Legacy and Redemption
By George P. Norris
Retired Sergeant
NYPD
George Norris retired as one of the most highly decorated police officers in the history of the New York City Police Department.
Copyright 2014 by George P. Norris
Published by George P. Norris at Createspace
Cover design by Chris Connolly
First Edition published 2014. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or redistributed by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher and author. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Legacy and Redemption is the third novel written by George P. Norris. His debut novel Exceptional Merit was published in 2013.
EXCEPTIONAL MERIT
Lieutenant James Keegan is a highly decorated police officer assigned to the NYPD’s Joint Terrorist Task Force. Keegan has solved many high profile cases during his eighteen years with the NYPD, including an imminent terrorist attack which earned him a personal thank you from the President of the United States. All is not what it appears however with Lieutenant Keegan. James Keegan has a double life in which he has been involved with the Irish Republican Army for almost as long as he has the NYPD.
Set in 1995, Exceptional Merit will take you from the quiet back streets of Northern Ireland to the gritty streets of New York City; from an I.R.A. training camp, to the most inner workings of the NYPD. Keegan’s two lives come crashing together on New York’s largest stage, in front of a live televised audience, where Keegan must decide where his loyalty lies; to a job that he loves and the people of the city of New York that he has taken an oath to serve and protect, or to the cause of freedom for Northern Ireland which he has believed in his entire life. All of the while, Keegan is unaware his every move is being watched from within his own department.
The Blue Executions was published in January 2014
THE BLUE EXECUTIONS
A serial killer is roaming the streets of New York City…the madman’s target—New York City police officers.
An incident in a New York City housing project hurls highly decorated detective Tommy Galvin not only onto the front pages of the newspapers, but also into the crosshairs of the sociopath. The hunter becomes the hunted! Galvin’s actions on a warm spring evening ignite a powder keg of racial tension and civil unrest, capturing national attention which must be dealt with and brought under control by the NYPD.
When the two men finally come face to face, Galvin’s life has changed forever…in a way he could have never imagined.
The Blue Executions will take you from the eyes of the killer to the investigation charged with taking him down; from the inner workings of a major New York City newspaper that the killer has entrusted, to the behind the scenes politics of the NYPD at the highest levels. All of the while, Galvin’s life is on the line.
Dedication and Remembrance
As I sit here to write this dedication, it is Sept 11, 2014. It’s a day of remembrance; one of the darkest days in our nation’s history. I’m thinking about all of those brave men and women who were running into those buildings to help others, when everyone else, along with common sense, said to stay out. I, along with way too many others, personally knew people who perished as a result of the attacks. God bless the first responders who heroically lost their lives on that horrific day. Keep in mind those who did survive, who are now terminally ill. Remember those who were injured physically, emotionally, and psychologically forever.
While this story is a work of fiction, sadly, the events being told are frighteningly possible in the day and age in which we live. I’m dedicating LEGACY and REDEMPTION to all those men and women across this country and abroad who ever donned a uniform to protect the rest of us, whether they are military personnel, or a first responder. In particular, I’d like to acknowledge my brothers and sisters in blue with the NYPD. Your job is a thankless one, serving a city which is too soon to criticize and second guess when they don’t fully understand what it is that you do. God bless you all. Stay safe!
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”
Edmund Burke-18th Century Irish statesman and philosopher
Prologue
Sixty miles east of Kabul, Afghanistan
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The sweat dripped down from his hair, burning his eyes. Nevertheless, he would ignore the inconvenience as he tried to steady his shaking and sweaty hands. Tightening the final wire around the trigger mechanism meant the device was now live. Nazeem al-Haq stood up and lifted the vest, which he estimated to weigh in excess of fifty pounds (mostly due to the ball bearings, screws, nails, and other assorted shrapnel). He tried it on for size. He put the olive green vest over his loosely fitting black clothing. Although this was the seventh vest that he had made in the past few months, this was the first one that could be detonated. There was a hand held mechanism attached to the right side of the vest. A red button, under a safety switch, would ensure that there would be no accidental detonation. A cell phone was also attached to allow the device to be triggered remotely.
Al-Haq was nervous and careful not to touch the trigger. He knew that the safety mechanism was closed, but this being the first time that he was wearing a live device, he was nervous, nonetheless. The vest itself was a perfect fit over his slight frame, just as the others had been. Al-Haq had become quite adept at making the vests and decided that it was much easier for him than the physical training was.
At age forty-six, the rigorous training in one hundred and ten degree desert heat took far more of a toll on his body than it did the last time he went through an Al-Qaeda training camp over twenty-five years ago. He would much rather be inside the cave where the vests were assembled than to be running the obstacle course, or taking part in the hand to hand combat with men more than half his age.
