Terror Machine

by Denison Hatch

  The convoy of vehicles—NYPD, FBI, ATF—careened into Stony Brook like a Mythics intro—no warning, all shock and awe. The SWAT captain, Jack Markle, jumped out of his truck immediately. Although a veteran, Markle was known to lead the charge. Without any ado, the whole SWAT team approached the apartment building ahead. The complex was older, without controlled access. Built like a giant U, each unit had a door that faced the central parking lot. SWAT only announced their presence while the doorbuster was swinging through the air.

  “Police! We have a warrant!”

  They bashed down the door in less than two seconds. The operators fanned into the apartment. Markle turned a corner with his gun up and in the ready position, but he quickly realized the place was unoccupied—and half empty.

  “No one’s here,” Markle spoke into his radio.

  A moment later, Rivett and the other detectives stepped inside. Jake took a look around.

  “Shit,” spit Rivett. “Where the hell are ya, Einstein?”

  ▪

  As was becoming usual with this case, they had a whole bunch of questions but no answers. Jake wasn’t in the mood for the slog ahead. He liked cases that cracked quickly. The faster they cracked, the faster they broke. But at the moment, all Jake could do was watch unhappily as NYPD CSI and tech teams began the slow and arduous process of documenting Dr. Borin’s apartment. Sitting on a folding chair, Jake wasn’t sure what to make of Einstein’s lair. It seemed as though Dr. Borin had moved out quickly but not in a panic. The doctor certainly hadn’t left the place abandoned. He’d packed up all his books but had left empty bookcases. Based on the stains on the counter, it appeared that he’d taken his coffee maker but not his microwave. He’d left a handful of heavy winter jackets, but—assuming he owned any—taken all his shirts. His toothbrush was gone, as was his shampoo. His washcloth remained.

  Jake watched the teams work. He didn’t feel like pitching in. He was dejected. He felt—actually, he knew—that they were losing momentum quickly. Something needed to change.

  “Rivett!” Fong yelled, hanging up a call.

  Jake turned to Fong.

  “The girl. Her name’s Katinka Johanssen. Got her address.”

  Jake’s mood instantly improved. The investigation was driving on fumes, but at least it was still moving.

  “Let’s double-time it, Fonger.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  MAXIMILIAN BORIN PACED AROUND THE kitchen of Best Diner, watching Hanafi prepare steamed dumplings in the fryer. Hanafi was a little bit of everything—preacher, landlord, boss—but he certainly wasn’t a cook. That didn’t stop him from using the kitchen, generally the fryer. For a sacrosanct man, his body was not his temple.

  “The video is sure to give me a heart attack,” Hanafi said.

  “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “They will be here—law enforcement. Sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time . . .”

  “Why?”

  “The girl. Didn’t you see her latest post?”

  “Katinka? No. I can’t control what Katinka does. You knew about her a year ago, and you still chose to hire me . . .”

  “Listen, Max. My mother used to tell me you are what you eat,” Hanafi said. He stared at the bubbling fryer. “Ironic. But there’s an absolute corollary. It is . . . you are who you hire. So it might not be your fault that this girl is posting her dirty laundry on the internet, but it’s definitely your problem.”

  “I’ve already spoken to her. There’s nothing else I can do.”

  “I know. I know that. I’m not done talking. I’m the one who hired you. And you came with your own obsessed fan. So both you, and her, are my problem.”

  “The girl is irrelevant,” Dr. Borin said. “What matters is the machine. I think I’ve located a bug in the neural-control technology. It caused Abdel to initiate early. There’s a fix, but I’ll need a functional near-infrared spectroscope to be sure.”

  “What happened with Abdel was an awful mistake, but you’re obviously doing something right,” Hanafi said while remaining focused on his fryer.

  “Should I repeat myself? I need a fNIRS.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like the big white tube—the MRI machine. But different. Better.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten to fifty thousand.”

