Terror Machine

by Denison Hatch

  “Wedding invites?”

  “What do you think?” Mona beamed.

  “What do you mean? I can’t wait to get married.”

  “No—the invites. Which one is your favorite?”

  Jake looked over the invites on the table. They all looked quite similar, as though they’d been pulled from the pages of a bridal magazine.

  “They’re . . . nice.”

  “White and pink, right? Or white and blue?”

  “Whatever you want, darling.”

  “Okay!” Mona popped up. “I don’t like any of them.”

  Jake couldn’t help but grin. She knew him too well. He didn’t want to rock the boat, but nothing she’d shown him was really that thrilling.

  “I was thinking of black,” Mona finally announced.

  “Drama.”

  “You and me, right? I’ve been working on this for two weeks,” Mona announced. She was a graphic designer who knew her way around Photoshop just as well as Jake navigated the stage. She pulled out a printed image from behind her back and held it up. The whole card was black, except for the dark-grey outline of their two faces staring at one another.

  “That is . . . truly fucking next level, darling.”

  “Thank you,” Mona beamed. “There is a problem, though.” She flipped the invite to the other side. “Usually when people send out a wedding invite, there’s a date.”

  “I know,” Jake said. “I’ve been thinking about that. Do you want to wait another year?”

  “Well, the venues . . .”

  “I asked what you want.”

  “No. I don’t want to wait.”

  “Then we won’t,” Jake announced.

  “Really?”

  “The very first day you want it is when we’ll do it.”

  “What about in four weeks? New Year’s Eve?”

  “Done.”

  “Holy shit,” Mona replied. “That was easy. And . . . I got a lot of work to do.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You probably do.”

  “Promise me one thing, Jake. No matter what’s going on with the case, you’ll be at your own wedding.”

  “I guarantee you I’ll be there,” Jake said. “And I want to say something else. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about how I’ve been acting. I’m sorry about this case. I’m sorry about all of it. I can’t promise you that I’m going to change overnight. It might be slow. But I will change. And I will do it for you.”

  Mona paused. “Thank you,” she finally said.

  “So we’ve got a date. How should we celebrate?”

  “Don’t you have band practice tonight?”

  “Yeah. I decided I should blow it off. I mean, that won’t be exactly unusual.”

  “No, no. You need to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Those are some of your only friends in the world. And you love it. It’s important that you do what you love. I’m pretty sure you’re the guy who told me that.”

  “I know . . . But this is a special evening.”

  “I’m just excited to keep working.” Mona grinned.

  “For the person who complains about how much I work . . . Pot calling the kettle black over there.”

  “The nice thing about invitations is they print when you say print. Criminals don’t provide the same feedback.”

  “Very true.” Jake paused for a moment. “Well, I guess I gotta go hit the shower.”

  “Wait a minute. I know we’re not married yet, but I don’t care about a little sin if you don’t . . .” Mona stood up in the living room and pranced past Jake with a mysterious look on her face.

  “What?” Jake grinned.

  “I think you know what . . .”

  “Oh yeah? Wouldn’t your grandma tell you that once you’re out of the garden, there’s no going back?”

  “You and I haven’t seen garden gates in a long, long time.”

  “Isn’t that the truth. But I thought you wanted me to go to practice.”

  “A man can’t multitask?”

  “Never been too good at it. But I can try.”

  “Try hard,” Mona said as she pulled a strap off her shoulder and headed down the hallway.

  Jake hurried, as fast as he could, to follow her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MAXIMILIAN BORIN SAT ON A small folding chair in the back of the room, watching his subject inside his machine and the late-afternoon sun behind him. The young man, Omer, was responding admirably to treatment. Borin had high hopes that the machine would once again prove him right, and this time it would be in front of his financier. Omer was Dr. Borin’s most interesting case yet. In the past, the team had stuck with either predisposed or neutral subjects. Now Dr. Borin had a subject who was clearly and ardently disinclined towards the mission.

