Moms in Black

by Lois Winston

  He knew she harbored no love for her ex-husband, but nothing Gavin or his staff had unearthed led them to believe Cassandra had the slightest inkling of Michael Schuster’s darker side. Her ex apparently kept his inner monster confined within the anonymity of the Internet.

  When noise about the guy first began to surface, MAC didn’t pay too much attention to him. Schuster appeared to be, like so many others, nothing more than a loudmouthed reactionary malcontent. Gavin’s teams came across hundreds of guys like Schuster on a daily basis. Most never advanced beyond shooting off their mouths on social media and ranting on blogs few people ever read. Most. Not all.

  Delta Team dug around but found no connection between the middle-aged pharmaceutical salesman and any known terrorists. Still, they continued to monitor him and those like him. They knew yesterday’s run-of-the-mill loudmouthed malcontent could morph into tomorrow’s mass murderer. Terrorist organizations had a way of zeroing in on people like Michael Schuster and radicalizing them.

  Gavin had recruited Cassandra on the off chance that Michael Schuster might eventually move from all-talk to plotting deadly action. And now he had.

  When Schuster recently began purchasing bleach, drain cleaner, and acetone in quantities far greater than anyone would need for washing clothes, unclogging pipes, and removing nail polish, Gavin suspected one of the terrorist organizations had scored itself another member. Without a doubt, Michael Schuster was stockpiling bomb-making materials.

  What Gavin needed to find out was when and where he planned to set off his bomb and who else was involved. That’s where Cassandra came in. As his ex-wife she’d be able to snoop around without raising suspicion. Aside from one mistake, once again, his instincts had been correct in his choice of recruits.

  “I’ll take the lead on reading Cassandra in on the situation,” he told Noreen and Hanna. “I want the two of you to coordinate with Delta Team. We need as much information as quickly as possible in order to prevent whatever this guy is planning.”

  ~*~

  The next morning Cassandra was scheduled to meet with Hawkeye at eight o’clock. After changing into her workout clothes, she entered the gym, stopped short, and froze.

  “Something wrong?” asked Hawkeye.

  She pointed to the rope he stood next to. “That wasn’t here before.”

  “So? It’s here now.”

  “You don’t expect me to climb that, do you?”

  “Why? You scared of heights?”

  “No, I’m fine with heights.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I failed rope climbing every single year in school. Junior and senior high. I can’t do it.”

  “Sure, you can.”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t.”

  Hawkeye offered her a sadistic grin. “Wanna bet?”

  “How about if I do twice as many pushups today?”

  “How about if you get your ass over here and climb this rope, Davenport?”

  “I’m telling you I can’t.”

  “And I’m telling you we’re going to stay here until you do. I’ve been tasked with whipping you into shape by Gavin’s deadline, and I never blow off a deadline.”

  “Which is?”

  He offered her another sadistic grin. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

  Two hours later, Cassandra was covered in rope burns, and her arms were on fire, but she’d finally made it to the top of the rope.

  “Told you so,” said Hawkeye.

  She stared down at him. “Can I come down now?”

  He pulled a watch from his pocket and pressed tapped the screen. “In ten minutes.”

  “What? Are you freaking crazy? I can’t hold on for ten minutes!”

  “If you come down sooner, you climb up again.”

  “This is abuse!”

  “Take it up with management.” He turned and headed toward his glass-walled office where he settled into a leather chair while he kept an eye on her.

  Cassandra closed her eyes and held on for dear life.

  Ten minutes later Hawkeye stepped from his office and yelled to her. “Times up, Davenport. Climb down and hit the showers. Meet me at the practice range at twelve-hundred hours.”

  She collapsed flat on her back onto the mat. “That’s noon, right?”

  He grunted as he headed back to his office.

  Cassandra had been under the impression that Gavin would continue training her in the use of firearms, but after the first day he’d turned her over to Hawkeye.

  She wondered if the change in instructor had to do with a certain piece of Gavin’s equipment that had sprung to attention when the Glock’s recoil sent her hurling against his torso.

  As shocked as she’d been, a part of her had wanted to respond. Years had passed since she’d had a particular itch scratched by someone rather than something, and she was surprised to realize she wouldn’t mind Gavin Demarco relieving that itch.

  Bad idea. Any relationship beyond a purely professional one was a disaster waiting to happen.

  Besides, saluting anatomy or not, Demarco was all business. Nothing would ever happen between them. Assigning Hawkeye to take over for him made that clear. Maybe someday she’d meet someone who would replace her motorized companion, but that someone wouldn’t be Gavin Demarco.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she called to Hawkeye’s departing back. The guy had the physique of a fireplug and the face of a pug. She’d had no problem keeping her mind focused with him instructing her—when she wasn’t focused on the aches and pains he caused her.

  Cassandra hoisted herself to her feet and glanced up at the wall-mounted clock as she crossed the gym to the locker room. Ninety short minutes before she subjected her body to more grueling pain—assuming she’d be able to drag herself out of the whirlpool once she settled into it. The odds weren’t looking all that great right now.

