Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  Below the screens, on the tiered floor, there were twenty workstations where intelligence officers worked together 24/7 to break down the constant flow of information received by the center. They examined data that might otherwise seem unrelated to pursue leads.

  It was challenging work; more than seven thousand reports poured into the center every twenty-four hours. They came in from intelligence sources, embassies, police departments and the general public.

  On any given day, those reports could include a suspicious package at a mall, an anonymous 911 call promising “something’s going to happen,” or an airline reporting strange comments or behavior of a passenger. And the nonstop flow of reports was merely in addition to analysis already being done with ongoing files.

  Operations officer Shane Hudson took a drink from his bottled water and resumed work at his desk. Hudson, the son of a US diplomat, had grown up in the Gulf States. He was fluent in several languages and had a degree in Middle Eastern Studies from Harvard. He sat before three computer monitors. On one, he’d cued up a video to replay.

  He’d been analyzing a report submitted by FBI agent Nick Varner through the Guardian database. Varner was overseeing the live investigation of a quarter-million-robbery-abduction case out of New York. He’d requested further analysis of the names Jerricko Blaine and Malcolm Jordan Samadyh, two American-born men, and their mother, Nazihah Bilaal Samadyh, born in Afghanistan and married to now-deceased American Andrew Blaine.

  After Hudson submitted the names to the highly classified Terrorist Identities Datamart Environment, the central database on known or suspected international terrorists, he made other inquiries.

  While awaiting responses, he replayed the video, which opened tight on a placard: America Murdered My Son! Death to America!

  The sign was written in English. The woman in the video was waving it during a large-scale anti-American protest that had taken place in Kabul, Afghanistan, a year ago. The demonstration raised a number of issues, but this one was a concern and flagged for assessment.

  The woman holding the placard was Nazihah Bilaal Samadyh.

  Suddenly, one of his monitors began to flash with urgent NSA intercepts from the US base in Menwith, England—apparently there was concern about the potential for a planned attack. The summary showed communication originating from an active jihadist group. The conversations were disguised to focus on “a wedding with many gifts from many guests resulting in a glorious celebration.” Decrypted, that stood to mean an attack with many victims. The intercepts had been tracked for the past six months out of Iraq, Afghanistan, Turkey, Athens and London. But they’d grown more active with the most recent series of calls, bouncing from Syria and Yemen to individuals somewhere in the United States.

  Hudson needed to assess the intercepts against other data.

  He took another swig of water as a new alert flashed with information coming in from the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. It concerned Malcolm Jordan Samadyh and his activities while an inmate at the California Correctional Institution at Tehachapi.

  While serving three years for robbery at the prison, he’d converted to Islam but soon gravitated to a rogue prisoner group of extremists that called on Muslims to violently attack nonbelievers and infidels who were the enemies of Islam.

  The CDCR and the California Justice Department were moving fast to provide more background on all known members of the fringe group and their affiliations.

  Hudson let out a long breath. There was a lot of information in front of him but no clear proof that any of it was connected.

  He glanced to one of his monitors and the latest news reports on the Queens case. Every minute that passed put the hostages at greater risk.

  It’s time to get to work.

  45

  Somewhere in New York State

  Sweat webbed along Dan’s brow, stinging when it hit his eyes.

  Under the tarp in the back of the SUV, the drone and hum of the wheels vibrated against his rib cage like a dark opera. The ride was smooth now. They were on the freeway, rolling to the next step.

  The final step, Dan thought.

  In the darkness, his fears assailed him. He’d seen his captors’ faces and knew what that meant.

  It’s over.

  Even if they reunited him with his family, it would only be so they could die together, or force him to watch Lori and Billy die.

  If they’re not already dead.

  Dan struggled to push the thought from his head but it was futile.

  They win. No police are coming. No one can help us. We were dead from the moment they invaded our home.

  He swallowed and the image of shallow graves in a wooded area flashed before him.

  Please, let Lori and Billy be alive. Let me talk to them one last time.

  Suddenly the SUV thudded over a bump and Dan felt a weighty, hard knock on his ankle. His breath caught as he remembered.

  The knife!

  At the gas station near the restroom he’d stolen a small utility knife from the electrician’s toolbox and tucked it in his sock.

  He shifted his body slowly so he wouldn’t disturb the vest or alert his captors. Carefully he drew up his knees while reaching with his bound hands for the edge of his sock. It was a difficult movement. It took several agonizing moments before he was touching the knife and even longer until he got the fingers of his right hand around the handle.

  He held it tight.

  His heart lifted and he breathed deeply. Now he had hope.

  He estimated the knife was five inches long, with a button to extend the retractable blade. By the feel of the padded non-slip handle, the contour and weight, he could tell it was a professional-quality knife.

  Something solid.

  It felt good in his hand.

  In the darkness, he took great pains to move the knife around until he had it where he could get his thumb on the spring button and extend the steel blade. He brushed his finger over the edge, testing its sharpness.