  Yes, Dr. Borin wanted more time—especially with a subject like Omer. But the man from Dubai, his bodyguard Mr. Wasi, and Murad were all clearly stressed out. Dr. Borin knew they were making preparations to leave the country after the final strike. They would be taking him with them, because he was the golden goose. It wasn’t the technology itself. It was him—Dr. Borin—who mattered the most. No one could run the machine except for him, at least not yet. And similarly, no one could build the machine except for him. In the back of his head, Dr. Borin knew this was why he was able to operate with such a high level of impunity. But he also knew that once he was out of America, he would need to begin to make progress towards his ultimate goal. He knew what he wanted in the long run: a research institution. He wanted to be in charge of an entire campus, crawling with scientists who would do his bidding. He would definitely leverage his command over the technology into this dream. Even if the institute had to be in some desert nation-state in the middle of nowhere, it would be his. And at his institute, no one would be able to tell him what to do—no administrators, no bosses, and especially not his mother Maxine.

  Dr. Borin stood up and sauntered over to the computer. On the screen was a projected feed of Omer’s brain activity, being dynamically read by the MRI machine. He checked a few status indicators. Everything was good. The subject was stable and calm—just as the doctor wanted. Dr. Borin looked out over the huge city through the massive windows. He’d miss New York, but not the luxury of the place. His future was filled with more luxury than he could ever imagine. He knew that was true. No, what he’d miss about New York were the experiences that money couldn’t buy. He’d miss the hot dog stands, the wafting scents from the street vents, and the honking of taxicabs and cars while jaywalking. He’d miss the bagels and lox, the little wine bars, and the public libraries. And, yeah, he’d probably miss his mother too. He’d miss a lot, a very lot, but he wouldn’t miss these things enough to not go. Scientific revolution required sacrifice.

  After confirming that Omer was still doing well, Dr. Borin stepped out of the room. In the living room of the apartment, he saw the bomb. The kitchen had been turned into a workshop, and Murad and Mr. Wasi were putting the final touches on the device. It wasn’t much to look at—basically a bunch of plastic bricks secured to a large chemical container. A few wires ran from an electronic starter unit to the explosives. Dr. Borin shuddered at the thought of what would happen if the men made a mistake while they finished the contraption. That’s why he was there to supervise. Not because he cared about what Murad and the man from Dubai had in mind—not at all. Nope, he really didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted the bomb to be done, because he wanted the thing covered up, carted out, and sent down the freight elevator.

  The faster it was gone, the sooner they could leave, and the closer Dr. Borin would get to his research institution.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE HILLER SCHOOL WAS TWO hundred years of stone masonry atop the rolling grass of old Pennsylvania cornfields, punctuated by a massive clock tower in the middle of the property. The school was about as far away as anyone would have imagined a terrorist would hide his family, which might be why it was perfect for Fatima Akon.
/>   Mr. White and the joint task force had spent the last twenty-four hours researching Ms. Akon, but they hadn’t deduced much actionable intelligence about her. She was a naturalized citizen, having come in via sponsorship from an aunt in the mid-2000s. It wasn’t entirely clear if Akon was her birth name or a more recent change, but her immigration application was still being pulled out of cold storage somewhere in DC. She lived in a quiet upscale bedroom community. Everything about her was quite vanilla, down to the part-time job that she held at a local interior design firm in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. The only strange statistic about Ms. Akon was that she had two children who both lived with her, but no husband in sight. In and of itself, this wasn’t unusual. But the kids went to a tony school, they lived in a lovely home, and Fatima made barely any money at all. The financial contradiction was the only break in her facade—that, and the fact that Ms. Akon didn’t seem to have any family or personal connections to suburban Pennsylvania.

