by Mike Brogan
Three years later, he learned of Yasmine’s unhappiness in the marriage. Hadir beat her and their young son. Even after Yasmine divorced Hadir, he continued to threaten her and her son.
So Van Horn arranged for a speeding asphalt truck to hit Hadir in Casablanca’s crowded Ancienne Medina streets. The hot asphalt burned him to death.
Now, years later, he wondered if Yasmine married again. Would she be shocked to see him? Delighted, maybe?
SIXTY FIVE
DETROIT
Madison sat with Pete Naismith, Agent Shaw and Agent Hayden in a small conference room at Global Vehicles headquarters. Pete worked his phone calming down worried GV dealers while his assistants worked phones calming down worried GV car owners.
Shaw hung up and faced Madison.
She saw more bad news in his eyes.
“Based on Bruner’s statements and some partially decrypted documents our IT experts now fear Bruner has very probably programmed a bigger, extended surge for more GV vehicles - today!”
“Including our XCars for the national launch?” Pete asked.
“Yes. And probably other GV models like Carmel SUVs and 6Pack Pickups. Maybe many more. Maybe all GV vehicles!”
No one spoke.
“Why today?” Madison said.
“Because of something Bruner told Brooke Daniels and others and Brooke just told me.”
They waited.
“Bruner said “this date - today’s actual date - would be remembered like 9/11!”
“Why this particular date?” Pete asked.
“Because it’s a special anniversary for him. The month and day Bruner’s wife and daughter died in their GV car crash.”
“A crash he blames on GV,” Madison said.
Agent Shaw nodded.
“What time of day did their crash occur?” Madison asked.
Shaw checked his note. “5:36 p.m.!”
Everyone looked at the wall clock – 5:01 p.m.!
Madison stifled a gasp.
“So where the hell is Bruner?” Pete Naismith said.
“Anyone’s guess. We’re checking his addresses, banks, credit cards, friends, airports, bus and train stations. Nothing’s lighting up.”
“What about his online activity?” Madison said.
“Nothing. He’s not using his usual IP addresses. Our top cybersecurity sleuth, Marcus Kincaid, and his experts are digging into everything he’s done online. But Bruner often uses anonymous proxy servers that bounce between Kiev, Ukraine, Luxembourg, and Lima, Peru. We’ve even searched the Dark Web servers like HushMail, Guerilla Mail, Hidemyass Mail. He’s not on them. And he probably using a new burner phone every day.”
“Did you check him out on social media,” Madison said. “Facebook, Twitter or the others?”
Shaw nodded. “Nothing.”
Madison had a thought. “Maybe our agency researchers can discover where Bruner spends some of his money online. And where he has stuff delivered. Maybe Amazon, eBay, UPS, or Fed Ex delivered something to a different “Mail To” address than his home address or his cottage up in the UP.”
“Worth a try,” Shaw said.
Madison made the phone call to her media director, Howard Goldberg, and explained what she needed. Howard would dig into it immediately.
Agent Shaw stood and walked alongside the conference table.
“Brooke told Madison and me something else Bruner said. He always wanted to live in a town named Romulus. Maybe Romulus near the airport. Nice town. Population twenty-three thousand. Lots of houses. We’re searching for a place he might rent or own. So far, nothing.”
A thin middle-aged female FBI agent walked in and handed Shaw a note.
Shaw read it and frowned. “The NSA can’t get past Bruner’s password for his primary home computer. And that’s the computer they think he’ll probably use to launch today’s big attack!”
“Maybe he uses an old password from when he worked at Global Vehicles,” Madison said. “Sometimes employees are asked to share their work passwords in case the company needs access to an employee’s work files in an emergency. Maybe Brooke has his old password. Or maybe GV’s IT guys can dig into his old computer files and find it.”
“Also worth a try. Ask Brooke,” Shaw said.
Madison dialed Brooke, then punched her speaker button so everyone could hear. Brooke picked up immediately.
“Brooke, did Bruner ever give you his computer password for company emergencies?”
