thought, his heart racing as he made the right turn onto C Street from 6th Street, the anticipation building inside of him. Only half a block and it’s show time. The delivery van had magnetic placards on both sides identifying it as belonging to “Mohammad’s Flower Shop.” The Arab had thought of everything, BP realized, taking another hit off of the joint. He stopped just past the entrance to the underground parking lot for the E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse on his right and the Metro DC Police Headquarters on his left. Some cops, some prosecutors, and maybe some judges were about to get blown the hell up, the rapper chuckled to himself, the weed calming his nerves.
He turned on the emergency flashers, turned off the van, and opened his door, noticing for the first time the number of people on the sidewalks, heading towards the courthouse or the police HQ. A sudden beeping sound came from the cargo area of the vehicle as he reached for his backpack on the passenger seat. The marijuana slowed his reaction time but the last thought through his mind before a flash and a violent explosion made BP disappear forever was that the Arab had made him a martyr after all.
Musa Khan sat two blocks away, calmly holding a cup of tea in the rear corner of the Metro Coffee House. He had his laptop open, utilizing the business’s wifi, as he stared at a satellite image of the federal courthouse and the Metro DC police headquarters. This was the first vehicle bomb that the terrorist had built in several years and he was supremely thankful that he had remembered how to put it together without killing himself.
The hundred pounds of EPX-1 plastic explosive, along with the twenty-five gallons of gasoline, wired together in the rear of the van were more than enough to bring death and destruction. The two large buildings sitting opposite of each other on C Street created a devastating blast area between them. Wang Lei Chen had provided three hundred pounds of the Egyptian-made plastic explosive, the Norinco AK-47s, and plenty of ammo. The Chinese had no intention of getting their own hands dirty, but at least they had supplied most of what Khan needed to equip his teams. Abdullah had supplied him with twenty suicide vests.
The GPS that Musa had attached to the van flashed as the vehicle moved closer to its destination. When it stopped between the courthouse and the police building the Pakistani pressed the “Send” button on his phone, watching the device connect. A second later, a thunderous roar erupted from up the street, a fireball shooting over a hundred feet into the air.
The coffee shop was not in the path of the blast, but even at a distance of two blocks, the shock wave blew the glass out of the windows, as well as knocking several of the customers to the floor. Khan packed the laptop into his computer bag, slung it over his shoulder, and followed the excited crowd out onto the sidewalk, watching as they stared and pointed at the rising cloud of smoke, several already holding their cell phones up to record what was happening, others sprinting down the street to investigate.
After Benny Martin had refused to martyr himself for their glorious cause, Musa knew that the American wasn’t a true believer. Too many of the jail converts weren’t. By eliminating Martin, there was one less link to him. In a few more minutes, the other links to the Pakistani in the D.C. area would be gone as well.
Sirens filled the air as police, fire, and med units responded to the explosion. The initial blast had killed thirteen and wounded twenty-four, most of the victims preparing to enter the courthouse through its main entrance. After the blast, more stunned and, in many cases, wounded survivors poured out of police headquarters and the federal building into the street.
Uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives, along with several police administrators, rushed out to render aid to the wounded. Within four minutes the first police cars skidded to a stop, their blue lights flashing as officers began setting up a perimeter. By the time fire trucks and ambulances arrived, the crowd had grown to almost a hundred people milling around, many taking pictures or videos on their cell phones. A traffic helicopter from one of the local stations circled overhead.
No one observed the two black men exit their Ford Taurus at the corner of 3rd Street and C Street, leaving the vehicle in the middle of the road. Each man clutched an AK-47 and was wearing a heavy black vest. A middle-aged Metro-DC officer had just pulled up to the same intersection to block access to C Street to allow more emergency vehicles in.
Before the officer could even register the two men running towards him, they both opened fire with their rifles, 7.62x39mm bullets shattering the officer’s window and smashing into his skull. The gunmen quickly turned their weapons down the street, aiming at anyone in a uniform or within their line of sight. Panicked civilians, seeing the men with rifles coming towards them, turned and began stampeding towards the other end of the block.
More gunfire echoed between the two buildings as the second pair of Islamic warriors began firing their AKs into the crowd, as well, creating a withering crossfire. They had abandoned their older model Chevrolet Impala several hundred feet down C Street parking it long ways across both lanes, in an attempt to slow down responding emergency vehicles. None of the terrorists were skilled marksmen. The group in the street was large enough, however, to make it almost impossible for the four killers to miss as they fired round after round at the defenseless victims.
One of the gunmen on the 3rd Street end of the block suddenly screamed and landed face down on the asphalt. The police were now mounting a counter-attack, even if their pistols were overmatched by their attackers’ AK-47s. Instinctively, his partner ran towards him to render aid, momentarily forgetting that each of them was wearing suicide vests. The downed man had been struck in the leg by a 9mm round, his femoral artery severed and pumping his life into the street. The wounded terrorist knew he was hurt bad and really hoped those seventy-two virgins were waiting for him.
