Blood Covenent, page 18
Mahmood gripped the wheel like it was a machine possessed. He never saw the taxicab. The crunch and grind as the van ripped the rear fender off the taxi and spun it sideways was their first hint something was wrong. The van jerked to an uncertain stop as Mahmood stomped on the clutch instead of the brake. The van eventually stalled as it bumped over the curb and smacked into a brick building.
Ahmad shook his head clear. The van’s radiator was cracked, producing a sickly anti-freeze vapor cloud. Mahmood still gripped the wheel, wondering why the car was jammed into the side of a building. “What happened?” he asked quickly in Persian.
Ahmad spotted an angry cabby climbing out of his wreck. The black and yellow Ford did not have much of a rear end left, and one of the rear tires was shredded, leaving gouts of rubber scattered about on the pavement. He straightened his shirt and started yelling at the twins in English.
Mahmood stared at the approaching man. Any rudimentary knowledge of English fled his mind. Why should thisfool be angry for wreckinghis car?
Ahmad glanced down at the money scattered across the floor and one of the .38s laying between them. Rehazi’s words came to him:Our duty is to take the war to the Americans. Our comrades did not die in vain, and you shall make certain their sacrifice will not go unnoticed.
Ahmad had no idea what the man was saying. He only understood the anger, and that they were in the heart of theGreat Satan . He found the old .38 in his palm, and his thumb cocking the hammer back.They must not fail!
Mahmood shrugged his shoulders and shook his head at the cabby. His back was to his brother, and his body shielded the oncoming cabby from Ahmad’s actions. The tragedy of their youth and the hate of their instructors came to fruition on a hot July afternoon.
Ahmad fired twice at a range of less than seven feet. Even the poorest shot can hit something the size of a cantaloupe with the soft recoiling .38 special. The 125 grain soft-nose rounds spun passed Mahmood’s shoulders and splattered the side of the cabby’s face across the street.
Gunshots have a way of drawing people’s attention. Some say they sound like a car’s backfire, but gunfire is sharper than a wheezing combustion engine. The ear-splintering screams of a man whose life flashed and faded in mere seconds, and the calamity ofthump and crunch between two automobiles, was already drawing the curious into the killing field.
America is a cellular nation. It did not take long for multiple cell-phones to materialize from belt clips, purses, and suit coats. Ahmad spun towards the people approaching the van. He lifted the .38 a second time and fired two more times straight into the van’s windscreen. The bullets smacked jagged holes through the layered safety glass. The glass deformed the rounds and slowed their flight. They bounced harmlessly off the pavement.
“What are you doing?” demanded Mahmood. His right ear was still ringing from the gunfire.
“We cannot fail!” snapped Ahmad. He scooped the money up from the floor, and stuffed it into his trouser pockets.
Mahmood nodded dumbly. “Of course, but we have to takeit with us.”
They both looked at theSAMSON case and the automatic weapons. Ahmad bobbed his head in agreement and started over the front seat towards the case.
Mahmood rolled out of the door, finding they had stopped traffic on the street. Drivers who had witnessed the crash, the shooting, and two swarthy looking kids emerging from a broken minivan began to sense this was not going to be a normal day. Mahmood grabbed his own Smith & Wesson from under the driver’s seat. He left the door hanging open and moved smartly to the rear of the van, unsure whether to hold the gun down or wave it crazily. He opted to hold it at a forty-five degree angle pointing it in the general direction of the stopped traffic.
Ahmad smashed the rear door open and unslung one of the H&Ks. He handed the other one to his brother.
“Get back!” Ahmad shouted in incomprehensible Persian.
His audience heard the foreign words, but the gun’s muzzle explained his anger. He waved it wildly at the crowd. They scattered, incapable of defending themselves, and once again American citizens denied their Constitutional rights for their own protection, would rely on thethin blue line to protect them. The cops had not yet arrived.
