People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1)

by Craig Martelle

  “Us, too,” Jack said in support. “Let me make a call, see how Xandrie is doing, and I’ll let you know.” Jack excused himself from the team room, the same place they had been earlier that day. The mood was completely different now. Everyone looked older, less sure of themselves. They had come across as cocky, but not arrogant, because they could back up what they said.

  But now there was an empty chair.

  Jack returned, giving nothing away as he kept his expression neutral. “She’s still in surgery, but that means that she’s still alive. The only benefit of armor piercing rounds is that they don’t shred flesh when they pass through. She has six clean bullet holes. When she comes back, we can tease her about her six pack.” Jack tried to smile, but it was close lipped and didn’t serve to lighten the mood.

  “Write your statements down, you too, Rick and give them to me. We’ll go over them before you leave. By the way, nice tackle. After they shot Xandrie, I would have been very put out if they escaped.”

  “One question, Jack, if you don’t mind,” Rick asked. Jack rolled his finger, telling Rick to hurry up. “How much explosives did you find?”

  “None. This was an arms cache. They seemed ready for a Paris-style shoot-‘em-up.” Jack looked sideways at Rick. The HRT looked for explosives but didn’t consider the lack thereof to be a bar to terrorism.

  “I don’t think Ahmed is our faceless man,” Rick said, looking down at the table.

  “I think you can f**k off!” Truck blurted out. Rick held up his hands and apologized to the team saying that he was looking at different intelligence and that he thought there were more bad guys out there, but he was ecstatic that this group had been taken down.

  One of their own was in critical condition, and Rick had the gall to suggest that this wasn’t the right target? The hostile looks he received from the team suggested that they weren’t remotely pleased with him.

  He felt terrible when he should have been gratified that there was one less terror cell in Washington D.C.

  D Minus 15 – Interesting News

  Clay and Mohammed had taken turns throughout the day building up the mixture until they had what Clay guessed was three pounds. Mohammed assured him that if placed properly, that was enough to bring down a small building. He said he wanted thirty pounds total, but could not trust any of the zealot recruits to act with the patience necessary to mix the TATP.

  Clay and Mohammed would do it themselves. He said that they’d be done in a week, and it was time for Clay to quit his job. There could be no distractions, and they needed their rest. Clay needed to be awake when he was working with something that would blow him up and blow the entire operation. They’d been seen together, so if there was an accident, they would both be compromised. Mohammed urged the utmost caution at all times.

  After Clay locked him in the storage unit, Mohammed powered through the morning. He listened to a small radio while he dripped the acid into the mixture, stirring and keeping the ice bath refreshed. This would be a five-pound batch, but that was the largest they could hope to make at one time. If they could continue with ten pounds a day, they’d be done on Saturday.

  A broadcaster interrupted mundane news about the markets with a special report about an FBI raid conducted by the elite Hostage Rescue Team. Mohammed turned it up.

  “…the FBI has not commented officially regarding the raid, but people nearby said they heard hundreds of shots fired inside the Bagdad Market in Alexandria. What appeared to be one HRT member was carried out of the building on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance. At least seven body bags were carried out, too. We have a cell phone picture of one man of Middle Eastern descent being led away by the FBI. An observer in the area described the Bagdad Market as a hotbed of terrorist activity. I’m Felicia del Toro, reporting live from Alexandria…”

  Mohammed stopped stirring until the rising heat brought him back into the moment. He renewed his steady pace, adding more ice to the bucket in which his glass bowl rested. One of the zealots was from that area. He wondered if the man had been caught or killed in this raid. He wondered if they would find the cell phone and trace it back to Mohammed, even though he’d bought the phones two trips ago.

  Maybe it was time he headed back home? Then again, what if he was able to pull off an attack while the city was still reeling from this raid? They’d see terrorists behind every tree.

  He had much to think about.

  Rage

  “Bureaucrats! They don’t know their asses…” Rick yelled at the minivan’s radio as he drove to the Fusion Center in Herndon.

