by Jace Killan
Raif took little time before he started to spray the contents of his inhaler. He wanted to empty it before he had to leave. He sprayed in every room they walked. He placed the nozzle facing outside the opening of his pocket. With his hand half buried in the pocket he could squeeze and spray while he walked and pretended to be interested in the tour. Like his mother had asked, Raif kept his distance from the others so they wouldn’t hear the puffs of his inhaler. Once a girl seemed to notice and must have thought that Raif had farted because she whisked the air away from her nose and went to the other side of the room.
Twenty minutes into the tour, about the time they finished walking through the massive kitchen and cafeteria, the inhaler was empty. Raif removed his hands from his pocket and watched those around him intently for any change. He asked a classmate if she felt stronger and challenged her to pick him up. She did, and that served as confirmation to Raif that he had blessed the lives of those in the White House that day.
Habib breathed heavily and sweat trickled down his nose. It wasn’t as warm in central California as it had been in Southern Arizona, but it was about to get a lot hotter. He lit a match.
Habib had crossed the border some three months earlier. Since then he’d been camping mostly, migrating across the southwest lighting fires. He tossed the match. It blazed as the small flame hit the trail of petrol he’d made leading to a fallen tree. A moment later the section blazed. He was getting good at this.
The last fire he’d set had reached a town and destroyed hundreds of homes so far. Allah would be pleased. The Americans worshipped their homes and their many possessions instead of worshipping Allah. As foretold by the Quran, these will serve as the firewood for hell.
45
Bruce waited outside the narcotics anonymous meeting, hands shoved under his armpits, collar turned up from the chilly breeze. He stood under the yellow hue of a streetlight. The meetings were held in a private school classroom inside a four-story building. The private school took up the second floor, while an insurance agency occupied the third, and a real estate company, most of the fourth. The bottom floor hosted a catering business that, by the smell of things, were cooking enchiladas. It taunted Bruce’s stomach. He’d skipped dinner in order to follow Joaquin to the meeting.
The search for the tall Mexican had proved fruitless. Juan Casalaspro didn’t exist. At least not with that birthday and not in New York. Bruce had tried every avenue he could think of. He’d turned his attention to Joaquin. Joaquin and Casalaspro obviously knew each other. Maybe one worked for the other. They might even live together, though according to Kristin from the firm, Joaquin lived alone.
To Bruce’s relief, Kristin hadn’t accompanied Joaquin this evening as she had to several other meetings. She had gone out of town to visit family for the week. Bruce hadn’t attended a meeting since Jared disappeared. But it was all right. He survived without them. He had focus now.
Jared apparently tried to commit suicide after Emma’s death. Bruce didn’t know what to believe now. He figured something happened at the firm involving Jared and Mayhew. Emma’s death had been a hit intended for Jared. But did Jared know?
Bruce pulled out the other receipt. He’d looked it over several times, noting the items Casalaspro purchased at the pharmacy. Disposable cell phones were an obvious sign that he and Joaquin were part of something bigger. They were communicating with someone else and didn’t want that communication documented in any way.
His mind settled on this thought as his eyes noticed the phone number on the receipt. He hadn’t paid attention to it before and examined it closer in disbelief. “Customer Awards Number,” read just over the phone number. He picked up his phone, dialed star-six-seven to mask the caller ID and then dialed.
It rang. A woman answered, elderly by the sound of it.
“Evening ma’am,” Bruce said, deepening his voice. “I’m looking for Juan.”
“I’m sorry.” She had strong Spanish accent. “I no English.”
Bruce didn’t know Spanish. “Otro?” He thought he asked to speak to someone else, anyone.
“Un momento.” The line was quiet for a while, then a child, boy probably said something in Spanish.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Jay-Jay.”
“Was that your mother I spoke with?”
“No,” he laughed, “That’s abuela.” Grandma?
“What’s her name?”
“Abuela.”
“Are your parents there?”
“No. Papi’s gone and I don’t have a mami.”
