At the bar, Stickman felt lucky to cage the only empty stool. He ordered a light draft. On his right was a young man trying to read a paperback in the dim light. On his left sat a woman of perhaps 50, well endowed, not fat but sturdy, with virtually no waistline. She ordered another Scotch as the bartender brought Stickman his beer. A large man at the end of the bar, perhaps perched there too long, had seen more than enough non-stop coverage of the terrorist attack. He loudly declared it was time to change the channel, which was fine with Stickman. It was only a question of time before his and Maple’s mugshots would pop up. Seeing himself wherever he went was getting old.
The woman wasn’t exactly chatty Kathy, but it took little prompting to learn she was from Des Moines, in pharmaceutical sales. She was driving north as she did every quarter for a week of rounds at doctor’s offices, clinics and hospitals in the Twin Cities. “The business is getting more and more impersonal with the computer and all, but we still see value in going face-to-face.” Stickman nodded appreciatively. He learned her name was Wendy and told her he was a computer programmer, between jobs and seeing a part of the country that was new to him. He had planned to spend a few days exploring the area but now that may be too much hassle, what with the awful attack. They had another drink and Wendy allowed it was time for her to find dinner. “I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps you’d like to join me.”
––––––––
Swale and Dog drove west, picking up radio reports about checkpoints, sometimes learning their general locations. They took U.S. 169 southwest toward Mankato, thinking roadblocks might be less likely off the interstate. “Best we find a place to stop and get our legit plates back on,” Swale said as he turned off the highway onto a gravel road. Not long after rejoining highway traffic a helicopter passed overhead. The sun was getting low. “Even with our own plates I’ll feel better when it’s too dark for the bastards to read them,” Dog said.
Swale was suddenly panicked. Zarif had worried about being under surveillance. The focus was on strange noises on his phone or a possible wiretap. But what if someone also had been watching and photographed Swale’s car. Now, the legal plates could be putting them at serious risk. He ran his concern by Dog, wondering if they should put the stolen plates back on. “Shit,” Dog said quietly.
They didn’t have time to stew, or find a spot to again switch plates. Without warning the helicopter suddenly reappeared, its chopping blades making it hard to hear the orders blaring from a loudspeaker. It was easy to figure out, though, that the voice wanted someone to pull over. That someone has to be us, Swale said to himself. “So Dog, what now? Should we give up?” He sounded like an old John Wayne movie, and knew it, but glancing at Dog he saw a resolve to overcome the fear even as sweat rolled down his face. “I got caught by the Taliban once. I never was hurt so much. Only fool’s luck got me out. Let’s run like hell.”
They topped a rise to see flashing lights a mile or more ahead. It was getting dark. If they could buy a little time, disappear for a minute to bust out their brake lights, maybe they could slip away. Swale saw a paved county road coming up and at the last second swerved sharply to take it, the helicopter in close pursuit. They raced down a tree-lined lane at sixty, seventy, eighty. When they suddenly came to a series of curves, Swale had no choice but to apply the brakes. The pilot spotted them and within seconds was hovering overhead, weaving back and forth, up and down to keep pace. So far, no patrol cars had joined the chase.
“Think you could bring them down with your Glock?” “Hell no,” Dog answered, wiggling between the bucket seats and jerking out the back seat for the AK-47. Slamming a clip in, he rolled down the window on Swale’s side, waiting for open space between trees to squeeze off several rounds. Sparks popped off the copter’s landing gear. “Keep at it.” Dog emptied the clip and slapped in another, emptied it. “Seems like I should be hitting something.” But the helicopter had climbed to an elevation of several hundred feet, making an accurate shot more a matter of luck than skill.
Rounding a curve, two patrol cars blocked the road not a half-mile ahead. Swale braked the car for a rapid three-point turn, reversing direction. He saw a road to the left and took what quickly deteriorated into a double dirt track leading into a pasture. He made a wild U-turn, bouncing over uneven terrain. The copter again hovered overhead, and the patrol cars were going to beat him back to the intersection with the paved county road.
