by Hawk, Nate
The crowd parted, giving Hands the much-needed space that his large frame required, as he advanced towards the building that contained the hostage and the bomb. He quickly eyed the cage and small Master lock, sizing it up and realizing he wouldn’t need to tap into much of his strength to set the woman free. He raised the bolt cutter’s handle and smashed it down on the lock, breaking the mechanism. He grabbed a bed sheet and quickly pulled the naked woman from the cage, wrapping her up in one smooth movement. She was dazed, clearly in shock, malnourished and suffering from deep mental trauma that Hands didn’t have the proper training to handle. He was a warrior, not a psychologist. The woman would clearly need a mental health expert and other forms of treatment over the next months or years.
Probably her entire life, Hands admitted to himself.
It was a fucked up situation but he wasn’t kidding himself. He didn’t know shit about that. Hands’ compassion was mostly limited to his ability to keep his mouth shut around civilians. Behind the scenes, he would laugh off the really difficult situations with his friends and fellow agents. They knew how to deal with the shit like he did, so at least his conscience would be guilt-free. He escorted the woman towards the door where other agents were waiting to help. Hands released her to a female sheriff’s deputy who had been anticipating the woman. There was a police cruiser nearby and idling, waiting to get the woman to a hospital.
Hands quickly returned to the room where the dead man lay in a growing pool of partially congealed blood and brain matter and with a half-disappeared head. His head looked as if it had sunk into the floor but in reality, the back of it just wasn’t there.
Hands was wearing a face mask and gloves but he had discarded his cumbersome blast shield. Positioning himself on his knees, he quickly assessed the vest and its construction. He could see some wires had come uncrimped, likely in the flurry of activity that the man experienced while donning the vest, knowing the agents were approaching. He could see that the vest did utilize Russian military-grade explosives, which was higher tech than some of the vests he’d seen. The blasting cap was not properly hooked up to the battery though so he carefully removed it from the moldable explosives. He pulled heavy-duty shears out of his gear bag and cut the top and sides of the vest, allowing him to remove the front section. It was full of explosives and ball bearings, with a complement of nails or some other sharp metal that he could feel but not currently see. Surely it was a collection of scrap metal that the world didn’t need to experience, ripping through everything in its path at lightning-fast speed. He gently set it aside and with very intentional movements began to roll the body off of the second half of the vest. Seeing that it housed the batteries, he removed it and allowed the body to shift onto its backside. In doing so, he heard the rustle of papers and quickly isolated the source of the noise. It was the documents that had been stuffed inside the man’s clothing.
Hands removed the file and inspected its contents with a quick scan. Much to his surprise he found blueprints of what appeared to be several transportation hubs. They looked to be a mix of domestic and foreign locations but a Bureau analyst would need to study them to be sure. There were personal notes written in code with locations and names of people that would clearly need deciphering. It was a potential windfall for the intelligence community.
Pressing the button on his mic, he informed SSA Lynch, “Possible Intel on a 10-35, requesting immediate air transportation to Quantico, over”.
SSA Lynch’s mind quickly transferred from his dirty Timberlands to the seriousness of the next task.
He straightened up his posture and answered in the affirmative, “Permission granted. Let’s move out.”
And just as fast as Hands Wheeler had arrived, he left in a storm of helicopter dust with the Intel packet and the now-neutralized explosive components of the vest. If Hands was lucky, which he usually was, he would be permitted to use the newly acquired explosives during an upcoming training simulation.
“Nice work, Hands,” SSA Lynch complimented. “But damn, did you have to bring the explosives with you?”
“They’re neutralized,” he assured the SSA. “And congratulate your team. They’re the ones that took those guys out.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll do that but you know how it is. Jamaat Al Fuqra will just move in other guys to take their place. They’ll be back in business by the end of the week.”
“True,” Hands said. “And we’ll be looking for reasons to come back and visit them.”
Steven Lynch knew that was true. But returning to Red Cloud wasn’t on his mind. Something bigger was. He had supervised the infiltration of the compound so he suspected that his oversight during the operation was just what he needed to finally propel him to that long awaited promotion. If the Intel proved as helpful as it sounded, he knew that his days of being a Supervisory Special Agent were over. Now he was on his way to becoming an Assistant Senior Agent in Charge (ASAC). He was sure that he’d have to relocate from Virginia. Steven had friends all over the US. Where would the Bureau transfer him to this time?
***
Chapter 6
Several Months Later
Kelly Maclean had endured a lot during his life but he had always been strong enough to hold himself together. He had been a lightning rod, grounded and indestructible, with danger flashing and exploding all around him. But it had been those around him that had suffered the most. Many of those whom he’d cared for the most had been driven away, often times through a brutal and unexpected death. It was as if the lightning in his own personal life was there to prevent anyone else from getting too close to him. He never wanted that type of existence, and damn he had confronted and selflessly battled the force that he knew as fate. He had tried his hardest to secure the safety of others. But, up to this point, he felt that fate had taken more than it had given.
