by Peter Telep
There was, however, a blank, letter-sized envelope that had been sealed. Johnny tore it open and found a hand-written note in Arabic, one very similar to the instructions he had found in Daniel’s office.
* * *
Ashur Bandar had spent nearly two weeks in rehab, tunneling his way through the highs and lows, his face smeared in the camouflage paint of despair.
But when he checked out, he swore to himself he would not backslide. He focused on what Johnny had done for him, and he returned to work with a new haircut, a clean and newly repaired home, and a fresh attitude. He was lifting weights again. Brushing his teeth. Looking people squarely in the eye. Rising above. Dominick and the rest of the guys at the Marina were thrilled—dubious that it would last—but thrilled, nonetheless.
He was at home, sipping on some hot chocolate and watching television, when a text message from Johnny lit his phone’s screen.
Bandar studied the photograph and request to translate the message into English. After reading the note, he began a reply but stopped. There he was, caught in the electronic glare of helping a friend—or more accurately—helping a friend get himself killed.
* * *
He said his name was Frank Austerlitz, the next door neighbor, and he had lost his war against gravity over a decade ago. He had been standing crookedly at the front gate, scowling as Johnny and the others had filed out of Nazari’s house.
“I say again, who are you people?”
“My name’s Johnny. That’s all I can tell you, though. We work for the government.”
“Oh, yeah? You got ID?”
“You see?” Willie hollered. “We should have badges.”
“Ignore them,” Johnny said. He draped an arm around Frank’s shoulder and said, “Look, old timer, anything you can tell us about your neighbor would really help. You’d be doing a great service to your country.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Look at me.” Johnny quirked a brow. “I was a Marine for twenty-three years, and I’m still protecting that flag back there, the one your neighbor was hiding behind.”
“Lots of people impersonate military folks. I see that on YouTube.”
Johnny shrugged, thought a moment, then drew from his wallet a Second Force Reconnaissance Company challenge coin. “This is all I have. I wish I could tell you more. I’m a good guy. And I think you are, too.”
Frank snorted. “Maybe I should call the police.”
“Go ahead. Won’t matter either way.”
Frank scrutinized Johnny a moment more. He glanced away, heaved a great sigh as though disgusted by his own gullibility, then said, “Well, I guess I’ll tell you this. We all trusted him. This whole neighborhood. Took him in with open arms because we’re trying to be fair, be inclusive, you know? This is a country of immigrants. But then I see a bunch of moving trucks here, and these guys I don’t know. They empty the whole place like he’s a drug dealer or something. No warning. He was just telling me how much he loved it here. I mean, look at the paint job on that house.”
Johnny glanced back over his shoulder; it was a nice paint job. “Anything else?”
“Not really. He took better care of the house than Jack Dover and his alcoholic wife ever did. Her drinking was why he cheated on her. He never bothered to fix up the place.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You see anyone else besides the movers?”
“Not since then. And I don’t miss much.”
“Roger that. Did your neighbor live alone? Did he have a lot of guests?”
“He was alone. Said he was never married. Very few guests.”
Johnny used his phone to show the old man pictures of Shammas and Rasul. “You recognize any of these men?”
“That guy,” Frank said, pointing at Rasul’s photo. “He’s a student. He’d come here once in a while. Sometimes he just dropped off papers.”
“Gotcha.”
“You think Nazari’s a terrorist?”
Johnny smiled guiltily. “Just because he’s a Muslim?”
“No, because he skipped town so fast. When he first moved in here, people joked about that, but I convinced them to give the guy a chance. We’re all immigrants.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just say your neighbor is a person of interest. Now after we leave, can I ask a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to recruit you. You’ll be my eyes and ears. I’ll give you my phone number, and you call me if you see something.”
“Shit. Really? I’m on a fixed income—and I still need to help the government catch bad guys? Dear God.”
Johnny almost chuckled. “If you can get something to write with and a piece of paper, I’ll give you my number. Now if you’ll excuse me...” Johnny drifted away from Frank and toward Corey, who tightened his lips in disappointment.
