Terror Machine

by Denison Hatch

  “Oh, thank you so much. But I have Triple A. So I’ll just give them a ring. You really think it’s not totaled?”

  “I’d say it has life in it yet. But I’m not a betting man—especially not when it comes to cars,” Shep said. “Hey, kids, keep your mom safe, all right? No more blowin’ up the car!”

  And with that, Tony and Moseley got back into their Tahoe and drove away.

  ▪

  Fatima Akon had been having a bad day and then her car blew up. Just her luck. Now she was stranded on the side of the road with her two kids, waiting for a tow truck to arrive. Thankfully, it wasn’t too cold, and the children were occupied with homework while sitting on the grass against a long fence in the countryside. But Fatima was still a nervous wreck. It had been a rough week, and she had been looking forward to a relaxing Friday evening at home—tuning out the news and perhaps watching a movie. Now she was sure to be handed a multiple-thousand-dollar service bill or, more likely, have to buy a new car. Those guys who stopped and helped put out the fire said they thought it could be repaired. But what did they know? They looked like two accountants on their way to the bar after work—certainly not experts. All she could do at that point was pray.

  Perhaps Fatima’s prayers were being answered, because seconds after she closed her eyes, the tow truck showed up. She knew Triple A usually took about an hour. But it had been less than twenty minutes and here he was! Maybe her luck was finally turning around.

  The tow-truck driver shook her hand and confirmed her name and address before starting to hook up the car. After a few minutes, the Cherokee had been hoisted onto the back of the tow truck and Fatima and her two kids were inside the truck’s two-row cab, heading down the road.

  “You want me to head to the Jeep dealership, right? Not the independent place?” the driver asked her.

  “I think so, yeah . . .”

  “You can probably get a lower price somewhere else,” the driver informed her. “But I get it. When you want a job done right, can’t beat dealer service.”

  Ahead of them, the tow truck slowed for a stop sign at the end of the rural road that Fatima and her kids had been driving on. When they stopped, Fatima gazed out the window and was surprised to see the white Tahoe with the men that had helped them earlier. It was still there, parked on the side of the road. Outside the SUV stood the guy who’d extinguished the fire. She thought his name was Shep. He was waving at them.

  “You know him?” the tow-truck driver asked.

  “No, not really . . . You can go.”

  The driver didn’t drive. Shep approached the passenger side of the tow truck. As he did, the tow-truck driver reached to his left and unlocked the doors. Shep jumped into the car, pushing Fatima into the middle between him and the driver.

  “Hey, Ms. Akon,” Shep said with his huge perma-grin plastered on his face.

  “Can I help you?”

  “It’s a long ride to the dealership. Thought I should accompany you.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, startled. She turned around and pointed to the door in the back seat of the cab. “Open the door, Saheeb,” she said to her son.

  Saheeb grabbed the handle, but the door wouldn’t open.

  “Child lock,” Shep said.

  Fatima looked back at Shep, who still had that stupid grin on his face.

  “Ms. Akon, me and your driver here, Mr. Fong . . . We’re not going to hurt you.”

  “That’s the truth. Sorry to trick you back there,” Fong confirmed.

  “Now, don’t start to worry or anything,” Shep continued. “We’re federal agents. Everything’s completely by the book. We’re simply going to escort you to the dealership.”

  “What are you talking about? This is totally illegal.” Fatima pulled out her cell phone and attempted to dial 9-1-1.

  “Having some reception issues?” Shep asked. “Yeah, it’s probably going to be like that the entire trip.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Not from you. Like I said, we’re escorting you. It’s just that . . . it might be a really, really long ride. We might miss the dealership. We might go in circles. I don’t know.” Shep shrugged. “All of it would be by accident, of course . . .”

  “Tell me what it is you want. Why are you here?”

  “It’s totally out of my hands,” Shep said.

  “Then who’s in charge?”

  “One guy’s in charge. His name’s Ali Hanafi. Know him? At the end of the day, Ali Hanafi is going to choose how long your trip lasts and where you go.”

