Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  “We’re on track, within a hundred yards, maybe less.”

  They moved over terrain that rose and dipped. They crossed a small stream to a tangle of brush and then they saw pavement through the branches reaching to a narrow highway where they caught a reflection of light on a windshield, a fender, a hood—the markings of the New York State Police. The patrol unit had pulled completely off the road and was parked amid a lush canopy of branches, concealing it from any passing traffic.

  But there was none.

  Jerricko took stock of the others before signaling to proceed. They tightened their hold on their rifles. Moving in silence, they surrounded the vehicle, weapons drawn and fingers on the triggers.

  Jerricko crouched and advanced from the rear to the driver’s door.

  The lone occupant was behind the wheel. The window was down. Jerricko stood, pressed his gun to the trooper’s neck.

  Slowly the trooper raised his hands.

  Jerricko asked: “What are the wedding gifts? The wrong answer means death.”

  “Clocks.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I’m Ghorbani.”

  Relief washed over Jerricko and the others as they lowered their weapons.

  Ghorbani got out of the SUV, exchanged hugs and greetings with the team. Like the others, Percy was impressed with the car and uniform.

  “They look real, where’d you get this stuff?”

  “A company in Brooklyn supplies props for TV and movie production. I convinced them I was a producer and made the purchases several months ago when we began planning the operation.”

  “And the gun?”

  “The Glock’s real.” Ghorbani tapped his holster. “Now, we have no time to lose.” He opened the rear door, lifted a canvas to reveal four backpacks. “Each device is ready. They can only be detonated by pulling this—hard.” He showed the six-inch cord with plastic handle on the shoulder strap. “Dropping it won’t set it off. The components guarantee a high kill rate.”

  The men studied the backpacks.

  “Do you have what I need?” Ghorbani asked.

  Jerricko pulled the laptop from his backpack and handed it to Ghorbani. He motioned toward his team and each of them brought forward a sports bag and placed them in the back of the SUV. Jerricko unzipped one of the bags, showing Ghorbani the bricks of bundled cash.

  “The laptop has our videos and information on new believers we’ve recruited. The bags contain two hundred and fifty thousand in cash to fund operations,” Jerricko said.

  “Good. You’ve done well.”

  “We didn’t produce the execution videos,” Jerricko said. “As desirable as they were, we’ll still succeed without them.”

  “Agreed,” Ghorbani replied. “Quickly, bury your rifles and use these.” Ghorbani moved the canvas, uncovering more Glock pistols with several magazines. “To be less conspicuous.”

  “Why do we need to be inconspicuous?” Cutty asked. “Aren’t you driving us to Manhattan? We should keep our guns.”

  “We face obstacles,” Ghorbani said. “There’s a lot of heat and checkpoints.”

  “But you’ll get us through in this,” Jerricko said. “This is our backup plan.”

  “I’ve already been challenged.” Ghorbani shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s not good. They’re circulating your pictures, my picture. I saw it at the last checkpoint.”

  “They already know who we are?” Jerricko asked.

  “They’re moving faster than we expected,” Ghorbani said. “We’ll have to think of another way to get you to New York, but for now, bury your weapons.”

  Using deadwood, they stabbed and scraped the soft soil. After they buried their weapons and took up the handguns, they got into the SUV. Jerricko took the laptop, sat in the front and they started down the road.

  “This is the wrong way.” Vic consulted his GPS. “Go south.”

  “There’s a very active roadblock at the Birch Creek Road junction,” Ghorbani said. “I think the sniffer dog picked up something on this SUV, possibly the explosives. We can’t risk going back that way. I threw them off the first time, but I have a strong sense that they’re watching for this vehicle.”

  “Why?”

  “I had an exchange with a trooper there and I think he suspects something was up. We have to take Red Hawk Way before they seal it at the extreme end.”

  “How far do we have to go to get out?”

  “Another ten or twelve miles will bring us to the state route. Then we should be out and clear. We’ll take a longer way to New York City, but we’ll get there, brothers.”

  Jerricko exhaled deeply, moving closer to the windshield to look up as a helicopter passed overhead.

  “We’ll do whatever you have to do to get out.”

  * * *

  The five men had gone about five or six miles when they came to a short stretch of road with a large Adirondack cabin clinging to the roadside. The rooftop sign identified it as Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner.

  It had a two-pump gas island out front. A few lonely cars and pickup trucks dotted the parking lot.

  “No cops,” Cutty said when they passed. “That’s good.”

  During the next few miles, clicking sounds filled the interior as some of the team checked their handguns. Jerricko was using an earpiece to watch their martyrdom videos, his heart bursting with pride.

  We’ll give our lives for the glory of God. We’ll bring swift justice against the nonbelievers.

  As they rounded a sharp, narrow bend, Ghorbani slowed reflexively upon spotting an oncoming tour bus. Air brakes hissed and the grind of diesel growled as the bus whizzed by in the opposite direction. The SUV shuddered in the wake.

  “Not much room on these roads.”

