...and Justice for All

By J.C. Hone

Detective Max Bodey hunts down an ISIS sleeper cell that has gone operational in Los Angeles.

The trail of death and destruction is ramping up to surpass the attacks perpetrated on 9/11.

There is a fine line between the law and justice. Backed into a corner, Max is forced to choose between the two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543956047

Book preview

67

Chapter 1

Struggling to recite the salah, learned from the Quran, his mind wondered. Eyes closed, he appeared to be mediating, but in reality, he was visualizing.

Visualizing the deaths of thousands.

He smiled; he alone would be responsible for the chaos not witnessed since 9/11.

Five times a day, kneeling on his prayer rug, facing Mecca, all he could think about was destroying the great Satan – America. He despised their way of life and all that it stood for.

Soon, his handler would turn him loose to strike fear into their hearts – and strike he would.

He couldn’t wait.

Chapter 2

As planned, Mohammed Al-Razi, originally from Islamabad, Pakistan overstayed his student visa. He had no desire to attend classes or obtain a degree. He was put here for only one reason: recruit other loyal followers who would wage Jihad on America.

The sleeper cell leader had to be ready to act the moment the order was given. It turned out that he’d have to wait three and a half years.

It amused him that no one from the INS ever checked up on him. They had all his information. They must have been too busy trying to secure the southern border with Mexico, another failed program.

Initially, getting him into the country proved to be easier than they had first thought. A large contribution funneled through a straw corporation to the last Secretary of States Foundation was a good first step. Leveraging their contacts to pressure alumni members to vouch for their recruit turned out to be the tricky part.

Greasing the Alumni Association for their beloved Trojan football program was the ultimate maneuver. It worked like a charm on the liberal trusting fools. Money seemed to solve all problems when it came to greedy Americans.

The most difficult part for Mohammed himself was blending into American society. The hatred he felt toward these infidels and their western ways were hard to overcome. It required great acting skills on his part as well as the ability to blend into his surroundings, like a chameleon.

As a childhood recruit, Mohammed joined other brainwashed youths who would someday be inserted into the United States to be the tip of the spear.

The cave that acted as their terrorist classroom was hidden from prying eyes and provided a safety shield against drone strikes.

To hone their English skills, the children would watch old World War II movies. Patton was one of his personal favorites.

Only in America would a famous general be made to apologize for slapping a cowardly soldier. If it had been Mohammed, he would have used one of Patton’s matched set of chrome plated 45’s and blown the blubbering fool’s head off.

Keenly aware of his appearance, Mohammed selected his clothes carefully. At five foot ten, 175 pounds, he was lean and muscular, like a greyhound dog ready to run a race. He’d always had the look of someone who’d led a tough life. To soften that hard look, he dressed in stylish clothing, highlighted his hair a chestnut brown, and wore non-prescription glasses with a rose-colored tint. If he had dressed that way back home, his fellow Jihadists would have thrown him off a rooftop.

His glasses served a dual purpose. The first was to disguise his appearance from witnesses at a distance. The second was to shield his eyes from people who got up too close. Mohammed’s killer shark eyes were piercing black and they could look right through you. Colored lenses masked the darkness and intensity of his eyes.

Each day, Mohammed wore different baseball caps depending on his location and situation. He favored his Green Energy logo cap while prowling the campus, a Dodgers logo cap for his side-job working with the mentally challenged, and a beat-up Make America Great Again hat in the glovebox of his Jeep for bars or when he was forced to mix with rednecks.

Earbuds hung from both ears by small wires, completing the look he was going for. Pretending to listen to music, he would gently rock his head from side to side, performing subtle dance moves as he walked. It was actually a ploy so he would not have to speak with people he chose to avoid.

Mohammed’s intentional metrosexual look made fitting in easier. If anyone asked, he was a transplant from Persia. Americans didn’t know Persia from Peru but they always believed him without question. Why wouldn’t they?

Taking what his handler had told him about his name to heart, he went by Mo now. To Americans, Mohammed was no better than Osama. It brought way too much attention on him. He told himself that the profit would not be offended. The end justified the means – always.