  Fatima didn’t respond. Instead, she became dead silent. She reached behind her seat and gripped her son’s and daughter’s hands and said nothing at all. The depth of what Shep was saying had finally having sunk in.

  Shep played with the tow truck’s radio controls. He hooked his phone up to the vehicle’s speaker system and scrolled through song options.

  “I just got this new album. It’s not really relaxing. But to be completely honest with you, it’s growing on me. I think I sort of . . . maybe just a little, little bit love it.” Shep hit play on a Mythics album, and Jake Rivett’s screaming voice soon entered the fray. Then Shep loaded the camera application on his phone and tapped the icon for selfie mode. He leaned in to Fatima and held up the phone in front of the two of them.

  “But first, we need a selfie,” Shep said.

  Click.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE RECORDING SPACES WERE ALWAYS different but always the same. Since Mythics didn’t have a label contract, let alone an agent, finding a place to practice their craft was an art in and of itself. The responsibility almost always fell upon Schaub to organize. While Rivett may have been the soul of the band, Schaub was definitely the glue that kept it together. Without Jake, Mythics had no lead singer. But without Schaub, Mythics would never practice or play. Jake knew that. It was one of the reasons he’d decided to carve the time out for practice that evening. Also, Mona had practically demanded it. After Jake had arrived and figured out how to navigate the serpentine route up to the correct studio on the fourth floor of the facility, he found Schaub in a particularly good mood.

  “Don’t even need to throw into the pot today,” Schaub said.

  “Why?” Jake asked.

  “Dude, remember I told you about that agent that’s been reaching out to me? Get this—he paid for the space. All he said is he wants a first look at any of our new stuff. No commitments . . . but we want him to commit.”

  “Didn’t you think that should be a band decision?”

  “Are you kidding? No way. Someone else wants to pay, we’re gonna let them,” Schaub replied.

  “Who is this guy?”

  “No one’s saying you should quit your day job, Rivett.”

  “How ’bout my night job . . .” Rivett muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Sorry. I don’t—”

  “Spit it out. You know you will eventually,” their keyboardist, Sam, added.

  “I think it’s cool about the agent. I don’t want to be the one who lets you guys down.”

  Schaub pointed to the other two members of the band, Janzen and Sam. “We meet you where you are, man. Wherever that is, that’s where Mythics is. We get it. You wanna keep it as a hobby, it’s a hobby. No one even says this guy will hand us a record contract. He’s just a fan. And if one day you’re ready . . . maybe a label will be ready, too.”

  “Thanks, Schaub.” Rivett pulled his old friend in for a hug. It felt good to be understood. It was also rare. “Got alot on my mind right now. Hey, by the way, what are you guys doing for New Years?”

  “Isn’t that in, like, a few weeks?” Schaub asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Impossible to know. Way too far out,” Schaub said.

  “Well, you might want to write this down in Sharpie, ’cause you’ve got plans.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s when your old boy is g
etting hitched,” Rivett said.

  “Unbelievable!” Janzen erupted.

  “I’ll clear my schedule,” Schaub said with a grin. “That’s sick, Rivett. Proud of you.”

  In the background, Janzen strummed chords on the electric guitar.

  “I’ve been working on something, gents. Want to listen?” Janzen asked.

  “Take it away,” Schaub said. He nodded at the studio producer in the booth.

  Janzen stood in the middle of the room and began to thrash the guitar as hard as he could. His hair flew in every direction as he hit the chords—if you could call them that. His new piece of music was deeply discordant and full of utter rage. It was also classic Mythics. The band was known for heavy doses of hard-rock screamo, with a thin slice of pop, and this song was no different. To the side, Schaub began drilling on the drum set in unison to Janzen’s piece. It was music for men on construction sites, for workouts, and for maniacs in the mosh pit. It was awesome and wild and hard and absurd.

  But Rivett wasn’t feeling it—not that night. He held out his hand for Janzen to stop playing. When the music faded out, Jake spoke.

  “I felt like we were onto something different with Out of the Mist.”

  “Yeah, but screamo is who we are . . .” Janzen replied.

