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They were in the next county before picking up a radio report on the heist of the armored bank truck. “You’re right. Mom and Dad let the kids collect their allowance before calling police,” Maple said drolly.
Back at the trailer they waited until well after dark, when the lights in Wilbur and Violet’s house were off, to unload the cash boxes. Using a diamond tipped bit, Maple drilled the lock on the first box. With trepidation that exploding dye might greet him, he slowly lifted the lid. No problem. He exhaled and turned the box to show Stickman the neatly wrapped packets of one hundred dollar bills. “Sweet, huh?” Maple grinned, reaching for another box.
Within an hour, over a million dollars in mostly hundreds, fifties and twenties were stacked in rows on the kitchen table. The cash boxes were back in the car trunk, filled with bricks and strapped tightly shut. Soon the boxes would disappear in a deep and remote inlet of Youghiogheny Lake.
Money raised, other preparations went swiftly. Not trusting either of their cars to carry the weight they would pick up in Hoboken, Maple went on Craigslist in search of a heavy duty pickup. He had a Ford F-150 with a hard, one-piece bed cover by the next day. With modifications to the tailgate the F-150 was ready.
Stickman called Assiri and, after brief chitchat, asked, “Can you put together two tables for bridge?”
“I still don’t play very well, but yes.”
“Oops, I have to take another call. I’ll get back to you within a couple weeks, maybe sooner and we’ll find a time to play.”
Yielding to a restless night, Stickman roused Maple before dawn to pack for the quick trip east. Two-lane highways took them to I-70 and they pulled in at the first rest area, where Stickman got on a pay phone. Lounging against a wall, Maple heard just one end of the conversation.
“I called about some supplies several days ago.”
“I recognize your voice, too. Is what I need still in stock?”
“I’m on the road.”
“Alone.”
“Yes, all of it.”
Stickman pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder and scribbled in a note pad. “I think I’ve got it,” he said, quietly reading back the directions before describing the pickup and estimating a time of arrival.
Back on the road, Stickman explained that, again, he hadn’t spoken directly to Rouhani. “His man gave me directions to a city park. We’re to call from there. Then we’ll follow him to Rouhani’s place.”
Maple glanced from the driver’s seat to ask, “What’s the story on Rouhani?”
“I wish I knew more about him. I had a chance to talk to Swale a little before we hit the mall. It turns out his old friend Zarif and Rouhani go back a long way, to Iran. Zarif was on the fringes of Hezbollah, but Rouhani had strong ties, maybe was active. Swale did have one interesting tidbit: Zarif knew of just one time when Rouhani got at odds with a customer. He said Rouhani can be as mean as he is huge. Swale seemed to say that as a warning.”
“Has he been busted?”
“Swale didn’t mention it. Besides a warehouse, Rouhani owns a couple small businesses that he has others manage. They give him a good front, low-key. And he buys from an importer, so he doesn’t touch anything until he takes delivery. That helps keep his profile low, too.”
Nearing Hoboken they exited I-95 to gas up, wanting to be able to get clear of the metro area once they were loaded. Following directions from Rouhani’s man, Stickman got to the city park a few minutes later, alone in the cab. He waited five minutes, ten, thirty, and was wondering if the deal was off. An SUV parked half a block away flashed its lights twice. Stickman hadn’t noticed anyone in the car. Not sure what to do, he flashed his lights twice in return. A minute later the car pulled slowly into a space beside him. The driver’s window opened and a swarthy, middle-aged man peered out.
“Let’s play twenty question. How many times previous have you had contact with my boss?”
“Three.”
“You and my boss have a mutual acquaintance in the Midwest. In what state does, or I should have said, did he live?”
“North Dakota.”
“From what country comes my boss?”
“Iran.”
“Game over. Follow me at a distance to not attract attention. We’re going to drive around a while.”