Ahmad flipped the selector switch to 3 ROUND BURST and pulled the trigger. He hit nothing, but the sound of an automatic weapon and the muzzle flash from within the building’s shadow did enough. Words were no longer necessary
He scrambled onto the pavement. He grabbed theSAMSON case’s side handle and pulled it loose from its position in the van. Mahmood stuffed the Smith & Wesson into the front of his trousers and fumbled with the MP5’s bolt. He looked up as the first police car rolled into view. Adrenaline kicked in a lot faster than reason. He simply stepped from behind the van’s rear door and braced the weapon against his hip. They had shot up a lot of cars and dummies in the camps. Training overrode fear. His actions were reflexive and direct. The rifle’s selector was now set to FULL AUTOMATIC.
A fourth cop succumbed to Rehazi’s terrorists. This one did not have the benefit of body armor. He simply stepped from his car. The 9mm hollow points sliced the policeman in half. The gun’s clatter echoed in the canyon-like streets and gave impetus to anyone who still harbored doubts to start running.
The brothers grabbed the case handles and started running away from the traffic accident and the dead men, and into the sudden parking lot of abandoned vehicles.
* * * *
Harper and Hayes were having lunch at one of the many sidewalk restaurants when the call came over the police band radio. The sirens from patrol cars rocketing down the side streets and the loud cacophony from ambulance and paramedic vehicles had already disturbed them.
Harper flipped the map book open and said, “That doesn’t seem to be very far from here.” It was only three blocks distant.
Hayes looked over the top of the his Reuben sandwich and said, “Do you think it could be our guys?”
Harper shrugged. “Only if you believe there is more than one weapon.” Perhaps Louis was wrong about multiple weapons. Maybe he could go home and be a husband and dad again without adding any more faces to his nightmares.But Louis was not wrong. It was too much to hope for. He eyeballed the radio. It was reporting automatic weapon’s fire and people down. “Do you think they can tell the difference between a deer rifle and automatic weapons fire?”
Hayes shook his head, and took the last bite from his sandwich. Coming down the alley towards the open street were the twins with the heavy case banging between their legs and the distinctive silhouette of MP5 Navy Model rifles in their hands.
Harper followed Hayes’s gaze and blinked. It took a second for his eyes to translate the image to his brain. He bolted up from the table, pulling his Glock 19 from his rear holster and yelling, “Gun! Gun! Everyone get down!”
People sitting at the surrounding tables looked up from their bagels, entrées, and salads. The sight of a man yelling and producing a weapon in the middle of one of New York’s sidewalk cafes was enough to cause them to seek cover under the round umbrella tables. The tables seemed even smaller than when a waiter set a couple of salad plates down. The wait staff looked from Harper and Hayes to the sidewalk crowds and beyond. A terrible reality was running towards them on a humid July day.
Hayes produced his Beretta M9 from a shoulder rig. Handguns against rifles; not the best combination. “Major?”
Harper turned back to Hayes, “Sergeant?”
“Don’t you think we should wait for help?”
Harper shook his head sharply. “No one here is armed. I’ll not preside over another Littleton, Colorado.” He remembered the horror of the last spring when two Satanists killed thirteen in a rampage of giggles, gunshots, and pipe bombs at Columbine High School. The SWAT teams waited for four hours before figuring it was safe.
A lopsided grin creased the black man’s face. “As you say, never again.”
“Let’s do it, Marine!” he said while hopping over the side rail.
Hayes came after him quickly and breaking to the right.
Harper found a position behind a vehicle and braced himself. They were still fifty yards away, a long distance for the short sight radius Glock. “Stop right there!” he yelled.
* * * *
Ahmad heard the shout and scooted to a stop. He saw another man in street clothes half-covered by a parked sedan. He let his end of the case drop to the ground; he was breathing hard, sweat streamed down his face, and the thin shirt clung to his chest and back.
Mahmood looked from his brother to the opening of the alley and the man across the street. The ugly black thing in his hands could only be a handgun. He traced the scene quickly, finding a black man moving laterally. A larger, bulkier weapon was in his hands. He twisted his neck around to look back down the alley.
“We’ve got to go back,” he shouted.