Mo was simply a shortened version of Mohammed. The best lies were simple and easy to remember. Mo Al-Razi – it would have to do until he was out of this godforsaken country. Each time someone said it, even though it left a bitter taste in his mouth, it helped to fuel his hatred against America.

His handler spoke at length with him on their cell phone conversations on the importance of fitting in. Keep your hair cut short, do not grow a beard, and change the way you dress. Our success depends on it.

If it made him look like a Muslim in any way, he was told to do the exact opposite.

With the passing of time, Mohammed’s pleas became more and more frequent. Why must we wait? We are ready now! He was tired of waiting, he wanted to start killing Americans.

The answer was always the same. His handler, with his harsh voice and curt tone would respond, I will tell you when. Be patient and do as I say! Coordinated preparation takes time. Always remember – revenge is best served cold.

Yes, Uncle. They had agreed to call Mohammed’s handler Uncle in case any of their conversations were accidentally picked up by the CIA or local wire taps. They always spoke in code to disguise their real meaning of their conversations. Key words related to terrorist chatter needed to be avoided at all cost.

It wouldn’t be long now. The explosives they needed had finally been acquired by burglarizing a National Guard Armory two states away. The other equipment had been moved to the safe house and was ready to deploy. All they needed now was someone capable of assembling the explosives.

Were you able to recruit a woman yet? You know how helpful that could be for us.

Not yet, Uncle. I am still trying, Mohammed lied. Talking to American women proved much too difficult for him. The whores with their revealing clothing and made-up faces repulsed Mohammed to no end. Besides, after three long years at his side job, he had all the suicide bombers he needed.

His handler remained insistent. Keep trying. The time is near and we must be ready.

As you wish, Uncle. I must go. Someone is calling on the other line, Mohammed lied to his handler yet again. The waiting was starting to drive him nuts and he did not want to appear disrespectful on the phone. Each passing day caused his rage against the infidels to grow exponentially.

Sometimes weeks would go by without hearing a word from his Uncle. Mohammed took that as a good sign that final preparations were being made. All he could do was continue to pray for the destruction of America.

He was strictly forbidden to attend or associate with Muslims at his local Mosque. So, he prayed in secret – alone. Hiding his faith from the infidels was the most humiliating part. Mohammed was proud to be a Muslim. He also knew the importance of keeping that secret for a little while longer.

The rug he used to kneel on remained concealed under the bed in his apartment. He prayed to Allah that his revenge would make all the sacrifices worthwhile.

ISIS saw great potential in Mohammed. They promised him safe passage to a friendly country when it was all over. Normally they would consider him expendable, but they wanted him to survive. They needed people who could get the job done.

When the attacks were over, he would be the most wanted man in America. Trying to remain positive and keep his mind in the game took all of his energy. He reminded himself that General Patton said, No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.

Chapter 3

Attending the University of Southern California, he found converting the infidels toward his way of thinking surprisingly easy. Many would talk the talk, but finding those serious enough to join his team of assassins had taken him the better part of three years – well within the timelines he was given.

At USC, many students believed in the past administration’s policies of Hope and Change but when that mantra died, the results spoke for themselves.

The government failed to produce good paying jobs, as promised. Many students cringed as tuition and health insurance premiums skyrocketed, and when food and gasoline prices followed suit, the spoiled, naïve trojans practically lined up to follow him. He could have recruited a small army, but for this operation a small team of devoted followers would be much more effective.

Proud of his five recruits, they came from all walks of life. Four were foreign exchange students like himself on academic scholarships. They called Algeria, Bahrain, Egypt, and Libya their home. His domestic radical – a privileged, rich kid from Beverly Hills – was still on the fence, but Mohammed was sure he could be persuaded when the time came.

As the leader of this small band of assassins, Mohammed met his recruits in two carefully chosen areas on campus: political science classrooms, where unconventional professors almost did his job for him; and study halls, where discussions were never-ending and free-flowing.

In new group situations, Mohammed always sat back and listened more than he spoke. You could learn a lot from the comments people made or the positions they took during political discussions. He waited until he was sure before inviting a new member into the group.

After some in-depth radicalization techniques were utilized, they would beg him to join the Jihad. He knew that he had to choose carefully – the new President had pledged to re-fill Guantanamo Bay. He had no intention of being one of them.

