by Kenneth Eade
Robert saw Zahawi’s smartphone on the night stand and pocketed it.
“Allahu Akbar, asshole.”
Robert left the bedroom, scanned the room, grabbed Zahawi’s laptop off the desk in the bedroom, sheathed his Ruger and pulled out the Glock. He traversed the living room, then opened the front door to a barrage of gunfire in the corridor. Robert dropped to the ground, looking back and forth for the source of resistance. The gunfire was coming from the elevator. He shot two rounds toward the firing and waited for a pause which indicated the shooter was reloading. Upon hearing a few seconds pause, Robert slid into the hallway, propped up on his elbows, located his target and aimed. The shooter reloaded too soon and Robert took a stray shot of automatic fire in the shoulder. He completed his aim, fired, and blew three holes in the shooter’s chest, propelling him against the wall in a bloody waterfall. Robert limped out, down the stairs and bleeding, into the night of the city that never sleeps.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Robert put pressure on the wound. It was still bleeding, but not an arterial bleed, so he could still move around. He felt the back of his left shoulder but didn’t discover an exit wound, which meant that the bullet must still be in there somewhere. It was too painful for him to ascertain if he had lost any range of movement.
Robert had to put as much distance between himself and Queens as possible, so at first he walked away as quickly as he could. He ducked into an alley, took a T-shirt out of his pack, and used it for a makeshift bandage. Then he headed for his old neighborhood in El Barrio. There was a dentist there known as Dr. D and he would have all that Robert needed.
When Robert reached Dr. D’s door the night sky was just beginning to become light. Robert was numb to the pain but he was feeling weak and dizzy. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle. He rang Dr. D’s buzzer. After a few moments, a tired voice answered.
“Who is it?”
“Dr. D, I need your help.”
“I’ll meet you in the office.”
The door buzzed and Robert pushed it open and dragged himself to Dr. D’s office in the main lobby. Dr. D lived in a flat upstairs. Robert had been there one time, not as a patient, but an observer. Dennis Carter, DDS, was a good dentist. He was also a gambler. Because of his habit, Dr. D, as he was known in the streets, would amass gambling debts from time to time. But he never had to worry about having his fingers or legs broken if he couldn’t pay right away because Dr. D had protection. He would treat knife and gunshot wounds if they weren’t too serious and, in exchange, the local riff-raff would cut him some slack. The doctor had all the necessary instruments to remove a bullet, stitch up a wound, and treat it with antibiotics to prevent infection, no questions asked.
Dr. D showed up moments later. He recognized the man leaning against his office right away, but didn’t acknowledge it. He unlocked the office door and motioned him in.
Dr. D gave Robert some water to hydrate, then cleaned the wound and administered a local anesthetic. He removed the bullet and put it in a tray, then cauterized and stitched up the wound. He bandaged the shoulder, then put Robert’s arm in a sling. He gave him a shot of antibiotics, and then offered him the bullet for a souvenir. Robert took it, not for memories, but to dispose of the evidence.
“How much do I owe you, Doc?”
Dr. D waved his hand. “Nothing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Robert reached into his pack and pulled out ten 100 dollar bills. They would last Dr. D a night on the tables, two if he was lucky.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Doc. And remember, I was never here.”
Dr. D smiled. “What are you talking about? I can’t see anyone here.”
***
Nathan Anderson called Samuels and Wokowski into his office.
“There was another hit last night on the Islamic State’s number one man in the states.”
“Al-Zahawi, we heard. Our guys in New York have been watching him.”
“Well, I guess they weren’t watching him closely enough. I want you two to go up there and see what you can find out.”
“I thought we were here as the FBI’s liaison to fight terrorism, not to locate this Paladine character.”
“You are. I think it’s all interconnected. Besides, he’s making us look bad – all of us.”
***
Joshua Maynard awoke, switched on the coffee machine, and went into the shower. He had an early plane to catch to San Francisco. It was a day trip, so, once he had showered, he suited up and prepared only his briefcase. Before leaving, he checked the news headlines on the Internet. Another suspected terrorist and his entire band had been hit last night in New York. The FBI and local police were investigating but social media had already solved the case – it was Paladine.
He caught Southwest Airlines’ first flight to the San Francisco Airport. As he flew in, he looked out the window at San Francisco Bay and realized just how different it was from Phoenix – like another world. After deplaning, he bypassed baggage check and went straight to the shuttle for the car rental center. The air was crisp, cold and wet, not like the hot, dry atmosphere of Phoenix. Even in the summer, San Francisco was chilly. He shivered and pulled his jacket together as he boarded the shuttle train.
An hour later, Joshua presented himself in the reception area at Bryce Williamson’s home office. The receptionist looked at him coolly.
“Sir, do you have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t assure you that Mr. Williamson will see you. He’s not well, you know.”
Maynard whipped out his badge case and flipped it open to show her the instrument that usually cut through excuses like this. “I think he’ll want to talk to me.”