  Other than the bus and a few cars, they hadn’t encountered much traffic, and, with the exception of the faint sounds of aircraft, there was little activity. The team grew optimistic that it was the fringe of the search.

  “We should be hitting the state route intersection any minute now, then we’ll be clear for sure.”

  Ghorbani suddenly came to a full stop.

  Emergency lights pulsated several hundred yards in the distance, where Red Hawk Way met the state road. Several police vehicles were moving into position and blocking the intersection.

  “Dammit,” Ghorbani said.

  “Is that for us?” Jerricko asked.

  “Could be, or it could be they’re expanding the search boundaries.”

  “Can’t we just drive through? If they stop you, say we’re with you and you’re taking us to another checkpoint.”

  Ghorbani shook his head. “Too risky, given what happened at the last checkpoint.”

  “Well, we can’t sit here!”

  Eyeing his rearview mirror, Ghorbani backed up slowly until the SUV dropped out of sight behind a rise. Then he wheeled around hard, accelerating in the opposite direction. Eyeballing his mirrors, he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “I’ve got an idea that will get us out.”

  76

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  Strobic took big strides as they hiked deeper into the woods.

  Kate had no trouble keeping up with him because she ran three times a week and used hotel treadmills whenever she was on the road.

  They moved well together, covering a lot of ground as the forest rose high around them, cutting them off from the world. Hours before, Kate was working in one of the world’s largest cities. Now she was isolated in this enormous wilderness.

  She wondered if they would encounter searchers or police. She was then consumed with the terrifying possibility the fugitives were out there, watching them, taking aim at their glowing vests.

  The d
ull roar of a river distracted her.

  “That’s the Bearfoot,” Strobic said, raising his voice over the rush. “We want to follow it north, this way.”

  They walked along the cliff that twisted some twenty feet above the water. Kate thought the river was beautiful, its rapids and rocks breaking the surface and creating powerful spouts and rainbowed curtains of white water.

  What a pretty and lonely place to die, she thought, thinking of the Fultons.

  Strobic and Kate’s progress slowed when they reached a perilous section of water-slicked ledges. That area evolved into a rugged stretch of craggy formations. As they emerged, Kate glanced downriver and gasped. Through a screen of leaves she’d spotted small dollops of color.

  She tapped Strobic’s shoulder and pointed.

  They stopped. He took out his long lens, found a steady position on a tree branch and focused.

  “Amazing!”

  He showed Kate, who squinted behind the viewfinder to distinguish the details of a head, an arm...another head.

  “I don’t believe it!”

  But it was true.

  There, about seventy-five yards downstream, a woman and boy were lying in an eddy. Kate and Strobic covered the distance between them so fast she barely remembered traversing it as they navigated their way down the cliff side to the riverbank below.

  Kate knelt beside them.

  The woman was bloodied and moaning. The boy’s lips were blue, his skin was white. His head was bleeding. He was unconscious but breathing. Both had makeshift bandages around their wounds.

  “Hang on!” Kate said. “We’re going to help you!”

  She had first-aid training and did what she could. With Strobic’s help they first moved them from the water to dry land. Then Kate yanked off her vest and jacket.

  “Give me your vest and shirt, Stan! We’ve got to keep them warm!”

  Kate pulled off the woman’s and boy’s wet clothes and wrapped them with the dry garments.

  Strobic reached into his bag for a small radio.

  “What’s that?” Kate asked.

  “A PLB!”

  “A what?”

  “A Personal Locator Beacon. I’ve just activated it. It’s got GPS and sends out a signal. The search team should pick it up and come to us!”

  The woman groaned and Kate leaned closer.

  “Help’s coming!” Kate took the woman’s hand. “Are you Lori and Billy Fulton?”

  The woman squeezed Kate’s hand.

  “You’re safe now, Lori. Help’s coming!”

  “Stop...them...must...stop them...”

  “Police are taking care of it,” Kate assured her.

  “They killed...husband...shot Dan... Murderers...going to attack...stop them...killed... Dan...he’s dead...”

  Kate shook her head. “No, Lori! Dan’s alive! He’s hurt but they found him! He’s in the hospital.”

  Lori squeezed Kate’s hand, hard. Her eyes flicked open to Kate.

  At that moment, they heard the approaching thump of a helicopter.

  77

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  Ghorbani’s knuckles whitened on the wheel as he drove.

  Reeling from the deteriorating situation, he faced the terrible truth: his plan wouldn’t work. Anything he tried at this point would be a risk.

  At MIT he was considered a genius. Yet, here he was, at a loss with so much at stake. But he wouldn’t give up because he’d always believed that for every problem, a solution existed for those who sought it.

  “What are we going to do? What’s your idea?” Jerricko asked.

  “I’m thinking! Let me work it out.”

  “We don’t have time! We need to do something now.”

  Ghorbani racked his brains for another option and continued praying with each passing mile. When they came back upon Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, the answer revealed itself to him in the form of the Canadian Travel-Ride tour bus that was parked at one side of the lot.

