End Days Super Boxset (3 page)

“Well, this seems to be tying itself together,” Patterson said.

Craig looked around, the responsibility for taking the crime scene just beginning to weigh in. “Let’s hope so.”

“At least he’s helpful,” Patterson said, pointing to Lt. Harvey. “Sometimes County gets their panties in a bunch the minute the feds steps in.”

Suddenly, from the opposite end of the street, past the burning wreckage, they saw two black SUVs pull up in haste.

“Speaking of which,” Craig said.

They could recognize the vehicles anywhere: their friends from Homeland Security. A group of agents immediately exited the SUVs and moved through the police barricades with ease and authority. Leading the pack was none other than Deputy Jenkins.

They descended on the scene wearing dark matching raincoats, snapping pictures, and issuing instructions to local officers left and right. Jenkins took notice of Craig and Patterson and approached them with his men.

“The plot thickens, I see,” Jenkins said.

Saying nothing, Craig wiped the rain from his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Patterson asked.

“That’s enough,” Craig said, cautioning his partner. He then looked at Deputy Jenkins. “We’re taking jurisdiction over this crime scene.”

“Crime scene?” Jenkins asked.

“Yes. At this moment, it’s an attempted homicide investigation.”

“And we want to speak with our suspects,” Patterson added. “So cut the bullshit and let us do our job.”

Jenkins stepped forward, nearly expressionless as Craig attempted to conceal his contempt. “There’s no reason we can’t work together on this. We both want the same things.”

“Do we?” Patterson asked.

“Yes,” Jenkins said. “Terrorism is our number-one priority right now. We have special instructions from the president to take charge of this thing.”

“What are you talking about?” Craig asked.

“This is an official Homeland Security operation now.”

Stunned, Craig and Patterson stood frozen.

Jenkins continued. “Of course, we’d be happy to keep you on as advisors.”

Patterson shook his head. “This is bullshit.”

Craig stepped forward into Jenkins’s face. “I want to talk to our suspects, and I want to talk to them now.”

Jenkins backed away with the other officials as if losing interest in the confrontation. “I’m sorry, Agent Davis, we have work to do at the moment.”

As the Homeland officials walked away, Craig and Patterson remained motionless.

Craig’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He held the phone up and saw that it was an incoming call from Agent Thomas. He walked over to a nearby canopy recently set up by the police and answered his phone.

“Agent Davis.”

“We’ve found something of interest in the house. After we removed the flag on the wall, we came across a lengthy message written behind it.”

“What’s it say?” Craig asked.

“Hold on, I’m sending you a pic.”

Craig felt the phone vibrate against his ear, lowered it, and saw an image on the screen of black Arabic lettering over the wall where the ISIS flag used to be.

“What does it say?” Craig asked, holding the phone back to his ear.

“We’re working on getting it translated. Will let you know ASAP.”

“Copy that,” Craig said.

“What’s the situation there?”

Craig looked up and saw Patterson waving him over. “Gotta go. We’ll be back at the house in a moment.” He hung up and hurried over to Patterson, who was standing next to three police officers.

“They’ve got some new information on the license plate and rental car company,” Patterson said.

“You FBI?” a thick-necked, nearly chinless officer asked.

“Yes. I want you to share whatever information you have with Agent Patterson here.”

“Yes sir,” the officer said.

The phone vibrated in Craig’s pocket again. He pulled it out, swiped the screen and opened the text message. Thomas had sent him the translation of the words written on the wall:

“We are the Islamic State and our caliphate is real. You will never see us. You will never stop us. We are in your cities and in your streets. We are here. Waiting. We will not rest until drowning you in your own blood. Praise be to Allah, your time is about to come.”

Noticing Craig’s distraction, Patterson tried to look over his shoulder. “What is it?”

Craig handed Patterson the phone. “Message left on the wall. Behind the ISIS flag.”

Patterson held the phone close to his eyes and stared at the message in disbelief.

“This isn’t over,” Craig said out loud to himself. “Not by a long shot.”

Washington, D.C.

“This case is over,” the FBI deputy assistant director, James Calderon, said. He slammed a large plastic file folder closed, leaned back in his chair and rubbed the temples of his wide, pale forehead. As assistant director, Calderon had a no-nonsense reputation, but he was also known to stand by his agents when needed. Craig was shocked to hear the dismissive words coming from the deputy assistant’s mouth.

