Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  The FBI’s cyber experts zeroed in on Jerricko Blaine’s use of a public library terminal to determine whom he’d communicated with recently. Working with internet service providers, they’d unraveled an intricately deceptive trail leading them to accounts used by his associates. Agents were dispatched to physical addresses and executed more warrants, resulting in more information.

  In California, a sharp-eyed analyst with the Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation retrieved a key report from a gang intelligence officer concerning an extremist prison group that called for Muslims to kill those whom they’d deemed enemies of Islam.

  The group was led by Bartholomew Drum, who was serving a life sentence for stabbing a US Marine in a mall parking lot. The intelligence officer had been using inmate informants while confidentially monitoring all of Drum’s secret communications, even those he’d cryptically made through his own visitors and visitors of other prisoners who followed his teachings.

  Malcolm Samadyh had been a devoted follower of Drum’s, and upon Samadyh’s release Drum had ordered him to recruit people without criminal records to carry out attacks on the enemies of Islam. But when Samadyh was killed, Drum had reached out to his grieving mother, urging her to honor her son’s death by carrying on the cause.

  Nazihah Samadyh had agreed and proposed to use “powerful friends” in Afghanistan, where she’d returned, to help establish the group. She’d started by recruiting her surviving son, Jerricko, to lead the group.

  Then she’d gone online, scouring postings for malcontent young Americans. The first person she’d recruited was Jake Spencer, a college dropout from Minneapolis who’d written passionately about his disgust with US actions in the Middle East. Spencer also had experience with the US Army before he left because of his growing negative views on US foreign policy. Samadyh named Spencer the group’s operations commander.

  Then she’d recruited Adam Patterson, a despondent arts student from Chicago, and Doug Kimmett, a part-time mechanic out of Binghamton, New York, who wanted to be “part of something big.”

  All were clean-cut young Americans who, through bloodlines or marriage had relatives overseas in Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan and Libya. Spencer, Patterson and Kimmett had become disillusioned with their country and had converted to Islam, ignoring the peaceful teachings and gravitating to extremism. Nazihah Samadyh had further radicalized them, convincing them to take action. She’d arranged for the group to communicate online with commanders in Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan who’d indoctrinated them and helped them adopt Arabic names. They became members of the YLOI, the Young Lions of Islam, an ultraviolent group. After swearing allegiance to the black flag of the extremist movement, they’d sought opportunities for a mission inside the country.

  As Hudson paused to question why this intelligence was not acted on earlier, he found his answer in a supplementary note from the analyst in California.

  “The report was in its draft stages and never finalized. It was found on the officer’s computer after he’d died of a heart attack.”

  Hudson took a breath, shook his head and resumed working just as a new, updated alert concerning NSA intercepts on a potential attack came in from the US base in Menwith, England.

  After breaking down the new information on the Queens case, the NSA analysts at Menwith linked Jake Spencer to a satellite phone purchased online and shipped to a post office box in Minneapolis.

  Analysis of newer intercepted chatter between senior leaders of the YLOI in Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan and Kuwait showed that they were discussing an impending attack within the US. Intercepts of recent conversations showed the phone used by Jake Spencer was involved in these discussions.

  The chatter had made cryptic references to a wedding with many gifts and guests, resulting in “a glorious celebration,” but now there was heightened and excited discussion concerning the “most beautiful gift,” and how it would come from “the clock maker.”

  The analysts translated that to mean bomb maker.

  “He’s finished,” one of the intercepts stated.

  A new alert from Menwith flashed on one of Hudson’s monitors.

  The bomb maker was an American living somewhere in the eastern United States.

  Who? Where?

  Identity and location were still to be determined, the NSA responded.

  Hudson continued working as fast as he could.

  63

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  It’s them!

  Lori and Billy held their breath to listen.

  The distant sound of voices was unmistakable. Lori looked in all directions, not seeing them but feeling them.

  She searched the dark foliage in vain for an escape route. Which way, which way?

  The smooth earthen line to the left would be the obvious choice, but the men would spot it. The dense thicket to the right would be tougher and the agitation of the branches against the suicide vests could end everything.

  Either choice was a risk.

  “This way!” she whispered, shouldering the backpack, seizing Billy’s hand and rushing into the thicket.

  Branches pulled and scraped against them as they knifed through the undergrowth. With each step, Lori feared the slapping and tugging might detonate the bulky vests.

  They moved quickly and quietly. The ground undulated with jagged little cliffs hidden by the dense growth. At times she lost her balance; at times Billy stumbled. But they never stopped. They accelerated where the terrain allowed. Lori’s tears for Dan became tears of rage as she vowed to fight to the death for her family. But her heart sank when she glimpsed a movement of color through the trees to the distant left.

  That’s one of them!

  Far off to the right she saw a flash of a T-shirt.

  Another one!