  The same bus they’d seen earlier.

  It’s dangerous, but it could work.

  Ghorbani pulled into a far end of the parking lot, turned off the car, popped the hood and got out.

  As he looked at the engine, the others joined him, puzzled.

  “Come on, Ghorbani! What’re we doing, stopping for tea?”

  “Listen to me, here’s what we’re going to do...”

  The engine ticked down and Ghorbani quickly outlined the risky plan, Jerricko and the others exchanging nervous glances with each other.

  “It’s the only chance we have,” Ghorbani said.

  “Let’s do it,” Jerricko said.

  Taking their backpacks from the back, the men ensured their handguns were concealed as they entered the busy diner. Nearly every table was occupied. Small lines formed at the restrooms. The air was heavy with aromas of bacon and coffee, the clink of cutlery and dozens of conversations.

  As Ghorbani took stock of the room, Jerricko and his team found an empty corner table and put their backpacks under it as they sat down. Ghorbani hung back, stopping at a table where he’d picked up snippets of conversation of four grandmothers nattering about their grandchildren.

  “Excuse me, ladies, are you with the tour bus?” Ghorbani asked.

  A woman with auburn-tinted hair and stylish glasses smiled up at him.

  “Why, yes, Officer. Are we under arrest?”

  The other women giggled.

  “Not this time,” he said. “Could you please direct me to your driver?”

  “That handsome man over there,” she answered, nodding in the direction of a white-haired man in his sixties sitting on a bar stool at the counter.

  “Thank you.”

  Ghorbani made his way over to the man, who was hunched over a coffee.

  “You’re the driver of the tour bus?”

  The man turned to Ghorbani, taking in his uniform.

  “I am. Is there a problem?”

  “We need your help. Where’re you coming from and where you headed?”

  “From Ottawa, Canada. Headed to Manhattan—hotel’s near Times Square.”

  “How many passengers? This a seniors’ tour?”

  “I got forty passengers, all ages, seniors and students. It’s a scenic charter package. Mind telling me what’s going on, Officer?”

  “We have an active dragnet in the area for several armed suspects from a bank robbery and shooting out of Queens, New York. Maybe you’ve heard about it on the news?”

  “Holy cow! My company did put out an advisory about some sort of police action on a robbery and shooting around New York City. I never realized it was this far out. Jeez, should’ve paid closer attention.”

  “Well, you just drove into the fringe of it. Did they stop you back at the state road before you got on to Red Hawk?”

  “No. It was all clear. I saw one patrol car just before we got here.”

  “Did you pick up any passengers once you entered the US?”

  “No, this is a solid all-Canadian tour group.”

  “Well, you’re going to be stopped and searched at the checkpoint at the junction with Birch Creek. It’ll mean a big delay.”

  “That’s going to frustrate my passengers.”

  “We may be able to help each other out. My patrol car’s engine just quit, those darned computer systems. You can’t trust them. My dispatcher said it could be a long wait before the service truck comes. My problem is I got to get these volunteer searchers—” Ghorbani nodded across the diner to Jerricko and the others “—up to the next search point, back beyond Red Hawk.”

  The driver nodded.

  “So how can I help?”

  “Let us ride with you. I
’ll let my people know your bus and passengers are clear, seeing how you just arrived, and you’re leaving the edge of the search boundary. You go back on Red Hawk to the state route and take the long way to the Thruway and New York.”

  “You think we should go back and take the longer way?”

  “In the end, it’ll save you time. We’ll get off when you reach the search point we need beyond the state route.”

  The driver rubbed his chin. “Think that will help?”

  “Definitely.”

  The driver nodded. “Okay, I’ll let my company know. But you gotta let us finish up here. People need to eat, and this is a scheduled stop arranged with the diner.”

  “How long you figure?”

  “Forty-five minutes?”

  “And you got seats for us on the bus?”

  “How many again?”

  “With me, five.”

  “Yes, you’re good.”

  “Thank you,” Ghorbani said. “That’s what we love about you Canadians. You always step up.”

  After slapping the driver on the back, Ghorbani joined Jerricko and the others at the table. Keeping his voice low, he updated them.

  “In about half an hour, we’re joining the bus tour which is going to Times Square. At some point, we’ll own it and forty hostages. We’ll order him to park it the Square. One of you will stay aboard. The others will take their places at Grand Central, Penn Station and the Staten Island Ferry. Once all the networks and online feeds go live with us, we’ll detonate everything.” He smiled broadly, clapping Jerricko on the back. “We’re not going to achieve our original goals—we’re going to exceed them.”

  78

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  Twenty minutes after the jackass had pulled away from his checkpoint, Trooper Larry Mattise was still pissed.

  Something about that guy troubled him, beyond the fact he was a jerk. He kept staring at the five suspects on his phone: Blaine, Patterson, Kimmett, Spencer and Ghorbani.

  Todd Dalir Ghorbani, of Springfield, Massachusetts.

  He looked harder at the last man—examining his mouth, his chin and ears.