Dog fired desperately at the copter. On board were two SWAT snipers, now convinced of the futility of taking the terrorists alive for their intelligence value. They set their rifles on full-automatic and each of them emptied a clip into the back half of the car. Dog was ripped with pain by the first shots, then felt nothing as his corpse was riddled. Again the loudspeaker, “Surrender! Give yourself up!” Swale veered left into a copse of trees, having the presence of mind to grab a bottle of water as he threw open the door and scrambled from the car. He ran a zig-zag course into the woods.
The copter hovered overhead, spotlight sweeping, circling. Swale could hear officers from the patrol cars clambering after him. He angled left, uphill, the direction least expected, he thought. When the copter neared, he sought cover in a narrow gully, hugging the cool earth, Glock at the ready. The officers worked away from him, downhill. He trudged stoically on for a few hundred yards, the dark countryside growing quiet around him. Twice the helicopter flew back in his direction, then changed course yet again, at a loss for his location. He could hear trucks in the distance, maybe on Highway 169. Somewhere in the distance he saw the staccato lights of an emergency vehicle and picked up the warp of a siren. He knew dogs would be after him soon. Knew he needed to find a stream to break his scent, or get back to a road, maybe commandeer a passing truck or car. The thought of dogs made him sad.
––––––––
They were in her room, on her invitation for a nightcap. Dinner had been pleasant. Wendy had not shown much curiosity about Stickman as she sipped her way through two glasses of wine. He had another beer, content to mainly listen. Now they continued chatting, each with a Scotch. She finished hers and got up from the bed, rounded his chair, leaned over and kissed him without invitation. He kissed back. Satisfied with his response she said, “Let’s shower.” “I’ll join you in a minute. I need to make a call.”
Waiting until he heard the shower, he picked up the house phone. “This is Mike, Wendy’s husband. We’re in 210. Can we get the room for an extra night? ...Good. Please leave a message that we won’t need maid service tomorrow ...Thanks. Good night.”
They soaped one another and stood under the hot water, pressed against each other, before stepping out to towel off. She giggled as the towel lingered in sensitive spots, accentuated by his mischievous grin. She made clear, though, that foreplay was pleasure delayed and their sex was hot but perfunctory. After he rolled off she quickly fell asleep, flat on her back and breathing heavily. Stickman kissed a nipple. “Darlin’, I’m going to my car for an overnight bag.” She didn’t stir.
Outside, he crossed the street to a convenience store. Food selections were predictably bad, the last ham and cheese on multi-grain and two slices of pepperoni pizza. He added chips and mixed nuts, granola bars and three bottles of water. It all fit easily in his overnight bag. Wendy was still breathing heavily when he returned to bed.
In the middle of the night she slid her hand between his legs. She teased and he responded. “Give it to me,” she murmured with a hint of urgency. “Come get it.” She rolled on top. Stickman remained motionless, prolonging his sensitivity, and slowly she satisfied them both.
“Do you suppose I could bring you around again in the morning?”
“Yes, but I want you to start with some kisses.”
He slept soundly, too soundly he guiltily thought later, awakening to the pleasure of Wendy burrowing between his legs, her circling tongue already making him hard. “Nice, that’s so nice.”
“No baby, that’s all you get of that. Mama wants some more action.”
The early sun was turning the room grey. It was a nice light for watching her hover over him, rubbing herself with his hardness, then settling herself and encouraging him to vigorous coupling that left both of them gasping with satisfaction. Ah, she had a talent.
As Stickman’s pulse returned to normal he asked, “Can we stay here another day, mix in a movie or two with lots of love?”
“No way, sorry. My twin grandsons in St. Paul are five today. I’m going to surprise them and their single-parent mom. And I have appointments starting early Monday. I would have driven on in yesterday but knew traffic would be a mess because of the terrorist attack. It’s probably still a mess.”
“I’m glad you decided to share your room.”
“Me, too. I’ll leave my contact information. You can call me during the week if you decide to stay in the area.”
