From the Indie Side (42 page)

“You’ve hedged against the market,” he said.
“You’re bringing Wall Street down so you can collect on
options!”

With his teeth gritted, the terrorist lashed
out with his left hand, thumping Kareem just above his sternum,
forcing him back. He flexed his fingers around the pistol grip,
tightening his hold on the gun, ready to fire.

“You won’t get away with this,” Kareem added.
“Oh, sure, we might bomb the wrong country for a while, but
eventually, someone will figure out what really happened. They’ll
follow the money trail.”

“Shut up,” the angry man barked. “You talk
too much.”

The bomber hadn’t denied the motive. Kareem
might not have figured out all the details, but he had to be
close.

Kareem was surprised by how calm he was even
after the bomber had pushed him. That physical act undermined the
terrorist’s threat of force. Pushing Kareem was all he could do. So
long as the bomber thought Kareem had some inside knowledge, he was
safe. There was a danger Kareem could push him too far, but Kareem
remembered all of this. The words might have escaped him, but he’d
expected that thump to the chest. And he knew what was coming
next.

The bomber’s eyes darted back and forth
nervously between Kareem and the storage area. Clearly, he expected
SWAT or someone else to come charging out at him.

“What’s to stop me from killing you? What’s
to stop me from splattering the back wall with your brains?”

And this was it. This was the moment Kareem
had been waiting for. Everything aligned. The slight tilt of the
bomber’s face, the crates in the background, the angle of the gun.
He could picture this moment in his head. Kareem articulated one
word slowly, enunciating carefully and timing his word
perfectly.

“Sweat.”

“Wh—”

A drop of sweat rolled into the bomber’s
right eye and he flinched, squinting. In that fraction of a second,
Kareem darted to one side. He struck the terrorist in the center of
his chest with both hands, stepping forward as he did so and
knocking the bomber to the ground.

A shot rang out. 

Kareem bolted behind an emergency generator
as a second shot struck the sheet metal behind him.

The vast storage room stretched the entire
length of the floor. From what Kareem could tell, it had been used
to house old NYPD equipment for decades. There were stacks of dusty
riot shields, batons, and helmets on the shelves.

Another shot. Splinters of wood exploded from
the edge of a crate beside Kareem. He weaved, ducking between the
crates. After no more than ten feet, he dropped to the ground and
rolled into another aisle.

“You can’t run,” the terrorist yelled.

Kareem grabbed a riot baton from one of the
shelves. It was no match for a gun, but Kareem already knew he
wasn’t going to use it offensively. He remembered an occasion where
it would be useful. 

Rather than cutting through the storage area,
Kareem doubled back, wanting to outwit the bomber.

One of the claymore mines was seated in front
of a ventilation duct running from an AC unit up into the roof. The
vent had to be an intake. Rather than pulling the fuses, Kareem
repositioned the claymore, placing it on the other side of the duct
and turning it to face the other direction.

He caught a glimpse of the terrorist moving
down an adjacent aisle, so he tossed the baton into a pile of
jackets at the end of the row. The baton landed with a soft thud in
the heavy material. The bomber took the bait, creeping farther down
the aisle past Kareem.

“I will find you,” the bomber yelled.

Little did the terrorist know, Kareem was
relying on the man’s ego to give away his position. By getting him
talking, Kareem didn’t have to watch for him. He knew roughly where
he was by sound.

Kareem crept across the central aisle where
the terrorist had first confronted him. He found the second
claymore by the elevator. Again, he turned it around, facing it
away from the cleaning supplies, toward the back of the floor.

His memory faded.

Whereas moments before his thoughts been
clear, now he struggled to recall the next sequence of events.
Cursing himself quietly, Kareem turned and crouched, wanting to
creep away behind a stripped-down generator that had been
cannibalized for parts. He could feel his jacket pocket catch on
something heavy. He tried to stop, grabbing at his side, but it was
too late: he’d dragged a wrench free. He managed to get his hand to
the wrench as it struck the concrete, preventing it from clanging
against the floor, but even the soft crunch had been enough to give
away his location.

