by Rick Jones
“In what city or town?”
“Winchester,” he answered. “Winchester, Virginia.”
“If I show you a map, an aerial, could you point it out to me?”
“I think so.”
Mr. Gray asked one of the guards to get him an iPad with a Google World Map app. When the soldier returned, the iPad had already been opened for Mr. Gray. Typing in the town’s name and state in the search engine, the town of Winchester popped up on the screen. Zooming in, he was able to bring up names of streets on satellite imagery. Turning the iPad for Jerhon’s advantage, Mr. Gray laid a pointed finger on the screen and said, “This is the clothing store you were at to purchase the clothes, and this is Winchester. Now, from this point, which is the clothing store, and this being Winchester, where is your base of operation?” Jerhon looked at the screen. The pain in his arm was getting worse. Then: “A lot of houses there, man.”
“What exactly can you tell me about the house?”
“It was pretty much by itself in an open field. Nothing but acreage.”
Mr. Gray looked at the screen. There were a few houses that met that match, so he brought up the address of each home, tapped the little yellow man icon to get a street view, and kept doing that until he hit the right address.
“That’s it, man. That’s the house.”
“Are you sure, Jerhon?”
“I’m positive. Slept there, ate there. Yeah, man. That’s it.”
“How many people are there?’
“Whoever is left in the cell.”
“How many is that?”
“Twelve mercs and—” He looked ceilingwards for a moment in thought, and then said, “four messengers, not counting Allawi and Najm.”
“So, you’re saying eighteen?”
“If that’s what the addition comes to.”
“One more question, Jerhon.”
“Please, man. My arm.”
“One more question, Jerhon, then you can see the doctor. I promise.”
Another painful show from Jerhon’s face, a contorted expression of torment he was trying to fight back.
“Tell me about Herod.”
“Who?”
“What is Mohammad Allawi planning when he referenced Herod?”
“I ain’t know nothing about no Herod, man.”
When Mr. Gray was about to gesture to the soldier to add another strike of the rifle’s butt to Jerhon’s already broken wrist, Jerhon waved his good hand in protest.
“All right, man! All right!”
“I told you once, Jerhon, do not play games with me.”
“I gave you everything, man.”
“You didn’t give me enough. Now tell me about Herod.”
Jerhon hesitated. Then with a sour and pinched look, he said, “Allawi’s planning to kill a bunch of kids in retaliation for all the kids that were killed in the Middle East during the war.”
“How and where?”
“I don’t know, man. And that’s the honest-to-God truth.”
“Try again, Jerhon. How, when and where?”
“Man, I’m telling you the truth. Everybody knows what Allawi’s planning. But the only one who knows where or when or how is only known by Najm. And that’s the fact, Jack. I ain’t lying.”
Mr. Gray eased back into his chair. “I believe you.”
Jerhon nodded. “Now, my arm.”
Mr. Gray motioned for one of the soldiers to bring in a physician who could provide medical care.
After the soldier left the chamber, Jerhon asked, “Now what? I gave you everything.”
“You gave us enough; I’ll give you that much. But you, Jerhon Bellamy, are still an enemy of the state.”
“Meaning?”
Mr. Gray stood up along with Mr. Black and answered, “Meaning that you will never see the light of day ever again. And ever, Mr. Bellamy, at your age, is going to be a very long time.”
Leaving the room with a soldier keeping guard, Misters Gray and Black left with the information needed to piece together a strike team to raid the house in Winchester, Virginia.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was early morning and the roads remained as black as pitch since there was no lighting. After pulling over and stopping, Kimball took shotgun inside the SUV. Shari, still in her pajamas, never looked so appealing to him or so free, with less of an FBI look to her. Here, she appeared wholesome and real. This was the Shari Cohen who was natural and without restrictions, professional or otherwise. But when she looked at Kimball, she worried about him. Against the light of the dashboard, she could see his face beginning to thin and that his eyes were circled with dark rings, the telltale signs that he had slept little over a long period of time. After all this time, she told herself, Kimball still hasn’t made peace with his demons.
