by JC Ryan
We’ve got to do something about this!
July 6, 2019, Tehran
Jahandar wasted no time in making good on one promise of his oath. The President of the United States may be impossible to get to while in office, but Daniel Rossler was vulnerable. For a job so important, no one would do but the best, Adam al Gadahn, who happened to be the number two terrorist on hit lists of both Mossad and CIA. The man was known to be resourceful and clever, well worth the $150,000 that Dalir offered him to kill Daniel. They met in a coffeehouse, away from prying eyes.
“I will pay you one-third today, my friend, and the rest when I hear in the media that it is done. Daniel Rossler, above all, must die. If before he dies he sees that his wife and friends will also die, I will be more than satisfied. I will pay you an additional $50,000 for each member of the Rossler Foundation that dies with him, but your payment depends on Daniel Rossler dying, above all.” Jahandar’s eyes glittered in the dark room as he thought of his pleasure when Rossler was dead.
“I will see to it.” The assassin took no pleasure in death, only in his skill at it, and the money it brought him.
“Do not contact me again. You are on your own from now on. When I see the reports in the media, I will pay the rest of the money into your account.”
“That will be satisfactory.”
“I want this done as soon as possible.”
Annoyed, al Gadahn allowed himself to express his displeasure, though the words were mild. It was his eyes that told Jahandar he’d gone too far. “Allow me to do my job in the most efficient way. It will be soon, I promise you.”
Al Gadahn left the coffeehouse with a bulge under his robes that had nothing to do with the state of his emotions. He went straight to a bank to deposit the cash. From there, he went home to contact his network in the US.
“Get me all the information you can on the Rossler Foundation, Daniel Rossler, and any of the other founders you can. This is urgent; you must report back to me within two weeks at the maximum.” His orders conveyed, he made to disconnect the call, only to hear the response faintly as he took the phone away from his ear.
“As you wish, Aqa al Gadahn.”
While he waited for the information, al Gadahn made his way to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where for a payment of only ten thousand dollars, he bought safe conduct through one of the tunnels controlled by the drug cartel Sinaloa Federation. From there, he found conveyance through friends of his network, up through New Mexico into Colorado and eventually to Aurora, where he was the guest of a prominent Muslim cleric. By the time he arrived via this circuitous route, his henchman had the information he required.
Pictures of Daniel Rossler, Sarah Rossler, their toddler, Nicholas, and various friends and founding members of the Foundation along with their families were given to him. Most important, the information that these people would undoubtedly gather for the birthday of the Rossler patriarch, Nicholas, who would be eighty-six on July 25th. With the younger Rossler, JR, and his wife Rebecca back from their honeymoon, everyone, even the parents from North Carolina, would be in attendance. In addition, close friends Sinclair and Martha O’Reilly, Rajan and Sushma Sankaran, along with most of the important Antarctica expedition members, would also be at the party. He would be able to please Jahandar, collect a fortune in bounties and virtually wipe out the Rossler Foundation in one blow.
Al Gadahn contacted a network member, a sleeper who had long been in place for just such an occasion. The man had pledged his life as a suicide bomber in case such would be needed, many years ago. It was time for him to earn his martyrdom. The making of the bomb was al Gadahn’s task alone. It was one of the skills that had landed him on the most-wanted lists of most of the major European nations, as well as the CIA and the Mossad. His signature was the use of a Pakistani-made lithium-ion battery in his IED. Though it was largely destroyed in the blast, enough remained to twist the noses of investigators, his version of ‘Kilroy was here’.
To make his bomb, al Gadahn purchased an inexpensive cell phone with prepaid minutes, replaced the battery, and wrapped the whole thing in plastic explosive, with the battery attached to the circuit that previously controlled the vibration function. The battery was set up to short-circuit when the vibration circuit energized it, because his Pakistani-made battery did not have the fail-safe circuits that American-made batteries did. His bomber would walk toward the Rossler party with the package concealed beneath his clothing, carrying a remote control device that would also trigger the bomb. When he was as near to the table as he could get, he would presumably trigger the IED. However, if that did not occur, al Gadahn would be nearby with the phone number queued up, and would trigger it himself from a position of safety.
