by J. G. Sandom
“While I appreciate how difficult your position with your students’ parents must be,” Hellard said, “I’m trying to fight the war against terrorism here. And while I did solicit your blessing to use these facilities, I don’t really need it. I only asked as a courtesy, Ms. Cucillo. If I could have picked another property, another location, I would have. Certainly, we try and avoid using schools in these kinds of operations. But your building is perfectly placed, I’m afraid. The only suitable location. I’m not sending anyone home, or doing anything out of the ordinary that might tip off the suspects we’re tracking. Have your kids close their eyes and pray for a few minutes if they have to as the squad passes by. God knows, they’ll need it.”
The principal turned in a huff and pushed her way through the crowd: past the marksmen, setting up their M-92 sniper rifles near the windows; past the SWAT Team and NYPD representatives. They barely even noticed her as she stormed from the room. Most were clumped around scores of monitors, keeping an eye on the townhouse on Seventy-second Street, or listening through eavesdropping devices. Others gathered in knots, getting ready, checking their weapons—MP5 submachine guns, M4 Carbines, and Remington 870 shotguns. On their hips they carried Glock .22s.
Storm Troopers, thought Decker. Then who’s the rebel alliance?
“Now, where were we?” asked Hellard. He turned back to face Decker. “You were saying?”
“I’m the only one who can identify him, sir,” Decker answered, trying to pick up the thread. “The only one who’s seen him up close and in person. And I’m qualified. I was part of the JTTF in New York before being transferred to the NCTC.”
“Yeah, you told me. I’m familiar with your record, Special Agent Decker.” He sighed. “Look, when you asked to come up here for this raid, I agreed because I thought you might add some value to the team. But I never intended for you to actually enter the house. You know that. Why didn’t you ask me this earlier?”
“If I’d asked you before, you would have said no. Like you always do.”
“It’s true what he says about being able to ID the suspect,” said Doherty. “We’ve got four men inside, and we’re pretty sure El Aqrab’s one of them. But we can’t be one hundred percent certain. And if the others are only innocent bystanders, civilians, it might get ugly in there. Remember what happened in Queens last September.”
“You too?” Hellard said with frustration.
“I’m just saying.”
“You wouldn’t have even found this place if I hadn’t broken into that system in Iran,” Decker said.
“That’s my point. I realize you want to follow your cases into the field, Special Agent Decker, but you’re primarily a cryptanalyst forensic examiner. The last thing we need is for you to get your head blown off in some raid. The hero of the mega-tsunami.”
“Is that what this is about?” Decker took a step back from the desk. “Some PR concern, is that it? Is that why you’re always preventing me from going out into the field?”
“I don’t prevent you.”
“You wouldn’t let me go to Philadelphia, on that raid on H2O2’s loft. Any other Special Agent attached to such a case would have been permitted to go. But not me. You always find some excuse to keep me at the Center. Well, if you’re trying to keep me out of harm’s way just to safeguard your image, or the image of this department, once the media finds out—”
“Are you threatening me, Decker?”
“For all we know, the suspect’s not even in there,” said Doherty, becoming increasingly frustrated. “Look, this is your pissing match,” he continued. “I don’t have a horse in this race. Just let me know in two minutes whose is bigger. It’s time to suit up.” He lumbered away from the table and joined the rest of the squad.
Decker looked back at Hellard. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent, sir—”
“You could have fooled me.”
“It’s just that I can’t stand sitting around that little plastic tent anymore, looking down at her, waiting. I...I need to do something. Help get the people responsible.” Decker grasped at the words. They seemed to scurry before him, just out of reach.
“I’ve been seven years at the NCTC and, in all that time, sir, I’ve never asked you once for a favor, just what’s due me. No special assignments. No extra duty. I’ve been a part of every campaign that you’ve mounted to raise funds for the Center, knowing full well that you were exploiting my background, my personal profile to help you rally support on the Hill. I didn’t care. I wanted to help. For seven long years I’ve taken and eaten every shit sandwich you’ve served me. And I’ve never complained. Seven years, sir. Well, I’m asking for this. I...need this.”