She reached over for a quick kiss before settling on her back, arms limp at her sides. Her breathing quickly turned heavy. Stickman eased out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash. Coming back he slowly unzipped his overnight before returning to bed. It was getting lighter, Wendy’s contours more distinct. He gently lifted the sheet, slowly pulling it down to reveal her thick pubic hair. She was snoring softly. Propping himself on his left arm, he positioned the tip of the pick toward her heart, just below her sternum, just above her soft flesh. He looked at her face, oh so satisfied from three rounds of sex. Oh so relaxed. What a way to go Stickman thought as he swiftly pressed the ice pick in nearly to the hilt. Wendy’s eyes snapped open and froze. She made no sound. No motion. He gazed at her silent face and down the length of her body. He felt himself getting hard again, and thought about it, and told himself no.
He let a few minutes pass, then showered before removing the inner plastic curtain and taking it to the bed. He maneuvered the damp curtain under Wendy’s dead weight, no small task, and wrapped it around her. He was grateful there was little blood. “Gotta love the pick.” Cutting lengths of chord from the window blinds, he secured the shower curtain around her. “Darlin’, you’re starting to look like a mummy.” He used a sheet to drag her to the bathroom and wrestled her into the bathtub, on her back. “Your favorite sleeping position.”
Stickman made sure the Do Not Disturb sign was on the door, then microwaved pizza for breakfast. It would be a long and hopefully uneventful day. He settled on the king bed to watch the news.
A breaking development on the terrorist attacks on Theatres of Mall of America. Here’s our reporter Hank Anderson outside FBI headquarters in Brooklyn Center.
Sources here have confirmed that the chase and shootout west of the Twin Cities near Highway 169 are believed to be connected to the attacks at the mall. One man in the fleeing car opened fire on a police helicopter. Sharpshooters in the copter killed him. He has not been identified. The driver fled on foot and a manhunt with dogs, aircraft and more than one hundred law officers is underway.
The car involved in that chase has been linked to the explosion near Fargo that killed more than a dozen SWAT team officers who were attempting to arrest the occupant of a farmhouse. The car reportedly had been at the farmhouse recently and investigators are working on the assumption that there is a link between the house explosion and the attack on the mall. The occupant of the farmhouse, who apparently had wired his house with dynamite, also was killed. Utility and other public records show a Monsour Zarif lived in the house. He reportedly was born in Fargo and was believed to be in his sixties. Zarif was said to be active in a local mosque. His parents were Iranian immigrants.
The man shot by officers at the mall yesterday died early this morning. He has been identified, but his name has not been released. According to a source, the man is believed to be from Northern California. Investigators believe the attacks were carried out by at least six people, based on surveillance video taken in the mall parking lot closest to the theater. If the six includes the man killed at the mall and the one killed during the chase near Highway 169, at least four terrorists remain at large.
Federal officials on the ground increasingly believe they are searching for homegrown terrorists. International connections can be made, however. The Fargo man whose house was raided apparently lived in Iran for several years. Some of the attackers are believed to be Muslims who have stayed in touch with their ancestral countries. But neither the Islamic State, al-Qaeda or any other international terrorist group has claimed credit for the attacks on the mall. No group has claimed credit for last winter’s attack on the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C., either. Federal officials find that so out of character that they increasingly believe homegrown terrorists are to blame.
As reported earlier, four more people have died of injuries suffered in the mall attacks. That bringing the death count to more than 220 – by far the largest act of domestic terrorism since 9/11. That gruesome count is expected to go up because rescue workers are still digging through wreckage and because many of the injured remain in critical condition. An estimated 350 to 400 people were injured. From Brooklyn Center, Hank Anderson reporting.
The noose is tightening, Stickman told himself grimly. If Assiri and Foster hear such reports, and they must, they surely will have the good sense to change direction. If Swale’s little community hasn’t been located already, that’s just a matter of time. A short time. By comparison, Stickman felt fortunate, although he didn’t like the apparently heightened interest in homegrown terrorists. That could mean more resources being poured into following domestic leads. Still, there’s not much about me to attract attention, unless someone watching too much television hones in on the Most Wanted photo. Fingerprints from Swale’s car will match those from the embassy investigation. Even a good wipe-down of this room will miss at least a few prints. A connection will be made between the embassy, the mall attacks and Wendy. Once the cops know all that, the wanted photo will really be out there, a veritable electronic and paper blizzard. And here I was going to create a national diversion to take the heat off. So much for that. But connecting all those dots doesn’t help them make an arrest of someone with an altered appearance that seems to be holding up. The phone, he thought with mild alarm. If – when – they get Swale, and his phone, they will call numbers he has called to pinpoint current phone locations. Stickman impulsively grabbed his phone from the nightstand and totally disabled it, as if police were already punching in those traitorous numbers.
