Rick Mofina - Every Second

Is that Ghorbani? Damn, it can’t be him!

Mattise steadied the binoculars and focused on the other men one by one, checking them against the images on his phone.

His stomach knotted. It’s them.

The view went dark for several seconds as a car passed by on a long angle, blocking Mattise’s view. Then he saw the men walk into the diner with their backpacks. He took the tour bus and other vehicles into consideration. His breathing quickened as he sent his dispatcher a secure text.

Five suspects sighted at Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, on Red Hawk Way, Mile 35. Request SWAT and backup to secure building ASAP. Potential hostage situation. Maintain radio silence.

The dispatcher acknowledged.

Mattise knew Columbia County’s SWAT team and Ulster County’s Emergency Response Team were near.

A moment later the dispatcher alerted all law enforcement involved in the search of a report that the suspects had been sighted, followed with the location and an advisory for marked units to stay clear of the hot zone.

Mattise’s cell phone rang.

“This is Billich,” his lieutenant said. “You’re certain you’ve sighted the suspects? All five of them, Larry?”

Mattise sat a little straighter.

“Yes, sir, pretty certain.”

“Pretty certain? Listen up. We’ve just received a report that the two hostages, the mother and the son, have been rescued on the Bearfoot River in Fox Ridge. We’re concentrating our SWAT people in that sector, so if you think we need to divert resources, you’d better be more than ‘pretty certain,’ do you hear me?”

Mattise understood there’d be hell to pay if he was wrong here, but his gut told him he was doing the right thing.

“I swear to you, sir, it’s them.”

Coyote Mountains, New York

Reggie Hunter popped some breath mints in his mouth.

It’d been sixteen years since he’d quit, but he’d kill for a smoke right now as he gazed down at Jenny’s from the SWAT command post.

Two weeks from retirement and wouldn’t you know it, fate dropped this beauty in his lap. Hunter led Columbia County’s special ops section, but in thirty years of law enforcement he’d never seen anything like this.

They had a count of fifty, maybe sixty potential hostages in the diner.

Lord, help us.

Luck had put his SWAT team and Ulster County’s Emergency Response Team within four miles of the building when the call came in. They’d moved fast and undetected by those in the diner to get deputies and troopers to block the highway and seal the area.

Nothing went in or out as SWAT people took positions.

They had hunkered unseen near the restaurant’s windows and strategic locations around the building. Snipers took up points out of sight in the woods, or from behind parked cars, trucks and the tour bus.

Peering inside the diner with high-powered telescopes, they made visual identities of the five suspects and whispered updates over their headsets to Hunter at the command post. His phone vibrated nonstop with calls from the state police, FBI, ATF and Homeland people demanding status reports.

Critical new information came in from Massachusetts, arising from the FBI’s investigation of Ghorbani’s residence in Springfield. A lease had led them to a rural property where they’d found Ghorbani’s Chevy, photos of a decommissioned New York State Police vehicle-the car parked at the diner-and trace evidence indicating Ghorbani had manufactured several IEDs.

Hunter got a new call from his captain.

“Reg, we’re getting leaned on from Albany and Washington. These guys attempted to murder a family and are behind an impending attack. You’re authorized to take them out the first opportunity you have.”

“Doug, we’ve got a lot of innocent people here.”

“Do whatever you have to do to terminate the threat, Reg. No one leaves that parking lot until it’s done.”

Tension had numbed Hunter’s neck and shoulders. He resumed crunching on his mints, time ticking down as he ran through his scenarios.

Storming the building would cost many lives. Calling in to negotiate would prompt the suspects to take hostages and that would also cost lives. Lives were at stake with every turn. One option was for SWAT snipers to pick off each suspect once all five exited the diner.

“Devon? Bobby?” Hunter whispered to his squad leaders. “Do we have a lock on each target, clear to take the shot?”

“We do, Reg.”

“Affirmative, Reg.”

“All right, this is what-”

“Heads up!” Devon Sorrell interrupted. “Major activity! People are leaving! Stand by!”

“Wait until all five are out!” Hunter said. “Watch their hands-they’ve got IEDs! When all five are out, you have a green light.”

Ghorbani and the driver led the passengers as they began flowing from the diner into the parking lot.

Jerricko and the others were behind him, mixed in with the other passengers.

Once the bus got to Red Hawk’s intersection with the state road, Ghorbani would inform troopers there that it had been searched and cleared at Birch Creek and was leaving the area.

It’s going to-

Ghorbani froze. A boot and camouflage pants reflected in the door of a polished pickup truck. For a moment, Ghorbani couldn’t believe or understand what he was seeing. As more people streamed from the diner, it suddenly became crystalline.

Police SWAT!

“Police! This is it! God calls now! Detonate now! Detonate now !” Ghorbani yelled to the others as he slid his arm around the surprised driver’s neck and placed his gun to his head. In that instant, the air cracked and Ghorbani dropped dead to the ground before he could pull the trigger. A police sniper’s bullet had ripped through his brain.

In that moment, with nearly all passengers outside, one of the suspects, upon seeing Ghorbani die, hooked his arm around Trevor Williamson, a seven-year-old boy from Ottawa, Canada, who was on vacation with his mom. The suspect was wearing his bomb-laden backpack. His fingers gripped the detonation cord as a police bullet tore through his neck, while another drove through his frontal lobe, killing him.

“Police! Everyone on the ground now! Now! Now! Get down!”

With the yelling and gunfire, conversations stopped, smiles faded into confusion with shouting and screaming. Some people tried to run and bumped into others.

While on his knees a suspect lifted his backpack to heaven and as he reached for the cord police fired upon him, bullets drilling through his head and chest, killing him.

“Get down! Everybody down!”

Passengers lowered themselves, huddled on their knees, hugged and comforted each other; some people panicked and ran while another suspect eyed a cluster of SWAT members behind a car, and at the side of the tour bus, slid on his backpack, rushing with blinding speed toward them, his finger’s grappling the detonation cord. His body was hammered by shots as he yelled: “Glory to God!” charging them, swinging between parked cars and the bus, yanking the detonation cord.

A blinding flash of light. The air spasmed.

Boom!

The shock wave lifted the cars, shattered glass and whip-sprayed bloodied visceral matter in all directions. The blast ignited small fires around the twisted cars and bus, which had absorbed much of the explosion.

People screamed, cried out.

It was hard to tell if they were injured from the bomb, or in shock after being splattered with blood. In the chaos, some people tried to run as SWAT team members and other officers swooped in from all directions, forcing everyone to freeze. They pinpointed the fifth suspect, who was uninjured, handcuffed him at gunpoint, then took him away.