Random Acts

by Franklin Horton

  He went to the computer desk and jiggled a glowing blue mouse. The monitor woke from its sleep and Mohammed found himself staring at a social media site. It was the same site, the same page, and the same profile he and Khebat had seen last night. It was the girl from whom Mohammed had stolen the profile pictures, the one he used to create his fake CamaroChick19 accounts for communicating with DeathMerchant6o6o6.

  It was the American girl.

  Amanda Castle.

  The poor thing had no idea how many radars she’d been turning up on lately.

  With a click of the mouse, Mohammed shrunk the browser window and examined the screen behind it. He found another browser window open to a map website. He examined the map and saw a pushpin at an address in Boone, North Carolina. On a hunch, he returned to the previous browser window, to the social media profile. He was able to determine after some scanning and reading of posts that Amanda Castle's new home was in Boone.

  That was concerning. Not because he had any concern for the personal safety of this girl but because he needed to reel in this loose cannon. He couldn’t have DeathMerchant6o6o6 out there running around and behaving in some manner that would get him arrested.

  Mohammed heard footsteps and spun, startled. It was merely Khebat returning from his own search of the house.

  “Anything?” Mohammed asked.

  "No one. The house is empty."

  Mohammed returned to the screen. "I don't know the whereabouts of DeathMerchant’s mother but indications are that he may have gone after this young lady."

  "Why would he do that? What would be the reasoning?”

  Mohammed shrugged. "It's hard to say. We are talking about an unstable, immature, and socially isolated mind. The thought process might not be entirely rational. Perhaps he thinks she is CamaroChick19, as I’ve led him to believe, and he wants to speak to me in person. Perhaps he has picked up differences between how I’ve presented myself and how this girl’s profile presents her. He might think she has deceived him in some way and he wants revenge. Maybe he’s decided he’s in love with her and he’s gone to profess his love. It’s difficult to know what might be going on inside his head.”

  "Might the Death Merchant truly be an assassin?" Khebat asked seriously.

  Mohammed turned to him. "What gives you that impression?"

  Khebat nodded at the wall of knives.

  Mohammed snorted in disdain. "I dismiss it. It is merely a collection. Those are toys he is probably incapable of using. It is the fascination of a man-child who has spent too many hours playing video games."

  "There are empty hooks on that wall," Khebat pointed out. "I would assume they are empty for a reason. Perhaps he is armed with those knives."

  "He lives in a fantasy world," Mohammed said. "The knives are accoutrements of this fantasy. They're not weapons in the hands of the warrior. They are toys in the hand of a child."

  "I hope you're correct, my brother. Do not forget they are very sharp toys in the hands of a very disturbed child."

  Mohammed smiled. “That will give you something to reflect upon while you await his return."

  Khebat raised an eyebrow. “I will await his return?”

  Mohammed nodded. He pointed at an image on the social media site. "It appears the girl works here. I will have Nasr drive me there. We will put eyes on it and see if the Death Merchant shows himself."

  "Are you certain he is worth all this trouble? Are you certain he is that critical to our mission?"

  “Without doubt,” Mohammed said. “The Death Merchant’s social media accounts, email, and gaming logs will show months of interaction with foreign accounts that make use of stolen pictures and use fake names. The FBI could build a case that much of the dialogue was code, leading up to America's first flash mob attack. All of that data will be verifiable on the various servers and switches it's passed through. That is impossible for us to fake. If we have to start over now and try to rebuild this type of history with someone else, it will take months or even years. We do not have that kind of time. Miran wants this to happen soon and I do not want to disappoint him."

  Mohammed emphasized that last sentence, making clear that there were unpleasant consequences for disappointing Miran.

  Khebat was fully aware of those consequences. “Nor do I wish to disappoint him,” Khebat admitted.

  42

  They were halfway between Charlotte and Boone when Nasr’s phone rang. He answered it and made several noises to the affirmative. When he hung up he looked over at Mohammed.

  “I received word that father misses you," Nasr said. "He would like you to write home."

  Mohammed gulped. This was inevitable. He had not spoken to Miran since arriving in the US but assumed the man had received word of their safe arrival through his network. Mohammed did not want to give any indication to Nasr that he was hesitant to call Miran. He did not want to appear as if he was not behind the mission or that he might be too scared to carry out his responsibilities.

  He reached into the back seat and retrieved his laptop. He flipped it open and the screen came to life. He connected to the mobile hotspot and then brought up a Gmail account both he and Miran held the password to.

  No mail was ever sent from this account. The purpose was only to begin a draft which the application then saved unsent. It was believed there was less opportunity for email to be intercepted if it was never sent anywhere, never leaving the server on which on which it was created. Mohammed navigated to the drafts folder and found a message waiting for him there.

  “I received word you have reached our family. I hope they are treating you well. I see no reason to delay our business. If you tell me what city you wish to conduct the event in, I shall start arrangements. Additionally, please be aware I would like to schedule the event for this week. Please advise that you are in understanding of this timetable.”

