Rick Mofina - Every Second

Under the circumstances, a dynamic, deliberate entry was chosen.

“No movement,” the sharpshooter said softly over his headset to his commander.

Similar whisperings came from SWAT members in various positions around the small house. With everyone in position, the commander gave the green light.

Team members breached the front and back entrances. They entered rooms in pairs, gun muzzles raised, searching for threats in corners, within furniture and closets. They called “clear” when they’d checked each room. Within minutes, they’d reported to their commander that no one was present on the property.

With the house secured, the bomb squad began processing the house, concentrating on Ghorbani’s basement worktable. There they found traces of several components used in making explosives, including C-4, black powder and triacetone triperoxide. It was a violation of his employer’s policy to have any work-related materials leave company premises. More troubling: they found detailed street maps of Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Washington, DC, and New York City. Landmarks were flagged with X s.

At that point, new intelligence concerning Ghorbani had been captured by FBI cyber experts from the “dark web,” which was believed to host sites unreachable by search engines and normal channels.

In a recent posting to jihadists, Ghorbani had written: “The American government murdered my father and mother. It is my destiny to do all I can to honor their memory by supporting strategic martyrdom operations.”

After Springfield detectives questioned Ghorbani’s neighbors, they’d learned that one woman had thought she’d seen him driving away from his home earlier in the day. She wasn’t certain.

“It was only a couple of hours before the police showed up,” she’d said.

Attempts to pinpoint Ghorbani’s location by tracking his cell phone or the GPS in his vehicle had failed, FBI agent Marilyn Chase reported to Varner.

“We’ve issued an alert for him and his vehicle. He’s on the move, Nick. People here are convinced he’s built a device and taken it with him, but we don’t know where he’s going.”

The Pioneer Valley, Massachusetts

The New Age sounds of wind chimes, harps and flutes floated from the speakers of Todd Dalir Ghorbani’s red Chevy Malibu.

This was a glorious day.

He was west of downtown Springfield when he left the Mass Pike for US 20, a two-lane strip that meandered through lush wooded farmland.

At first Ghorbani was nervous about the circumstances that had forced him and his brothers to fall back to their contingency plan for the operation. But he was calmed by his music and his confidence. For months his unit had planned, studied and prepared. God’s merciful kindness would guarantee their success and Ghorbani was honored to do his part.

This mission would inflict a terrible wound on the enemy.

It would be a profound victory that would reap lasting glory.

The group of brave young lions that he was helping would provide two hundred fifty thousand dollars to fund more operations. They’d also give him names of US-born fighters, and others in Canada, Australia and Britain and around the world poised to carry out future missions.

After today’s operation concluded, Ghorbani would post the videos of the young martyrs, ship the money and information to his commanders overseas and continue his work with new recruits.

He eyed the passing roadside, slowing and leaving the highway when he came to a steel gate with the Private Property-Keep Out sign bound by wires to the bars. He unlocked the chain and drove into the bramble along a path overgrown with tall grass.

He’d rented this isolated property well over a year ago.

After traveling about fifty yards he arrived at a barn with faded, weather-beaten slats. He wheeled to the side door, got out and unlocked the padlock. The metal pulley and rollers squeaked as he slid the door open. He drove his Chevy inside, dust and bits of straw rising in the columns of light piercing the gapped walls as he eased his car next to a vehicle shrouded with a canvas cover.

Ghorbani got out and pulled off the cover before opening the vehicle’s trunk. Then he went to his Malibu and opened the trunk where four backpacks sat waiting. Grunting, he hefted the first one, setting it carefully in the waiting vehicle’s trunk. He did the same with the others. When he finished, he dragged the back of his hand across his brow and admired his work.

He’d taken such loving care assembling the components-the initiator, the switch, the main charge and power source-within a large container. He’d used TATP, which had proven effective in the London attacks. He’d packed each container with twenty-five pounds of “enhancements” such as nails, glass and jagged steel fragments. Anyone within one hundred feet would be killed. Anyone within a thousand feet would be injured. In a crowded area, the casualties would be high. The psychological impact, the sheer terror, the disruption would be catastrophic.

Ghorbani prayed for a moment before taking care of other preparations he needed to complete. When he was ready, he got into the vehicle he’d just loaded and drove off, locking up at each step.

He resumed driving on US 20, then back on to The Pike, heading west to New York State.

Coyote Mountains, New York

Lori could breathe again.

“They’re gone,” she whispered to Billy, still trembling in her arms.

“You’re sure?”

“Let’s go, before they come back!”

Taking great pains, she very slowly moved the bushes enough to slip away. Adrenaline pumping, they continued rushing through the woods. Their legs ached. Their faces and hands were bloodied, stinging with cuts and scrapes from branches and needles.

They pushed on.

Lori thought of the helicopter that had passed in the distance. It was gone now but it might return. Maybe they’re looking for us. The possibility gave her hope.

Lori begged God to let them find a hiker, a house, a road-anything.

Help us! Please!

They heard a rushing that grew louder as they came to a clearing and a small cliff over a fast-flowing river. She crouched down with Billy and scanned the banks in both directions.

“We’ll follow this river,” she said. “There’s got to be help along here somewhere.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Lori slid off the backpack, pulled out the water bottle, unscrewed the cap and passed it to him. Billy took a swallow-then froze. His eyes widened at something behind Lori. She turned to Jerricko Blaine, who’d stepped from the woods leveling his gun at them.

The water bottle hit the ground as Cutty appeared and seized Billy.

“Don’t you hurt him!” Lori lunged at Cutty but Percy jerked her back and punched her in the gut, forcing her down to her hands and knees, gasping for air.

Vic snatched the backpack and pulled it open.

“We’re losing time,” Jerricko said. “We’ll prosecute them right here. Cut those vests off. We don’t need them anymore. Record the video. We’ll do the boy first.”

Cutty produced a large serrated knife and sliced off the vests.

The bombs were never real, Lori realized. But what did it matter now? She and Billy were backed up at gunpoint to a flat patch of earth. Percy pulled Billy’s arms behind his back and tied his hands with a strip of rope. Then he tied Lori’s hands. Vic had been rummaging through the backpack and dumping the contents on the ground.

“It’s not here! The laptop’s not here!”

Jerricko’s eyes narrowed at Lori.

“Where’s our computer?”

Lori refused to speak.

In one clean motion, Cutty clenched Billy’s hair, yanked back his head to expose his throat and pressed his knife to his skin.