  Tony Villalon and Shep Moseley sat inside a white SUV parked in the school’s parking lot. To assure the success of their operation, they hadn’t disclosed much information to the school’s headmaster. It was better that way—for both sides. The headmaster was a stone-cold liberal who was critical of many federal policies, but once he saw a signed letter from the FBI director and heard that the investigation revolved around the Bryant Park and Times Square bombings, he hadn’t asked any more questions. For a place like the Hiller School, all publicity was definitely not good publicity. The administrator just wanted it over with, and quickly. So did Tony and Moseley. It didn’t thrill them to begin this operation at a school, but their plan was very specific. It was vital that they encounter Ms. Akon not only with her children, but also out in public—as opposed to within the safe confines of her house. It wasn’t that their plan was illegal, but it wasn’t entirely legal, either.

  The sun was just beginning to set and it wasn’t even four yet. The pickups of kids involved in sports programs were beginning, and for the time being, Tony and Moseley had nothing to do.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. White?” Tony asked.

  “My whole life, man.”

  “College? The CIA does internships?”

  “No, bro. I used to cut his grass.”

  “Huh?” Tony glanced at Shep for confirmation. Moseley wasn’t joking.

  “Yeah. In Gaithersburg. Where I grew up. Mr. White and his wife lived four houses down, and I started cutting his grass when I was thirteen. I was earning the entrepreneurship merit badge for Boy Scouts. Later on, he got our congressman to write a recommendation letter to Georgetown for me. We stayed in touch.”

  “Wow. That’s crazy,” Tony replied. “So that’s how you got into the CIA?”

  “If I did work for CIA,” Shep said as he shrugged, “it would be ‘CIA.’ Not the CIA.”

  “So you got in by cutting grass?”

  “We pick people carefully,” Shep said with a shrug. “When you know where a kid comes from, how they grew up, you pretty much know everything about them. The older you get, the more water under the bridge, and the harder it is to figure out . . .”

  “Shit,” Tony said. “I guess that means I can’t apply to the CIA . . .”

  “CIA, not the CIA.”

  “Has Mr. White always been the same as he is now?”

  Shep chuckled. “Rad dude, isn’t he?”

  “He’s like a nerd with a big swinging . . . you know what.”

  “All the power’s up here.” Shep tapped his head.

  The two men paused to observe the school pickup procedure happening ahead. The parking lot afforded a perfect view of a large overhang that extended from the side of one of the school’s buildings. The families of the the Hiller School most definitely kept multiple local German car dealerships in business. The vehicles passing through the pickup zone were a procession of large and expensive SUVs driven by mostly yummy mummys, with a sprinkling of cool dads as well. Each driver placed a sign with a big number in the windshield, and a faculty member with a microphone would announce the numbers—at which point, the student or students would come out.

  “Not how my school pickup worked . . .” Shep remarked.

  “What pickup?” Tony replied. “For us, it was more like, jail release— Wait. That’s her!”

  Ahead of them, a smaller Jeep Cherokee drove into the pickup zone. Two kids—a boy and a younger girl—ran out and into the car.

  “Yep,” Shep confirmed. He had a bag of electronic equipment at his feet. Shep pulled out a DSLR camera with a massive magnifying lens. He squared the Jeep up and snapped a series of pictures, which immediately read out onto a tablet in front of them.

  “Two thousand fourteen Jeep Cherokee, yeah?”

  “Correct,” Tony replied, glancing at a series of car specs on his phone. “Plate’s right.”

  “Better to check something twice than be sorry once,” Shep answered, putting the camera down. “That’s something else Mr. White taught me.”

  “Smart guy.”

  “We’ll see how smart his plan is . . .” Shep answered. “Ready to rock?”

  “Literally,” Tony said with a chuckle. His cell phone was transmitting background music to the car stereo via Bluetooth. He turned up the volume on the current song, and Mythics’ newest screamo track blasted into the car. “Pursuit music,” Tony announced.

  “It’s truly terrible,” Shep said.

  Reading Shep’s opinion, Tony reached for his phone to turn the volume down. But Shep stopped him with a wave.

  “Keep it going. Makes me feel alive.”

  “That’s what Jake says,” Tony said.

  “Rivett likes this stuff?”