  The message knotted Mohammed's gut so intensely he thought he might shit in Nasr’s car seat. Apparently Miran was not interested in sending Mohammed to America merely for the purpose of driving around and seeing the sights. He was only interested in one thing: duplicating the Frankfurt flash mob attack within the borders of the United States. Miran also expected Mohammed to launch that attack immediately.

  Miran had no way to know that Death Merchant, the person Mohammed had long groomed to take the blame for the attack, had gone rogue. Nor did Mohammed have any intention of informing him of that fact. If this mission had to be scrubbed, it probably meant Mohammed would be scrubbed also.

  Mohammed was aware Nasr had at least one gun, the .380 he’d lent Mohammed for their incursion in the Death Merchant’s lair. Mohammed had returned that gun at Nasr’s request and now had nothing. Nasr told him the .380 was a backup gun, so there was another hidden on him somewhere. If things went sideways, Mohammed was certain there was a standing order to put a bullet in his head and roll him out in a ditch somewhere in the United States. He would never be identified. No one would be the wiser as to who he was or why he had been here.

  Mohammed deleted Miran’s email, their typical method of indicating it had been read. He clicked the button to compose a new email.

  “We are ready. Let us plan the party for noon on the day after tomorrow. We will hold the event in Charlotte, North Carolina, if that is agreeable to you. I will send you the address of the venue soon.”

  When he finished, Mohammed saved the draft. He logged out so Miran could log in and read the unsent draft.

  There was much to do. Mohammed put Charlotte, North Carolina, into Google and began searching for venues or events that may be appropriate for his flash mob. He considered Charlotte Motor Speedway. They had a lot of events but it looked like there was too much security in place for that to be a possibility. He looked at sports arenas, but it was the same deal there. Too crowded to get a vehicle close, too much security in place to do anything out of the ordinary. After more searching, he shut the laptop.

  Mohammed retrieved his mobile phone and touche
d the contact for Khebat. There was no answer and the phone went to voicemail. Mohammed debated what to do but decided to leave a voicemail.

  “We’re running out of time. The party is the day after tomorrow. Charlotte has a downtown area called Center City. Write messages for all of the social media sites we discussed. Schedule it for noon the day after tomorrow. I’ll text you the exact address.” Mohammed ended the call.

  “Can’t reach him?” Nasr asked.

  “He’s probably fixing a pizza,” Mohammed said. “You should have seen his eyes light up when he saw the freezer full of them.”

  Nasr smiled. “There was nothing like that back home.”

  Mohammed shook his head. “Certainly not.” He opened his laptop again and checked the mail account. His own email of a few minutes ago was deleted and another from Miran saved in the drafts folder.

  “Your timeframe is agreeable. Give me an exact time and street address. I will have twenty-four ‘gifts’ available for distribution. As last time, we will provide you with transportation and electronic access for operation and control.”

  Twenty-four gifts. Twenty-four explosive devices. A random act of kindness turned into a random act of mass death and destruction.

  He deleted the email and started one of his own. He gave a street address and a time, then logged out.

  When he closed the laptop, he took a few rapid breaths, the weight of it all bearing down on him, pressing him against the earth.

  “Are you okay, my brother?” Nasr asked.

  “I fear my days of being okay are past,” Mohammed replied. “From here on out, it’s a race to the end.”

  Nasr did not respond. It was likely he didn’t know how to respond. It also occurred to Mohammed that Nasr may not be responding because he knew when the end was coming for Mohammed and at whose hand.

  "Are you certain the girl is worth all this?" Nasr asked.

  Mohammed snorted in disgust. "The girl is worth nothing. My only interest is in saving DeathMerchant6o6o6 and thereby saving all the work I've put into this project."

  "Can’t you do it without him?" Nasr asked. "The Americans would blame the usual parties. In the end, what difference does it make if there is terror and devastation? Isn't that the goal?"

  Mohammed realized at this point that Nasr knew far more about what was going on than he’d indicated. Mohammed had been careful to say as little in front of him as possible in an effort to maintain operational security. The man probably knew everything. He’d portrayed himself as little more than a chauffeur but he was more likely an operative. There was no point in playing games at this point. If Nasr already knew what was going on, Mohammed would just be honest with him.

  “Miran is adamant that this attack appear to be committed by a radicalized American youth. He wants Americans to start distrusting their own. He wants them to think that any child could turn at any time."

  Nasr nodded. "So we find the girl and we find your DeathMerchant6o6o6?"

  "That's my theory."

  "Where do we even begin to look?"

  “Everything we need to know was on the Death Merchant’s computer. The girl’s social media profile said she lived in Virginia, not far from Washington, D.C. but that's not the case. Reading her posts told us she's moved and just not updated her profile. It appears her mother died and she went to live with her father."

  "In Boone, North Carolina?"

  "That's where the trail leads. I reviewed the Death Merchant's browser history. One of her social media posts talks about taking a job at a bike shop. The Death Merchant used social media and a map website to find the location of that bike shop. I would assume that’s where he’s going since that’s where his investigation ended."

  "That's assuming she's at work," Nasr pointed out. "She's a teenage girl. It's not like she's going to be there all day, every day."

  Mohammed smiled. "Yes, that’s why I followed the trail a little further than the Death Merchant did."

