BioKill (14 page)

When Bomani fired the rifle, Bashir and Yusuf thought they were being attacked. It was Bashir who first saw the incoming helicopter and it was he who now praised Bomani’s marksmanship.

“Man! You shot it down… just like that! But… how did you know a helicopter was coming?”

Bomani didn’t respond, instead he packed away his rifle and told the others to put the rear seats up in the vehicle then get in. There was no time for self-congratulation. At the wheel of the Ford the driver input the route on the GPS to his next objective.

*

At Homeland the two staffers with Director Hall watched as the green 95 Ford Explorer left the cover of the tree canopy, crossed the field and regained speed on the road. Lopez was busy with a pressing matter of a downed helicopter and at least one injury.

Chapter Twenty

A Jeep approached
the downed helicopter, bouncing over the clods of earth from the recently plowed field. The driver, a teenage farmhand, pulled up near the men standing alongside the aircraft. He could see one man with a bloody arm being attended to. When he noticed the men were armed he had second thoughts about being here.

“Are you folks all right?” the farmhand nervously inquired.

A tall athletic-looking man approached him and reached for something in his jacket pocket. The farmhand swallowed and thought about how far he could get if he put his foot down. In this plowed field, it wouldn’t be far!

“Homeland Security, we could do with your help.”

Lance McAllister felt a surge of relief. Identification flashed before him.

“Yeah, sure, um, what would you like me to do? I can go get help or something?”

“What’s your name?” asked Matt Lilburn.

“Lance. Lance McAllister, sir.”

“OK, Lance, here’s how you can help…”

The farmhand gave an awkward wave as four Homeland Security agents left in his boss’s Jeep driving across the field without him. He sat down on the earth next to his bandaged patient propped up against the helicopter. He looked at the pilot curiously. Never seen a man with a gunshot wound — well, not in real life.

“Does it hurt, mister?”

“Only when I laugh, Lance. You know any jokes?”

“Yeah but you just said…”

“Just kidding. Let’s hear one. We have a bit of time to fill.”

“Well, all right then, let me think.” Lance McAllister tipped his black cowboy hat back on his head and recited what he remembered of the first, and the crudest, of his repertoire. Eskimo Nell. “From over the hill in a sawn off creek, came a sawn off…”

*

The driver stopped the Jeep as he reached the gravel roadside, all the men grateful they’d finished driving over the backbreaking plowed field. In the front passenger seat, Lilburn had his mobile phone to his ear.

“We’ll have another chopper and a pilot with the downed machine ASAP. The terrorist cell is continuing to head in an easterly direction and the Reaper has them in its sights. We have local units implementing a road block ten miles from you.”

Lilburn made notes as Director Hall spoke. When the conversation was finished he applied the grid reference given for the road block to his map. At their fastest speed the best they could hope for was to get there as local enforcement were mopping up. If the objective of taking the cell into custody was met cleanly and efficiently then Lilburn had no problem not taking credit for the capture. The problem was, when the hackles rose on the back of his neck, as they did just before the pilot was shot, then the stakes were higher. Lilburn suspected one of the three terrorists was playing on a totally different level — a very dangerous level.

Lilburn felt for the Sig Sauer on his hip. The bulk and weight felt good.

The Jeep was driven by a man who enjoyed the thrill of drifting an automobile around the dusty dirt road corners, one who worked the manual gears with dexterity, getting the best performance. Lilburn’s job, to read the map and choose the right roads, wasn’t easy — especially when he was also having to hang on. Five miles ahead two patrol cars had set up a roadblock at the end of a long straight.

In the distance the officers could see a cloud of dust approaching. They waited, standing behind and in front of their cars, pistols and shotguns at the ready. Unseen, the Reaper drone circled overhead.

Akins Bomani drove on. While his two young Takfir apprentices in the rear seats gazed out the windows daydreaming, Bomani never allowed himself such luxury. While his eyes were on the road his mind was on the mission. For him strategy and the continual rethinking of that strategy was everything. The drone didn’t worry him unduly — it was no more than a pesky hindrance, something he had to live with, accommodate and ultimately deceive. He was on American soil carrying a virus, so a bomb strike was unlikely.
They can watch
, he thought to himself,
watch and learn
.