His handler had also set him up with a part-time job. Working as a volunteer with the mentally challenged at a local board and care home would not have been is first choice, but he understood the rationale. He knew the big picture. He knew the end result.

Western Union bank drafts routed through the European Union, provided Mohammed with all the money he needed to get by. He wasn’t 100% sure who was paying him and his questions were ignored when he asked. It just showed up, regular as clockwork, deposited into his bank account, so he did what he was told.

Chapter 4

The repetitive chirping noise from one of his pre-paid cell phones woke Mohammed from a sound sleep. Scrambling to retrieve it from where it was hidden under the bed, he fumbled in the dark confused as to why his uncle would be calling him at this hour.

It had been almost a month since their last conversation. Mohammed hoped the ten-hour time difference between the Middle East and California meant that the call had to be urgent. Every time that phone rang, he prayed it would be the call he was waiting for.

Glancing over at his alarm clock, the blue neon numbers displayed 3:55 a.m. Rapidly slapping his cheeks, to bring himself back to the world of the living, he thumbed the talk button. Go for Mohammed.

His handler’s voice came over the small speaker. Initiate Operation Muslim Shield.

At first, he almost asked his handler to repeat himself. Those were the words he longed to hear. The time had finally arrived. He’d memorized the plan while attending an ISIS training camp in Syria almost five years ago. It was simple, straight forward, and would send shock waves of fear into the American population.

He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he acknowledged the order. Yes, Uncle. Is everything in place?

Of course. I would not have called you if it were not. Pay close attention, take down this number.

Ransacking his nightstand for a pencil and paper to write with, took longer than he would have liked. He had to sound prepared and ready for the next directive. Go ahead. I’m ready.

A local seven-digit number was slowly and painstakingly read off to him. He scribbled it down and waited for the rest of his instructions.

Memorize the number and destroy it immediately. You are only allowed one call to that number, so be sure that you ask for everything that your people will need. Once you have placed the order, the number will be disconnected. Pick up your supplies at the pre-arranged location. After that, the man and the location will cease to exist. You will be all on your own. Is that clear?

Yes, Uncle.

The phone connection terminated without warning. The game was on.

Getting to his feet, Mohammed turned on the overhead light in his bedroom. Closing his eyes, he thanked Allah for believing in him. He sat back down on the end of the bed before scrubbing both hands across the stubble on his face. He needed to ensure that he was fully awake and not just dreaming. Staring at the phone number, he recited it over and over in his head until he had committed it to memory.

Using a book of matches to light the scratch paper on fire, Mohammed let out a soft maniacal laugh to himself. As the flame flared in the palm of his hand, the smell of sulphur filled his nostrils. He felt no pain from the minimal flash burn. The realization that the time for action had come, deadened all his other senses and sent chills down his spine.

Mohammed flushed the ash remains down his toilet, just like they’d shown him in training camp. Unlike the Middle East, In America, the less evidence they have against you the better. Mohammed had to smile at the irony. If he were caught committing crimes in this country, he had rights. They would even provide him with an attorney for free. Pathetic fools.

Wide awake and deep in thought, he went over the shopping list in his head. It would be fairly short considering the level of destruction he was about to unleash on an unsuspecting population. Killing meant nothing to him. Killing innocent women and children meant even less. The more he thought about it, the happier he became.

Methodically he prepared his wish list:

Five large backpack bombs with remote triggers wired to the same cell phone number.

Six explosive suicide vests remotely triggered to a different single cell phone. Packed with enough ball bearings and nails to cause maximum damage in a very large crowded area.

Two high-powered rifles equipped with scopes capable of sighting a target five hundred yards away with two hundred rounds of rifle ammunition.

Six Glock handguns with two boxes of ammunition for each gun.

Everything else he could pick up on his own when the time came. Each sleeper cell worked independently from one another, that way if one was discovered, the others could still complete their missions.

Mohammed’s hand trembled as he reached for the phone to place his order. Allah-Akbar.