“Were you hurt?” she asked him.
“No. You?”
“I’m fine . . . And thank you. It could have been much worse back there.”
“I’m surprised Johnston let you go.”
“He let me go because he has a fulfillment need for me. But they’ll be a lot of questions and depositions and reports before this is through. Believe me; I’ll be sitting before a lot of boards about what happened tonight.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention for this to happen to you.”
“Believe me, Kimball. Facing the board is a small price to pay for my life. I’m not too worried.”
They continued to drive for miles in silence. Finally, Kimball asked, “So, where are we going?” He expected her to say to a safehouse, meaning that he would have to find different accommodations.
Instead, she answered, “I have a cabin in Maryland. It was the family retreat far from the hustle of D.C. After I sold the house, I decided to keep the cabin. I couldn’t let it go, not then. I gave up the house because it held horrible memories for me—the place where I lost my family. But the cabin was a place we all loved and shared. It’s a place of good memories.”
Kimball looked straight at the dark stretch of road before him.
Then she turned to him. “And what about you? Is everything all right?”
“Yeah . . . Fine.”
“Really? You look a little diminished to me.”
“Not sleeping well,” he told her. “Nightmares keep me awake.”
“I thought you were talking to someone about that.”
Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been talking to a monsignor at the Vatican. He means well, but the dreams are getting worse, not better.”
“Perhaps medications will help.”
“That is not even a consideration.”
More driving.
More silence.
And then she drove down a lane that was hidden within the trees, a dirt road that wended through a forest-type terrain until they came upon a luxurious cabin that sat along the edge of a beautiful lake. Along the beach was a pier that had an attached boat house. And the cabin’s focal feature, which was the A-frame center with towering glass windows, overlooked the lake. Somewhere, whooping cranes called out in the darkness as morning was beginning to light the new day. Shari, in her pajamas but never looking so beautiful to Kimball, said, “We’re home.”
Kimball, looking at the cabin with awe, thought: If only.
Together, they entered the lakeside residence.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Winchester, Virginia
In a joint effort with the local SWAT unit, the FBI was geared up as the teams moved against the house in Winchester under the cover of darkness. Since dawn was approaching, it only gave them a small window of opportunity to work with. Once Mr. Gray had spelled out the probable location of Allawi’s home base, warrants were immediately and telephonically granted.
As the units surrounded the home, which looked aged, the frontal assault team butted the door with a battering ram, which knocked it free from its hinges on the first strike. Officers moved into the house in single file with their weapons at eye level, then fanned out to c
anvas the rooms.
The house, by appearance, was very clean. The rooms were empty, and beds were made. The kitchen was spotless with the dishes stacked neatly within the dish rack. The refrigerator was empty as well, and spotless. There were no pictures on the walls, no adornments. The drapes that surrounded the windows, though old, were washed and pleated. Further investigation of the house revealed that the closets were vacant and the drawers empty. If anybody had been living here, they weren’t now.
“Clear!” yelled the SWAT sergeant. Then to an FBI officer, he turned to him and said, “I thought your informant said this was the place.”
Mr. Gray nodded. “This is what he confirmed to us.”
“The damn place looks like an Airbnb.” Then: “I think your boy lied to you. There hasn’t been anybody here for a while, it looks like.”
“I don’t think he would lie to us. Not under the conditions he was under when we spoke to him.”
“What conditions?”
Mr. Gray ignored him.
Then from the kitchen. “Got something here.”
The squad sergeant and Mr. Gray went to the kitchen to find a sheet of paper held to the refrigerator door by a magnet. The writing was in Arabic.
“No,” said Mr. Gray, “they were here, all right.”
The squad sergeant narrowed his eyes to read the script, which appeared as scrawl to him. “Can you make it out?”
