Warn Me When It's Time

by Cheryl A Head

  Charlie knocked at Kamal’s bedroom door. She knocked a second time and announced herself before she heard the lock being released. Kamal’s face was very bruised, and one eye was swollen. The bandage didn’t fully cover his nose, which was darkened from the broken capillaries. He had stitches on his forehead.

  “Kamal, your mother has given me permission to speak to you in your room.”

  Kamal turned and walked to his desk. He kept his back to Charlie.

  “The boy you attacked is now working with federal law enforcement to bring all the men responsible for your father’s death to justice.”

  “He’s responsible, Ms. Mack. He’s the one who killed Abi.”

  “We know he was in the mosque, but we also know another man planted the bomb that killed your father. These are despicablemen who hate people who don’t look like them, and blame others for their failures and situations.”

  “He bragged about killing my father, Ms. Mack. I can show you.”

  Kamal pulled up a website that linked to a message board. He scrolled through the archived posts from a month ago until he found the one he was looking for, dated six weeks ago.

  Posted by: STORMTROOPER22

  We killed another towel head. He had it coming.

  Post after post, maybe thirty in all, from users with handles like Citadel, WhiteBrothers, Still the Confederacy, TakeBackAmerica, PatriotSC, and ProudRebel, replied to the message with the acronym: RAWA.

  Kamal was right. The small picture next to the man who used the handle Stormtrooper22 was Robbie Barrett. Additional posts talked about using plastic explosives in the mosque. One post bragged that the FBI had raided his house, but they had to let him go. His posts were vile and filled with hate speech.

  “You see, Ms. Mack. He is a killer, and I tried to kill him for my family. It is my right.”

  Charlie and Kamal spoke for almost an hour. She tried to help Kamal make a connection between the pain he was feeling and the tenets of martial arts. They talked about the technique of folding into a punch, absorbing it for a brief time, so that you could expel it from your body. She stood in the middle of his room and invited the boy to practice the technique—to strike, punch, and kick. Occasionally Kamal’s blows connected, but Charlie remained in defensive mode. She blocked the kicks and sidestepped the punches.

  Charlie walked out of Kamal’s room, leaving him slumped on the floor, drained from the sparring, crying from his physical and emotional pain. He had promised to see the counselor his sister had found for him. He’d also agreed to be in her new Taekwondo class that began next month.

  # # #

  Mandy had changed into Sunday comfort clothes, and she and Hamm were on the back deck when Charlie pulled the Corvette into the driveway. Mandy noticed right away the bruise taking hold on Charlie’s cheek, and the wrinkles in her slacks and shirt. Hamm had signaled her arrival and stopped barking only when Charlie climbed the deck stairs. She ruffled his ears, and he sat down in hopes of a snack. Charlie gave him a piece of cheese from Mandy’s plate.

  “You look like you could use some lemonade.”

  “Is that what you’re having? Make mine with two fingers of vodka,” Charlie said. “Then I’ll answer all the questions I can see on your face.”

  The drink, the cheese and crackers, gazpacho, and dog rubs helped. The conversation helped even more. Later, Charlie and Mandy had an early dinner of chicken, and pasta in Alfredo sauce before heading upstairs. They showered together, and Mandy massaged the sore spots on Charlie’s body. Charlie cried at the pain Kamal felt, his rage still stinging in the bruises on her forearms where she’d blocked his blows. They lay in bed a long time, talking some more about the day, and of a world so bitter that people hated others for just being different. Then they made love. The sounds of their passion mixed with Hamm’s snores.

  Chapter 24

  The Memorial Day project was executed without any fatal hitches. At least, so far. Sadly, an elderly woman had been taken to the hospital after a heart attack, and a teenage boy suffered a cut leg when leaping over a fence during the stampede of terrorized parade-goers. An FBI agent, posing as a parade participant, was also injured when she sprained her wrist diving and rolling to the pavement after the third blast.

  The agent had the presence of mind to smear the fake blood and damp dirt in her pockets onto her face and neck as she lay on the ground. No one had noticed that when she joined the parade two blocks before the planned blast, her pants were already torn, and she wore only one shoe. The EMTs who rushed to her side added more blood as they lifted her onto a gurney.

  Several other deafeningly loud explosions sent flames twenty feet high. An agent near each explosion was tasked with herding parade viewers away from the blast by screaming, “It’s a bomb. Get out of here!” then leading the running crowds away from the street and onto the sidewalks, to lots, and behind businesses on the east side of the Avenue.

  Although agent K’s explosives were strong enough to topple two trees and cause grass and dirt to be strewn into the air, the trajectory of debris went up, rather than out. That gave the agents-turned-actors cover to avoid the wreckage, and bite down on fake blood pellets, affix plastic scars to their limbs, and rip clothing.

  The Inkster and Dearborn Heights police and fire departments, given only fifteen minutes’ notice of the operation, were furious. As was the mayor of Inkster. Their complaints were being handled by the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Detroit field office. James had just returned from the meeting with city officials where payments for damages, injuries, and hurt feelings were being negotiated.