  “This is Rivett.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s Mythics—Rivett’s band. He’s singing.”

  “Badass,” Shep said.

  Ms. Akon drove around the long circular driveway in front of the school. She passed by the exit to the parking lot. Tony carefully pulled their SUV out of its spot and ripped across the lot in pursuit.

  ▪

  Tony and Moseley tracked Ms. Akon through the back roads of Swarthmore, PA. About a mile from the school, the two cars took a turn onto an old country lane. The local FBI office had been running surveillance on Ms. Akon for the last two days, so the agents knew that she took this route on her way back from school. It was perfect in many ways. First, it was secluded and rarely traversed. Second, the road was not lined with trees or forested wetlands as many of the other rural roads in the vicinity were. That was important because their plan relied heavily on technology that could be diminished by any form of signal interference. Tony kept a sixty-yard distance between their SUV and Ms. Akon’s Cherokee, while Moseley worked to assemble another piece of equipment on his lap. The device looked like a tactical briefcase—bulky and protected by a thick metal Zero Halliburton shell. Once open, it resembled a very basic laptop, although the machine contained fewer keys and no mouse or trackball. On both sides of the briefcase were two large antennae, each the size of a portable umbrella. Moseley quickly extended the two antenna and began typing commands on the device.

  “Two thousand fourteen . . . Rear-wheel drivetrain . . .” Shep muttered under his breath.

  “This is some major conspiracy theory stuff right here,” Tony announced.

  “You’re lucky you got the read-in, man. Don’t blow it,” Shep said. “Isn’t even the beginning of our capabilities . . .”

  “Ready? Only about two miles left . . .”

  “Yep,” Shep announced. He pressed a button on the device.

  Tony and Moseley followed Ms. Akon’s car for another half mile, and nothing happened.

  Until . . .

  A dark cloud of smoke began to waft from the front of the Cherokee. The Jeep slowed, and Tony slowed behind it, maintaining the same following distance. It was clear that something was wrong with the car’s engine. Thick black smoke billowed from the engine compartment of the
Cherokee. By this point, Ms. Akon had her blinker on and was pulling her car over to the right side of the road. Only seconds after she’d parked the Cherokee on the side of the road, flames began to lick around the edges of the car’s hood.

  Tony navigated their SUV to a stop just behind the Cherokee, watching as Ms. Akon jumped out of the driver’s seat with a panicked look on her face. She stared at them for a moment before sprinting to the back door and helping her daughter and son out of the car. In the meantime, Moseley was running to the back of the Tahoe and yelling at Tony.

  “Pop the trunk, dude!”

  Tony did as he was told. Moseley reached for a giant fire extinguisher attached to the back wall of the SUV. Without delay, Moseley sprinted towards Ms. Akon and her burning car.

  “I got a fire extinguisher, ma’am. Stay back!” Moseley aimed the extinguisher’s plume at the car, but underneath the closed hood, the fire seemed undeterred. By that point, Tony had reached into Ms. Akon’s car and managed to pop the front. When the hood rose, a giant cloud of smoke erupted, but Moseley was on it. He spent a good minute or two spraying every inch of the car’s engine compartment with the fire extinguisher and was finally able to stop the flames. He stood back, an accomplished smile on his face.

  “Thank you so much!” Ms. Akon said to Shep. She was still quivering in shock.

  “Honestly, ma’am, it’s my pleasure. I’m just happy I remembered my wife put that fire extinguisher in the back of the car there. Never thought it would be someone else on fire!”

  Tony glanced over the engine compartment. “Looks like it was just the engine. You might be able to salvage it. Sure isn’t drivable.”

  “You and your kids want a ride?” Shep asked. “We’ve got plenty of room in the Tahoe. Where are you headed? We’re on our way back to Chadds Ford.”

  Ms. Akon looked over Shep and Tony. It was clear she was going to go it alone.

  “I’m okay. We’ll call an Uber or a tow truck.”

  Tony nodded towards Shep. “Shep here has a great tow-truck contact,” he said.