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Stickman and Maple kept their heads down, seldom venturing out except for groceries or an early- or late-day run. Had it not been for terrorist attacks dominating the news, their lives would have been totally boring. There was time to think, to devise a new mission. As assaults by unknown compatriots around the country slowed, they decided radical jihadism needed another inspiring jolt. They saw their time approaching again.
Their plan was the most ambitious yet. They would strike another soft target. And again, it would be in the Heartland, seeking the biggest impact by hitting a part – perhaps the part – of the country where people feel the most secure. More isolated than the coasts, more prosperous than the South, enjoying individual control often lacking in the federally-owned West, families of the Heartland had basked in a sense of security for generations.
Like the attack on Mall of America, the aim would be to destroy that sense, to replace security with fear and anxiety that are the handmaidens of vulnerability. But Stickman and Maple decided to not target another symbol of capitalistic largess or excessive consumption. This time there would be no symbolism. They would simply and methodically kill and maim to inflict maximum pain. Perhaps that would send a rumble of fear across the country, inspiring other jihadists as never before.
The plan would put the attackers at great risk and, to succeed, Stickman and Maple knew they must secure far more firepower. For starters they needed fully automatic AK-47s and a second rocket-propelled grenade launcher. They also needed a somewhat bigger team than Stickman had used at Mall of America, which meant more Glocks and ammunition.
Because they had been so cautious, their contacts among the jihadist community were extremely limited. When talking to Swale before the mall attack, Stickman said he had a munitions supplier in Hoboken, New Jersey, but was uneasy about having only one source. Hoboken caught Swale’s attention. “Small world,” Swale had said. “Mohammad Rouhani is Zarif’s supplier for the C-4 we’re using.” Swale went on to say he believed Rouhani not only trafficked in arms, but was committed to jihad. He couldn’t recommend an alternative supplier, but now Stickman had a name and not just initials.
After driving nearly an hour to a pay phone, Stickman called the number for Mohammad Rouhani. A man picked up and Stickman, after identifying himself as he had in the past, dispensed with MR and asked for Mr. Rouhani by name. The line went silent. Stickman, worried that he had overplayed his hand for no good reason, finally hung up with little hope of a return call. He and Maple loitered near the pay phone, with growing concern about attracting unwanted attention. Finally, mercifully, the phone rang.
“I did not call back sooner because I was driving myself to a pay phone of some distance,” said the man, speech heavy with a Mideast accent. “If you think your phone is safe we can talk but do not say that name of my employer again. He is not happy with what you did. Also we must quickly to do business. Why do you call?”
Stickman told him what was needed. “That can be done,” the man said, naming a price. “It could be less. My employer’s anger is less because he is honored to have business with men of such demand. The day you want to come, call that morning to see that all is right. You will be given directions.” He provided a cell number Stickman had not used before and hung up.
Obviously, Rouhani has pieced together enough information, probably starting with what he got from Zarif, to conclude that Maple and I share the distinction of being Public Enemy No. 1, Stickman said to himself. Perhaps that’s why the price was more generous than expected.
Unfortunately, Rouhani still wanted more money than they had. They could scale back their plan or find another target. Or they could raise more money. Stickman thought back to the day they returned from ditching April’s car at Pittsburgh International. They met an armored bank truck on a county road south of the city. Maple had noted the time on that Wednesday, musing that sometime they may need to make a bank withdrawal. They found it curious that the truck was using a fairly remote road. Perhaps it was a shortcut between stops, a route taken regularly.
Early the following Wednesday, Maple and Stickman were on the same county road, patrolling a stretch of half a dozen miles connecting two state highways. It was hard not to be conspicuous. Maple hoped if the armored truck showed, it would be sooner rather than later. No such luck, but they found an abandoned corncrib on a hill that allowed them to watch the road for more than a mile in each direction. Parking their car out of sight in the drive-through crib, they waited through the morning, then well into the afternoon.
“Sometimes it strikes me strange that Muslims, the ones we work with, seem to really like us, mainly you, Mr. Stick,” Maple said abruptly.
“Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know. Too much time to think, I guess ...Anyway, to like us they must think we’re true believers, when we’re not.”
“I’m not sure that’s what they think. I think they like us because we’re hurting the United States. As long as that doesn’t change, they’re okay with us.”
“I think we use them. You don’t think they’re feeling used?”
“Nope. I think Muslims come in all different stripes, just like Lutherans or Catholics or whatever. Some are more religious than others. Or they interpret their religion in different ways. Like the huge majority of Muslims are against violent jihad. But Swale and his guys? They weren’t praying five times a day. If anything, mon, when they look at the damage, they may think they’re using us.”
“Maybe that’s right ...Don’t know about you, but I never got much out of praying by my lonesome, like the real devout ones do. Wherever they are. When I was a kid, sometimes going to church, or later, to prayers at the mosque was nice. It made me feel calm, like things were okay, at least for a while. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Stick?”
“Maybe. Growing up a Catholic seemed all right for a while. Same with trying Islam. Then trying yoga, kind of nice for a while. Then herbal tea. I still like tea ...Anyway, I’ve been thinking that we need to move on, from the Banks’ place I mean.”
“I have the same feeling, Mr. Stick. Wilbur and Violet seem fine with our story about April. But I keep waiting for her to pop up downstream and deputies trying to ID her, talking to people all over the county.”
“I’m about ready to call it quits today, too.”
“Maybe,” Maple said with little hope, “the bank guys have been picking up a ton of money.”
Then there it was, red and black and beautiful to their eyes. Maple quickly went to the trunk and removed the rocket launcher armed with a high explosive anti-tank round. He stepped back into the car, door open, and Stickman drove the short distance to the road, parking at a slight angle. Maple waited until the armored truck was within a quarter mile before he stepped out. He poked the launcher through the open window, resting it on the door.
Suddenly suspicious, the driver slowed to a stop. Fine, Maple muttered, nothing like a stationary target. He fired. The front of the armored truck erupted, bullet-proof glass shattering and a large jagged hole coming into view as the smoke cleared and flames licked out of the interior. Stickman accelerated down the road and past the burning hulk, braking to a sliding stop at a safe distance. Maple quickly went to the trunk, reloaded and fired again, creating a cavernous hole in the back door of the armored vehicle. Paper currency blew into the air like confetti and Stickman backed to within a car length. Tossing the launcher in the trunk, Maple pulled out a fire extinguisher and laid several bursts of foam on the growing flames, knocking them down at least temporarily. He stepped past the dangling back door, Glock in hand. He didn’t need it. The driver, or what was left of him, remained strapped in his seat. The other guard, also dead, had been blown behind the seats.
Several cash boxes were open, others intact. Maple started tossing those out the back door and Stickman hurried them to the trunk. After chucking more than a dozen, Maple hopped out to help finish loading.
As they drove away in the direction the armored truck had been going, Stickman saw in the rearview mirror a decades-old station wagon approaching. The car slowed to a stop. Half a dozen children poured out, running down bills of all denominations that were skittering in the light breeze.
“How long do you think it will take the parents to call the sheriff’s office?” Stickman asked with amusement, watching the prancing children.