by Randall Wood
He got nods all around. Eric let out a snort and changed positions.
“The kid says okay,” Larry added.
Jack smiled and looked at the GPS display. “Looks like less than an hour out. Everybody be ready to go once we hit the ground. Do phone checks soon as you offload.”
• • •
Sam stood quietly next to the bus stop and surveyed the area. The police presence was larger than he had imagined, and he nodded to a deputy on horseback as he rode past. The crowd was getting thicker by the minute. Sam pulled a pair of binoculars from the pocket of his light jacket. He automatically cupped his hands over the lenses—an old habit from his military days. By doing so, he prevented the sun from reflecting off the lenses and producing a shine that could be seen by his target and give away his position. He remembered to avoid contact with his sunglasses, which he did not remove.
Sam was dressed as casually as he could with his limited wardrobe. Jeans with a T-shirt, sweatshirt over that, and a light jacket, were enough for the mild Memphis winter. A worn pair of boots kept his feet warm on the cold concrete. He scanned the crowd before focusing on the stage.
The speaker was right where he had left it next to the podium. A couple of flannel-clad woman were garnishing the stage with rebel flags and Klan posters. A group of police officers conversed in front of the stage with a lot of finger pointing and gesturing. As Sam watched, workman appeared, pushing a cart with some fencing. The officer in charge pointed as he spoke and the barrier was soon set up in front of the stage. From what Sam could see, there was going to be a ten to fifteen-foot gap between the stage and the crowd. Good. Sam had worried about people in the crowd getting wounded in the blast. The gap would increase the odds of avoiding that.
Sam’s view was suddenly blocked by the arriving bus. He returned the binoculars to his pocket, and then felt around his hip to ensure the phone was in place. Pulling the baseball cap down on his forehead, he headed off in the direction of the crowd. He kept to the fringe, and with his height he was able to see over most of the people.
He abruptly stopped when his eye caught something. While standing with his head aimed toward the stage, he scrutinized the man off to his right through the dark sunglasses. The man was also dressed casually, if a little out of the crowd’s price range. A leather jacket that had never seen a Harley. A pair of LL Bean boots. The watch was gold. The sunglasses mirrored. Sam changed course and walked past the man to his opposite side.
He watched in his peripheral vision for the man to turn his head, and when he did, Sam had a good look at him. His suspicions were correct: the telltale earpiece with the trailing wire was easily seen around the businessman’s haircut. The feds were at the rally. But why? This was not something the feds would deal with, was it? Maybe he was a local undercover cop from the sheriff’s department? Sam looked again. No, this guy was a fed. He had the look. What did this mean? Had the bomb been found sometime last night, and they were looking for him? Would it affect his mission? The more Sam thought about it, the more he ruled out the possibility. The speaker hadn’t been moved. He had placed it carefully with the front edge lining up with two points on the stage. He had checked already, and the alignment was still good. He would continue the mission as planned.
Sam left the FBI man behind and circled the crowd. He saw two more feds, and more and more cops. After eyeballing the gap between the barrier and the stage, he had seen enough. He returned to his corner bus stop and took a seat on the bench. Picking up a left-behind newspaper, he settled in to wait. He scanned the crowd over the top of the paper.
• • •
On the other side of the crowd, Jack, Sydney, and Eric arrived and were now doing the same thing. They had landed a half hour ago, and already the crowd had doubled in size. So far, the counter-protestors seemed to outweigh the Klansman three to one. Rebel flags were popular, as were anti-Klan protest signs. The cops had formed a loose line at the barrier, and so far the crowd was cooperating. Jack had talked to the local sheriff and knew that two blocks away, in a parking garage, multiple officers in riot gear were assembled with supporting vehicles and plenty of tear gas. They had already jailed a few skinheads that had arrived last night and started a fight in a bar. Jack was sure there were empty cells standing by.
“Dad said you would show me some interesting things,” Eric commented. “This is my first Klan rally. Can’t wait to tell Mom.”
“If it’s any help, it’s my first, too,” Sydney answered.
“So, what are we looking for?” Eric asked.
Jack answered that one without stopping his scan. “First, look at the buildings. A sniper in an urban environment usually looks for an elevated position to keep things out of his line of fire. Since the stage is elevated, also, this helps him, but with all the signs and flags he could still have obstructions, so he needs a minimal elevation of one story. So, we look for positions which offer such a line of fire.
“Next, we look for permanent obstructions. Trees, buildings, traffic is always changing, but to a sniper it’s permanent. Look at the sun. The angle of the sun can cause a glare in his optics. A shooter prefers that the sun be in the target’s eyes. The stage faces south, so that aids the sniper as it gives him more choices.
“Consider the range. This man has already shown he can hit the V-ring at over seven-hundred meters. That’s good shooting, so you can’t rule out those buildings down the street. What’s his weapon of choice? The Remington he’s been using can reach about a thousand meters with accuracy for this size target, but there are rifles out there that can reach over double that.
“So, what are we looking for, you asked? All of that and more. The locals will have to watch the crowd up close in case he tries a John Hinckley. I don’t see that happening; this guy has a list he’s working on and plans on getting away. He’ll do it from a distance.”