––––––––
Swale’s phone was in the car with Dog’s body, left behind in haste. Shortly after seeing the lights of an emergency vehicle in the distance, Swale lost his footing going down a hill in the darkness. His left ankle was broken or badly sprained, a painful swollen mess in any case. The night had turned unusually cold and he alternately shivered and broke into a sweat from his tortured efforts to walk, pushing toward the traffic noise. Each step sent pain shooting from foot to knee, forcing him to stop every few limping steps in a frustrating search for relief. Just let me come to a road or a farmhouse, he pleaded through rasping breaths. He came across nothing, finally realizing he must be in a park or nature preserve or something like that. How could it be so big? he wondered, at the same time knowing he had not gone far since his fall.
Stumbling, he fell again, then pulled himself to the nearest tree. It was on a slope and he could not get comfortable. He saw the sky turn rosy and must have passed out because he opened his eyes to a bright morning. He looked with longing at the water bottle. Better save what little was left. He felt nauseous and pity for himself and worry for his family. Tracing the car to his home will be a snap. The women and children don’t know about any of this, not the specifics, but the FBI will be hard to convince. The neighbors will be brutal of course. What has it all accomplished, these missions, particularly this one? What did killing all those people change? A friend was dead, maybe two. He was being hunted, no doubt, as were the others. He stopped, reminding himself he was a soldier, at war with an America that on the other side of the world was an imperial invader, taking unfair advantage to control its precious supplies of oil, running roughshod over the people of Islam. I will be remembered as a martyr, he told himself with satisfaction. Americans will now live in fear, wondering when the next attack will come. Other attacks will come, inspired by his actions. He remembered the words of Stickman in the motel room ...Damn, I wish I had my phone. I would call Stickman or Assiri and they would pick me up – except where would I tell them to go? I can’t even find a damn road.
He thought he heard dogs, then the chopping of a helicopter for sure. The branches of the oak he sat against started high on its trunk. They’ll see me easily. He crawled to the other side of the tree. As the helicopter approached above a nearby tree line, the pilot spotted a man’s leg on one side of the oak. A voice on a bullhorn demanded, “Come out, hands in sight.” Swale edged around the side of the tree and emptied his Glock. The helicopter spun away, none the worse off. “We’ve got SWAT teams on the way. Give yourself up.” Swale inserted another clip and took a look around the tree. The helicopter was staying too high to bother shooting. Somewhere back in the woods he could hear a vehicle approaching slowly, probably on a service road he missed. Not that it would have mattered. He opened the water bottle and drained it in two large swallows. It tasted good, still chilled from the night. Swale gently placed the Glock in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
––––––––
As Assiri and Foster drove west, radio news reports made it clear they were going the wrong direction. Even if they made it to California the FBI would certainly be waiting. Home was out of the question. As they had left the motel for the mall, Swale had slipped Assiri an envelope. “Should there be problems and you need help, try this number if you’re okay with Chicago. Ask for Mr. E and hope he hasn’t had to toss his phone. I’ve given him your name and Foster’s, too. He will hook you up with brothers you can stay with. Allah be with you.”
Los Angeles was another option, many old friends still there, but it was a long way. The feds will certainly be looking for them there, too. Chicago was looking better all the time and they wanted to get out of sight somewhere, fast. Law enforcement had already sifted through surveillance tapes at the mall and released a description of their car and identified the likely attackers as being from Northern California. Assiri and Foster were living right, encountering only one road block before a description of their car went public, and getting through without a problem. But the nation was in a state of alarm and rage. Shorter was much better. Somewhere they weren’t known was, too. They reversed direction, toward Chicago.