  “When we explained the full scope of the investigation, most of them understood the urgency of the operation, and the need for secrecy,” James reported. “Captain Kerner was there and it helped that he was in the loop on the operation. But when I left he was still getting a lot of grief from his colleagues.”

  “I bet he was,” Charlie said.

  “How is the woman who had the heart attack?” Judy asked.

  “She’s in stable condition at Garden City Hospital and she’s getting good care,” Commander Coleman announced.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Judy said.

  Charlie had watched the event unfold from James’s unmarked car parked on the west side of Michigan Avenue. Don, in case he was being followed, left the area as soon as the first explosion sounded. He was now in his apartment participating in the excited chatter on various hate-group sites.

  “My guys saw a few people hovering and trying to get a look at the aftermath. We think they may have been Turks observers. But, I think we pulled off the charade,” James said.

  “The media is covering the incident as a terror attack,” Coleman said. “Within an hour of the last explosion camera crews from all the local stations had set up satellite trucks at Inkster City Hall.”

  “Yes, we saw some of the broadcasts from here.” Charlie pointed to the monitors in the DPD conference room. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait to see what communication Don receives from the Turks. If they give him a ‘go’ on the church bombing for this coming weekend, we start the process of getting arrest warrants for as many of the Turks as we can identify. We’ll subpoena their computers and do searches at their homes. We’re already doing background checks on a dozen of them, and Robbie is flagging any relevant communications he sees. We can put the Turks out of operation.”

  “Is the kid working out?” Coleman asked.

  “We think so. He’s had a couple of meetings with Don. We’re trying to keep him close, but not smother him. Don says his head is still full of the language and messaging of these hate groups, but he also likes the white-hat relationship he has with the Bureau.”

  “He called yesterday,” Judy announced to the room. “He had a fight on the street with Hassan Pashia’s son. Kamal was waiting outside Robbie’s office building and attacked him when he came out.”

  ‘How did Barrett sound on the phone?” Coleman asked
.

  “Angry. Out of control. Like James said, he knows the language of these groups, and he used profanity and racial slurs I couldn’t tolerate. I hope he finds a way to distance himself from these guys.”

  “I do too,” James said. “If not, we’ll swoop him up and he’ll be locked up for a long time.”

  “What do we know about the man who’s following Robbie? The one who confronted Don at the casino?” Charlie asked.

  “We asked Robbie about that, and I was kind of pissed off he was keeping that info to himself. The guy calls himself Spader. Robbie says he’s a recruiter for the Stormfront organization.”

  “Them again,” Charlie said.

  “We’ve found out that Walt Croft not only handles the financial work of the White Turks, but has also provided funds to Stormfront. He may even be the conduit for the group’s North American contributions. Believe me, they have some very bad players and they have resources, personnel, and infrastructure far beyond the capabilities of the Turks.”

  “They sound scary,” Judy said.

  “They’re lethal,” James responded. “Stormfront never would have been fooled by our charade today.”

  “We don’t even know that the Turks have been fooled,” Charlie remarked.

  “Well, that’s right.”

  “And if the Turks don’t take the bait?” Charlie asked.

  James looked at Commander Coleman. “Well then the Commander and I will take the evidence we have, get warrants, and round up as many of these guys as we can. We can still shut down the Turks, but I’d rather have the opportunity to dismantle their back end, and take down a part of Stormfront at the same time. They’re the big fish in this ever-growing stream of domestic terrorism.”

  # # #

  Don gave the window shade signal. He needed to talk to James or Charlie. The chat board guys were gloating about loss of life in the parade. The media wouldn’t confirm any fatalities, but were interviewing witnesses who claimed to have seen people who were maimed and bleeding, and bodies being taken away. Don wanted to know the truth.

  Within five minutes he received a call. He didn’t know the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Good Evening, Mr. Curtis.”

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend. We’re pleased with the results of your, uh . . .”

  “Test?” Don asked.

  The man on the other end of the call chuckled. “Yes. I guess that’s exactly what it was. We’ve been monitoring the media coverage all day. Congratulations. You obviously know what you’re doing, and we’re ready for you to get started on the other job we talked about.”

  Don didn’t recognize the voice. He was sure it wasn’t Walt or Cortez, the Turks chapter president. It might be the money man at Croft’s office.

  “Have you settled on a location?” Don asked.

  “Yes. Location number one. We want a big event that will get the attention of the national media.”

  “Okay. The expenses I outlined are approved?”

  “They are. Your funds are ready for you.”

  “Do I pick them up at the same place?”

  “No. We’ll have a courier deliver them to you this evening.”

  “You already know where I live?”

  The man didn’t respond. Don waited.

  “We’ll give the funds to Mr. Barrett, and you can arrange to meet him wherever you want.”

  “You think that’s a good idea? I like the kid, but he’s green. That kind of money is a big temptation.”

  “We trust Mr. Barrett. He’ll call you when he has the funds.”

  “One more thing. I’ll need a point person. Somebody I can call if I run into a problem. Please tell me that’s not going to be the kid. I need someone who can make quick decisions,” Don said.

  “That’ll be Mr. Croft. You have his number.”

