by David Spell
“You have my demands. I want one million dollars paid to the families of each person killed, lesser amounts paid to those who were wounded. Your government would also pay for the rebuilding of any infrastructure damaged in the terrorist attacks. There are also revised trade terms that will go into effect immediately, but I would be willing to revisit those in twelve months, if there are no more incidents.”
The ambassador found that he was holding his breath as he waited for his president to respond. Xian also had a reputation for a quick-temper and an unwillingness to back down. Wang had to admit that he had been impressed with the American leader’s composure and political savvy.
After what seemed like an eternity, the Chinese leader spoke, his voice softer and with less of an edge.
“Mr. President, this is a very embarrassing situation for China. As you said, some people in our intelligence community are responsible for this terrible act and will be rooted out and dealt with. As a matter of fact, our chief political attaché to Canada died suddenly last week from a heart attack. I saw that he was listed as a primary suspect in the summary provided by Ambassador Yesui.”
Asher glanced back at the head of the CIA before speaking.
“Yes, I think I heard something about that. What was his name? Major Wang Lei Chen with the Ministry of State Security? That sounds like more than a political attaché.”
“We all understand how the intelligence community works, President Asher. The United States plays the same kind of games. For now, I am prepared to accept your recommendations for reparations and the new trade terms. China will not admit to any wrongdoing and we make these gestures that you have requested as a sign of good faith between our nations. Is that acceptable to you?”
“President Xian, that is acceptable. I look forward to hearing the results of your investigation and about the criminals in your government being brought to justice. I’ll have someone from my team coordinate those reparation payments with Ambassador Yesui, and finalize the revised trade terms. I’ll also issue the order to our military to stand-down. I’m glad that we were able to resolve this nasty situation in a peaceful manner.”
After the two world leaders disconnected, Asher smiled for the first time at Yesui, leading him over to the sitting area.
“Mr. Ambassador, let’s have a seat. Could I interest you in a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I would be very happy to drink tea with you,” the ambassador answered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SIX WEEKS LATER, ROXBOROUGH MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, PHILADELPHIA, WEDNESDAY, 0250 HOURS
It was finally time. Musa had been planning this moment for the last two long months. The Jewish doctor had operated on his shoulder a few days after his arrest. Khan forced himself to suppress his true feelings. He needed both of his arms working and if Allah chose to use the infidel, so be it. Now, the shoulder seemed to be mostly healed and it was time for his escape.
The Philadelphia Police Department only had one person guarding him over night. The Pakistani had noticed that there were three different officers assigned to the overnight shift on a rotating basis. The only time the cop entered the room was when one of the nurses or doctors came to check on him.
The young female officer and the older male both sat outside of his door all night long. The other male cop, though, had provided Khan with his opportunity. He was clearly enamored with an attractive blonde nurse. She, or one of the other caregivers came into the terrorist’s room at least once a night to check his vitals and make sure he was sleeping soundly. The pig who was on-duty tonight would regularly leave his post to stay near the woman.
The IV had been removed from his left hand a few days after the shoulder surgery. A second shift nurse always came by his room before she went home, usually around 10:00pm to give Musa a sleeping pill. He had stopped taking them three weeks earlier, shoving it over between his cheek and teeth until he was alone again and could spit it out.
Khan knew they would check on him between 2:30 and 3:00 in the morning. If they followed their normal routine, he would make his move when they were finished. At 2:40am, the nurse opened his door and strolled in, followed by the police officer, the patient feigning sleep. The young blonde stood by his bed, grasping Musa’s wrist and checking his pulse, comparing it with what was showing on the beeping monitor next to the bed. Satisfied that he was sleeping soundly and that his pulse rate was normal, she scribbled something onto her clipboard, nodded at the cop and left the room.
As soon as the door shut, Musa went to work, withdrawing a paper clip that he had managed to steal from one of the many doctors who had visited him, making sure he was healing up OK. The physician had made the mistake of laying Khan’s folder on the bed, close enough for him to snatch the paper clip off several documents as the doctor took a call on his cell, momentarily turning his back on the patient.
He quickly attacked the handcuff that held his right wrist to the hospital bed. In less than a minute, the Pakistani was free. The cop who was guarding him tonight always turned right and accompanied the nurse back to her station halfway down the hall. Musa knew this because he had made a couple of practice runs over the last week, freeing himself from the handcuff and watching the activity in the hallway, trying to determine if he had a reasonable chance for escape.
With the lights dimmed in the corridor and most of the patients asleep, the nurses and staff were more relaxed at this time of night. Khan slowly turned the door knob, opening it slightly. The voices of the nurse and the Philadelphia officer carried down the hall. He pulled the door open a little further, chancing a peek out. The couple wasn’t even in sight, probably sitting just around the corner, the sound of their laughter indicating that the last thing on their minds was Musa Khan.
The detective had visited him yesterday afternoon informing the arrestee that he would be released from the hospital the next morning. Khan would be transported directly to one of Philadelphia’s court houses, where he would be arraigned on the charges against the Asian couple. From there, though, the FBI would take custody of him and he would be taken to the Theodore Levin United States Courthouse, where he would be arraigned on a laundry list of federal charges, including multiple counts of murder.