“What’s your daddy’s name.”
“Junior...”
The phone clanked and the call ended abruptly. Maybe Abuela didn’t like the tone of the conversation.
This was something. He had a phone number—a landline. Junior probably wanted his mom to have the customer points, or get the savings just out of habit. A quick Google search showed that the 5-2-0 area code came from Southern Arizona. Joaquin grew up around there, too.
Bruce glanced at his watch. The meeting had ended and the participants would finish their hugging and mingling shortly. Joaquin didn’t seem the type to be involved in something, least of all murder. Jared and he appeared to get along pretty well, and the three of them had shared more than words at these meetings over the past year. An addict can’t be truthful about a few things and leave other secrets buried. They’d never change that way. One had to be completely honest.
“If you’re lying, you’re using,” he said aloud.
But that was just the thing—Joaquin was sober, anyone could see that. If he were using, Bruce would know. But sober or not he couldn’t deny the connection. Junior had picked up Joaquin’s prescription. They both came from Arizona. And Bruce couldn’t deny that with Mayhew dead and Jared out of the picture, Joaquin had near full control of the firm.
Qui Bono? Joaquin. Joaquin bono.
About a dozen people spilled onto the sidewalk. Joaquin walked down the street toward his parked car—toward Bruce.
Bruce waited until Joaquin passed before stepping out of the shadows. “Hold it right there.” He sounded so official, so television.
Joaquin turned. Bruce held out the toy pistol he’d stolen from the pharmacy. He’d almost chucked it several times, but in the end thought it made a good souvenir of his adventure in vigilante crime busting.
Joaquin thought it real, indicated by the slow raising of hands. “Bruce?”
“Who’s Junior?”
“What are you doing?”
“Who’s Junior, dammit?”
“Bruce. It’s me. Joaquin.”
“Answer the damn question! Why did you kill Emma?”
Joaquin lowered his hands, grief in his gaze. “Bruce, it’s not what you think.”
“That’s B.S. I was there when you guys killed Owen.”
“You were there?”
“I saw your boy, Junior.”
Joaquin looked up and closed his eyes.
“Why? Dammit!” Bruce leveled the plastic toy. Had it been real he’d probably have pulled the trigger.
Then Joaquin did something unexpected. Tears appeared from the edges of his closed eyes. He opened them and tried to speak.
“Junior works with the cartel.”
Bruce eyed him. The tears were sincere. Not of fear, but despair. True sadness. Bruce had experienced this before. Joaquin’s emotional pain was genuine.
“And you?”
“I’m undercover. I work with the FBI.”
“B.S.” Bruce pressed the toy gun to Joaquin’s temple. As he thought through what Joaquin had said, it actually made sense. He lowered the toy.
Joaquin sat down on the sidewalk, back against the building and lowered his head into his hands. “We didn’t know about the hit on Jared. He was planning to meet with the SEC. Emma was driving his car, and...”
Bruce hovered over Joaquin. “Where’s Jared now
?”
“He’s safe. He’s not where you think he is.”
Bruce thought for a moment, examining his B.S. meter. He wanted to believe Joaquin. He wanted Joaquin to be a good guy. Bruce knew liars, hell he’d become one of the best. Joaquin wasn’t lying to save his own skin.
Bruce dropped his toy at Joaquin’s feet in a shallow clank of plastic. He sat down next to him.
Joaquin picked it up and let out a chuckle, mixed with sadness. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I should have known about the hit. I could’ve stopped it.”
“What are the Fibs doing about it now?”
“There’s a lot more to it, Bruce. And we’ve been behind the eight ball. Jared’s helping us sort it out now.”
“Meanwhile, Junior’s out free running around, picking up your meds, and buying cell phones.”
That earned Bruce a raised eyebrow. “You’re following him?”
“Yeah. I think I got his mom’s number in Arizona.”
“You know who he is? Feds haven’t been able to figure it out yet. They’ve been chasing aliases that don’t exist.”