  He couldn’t arrive like this. The shrinking number of things within his control diminished in importance compared to those beyond his control.

  He didn’t know how he got there, but he found himself striding vigorously on a walking path in Mantua Park, Fairfax. Thankfully, no one was around. He was consumed by the rage.

  He’d done the right thing by helping take down the terrorists. He cursed himself for saying he thought they weren’t the right ones. He’d alienated the HRT while one of their own was still in Intensive Care. He believed the group at the Bagdad Market were terrorists, but not the ones he was after. They weren’t working for the faceless man.

  Thorny Rose was going to stand down, and everyone would be read-out and returned to their previous lives.

  How many times would he fail this day? How could he abandon the innocent people who lived here? They didn’t know what was going on, and didn’t know that the threat remained while the bureaucrats patted themselves on the back with shouts of “we got him!”

  They got somebody, but it wasn’t him.

  “And the faceless man is still out there!” Rick screamed into the trees. He had his hands clenched so tightly that his wrists cramped. The world started spinning, and he collapsed on the ground.

  He sat, eyes clenched tightly closed, rocking. If someone saw him, they might think him autistic, or special, but that wasn’t it. Rick was tortured by the need to do what had to be done, whether it was popular or not. The politicians and appointees would tout the success of the HRT raid, declare victory, and extoll their own virtuous roles in the effort.

  The faceless man haunted his dreams. He stood there with explosives, laughing as he brushed off the efforts to find him. This man was ready to blow something up and the Intelligence Community, the IC had no idea what it was.

  Rick found himself back in Mosul, as the only one looking and seeing evil staring back, the only voice crying for help.

  Relax Rick, he told himself. The FBI will scour every aspect of the lives of the men at the Bagdad Market, them and everyone they’ve been in contact with for the last few months. The faceless man could very well be associated with these scumbags. And this raid and the threat of being discovered could chase him out of town.

  “We need every multi-entry visa holder who changes his ticket today to a flight today or tomorrow,” Rick said calmly, returning to his strength as a thinking man, an intelligence analyst. “This guy has to go to ground, doesn’t he? Who wouldn’t be afraid after the HRT takedown? We can at least find out who he is for when he returns. Okay. So we stand down now, but maybe we’ll get a name or a few names to be on the watch for.” He looked around to make sure no one was watching him.

  It passed as quickly as it had come. I need to get back and get this question answered before we’re emasculated, he thought as he jogged back to his vehicle.

  Thorny Rose

  When Rick arrived at the Fusion Center, few of the seats were occupied, and no one looked to be working. There were tables on the side of the room with trays of Subway sandwiches. Department of Homeland Security Deputy Andrew Bridges sat with his feet on the conference table, the remains of his lunch on a plate in front of him, a Pepsi in his hand.

  “Rick! Grab yourself a sandwich, and join me!” the Deputy shouted across the room.

  For the last half of Rick’s drive, he prepared himself for this exact thing, that people would be leaving
Thorny Rose. Today was not a day to continue working.

  He wanted to bend Bobbie Mac’s ear, maybe Travis’, too. He hoped to catch them before they left. Instead, he prepared to plant the seed that more work remained while they celebrated the great job they’d already done out of the Fusion Center.

  Then tomorrow he’d starting digging in fresh, whether at his cubicle at EPEC or here.

  Once he sat down with his sandwich, he realized how hungry he was. He dug in and closed his eyes, a meditation technique his wife taught him to help keep him in the moment. It also worked to hold the rage at bay.

  “Excellent work, Rick. A lot of people have noticed. The Director of the FBI called the Director of the CIA already regarding the takedown.” Rick’s ears perked up. He wondered what the story was going to be. He figured that he wasn’t going to be invited back, ever.

