Two easels stood next to Susan. The contents of each were covered by a draped cloth. Susan reached up and yanked down both shrouds to reveal two poster-sized photographs.
“This is Dr. Maximilian Borin and Ali Hanafi. To them, and to anyone harboring them, you will never escape the long arm of justice. We will not rest until our city is safe again.” Susan took a deep breath. She stared over the press assembled in front of her. “I know you have questions. I’m ready to start answering them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
OMER AND SALMA AMIN SAT next to each other at the table in their dining room, working on homework. Salma was focused. Omer wasn’t. The family television was on, tuned to CNN, and Omer couldn’t pull his eyes away. The network was broadcasting a press conference about the Bryant Park bombing. As the lady on camera revealed large photographs of the FBI’s two most wanted suspects, Omer gasped.
“What?” Salma asked.
“Nothing . . .” Omer stammered.
“Fine. Then why are you being so weird lately?” Salma asked. “Is it because of Pat?”
“The whole Pat thing is a huge mistake.”
“Excuse me? You’re touchy today.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Omer, that’s not fair. We’ve been over this. If you don’t think I should be with him, you have to tell me. You owe me that.”
“Well, then, yeah. Of course you shouldn’t be dating Pat. But I know you won’t follow my advice,” Omer said. “Even though I’m your brother and I’d only tell you what was best for you . . .”
“Where’s this coming from?” Salma asked.
“You’re impossible,” Omer retorted.
“Whatever, brother.” Salma placed her pen down and stared intently at Omer. “You can keep thinking you protect me. But that’s not true. I’m not the only person hiding something in this family. In the end, I’m the one who protects you.”
Omer knew what she meant. He glanced back up at the television. An anchor was speaking while the network played previously recorded footage from a week ago. “The NYPD’s new approach to their investigation is far different from only a week ago, when we weren’t able to pry anything out of them at all.” Onscreen, video played of a week’s worth of tight-lipped officials. The cuts were quick. The president was nonspecific. The chief of police silently pushed past media throngs. The FBI refused to speculate. The final shot, just a throwaway, was of a blond-haired detective muttering “no comment” as he jumped on his motorcycle and drove away from the federal building downtown.
“That was then,” the CNN anchor said. “This is now.” They cut back to the press conference and the chief saying, “This is Dr. Maximilian Borin and Ali Hanafi. To them, and to anyone harboring them, you will never escape the long arm of justice.”
Omer watched the television with rapt attention.
“She seems pretty serious,” Salma said. But Omer was already standing up and hustling into his bedroom.
Once he was safely in his room, Omer shut the door and crouched down by his desk. He dug through the bottom drawer. He was looking for something very specific and very yellow. It took a few minutes of searching, but he found it. He pulled out a crumpled yellow advertisement from ExCulture and smoothed it out with his hands. He looked at it. The flyer announced the band Mythics, along with a picture of their lead singer, Jake Rivett. Seeing it again, he was certain this Jake Rivett was the same guy from the CNN footage. Jake Rivett was both a detective and a screamo rocker.
“Do you need this?”
Startled, Omer turned. Salma was standing at the doorway holding her makeup case.
“I, uh . . .”
“I know you put on makeup when you go out to see the bands,” she said and then paused. “Well, do you?”
“I’m not going to see a band.”
“Then what are you doing?” Salma nodded at the flyer in Omer’s hands.
“Can’t tell you.”
“Fine. I respect that. I’m sorry I got mad at you.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“What’s most important to me is that you’re true to yourself. You should only do things that you’re proud of. Don’t let anyone else tell you what to do, and don’t be afraid. Be the person you want to be. That’s what I’m going to do, because that’s how I’m going to be happy.”
“I know, Salma. Thank you. You’re totally right, which is why I gotta go . . .”
Omer took a step towards the door.
“And Salma?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“SHE’S GONNA BE MAYOR ONE day,” Jake said.
Rivett was back in their apartment and sitting on the couch with Mona. The two of them watched Susan’s press conference.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s voracious,” Jake said.
“Like a dinosaur?”
Jake nodded. “She always goes for bigger and bigger prey.”
“She looks tired. Are you getting any closer?” Mona asked.
“I’d like to say it’s a matter of time,” Jake replied. “But that might be a lie.” He noticed a sullen expression on Mona’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“I worry about you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Maybe.” Mona nodded. “I worry about me, too. But do you? You come home and just expect me to be perfectly happy with the fact that you’re out chasing terrorists.”
“No. I don’t expect that. But . . .”
On television, CNN was playing a montage of clips from the investigation. Jake couldn’t help but grin as his own face flashed on the screen as he jumped onto his Ducati.
“But what?” Mona asked.
“It’ll be over soon,” Jake said.
“You just said that might be a lie.”
“Got me.”
“Maybe one day you could ask me how I’m feeling. You could come in and say that you’re sorry for how scared you make me every single stupid day this thing drags on.”
“I’m sorry, Mona.” Jake paused and then continued. “But . . .”
