Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  How do I not kill the girl?

  “Sir, put your hands where we can see them!” The loudspeaker again. Jake heard a car pull up behind him, saw the lights strobe in the van’s windshield. “We have this under control!”

  “You don’t have shit under control!” Jake yelled back. The effort kicked off a hacking jag. “That white van is a bomb. Call ESU and the Bomb Squad. This guy doesn’t get to the van.”

  Police radios buzzed furiously in stereo. More sirens faded in from all around. A helicopter hammered overhead, then swooped off to the south. The girl had run out of words and just wailed like another siren. Windows lit up all along 69th.

  Al-Shami stood stock-still, his one visible eye locked on Jake’s face. He then jammed his gun under the girl’s chin, disengaged his left arm, and pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket.

  A phone?

  The bomber shifted to peek around the left side of the girl’s head. The phone screen’s blue light washed the side of his face. His eyes flicked from Jake to the phone and back. He stabbed his thumb on one of the phone’s buttons.

  In a flash, Jake knew what al-Shami was doing. The phone was a trigger, like in Iraq and Lebanon. Dial a number, set off the bomb.

  The blast would shred the buildings, blow out windows, light fires. But that wouldn’t end it. Stone lined either side of the street in both directions. Al-Shami, the girl, the cops, people on Madison—and Jake—were all inside even a “small” bomb’s lethal radius, and Jake bet this one wasn’t small. Shit! “Don’t do it, al-Shami. It buys you nothing.”

  Al-Shami thumbed another key. Two digits of the eleven he’d need. He’d stopped paying attention to Jake. His face had drifted out from behind the girl’s bobbing, shaking head.

  Take the shot.

  I can’t, I’ll hit her, I can’t take that chance.

  Take the shot!

  Al-Shami’s trembling thumb beeped across the keypad. Three digits. Four, five, six…

  Jake adjusted his grip on the Beretta. His vision was clouding, his head starting to pound. He sighted on al-Shami’s left eye, squeezed just enough to feel the trigger move. Do it do it do it no no no what if I kill her I can’t I can’t…

  Eight, nine…

  He took the shot.

  Al-Shami fell back as if in slow motion. His arms spread wide when his body hit the snowy sidewalk. A dead snow angel.

  The girl stood silent, shocked. Then she screamed, a wail that let out her fear and horror.

  Jake tottered forward, took her in his arms in equal parts to comfort her and to not fall over. She clung to him, sobbing, the way she would a life ring in a flood. He leaned on her as his own fear and tension and hypervigilance flushed out of his system. She was alive. He was alive. Miriam was alive. None of their lives would ever be the same. But they’d awakened from the nightmare at last.

  NINETY-EIGHT: Elmont, New York, 5 February

  The cemetery was hushed, as cemeteries usually are, as if even nature held its breath passing by. Airliners leaving LaGuardia or landing at JFK whispered as they flew overhead.

  Miriam let Jake lead her up the rise through the thicket of monuments, the wind nibbling at their stocking caps and the hems of their winter coats. Eve held onto the flap of Jake’s coat pocket. Solid, upright granite markers, Stars of David, Hebrew lettering, lions, tablets, menorahs. The few inches of snow frosting the ground was pockmarked and crunchy from too many freeze/thaw cycles since the last storm, but still slick enough to be a struggle on crutches. Winter was a bad, bad time to be a gimp, and after a month she dearly hated the things.

  Jake moved stiffly. She knew the cold bothered his still-wrapped, not-quite-healed wound, but he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. They hadn’t said much past “Good morning” today. It wasn’t the sort of day, or occasion, to invite conversation.

  “We’re here,” he said just loud enough so she could hear. Miriam drew up next to him, leaned on her crutches, checked his face. He looked lost. She knew that expression; she’d seen it in the mirror two years before.

  Miriam wanted to reach out to lend him some strength, but it didn’t seem right. Not in front of his wife. “Do you want some time alone?”