“No. He was very secretive about that. I gave him my password, but he always kept his password to himself.”
“What work did he do on his computer?” Agent Shaw said.
“Engineering work mostly. New component designs, tests results. Research. Work stuff. Some personal stuff. One day I saw something on his screen that scared the hell out of me.”
“What?”
“A list of bioweapons sites! WMDs!”
Bruner with bioweapons was like Hitler with nukes, Madison thought.
“Maybe he wrote his password in a desk drawer. Or on the back of his computer.”
“Our desks were replaced a year ago. And we got new computers shortly after he left GV.”
Shaw said, “We tried his daughter’s name, Bahiya, and his wife’s name, Abeela, then his parents’ names. None worked. Does any other name come to mind? Any nickname he might have used?”
“Let me think . . .” Brooke said.
They waited.
“Sorry, nothing comes to mind.”
“Did he call his daughter by a nickname?”
Pause. “No. He always called her Bahiya. But I remember Bahiya had a crazy cat Bruner laughed about.”
“Why’d he laugh about the cat?”
“Because it was so big and fat. His daughter and wife fed it too many treats.”
“What’s the fat cat’s name?”
Brooke paused. “It had a funny name. Hang on . . .”
Madison crossed her fingers.
“I can’t remem – Wait! I got it – Catzilla!”
Agent Shaw immediately gave Catzilla to Hayden who relayed it to the FBI tech guy who shot it to the NSA team.
“Brooke . . . do you recall any friends or places he visited regularly?”
“Not really. He was a loner. But I remember he used to go to a Mosque in Rochester Hills.”
“With anyone?”
“With his wife. But after his wife and daughter died, he stopped going.”
* * *
In his Romulus command center, Robert Khalid Bruner programmed the final phase of Road Rage, his mammoth surge. A program beyond the wildest fears of the authorities . . . a program that would terrify Americans and transform expressways into Demolition Derbies.
And it all would begin in minutes . . . at the exact moment of his wife’s accident.
5:36 p.m.
The instant the speeding semi slammed into her, stopping the minute hand on her watch – and stopping her life!
He checked the time. Just minutes now . . .
Until then, he’d have to satisfy himself with updates of the XCar and other GV vehicle accidents. He turned to a computer spreadsheet visual that showed that many early release XCars had been surged. But incredibly, forty-eight were still being driven. Those fools deserved to be surged. And the terrific news was that a number of greedy dealers sold over one thousand nine hundred national-launch XCars early - despite GV’s corporate demand not to sell them until the launch date. So he’d programmed many to surge.
He continued tapping in the final extended Road Rage commands for Honda, Toyota, BMW, Mercedes, Kia, and other brands.
He could barely contain his excitement. He wanted to test a few hundred cars right now since the expressways were already thick with cars.
But no . . . Road Rage had to begin at 5:36!
Then he noticed someone was attempting to break into his main computer at his Rochester Hills home. They would fail. Even if their most brilliant NSA hackers eventually discov
ered his most important password . . . the password to launch his Road Rage Program . . . and tried to cancel Road Rage . . . they wouldn’t be able to.
Only one thing could launch Road Rage.
The ancient device in front of him.
A device the authorities would never suspect. Or even notice. Or had any idea where it was – or where he was.
He checked his clock. 5:03.
SIXTY SIX
DETROIT
Madison felt nauseated by their failure to stop the growing accidents of XCars and other GV vehicles.
The Global Vehicles conference room door flew open and an IT guy with crazed eyes rushed into the room and hurried over to Agent Shaw.
“What’s up?” Shaw asked.
“Catzilla!”
“What?”
“Bruner’s daughter’s fat cat - Catzilla.”
“So . . .?”
“So Catzilla spelled backwards – alliztac. And alliztac got us into Bruner’s home computer!”
Madison’s hope soared.
“What’d you find?”
“Hundreds of programs. We’re trying to identify which one is his main surge program.”
