Book Read Free

Day of Reckoning

Page 3

by G. Michael Hopf


  Hearing this added to his motivation to continue; however, there was one thing he couldn’t change—his ever-thinning hair. He leaned closer to the mirror and ran his fingers through his dark brown hair to cover the spots where he could see his scalp. He stepped back and saw his efforts were futile, either he lived with growing old gracefully or go get plugs. Not allowing this reminder to bring him down, he grinned and stepped away; instead he’d focus on the successes he had now. “One thing at a time.”

  Madison raced down the stairs and whirled past Brett. “Come on, we’re running late.” She grabbed a large bottle of water and took a drink. Her thick blond hair was pulled back into a long ponytail that dangled down and touched the back of her slender neck. She too had been seeing results from the workouts and just like Brett was full of energy and vigor.

  “I’m coming, just admiring these things!” Brett exclaimed as he raised his arms and flexed.

  “Oooh,” she purred as she touched his biceps.

  “Maybe we should run upstairs and get a workout there instead today,” he teased grabbing her around the waist and pulling her close.

  Madison kissed him on the lips, looked into his green eyes and replied, “Sounds tempting but the elliptical sounds better right now.”

  “What?” Brett howled.

  She pulled away and said, “Come on, let’s go. I have to be back soon to pick up the boys.”

  “Are you serious?” he asked, still standing where she had left him, his mouth hanging open.

  She stopped and asked, “Were you serious?”

  “Um, no, but how did you know I wasn’t?”

  She approached him, took his hand and softly said, “I know you better than you probably know yourself, now come on.”

  Brett chuckled because she was right; there wasn’t anyone in the world who knew him better. After twelve years together, not one person could claim they knew him more. They had their ups and downs like any relationship but at its core they were rock solid. Their relationship had started out as a deep friendship and grew from there. They had varying different likes and dislikes but their values were exact, from how they viewed the world to how they mutually raised the boys, Eddie and Will.

  Knowing she was right and they needed to leave, he grabbed his backpack along with a large water bottle and his smart phone.

  Already in the car, Madison grew impatient. She leaned over and honked the horn.

  “I’m coming!” he hollered. In his right hand, he felt his phone vibrate. He looked down and saw a news flash on the screen. ‘Several people shot in a café in Copenhagen.’

  The gym was a short ten-minute drive away. They chatted and discussed a party they were having at their house the next day. It had been a while since they’d held a house party and preparations for it were the overriding issues they had been dealing with the past few days.

  Holding her phone, Madison scrolled through a list she had created. “Now you’re picking up the rest of the food tonight, right?”

  “Maddy, my answer hasn’t changed since I said yes earlier today and the day before.” Brett laughed. He glanced at her and could see the strain on her face.

  “I’m just making sure.”

  “You know this party will be fine. They always are, stop stressing. You’re too worried about these little things.”

  She shot him a hard look, scrunching her face. “They’re not little things. I want it to be perfect. I don’t want my friends to think we’re…”

  “We’re what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Brett leaned over and patted her leg. “Honey, our friends love us. They won’t judge us for anything. Good God, we’re not serving dog food and piss to drink.”

  “Don’t mock me,” she snapped.

  “I’m not, I’m just saying everything always works out.”

  “There’s no reason we can’t make it a great party.”

  “I agree, but there’s no need to stress.”

  Madison sighed and looked out the window.

  Brett stopped at a red light and heard his phone vibrate again; he looked down and saw another news flash on the screen. ‘Dead in Copenhagen attack rises to twelve.’ “Wow,” Brett said out loud.

  “What?”

  “Oh, there was some sort of mass shooting in Copenhagen.”

  “Hmm. You don’t really hear about such things,” Madison said.

  “They happen; just last year they had that terrorist attack at a mall. A lot of people were killed,” Brett said reminding her of a very prominent attack.

  “I thought they killed only a couple of people,” Madison replied.

  The light turned green and Brett hit the accelerator hard, propelling their BMW 5 Series down the road at a high rate of speed.

  “Class starts in less than ten minutes, hurry up,” Madison urged, referencing the spin class she had scheduled.

  “Just so you know, they killed more people than a couple.”

  “Whatever, I can’t remember,” Madison said her head down again in her phone. “Um, should we make a special cocktail?”

  Brett cocked his head, choosing to remain silent, as the nonstop party planning was wearing thin for him. His phone vibrated and lit up one more time, catching his eye. He quickly glanced down and saw it was another news alert. ‘Death toll rises to more than 25 as attacks spread across Copenhagen.’ “What the hell is going on?” Brett blurted out.

  “Huh?” Madison asked, her head down.

  Brett pulled into the parking lot of the gym and parked. “This,” he replied, handing her his phone.

  She took it and said, “Oh no.”

  “Yeah, this is crazy, this is some sort of terrorist attack, not a random mass shooter,” Brett declared as they walked inside.

  Madison’s attention quickly turned to her spin class. “Okay, sweetie, have a good workout.” She kissed him on the cheek and rushed off.

