On This Day

By Oak Anderson

Ex Philadelphia Police Sergeant, Brant Discher, now a small-town cop, doubts the validity of a local 'suicide case'. He suspects the self-inflicted death of a young, Middle Eastern man has been staged to look like something it is not. Compelled to go rogue, he uncovers the makings of a masterfully complex and sinister plot. With every turn, it seems to go deeper than even he could imagine.

On This Day explores a hive of dormant terrorists secretively and methodically deployed through a manipulation of the US adoption system. They are unaware of the breadth of their assignment, or each other. Unknowingly, all will participate in a national mass attack coordinated for a specific date, etched in stone for over a decade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oak Anderson
• Release date: Feb 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999468606

Oak Anderson

Oak Anderson has developed a unique knowledge base in the area of international security, protection and safety through decades of work in the private sector. He was a certified trainer in non-deadly force personal protection, is trained in active shooter response, executive protection, identifying and handling suspicious packages, self-applied protective measures, and kidnap avoidance.Oak has been deployed for body guarding, protective driving, undercover intelligence, and other security details, also liaising with federal authorities on airport security related investigations.It is these life experiences that Oak has used to let his imagination craft unique crime thrillers that leave readers thinking, couldn't that really happen and challenge the thin line between a civil society and criminal anarchy.He is the co-author, with Joseph DiFrancesco, of the much anticipated crime thriller, ON THIS DAY, book #1 in the Homeland Thriller Series.Oak authored the Best Kindle Book Awards semi-finalist, and Amazon best selling novel, TAKE ONE WITH YOU, as well as TOWY Episodes #1 ABOUT FACE, and #2 DEAD EVEN.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Jaalib Fletcher was only a month shy of his twenty-first birthday when he had checked into a Motel 6 in Glenmoore, Pennsylvania, a small town northwest and about an hour’s drive from Philadelphia.

Tall, lean, clean-shaven with an olive complexion, Jaalib had come off nervous, skittish even, to Cassie, the fifty-two-year-old desk clerk who had seen her share of wayward travelers. In retrospect, she had suspected, it could have been a mixture of fear, happiness, uncertainty or simple sexual frustration that she had been privy to. Again, she had seen it all, but sizing up folks was not an exact science. Seasoned as she was, she was not immune to the occasional surprises of which people were so capable.

In the wee hours of the night, wanderers from every walk of life would come to her motel located just one hundred yards from the Pennsylvania Turnpike. She had dealt with runaways, cheating spouses, escorts, exhausted truckers, binge junkies, rock bands and the worst of the worst, conventioneers. Collectively, her experiences had made her a credible observer of human behavior. She had been an unexpected pleasure to interrogate.

Staffing was light during the graveyard shift, and so had business been of late. The small town had little draw, with the exception of the occasional hot air balloon festival, or farm equipment convention held outdoors on Styer Field. The building had been quiet that night. Even the passing traffic along Route I 76 seemed to be on a hiatus.

Cassie never minded the boredom, however. She was an even-keeled, self-possessed individual. A divorced mother of three and a cancer survivor, it took a lot to shake her up. Ultimately, seeing Jaalib Fletcher’s brains on the ceiling of room 636 – was a lot.

The tenant in room 642 had phoned the front desk around 3:20 AM stating he thought he had heard a muffled pop! from somewhere down the hall. The on-again, off-again security guard they employed, was off – again. So Cassie herself, more annoyed than anything else, checked on the only other room occupied on the sixth floor. She had quietly pissed and moaned all the way up to the room in question. Things like this usually ended with people feeling silly or embarrassed. Someone got drunk and broke a lamp, or slipped naked in the shower and ripped out a towel rack. Cassie had witnessed a great deal of unintelligent behavior during her long career in hospitality.

When she had arrived at room 636, she took a moment or two to check her appearance. Her uniform was frumpy, and badly in need of pressing. She seized a moment to simply listen. What went on inside a room, prior to the occupant realizing that someone was at the threshold, could be very telling. Cassie gently pressed her ear to the door. Silence. After several unanswered knocks, she entered using her all-access entry card. Pushing the door open, she had only taken a step or two before freezing in place.

Cassie found Jaalib sitting up in a chair; his eyes opened wide, and mouth agape. He had been situated in such a way that as soon as she had entered the room, she was staring at him nearly face to face. A large hole beneath his chin still oozed thick red gore, and a snub-nosed revolver rested in his lifeless right hand.

Blup. Blup. Blup. It was a strange sound, but never the less it was the sound that was made when residual hunks of brain matter fell one by one from the popcorn ceiling and onto the tightly-woven rug.

When the tenant in room 642 called the front desk again, this time to report a woman screaming, his call, had, of course, gone unanswered.