“No. But Carmichael can.”
Carmichael, who was Mr. Black in another world and was wearing his Kevlar over his FBI windbreaker, entered the kitchen and saw the note.
“What does it say?” Mr. Gray asked him. “Can you make it out?”
Carmichael leaned forward to get a better view within the glow of a flashlight.
Outside, rosy sunlight was beginning to show along the horizon, but not enough for him to read comfortably.
“Let’s see,” he began. Then a moment later, he started to interpret. “It says: A time too late is a time you shall regret, as you now stand on the doorstep of Armageddon. Look to your right to see the light. And have what’s left of a good day . . . which isn’t long.”
Everyone looked to their right. Against the kitchen wall was a small camera that had a small red light that blinked intermittently, with the flashes picking up its pace until the flashes became a rapid pulsation, blinking faster and faster. It was a timer that began counting down as soon as the door was breached.
“Oh no,” said Carmichael. And then: “Everybody out! NOW!”
Personnel began to scramble from room to room like cockroaches trying to escape the light.
The pulsating eye of the camera’s lens blinked so rapidly, it now seemed that it wasn’t blinking at all, just a stable light, meaning zero hour.
As the camera whined in a high pitch as if it was powering up, a signal was sent to a box loaded with three Semtex bricks with a detonation code and fired off the explosives.
The roof of the home lifted and went skyward, with the entire top half of the structure heaving upward by a mushroom fireball. The brick walls of the home blew outward with the stones becoming projectiles, with pieces landing as far as a mile away from the explosion’s central point. SWAT and FBI vehicles were also lifted and carried away from the concussive blast, the truck and sedans weightless against the power of the waves. And those who had ventured to take new ground were killed instantly, without a single man standing.
Mohammad Allawi had chalked up another victory.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Norfolk, Virginia
It was early morning when Mohammad Allawi reached his new safehouse, which was a small business that was located seventeen miles from Virginia Beach. It was a bakery that had been closed by the owner presumably for ‘a sickness in the family.’ But the proprietor was an ISIS sympathizer and a good friend of Mohammad Allawi.
With expectations of Allawi’s arrival, the owner closed and padlocked the metal gratings that shielded the windows and door at the front of the store. In the window was a sign: Closed Due to Family Illness. Will Open Soon.
As soon as Mohammad Allawi’s cell took up residency, they quickly discovered that the area was sparse for their numbers.
“I apologize for the lack of accommodations,” said Aimu Ababneh, who was a diminutive man with Middle Eastern features—dark complexion, hair and eyes— and the only true Arab among the cell, with everyone else having been homegrown.
“It is a true honor to be in your presence, Mohammad, a true pleasure, indeed.”
Allawi clapped a hand on the small man’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. It’s good to see you again.”
“Please accept my apologies.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Aimu. This shop is a palace compared to the confinement where I was imprisoned.” This was true since Allawi’s cell was less than fifty-square-feet.
“Plenty of food,” said Aimu. “And the rest room is in the back. If there’s anything I can do for you, Mohammad, all you need to do is ask.”
Allawi gave Aimu a light but genuine smile. “We’ll be fine,” he told him kindly.
“All I need is a couple of days of hiding, that’s all. That’s when my agenda will be complete.”
Aimu nodded. “Your boat will be ready to transport you to Cuba. From there, to the Middle East where you’ll be greeted with open arms, believe me. Najm made sure that I had followed through with the commands, as outlined.”
“Najm does much for the organization,” said Allawi. “We’re lucky to have him.”
In the background, Najm smiled with pride as his confidence brimmed.
“A small transport boat will be waiting for you and Najm beyond the pier, a motorized skiff. You will use this to transfer you to a larger ship that’s headed for Cuba, which is now waiting for you. I have given Najm the coordinates where you are to pick up this boat, a fishing trawler.”
“We’ll be there.”