  “No. Please stay.”

  A low wooden marker poked its head through the snow about eight feet in front of them. If he followed the traditions, the permanent monument wouldn’t come until December, around Yahrzeit. She wondered if he’d wait. Would she have, if Bill had been Jewish? It had been a comfort in a way, not to have to choose.

  “Daddy?” Eve looked up at Jake with confusion all over her face. “Where’s Mommy?”

  He stroked her head through the hood of her purple fleece jacket. “Right here, Bunny. Part of her’s here.”

  Jake carefully stepped toward the marker with Eve in tow, bent, brushed away the snow, revealing a white tag covered with plastic sheet. He knelt, hands in his lap, staring at the ground with eyes that didn’t see anything in this world. Eve stood next to him, leaning against his shoulder, looking around for a missing someone.

  “Hi,” he eventually murmured. His voice just barely climbed above the shushing wind. “It’s me. I guess you know that, I…” He glanced up at the horizon, swallowed, then rested his gaze on the snow in front of the marker. “Sorry I haven’t come sooner. It’s been crazy. Hearings, investigations … It’ll be over soon. The men who did this…they won’t hurt anyone else again.”

  He reached out, touched the ground with one gloved hand. A tear rolled down his cheek, dropped onto his sleeve. “I miss you. So much. I hear your voice, I feel you…feel your touch. Maybe you’re trying to take care of me, I don’t know. Like I should’ve taken care of you.”

  Oh God, stop. Miriam felt a squeeze in her chest that wasn’t from her coat and sweater. Don’t do this to yourself. It doesn’t help. I know.

  “I…want to hope we’ll see each other again someday. I…” His voice broke.

  Miriam saw the quiver in his shoulders, heard the ratcheting sounds in his throat. She blinked to clear her eyes, drew herself up a little taller. This was where she needed to say something; she hoped she’d get the words right. “May His great name be exalted and sanctified in the world which will be renewed,” she said in a voice that grew stronger and clearer with each word, “and where He will give life to the dead and raise them to eternal life.”

  Jake watched her through eyes shimmering in the tears that sheeted down his cheeks. “Amen,” he rasped.

  “It helped. When Bill died. It really helped.”

  He nodded, snuffled, dropped his gaze to the ground again. “This is Miriam. She’s one of us, one of the people whose names were stolen. We helped each other stay alive. She’s a good person. I wanted you to meet her.” Jake patted the ground. “I’ll be back soon, we can talk. I love you.”

  “Is Mommy talking back?”

  Jake turned to face Eve. Sitting on his heels, they were almost the same height. He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. His mouth opened to answer, but only little breaking sounds came out.

  “Eve?” Miriam hobbled forward, held out her hand toward the girl. “Come here, sweetie.” She exchanged looks with Jake as Eve drifted to her side. He pushed himself upright, stumbled a few yards away, shoulders hunched and shaking.

  Eve looked up at her, bewildered. “Why’s Daddy crying?”

  “Because he misses your mommy.” Miriam wrapped an arm around Eve’s shoulder, pressed the girl against her good leg. “Just like you do sometimes.”

  “Can Daddy see Mommy?” Eve asked. “I can’t. I wish I could.”

  Miriam hugged Eve one-handed. “Close your eyes.” Eve closed her eyes. “Now think of your mommy. Can you see her?” Eve nodded. “That’s where she is. Inside you. You can see her anytime you want.”

  Eve opened her eyes, sniffed, looked to her father. Miriam braced with a crutch, bent and kissed the top of Eve’s head. “Go take care of your daddy.” Eve edged past Rinnah’s grave, then trotted to Jake’s si
de and wrapped her arms around his hips.

