by Hawk, Nate
Niko needed to get moving and he needed to do so fast. Once he had loaded up his gear bags, he brushed his shoulder length hair from his face, stretched his neck and climbed aboard the recently refurbished automobile.
The vehicle started up on the first crank. As he began to pull out of the driveway, he thought of his knack for potential. Specifically: the potential that he had seen in Bekhan. When they had met, Niko had quickly realized that the man’s lack of patience and his burning extremism would cause Niko trouble. In fact, he reasoned that the two brothers and himself would probably all be killed or in prison within one year.
So why not shape those character flaws into something palatable that Niko could mold? Like meetings with a Syrian arms dealer that Niko had never setup. Like explosives that Niko never intended to arrive in time for the marathon but were created only as a ruse to toy with Bekhan’s lack of patience. Niko had no intention of bombing his own city. You don’t shit where you sleep, he thought. But Niko suspected that if pushed psychologically in the right direction, Bekhan would put to use the overseas explosives training that he had received the previous year. Niko’s sinister plan to get himself moved out from under Abbas and away from the Boston cell was well underway.
Niko was all smiles as he took the first entrance ramp and began his journey to Virginia. If he got away with this, surely there was nothing but brighter days ahead for him.
***
Chapter 13
The FBI had left the command vehicle parked on the streets where it was attended by staff personnel. It was more for the perception of safety than anything else, reassuring the public that the Bureau was “on scene”. However, the higher ranking agents and their assistants had relocated to the Boston Field Office for a variety of reasons. There was more room there compared to an over-crowded RV. This made everyone more comfortable, including the fact that there was no need for the guys and gals to use portable outdoor toilets. The field office had room to spread out and think, which was critical. Staying focused was the only way they could move fast to apprehend the perpetrators.
The crime spree seemed to have come to an end now, which meant reactionary and cleanup measures were less labor intensive and more agents were now available to perform analysis of the data that had recently poured into their building. A hoard of digital security tapes had amassed in the office and they were being worked through one tape at a time, one camera angle at a time.
The two terrorists who had dropped the knapsacks were easily identified on videotape. Like the two stooges that they were, each had left a digital trail showing them in possession of backpacks in the general locations of the blasts. Further evidence showed them then leaving these areas right before the detonations, with, of course, no packs. It wasn’t difficult to identify them on tape. In fact, it hadn’t even been a challenge. It was just another case of law enforcement files and the prison system being full of people who weren’t very good at being criminals. In this case, the Bureau would be happy to add to the prisoner population.
All of the agents actively working the case were still running hard. No one had slept but it was still relatively early. The initial adrenaline was wearing off but what they may have lacked in natural energy was made up for with determination and their endless coffee consumption. ASAC Lynch was in his element. His intensity overrode the nerdiness that he physically carried. On one hand he was irritated that the Senior Agent in Charge of the Boston Field Office wasn’t around to run the show. After all, Steven Lynch had just been promoted to ASAC. On the other hand, he knew if he handled this unfolding situation correctly, he might not have to be an assistant very long. But, it wasn’t the hope of a quick promotion that kept ASAC Lynch going; it was catching the bastards who had perpetrated the crime.
ASAC Lynch found himself caught in a quandary, though. His agents were pulling up still photos of the suspects. Should he release the images only to law enforcement to keep the element of surprise or should he release the photos to the major TV networks to cast a broader net? The latter option meant that he could potentially scare-off the bombers once they knew they were being actively pursued.
ASAC Lynch was looking at the suspects on the monitor screens before him. He had instructed his agents to place the two best “face shots” that were currently available. The first guy looked quite young. He had to be a teenager.
“That guy looks all of one hundred and thirty pounds, soaking wet,” Lynch said with some disbelief at the man’s boyish demeanor. What is he, twelve years old?”
He leaned over an agent’s shoulder as she adjusted the image.
