Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  That’s it!

  That trooper looked like Ghorbani. A lot like him, now that Mattise thought of it. But it couldn’t be him. People looked like other people all the time. He was talking about another cop here, not a suspect. He was just pissed at the guy. He needed to calm down, let it go so he could focus on the job.

  A patrol unit eased up alongside Mattise.

  “Larry,” the trooper at the wheel said, snapping his gum. “Sarge sent me to spell you for a short break.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Go make a coffee run. I like mine black.”

  Mattise started his car, slid the transmission into Drive and rolled off.

  He had two choices for coffee. Mumford’s gas was down Birch Creek, but would likely be swamped from all the search activity in that sector. Jenny’s was down Red Hawk a bit farther, but Mattise decided it would probably be quicker if he avoided the search crowd.

  Along the way, his unease about the new trooper came back.

  I couldn’t read his patrol number, his troop or his zone. Nothing marked on his car. Was he a special? Or with the governor’s detail?

  Mattise had noticed the guy’s plate and thought he’d check it out as he drove. He punched it in, requesting dispatch to run it.

  It still bothered him that the cop had insisted on going down Red Hawk. Why give him so much trouble?

  And, damn it, he looks like one of the suspects.

  The dispatcher responded to his request.

  “Negative on your tag.”

  Mattise keyed his microphone: “What’d you mean?”

  “Nothing comes up, Larry.”

  “Is it a special or something?”

  “Negative. That plate is not registered with the state.”

  “Thanks. Ten-four.”

  Mattise took a breath, tightened his grip on the wheel and, for the next few miles, tried to downplay what was building in the back of his mind. Then he came to the section for Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, which stood at the roadside about sixty yards away.

  “Holy crap, I don’t believe this!”

  He braked hard and pulled to the shoulder, using a large rock formation and group of pine trees for cover. There, in the lot with the tour bus, the cars and pickups, was a marked state police unit with its hood up.

  A trooper was looking at the engine.

  That’s gotta be him.

  Four civilians were next to him.

  Mattise reached under his passenger seat for his binoculars, raised them to his eyes and adjusted them. The trooper was the first face that came into view. Mattise scrutinized the mouth, the chin, the sunglasses.

  Is that Ghorbani? Damn, it can’t be him!

  Mattise steadied the binoculars and focused on the other men one by one, checking them against the images on his phone.

  His stomach knotted. It’s them.

  The view went dark for several seconds as a car passed by on a long angle, blocking Mattise’s view. Then he saw the men walk into the diner with their backpacks. He took the tour bus and other vehicles into consideration. His breathing quickened as he sent his dispatcher a secure text.

  Five suspects sighted at Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, on Red Hawk Way, Mile 35. Request SWAT and backup to secure building ASAP. Potential hostage situation. Maintain radio silence.

  The dispatcher acknowledged.

  Mattise knew Columbia County’s SWAT team and Ulster County’s Emergency Response Team were near.

  A moment later the dispatcher alerted all law enforcement involved in the search of a report that the suspects had been sighted, followed with the location and an advisory for marked units to stay clear of the hot zone.

  Mattise’s cell phone rang.

  “This is Billich,” his lieutenant said. “You’re certain you’ve sighted the suspects? All five of them, Larry?”

  Mattise sat a little straighter.

  “Yes, sir, pretty certain.”

  “Pretty certain? Listen up. We’ve just received a report that the two hostages, the mother and the son, have been rescued on the Bearfoot River in Fox Ridge. We’re concentrating our SWAT people in that sector, so if you think we need to divert resources, you’d better be more than ‘pretty certain,’ do you hear me?”

  Mattise understood there’d be hell to pay if he was wrong here, but his gut told him he was doing the right thing.

  “I swear to you, sir, it’s them.”

  79

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  Reggie Hunter popped some breath mints in his mouth.

  It’d been sixteen years since he’d quit, but he’d kill for a smoke right now as he gazed down at Jenny’s from the SWAT command post.

  Two weeks from retirement and wouldn’t you know it, fate dropped this beauty in his lap. Hunter led Columbia County’s special ops section, but in thirty years of law enforcement he’d never seen anything like this.

  They had a count of fifty, maybe sixty potential hostages in the diner.

  Lord, help us.

  Luck had put his SWAT team and Ulster County’s Emergency Response Team within four miles of the building when the call came in. They’d moved fast and undetected by those in the diner to get deputies and troopers to block the highway and seal the area.

  Nothing went in or out as SWAT people took positions.

  They had hunkered unseen near the restaurant’s windows and strategic locations around the building. Snipers took up points out of sight in the woods, or from behind parked cars, trucks and the tour bus.

  Peering inside the diner with high-powered telescopes, they made visual identities of the five suspects and whispered updates over their headsets to Hunter at the command post. His phone vibrated nonstop with calls from the state police, FBI, ATF and Homeland people demanding status reports.

  Critical new information came in from Massachusetts, arising from the FBI’s investigation of Ghorbani’s residence in Springfield. A lease had led them to a rural property where they’d found Ghorbani’s Chevy, photos of a decommissioned New York State Police vehicle—the car parked at the diner—and trace evidence indicating Ghorbani had manufactured several IEDs.

