I Will Not Yield

by William Hogan

  “The shorter the better.”

  “Profile information? Photographs? I need a target.”

  “Mike O’Connor.”

  “The mixed martial arts champion?”

  “Yes. One of my computer systems suffered a partial break-in. The method used bears his signature, and the origin of the attack is right here in New York. Which means he will go to the park tomorrow. He’s very much alive. There must not be any further interference from this man. I want to come to a little understanding, if he lives, you die.”

  “I don’t take kindly to threats. But, I will do my job.”

  “Find him and kill him.”

  “I have never failed you, and I don’t plan on starting now. Don’t worry, Mr. O’Connor’s number is called.”

  “I’m not concerned my friend, but maybe you should be. I will send you the information you need.”

  The sniper hung up, righted his chair and went to his workbench. It had a variety of reloading equipment and lethal-looking tools. He engraved the number forty-eight on a bullet, Mike’s magic number.

  CHAPTER 29

  Help Is On Its Way

  Sokol’s phone call bounced around in Semyon’s conscience an hour later. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me. I don’t want to die. I’m sick of all the damn killing.

  Semyon’s sweat-soaked shirt carried the same sour-milk stench lining his armpits when he first witnessed Sokol kill someone; it had been the first time he’d seen someone die, to be alive and thinking one moment, and a hunk of motionless, soulless meat the next.

  “Blyad.” He shoved what little he had in a duffle bag. A nearby drawer held a small stash of cash for operational matters. He held out the money and fanned it between his hands. It won’t last long. He shoved the bills in his pocket.

  He scrambled for his burner phone and dialed 911.

  After three rings. “Hi, 911 Operator, please state your emergency.” The voice of the woman on the other end sounded tired.

  “Yes, my name’s Semyon. I know where the next terrorist attack will be.”

  “Sir, is this a prank?”

  “No, no, no. I’m one of them.”

  “You realize we are tracing your call?”

  His heart pounded, the beats are audible. He squeezed the phone. “I’m counting on it. I can prove it. Please connect me with someone important. Now!”

  “Yes...sir. Please wait one moment while I transfer you.”

  Semyon was shaking, he moved the phone away from his ear, and his finger hovered close to the end call button. Before he pressed the end call, someone got on the line.

  “Sir, this is Captain Davis of the New York police department, you have one minute to convince me that I’m not wasting my time.”

  Before he could respond, someone knocked. Semyon swung his head toward the door and whispered. “I’m not going to answer that door.”

  “What did you say? Listen jackass, you’re running out of time.”

  Semyon put the phone to his ear. “Wait, wait, please wait, there was a knock at my door. I’m scared to death as it is.” He changed his mind and sprinted to the door. “Yes, who is it?”

  Semyon peered through the peephole. The distorted view of the hallway appeared empty. He heard a deep muffled voice.

  “Sorry, I must have the wrong door. My apologies.”

  “Go away!”

  Good, not Sokol. Five soul-shattering seconds ticked off without a reply or knock. He put his phone back to his ear, “Are you still there?”

  The voice on the other end was loud. “You’re still wasting my valuable time. You mind telling me what the hell this is about?”

  Sokol’s un-holstered and silenced Tokarev pistol laid next to him on the hallway floor. He kneeled outside Semyon’s door and worked his set of lock picks. Experience paid off, and Sokol had all but one tumbler in place when Semyon came to the door.

  Semyon’s voice was high-pitched. “Yes, who is it?”

  Sokol lowered and modified the pitch of his voice. “Sorry, I must have the wrong door. My apologies.”

  Sokol hoped Semyon would open the door and check the hallway. I guess I will have to do this the hard way. He finished the pick. Twisting the knob to breach the apartment, he edged the door opened and slipped in.

