Courtside, Madison Square Garden, New York City
The crowds had settled after the shooting of the uniformed infidels, and Nazari redeployed most of the men on the floor to the entrances surrounding them. An assault would be coming, of that he had no doubt, and all they needed to do was delay that for a split second, time enough for the triggering of the bomb that stood behind him.
Then thousands would die.
All on live television.
He glanced at the broadcast booth, two of his men holding those inside at gunpoint so they could continue coverage of the events. He had to admit he wasn’t sure if the networks were actually still broadcasting, though they were definitely receiving the feed, and eventually, knowing the infidel, his thirst for blood drenched entertainment would lead to its release so the masses could enjoy the titillating thrill of someone else’s misery.
He had no concerns about anything being revealed to law enforcement outside. They knew he was here, and it was already too late. His mission wasn’t to survive, his mission was to make demands, then when those demands weren’t fulfilled, because they wouldn’t be, to kill hostages, then eventually detonate the bomb should an assault begin.
He looked over at one of his men who spoke perfect English, reading their extensive list of demands into one of the television cameras, its red light on though the cameraman who had operated it earlier lay dead beside it. The world would receive their message. Perhaps not right away, though it would be his first demand when he spoke to someone, otherwise he would begin killing.
And there was no way the authorities wouldn’t let the video feeds out when he shot one of his thousands of available hostages, then another for each minute they weren’t broadcast.
It was one of the many advantages of having so many at his disposal.
He pulled out his phone, looking at his second-in-command, Mohammad Bata. “Time to talk.” He dialed the preprogrammed number for the FBI then frowned.
No signal.
He turned to Bata. “Check your phone.”
The man examined his display then shook his head. “No signal.”
Nazari cursed. “They’re jamming us.” He raised the microphone. “Prepare for an assault!” He stepped toward the camera, pushing his man aside, holding up his phone so the world outside could see it. “You jam our phones? You don’t want to talk?” He motioned for his man to work the camera then walked over to the front row of hostages and put a gun to a woman’s head. “You want to see what happens when you mess with me?” He squeezed the trigger, the woman’s head flinging backward, blood and brain matter spraying all over the legs of the man behind her.
The audience erupted in panicked screams as Nazari headed back toward the camera. “In sixty seconds I shoot another, then another!”
Kane pointed at one of the monitors. “Something’s up.”
“Zero-One, Control, come in.”
Dawson activated his comm, Kane listening in with his own. “Go ahead, Control.”
“They’re demanding we stop blocking their cellphones or they’re going to kill more hostages.”
“Roger that. Disable the jammers, we’re good to go on this end. Them talking isn’t going to affect things.”
“Roger that, disabling jammers. Out.”
Dawson turned to Kane. “Now that we know the radiological weapon is at JFK, do we need these people alive?”
Kane shook his head, worried about Sherrie, they having just received word she had spotted the black widow, Amira Basara, an apparent operative of the men they now watched on camera. He had to think she wasn’t doing what she was doing willingly, had to think that as a mother she couldn’t do such a thing, yet too often he had seen mothers sending their children out to kill with a kiss and a hug.
The brainwashing went deep.
“No, but my concern is this guy.” He pointed at a man sitting beside the bomb. “It looks like he’s holding a detonator.”
“Another dead man’s switch?”
Kane nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. They’re all prepared to die, and they plan on taking thousands with them.”
Dawson looked at Niner. “Casualty estimate?”
Niner shrugged. “If it were a flat field with ten thousand people standing on it, I’d say in the hundreds. But this is an arena, designed specifically to give everyone a great view of the floor, and that weapon has been shaped to send everything outward and upward at all angles.” He sighed. “They’ve designed this to hit essentially everything at every level. If it works, thousands of casualties for sure.”
“So how the hell do we stop it from going off?” asked Spock.
Kane pulled the comm out of his ear. “I need to get in there.”
Dawson turned to him. “And just how do you expect to do that?”
Kane grinned. “I’ve got an idea.”
Nazari aimed his weapon at the next person in the stands, his phone held up as he watched the service indicator and the time. It ticked over to the next minute.
“Time’s up!”
He was about to squeeze the trigger when the display changed, “Sprint” appearing in the upper left. He lowered the weapon, staring at the terrified man. “It looks like your government values your life.”
He stepped away from the sobs and whimpers of the cowardly infidels, dialing his phone again.
This time it rang.
An automated message began and he cursed. One of the worst things the infidels had invented were automated attendants. Why human beings couldn’t answer was beyond him.
He tapped zero repeatedly then held the phone to his ear, a human answering.
“My name is Tarek Nazari. I am the man holding ten thousand people hostage at Madison Square Garden. Put me through to whoever is in charge.”
There was a pause.
“One moment please.”