Read the first chapter (below)
DREXEL
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Drexel is the latest pulse-pounding thriller from Eric P. Bishop, International Selling Author of The BODY MAN Series.
_________________________________________________________________ During the height of the Cold War, two members of the United States Senate crafted an audacious plan. When the threat of mutually assured destruction provided no guarantee of safety, the senators feared the two global superpowers could find themselves in a nuclear war. They determined the only way to defend their way of life entailed the creation of The Zechariah Option. After Building Seven fell in New York City on 9/11, secrets lost to time, which should have remained buried, emerged from their subterranean vault. Whispers transformed into reality as history collided with the future. Ever since his youth, Troy Evans planned to follow in his father's footsteps and serve as an FBI special agent. A chance encounter and discovery of a mysterious document endangered not only the town of Drexel, Idaho, but the entire nation. With events spiraling out of control, Troy must decide between the life he planned or the mission fate thrust upon him. One path leads to a future with the woman he loves, the other route leads to the vengeance he desires. Heroes are not born; they are forged in fire. |
PROLOGUE
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
April 8, 1994
A bead of sweat formed on Tony Mariano’s temple and followed a deep wrinkle along his brow before it descended towards his square jawline. With brown eyes and a full head of dark hair, albeit with some graying at the temples, Tony’s ethnicity was easy to trace from his fascial features.
Behind Tony, in the booth seat of the sleeper cab, Special Agent in Charge Mark Cummings looked straight ahead. His eyes darted back and forth from the road to the structures that lined the pavement. Observance of details set Mark apart from ninety-nine percent of the general population. A trait perfectly suited for his chosen line of work. With his eyes ahead, he watched as the tiny bead of water made the trek down the side of Tony’s face.
“You ok, Tony?” Mark asked.
Tony hesitated and replied with a slight stutter in his voice. “Um, yeah, of course.”
Mark’s response indicated he didn’t believe him. “You look anxious,” he replied.
“Nah, I’m good,” Tony said. “Just another load. No worries.”
The man riding in the passenger seat couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer.
“Don’t let this paisano’s facade fool you, Agent Cummings. He gets pretty worked up when we deliver these loads, and in fact, he popped four Imodium before we left DC.”
“Luigi. Shut the big pie-hole you call a mouth,” Tony said as his eyes narrowed and he shot a perturbed glance at his closest friend.
Mark smiled. The constant banter started soon after loading up at the Hoover building and never let up. These two could give Abbott and Costello a run for their money.
Luigi DiDomenico responded by sticking his middle finger in the air towards Tony.
“How have you two not killed each other so far?” Mark asked.
Tony grunted, “Trust me, the thought has crossed my mind once or twice. Off the record, of course, and I know you feds don’t encourage that type of behavior.”
“Hey. I didn’t hear a thing,” said Mark. “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”
A familiar voice in Mark’s earpiece broke the banter. He cupped a hand over his right ear and listened to the instructions that followed. “Two miles ahead, we take exit 22,” Mark stated as he removed his hand from his ear.
“Got it,” Tony said as his fingers gripped the wheel tighter and his eyes focused on the road in front of him with a renewed purpose.
#
The convoy took the Independence Hall off-ramp. Sixty seconds till visual. Muhammad Jarah heard the words in his earpiece. “Copy that,” Muhammad replied as he lay prone on the rooftop of a building at 5th and Market. He wore all black and blended into the shadows. Above, the full moon shone without a cloud in the night sky. It was 2:45 am, and the crisp air revealed a hint of fall. A welcome relief after several humid nights.
From his vantage point atop the eleventh story, Muhammad had an unobstructed view down the length of 6th Street. As he peered through the Leica Duovid binoculars, he stared intently for his mark and waited for the motorcade to come into view. “It’s time,” he said. The comm unit broadcast his command to the others on his team.
A moment later, Muhammad watched as the lead Suburban emerged into his line of sight and proceeded down 6th Street. His pulse quickened as the grip on the binoculars tightened, and his eyes remained fixated on the second vehicle, the tractor-trailer.
The convoy of vehicles approached Race Street in a single line evenly spaced.
“Youssef,” Muhammad said into the microphone clasped to the collar of his shirt.
“Yes,” came the reply in his earpiece.
“Proceed on my mark.”
“Understood,” Youssef replied.
Time slowed as the five vehicles made their way down 6th Street. Muhammad’s eyes narrowed as his mind ran through scenarios one after the other. He knew the hastily organized plan would be challenging to pull off, but not impossible. After all, his years fighting in the arid climate of the desert taught him nothing was impossible, and victory only came to the warriors who persevered.
#
Tony let off the gas to give more space between his rig and the lead Suburban ahead of him. As they approached the Arch Street intersection, Luigi reached over, tapped him on the arm, and pointed towards the left side of the road up ahead.
“Yo, Tony, that’s the Liberty Bell Center where they keep the actual bell.”
Tony’s lips curled. “Yeah, so? Everybody knows the bell is here.”
“Well, you ever seen it?” Luigi asked.
“Nah. I’ve passed by Philly a bunch but never came downtown. Maybe we should stick around for a few days. You know, play tourists. We can tell the wives we got held up. Course, if we do, we’re gonna have to decide between Geno’s or Pat’s.”
“I’m game for that,” Luigi said before he turned around in his seat. “You ever been to Philly, Agent Cummings?”
Mark nodded. “Yes, many times.” His eyes scanned the area, looking for any threats or things out of the ordinary. He was in the zone, fully alert while also cognizant of the conversation going on.
“Worth a visit?” Luigi asked.
“Absolutely,” Mark nodded. “And for what it’s worth, forget Geno’s or Pats. They’re nothing more than tourist traps. If you want a real authentic Philly cheesesteak, go to Sonny’s.”
“Well, now you’re making me hungry,” Luigi said.
“You’re always ready to eat, fat ass,” Tony replied.
Mark pointed straight ahead. “We’re approaching Chestnut and 6th. One more block to Sansom and then make a right.”
Tony nodded, “Gotcha.”
The distance between the tractor-trailer and the lead support vehicle grew as they proceeded down 6th Street, with the space between them and the lead vehicle more than Mark would have liked. He pointed forward. “Speed up, Tony, close the gap, please.”
#
“Go now.” Muhammad gave the command from his perch overlooking Independence National Historic Park. The NODS he wore gave him a grainy picture of the sprawling park below.
Those two words set not only the dump truck in motion but also a garbage truck and six armored SUVs. Most of his team had snuck into the country over the past weeks from various Middle Eastern countries. As expected, the United States border proved porous, with immigration and customs at some national airports no better than a joke. With very little coaching, his team entered with ease.
Over a dozen of the men entered on student visas, while a few already lived in the United States as part of sleeper cells in place for several years. Muhammad recruited the men from wherever he could find them to complete the mission. With more advance notice, he would’ve gathered more men, better equipped for such a task. Given his druthers, he would have preferred to bring over his own trusted fighters who were engaged in jihad on multiple continents, but there just wasn’t enough time.
