Lethal diversion, p.13
Lethal Diversion, page 13
“Hang on!” Seles said. “We’ve got to be cautious uncovering you.”
Bit by bit, they cleared everything away, finally revealing the battered form of Allison Hart. A long, thin cut streaked one cheek, and her clothing was burned in several places. They reached out and gently lifted her to her feet. Bolan noted that she was going to have one hell of a shiner on her left eye.
“Are you okay?” he asked, surveying her for other injuries as she allowed herself to be held by Seles while she collected herself.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, swiping at the blood trickling down her cheek. She swayed a bit on her feet and Seles tightened his grasp on her. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit woozy. When the ceiling came down, I got conked on the head.”
“Let’s get you checked out,” Bolan said. “Denny, do you want to take her to the ambulance? I’ll stay here and help them clear debris so we can get farther into the auditorium.”
Hart shook her head, took a deep breath and said, “No. No ambulance. Right now, we need to regroup.”
“That cut looks like it might need a stitch or ten,” Seles suggested cautiously.
“Then I’ll get it stitched and we keep going,” she snapped. “When that maniac started running after Walker, I realized that we’ve been going about this all wrong. I was trying to get behind him when he blew himself up, which is how I ended up here, instead of being right next to him.”
“What maniac?” Seles asked.
“There was a terrorist with a bomb vest,” she said. “He came in here, shouting, and blew himself and the building to pieces.”
“Middle Eastern?” he asked.
She shook her head, as a paramedic appeared and handed her a clean bandage for her face. “American kid,” she replied. “Can you believe it?”
“What happened to Walker?” Bolan asked.
“He’s dead,” she said. “The terrorist was right on top of him when it happened. There’s no way he survived. In fact, he tried to intervene, and the terrorist ended up chasing him into the middle of the auditorium. If he’d pushed him backward, the bomb might have gone off in the hallway or even the lobby instead of here.” She held the bandage to her cheek.
“That’s enough for now, Allison,” Seles said. “Let’s go get you looked at.” He led her away with a significant look at Bolan that basically said, “Now what?”
The first responders began to swarm around them, gathering up the last of the injured. Bolan worked his way through the rubble to what had been the center of the auditorium. The communications center was completely destroyed. Any data or evidence or even patterns they’d been running was gone. Any hope of working as a coordinated team to catch the terrorists was erased.
Bolan felt that this entire situation was outrageous. All they’d done was run from bad lead to bad lead, getting nowhere, getting distracted. He’d been playing too nice while the terrorists behind this were playing hardball. They’d started riots, blown up a train, given out false leads and even destroyed the EOC—all to keep law enforcement too busy to track them. These were terrorists, intent on killing Americans. Somewhere in all the chaos, that simple fact had been lost.
Bolan turned on his heel. It was time to stop playing their game and start playing his. Hart was right—they’d been going about this all wrong, playing it by the book. Even he’d been wrapped up in it. Striding to where Hart was being treated, he tapped Seles on the shoulder. “She’s right,” he said.
“About what?” Seles asked.
“We’ve been chasing them. It’s time to turn it around. We have to draw them out.”
“How do we do that?” he asked, looking askance at the rubble. “They’ve been one step ahead of us the whole time.”
“Leave that to me,” Bolan said. “I’ll call you later. Where are you going to set up?”
“The police station,” Hart said.
“Fine,” he replied. “I’m stealing your vehicle, Denny. Keep your phone on. I’ll need you soon.” Feeling more himself than he had since this mess started, he turned and headed for Seles’s SUV. It was time for the Executioner to play by his own rules—the rules of the predator and the hunter. The rules of a man who’d faced down every challenge he met and taken out every evil he’d encountered.
* * *
WITH SEATING FOR UP TO seventy thousand people for a football game, Ford Field was a beautiful stadium that had hosted Super Bowls, rock concerts, basketball games and even major soccer events. The design was unique in that it incorporated a previously existing warehouse into the construction, creating a space for high-end suites and lounges for those who could afford such luxuries. The owners were conscientious about security, and that stadium—in spite of it being symbolic of the capitalistic, crass nature of America—had become almost like a second home to Sayf. Of course, everyone here knew him as Michael Jonas.
This day was certain to draw a capacity crowd. The game had been sold out for months, and it was Halloween. He’d already ordered extra staff for the day, to ensure that the thousands of people in attendance could be carefully monitored and controlled. The main security office was a smaller version of the emergency operations center, though it lacked the auditorium style of design. Instead, two walls were covered with monitors that relayed camera information from different areas of the building: the parking lot, entrances and exits, concessions, the field itself and even the hallways in the luxury suites. The cameras were on automatic timers, panning back and forth on a predictable schedule, though from the control room, he could manually take over any individual camera and control it directly.