Because the Rosslers now had no detectable protection according to his informants, it would be a simple matter. Once he learned the location and time of the party, he would reconnoiter a safe place from which to observe.
Stupid Americans, he observed two days before the birthday, to so readily give away their plans. By now he had moved to the Boulder area and was staying in a hotel that the decadent citizens of this country would probably think beneath them. For him, it was a luxury compared to those of his native land, one of the poorest countries in the world, Eretria on the west bank of the Red Sea. Shaking his thoughts from the bitterness this disadvantaged start usually engendered in him, he read the announcement of the party honoring Nicholas Rossler. If al Gadahn had anything to do with it, and he would, this Rossler and all the others would celebrate no more birthdays.
~~~
July 25, Boulder
On the day of the party, al Gadahn and his bomber arrived and parked as near to the restaurant as they could. To his satisfaction, al Gadahn had ascertained that the restaurant where the party would be held had a large plate glass window in front, where he would be able easily to observe the bombing. A generous donation to the restaurant owner through a Turkish ex-pat friend had assured him that the party would be seated in the front, the excuse being that the friend wanted to do something nice for the Rosslers. The local Muslim community had unjustly accused them of engineering the virus, when in fact they had been instrumental in stopping it, he told the restaurant owner. After performing his part, the friend and his family slipped away quietly, telling no one where they were moving.
Al Gadahn shook himself from his thoughts as he saw one of the targets enter the restaurant. Young JR Rossler was easy to spot, a freakishly tall man with a stunning woman at his side. In short order, others began to arrive, and all were seated at closely-gathered tables near the front window as arranged. Al Gadahn could see them burying their noses in the flowers his friend had ordered delivered and then talking excitedly among themselves. When he had ticked off all of the important targets on his list and the new arrivals had stopped, he turned to his silent passenger.
“Allahu Akbar,” he intoned, embracing the man.
“Allahu Akbar,” the other replied, a mournful tone coloring his words. Al Gadahn went on alert. As soon as the bomber got out and started across the street, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled to the speed dial number he’d prepared.
Inside the restaurant, the bomber paused at the door to get his bearings, then turned left and made his way toward the Rossler party. He could see Daniel Rossler seated in his straight path, a few yards away. Meeting Daniel’s eyes, he put his hand in his pocket, noticing that the eyes on which his were trained suddenly widened.
For his part, Daniel had watched the man enter, casually observing that he was wearing a jacket in spite of the warm July evening. As the man walked toward him, Daniel noticed that he was the apparent focus of the guy’s attention, and switched his own focus to meet the man’s eyes. Something about him kept Daniel raptly attendant on the man’s moves, and when his hand entered his pocket, Daniel knew.
At that moment, the man screamed “Death to the Rosslerites! May you all burn in hell! Allahu Akbar!”
Daniel yelled, “Get down! Get d
own! Get down!” as he swept Sarah off her chair in a full-body tackle and covered her with his body. JR reacted immediately, knocking his own wife to the floor and looking around wildly for his parents and grandparents. Others hesitated, and paid for their confusion. As friends and family hit the floor, Daniel had a split second to brace for the blast. What he couldn’t see from his position was that, instead of using whatever was in his pocket to detonate his bomb, the man had turned and run for the door. Two seconds later, the front of the restaurant was demolished as al Gadahn’s detonator triggered the bomb.
Al Gadahn had watched as his bomber’s steps grew slower and suspected that he was having second thoughts. In the seven seconds it took for his phone to dial the other’s and detonate the explosives, the bomber had delivered his crazed message to the Rosslers and turned away, making for the door. As a result, the blast that tore through the restaurant was largely directed away from the Rossler party. There were injuries, of course, among them. Sarah was bruised, not from the bomb, but from Daniel’s desperate bid to save her, and she had been hit in the upper arm by shrapnel from a wooden table in the form of a good-sized splinter that would have to be removed at the emergency room of the local hospital. Daniel had cuts from flying glass and bruises. JR and Rebecca had been sitting in the center of the group, and were largely unhurt as overturned tables and the bodies of others in the party took the brunt of the blast.