  “Sure,” Brett said, not paying attention to her. He opened his web browser and went to the news. There the headlines shouted out in big bold black letters: TERROR STRIKES COPENHAGEN. He walked to the bench and sat down and scrolled through the preliminary reports coming in. His heart rate elevated. He felt so badly for all those who were suffering. His thoughts then shifted to his youngest brother, David, a photographer and documentarian who contracted out his services to various news outlets. The last he heard from him, he was somewhere overseas. He didn’t know why exactly but a sudden concern came over him. He flipped to the phone, scrolled to his brother’s contact information and hit the call button. Putting the phone to his ear, he listened. The typical pause between connections was replaced with two clicks then a long hum. This told him David was overseas. After several long tones the line clicked and David’s voice came on.

  “This is David. You know what to do.”

  “David, hey, it’s Brett. I, um, just seeing if you’re okay. I’m sure you’re probably smack dab in the middle of this horrible stuff. Um, anyway, give me a shout when you have time. It will be nice to hear my baby brother’s voice,” Brett said and disconnected. He looked at the screen when suddenly another news alert popped up.

  ‘Explosions and gunfire rock Copenhagen.’

  He couldn’t help but feel emotion when looking at the headlines. He and Madison had just spent time in Copenhagen not eight weeks before and had fallen in love with the city and the people. He thought about all the places they had gone and wondered if those sites and, more importantly, anyone they might have met might be a victim.

  “Hey, are you using the bench?” a man boomed above him.

  Sheepishly, Brett looked up and replied, “Ah, no, go ahead.” He stood and walked away. He needed to get his mind off the horrific news and a hard workout would do that.

  Copenhagen, Denmark

  David raced down the cobblestoned alleyway towards the rattle of automatic gunfire. His heart was pumping hard and sweat was streaming down his stubble-covered face. He hoped he had charged his camera but his mind wasn�
�t thinking clearly when he’d first heard what was too recognizable to him. Years of working in combat zones gave him a sixth sense, so the second he heard the first volley, he took off towards the sound. He had been a foreign correspondent for Reuters for ten years, and when asked if he liked what he did, he’d always grin and say, “Best job in the world.”

  When he exited the alley, the unfiltered sounds of terror hit his ears. Bursts of gunfire mixed with screams filled the air. The wailing sirens of police were drawing closer and a rush of people pushed past him. He paused to orientate and looked towards the corner of two streets over three hundred feet away. There he saw two men holding AK-47s. They were calmly walking back and forth on the sidewalk firing into a corner café. Unafraid, he did the opposite of everyone else; he ran towards the horrific scene unfolding. He covered two hundred feet and took cover behind a parked car; he pulled off his backpack and reached inside to grab his camera. Instinctually he turned it on without looking and popped his head above the hood and looked towards the café that was under attack. Harrowing screams bounced off the buildings with the roar of another volley of gunfire being amplified by the acoustics of the mid-rise buildings that lined the street corner.

  The men were still there, their behavior so calm and patient as if they were just going through a mundane act.

  David raised his camera and zoomed in the lens on the man closest to him. He placed his trembling finger on the button to snap a photo but paused. Through the lens, he saw a woman, bloodied, sobbing and desperately crawling away.

  The terrorist spotted her and casually approached her.

  Shocked by what he was seeing, David lowered the camera and did something he had never done in his many years as a correspondent. “Hey!” he hollered towards the terrorist to draw his attention.

  The terrorist didn’t hear him and continued towards the woman.

  Seeing that he wasn’t successful, he stood up. “Hey, shithead, over here!” David yelled and started waving his arms.

  The second gunman appeared from around the corner, further away, and sprayed a volley of bullets into the café.

  Again, seeing his attempt failed, David looked for something to throw.

  The woman placed one blood-covered hand in front of the other and dragged herself along the uneven sidewalk.

  The terrorist stepped in front of her.

  She looked up, her eyes telling the horror of what stood in front of her. With a sorrowful moan, she said, “No, no!” Tears streamed down her blood-covered face. Unable to run because of wounds to her legs, she did the only thing she thought would help, beg for her life.

  Emotionless, the terrorist raised the muzzle of his rifle and leveled it at her head.

  Not giving up, the woman raised her hand in a gesture for mercy.

  Scrambling to find something to throw, David saw the bottled water tucked on the side pocket of his backpack and pulled it out. He stepped forward and threw it as hard as he could.

  As the bottle spun through the air, the terrorist pulled the trigger.

  A short burst exited the barrel and struck the woman in the face.

  Her head snapped back and her body fell to the ground, lifeless.

  The bottle finished its spin and hit the terrorist squarely in the back. He spun around to see David standing fifty feet behind him.

  Not often was his timing off, but when it really mattered, it had been this time. David gulped and stood staring at the mass murderer. All the sounds around him suddenly vanished. The sirens, screams and cries just went mute and his vision narrowed to a tunnel as he focused on the barrel of the AK-47 that was now pointed at him. He knew he should run, but for whatever reason he was frozen to the spot, unable to make a move.

  The terrorist pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked down and saw the slide was back, indicating he was out of ammunition. Calmly he removed the empty magazine, allowing it to fall hard to the ground, and pulled a fully loaded one from his pocket and inserted it.