Muhammad’s body tensed as adrenaline and norepinephrine surged through his bloodstream. His heart raced, and he felt the rhythmic beat as it pulsated against the flat rooftop. Recognizing the hormonal change, he worked to control his breathing and lower not only his heart rate but also his blood pressure. With several slow, deep gulps of cool air, he felt his tension decrease. Also, his body responded to the increase in stress by releasing cortisol, which aided in lowering his anxiety.
He shifted the optics back and forth from the convoy to the intersection where the strike would take place. The seconds seemed like minutes as he ran through scenarios, much like a chess player orchestrating future moves around the board in search of the elusive checkmate.
“Allahu Akbar,” the last words slipped off his tongue as a solemn prayer to Allah and motivation for his men. Many of whom sped to their imminent demise.
#
Mark knew from years of experience there were two ways to protect the contents inside the semi.
Bigger is better or lighter and tighter.
After months of planning, the powers that be chose the latter.
Anyway, rolling up with dozens of vehicles screamed, Look at me. And the FBI preferred discretion, or, when possible, invisibility.
The convoy comprised a lead vehicle, the tractor-trailer, and three support vehicles, including a Special Reaction Team (SRT) vehicle. A Bell 407 helicopter from the FBI Tactical Helicopter Unit hovered above and provided air support for their movements while staying in constant contact with the command center in DC.
As the lead Suburban passed through the intersection at 6th and Chestnut, Tony’s semi still lagged.
Mark noticed the garbage truck parked on the right side of the street, just past the intersection.
His mind screamed, Warning, warning, just as the vehicle suddenly moved forward and pulled out, cutting them off from the lead vehicle while blocking the roadway.
Tony saw the movement ahead and slammed hard on the brakes to keep from hitting the garbage truck.
Inside the cab, the three men lurched forward as the semi shuddered violently, struggling to slow. Brake pads ground into the rotors and screeched as the rig came to a stop with a final jerk. The cab made it through the intersection and just missed the garbage truck by a few feet as the trailer stuck out and blocked the intersection. A burning stench from the red-hot brakes made its way inside the cab, which aggravated their throats.
Tony yelled out in frustration and threw his arms into the air.
“What the hell is this assho…”
Stopped in mid-word, a round pierced the windshield with a pop and split Tony’s forehead open. The contents of his head blew out of the gaping hole created as the bullet mushroomed and exited the back of his skull with the velocity of a bolt of lightning.
Luigi turned his head just in time to watch the bullet impact. He screamed, but as the shrill sound left his mouth, a second round punctured the glass and silenced him alongside his best friend.
Special Agent in Charge Cummings, now splattered with bone fragments, brain matter, and blood from both men, reacted without hesitation.
He dove for cover on the floor behind Tony’s seat while yelling into his comms, “Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired.”
A third round passed through the window and struck the booth seat where Mark sat a second before. Pressed as close to the ground as he could, Mark’s mind raced. What the hell is going on?
An instant later, the dump truck loaded down with tons of gravel barreled through the intersection. It struck the trailer broadside with a screeching sound as metal struck metal. The impact of the crash ripped the trailer from the cab and tore open the metal trailer frame like a can opener slicing through a piece of flimsy aluminum.
The cab dislodged from the trailer with a violent shudder as it went airborne, and the three bodies inside the rig flew into the air like rag dolls thrust into zero gravity.
For Special Agent in Charge Mark Cummings, it all went black as his head smacked against a hard surface with a dull thud.
The rig rolled over several times and came to a stop atop the red brick pavers in front of Independence Hall.
#
Muhammad watched the dump truck strike the semi broadside at almost forty miles an hour as the front of the vehicle crumpled when it came in contact with two state-of-the-art Mosler safes. The impact killed the driver while the momentum from the crash caused the two safes to careen through the opposite side of the trailer. The safe closest to the rear of the trailer somersaulted through the thin metal, slicing through it like a sharp blade. After turning over several times, it came to rest upside down, leaning against the brick wall and black wrought-iron fence that led to the Liberty Bell Center.
Taking the brunt of the strike, the other safe, positioned in the middle of the trailer, careened out and rolled down Chestnut Street. Flipping end over end, the enormous safe pulverized the bricks beneath each time it somersaulted. With a loud crash, it came to rest upright, several feet short of the George Washington statue before Independence Hall.
Muhammad watched as six armored SUVs arrived within seconds. During the proceeding days, Muhammad reiterated to his men that time was against them and they must hurry. Delays and poor execution would cause failure. He made it clear establishing a perimeter was essential to breach the safes and remove the contents before reinforcements arrived.
He turned his attention to the lead FBI Suburban which came to a halt at 6th and Sansom. Muhammad watched with a touch of amusement as the steel panel on the side of the garbage truck slid open, revealing the M134 minigun. The FBI agents, unaware of their impending doom, jumped out of the vehicle with weapons raised. They moved in a tight formation towards the chaotic scene of mangled debris that littered the crash site.
The sight of the mini gun stopped them in their tracks, but it was too late. Exposed in the center of the street with no cover, the six men in kevlar with assault rifles stood no chance against six thousand rounds per minute of searing hot lead. Within seconds, the minigun mowed down the agents with its deadly barrage.
A second minigun positioned on the other side of the garbage truck intended to fire on the trailing vehicles. However, an axel from the destroyed trailer rested against the side of the vehicle and blocked the door from sliding open.
One team down, three more to go, Muhammad muttered to himself as he watched the bloodbath below. So far, everything progressed mostly as planned. The thirty men under his direction arrived and climbed out of the SUV’s, and took up defensive positions around the two safes while using their vehicles as cover.
Muhammad made a career of fighting alongside his men in some of the most god-forsaken places on earth. Rarely did his new recruits last long on the battlefields, but as the men formed a perimeter, he found himself impressed with how well they followed instructions. Not having the second minigun left them at a tactical disadvantage, but he knew complications would arise.
The Bell 407 helicopter circled high above, its rotor wash picked up fine granules of dirt from the roof, which blew into his eyes. Once the helicopter maintained a steady altitude, the side doors opened on both sides as two snipers took up offensive positions.
They could pick off his men with ease, but Muhammad couldn’t let that happen.
He pulled off his optics and moved a few feet to his right. The metal box had three latches, which he opened in a few seconds. He hoisted the thirty-three-and-a-half-pound cylindrical tube atop his shoulders and flipped the sights in place. It took less than a minute from the time he moved until he had the helicopter zeroed in. He activated his S&A switch and waited until he had good tone before he pulled back on the trigger. The launcher jerked enough to make him shuffle his feet to keep steady. The missile left the tube and streaked through the air at two and a half times the speed of sound as it tracked towards the helicopter and the four FBI agents inside.
The poor bastards never stood a chance.
#
Rapid gunfire erupted all around like a cacophony of terror as Mark regained consciousness with a shudder. His head felt like two oversized hands belonging to Andre the Giant encircled his skull and squeezed it like a vice. Warm, thick blood oozed from a large gash on his temple and flowed down the bridge of his nose, finding its way into his agape mouth. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt sewn shut. A deafening explosion from above jostled him, and for a moment it felt like he was once again a nineteen-year-old member of the 1st Marine Division fighting in Huḗ during the Tet offensive.
He summoned the strength and finally after a few seconds that felt more like minutes, his eyes reluctantly opened. With several rapid-fire blinks, his eyes squinted allowing him to focus.
