Rick Mofina - Every Second

“No, I have to go down Red Hawk.”

“Orders are to send everybody to Birch Creek.”

A sudden wind kicked up and blew through.

“My staff sergeant will kick my ass if I don’t do as instructed,” the trooper said.

“Well, my lieutenant’s orders are clear-I gotta send everyone down Birch Creek Road.”

The dog searching the Vermont van barked and turned its head to Mattise and the trooper, who both glanced at it.

“Whose pup is that?” the trooper asked.

“Albany bomb squad. They haven’t detected anything here so far. Listen, buddy, I’ll call my lieutenant, get him to call your staff, sort this out.”

The dog started barking again, as if he wanted to have a go at them.

“Yo!” the dog’s handler called to them. “Everything okay over there?”

“We’re fine!” Mattise called back, then to the new guy he repeated, “So, want me to call my lieutenant?”

“Naw, I don’t have time for that,” the trooper said. “And my boss will kill me. I’ve got to take Red Hawk.”

“You’re not hearing me. Nothing’s going on there. It’s outside the current perimeter. Nothing’s set up yet. We need people at Birch Creek. I don’t advise going down there.”

“Well, that’s where I’m headed anyway. If you get any trouble from your boss, just blame me.”

Mattise stared at him for a moment, then stepped back.

“What’s your name?”

“Hennesy. Carl Hennesy.”

“Where’re you from, Hennesy?”

“D troop, but for the last month I’ve been on assignment with K. Look, let’s keep it simple and say we never talked. I gotta go.”

“Fine. It’s your ass, Hennesy.”

The trooper offered Mattise a casual parting salute and wheeled down Red Hawk Way. Mattise was frustrated as he searched in vain for the troop and zone prefix marking on the unit, but he managed to lock on to Hennesy’s license number.

He shook his head as the dog continued barking. That’s right, every now and then you encounter a prick, he thought, staring hard at the SUV before it vanished down Red Hawk. At least the jerk’s out of my zone.

But as Mattise walked back to his car, his disgust gave way to a feeling of unease that pinged in a far corner of his gut.

Coyote Mountains, New York

Undergrowth and branches tore at the four men as they moved double time through the forest.

The recurrent roar of helicopters told them with each pass that the search was intensifying, but Jerricko insisted that he had the operation under control.

He’d accepted that they’d made mistakes, that they’d failed to make the execution video. But it didn’t matter now. Lori Fulton and her family of enemy combatants were as good as dead.

Jerricko’s team had prevailed. They’d recovered the laptop. They had a quarter million dollars in cash. Their martyr videos were secure, along with the names of soldiers who’d join them on their path to glory. All they needed now was to meet up with the bomb maker and drive to their destiny.

As they descended a steep slope through dense growth, Jerricko dreamed of paradise.

Soon I’ll see you again and together we’ll bask in the brilliant light of God. Don’t worry, Malcolm. We’ll succeed. Our mother will be so proud. Our glorious leaders will capitalize on our triumphant act. The world will bear witness to our victory over the murdering nonbelievers-over immorality and filth.

The death squad continued traveling at great speed, as if by instinct. Jerricko glimpsed at each member moving with determination and conviction.

Each one yearns to breathe their last breath for the glory of God.

Vic held up his hand, halting the group as he consulted his compass and calculations again, keeping his voice soft.

“We’re on track, within a hundred yards, maybe less.”

They moved over terrain that rose and dipped. They crossed a small stream to a tangle of brush and then they saw pavement through the branches reaching to a narrow highway where they caught a reflection of light on a windshield, a fender, a hood-the markings of the New York State Police. The patrol unit had pulled completely off the road and was parked amid a lush canopy of branches, concealing it from any passing traffic.

But there was none.

Jerricko took stock of the others before signaling to proceed. They tightened their hold on their rifles. Moving in silence, they surrounded the vehicle, weapons drawn and fingers on the triggers.

Jerricko crouched and advanced from the rear to the driver’s door.

The lone occupant was behind the wheel. The window was down. Jerricko stood, pressed his gun to the trooper’s neck.

Slowly the trooper raised his hands.

Jerricko asked: “What are the wedding gifts? The wrong answer means death.”

“Clocks.”

“What is your name?”

“I’m Ghorbani.”

Relief washed over Jerricko and the others as they lowered their weapons.

Ghorbani got out of the SUV, exchanged hugs and greetings with the team. Like the others, Percy was impressed with the car and uniform.

“They look real, where’d you get this stuff?”

“A company in Brooklyn supplies props for TV and movie production. I convinced them I was a producer and made the purchases several months ago when we began planning the operation.”

“And the gun?”

“The Glock’s real.” Ghorbani tapped his holster. “Now, we have no time to lose.” He opened the rear door, lifted a canvas to reveal four backpacks. “Each device is ready. They can only be detonated by pulling this-hard.” He showed the six-inch cord with plastic handle on the shoulder strap. “Dropping it won’t set it off. The components guarantee a high kill rate.”

The men studied the backpacks.

“Do you have what I need?” Ghorbani asked.

Jerricko pulled the laptop from his backpack and handed it to Ghorbani. He motioned toward his team and each of them brought forward a sports bag and placed them in the back of the SUV. Jerricko unzipped one of the bags, showing Ghorbani the bricks of bundled cash.

“The laptop has our videos and information on new believers we’ve recruited. The bags contain two hundred and fifty thousand in cash to fund operations,” Jerricko said.

“Good. You’ve done well.”

“We didn’t produce the execution videos,” Jerricko said. “As desirable as they were, we’ll still succeed without them.”

“Agreed,” Ghorbani replied. “Quickly, bury your rifles and use these.” Ghorbani moved the canvas, uncovering more Glock pistols with several magazines. “To be less conspicuous.”

“Why do we need to be inconspicuous?” Cutty asked. “Aren’t you driving us to Manhattan? We should keep our guns.”

“We face obstacles,” Ghorbani said. “There’s a lot of heat and checkpoints.”

“But you’ll get us through in this,” Jerricko said. “This is our backup plan.”

“I’ve already been challenged.” Ghorbani shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s not good. They’re circulating your pictures, my picture . I saw it at the last checkpoint.”

“They already know who we are?” Jerricko asked.

“They’re moving faster than we expected,” Ghorbani said. “We’ll have to think of another way to get you to New York, but for now, bury your weapons.”

Using deadwood, they stabbed and scraped the soft soil. After they buried their weapons and took up the handguns, they got into the SUV. Jerricko took the laptop, sat in the front and they started down the road.

“This is the wrong way.” Vic consulted his GPS. “Go south.”

“There’s a very active roadblock at the Birch Creek Road junction,” Ghorbani said. “I think the sniffer dog picked up something on this SUV, possibly the explosives. We can’t risk going back that way. I threw them off the first time, but I have a strong sense that they’re watching for this vehicle.”