  She stripped off the sweat-soaked workout clothes, dropped them in the laundry hamper, and stepped into one of the three shower stalls. Once she scrubbed the sweat and dirt off her body and washed her hair, she settled into the whirlpool and closed her eyes.

  All she needed now was a frothy cocktail with a maraschino cherry, a wedge of pineapple, and a paper umbrella. Maybe then she could forget about her bruised flesh and aching muscles. Too bad she lacked the strength to raise a glass to her lips. Not that the locker room included a wet bar. The Three Musketeers had definitely dropped the ball when it came to designing this particular section of the MAC facility.

  Five minutes into her soak the locker room door banged open and she heard Gavin yell, “Cassandra, my office in five.”

  “Is that a literal five-minutes?” she asked.

  The door slammed shut without a response. So much for her fifteen-minute reprieve! She wondered if she’d be able to add the ten minutes owed her to tomorrow’s whirlpool session. And how the hell was she supposed to dry her hair in less than five minutes? No way that was happening if she wanted to come anywhere close to meeting his deadline.

  She reluctantly hoisted herself out of the whirlpool, quickly dried off, dressed, and combed her wet hair into a ponytail. Somehow she managed to knock on Gavin’s office door within the allotted timeframe.

  “Come in.” She stepped into the room and found Gavin engrossed in something on his computer screen. Tension filled his features. Without looking up, he waved his hand, motioning her to the seating area at the opposite end of the room where she found a small sofa, weathered wood coffee table, and two side chairs. “Close the door and have a seat.”

  Cassandra opted for the gray microfiber sofa because the matching chairs were positioned with their backs facing his desk. “Is something wrong?” she asked, noticing that his scowl had deepened even further.

  Had she already screwed up? She’d done everything she’d been asked to do, and short of him blindsiding her with the Glock and target practice on the first day, she’d done so without complaint.

  Well, almo
st without complaint. She’d certainly made her feelings known to Hawkeye in the gym today. Chances were, he’d reported to Gavin while she hung for dear life twelve feet above the floor. Or for all she knew, Gavin had observed her entire torture session from the comfort of his leather office chair.

  However, in the end, she’d made it to the top of the rope and had held on for the allotted ten minutes. That had to count for something. Three hours ago, even if someone had held a gun to her head, she doubted she’d have been able to haul herself twelve inches off the floor, let alone twelve feet.

  But maybe this had more to do with hormones. Even though neither of them had given voice to what had occurred two weeks ago, it had to be on his mind as much as it was on hers. Given his grim expression, Cassandra concluded Gavin was canning her to keep her from becoming a distraction.

  Did this constitute a reverse form of sexual discrimination? How do you file a complaint with the government when, as far as the government is concerned, your place of employment doesn’t exist?

  “Something is definitely wrong,” he said.

  Cassandra braced herself. Maybe he’d at least offer her a decent severance package, but what was the likelihood of that after only two weeks of employment? And forget about any letter of recommendation, given they officially didn’t exist.

  Gavin tore his attention away from his computer screen and rose from his desk. He crossed the room and took a seat in the chair closest to her. His expression hadn’t changed, but now that he sat inches away from her, she noticed what she had first read as anger was something else. She suddenly realized that Gavin Demarco’s tension most likely stemmed from carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Something on that computer screen had scared the hell out of him.

  He stared directly into her eyes. “We need to have a talk about something I was hoping to put off at least until you were fully trained, if not forever.”

  She heaved a silent sigh of relief and sent up a quick prayer to whichever saint looks out for single moms trying to stay afloat. That statement certainly didn’t sound like the preamble to a dismissal. “About what?”

  “Your ex-husband.”

  Cassandra stared dumbfounded. Of all the subjects Gavin might raise, The Ex was the last topic she’d expect him to choose. After all, she and Michael had been divorced for five years. His wandering hormones and penchant for Double-D’s just shy of jailbait were now the current Double-D’s problem. Other than when he remembered to exercise his visitation rights, her contact with him remained minimal and more often than not, occurred either in judge’s chambers or a courtroom.

  When she found her voice, she said, “With all the resources at your disposal, you probably know more about him at this point than I do.”

  “You need to know what I know, and I need your help in stopping him.”

  If the subject of Michael had caught her by surprise, this last comment totally blindsided her. She studied the man sitting across from her. She had wondered why, of all the people he could recruit for MAC, he had zeroed in on her. She had no skills that made her a candidate for a counterterrorism organization. Yet here she was, and there could be only one reason that set her apart from all the other candidates—assuming there even were other candidates, which at this moment she seriously doubted.

  Gavin had just confirmed her suspicions with a doozy of a revelation. “You recruited me for a specific purpose, didn’t you? That entire job interview was a total sham.”

  He nodded. “Staged.”

  “Because of Michael?

  Gavin nodded again. “We needed to create a scenario where we’d be able to trust you to keep our secrets.”

  “You could have just told me the truth.”