Bruce pulled the receipt from his pocket and handed it to Joaquin. “I broke a couple laws to get that.” He let Joaquin examine it a moment before pointing at the 520 number on top. “That’s Abuela.”
Cesar had waited for the opportunity. His time had come. He’d created a shiv, which had proven to be no small task, given the limited resources in such a facility and the number of counselors and nurses constantly watching. He used his toothbrush. He found spurts of minutes where he could file the toothbrush down, using the underside of a table or chair. Tedious work, but now he had a lethal weapon.
He’d do it during rec. He’d make a break for it across the gym when Jared’s pod lined up. Cesar would quickly jab his shiv into Jared’s stomach several times until the man went down. Then he’d stab him in the neck, a fatal blow. While those around scrambled to help Jared, he’d pick up one of the eighty pound chairs that lined the gym’s side and launch it through a window. Then he’d be out and on his way. It would be risky, but the best he could do given the circumstances. Then he’d high tail it out of the state, but not toward Mexico. He’d have to hide from the cartel for the rest of his life, because as soon as they found him, that would be the end of it.
A couple days later, Cesar decided to go for it. He bent down, scratching his foot, while actually removing the shiv buried in his unlaced shoe. The door opened, affording Cesar a view of Jared across the gym. He didn’t hesitate, but bolted up, past the nurse and directly toward the crowd of clients.
The nurse yelled from behind and several others hollered after Cesar, but he didn’t look back. He raised his plastic weapon, a pace away from Jared and brought the shiv down at the man.
Jared turned his head and their eyes met. Jared spun, connecting a hard elbow into Cesar’s nose, blurring his vision. Cesar lunged at Jared, stabbing him in the lower back. Jared pulled Cesar’s arm around and hit it hard, shattering bone. He dropped the shiv. He fought back the pain as he swung his left at Jared’s head. Jared ducked and swept Cesar’s legs out from under him. He fell hard to the floor, on his already broken arm.
Jared knelt atop him, pinning his good arm behind his back. He’d failed. Never in Cesar’s life had he wanted to kill someone so badly. Not for money. Not because it was his job. But because he hated Jared Sanderson for getting the best of him.
“You’re hurt,” a nurse said.
“I’ll be fine,” Jared said. “Don’t call 9-1-1. I’m a federal agent. Let me use your phone.”
Surprisingly the nurse didn’t argue. A moment later Cesar heard Jared say, “Sir, it’s Stevens. Someone just tried to kill me.”
Jared skimmed the latest reports. He now served on two task forces, one with the FBI regarding the cartel’s involvement in market manipulation. Interesting enough, he worked on the task force with his pal Benjamin’s boss’s boss.
The second task force served under CIA direction, involving the NIS and this Askari character. The latter had consumed Jared’s days and nights. He thought of his kids often, but knew that their safety mattered more than his need to see them. They were in good hands with their grandma. He did receive occasional updates from the team that had them under surveillance, just in case they tried anything—whoever they were.
Jared had followed the money to a Turkish arms dealer. Some of that weaponry surfaced in Georgia. And some, surfaced in Syria.
He’d comprised a theory that the NIS had been behind the attacks against the Syrian civilians, not Assad as the media and therefore the world had assumed. The incidents heightened the already present tensions between Russia and the US. On the one hand, the US called for the removal of Assad, while Russia fully supported the dictator and demanded that the US leave the country alone. But with twenty thousand dead, the attacks had forced the US’s hand.
The geopolitical landscape grew more contentious when the Georgians rose up against the Russian forces within and just outside the country. Evidence supported the theory that the weapons were funded by cash transferred out of Northern.
The Russians were not happy about the US’s perceived involvement. Then, yesterday the other shoe dropped. A band of Ukrainians, about thirty percent of them Muslim, launched an attack on a Russian military base within the Ukraine. They secured a dozen tanks in the process and also established a blockade outside Crimea. The Russians had pointed the finger at the US demanding reparations and calling the rebellion an act of war, funded by the US. The media referred to the incident as the Ukrainian Contras Affair.