“Put everyone on it!” Shaw said.
“We did. But even if we find it, he probably has some impenetrable firewall. And we have very little time to circumvent it before 5:36.”
Madison’s watch read 5:17.
“Any news on Romulus?” she asked.
Shaw shook his head. “If he has a place there, we haven’t found it. Might have bought it under an alias.”
Madison nodded, noticing everyone looked more desperate with each minute. Time was running out . . . like their options. She’d heard Shaw mention the possibility of a national driving curfew. For GV vehicles only? For all cars? For major city expressways only? For all expressways? For how long? A few hours? All day?
She knew some people would drive anyway.
Agent Hayden said, “In minutes Bruner will deliver his big attack!”
“Deliver” reminded Madison to see if her media director, Howard, learned where Bruner’s on-line purchases were delivered. Maybe by FedEx and UPS and others.
She called Howard’s office. As she waited for his assistant to yank him from a phone call, Madison overheard Agent Shaw talking on his speaker phone to the FBI Director Andrew Manning at the White House. The Director was meeting with the Director of National Intelligence, the Director of Homeland Security, CIA Director, NSA Director, and President John Ashwood, and it sounded like they were planning some kind of driving curfew.
“What do you have?” the FBI Director Manning asked Special Agent Shaw.
“His main computer password. And we’re trying to locate the specific program for his Road Rage program and shut it off!”
“We’re down to eighteen minutes!” the FBI Director said. “I know . . .”
“Agent Shaw, the President wants to talk with you.”
Shaw heard clicking, then . . .
“Agent Shaw, this is President Ashwood. We appreciate your hard work, but as you know, time’s running out!”
“Yes sir.”
“So I’m about to consider issuing something no recent President ever issued. A national driving curfew for two more hours. Not just XCars, but all GV cars with Wi-Fi in our major cites - for three hours. One exception: medical emergencies. We hope that gives you enough time to stop or delete Bruner’s surge programs.”
“I hope so, sir,” Shaw said.
“If not, we’ll extend the curfew.”
“Yes, sir. But some drivers will drive anyway.”
“I know. But with fewer cars driving, we should reduce accidents.”
“Makes sense, Mr. President.”
“We have to try to prevent a terrorist from slaughtering more Americans on our roads.”
“Agreed, sir.”
Madison felt her phone vibrate. Howard Goldberg. She listened to him explain what he’d discovered seconds ago, then she shouted, “Agent Shaw!” She pointed at her phone.
Agent Shaw nodded to her. “Mr. President, we have some news coming in.”
“Get back to me with your next steps. I’ll hold off on the curfew until I hear from you.”
“Yes, sir.”
They hung up and Agent Shaw looked at Madison. “What’s up?”
“Maybe Bruner’s house in Romulus . . .”
“How did - ?”
“- our agency media director checked Bruner’s purchase patterns from his home computer. Don’t ask me how. But nearly all of his online purchases were delivered to his Rochester Hills home. But six months ago, a new Harley Davidson Low-Rider motorcycle was delivered to a different address - 354 Landerman Street.”
“In Romulus?”
“Yes.”
Shaw stood and turned to his agents. “Get our SWAT teams ready for Landerman now! I’m coming!”
* * *
In his Romulus command center, Bruner heard distant sirens heading toward his general area. Ambulance sirens, he could tell. He wasn’t worried. This house was titled to Mr. John Jones, one of two hundred eighty-six John Joneses in Michigan.
Still, Bruner would remain vigilant.
He checked his Road Rage program. Proceeding exactly as programmed.
He checked his Rochester Hills home computers where FBI and NSA hackers continued to nibble away at unimportant old files and his AutoSystemics business files. Wasting their time.
And of course, no one had hacked into his primary Road Rage program. Nor could they. The reason was simple. They couldn’t identify the correct program. He had created twenty-seven red-herring programs. Time wasters. Even if the hackers got incredibly lucky and identified the correct Road Rage program, they’d still find themselves blocked by an impenetrable password.
