by Gavin Reese
“’Fraid so. I ain’t got time to deliver the same rifle you used back in camp, but my quartermaster’s got one local there that oughta get the job done, if it comes to that.”
“You should know, first, that I am not in Paris right now. I’m out of the country, in fact, but I can be back in the city by the end of tomorrow. If Andrew requires more urgent help, I’m no good to him. I will make arrangements for an urgent return, but you may wish to call someone else.”
John sighed and shook his head in desperation. There ain’t no one else to call. “We can only do what’s possible. I’ll send you a quick intel update on what the hell he’s got himself into. Keep an eye on the phone. Haul ass home and be safe if you can.” John disconnected the call and ran through the travel calculations in his head. Shit. I can get to Paris before he can. Desperate times might call for desperate measures.
May 10, 9:37pm
8 Rue de Corbillon #415. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
Seated atop one of the couch cushions in the middle of the living room floor, Abdel put the finishing touches on the last backpack device. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful he’d completed that task. Even with the delays from my ancillary projects, I’m finished more than twelve hours before the delivery. I now have time to devote my final hours on earth to prayer and rest.
He looked up to the writing desk along the west wall and the piled-up stacks of items that still demanded his attention. Up to this very moment, the detailed list of nuisance chores had frustrated and annoyed him. I’ve long heard that depressed humans, once committed to their own mortal demise, experience euphoria they’ve never known. I can now attest to its truth.
Abdel carried the backpack into his bedroom. The bulk of his chemical glassware remained in place there, as it offered the only true privacy in his apartment. His production processes had yielded near-theoretical volumes of triacetone-triperoxide and produced a kilogram more than expected. Rather than add some additional destruction into each of the eleven backpacks, Abdel had chosen to create a twelfth device. When I detonate and make my ascension downstairs in the mosque, this apartment will explode, as well, and deliver God’s wrath to all the deserving imposters.
Abdel set the last backpack on the floor alongside the others. In sequence, he opened each backpack, powered on its backup timer, and initiated a synchronized countdown sequence. The devices can no longer be stopped. Our objective is now inevitable. He spread the backpacks out in two long columns at the back corner of the bedroom and gently laid his air mattress over them. With an added blanket, they disappeared from sight. Only a fool would inspect the bed while a clandestine lab and unknown compounds shared the same room.
He walked from the room and pulled the door closed behind him. Abdel strode back to the desk, opened the laptop, and brought up his stairwell surveillance camera feeds again. In another two hours, these will no longer matter, and I can destroy the hard drive to protect my contacts. Bending down to a red, hand-carried toolbox, he retrieved a handsaw and stepped toward the exterior door to finish protecting his divinely inspired work. Once the apartment is completely secure, no one but Allah himself may stop us.
May 11, 03:02am
The Oremus hotel. Paris, France.
Warm sunlight shone on Michael’s face while he sat across the picnic table from Merci Renard, the same one where they’d frequently shared MRE lunches, personal stories, and the roller coaster of triumphs and grief that was international aid work.
Michael didn’t feel the warmth on his skin, but, somehow, he knew it was there as he spoke with her. “I think of ‘compassion’ differently than most priests and Catholics. People are best served with a hand up rather than a hand out. If I can teach people to make and buy their own bread and soup, then they don’t need to return to the soup line every day.”
“Don’t you think it’s futile, that our social problems are too great to overcome?”
Her tone suggested doubt, annoyance maybe. Michael didn’t recall ever hearing that from her. “I fear that we perpetuate the need with endless giving. We offer momentary comfort to successive generations without ever creating solutions. I think we can do better, but that means doing things differently.”
“There’s not enough money for soup, Father Michael, so how we can find money for training? People cannot learn on empty stomachs. The rich must always be forced to give.”
Michael feared their differing ideologies would eventually come between them, and he had to prevent that without lying to Merci. “Forced giving isn’t giving, it’s ransom. We mustn’t allow government to rob and murder members of one group for the compulsory benefit of another, despite their round-the-clock efforts to monopolize violence.”