  Casting back over her shoulder, she glimpsed a third one gaining on them. Turning to look ahead she saw the fourth one moving into position. There was no escape. Squeezing Billy’s hand, she veered into the darkest part of the woods where the forest was most dense. It swallowed them as they knifed through the tangles of trees. For a few moments they’d be out of sight, but Lori knew there’d be no escape.

  They’re going to kills us! They killed Dan and they’ll kill us—but I’m not going to make it easy for them. We’re not going down without a fight!

  Then something occurred to her: they could have detonated the vests by now, ending this chase once and for all. But they hadn’t—why? As she adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulders, it suddenly made sense. The killers needed their laptop because it held the plans for the operation—information that would be lost if they detonated the vests. She scanned the dense groves then stopped.

  “Mom!” Billy whispered full bore. “What’re you doing?”

  She reached into the backpack for the laptop and ensured it was on. It showed about seventy percent battery life. She concealed it inside a small rock pile at the base of a tree with three distinctive fork-like branches at the base. Then she pulled off a chunk of bark leaving a white patch on the tree’s west side at her eye level. If somehow they survived, they could come back with help and experts who could maybe track the laptop.

  “Let’s go!” she whispered.

  They pushed on until they stopped at a shallow hollow in a thicket on a gentle slope.

  “We have to hide!”

  Frantic, Lori gathered huge bunches of shrubs and branches, burying Billy and herself under a thick, convincing blanket of camouflage in the heavily wooded section.

  With their hearts pounding, they struggled to quiet their breathing. Amid the smells of earth and moldy leaves, pine needles pricked at their faces and hands. They heard branches cracking and leaves swishing as their pursuers approached.

  Billy was trembling and Lori held him.

  At least t
wo of the killers were within a few yards. She heard them panting and sniffing. Then the other two arrived.

  “They should be here. Did they come through your lane?”

  “No. I thought they went your way.”

  “They’re here. They have to be.”

  “Okay, everyone shut up. They’re in this area.”

  Everything fell silent.

  Lori knew they were scouring their surroundings. Likely looking right at us! In the quiet, the entire woods waited. The wind waited. Lori could feel sweat webbing down her face. Billy began trembling again; his shaking rustled some of the branches covering them.

  Lori held him tight.

  Pulsing with fear she caught sight of a boot then a gun barrel.

  A creeping sensation suddenly tingled along Lori’s skin as a spider worked its way up her pant leg. She choked back her need to scream and swat at it; her entire body was paralyzed with fear.

  The quiet was soon broken by the gunman standing nearest.

  “I think I heard something over here.”

  Lori bit her bottom lip and held on to Billy.

  “Right over here.”

  Lori and Billy could hear them raking the thickets beside them.

  God, please! Please!

  Lori clenched her eyes shut and held her panicked breath.

  64

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  The gunmen froze, standing motionless as faint whomping rolled over the treetops.

  “Hear that?” Cutty said. “It’s a chopper.”

  “It’s coming this way,” Vic said. “To hell with this, let’s go! We’ll come back for them. Go, go!”

  They moved on fast, climbing to a high point that gave them a view of the grove where their prey was cornered while providing a dense canopy of cover overhead. They watched the sky through a patchwork of light as the helicopter’s thudding grew louder before fading away.

  “They’re on our trail! They’ll be back!” Percy shouted. “We have to abort!”

  Vic didn’t respond; he was concentrating on Jerricko, who’d been monitoring news reports on his powerful portable radio.

  “Well?” Vic said.

  “They found Fulton.” Jerricko yanked out his earpiece.

  “They found him? Already?”

  “In critical condition but alive. They’ve airlifted him to Albany.”

  “Maybe that’s Fulton’s chopper we heard?” Cutty said.

  “He’s alive!” Percy said. “What if he talks? We’ve gotta abort.”

  “Relax, he doesn’t know anything. It’s in the laptop,” Vic said. Turning back to Jerricko, he asked, “Did the news say anything about our operation?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then we proceed as planned in the name of Allah.”

  “Are you crazy?” Percy said. “If they found Fulton, they’ve got the cabin and our vehicles—and the woman’s got our laptop! They know everything! Let’s just take the money, lay low, regroup and replan.”

  Vic tightened his grip on his gun and stepped into Percy’s space, drawing his face so close Percy felt his hot, angry breath on his skin.

  “Are you committed to your martyrdom?” Vic asked.

  Percy searched the fire burning in Vic’s eyes.

  “Completely.”

  “Then shut your mouth and obey orders!”

  Vic pulled his satellite phone from his backpack and confirmed that he had a signal from their elevated position. Then he made a call while the others stood near, listening to his side of it.

  “Yes, we spoke earlier about the wedding...are the clocks ready?...Good...Unfortunately, we’ve had a breakdown...we’ll need a ride to the celebration hall...so you’ll pick us up at the meeting point...We’ll be there in a few hours...Yes, we do have a substantial contribution to make as a financial gift...Yes, very substantial...In a few hours, then...Yes...Many blessings on this special day...Yes and to you, as well...”