Decker didn’t know what else to say. No one seemed to understand, except Rex, perhaps, and Ben Seiden, his friend from the Mossad, with whom he had worked during the El Aqrab incident. Seiden had telephoned Decker from his new post in Shanghai as soon as he’d heard about Becca. He too had a vested interest in making sure El Aqrab hadn’t somehow resurfaced.
“Jesus Christ, John,” said Hellard. “I know I’m going to regret this. But I guess as long as Doherty’s okay with it, if you want to risk making your daughter an orphan, be my guest. It’s your funeral.”
CHAPTER 11
Wednesday, December 4
Ten minutes later, the squad was assembled and ready at the base of the stairs near the back door leading out to the playground. Decker was among them, at the rear of the line. He felt claustrophobic in his helmet and body armor. His knee pads were so stiff that he found it difficult walking. And with his face stocking and goggles and chin guard, it was hard just to breathe.
He clutched the MP5 to his chest. An A2, made by Heckler & Koch, with a synthetic polymer stock, lightweight and air-cooled, the whole thing—even with the curved magazine packing thirty-two rounds—probably weighed less than three kilos. Yet it felt significantly heavier than the Glock .22 he generally carried when, on those rare occasions, Decker was allowed out into the field. FBI standard issue, the Glock was an exceptional handgun. But Decker relished the MP5’s sturdy feel and design, not to mention its stopping power. This is the gun that you want in close quarters, he thought. That’s why the FBI used it, and most SWAT teams, as well as the SEALS. It could cut through a wall, or a car door, or a man in a matter of seconds. And it dawned on him that it was these kinds of details that most stick in the mind during moments like this one. When everything stops. In that pause between the thought and the act. Like the prow of a freighter lifted up by a wave, lifted higher and higher, until it finally hesitates, before finally descending. Like Emily and Becca on that waterslide in Orlando, waiting for the world to drop out from beneath them.
Outside, through the window, he could see giant white flakes drifting down from the sky. Like the ash which had swirled round his townhouse.
Captain Doherty signaled. They checked their earpieces one more, just in case. Then Doherty kicked the door open and they entered the courtyard.
“We’re heading across the playground now,” Doherty said. The line of eight men kept close to the building as they snaked their way beside the see-saws and swing sets and monkey bars. The snow made it difficult to see, especially with all their gear on. It had already started to accumulate in certain spots on the ground.
When they reached the corner of the building, the men paused.
“They’re still inside. Suspects two, three and four on the third floor, and suspect one on the second,” said the voice in his earpiece.
“Copy that,” Captain Doherty answered. “We’re heading into the garden.”
He bolted around the building, across ten feet of open ground, and dashed under a London planetree at the rear of the property. The other men followed, one by one, in a line. When they had assembled under cover, one of the team opened a hole, which had been cut earlier that morning, in the black chain-link fence. Moments later, they were inside.
The garden was only around thirty feet long, bordered by another ch
ain-link fence on one side and a small stand of evergreen shrubs on the other. There was a wooden shed at the rear of the property. They hovered behind it. Beyond the gray-shingled roof of the shed, Decker could see the house where the suspects were hiding.
“Team two is in place,” someone said. A second team had made its way along the rooftops of the townhouses on Seventy-second Street. If they were in place, it meant they were only a few yards from the target. Decker took a peek around the shed but the men on the roof were invisible.
A dog started to bark in the garden next door, on the other side of the evergreens. A pit bull. It barked and it barked.
“Someone shut that dog up. What’s it doing?” the voice said in his earpiece.
“It’s a guard dog. It’s guarding,” said Doherty. “We didn’t see it before. It must have been dozing.”
“Take it out. It’ll raise the alarm.”
