by David Spell
It was not nearly enough but it would have to do for the moment. The husband and Musa were about the same size and the terrorist had the young mother help him get his wet pants off before putting on a pair of her husband’s jeans, a blue t-shirt, and a black windbreaker. An empty gray duffel bag lay on the floor of the couple’s closet. The Pakistani loaded several other items of clothing, several bottles of water from the kitchen, along with the Tylenol and extra bandages.
When he asked for money, the wife said that they had no cash. Khan again placed the sharp blade against the little girl’s throat. The woman immediately changed her tune, leading Musa into their bedroom. She pulled a locked box from beneath the bed and opened it, revealing an envelope containing a stack of hundred-dollar bills and a pistol. The mother quickly reached for the gun but the terrorist dropped the child and punched her in the face with his right hand.
As the Korean crumpled to the floor, Khan kicked her twice in the abdomen, the woman now curled in a fetal position, whimpering and gasping for breath. The exertion sent a blinding pain through his entire body, sudden dizziness forcing him to have a seat on the edge of the bed. He took several deep breaths of his own as the pain eased up slightly.
Musa turned his attention to the handgun. It was a Daewoo 9mm pistol. He dropped the magazine of the South Korean manufactured firearm, noting it contained hollow point ammunition. A second loaded magazine lay in the metal box. Khan chambered a round, his shoulder screaming at him again. He tucked the gun into his waistband and the money went into his pocket.
The little girl had run out of the room, but Musa wasn’t worried about her. It was the two adults who concerned him.
“Get up,” he ordered the mother, drawing the pistol, but keeping it at his side.
After ushering her back into the living room and sitting her on the far end of the sofa, away from her restrained husband, their little girl between them, the terrorist had seated himself in the recliner across from them, laying the Daewoo in his lap. Khan would wait another few hours before venturing back out. He considered going ahead and killing his hostages, but decided to wait, believing they could still be useful.
Kim Jong-oh was embarrassed and ashamed of himself for allowing his family to be taken hostage. He didn’t blame Yoon. There was no way that she could have done anything to stop the mad man from breaking in and turning their lives into a living hell. Kim glanced at his wife on the other end of the couch, blood trickling out of her left nostril onto her white sweatshirt, the woman’s cheek swollen and bruised. He knew he had to try and do something but he wasn’t sure what it was. The dark-skinned man sitting across from him now had Kim’s pistol to go along with the knife he had been threatening them with. His little girl, Choi, had several small nicks on her neck from where the bastard had been holding the blade against her throat.
Jong-oh worked at a Korean bank during the day and taught Tang Soo Do in the evenings. A lot of good my martial art did me today, he thought. He had been working on the loosening the twine whenever their captor wasn’t watching. Yoon had made his bonds tight out of fear that the crazy man would kill them all. Kim had finally managed to create a little wiggle room for both his ankles and wrists, even as he felt the multi-layers of twine cutting into his skin.
What had happened to this man? Jong-oh had seen several injuries as he had stripped down and forced Yoon to clean and bandage his wounds. He had then made her help him get dressed in some of my clothes. It looked like he had been shot, but by who? Who was he and why had he targeted us?
A snore came from the chair across from the couch. Their captor had drifted off to sleep. The clock on the wall showed a time of 11:25pm. Kim increased his attempts to get free. Yoon held Choi as she slept, his wife’s eyes filling with fear as she saw that her husband was trying to get out of bonds. Jong-oh felt the twine giving a bit on his ankles. It wasn’t enough for him to slip off yet, but it was starting to loosen up. The restraints holding his wrists, however, were not budging.
“Don’t!” Yoon whispered in Korean. “He’ll kill us.”
Unable to reply because of the gag, he shrugged, continuing to force his legs in opposite directions in an effort to get free.
Musa awoke with a start, the sound of voices making him momentarily forget the pain of his injuries. In one motion, he grabbed the pistol and pointed it at the family seated opposite of him. Had he been hearing things or had his hostages been talking and making plans to escape? He glanced at the clock. 11:40pm. It was time to leave. He had taken the man’s car keys earlier. The husband told him that the keys belonged to a gray Kia Sportage parked directly in front of their building. Khan had peeked through the front drapes, finding the vehicle where the man had said it would be.
The child slept fitfully in her mother’s arms, the woman’s face bruised and bloody from where he had punched her, terror still visible in her eyes. There was something else in the eyes of her husband. Defiance perhaps? No matter, Khan thought, pulling himself to his feet and shifting the gun to his left hand, his shoulder continuing to hurt on a level he had never experienced before. The Pakistani drew his knife with his right hand and crossed the short distance towards his captives.
I’ll kill the woman first since she isn’t bound, he reasoned coldly. Then I’ll do the man. If the child stays silent, I’ll let her live. She isn’t old enough to identify me to the authorities. As Khan passed in front of the husband, the man suddenly pulled in both of his legs and launched them in a powerful kick catching Musa on the right side.
The terrorist heard himself scream in pain as he was propelled across the living room, slamming into the wall with his left shoulder, darkness swallowing him up.