Bullets peppered the stainless steel around
the elevator doors, slowly walking down toward Kareem. He darted
behind a wooden crate full of police barricade signs.

“Not smart. Not smart,” he repeated to
himself.

He started to creep away from beside the
elevator when a chunk of wood exploded from the edge of the crate,
not more than an inch from his eye. The bomber had him pinned down.
Out of frustration, Kareem lobbed the wrench in the general
direction of the gunshots.

“Like a cat with a mouse,” the terrorist
laughed.

Kareem heard a gun magazine drop to the
concrete not more than ten feet away. His heart pounded in his
chest, and yet deep down he knew he would make it to the roof. He
escaped from here, he was sure of that, even if he didn’t remember
the specifics of how. Knowing that, though, didn’t make it any
easier.

The metal door at the far end of the room
burst open. SWAT police stormed the aisles containing the cleaning
equipment.

“Put your gun down,” came the cry from the
far racks.

The bomber dropped his gun. Smart move,
thought Kareem. He was acting compliant, luring the police into his
trap.

Slowly, the bomber stepped backward, away
from the SWAT team, holding the trigger detonator high above his
head. He was laughing, ignoring the cries from the police.

“Get down on the ground!”

“Don’t do anything stupid!”

“Put down the detonator!”

“Oh,” the bomber replied arrogantly, still
backing up. “You want this? You want my little toy?”

“Stay where you are,” one of the police
officers cried.

Kareem stayed out of sight. He pushed his
back hard against the wooden crate, pressing his palms over his
ears and squeezing tight.

Standing well back, the bomber triggered the
claymores, only the mix of explosive gases and superheated ball
bearings no longer faced the door. Almost fifteen hundred tiny
steel balls cut through the air toward the bomber, ripping him to
shreds, leaving little more than a red mist floating where a human
had once stood. Traveling at upwards of four-thousand feet per
second, they peppered the rear of the floor, tearing wooden crates
into kindling.

In the confined space of the upper floor, the
strength of the compression blast shocked Kareem. He’d known it was
coming, but being below the blast wave, pressed up against a crate,
he hadn’t expected the thump in the air to be so violent. The
pressure wave rocked his body, shaking his bones and resonating
through his chest. Dirt and dust billowed through the air. The
smell of burnt metal scorched his nostrils. From the far end of the
floor, police officers cried out. Several of the shelves had
collapsed, pinning a couple of the SWAT team.

Kareem’s ears were ringing. Even with his
hands pressed over them, the sudden pressure change and blistering
crack of thunder had caused his ears to pop. He got to his feet and
made for the stairs beside the elevator. Someone yelled out to him,
but he couldn’t make out any distinct words.

The air inside the maintenance shaft running
up next to the elevator smelled of oil and grease, but it was a
welcome relief from the smoke. Jogging up the stairs, Kareem
thought about the bomb. He’d seen it from afar, he remembered that.
He could see the numbers whipping down toward zero, but he couldn’t
distinguish individual numbers. Beyond that, he drew a blank. If he
had a moment to clear his head, he thought he could probably
remember more detail, but there was no time.

Kareem crashed through the final door,
staggering out into the late afternoon sun. The wind whipped across
the rooftop, surprising him with a sudden chill. A blue helicopter
sat on the helipad. The cockpit was empty. There were none of the
normal police markings he’d expect. This was a civilian chopper. It
had to be their primary means of escape. The helicopter’s rotor
blades turned slowly. The pitch of the engine was low, idling in
the autumn cold.

The sun cast long shadows over the roof.

In the distance, Kareem could hear another
helicopter approaching the building.

The helipad was raised slightly above the
roof, having been built on top of the existing structure. A network
of struts and beams supported it. And through the dark shadows
beneath it, Kareem could see the second bomber. He was on the far
side of the helipad with the bomb.

