Rick Mofina - Every Second

The engine ticked down and Ghorbani quickly outlined the risky plan, Jerricko and the others exchanging nervous glances with each other.

“It’s the only chance we have,” Ghorbani said.

“Let’s do it,” Jerricko said.

Taking their backpacks from the back, the men ensured their handguns were concealed as they entered the busy diner. Nearly every table was occupied. Small lines formed at the restrooms. The air was heavy with aromas of bacon and coffee, the clink of cutlery and dozens of conversations.

As Ghorbani took stock of the room, Jerricko and his team found an empty corner table and put their backpacks under it as they sat down. Ghorbani hung back, stopping at a table where he’d picked up snippets of conversation of four grandmothers nattering about their grandchildren.

“Excuse me, ladies, are you with the tour bus?” Ghorbani asked.

A woman with auburn-tinted hair and stylish glasses smiled up at him.

“Why, yes, Officer. Are we under arrest?”

The other women giggled.

“Not this time,” he said. “Could you please direct me to your driver?”

“That handsome man over there,” she answered, nodding in the direction of a white-haired man in his sixties sitting on a bar stool at the counter.

“Thank you.”

Ghorbani made his way over to the man, who was hunched over a coffee.

“You’re the driver of the tour bus?”

The man turned to Ghorbani, taking in his uniform.

“I am. Is there a problem?”

“We need your help. Where’re you coming from and where you headed?”

“From Ottawa, Canada. Headed to Manhattan-hotel’s near Times Square.”

“How many passengers? This a seniors’ tour?”

“I got forty passengers, all ages, seniors and students. It’s a scenic charter package. Mind telling me what’s going on, Officer?”

“We have an active dragnet in the area for several armed suspects from a bank robbery and shooting out of Queens, New York. Maybe you’ve heard about it on the news?”

“Holy cow! My company did put out an advisory about some sort of police action on a robbery and shooting around New York City. I never realized it was this far out. Jeez, should’ve paid closer attention.”

“Well, you just drove into the fringe of it. Did they stop you back at the state road before you got on to Red Hawk?”

“No. It was all clear. I saw one patrol car just before we got here.”

“Did you pick up any passengers once you entered the US?”

“No, this is a solid all-Canadian tour group.”

“Well, you’re going to be stopped and searched at the checkpoint at the junction with Birch Creek. It’ll mean a big delay.”

“That’s going to frustrate my passengers.”

“We may be able to help each other out. My patrol car’s engine just quit, those darned computer systems. You can’t trust them. My dispatcher said it could be a long wait before the service truck comes. My problem is I got to get these volunteer searchers-” Ghorbani nodded across the diner to Jerricko and the others “-up to the next search point, back beyond Red Hawk.”

The driver nodded.

“So how can I help?”

“Let us ride with you. I’ll let my people know your bus and passengers are clear, seeing how you just arrived, and you’re leaving the edge of the search boundary. You go back on Red Hawk to the state route and take the long way to the Thruway and New York.”

“You think we should go back and take the longer way?”

“In the end, it’ll save you time. We’ll get off when you reach the search point we need beyond the state route.”

The driver rubbed his chin. “Think that will help?”

“Definitely.”

The driver nodded. “Okay, I’ll let my company know. But you gotta let us finish up here. People need to eat, and this is a scheduled stop arranged with the diner.”

“How long you figure?”

“Forty-five minutes?”

“And you got seats for us on the bus?”

“How many again?”

“With me, five.”

“Yes, you’re good.”

“Thank you,” Ghorbani said. “That’s what we love about you Canadians. You always step up.”

After slapping the driver on the back, Ghorbani joined Jerricko and the others at the table. Keeping his voice low, he updated them.

“In about half an hour, we’re joining the bus tour which is going to Times Square. At some point, we’ll own it and forty hostages. We’ll order him to park it the Square. One of you will stay aboard. The others will take their places at Grand Central, Penn Station and the Staten Island Ferry. Once all the networks and online feeds go live with us, we’ll detonate everything.” He smiled broadly, clapping Jerricko on the back. “We’re not going to achieve our original goals-we’re going to exceed them.”

Coyote Mountains, New York

Twenty minutes after the jackass had pulled away from his checkpoint, Trooper Larry Mattise was still pissed.

Something about that guy troubled him, beyond the fact he was a jerk. He kept staring at the five suspects on his phone: Blaine, Patterson, Kimmett, Spencer and Ghorbani.

Todd Dalir Ghorbani, of Springfield, Massachusetts.

He looked harder at the last man-examining his mouth, his chin and ears.

That’s it!

That trooper looked like Ghorbani. A lot like him, now that Mattise thought of it. But it couldn’t be him. People looked like other people all the time. He was talking about another cop here, not a suspect. He was just pissed at the guy. He needed to calm down, let it go so he could focus on the job.

A patrol unit eased up alongside Mattise.

“Larry,” the trooper at the wheel said, snapping his gum. “Sarge sent me to spell you for a short break.”

“Roger that.”

“Go make a coffee run. I like mine black.”

Mattise started his car, slid the transmission into Drive and rolled off.

He had two choices for coffee. Mumford’s gas was down Birch Creek, but would likely be swamped from all the search activity in that sector. Jenny’s was down Red Hawk a bit farther, but Mattise decided it would probably be quicker if he avoided the search crowd.

Along the way, his unease about the new trooper came back.

I couldn’t read his patrol number, his troop or his zone. Nothing marked on his car. Was he a special? Or with the governor’s detail?

Mattise had noticed the guy’s plate and thought he’d check it out as he drove. He punched it in, requesting dispatch to run it.

It still bothered him that the cop had insisted on going down Red Hawk. Why give him so much trouble?

And, damn it, he looks like one of the suspects.

The dispatcher responded to his request.

“Negative on your tag.”

Mattise keyed his microphone: “What’d you mean?”

“Nothing comes up, Larry.”

“Is it a special or something?”

“Negative. That plate is not registered with the state.”

“Thanks. Ten-four.”

Mattise took a breath, tightened his grip on the wheel and, for the next few miles, tried to downplay what was building in the back of his mind. Then he came to the section for Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, which stood at the roadside about sixty yards away.

“Holy crap, I don’t believe this!”

He braked hard and pulled to the shoulder, using a large rock formation and group of pine trees for cover. There, in the lot with the tour bus, the cars and pickups, was a marked state police unit with its hood up.

A trooper was looking at the engine.

That’s gotta be him.

Four civilians were next to him.

Mattise reached under his passenger seat for his binoculars, raised them to his eyes and adjusted them. The trooper was the first face that came into view. Mattise scrutinized the mouth, the chin, the sunglasses.