  Semyon did not react to his entrance and kept his back turned. “You want proof? I will give you proof, somewhere around Central Park, there will be--”

  Sokol pressed the barrel of his pistol against the back of Semyon’s head and pulled the trigger. Projecting out of the tinny speaker of the cell phone, “Hey buddy, you trying to pull a stunt or something? Hey, speak up.”

  Sokol bent and grabbed the bloody phone. He flattened the glass of the screen against his cheek. Blood decorated his face. “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.”

  Sokol slid the off button. He launched two more rounds, ensuring Semyon’s journey into the afterlife. He went to the bathroom and washed his face and hands.

  He slid a small device out of his jacket pocket, walked to the troublesome server and laid the miniature explosive on it. This damn thing had caused enough problems. I hate computers.

  He set the timer for three minutes and proceeded to exit the professionally picked door. His strides were long and quick. As soon as the cold slapped his face, he relaxed. Twenty paces west of the apartment, the explosion rattled his eardrums and heat from the blast brushed his face and hands.

  He snickered. Let’s see Mike O’Connor hack that.

  At the Metro Police Station, Captain Davis laid his phone on his desk and spun in the direction of the police officer sitting outside his office. His trusted assistant. “Bell.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Call the 911 operator who patched in this call to me. I need you to figure out what the hell just happened.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Captain Davis got up and approached her desk. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of her coffee cup, walked across the room, filled it, skipped the sugar he usually put in his own coffee, and returned to her desk, setting the cup where he found it. “Well?”

  Bell hung up. Picked up the coffee and smelled it. “Thanks, she doesn’t know, but she did dispatch a unit to the scene. Excuse me sir, one second, she’s calling me back.”

  Davis crossed his arms against his chest, trying to steady his nerves.

  A moment later Bell turned toward him and looked him in the eyes. “Calls are flooding the lines. The location exploded. Damn thing is engulfed in flames. It’s going down fast. They’ve dispatched paramedics and ladder trucks.”

  Davis beat a path to his office. “Thank you.” Once inside his office, checked his contacts and selected a special agent at the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building, and waited.

  CHAPTER 30

  Operation Silent Shadow

  A burly Ex-SEAL, Bob Panecko had been involved in his share of hairy missions. He commanded his civilian police SWAT team before the sun broke the horizon. He’d already ordered them to don their gear and into the SWAT van.

  The Swat Team was dressed for action. Starting from top to bottom, their white, gray and black urban camos were designed to blend in the shadows of buildings or the shade of trees. Worn like a ski mask was a knit Nomex Balaclava double-layered in the face and had an extra-long neckline, offering fire protection. The polycarbonate goggles protected their eyes but gave the appearance of space marines. If a fire were the only threat, they wouldn't require their RBR Ballistic Helmets.

  Further south, they wore body armor with a quick-draw internal groin protectors. Their uniforms laced with communication system attachment points. The vests provide multi-rifle hit ballistic protection.

  The list of items attached to their vest or person included a gas mask and carrier, semi auto Pistol w/holster and two extra magazines, two sets of Handcuffs and key, halogen bulb flashlight, pocket notebook and pencil in a waterproof pack, Ear plugs/trauma dressing/latex gloves/Derma Shield™, Elbow and kne
e pads, expandable baton with clip-on mirror, water resistant watch, cold weather gear, Walkie-Talkie with earphones, Canteen, two distraction devices, and a multi-tool knife.

  Even the souls of their feet required special attention. They wear special lightweight steel-toed boots with slip-resistant Vibram soles. Inside the boots were cushioned foot inserts to reduce fatigue and absorb shock from kicking in doors or jumping fences.

  They were prepared to meet the threat head on.

  One of his men, his gun’s barrel pointed down, adjusted his helmet. “Sir, just the four of us?”

  Panecko reached over and cinched the strap on his subordinate’s helmet for him. “Threat level hasn’t been verified. If we need more, we’ll call in more. We’ll see what out there first.”

  Another man knelt in one corner of the SWAT van lacing his boot. “More like the budget hasn’t been verified.”