“Damn, I was hoping we’d find more,” he said. “Those courier cards had perforated edges, and I’m positive someone used a laser printer to make them. My guess is the guy who’s in charge makes and sends out the cards. We just need to know where he does it and how they’re distributed—then we’ll have a gold mine of intel and we can disrupt their communications.”
“Roger that.” Johnny’s phone rang.
“Hey, Johnny,” Plesner began. “We just had that message translated. You boys are heading up to Detroit.”
Johnny told Plesner to hold on while he glanced down at a text message reply from Bandar, who confirmed the Bureau’s findings. The message included the time, date, and address for a meeting at 2300 the following evening. Whether Nazari would be there or not remained a mystery, but his associates might know his whereabouts, and any one of them could be a high value target. Capturing an operative became the next priority. Johnny confirmed their new travel plans, then regarded the group. “Anybody like Motown? ‘Cause we’re going...”
“Detroit?” asked Willie. “One of my 3-Gun buddies, a guy named Salvatore Rocco, lives there. Retired cop. Good guy.”
“Hey, I just thought of something,” Corey said. “Why didn’t they drop off a courier card? Why the note? Doesn’t seem very secure.”
“Good question,” said Johnny.
“They used a note to hook up with LaPorte,” said Willie. “Maybe they don’t use the cards for everything? They write notes for less secure communications? Probably faster and easier that way.”
“Look, Nazari couldn’t stop the mail,” Josh said. “And these cells are cut off from each other. So it’s likely some courier dropped this off and never realized he was gone. If they’re communicating with cards and notes, the time delays are huge. Like Willie said, they only use the cards for the most secure stuff. Or maybe they didn’t have time or access to the guy who makes the cards? Who knows? Point is, we’re still on the hunt.”
“Roger that,” said Johnny. “And maybe we can catch them while they’re still on the roost.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I didn’t care if they believed me or not. All I needed was for them to get down there, remain vigilant, and they would find out for themselves.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
Ghostly workers of an old industrial age seemed to glimmer behind the chessboard pattern of windows of the Packard Automotive Plant on East Grand Boulevard and Concord Street. Once an iconic symbol of American manufacturing, the deserted factory was now a 3.5 million-square-foot billboard advertising Detroit’s decades old decline and bankruptcy. Graffiti stitched across its paint-chipped walls like multicolored moss from another planet. Vain attempts at boarding up the ground floor sections left pieces of plywood strewn across fields of brown weeds. The plant’s sturdy bones of reinforced concrete stood tall against the vandals, auto scrappers, paint ballers, and other assorted tourists who ventured illegally into the labyrinth of buildings to make a few bucks, snap pictures, or act out some post-apocalyptic fantasy.
More recently, the plant had been purchased by a new developer who made rousing promise
s of rebirth and revitalization of the lot, even as homes in the surrounding area were auctioned off with starting bids as low as one thousand dollars. The developer had hired a private security firm to patrol the grounds and force out the dozen or so vagrants living there. He had erected a chain-link fence around the perimeter and intended to demolish every structure; however, asbestos removal had presented a major snafu. If he did not first remove the asbestos, then every load would be treated as though contaminated. His twenty million dollar demolition budget would skyrocket.
“What time is it?” Willie asked.
Johnny pressed a button on his watch, illuminating the screen. “Twenty-two forty-five.”
They had parked the black 1989 Jeep Cherokee between two trees on a vacant lot between Canton and Medbury Streets, one block east of the plant. The Jeep belched smoke and burned oil, while the air coming through the vents felt hot one minute, cold the next. A web of cracks spanned the windshield, and the passenger’s side mirror had been busted off, the wires hanging. Rust ringed the fenders like sleep grit, and the grooves in the rear tires were all but gone, burned away by the nineteen-year-old owner who floored it through every yellow light. A trace of marijuana smoke lingered in the carpeting, and Johnny felt certain something had died under the front passenger’s seat.