  "How’s that?"

  "Her earlier social media posts mention working with her dad in his construction business. I don't know his name because she never mentions it on social media but her last name is Castle. I looked for licensed building contractors in the general area with the last name Castle."

  "And that gave you an address?"

  "North Carolina requires that the contractor's license has the legal physical address on it. I'm guessing that a small construction company like this is based out of the man's home. The home he now shares with his daughter."

  "So we maintain surveillance on the home try to intercept the Death Merchant if he shows up."

  Mohammed nodded. "Exactly."

  “If he’s going to the bike shop, why wouldn’t he just take her there?”

  “I don’t think he’d risk the chance of being seen abducting her in public,” Mohammed said. “He’d follow her to a more private place where he wouldn’t be seen.”

  “How do you know he’s going to abduct her?” Nasr asked. “Maybe he’s just going to kill her.”

  “I don’t care if he kills her,” Mohammed said. “All I care about is getting him out of there before the police arrive. After our operation, the police are welcome to him. Until then, we babysit him like an infant.”

  Nasr checked the clock display on the Tahoe’s dash. "It will be late when we get there. It may even be dark. The Death Merchant may have already been there and gone."

  Mohammed exploded. There was so much at risk, and not just this operation. He did not want to die with the boiling oil oozing from his orifices. "I don’t have all the answers! Quit asking me your stupid questions. I have preparations to make. I do not have time for this."

  Nasr was a man accustomed to keeping his cool. He simply focused on his driving, on the task on at hand. However, he was not used to being talked to in that manner. It did not sit well with him. There may yet be a time he would be able to take recompense for that. Nasr had often felt bad about having to kill his brothers when the leadership determined they must die for reasons he was not allowed to know. However, it was in his nature to not forget slights against him. For that reason, he would not feel so bad to pull the trigger on this man. When the word came, as it inevitably would, he would not hesitate.

  43

  Victor drove from Boone to Charlotte, unable to recall large chunks of the drive. That was happening to him more and more. Because he was driving, the analogy occurred to him that maybe it depended on who was in the driver's seat of his body at the time. If he, Victor, was driving he had recollection. During those other periods, when he assumed DeathMerchant6o6o6 was in control, there was no recollection at all.

  The missing time did not concern Victor. In fact, he found the respite from decision-making to be a relief. He wanted the Death Merchant in control. He wanted to be done feeling like an out-of-control freight train.

  Victor was not even certain why he was returning to his home in Charlotte. He just didn't know what else to do. He was like an injured animal returning to his lair. A bear returning to its den. However, he couldn’t stay there much longer. That scenario had played out in his head already and he knew how it ended. The police would find him and he would be locked up forever for the things he, or DeathMerchant6o6o6, had done.

  Maybe his desire to return home was at the behest of the Death Merchant. As a longtime gamer he understood the importance of picking up supplies off the playing field, about scavenging, and about surviving. Maybe home was merely a supply run, one last attempt to regroup before hitting the road forever. It was frustrating to Victor that if the Death Merchant was so adept at these situations and so in control, why did he even find himself back at the wheel at all? Why didn’t the Death Merchant just remain in charge?

  This was not where Victor wanted to be. He was done with being in control. He was done with the fear and the vulnerability. Let the Death Merchant drive this car to the end of whatever road they were traveling. Wherever it was headed, Victor wanted no part of it, but did not k
now how to stop it or get out.

  He went to the shopping center first, the scene of the knockout game. His car was still there. He parked his mother’s car in the space beside it and switched vehicles, taking everything he’d need from the Buick. Victor did not entirely understand why they were switching cars but he assumed it was something from the Death Merchant’s playbook.

  Once the switch was made, he drove toward his house and started to pull into the driveway but caught himself and coasted on by. Some inner voice, perhaps that of the Death Merchant, warned him of the possibility the police had found the bodies and discovered what he had done. He saw nothing amiss but decided to drive around the block and double check.

  On his second pass, he still saw nothing alarming. This time, certainly at the behest of the Death Merchant, he even looked for black vans like the police used in the movies as communication and surveillance centers. There were no black vans, nor any unmarked cars sprouting an unusual number of antennas. Even with those observations, he was not entirely satisfied.

  He made a pass halfway around the block and pulled into an unpaved alley that ran parallel to the street and behind all of the houses. His mother once told him that when the houses were built, the alley provided access for the trucks delivering stove coal or home heating oil. There was a wide spot in the alley directly behind his mother’s garage. He steered into it and parked, his car not visible from either the street or his house.

  He got out of the car and let himself through an unlocked gate in the chain link fence. He trotted across the yard, something he couldn't recall having ever done before and he found it extremely awkward. He went to the side door, which was the door he and his mother used most of the time. He gently pulled open the storm door, twisted the handle on the inner door, and shoved against it.

  It was locked.

  Victor tried it again, a frown furrowing his face. They never locked this door. As he attempted to recall his own departure, when he left for Boone, North Carolina, he wasn't even certain he'd closed the door. He hadn’t locked it because to lock the deadbolt from outside required a key and he didn’t carry one. It must have been locked from inside.