Yet with all of the tragedies that he had experienced, he was only thirty-five. He did his best to keep his mind always focused on staying positive. He knew it was the only outlook to have on life. So he considered himself extremely fortunate to have been selected for the Bomb Squad. His happiness had compounded now that he had Jen at his side, finally breathing a woman’s influence back into his otherwise simple existence.
Kelly was ascending smoothly during the climb sequence, with his recently promoted Bureau friend and flight instructor, Steven Lynch, at his side. After Steven had obtained the ASAC position in Boston, he had agreed to help Kelly obtain his pilot’s license. The men had met during college so their friendship had spanned fifteen years at that point. Their friendship added a level of casualness not usually seen between a teacher and student but this didn’t get in the way of their respective roles in the sky. On the ground there was always plenty to talk about since both worked in law enforcement, but for the last hour all talk had been about getting the “bird” in the air safely. Kelly respected the fact that Steven was a well-studied intellectual and he admired the man’s levelheaded approach to processing and sharing information with others. Kelly had already adjusted the power on the single engine Cessna 172 and had set the altitude. He somewhat apprehensively scratched his stubbly beard and then proudly glanced over towards his co-pilot.
“Real steady again today, Kelly. I may just shut my eyes for a few minutes and doze off,” his instructor told him with an insipid look on his face that showed he was so far impressed with the prowess demonstrated by his pupil. Kelly was trimming to maintain his altitude under Steven Lynch’s careful eye, when the boy in the back worked up enough courage to speak for the first time during their short flight.
“Uhm…Kelly. Are we going to crash?” he asked with grave seriousness.
“No, Brady, no crashing today,” Kelly assured the boy with a chuckle. “We are even safer up here than in a car. You know I will take care of you, son. And besides, Mr. Lynch here is the real pilot.”
The boy looked at the other man and then gave a cautious smile as he resumed his stare out the side window. Brady knew Ste
ven to be a serious and reliable friend of Kelly’s but he still felt unease. The boy did think Steven had a slight nerdiness about him, which was probably just the black glasses he was wearing. Additionally, Brady found comfort knowing that Mr. Lynch had been a pilot and an instructor for many years. Even knowing that, Brady felt most assured knowing that Kelly was there.
It was a clear morning above the Boston suburbs and Brady couldn’t believe that he had gotten to take the day off school to hang out with Kelly and go flying. He had enjoyed other such surprises over the last eighteen months. Brady was sure that Kelly was right; he would learn things in the air that couldn’t be learned anywhere else. What was there to be afraid of? The boy knew that Kelly would always keep him safe. Knowing that still didn’t fully settle his stomach, however. It seemed so unnatural to be soaring through the air like the birds that he occasionally saw sailing through the air below them. The Cessna was a bumpy ride compared to every car that Brady had ever ridden in but his nerves had gradually calmed down. After all, this was his first time flying in a plane.
“Brady, there is a Coke in the cooler beside you there, buddy… if you are thirsty. A bag of Cheetos, too… in the outside pocket of my pack over there,” Kelly pointed out as he motioned with one hand.
Steven quickly added his analysis of the refreshments that had been offered.
“Hey, sounds like it’s your lucky day, partner.”
Brady quietly replied something that Kelly couldn’t quite make out over the engine noise, but took it to mean that he didn’t want anything.
“Big day next Saturday. Are you looking forward?” Kelly inquired.
Brady smiled and nodded his head.
“Does this mean we will go flying every week?” he asked Kelly hopefully.
Kelly grinned warmly.
“I hope so!” he said encouragingly to the boy.
Steven Lynch added, “Hey, I’ll go with you guys! I could use a weekly break from the Bureau’s work!”
***
Chapter 7
Niko Plotnikov hated the Boston Marathon. The crowds were annoying. Plus, despite his own fitness level, long distance running had seemed like a destructive activity. It was too hard on a runner’s body. Why do all these people come to my city every year to pollute the streets and tear up their knees? he asked himself, annoyed. He looked outside the window of the French bistro Le Fromage, where he was eating alone. Surely there are more important things that these idiots could be doing with their time and someplace else they could be doing it!
Niko was finishing up his meal as he shifted to adjust the small amount of pressure that the Makarov was applying under his waistband. After finding a comfortable position for his hip and the Russian pistol he carried, he continued with his mental critique of the runners that had recently come to his city: Too many of these stupid assholes! People in his home country just had more sense.
He had been born in the North Caucasus region as a Russian subject, in a place known as Dagestan. Niko had only barely survived his sinister childhood. It was spent in a war-torn country, starving in an orphanage while constantly being subjected to brutal beatings and sexual abuse. His body was full of physical scars but it was the emotional trauma that proved to be the worst. He could usually control his demons deep within his subconscious, but when triggered, his anger quickly transferred into sadist and murderous urges that had to be satisfied.
Niko was now nearly forty. His dark hair and dark eyes set well on his olive skin and his gift of picking up languages quickly, added to his confidence. He was not the best looking man in Boston but on a good day he held his own.
He had eventually linked up to radical Islam in America where he leased a home and had integrated well. He kept a small circle of contacts. In addition to the gym that he operated, Niko eventually became Abbas’s “wet work” man. His assassin. Although working for Abbas had lost its appeal, Niko had grown fond of his relatively comfortable life in the US. He had no false illusions of becoming a martyr.