Merci’s voice became accusatory and hateful. “You know all about monopolized violence, committed in the name of your God, even.”
Michael’s chest tightened, even though he still couldn’t feel the sunlight or summer breeze he knew were there. “I’m not a serial killer.”
“Not yet, but you soon will be, and I want nothing to do with you.”
Michael awoke from the latest in his diverse series of anxiety dreams and longed for the simple versions that had taunted him as a cop. He glanced around the dark and now-familiar Oremus hotel suite, and his eyes settled on the digital clock near his bed. 3:05. Michael rolled over onto his back and stared into the darkness above him. Why did I have to bring Merci into this?
He understood the rhetorical answer, that he’d secretly grown and nurtured an excess of admiration for the woman. Merci will never accept what I’m doing, and she’ll totally reject me when she learns the truth. What does that mean for my conscience? Is she right, and I refuse to admit it now that I’m this far down the road?
Michael threw back the covers, sat up with his feet on the plush carpeting, and began combat breathing to calm his nerves. Four count in, hold for four, slow four out. Repeat.
Within four cycles, Michael had reduced his anxiety and stress, despite having no better understanding of how to someday explain this to Merci. I, as the compassionate priest, am off to kill evil out of sheer kindness and love. This might be the most morally complicated story since Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son to God.
He donned a pair of charcoal gray Lycra running pants and a lighter gray long-sleeved running shirt. Over that went his hobo outfit: faded black polyester slacks and a thin green wool sweater with numerous holes and stains. Michael put on a pair of black running shoes that didn’t fit the homeless attire, but they also didn’t stand out. I need the agility and foot protection today more than I need to run for my life in a pair of broken-down work boots.
Knowing that he wouldn’t sleep well last night, Michael had stayed up late to prepare all his various kit for the day. After a brief inventory confirmed he hadn’t forgotten anything, he donned the military fatigue jacket and his backpack. He double-checked the tranquilizer gun and extra darts. Despite the varied weaponry in the concealed safe, Michael again only took the suppressed .22 and both extra magazines as his lethal cover. I don’t expect high-volume or long-range trouble today. All my problems should be within arm’s reach, and plenty close enough to kill me back.
A light, unexpected knock sounded at the door. He stepped over and peered out the peephole, which revealed Jacques standing across the narrow hallway. Michael racked his brain for anything else he’d asked of the man but came up empty. Jacques had come through with everything he needed, but that didn’t equate to absolute trust.
“Yeah?” He watched Jacques lean close to the door to be heard without disturbing the other guests.
“I have a car waiting for you, sir, as this is quite an early start today. You are, of course, welcome to take the Metro after it re-opens at 4:30.”
“I’ll be right down, thank you.”
“Very good, sir.” Jacques strode out of sight, and Michael now wished he’d just opened the door and talked with him. Oh, well. Without paranoia, I might not live long enough to suffe
r my regrets. He walked back toward the bed where his gear sat and stopped midstride when a rhetorical question suddenly emerged. How did Jacques know I needed a ride, or that I had such an early start? Michael rescanned the room for surveillance equipment, but soon abandoned the pointless effort in favor of making final preparations. The room’s either bugged or John made some assumptions and called him. I don’t have the luxury of being inquisitive right now, so I have to settle for being grateful.
Within minutes he stepped into the empty hallway and checked his watch. 3:19. I should just now be rolling out of bed, and I already have a ride. Things are looking up. Michael hustled away from his room and considered the possibility that he might never again set foot into the hotel. If things go completely sideways, Jacques can send my stuff to John, but it’ll probably just get destroyed or stockpiled for the next guy that needs it. If this is my end, I hope the replacement’s blessed with better luck.
