Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  “But you look like a—”

  Malik put his hand over Mo’s mouth. “You don’t sound like one of us. If you’re not going to say something fitting, don’t say anything at all.”

  Mo nodded.

  “It fits good,” Malik said, admiring his suicide vest and belt, minus the explosives.

  “How do you feel knowing you’ll be blown to a million pieces soon?” Mo asked.

  Malik sighed and asked, “You’re not going to stop, are you?”

  “What? It’s a legitimate question.”

  “No, you should be asking how does it feel to know you’ll be blessed by Allah with seventy-two virgins?”

  Mo turned away from Malik and put his attention on the AK-47-style rifle on the table. He had spent the better part of two hours learning how it worked. He had been given a vest to wear as well, but his would be loaded with loaded magazines.

  Malik walked up to the table and picked up his rifle. “This is so cool. I finally get to shoot a machine gun. I’m so excited.” He put the rifle in his shoulder and pretended to shoot. “Pew, pew, pew. Die, infidels, die.”

  Mo looked around the room. It was stark, the white walls barren except for a white dry-erase board, and the only things in the room were a dozen chairs and four folding tables. The seven had been divided into three teams with the one odd man, Lateef, being chosen as the driver. No one yet knew the target or when they’d launch their attack.

  The door opened and in came Kareem and Farouk.

  Kareem took a seat in the corner while Farouk walked to the front of the room, stopping in front of the dry-erase board. “How is everyone doing?”

  In unison, everyone replied, “Good.”

  “Take a seat,” Farouk said.

  Everyone did as they were told.

  “First, let me thank you for what you’re about to do. You are holy warriors, mujahedeen of The Bloody Hand. Allah thanks you and will bless you and your families for your sacrifice, your martyrdom. The hour is now very near. We have received the call from our holy imam, the last of his line, to assemble. Soon we will strike out at the infidel. It will be a glorious attack, one that will finally destroy our adversary and usher in the great caliphate,” Farouk said, his chest puffed.

  He turned to the dry-erase board, took a marker and began to draw. He finished and turned back to the seven. “This is our target; it’s a school. An elementary school. It is one of the softest targets there is. It’s so sad that in America they put more security on a jewelry store than their own children. It tells you a lot about our enemy, doesn’t it? We will exploit their incompetence and strike at their heart.

  “This is how the attack will proceed. Lateef will drive onto the property here. This is a one-way drop-off lane; it exits here. He will drive a cargo van with you in the back. He will proceed through until he gets to the exit. You will exit and head to the front. You’ll find at the hour of our attack, hundreds of children and their parents will be present. Once you’re clear of the van, Lateef, you will blow the van. This will prevent anyone from exiting, trapping them there. Lateef, you will begin shooting all those trapped in vehicles behind the van. Two of our teams will head inside the school. Team one, that’s the brothers, you will kill everyone at the entrance, then blow yourselves up, again, preventing anyone from fleeing. Inside, the other two teams will split up. One will head to the administration office. There you’ll detonate another vest. The last team, Mohammed and Malik, you’ll go to their multipurpose room, this is where the children gather in the morning before going to their classrooms. Mohammed, you will escort Malik there, gunning down anyone that gets in your way. Once in the room, Malik, you will blow yourself up. When the bombers are gone, you four remaining with rifles will go classroom to classroom, picking off anyone who is left. You will not have to worry about the police. They will be tied up dealing with protestors. We have assurances that large protests and riots will occur that morning. This will give you plenty of time. It’s a very simple plan. Any questions?”

  No one raised a hand or said a word.

  “I’ll repeat it; then one by one, I’ll have you come forward and repeat what I’ve said. You will know this plan inside and out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” they said.

  “Good, let me start over again. Lateef, you will drive onto the campus…”

  Ramona, California

  Cassidy found it difficult to watch television. Nothing could hold his attention. Even the news reports coming from Minnesota concerning a possible terrorist raid couldn’t keep him from thinking about Sophie. He wanted her to be happy above all else, and if that meant her moving to Boise, he’d support her, but he desperately wanted to share in that happiness and be by her side through it.

  His phone rang.

  He looked and saw it was Sophie. He quickly muted the television and picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, how are you? Everything good?”

  “Yeah, I made it fine. Flight was super easy.”

  “Good.”

  Silence.

  “Sophie, what’s up?”

  “I just spoke to my brother. He’s got me freaked out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He told me to stay in Boise; don’t come back. He wouldn’t say why.”

  “He did?”

  “I’ve never heard him sound so…scared. He knows something but won’t tell me.”

  “He didn’t give a hint at what it might be?” Cassidy asked although he suspected what it could be.

  “Nothing, he just told me that some bad things might happen and that Boise, being a smaller city, would be safer.”

  “It’s terrorism. He must know of a credible threat, one that’s imminent. I heard something happened in Minnesota,” Cassidy said.

  “What else could it be?”

  “Listen to him. Stay longer, stay past the interview. Take your time.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, your brother is in the know on these things; heed his advice. Make it a little vaca; go see some sights.”