CHAPTER ONE

GLENMOORE, PENNSYLVANIA

Officer Brant Discher, Glenmoore PD, was cruising the unlit countrified streets in his patrol SUV. It was a typical quiet night, something he still wasn’t quite used to. He took notice of a coyote darting across the driveway of an upscale home. He spied Mrs. Swartz taking out her garbage (quite the night owl). His window down, he could hear deer crashing through the brambles off to the left. It was the last week of April, and the night air was cool and still.

Sighing, he glanced at his hand. Clearly, he’d gone back to biting his nails again. He must have been doing it in his sleep because, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the last time he had his fingers in his mouth. Whatever the case, it was a nasty, nervous habit that he knew was unbecoming of a man in uniform.

The tree-lined, winding streets of his patrol sector were interrupted here and there by hidden home developments. The houses were of varied architecture. There were a few log homes in the neighborhood, along with some newer and less inspired framed houses. But more than anything, there were old stone farmhouses, refurbished and restored meticulously into handsomely refined homesteads. A city boy at heart, they never failed to take his breath away.

Brant had been on the small force for just under two years after leaving the Philadelphia Police Department following thirteen years of service. He had grown tired of trying to enforce laws in a lawless land and had felt that perhaps keeping the peace in a tiny village would be better suited for him - now and for the rest of his career in law enforcement. Having vested in the city, he was already collecting a partial pension, so working this 'small town cop stuff' just a few days a week was perfect for a guy of forty. Still young, fit and evolving, he hoped. Brant had a lot of life left in him. He was starting over. A reboot. Brant 2.0.

So why am I pulling so much overtime?

He still kidded himself into believing that the only reason he had left the big city was the daily inoculation of violence and madness. Brant was no philosopher, but as the years wore on, Nietzsche’s, "When you look long into an Abyss, the Abyss also looks into you," began to make too much sense to him. Things that should’ve bothered him didn’t bother him anymore – and that, in and of itself, bothered him. Calluses had begun to form over his heart, and risk-taking, which should have been discouraged, was instead met with a caustic rivalry. Was he subconsciously keeping pace with the inner city absurdity? Was the alternative, trying to reason with it, understand it, placate it, beyond his intellect? He didn’t know. What he did know was that he didn’t like the person he was becoming, and neither did women.

With brown hair, brown eyes, a muscular build and a goatee that came and went, Brant maintained a youthful appearance that most men envied. Women did find him attractive, but he seemed to have a 'dangerous curve ahead' sign hiding somewhere in his aura. Women’s intuition was a bitch.

When Brant was working the city badlands, few females in his life had the staying power to put up with his arbitrary mood swings, his 'B-side' as he liked to call it. They just couldn’t keep up with him. It wasn’t their fault, he admitted. He was forever shifting gears on them. The city had made him that way. It was as if he always needed something to look forward to. He constantly required something to be waiting just around the corner that held the promise of change and contentment. Brant had to keep things moving. Always. For Brant, anything else was simply treading water.

Like many others in his field, he had begun to develop destructive pastimes in order to cope with stress, loneliness and his misplaced purpose in life. And Philadelphia provided far too many convenient little coping mechanisms. So he ran away, all the way to the lethargic little town of Glenmoore where the bar closed before midnight, the local veterinarian made house calls, and the nearest casino was a four-hour drive away. Four hours.

In his new surroundings, Brant drank less, cursed less and got outdoors more. His moods improved, as did his health. He hadn’t realized how often he’d gotten upper respiratory infections until his first six months residing outside of Philly. It was only then that it dawned on him that he hadn’t requested antibiotics from a doc in quite a while. He was even watching better movies. Out with the adrenaline-driven action flicks, and in with the cerebral-tickling indie films. Sometimes.

His neighborhood had its share of parks and hiking trails, so Brant found himself getting outside a great deal. It was a salve for the anxious mind. The air was better, the sky, bluer. It was something that was available to him every day, even if it meant taking a nightly stroll under a black sky peppered with glimmering stars – a sky far away from the light polluted shroud hovering over the city of Philadelphia.

Brant had made the right move by leaving the department. Things were better for him out here. He was growing. In fact, he even thought he was beginning to show some improvement in the women category. After all, Chester County was known for its bucolic landscapes, sunsets, fine upstanding citizens, and upmarket ladies. Somewhere deep inside he thought that if better people surrounded him, he would become a better person.

Still, Brant knew he had to break his pattern of trying to have sex with the women he became friends with and becoming friends with the women he was having sex with. Both maneuvers often led to disaster.

Car twelve, squawked his radio.

Brant snapped it up. Twelve.

Respond to Motel 6, Pottstown Pike. Possible shooting. Caller hung up. Use caution.