After arriving in Detroit, they had rented a new Nissan SUV, but after observing the location of the meeting on Google Earth, Johnny told the others that they would be sticking out like a sore thumb with that nice ride. Willie had called his retired cop friend Salvatore Rocco and had made the arrangements. The Jeep belonged to a neighbor’s son who was more than happy to accept a hundred dollar rental fee for the night.
One block south at the corner of East Grand Boulevard and Canton lay the Packard Motel, a grimy two-story affair with a tin roof, brick walls faded to a light taupe, and a buckling and stained parking lot accommodating only eight vehicles for its dozen or so rooms. The motel’s dimly lit sign, its windows protected by burglar bars, and its cash-only policy with five dollar key deposit seemed at odds with the handful of five star reviews Johnny had read online. Guests wrote of the surprisingly clean accommodations, new showerheads, and retro style carpeting. Johnny had imagined bejeweled pimps and bony crack whores loitering on the balconies as though the motel were a last stop before entering the underworld. Across the street, cops dressed in sweatshirts and jeans worked the overnight shift in their unmarked sedan, slugging down Cokes and devouring burgers and fries, their attention divided between money exchanges and packets of mustard and ketchup.
Those musings were incorrect, though, because on this night the motel lay mostly dormant, its denizens scattered by the cold in search of more opportunistic alleyways downtown. Still, with a few windows lit, and a pair of pockmarked sedans outside, the building maintained a thready but discernible pulse that was about to rise. The jihadi meeting would take place here in less than fifteen minutes.
Earlier, Johnny and the others had reconnoitered the plant and it environs, marking avenues of approach and exit, picking out the most probable locations of spotters, and selecting covered and concealed positions, along with lines of fire in and around the motel. They were ready. Except for one thing.
The gear bag they had ordered from Plesner had not arrived. No rifles, no protective vests, no night vision, no problem. They had flashlights, smartphones, and pistols. Josh had used his own money to pick up a pair of Steiner binoculars and some balaclavas while they were still in Iowa. Johnny had called Plesner twice, wondering about the drop off, and the man had assured him they would be contacted by someone. So much for depending upon the bureaucracy. They were out of time.
Josh and Corey were already outside, lying catlike in the brambles and taller grass of a vacant lot now a cemetery of trash between the plant and motel. They conducted surveillance from the far west side, facing the factory.
A rusting fence wandered along the east side of the street and served as a leaning trellis for dying weeds and vines creeping in and out its links. That fence provided an excellent cover position from which to observe the motel; consequently, Willie and Johnny left the Jeep, heading there. They pushed through warrens of browning foliage, the vines brushing across their balaclavas as they came in behind the fence and settled down.
The unknowns coiled tighter around Johnny’s spine. Would Nazari show? How many other jihadis planned to attend? Would they be armed? Intel regarding the size and composition of the enemy was important if you planned on surviving the night—a lesson they had learned the hard way in Fallujah. At the moment, they had little more than guns and good intentions. If the situation grew too unstable, they could fall back and observe, perhaps follow one jihadi as he left. Of course that jihadi would succumb to Murphy’s Law and die before they learned anything, just like all the others had.
Johnny drew his pistol and decided that no, they would not play that losing game again. They would go on the offensive—because they needed answers. Tonight.
* * *
Josh zoomed in across Concord Street, panning along the fifth story roofline of a building whose walls resembled a sheet of graph paper blotted by coffee stains. He examined every curve, hanging piece of wood, and jagged tooth of concrete from the intersections of East Grand all the way to Lambert Avenue. He shifted down to the fourth story and continued his sweep, searching between those windows covered by warped plywood and aluminum siding. He probed the gaping holes where the cracked ceilings and framework appeared either scorched by firebombs or bedecked in the crude hieroglyphics of spray paint.
“Hey, over there,” said Corey. “Thought I saw movement.” He pointed toward the south end of the building, near where a small bridge spanned the boulevard.
Josh redirected the binoculars. Despite the absence of thermal images, he was able to pick out a man on the fifth floor who was lowering himself to the ledge with a rifle and attached scope. The sniper wore a woolen cap and heavy coat, his face partially eclipsed by his weapon and too grainy to discern.