  “Either way, we’re at a distinct disadvantage. Central Park is eight hundred and fifty acres of benches, arches, hills, trees, and grass, and we’ve no idea what or who we’re looking for. We’re just ordered to get out there. Visible deterrence is half the battle, but that’s for the uniformed police. We stay out of direct line of sight.”

  The van stopped.

  Panecko grabbed the handle before opening the door and looking at his men. “All right. Preliminary reconnaissance. Keep your guns low and eyeballs on every jogger and homeless person out there, but remember the FBI have a lot of plainclothes agents on the sidewalks. Stay out of direct view and be ready for anything.”

  He pointed toward the sniper on the team. “Emo find a hidden high spot and cover the area mentioned in the briefing. Rifle at ready.”

  Emo asked, “Rules of engagement?”

  “If a terrorist rears its ugly head, put that dog down.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Be Prepared

  Kim put on a pair blue jeans, boots, and a tight-fitting sweater. She caught Mike’s roaming eyes once or twice. Good. What the hell? I watched him dress too.

  Mike wore blue jeans, high-top sneakers, and a flannel shirt they purchased on the way. His t-shirt had two large Ps with a smaller line of text; ‘I see you noticed my large PP.’ He slipped on an old aviator leather jacket they brought along with the t-shirt from her apartment.

  Mike stuck his tongue out at the man in the mirror and brushed the jacket’s fur collar. “Looking good, I’m glad we’re not hiding anymore.”

  “I want to be me too.” She scraped the extra lettering from her driver’s license with her fingernails and scanned the room for anything they might have forgotten to pack. Clean.

  Satisfied, she put on her old army surplus jacket. She looked at Mike. “What’s the plan?” She pulled a stun gun from her purse, meaning to put it the coat’s inside pocket, but didn’t get the chance. “Hey!”

  Mike grabbed the stun gun from her, lifted his foot off the ground to groin level, and stomped, stomped hard. The stun gun became a collection of loose electronics, battery parts, and plastic pieces.

  She stepped toward him. The sting on her palm traveled down her arm when her hand smacked his face. A red welt replaced her hand on his cheek. She received no emotion from him; his hands remained at his sides.

  “I guess I deserved that. Hit me again, you can keep hitting me but understand one thing. I’m the only one going to jail today. The only one getting hurt.”

  Mike’s face was hard, eyebrows and mouth straight. This wasn’t happy Mike, sad Mike, or even angry Mike. It was something new, a side of him she never witnessed before. He looked determined. A tear escaped. “You’re crying.”

  Mike hurried to wipe away the shininess from his cheek. “It’s nothing. Let’s get moving.”

  She shoved away the pieces of the gun with her foot. Her heart melted as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For caring.” She ran her hand over his chest before releasing him and backing away. “Not sure I appreciate you destroying my stun gun, but I know what you’re trying to do. And it matters to me.”

  Mike rubbed his cheek. “For a girl, you hit pretty damn hard. Let’s go to the store and buy some gear. Then we’ll scope out the south side of the park near Cedar Hill. If we get even a hint of bad guys, we turn on the burner cell. The FBI should have traced it to you by now. The cops rush in and capture the terrorist. I get the key to the city and a ticker tape parade. End of story.”

  “You left out something. You get arrested after the parade.”

  “It needs to be done.”

  “I need to go to the little girl’s room before we leave.” Once Kim closed the door of the bathroom, she inserted the battery in the burner. The voicemail indicator showed two. Must be from the FBI lady. Kim pressed the few buttons to retrieve the first voicemail. Blood rushed from her face. Her adrenaline spiked.

  “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.”

  She pressed delete. The next message was short and sweet. Kim recognized the female agent’s voice. “I’ll be at the park.”

  She heard Mike shout through the door.

  “Hey, you need help in there?”

  “No, mister smarty pants, I will be out in a minute.” She ripped the battery from the cell phone and exited the bathroom. “Let’s get going.”