As Bomani turned into the long straight, sunlight glinted off something in the distance. Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out a pair of small binoculars and held them out behind him. “Quickly, one of you tell me what is up ahead.”

Bashir responded and hastily focused in on the road. “A roadblock, two police cars.” Bomani slowed down, just enough to keep ahead of the dust cloud. He checked his phone, there was no text, no missed call; someone had let him down. He would deal with it later. Ordering the two young men to drop one of their rear seats and hang on to whatever they could, he increased speed.

At three hundred yards the four state-troopers started getting nervous; the green-colored four-wheel drive was still speeding towards them. The two troopers in front of their cars with handguns started to look for escape routes, just in case. The other two with shotguns leaning over their car bonnets fumbled nervously while keeping aim; one turned his head to the side and spat before rolling the chewing tobacco in his mouth.

At two hundred yards the troopers on the ground had real concerns; the men leaning on the bonnets stood up and took a few steps backwards. The patrol leader’s radio squawked; he didn’t dare take his eyes off the oncoming vehicle to respond.

At one hundred yards most standard police issue handguns are at their maximum effective range. Much less for shotguns, even loaded with buckshot. Bomani locked the brakes and put the Ford into a spin at just shy of one hundred and fifty yards.

The state troopers watched as the oncoming Ford jammed on its brakes. They were, to a man, thankful they hadn’t had to deal with the onslaught of a vehicle ramming them at high speed and the chaos that would have brought.
Now
what?

The cloud of dust had caught up and engulfed the hurtling Ford and carried on through, totally immersing it from view. The troopers looked up from the barrels of their weapons; there was calmness over the rolling hills, the odd bird called out.

One of the troopers out front of his vehicle lowered his gun and looked over to his comrade, still in a shooting stance, legs apart, two hands on his pistol. “What the fuck?” He turned back to the dust bomb which now slowly dissipated. An image was starting to slowly appear, dust particle by dust particle. The officers saw the rear of the green Ford Territory facing them with its rear window opened upwards. At one hundred and fifty yards, what was less apparent was the barrel of a scoped .308 rifle.

Bomani had all four men in his view. He chose the men handiest to cover and slightly further away. The two standing officers heard the crack of the first bullet speeding past them. By the second crack they had assessed the situation as critical and taken evasive action, but only two of the four remained alive. The trooper out front, who made a beeline for the vehicles behind him, took the right course of action. His colleague, however, who chose to dive to the side of the road, lay still on the ground. The four – to nine-power variable rifle scope proved his undoing as the shooter twisted the power ring of his scope up to maximum.

The patrol commander hiding behind his vehicle panted, his chest heaving, his heart palpitating as he looked at what was left of his colleagues’ heads. He was suddenly, horribly, alone. He reached for his radio transceiver and pressed the speak-to-talk button. A bullet thudded into the patrol car; he had to press the button again. A second bullet ripped through the car’s outer skeleton. By the time the trooper had reached base on his radio a third bullet ripped through the metal skin of the vehicle and pushed its way through to its objective — the petrol tank.

Lilburn felt his mobile vibrate. He had to yell over the phone to be heard. “Yes… we see it.” He relayed the information to his fellow officers — the roar of the Jeep on gravel and the wind whipping past the open vehicle didn’t help, but all his men knew what had been confirmed.

Not far ahead smoke could be seen pluming out of the fiery burst they had witnessed. Lilburn knew that by the time they got there the terrorist cell would be gone. He was now positive he was up against a professional killer, an experienced Takfir wal-Hijra. To some he would be a hero — to Lilburn he was just a killer; there was only one way to stop killers. Lilburn had been brought in to do a specific job he was very good at — and it was time for him to step up to the plate.

The four Homeland agents stopped to check for survivors at the end of the long straight. Three of the police officers had been cleanly shot, the fourth they found twenty yards away down the road heading away from the scene. His body was still smoldering as he lay sprawled out, face down. A bullet entry hole could be seen on the back of his charred head. Two of Lilburn’s men crossed themselves.

Lilburn looked up at the peaceful blue sky. He knew the drone was up there somewhere — he prayed it stuck to its target like glue.