They did, rather mindlessly it seemed, presumably to ensure not being followed. Stickman was at a loss to see how the exercise prevented use of an electronic tracking device or a surveillance drone. Oh well ...He followed the SUV into a warehouse district. The street was empty, not surprising on a Saturday. As they entered the second block, the overhead door of a warehouse on the right began to rise. The SUV entered and Stickman followed slowly. In his rearview mirror, he saw motion behind him as the door came down, casting the interior in an ominous dim light.
A huge man with a full gray beard – Mohammad Rouhani, no doubt – moved along the passenger side of the pickup. His gait was uneven, his six and a half foot frame struggling to support well over four hundred pounds. He carried a five-foot wooden staff, probably for balance, and a scowl dominated his face. Saying nothing, he motioned for Stickman to reverse his direction by turning left into an empty bay and then backing up to one covered by a large tarp stretching perhaps twenty feet high. Stickman began the simple maneuver, keeping Rouhani in the corner of his eye as the large man shuffled to one side of the olive tarp. Stickman stopped well short of the bay and at a slight angle that gave him a bit of protection. Finally, Rouhani boomed, “Welcome, sir!”
As Stickman swung his left leg out of the cab, Rouhani reached to a supporting column and jerked a rope tied in a slipknot. The tarp fell to the concrete floor with a rush of air, revealing three evenly spaced men, assault rifles waist high, pointed directly at him. Stickman jerked his leg back, grabbing the Glock he had tucked in his belt. He slid down in the seat a few inches, fearing a hail of gunfire. When nothing happened he risked a peek, saw the men had not moved. Rouhani, too, now had an assault rifle. That glance left another impression, that the men looked too bulky, as if wearing body armor. Rouhani may have been, too, though on him it would be hard to tell.
“Now, Mr. Stickman, you need to relax as I explain a couple of things. I do not know if you have heard but the reward for you and your colleague, Mr. Maple, has been raised to twenty-five million dollars for each of you. The names Stickman and Maple are not used, of course, but I prefer the familiar ones by which we have come to know you, the ones by which you were known to Monsour Zarif and his friend Mr. Swale, may God rest their souls. The higher rewards were just announced a short time ago. If you were not aware of your new worth, I can understand. But for your own sake, I feel duty bound as a companion in jihad to say if the two of you are going to be such public figures, you really must stay more abreast of current affairs. I felt very fortunate when I heard, knowing that you were already on the road.”
Stickman felt sweat running down his spine, but could not push aside an untimely thought: Rouhani’s ponderous, reassuring style reminded him of someone from another age. Alfred Hitchcock? Orson Wells?
“Now, Mr. Stickman, you have nothing to fear,” the fat man went on pleasantly, Stickman’s mind’s eye seeing the scowl obscured by a pasted-on smile. “I had planned a simple sale, and at a generous price, I am confident you agree. But twenty-five million dollars can buy a lot of destruction. It can substantially help fund the needs of brothers other than you who are also responsible for the disarray beginning to sweep this country of infidels. You notice I said twenty-five million. You will not be harmed if you assist us in capturing Mr. Maple. And I promise, his end will be swift and humane.”
Maple is no doubt relieved to hear that, Stickman told himself. His nerves starting to settle, he automatically began looking at the difficult situation from a distance and was first struck by how Rouhani had overplayed his hand. If he had waited until I cleared the pickup to drop the tarp, I’d have been in the open and out of the picture one way or another. Maple would be on his own. Buy a little time. Rouhani may make other mistakes ...
“I have a contact, Mr. Stickman, a cleric with a radical past who appeared to reform and, after many years, was able to enter this country. The authorities trust him because of his efforts, on the surface, to discourage militant jihadism among our young men. This cleric can deliver Mr. Maple’s body to federal officials and collect the reward. So, my friend, please step out. There is no need to raise your hands or any such nonsense.”
“Wouldn’t fifty million suit you better than twenty-five?”