He grabbed the detonator in his pocket and yelled, “Allah Akbar!”
His friend was taken out by the blast, along with a fireman who had chosen to rush the terrorists armed only with an axe. The two killers had not made it very far down C Street before being stopped. The second terrorist’s vest did not detonate but the flying shrapnel from his friend’s killed three more and injured twelve, creating even more havoc for the paramedics.
The gunmen coming from the other end of the block had split up, with one on the police HQ side of the road and other on the courthouse side. They moved slowly and methodically up the block using parked cars for cover as they continued to pump AK rounds into the crowd. The explosion from their companion startled them just as both of their rifles ran empty. Six police officers advanced on the shooter who was closest to their headquarters, firing their pistols at the terrorist. The killers both ducked behind parked cars on opposite sides of the street as they reloaded their rifles.
Each gunman withdrew a second thirty round magazine, but neither man had had enough training with the weapon to make a fluid reload. The shooter closest to the approaching officers fumbled with the magazine, dropping it to the pavement. He threw his rifle down in frustration, grabbed the detonators for his vest and ran forward as a hail of 9mm hollow points struck him. He just managed to squeeze the handles as he died, his vest erupting only twenty yards from the police, killing all six of the cops and adding eleven more wounded to the fray.
Detective Sergeant Dan Lawson had been reviewing investigator reports from his squad of six major felony detectives when the vehicle bomb went off. Thankfully, his fourth-floor office was in the front of the large brick building and didn’t have any windows, but the blast still reverberated through police headquarters. Lawson pushed his large frame away from the desk, climbing to his feet and joining the crowd in the hallway who were trying to figure out what had just happened.
At fifty-three, the sergeant was less than a year away from having his thirty years in and being able to retire. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would never make lieutenant. Dan had been told throughout his career that he was too blunt and that he needed to use more discretion in how he
related to the department’s administrators.
Lawson wasn’t rude or disrespectful but he also called bullshit when he saw it and had never been afraid to stand up for his officers. His troops had loved him when he was a uniform sergeant and his detectives loved him now. Their respect meant more to Dan than the gold bars of a lieutenant.
Investigators and uniformed officers surged out of the building to see the charred remains of a van laying on its side, consumed in flames. Sitting behind a desk for the last five years had not been conducive to Lawson’s health and he was panting for breath by the time he got down to the street. His doctor had been telling him to lose weight but the heavy man liked to eat and enjoyed a few beers every evening.
The sergeant paused for a moment to catch his breath just outside the middle set of double doors, all six of them now glassless from the blast. Bodies and parts of bodies lay scattered around the area. Police, paramedics, court security officers, and civilians were already performing first-aid on the wounded.
As Lawson’s breathing came under control, movement from the 3rd Street end of the block caught his attention. The two sprinting figures were carrying rifles and opened fire on a marked police cruiser at the corner before starting down C Street, shooting at the throng of people out in the open. The detective drew his Glock and crouched at the top of the seven-step landing leading down to the sidewalk. He braced his pistol on the metal handrail and sighted in on the lead terrorist, at least seventy yards away.
Other officers were firing at the shooters, but the AK-47 rounds forced most of the cops to dive for cover. Dan might be out of shape and have a beer gut but he was at the range at least once a week, keeping his skills sharp. He had, however, only attempted a shot this far with a handgun once on a bet with a couple of friends while shooting at the hundred-yard rifle range. Lawson had landed four out of six rounds from his Glock on a man-sized silhouette, winning the bet, and savoring the beer that the losers had bought him.
He placed the front sight of the pistol on one of the AK-wielding men. Lawson then raised the muzzle of his .40 caliber Glock six inches to account for bullet drop and squeezed the trigger. The terrorist screamed and landed hard on the asphalt. Dan quickly fired several shots at the other gunman but missed the moving target.
Just as the detective pulled himself to his feet and rushed down the steps to get closer to the action, a voice screamed, “Allah Akbar!” and was followed by a flash and a roar that slammed him down hard to the sidewalk. More shrieks followed the explosion as additional injured people yelled for help.
Suddenly, gunshots echoed from the other end of the street. Dan crawled behind a police car parked against the curb, using it for cover as he carefully surveyed the new threat. Two other black men, also armed with rifles, moved up C Street from the direction of 6th Street. This pair was smart, staying on opposite sides of the road and using parked vehicles for cover as they moved and shot.
Several officers were bunched up behind a minivan to Lawson’s right, attempting to return fire. When there was a lull in the shooting, the group of officers rushed towards the black BMW the gunman was crouched behind just thirty yards away. The problem was, there was still another terrorist on the opposite side of the street who could engage the six officers out in the open.
Dan charged across the street as fast his bulky fifty-three year old frame would allow and angled towards the other shooter. The sergeant glanced over his shoulder as gunfire erupted again, his colleagues pumping bullets into the terrorist as he charged them from behind the BMW. He recognized the black suicide vest the man was wearing but there was no time to scream a warning as the killer exploded, taking all six police officers with him into the afterlife.
