“Thanks so much,” he deadpanned.
He opened a sack and pulled out a handful of blueberries; he tossed them in his mouth one after the other.
“You really eat this way all the time?” I asked.
“Not always. A nine-year-old likes pizza and hamburgers and ice cream. So, I have a balanced diet.”
I saw three guys strutting up the sidewalk in front of the apartment complex. They all had gray hair.
“I’m lucky we have Ezzy at the house. She’s been incredible with Luke and Erin. She can deal with their attitude issues better than I can.”
“Probably helps that she isn’t their mother, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, maybe so. But it’s still difficult on me. Case in point, when we called the house earlier. Mackenzie talked your ear off. I think I only got four words out of Luke before he came in with the speed response of ‘I-love-you-bye.’ And, of course, Erin was on her way out the door to go to Becca’s again.”
As I said the words, I felt a sense of distance from the kids, a little bit like what was going on with Brad. I took in a full breath. Maybe my thought about early menopause wasn’t too far out there. It could really screw with your hormones, I’d heard.
Ozzie swatted my arm.
“What the hell is that for?”
He pointed across the street. “I think that’s him. Bandar.”
I saw a smallish guy walking like he had some place to be. His hands were stuffed in his green jacket, and I could see the New York Yankees logo on the bill of his black cap.
“Need to catch him before he enters his apartment.” I opened the door and waited for a truck to pass, and then headed across the street as Bandar hopped up three steps to the glass front door.
Ozzie pulled up to my side. “Should we run up to him before we lose him on the inside?”
We were within about forty feet. Cars lined the road, but no pedestrians were within our immediate area.
As Bandar reached for the door, two girls walked out, talking up a storm. The tall one looked right at us and stopped. That got Bandar’s attention. He turned his head and stared us down for a few seconds.
“Crap,” I said under my breath, trying to look nonchalant—as if that were possible since we were walking straight toward the guy.
Ozzie said something, but I didn’t hear it. Bandar busted between the girls, jumped down the steps, and sprinted off.
“Shit!” I took off in pursuit. A few strides in, I swung my head around—Ozzie was struggling to keep up. “Don’t try to run. I’ve got it.”
Back to Bandar. He wasn’t terribly fast, but he had a good head start on me. I reached the sidewalk and slipped as I cut to head north on Dorcester Avenue. A few cars sped by, but no one stopped. Nothing to see here, moving along—that kind of mentality.
Bandar reached the end of the block and looked over his shoulder at me. I was closing in on him. I could see his eyes. I didn’t sense fear, though. He disappeared around the corner. For a quick moment, I thought about what I was doing, who I was chasing. If he was indeed the bomber, what kind of weapons could he be carrying? Was there a possibility that some type of explosive device might be attached to his body?
I slowed my pace as I reached the intersection and stuck my hand inside my jacket, touching the grip of my Glock. I stopped at the edge of a building and took a quick peek around the corner. At first, I saw a man wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the ground and smoking a cigarette. He didn’t notice me, or at least, he didn’t acknowledge me. Beyond him, I saw Bandar racing to the other side of the street. I bolted out of my stance and crossed the street without looking. A car skidded to a stop, and its driver hit the horn.
“Sorry!” I said, tapping his hood twice.
Bandar looked back—the horn must have drawn his attention—just before he turned right at the next street. I pushed off the front of the car, pumping my arms to get to full speed. I felt every bit as fast as I did five years ago, maybe ten. I skidded around the next corner. A green blur took a quick left down an adjoining alley. Bandar probably knew these streets and hidden coves better than I did. If so, I was screwed.
I ran as fast as my legs could move, but something told me to not barrel into the alley without looking first. I reached the edge of a storage facility, my back against the wall. I could feel my chest lifting with the speed of a panting dog. My adrenaline was on full tilt.
I put my hand on the grip of my gun in its holster and poked my head around the corner. Bandar was trying to climb a chain-link fence.