On the third floor of the FBI building, suited officials sat around a long table with a glass surface. The well-lit conference room—with its flat-screen teleconference system mounted on the walls, snack bar, and coffee station—offered privacy and comfort for meetings among the bureau’s agents, supervisors, and directors.

Their current meeting was as sensitive as any they had held in quite some time. The room was made up of Craig’s superiors, who had requested to speak only to him. Craig had figured the meeting was his opportunity to urge expanding the FBI’s role in the case, to explain the hard work he and the other agents had done, and to reaffirm their commitment to the case. The last thing he’d expected was to be shot down in less than five minutes.

Calderon pulled the square-rimmed glasses from his puffy face and set them down on the glass table. His silver wristwatch jingled above his sleeve as he brought his hand back to his face to rub his eyes.

“At this point, we need to talk damage control.” He pushed aside the report in front of him while trying to think of the words.

They were also joined by one Homeland Security representative, sent in to observe the proceedings. Homeland Security Chief Advisor, Lisa Parks, sat next to the FBI deputy director. Craig sat at one end, while the deputy director sat at the other. On each side were the stone-faced people who he believed were there to help soften the blow of their dismantling his case.

Calderon took a long drink of water from his glass, set it back down on the table, hard, and then leaned toward Craig.

“Your report is very interesting, I must admit. You make a good case justifying the time, resources, and money you’ve spent over the last six months accumulating evidence. And at the end of the day you successfully captured the sleeper cell. This agency has not determined the motive of the driver yet, but finds it entirely plausible that he was connected to the nine captured men.”

“Sir, if I may—” Craig began.

“I’m not finished!” Calderon barked.

Craig slid back in his chair. He knew then that little good was going to come from the meeting, which had been called just two days after the raid. In that time, they had been trying to figure out what to do with the case, and it already looked like they had reached a conclusion.

“After making a positive ID on the driver, your theory about the driver’s association with the sleeper cell has been confirmed. He
was
the tenth man you were looking for. His name: Sayid Awad, Syrian refugee. Twenty-five years old. We don’t know why he chose an empty street to detonate the van. We can assume that the driver was planning on attacking the Fourth of July parade but, for whatever reason, changed his mind, perhaps after being confronted by two local officers.”

Calderon pushed Craig’s report to the side. “So the remaining suspects are in custody, their counterpart perished in a suicide bombing, and their organization is no more. The White House wants closure, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Craig stared ahead, clearly not satisfied. He pulled on his red tie and fidgeted. “Mr. Deputy Director, if I may?”

“Yes, Agent Davis, go ahead.”

Craig placed his palms flat on the glass table and slowly rose from his seat. “While I respect your opinion, I would think that this agency has faith enough in its field agents to know when to close a case. Because this is far from over.”

An uncomfortable silence came over the room. Calderon didn’t look happy, and Craig knew he was stirring the pot.

“We have new evidence. Something that could lead to a wider cell network.”

Calderon leaned forward in interest. “Oh? And what evidence is that?”

Still standing, Craig looked around the room, making eye contact with the icy-looking female Homeland rep. He shuffled around in his pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it up to the curious faces around him. “We found this message written behind the ISIS flag we took down in the occupants’ living room. It’s a clear warning that this is far from over.”

Calderon waved Craig off. “I trust your judgment, Agent Davis, but the Islamic State has been making outlandish threats against us for years. And while we don’t take such threats lightly, we cannot spend the extra man power on a closed case when the White House wants us to move on.”

“And why can’t I speak to my suspects?” Craig asked. “I led the bust, and at the end of the day, Homeland just snatches them from me like it’s nothing.”

The Homeland rep suddenly cut in. “We obviously have a mutual interest in the case, and at the same time, we have to respect national security protocol. We can’t disclose where they are being held, but safe to say they will most likely face trial or deportation within the next few weeks.”

Craig couldn’t believe his ears. “Deported!” He regained his composure and leaned against the table, facing the Homeland rep. “Ms. Parks, with all due respect, we need to interrogate those men to get information about their network. They’ve clearly waged war against this country and should be treated as foreign combatants.”