The game was scheduled to kick off at noon, Central Time, and the National Football League was very, very serious about things moving on time. Which was fine, as today of all days, time was quite important to him, as well. Sayf sat at one of the main stations and scrolled through the various screens. Fans were already gathering in the parking lot, preparing for the day’s festivities in spite of the riots still popping up along 8 Mile Road and the train-yard fire, which was still burning in a few places. Americans, he’d learned, were as dedicated about their pleasures—perhaps more so—as they were about anything else. Nothing short of a massive disaster would keep them away on this day. As far as he was concerned, the more the merrier. And the more dead bodies that would be left behind in the rubble of the explosion.
The phone inside his suit coat began to vibrate. He carried a different phone on his hip that he used specifically for the Michael Jonas identity. This call would be for Sayf. For the moment, there was only one other security man in the office—and he was wearing a headset as he worked through the patrols for the day with another man, who was off inspecting the concessions area.
“Report,” he said when he answered.
An excited Yasim responded. “Our mission is complete, Sayid. We have the detonators, and the EOC was destroyed just over an hour ago. We have everything we need now.”
“No problems?” he asked.
“No, everything is in hand.”
“Excellent. You have done well, my friend. Everything has been moved to the warehouse for final assembly?”
“Yes, everything is in position and the completion is taking place as we speak. We are on schedule.”
Curious, Sayf asked, “What is the status of the personnel from the EOC?”
“It’s on the news,” he said. “There are more than thirty dead, though Allison Hart survived the blast and is still leading the response.”
A wave of relief washed over him. His gamble had worked. It had been entirely possible that the suicide bomber would kill her, too, but it was a necessary risk to remove the NSA man who might have complicated matters. “Very good,” he said. “I need you to start the next phase.” He glanced over at the other man and saw that his headset was still on and he was firmly ensconced in his conversation.
“Take some of the men to 8 Mile Road. That area should be the main concern of the police. If you keep the fires and fights going, they will be forced to divert more of their resources to that area and their communication will be limited because of our successes. Remember, tonight is Devil’s Night, so be sure to use those fears as a catalyst.”
“Yes, Sayid. It will be done as you order,” Yasim said, then he disconnected the call.
Sayf switched the monitors to the local news channels and watched his masterpiece coming together. There had never been a terrorist attack planned with such precision and care. The police, fire and ambulances raced around town and two of the emergency rooms had set up triage in their parking lots to deal with the victims from the EOC explosion as well as the steady flow of injured coming out of 8 Mile.
He smiled as the camera showed the ruins of the EOC building. His masterpiece was almost complete.
* * *
HAL BROGNOLA CHOMPED HEAVILY on his cigar as he watched the news broadcasts from Detroit. He punched up city maps and began connecting the dots of all of the attacks. The riots were obviously being managed—they popped up, went down, then reappeared in a different block of the same street over and over again. Things were spiraling out of control and so far, he hadn’t heard from Bolan, who might very well have been caught in the blast at the EOC. His hotline rang and he groaned to himself before he answered.
“Mr. President,” he said.
“Brognola, what the hell is going on? I thought your man was going to get this mess under control.”
“Yes, sir. Last I heard from him, he was working on it, but getting arrested by the NSA kind of put a crimp in his investigation. His hot lead has gotten colder by the minute and now with the EOC shot to hell there is new information coming in, sir. I’m still waiting to get an update from the ground that’s more than just raw data.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what’s shot to hell. Detroit is turning into Beirut and I want it stopped right now. Under Posse Comitatus, I can’t send in troops, but I may not have a choice. The governor has already requested help from the National Guard.”
“I’m not sure that’s going to serve our best interests, sir,” Brognola said. He explained his theory about how everything was being carefully managed by the terrorists. “It would almost be better if I could convince law enforcement to pull back and resume their normal patrols. The way it is now, a lot of the city is vulnerable because of how the police and emergency crews are positioned.”
The President paused for a moment, then said, “I’ll tell the governor to hold off, if that’s your advice, Hal, but let’s get this thing under control and find these bastards before Detroit turns into a war zone. That town has enough problems without adding mass disaster to it, as well.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. As soon as I have an update, I’ll call you.”
“See to it, Brognola,” he said, then hung up.
The big Fed turned his attention back to the news. “Come on, Striker,” he said to himself. “Give me something to work with.”
17
“Hang tight for a minute, Allison,” Seles said, setting off after Bolan at a quick jog. They didn’t have much time to waste, and Hart already had her cell phone in hand, working to set up a temporary EOC in an old dispatch station at the police department. While they assumed she was back in charge of coordination and Seles was in charge of field ops, they still needed official confirmation from the White House, which they’d been told was forthcoming.
Bolan had reached the back of Seles’s SUV and opened it, checking over the equipment stores before heading out into the field. His face was a grim mask of determination, and the streaks of soot on his dark features looked more like war paint than evidence of a disaster. This was a man at home in the most deadly of circumstances, and despite his low-key approach so far, Seles sensed that he was a lot more than he appeared to be.