Chapter Twenty-one

Once the aerial
surveillance problem was taken care of, Bomani knew his chances of completing his objective would be greatly enhanced. It had been sheer bad luck that the infidels had discovered the plan to release the virus on American soil. It could have been so simple — instead it was now slightly more difficult. The scenario being played out, though, had been envisaged, right down to the use of a drone. The fathers of the plan had the foresight to place the strategic planning into his own hands, to devise an operation of which Osama bin Laden himself would have been proud. The honor was immense, and once the planning had been completed, he passionately pleaded to be allowed to be the one to implement the plan.

Bomani expanded the view on his GPS mounted on the dash. His next destination, where he intended to lose ‘the eye in the sky’, was over ten miles away. It was essential he made the location as quickly as possible to avoid more confrontation. The gravel road ended and the road became sealed; a sure sign they were nearing another community center. They passed an intersection and then through another. Bomani noticed several signs rammed into the ground with arrows pointing in the direction he was going. A slower moving vehicle came into view, he passed it. Further on there was another, then a faster car passed them. Traffic started to increase. The odd vehicle started to appear coming towards then from the other direction. Bomani spotted a large sign attached to a wire fence up ahead and slowed down to read it.
Danbury Races — Free parking — two hundred yards.

This wasn’t in the plan. Unsure what sort of event this was, but concerned there could be a police presence, he sought his passengers’ opinion.

Yusuf had an answer. “It’s a race day — horse-racing, people come and gamble. There… see? Up ahead on the right, there’s the car parking… Wow, that’s a lot of cars!”

Most of the punters were already there, as the race meeting had started several hours earlier. There must have been at least five hundred vehicles in the grassed field that was doubling as a car park. Bomani could see an advantage in diverting from his plan. He decided to take it.

The Ford Explorer indicated and turned into the car park, its driver consciously looking for something in particular. Bomani ignored the empty spaces where vehicles were expected to park. He wound down his side window, smiling at the car-parking wardens directing traffic, telling them politely he had a delivery for catering.

“Where are you going? Why are you stopping here? The police can’t be far away!” Bashir was worried.

“Your security forces know exactly where we are, American boy, they are watching us right now. They have been ever since we left the cattle yards.”

“They aren’t our security forces! We are Takfir fighters,” said Bashir.

Bomani wasn’t surprised at Bashir’s response; he had seen potential in him early on. Unlike Yusuf.

At the far end of the car park, closest to the track and attached to the racecourse grandstand, Bomani found exactly what he was looking for — and an undercover parking area for caterers to unload their precious cargo undisturbed by inclement weather. He drove in where the sign said
Caterers’ entrance
and turned off the ignition.

“Listen to me.” Bomani imparted his instructions with clarity. “High above there is a drone, like the ones used against us in Afghanistan; it has been the infidels’ eyes. Right now, it knows where we are but can’t see us. So we find a new vehicle. Take your bags with you. Yusuf, bring the rifle bag. Let us go.”

The three left the Ford Explorer where it stood. This time, after taking the GPS with him, Bomani took the key out of the ignition and locked the doors.

Inside the catering and kitchen area under the grandstand Yusuf and Bashir followed their leader as he walked through the dry store area, past the large walk-in refrigerators and onwards through the kitchen, with bright stainless steel benches, sinks and stoves. The small army of professional caterers never gave the three strangers more than a second glance, their concentration set on meeting the demands of the chef. On the ground level next to the kitchen was a large function room set with rows of tables. Five or so men and woman dressed in black pants, white shirts and black waistcoats were busy unrolling large rolls of white paper over the bare tables as table cloths. The small army of waiters was being managed by a blond-haired man dressed in the same attire. His effeminate voice and exaggerated movements, together with a natural gift of the gab, certainly attracted the attention of everyone in the room. Some gritted their teeth as they were informed a particular item was out of place. Bomani walked towards the large windows and bi-fold doors looking out to the crowd of punters outside, eagerly encouraging their favorite horse and jockey as the leaders were about to cross the finishing line. Just as a roar of anguish and triumph erupted outside at the finish of the race, the blond man let out his own shriek. “Oh my lordy-be! I ordered lilac-colored napkins,
lilac
, not… blue. I strictly gave instructions for lilac napkins. How could you do this? Look at me when I speak to you!” A waiter of more burly physique was the brunt of the outburst. He placed both his hands on one of the tables, partly bent over due to his height, he brought his eyes back around to look at his head waiter having another
hissy-fit
. The part-time waiter gritted his teeth and forced the corners of his mouth upwards to give the outward look of a smile. With his teeth locked together, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, sorry butters no toast! Sorry…” The blond man stopped mid-sentence. A dramatically overacted physical shudder shook his body. “Well, as my darling mother always said, if you want something done co-rrect-ly, then you simply must do it yourself. Pay attention, everyone, look at me, look at me.” Satisfied he had everyone’s attention, he went on. “I shall have to go and procure the lilac napkins myself. I shall be gone forty-five minutes. When I return I expect to be pleasantly surprised to find the tables set — minus the napkins.” Clapping his hands together, he gave his usual parting remark. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Sharron, love, be a dear and take over while I’m gone.”