“Spit it out,” Mona commanded.
“You knew who you were getting involved with.”
“Jesus,” Mona muttered. “How full of shit are you? For the first month that I knew you, Jake, all you did was lie to me. You told me you were someone else. Yeah, eventually I accepted who you really were—a cop. But that’s not even the problem. The thing is, your whole life is like that clip on CNN. You’re always running away. No matter what it is, whether it’s your family, your job, or us—you’re doing your best to break the rules. You love being a detective and I get that. But you also use it as an excuse. You don’t know what to do with yourself when you’re not charging at something. If we’re going to get married . . .” Mona began breaking into sobs. She seemed both sad and livid at the same time. It probably wasn’t any one thing. It was everything.
“We’re going to get married, Mona.”
“Oh yeah?” Mona said between tears. “Then when? When’s the date, Jake? Did you look at any of the emails I sent you about venues?”
“I . . .”
“I know you didn’t.”
“There’s the Hayat—”
“The case, the case. Guess what, Jake? After there’s this case, there’s going to be another one—and then another. I’ve figured it out. I know you. You’ll jump from case to case for your whole life without ever touching the ground. But if that’s really your plan . . . you’re going to find that one time when you do come home, I won’t be here anymore.”
“I’m home now, aren’t I?”
“Are you?”
“I love you. Nothing changes that. And this case is different. It really is. You know that, too, deep down inside. And after it’s over, I’ll look at all the wedding venues in the world.”
“Did you tell your parents yet?” Mona asked him.
It wasn’t that these
were impossible questions to answer. It was just that Mona knew the answer already, and he wished she hadn’t asked.
“No,” Jake finally responded.
A long silence punctuated their argument. Jake didn’t like fighting. It reminded him of his own childhood. But he also didn’t like silence. Maybe that, too, reminded him of Albany. Mona stood and grabbed two empty wine glasses off the coffee table. She brought them into the kitchen and began scrubbing furiously, focusing her anger on the sponge. Jake watched her grind until his cell phone rang in front of him.
“It’s Schaub,” Jake said.
“Do whatever you want,” Mona replied.
Jake declined Schaub’s call. “He’s been reaching out—for practice. We’re supposed to have that show coming up. I’ll cancel.”
“Don’t cancel for me.”
“Really?”
“Band is a better therapist than I am. And you . . . You are in need,” Mona said.
“I’m not that bad.”
“You’re obviously the most objective observer of yourself, Jake.”
At that moment, Mona stared at her own phone on the kitchen counter. It was vibrating. Schaub was calling her next. She picked up.
“Schaub?” She listened for a moment and then stared at Jake with frightened eyes. “I don’t want to hear this,” she said. “I know he will.”
Jake rose from the couch, and Mona handed over her phone. He tapped a button to activate FaceTime between him and Schaub.
“Sorry, dude,” were Jake’s first words. Jake always felt an inherent tension with Schaub and Mythics, primarily due to the fact that Jake was both the face of the band and its most unavailable member.
“Nothing to be sorry about, ol’ pal.” Schaub’s raspy voice echoed through FaceTime.
Jake could see that Schaub was sitting in his own apartment. It was messy, just as Jake’s used to be.
“I got this case, dude. You know—Bryant Park. Not sure if I’m gonna be able to make it next weekend. I’ll try. You know me. I usually get done—”
“Jake, chill your roll. It’s all good. You know the band motto.”
“What’s that?”
“When Rivett’s happy, everyone’s happy.”
“Hadn’t heard that one before . . .” Jake scrambled which glancing at Mona who stuck her tongue out at him.
“All right, listen up. I got some weird shit that happened,” Schaub said.
Jake watched as Schaub flipped the FaceTime perspective to his front-facing camera. Schaub had a laptop open, perched precariously on top of a plate that was balanced on an ash tray. The laptop’s browser was open to Twitter—Mythics’ profile specifically.
“Can you see it?” Schaub asked.
“No. What?”
“We got a message—from a fan. But it’s for you. And . . . it’s not about the band.”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked.
Schaub zoomed in on the band’s message feed. There was a new message from a user with the handle ShyScreamo.
“Guy named Shy Screamo,” Schaub said. “He says this: ‘Jake, I didn’t know how to contact you. I know where the doctor and Hanafi are.’”
“So it’s a tip?” Jake asked.
“I guess. Yeah, it’s a tip,” Schaub replied.
“We’re getting thousands of them . . .”
“Just thought I’d tell ya, bro. He said a few more things,” Schaub continued. “‘I know about the machine. I know about the tunnel under Best Diner. I’m going to the Charcoal Stop off Ditmars right now, and I’ll be there for three hours if—’”
“Wait a minute . . . He mentioned a tunnel?” Jake asked.
“Sure did,” Schaub repeated. “‘I know about the tunnel under Best Diner—”
Schaub didn’t know it, but the phone call was already over. Jake raced out of the door without even a word to Mona, who began to cry as the loud revving of Rivett’s Ducati faded down the street.