Parks didn’t seem fazed. “The CIA has been handling that arena.”

“And what have they found out?”

“It’s too early to say,” she answered.

“No,” Calderon said, interjecting. “It’s not. Agent Davis, the case is closed on our end, and that is final.”

“You can’t do this,” Craig said.

An FBI man with a comb-over, who was sitting on Craig’s left, suddenly cut in. “Just tell ‘em the truth, James. The administration wants to keep terrorism off the headlines.” He then looked at Craig. “Now you either play ball or go home.”

Craig turned toward the comb-over man with anger. “I’m not lying down on this one.”

“That’s quite enough, Agent Davis,” Calderon said, signaling him to sit. “This agency, as well as Homeland, values your input.”

Craig slowly lowered himself back into his seat, feeling sick inside.

Calderon continued, “That’s why we’re putting you on a special task force to capture one of America’s most wanted fugitives.”

Craig looked on, confused, as Calderon pushed a manila folder along the glass to his end of the table.

“Fugitive’s name is Robert Clyde Garrison. He’s been on the run since 2005 after killing his wife and three children with a hammer. Real sicko, this one.” He then turned to Craig. “You’ve been appointed to lead the task force to bring this man to justice.”

Craig flipped through the folder which showed a 6 x 9-inch black-and-white head shot of the man wearing a polo shirt and smiling. The next photo was an older family photo. All smiles. Craig closed the folder and tried to contain his conflicting emotions as best he could.

He stood up, took the file, and tapped it against the table. “Thank you, sir. I think I’ll get to work now.” With a nod, he left the room quietly as chatter followed.

“Good luck, Agent Davis,” Calderon called, just as Craig was about to close the door.

From the top of a small crate in a minimally furnished living room, a television flashed images of the evening news. As the news carried on about a recent FBI report detailing a series of thwarted Fourth of July terror attacks, two brothers sat in the next room, deeply focused on their work at the kitchen table. Rasheed carefully turned his screwdriver, fastening a clip around a small aluminum tube. His dark, curly hair hung over the frame of his glasses while his pursed lips twisted to the side, making the face he always did when deeply concentrating.

His younger brother, Darion, sat across from him counting a line of hollow-point 9mm rounds. Just out of high school, Darion had traveled to America from Chechnya to visit his brother for the summer. An observant and generally mild-mannered boy, Darion looked up to his older brother and was eager to please him. His visa had expired the previous week, but he knew, as did Rasheed, that he had no intention of returning home.

They had a job to do, a mission more important than anything his friends back home were doing. More important than going to college, chasing girls, or hanging around the soccer field. He had been told by Rasheed of an important task assigned to them. They were going to strike a fatal blow to the enemy. The news on the television continued:

“Officials state that a wave of recently thwarted Fourth of July terror attacks have shown that the Islamic State is losing its battle to inflict terror domestically. Homeland Security Chief Ralph Wilson stated that the terror group has grown desperate and that the planned attacks show that they are clearly on their ‘last leg’ of launching domestic terror attacks. New calls to re-examine federal immigration laws in the wake of more than 500 suspected foreign ISIS sympathizers in the U.S. from a leaked FBI report, have sent Capitol Hill into a frenzy of heated political rhetoric.”

The brothers didn’t seem distracted or bothered by the claims made by the government. They were focused and driven by the mission at hand. Darion picked up a small GoPro camera from the table and turned it on, checking the battery power. A closed MacBook sat in front of him, next to the pistol ammunition, with a USB cord connected to its side. He stuck the cord into the camera and set it down.

Rasheed looked up. “Is it charged?”

“Halfway,” Darion replied.

“Keep it plugged in, then.”

“Okay.”

Rasheed went back to fidgeting with some wiring protruding from the second of five tubes he had on the table.

“You know how to upload the video properly, right?”

“Yes,” Darion said, loading pistol rounds into a magazine.

Rasheed looked up again and dropped his screwdriver.

“Darion, look at me.”

Darion raised his head and was met with the familiar, unblinking stare from his older brother.

“This is serious,” Rasheed said.

“I know.”

“One mistake, no matter how minor, could screw up the entire mission. Our brothers are counting on us. This is a war.”

Darion nodded along.

“You’re going to have a minute, maybe less to upload the footage after the attack. It has to go directly to the website I gave you. You cannot be distracted in the slightest.”