As though accustomed to treating eccentric and unusual guests with non-judgmental discretion, the shuttle driver hadn’t appeared to notice Michael’s homeless appearance. He’d traded messages with John on the ride over, which revealed the intel analysts had no new information and the electronic devices thought to be associated with Abrini remained dark. The lack of early morning traffic allowed the unmarked hotel shuttle to drop Michael five blocks from his target twenty-four minutes after departing The Oremus.
As Michael plodded along Boulevard Carnot in his hobo character, the abandoned street allowed him to stew in his thoughts. He feared that his own assumption of an imminent attack would cloud his judgement, especially if he only uncovered probable cause evidence inside Abrini’s apartment but didn’t breach the “beyond a reasonable doubt” threshold. I need irrefutable and absolute, not BARD, anyway.
He reached the intersection with Rue de Corbillon and again trudged toward the Islamic school. Still no better perch to see Abrini’s place, and I can’t move onto his roof without first making sure he’s not having a slumber party with his conspirators and friends. Although the cameras still provided a view from Abrini’s balcony, their effectiveness had been largely defeated by curtains so Michael couldn’t rely on them for such vital intel.
Once he reached the top level of the fire escape, Michael retrieved his binoculars from the gray backpack and scanned the heat signature inside Abrini’s apartment. He’s laying by the door. Weird place to sleep, unless you’re paranoid about boogeymen coming up the stairs to get you in the middle of the night. That means I don’t have a choice. I have to go in through the windows.
His apprehension again elevated, and Michael lowered the binos and scolded himself. On its face, this should be the easiest assignment conceivable, from both a logistics and moral perspective. If we could just tell Gerard what I know, he and his goon squad could pull the neighbors out of the building, use a single round to expose Abrini’s gray matter to sunlight, and go collect the evidence with a damned robot until they know it’s safe to send investigators inside the apartment. I’m tasked with ending the life of a terrorist, and I know he’s a terrorist, in my heart and in my head, but I can’t prove it in court yet. If putting him down makes me a serial killer, then so be it. I have to get over that arbitrary title. He sighed and brought the binos back up to his eyes. Every man’s gotta be something, I guess.
brrtbrrt
Michael retrieved his work cell from the fatigue jacket’s internal pocket and saw Gerard had sent a message to his anonymous Google Voice number. The phone's constant VPN ensured the cop had no way to identify him or his actual position despite the communication link between them.
Couldn’t sleep. In position early, waiting patiently."
Michael didn’t reply. Not yet. Let him think I’m not yet out and about. He’s gotta stay away from here, or the cop will complicate the hell outta this. A notification at the top of the screen showed he had an unread, encrypted message. How did I miss that?
A message from John populated the screen: Alpha inbound to help. Meet at your hotel in two hours.
Michael shook his head and typed his response. Goddammit, John, too little, too late. On the roof, about to make entry. Send him to this area to standby. Give me his app ID so I can make contact if I need him. He should keep a low profile. This neighborhood isn’t the welcoming kind.
Almost a minute passed. Copy all. Be safe, notify me with progress.
Michael put the phone away. Why did John wait until now to send the backup I’ve spent months begging for? Returning his focus back to the entry and investigation, he scanned the apartments on the west side of the building and waited until most everyone’s heat signatures showed they’d retired for the night. I still don’t understand why the east half of the building is dark. No time to find out.
Although Michael expected to find a few people out between the two morning prayers, he hoped his hobo-beggar disguise would again repel their potential interest. He descended the fire escape and stayed close to the wall to limit the creaking its rusting metal produced. I’ll be back up on Abrini’s roof before sunrise, and sneak in after the morning prayers while all his neighbors are asleep. I still have no idea how I’ll get inside to investigate without putting a toe tag on at least one of us. The unusual lack of operational detail filled his chest with anxiety. Planning’s out the window, so we’ll just have to do it live…
May 11, 07:04am
Saint Ferdinand Bus Station. Argenteuil, France.