  Miriam felt a little twinge as she watched them. She and Jake spoke on the phone nearly every day now. At first they’d just been checking up. But then they’d started opening up to each other, talking about the nightmares, the residual anxieties, the physical therapy after her knee replacement—courtesy of the City of New York—and her lingering fear of being alone, Jake’s visions of the people he’d killed and sudden breakdowns when Rinnah’s ghost intruded on his sleep. They also talked about his work with the police, her job hunt, movies they’d seen, Gene’s slow recovery, Eve’s school. She’d been there for some of what he called “the hero stuff”—his commendation, the photo op with the mayor, a TV appearance on Good Day New York. He and Eve had visited Cherry Hill once; this weekend was her first chance to see their new apartment, a few blocks from the haunted one where Rinnah had died.

  She considered the finger marks he’d left on Rinnah’s grave. “Um, Rinnah…this is a little strange for me. Jake’s told me so much about you, I feel like I know you, at least a little. I wish we could’ve really met.” She looked up to check on Jake and Eve. “Your husband’s a good man, a very brave man, like my husband was. He protected me. He saved my life. You should be proud of him.” Miriam swallowed, thought about her next words. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep an eye on him for you. He needs someone to talk to. I do, too. I’m not trying to take him away, but…well, I don’t want to lose him, either.” She fumbled a pebble from her pocket, rolled it in her fingers. “That’s all.” She placed the rock on the marker, then stood and waited for Jake.

  He and Eve eventually paced back to the grave, subdued but back in control. He pulled off his right glove, dug a small white stone from his coat pocket, and carefully laid it atop the marker next to Miriam’s. “Bunny? You have your rock?”

  “Uh-huh.” Eve pulled from her jeans pocket a pyramidal gray stone the size of a quarter. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s a present for Mommy. It means, ‘I remember.’ Put it next to ours.”

  While Eve skipped ahead, Jake and Miriam drifted back toward the car, each tied up in their own thoughts. In all of their talking, she and Jake had skirted the big question—what was next for them? Would they remain just good friends, or would there be more? She’d meant what she’d said to Rinnah, about watching out for Jake. What did he want? She thought she knew, but still wasn’t quite sure.

  When they reached her car, Jake touched her elbow. “Thanks.”

  She nodded. “Are you okay?”

  He shrugged. His eyes were red but almost dry again. “You going back tonight?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I have to go to work tomorrow. I think Philadelphia lawyers have a blacklist.”

  “Figures. Well, I’m still good on the couch if you want to stay.” Jake turned his head toward the distant whistling of JFK. “There’s a lot of law firms up here, you know.”

  “I know. This city kind of scares me, though. It’s so big.”

  Jake looked into her eyes. He tried to smile. “It’s…not so bad if you know someone.”

  “Maybe I should give it a chance, then.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  Perhaps it was time to leave New Jersey behind, start fresh. She reached out to touch his forearm through his sleeve. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  Miriam smiled. “Where can we get some lunch around here?”

  “I got a couple ideas.” Now he managed a real smile, his first for a long time. It looked good on him. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  About the Author

  Lance Charnes has been an Air Force intelligence officer, information technology manager, computer-game artist, set designer, Jeopardy! contestant, and now an emergency management specialist. He’s had training in architectural rendering, terrorist incident response and maritime archaeology, but not all at the same time. Lance tweets (@lcharnes) on shipwrecks, archaeology, art crime and scuba diving.

  Doha 12 is Lance’s first published novel. His second, the near-future thriller South, was released in November 2013.

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  Want more excitement?

  Read a sample of Lance Charnes’ international thriller

  SOUTH

  Luis Ojeda owes his life to the Pacifico Norte cartel. Literally. Now it’s time to pay.

  Luis led escaping American Muslims out of the U.S. during the ten years following a 2019 terrorist attack on Chicago. He retired after nearly being killed by a border guard. But now in 2032, the Nortes give Luis a choice: pay back the fortune they spent saving his life, or take on a special job.