Al-Haq stood up straight, trying to adjust to the weight of the vest when Murad Zein walked over and handed him a zippered sweatshirt—common to the type worn by Americans. Al-Haq accepted the sweatshirt from the Yemeni man and put it over the vest, zippering it up in the process. Zein nodded his head, clearly giving his approval. Zein was twenty years younger than al-Haq and had jet black hair with a beard and mustache to match. At six feet tall, he was also five inches taller.
“Take it outside and show the Sheykh,” suggested Zein.
Zein gave al-Haq an encouraging pat on the back as they walked together towards the entrance of the cave. The two men, despite their age difference, had become quite close over the time that al-Haq had been training at the camp. Al-Haq had the life experience and was blessed with the second chance that most of his brothers in Jihad never would get. Their relationship was more than just a mentorship; al-Haq figured himself to be a father figure to Zein as well; although it was in this phase of al-Haq’s training that he was the student, and Zein the mentor. He had never built a suicide vest or a bomb of any sort until he began his training less than a year ago.
As he emerged from the mouth of the cave, al-Haq squinted as the sunlight was brightly glistening off the sand in the distance. The heat on his bare feet was in sharp contrast to the cool floor of the cave where he had spent the last few hours piecing the vest together. The familiar sound of automatic weapon fire grew louder as he emerged. S
tanding at the edge of the mountain range, there was open desert for as far as al-Haq’s eyes could see. Al-Haq peered in the direction of the mountains off to the east. There were a half dozen all wheel drive vehicles and a pair of decades old military trucks parked a short distance away, closer to the road. The two men walked up behind Muhammad Hajjar, the leader of the training camp. Hajjar was busy observing and offering advice to a group of about a dozen adolescent boys—most fifteen or younger—firing Russian made assault rifles.
“Sheykh Hajjar,” began Zein, introducing their presence.
Muhammad Hajjar turned to greet the men. They both bowed their heads as a sign of respect to the Sheykh who was both a military leader and a religious one at the compound. Al-Haq was sweating more than ever now. Although it was the early evening, the temperature was still over one hundred degrees. The thirty pounds of explosives and a heavy duty sweatshirt added to his discomfort. Hajjar looked Al-Haq over, motioning for him to turn around. Al-Haq complied and then once again he faced Hajjar.
Hajjar and Zein began to have a conversation amongst themselves regarding the fit of the vest. Al-Haq held his arms to the sides as Zein unzipped the hooded sweat jacket making it easier for Hajjar to inspect. As Hajjar was inspecting the jacket, al-Haq was inspecting Hajjar. His long grey beard and hair to match were reflective of his sixty-four years. Al-Haq found him to be a loving and forgiving man—and one devout to Allah and his wishes. Al-Haq had felt the same way nearly twenty-six years ago when they’d first met at a different training camp; that one in Syria.
Hajjar rested an elbow on his crossed arm and gave a tug at his beard as he began in Arabic, “Are you confident that you will be able to build this again once you are in America?”
Al-Haq’s heart began to race. “Yes, Sheykh, I am. I can build it again without a problem.”
“That is good.” Hajjar turned to face Murad Zein. “And you, Murad, do you also believe that Nazeem is ready.”
“Yes, Sheykh, I do.”
Hajjar remained quiet for a moment and stroked his beard. He glanced over in the direction of the vehicles. “Then it is settled.” Hajjar raised an arm, signaling for a jeep. Three Jihadists, two armed with Russian made assault rifles, and the third with a rocket propelled grenade launcher slung over his shoulder, quickly climbed into the jeep. It jumped to life; the sound of the engine slightly drowning out the AK-47 fire in the distance.
As the jeep approached, al-Haq was directed to remove the vest. There was a great sense of relief. He removed the sweatshirt as quick as possible and then the vest. His black shirt clung to his body; the sweat acting as an adhesive. He handed the vest to Zein who quickly deactivated it. The breeze felt good against his body, cooling it down ever so slightly. Al-Haq rolled his shoulders, relieved of the weight. He felt much lighter; so much more comfortable.
The jeep pulled up next to the men. The man on the passenger side got out, handing al-Haq an assault rifle as he did. Al-Haq took the rifle and looked it over. He decided that it was in fairly good condition considering that these guns were left behind by the Soviets when they invaded Afghanistan over thirty years ago. Al-Haq pressed the magazine release and inspected the load before climbing into the back seat of the jeep. He sat down, reinserted the magazine, and chambered a round. Al-Haq felt good. He didn’t know what the exact plan was, but he knew that his journey back to the west was about to begin.
Hajjar walked over to the jeep. “These men will take you to the main road where you will be met by a cargo truck. You will hide in the back of the truck among the crates headed for Mashhad. You will arrive in Iran during the overnight hours. There will be no resistance at the border.”
“Yes, Sheykh.”
“Once you have safely arrived in Mashhad, you will rest for the night. In the morning, a different set of men—Iranians—will drive you to a mosque in Shandiz, where you will be met by Sheykh Khadem. He will provide you with a fake passport, identification, and a means of transport to get back into the United States. You will most likely go through Canada and cross over from there.”