Kim Jong-oh knew their captor was going to kill his family when he stood and drew the wicked looking blade. The Korean understood that he was about to die but would leave this world knowing that he had tried to save his family. When the bastard started past him towards Yoon, the Tang Soo Do black belt quickly drew his legs back and put every ounce of force that he could muster into the double kick.
The impact had been solid, hitting the crazy man on his injured right side. The kick had knocked the knife loose, dropping it to the floor at Kim’s feet. The husband ripped the tape off his face spitting out the sock.
“Quick, grab the knife!” he ordered his wife. “We need to move before he wakes up!”
Yoon didn’t respond, shock registering on her face as she held Choi tightly. Jong-oh bent forward and reached for the blade, thankful his hands had been restrained in the front rather than behind him. It was awkward, but the blade was razor sharp, slicing easily through the layers of twine.
Once his ankles were free, Kim grabbed his wife and daughter, pushing them towards the front door. He looked back at their tormentor lying face down on the far side of the room. He thought briefly of running over and cutting his throat or shoving the blade into his heart. At the same time, Jong-oh was unable to see the pistol and didn’t want to take any chances. The main thing was getting his family to safety.
Yoon had finally snapped out of her lethargy, unlocking the door and rushing out into the night, carrying the little girl. Kim hurried after them, pulling the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER NINE
RIVERSIDE APARTMENTS, PHILADELPHIA, SUNDAY, 0015 HOURS
Kim hustled his family over to the next building where their only friends in the complex lived. Lee and Park Bin were sound sleepers, taking over five minutes to respond to the banging on their door. Kim and Lee trained at the same martial arts dojo and had become close friends. After seeing Yoon’s battered face and hearing their harrowing tale, Lee handed his friend his cell phone to call the police.
The first white Philadelphia PD cruiser roared into the parking lot at 0023 hours. Jong-oh stepped outside the apartment to flag down Officer Miles and Timmons. After hearing what had happened, the officers followed Kim to his apartment.
“He has a gun, my 9mm,” Jong-oh told the officers. “He had a knife, to
o, but dropped it and I picked it up.”
“You wait here, sir,” Miles ordered, drawing his pistol.
Timmons pulled out his own Glock and nodded at his partner. Miles carefully turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Philadelphia Police!” he challenged. “Come out with your hands up!”
There was no sound from inside. Miles glanced back at Timmons.
“Let’s do it,” he said softly, moving through the doorway, the flashlight mounted on his pistol lighting up the living room.
Kim could hear the officers moving around in his apartment for several minutes before Officer Miles stuck his head out and motioned the Korean to come in. When he stepped through the door, he saw Officer Timmons standing where Jong-oh had last seen their captor lying.
“He’s gone. The sliding door was standing open.”
The Korean stared down at the bloody carpet and the red smear on the wall where his kick had launched their attacker. Officer Miles walked out onto the patio, speaking into his walkie-talkie.
Officer Timmons spoke up “We’ve cleared the apartment and he’s gone. Let’s walk back over to where your wife and daughter are. I need to get some information from you. Officer Miles is requesting a canine to track the perp. With the injuries you described and all that blood on the floor, he can’t have gone far.”
Five minutes later, Kim was back at the Bin’s apartment. An ambulance had arrived, the paramedics checking Yoon and Choi. Jong-oh told the officer everything that had happened with his wife filling in a few of the blanks. Additional police cars pulled into the parking lot, with a number of officers moving around the apartment complex, shining their flashlights into any potential hiding place. Kim prayed that the police would find and arrest the evil man. Their captor still had Jong-oh’s car keys but with all the cops running around, the perp had not tried to get to the Sportage.
Khan regained consciousness several minutes after passing out, finding himself face down on the carpet, his shoulder and side wounds both bleeding again. His survival instinct kicked in and the former intelligence officer forced himself painfully to his feet. Miraculously, the pistol was laying underneath him. Musa retrieved it, also looking around for his knife, but not seeing it.
He had no idea how long he had been out; his captives having fled the apartment. The police were probably already on the way. Khan staggered out onto the enclosed patio, listening for any sign that the cops were nearby. The only sounds that he heard were the noises of the night: the nearby river, crickets, and frogs croaking.
Musa let himself out and started walking as fast as his tortured frame would carry him. He could feel his body starting to shut down. The trauma of the gunshot wounds, the pain, the loss of blood, and shock were all working against him.
Khan had no real idea of where he was at and walked for a hundred yards behind several apartment buildings, coming to the edge of the complex. A strip shopping center was adjacent to Riverside Apartments. He ducked behind the businesses, all of them closed for the night. I need to find a car, he thought, but I’m not sure I could even drive it.
Beyond the shopping center lay the Venice Island Park. Musa could see tennis courts, a basketball court, and a playground for children. At this late hour, the recreation area was deserted. He moved slowly to the back corner of the park, collapsing onto the bench of a picnic table. Digging his phone out, he called Ishmael.
Max was ready to go to work. The hundred-pound German Shepherd had been confined in his handler’s car since that afternoon, only stopping for the occasional pee break. The dog knew what his job was as soon as Officer Kenyon let him out of the car and snapped his tracking lead on.