“That is a damning photo there but play with the sharpness and brightness of the image so we have the best chance of nailing this asshole, Agent Schwartz. Make it look like a high school photo. Although that little bastard probably hasn’t even been to high school.”
“Yes, sir,” Agent Schwartz replied with some faked enthusiasm, as she shifted in her chair.
She knew that she had already adjusted the image for clarity at least ten times.
Before allowing the agent time enough to complete her task, ASAC Lynch switched directions.
He said, “I want to see that second asshole again. That photo is grainier than the first one, Schwartz. I know you’re talented, so let’s see what you can come up with. Maybe send the first photo we looked at over to Agent Shelly for additional enhancements,” he suggested without much further thought.
Agent Schwartz did as she was instructed and pulled up the image of the second suspect. I’m coming for you, you son-of-a-bitch, ASAC Lynch thought as he concentrated on identifying the man. The photo was much better. It was grainy but it was workable.
ASAC Lynch looked deep into the face of the man he was eyeballing on the screen before him. He addressed the position of his hair, the man’s eyes, the way they flowed into his nose and where the mouth was positioned in relation to the chin. He looked at the build of the man and the gate and stride in his steps. There was a familiarity to him. But what was it? It wasn’t the body itself or the posture. Perhaps it was the familiar expression of criminal coldness that was written on his face. ASAC Lynch continued studying the relation of the facial features to each other.
The unidentified man clearly appeared to be on a mission. The spirit of criminal determination was written on the man’s face. He was scanning the crowd as if looking for the perfect place to drop his bag of death. Steven looked hard at the digital image. He had his assistants pull up different angles of video as the man purposefully strolled through the street. And then it hit him like a wrecking ball. He figured out exactly where he knew this man’s face from.
“You know who this man looks like?” he said softly to himself, as he pushed his glasses back up on the rim of his nose and felt an overwhelming rush that he couldn’t explain.
Agent Schwartz figured it was a rhetorical question, one that her superior was soon to answer himself. She decided to played along and stared hard at the face in an attempt to figure it out. Then she shook her head side to side.
“Tell us,” she said.
Regretting that he’d not kept his mouth shut, ASAC Lynch knew he had some explaining to do.
“It looks just like a man in a composite sketch that I saw last week. The similarities are unmistakable. We’ve got a witness who I think was assaulted by this very same man, just days ago. I’ve got to make a phone call,” he announced as he retreated to the privacy of a nearby hallway.
ASAC Lynch dialed Kelly’s number. He knew Kelly had been excited to run in the Boston Marathon. The ASAC just hoped he could reach him this late in the night, or early, depending on the perspective. The time of the night was hardly an afterthought as the phone rang his friend.
There was no answer.
No real surprise at this hour, he considered dismissingly. He’d been so focused on chasing the perpetrators of the bombing that he hadn’t considered Kelly’s whereabouts during the race. Since Kelly worked at the city level, it was uncommon fo
r the ASAC to have any professional contact with the police department. The Bureau derogatorily referred to city level law enforcement as “natives”. The ASAC had been so busy since the whole event had begun that he hadn’t even thought of Kelly. I hope he’s OK he said to himself as the fleeting thought stuck around a bit too long. ASAC Lynch started to get an uneasy feeling as Agent Shelly approached him.
“Sir, I have an updated report,” he began to rattle off. “Not much detail yet on the victims but preliminary numbers put them at over 250 casualties, including two confirmed deaths and several criticals. There is an interesting side note here: apparently one of the criticals is a member of the Boston Bomb Squad, he continued, oblivious that the ASAC knew anyone on the team. “The sorry son-of-a-bitch apparently ran head-on into the bomb,” he began with a hardened law enforcement chuckle that was immediately cut off.
Steven instantly felt rage building inside of him.
“Aw, hell. Give me a name, damn it,” ASAC Lynch demanded with a level of intensity that Royce couldn’t follow.
Several other agents in the office stopped what they were doing and glanced toward their superior. It was rare to see the man so worked up. What had set him off and caused him to begin screaming?