“No, wait,” Decker said, cutting in. “Check the window.”
A figure appeared in the second story window at the rear of the house. A man. He had dark luminous eyes and a thin lupine face. There was no doubt about it.
El Aqrab!
Decker felt his fingers tense up on his gun. The man who had once tried to kill him and Emily, who had blown up his house, who had wrapped Becca up with magnesium ribbon and set fire to her.
El Aqrab stared out the window at the pit bull in the garden next door.
The dog was still barking. He was chained up to a stake in the ground, but he was yanking and pulling at it, trying to lunge at the men on the far side of the evergreen shrubs.
“When he leaves, take blue squad up the front staircase, as planned,” Decker said. “Red squad can remain in the kitchen. If we’re lucky, the dog’s barking will bring him right down to us.”
Doherty ran back to the rear of the line. He pulled Decker aside. “I let you come along because you said you’d take orders,” he spat. He brought his face close to Decker’s. “I’m not changing the plan, is that clear? Two teams. Blue up the front and red up the rear. As I briefed you and everyone else. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Decker. Although the captain’s eyes were barely visible in the slits of his face stocking, Decker could see that Doherty was furious. The dog kept on barking.
“As soon as the suspect’s out of sight, shut that dog up,” said Doherty to another man.
The dog windmilled about on his chain. He barked and he barked, then he stepped into the shadows. A moment later, he was still.
The man put his .22 back in his holster. With the suppressor, the shot had been virtually soundless. Decker hadn’t even seen the agent take aim. There was a hole in the pit-bull’s left eye.
Sometimes the absence of sound rings the loudest, thought Decker. It was something his old sensei, Master Yamaguchi, had taught him. They should have let the pit bull keep barking. Decker looked up at the house but the man in the window was gone.
“Go, go,” Doherty said, and they tore through the garden, past the table and clothesline, past the lawn chairs and garden gnomes to the rear of the house. The door was unlocked. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Doherty opened the door very slowly, trying to keep the old hinges from squeaking. The five-man blue team entered the kitchen. They filed past the fridge and the counter, down the hall toward the parlor, moving quickly and quietly, swinging their weapons as they canvassed each room, every corner. Once they reached the front door, they paused at the foot of the stairs. In the meantime, the three-man red team, including Decker, slipped off toward the stairwell at the rear of the house.
“They’re moving,” said the voice in his ear. “Suspect two toward the garden. Suspects three and four toward the street.”
“Someone’s lifting the roof cover,” another voice said. One of the men from Team B.
“Suspect one heading toward the rear of the house.”
But the two men before him had already entered the stairwell. Decker watched as they climbed up the steps, clutching their weapons, swaying from side to side in their body armor.
Gunfire crackled somewhere else in the house.
“Team blue taking fire,” said Doherty. He had reached the third floor.
And then gunfire exploded in the stairwell around him. Decker could see the first of his squad take a hit in the neck, just below the edge of his helmet.
Blood spurted in a great arc as he collapsed against the agent behind him. His MP5 chattered. Bullets ripped up the wall. There was another shot and the second man threw his arms in the air. Decker barely had time to get out of the way, back into the kitchen, as the agent somersaulted to the foot of the stairs.
“Suspect two on the roof. Take him out, Bill. Take him out!” someone shouted. Decker could hear shots going off intermittently.
“Suspects three and four down. Clear.”
“Clear,” someone else said, but it wasn’t. At least, not in the stairwell.
Decker looked at the agent at the foot of the stairs. He was shaking and writhing in pain. Without warning, another bullet slammed into his mouth, blowing off a piece of his jawbone and cheek. Decker backed away from the doorframe instinctively.
Someone started walking downstairs. Decker could hear him, despite the stutter of gunfire in the distance. The man wasn’t running. He was taking his sweet fucking time. One step, then another, as he slipped past the corpse at the top of the stairs.