Within the past two hours, the US embassy in Russia lost communication after reporting a firefight nearby. Most of the embassy fled, not wanting to be part of another Benghazi. There were a couple dozen unaccounted for, and satellite imagery showed an ununiformed army progressing through the grounds.
Were they all connected? Had Askari the wherewithal and influence to cause such mayhem in the world? Syria, Georgia, Ukraine? Even the embassy? Maybe it wasn’t the Russians but the NIS pulling the strings.
If the NIS really wanted to end the US and destroy capitalism, what better way than to get it to go to war against Islam’s other enemy—Russia?
The downing of the towers shocked the US economy, the loss of life devastated morale. Since, the millennials have grown up in a world terrorized by the threat of death. Nine Eleven altered Americans’ way of life and peace of mind. But the following years of war drained the economy. Of course, radical Islam suffered greatly from the repercussions. But what if the NIS manipulated the US and Russia to war? The event would cripple two of the greatest forces in the world eager to be rid of one another and the act would cost radical Islam little.
Something troubled Jared’s theories. Not all the terrorist attacks in Europe benefited Northern’s investments. It would have been easy enough for Northern to have shorted the airline hijacked and downed by Islamic radicals in Germany. Or to have purchased put options on the freightliner before the series of attacks this past summer. Why would they just leave money on the table?
What if Northern wasn’t the only investment firm? What if there were others? The cartel handled things at Northern, but their endeavors also benefited Askari. Might there be others? Probable. What if Askari had a firm elsewhere, say Europe?
Jared found the number for the European Securities and Market Authority and dialed. After about twenty minutes he got through enough gatekeepers to talk with someone who could actually help him. Brittany, with a lovely French accent, answered. Jared introduced himself and made his request.
“We’re looking for any firm that may have shorted stock on the airline company, or sold or purchased options. It would have happened one to three months before the date of the plane hijacking. And the corresponding transaction soon after the event, within a week maybe.” Jared explained that it probably wouldn’t be obvious. They would have kept the amounts low enough to fly under the radar but still significant.
B
rittany agreed to research it and took down Jared’s information to follow up.
“If you find something, go look at the competition, there might be similar trades, just lower amounts that will correspond with the timing of what you find.”
She said she’d get a team on it soon and would call back.
Just as he said goodbye, Spencer blew through Jared’s door. “We got him.” He hunched and whispered, “Sorry, are you on the phone?”
“No,” Jared hung up the line. “Got who?”
“The dude that killed Emma.”
Fear, anger, joy, pain, all flooded Jared’s mind, like kids waking their mother on Christmas day; each emotion screamed for attention. He fought back the tears. He cleared his throat. “You sure?”
Spencer circled around the desk so he could put a hand on Jared’s shoulder. He nodded, tears in his eyes, too. “Yeah. I’m sure. He tried to kill you this morning. Stevens I mean, the guy we left in your place at the rehab facility took a shiv to his kidney.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah. He’s getting a new one as we speak. He managed to subdue the guy and as soon as our field agents were able to interrogate him he started singing. I guess he figures the cartel’s going to put him down for mucking this up so bad.”
“Did he say who hired him?” Having the guy brought some satisfaction, but he was just a soldier.
“Pointed the finger to Junior. Says Junior got his orders from Guzman. But that’s all he knew.”
“No Askari?”
Spencer shook his head and leaned against the bare wall.
“Maybe we should bring in Guzman. I’m getting worried for what might happen next.”
Spencer shrugged. “We have enough to send Junior to the chair. And probably enough to arrest Guzman, but if Junior decides to fall on his sword, we might not make it stick.”
“What about RICO?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah. We could definitely get Guzman on racketeering. It won’t put him away for good, but it’s a start. And RICO would allow us to seize a bunch of assets and put a dent in the cartel’s operations. But the top brass want to find out who this Askari is before we take out Guzman, cause he’s our only connection.”