He checked his watch. 5:24.
Twelve minutes!
He smiled down at his old battery-powered Mickey Mouse clock and ran his finger along its smooth plastic side. He watched Mickey’s tiny white-gloved finger creep toward the magic minute. It had been his daughter’s clock. It had once saved her life. She loved it. And he loved that her clock was critical to launching Road Rage. It felt like she was here helping him.
He’d hard-wired the Mickey clock to the old small-screen 1978 Apple 1 computer in front of him.
When Mickey’s little gloved hands hit 5:36, the clock would automatically trigger the computer to initiate the first step of Road Rage. He would then tap in the secret password.
But if for some reason, he was incapacitated and couldn’t tap in the password, the computer would enter it robotically after three minutes and load the VIN numbers of the thousands of cars and SUVs and vans targeted to surge.
The program would randomly select certain vehicles to speed ahead, others to steer right and left, others to brake hard, speed up, and drive in circles . . .
Some would crash into each other, into stores, lamp posts, busses, pedestrians . . . the possibilities were limitless.
After the surges, CNN and FOX would flash those idiotic words “Warning! Disturbing Visuals”. Didn’t the fools understand that the warnings made viewers more eager to watch?
YouTube would show the bloodiest and most shocking carnage. His strategically-placed CCTV cameras would record certain high-traffic surge locations. Maybe he’d sell the videos on the Dark Web, market them to jihadi and ISIS buyers.
The sirens drew closer. Most sounded like ambulances. Maybe a couple cop cars. Obviously, a major accident. Several injuries. Maybe a semi smashed into cars on I-94.
No way the police could have tracked him here. John Jones lives here. I’ve been too careful for too long. The sirens faded a few blocks away . . . then went silent. He relaxed.
He checked the time. 5:28 . . .
Eight minutes.
* * *
The Bell 412 helicopter touched down about six blocks from Bruner’s house on Landerman. Agent Shaw and his FBI SWAT team hopped out.
Shaw hoped B
runer thought the chopper noise came from nearby Detroit Metro Airport. But what if he thought the chopper and police sirens were coming for him? If so, he might attack early.
They had minutes to stop his launch.
Shaw’s FBI SWAT teams climbed into a van branded Considine Great Lakes Cruises and drove down cross-streets toward Landerman.
Nearby, several police cars were quietly moving into position to block off Bruner’s escape on the main streets.
Shaw’s team had to storm the house and somehow turn off the Road Rage program - or force Bruner to turn it off.
What if he refused?
What if he launched it first and committed suicide so no one could turn it off?
Shaw’s shirt was drenched with sweat beneath his bulletproof vest.
He checked his SIG Sauer 9 mm. GPS indicated the police were only two blocks from Bruner’s house.
They’d toss flash-bangs to shock him. Disorient him. Drag him away from his computer keyboard. Stop him from pushing the program launch keys.
Shaw checked his watch.
5:29 p.m.
Seven minutes!
* * *
Bruner counted down to his Road Rage launch . . .
The program took three years to design, build, refine, and test. But only minutes to deliver justice for America’s crimes.
A light flashed red on his office wall.
Bruner went on full alert.
The red light meant his neighborhood sensors detected a vehicle with highly sophisticated surveillance equipment within five blocks of his house. Maybe a police surveillance van. Or an FBI van with high tech monitoring equipment.
Then a blue light flashed “4” on his wall map. Which meant four police cars had just parked on four main streets surrounding his house.
They found me!
He looked at his old Apple 1 computer and the wire leading to the old fashioned Mickey Mouse clock behind it.
5:32. Four minutes to launch. He wasn’t worried.
Road Rage would launch automatically – even if he was not here to enter the secret password and push Enter . . . and even if someone broke into the house and tried to stop it.
He’d prepared for this eventuality.
And for disappearing fast.
He put on his blond ponytail wig, full beard, tinted aviator sunglasses, and grabbed his backpack containing forty thousand dollars and three sets of ID.