Decker could hear his own muffled breathing as he sucked air through his face stocking. He leveled his assault rifle, moved back a few feet.
There was no cover in the kitchen but he ducked behind the stove nonetheless. He took aim at the door. Now, the MP5 felt like a toy in his hands.
“Clear,” someone else said. “Clear.”
Decker waited in the glare of the harsh kitchen light. He could hear every movement around him, as if each sound had been magnified: the drip of the faucet in the sink; the squeak of each step in the stairwell as the stranger approached. Even the gunfire seemed to have stopped.
A shadow, then a figure appeared in the doorway. The man took a step forward, stepping over the corpse at his feet.
Decker couldn’t see his whole face but he knew who it was. El Aqrab. He could tell by the way that he moved. There was a gun in his hand.
“Drop it,” said Decker. It took every ounce of strength at the heart of his being not to squeeze off a round, not to stand back and watch as the back of the terrorist’s head burst apart like a melon.
The man froze. He slowly opened his fingers and the gun fell to the floor.
“Turn around.”
The man started to pivot, to turn and his face finally swam into view.
He looks just like El Aqrab, Decker thought. Just like him. Except that he’s not.
The man smiled and Decker was certain.
There was a sound, or the absence of it, as if the air were being sucked from the room. Sometimes the absence of sound...
Like the cabin of a plane decompressing.
The lights grew unnaturally bright for a moment, for an instant. There was a brilliant white flash. Then the house came apart in his face.
CHAPTER 12
Friday, December 6
Decker was making coffee in the kitchen when Emily returned for a visit. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her. She’d appeared to him, off and on, for two years now. Since the accident.
At first, her presence had filled him with dread. Like a spirit, she would suddenly materialize in the most innocuous places. At the dining room table. At the head of the stairs. In the corner of his bedroom at night.
But, over time, Decker had gotten used to her presence. Indeed, there were days when he missed her so strongly that he wished she would suddenly pop up again. But each time he willed it, she never appeared. It was like the ability to discern through peripheral vision. By looking obliquely, less intently, one could actually see more effectively. Like stars in the night sky, so it was with the specter of Emily. Wh
en he prayed for her, when he yearned at the end of a long day to lean his head on her breast, to share some fear about Becca, or to confess some innermost secret, she would never materialize.
The Krupp’s coffee maker hissed in the corner. Decker poured himself a mug and sat down at the island beside her.
“How’s Becca?” she asked him.
Her blond hair seemed longer than the last time he’d seen her, and Decker remembered they say hair and fingernails keep growing even after you’re dead...or was it that the skin around them simply retracted, making them appear to grow longer? “They’ve put her in a medically-induced coma,” he said. “You know. So she won’t feel the pain.”
“That’s good,” she replied, staring off into space.
Tall, voluptuous and fair, with eyes the color of robin eggs, Emily was a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Even now, she made his heart swell. “And what about you?” she continued. “Any more pies, John?”
Decker smiled his crooked smile. “No. I’m finished with that.”
“How are you coping, then? Don’t tell me: More bio-feedback with Foster?”
“Doctor Foster’s an idiot. The only thing that seems to work these days is the dōjō.”
“What about sex?” Emily asked. “You mean the dōjō and your call girls. How is Kathleen, anyway? Still tying you up and fucking other men while you watch. I never did understand your fantasies. You’d think being a cuckold would just piss you off.”
“You know why,” Decker said.
“That was a long time ago, John. It’s time you let all that go.”
“I...” He shook his head. “You left me, Em. What the hell am I supposed to do? Anyway, it’s better with strangers. Always has been.”
“But that isn’t love. That’s just...masturbation with humans. And you deserve love, John. We all do.”
The doorbell rang. Decker turned toward the front of the townhouse. For a moment, he could feel his chest tighten, as he waited for the structure to blow up in his face. Then, nothing happened. Oblivious, the earth spun on its axis. When he finally turned back, Emily was no longer sitting beside him.