Aimu Ababneh handed over a set of keys. “Here’s an extra set,” he told Allawi, who accepted the key ring. “Only use the back, never the front. The CCTV cameras in the rear have been disabled and never repaired. You should be able to move with ease, especially during the early morning hours. Nevertheless, Mohammad, always act with caution and take nothing for granted.”
“Of course. And one more thing, Aimu, if I may. We brought with us an item that’s filled with a very special cargo, as you can see.”
Aimu saw Mohammad Allawi’s foot soldiers carry a freezer into the storeroom with the reverence of treating the Ark of the Covenant.
“When the time comes, Aimu, we will need to borrow one of your trucks to mask the intent of the final operation.”
“Of course, Mohammad. Such things are always necessary to see to the success of Allah’s will.”
After a brief hug and a few parting pats on the back, Aimu Ababneh vacated the shop.
Over the next twenty minutes, Najm set up his workstation inside of Ababneh’s office using his personal laptop. The first thing Najm did was to check the recordings of the house in Winchester, which had captured military forces entering the residence with overwhelming firepower, and then the subsequent blast that stole their lives.
“You called that right,” Najm said to Allawi, who was watching over Najm’s shoulder.
“That’s because Mukhtar Ajam failed us when he refused to follow through with his orders.” And then: “His heart truly did not belong to Allah. And for that he will be judged in the end. But until that end comes, Najm, Mukhtar Ajam was the weak link who no doubt had fallen into the hands of the authorities. The situation of a raid was inevitable, knowing that a person as weak as Mukhtar Ajam would talk. So here we are,” Allawi said as he swept a hand towards the monitor. “The result of predictability. The truth is, Najm, we must always stay ahead of our opponent by getting into his mind before he can get into yours. Always remember that.”
“Yes, Mohammad.”
After watching the video until the images fizzle
d into a snowy screen upon the moment of the explosion, Allawi asked, “What about the assault team on Cohen’s resident? Any word?”
“Nothing.”
“They’re long overdue. They should have checked in hours ago.”
Najm checked his laptop for encrypted messages. There was nothing since Aarib Qadir’s last correspondence, which informed Najm that the unit had neutralized the agents and were moving against the targeted area. After that, there was no other communication, which was in contradiction of Allawi’s set protocols. For someone who was as regimentally sound as Aarib Qadir under these types of situations, Allawi knew that there had to be a breakdown in the operation. For whatever reason, Aarib Qadir had failed his mission.
“Try to contact him,” Allawi ordered. “But be careful in doing so.”
Najm pressed the Bluetooth component of his computer to contact Qadir through his headset.
Nothing.
After erasing his cyber trail, he made a second attempt.
Still no contact.
“Can you hack into the CCTV surrounding her residence like you did before?”
“Of course.” After typing a coded program to intercept a live feed, Najm was able to bring up stilled images of the area surrounding Shari Cohen’s townhouse. Flashes of red and blue lights from a bevy of police cruisers lit up the field of operation. Yellow crime tape was everywhere like Christmas wrapping, the residence cordoned off. But nothing from these angles were truly discernable.
“Can you provide me with another perspective?” Allawi asked.
“Negative. This is all we have.”
Allawi slapped the tabletop hard with the flat of his palm, the loss of sudden control startling Najm, who eased away from the computer.
“This tells me absolutely nothing,” Allawi said, pointing to the monitor. “So, I have to believe that Qadir failed. What I need to know, Najm, is if Qadir was able to at least kill Cohen in the exchange.” Rubbing his chin in thought for a long moment as the scene was being broadcast live, he said, “I want you to keep monitoring the channels to the NSA, the FBI and Homeland Security. Intercept data regarding information of our movement. After the explosion in Winchester, you know there’ll be a lot of desperate chatter amongst them. Just make sure you cover and erase your trails. And I do mean a thorough sanitization. The more we minimize our risks, the better off we’ll be until the final agenda.”