“That’s the same courthouse that your people were supposed to have blown up, isn’t it?” Lieutenant Harrison had asked, with a mocking smile. “Kind of ironic, huh? After your appearance before the judge on those charges, your ass’ll be locked away until your trial. Pleasant dreams, Musa.”
The detective had left a clear plastic bag containing an orange jumpsuit for him to wear when he was released. His own clothes, the ones he had taken from the Asian man, were long gone. Standing in the dark room, Musa hurriedly removed the hospital gown and pulled on the jumpsuit, knowing he would need to find new clothes as soon as possible. Suddenly, the room began to spin and he had to lean against the wall for a moment.
After the dizziness passed, he listened again at the door, hearing the cop telling the nurse one of his many war stories. Without hesitation, the prisoner stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him, and turning left towards the stairwell. Musa slipped inside, careful not to let the door make any noise. The detective had also provided a pair a rubber slides to wear, but the terrorist padded along in his bare feet, carrying the shower shoes because they made too much noise.
After descending the three flights of stairs, Khan realized he had no idea as to the layout of the hospital. He cautiously pulled open the door and peeked into the hallway on the first floor. A few people were moving around on the far end to his left. He could see a sign for the lobby pointing in that direction. To the right, another sign indicated the entrance for the emergency room. The ER would have more people, he thought. I’ll have to take my chance exiting through the lobby.
Musa eased into the hallway, conscious of the fact that his orange jumpsuit branded him as a prisoner. He also knew that most people were focused on themselves and would hopef
ully pay him no mind. He turned left confidently strolling down the corridor. A door just ahead of him was posted “Authorized Personnel Only.” He paused for a second, hearing nothing inside and tried the handle, finding it unlocked.
The former intelligence officer slipped inside, expecting to be challenged, but not seeing anyone in the area. Blue lockers lined the walls, with male and female dressing areas on either side of the room. This must be for doctors or nurses to change into scrubs at the beginning of their shifts, he surmised, quickly opening the first locker he came to. A few of them had combination locks but most were empty, or only contained clothes.
The fourth one that he checked was the jackpot. Khan found a pair of khakis that were a little large but would do for tonight. A pink polo shirt added to the ensemble. After looking through three more lockers, he found a pair of black Adidas tennis shoes. The orange jump suit was deposited into a trash can as Musa left the room, heading towards the lobby.
As he turned the corner, two security guards stood thirty feet away, staring at one of their cell phones. Both men laughed as they watched a video. Musa kept walking, not making eye contact with either of the men. After getting to the lobby, however, he realized that he had made a huge mistake. The automatic doors were locked, the sign letting him know the lobby’s hours were from 7:00am until 10:00pm.
“Can I help you, sir?” one of the guards asked, now standing just five feet away.
“I thought I could get out this way,” Musa said, with a smile and a shrug.
“No, you’ll have to exit through the emergency room this time of night. Do you know how to get there?”
“I think I just go up here and turn left down the hallway?”
“That’s correct. You have a good night, sir.”
“Thank you,” Khan replied, moving as fast as his weakened body would carry him.
As soon as he was out of sight of the guards, he exhaled leaning against the wall to compose himself. That was too close, he thought. He pushed forward, sensing that his freedom was at hand. No one gave the terrorist a second glance in the ER as he walked out into the night, having no clue where he was, but trained to operate behind enemy lines. He quickly disappeared into the darkness.
Two blocks away was a twenty-four hour convenience store. Musa stood in the shadows next to the building watching the gas island. There wasn’t much activity at this hour. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he found what he was waiting for. A heavily intoxicated man staggered out of the driver’s seat of a newer model Toyota Camry parked next to the gas pumps.
As the drunk stumbled inside the store to prepay for his gas purchase, Musa was already moving, crossing the parking lot, diving into the car. As he had hoped, the key was in the ignition and within seconds, Khan was pulling out of the parking lot. He glanced down at the gas gauge, wishing he could’ve waited until the guy had filled it up. A quarter tank. That will at least get me away from here, he thought, accelerating into the night.
WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA, WEDNESDAY, 1115 HOURS
McCain stood behind the three women on the firing line, holding an electronic timer. Their paper silhouette targets waited five yards in front of them.
“Shooters ready? Standby!”
When the timer beeped, Elizabeth McCain, Chloe Wilkerson, and Gabriella Vargas drew and fired one shot. The timer recorded each shooter’s times. Not surprisingly, Chloe was the fastest at .99 seconds. Beth was next at 1.2, while Gabby was third with a very respectable 1.3 seconds.
“Holster and make the line safe!”
After confirming that the pistols had been holstered, McCain moved forward of the firing line to check the targets. Each woman had placed their 9mm round on the head of the target, adding to the other holes already present. The big man withdrew a black sharpie, placing a small circle around the newest bullet hole. He felt his smartphone vibrate, retrieving it from his pocket to see that Kevin had texted him.