Carnage greeted Mark all around.
As he strained his neck looking up and to his left, he saw bodies wrapped in black tactical uniforms with the letters F.B.I. littered down 6th Street towards Sansom. It was clear from their grotesque positions and missing limbs the men from the lead Suburban were all dead.
Next, he turned his head to the right. Less than one-hundred feet away, the mangled fuselage of the FBI Tactical Helicopter looked like a bonfire as it lay ablaze with smoke billowing from the wreckage.
As he looked around he realized the cab came to rest upside down. Between the bright moon above and the well-positioned street lights, he could clearly see the men surrounding the two exposed safes. Other men approached with what looked like wands in their hands. A moment later reddish and orange colored flames spat out of the end as sparks bounced off the red pavers in an endless display of dazzling lights.
They’re gonna try and burn through the hinges. Blinking several times, he rubbed his forearm over his brow to keep the blood from flowing in his eyes.
The earpiece in his right ear came alive as several of his men frantically called out for help. With his tactical team in trouble, his pulse raced and his eyes narrowed. In a low voice to avoid unwanted attention, he replied using his own comm unit. After several failed attempts at reaching the men, it became clear the microphone was inoperable.
Dammit. I need to reach my guys. He had a problem though. Mark knew he was trapped.
Spread out before him were twenty men launching a coordinated attack against his men. Some of them moved in a choppy, novice manners while others displayed confidence and experience as they took cover and returned fire when fired upon.
Mark needed a way to reach his men. As his eyes darted back and forth, his brain formulated a plan. His Colt M4 carbine lay just out of reach, but with a quick glance, he could see its muzzle was bent. With an inoperable barrel, the weapon was nothing more than an overpriced stick.
As he reached towards his hip the reassuring bulge of his Glock 23 brought him some measure of comfort. He wrapped his large hands around the butt of the pistol as he drew it from the holster. His thumb pushed the mag release dropping it into his left hand. Racking the slide, he ejected the chambered round and inspected his weapon. Confident the weapon was serviceable he placed the round back into the mag and slid it back. With two more mags on his hip, Mark knew he had 45 rounds at his disposal.
That was it. Not enough to take on the vast array of men before him, but hopefully enough to make an escape from the cab.
With the relentless automatic fire, it would be risky exposing himself and abandoning the cover but he also knew staying put would offer no help to his team. Plus, someone may see him sooner rather than later and then his ass would be grass anyway.
With few good options, he made the only logical move. Taking a deep breath, he lunged out of the mangled cab with his weapon drawn looking for targets. His knees burned and ached as glass embedded in his skin during the crash tore deeper into his flesh with each long stride.
#
Muhammad abandoned his rooftop perch as soon as the chopper went down and descended the northeast staircase to the main level and exit. Once outside, he stayed low to the ground and reduced his profile as much as possible. As he moved around the east side of the Liberty Bell Center, he made his way toward 6th and Chestnut keeping close to the brick wall using it as cover. With his NODS flipped down, he saw the surroundings clearly. The relief in downing the helicopter was short lived with the mission success far from guaranteed. Running a few minutes behind he needed to push his team and provide extra motivation.
A sudden movement to his left caught his attention. A figure darted from the overturned semi-rig. The dark silhouette moved fast, and Muhammad only made out the white letters on the person’s back as they ran down 6th Street. Raising his assault rifle, he knew he must stop whoever was fleeing the crash site. Suddenly, a volley of bullets sprayed around him, striking the bricks just above his head.
The mysterious figure saw him first.
Dropping to the ground, Muhammad low-crawled ten feet to a retaining wall, which provided limited cover. Rolling onto his back, he counted to five and twisted his body as he raised himself to his elbows to return fire.
He steadied himself and pulled back on the trigger, sending a steady stream of bullets towards the target. The person in the FBI jacket disappeared into the darkened recesses further down 6th Street before any of the rounds found their mark. Muhammad slammed his clenched fist into the ground, knowing whoever it was had just escaped.
#
Mark didn’t wait to see if his rounds hit the darkened figure. Running at full speed, he reached Sansom Street and took a hard right as several bullets struck the wall eight feet to his left.
Damn, that was close. It killed him as he ran by the bodies of his fallen brothers without stopping. However, he knew failure to meet up with the rest of his men would cause more deaths. He needed to get into the fight, stay in the fight, and see the mission through to the end.
In a flat-out sprint, he reached the intersection of Sansom Street and took a right on 7th heading north. He knew crossing back over Chestnut would be perilous, but he had no choice if he wanted to connect with his team. Without pause, he dug deep and gained speed as he crossed Chestnut. With long, powerful strides he made it across the street, relieved to find no bullets tear into his flesh. In fact, the constant barrage of automatic weapon fire appeared to have abated slightly once he left 6th Street.
In his early 50’s Mark was in better shape than most twenty-five-year-olds. Still, he rarely ran with such fervor and never for his life or the lives of his men. As he approached Ranstead Street, he knew there were only two more right turns.
With his comms down, he knew sneaking up on his tactical team would have dire results for himself. Pulling out his flashlight, he slowed slightly and rounded the corner of Ranstead and 6th Street, using the beam of light to signal his approach.
Will Jacobs was the first of his men to see the beams of light and know they were from a friendly. Once Mark got close enough, Will pulled him towards his cover spot behind a thick wall on the west side of the Liberty Bell Center.
“You okay, SAC?” Will asked as he looked hard at Mark. “Thought you were a goner when they lit up that rig.”
“Me too,” Mark replied as he shook his head, fully out of breath.
“These bastards mowed down the lead team.”
“I know,” Mark said between gasps of air.
“Glad you made it,” Will replied.
“Who the hell are these guys?”
Will shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure, but they’re operating at high speed, low drag. These guys are pretty damn good and well-armed. They've got enough firepower to fight off a small army.”
“Well, let’s send them to hell where they belong. I need an assault rifle, NODS, and a new comm unit. Mine got busted up in the crash.” Mark spat a gob of phlegm onto the ground.
Will passed a spare H&K MP5 and four fresh mags.
“Cocked, locked, and ready to rock, boss.” Next, Will removed and reached into the backpack he wore, pulling out a spare NODS and comm unit.
Mark slipped on the night vision goggles and watched his men, their positions, and how they moved. The lack of movement by his team troubled him. Pinned down, his men appeared immobile.
Not good, not good at all.
His men were the best in the business, to be sure, but he quickly ascertained their fatal flaw. They were playing defense, and he knew that to turn the tide they needed to go on the offensive.
And fast.
“Thanks,” Mark said as he patted Will on the shoulder. He clicked the safety off and verified a round was chambered. “Let’s end this.”
“What do you need me to do?” Will asked.
“Find Higgins. We need him sniping from on top of the Liberty Bell Center. I’ll give him further instructions when he’s in place.”
Will nodded. “Copy that.” Then he scurried off to his left, leaving Mark to hastily map out their next move.
#
Muhammad found himself pinned down. Apparently, his movements caught several FBI agent’s attention, and they took turns taking pot shots at him as he dove for cover which slowed his pace tremendously. However, his many years of fighting overseas taught him several tricks of the trade.