The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke into it. She set it down in its cradle and stood up.
“Please have a seat, sir.”
After about five minutes of obligatory waiting, the receptionist stood.
“Mr. Williamson will see you now.”
She led Joshua into Bryce’s office, where he was seated at his desk, his nose hooked up to tubes from an oxygen tank. He appeared frail and like he should be in bed.
“Mr. Williamson, thank you for seeing me.” He held out his hand and Bryce bent over his desk and took it, weakly.
“Detective Joshua Maynard, Phoenix Police Department.”
Williamson’s eyebrows raised. “Phoenix?”
“You’re surprised, Mr. Williamson?”
Bryce coughed and sputtered. He indicated the chair with an outstretched hand. “Sit down, detective. Would you like some coffee?”
Joshua sat. “Yes, that would be great, thank you.”
Bryce phoned the receptionist, and then set down the receiver. “What is it that I can do for the Phoenix Police Department?”
“Well, actually I wanted to talk to you about Aaresh Shanahwaz.”
Bryce’s jaw dropped. He coughed and hacked. “That piece of shit? May he rot in hell. But what does he have to do with Phoenix?”
“I’m working on a murder case there that I think could be related.”
“Related? In what respect?”
“I think it may be the same shooter.”
“You think the guy in your murder case is Paladine, don’t you?”
“I do. And I also think that you hired him to take out Shanahwaz.”
Bryce coughed again but didn’t change his expression. He was better at bluffing than a champion poker player and his poker face was good enough to force anyone to lay down an otherwise good hand.
“That is a very serious accusation, detective.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Unequivocally. Of course, I’d love to take the credit. Nobody hated that jihadist scum more than me. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
The receptionist came in with a silver tray. On it was with one coffee cup, a sugar jar and a small creamer. She set it down on the desk in front of Maynard.
>
“You’re not having any?”
“No. Drink up, detective. I hear it’s pretty cold out there for people from out of town.”
Joshua took a quick sip of his coffee and set the cup down, taking the hint that the conversation was over and that it was time for him to leave.
“You know, it seems to me that you’re wasting a lot of resources looking for one man when he’s doing your work better than you.”
“I’m an investigator, not an executioner.”
“Just the same, maybe you should leave him alone. Do you really care if another jihadist gets wiped off the face of the earth?”
Joshua didn’t answer. He took another sip of his coffee. “Thank you, sir. If you change your mind and want to talk to me…” Joshua reached into his jacket for his business card holder.
“I won’t.”
Joshua set the card on the desk, took another sip and set the cup down. “Well, I left you my card just in case.” He stood up.
“Jessica will show you out.”
Joshua’s meeting was brief but he was glad that he had come. He knew the old man was lying. All outward indications were that he was telling the truth, but he could feel it in his gut. He had come face to face with the employer of Paladine – at least for the Shanahwaz hit.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Robert had to get out of New York more than he needed to sleep, so, as weak as he was, he took the 990 on the road for as long as he could, stopping at dusk for a meal and a motel bed in Gary, Indiana after a slight detour in Ohio to deposit the Walther and the Glock into deep storage in Lake Erie. Getting shot was always a possible occupational hazard, of course, but Robert normally never left a trail behind him to follow. This was a mess.
After scarfing down a steak and fries, Robert retired to his hotel room, took one of the sleeping pills Dr. D had given him, hit the pillow and was unconscious for the next eight hours. When he awoke, he made himself a cup of shitty tasting, watered-down instant coffee in the motel room’s coffeemaker, used it to gulp down a pain pill, and opened his laptop. The news from New York was all over the headlines. The police and the FBI were investigating the murder of Aasen Al-Zahawi, six of his associates and a female companion. They had no suspects yet, but it was early in their investigation. He opened his TOR browser. There was an encrypted message from Bryce Williamson, asking for an urgent meeting. He scratched his forehead while he stared at the screen, then he powered off the computer without answering the message, packed up and left the room.
***
Wokowski and Samuels had hopped on the next plane to La Guardia, where they were met by their New York counterparts, Agents George Thompson and Alex Birnbauer, who took them directly to the crime scene, which was still being worked by the New York Police Department. The bodies had already been removed by the medical examiner’s people, so Thompson and Birnbauer walked them through the scene, checking in first with the lead detective, David DeFasio, who was chomping on a hamburger.
“Detective DeFasio, these are agents Wokowski and Samuels from the bureau’s office in D.C.”
DeFasio, still chewing, offered his hand, which they tentatively took in tandem.
“Feel free to look around, gentlemen. My boys are just about done here.”
Wokowski and Samuels took the lead in surveying the crime scene, while Thompson and Birnbauer tagged along. There were two victims in the corridor by the elevator marked by outlines in red tape, four in the living room of the apartment, and two in the bedroom – Zahawi and his female companion. They discussed the case with the medical examiner’s technicians who were still on duty, and got an idea of the victims’ fatal injuries. Samuels could see the gears rolling in Wokowski’s head, so he hit him up for his opinion.
