On the corner, less than a block away, they came upon a small one-story, faded-yellow house surrounded by a banged-up fence bent in on all sides. The lawn on both sides of the cracked cement walkway leading to the front door was filled with weeds and sporadic patches of dirt.
The gray sky above showed signs of an approaching storm as they continued to close in on the desolate house. The only two windows in the front were covered by thick curtains. There was no garage, no driveway, and no definitive way of telling which cars on the street belonged to which house.
“All right, slow down,” Craig said, signaling toward the corner. “Pull up right along here.”
Patterson, already wearing his vest, coasted the car to a halt and jammed it into park. A SWAT team van pulled to the side of the house in front of them. A line of three unmarked black SUVs systematically followed, covering the rear of the house on the other side.
Craig gripped his radio tightly in one hand and his pistol in the other. Patterson scanned the house from the driver's seat. There was no one outside and no signs of life from inside either. The neighborhood was fairly quiet as well, though it was still early morning, and they hoped to catch the men off guard.
“All teams go,” Craig said. The back doors of a police van swung open and several SWAT team members jumped out, rifles in hand, in uniform: ammo vests, gloves, helmets, goggles, kneepads, elbow pads, and boots. “SWAT” was affixed across the back of their vests in large white lettering.
Two team members held a battering ram. They advanced to the house in careful tactical movements, past the front gate and onto the lawn, as the other half of the team split up and went to the back. They knew their points: the front and back doors. Several plainclothes FBI counter terrorism agents surrounded the house.
Patterson looked at Craig in anticipation. “You ready?”
Craig looked around. For a moment he thought about his wife Rachael and their son Nick. They were always on his mind right before a bust; a reminder to not get shot.
“Let's move,” he said.
They stepped out of the Dodge simultaneously as a gust of wind blew through their hair. A rumbling in the sky followed. Dark clouds coasted above like floating blankets concealing the sun. The storm was close. Craig spoke into his microphone. “Hold your positions.”
The first SWAT team advanced to the front door while the second team held tight in the back. They briefly listened for the sound of movement inside and then searched the doors for wires and explosives. Craig drew his gun and moved along the sidewalk with Patterson following. A woman in a bathrobe walked by with two young children, observing the scene with curiosity. Craig waved her past and told her to keep moving. Once she passed, Craig and his partner moved in lockstep through the gate with their pistols aimed forward.
The dilapidated house was just ten steps away. It looked vacant. Once both teams confirmed that the doors were free of wires, Craig spoke into the small mic attached to his headset. “All teams move.”
The first team knocked the front door open with one thrust of the battering ram, splitting it from its frame like a matchstick. Following the crash, the team rushed in with the beams of their rifle lights moving wildly around the room. They were quick to notice a man lying on one of two couches in the dark and stuffy living room.
“Down on the ground. Now!” the lead SWAT member shouted.
“Get down!” another officer commanded, with his rifle poised, ready to fire.
The bearded man jumped up with eyes wide and his face stricken with panic.
Suddenly, the back door to the kitchen busted open. More SWAT members rushed in. The lights on their barrels moved across the room systematically. Shouts came from every direction.
“Move, move, move!”
“Three o'clock! Suspect at my three!”
The confused man leapt off the couch and tried to run down the hallway. Two bulky SWAT team members rushed him like Spanish bulls, tackling him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. Their knees and elbows dug into his frail, skinny body just as he felt a pop in his arm. His muffled screams drained into the green carpet. His hands were pulled behind his back and zip-tied as the rest of the SWAT team rushed past the living room and adjacent kitchen, into a short hallway with three closed doors.
“Moving!”
“Entry points on my nine, twelve, and five!”
The FBI agents searched the kitchen as Craig took a quick glance around. The counters and sink were full of dirty dishes. A kitchen table sat in the middle of the vinyl floor, littered with fast-food wrappers, empty pizza boxes, and Styrofoam cups. The place looked no different than a trashy college dorm, until something in the living room caught his eye.
As he moved to follow the SWAT team, he saw a flag pinned to the wall in the center of the living room, directly above the television stand. It was the black flag of the Islamic State. Craig knew its symbolism well. He had been studying the extremist militant group for some time. Adorned with white Arabic lettering, the top read, “There is no God but Allah,” while the center seal in the middle read, “Allah, Prophet, Muhammad.”
A part of him held on to the hope that the suspects in the house were little more than wannabes with no real association with the Middle Eastern terrorist organization. He had no time to contemplate his concerns as more shouting came from down the hallway.
The SWAT team had split into smaller groups and lined themselves against both sides of the hallway. In unison, they kicked open the flimsy doors to each room in startling succession.
“Get down!” the officer shouted into the first room.
As they entered, two men jumped up from their slumber from mattresses on the floor, pistols in hand, and went immediately for a nearby window.
“Down on the ground now!” another officer shouted.
The room was barren aside from some clothes strewn on the carpet next to three thin mattresses. An old air conditioner rattled against the window sill. Realizing that they couldn't escape the room in time, the men held their pistols to their heads, but were pummeled into the wall and thrown to the ground at breakneck speed. Their weapons flew onto the carpet as they cried out in Arabic, alerting the others in the house.