“No, Mr. Stickman, and I will explain why. I am sure Mr. Maple has many abilities, but I believe you are the planner, the strategic thinker, the man with the tougher core. Why do I say this? First, I had no problems in my early dealings with you. I appreciate a man who does what he says he will do. Second, our departed brother, Mr. Swale, spoke highly of you to Mr. Zarif, who carried those words back to me. Third, when you needed a rocket launcher, I believed it would be for something important, and it was. Fourth, according to my last conversation with Mr. Zarif, when you called on our brothers in California for help, they responded without question. That speaks very highly of you. And finally, without doubt, your well-planned attack on the Mall of America was the most successful on American soil since 9/11, by far.”
Rouhani really does like the sound of his own voice, Stickman muttered, starting to wonder if he would see an opening.
“I must admit I felt slighted that you did not come to me to supply the C-4 for that mission. I rationalized that Mr. Zarif was much closer to the mall. But, you do know that I deliver. Anyway, that success brings us to why you are here today. The shipment you are picking up portends another audacious attack, perhaps even bigger than the one on the mall. It will elevate our cause even higher, spawning other attacks and prove to be a boon for recruitment. No, Mr. Stickman, you are far too valuable to kill. You are worth far more than twenty-five million dollars.”
“And Maple isn’t? We’ve been together every step of the way for a long time. He had the harder task by far at the Russian Embassy.”
“I have no doubt that he is valuable, but the question is whether he is of more value alive or of more value dead ...I just had an idea, Mr. Stickman. Perhaps we could give Mr. Maple the opportunity to demonstrate his commitment to jihad. An attack on a school, perhaps, with the understanding that someone sympathetic to our cause would step in just ahead of the police and, ah, qualify for the reward. The timing would be tricky. It’s just a thought at this point, but what do you think, Mr. Stickman?”
I think, Stickman thought, that you are way out there on Maple’s wrong fucking side. “He wouldn’t think much of your opportunity, is my best guess. And pardon my suspicious nature, but if I gave you Maple, you could then kill me, too. Perhaps make me tell you what we have planned.”
“There, my friend, is yet another reason why you are so valuable. You see possibilities, even when you are in a stressful situation. But let us change the subject for a minute. Take a peek, Mr. Stickman. Look to the right side of the tarp. You will see three boxes. They contain your merchandise and I believe they will fit nicely in your pickup’s large toolbox. Take a peek. It is okay.”
Wiping sweat from his eyes, Stickman looked, and agreed the three gray boxes would fit. He also noticed that Rouhani had moved for protection behind a support column. Unless I go along with him, things are quickly going to change, he thought. But there is no way I am going to give up Maple and I sure as hell can’t trust Rouhani, anyway.
Glancing in the rear view mirror, he had to smile at Rouhani, amply protruding on either side of his supposedly protective column.
“Mr. Stickman! Time for a decision, my friend. Come now, be reasonable. You are badly outnumbered and outgunned. I don’t want to have to force you to take me to Maple.”
Stickman put no stock in Rouhani’s promise to keep him alive. At best, that would only buy time. The only reason he was here, that he had met Rouhani instead of a flunky, was the reward money.
Taking another peek around the door frame, he saw one of Rouhani’s men kneeling, holding a weapon as he attached what appeared to be a canister. Teargas.
Stickman had driven so slowly into the warehouse, in part, to not disturb the bed cover. It was not latched at the tailgate, giving Maple a wide but thin view of Rouhani and his men. The one who had readied the teargas awaited only a signal from Rouhani.
“All right, Mr. Stickman, time to decide.”
When several seconds of silence followed Rouhani’s ultimatum, he motioned to the teargas man, who slowly moved to his left toward the driver’s side of the pickup, crouching low. He stopped, and it was Maple who sniffed opportunity.