Standing up quickly, he fell just as fast a mere second before a round ripped through the sky close enough for him to feel the ripple as the bullet buzzed past his head. Landing behind a large stone planter, he played dead like a possum. Apparently, the ploy worked, and the agents believed they scored a kill and moved on. He waited a few minutes before he continued towards his team working on the safe against the brick wall that led to the Liberty Bell Center.
As he arrived and assessed the progress, it appeared they would cut through the massive hinges within three to four minutes. Their progress, while delayed, was impressive given how many men they lost. Casualties were mounting faster than Muhammad would have liked, but there was nothing he could do about that now. The mission would either succeed or fail.
With the team closest to him working frantically, he moved on to link up with the second team working on the other safe near Independence Hall. The other safe was about seventy-five feet away, and again he moved methodically. There was too little cover as he plodded his way to the other safe. The firefight picked up, and he dodged bullets all the way. One bullet ricocheted off the stone paver before him and nicked his thigh. Reaching for the wound, he found the bullet passed through and through, but it still hurt like hell.
Two minutes later he arrived at the other safe. The team fell behind and experienced mechanical issues with several of the torches. Screaming commands at a rapid-fire pace, he put the fear of Allah in the men, and they quickly got back on track.
Then it happened.
Even as far away as he was the intense heat from the explosion made his face feel flushed as the moisture evaporated from his skin in an instant. It appeared a sharpshooter hit both tanks within less than a second, amplifying the explosion and killing more men than he could spare. Reinforcements were running thin, but he knew they had to try. Muhammad’s employer would not settle for failure, and he didn’t intend to find out what consequences anything less than success might produce.
Moving away from the second safe, he needed to rally his few remaining men to the first safe and finish the task. Time was slipping through his fingertips, and if he didn’t crack open the safes in the next few minutes, the FBI tactical unit would have the upper hand. He couldn’t allow that.
Staying low, he moved away from the second safe. Suddenly, twenty feet down Chestnut Street, it happened again, and another explosion occurred behind him. The shock wave sent him somersaulting through the air until he landed on his back, staring up into the sky. His ears rang, and the hair on the back of his head was singed from the fireball that ensued. The force of the blast tore apart every man near the second safe.
Muhammad gasped for air, and his lungs breathed in a mixture of smoke laced with toxic chemicals. His head swirled as he realized he was down to his last few men. The reality of failure hung over him like a thick fog. His mind worked logically, unlike many of his brethren, who acted like die-hard zealots and gave every last drop of blood even for a losing cause.
Muhammad was no coward, as he would give his life for the right reason. But this wasn’t one of them. He knew the safes that his team failed to crack weren’t worth his slaughter. Besides, he had a plan worked out in case this contingency arose. Plans always required contingencies, and his attention to detail saved his ass more times than he could count over the course of his lifetime.
#
Mark watched as the men working on the second safe blew apart. Higgins followed his instructions perfectly and hit the fuel sources that powered the exothermic torches. He knew his tactical team had the upper hand and they could finish it within a matter of minutes. The sporadic gunfire revealed several fighters remained alive, and Mark figured his men would change that with one last offensive push.
Using a pre-determined word, Mark yelled, “Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo,” in rapid succession. His men knew what that meant and abandoned their cover while converging on the remaining fighters gathered at the base of the four steps that led to Independence Hall.
Mark joined his men with Will at his side as they sprinted down 6th Street toward Chestnut. With weapons raised, they fired at anything that moved, delivering fatal blows to the few fighters who remained.
Mark emptied the first mag, released it and slammed another one into the carbine as he scanned for another target.
#
Muhammad scurried past the bodies of his men that littered the paver stones along Chestnut. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his ankle, almost tripping him. As Muhammad looked down, his eyes connected with a man covered in crimson blood.
“Muhammad.” The word from the dying man uttered as a gurgle of blood oozed from his mouth. Fear was evident in his eyes. “Help me,” he pleaded.
“Assalamu alaykum.” Muhammad spoke the two words in a tone devoid of emotion.
He pointed his weapon and fired a single round from his 45-caliber pistol into the man’s forehead.
Muhammad made his way along the front of Independence Hall without being detected. Taking a right onto South 5th Street, he traveled one block to Library Street, where earlier he left an old silver BWM 5 Series. Once inside the safety of the German vehicle, he allowed himself to take a deep breath before he pulled out a shiny, metallic device from the glove box.
As he turned the ignition, and the car left the scene, he pressed the red button in his right hand without a second thought.
Muhammad would live to fight another day.
As he should.
#
Bullets flew past Mark and his team as they rushed the remaining gunmen. The four badly injured fighters stood huddled behind two armored SUVs in front of Independence Hall, with each man taking potshots at the approaching tactical team.
It all happened in slow motion. Mark could almost see their attack from above as if he were having an out-of-body experience. Each footfall echoed from the paver stones, while each breath seemed exaggerated and drawn out. The last twenty feet seemed to take minutes when in fact only seconds passed.
Mark and his fellow FBI agents laid down a relentless barrage of bullets that riddled the quarter panel of the SUV’s leaving pockmarks along the armored plating.
Mark had never felt so alive than he did at that exact moment. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like a drug.
We got em’.
The thought as he and his men reached the rear of the vehicle proved to be his last.
The intense heat from the shock wave blew the rear windows out first, splintering the glass, which flew in thousands of jagged pieces into the night sky in every direction. Next, the heavy, armor-plated rear doors flew open as the force of the explosion ripped them off their hinges and propelled them into the air. The rear of the vehicle disintegrated as the deadly RDX ignited releasing nitrogen and carbon dioxide into the atmosphere at 26,550 feet per second.
It all happened in a millisecond.
Mark’s brain registered the heat, his body yanked off the ground by the shock wave and into the air. His mind didn’t even have time to question what was happening. Before he could react, the concussive force tore his body apart and an intense darkness enveloped his sight while a sudden silence filled his ears.
#
Forty-five minutes later, the director of the FBI walked through the scene of the carnage with his deputy director to the right of him.
Already yellow-numbered plastic evidence a-frame indicators littered the brick pavers in every direction. With the stench of death in the air, the Director covered his mouth with a white handkerchief. He carefully stepped around countless body parts and pools of blood.
As they moved forward, two forklifts righted one safe.
“Any idea who did this?” The director looked at his deputy. A look of frustration mixed with anger clearly displayed across his wrinkled, aged face.
“We can’t be sure, but initial indications point to Islamic terrorists.”
The director shook his head. None of it made any sense. “This entire operation was classified above Top Secret. So how the hell did they know about the safes?”
“It would appear we have a leak, sir,” the deputy director replied in a measured tone.
The director shook his head in disgust. “How many men did we lose?”
“Twenty-three confirmed dead. Plus, several in critical condition.”
“What about the safes?” The director asked. “This location is clearly compromised.”
“I agree. We’ll bring them back to the Hoover Building for the time being.”
“Security detail?”
The deputy director nodded. “Every agent we have available will be part of the escort back to DC.”
“And then what?”
“We need the contents housed in a new secure location as soon as possible, sir.”
The director raised his eyebrows. “Suggestions?”