“We need to talk ASAP.”
“Take five, ladies. I need to make a phone call.”
Since returning to Century Tactical after their contract mission for the Agency, Chuck and his team of trainers had conducted five SWAT schools over the last month and a half. The previous week, Andy and Hollywood had returned to Trenton to complete the class that the terror attack had cancelled. Estrada had been welcomed like a returning hero, his and Josh Matthews’ roles in stopping the killers quickly becoming the stuff of legend.
After catching up on his administrative duties on Monday, Chuck had taken the three women out to the firing range on General Perkins horse farm for a two-day pistol course. Wilkerson and Vargas had both been through the Agency’s training at the Farm, also drilling periodically with the team at Century. It was Chloe who had asked Chuck for some extra training for her and Gabby. Elizabeth shot with her husband every chance she got, trying to keep her skills sharp. She readily accepted this opportunity to train with the other two women.
The previous day focused on the basics: safety, marksmanship, clearing stoppages, and reloading drills. Today, it was all about speed. For the last two hours, he had pushed the women to go faster, drawing from concealment to make a single headshot. Most instructors teach their students to shoot for center mass, the head being a much more difficult target to hit. For these cranial vault drills, however, McCain was forcing the women to be quicker on the draw and the shot, but at the same time, developing their accuracy to hit the smaller target.
Chuck pulled up his friend’s number and called him.
“Hey, Kev, what’s up?”
“Guess who escaped from the hospital?”
“No! How did that happen?”
“Where are you? I’d rather have this conversation face-to-face.”
“I’m in Winchester at the general’s farm running Beth, Gabby, and Chloe through some pistol drills.”
“When are you going to be home? Can I drop by?”
“Sure. I can wrap up here a little early and meet you there at 1600?”
“Thanks, Chuck. Is Andy in town? It would be good if he could be there, too.”
HOMETOWN INN, NORTH AVENUE, MARYLAND, WEDNESDAY, 1025 HOURS
After stealing the car, Musa had driven straight to the Greyhound Bus Station in East Philadelphia. He wasn’t planning on purchasing a ticket and would only be there long enough to retrieve the bag that he had placed in a locker six months earlier. He had rented it for a year, securing it with a heavy combination lock.
He slung the black backpack over his shoulder, hurrying into the restroom, and locking himself in one of the stalls. Another wave of dizziness had him leaning against the metal wall for support as he pulled off the polo shirt and stuffed it into the bag. He withdrew a gray t-shirt and black windbreaker, donning them before putting on a blue ball cap. A pair of eyeglasses with heavy black frames completed the disguise. The lenses were clear glass, but they changed the terrorist’s appearance, hopefully preventing anyone from recognizing him.
The next item retrieved from the backpack was a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm pistol. He inserted a fifteen-round magazine into the gun, quietly worked the action to chamber a round, and tucked it into his waistband. Two extra mags of ammo went into his pocket, along with a folding knife.
Before closing the bag and leaving the area, he withdrew a white envelope from an inside compartment. It contained two thousand dollars. The money went into another pants pocket and Khan pulled the backpack on, walking out of the bathroom and the bus station. He needed to put some distance between himself and the authorities who were surely already looking for him and the stolen Toyota.
Musa steered the Camry onto I-95 South for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Baltimore. Thirty minutes later, he exited for gas, hating the fact that he would have to interact with someone. The twenty-four hour convenience store required that he prepay inside. He was tempted to buy some water and food but didn’t want to be in the business any longer than necessary. The terrorist kept his head down, letting the bill of the ca
p shield his face from the security camera behind the cash register. The middle-aged clerk never gave him a second look, merely taking the twenty-dollar bill and programing the pump for Khan to get his fuel.
After reaching his exit in Baltimore, Khan made his away across town in the light early morning traffic. The Hometown Inn was in North Baltimore, near the Masjid Hasbuna Allahu. He had spent some time in the city over the last couple of years, hoping to recruit a group of jihadists. At the time, one of the lay leaders for the mosque, Lawrence Evans, had begun screening recruits for a cell there. The last time that Musa had spoken with Lawrence, the lay leader admitted that he had no prospects on the horizon. Perhaps, Allah was now giving them the opportunity to start over in Baltimore.
Three blocks from the motel was the Helping Hands Homeless Shelter and Food Bank. Musa left the car in their parking lot with the keys in the ignition and the driver’s door slightly ajar. He grabbed his bag and walked away. Hopefully, someone would steal the stolen car in the next hour or two.
Khan had to stop several times during the short walk to catch his breath, the previous two months of inactivity catching up with him. The exertion of the last few hours left the terrorist wondering how long it would take to build his strength up. The rundown motel was owned by one of the brothers from the mosque and only employed members of the Masjid Hasbuna Allahu. Musa paid a hundred and eighty dollars in cash for three nights, giving the clerk an extra twenty to let him have the room then, instead of waiting until the 3:00pm check-in. The young man never asked for Khan’s ID, merely taking the money and handing the customer his room key.