Ahmad nodded. The H&K rose quickly and he fired two three-round bursts before grabbing the case with his other hand. The brothers started running back the way they had come.
* * * *
The bullets smacked like angry bees into the car Harper had dropped behind. The rear glass from a car parked in front shattered, and a 9mm round ricocheted off the sidewalk before burying itself into one of the stylish wood posts of the railing they had just hopped.
Hayes looked across and said anxiously, “You all right, sir?”
Harper nodded. No blood, no sharp pains, and everything else seemed to be working. “Yeah,” he answered. “And don’t call mesir .”
Hayes smiled, “Force of habit!”
The shots had their desired effect. It kept their heads down for a few precious moments. Harper wondered what kept him from shooting. There was a fifty-fifty chance of hitting his target. A miss would send bullets into another busy street at the other end of the alley. He wanted to tell himself the light was bad, but as he focused the center front dot of his sight, it seemed like he was aiming at kids. He taught kids Tae Qwon Do on Saturdays back in Roselle. Kids! What were kids doing with MP5s?
Harper was a battle-hardened veteran who had hunted SCUDsin country during the Gulf War. He had killed with guns, knives, and his bare hands. His body carried the scars from bullet wounds, broken bones, and twisted joints. He understood blood and death, but kids! He realized his sense of decency held his hand. Maybe it was not a clear shot, but he had the advantage, and he chose to drop rather than fire on a kid.
He pushed himself off the concrete and peeked around the front bumper of the car. The twins were lumbering back down the alley.
“Let’s go, Sergeant!” He raised his left hand to stop oncoming traffic, and made his way across the street. The twins were opening up the distance between them.
“Major?” asked Hayes as they made the other side of the street. “Did it look like—”
“Kids?” asked Harper finishing his question.
“Yeah. Kids.”
Harper nodded quickly. “It also looked like H&Ks.”
“Sure sounded like them,” added Hayes.
Harper poked his head around the corner. The twins had reached the end of the alley and were breaking left. “Come on!”
* * * *
The twins stumbled towards a coalescing police presence. Two patrol cars blocked off the street at one corner. The last of the traffic was driving away from the alley. Two patrolmen, uncertain about what they were dealing with, approached the problem disjointedly. One cop retrieved a Remington 870 12 gauge from the trunk of his squad. He jacked four 00 buckshot shells into the shotgun and pumped the stock. The other officer moved towards the alley with his hand on his holstered Glock.
The twins and the second cop met at the alley’s mouth. He slammed into Mahmood, knocking him back into the alley and loosening Mahmood’s grip on the bomb’s case. For an instant, a twenty-year veteran stared into the eyes of scared kid. It could have ended then, but blood had been spilled and the police consciousness demanded a blood payment. He struggled with his weapon and never saw the butt of Ahmad’s rifle before it crashed into the side of his face, breaking his jawbone. He slid sideways like a broken toy—his arms and legs twitching as if a puppet’s strings had suddenly snapped. Mahmood pushed the falling man from his chest and stooped to pick up his rifle.
A shotgun is a powerful weapon and 00 buckshot is certainly a decisive ordinance, but precision and smooth bore weapons are not synonymous. This is especially true for a weapon that is rarely used except for a semi-annual firearm’s qualification and for the remainder of the time is kept locked in its case. The first cop raised his weapon, and then paused. A blast from the 870 would certainly hit his brother cop. His weapon selection was faulty for the environment. A Ruger Mini-14, or one of the many AR-15 variants available on the market, would have placed the type of precision required in his hands.
Ahmad did not hesitate. He swung the rifle back to his shoulder, aimed, and fired a three-round volley at the shotgun-toting cop. The East German trainers employed at the desert camps constantly drilled them about fire discipline and aimed fire. Most of his fellow classmates preferred the awesome power of running through a thirty-round magazine, but what about the follow-up shots? When the magazine runs dry, what happens next? Ahmad caught those lessons. He carefully nursed the half-empty magazine with a careful couplet of three-round bursts. The second volley found its mark, and the shotgun-toting cop dropped backwards, taking three bullets in his right lung. The sunny day suddenly turned into a gray haze.