“This is a solid setup,” Bolan said. “A little lean on weapons, but solid enough.”
“We keep the anti-tank weapons at the office,” Seles quipped. “But in all seriousness, do you think you can chase this whole thing down on your own? Give me a little time, Cooper, and we can do this together.”
“I think we’re out of options, Denny. No offense, but between the red tape of working by the book and the fact that everyone is stretched so thin, I don’t think that your men could bring down a jaywalker right now. These guys have been two steps ahead of us for too long—it’s time to run them to ground.” He retrieved his Desert Eagle from where Seles had stored it earlier and checked the loads, returning it to the holster rig he was wearing.
“Fair enough,” Seles said. “But field ops on this situation is still my command, and I need to try and keep some of it coordinated. Right now, I think our best bet is to get a handle on the riots. If we can do that, then I can free up some of my men, as well as law enforcement, for more active investigation of the terrorists. I still have guys at the main office running up the details for the weapons we should be looking for. If we can get the information on the actual explosive or the detonator then it may give us a place to start.”
Bolan looked at the devastated building and shook his head. “My gut tells me that if we don’t find these guys before noon, the riots are going to be the least of our concerns. This has been too well-executed. All of the moves on the chess board are right and now it’s time for him to bring out the big guns while we’re most vulnerable.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I can only throw resources at the problems I know about. Keep me updated and I’ll get you as much support as I can.”
“Will do,” Bolan said. “But I need to be clear about this now. If any of your people get in my way I’ll go straight through them. We’re out of time. This—all of this—has been one long running feint. None of it matters to the terrorists except as a way to keep our eyes off them.”
“I don’t disagree with you, but until we can pin down a real lead, the best we can do is put out the fires we can see, figuratively and literally. If you get something solid, call me and I’ll give you everything I can.”
Bolan nodded. “Good luck,” he said.
“You, too,” Seles replied. “And stay safe out there. The streets are dangerous.”
“So am I,” Bolan replied, getting behind the wheel and gunning the engine as he headed out to track the man who had slipped through their fingers.
Seles turned and headed back toward Hart. The sun was climbing into the morning sky, though it felt to him like a cloudy day. A dark, cloudy day with a storm that just wouldn’t end.
* * *
BOLAN KNEW THAT his first stop had to be back at the mosque to talk to Imam Al-Qadir. In spite of his spiritual conflict, the imam knew far more about this area and the people in it than he did. Bolan also suspected that if he was pushed, the imam knew far more about people like Batin than he wanted to admit. Nothing he’d seen had made him believe that the imam was a bad man; on the contrary, his community work was inclusive and open, and he’d tried to help Bolan, even when someone he knew was a potential target. His conflict stemmed from wanting to do the right thing for his mosque and his faith, not from a conflict about doing right in and of itself.
As he drove, he attached his handheld to the dash, and tapped the autodial for Brognola, who answered before the first ring had even finished.
“Striker, thank God,” he said. “What’s your status?”
“Not blown up with the EOC, thanks for asking,” he said. “Allison and Denny are regrouping, and I’m back in the field.”
“How bad was it?” Brognola asked.
“Pretty ugly,” Bolan replied. “Over thirty dead, lots more injured. Basically, emergency management is out of the game for now. And we lost all of our data, including the models they were building.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“I’m going to track down this Batin guy again, even if I have to tear the city apart to do it. What do you have for me?”
“I pulled everything we’ve got on Malick Yasim,” he said. “This is a genuine bad man, Striker. He’s been connected to killings and terrorist activities from L.A. all the way to Afghanistan. He’s called the Mummy, because he looks like the guy from that movie. Only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s not the leader—or probably isn’t. He’s strictly the second-in-command, muscle type. Chances are he’s working for someone else.”
“Great,” Bolan said. “So another link in the chain, but not the end of it.”
“Sorry, but I doubt it. One thing for sure is that he’s the real deal. He’s on every watch list in the world, but the CIA lost him late last year in Yemen. They had the idea of trying to turn him, but he wasn’t receptive, and he killed their operative when he revealed himself. Anyway, watch your ass if you find him.”
“I’ll find him, Hal,” Bolan said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“Is it time we can afford?”
“I doubt it, but it’s all we’ve got right now. I’ll keep digging if you give me anything else.”
Bolan thought about it. “This is too well-organized for Yasim to have only been here a few months,” he said. “Is there any way you can think of that you can backtrack him from Yemen, maybe trace where he was before that?”
“I’ll make some calls and see what I can find out,” Brognola said.
“Good. I’ll update you as soon as I have Batin,” Bolan said, then hung up as he pulled into the parking lot behind Al-Qadir’s mosque.
The back entrance door of the mosque hung by the remains of one hinge. Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle from his holster and did a quick survey of the parking area before moving inside. The beautiful tapestries of the mosque had been yanked from the walls or torn into pieces, and the hallway leading to the imam’s office was spray-painted with the word Traitor in Arabic.