“Who’s going with me?” The dog handler asked.
“I’ll go,” Officer Miles answered.
The officers had the physical description that the Jong-ohs had given.
“There was a lot of blood at the scene,” Miles told the canine officer, “and the victim said he believes the suspect had been shot a couple of times before he showed up at their apartment. Oh, and he’s armed. The bad guy took the victim’s 9mil.”
Officer Kenyon walked Max through the apartment, letting him get a sniff of the blood and the carpet where the suspect had fallen, and then led him out the back door. The dog immediately lifted his nose and began moving, pulling his handler behind him. Kenyon and Miles were soon jogging behind Max as he led them in a course parallel with the river. The canine had picked up the suspect’s scent following it behind the Riverside Apartments, a strip shopping center, and into an adjacent park.
The canine handler knew Max well and could tell that he was getting close. It was all the officer could do to hold the dog back. The scent was strong now and the German Shepherd pulled hard against his lead.
“Max’s got the guy and he’s close,” Kenyon whispered to Miles. “Let’s slow down.”
“Ishmael, I’ve been shot and I need your help,” Musa whispered into his phone. “I’m at the Venice Island Park, maybe thirty minutes from you. I need you to come get me.”
“Police! Drop the phone and put your hands up now!”
Flashlights illuminated the area, the beams behind him. How did I not hear them? Musa wondered. He dropped the phone and attempted to draw the pistol out of his waistband. The rear sight snagged on his windbreaker and he struggled to get the weapon free, looking towards where he had heard the voice. Running footsteps startled him as a large figure flew through the air and slammed him to the ground, driving the air out of his lungs. Teeth dug into his right arm, the sound of growling terrifying the killer. The large dog held him down, chewing on his forearm, the pistol falling harmlessly to the side.
Khan struggled briefly to get free before the loss of blood and excruciating pain caused him to pass out again. Officer Kenyon kicked the firearm away from the suspect, pulled Max off and covered Officer Miles as he moved in to handcuff the wounded man.
RIDLEY PARK, PENNSYLVANIA, SUNDAY, 0155 HOURS
Tu and Gabby had stayed at the Agency safe house. They would have both preferred to be in the middle of the action but they also needed to be in a position to respond if something popped up on their side of town. Jay Walker, Chris Norris, Jennifer Hughes, and Stephen Chan had arrived at the location at 2100 hours the previous evening. Tu had immediately sent Jimmy, Hollywood, and Jen across town to supplement Chuck’s team.
Donaldson was stretched out on the couch, sleeping soundly. Vargas yawned as she continued to monitor 911 activity with Philadelphia PD. Walker and Norris both dozed in recliners. Stephen’s computer was also up and running on the dining room table, as he worked with Gabby to try and locate Musa Khan.
“Hey, Stephen, take a look at this,” Gabby said, pointing at the text of a 911 call for a home invasion at the Riverside Apartments.
After reading the text of the call that the responding officers received on the computers in their cruisers, Chan’s eyes lit up.
“How close is this to the shootout location?”
Vargas studied the map she had open on her second monitor. “Maybe a mile downriver is what it looks like. Can you hack into Roxborough Memorial Hospital? That’s where the perp was transported.”
Five minutes later, Stephen spoke up. “I found him. He’s being listed as a John Doe because he didn’t have any ID, but the physical on the ER’s registration form fits Musa Khan perfectly.”
“That’s the same hospital LeMarcus is at,” Gabby commented. “I guess we better wake up the boss.”
“I’m awake,” Donaldson said, from across the room, climbing to his feet, rubbing his eyes and walking over to the table. “What’ve you got?”
“We found him. Philadelphia PD arrested him around 0100 and he’s at the Roxborough ER.” Vargas pointed at one of her monitors. “The 911 dispatcher listed the injuries that the paramedics radioed in: gunshot wounds to the left shoulder, right side, and left leg. He also tangled with one the police canines and he’s got some damage to his right arm.”
“How’d the PD get him?” Tu asked.
“He broke into an apartment adjacent to river, about a mile below where you guys saw him go in. He held a family captive, beat up a woman, and even injured their kid. The husband finally managed to fight back and they were able to escape. The cops got there and the canine unit located him.”
Donaldson grunted, his mind whirling. “Stephen, what’s happening at the hospital?”
Chan was silent for a minute before answering, pulling up real time notes that an ER nurse had typed into the hospital’s database.
“He is in surgery now. According to the chart, he lost a lot of blood and was in bad shape. They seem to be particularly worried about the bullet in his side.”
“Good job, team. Let me get to work on this. We can’t afford to lose this bastard again.”
ROXBOROUGH MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, PHILADELPHIA, SUNDAY, 0325 HOURS
O’Reilly wondered if he looked as bad as he felt. He and Louis had spent the entire afternoon at the crime scene inside the business center. After the EOD and CSI teams finally finished their work at 2200 hours, Joe and Jerome checked into a Marriott a few miles away. The phone call had interrupted a dream in which O’Reilly was chasing someone down a dark alley, but just couldn’t close the distance.
“This better be good,” O’Reilly had answered, trying to sit up in the bed.