  Like a razor. Good.

  Holding the knife between his fingertips and positioning it just so, he began cutting at the tape around his wrists, forcing them apart just a little so he could get at the plastic handcuffs underneath.

  As he worked, the tape and cuffs began to give way but still held.

  He took surgical care to ensure his bindings remained connected and in place, but weakened enough so that he could free his hands at will in an instant.

  Each small rip, each tiny twist, was a victory.

  It’s working.

  Satisfied he’d gone as far as he could, he stopped.

  He had a plan now and he reached deep down inside of himself, using his fear and anger to forge the courage he needed to act.

  Dan slid the knife under the cuff of his sleeve, wedging the blade under his watchband.

  He was ready.

  46

  Deer Kill River, New York

  Less than an hour after leaving Manhattan, Kate glimpsed the hills flowing by as news photographer Stan Strobic pushed his pickup beyond the speed limit north on the New York Thruway.

  A TV station in Kingston, New York, had reported that a car sought in the bank robbery in Queens was just discovered by a fisherman near the Deer Kill River. The Associated Press had picked up the story, and within minutes Kate and Strobic were driving to the scene.

  Strobic’s truck was his prized possession, a Chevrolet Silverado 2014, regular cab with a long box cargo bed with cap, all in Victory Red, baby.

  He loved to play his country music and was prone to peculiar behavior. Strobic never, ever cleaned out the bed of his truck. “As messy as a disorganized serial killer,” one of their coworkers had said. That’s why people were reluctant to work with him.

&n
bsp; Kate had learned that Strobic’s assignments in Iraq and Afghanistan had changed him, but one thing was certain: no one could touch him when it came to shooting news. He was the best.

  It was late in the day and Strobic bemoaned the growing shadows as they drove.

  “We’re not going to have a lot of light left when we get there.”

  Kate was on her phone watching for developments. She’d put out a lot of calls while digging for links between Lori Fulton and Blaine. Nothing had surfaced so far, doubling her disappointment because Varner had failed to alert her to the car at Deer Kill River.

  Nick Varner.

  Though his reluctance to help her had been frustrating, something about him seemed to fill her mind whenever she had a spare moment to think.

  God, it’s been so long since I’ve been with someone.

  Kate indulged herself with thoughts of Varner. She’d learned from a few police sources that he was widowed. His wife had died a few years ago, but they’d had no children and he wasn’t married or seeing anyone.

  But why was she drawn to him? He’d done nothing but block her at every turn so far and yet...

  He’s easy on the eyes. But it was more than that. She sensed that he had a good heart, even though he played the role of the hard-ass exceptionally well. But she had to be careful here. She couldn’t let emotion cloud her work and she sure as hell couldn’t depend on Varner to help her.

  She was capable of doing her own investigating.

  At that moment, Kate caught something on her Twitter feed.

  “Whoa, what’s this?”

  Help note left at gas station may be from fugitive banker.

  She clicked on the link and read aloud a short news story from a local radio station identifying Weldon’s Gas and Grocery as the location. Kate Googled the store, got an address, and Strobic keyed it into his GPS.

  “That’s Exit 16B, only a few miles up ahead,” he said.

  “Let’s check it out.”

  * * *

  Several state police and Rockland County Sheriff’s Office emergency vehicles were parked in Weldon’s small lot when Kate and Strobic arrived.

  A patrol officer stood at the door, blocking the entrance.

  “I want to talk with the owner. We’re press.”

  Kate and Strobic held up their Newslead IDs. Behind the officer, she saw crime scene technicians working deep inside the store.

  “He’s over there.” The officer nodded to a corner of the parking lot behind a van where a couple of local news types were talking to a tall man with a thick, white beard.

  Kate set her phone to record, Strobic got his camera ready and they joined a woman with a notebook and a man holding a microphone.

  “Hi, Kate Page and Stan Strobic with Newslead. Are you the owner?” she asked the older man.

  “That’s me, Roy Weldon, like it says on the sign.”

  “You found a note related to the bank robbery in Queens?”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Kate said, giving an apologetic smile to the other reporters, who didn’t seem to mind. From the look of them, she guessed they were news rookies. She turned back to Roy. “Can you tell us how you discovered it?”

  “Like I was saying to these good folks, this customer came in a few hours ago, just a few minutes before a bus full of high school football players. After everyone left, I went to clean up and found the note in the restroom. I thought it was a prank at first, but when I remembered the news, I put two and two together and figured this was the real deal. I mean, the man was driving a green Chevy Impala and looked kind of tense. Wouldn’t you, if you were wearing a bomb?”

  “What does the note say?”

  “That he’s involved in the robbery, there were bombs and to call police.”

  “Can you show us the note?”

  “He wrote it on the stall. I let Robbie here take a picture. He got here before police—listens to police radios. You reporters are crafty that way.”

  “Sorry,” Kate said, turning to the male reporter who looked like he was still in high school. “You’re Robbie?”