“Of course,” Darion said.

“And I want you to practice, all night if you have to. Shoot some footage here and upload it. The diner, as you know, has free Wi-Fi, but have you asked yourself what you’re going to do if their Wi-Fi is down?”

Darion thought to himself. “Um.”

Rasheed slammed his fist on the table, startling Darion.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! This is not a game, dear brother. Allah willing, you will be guided by his hand, but you have to consider everything that could go wrong.”

“Okay,” Darion said. “I will.”

“So what are you going to do if the Wi-Fi is down in the diner?”

“Go somewhere else and upload it?”

“Exactly. You will have little time, so you must react quickly.”

“No room for error,” Darion said, memorizing the slogan.

“That’s correct. There’s a coffee shop next door. A Laundromat next door to that, and so on. I’m counting on you, Darion, and so are all of our brothers.”

“I will not fail.”

Rasheed’s stare lightened. He began to blink. “You know I love you, right?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m very proud of you.”

“Yes.”

“And so is our mother.”

Darion nodded.

“Tomorrow morning you will become one of our most honored martyrs in history.”

Rasheed screwed the top of the tube shut and set it carefully down—five pipe bombs in all, ready to be used against the enemy.

***

After the meeting with his superiors at the FBI, Craig drove home feeling defeated and frustrated. The radio was on a news station that had just gotten back from commercial break.

“The day before the Minneapolis July Fourth parade, a van carrying 200 pounds of explosives prematurely detonated. The driver, Sayid Awad, a Syrian refugee, was killed in the blast. An investigation underway reports all individuals with links to the planned attack have been detained and held in a undisclosed location due to the sensitive nature of investigation.

“Residents are urged to remain vigilant despite authorities’ claim of a decline in potential terror attacks. In response to the parade's success and that of celebrations all over the country, the president spoke earlier today to reaffirm his stance that terrorists are losing at home and abroad.”

Craig turned the dial off and drove in silence from the FBI headquarters to his quaint home in the Maryland suburbs—just outside the city of Rockville. He missed his family and had been away from them the past week while conducting the investigation in Minneapolis. Being away from home was always the hardest part of the job.

And while he'd always wanted to work for the FBI, as far back as high school, he had never been so felt quite so disillusioned with the bureau. After reuniting with them upon returning, he wanted to see his wife, Rachael, and son, Nick, again more than ever. He just hoped he could put on a happy face.

Rachael taught seventh grade at Robert Frost Middle School, while Nick was just about to begin eighth grade at the very same school. Since leaving the FBI building, Craig hadn't called Rachael to say that he was coming home. He didn't want to dump his problems on her or anyone else. He stared ahead at the road, thinking of a solution—some kind of way around the roadblocks his superiors had placed around him.

He came to his neighborhood street adorned with maple trees and their Crimson King-colored leaves. Upon seeing the familiar houses passing by, Craig gradually began to feel better. His home was in view on the cul-de-sac at the end of Tilford Lane—the street they had lived on for the past five and a half years. It was a one-story brick home with blue wood paneling and a garage.

Their freshly cut lawn had a walkway and concrete steps that led to a front porch consumed with potted plants. His wife's red four-door Kia Sportage was in the driveway, a welcome sight. He pulled into the driveway, next to her car, and turned off the engine to be alone with his thoughts for one more minute.

When Craig walked in, Rachael was in the kitchen, heating up some lasagna in the oven. Nick was nowhere in sight. Craig passed the living room. The television was on, and the evening news narrative had shifted back to terrorism.

Images of the black flag of ISIS followed by militants riding down the streets of Iraq waving guns in the air consumed the screen. Next came a picture of hooded, uniformed men standing behind a line of prisoners on their knees in orange jumpsuits with rifles to their heads.

“The Islamic State or Islamic State Iraq and the Levant, otherwise known as ISIS or ISIL, has spread across the Middle East at an alarming rate against most analysts' predictions. The president today concluded that the Islamic State has made troubling gains in the region, but that the long-term strategy to defeat the militant group is in fact working.”

“Hello, dear,” Craig said, stepping into the kitchen.

Rachael turned around from the refrigerator, startled. “It’s about time you got home.”