  “I wasn’t going to say it myself,” Schaub said. “But Rivett’s right on. I love headbanger stuff—don’t get me wrong. But the agent only found us because of Mist.”

  “So we’re just gonna sell out?” Janzen asked.

  “It’s not about the agent,” Jake said. “Think about it this way. Do you think Radiohead is selling out?”

  “I think Mythics ain’t Radiohead,” Janzen replied. “But I’ll do whatever . . .”

  “So what are you thinking, Rivett?” Schaub asked.

  “Go slow. Then double slow.”

  Schaub started beating out a midtempo beat on the drums. It still had an edge of hardcore to it but was much more melodic and tonal. Janzen followed with the electric guitar, and Sam echoed on the keys. Jake nodded his head slowly. The poppy beat continued for a few more minutes as the band waited for lyrics to materialize. Usually Schaub came up with the words and then Jake modified them for delivery, but no one was volunteering anything.

  “What do you think, Jake?”

  “I think the beat works. But it isn’t what I want to play,” Jake finally announced.

  “Then what?”

  “Slow it down even more. Sam, start with the keys. Lento.”

  Sam brought the rhythm down to a creep, the level of a slow ballad. Schaub followed up with possibly the slowest drum beat his hands had ever performed. The new song dripped with melancholy and romance. It was like the soundtrack to a candlelit dinner. And for Rivett, it was perfect. He began to sing.

  “Steal my love . . . In the night . . . So far gone, but it feels right.” Jake’s words didn’t flow from his head that evening. Instead, they came from his heart. It was only midway through the song when Jake realized what was happening. He was swinging at his very first love song. “Rock me never, but hold me tight . . .”

  After a few minutes, Jake stopped singing. Clearly there was only one person he’d been thinking about while singing this song—Mona. He wondered what she would think. Perhaps she would be amused that Jake Rivett was writing a love song? He finally opened his eyes and glanced at the band. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe the guys would be disgusted. But instead, all three of them were ecstatic.

  “Wow,” Janzen finally exclaimed.

  “That crushes,” Schaub announced. “Never thought I would see the day where I would say that Mythics is gonna break out . . . on a ballad. That’s a fuckin’ hit, Rivett.”

  “What’s it called?” Sam asked.

  “Mona.”

  ▪

  Omer Amin wasn’t accustomed to being driven by a chauffeur. But at the moment, he sat by himself in the back of a town car as Mr. Wasi drove him through Manhattan and into Brooklyn. Remarkably, the man from Dubai was sitting up front in the passenger seat. Omer enjoyed the role reversal. He deserved it. Omer had experienced an epiphany recently. Before, he had been living a life without purpose. Now he knew why he was here and what he had to do. He loved the simplicity of his new perspective. It demanded everything of him but felt like less work. And obviously, given his position in the car, he was now respected.

  Omer knew his target. Although there were moments where he tried to distract himself from his mission, they were fleeting. He simply couldn’t avoid what he was about to do. The mission was imprinted inside his brain. He knew that only the elimination of the target would cure him. For some reason, Omer didn’t feel any fear. He had been told that he might, but maybe he was already numb. Maybe the doctor didn’t know how effective the technology really was. Or maybe it was just him. Either way, Omer felt the opposite of scared. He felt more alive than he ever had. He felt so good that it confused him. But the confusion would be over soon. For that, he was thankful.

  Omer watched through the window as the car moved into Brooklyn and passed block after block of small townhouses, detached duplexes, and apartment buildings. He was nearing the target’s location. Omer knew there was a bigger game being played, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t concerned with what his brother or the doctor or Mr. Wasi or the man from Dubai or anyone else was up to. He didn’t worry about the bomb. He didn’t care about the machine. In the past, he might have obsessed about those things. He might have tried to stop them. But now all Omer cared about was his mission. After he completed his mission, he would be free. That much was guaranteed. And the promise of a subsequent return to normalcy was what drove him. It meant he could go back to school. He could return to his family. He could keep going to concerts. He could go back to being himself.