But none of his background or his current thoughts on the US were on his mind that day. He was mulling over the shipment of military-grade explosives that his team was expecting, after many delays. Niko had a Syrian contact who himself had arms contacts within his home country. The man’s chosen profession was selling arms worldwide on the black market. Niko found himself eating alone and he knew that his team would be upset that the explosives hadn’t been delivered. Again? he thought to himself after looking back on several such instances the previous months. Niko would be forced to admit that the failure to obtain the explosives would have a big impact on his team’s near future plans. Perhaps there would be an alternative, still enabling them to achieve their goal. Regardless, Niko knew that Bekhan would be especially upset at another delay.
So Niko paid his bill, exited the restaurant and walked the three blocks east along a slanted and shifted sidewalk. He found the rough surface annoying with all of the thoughts that he was contemplating. He arrived to his gym quickly, although returning in a much worse mood than when he had left for lunch earlier. The boxing studio that he owned was more of a cover story than anything. His real income was produced from the killing that he did for Abbas.
Niko’s gym was a half remodeled shipping warehouse. The ceiling was not finished and the gym had an industrial design that included worn and cracked concrete floors, a brick accent wall, rusted structural beams and weathered ventilation ducts.
Upon Niko’s return, the gym was mostly empty. There was one lone individual punching on a heavy bag. Bekhan was by himself, as he always seemed to be.
Niko knew this man was a loner. He was a loser. And unfortunately, he was Niko’s second in command. The leaders of Jamaat Al Fuqra had paired Bekhan Akhmadov and his brother with Niko in a sort of pseudo sleeper-cell arrangement.
“Bekhan,” Niko said calmly. “When you are finished with your workout, come upstairs.”
Niko walked up the steps to his office and sat down. He effortlessly removed his Makarov pistol and placed it in the empty holster that he kept mounted under his desk. When he was sitting down, Niko always preferred to have his gun both accessible and in a comfortable spot. Although he had no need for a firearm at the moment, it was a procedure that he’d developed for comfort’s sake. Niko yawned and stretched his arms, finally allowing them to rest on the supports of his office chair. Then he glanced through the interior window between his office and the gym below, pondering the situation.
Bekhan enthusiastically finished his round, stopped in front of the mirror, to wipe his sweat and congratulate himself on his good looks. The man’s own narcissism burned deeply. Bekhan bounded up the metal staircase with the ease of a boxer, as his curiosity moved to the forefront of his mind. He had waited for this moment long enough and his excitement was written all over his face. He didn’t bother tapping on the doorframe. His impulsiveness carried him right into the office.
“Hey, did Syrian come through? Where are the packages?” he asked with an inflexible expression.
Niko raised his head at the question and made eye contact with Bekhan.
“Listen, Mecca wasn’t built with a snap of the fingers. There has been a delay,” he began.
Bekhan’s face burned red with anger. He immediately raised his voice and cut in with a machismo response.
“There is always a delay Niko… we have waited and waited! You said this time would be different!”
Bekhan’s eyes were full of rage as his impulsive overflow continued.
“These guys don’t have the explosives and they never will. They will never come through and we will wait and wait and never deliver the will of Allah on the American people. I told you to cut ties with those assholes and you told me to be patient. Now you tell me to be patient longer. We have wasted so much time with the Syrians and it has gotten us no closer to our goal. The race is in three days and now we are unprepared.”
“Now Bekhan, just calm down,” Niko suggested.
T
he wiser man controlled his frustration and replaced it with patience.
“You know I’ll keep working towards our goal.”
“It’s Bekhan calm down, Bekhan be patient,” the younger man whined, as he took an aggressive step forward.
He leaned his weight on Niko’s desk and continued with his tirade.
“I’m tired of being calm and I am tired of being patient,” Bekhan scolded Niko, crescendoing into finality.
He abruptly turned around, slammed the office door and stormed down the metal staircase.
“This is such bullshit,” he mumbled to himself with a growing furiousness, a plan now developing in his warped mind.
Bekhan grabbed his gym bag and walked through the front door. Niko knew there was no use running after him but instead, wondered to himself what Bekhan would do with his building anger. That guy is such a moron, Niko thought to himself.
***
Chapter 8
Kelly Maclean always trained hard; it was in his blood. Once he’d joined the Marine Corps, running had become a passion. In fact, during the winter, he probably put more miles on his treadmill than he did his car. That day was no different. His long legs had effortlessly propelled him the distance. He had hit his stride early in the run and hadn’t looked back since. Today is sure to be a good day, he thought to himself. Sometimes you just know.
The buildings that flanked him functioned both in commercial and residential roles. The ground floors housed various types of businesses and the upper few floors were zoned for apartments and offices. He had been in many of the buildings over the years. They all had a lot of character but architecture wasn’t his area of expertise. Good police work was. So, he’d always had to work the crowds during the race. He’d never complained but he had longed to participate. After several unsuccessful years of putting in time-off requests, Lieutenant Cross had seen that Kelly got the day off.