“Good catch,” Josh said. “But aw, dude, he ain’t alone.”
The second sniper had tucked himself into a corner of a missing window on the fourth floor. Josh counted eleven windows from the bridge where the first man had set up shop. Sharpshooter #2 was already propped on his elbows behind his rifle’s bipod, the scope and muzzle like a pair of disembodied eyes floating in zero gravity.
Josh’s breath shortened as he continued scanning and froze at the intersection of Medbury Street, where another man on the fourth floor had found a static position about a meter back from the ledge, beside a mound of broken concrete. Were it not for the pale yellow light filtering through the dust motes behind him, Josh would have missed his silhouette.
“I don’t get it,” he stage-whispered to Corey. “Three snipers drawing beads on the motel.”
“Just security?”
“I don’t know.”
Corey swore under his breath. “They’re tough to reach. Can’t get up there without making a lot of noise. Looks like they’ve got a thousand ways to escape.”
“Why not spotters and some bodyguards in close?” Josh asked.
“I’m not sure. But maybe this isn’t a meeting.”
Josh nodded. “You know what it looks like to me?”
A rustling sound along the fence stole Josh’s breath. He lowered the binoculars and signaled to Corey. They crawled deeper into the shrubs and listened beyond the whirring breeze and a distant car horn, beyond the creaking fence and sawing of vines on vines. Listening even more intently, Josh heard it: the barely perceptible thump of rubber on sand, on rock, on leaves, and finally on broken glass. The footfalls drew closer.
* * *
Willie had already rehearsed exactly how he would engage targets in and around the motel with his Glock 19 compact. He carried the pistol in a G-Code INCOG holster and had a fifteen-round flush mount magazine loaded with Hornady critical defense ammo. The pistol’s barrel was over an inch shorter than hi
s 34’s and presented a challenge for putting lead on targets in non-lethal spots such as the arms or lower legs. At this point, though, Willie was up for anything. He had thrown caution to the wind and had roller coastered his way into a job working for the FBI. Could life get any stranger than this? He was afraid to ask.
The Glock’s Trijicon night sights shone harlequin green against the motel’s brick walls. Bands of shadows cast by the street and starlight hid several of the doors from view, but Willie would run and gun if necessary to cover those areas. The fence was not unlike one of the barriers at Ant Hill, and range out to the motel doors was just shy of thirty yards, similar to what he shot on the course. Repressing a chill, he lowered the pistol and rubbed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to ebb and flow back to his last conversation with Ivonne, the sense of longing and guilt magnified now that he had no idea when he was coming home.
Johnny, who was at the fence a few yards to the right, eased his way back and whispered, “Text from Josh. Three snipers at the plant. Fourth and fifth floors. Plus there’s somebody on the lot. Very close. You cover the motel. I’ll circle back and see what we got.”
Willie gave a curt nod.
As Johnny left, the air grew magnetic, drawing out Willie’s senses, his instincts, his intuition. He refocused on the motel but found himself stealing glimpses through the trees and across the lot, to where Josh and Corey lie in wait. He double-checked the phone in his pocket, making sure it was set to vibrate and remained wary of an incoming message. He shook off the tingling across his neck, and then he held his breath as headlights swiped across the corner and picked out the motel.
* * *
The cold front and its accompanying winds concealed Johnny’s advance toward the north side of the lot, where the oaks and shrubs grew so dense that they concealed the entire street from view. He drew behind a man in a dark jacket and ski cap who leaned on a tree with his rifle held at his hip. The jihadi checked his watch, then lowered himself onto his haunches. The snipers above had no doubt marked the jihadi’s entry, so any commotion near those trees would be detected by them. Moreover, reaching the jihadi past five yards of rutted dirt and weeds required a more violent gust of wind and a bounding stride that was sure to attract attention. For the time being they would mark this jihadi’s position and continue with their surveillance. Johnny sent a text to Josh: I’m coming over. Wincing as his boots pressed on some glass, he fell back into the woods and hiked along the fence line, linking up with Josh and Corey near another stand of trees.