“Sir?” he asked of the higher-ranking agent. Any sense of twisted humor had quickly been erased from his face and replaced with confusion. He was still behind the curve but rapidly attempting to put the pieces together in his own mind.
“A name! The bomb squad member…damn it!” he shouted.
He ripped the notes from Agent Shelly’s grasp and began to scroll down them himself. He stopped at “Maclean, K” in astonishment. He asked himself how the same suspect who was wanted for a recent assault, had apparently nearly killed his friend. What were the chances? He knew those things didn’t just happen. Lynch had made a successful career of proving that “coincidences” don’t happen.
The ASAC’s mind was racing as he tried to piece the developments together. He saw his newly earned promotion fading right before his eyes. The only thing that was fading faster than his promotion was his friendship with Kelly.
What were the chances? He asked himself again. The whole investigation had been flipped upside down in a matter of seconds. A man that law enforcement was already searching for had propelled himself to lead suspect status in the marathon bombings.
Then it got even more complicated. The assault that the bomber had committed was personal. It wasn’t personal for Steven Lynch, though. It was personal to his friend Kelly.
Why hadn’t I taken him more seriously? Steven asked himself, with guilt and regret. It seemed like the bomber had intentionally targeted Kelly. It had to be. His own dereliction had him in a death grip then and was strangling him, stealing the air from his lungs. He flipped the page and found the next to be filled with additional casualties. He began scanning the list to see if he recognized any other names. Unbelievably, he found one more: Jennifer Meyers.
Lynch was overwhelmed as his chest continued to crumble inside. He was sure that he would lose it then. Yet, with everything that he was feeling, there was a small element of hope that still held him together. It was incomprehensible that two people that he knew had been injured. But still, he remained hopeful. At least they were listed ad “alive”. Plus, Lynch hadn’t seen Brady’s name so he hoped to God that the boy had been somewhere else that day. Maybe Brady had been with his biological father. Maybe he had been with his grandparents. Anywhere else than Boylston Street, the ASAC though to himself.
At the very end of the casualties list was the unidentified list. Horror was written all over Lynch’s face as he flipped the page, continuing the hectic search. Then he saw that one of the unidentified descriptions fit Brady’s profile exactly. Next to the description of the boy was one term. It was the one term that wasn’t imaginable. It wasn’t fixable and it certainly wasn’t forgivable. The report said: “Deceased.”
***
Chapter 14
Kelly Maclean had become a shell of his former self. His body had been severely busted up and he had spent the previous three days in a medically induced coma. A steady flow of flowers and cards had come in, many from his fellow police officers sending their support and condolences. The notes included the promise of hard work to bring those responsible to justice. Yet he received others from outside his police network, colleagues from previous job placements, most notably perhaps, a firehouse in New York City where he had once volunteered. There were more from friends of Jennifer. Still, the biggest collection of cards that he received came from community well-wishers that he had never met. They were people that had heard of his plight and felt compelled to send a note.
The irony of a Bomb Squad member’s fight for survival against the effects of a bomb that he never saw coming had become material for numerous hot-selling news segments on the usual television networks. It contained all of the ingredients for various front-page news stories. The tragically ironic collision of Kelly’s professional and personal lives was too good of a story to allow him any real privacy. He had received two or three get well letters from personal injury attorneys that wanted to represent him just as soon as they were able to help him. There had been a few requests for visitation but the man’s condition would not currently allow any official visitors. This was not the first time that some of these people had sent flowers or a card to Kelly with the promise of a fast and full recovery. He had been in the hospital before and was becoming an old hand at being a recovering patient. That wasn’t the hard part though. The hard part was always the emotional damage. Every time he ended up in the hospital, his loved ones ended up in a casket.