  “Now I’m really freaked out because you think my brother is right.”

  “Honey, I don’t know anything, but if your brother, who works for Homeland, says not to come back to San Diego for a bit, I’d listen to him.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay longer, through to, say, the second or third. I’ll look at changing my return flight,” Sophie said.

  “Good. Take lots of pictures.”

  A long pause.

  “I wish you were here,” she said.

  “I can come up,” he offered.

  “No, I don’t want to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, plus…if you’re moving there, I want to scout possible jobs up there.”

  “But what about your court hearing?”

  “I spoke to my attorney today. Nothing prohibits me from leaving or moving. I just need to come back for the hearing. It’s not scheduled for a few more weeks.”

  “What a total mess.” She sighed.

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, please. I hate that.”

  The urge to apologize for apologizing came, but he didn’t utter the word. “Let me come up, see Boise, look for something there. I think the change of locales can do us both good.”

  She paused. “Sure, come up Monday. My interview is in the morning, downtown. I’m staying at the Marriott. Just take an Uber from the airport.”

  “Good, I’ll book my tickets as soon as I get off the phone,” Cassidy said, his mood lifted.

  “And, Trevor, don’t think you’re off the hook just yet. I need you to take everything I said the other night seriously. I need you to step up,” she warned.

  “I will, I mean, I am. I’ll get a solid job. I’ll stop messing up.”

  “Hey, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting my cousin for lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Love you,” he said.

  Once more she paused befo
re she said,

  “Love you, too.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sunday, April 30

  Paris, France

  The car stopped.

  Jorge looked out the window at the gothic bell towers of Notre Dame. They stood out against the deep blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds.

  “We’re here,” Harris said, sitting next to Jorge.

  “I know, I’m just appreciating the view. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yes, sir, yes, it is,” Harris said.

  Jorge looked at his watch, a rare Frank Mueller, and saw it was ten on the nose. “Let’s go.”

  “Shall I join you?” Harris asked.

  “Ahh, no, stay here with the car,” Jorge said, stepping out. He closed the door and adjusted his slacks before stepping off.

  Like any other day, the plaza in front of Notre Dame was bustling with people, many tourists enjoying the vibrancy of Paris.

  He weaved his way through the crowds until he reached the front. A line of people stood waiting to enter. He casually got in line and waited.

  The line proceeded slowly, but soon enough he was inside.

  He gazed up at the high peaks of the ceiling and the towering stained-glass windows. It was more impressive inside than out. He was amazed at the architectural achievement, especially given that people eight hundred years ago didn’t have the tools they had today.

  He tore himself away from sightseeing to look for his target, the man in the red shirt. He scanned the back pews, and just as promised, in the fifth pew from the back, a man wearing a red shirt sat.

  Jorge made his way toward him.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, a man bumped into him.

  “Excuse me,” Jorge said.

  The man kept moving.

  Irritated by the lack of manners, he shook his head and continued. He stopped at the end of the fifth row and asked the man in red, “Israfil?”

  The man looked up, a perplexed look on his face. “No,” the man said, standing. His accent told Jorge he was French not Muslim. He handed Jorge a small package. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?” Jorge asked, looking down at the taped cardboard box. It was heavy, oddly heavy, in fact, for something as small as it was. An envelope was taped to the top of the box.

  The man pushed past Jorge and hurried away.

  “Hey, where are you going? Where’s Israfil?”

  Not stopping, the man disappeared into a crowd of people.

  Jorge shook the box. Nothing moved or shifted. He sat down, placed the box next to him and removed the envelope off the top. He tore it open and pulled out a single folded page. He unfolded it.

  The note read, “Thank you, Mr. Sorossi, for everything. Without your help we could not have achieved our mutual goals. Allah blesses you with goodness.”

  Jorge flipped the page over. Nothing was there. Frustration rose inside him. Where was Israfil? He was promised he’d get to meet him. He crumpled the note and tossed it on the floor. He pulled his phone from his sports coat pocket. He was going to call and voice his opposition when the box caught his eye. He lowered his phone.

  Curiosity grew as he wondered what could be in there. A clue maybe? He set his phone down and picked up the box.

  Thick clear tape sealed every edge. How was he going to open this? Using his fingernails, he scratched hard at the edge of the tape on the top until he pulled up a corner. He grabbed it and tugged; the tape peeled back. The box top was ready to open; however, when he tried, it seemed stuck. He shoved his fingers inside the flap and yanked hard.

  The box exploded.

  Jorge never felt a thing, never had a chance to flinch.

  The explosion was so powerful that it practically vaporized his body and took everything within a forty-foot diameter with it, leaving a small crater filled with smoldering debris.

  Jorge’s journey was over. He’d never get to witness his dream come to fruition. Like many others, he was but a pawn and now a victim of The Bloody Hand.

  Chula Vista, California

  Blood dripped from Mo’s fingertips. He had always had a bad habit of chewing his nails when nervous and now, he’d chewed them raw. Clueless that he had ripped the flesh from his fingers, he sat staring in an almost trancelike state at a lone palm tree through a small cracked window in their break room.