Bomani nodded to the other two to follow him. He followed the man a short distance behind, out through a door to a lobby area. Keeping him in his sight, he watched as the man clipped his way through a further door to a private car-parking area. There was no one else in the car park. Within fifteen feet the man opened the driver’s door to a white van with the words
The Galloping Caterers
written on both sides. Bomani made his move.

The engine had just started to turn over when the driver’s door suddenly opened. The shocked driver’s right hand intuitively went palm open to rest on his chest. “Oh…” Only one consonant and one vowel slipped past the man’s lips before the pistol butt knocked him out cold. Bomani waved the others to quickly pull the unconscious man into the vehicle. The two young Takfirs roughly manhandled the limp body around the front of the van to the sliding side door. He wasn’t particularly heavy and the rear of the van was spacious. Yusuf and Bashir remained in the back.

The white catering van had nearly exited the main gate of the car park to the road when three police cars hurtled through the gate causing Bomani to brake hard. “Stay in the back with the infidel, bind and gag him.” The police cars had postponed the blond man’s death. Bomani had been going to dispatch him with a bullet at the earliest possible moment, now he thought it best he put a bit of distance between the police and themselves first. Taking his foot off the brake he began to accelerate out the gate. The loud honking of a horn abruptly made him brake hard again as he barely missed an open Jeep full of hard-looking men careering through the gate behind the uniformed authorities. Watching in the rear-vision mirror, Bomani instantly knew who the men were. He smiled to himself.
All praise and glory be to Allah, my friends. You chose the wrong side.

Bomani turned the van out the gate keeping to his original bearing. A stifled groan came from the blond, hands behind his back, gagged and lying on his side in the rear of the van. More groans then one eye opened followed by the other. The groans grew into loud muffled screams as the trussed up man realized his predicament.

Bashir looked down at the blond man. It was the first time he had looked a fellow American directly in the eyes and recognized him as the enemy. For Bashir this moment sealed his fate; there was no turning back, he was alone in the world, except perhaps for his friend sitting next to him with whom he started this journey. Now it seemed right for the two of them to end their journey together.

Yusuf had a different reaction. When the blond man shifted his gaze from Bashir directly to him, he took fright and skidded backwards on his bottom as far as the van’s side wall would let him. The caterer’s haunting blue eyes seemed to penetrate right into his skull. Yusuf shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the blond man was still staring. His blue eyes horrified Yusuf, sending a chill right through him. He began to feel woozy and claustrophobic. Maybe it was the lack of orientation in the back of the van, or possibly it came from being thrown about by the van’s movement. Or maybe it was fear. In that moment he knew he didn’t want to die. Silently he began to pray he would make it out of this mess alive.

The van shuddered as it left the seal and was back onto a gravel road — they had turned onto a secondary road. It wasn’t long before the van came to a stop. Bomani opened his door and left the van. Inside it was quiet, the engine had been turned off, the crunching of gravel could be heard outside as he approached the side door. There was a loud rolling noise and sunlight flooded the rear of the van.

“Drag him out.” Bomani stood to the side of the open door, a pistol in his hand.