The rest of the Rossler party were more or less intact, although bruises would appear later. The worst of the injuries were cuts from flying glass. Nicholas, shaken but mostly unhurt, held a napkin to Bess’s face, where a shard of glass had narrowly missed her eye.
The scene was chaotic as children shrieked their fright and adults realized their hearing was affected. Daniel could see Sarah mouthing words, and from the expression on her face, she was screaming them, but he couldn’t make out the sound. His ears were ringing and all sounds were muffled, as if he had earplugs in. At last, he calmed her enough with his hands cupping her face that he could read her lips.
“Where’s Daddy?”
Immediately, he turned and started helping the others from the party up, searching for Sarah’s dad, Ryan. Thank God that her mom, Emma, had excused herself from the party to babysit little Nick, who didn’t always do well in restaurants, being a typical two-year-old. Finding Ryan, Daniel gestured for the older man to go to his daughter, while he continued helping the injured up from the floor as best he could.
The unlucky ones were the patrons sitting at the tables between the bomber and the door. Fifteen were killed, and others received maiming injuries. Screams of pain from that area led Rebecca and JR there, as soon as they had shaken off their shock. They immediately went into action triaging the injured. Rebecca directed JR to cover the dead with any tablecloths he could find, while she comforted the horrendously wounded as best she could. When she’d done what she could for them, she sorted the disembodied limbs that lay in a bloody stew near ground zero. Few would be able to be reattached; they were too damaged. Bits of the bomber, based on the leather attached to the bloody gobs, clung to walls, tables, and the occasional nearby victim. Adding to the mess and the stench, several people had lost their recently-consumed dinners.
Ten minutes after the blast, dust still hung in the air, adding to the general confusion. No one could hear, and the dim lighting in the restaurant coupled with the dust kept them from seeing clearly as well. For many, that was a blessing. In addition to the smell of blood and vomit, a hint of bitter almond hung in the air with the dust. Disoriented, Rebecca was at first alarmed by the odor. When she was able to make JR understand her, he assured her that it was almost certainly from the explosive, no doubt plastique. She stopped worrying about cyanide gas and continued to check her patients.
Sirens could be heard coming closer, and to save some of the victims would require that they be the first to be treated. Those who would survive would later feel fortunate that a doctor was on the scene. Once the EMTs took over helping Rebecca, JR looked around in barely-contained rage.
The demolished restaurant looked like the war zone he was far too familiar with and that had caused him countless nightmares. Sounded like it too, through the blanket of fuzziness that was hindering his hearing.
“Daniel, we’ve got to do something about this. Look at Grandma!”
Daniel was angry, too, but knew that there was no immediate target for his rage. This was undoubtedly Middle Eastern retaliation, based on the appearance of the bomber. His task at the moment was to lead, and leading required a cool head. “Calm down, JR. We don’t know for sure who initiated it, though we both have our suspicions. Let the cops do their jobs. We’ll figure out what to do about it when we know more.”
Luke walked up to the pair at that moment, having settled a weeping Sally in one of the few intact chairs.
“Boulder PD will be here soon, but I’ve called Sam Lewis. He’s going to get on the horn to the FBI and have an investigative team here ASAP. I told Lewis I thought it could be Al Qaeda, or one of the other terrorist organizations. He’ll send a CIA team, too.”
“I hope they can all play nicely together for a change,” Daniel said, barely beginning to regain enough hearing to understand Luke’s statements. He wasn’t joking. The situation didn’t call for jokes.
~~~
July 26, Boulder
It was well past midnight when a weary but angry Daniel Rossler arrived home. Sarah had been treated and released at the ER, and he’d put her in a taxi to go home to Nick and her mother. Emma was shaken but grateful that Ryan had come straight from the restaurant to give her the news himself, and to report that there were no life-threatening injuries among their family or friends. Still, it was awful to think of what might have been, if the bomber hadn’t apparently had second thoughts. Witnesses from the back of the restaurant had reported his sudden move to run back toward the door.