“You know the site I originally recommended,” the deputy director replied.
“The one the president ultimately decided against?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Well, I agreed with the president at the time. Plus, I thought having the contents here in Philly seemed poetic.”
“I still think the other site was a better choice, sir.”
“Even after the attack last year?” The director asked.
“Actually, it’s because of the attack last year that I recommended that location. The fourteen-acre plot is now one of the most secure pieces of land in our nation. I advise you bring the location back up with the president.”
“But what if there’s another attack?”
“Please,” the deputy director shook his head, “That’s impossible.”
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
April 8, 1994
A bead of sweat formed on Tony Mariano’s temple and followed a deep wrinkle along his brow before it descended towards his square jawline. With brown eyes and a full head of dark hair, albeit with some graying at the temples, Tony’s ethnicity was easy to trace from his fascial features.
Behind Tony, in the booth seat of the sleeper cab, Special Agent in Charge Mark Cummings looked straight ahead. His eyes darted back and forth from the road to the structures that lined the pavement. Observance of details set Mark apart from ninety-nine percent of the general population. A trait perfectly suited for his chosen line of work. With his eyes ahead, he watched as the tiny bead of water made the trek down the side of Tony’s face.
“You ok, Tony?” Mark asked.
Tony hesitated and replied with a slight stutter in his voice. “Um, yeah, of course.”
Mark’s response indicated he didn’t believe him. “You look anxious,” he replied.
“Nah, I’m good,” Tony said. “Just another load. No worries.”
The man riding in the passenger seat couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer.
“Don’t let this paisano’s facade fool you, Agent Cummings. He gets pretty worked up when we deliver these loads, and in fact, he popped four Imodium before we left DC.”
“Luigi. Shut the big pie-hole you call a mouth,” Tony said as his eyes narrowed and he shot a perturbed glance at his closest friend.
Mark smiled. The constant banter started soon after loading up at the Hoover building and never let up. These two could give Abbott and Costello a run for their money.
Luigi DiDomenico responded by sticking his middle finger in the air towards Tony.
“How have you two not killed each other so far?” Mark asked.
Tony grunted, “Trust me, the thought has crossed my mind once or twice. Off the record, of course, and I know you feds don’t encourage that type of behavior.”
“Hey. I didn’t hear a thing,” said Mark. “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”
A familiar voice in Mark’s earpiece broke the banter. He cupped a hand over his right ear and listened to the instructions that followed. “Two miles ahead, we take exit 22,” Mark stated as he removed his hand from his ear.
“Got it,” Tony said as his fingers gripped the wheel tighter and his eyes focused on the road in front of him with a renewed purpose.
#
The convoy took the Independence Hall off-ramp. Sixty seconds till visual. Muhammad Jarah heard the words in his earpiece. “Copy that,” Muhammad replied as he lay prone on the rooftop of a building at 5th and Market. He wore all black and blended into the shadows. Above, the full moon shone without a cloud in the night sky. It was 2:45 am, and the crisp air revealed a hint of fall. A welcome relief after several humid nights.
From his vantage point atop the eleventh story, Muhammad had an unobstructed view down the length of 6th Street. As he peered through the Leica Duovid binoculars, he stared intently for his mark and waited for the motorcade to come into view. “It’s time,” he said. The comm unit broadcast his command to the others on his team.
A moment later, Muhammad watched as the lead Suburban emerged into his line of sight and proceeded down 6th Street. His pulse quickened as the grip on the binoculars tightened, and his eyes remained fixated on the second vehicle, the tractor-trailer.
The convoy of vehicles approached Race Street in a single line evenly spaced.
“Youssef,” Muhammad said into the microphone clasped to the collar of his shirt.
“Yes,” came the reply in his earpiece.
“Proceed on my mark.”
“Understood,” Youssef replied.
Time slowed as the five vehicles made their way down 6th Street. Muhammad’s eyes narrowed as his mind ran through scenarios one after the other. He knew the hastily organized plan would be challenging to pull off, but not impossible. After all, his years fighting in the arid climate of the desert taught him nothing was impossible, and victory only came to the warriors who persevered.
#
Tony let off the gas to give more space between his rig and the lead Suburban ahead of him. As they approached the Arch Street intersection, Luigi reached over, tapped him on the arm, and pointed towards the left side of the road up ahead.
“Yo, Tony, that’s the Liberty Bell Center where they keep the actual bell.”
Tony’s lips curled. “Yeah, so? Everybody knows the bell is here.”
“Well, you ever seen it?” Luigi asked.
“Nah. I’ve passed by Philly a bunch but never came downtown. Maybe we should stick around for a few days. You know, play tourists. We can tell the wives we got held up. Course, if we do, we’re gonna have to decide between Geno’s or Pat’s.”
“I’m game for that,” Luigi said before he turned around in his seat. “You ever been to Philly, Agent Cummings?”
Mark nodded. “Yes, many times.” His eyes scanned the area, looking for any threats or things out of the ordinary. He was in the zone, fully alert while also cognizant of the conversation going on.
“Worth a visit?” Luigi asked.
“Absolutely,” Mark nodded. “And for what it’s worth, forget Geno’s or Pats. They’re nothing more than tourist traps. If you want a real authentic Philly cheesesteak, go to Sonny’s.”
“Well, now you’re making me hungry,” Luigi said.
“You’re always ready to eat, fat ass,” Tony replied.
Mark pointed straight ahead. “We’re approaching Chestnut and 6th. One more block to Sansom and then make a right.”
Tony nodded, “Gotcha.”
The distance between the tractor-trailer and the lead support vehicle grew as they proceeded down 6th Street, with the space between them and the lead vehicle more than Mark would have liked. He pointed forward. “Speed up, Tony, close the gap, please.”
#
“Go now.” Muhammad gave the command from his perch overlooking Independence National Historic Park. The NODS he wore gave him a grainy picture of the sprawling park below.
Those two words set not only the dump truck in motion but also a garbage truck and six armored SUVs. Most of his team had snuck into the country over the past weeks from various Middle Eastern countries. As expected, the United States border proved porous, with immigration and customs at some national airports no better than a joke. With very little coaching, his team entered with ease.
Over a dozen of the men entered on student visas, while a few already lived in the United States as part of sleeper cells in place for several years. Muhammad recruited the men from wherever he could find them to complete the mission. With more advance notice, he would’ve gathered more men, better equipped for such a task. Given his druthers, he would have preferred to bring over his own trusted fighters who were engaged in jihad on multiple continents, but there just wasn’t enough time.
Muhammad’s body tensed as adrenaline and norepinephrine surged through his bloodstream. His heart raced, and he felt the rhythmic beat as it pulsated against the flat rooftop. Recognizing the hormonal change, he worked to control his breathing and lower not only his heart rate but also his blood pressure. With several slow, deep gulps of cool air, he felt his tension decrease. Also, his body responded to the increase in stress by releasing cortisol, which aided in lowering his anxiety.
He shifted the optics back and forth from the convoy to the intersection where the strike would take place. The seconds seemed like minutes as he ran through scenarios, much like a chess player orchestrating future moves around the board in search of the elusive checkmate.