––––––––
Stickman spent the day with Wendy’s body, picking up the news that Swale and Dog were dead. By early afternoon, television reports had surveillance footage from East Ramp, Level 5 of mall parking. The video was grainy, taken by a camera with a dirty lens or in need of being replaced. Whatever, Stickman was thankful. He could tell who was in the footage by body shape and size, but facial features appeared too blurred for identification. The video showed five men, no doubt taken after Kobeisi was shot. Stickman learned that Kobeisi died of internal damage that the doctors could not bring under control. A young woman reporter speculated that his death was unfortunate if only because investigators had been denied potential information. Stickman took the opposite view. The reporter said the FBI was still saying no connection had been made between the embassy and mall attacks, but Stickman scowled as his and Maple’s photos flashed on the screen, anyway.
...And this side note just in. Officials now say bombs exploded in five theaters, not six as has been reported since the attack.
Stickman sat upright on the bed, his attention solely on the television.
...and it has been difficult to know with certainty where the destruction from each of the multiple bombs started or stopped. But now, in one of the damaged theaters, responders have found a backpack, tucked under a back row seat, containing a homemade explosive that did not detonate. That bomb – tentatively identified as C-4 – was found in Theater 3
“Damn! Damn it to hell! My bomb didn’t go off, my fucking bomb didn’t go off!” Stickman leaped from the bed in a fury, his usual calm shattered. He was beside himself, overwhelmed by a woeful sense of failure.
“Damn you, Dog! You fucked up my bomb. Damn you to hell.” He barked his shin on the frame of the bed. He gritted his teeth against the pain and took deep breaths as he continued swearing. The reporter’s voice slowly recaptured his attention.
...and so it isn’t known why that bomb failed to explode. It could have been wired improperly or had a faulty detonator. It’s believed a remote igniter was used and it’s possible that signal didn’t reach the bomb in Theater 3 simply because of how the mall was constructed. Investigators are trying to sort all of that out.
Stickman had largely regained his composure, but could still feel the flush of anger tingling in his cheeks. He turned the TV screen toward the desk chair and sat down.
...Officials are hopeful the contents of the backpack will be helpful in tracking the killers still at large. Officials refused to say what the backpack contained, but we have an unconfirmed report that there was a Gideon Bible. Without doubt, investigators will be visiting motels in the area. You can also be sure they’ll be looking for fingerprints, DNA and sources where the terrorists could have obtained bomb components, the backpacks and their other contents.
“Good luck with that,” Stickman said to the TV, switching it off as the announcer went to other news.
He felt empty. A failure. He sat quietly, wondering what he might have done differently. Perhaps he should have gone over each bomb and backpack with Dog. Maybe they would have noticed a defect. Maybe not. Could the lovers beside him have noticed the backpack and called for help? No. That would have been on the news long ago. He thought about how he would have reacted if one of the other men’s backpacks had failed. He knew he wouldn’t have cast blame. At that point, all of them were little more than carriers. He still would have praised Dog for five out of six, probably. Gradually the guilt and anger subsided. He felt better, but still inadequate, and, in a way, fortunate to be alone.
Toward evening, broadcasts were suggesting that the intensity of the dragnet had eased. Stickman had eaten the stale ham and cheese sandwich. He put the last slice of pizza in the microwave as he called up another movie. He nodded off, wondering if Wendy might soon become a bit odiferous. He started awake near midnight. The hotel had honored his request for no maid service and now wouldn’t be by until morning.
He gathered his belongings and checked to see that the Do Not Disturb sign was still in place. He attached the door chain, thus ensuring someone from maintenance or security would have to be called and would be present if the maid found the body. See, I am a nice guy, he told himself. In the early hours he slid open the balcony door as he silently thanked Wendy for scoring a second floor room. Stickman eased over the railing, tossed his overnight bag to the ground and briefly hung from the balcony to position himself for the short drop. He glimpsed a humping derriere through the window of a dimly lit first floor room before dropping to the ground and walking to his car.