The old streets of Boston were unforgiving and had been the death of many men. It was a list that ranged from patriots and war heroes to criminals and terrorists and everything else in between. But Kelly had somehow evaded that list. Now he was on a different list: critical but stable condition. His doctors were sure that he would survive the physical injuries that he incurred. Those around him had hope but given the extent of his injuries they were certain he would never be the same. At the very least, the blast had ended the comfortable part of Kelly’s life. That was obvious.
His nurse, Megan Evans, was a smart woman with a southern accent that made her quick wit and voice quite attractive. She was comforting to New Englanders receiving care in Boston and (on more than one occasion) this had inspired her patients to make passes at her. She had authentic red hair and a strong frame. Best yet, for those who knew what to look for, there was a depth hidden within her eyes. Her brown irises carefully guarded the keys that secured something secret. Something personal.
She understood the procedure to follow when her patient began to regain consciousness. The directions had been written down on official FBI stationery and attached to his medical chart. She had specifically been instructed to phone ASAC Steven Lynch upon any significant developments of Kelly’s regaining consciousness. He would be the man who would break the news to Kelly. So nurse Megan had read the well-telegraphed signs of Kelly’s awakening correctly and had phoned ASAC Lynch nearly two hours before, precisely as was requested.
Steven knew that Kelly didn’t have any living relatives, and as much as he had been saddened by his own mistakes, he felt much worse for his friend. Last he had seen Kelly, he was lying there shaven, mangled and alone. Much like a lion that had been killed and skinned for his trophy mane, its expendable carcass discarded in the bush. Kelly was alone with no one present that loved him. Steven knew his friend was only isolated as a medical precaution and he assured himself that his own analogies were shit. At the very least, he wanted to be there as a sign of loyalty and strength and motivation to move forward from this point. He’d witnessed too many stories of tragedies that had left their survivors reeling in guilt, never able to advance in their own lives in a thoughtful and positive way.
Over the years, as tragedies had revealed their unwelcomed presence, ASAC Lynch had learned to dig a very dee
p hole somewhere in his subconscious and bury any personal pain or emotion in it. It usually worked well for him and his colleagues whose line of work existed in the perilous area between this life and the beginning of the next. In the three days since the blast, Steven had attempted to do the same but it was different this time. The horror had happened in his own city to his own friends for whom he cared tremendously. The emotional trauma was deep for the agent and it had somehow managed to upend any expectation that he formerly held about controlling his feelings.
As Steven had entered the room, he had seen that, yet again, Kelly’s trademark, reddish-tinted hair and three-day beard had been shaved by the hospital staff to keep his wounds well accessible for their continued treatment. Kelly looked terminally ill, like a patient in an oncology ward. He was pale with no visible hair and he carried cuts, scrapes and bruises all over. His eyes had still been closed and the man’s aura exuded the pain and defeat found in death on the battlefield. How Steven would break the news to Kelly, he wasn’t sure. Steven knew it was something that couldn’t be planned. It would happen spontaneously, as it must.
Steven Lynch had brought with him a thick fog of sadness that he couldn’t shake. As Kelly began to open his eyes narrowly in a shallow consciousness, Steven stood up and took a position at his side. He gently rested his hand on his Kelly’s arm, careful to avoid the IV. Steven watched Kelly to inspect for mental clarity or for any understanding, before speaking.
“Welcome back, Kelly,” he said softly.
Kelly stared straight ahead for about ten seconds as his brain tried to process where he was and what had happened. Then he began scanning side to side. His head didn’t feel right so he attempted to raise his hand to search for the origin of the pain. His hand floated a few inches and then the straps that secured him to the bed went taut. Kelly had suffered a small cranial impact fracture on the left side of his head. It was classified as a linear fracture, perhaps the least worrisome of all skull fractures. Fortunately, the injury had not required any reconstruction. He was suffering from a relatively small epidural hematoma, a bruise on his brain. The doctors and nurses had been warned that Kelly was a battle-hardened Marine, who may wake up ready to fight again. They didn’t want Kelly pulling his IV or poking around on his wounds when he awoke, so it was necessary to have his arms secured to the hospital bed temporarily.