Lawson just managed to throw himself behind the engine block of a Cadillac Escalade. The windows of the SUV were blown out, with several bits of the safety glass embedding themselves into the detective’s back, arms, and scalp. While still slightly dazed and bleeding, the cop knew that he had to get to the last shooter before he could pull the cord on that damn vest. Somehow, the officer forced himself to his feet and moved towards the red Ford pickup that the bad guy was hiding behind.
The detective’s pistol was up and ready and he heard the gunman work the action of the AK. Suddenly, the killer stood, surprise in his eyes at the plainclothes officer just twenty feet away. The terrorist tried to raise his rifle but Lawson pumped four .40 caliber hollow points into his throat and face, aiming high to avoid hitting the explosive vest. He collapsed out of sight behind the vehicle.
Dan paused to quickly reload his pistol, not sure how many rounds he had fired but not wanting to run dry. He then advanced slowly around the pickup until he could see that the shooter was down and not moving, his lifeless eyes staring into the sky. Normally, the cop would move in and handcuff a suspect who had been shot but the explosive vest convinced him to wait until more help arrived. Lawson slumped against the truck and slid to a seated position on the pavement, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him.
After leaving the coffee shop, Khan walked another block to where he had parked. He stood for several minutes listening to the explosions and shootout. Only two secondary explosions, he mused. Did only two of my men manage to detonate their vests? When the second vest had exploded, four more gunshots sounded seconds later. After that the only noise was of sirens rushing towards the scene.
Musa climbed into his rental, pointing the vehicle towards Trenton, New Jersey. He would be at his safe house there within three hours. That was plenty of time to listen to the news coverage on the radio. Now it was time to prepare for the next attack on America.
HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS, NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, MONDAY, 1105 HOURS
Steam seeped from under the bathroom door as the girl showered. They had slept in and then availed themselves of the hotel’s free breakfast, bringing their food back to the room. This was definitely a step up from the dumps they had been staying at over the last few nights.
After leaving Michigan on the previous Wednesday afternoon, they had arrived in Northern Virginia too late for Richards to get into his storage unit at Safe Space Storage. They had spent the night at the Budget Inn in Falls Church. Ashley had wanted a separate room but Aaron had told her he couldn’t afford it. The compromise was that he rented a room with two twin beds and the fugitive’s promise that he wouldn’t touch her.
Thursday morning, Richards left Ashley in the car as he entered the storage facility. Thankfully, no employees were in sight as Aaron punched in his code to gain access and walked down the long corridor to his climate-controlled unit. Once inside, he pulled the door down so that he could work in privacy. The gun safe was against the back wall, hidden from view by a stack of cardboard boxes.
The former Green Beret quickly entered the combination and pulled the heavy door open. He grabbed a suppressed M4, collapsed the buttstock and placed it in a black duffel bag, along with ten loaded thirty-round mags, and his body armor.
Next, Richards grabbed his other Springfield Arms .45 caliber pistol, extra magazines and a large manila envelope. It contained ten thousand dollars in emergency cash, along with the extra set of fake IDs. The muscular man stared into the safe, hating to leave behind the other weapons, knowing he would probably not be able to return to the storage unit. From here on out, it was going to be improvise, adapt, and overcome.
After placing the bag in the trunk and settling into the passenger seat, the young woman pointed her former pimp’s car towards New Jersey for the three-and-a-half-hour drive. Over the next four nights, Aaron and Ashley had stayed in two different cheap hotels outside the city limits of Trenton. The fugitive felt he was safer by changing locations regularly.
Now, Richards lay on his bed, sipping a cup of black coffee, watching the non-stop news coverage of the attack from an hour earlier in D.C. He had to admit, this was a well-executed operation, especially in using soldiers who didn’t mind dying. Is that what mystery man wants me to prep his people to do?
A
car bomb followed by gunmen attacking the first responders was a brilliant strategy to ensure the maximum number of casualties. When you added suicide vests to the gunmen, the results were even better. The FBI would be handling the investigation and weren’t saying much yet.
After Ashley finished her shower and got dressed, they would start for Aaron’s pickup point on the other side of the city. His contact had told him he would be picked up at the Bridge Street Park, just off of Highway One at 1500 hours by a white van. It was less than an hours drive so they could stop for lunch and still arrive early.
Richards had considered killing the prostitute and taking her car. That would eliminate her as a loose end but, at the same time, he might need her again for transportation. Since he had kept his promise over the last several days that they had been together, Ashley had loosened up and seemed to trust him.
This all seemed like a big adventure to her now that she was no longer under the control of her pimp. She hadn’t told the former soldier much, but it was clear that Big T had kept her in line through violence. Maybe I should go pay that bastard a visit when I get finished training these terrorists? Probably not, he thought. I really need to start thinking about an exit strategy for getting out of the country. The CIA, the FBI, and who knows who else, are probably all looking for me now. Maybe the guy on the phone or the Chinese spook can help me out.