Craig ran down to the first bedroom, trying to get a glimpse inside. He heard the shouts of the subdued men—repetitive chants calling on Allah to take them away.
The other SWAT officers stormed inside the other rooms, only to find more men scrambling to get away. The noise, shouting, and flashlight beams sent the startled and confused men jostling into each other in a desperate attempt to get away. The SWAT team subdued them immediately.
“I want them taken alive!” Craig said into his mic as he strolled past the rooms with his pistol raised. At the end of the hallway was a small bathroom.
The SWAT members continued to communicate with each other.
“Suspects down, room clear!”
“I got two males in the first room. Both were armed.”
“Second room clear. I've got three males. One had a knife.”
Craig made it to the third room just as some officers knelt on the backs of two struggling men. Next to them, on the floor, were prayer rugs and open luggage. The place, if anything, looked to serve primarily as a transient house. The cries of the captured men grew louder until one of the officers stuffed balled-up T-shirts from the floor into each of their mouths, muffling them.
Patterson searched through the living room and kitchen just as the first suspect was being escorted out of the house.
He opened some curtains, letting light into the room from the cloudy skies outside. The agents stared at the ISIS flag pinned to the wall in the center of the room. No matter how many times they had seen the flag in the news and on TV, it was just as unsettling to see one hanging in front of them.
As he approached the bathroom, Craig could see white fabric of a shoulder poking out behind the bathroom wall on the other side, near the door.
“Step out of there! Han
ds up!”
The shoulder disappeared into the bathroom. There was no response.
“Do it! Now!”
The SWAT team members heard Craig's commands and stepped out of the bedrooms, rifles drawn.
Without warning, a disheveled man bolted out of the bathroom and charged at Craig. He was unarmed, only a few feet away, and quickly advancing. With only a second to respond, Craig aimed downward and blasted the man in his left leg. The shot tore through bone and took him to the ground. He tumbled in agony and fell face first, inches from Craig's boot.
SWAT team members quickly descended on him as the man screamed out in pain. They held his hands behind his back and pulled the zip-tie over his wrists. Craig stood with his gun still aimed, having not fired at someone for more than three years. An officer ran past him into the bathroom to conduct a search. He scanned the empty bathtub, toilet, and sink with his weapon light.
“Bathroom's clear!”
“Now it is,” Patterson said, placing his hands on Craig's shoulder from behind him. “You guys were a little late on that one, Sergeant.”
“Yes sir,” the leader of the SWAT Team, Sergeant First Class Rivera, said. He took off his helmet and ran his hands through his sweaty hair.
Craig lowered his gun and looked down at his feet. His attacker moaned on the ground with a puddle of drool under his mouth and a thick pool of blood soaking into the carpet from his leg.
“You all right there?” Patterson asked.
“Yeah,” Craig said nodding his head. “Let's get these guys out of here.”
He lowered his pistol and put it in its side holster. The SWAT team officers filed out of the separate bedrooms leading their suspects outside. Craig counted them. There were nine total. He walked through the bedrooms with Patterson, surveying the scene as the men were led beyond the gate and herded into a holding van.
“Not much to look at, eh?” Patterson said as he stood in one of the bedrooms. He rested his hands on the hips of his blue jeans near where his badge was anchored to his belt.
The rooms was mainly barren with the exception of a few roll-up mattresses and some bags of clothes tossed in the corner of the floor.
“Looks like they were getting ready to leave,” Craig said. “Trying to get a head start.”
They joined the other FBI agents in the living room. One man was taking pictures of the ISIS flag, while a female officer dusted the kitchen counters for prints. Outside, police were running yellow tape around the yard while three Homeland Security agents, just showing up and dressed like Secret Service men, approached the house and strolled right inside.
“Look who finally wants to get in on the action,” Patterson said to Craig while signaling out the door.
From the kitchen, Craig looked up as the men walked into the house. “This is our scene, and I don’t care what they say.”
He leaned closer to Patterson, talking into his ear. “And let me tell you something else. I think that man in the bathroom wanted me to shoot him. None of these men wanted to be caught. They would have preferred to die, had we used lethal force.”
“If that’s true, I bet he’s rethinking the decision now on a gimpy leg,” Patterson said.
The Homeland officials paced around the living room and looked up at the ISIS flag above them.
“Agent Davis, can we have a word?” A blond-haired man with a thirtyish baby face and sunglasses looked over impatiently.
Craig held up his index finger, signaling them to wait. “The answers are here, Patterson. Somewhere. We're missing one suspect.”
“Maybe we're not searching well enough,” Patterson said.
“I don’t know, but keep your eyes open.”
Patterson continued his search through the kitchen, the cabinets, and the pantry as other agents again searched the rooms, hall closet, and everywhere else.
Craig approached the Homeland group in the living room.
“Good work, Agent Davis,” the blond man said, smiling through his sunglasses. He was flanked by two stern-faced men who remained quiet. Blondie was the deputy assistant to the Homeland director, Alfie Jenkins, of whom Craig was not a fan.