▪
Rivett walked into the Charcoal Stop diner a man on fire. SWAT was at One Police Plaza and loading up, perhaps twenty minutes away. As was his nature, Tony had insisted that Jake wait for backup—at least for the beat cops, who were just a few minutes out. But as was Jake’s nature, he’d rejected the request. He scanned the twenty-four-hour restaurant and its red-and-white leather stalls, looking for ShyScreamo. It was almost ten o’clock, and there wasn’t much activity in the diner. Within seconds, it was clear who ShyScreamo was—the olive-skinned teenage kid sitting in the booth by himself with no food or menus on his table. Rivett marched over and sat down.
“You’re Shy Screamo?”
Omer nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Omer.”
“How’d you know about the tunnel?”
“I saw it,” Omer replied. “I helped move everything out of it.”
“Who are you? How do you know them? Why’d you decide to contact me? Where are they right now?” Jake hit the kid rapid-fire.
“I . . . hate what they’re doing. That’s why I messaged you. I . . .”
“What?”
“I want to do the right thing. I don’t want people to die.”
“How do you know them?”
“My brother, Murad—he’s with Hanafi. There’s a club. They call it the business club, but it isn’t business. Well, I didn’t know that. Not until recently. My brother spent all his time there.”
“Where?”
“At the restaurant—Best Diner.”
“Go on . . .”
“Murad forced me to help them. They needed hands. We moved all that stuff through the back tunnel and out of the gym. Hanafi has a contact at the gym. The owner or something. He got a key. We just pushed it all out the back and into one of our vans.”
“Pushed what?”
“The machine and the other stuff.”
“What machine?”
“Aren’t you a cop? Aren’t you looking for the doctor?”
“There was a machine in the lab?”
“Yeah—the doctor’s mind-control machine. The one that makes terrorists,” Omer said without pause.
Jake took a deep breath. The pieces were coming together.
“Dr. Borin made it?”
Omer nodded. “Yeah.”
“How’s it work?”
“I . . . I have no idea. Darab was in it.”
“Who’s Darab?”
“Another guy from the club.”
“Did they use the machine on Abdel Hayat?”
Omer shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know.
“How’d Hanafi meet the doctor?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“You said ‘other stuff.’ What other stuff did you move through the tunnel?”
“A bomb.”
“Where’s the bomb?”
“In the van—my dad’s van,” Omer said.
“Where?”
“They’re driving to Times Square.”
“Times Square? Now?” Rivett had felt many things, but never the awe-inspiring mainline of adrenaline that ran through his veins in that moment.
“Yeah—in our dry-cleaning van. It’s white. Says ‘Steinway Cleaners’ on the side.”
Rivett stood. He felt disoriented for a moment while his brain processed what he’d just heard. Perhaps he should be securing Omer and waiting for backup to arrive, but there just wasn’t time. He stepped away from the booth and headed for the door.
“Hey!” Omer yelled. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here,” Jake replied.
“And what?”
“Wait for the cops.”
“To arrest me?” Omer asked.
But Jake had already exited the Charcoal Stop and was sprinting towards his bike.
Inside the diner, Omer glanced around. The only person who had taken even the slightest interest in his conversation with Jake was the waitress. She ambled over.
“Still waitin’, honey?”
“Uh, no
. . .” Omer said.
“Want a menu?”
“I gotta . . . run.”
He raced out of the diner as police sirens began to wail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RIVETT TOOK THE QUEENSBORO BRIDGE as though it were a giant slalom—dodging left and right around cars while shredding the middle lane. He was pushing ninety-five on the Ducati. His heart bumped with anxiety as he contemplated the danger he was about to encounter. Yes, he was scared, but situations like this were why he existed. While he drove, he spoke to Tony, who was in the joint task force office waiting for Susan to arrive. Jake learned that Pete Mack was downstairs at One Police Plaza coordinating with SWAT and police dispatch. Within minutes, every single beat cop in the entire city would be looking for the white Steinway Cleaners van. Jake was confident they would find the van quickly. But the big question was how much lead time the terrorists had on them. Because once the van arrived in Times Square . . . show’s over.
▪
Pete Mack watched Captain Markle and the rest of the SWAT operators armor up for war in the basement of One Police Plaza. Each member of the team was an intense specimen of brains and brawn. Working for NYPD SWAT was definitely the major leagues. That’s why there was nary a word between the operators as they quickly and efficiently attached their battle rattle. Bulletproofs vests, helmets, ammunition belts, arm and knee padding, and all manner of sidearms and weapons were strapped on, loaded up, and locked in within minutes. An armored personnel carrier would take most of the men, but two large SUVs would also be used as point and patrol. The carrier was better for a siege, but the SUVs were easier to maneuver if the action was unpredictable. Pete Mack watched Markle with pride. The captain had his men well trained. There was no panic in the room—only determination.
Terror Machine Page 13