Hidden among other parked vehicles, Gerard sat in one of the unmarked police sedans he’d “borrowed” for his rogue assignment and watched a city bus stop just a few dozen yards away. He sipped coffee from a large paper takeaway cup and tried to set it back in the car’s center cupholder. When he felt an obstruction, he glanced down and found the culprit. One quick swat flung the end of the car’s unplugged GPS power cable onto the passenger floorboard. Algeri might be ready to take my job and my badge, but he’ll have to find me first. They’re not getting their guns or their car back until I say so.
Pedestrian traffic ebbed and flowed around him. Everything appeared normal, and Gerard didn’t recognize anyone. He glanced back at the list of possible locations and times that Andrew’s unknown covert organization thought the bombers might meet today. He hadn't offered much context or explanation for the intel, and Andrew had only asked Gerard to devote several hours today to surveilling these spots for Abrini and his known associates.
As the surrounding traffic and crowds thinned again, he retrieved his smartphone and opened his remote access to the ten camera feeds around Abrini’s building. He hadn't checked them for the last thirty minutes, so Gerard scrolled backward through two of the interior stairwell feeds to ensure their target still remained inside. Just the fact that he never leaves should be enough to kick the door and demand some goddamned answers. Who lives like that, other than some kind of psychopath?
Gerard looked down at the far side of the front passenger seat and the gray nylon rifle case partially hidden there between the seat and the door. He remembered the trouble he and his clandestine teammates had shouldered to sneak his weapon system back into France from the Middle East. The weapon had proved too hard to leave behind when his service ended, so it now lived with a former squad mate on his farm outside Paris. I may no longer have the support of a wife and daughter, but my military family supports me without question. Even keeping each other’s secret treasures hidden is an easy thing to do. Gerard and his rifle had saved dozens, perhaps hundreds of his countrymen and NATO partners, and he briefly held a longshot record that the American sniper Chris Kyle shattered within days.
His mind wondered back to his only separation from the rifle in the last fifteen years. His squad had run short that day and he’d been on point by himself. The rest of his mates were almost a mile behind him in the Afghan wilderness when eight Taliban soldiers ambushed him just before dawn. I hadn’t given them enough credit, and I paid for it. With the choice of certain suicide and surrender, he’d chosen the latter
. They took everything from him, stripped him naked, bound his wrists, and bagged his head before forcing him to march across the snow, ice, and rocky high-mountain terrain. By the time they stopped and took him into a cave, Gerard knew he approached hypothermia.
Surprisingly, they built him a small dedicated warming fire that his addled mind didn’t recognize for the next hour. When the memory returned, Gerard felt like someone had slapped his head from the inside. Several months prior to his capture, another squad had recovered the bodies of three NATO POWs that had been stripped naked and executed next to a small fire. The propaganda video had emerged online a few hours later. The animals kept me alive to make me productive for their cause. Gerard had assumed they didn’t have stage lighting and electricity in their goddamned cave, which meant they needed bright morning sunlight to showcase their handiwork. With the bag over his head and his wrists still bound together, Gerard huddled naked next to the fire, feigned sleep, and listened for his opportunity. I might freeze to death out there, and I might be shot in the back running away, but my family won’t ever witness my murder.
The enemy’s movement and dialogue established they kept a thin patrol and rotated every few hours. Long after the cave around him fell silent and Gerard had counted to six thousand, he finally risked removing the bag. He looked around for the first time in almost a day. Reduced to embers, the fire still cast a faint red glow onto the nearby rock walls and ceiling. A black abyss stood before him, and faint moonlight called him to climb a steep ascent behind him. He’d been so near death that Gerard had no memory of climbing down into the cave. A bright harvest moon guided him back outside and facilitated his escape through the wilderness. His NATO comrades found him less than a mile away, saved his life, and then took those of everyone who’d held him captive. By the time bright sunlight again shone on Afghanistan, his tormenters laid stiff in their own blood and Gerard had both his rifles back.