  Hunter got a new call from his captain.

  “Reg, we’re getting leaned on from Albany and Washington. These guys attempted to murder a family and are behind an impending attack. You’re authorized to take them out the first opportunity you have.”

  “Doug, we’ve got a lot of innocent people here.”

  “Do whatever you have to do to terminate the threat, Reg. No one leaves that parking lot until it’s done.”

  Tension had numbed Hunter’s neck and shoulders. He resumed crunching on his mints, time ticking down as he ran through his scenarios.

  Storming the building would cost many lives. Calling in to negotiate would prompt the suspects to take hostages and that would also cost lives. Lives were at stake with every turn. One option was for SWAT snipers to pick off each suspect once all five exited the diner.

  “Devon? Bobby?” Hunter whispered to his squad leaders. “Do we have a lock on each target, clear to take the shot?”

  “We do, Reg.”

  “Affirmative, Reg.”

  “All right, this is what—”

  “Heads up!” Devon Sorrell interrupted. “Major activity! People are leaving! Stand by!”

  “Wait until all five are out!” Hunter said. “Watch their hands—they’ve got IEDs! When all five are out, you have a green light.”

  * * *

  Ghorbani and the driver led the passengers as they began flowing from the diner into the parking lot.

  Jerricko and the others were behind him, mixed in with the other passengers.

  Once the bus got to Red Hawk’s intersectio
n with the state road, Ghorbani would inform troopers there that it had been searched and cleared at Birch Creek and was leaving the area.

  It’s going to—

  Ghorbani froze. A boot and camouflage pants reflected in the door of a polished pickup truck. For a moment, Ghorbani couldn’t believe or understand what he was seeing. As more people streamed from the diner, it suddenly became crystalline.

  Police SWAT!

  “Police! This is it! God calls now! Detonate now! Detonate now!” Ghorbani yelled to the others as he slid his arm around the surprised driver’s neck and placed his gun to his head. In that instant, the air cracked and Ghorbani dropped dead to the ground before he could pull the trigger. A police sniper’s bullet had ripped through his brain.

  * * *

  In that moment, with nearly all passengers outside, one of the suspects, upon seeing Ghorbani die, hooked his arm around Trevor Williamson, a seven-year-old boy from Ottawa, Canada, who was on vacation with his mom. The suspect was wearing his bomb-laden backpack. His fingers gripped the detonation cord as a police bullet tore through his neck, while another drove through his frontal lobe, killing him.

  “Police! Everyone on the ground now! Now! Now! Get down!”

  With the yelling and gunfire, conversations stopped, smiles faded into confusion with shouting and screaming. Some people tried to run and bumped into others.

  While on his knees a suspect lifted his backpack to heaven and as he reached for the cord police fired upon him, bullets drilling through his head and chest, killing him.

  “Get down! Everybody down!”

  Passengers lowered themselves, huddled on their knees, hugged and comforted each other; some people panicked and ran while another suspect eyed a cluster of SWAT members behind a car, and at the side of the tour bus, slid on his backpack, rushing with blinding speed toward them, his finger’s grappling the detonation cord. His body was hammered by shots as he yelled: “Glory to God!” charging them, swinging between parked cars and the bus, yanking the detonation cord.

  A blinding flash of light. The air spasmed.

  Boom!

  The shock wave lifted the cars, shattered glass and whip-sprayed bloodied visceral matter in all directions. The blast ignited small fires around the twisted cars and bus, which had absorbed much of the explosion.

  People screamed, cried out.

  It was hard to tell if they were injured from the bomb, or in shock after being splattered with blood. In the chaos, some people tried to run as SWAT team members and other officers swooped in from all directions, forcing everyone to freeze. They pinpointed the fifth suspect, who was uninjured, handcuffed him at gunpoint, then took him away.

  Police teams rushed into the diner from the rear and front, ordering people to the floor, securing the building. The burning air reeked as it filled with smoke from the fires and the wailing of sirens.

  80

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  Kate and Strobic hiked faster out of the woods than they did going in.

  Fueled by adrenaline at having helped rescue the Fultons, they were driven to get the story and photos to headquarters. Trotting and leaping over rocks, they sailed through the rugged terrain.

  With each step, Kate composed her story in her head, while in her heart her prayers went with Lori and Billy and the thought of the helicopter hoisting them skyward in the rescue basket.

  I hope they make it! They’ve got to make it!

  Arriving breathless at the pickup truck, they set out to work. Strobic called up his strongest photos and began adjusting and cropping them. Kate began writing on her phone, fingers blurring as she concentrated on every detail of how they found the Fultons, their condition, their surroundings and Lori Fulton’s words.

  They worked at top speed while the radios crackled.

  “We’ve got a solid signal, are you ready to file?” Strobic said.

  “Ready.”

  Kate sent her story to New York without proofing it. Better to send raw copy in while they could and let the desk clean it up. Strobic showed her the dramatic pictures he’d sent.