Eric and Sydney were silent as they now looked at the area through Jack’s eyes. As they scanned the buildings and the surrounding area, they realized the enormity of the situation.
“Let’s take a walk before the parade shows up,” Jack said.
• • •
Danny caught sight of Jack just before he descended the stairs from the building and entered the crowd. He had been tempted to walk over, but Jack had two other agents with him, so the journalist backed off. At least he was at the right rally.
Jack must think the shooter had a target here. It made sense. The white supremacists had led their little army of skinheads to commit countless crimes and had hardly ever been held accountable. Danny was a big free speech supporter, but even he frowned on the hate being pushed by this group. He could see why they would be targeted by the man committing the shootings. He tried to follow Jack’s progress through the crowd, but soon lost him. Danny gave up and pulled out the camera to get a few shots before the parade arrived, and he got crowded out.
• • •
Danny was not the only one watching Jack. Sam had completed a trip down the right side of the crowded park to double check the clearance of his bomb. Mentally measuring distances, he failed to see Jack approach from his right. Sam was almost shocked into inaction, but he recovered enough to turn away and enter the crowd. Once parallel with Jack and his entourage, he stole a look in their direction. They all seemed to be observing the surrounding buildings in the area.
“Looking for me, Jack?” he asked himself. “How did you know?”
Sam continued through the crowd until he was out the other side, and then moved off in the opposite direction from Jack. He found an area with a few low trees, and chose a spot next to some other curious observers. The noise of the parade was fast approaching, and those seated rose to their feet.
The flags were seen first, along with the pointed tops of the Klan hoods. More arrived on horseback, followed by a semi-organized group of skinheads. The parade broke apart, and the skinheads pushed their way to the front of the crowd, while the senior Klansmen took the stage. A White Power chan
t was taken up by the skinheads, and the counter-protesters soon drowned them out. One Klansman approached the podium and tapped the microphone. The squeal of feedback silenced both parties. They would save their breath for later.
The man at the podium removed his hood and a cheer went up from the crowd. Sam recognized him as Curtis’s son. The Future of the Klan, some articles had labeled him. Not quite as intelligent as his father, he was long on rhetoric and short everywhere else. If he was indeed the Klan’s new leader, then the Klan was in trouble. He proceeded to get the crowd riled up with a short but fiery speech. After fifteen minutes of hate, he turned and pointed to his father.
The elder Curtis rose, removed his hood, and walked forward to the cheers of the skinheads. He waved and smiled while being simultaneously praised and demonized. He didn’t acknowledge either until he launched into his own speech of hate. The counter-protesters had saved their wind for this man, and now they gave him all they had. The skinheads put their backs to the barrier and closed ranks to protect their leader. The police watched nervously from the sidelines.
Sam reached into his pocket for the phone.
• • •
Jack, Sydney, and Eric had found a perch on the concrete steps of a building across from the park. Twice, they had been approached by police officers to move them off the steps. Jack had waved the first one away with his badge, and Eric had beat them to the second one. He couldn’t help but smile at Sydney afterward.
“It’s my first FBI badge,” he explained.
Jack ignored them both and continued to scan the buildings. All he saw were curious onlookers and uniformed police officers. SWAT team members could be seen on the roof tops, scanning the surrounding windows. So far they had seen two false alarms and then nothing.
“Think our boy’s gonna show?” Sydney asked.
“Maybe,” was his reply.
Sydney turned her binoculars to the podium. She had just focused them on the red-faced speaker when he disappeared in a flash of light. She felt the concussion of the blast in the hair on her forearms before she was tackled to the ground by Jack. Her elbow hit the steps hard, and a sharp pain shot up to her shoulder. Then the weight was off her and Jack could be seen running into the fleeing crowd. He made little progress, despite the weapon in his hand. The panicking crowd just wanted to get away.
“Are you all right?” Eric asked. She turned to see him on the steps next to her. Some blood running out of his hairline.
“I’m okay. You?”
“Yeah, bumped my head when Jack took us down. It hurts.”
“Come on. Let’s find him.”
Jack fought his way forward until he was near the stage. Several skinheads lay bleeding on the grass, but no one looked dead. One was screaming, but couldn’t hear himself due to the blood coming from both ears. One rose to get in Jack’s way until he saw the gun. Jack pushed him aside and vaulted up on the stage. As he approached the body lying behind the podium, he found himself stepping around roofing nails.
Curtis Jr. cradled his father in his arms and cursed every minority his brain could produce. He looked up at Jack and, seeing the gun in one hand and the badge in the other, cursed him, too. Jack dismissed him and walked to the other speaker. The blast had torn a panel off the side, and Jack was able to see into the box. Just a speaker. He stood and pulled the radio from his belt to call for the dogs to sweep the area for secondary devices. As he finished the call, he looked down to see Curtis Sr. give a forceful cough. A few labored breaths followed. Curtis was still alive.
Jack added an ambulance to his call.