  “We couldn’t run the risk of you not cooperating. Or worse yet, reporting us to the authorities or the media. One phone call and our entire operation could be compromised.”

  Now that she knew as much as she did about savingtheworld.us—or MAC—she understood the deception. “You can’t possibly think Michael’s mixed up in some terrorist plot.” Michael Schuster possessed many less-than-admirable qualities. Deadbeat dad and cheating scumbag topped the list—but terrorist? Absurd! Except Gavin’s expression said otherwise.

  “Delta Team has had an eye on Schuster for some time.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you aware of his social media presence?”

  “I didn’t know he had one. My contact with him is extremely limited.”

  “He’s been ranting on social media platforms for months. That’s not necessarily uncommon, but sometimes it’s a precursor to criminal activity.”

  She braced herself for the worst. “What have you discovered?”

  “We have reason to believe he’s stockpiling materials to build a bomb. Either one extremely large bomb or multiple smaller ones.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Cassandra leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes. How could she have lived with a man for so many years and not realized the evil he harbored within him? She opened her eyes, leaned forward, and sighed. “Tell me what the bastard’s done.”

  “As I’m sure you’ve already learned, one of the things we monitor for is larger than normal purchases of certain common household materials that could be used in bomb-making.”

  She nodded. “Like lawn fertilizer or pressure cookers.”

  “As well as bleach, drain cleaner, and acetone, the components for making TATP.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The type of bomb used by the shoe and underwear bombers. It’s also known as Mother of Satan. It’s unbelievably simple to make, but the results can be quite disastrous.”

  “And Michael has purchased these items in large quantities?”

  “I’m guessing he thought he wouldn’t raise any suspicions by paying cash for them.”

  “You were able to track his transactions without him using his credit cards?”

  “Delta Team discovered he purchased the chemicals from various wholesale clubs, driving to locations throughout the tri-state area over the course of the last week, often hitting several stores within a few hours. What he didn’t realize was that because of his memberships, a digitized record is kept of his purchases, even when he pays cash for items.”

  Michael never thought through the ramifications of his actions. However, his past actions had only resulted in the death of his marriage, not the possible slaughter of hundreds of people. Or more. “Delta Team monitored his membership accounts?”

  “Over the last few weeks his social media postings had grown more incendiary. I had Delta Team dig deeper, and they came up with the chemical purchases.”

  “If you suspect he’s building a bomb, why not bring in bomb-sniffing dogs or some other form of detection equipment? Couldn’t you check around the perimeter of his house when he’s at work to verify your suspicions, then obtain a search warrant?”

  “It’s not that simple. One of the problems with TATP is that it’s extremely difficult to detect through normal means.”

  “One of the problems? There are others?”

  “The bombs are highly unstable and hazardous to defuse. For this reason TATP is now the bomb of choice for terrorists. The materials are readily available in hardware stores, big box stores, and even supermarkets, as well as online. To make matters worse, with a few keystrokes any would-be terrorist can find instructions for assembling such a bomb on the Internet.”

  Cassandra now understood the source of the frown lines that covered Gavin’s face. This was the sort of thing he dealt with on a daily basis. And what probably kept him up at night.

  The reality of the world she’d entered had just become much more than real to her. Stopping anonymous terrorists before they struck was one thing, but learning a suspected terrorist was her own ex-husband? That made everything a lot more personal.

  Still, she found it hard to wrap her head around Michael going that
far off the deep end. “There are no legitimate reasons for having all of these items?”

  “In the quantities Schuster has acquired? None.”

  She shook her head. “This is too bizarre to believe. When would he have become radicalized? In all the years we were married he never espoused any anti-American rhetoric other than at tax time each year.” And who hasn’t grumbled and cursed the government every April while preparing their tax returns?

  She rose from the couch, walked over to the window, and gazed down on the street at the dozens of people driving past the nondescript MAC building, never suspecting she and the others inside might be the only people standing between them and a terrorist’s bomb. How many of those suburban moms out running errands in their SUVs and minivans might one day die at the hands of some twisted homegrown terrorist?

  Or were some of those people currently driving along Morris Avenue already radicalized and plotting the deaths of countless innocent people? How would anyone know? Who would peg Michael Schuster, a middle-aged, average American salesman, as a terrorist?

  She turned her back to the window, her arms hugging her torso. “When did he first show up on your radar?”

  “We’ve been monitoring him for the past few months. We keep an eye on anyone who rants about the government or praises various terrorist groups or other extremists on social media. Most of the time these people never take the next step, but your ex was becoming more vocal and began visiting sites known for recruiting like-minded malcontents into white nationalist militias and various foreign terrorist groups. That’s when we decided to approach you.”

  “So, I was your insurance policy? Someone you thought could get close to him and find out what he has planned?”

  Gavin nodded. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but now it has. With those purchases, it’s obvious Schuster has crossed the line from Internet loudmouth to terrorist and much sooner than we anticipated.”

  Cassandra returned to the couch and took her seat. “What do you need me to do?”