  “DCI called Race, and he called me.” Andrew Bridges let that linger, his eyes sparkling. It had to be some kind of good news. “Holy crap, Rick! You personally took down al-Suqami? You’re going to give us fat old desk jockeys a bad rap. He was armed; you weren’t. There were two of them and only one of you. They’d just escaped a firefight, and you were outside, smelling the roses. You killed one of them with an atomic pile driver? Wow, Rick. That’s right out of a Chuck Norris movie.” He held out his hand, but Rick couldn’t take it as his hands were filled with a sandwich, dripping Italian dressing and mustard. The Deputy settled for slapping Rick on the back. Rick chewed quietly and slowly. He didn’t know how to answer the man.

  “Humble. And opinionated. Makes for an interesting combination, don’t you think?” It wasn’t a question. “Jack Coleberg, I guess he was the HRT Leader for this?” Rick’s nod confirmed he’d gotten it right. “He wants to put you in for some kind of commendation and that you were welcome anytime. He also said that he personally would keep you informed regarding Sandy’s condition.”

  Rick swallowed hard.

  “Xandrie is her name, and I can’t express how much I appreciate that. Not sure I’m any kind of anything. As I think about it, if I hadn’t tackled that guy, he would have shot me. The only person I saved was myself. The younger brother, Marwan al-Suqami was going to die anyway. The HRT had done a number on him before Ahmed lugged him through the wall. So, I’m afraid my exploits were solely self-serving. I do appreciate the sandwich, though.” Rick smiled and nodded, trying to end the conversation. He took an oversized bite of his sandwich and closed his eyes again as he chewed.

  Deputy Bridges reached for a secure conference phone on the table. He dialed a number from memory, initiated the secure connection when it was answered, and then pressed the speaker button.

  “Rick, are you there? This is Race Banyon, and I’m with DCI Phipps.” A voice said hello from the background.

  Rick grunted through his mouthful of sandwich, giving the Deputy a questioning look as he started to chew faster.

  “Rick’s here, and it’s funny watching him try to choke down this bite of sandwich he just took.” Rick’s face flushed in embarrassment. It was nice that the senior intelligence leadership of the United States could enjoy a laugh at his expense.

  “Rick, once you’re able to talk, can you pick up the phone, please?” Rick swallowed a too-large bite and chased it with water as he reached for the phone. When he picked it off the cradle, the speaker phone was disconnected.

  “Yes sir, Rick here. I want to thank you for the incredible support your agency provided to get us through this. I think a great deal of Bobbie Mac. He was invaluable through this all.”

  “Bob McClendon is a good man,” the DDI said.

  “We’ll pass on your BZ, Rick,” the DCI added. A Bravo Zulu was a Navy and Marine Corps term meaning a good job. The DCI shared his naval background when in the company of those who understood. “We also understand that you don’t think al-Suqami is the faceless man, as you call him.”

  Rick hadn’t planned for this conversation. When backed into a corner, Rick’s usual strategy was to tell the truth as he saw it, supported by facts that led him to that conclusion. He settled for the short version, without expounding. “That’s my opinion, yes.”

  “We have a tendency to agree, but some things are working with Congress and the White House where Thorny Rose as a program is no longer tenable. We’ll create a new program operated exclusively from Langley, and we want you to run it. We believe there is an ongoing threat to DC. We want you to continue looking for the faceless man. We want you to find him.”

  “I’m flattered, sir, but I’m a private citizen working for EPEC, a contractor,” Rick said, not knowing which way he wanted the conversation to go.

  “You’d be surprised how many contractors work directly for us. We kind of fall outside the Federal Acquisition Regulations. We’ve already contacted EPEC, and you will work for us starting first thing tomorrow morning, and you’ve been bumped up just a little. You’re now an SES equivalent, which EPEC is going to charge us for, and to get you, Rick? I’m more than happy to pay their price. If you don’t see a raise in your next paycheck, let my office know, and we’ll sort things out for you. Welcome aboard, Rick.” Before Rick could respond, they cut the connection.

  Maybe he hadn’t alienated the HRT. A commendation? An SES? He was slightly overwhelmed at the moment. He wouldn’t have to return to his cubicle at EPEC. Finally, he expected he’d get an office. All it took was tackling a guy trying to carry his brother out of a firefight. When put that way, it didn’t sound very heroic.