• • •
Danny ran out of standard film and switched to the digital camera. He fought his way close to the stage, and got some good shots of Jack standing over the father and son with his gun drawn. He now slowed down and took the occasional shot as they loaded the Klansman into the ambulance. Once they were gone, he returned to the stage and watched the police tape it off. Soon the crime scene investigators showed up. They waited quietly while the men with the dogs swept the area. He snapped a couple more until he looked up and saw Jack watching him. They shared a look across the distance, and Jack held up his phone. Danny nodded in return.
The state of New York holds 65,198 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 43,682 are repeat offenders.
—THIRTY-TWO—
“—and the final report is a total of nine people wounded in yesterday’s bombing attack on a Ku Klux Klan leader, at a rally here in Memphis. The leader of the Klan, Thomas R. Curtis, was giving a speech when a bomb hidden in a speaker went off on the stage. Initial police statements claim that the bomb was homemade in nature, and contained nails to maximize its killing power. Seven members of Tennessee White Pride were also injured in the blast, as well as one police officer—all with minor injuries. Mr. Curtis is listed in serious but stable condition today at a local hospital. In other news, the city’s proposal to widen Parkland Lane is up for a vote—”
Sam thumbed the off button in disgust. He was pissed. His homemade bomb had failed, and the bastard was still alive. He had been watching the news all night and again this morning. The pictures were of the scene, with police crawling all over the place, several of them bagging nails, others standing on ladders to pick them out of the overhead roof. All that shrapnel and he had missed! The skinheads who were injured did not concerned him. They had made their decision, just as Curtis had. Screw ’em. The cop’s injury was minor; he’d be all right.
“God dammit!” Sam yelled. What was he going to do now? He paced around the small hotel room. He had switched to a more upscale room on the opposite side of town from the first. He had hit traffic as he drove across town, and the radios announced roadblocks at various points leading out of the city. An additional night’s stay seemed like a good idea. He needed the rest anyway. After forcing himself to bed last night, he had woken this morning to watch the morning news reports. Now he was just fighting the ache in his gut that seemed to be more persistent every day. It was time to call Paul. He rooted around in his bag till he located the cell phones. After selecting the right one, he dialed. Paul answered on the first ring.
“About time. How are things going?”
“Shitty, and for once I mean it. Can you believe this?”
“Slow down. I’m doing shitty, too, by the way.”
“Sorry,” Sam answered. “I forgot. Just pisses me off. I had two sticks and two boxes of nails in that thing. Tamped it with some plate steel and fused it from the middle. It should have been more than enough. I don’t know what happened.”
“From the looks of it on the TV, the majority of it went into the ceiling. Did you aim it right and make sure it didn’t move after you placed it?”
Sam thought about it for a minute as he paced. Could the bomb have shifted? The wrench he had used to prop it up hadn’t been taped in place. Maybe it fell, and the bomb was more flat than when he had placed it? It was a possibility, he had to admit.
“I don’t know; maybe. All I know now is that the guy is still alive in a hospital room somewhere, and they have roadblocks set up around the city.”
“Those won’t last another day, and then you can leave. You’re gonna be late for your appointment again if you don’t get out of there by tomorrow.”
Sam was silent for a moment while he thought about what he was going to say next. There was no way around it.
“Jack’s here.”
“I know,” Paul replied. “I saw him on TV.”
“He was here yesterday. I saw him in the crowd not twenty meters away.”
“What? How did he know who your target was?”
“I don’t know. He can’t know it’s me, or you wouldn’t have answered the phone when I called. My face would be on television, and my fifteen minutes will have begun. Jack’s a smart guy. Somehow, he made it happen.”
Paul’s mind raced as he took in the information. This had to be more than a coincidence. How the hell did they know? They had
been very careful up to now. Everything set up beforehand. Multiple identities. Code phrases. Communications.
Paul pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it in horror. A pre-paid cell from a major chain, they had always bought them in pairs. Could they possibly be tracing them?
“Okay, listen. From now on no names on the phones, no talk about what you just did or where you’re going next. Keep the same passwords and above all, keep the conversations under a minute. Got all that? I’m hanging up.”
“What? All right. I’ll check in later.”
The phone went dead. Sam looked at it while he thought about what Paul had said. Reaching the same possibilities, he thumbed the button to turn it off.
• • •
“Gut check answer, are we gonna get anything from this?”
Sydney looked up at Jack from her position on the ground. Jack had been pacing around the scene all morning while she and her team collected evidence with the help of the local crew. It was a slow process, and Jack was getting impatient.
“I don’t know, Jack. It’s too early to answer that.”
“Come on, Syd. What do you think, based on what we have?” Jack spread his arms to encompass the whole area.
She sighed and then frowned at him. She hated being put on the spot like that. Pulling a stray hair out of her face, she looked around. The cell phone remains had already been traced to a popular model sold everywhere. The explosive was yet undetermined, but her nose said it was dynamite. The packaging was fiberglass. All very common.
“Well?” Jack pressed.
“Slim,” was her answer. Jack didn’t like it. He turned away for a moment and then came back.
“We’re leaving,” Jack said. “Where are Larry and Dave?”