Chapter 5

It took an eternity for someone to pick up. Listening to the ringer, droning on and on caused Mohammed’s mind to race. What if something had already gone wrong? Perhaps his Uncle had given him a wrong number? Momentarily he started to panic, thinking he might be blamed for this communication failure.

Just as Mohammed was getting ready to disconnect the call, someone answered. The voice said, Speak slowly. Tell me exactly what you need.

The mystery man had a very thick Middle Eastern accent. It almost sounded like the guy was trying to disguise his voice by putting a rag over the mouthpiece.

Mohammed knew that he was being put in touch with the bomb maker assigned to his terror cell. This technician of death would construct the most lethal killing device he could imagine.

Listing his requirements, he took his time making sure that there would be no mistakes. If the explosive devices failed to detonate as planned his entire plan would be ruined.

After ordering the final item on his wish list, the silence lasted much too long.

When the mystery man finally did speak, it wasn’t what Mohammed had expected to hear. This will be difficult on such short notice.

The terrorist hissed at the bomb maker. It’s short notice for all of us. Get it done!

Mohammed’s reputation had proceeded him. The man knew if he failed to meet the deadline the terrorist would hunt him down and kill him or ISIS would.

The sheer amount of backpack bombs and suicide vests would require him to work around the clock at breakneck speed. The bomb maker had never attempted to make that many explosive devises in such a short amount of time. Normally a mission would require a single device for a specific target. They would usually give him plenty of notice – ensuring success but not this time. The words working with explosive material and doing it quickly were rarely spoken in his world. One mistake could literally bring the walls down around him in a flash.

The man knew he had little choice in the matter. Somehow I will get it done. Allah Akbar.

After powering down the cell phone and removing the battery and SIM card, Mohammed tried to go back to bed but his mind raced. Operation Muslin Shield would soon be in high gear – the Jihad had begun. Staring at the ceiling, he impatiently waited for morning to come. It felt like an eternity.

Wasting no time, as soon as his clock displayed 7:00 a.m., he contacted his trusted associates to schedule the most important meeting of their lives.

All five members of his team were given the identical cryptic text message, Sunday night, University Pizza, 8:00 p.m. Our time has come. Allah Akbar – God is great.

Chapter 6

Working around the clock for weeks, it was finally their first day off together. Rolling over in bed, Max watched Lauren as she continued to sleep past 9:00 a.m. What an angel.

He looked down at the Wolverine Tattoo on his left bicep and thought back to what an interesting life he’d led. College athlete, Marine Corps Special Forces with multiple tours in the Middle East, and now acting as Lead Detective of the famed Robbery-Homicide Division (RHD) with the LAPD.

His professional life had taken a few hits along the way, but he was definitely on the right track. And then there was his smoking hot girlfriend. Life was good, his luck had clearly not run out yet.

Eventually Lauren opened her eyes and caught Max staring at her. What are you doing? she wondered, quickly pulling the sheet up to cover her face. Lauren Davis was a street crime reporter for Westside News. They had met during a Homicide investigation she was covering for the local TV station. There was instant attraction and now they were an item.

Max lazily rose up in bed, propping himself up on an elbow. Waiting for you to wake up, so we can discuss our game plan for the day.

Lauren snuggled in closer to Max’s chest. Why? What’s on your mind?

Looking down at his girlfriend’s partially covered nude body wrapped in the rumpled bed sheets triggered a momentary lapse in thought. Uh. I forgot what I was gonna say.

Thrown off by the response, she looked up to see what he was doing. Catching him ogling her body, she blurted out, Men are pigs!

Lauren leaped out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

Pigs need love too! Max joked, as he watched her firm ass making a hasty retreat.

Realizing his chances for getting some morning action had apparently slipped by, he cursed himself for being such a dumbass.

Gambling she might come back to bed after a quick potty stop didn’t pan out for Max either. Lauren emerged wearing a white t-shirt and baby blue running shorts. After bending over to lace up her Adidas training shoes, she started jogging in place.

Her long blond hair, mesmerizing green eyes, large full breasts, and a golden tan turned a lot of heads. A collegiate volleyball player, Lauren kept active and fit; she was built like a brick shithouse.

Peering down at Max still in bed, she taunted, "Come on stud! Let’s go