  Vic ended the call and scanned the grove where he knew Lori Fulton and her son were.

  “The press attention will help us spread our message to America. This is not the time to falter.” He repositioned his gun on his shoulder. “We’re going to recover our laptop and make examples of those two. Then, by the grace of Allah, we’ll carry out the successful completion of our glorious mission for the world to see.”

  65

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  Kate looked into the thick forests as Strobic’s Silverado ate up the paved narrow roads that snaked through this part of the mountain range.

  “We just passed Split Creek. Used to go fishing there with my dad,” he said as dispatches from police, rangers and search teams crackled from his scanners. Some transmissions were so static-filled they couldn’t be understood, while others blasted with clarity. The steady flow of cross talk emphasized the urgency and scope of the search.

  “Are we close?” Kate asked.

  “We’re in the right sector,” Strobic said.

  They passed through a hilltop turn, providing Kate with a sweeping view that hammered home the vastness of the wilderness.

  How will they find anyone in this?

  Strobic’s strategy was to stay on the marginal roads at the fringe of the search perimeters before those perimeters changed.

  “This is how we’re going to get inside,” he said.

  The backcountry was webbed with hunting trails and old logging roads. Strobic said none of them were mapped but he could pinpoint them. They would lead him into the heart of the search by using the tip his old friend had given him at the media center.

  They’d gone about five miles without Kate seeing anything promising.

  “Is it much farther, you think, Stan?”

  “Hard to tell. Want to go back?”

  “No. I want to keep going.”

  The road twisted and Strobic slowed when they spotted a couple of local volunteer firefighters on ATVs. After passing them, they continued on for about half a mile when Strobic slowed for three searchers on horseback moving along on the side of the road.

  “Looks like they’re still marshaling some people at this edge of things.”

  Less than half a mile later they came to flashing emergency lights and a Greene County sheriff’s deputy’s car blocking the road. The deputy swiveled his hand for Strobic to turn around.

  “Great,” Kate said. “This isn’t good.”

  “Hang on.” Strobic got out and approached the officer’s car. “Press,” he called out.

  The deputy got out of his vehicle, adjusted his hat and approached.

  “You’ve got to turn around,” he said. “No one goes beyond this point.”

  Strobic held up his ID.

  “We’re with Newslead out of Manhattan.”

  “I’m sorry, but—” The deputy paused to study the ID, then raised his head. “Stan?”

  Strobic smiled. “Harry?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” The deputy and Strobic laughed and clapped each other on the back. “How’s Ellen and the kids?”

  “Good, all good. And you? Peggy and the boys?”

  “Growing too fast.”

  Strobic motioned to Kate, inviting her to meet his friend. “This is Harry Baker, my best friend when I spent summers here as a kid. Harry, this is Kate Page, one of our best reporters.”

  “Hi there, Kate.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “So, Harry,” Strobic said. “This is where they’re focusing the search?”

  “Partly. They’ve got sectors all over.” He pointed to the hills. “I’m just sitting on my point for this one.”

  “So what do you think? Can we go in?”

  “No can do, Stan. W
ay too dangerous. I got my orders.”

  “Back at the center they said we could travel on the fringe roads.”

  “Sure, but not this way. Sorry—I can’t swing this one for you. Too much at stake here.”

  Strobic nodded while biting his bottom lip in disappointment. He patted his friend’s shoulder and shook his hand.

  “Okay, rules are rules,” Strobic said. “Look, I might get tickets to a game. You should come in and we can catch up.”

  “We’ll do that,” the deputy replied, smiling.

  Back in the truck, Strobic wheeled around as the radios crackled. He ran a hand over his face, irritated at hitting yet another dead end. “I don’t know, Kate. Maybe we should go back.”

  “No. We’ve come this far, we can’t give up now. Let’s find another road.”

  “You’re a scrappy one.” Strobic smiled. “All right, we’ll keep going.”

  66

  Albany, New York

  The intensive care unit at Highland Sloan Memorial was on the seventh floor in the northwest wing of the sprawling brick and steel complex.

  The unit’s corridor gleamed with polished tile.

  A uniformed Albany officer holding a rolled-up Sports Illustrated was among the people gathered at Dan Fulton’s door when Varner and Tilden arrived. A ponytailed woman wearing a white coat and glasses pulled them away from the group to an alcove.

  “Dr. Beth Valachek,” she said. “You must be Tilden and Varner. The desk messaged me that you were on your way up. How was your drive?”

  “Fast. My ears are ringing from the siren,” Tilden said. “How’s Fulton doing?”

  “Not well. He suffered six gunshot wounds—once through his right arm, his left shoulder, left hand, abdomen, the left thigh and his lower back, thankfully just grazing his internal organs. He also suffered several compound fractures to his legs, arms and ribs, and he’s lost a lot of blood. Had he not been found for another hour or two, he would’ve died.”

  “The forensic people are going to need those slugs,” Tilden said.