* * * *
Harper rounded the corner. Sweat dripped down his face. He held the Glock at ready and surveyed the scene. At his feet, one cop lay unconscious. Across the street, another was pumping his lifeblood across the black tar. People were running away from the carnage, and the twins had vanished. He knelt down, his eyes constantly scanning the environment. His fingers found a pulse on the first cop. His trigger finger lay along the frame. “Sergeant, tend to the other one.”
Hayes sprinted across the street. He holstered the big Beretta, and rummaged through an open car trunk for some pressure bandages.
Harper unclipped the microphone from the downed cop’s collar. “This is Jim Harper, Special Squad.” He used the identification Jonas told him to use. “I’ve got two uniformed officers down. One was shot, the other probably has a concussion.” He gave the location. His eyes never stopped searching for the twins. “I’ve got two men on foot. They’re carrying automatic rifles.”
* * * *
Ahmad twisted his neck wildly to see if anyone was following them. They had darted into a building and found the stair leading to the second floor. Now they sat breathing hard in the men’s restroom. TheSAMSON case had become a bench seat for the two of them.
Mahmood whispered between breaths, “What are we going to do?”
Ahmad shrugged. It occurred to him that they had left the envelope containing the arming codes, their target, and a myriad of additional details in the van. It had bounced over the front seat on to the rear bench. Ahmad groaned.
Mahmood turned on the bench and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Mahmood, the instructions—we left them in the van.”
Mahmood hung his head. Failure met the boys with a stark reality. By now, the van was completely covered by forensic experts, evidence collectors, the FBI, and who knows what other agencies. It was beyond their abilities to retrieve the weapon. Their holy crusade was coming to an abrupt end.
“We don’t need to carry this thing anymore,” suggested Mahmood.
Ahmad looked at the case between his feet. He did a quick inventory. He had about twenty rounds for the Smith & Wesson revolver, another full magazine for the H&K, and about one thousand dollars cash money. Mahmood had a full magazine in his H&K, and maybe another ten rounds for the revolver. They already knew a thousand dollars would not last very long in this terribly expensive city.
The prospect of lugging the case between them did not excite Ahmad. His fingers were cramped and his shoulder ached from running with the bomb case. “We’ll leave it,” decided Ahmad. They wrestled the case into one of the bathroom stalls.
* * * *
Harper holstered his Glock. His eyes told him the immediate danger was gone. His gut told him they could not have gone far. He never looked down at the unconscious officer. His eyes roved the street, the windows, doorways, and parked vehicles searching for a hint.
It was the dull triple tap above the street that caused Hayes to pop his head above the squad car. It is the kind of sound trained soldiers never mistake—the controlled burp from an automatic rifle in burst mode. Hayes wrapped his stubby fingers, bloodied from the downed officer’s wounds, around his Beretta.
Harper pulled the Glock from his holster and stepped away from the unconscious officer. His eyes turned towards the nearest building. His steps were quiet like a hunter stalking prey. He glanced back at Hayes who pointed his finger at the entryway—four heavy glass doors next to an outdoor ashtray. Spent cigarette stubs were poking out of the gray brown sand. Instinctively, he crouched, never taking his eyes from the building’s façade. He stepped back into the street, bringing his weak hand to the support the base of the gun.
A shrill scream sounded next.What had it been? Seconds. The scream was closer and still muffled, but the source was no longer in doubt. The four glass doors looked like a rictal grin.Death beckoned . Jim Harper, son of an immigrant father, combat veteran, decorated hero, father of two, and husband to one, sprang like an eager terrier. The time for caution was past. Come what may, he raced towards the doors.
Before he reached the first door, it slammed open and a terrorized woman raced from the building. Her eyes were wide with fright and her fifty-year-old legs were pumping towards an imagined finished line. She raced away from Harper and to the squad car’s illusionary shelter. Harper never broke stride as he gained entry into the initial doors and pushed his way into the elevator lobby.