“Allahu Akbar,” the last words slipped off his tongue as a solemn prayer to Allah and motivation for his men. Many of whom sped to their imminent demise.
#
Mark knew from years of experience there were two ways to protect the contents inside the semi.
Bigger is better or lighter and tighter.
After months of planning, the powers that be chose the latter.
Anyway, rolling up with dozens of vehicles screamed, Look at me. And the FBI preferred discretion, or, when possible, invisibility.
The convoy comprised a lead vehicle, the tractor-trailer, and three support vehicles, including a Special Reaction Team (SRT) vehicle. A Bell 407 helicopter from the FBI Tactical Helicopter Unit hovered above and provided air support for their movements while staying in constant contact with the command center in DC.
As the lead Suburban passed through the intersection at 6th and Chestnut, Tony’s semi still lagged.
Mark noticed the garbage truck parked on the right side of the street, just past the intersection.
His mind screamed, Warning, warning, just as the vehicle suddenly moved forward and pulled out, cutting them off from the lead vehicle while blocking the roadway.
Tony saw the movement ahead and slammed hard on the brakes to keep from hitting the garbage truck.
Inside the cab, the three men lurched forward as the semi shuddered violently, struggling to slow. Brake pads ground into the rotors and screeched as the rig came to a stop with a final jerk. The cab made it through the intersection and just missed the garbage truck by a few feet as the trailer stuck out and blocked the intersection. A burning stench from the red-hot brakes made its way inside the cab, which aggravated their throats.
Tony yelled out in frustration and threw his arms into the air.
“What the hell is this assho…”
Stopped in mid-word, a round pierced the windshield with a pop and split Tony’s forehead open. The contents of his head blew out of the gaping hole created as the bullet mushroomed and exited the back of his skull with the velocity of a bolt of lightning.
Luigi turned his head just in time to watch the bullet impact. He screamed, but as the shrill sound left his mouth, a second round punctured the glass and silenced him alongside his best friend.
Special Agent in Charge Cummings, now splattered with bone fragments, brain matter, and blood from both men, reacted without hesitation.
He dove for cover on the floor behind Tony’s seat while yelling into his comms, “Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired.”
A third round passed through the window and struck the booth seat where Mark sat a second before. Pressed as close to the ground as he could, Mark’s mind raced. What the hell is going on?
An instant later, the dump truck loaded down with tons of gravel barreled through the intersection. It struck the trailer broadside with a screeching sound as metal struck metal. The impact of the crash ripped the trailer from the cab and tore open the metal trailer frame like a can opener slicing through a piece of flimsy aluminum.
The cab dislodged from the trailer with a violent shudder as it went airborne, and the three bodies inside the rig flew into the air like rag dolls thrust into zero gravity.
For Special Agent in Charge Mark Cummings, it all went black as his head smacked against a hard surface with a dull thud.
The rig rolled over several times and came to a stop atop the red brick pavers in front of Independence Hall.
#
Muhammad watched the dump truck strike the semi broadside at almost forty miles an hour as the front of the vehicle crumpled when it came in contact with two state-of-the-art Mosler safes. The impact killed the driver while the momentum from the crash caused the two safes to careen through the opposite side of the trailer. The safe closest to the rear of the trailer somersaulted through the thin metal, slicing through it like a sharp blade. After turning over several times, it came to rest upside down, leaning against the brick wall and black wrought-iron fence that led to the Liberty Bell Center.
Taking the brunt of the strike, the other safe, positioned in the middle of the trailer, careened out and rolled down Chestnut Street. Flipping end over end, the enormous safe pulverized the bricks beneath each time it somersaulted. With a loud crash, it came to rest upright, several feet short of the George Washington statue before Independence Hall.
Muhammad watched as six armored SUVs arrived within seconds. During the proceeding days, Muhammad reiterated to his men that time was against them and they must hurry. Delays and poor execution would cause failure. He made it clear establishing a perimeter was essential to breach the safes and remove the contents before reinforcements arrived.
He turned his attention to the lead FBI Suburban which came to a halt at 6th and Sansom. Muhammad watched with a touch of amusement as the steel panel on the side of the garbage truck slid open, revealing the M134 minigun. The FBI agents, unaware of their impending doom, jumped out of the vehicle with weapons raised. They moved in a tight formation towards the chaotic scene of mangled debris that littered the crash site.
The sight of the mini gun stopped them in their tracks, but it was too late. Exposed in the center of the street with no cover, the six men in kevlar with assault rifles stood no chance against six thousand rounds per minute of searing hot lead. Within seconds, the minigun mowed down the agents with its deadly barrage.
A second minigun positioned on the other side of the garbage truck intended to fire on the trailing vehicles. However, an axel from the destroyed trailer rested against the side of the vehicle and blocked the door from sliding open.
One team down, three more to go, Muhammad muttered to himself as he watched the bloodbath below. So far, everything progressed mostly as planned. The thirty men under his direction arrived and climbed out of the SUV’s, and took up defensive positions around the two safes while using their vehicles as cover.
Muhammad made a career of fighting alongside his men in some of the most god-forsaken places on earth. Rarely did his new recruits last long on the battlefields, but as the men formed a perimeter, he found himself impressed with how well they followed instructions. Not having the second minigun left them at a tactical disadvantage, but he knew complications would arise.
The Bell 407 helicopter circled high above, its rotor wash picked up fine granules of dirt from the roof, which blew into his eyes. Once the helicopter maintained a steady altitude, the side doors opened on both sides as two snipers took up offensive positions.
They could pick off his men with ease, but Muhammad couldn’t let that happen.
He pulled off his optics and moved a few feet to his right. The metal box had three latches, which he opened in a few seconds. He hoisted the thirty-three-and-a-half-pound cylindrical tube atop his shoulders and flipped the sights in place. It took less than a minute from the time he moved until he had the helicopter zeroed in. He activated his S&A switch and waited until he had good tone before he pulled back on the trigger. The launcher jerked enough to make him shuffle his feet to keep steady. The missile left the tube and streaked through the air at two and a half times the speed of sound as it tracked towards the helicopter and the four FBI agents inside.
The poor bastards never stood a chance.
#
Rapid gunfire erupted all around like a cacophony of terror as Mark regained consciousness with a shudder. His head felt like two oversized hands belonging to Andre the Giant encircled his skull and squeezed it like a vice. Warm, thick blood oozed from a large gash on his temple and flowed down the bridge of his nose, finding its way into his agape mouth. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt sewn shut. A deafening explosion from above jostled him, and for a moment it felt like he was once again a nineteen-year-old member of the 1st Marine Division fighting in Huḗ during the Tet offensive.
He summoned the strength and finally after a few seconds that felt more like minutes, his eyes reluctantly opened. With several rapid-fire blinks, his eyes squinted allowing him to focus.
Carnage greeted Mark all around.
As he strained his neck looking up and to his left, he saw bodies wrapped in black tactical uniforms with the letters F.B.I. littered down 6th Street towards Sansom. It was clear from their grotesque positions and missing limbs the men from the lead Suburban were all dead.
Next, he turned his head to the right. Less than one-hundred feet away, the mangled fuselage of the FBI Tactical Helicopter looked like a bonfire as it lay ablaze with smoke billowing from the wreckage.