Teargas man laid his weapon on the concrete floor to pull on a gas mask. As he finished, Maple saw Rouhani signal his man at the far end, on the passenger side, who cautiously put his weapon down to don a mask. No reason to let these fuckers get masked up. The thought jolted through Maple’s mind as he slammed up the hard bed cover and snapped off three shots from his AK-47 at the armed man waiting his turn. The man fell silently, except for the clatter of his weapon, blood streaming from his face.
Maple fired three more rounds at Rouhani, who screamed as one ripped through belly fat that sagged beneath his body armor. As Maple swung back to his left, the second man masking up was already firing. Maple felt a jolt in his left shoulder and went to the bed of the pickup, behind a protective steel plate welded inside the tailgate.
Stickman rolled from the cab, trading shots with teargas man. Stickman’s Glock won. Teargas man screamed in pain as he grabbed his groin and thrashed on the floor. The man who shot Maple turned on Stickman, who scampered behind the rear tire of the pickup as bullets ricocheted off the floor next to him. Hearing the exchanges of shots, Maple unsnapped a latch securing the tailgate and pushed it open, firing a lucky – and painful – shot to the knee of the last gunman. Stickman ran to him, kicking his weapon out of reach and jerking loose a holstered handgun. Rouhani was clutching his stomach, the fight easily gone out of him. Teargas man was bleeding out from a severed upper leg artery, nearly unconscious in a spreading pool of blood.
Maple scooted painfully from the pickup, rested on one knee, AK-47 in hand, as blood streamed primarily from the exit wound. He watched Stickman walk to the huge man whose eyes were filled with fear. Rouhani barely muttered “My friend” before Stickman shot him in one knee and then, ignoring an anguished howl, in the other. Making sure no weapons were within Rouhani’s reach, Stickman got plastic cuffs from the pickup and secured the man with the knee wound to a support column.
Surely someone heard the shots, Stickman thought, listening briefly for the whine of an approaching siren. Nothing yet. He decided to not flee the warehouse with Maple, recognizing several things that could work to their advantage. He started with Maple, who was sweating profusely but not in debilitating pain. Using the medical kit they always carried, Stickman treated the wound as best he could, then helped Maple into fresh clothes. Turning to the cargo they came for, he was surprised to find the three gray boxes were filled with their order, making him think Rouhani did want the next attack carried out. If only he hadn’t foolishly thought Maple was legal tender. Stickman carried the gray boxes to the pickup. With room left in the metal toolbox, he quickly poked around Rouhani’s stores, adding more guns and ammunition. Checking the tailgate, Stickman found two bullet holes and that a brake light and cover had been shot out – problems with no immediate solution.
The handcuffed man was wearing a cell phone, which Stickman put at the base of the column. “When we are gone you can call for help. I hope you don’t call the police. Better call your friends and make good use of Rouhani’s supplies for jihad. Whatever, just know I can see you and the phone. Touch it before that door comes down, I’ll kill you.” The man nodded gratefully.
Maple continued watching, propped against a back tire, as Stickman walked to Rouhani. “I heard what you told my young colleague and I thank you,” he managed to say hoarsely through the pain of his shattered knees. “You misunderstand,” Stickman answered, staring hard into Rouhani’s eyes. The fear that eased just seconds ago returned in triplicate. Rouhani’s lips began to quiver uncontrollably and his multi-layered chin jiggled. Stickman raised his Glock, centering it on Rouhani’s forehead. “Please, please ...,” the fat man begged, tears suddenly sprouting from his squinting eyes. He forced his eyes open and saw Stickman lower the Glock. Rouhani let out a deep sigh just as Stickman fired at the base of his pants zipper. A huge roar burst from the fat man, echoing off the warehouse walls and ceiling, repeating itself again and yet again.
Stickman turned and walked over to help Maple get buckled into his seat. He looked around the warehouse, saw three bottles of water on a crate and put them in the pickup. Finally, he walked slowly back to the weeping Rouhani. “Kill me, please kill me.” This time when Stickman centered on Rouhani’s forehead he pulled the trigger. It was a matter of tying up a loose end, not an act of mercy.