He rolled his eyes. Yeah, right, he said to himself incredulously before depressing the mic. Car twelve is 10-8.

He hit the red and blue strobes but didn’t use the siren. No one else was out that night, he suspected, so why bother.

***

Brant was first on the scene and quite surprised by what he found. The motel had a long-standing history of nuisance calls, and he was under the impression that this was just going to be yet another case of domestic or drunken nonsense.

Looking at the scene carefully, while at the same time making sure he didn’t destroy evidence, he made some casual observations before calling for additional units. A deceased young male, possibly in his late teens, early twenties, was seated in a hotel room chair with what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound beneath his chin. Without getting too close, Brant noticed that the victim’s suitcase was partially unpacked, his clothes placed in drawers and in a small closet. Also, a bottle of cologne and a shaving kit was left sitting on the bureau. He didn’t see a cell phone, but it could have been on the victim’s person somewhere, and he wasn’t about to rummage through his pockets just yet.

Though he had seen his share of nonsensical behavior in people at the end of their ropes, he thought it was odd that someone would unpack before offing themselves. Also, the grooming supplies seemed to be a bit of a non sequitur.

Brant made sure, Cassie, the desk clerk, was going to be okay. She didn’t look well. She kept commenting on how the victim appeared to be near the age of one of her beloved sons. Brant sat her at the end of the hall, far from the scene, but close enough for questioning.

Next on the scene was his shift supervisor, Sergeant John Palumbo, followed by two more Glenmoore officers. Soon after they were joined by a state trooper Brant did not know, and four cops from surrounding boroughs that looked like they had never seen a shooting before.

Cassie was slowly beginning to regain her composure as Brant brought her a glass of water.

When the call first went out, Cass, I thought it was another exploding Champagne bottle, said Brant with an attempt at levity.

She looked up. I wish, honey. I wish it was anything but... what it was…I’ll never get that boy’s face outta my mind.

Her hands trembled as she took another sip of the cool water.

He rubbed her shoulder. I’m so sorry you had to see something like that.

She cringed at the choice of beverage. What kind of cop are you? You don’t keep a flask of Bourbon in your patrol car?

Just stale gin. You know, with the cutbacks and all, he answered with a wink. She smirked and slapped him lightly.

He let his smile slip away. You’re sure he checked in alone?

Yes.

No one followed in later? he continued.

No, Brant, she answered. They’d have to get past me. I would have seen.

A hulking presence leaned out from room 636 down the hall and gruffly addressed Brant.

Hey, Dische, Sergeant Palumbo interrupted, using Brant’s workplace tag. County Detective just went in. Wants to talk to you.

Brant headed back to the bloody scene, weaving in and out of other officers milling around in the hall. He had seen Detective Stanley Bruno enter the room but had pretended he didn’t. He was never impressed with Bruno. The rotund county dick was way too close to retirement to give a shit about anything other than ass-kissing local businessmen and politicians. Clearly, he was more interested in getting a good side gig going than he was in doing his current job. In the last decade, he had earned the moniker Stanley Steamer, since he tended to steamroll over all situations and circumstances that failed to fit in perfectly with his personal agenda.

Entering the room, Brant was surprised to see Bruno leaning over the body – with a cigarette in his hand. A crime photographer was snapping shots here and there.

Yeah, Stan. You wanted to see me.

The detective spoke without facing him. Have the hallway security cameras evaluated.

Brant clucked his tongue. There are no hallway cameras…Detective.

Sergeant Palumbo, still standing by the door, snickered briefly before disappearing into the hallway.

Detective Bruno paused, but still faced away from the officers. An awkwardly charged intermission ensued, one that Brant allowed to linger for as long as possible. In fact, he bathed in it. Sometimes silence said more than words could ever convey.

Uh…your thoughts on his clothes being put away? Brant eventually volunteered. Bathroom being readied for proper dental hygiene in the AM? He was coming off a bit cheeky, as was his intention.

Bruno sighed then slowly turned to face Brant. I’m aware of the time you served in that armpit east of us. I’m assuming that most of the shootings you rolled in on were drug dealers killing one another. Does he look like a North Philadelphia gang banger to you, Officer Discher?

Brant smiled unabashedly. Aside from the bullet wound in his lower jaw?

Bruno ignored the snide remark. Am I missing the classic sign of an MS-13 retaliatory slaying? He’s wearing a crucifix around his neck, perhaps a satanic cult. A sacrifice? In fact, have the officers outside question any witnesses regarding recent UFO activity, and report back ASAP.

Shaking his head and smiling, Brant exited the room. In the hallway, he stepped up to Sergeant Palumbo who was tearfully trying to contain his laughter.