As he looked around he realized the cab came to rest upside down. Between the bright moon above and the well-positioned street lights, he could clearly see the men surrounding the two exposed safes. Other men approached with what looked like wands in their hands. A moment later reddish and orange colored flames spat out of the end as sparks bounced off the red pavers in an endless display of dazzling lights.
They’re gonna try and burn through the hinges. Blinking several times, he rubbed his forearm over his brow to keep the blood from flowing in his eyes.
The earpiece in his right ear came alive as several of his men frantically called out for help. With his tactical team in trouble, his pulse raced and his eyes narrowed. In a low voice to avoid unwanted attention, he replied using his own comm unit. After several failed attempts at reaching the men, it became clear the microphone was inoperable.
Dammit. I need to reach my guys. He had a problem though. Mark knew he was trapped.
Spread out before him were twenty men launching a coordinated attack against his men. Some of them moved in a choppy, novice manners while others displayed confidence and experience as they took cover and returned fire when fired upon.
Mark needed a way to reach his men. As his eyes darted back and forth, his brain formulated a plan. His Colt M4 carbine lay just out of reach, but with a quick glance, he could see its muzzle was bent. With an inoperable barrel, the weapon was nothing more than an overpriced stick.
As he reached towards his hip the reassuring bulge of his Glock 23 brought him some measure of comfort. He wrapped his large hands around the butt of the pistol as he drew it from the holster. His thumb pushed the mag release dropping it into his left hand. Racking the slide, he ejected the chambered round and inspected his weapon. Confident the weapon was serviceable he placed the round back into the mag and slid it back. With two more mags on his hip, Mark knew he had 45 rounds at his disposal.
That was it. Not enough to take on the vast array of men before him, but hopefully enough to make an escape from the cab.
With the relentless automatic fire, it would be risky exposing himself and abandoning the cover but he also knew staying put would offer no help to his team. Plus, someone may see him sooner rather than later and then his ass would be grass anyway.
With few good options, he made the only logical move. Taking a deep breath, he lunged out of the mangled cab with his weapon drawn looking for targets. His knees burned and ached as glass embedded in his skin during the crash tore deeper into his flesh with each long stride.
#
Muhammad abandoned his rooftop perch as soon as the chopper went down and descended the northeast staircase to the main level and exit. Once outside, he stayed low to the ground and reduced his profile as much as possible. As he moved around the east side of the Liberty Bell Center, he made his way toward 6th and Chestnut keeping close to the brick wall using it as cover. With his NODS flipped down, he saw the surroundings clearly. The relief in downing the helicopter was short lived with the mission success far from guaranteed. Running a few minutes behind he needed to push his team and provide extra motivation.
A sudden movement to his left caught his attention. A figure darted from the overturned semi-rig. The dark silhouette moved fast, and Muhammad only made out the white letters on the person’s back as they ran down 6th Street. Raising his assault rifle, he knew he must stop whoever was fleeing the crash site. Suddenly, a volley of bullets sprayed around him, striking the bricks just above his head.
The mysterious figure saw him first.
Dropping to the ground, Muhammad low-crawled ten feet to a retaining wall, which provided limited cover. Rolling onto his back, he counted to five and twisted his body as he raised himself to his elbows to return fire.
He steadied himself and pulled back on the trigger, sending a steady stream of bullets towards the target. The person in the FBI jacket disappeared into the darkened recesses further down 6th Street before any of the rounds found their mark. Muhammad slammed his clenched fist into the ground, knowing whoever it was had just escaped.
#
Mark didn’t wait to see if his rounds hit the darkened figure. Running at full speed, he reached Sansom Street and took a hard right as several bullets struck the wall eight feet to his left.
Damn, that was close. It killed him as he ran by the bodies of his fallen brothers without stopping. However, he knew failure to meet up with the rest of his men would cause more deaths. He needed to get into the fight, stay in the fight, and see the mission through to the end.
In a flat-out sprint, he reached the intersection of Sansom Street and took a right on 7th heading north. He knew crossing back over Chestnut would be perilous, but he had no choice if he wanted to connect with his team. Without pause, he dug deep and gained speed as he crossed Chestnut. With long, powerful strides he made it across the street, relieved to find no bullets tear into his flesh. In fact, the constant barrage of automatic weapon fire appeared to have abated slightly once he left 6th Street.
In his early 50’s Mark was in better shape than most twenty-five-year-olds. Still, he rarely ran with such fervor and never for his life or the lives of his men. As he approached Ranstead Street, he knew there were only two more right turns.
With his comms down, he knew sneaking up on his tactical team would have dire results for himself. Pulling out his flashlight, he slowed slightly and rounded the corner of Ranstead and 6th Street, using the beam of light to signal his approach.
Will Jacobs was the first of his men to see the beams of light and know they were from a friendly. Once Mark got close enough, Will pulled him towards his cover spot behind a thick wall on the west side of the Liberty Bell Center.
“You okay, SAC?” Will asked as he looked hard at Mark. “Thought you were a goner when they lit up that rig.”
“Me too,” Mark replied as he shook his head, fully out of breath.
“These bastards mowed down the lead team.”
“I know,” Mark said between gasps of air.
“Glad you made it,” Will replied.
“Who the hell are these guys?”
Will shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure, but they’re operating at high speed, low drag. These guys are pretty damn good and well-armed. They've got enough firepower to fight off a small army.”
“Well, let’s send them to hell where they belong. I need an assault rifle, NODS, and a new comm unit. Mine got busted up in the crash.” Mark spat a gob of phlegm onto the ground.
Will passed a spare H&K MP5 and four fresh mags.
“Cocked, locked, and ready to rock, boss.” Next, Will removed and reached into the backpack he wore, pulling out a spare NODS and comm unit.
Mark slipped on the night vision goggles and watched his men, their positions, and how they moved. The lack of movement by his team troubled him. Pinned down, his men appeared immobile.
Not good, not good at all.
His men were the best in the business, to be sure, but he quickly ascertained their fatal flaw. They were playing defense, and he knew that to turn the tide they needed to go on the offensive.
And fast.
“Thanks,” Mark said as he patted Will on the shoulder. He clicked the safety off and verified a round was chambered. “Let’s end this.”
“What do you need me to do?” Will asked.
“Find Higgins. We need him sniping from on top of the Liberty Bell Center. I’ll give him further instructions when he’s in place.”
Will nodded. “Copy that.” Then he scurried off to his left, leaving Mark to hastily map out their next move.
#
Muhammad found himself pinned down. Apparently, his movements caught several FBI agent’s attention, and they took turns taking pot shots at him as he dove for cover which slowed his pace tremendously. However, his many years of fighting overseas taught him several tricks of the trade.
Standing up quickly, he fell just as fast a mere second before a round ripped through the sky close enough for him to feel the ripple as the bullet buzzed past his head. Landing behind a large stone planter, he played dead like a possum. Apparently, the ploy worked, and the agents believed they scored a kill and moved on. He waited a few minutes before he continued towards his team working on the safe against the brick wall that led to the Liberty Bell Center.