Bashir grabbed the caterer under the armpit and pulled the screeching man out. He tried to let him gain his footing and stand up but the man simply crumpled to the ground. Bomani looked inside of the van. What he saw displeased him. Yusuf had his arms wrapped around his legs, his chin resting on his locked together knees. There were tears in his eyes.

Bomani stared at him for an inordinate length of time. Then he spoke slowly and dispassionately. “I want you to kill him.”

Yusuf didn’t answer, he couldn’t. Bomani repeated himself, this time his voice was much lower in tone. Lost in his own fear, Yusuf failed to see the man tighten his grip on his pistol, his knuckles going white. With a body that felt like a lead weight and bowels that were threatening to empty, Yusuf shuffled to the van door, tears streaming down his face. “No, please, don’t make me…”

Bomani thrust his weapon forward. “Kill him.”

The terrified caterer lay on his back, his bound feet scrabbling on the ground, searching for traction. Muffled screams resonated from behind the gag. Bashir’s foot stopped his feeble attempt to move away from the van.

“I can’t… He shouldn’t die, he hasn’t done anything. It’s murder!” Yusuf closed his eyes hoping this was all a dream; opening them again, he knew it was not.

Bomani didn’t want to waste time. He had an objective, one man who he judged he could trust to meet that objective and one man close to being a liability. Uncharacteristically he gave Yusuf one more chance. He withdrew the pistol he held out and tucked it into his belt. “Come.” Bomani gestured with an outstretched hand for Yusuf to exit the van. Bashir looked on in trepidation, Yusuf was his friend. And right now he was very afraid for his friend.

“Yusuf, it takes courage to be a Takfir,” said Bomani. “With that courage comes honor amongst our fellow brothers, we can hold our heads high and be proud. You have embarked on a mission that will help destroy our enemies, a very important mission, one where we must not fail. We must be prepared to give our life to Allah, we must be strong.” Bomani paused. The next question he asked would decide if the young man standing in front of him would live… or die on the spot. He placed a hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. “Yusuf al-Nasseri, are you strong, do you want to carry out the wishes of Allah?”

The silence was almost deafening. Bashir prayed his friend would give the right answer.

“Yes.” The reply was weak. “Yes, I am strong, I am one of the brothers, I serve Allah and only Allah.” It was a lie.

Bomani smiled. “Good, good, Yusuf.” He then gave the man a couple of firm pats on his shoulder. “Now you will prove to me your conviction.” Reaching into his trouser pocket he pulled out a pocket knife and opened it. Yusuf couldn’t help but focus on the shiny sharp blade and wonder what was about to happen. “Take the knife.”

Bomani stepped back towards the prone man who looked up at him as if he were looking at the devil himself. With a deft movement Bomani raised a foot and pounded it into his chest, pinning him to the ground. Bomani instructed Bashir to pull the infidel’s pants and underpants down to his ankles and hold his legs down hard.

The waiter struggled with all the force he could muster. He screamed as loud as he possibly could. Nothing worked; he arched his head back pushing his skull into the gravel. He didn’t feel the stones grinding into his scalp; he didn’t hear the instructions given to the man who had accepted the knife.

Yusuf felt like throwing up. He now knew his life had come to a crossroads, choose the wrong way and he would die. Yusuf gripped the pocket knife firmly in his hand as he knelt down beside the struggling waiter. His breathing quickened as he reached forward with his spare hand and grabbed the lily-white soft uncircumcised penis. He could feel the man’s body struggling for all he was worth as Bomani issued instructions from above. Yusuf didn’t dare look at the man’s face. He squeezed the penis in his closed hand and worked his hand away from its end until all he gripped was wrinkly skin. He brought the knife up and saw where he had to cut, the area between his fingers and the actual head of the penis.

Pulling hard and away on the skin to stretch it as far as it would go, he ran the knife blade across the skin. The blade cut halfway through — and he slashed again. The sounds from the caterer were horrendous, both Yusuf and Bashir felt sick as hot blood spilt over onto Yusuf’s hand. The knife blade was dripping, red blood cascading onto the ground. Emotions flooded through Yusuf, he needed to finish and finish now, he needed to get away. The knife… he had to cut, his mind was spinning.
Cut, cut, cut!