Al-Haq’s heart was beating faster. A day he’d dreamed about for decades was closer to becoming a reality. “Yes, Sheykh; I will not let you down this time.”
Hajjar put forth a gentile smile. “I know that you will not my brother, just be patient. We need to establish you in New York before you do anything. We will find you a place to live and a job in America to help you blend in.” He handed a piece of paper to al-Haq before carrying on. “You must be sure that you go here every Friday. It is there that you will be contacted. It may take weeks, months, even years, but do not lose faith my brother, we will need you to fulfill your destiny one day.”
Al-Haq considered this as a warm feeling flushed though his body. He could feel a tear in his eye. He never thought that he would have the chance to redeem himself, but he was now realizing that he one day may. He once again bowed his head to Muhammad Sheykh Hajjar.
Hajjar acknowledged the sign of respect. “Go with Allah, my brother.”
Murad Zein moved in close to offer a hug to al-Haq and was quick to echo the Sheykh’s sentiments. “Go with Allah my brother, until we meet again on the other side when the rewards of Allah will be ours.”
The jeep pulled away, kicking up sand and rocks as it did. Al-Haq looked back at the young men—Allah’s warriors—some running the obstacle course, others training in hand to hand combat, and still others learning to make and use weapons; yet they all had a common goal—to one day take part in the Holy War. Al-Haq was overwhelmed with emotion.
The ride in the jeep was anything but smooth. Al Haq bounced around in the back seat as it began the hour long journey to get to the next rendezvous point along the main road. The sounds of gunfire in the background began to fade. Al-Haq refocused on the road ahead. For this would be the last few hours he would ever spend in his native country. His destiny was set for the United States of America—and the afterlife to soon follow.
Chapter 1
Four months later
Queens, New York City
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It had been a particularly uncomfortable night. The hot and muggy August air was bad enough, but getting caught in the torrential downpour while waiting at the bus stop along Hillside Avenue had soaked Nazeem al-Haq to the bone. The walk from the bus stop along the Van Wyck Expressway service road to his South Ozone Park apartment hadn’t been much better. The rain continued to pour down on him, causing his long hair to fall in front of his eyes. A hole in the bottom of his work boot had allowed the water to soak into his sock, making his right foot wet and bothered.
Al-Haq stepped out of the shower, washing the night’s sweat and rain from his body. He stared at himself in the mirror. There were hints of gray in his hair and beard which had once been jet black; many years ago…before spending time in an American prison. He had decided that the twenty years which he’d spent in prison had aged him significantly. Al-Haq thought how America was probably the only country in the world where you can be sentenced to life in prison, yet still walk free one day.
Once he toweled himself off, he slipped on a beige chapan, which he’d brought back to the states with him from his native Afghanistan. It was so much more comfortable than American clothes, al-Haq felt. He sat at the round wooden kitchen table of his small basement apartment. There was no bedroom; a mattress lay on the floor in the corner of the room to allow for sleeping. The tan and brown carpet was stained with dog urine from the previous tenants. The walls—which were probably white at some point in time—were cracking from years of neglect. There were times when al-Haq would turn on a light and the kitchen walls would seem to be moving.
The cockroaches and the cramped quarters didn’t bother him though. These conditions were better than the ones he had endured during the eight months he had lived and trained in the Al-Qaeda training camp in Afghanistan; and certainly better than the years he had spent in prison.
Al-Haq opened the morning newspaper which he’d taken from his job at the gas station. He had quickly gotten used to the midnight shift there. He wasn’t even that tired most days when he got home from work. He would always make himself a light breakfast and read the paper before he would try to get some sleep. He stared at the date, August 16, 2014.
Where did time go?
Upon reflection, he knew where it went. The majority of it was spent inside an American prison cell. He had failed his brothers in Jihad, but they had forgiven him; they promised him redemption. He would still have another chance to fulfill his destiny. There was no reason to doubt them. They had done exactly what they had promised him. They trained him to make a suicide vest. They were able to sneak him back into the United States even though he’d been deported upon his release from prison. They had supplied him with false identification, and set him up with a job and an apartment. He was contacted at the mosque just as they told him that he would be. Now all that he needed to do is wait to see what his orders would be.
The seventy-two virgins will still be waiting for me in the afterlife.
Al-Haq was half daydreaming as he flipped through the newspaper. Then, when he got to page five, a photo caught his eye snapping him out of the trance. The picture was of someone from his past. A sudden rage engulfed his body. There was no mistaking it. He would never forget the face of the man who had caused him to lose so much. Not only did he spend so much time in prison, but he also never met his only son due to this man’s actions. Al-Haq’s son had been born only six weeks prior to his arrest and died at age seventeen at the hands of a U.S. drone strike while al-Haq was still in prison. His mouth went dry; his dark eyes narrowed. Keegan! He looked at the headline of the article.
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