  “Out of the question,” Hanafi snapped. “But I fully believe you can solve our problem.”

  “So all I get is moral support?”

  “I’m not buying you another one of those brain scanners.”

  “It’s necessary. It will measure brain activity while the subject is moving, instead of just sitting still.”

  “You’re out of your mind. We’re not installing any more machines. We’re doing one last operation, and then we’re leaving.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll like the Middle East. It’s pretty far from my mother . . .”

  Hanafi turned back to the fryer. He pulled out a basket of french fries and chicken strips dripping magnificently with blazing-hot oil. He allowed the oil to pour away for a moment before transferring the food to a tray sitting next to the fryer. Hanafi then went searching through the refrigerators for dipping sauce. “I only like the honey mustard,” he said. “But the cooks never stock it. That’s one of the best things you Westerners ever invented—honey mustard. It’s even freaking halal. Can you believe that?”

  “Hanafi, pay attention. The machine isn’t ready yet. Abdel was proof of that. I can’t guarantee the next operation is going to be a success without a functional scanner. I won’t. I wouldn’t be half the scientist I am if I did. I know you want a proof of concept and you only think in terms of your final objective. But I’m worried about my research, too.”

  “You’re very conscientious,” Hanafi said. “That’s why we make such a good team. But let me remind you of something,” Hanafi returned with the honey mustard and poured it all over his food. He grabbed a fried chicken finger and took a huge bite. “There are no buyers here for what you’re selling. To you and me? It’s brilliant. But to the rest of the civilized world? It’s immoral. We only have one financier—the man from Dubai. He needs to know that your technology works flawlessly. We don’t have the resources, or the time, to purchase any more equipment. The only way any plan, any objective, yours or mine, works . . . is if your machine works. Otherwise, our money disappears, which means our protection disappears. I am saving your life right now. Remember? No one here wanted you. No one would hire you. No one wanted your garbage. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. And I won’t forget that I know everything about Abdel . . . and you . . . and this place. The feds might want to get me, but they’ll be even happier to get you, Imam,” the doctor blurted out.

  Hanafi didn’t even feel the knife in his hand. It was simply there. He paced towards the doctor until he was holding the blade an inch from Dr. Borin’s neck. “You will never say something like that ever again, Maximilian. You do, and you’ll never speak again. And don’t call me Imam.”

  “You need me,” Dr. Borin said.

  “Likewise.”

  “Sorry.” Dr. Borin exhaled. “I’m frustrated. I feel so close. Abdel did exactly what he was supposed to do, but he didn’t do it at the right time. The machine is penetrating . . . They’re getting the message . . . But they’re not entirely under our control.”

  “I know. But perfection is near.” Hanafi finally retreated, holding the knife gently in his hands. He suddenly swung the blade through the air, ripping downward across the chicken with extreme violence. “Want a wing?”

  Both men heard the kitchen door open. Murad Amin appeared. He had a jacket wrapped around his right arm and was panting as if he’d just run a marathon.

  “Success, dear one?” Hanafi asked.

  “Inshallah,” Murad answered. “Absolute and total, Alim.”

  “Great,” Hanafi said. “Chicken?”

  “In a moment . . .”

  Murad paced to
wards the large industrial sink in the back of the kitchen. He pulled the jacket off his arm and threw it into a trash bin. Then Murad began to wash his hands and arms.

  Dr. Borin watched from the other side of the kitchen. Murad wasn’t washing dirt off his hands. Each time he touched the soap, a large streak of red liquid accompanied his swipe. It took Borin only a moment before he realized that Murad’s arm was coated in blood, which he was furiously wiping off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RIVETT AND FONG WERE TWO miles from Flatbush and Katinka’s address when they saw the smoke. Jake’s stomach immediately sunk. The slight edge of panic turned into a sledgehammer as Fong whipped the SUV off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and tore south. With each turn, their car seemed to be drawing closer to the plume. What Jake had already known for five minutes proved to be true the second they turned onto Katinka’s street. There was a structure fire, and Jake didn’t need anyone to tell him that Katinka’s apartment was the locus.