“Stop! FBI!” I yelled out.
He said nothing. He was three feet off the ground but struggling to make any headway. He kicked his legs, looking like a little kid, trying to get a foothold in the fence that was about eight feet high. He had little strength and less coordination.
“Bandar, get down.” I moved to within twenty feet and pulled my pistol from the holster. “It’s over. Get on the ground.” I waited a beat. “Now, dammit!”
He slid off the fence but kept his back to me.
“Turn around slowly.”
He didn’t move.
“I said turn around!” My voice bounced off the buildings. We were alone in the alley, and for a second, all the stories of cops shooting unarmed civilians flashed to the front of my mind. I was determined to end this peacefully, but I couldn’t forget my training. It was a balancing act. I had to keep my mind clear.
I inched forward another foot, but that was it. I couldn’t get too close. I had my gun trained right on his midsection—not his legs or head or even a shoulder. If I was forced to shoot, I couldn’t take the chance of missing.
“Bandar!”
He slowly began to turn around. When he faced me, my eyes did a quick scan of his body. There was a yellow light affixed to the building on the other side of the fence. I could see the features on his face under the brim of his cap, but only barely. Mainly, just the whites of his eyes.
In his hand, which fell along the side of his leg…
What is that?
“Hands up where I can see them!” My finger put a bit of pressure on the trigger as my heart hammered my chest.
A glint of light bounced off the object in his hand. A gun. “Drop it. Drop the gun! Now!” My eyes were about to pop out of my head.
He lifted his arms, but the gun remained in his hand.
“Drop it, godammit!”
He was muttering something.
“Stop talking and drop the gun.” A second ticked by, but that was all. “I will shoot you if you do not drop your gun right now.”
He pointed the gun at his head.
Fuck! My breath hitched.
“Bandar, you don’t want to do that. Drop the gun, and let’s end this peacefully.”
His muttering grew louder, but I couldn’t pick it up. I wasn’t sure if he was speaking English.
A second later, I heard footsteps behind me. I jerked my head around.
It was Ozzie. He’d stopped about ten feet behind me and was as still as a statue.
24
Ozzie
I was frozen. I didn’t want to move. Someone was about to die.
Alex had her gun pointed right at Bandar. She was stiff, but seemingly in control. Bandar had the barrel of his gun pointed at his head. And he was mumbling something. I focused on his lips.
“Bandar, you don’t want to do that,” Alex said.
I’d heard Alex yelling as I jogged toward the alley—her voice had a rasp to it, as though it was being stretched to its limits. Now, though, she was calmer, yet still authoritative. While the intensity was palpable, I sensed a powerful assuredness from Alex. She knew what she was doing, which was great by me. I had no clue how to respond to something like this. I only knew not to move an inch.
“Do you have family, Bandar?” Alex asked.
Just as I could begin to read his lips, they stopped moving. His eyes shifted around, landing back on Alex. His face was blank, as if he’d somehow separated hims
elf from the tension. He looked more like a robot than a human. Then again, what kind human planted bombs to kill people?
“Bandar, I don’t want to shoot you. And I know you don’t want to shoot yourself,” Alex said. “Come on, now. Work with me. Drop the gun to the ground, and we can talk it out. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Damn, Alex was good.
Bandar kept his eyes trained on her. He didn’t blink; he didn’t budge. It was as though he’d turned to stone.
“I can tell you don’t want to die, Bandar. I can feel it,” Alex said. “Talk to me. Tell me about your family.” She waited a second and then said, “I know they want to see you again, Bandar. Your mom, your dad. Do you have any sisters or brothers?”
I wanted to jump in and do something, to stop all the killing, to make sure Alex was safe. But I wasn’t in a position to do anything. I was helpless but hopeful.
Bandar blinked one long blink.
My breath stopped—it was about to go down.
He tilted his head slightly, rolled his eyes shut, and called out, “Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.”