“So this guy takes out seven people just to get to Zahawi? How do you figure it went down?”
Wokowski strolled through the scene like Sherlock Holmes, piecing it together and re-enacting the crime, ignoring the forensic crew that was still dusting for fingerprints. He started in the corridor, examining the position of the two victims and the blood spatter evidence. Then he came to the door, looking to the right at the stairwell and the left at the elevator.
“I figure he must have come through the stairs.”
“But isn’t that inconsistent with him taking out the guard at point-blank range at the other end of the hallway?”
“Yes, but it’s my hunch that he would have known there would be a guard there and didn’t want the elevator bell to startle him. He probably waited for him to doze off and then tiptoed up to him and whacked him. This other guy in the hallway must have come later, because the shots he fired weren’t as precise, probably automatic.”
Wokowski examined the door to the apartment, which had obviously been kicked in. “Then he forced open the door.” He made a “gun” with the fingers of his right hand and stepped in, swinging the make-believe gun left, then center, then right. “He took out the guard here, then the guy at the window, and the two on the couch in less than two seconds, and then he breached the bedroom.”
Wokowski stepped into the bedroom, shot left and then right.
“Zahawi barely had enough time to get out of bed when the shooter shot him, then the girlfriend, and then he was out.”
“What about the second guy in the corridor?”
“From the position of the body, it looks like he was hit while he was charging, not like the guard, who was probably asleep. I figure he was last – maybe he came on the scene after it had already gone down and tried to stop our guy, who shot him and probably escaped down the stairs the same way he came up.”
Wokowski and Samuels moved toward the stairs, followed by the other G-Men.
“Wait!” Wokowski held out his hand to stop Samuels in his tracks.
“See that?” he said, pointing at the staircase landing.
“Yeah.” They all nodded.
There were some reddish-black drops, which had soaked into the porous surface of the staircase.
“That’s blood. Our guy must have been hit.”
Wokowski called Detective DeFasio and what was left of his forensic team over to take samples, and then followed the blood trail out into the street, where it disappeared.
“If our dude has a DNA record anywhere, he’s toast.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
The return trip had taken longer because Robert had to stop more often for rest. He made it home late, and darkness was the perfect cover to store the 990 and take his street bike home without anyone noticing. He checked once more on the Internet and found another message from Bryce: “Need to see you.” Robert replied: “Negative, waiting for things to settle down.” Robert drank some water and had some stale crackers, which is the only thing that he could find in his empty cupboard, besides the dog food he had purchased for Butthead. He hit the bed without showering, exhausted from the entire ordeal. His shoulder was killing him, so he popped some pain pills that Dr. D had given him.
***
Jason Maynard’s morning at the office began by reviewing the crime reports and evidence of the New York shooting he had received by email from Agent Wokowski. Satisfied in his gut that it was connected to the other hits, he put it on the whiteboard. He sat in his chair and studied the board, as if he were playing chess and contemplating his next move. He was.
Maynard hit the Net and made further search inquiries into the John Williamson Foundation to Fight Terrorism. The Foundation’s website boasted prominent corporate sponsors, like Wells Fargo Bank, Walmart, and Chevron. Freshly posted articles outlined the gun control bill which was being sponsored by Senator Rubinstein and another proposed bill in its infancy for stricter immigration screening, promoted by a prominent congressman. He dug deeper, delving into the bowels of the Darknet and found the companion underground site of the foundation, which advocated the idea of changing the laws to allow the federal government more leeway to summarily remove suspected terrorists, by assassination if necessary.
Even though the Dark web articles were more radical, none of them promoted criminal behavior. They did, however, glorify the mysterious Paladine and applauded the apparent vigilante for his valiant efforts. Maynard thought Paladine was just the opposite of a hero – a professional killer – which supported his hypothesis that it was Williamson, the founder and main benefactor of the foundation, who was pulling his strings. Using the resources offered him by the federal government, he snooped into Williamson’s email. There were no suspicious communications, coded or otherwise, only business correspondence and a small amount at that. Williamson did not appear to be much of a computer person. Maynard had noticed when he was in Williamson’s office that there wasn’t even one on his desk.
***
Wokowski and Samuels briefed Nathan Anderson at NCTC’s offices on their findings in New York. Anderson was excited about the fact that blood had been found in the stairwell but he kept that to himself. Wokowski was worked up enough to follow the leads on the case without Anderson appearing to have tunnel vision to catch Paladine.
“Great work. Maybe you should compare notes with that Detective out of Phoenix, what’s his name?”
“Maynard.”
“Yeah, Maynard.”
“We’re already on it; paying a visit to Maynard tomorrow.”
“Good. Let’s also be proactive and make sure that we’re keeping an eye on all the guys who are class 1, 2 or 3 on our list.”
“Already done.”