“Thanks for helping us out,” Patterson muttered, walking by.
“Pardon me?” Jenkins said.
Craig turned to him. “Nothing, nothing. The bust went well, Deputy Jenkins. However, this house needs an extensive search. There's still another one out there.”
“I heard you shot one of the suspects in the leg.”
Craig nodded. “He rushed. I was perfectly within bounds to defend myself.”
“Careful,” Jenkins said, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re sounding a little defensive there.”
“This operation isn’t over,” Craig said. “We’re still looking for one more.”
“Interesting,” Jenkins said. With that, he turned to walk away, taking a quick glance at the large ISIS flag hanging on the wall. Jenkins called to his men as he walked out the busted front door.
“Wait!” Craig said, chasing after them. “Where are you going?”
Jenkins stopped and turned around. “Yes, Agent Davis?”
“This is my case, and those are my suspects,” Craig seethed.
Jenkins nodded in understanding but with the self-satisfied smirk that had continually gotten under Craig’s skin. “You'll have to take that up with your chain of command. We have specific instructions to take possession of the prisoners. I’m told that the president made the request himself.”
“Bullshit,” Craig said. “You can't do this.”
Jenkins walked away without saying a word, leaving Craig aghast in confusion.
Homeland pushed the last prisoner into a separate van and closed the doors. Before Craig could even register the very thought of his entire case being ripped from under him, they sped off, leaving only a thin trail of exhaust in their wake.
Homicide Bombing
When the Homeland Security Department had been formed, several different agencies were placed under the department, including the U.S. Customs Service and Border Patrol. Investigating terrorism fell largely on the shoulders of the FBI, while the CIA continued foreign and overseas intelligence collection. The NSA also widened its scope of data collection. With so many departments and agencies dedicated to fighting terrorism, it seemed that sleeper cells would become a thing of the past. This assumption, however, had become less accurate over the years.
Craig had tried to keep up with all the changes through his ten years with the FBI, and for the most part, he took his job seriously. And like most field agents, he loathed the bureaucratic red tape and political posturing that plagued the agency. He just wanted to capture the bad guys. After the Minneapolis sleeper-cell bust, one thing was clear: the concept of the agencies working together in harmony, sharing information, and helping the United States fight domestic threats was more of a myth than a reality.
The raid had gone reasonably well. No casualties. But also no hard evidence of terrorist activities other than an ISIS flag hanging in the living room. To get to the bottom of the case, Craig needed to go back to the evidence from his original investigation, the information that brought him to the sleeper-cell house in the first place.
While discussing their next move with Patterson in the front yard of the house, he noticed a white van idling at the end of the street watching them from behind a long line of a dozen other cars parked along the way. He could make out the shape of the driver sitting inside.
“What is it?” Patterson asked, noticing Craig’s distraction.
Without response, Craig moved past the front yard to the sidewalk. He walked toward the van, where it sat roughly a block from the house, exhaust fuming into the cool morning air. It could have been nothing, just a man sitting in his van, but Craig didn’t want to take any chances.
Patterson ducked under the yellow police tape and trailed behind, not sure where Craig was heading or why. But he knew that whatever it was, his partner was on to something. Their
team continued the search for evidence inside and outside the house, while Homeland had already departed with their main suspects.
“Agent Davis!” Patterson said.
Craig drew his gun and signaled ahead. Patterson pulled his pistol from his holster and looked up the road to see an idling white van. In the driver’s seat, he could see movement. The driver had spotted them. Without warning, the van flew back in reverse, smashing into the front end of a station wagon parked behind it. The loud crash brought several other field agents rushing outside.
Craig ran toward the van just as it maneuvered out of the tightly packed space, where it was wedged between the station wagon and a Mustang. The van then lurched forward with overcompensation and rear-ended the Mustang with a crash. Bits and pieces of the van’s front grille and headlights fell onto the pavement as it drove out into the road.
Tires screeched as the van barreled down the road at full speed in their direction. Craig jumped directly into its path with his gun aimed at the windshield. The driver showed no intention of slowing down as clouds of exhaust billowed out into the air.
Craig stood directly on the divider line of the two-lane road, and held his pistol firmly into the air. Déjà vu consumed him as if he had done the same thing only moments before. Only this time, it wasn’t a man running at him—it was two tons of unstoppable plastic and metal, headed right for him with murderous determination.
“Craig!” Patterson shouted from the sidewalk. “Get the hell outta the way!”
Craig aimed right for the driver and fired two successive shots, both at the driver’s head as shell casings flew into the air. The van took an immediate shift to the right and crashed into the long line of vehicles on the street. Patterson rushed onto the street and tackled Craig into some nearby grass just as the van exploded into a fiery ball. Flames spread over the tops of the cars as Craig’s head knocked into a phone pole. Then everything went black.
The FBI team ran outside and watched in astonishment as the blast erupted onto the street. One agent jumped back as another hit the ground, covering his head.
Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Page 48
