From the Indie Side (41 page)

“It’s hazy. I remember, then I forget. Ha! I
remember
that
I remembered, but I can’t remember
what
I remembered. God, it’s so frustrating.”

“Take it easy,” she said, resting her hand on
his chest. Her fingers were gentle. Her voice was soft.

Kareem closed his eyes. His head
throbbed.

“My memory’s a blur. There’s a bomb. There’s
guns going off. There’s blood everywhere. There’s a digital
display, it’s counting down to zero, I think, but not in minutes,
not even seconds. I remember being surprised by the counter as it’s
simply counting down from some massive number, racing down toward
zero.”

“Does it get there?”

Kareem opened his eyes, saying, “I don’t
know.”

“Well, no sense wasting time.”

Deb started up the stairs. Her boots struck a
steady rhythm, crunching on the dust and debris that had gathered
on the rough, concrete stairs over the years. Out of habit, she
stuck to the inside of the stairs, taking the path of first
responders, leaving room for anyone fleeing from above to come
around the outside.

Kareem followed her. She set a good pace,
forcing him to keep up. The physical exertion of winding back and
forth between the landings gave him something to concentrate on,
allowing him to forget for a moment. His heartbeat raced. Kareem
regulated his breathing, pacing himself behind her.

Black numbers on the insides of the various
fire doors indicated the floors laboriously falling behind and
below them.

“Feel that burn?” Deb asked as they passed
the tenth floor.

“Yeah,” Kareem replied between breaths.

“Gotta love those thighs.”

Kareem was silent.

Deb added, “Gonna hurt tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow. What a novel concept, he thought.
The idea of waking up in the morning and seeing a new day rising
seemed foreign, as though he’d only ever lived for a single day. In
his mind, today was all there was. Time began and ended today.

The sound of boots drifted down from above.
Kareem pulled his cap lower, setting it just off his ears. He moved
in close behind Deb. For her part, Deb straightened. She was
shielding him, obscuring him from sight.

Two black-clad members of the SWAT team
jogged down the stairs toward them. They were talking casually with
each other. MP5 machine guns hung on canvas straps running over
each shoulder. They met Deb and Kareem between landings on the
stairs.

“What are you two doing in here?” the lead
officer asked.

“We’ve been called up to fifteen,” Deb said,
lying with an ease and confidence that convinced Kareem. She
sounded cheery.

As they’d stopped climbing the stairs, Kareem
leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and sucking in air.
On one hand, his heavy breathing was a bluff as he sought to hide
his face. On the other, he was struggling under the weight of the
medical pack on his back.

“Okay,” the officer replied. “Tactical has
cleared seventeen. They’re sweeping eighteen. Make sure you stay
below them. Understood?”

Deb nodded as the officer continued past
them.

The second SWAT officer stopped beside
Kareem. He rested his hand on Kareem’s shoulder, saying, “Fucking
terrorists, huh! Force us up the stairs. What bastards! Would have
been nice to use the elevators, huh?”

Kareem was shaking. Somehow he forced out a
fake laugh, saying, “Yeah.”

Kareem kept his head down, not wanting to
make eye contact. The SWAT officer patted him on the shoulder and
then continued on after the lead officer.

Deb turned and looked at Kareem. Her eyes
were wide with terror. Neither of them said anything. They
continued up the stairs, quickening their pace.

“Shhh,” Kareem whispered, raising his index
finger to cover his mouth.

“I see him,” Deb whispered in reply, peeking
between the rows of metal shelving and ducting in the upper storage
floor.

Kareem pointed. Two police uniforms hung
neatly on hangers to one side.

“Plan A must have been to blend in as they
escaped,” he whispered.

“So what’s plan B?”

Kareem shrugged. At least one of them was a
police officer, Kareem was sure of it, but he didn’t know why he
was so sure. The second bomber was an enigma. In his fleeting
memories, he’d never caught a glimpse of the second bomber, and
that worried him. He had no way of knowing who the second bomber
was. Given that the first bomber was dressed like a police forensic
officer, with dark blue coveralls, his accomplice was probably
wearing something similar. But that was a dangerous assumption, and
Kareem knew it. The second bomber could be dressed like a member of
the SWAT team for all he knew.