  D Minus 14 – A Better Conversation

  At the end of the day, Clay and Mohammed had made a solid ten pounds of TATP. They sealed the amounts in large glass jars and loaded the small refrigerator which was already out of room for the beer. Their current methods precluded visitors. No one casually stopped by when the roll-up door was locked.

  They looked at each other and shrugged. It had been a good day. They had 13 pounds total on hand. Two more days and they’d have more than enough.

  Mohammed needed to think through some of his concerns and he made better decisions when he heard the arguments out loud.

  “Let’s go to a park, Clay, where we can have some room to ourselves. I believe Baron Cameron is right down the road. It has a nice forest.”

  They locked the storage unit door on their way out. The drive to the park was short, only five minutes as the green lights favored them.

  They parked at the far end, near a Smart Car For Two. As Mohammed locked the Escalade, he looked at the diminutive vehicle that would fit in the SUV’s cargo area.

  “People actually drive those here?” Mohammed asked rhetorically. “It is a European thing to have a car barely larger than a skateboard. There is so much room here for vehicles, I’m surprised that anyone would buy one of these,” Mohammed said, giving it one last look and shaking his head.

  “Yes. Good gas mileage for those on limited budgets, those who support the people who make the real money. It is very expensive to live here,” Clay answered.

  They continued to the edge of the woods where they could watch and make sure no one else approached. “Did you hear the news today?” Mohammed asked directly once they stopped.

  “No. I heard nothing worth talking about.”

  “The FBI raided the Bagdad Market, killing seven believers and seizing another. One of the FBI’s own was carried out on a stretcher, praise be to Allah.” Mohammed waited to see if Clay made the connection.

  “One of the zealots was from that area, Abdul-Wahid, I believe was his name,” Clay said after hesitating briefly.

  “So what should we do?” Mohammed asked, wanting to hear Clay’s thoughts out loud. If he was going to assume a larger role, then he needed to think strategically.

  “Do we know if he was one those in the market?” Mohammed shook his head and held his hands up as he didn’t know. “There are two options. First, he wasn’t there, and then we have nothing to worry about. Second, he was there and was killed. If he were killed, they’d have
to dig deeply to find the throwaway phone, the burner phone they call it. If they found it, could they trace it back to you?”

  “I purchased it about three months ago, at a Walmart, for cash and provided false information. It was cold, and I was bundled up. I am confident they cannot tie anything from that back to me. I’ve never called that number.” That reminded Mohammed. He opened his phone, dug into his second, secret contact list and deleted the entry for Abdul-Wahid. Nothing from this phone was backed up in the cloud. When he deleted the entry, it was deleted. He closed his phone and put it back in his pocket.

  “I’m sorry, please continue with your train of thought. I find it intriguing how closely it follows my own,” Mohammed said with a smile.

  “The only link to you is the phone, and you said that can’t be traced back to you. If he wrote down the meeting with you from a couple days ago and for some reason still had that note on him, all it would say is a time and a place where there are no cameras. There’s a chance that he did not destroy the note, as he was told, followed by a slight chance that a camera or something identified this vehicle at the meeting place. Would it be enough?”

  “If I hear you correctly, we need to get rid of the SUV. I will also change hotels, checking in under a different name. And then what, my friend?”

  “It seems that you’ve already made up your mind that we continue. The wagon will not move forward if we do not pull it,” Clay said definitively.

  “Let us get another vehicle. I will drop you off at another car rental agency while I turn this one in. We are not far from Dulles. Let’s do that now. I will leave my hotel tonight. There is a hotel right by the airport, no? A Marriott I believe. I will see if they have rooms. Wait. I don’t want to be seen checking out of my old hotel with a new car. I will clear my personal items tonight, taking the SUV, and then we will replace it. If anyone follows, they will lose me when I turn in the Escalade.” At this point, Mohammed was thinking out loud, talking through the steps the Americans would take to find him.