Honestly, Sarge, have you ever met a more consistent douchebag in all your life?

The two snickering cops were walking down the hallway when Bruno emerged from the room.

Sergeant! Bruno snapped.

Instinctively, both men turned around.

Bruno smiled. Not you, Dische. You’re not a sergeant anymore. Sergeant Palumbo, no one contacts next of kin until I say so. Understood?

That was standard procedure, and everyone was aware of it. Brant knew Bruno was just looking for an excuse to jab at him one more time. The thing was, Bruno was too ignorant to know that rank didn’t transfer from the city to the county. Brant was not demoted. He walked away from the stripes on his own accord. He was perfectly fine being a patrolman once more. Still, he would have given anything to get one shot at breaking that fat dick’s nose.

Of course, Stanley, answered the sergeant. It’s all yours.

The two men continued to the elevators. Getting there, Palumbo looked at Brant and smiled. I’m impressed.

With what? Brant asked. That I held my tongue?

No. That you didn’t shoot him.

***

Brant stepped out into the motel parking lot. Hints of dawn were beginning to tease the dark horizon. He watched a few of the parking lot lights snap off early. Nearby, bored paramedics chatted it up with each other, as a couple of local cops retold the same old jokes.

Brant thought to himself that if he got any sleep at all that day, he would visit his mother later. But he wouldn’t call her until he was sure he was going. He would hate to let her down if he ended up sleeping the day away.

Suddenly there was a young face, entirely out of place. It was a girl. She looked to be in her late teens to early twenties, and she was hesitantly approaching the motel. No doubt, the heavy presence of police and EMS units were unsettling to her, but the look of concern on her face seemed to run much deeper.

Holding a small duffle bag, she weaved her way around the emergency vehicles. As she approached the door, Brant stepped up to her.

Hi, honey. Can I help you?

The red and blue lights dancing off of one of the police cars reflected in her wide and worried eyes. She was petite, slim, with blond hair. Her purple fingernail polish had flaked away from her nails, and her ears were pierced in many places.

I’m meeting a friend, she said weakly.

Brant got a sick feeling in his stomach. Can you tell me their name?

Her nervousness became palpable. Why? she stammered. We didn’t do anything wrong.

Brant softened his approach. Reset. I’m sure you didn’t, and you have every right to just keep right on walking past me. But we’ve had a situation here. So if you’re going to the sixth floor, I’ll need to know.

Her eyes widened. I’m going to room 636, to meet a friend, she repeated.

His eyes changed, and she caught it. He reached out to touch her arm, but she pulled away.

What? she asked with a shaky voice. Jaalib. Jaalib Fletcher. He’s my boyfriend, and we’re going away on a trip. That’s all.

Again, Brant tried to pull her aside. There was no way he was going to let her go up to the room or anywhere close to it. But before he could get another word out, the Coroner’s Office van pulled up to the front of the building.

On seeing it, the girl began to scream.

CHAPTER TWO

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

Billy had been in police custody for two days. Now, released for lack of evidence connecting him to the brutal mugging of an elderly woman, he was feeling strung out and exceedingly restless. He was in the acute stages of drug withdrawal, having not been able to indulge in his favorite pastime for over forty-eight hours. He scored nearly three hundred bucks from the old lady he pushed down the steps. It made him sick to his stomach knowing he had to drop the cash in the sewer when he spotted the police cruiser shadowing him. That money would have gotten him a lot of crank, and maybe even a little pussy. His flesh was coming alive; he was starving and could not stop sweating. He needed to get fixed fast, or he was going to lose his shit. But first, he needed cash.

It was late, but Billy had absolutely no idea what time it was. Nor did he know the day or the month for that matter. He didn’t care. He had been in a walking coma for nearly three years. It was dark, and that’s all he needed. It was when he liked to work.

Slipping into a park, he began his stalking routine. He wasn’t much to look at, greasy-haired and unshaven. At five and a half feet tall, and weighing in at a whopping one hundred and thirty-two pounds, he kept his head down low, and his hands disarmingly stuffed into his pockets. His jeans were dirty, his t-shirt riddled with holes and his sneakers were a size too big.

The park was shadowy, dimly lit and desolate. A center fountain sprayed its water jets with no audience to appreciate it. Billy thought to himself that he could probably get a few bucks in change from it, but he had his sights on bigger game tonight. That’s when he spotted him.

It was a lone figure, a man. Well-dressed, he was sitting on a park bench with his long legs crossed. The park lamp above illuminated the space behind him, setting the man in an eccentric silhouette. He appeared oblivious to Billy’s approach, seemingly transfixed on a folder of papers and photographs he was leafing through.

The man was bigger than Billy would have preferred, but that’s what his blade was for. He briefly thought