Kareem scanned the shelves. This particular
side of the broad maintenance room must have been used by the
janitors. He picked up a plastic bottle containing bleach. From the
weight, it felt almost full.

“What are you doing?” Deb asked in a
whisper.

“Whatever happens, we can’t let these guys
escape. Let’s put a dent in at least one of their plans.”

Quietly, Kareem unscrewed the cap and poured
bleach over the uniforms, dousing the garments. Bleach dripped on
the floor. The pungent smell filled the air. Kareem poured bleach
into two sets of polished black shoes, soaking them before screwing
the lid back on and putting the bottle back.

“Is that it?” Deb asked, pointing at what
looked like bags of cement stacked high on a wooden pallet at the
far end of the floor. The bomber was wiring something to the base
of the pallet.

Kareem nodded.

“Hurry,” a voice said from a maintenance
elevator off to one side. “We’ve got to get this thing set and get
out of here.”

From where Kareem and Deb were behind the
storage shelves, the elevator was out of sight. The bomber slipped
a pallet jack under the bomb, raising it up so he could wheel it
into the elevator. He wiped his forehead with a rag, then stuffed
it into his back pocket. Kareem could see a handgun tucked into his
jeans, its pistol grip visible against the small of his back.

“One last surprise for SWAT and I’ll join you
on the roof,” the bomber said to his accomplice. The doors closed
and the elevator whirred to life.

Kareem turned to Deb, whispering, “Listen.
The police are thinking too small. They’re focusing on a
floor-by-floor search, thinking the target is this building, but
it’s not. It’s the city as a whole. They’ll never get here in time.
The terrorists are taking the bomb to the roof so they can get the
broadest coverage with the prevailing winds.

“I know you want to help, but right now the
help I need is in the form of a gun. Go back downstairs. Find the
SWAT team. Tell them what you’ve seen. Tell them we need aerial
coverage because the bomb is on the roof.”

“Got it,” Deb said. She crept to the door and
turned the handle quietly before slipping back into hallway leading
to the stairwell.

Kareem turned, anxious to keep his eyes on
the terrorist, not sure what he should do next. His memories were
disjointed. Thoughts flashed through his mind out of sequence,
confusing him. His elbow clipped a can of air freshener on one of
the shelves and the can rocked. His fingers grabbed at the silver
metal, but he was clumsy. His glancing fingers pushed the can over.
As it tumbled through the air, he reached out, trying in vain to
grab at the can, but the metal cylinder struck the concrete floor
and bounced, skidding noisily across the ground.

“Who’s there?” the bomber asked, calling out
into the vast room.

Peering between the shelves, Kareem could see
the man had drawn his gun and was screwing a long black silencer
onto the end of the barrel.

“Step out into the open.”

Kareem looked around, trying to find
something he could use as a weapon. There were mops, brooms, metal
dustpans, buckets.

Three shots rang out, sounding like handclaps
in the echo of the room. A bullet struck a bottle of cleaning fluid
beside him and green liquid seeped from the hole in the plastic.
Two feet to the left and it would have been blood dripping, not
antibacterial soap.

Kareem dove for the door. One of the shots
had struck the lock. The bullet must have clipped the keyhole,
denting a corner of the faceplate as it plunged deep into the lock.
Kareem pulled at the handle, but the door was stuck. He shook the
door handle, trying to pry the door open.

“Show yourself,” the voice cried as two more
rounds struck the wall next to Kareem. A third tore through the
front of his jacket, barely an inch from his chest.

“I’m unarmed,” Kareem yelled, realizing he
was out of options. “Don’t shoot! I’m a paramedic.”

He walked out with his hands raised above his
shoulders. Thankfully, he was still wearing the paramedic’s jacket
Deb had given him, with its Hippocratic symbol over the left
breast: two snakes entwined around a staff, reaching up toward two
wings open in flight. The white emblem was easily visible on the
navy blue jacket and was universally recognized as a symbol of
medical assistance. Kareem hoped it was convincing and bought him
some time.