  After Strobic read Kate’s story, he said: “Looks good. Another exclusive for Newslead. Want to go to Albany, try to get the family in the hospital?”

  “I think the story’s still here—”

  They both jumped at a sudden transmission squawking from the scanner.

  “...explosion at Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, on Red Hawk Way, Mile 35...multiple injuries... Columbia SWAT on scene...request fire and all available EMS...”

  * * *

  Strobic pushed his Silverado hard.

  Six miles from the diner they’d caught up to a fire truck, sirens screaming, lights flashing as it roared to the scene with Strobic behind it.

  The area still afforded a good signal and Kate’s phone rang with a call from Reeka in Manhattan.

  “Where are you, Kate? We’ve got reports from our stringer of an explosion and gunfire with fatalities at a gas station, Jenny’s—”

  “Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, on Red Hawk Way!” Kate shouted over the siren. “We’re on it! About five or six miles—no wait—Stan says now we’re two or three miles from it!”

  “Good. Nice job on the rescue story and pics you just sent. Is it exclusive?”

  “Totally.”

  “Excellent. Keep us posted on the diner. We heard people have been killed. We need to confirm the toll, so get back to me ASAP!”

  They’d gone another two miles when the fire truck in front of them slowed.

  Up ahead in the distance they saw the diner and the havoc—tangles of emergency vehicles’ lights wigwagging, a tour bus surrounded by a smoky haze, and police choppers overhead.

  Immediately in front of them a state police car blocked the road. It moved, allowing the fire truck to pass, then returned to obstructing entry. A trooper standing at the point raised his hand, halting Strobic.

  Kate shouted that they were news media.

  “Park it on the side, go up to the tape!” the trooper said.

  Strobic pulled the pickup to the shoulder alongside the dense forest. He and Kate grabbed their bags. They hurried down the road to the yellow tape, catching the smell of gas and burning plastic from the destroyed vehicles.

  “Looks like a war zone,” Strobic shouted over the circling helicopters as he raised his camera and shot the scene.

  Kate walked the full line of the tape, searching for a spokesperson or official. She saw no one. Paramedics and firefighters were tending to a dozen bleeding people outside the diner. Investigators in plain clothes were talking to other civilians while taking notes. K-9 units were probing the luggage in the tour bus storage compartments. Studying the mayhem, Kate continued walking all the way to the far side where she spotted Nick Varner talking to a county commander and an older man who looked like he was the tour bus driver.

  Varner was taking notes.

  Kate waited until his attention shifted, then gave a little wave with her notebook. Varner glanced at her then resumed working.

  Determined to talk to him, Kate stood her ground.

  Several long minutes later, Varner went to Kate at the tape.

  “Did you get them? Is it over, Varner?”

  “We’re still sorting things out.”

  “Bull. You know what happened here. What’s the toll?”

  “I told you, we’re still putting it all together.”

  Kate tapped her notebook to her leg.

  “Come on, Nick. I held back on reporting that you had intel about a planned attack. I played fair with you. And we helped find Lori and Billy Fulton.”

  “I heard that. We still need a statement from you.”

  “It’s in the story I just filed. I’ll show you, on the conditio
n you tell me what happened.”

  Varner’s jaw tightened. Kate could only imagine the words running through his mind.

  “Show it to me,” he said.

  “Are you going to help me?”

  “Show it to me.”

  She cued up her story on her phone, and he read through it.

  “Well?” she said.

  Though he was reluctant, Varner kept their deal and cooperated, summarizing how a trooper had identified one of the suspects and how it led to the discovery of the others at the diner; how the suspects planned to board the Canadian tour bus bound for New York and elude the dragnet with upwards of forty passengers as hostages or victims. He outlined how SWAT teams moved into place and took out three suspects.

  “Unfortunately, one suspect managed to explode his device.”

  Kate wrote fast as Varner continued.

  “About ten civilians were injured, three critically, and others suffered minor flesh wounds from shrapnel. Four of the five suspects were killed, the fifth is uninjured and in custody. One suspect charged at SWAT team members in suicide fashion, detonating the device. Fortunately, it went off between parked cars, which absorbed most of the blast. It could’ve been worse. Bomb techs have removed other unexploded IEDs from the dead suspects.”

  “So it’s over, Nick?”

  “We’re still investigating, but, yes, we think it’s over, Kate.”

  81

  Catskill, New York

  Within an hour of the explosion, the surviving suspect was handcuffed and thrust into a hard-back chair in a barren holding room of the state police barracks in Catskill.

  During the drive from the scene he’d refused to answer questions.

  Now sitting across the table was NYPD detective Marv Tilden and FBI special agent Nick Varner. The snap, snap, snap, snap, akin to laying down playing cards, was sharp as Varner set down four color photos: Todd Dalir Ghorbani, Jerricko Titus Blaine, Jake Sebastian Spencer and Doug Gerard Kimmett.

  “Do you recognize these men?” Varner asked.

  “They sat near me at the diner. Is that why I’m under arrest?”

  “We have witnesses who say you sat with them, that you were with them?”