  By that point, the blaze was ripping through all four stories of the walk-up where Katinka lived. Jake jumped out of the SUV and raced past a firefighter who was doing his best to keep civilians off the street. Jake immediately located the Ladder 157 station chief, flashing his badge as he approached. The chief was consulting a number of his firefighters and a few local cops who had just arrived.

  “It’s a four-story brownstone, turn-of-the-century construction . . .” the chief was saying.

  “Which one’s the girl’s apartment?” Jake yelled.

  “What girl?” one of the cops asked.

  “Think she’s the third floor,” the chief said. He turned to address Jake. “That’s what one of the neighbors said. Bottom two are cleared out. Fourth is empty. Apparently there was a young woman on the third floor, but no one’s seen her.”

  “Third floor?” Jake asked. He stared up at the building. The side of the structure had burned to such a degree that it was practically painted in black ash. Smoke was still billowing out of the third-floor windows. Less smoke emerged from the second floor, and barely any came from the first. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

  “Excuse me, who are you?” the chief asked. Before Jake could respond, the chief was attempting to swipe Jake out of the way. “You gotta move, man. I got a ladder from 174 comin’ in behind you.”

  Jake could hear the ringing sirens of another massive vehicle backing down the street. The chief had moved on, but one of the firefighters pulled Jake aside.

  “Detective, issue with this old construction is the facades are reinforced cement, but the walls, floors, and roofs are all wood. So we can’t put guys on the roof, and we won’t go inside till we have a few feet of clearance from the windows. They’ll need to pour a bunch more water in before they make entry, if they even do. Building’s a goner. At this point, our priority is protecting the block.”

  “I need to know if the resident’s inside,” Jake replied.

  “There’s been no sign of her. You’ll probably have to wait on that.” The firefighter shrugged before returning to his work.

  Slightly miffed, Jake turned away from the busy firefighters and walked back towards Fong and the SUV.

  “What’s up?” Fong asked. “Is she in there?”

  “Only one way to find out . . .”

  Jake opened the back door of Fong’s SUV. He yanked a bunch of towels out of a supply bin, along with a bottle of water. He began to pour the water over one of the towels, soaking it. Then he tied the towel around his head, covering his nose and mouth.

  “You can’t be serious . . .” Fong said. “I mean, you’ve had some bad ideas but this one is really the tops.”

  “Did I ask for your opinion?”

  “Susan’s going to kill me.”

  “No,” Jake replied. “She’s going to kill me—but not before I find that girl.”

  Fong reached behind his back, where Jake knew he stored a weapon at all times.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Jake said.

  Fong thought about it.

  “Fonger, you are not going to stop me. And I know you’re not going to shoot me,” Jake said.

  Then Jake turned towards the massive ladder ahead and began a dead sprint.

  Jake didn’t bother to climb the engine using the small stairs that led to the ladder platform. Instead, he clawed his way up the side of the engine and over a rail. He jumped past the surprised ladder operator, who wasn’t able to stop him in time.

  Jake began to climb up the engine’s ladder, which was raised diagonally about fifty feet in the air. He could see a lone firefighter above, standing on the ladder and directing a stream of high-pressure water into the building’s third floor. Jake reached the top of the ladder within thirty seconds and vaulted past the firefighter, who was unaware of his arrival. Before anyone was able to stop him, Jake flung himself off the ladder and into the open center window of Katinka’s apartment.

  ▪

  The moment Jake’s feet touched down inside the building, his body was telling him that his time was limited. A thick fog of black smoke occupied the top two-thirds of each room, and tendrils of flame wrapped around almost every single surface of the apartment. Jake immediately dropped to the floor, where he found a few feet of visibility. He crawled through the apartment’s living room towards the kitchen. As he passed the kitchen, he realized that the hallway to the back of the apartment and the bedroom was totally blocked by fire.