Kareem began picking his way around the
helipad, coming to within twenty feet of the bomber, when suddenly
it dawned on him. This is what he’d seen. This was the view he
remembered. He didn’t remember anything beyond this point.
Throughout the day, he’d had crisp, clear memories, even if
sometimes they were disjointed, but this was the last one. Beyond
this point, there was nothing. Why would his mind betray him from
here? What had changed? Was this the end? Was he going to die?
Kareem wanted to remember something, anything, just a glimpse of
tomorrow, or even of later tonight, but his memory was blank.

The sun was setting. A chill descended. The
vapor coming from his breath faded before him like his
memories. 

Just wait it out, he thought. Wait for the
SWAT team. Don’t die a hero. A foreboding sense of emptiness swept
over him. He’d come all this way. He’d gone through so much. He
couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He had to make a decision.

“It’s over,” he called out, walking toward
the terrorist. His boots crunched on the loose gravel scattered
across the rooftop. At the very least, he could buy the SWAT team
some time. “You’re not a suicide bomber. You’re not going to
detonate that bomb while you’re still standing here. It’s finished.
You lost.”

“Really?” the bomber said, with his back
still turned.

“You think you know what I’ll do,” the bomber
said calmly, turning slowly toward him. “And what makes you think
that, Kareem?”

For the first time, Kareem got a glimpse of
the second bomber. He hadn’t recognized him in the artist sketches,
he’d missed seeing him at the museum, and down below, he’d never
seen his face. But here stood his twin brother, Ahmed. Kareem felt
his blood run cold.

“What were you doing at the museum?” his
brother asked, holding a revolver limp by his side. “Who told you
we would be there? How did you find out about the attack?”

Kareem was speechless. He and Ahmed were
fraternal twins, and so didn’t look identical. Ahmed had always
been physically bigger and more athletic. Kareem had been quiet,
Ahmed outspoken. Kareem had been bullied at school, Ahmed was the
bully.

Kareem’s earliest memory was of his brother
stealing his pocket money for candy at the elementary school
cafeteria. Ahmed had laughed about it, which hurt more than the
humiliation of being pushed to the ground in front of his friends.
Ahmed said he’d break Kareem’s arms if he told their father, and
Kareem was sure he would. In high school, they barely crossed
paths, but when they did, sparks would fly. Kareem found his
brother to be overly arrogant. Ahmed said the same thing about
Kareem.

Kareem went to college, while Ahmed drifted
through jobs, never settling on a trade. On those rare occasions
when they gathered as a family, there was nothing to talk about.
Two strangers on a train had more in common.

“Yes, I saw you, little brother,” Ahmed said.
“I should have let Karl shoot you back then, but you surprised
me.”

Ahmed cocked the revolver. The gun still hung
by his side, but his intention was clear.

Kareem’s eyes darted to the bomb. The timer
wasn’t counting down at all; it was flicking between seemingly
random number sequences.

1645387

7956321

6645328

11213131

4933023

“You like that?” Ahmed asked. “Yeah, that
should keep the bomb squad guessing.”

“It’s fake,” Kareem said, knowing how such a
bluff would appeal to Ahmed.

“Of course, but they won’t know that. By the
time they figure that out, little brother, BOOM!”

“But you can’t escape,” Kareem said as a
police helicopter began circling the roof.

“Death is an escape. I won’t let them take me
alive. If I am to die, then New York dies with me.”

“It doesn’t have to end like this,” Kareem
pleaded, but Ahmed raised the revolver, pointing it square at his
brother’s chest.

“Oh, it does,” Ahmed cried. “You were always
so sure of yourself, so confident, so smart. Well, not this time.
It’s not about you anymore. This time it’s about me, it’s about
what
I
want, and if I can’t have what I want, then we all
die.”

“Put down the gun,” came the cry over the
bullhorn on the police helicopter. Ahmed turned his attention to
the chopper, firing madly at a police sniper strapped into the side
of the airframe. He must have hit someone on board as the
helicopter dropped out of sight, darting below roof level.

Kareem rushed at Ahmed, crash-tackling him
into the pallet of what looked like bags of concrete powder that
somehow made up the bomb. Whether they were full of explosives or
packed with radioactive material he wasn’t sure, but he knocked the
gun from his brother’s grasp.