  Mike followed her out the door.

  They located a large department store. Mike lifted the shopping bag to show her what he bought.

  Kim inched closer to scan the contents. “What’s that?”

  “I bought a throwing knife set.”

  “We aren’t going to fight.”

  “I feel more comfortable knowing that I can protect you. These knives with my cane will buy me that comfort.”

  “Mike, even naked, you’re mean. I’ve seen you fight in the cage, and you’re deadly. Forget that bullshit, you’re a pussycat today. Let the damn authorities do the fighting.”

  “I’m not going to start a fight and put you at risk.”

  She gave him her meanest stare, the one her mother partial out when ‘No meant No.’ “I said no fighting. Shake your head yes.” She waited for him to shake his head. He did.

  “No fighting. Zoom to the moon, Mikey” She punched his arm.

  “That hurt!”

  “Sorry forgot.” She was only half sorry.

  Zoom to the moon, Mikey? The words echoed in his head. His dad’s last words to him. The distraction that led to his parents’ death. Not a good start. Not a good start at all.

  Once in the car, Mike balanced the knives on his finger until he found their center point. He flipped and caught them hoping the repetition would drive away the memory.

  Kim’s sudden intrusion provided a near miss. “What’s wrong.”

  “Nothing?” He flipped faster.

  CHAPTER 32

  Beware Of Geeks Bearing Gifts

  Marat Kuznetsov adjusted his winter camouflage snowboarding jacket near the Seventy-Ninth Street entrance of Central Park. He was proud of the bomb he’d made in the abandoned gas station.

  He clenched and unclenched his fists to circulate blood through his fingers. The hours of practice assembling the mock bomb paid off. He was confident he could shatter his five-minute assembly goal on the real thing.

  The cold-stunned his cheeks but didn’t bite hard. He inhaled and the park’s greenery overtaken the scent of the big city. His exhalation condensed to form steam.

  He glanced at his three companions. They shuffled their feet but acted their parts as typical snowboarders. Inside their suit pockets rested an arsenal of weapons, and that comforted him.

  His eyes inspected the contents of the sled to see if the cooler and collapsible chairs were secured to his vintage snow sled. He squatted and gently patted the top of the ice chest. Good little baby. Pretty soon you will go boom. He yanked on the wire straps holding the cooler in place. They did not flex.

  Marat held out his arm and his thumb spiked skyward. He stood, jerked his he
ad in the park’s direction, and began his journey toward the entrance. He grabbed the front rope of the sled and tugged. The sled lurched forward and scraped against the snow-covered sidewalk.

  The three harvested their snowboards and followed in a work-like fashion.

  The short three-block trip to Glade’s Arch was uneventful. The crowd was light to non-existent on an early morning winter school day as Marat anticipated.

  Near the arch, Marat spotted two park police approaching.

  They kept their hands at their sides and expression flat. The younger of the two police spoke first. “Hey gentlemen, what’s in the cooler?”

  Marat’s nearest companion responded. “Hi ya’ doing Big Boss, gotta have some lunch to fill this big belly.” He elbowed the largest person of the group. “This Gavoon next to me crabbed, hey we better bring something. Now my friend ova here is lugging all this crap around. Can ya’ believe it?”

  A deep voice rumbled. “Not for nuttin’ but… I’m a growing boy.” The big man rubbed his belly.

  Marat regarded the expression on the older cop’s face which he took to mean, ‘Alright guys, quit playing around and answer the damn question.’

  True to Marat’s guess, the older cop barged in. “I need to see what’s inside the cooler and some ID. You know that no alcohol is allowed?”

  Marat loosened the strap across the cooler. “No problem, just a little juice and water.”

  The young cop flipped the lid of the cooler exposing its contents and lifted a bottle of water, checked the seal, and handed the bottle back to Marat.

  The fake ice worked.

  “Let’s see some ID.”