  “Katinka! Can you hear me? Where are you?” Jake screamed.

  There was no response except for the whip-like crackle of flames.

  Jake rotated back a hundred and eighty degrees. He couldn’t be sure if she was in the apartment or not, but he definitely knew it was time to go. As he passed the small kitchen alcove for the second time, Jake suddenly stopped crawling. Through the pall of smoke, Jake could make out a large mass on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t moving. He moved another foot forward, and it became clear to Jake that the object was a woman’s body. She had red hair. He didn’t need to see any more. It was definitely Katinka, and he could tell she was dead.

  Jake could barely breathe. Time was of the essence. As he crawled back towards the windows, he started to become disoriented. All of a sudden, it seemed as if the windows ahead were disappearing. Or maybe he was going the wrong direction? Jake felt his vision collapsing around him. The cone of light that was the center window of the living room got smaller and smaller until it disappeared. His true north was gone. What the hell was happening? Was it him, or was it the smoke? For the first time, Jake’s adrenaline began to let him down, and he started to experience fear. Soon, he couldn’t see anything at all. He continued to scramble along the living room floor. He tried to use his hands to orient himself, pulling his body along the length of the living room rug. He reached for the exterior wall . . .

  What Jake wasn’t able to see was the sharp corner of a coffee table positioned against the wall. His head bashed into the table and a wave of pain spread through his brain like a supernova blast.

  Then Jake Rivett lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MONA.

  She was the first person he saw in Heaven.

  Or was it the hospital?

  Jake lifted his arms slightly. He could feel an IV needle in his left wrist restricting movement, but he could shift his right arm. He felt gingerly around his head and discovered a huge bandage wrapped over his forehead—protecting his right eye and ear.

  His vision of Mona flickered ahead as he fully opened his left eye. He was indeed in a hospital room. And yes, Mona was actually standing in front of him.

  Mona saw that Jake was awake and burst into tears.

  “Don’t worry about me,” were the first words out of Jake’s mouth.

  Wrong thing to say.

  “Worry about you?” Mona replied between sobs. “How about me?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mona finally leaned in to kiss Jake. She was apparently happy he was alive, but he cou
ld tell that she was oh, oh, so mad.

  “I have two questions,” Mona said. “First, how do you feel?”

  “I feel . . . not horrible, actually. How long have I been out?”

  “The fire was yesterday.”

  “What’s the second question?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Yeah. You’re right. I have some work to do . . . on myself . . .”

  “I’m not going to marry someone with a death wish.”

  “I don’t want that . . .”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “I get blinded,” Jake finally responded.

  “You get stupid,” Mona said. She started to tear up again.

  “You’re my priority,” Jake said.

  “Don’t think so . . .” Mona shook her head. She finally straightened out. “We’ll talk about it later. You were burnt. Big laceration on your face, but it just missed your eye. The doctors told me I’ll probably be able to take over tomorrow.”

  “You’re still going to take care of me?”

  Mona nodded. “Then I’ll figure out what my priority is.”

  “I . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I need to rest more.”

  “I agree.”

  “I love you, Mona,” Jake said.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Do you?” he asked groggily.

  She didn’t answer, and he fell asleep.

  ▪

  “Only reason I won’t put that guy in a hospital bed is ’cause he’s already in one.”

  Those were the first words Jake heard when he woke up the second time. But now Mona wasn’t there. Instead, the entire brain trust of the joint task force was assembled around Jake. Their expressions ran the gamut. Pete Mack was so mad that his face was bright red and all he could do was sputter. Tony and Fong were the most calm, probably because they knew Jake the best. Susan stood next to Tony, the hands on her hips mirroring her incredulous expression. Even in anger, her sass shone through. She was grinning like a shark who’d happened upon a family of minnows. Finally, Mr. White sat in a chair in the back of the room, with Moseley leaning behind him. Neither of them seemed willing to express any opinion at all.