She was wearing black slacks and a blue cardigan jacket. Her long black hair spilled down over her shoulders. Her tired gray eyes looked back at him. “Well, don't just stand there, give me a hug,” she said.

Craig dropped his briefcase onto a stool by the kitchen counter and strode quickly across the tile to embrace her.

“Where have you been all day?” she said, hugging him back.

“I’m sorry. I just needed to clear my head about some things.”

They pulled away, holding each other’s arms. “Well, you’re just in time for some lasagna,” she said.

“Smells good.”

Rachael walked over to the counter, where a pile of cut carrots rested on a cutting board. “Now go say hi to Nick while I finish this. He’s barely seen you the past couple of days.”

Craig took off his suit coat and gave her a salute. He then turned and walked past the dining room and into the hallway where Nick's door was closed. Craig knocked.

“Yeah. It’s open!” Nick called out from inside.

“How ya doing, buddy?” Craig asked, opening the door.

“Hey, Dad,” Nick said, playing his Xbox.

“Dinner’s almost ready, so go get washed up,” Craig said.

Nick nodded with his eyes locked on the screen. Craig looked around at the comic book posters on the wall and the magazines and dirty laundry on the floor. It was Nick’s room all right, and for Craig, it felt good to be back home.

***

By dinner time, the family was seated around their circular dining room table with a tin of lasagna in the middle, a bowl of carrots, and basket of toasted garlic bread to the side. The night air was soft, drifting in from an open window. Outside, the only sounds were of crickets from the lake nearby.

“And how was school for everyone?” Craig asked, from the head of the table.

“It's summer, Dad,” Nick said. “We don't have school.”

“That's right. Sorry. Well, your mom still has to be there, I see.”

“Summer school,” Rachael said, taking a bite of lasagna.

“Are you excited about starting the eighth grade?” Craig asked.

“I guess so,” Nick said with a shrug.

“You haven’t told us much about Minneapolis assignment. How’d it go?” Rachael asked.

Craig suddenly realized he hadn’t told her much of anything yet. Nothing about the suicide bomber, the van explosion, and the sleeper cell.

“It went fine.”

Craig stopped there. At the sudden silence, he clasped his hands together with enthusiasm. “Hey, let’s all take a walk after dinner!”

“Sure, honey,” Rachael said.

Nick looked up, intrigued. “A walk?” His interest had been piqued.

After the table was cleaned off and the dishes done, Craig led his family down the steps of their wooden deck in the back yard toward the lake at the end of their property. He was carrying a box, but didn’t say what was in it. Nick anticipated something more.

“That's why you're taking us here, right?” he said, as they walked down the grassy hill. “Some secret FBI information?”

“Not quite, son,” Craig said.

They reached the darkness of the lake. The moon reflected over the calm water that slapped against the wooden dock nearby. A small motorboat, tied to the dock from the cleats at the bow and the stern, was covered under a blue tarp. It floated up and down with the small, rippling current. Once they reached the end of the dock, Craig turned around to talk.

“I brought you both out here to discuss our plan.”

“Plan? What plan?” Rachael asked.

“Our emergency evacuation plan,” Craig said. “I don't have any secret information to share, just good old-fashioned intuition.”

Nick sighed.

“We need to be ready to leave at moment's notice,” Craig continued.

“What's really going on, Craig? Something has been troubling you since the minute you walked in. I could see it on your face,” Rachael said.

“I think there's going to be an attack on our country and that it's going to be big. If it happens, I want you and Nick to take our boat and hide out in our cabin until further notice.”

Their cabin, roughly thirty miles up the lake and deep in the wilderness, was their retreat from the city, stocked with supplies and equipment.

“Do you have any specifics?” she asked.

“Like when and where?” Nick added.

Craig shook his head. “Let me show you something.”

He set the box he was holding on the dock and opened it. He grabbed two handheld radios from inside and stood up, handing them to Rachael.

“First things first. We have to discuss communication. Cell phones are crap in emergencies. Satellite phones are a little over our budget. These are your standard two-way GMRS radios, the same kind we use at work. If something goes wrong, we need to be able to communicate with each other.”

The news hit Rachael hard. She tried to make sense of it. “If we’re not safe here, then we need to go somewhere else. My parents’ house in Utah, for starters. Don’t you think?”