As he turned the corner and caught his first
good glimpse of the bomber, he had a flashback. He remembered this.
He remembered it like it had happened yesterday. Kareem knew
precisely what would happen next, and that was confusing, as there
were large gaps in his memory, times where he couldn’t remember
anything at all. But this he remembered like his favorite
movie.

The bomber waved with the gun, signaling for
him to step out further.

“Who else is back there?” the terrorist
cried.

“There’s no one,” Kareem replied calmly.
“Just me.”

Sweat dripped from the bomber’s face, beading
on his forehead and running down the sides of his dark cheeks. He
had a gun in one hand and a bomb trigger in the other, but Kareem
knew what this trigger was for. This wasn’t the detonator for the
main bomb. This was for a bunch of claymore mines facing in his
direction.

“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill all
of you,” the man said, apparently not believing Kareem was
alone.

“No,” Kareem replied. “No you’re not. In a
little under five minutes, you’ll be dead.”

“What?”

The terrorist’s right arm straightened,
pointing a 9mm Glock at Kareem. The bomber peered down the barrel
of the gun, lining up a shot at Kareem’s heart, but Kareem wasn’t
afraid. He knew what happened next. He spoke with calm
deliberation.

“I’m not scared of you.”

The terrorist raised the bomb trigger in his
left hand. White knuckles gripped the thin handle of the radio
control. His thumb arched over a blue button.

“You’re bluffing,” Kareem said. “You’re too
close. You’re in the blast zone.”

The terrorist seemed flustered, frustrated.
He stepped back slightly, but not enough to clear the blast radius.
The bomber kept his gun on Kareem, but he didn’t fire. Kareem knew
he wouldn’t. He was confused. Kareem didn’t fit his plan, and his
uncertainty led to inaction.

“Why did you do it?” Kareem asked calmly,
walking forward with his hands outstretched so as to appear
unarmed. “For love or for money?”

That was the strange thing about Kareem’s
memory. He remembered events. He remembered actions, but not
words.

“I remember you,” the terrorist replied,
ignoring Kareem’s question. “You were there at the museum.”

His eyes narrowed, sizing up Kareem. He was
probably trying to figure out whether Kareem had a concealed
weapon. With a slow, deliberate motion, Kareem widened his hands,
allowing the jacket to fall open, exposing his midriff and hips so
the bomber could see there was no gun.

“Turn around,” the terrorist demanded.

Kareem raised his hands as he turned, lifting
the jacket. He could feel the hem just above the small of his back.
Everything was unfolding precisely as he remembered it. As he
completed his turn, he made eye contact with the bomber.

Kareem couldn’t articulate how he knew the
answer to the question he’d asked, but there was something in the
bomber’s demeanor. He’d expected self-righteous disdain, but the
bomber was curious. That didn’t fit with religious extremism.

“Money?” Kareem replied, answering his own
question. “Huh. I wouldn’t have figured that. I was sure this was
ideologically motivated. I had you guys for religious zealots, but
that’s not it, is it?”

The bomber snarled, still ignoring Kareem.
His boldness was growing. He marched forward, turning his gun
sideways as he raised it up level with the center of Kareem’s
head.

“Who told you we would be at the museum? How
did you know the time?”

“But how could you make money from this?”
Kareem mused, the barrel of the gun just inches from his forehead.
“There’s no ransom, no extortion.”

The muscles on the bomber’s forearm flexed,
and veins bulged in his neck as he shouted at Kareem.

“Tell me! I swear, I will blow your goddamn
brains across the floor! How did you know we would be at the
museum? How did you know we would be here? Who ratted us out?”

“It’s the stock market, isn’t it?” Kareem
replied calmly, in a stark contrast to the rage of the bomber. The
terrorist was shaking with anger. His finger flexed on the trigger
of the bomb, but Kareem was at peace. He knew precisely what would
happen, and when.

The bomber kept the gun trained on Kareem,
wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand. He was shaking.
Kareem had unnerved him. Kareem knew the bomber wanted to kill him,
but couldn’t. He had to find out how Kareem had tracked them
between two entirely different bomb sites. Kareem knew he’d never
believe him; besides, Kareem was waiting for one event, something
he remembered with crystal-clear clarity.