  The caller disconnected. The Turks were clearly fans of Robbie. He’d told Don of his latest work, which involved writing software to capture the names, addresses, banking and credit card information from a half dozen travel businesses. The money stolen from innocent vacationers would provide an ongoing stream of funds for the group’s organization. Robbie bragged his work had taken the Turks to a new level.

  Although the knock at the door was expected, it startled Don and he popped up from his seat. He released his Ruger from its holster and opened the door. James and Charlie stood in the hall. Charlie held a large White Castle bag.

  “Can we come in?” she asked. “Or are you going to shoot us?”

  “Yeah. I mean, come on in. I’m just surprised to see you. I thought you would call. Aren’t you worried the Turks might be watching me?”

  “They were watching, but we haven’t seen them in the last twenty-four hours,” James said, pushing past Don. “We have a problem.”

  “I think we may have more than one,” Don said, closing the door and holstering his gun. “What happened to your face, Mack?”

  “Martial arts,” Charlie lied.

  “I thought the idea was to block the punches. You have a black belt. You must know how to do that.”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you over these gas-inducing little beauties,” Charlie said, dangling the bag.

  They sat around the tiny table in the small kitchen. With one hand Don grabbed four burgers and opened the refrigerator. “You want a beer? Juice? Better make it juice, I guess.”

  “Robbie Barrett has turned on us,” James announced.

  “I wondered about that. I just got a call from some guy who says Robbie will have the funds for the church job. You think he’s told them about me?”

  “We don’t think so. We’re monitoring all his calls, emails, social media posts. All of it. It seems he still believes in the cause of the alt-right, and is planning a double cross.”

  “How do you figure that?” Charlie asked.

  “Well, he likes the work he’s doing for the FBI, and he likes Don. I know this because he’s private messaging with a girl he’s met in a chat room. Bragging about himself and the people he knows. He has several online aliases. Calls himself SPOKESMAN in this particular room, chatting about bikes and racing. We just found out about this. He’s very talented in covering his trail and presenting different persona.”

  “I know. Kamal showed me some posts where he calls himself STORMTROOPER22. I’m surprised he doesn’t know you’re monitoring him,” Charlie said.

  “He knows. It’s a game for him. He spots our trace and closes the door, or figures out a way to do a reverse trace. He’s using all the tools at his disposal, but we’re always a step ahead because, you know . . .”

  “You’re the FBI,” Charlie competed the sentence.

  “Judy didn’t have any trouble finding Robbie through social media,” Don said.

  “Yeah, but those posts are a couple of years old when he was still just flirting with these fringe groups,” James said. “He hasn’t used Facebook much, but that’s changed in the last few days.”

  Charlie recounted for Don the fight between Robbie and Kamal, Robbie’s call to Judy, and Charlie’s visit to the Pashia house.

  “Kamal didn’t have a weapon when he attacked Robbie. Just his fists and his rage.”

  “Apparently he still had plenty in reserve when you challenged him to spar, Mack.”

  “According to Judy, this fight with Kamal may have tipped Robbie’s rage over the edge.”

  “I think that’s very possible,” James said. “Robbie just made a deposit of two grand in a bank account he thinks we don’t know about. He’s extremely active on the dark chats. He’s BIKERDUDE on the Turks membership boards, and SPOKESMAN on the biker websites, but we’ve discovered he uses another handle on the Stormfront sites.”

  “What’s his handle there?” Charlie asked.

  “GESTAPOGEEK.”

  “How do you want me to handle him when he calls?” Don asked.

  “Meet with him. See if you can get his head back in the right game. Tell him you have
a role for him in the church bombing operation. Tell him you want him on your team.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “We’ll have to take him back into custody. We can’t afford to have him blow your cover, and he may be on the verge of doing that. But as of this moment he still sees you as a friend.”

  Chapter 25

  “Barrett.” Don greeted the kid as he approached the truck. From across the road, he’d watched Robbie secure his bike to the rack near the bike trail. He’d honked the horn and waved him over. Robbie seemed confident. Don could tell by the set of his shoulders. He was wearing new bike shorts and a form-fitting jersey.

  “Hey,” he said as he began to remove his backpack. “I’ve got the package.”

  “No, not outside. Get in,” Don ordered.

  Robbie paused for a second, looked around, then ambled over to the passenger side of the truck.

  “You’re looking good, kid. New clothes and all, and now the Turks trust you to be the bagman.”

  “Bagman?”

  “The guy who carries the valuables. In this case, the money. That’s a big responsibility.”

  “Yeah, it is. I could have just taken the money and ridden my bike over the bridge to Canada,” Robbie said with a slight smile.

  Don didn’t smile back. “Believe me, I know the temptation, but you don’t ever want to do that. One way to get on the dead side of any deal is to mess with the money.”

  Robbie’s eyes widened for a minute, and he removed his bike helmet to rub at his newly cut hair.

  “Don’t worry, kid. You might have a few mixed-up ideas, but I think you have good instincts about people. You can tell when somebody is a bullshitter. Like Frank Wyatt. He was looking out only for himself. I don’t think you’re like that. You have a mother and a little brother, right?”