  Eventually Omer recognized the target’s building from a picture he’d been shown earlier. The town car slowed to a stop. They had arrived outside the target’s apartment. Omer fingered the gun in his lap. He switched the safety off and pushed the weapon into his pocket. The man from Dubai turned around and gazed at Omer.

  “You good?” He asked.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure?”

  “God has nothing to do with my mission,” Omer said as he reached for the door and cracked it open. He put one foot on the pavement outside and was about to step out when Mr. Wasi piped up.

  “That worries me,” he said.

  “It shouldn’t,” replied Omer.

  “One more time . . . Who’s the target?” the man from Dubai asked.

  “I know the target.”

  “Say it with me, one more time,” the man from dubai said.

  “I told you . . . I know.”

  “Say it,” Mr. Wasi demanded.

  “His name is Rivett,” Omer intoned.

  ▪

  It was the best selfie Sheldon White had ever received. Mr. White stared at the photo of Shep with Fatima Akon and her two kids. The joint task force didn’t have actual genetic proof that the children, or she, were related to Hanafi. Mr. White hadn’t demanded a swab yet, because it would push him and his team further out onto an already very thin extrajudicial branch. But there was a reason that Mr. White was Mr. White. The man played poker every day of his life, except the house was international geopolitics and the chips were lives. He strode towards the interrogation room housing Hanafi and entered.

  “Alim, how are you?” Mr. White asked Hanafi, who didn’t seem to be taking his imprisonment too terribly. He had been provided with sufficient snacks, water, and even coffee and a blanket.

  Hanafi didn’t reply.

  “No? Nothing?” Mr. White inquired.

  “I want to see my lawyer.”

  “Absolutely . . . We are working on that right now. It was the phones in here. They’re complicated. So many buttons to press, and we’ve got all sorts of new faces wandering around the halls, so everyone had to be trained. T
hen we had to find the public defender’s number. Took a few tries. But they’re making the calls right now, rest assured.”

  “Good,” Hanafi answered.

  “I’m really just the hospitality department . . . I want to make sure your blankets are warm enough and your tea has honey in it.”

  Hanafi couldn’t help but chuckle. Mr. White was funny.

  “So how you doin’? Everything good? Coffee taste fine? Brewed it myself. Need any cream?”

  “Coffee’s strong. Thanks,” Hanafi said and then added, “I want my lawyer.”

  “Absolutely.” Mr. White turned back towards the door to the interrogation room. With his hand on the door, he spoke again. “I’ll need to make sure one of these idiots can make coffee just as good as I can, because I might not be back for awhile. I gotta go on a little road trip to Swarthmore—Pennsylvania. Ever been?”

  Hanafi’s eyes squinted slightly and almost imperceptibly. He remained silent.

  “Heard it’s beautiful down there. Some people might think it’s remote, but the area’s still trendy and not really the boonies. Like the perfect suburb or somethin’. I don’t know. I’m still partial to DC, but that’s ’cause I’m a touch southern boy myself.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “Yeah? You never know. Just curious . . .” Mr. White began to open the door. “Oh my gosh! I’m so freaking silly.”

  Mr. White closed the door and paced back to the interrogation table. He leaned in until he was inches from Hanafi’s face, and his entire complexion changed in an instant. “For a second there, I was almost okay with you lying to my face,” Mr. White said. “But I’m really not.” He swiped the coffee cup away from Hanafi and held it up in the air.

  “I’m not lying to you, sir.”

  “You are. We picked up Fatima Akon and her two children this morning.” Mr. White pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and brought up Shep’s selfie of the family. He showed Hanafi. “See? There’s Fatima and the kids. What do you think?”

  “I told you . . . Lawyer,” Hanafi answered.

  “Right, right,” Mr. White said. He became more and more animated. He stepped back from Hanafi. It was exciting, actually. Hanafi didn’t realize, but he was the one being pitched to. Hanafi was the buyer. Mr. White was attempting to make the sale. And just like a master pitchman, Mr. White had to start small, go big, and end with the completely unavoidable hook.