  “You’re bleeding,” Malik said.

  Mo wiped the blood on his jeans.

  “You don’t look good,” Malik whined.

  “You don’t say,” Mo snarked.

  Malik raised his hand and snapped, “Nope, don’t, I don’t want to hear it. You’re here now. Just suck it up.”

  Mo leaned to within inches of Malik’s face. “Children, fucking children, Malik.”

  “Fucking small infidels, nothing more. They’ll grow up and one day bomb our children. It’s only right we kill them before they kill ours.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Mo said.

  “You’re going to die regardless. Do you want your family to die too?” Malik asked, reminding Mo of the alternative.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then shut up, already.”

  “You love it here. You love everything about America. The clothing, the television, movies, food, fuck, man, pizza and Coke, it’s like your favorite meal. Why are you suddenly ready to go murder people for a religion you don’t even practice?”

  “I can ask the same of you. I didn’t see you asking these questions when I first had you meet Kareem. You stood there acting tough, talking tough, then shit got real that night. Now you’re second-guessing everything.”

  “I am, and yes, shit got real that night. I realized it’s not a game. This is life and death. I thought the idea of being a warrior was noble, was honorable, but we’re nothing but—”

  Malik put his hand over Mo’s mouth. “Stop right there. I love you like a brother, but if you say another word, I’ll tell Kareem. I’m done with your bullshit. You’re either with us or not. I’m in, fully. If you’re not, so be it. Die and have your parents die too. I don’t care anymore. This will be the last time I stop you from saying something that will kill you and your family. This is your final warning,” Malik barked. “Do you understand?”

  Mo nodded.

  Malik removed his hand. “Are you done? You’re not going to convince me. So if you’re going to preach, then know I’m going to Kareem first word out of your mouth.”

  Looking down at the half-eaten sandwich, Mo felt a surge of emotions hit him. He looked up at Malik and cried, “I’m sorry. I’m just so scared. I…I don’t want to die. I…thought…”

  Malik embraced him. “It will be fine, brother. I’ll be there with you.”

  San Diego, California

  Eddie and Will jumped on Brett, waking him from the few hours he did sleep. He rolled over and said, “Morning, you two wild men.” The sun’s early rays were beaming through the plantation shutters in the living room. He squinted and looked around; a tinge of a headache reminded him of the one too many beers he’d had at dinner.

  “Why are you sleeping on the couch, Daddy?” Will asked.

  “Yeah, why are you sleeping here?” Eddie followed up.

  Not wanting to concern the kids, he lied, “Oh, I was watching TV and fell asleep.”

  “What were you watching?” Will asked.

  “Something on the History Channel, I can’t quite remember.”

  “Can we watch it?” Eddie asked.

  “Ahh, maybe. Um, is the TV on in the kitchen?” Brett asked.

  “Yeah, we woke you because we can’t find the remote and it’s on your channel,” Eddie said.

  “Look in the drawer next to the utensils,” Brett said.

  “We did,” Eddie replied.

  “…the bomb went off at approximately ten fifteen local time in Paris. At the moment, the authorities aren’t confirming it’s terrorism or linked to ISIS or The Bloody Hand, but some of my sources say they highly suspect it is,” the newscaster said.<
br />
  Brett sat up, craned his head around and glanced into the kitchen. The boys were right, it was on his channel, and once more there was another terror attack, this time Paris. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know, early,” Eddie said.

  Will jumped off Brett and sprinted away.

  “Go turn the TV off. I don’t want to wake up Mommy,” Brett said.

  Eddie raced into the kitchen and did as he was told. “I’m going to go play.”

  “Okay,” Brett said. He found his phone on the coffee table and picked it up. The screen was loaded with news flashes about the bombing in Paris. He swiped to go read the story, but paused. No, he wasn’t going to get excited about it. His first action this morning was to go upstairs and apologize to Madison. He tossed his phone back on the coffee table and headed upstairs.

  He entered his bedroom to find Madison sitting up in bed on her iPad. He waved and said, “Good morning.”

  She gave him a playful scowl and went back to watching her iPad.

  He jumped on the bed and crawled over to her.

  She rebuffed him.

  Determined to make amends, he got up and ran downstairs. He went out front of his house, picked a white rose, the only blooming flower he could find, and came back to the bedroom. He re-entered the room, this time with the stem of the rose clenched between his teeth.

  She tried not to look at him, but his valiant attempt at humor mixed with romance won. She paused her show, pulled her earbuds out and asked, “What?” Her tone was a mix of irritation and playfulness.

  He dropped the rose in her lap and with puppy-dog eyes said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m still mad at you,” she growled.

  “I know, but do you forgive me?”

  “I have to think about it.”

  Taking a serious tone, he said, “I really am sorry. I just saw the news flash and once more got worried.”

  “There’s going to be news flashes of bad things all the time. This is just the world we live in. There’s no grand conspiracy to kill us all.”

  He wanted to say there probably was, but he’d never convince her, so he skipped past her comment. “I say we get the boys and go to the beach today. Let’s just make it a family day.”