  “Rob Cantly, Hilltop Radio News.”

  “Can you show us the note, Rob?”

  “Sure.” He cued up a clear image on his phone for Kate and Strobic, who both took a photo of it.

  DAN FULTON GREEN IMPALA HH47H490 CALL POLICE!

  “Did you show this to anyone or post it anywhere?” Strobic asked.

  “Not yet. I was just going to put it on the station’s Facebook page.”

  “Don’t. Listen, can Newslead buy it for exclusive use from you? It’ll go across the country—along with your photo credit.”

  Cantly swelled and looked at Weldon, who winked.

  “I’m just a freelancer at the station...”

  “Then freelance it to us. You took the photo, which means you own it,” Strobic said. “We’re a wire service, this will go global. Just send it to me right now with your contact information, and we’ll take it from there.” Strobic tilted his phone, Cantly copied his info, and within seconds Strobic had Cantly’s original image. “Perfect. Now, you can’t show it or share it with anyone else,” Strobic said. “Our photo rights guy will get in touch shortly. You’ll get a photo credit and a few hundred bucks.”

  After Kate asked Weldon a few more questions, she and Strobic returned to the Thruway and continued north. Kate worked on the story on her phone in between calls to Nick Varner that went unanswered. She wrote fast and clean, knowing that it was a red-hot exclusive for Newslead. Reeka loved it, but without missing a beat she continued pressing Kate to get to the car scene at Deer Kill River, which was another fifty miles away.

  “Not much is coming out of there,” Reeka said. “We have to know if that is where this story ends.”

  As Strobic drove faster, Kate stared into the forests.

  Are we following the Fultons’ final trail? Will we find corpses in that car at Deer Kill River?

  * * *

  After leaving the paved highway, Strobic’s Silverado raced along a twisting gravel road.

  He braked hard when they came to some two dozen media and police vehicles lining each shoulder. A group of people stood near a large rock formation where Kate saw a flash of plastic yellow tape that appeared to seal the mouth of a forest back road. New York state troopers and county patrol officers protected the way to the scene where the car was found.

  Kate and Strobic trotted to the gathering, passing emergency vehicles, news vans and cars from Albany, Newark, Patterson and New York City. Two helicopters thudded overhead and dogs yipped from inside the forest.

  TV cameras and newspeople encircled a man who was gesturing as he spoke. He was not in uniform and didn’t look like a cop to Kate. She approached the group, standing next to a woman who was taking notes while recording.

  “Kate Page, Newslead.”

  “Alicia Walker, Newark Star-Ledger. I read your stuff. It’s good.”

  “Thanks. Who’s this guy?”

  “Bruce Grover—he found the car. You won’t get into the scene and they’re not saying much. They’re waiting for the FBI to take control here.”

  Kate listened as Grover repeated his story for the benefit of other reporters as they continued arriving.

  “...a white SUV, it forced me off the road. Then, on my way along the trail—” Grover pointed to the woods “—I found the car... No, there was no sign of anyone inside, or near it and no sign of any money.”

  Strobic nudged Kate after taking several frames of Grover.

  “There’s no picture here. I have to get an aerial. I’m heading out with a TV crew—they chartered a plane at a small strip. I won’t be long. I’ll pick you up here afterward.”

  Kate nodde
d as she got an alert on her phone and saw a story just posted by the New York Post with photos of the abandoned Impala taken by Grover, who, it turned out, was a former editor with the paper. No indication of a body, or money, or bombs found. When she looked up from her phone, Strobic was gone, but she glimpsed a car arriving in the distance.

  She recognized Tilden and Varner stepping out of it and made her way over to them, careful to walk on the other side of parked vehicles so other reporters wouldn’t see her.

  She caught up to them before they headed to the scene.

  “Agent Varner, Detective Tilden, wait! Please, just give me a second.”

  They stopped, though neither looked happy to see her.

  “Can you tell me what you have here?”

  “You tell us, Kate,” Tilden said. “You were here first.”

  “Come on.”

  “You know what we know,” Tilden said.

  “Is there anything more than a car in there?”

  “Maybe deer, rabbits,” Tilden teased, sticking out his bottom lip. “A bear or two.”

  “Really, Marv? You want to play it like this?” Kate turned to Varner. “What’s the connection between Lori and your suspect, Blaine?”

  “That’s still under investigation,” Varner said.

  “They knew each other in California, didn’t they?”

  “That’s under investigation,” Varner repeated.

  “Well, I can’t guarantee I’m going to hold off reporting on your investigation. Seems like there’s a lot going on here, and if you can’t help me out...”

  “We got work to do.” Tilden walked away.

  “Dammit, Varner, give me something I can use. I’ve been keeping up my end of the deal. I think you owe me something.”

  He spun around and gave her a long, hard look that softened, acknowledging that she was right. “I’ll tell you one thing, and it’s not for attribution. You got that?”