  The job: Nora Khaled – FBI agent, wife, mother of two, and Muslim. She claims her husband will be exiled to one of the nation’s remote prison camps to rot with over 400,000 other Muslim Americans. Faced with her family’s destruction, she’s forced to turn to Luis – the kind of man she’s spent her career bringing to justice.

  But when the FBI publicly accuses Nora of terrorism, Luis learns Nora’s real motive for heading south: she has proof that the nation’s recent history is based on a lie – a lie that reaches to the government’s highest levels.

  Torn between self-preservation and the last shreds of his idealism, Luis guides Nora and her family toward refuge in civil war-wracked Mexico. The FBI, a dogged ICE agent, killer drones, bandits, and the fearsome Zeta cartel all plan to stop him. Success might just free Luis from the Nortes…but failure means disappearing into a black-site prison, or a gruesome death for them all.

  In a day-after-tomorrow America where government has been downsized and outsourced into irrelevance, and none but the very wealthy few can afford hopes or dreams, Luis and Nora must learn to trust each other to ensure the survival of the truth – and of the people they love.

  “South is a compelling futuristic thriller, as convincing a cautionary novel as Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale was in its day (and arguably still is)…these were real people forced to live in terrible times, and I was only too happy to cheer them on – or cry over their tragedies – as the novel raced to its conclusion.” — CriminalElement.com

  ENJOY THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS OF SOUTH

  1

  SATURDAY, 25 MAY

  Luis Ojeda scanned his binoculars along the rusty sixteen-foot fence to the dirt road’s visible ends. Nothing. A dead floodlight at the curve over the arroyo left a patch of twilight in the line of artificial day. The lights on either side leached all color from the night.

  The patrol was late. He’d been out here face-down in the dirt for over an hour, waiting for the right time. These desert mountains turned cold after sunset, even this late in a nasty-hot May. He was prepared for it. Army field jackets and winter-weight ACU trousers like he wore now got him through January in the ‘Stan all those years ago. He could wait all night. Usually, the travelers couldn’t.

  He glanced downslope over his shoulder. Five brown faces stared back at him, their eyes glowing orange in the floodlights’ glare. This run’s travelers. Each wore a backpack holding everything they could bring with them from their old life to their new one.

  The young mother lay at the group’s left edge. Her dark anime eyes stared at him from under a road-weary hoodie. Her little girl—four, maybe five tops—pressed her face into her mom’s shoulder,
the woman’s hand wound through her tangled black hair. Luis usually tried not to bring kids this young, but they had nobody else anymore, and when Luis looked into the girl’s eyes he saw his daughter at that age, scared, sad and trusting. So here they were.

  Back to the binoculars. Dust shimmered in the floods to the west, then a whip antenna, then a tan cinder block on wheels crawled up the rise. The BRV-O’s six-cylinder diesel clattered off the rocks around them. It swung around the dogleg over the arroyo, chunked along at around fifteen, then trundled east.

  It stopped.

  Two men heaved out. Tan utilities, helmets with no covers, desert boots: contractors. Mierda. They strolled back the way they’d come, M4s slung across their chests, hands resting on the grips. One lit a cigarette. They stopped at the edge of the pool of dark to look up the pole.

  The one not smoking leaned into the radio handset on his shoulder. Then he turned to look straight at Luis.

  Luis became a rock. The guard was probably half-blind from the light; Luis doubted the guy could see him in the semi-dark, even if he knew someone was out here. Chances were the gringo was going to take a leak. Then the guard’s hand went for the tactical goggles hanging around his neck.

  ¡Chingado!

  As the guard seated the goggles over his face, Luis went flat. As long as he didn’t move, his infrared-suppressing long johns and balaclava would defeat the goggles’ thermal vision and make him fade into the petrified sand dune under him.

  The travelers didn’t have that gear. Luis peered back into the dark. All five travelers should be shielded by the ridge, but “should” didn’t mean shit if the guard caught the bright-green return of a warm human body on his scope. If he did, they’d all find out at 2900 feet per second.