“Bandar!” Alex cried out. “Stay with me. Don’t shoot yourself. It’s not worth it!”
He repeated the phrase two more times, and then he stopped.
I could feel my shoulders drop as the tension eased up. No shots. Good, good, good.
His lips began to move again. I focused on them, reading every word that he was saying. “I am number two. I’ll do anything for you, Plato.”
What the hell? And then the gun went off, and he crumbled to the ground.
Bandar was dead.
25
Alex
The southwest edge of Dorcester became the center of the law-enforcement and media universe. Hundreds of officers representing more agencies than there were ethnicities in Boston swept in, as if someone had called in another bomb threat in the very same alley where Ozzie and I had witnessed Bandar’s suicide.
Multiple helicopters with huge searchlights whirred overhead. I assumed they were looking for accomplices. I couldn’t be certain, though, because outside of relaying the story of what had just happened, I’d received no more updates. They certainly didn’t ask for my opinion on what steps to take. Ozzie and I were told to stay put; so, we did. Every few minutes, a ranking official from another agency would approach us and ask us to recite the story—and it was always the same.
Finally, Randy showed up. Flanked by his goony lieutenants, he asked the same questions as everyone else. He nodded a lot, stroked his mustache a lot. Then, he told his comrades to give him a minute alone with us. They pulled back and pretended to be discussing important matters amongst themselves.
And then he went right after us.
“Do you two twat pockets understand what you just did?”
I looked at Ozzie and then back to Randy. “Catch the person who was involved in the marathon bombings?” I couldn’t resist answering his question with another question.
He stuck a finger in my face. I stared at it. It almost had a hypnotic effect, to the point where I couldn’t be responsible for my actions once I ripped the digit off his hand and stuffed it down his throat.
“Did you not hear me, Troutt?”
“Uh, no, sorry. I was distracted. Say again?”
He shook his head, his jaw clenching like it had its own heartbeat. “You two basically just killed the person who would know everything about the bombings. So, because of your inept behavior, we don’t have a clue as to who his accomplices are, or if he even had any accomplices.”
I could feel my feet move toward him; my body now had a mind of its own. “Did you not hear me earlier, Randy? Did you talk to the medical examiner? I didn’t kill him. He shot himself. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“The way she spoke to him was amazing. I’ve never seen someone so calm under pressure,” Ozzie said. “She did everything humanly possible to keep him alive. He had a death wish. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”
Randy smirked at Ozzie, a nasty-looking thing. “And you’re the fucking armchair psychiatrist who knows all? Should I bow down to your incredible brilliance?”
He turned back to me. “Jesus fucking Christ, Troutt. You and your boyfriend here just don’t get it. You’ve turned the biggest investigation in the history of this city into a fucking fiasco.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, Randy.”
“Oh, excuse me. I forgot about Rad Brad.” He chuckled.
I was about to lose it on him. Literally, I saw picture of myself lunging for his face and scraping his smarmy porn-stache off his face with my fingernails.
Then, one of his goons jogged up. “Sir, they found evidence inside the suspect’s apartment. Bomb detonators, nails, shrapnel of all kinds. Looks we got our man.” The goon smiled.
Randy shifted around, finally landing back on his lieutenant. “You’re not seeing the big picture here, asshole.” He rapped his knuckles on the guy’s forehead. “Is anyone home in that thick skull of yours?”
“Well, sir, I’m not really sure I understand your position.”
“My position? Dickwad, this perp was planning more bombings. Besides that, he had details. Details! Which we now cannot get.”
“Oh, I didn’t…” The guy’s voice shriveled to nothing.
“That’s right, you didn’t think. And because of her…” He turned and jabbed his hairy finger back in my face. I could feel my fist pulling back for a nice hefty punch, but Ozzie took hold of it. We traded a glance. I dropped my arm.