As he arrived and assessed the progress, it appeared they would cut through the massive hinges within three to four minutes. Their progress, while delayed, was impressive given how many men they lost. Casualties were mounting faster than Muhammad would have liked, but there was nothing he could do about that now. The mission would either succeed or fail.
With the team closest to him working frantically, he moved on to link up with the second team working on the other safe near Independence Hall. The other safe was about seventy-five feet away, and again he moved methodically. There was too little cover as he plodded his way to the other safe. The firefight picked up, and he dodged bullets all the way. One bullet ricocheted off the stone paver before him and nicked his thigh. Reaching for the wound, he found the bullet passed through and through, but it still hurt like hell.
Two minutes later he arrived at the other safe. The team fell behind and experienced mechanical issues with several of the torches. Screaming commands at a rapid-fire pace, he put the fear of Allah in the men, and they quickly got back on track.
Then it happened.
Even as far away as he was the intense heat from the explosion made his face feel flushed as the moisture evaporated from his skin in an instant. It appeared a sharpshooter hit both tanks within less than a second, amplifying the explosion and killing more men than he could spare. Reinforcements were running thin, but he knew they had to try. Muhammad’s employer would not settle for failure, and he didn’t intend to find out what consequences anything less than success might produce.
Moving away from the second safe, he needed to rally his few remaining men to the first safe and finish the task. Time was slipping through his fingertips, and if he didn’t crack open the safes in the next few minutes, the FBI tactical unit would have the upper hand. He couldn’t allow that.
Staying low, he moved away from the second safe. Suddenly, twenty feet down Chestnut Street, it happened again, and another explosion occurred behind him. The shock wave sent him somersaulting through the air until he landed on his back, staring up into the sky. His ears rang, and the hair on the back of his head was singed from the fireball that ensued. The force of the blast tore apart every man near the second safe.
Muhammad gasped for air, and his lungs breathed in a mixture of smoke laced with toxic chemicals. His head swirled as he realized he was down to his last few men. The reality of failure hung over him like a thick fog. His mind worked logically, unlike many of his brethren, who acted like die-hard zealots and gave every last drop of blood even for a losing cause.
Muhammad was no coward, as he would give his life for the right reason. But this wasn’t one of them. He knew the safes that his team failed to crack weren’t worth his slaughter. Besides, he had a plan worked out in case this contingency arose. Plans always required contingencies, and his attention to detail saved his ass more times than he could count over the course of his lifetime.
#
Mark watched as the men working on the second safe blew apart. Higgins followed his instructions perfectly and hit the fuel sources that powered the exothermic torches. He knew his tactical team had the upper hand and they could finish it within a matter of minutes. The sporadic gunfire revealed several fighters remained alive, and Mark figured his men would change that with one last offensive push.
Using a pre-determined word, Mark yelled, “Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo,” in rapid succession. His men knew what that meant and abandoned their cover while converging on the remaining fighters gathered at the base of the four steps that led to Independence Hall.
Mark joined his men with Will at his side as they sprinted down 6th Street toward Chestnut. With weapons raised, they fired at anything that moved, delivering fatal blows to the few fighters who remained.
Mark emptied the first mag, released it and slammed another one into the carbine as he scanned for another target.
#
Muhammad scurried past the bodies of his men that littered the paver stones along Chestnut. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his ankle, almost tripping him. As Muhammad looked down, his eyes connected with a man covered in crimson blood.
“Muhammad.” The word from the dying man uttered as a gurgle of blood oozed from his mouth. Fear was evident in his eyes. “Help me,” he pleaded.
“Assalamu alaykum.” Muhammad spoke the two words in a tone devoid of emotion.
He pointed his weapon and fired a single round from his 45-caliber pistol into the man’s forehead.
Muhammad made his way along the front of Independence Hall without being detected. Taking a right onto South 5th Street, he traveled one block to Library Street, where earlier he left an old silver BWM 5 Series. Once inside the safety of the German vehicle, he allowed himself to take a deep breath before he pulled out a shiny, metallic device from the glove box.
As he turned the ignition, and the car left the scene, he pressed the red button in his right hand without a second thought.
Muhammad would live to fight another day.
As he should.
#
Bullets flew past Mark and his team as they rushed the remaining gunmen. The four badly injured fighters stood huddled behind two armored SUVs in front of Independence Hall, with each man taking potshots at the approaching tactical team.
It all happened in slow motion. Mark could almost see their attack from above as if he were having an out-of-body experience. Each footfall echoed from the paver stones, while each breath seemed exaggerated and drawn out. The last twenty feet seemed to take minutes when in fact only seconds passed.
Mark and his fellow FBI agents laid down a relentless barrage of bullets that riddled the quarter panel of the SUV’s leaving pockmarks along the armored plating.
Mark had never felt so alive than he did at that exact moment. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like a drug.
We got em’.
The thought as he and his men reached the rear of the vehicle proved to be his last.
The intense heat from the shock wave blew the rear windows out first, splintering the glass, which flew in thousands of jagged pieces into the night sky in every direction. Next, the heavy, armor-plated rear doors flew open as the force of the explosion ripped them off their hinges and propelled them into the air. The rear of the vehicle disintegrated as the deadly RDX ignited releasing nitrogen and carbon dioxide into the atmosphere at 26,550 feet per second.
It all happened in a millisecond.
Mark’s brain registered the heat, his body yanked off the ground by the shock wave and into the air. His mind didn’t even have time to question what was happening. Before he could react, the concussive force tore his body apart and an intense darkness enveloped his sight while a sudden silence filled his ears.
#
Forty-five minutes later, the director of the FBI walked through the scene of the carnage with his deputy director to the right of him.
Already yellow-numbered plastic evidence a-frame indicators littered the brick pavers in every direction. With the stench of death in the air, the Director covered his mouth with a white handkerchief. He carefully stepped around countless body parts and pools of blood.
As they moved forward, two forklifts righted one safe.
“Any idea who did this?” The director looked at his deputy. A look of frustration mixed with anger clearly displayed across his wrinkled, aged face.
“We can’t be sure, but initial indications point to Islamic terrorists.”
The director shook his head. None of it made any sense. “This entire operation was classified above Top Secret. So how the hell did they know about the safes?”
“It would appear we have a leak, sir,” the deputy director replied in a measured tone.
The director shook his head in disgust. “How many men did we lose?”
“Twenty-three confirmed dead. Plus, several in critical condition.”
“What about the safes?” The director asked. “This location is clearly compromised.”
“I agree. We’ll bring them back to the Hoover Building for the time being.”
“Security detail?”
The deputy director nodded. “Every agent we have available will be part of the escort back to DC.”
“And then what?”
“We need the contents housed in a new secure location as soon as possible, sir.”
The director raised his eyebrows. “Suggestions?”
“You know the site I originally recommended,” the deputy director replied.
“The one the president ultimately decided against?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Well, I agreed with the president at the time. Plus, I thought having the contents here in Philly seemed poetic.”
“I still think the other site was a better choice, sir.”
“Even after the attack last year?” The director asked.
“Actually, it’s because of the attack last year that I recommended that location. The fourteen-acre plot is now one of the most secure pieces of land in our nation. I advise you bring the location back up with the president.”
“But what if there’s another attack?”
“Please,” the deputy director shook his head, “That’s impossible.”