  Suddenly and unexpectedly a car raced past David and stopped next to the terrorist. An unintelligible voice blared from the car. The second terrorist ran up and got in. The first kept his eye on David.

  A deep feeling of regret came over David as he second-guessed his decision to involve himself. He had broken a journalistic rule of becoming part of the story, but how could he just sit and watch a murder without doing something? It was the honorable thing to do, but with his life in the balance he couldn’t help but wish he hadn’t.

  More yelling came from the car.

  The terrorist yelled back, lowered his rifle and stepped towards the car. Just before he climbed in, he gave David one last look and grinned.

  The car accelerated away and made a hard left disappearing into a narrow alleyway.

  David slowly walked towards the woman’s lifeless body, but stopped when he came upon the bottle of water he had thrown.

  If asked how long it was in between the terrorists’ departure and the police arriving, David wouldn’t be able to honestly answer. What must have been seconds seemed like minutes, but soon the entire street corner was swarming with police, the blue lights of the cars dancing off the cobblestone streets and stone facades of the buildings.

  David reached down and picked up the bottle of water. It was cool to his touch. He couldn’t believe what had just happened to him because of this little bottle of Evian. He opened it, took a drink and a moment to calm his nerves before doing what he came to do, document the news.

  London, United Kingdom

  Jorge Sorossi was not a man with the patience to wait for anyone because a man of his extreme wealth, status and reputation kept everyone else waiting. Today was different and he wasn’t enjoying the role reversal.

  He tapped the fingers of his left hand firmly on the leather chair while his right hand swirled the forty-year-old scotch his assistant had just poured.

  “Where the hell are they? They’re now an hour late,” he barked at his Harris, his longtime personal assistant.

  “Would you like me to call them again?” Harris asked.

  “No, I’m just tired of waiting like a common servant,” he snapped. He took a long drink and set the glass down. “Turn on the television,” he ordered.

  Harris did as he asked.

  “…the horrific attacks earlier are now being attributed to a radical offshoot of Islamic State, a group that reportedly goes by the name The Bloody Hand. Not much is known about them as of right now. According to the Danish Intelligence Service, they’ve received credible information on the terrorists who committed these attacks and have linked them with this new group, but nothing else as of now. As of minutes ago, the death toll has reached two hundred and thirteen dead and many more wounded, many of which are critical. We know the death toll will rise as they haven’t been able to get a full accounting of dead at the stadium. We’re now hearing the death toll could rise to well over five hundred,” the BBC newscaster said.

  “Sir, call for you,” Harris said holding a mobile phone.

  “Is that the encrypted line?” Jorge asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jorge took the phone and asked, “Who is this?”

  “Some of our people were a bit too eager to begin phase one,” a mysterious voice said.

  “Who is this?” Jorge asked.

  “We’re moving up the operation. Phase one will begin soon.”

  “Who the hell am I speaking with?” Jorge snarled.

  “We need more money so we can finalize phase two.”

  “Who is this?” Jorge again asked, frustrated that the person wouldn’t identify himself.

  “Your friends, of course.”

  “We had a meeting. I was to meet Israfil.”

  “We said we’d talk, and we’re talking,” the man said.

  “Is this you, these attacks? This stuff won’t work. You told me you had something else, something big planned. Not shit like this. I said this sort of strategy will only embolden them. I ins
ist on speaking with Israfil and who the hell is this Bloody Hand.”

  “We’re all part of The Bloody Hand. You, me, those fighters tonight in Copenhagen.”

  “This strategy won’t work. You promised something dynamic,” Jorge growled.

  “It’s coming, I promise.”

  “I want to speak to Israfil,” Jorge barked.

  “You’ll hear from Israfil soon enough. We need additional funds so we may complete phase two.”

  “Not until I speak with Israfil.”

  “Today’s attack was premature, but you’ll see more coming soon and the reason is valid. I don’t expect you to understand, but it will do what we need them to do.”

  “You’re playing into Shade’s hands with this sort of stuff. Now, I demand to speak with Israfil,” Jorge snapped.

  “You’re not in any position to make requests. You came to us, but to complete the plan we need the additional funds to do so. We are very close.”

  Jorge clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. “How much?”

  “Another ten million.”

  “I’ve given you over one hundred thirty. What are you doing with all my money?”

  “You’ll know soon enough what comes of it.”

  Jorge went to respond but stopped when the newscaster cut to news from the United States.

  “ President Shade has called the Danish prime minister and offered condolences and pledges support. He also said he will finally push through on a campaign promise and issue an executive order that will totally ban travel from all Muslim nations with ties to recent terror incidents in Europe. He will also increase vetting procedures for all incoming non-US passport holders coming from anywhere. This is a huge step for the already controversial president and will surely cause outcries from civil liberty and immigrant advocates,” the BBC reporter said.

  “Mr. Sorossi, we need something else from you,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “We need you to contact the groups you’re financing in the United States. We need them to increase their displays of civil disobedience. We need them to take to the streets; we need them to create mayhem, discontent.”

 

‹ Prev