If only he’d made it. Perhaps fewer or even none of those who were killed or badly injured would have been hurt at all. Daniel couldn’t fathom why the man had turned, but each time his restless mind lit on the question, he breathed a prayer of thanks that he had. And each time, a wave of guilt for the innocent bystanders who’d lost life or limb engulfed him. Daniel was not a heavy drinker, but after checking on a sweetly-sleeping Nick and dropping a light-as-air kiss on Sarah’s head, he returned to the dining room and found a bottle of fifteen-year-old Scotch. Pouring a stiff drink, he carried it with him into the living room and heaved himself into his favorite easy chair.
Had he missed anything? Boulder PD were hot on the heels of the ambulances, and he’d promised to return to the scene as soon as he could get his wife some medical attention. There weren’t enough ambulances, he’d need to drive her. Daniel was well-known in Boulder; the cop was okay with the plan. Once he’d put Sarah in the taxi at the hospital, he’d returned as promised to submit to as many interviews as they or anyone else wanted. He would do everything he could to help.
Did he know the bomber, they asked. No. What made him start yelling even before the bomber screamed his threat? The eyes, he answered. The eyes were flat, black, full of hatred. And then the hand moved. He didn’t see any more, he was covering his wife to save her if he could. Did he know that the bomber had turned and run away?
“Is that what happened?” Daniel asked in response. He’d been surprised not to wake up dead. The man was so close…
“Witnesses say that as soon as he yelled ‘Allahu Akbar’, he turned and ran like a scared rabbit toward the door. Why do you think he would have done that?”
Daniel shrugged. “Changed his mind?” He didn’t have a clue, and speculation was of no use.
“But then the bomb detonated.” The officer was observing him closely as he made the statement.
Daniel tilted his head. “There was another one. He triggered the bomb.” The certainty came an instant after the thought.
The officer alerted to the bald statement, not conjecture but assurance
. “How do you know?”
“Afghanistan. IEDs. The FBI and CIA are on their way, they’ll know.” Daniel was emotionally and mentally exhausted. He couldn’t even form a complete sentence. He’d be of no more help.
He’d waited for them, watching the clean-up efforts, every able-bodied witness pitching in to pick up scattered furniture, make a pile of the hopelessly broken pieces and sweep up broken crockery, glasses and other detritus. When he talked to the feds, repeating the answers he’d given to the same questions from Boulder PD, their voices batted at his ears like someone clapping their hands over them and releasing them, rapidly, over and over.
Now, at home, his Scotch almost gone and his ears still ringing, Daniel felt the weight of mind-destroying guilt. People were dead because someone wanted him dead, him and his family. He didn’t know how he would come to terms with that. Perhaps a way would come to him in the morning.
Daniel staggered slightly as he rose and made his way to his bed. Only Sarah’s arms could comfort him now.
Morning came very early, as the phone rang at five a.m.
Momentarily forgetting what had happened the night before, Daniel felt a flash of irritation. Who the hell was calling at this ungodly hour? He fumbled for his phone and answered churlishly, “Do you know what time it is?”
“Sure do, Daniel,” answered Harper. “Calling to tell you how sorry I am about what happened last night.” Memory came flooding back as Daniel sat up in bed.
“Nigel,” Daniel said, alerting Sarah that President Harper was on the phone. She sat up and brushed her hair back with her fingers.
Harper had noticed that Daniel was confused. “Did I wake you up? Didn’t figure you’d be sleeping. What’s going on back there?”
Daniel was alert now, answering as if he hadn’t been rudely awakened from too short a slumber. “Looks like radicals from our friends in the Middle East. Fifteen innocent bystanders blown to bits. And who knows how many of the critically injured will have died of their wounds since I left the scene a few hours ago.” Daniel said in a tired voice.