“Yes, because of her, we can’t actually interrogate the perp. His accomplices are now going to know he’s been killed. So, the likelihood of that automatically triggering the rest of his group to act is very, very high. You following me?”
The guy nodded like a little kid being yelled at by his coach. It sickened me. How is this leadership? Then, Randy turned around and faced us. “Are the two of you following me?”
Neither Ozzie nor I made a gesture of acknowledgement. I appreciated Ozzie’s balls, so to speak. Randy could be intimidating, but we weren’t going to grovel.
Randy glared at each of us. I know I certainly gave back my own red-hot laser-beams glare. Then, thankfully, he stormed off.
But that wasn’t the end of the night. Not by a long shot.
26
Alex
From inside the command center, Ozzie and I watched a livestream of the press conference from his phone. Randy and other officials were just outside the building, addressing the worried public.
I munched on stale popcorn, yawning, just as Randy strutted up to the lectern to give his opening statement.
“You sure you should be eating as you watch this?” Ozzie asked.
I tilted my head. “Huh?”
“You know, you might hurl.”
I stuffed more popcorn in my mouth. “Nothing will be as bad as having that asshat talking down to us in person. Over a phone or TV or whatever, it’s comparatively easy to deal with.”
I looked at the phone screen. Randy paused in front of the mics and surveyed the crowd of reporters. He gave his best tough-guy look—pressing his lips together as if he’d just walked out of a caged ring where he’d personally destroyed every known terrorist operating in the Western hemisphere. Maybe he’d get some type of endorsement deal out of this: “Randy—the face of a new cologne called Incompetence.”
I would have laughed at my own off-track thought had I not been so weary.
I watched as Randy introduced himself as the leader of the task force and then went straight to the topic that I was sure had most of the nation watching, even though it was six in morning.
“A few hours ago, through a joint-agency raid in southwest Boston, we cornered the man who was responsible for the Boston Marathon attack.”
“Joint agency?” Ozzie said.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Why not?
It’s Randy.”
Ozzie thought about that for a moment. “True. Sad, but true.”
Randy ran his eyes across the sea of reporters. I’d seen that smug look before, the one that reveled in the fact that he was in control and everyone was waiting with baited breath for what he’d say next.
He carried on. “The man, known as Bandar al-Salehi was carrying a weapon when the team cornered him in the alley. It was either him or us, and there’s no way we were going to sacrifice another American life for this terrorist who’d killed and wounded dozens. He died in the process of apprehending him.”
A few reporters started shouting questions, but he raised his hand to quiet them.
“There are a lot of courageous people in each agency, too many for me to name.” He turned to his left and then to his right. “But I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your bravery and for your tireless work to bring al-Salehi the justice he deserved.”
I jumped in with my own commentary. “So not only did he just lie, he’s now justifying it by saying he, Randy, had acted as judge and jury to put the man to death.” I had popcorn in my hand, but I dropped it in the bag.
“Swift justice,” Ozzie said, shaking his head. “Like it’s the early 1800s in the Wild West.”
Those last few seconds of Bandar’s life played in my head. He’d been saying “Allahu Akbar”—which means “Allah is the greatest.” Many terrorists had uttered the same phrase just before detonating bombs in Paris, Brussels, cities and villages across Iraq and Afghanistan. But as I recalled the brief clip again, I believed he’d said something else under his breath.
I looked to Ozzie. “Hey, just before Bandar fired the gun—”
Randy was back on the screen and interrupted my thought process. “After an intense investigation, we’ve come to the conclusion that Bandar al-Salehi, another Muslim extremist, acted alone. It appears he was heavily influenced by ISIS, and he was spreading propaganda over his various social-media accounts. You have my word that we will continue to follow this trail to ensure that anyone he might have come in contact with has no intention of carrying through with the same type of gutless act against the American people. Let me repeat, if anyone who knows Bandar al-Salehi has any thoughts of retribution, you will meet the same fate as your cowardly friend.”
AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19) Page 12
