Parade Rest: A Novel

By Ken Noonan

If someone wanted to take charge of a country and government how could someone do that and get away with it? A group believes it can be done and and set about to do so. A plan has been placed in motion by a group that is determined to create a horrendous attack on a military parade designed to honor the Marines who helped take Baghdad. Carlos Brady, an agent with Homeland Security, investigating a claim of a pending attack by a terrorist group on a military parade to be held in Southern California finds himself at odds with a belligerent FBI agent who is convinced that the threat is a hoax. Brady and the FBI Agent disagree vehemently. When Brady’s superior removes him from leading the investigation Brady and his partner, a female agent decide that they must stop the parade to stop the attack. They find, due to the incompetence of the political establishment that they cannot stop the parade. Their goal becomes stopping the attack. The dilemma continues to an unexpected result.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823000161

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© 2023 Ken Noonan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/22/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0018-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0017-8 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0016-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023901739

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Their mother stretched her limbs as her newborns reached out to her. They touched her tentatively. They began to move up on her tender torso. Eyes sightless, their tiny limbs grappled to gain purchase.

Slowly, methodically their mother began to gnaw on her tiny, fragile infants beginning with the baby nearest her. One by one they struggled against her relentless grip only to be crushed alive without passion or audible cries of pain or anguish.

After killing all but one of her brood she reached out for her last born as it skidded away. The mother scorpion made one final effort to reach the last of her babies. She missed.

It fled.

ONE

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A gha knew what he must do. He became more anxious as the hot sun began to sink behind the dusty roof tops that surrounded the parking lot. First, was the task completed? Confirming it he would have to kill him.

"Hakim, you delivered the package to this fellow Chalo with no one taking notice?

Well, there were people around but what could they see? Two friends shaking hands and handing off what looked like a carton of cigarettes? No one could see anything unusual.

Agha hated this man’s flippant attitude. His anxiety grew. Hakim, I’m just asking if it went alright. Did it or not?

Of course. No one suspected a thing. He went back to his little table in front of the coffee shop and I walked back to the bus depot and traveled over three hundred miles to meet you here.

With studied casualness the two walked amidst the crowd of workers leaving for their homes and women searching through the outdoor shopping stalls along the street. They blended into the mix of Western and Middle Eastern garb. Turning into an alley they walked slowly to an unpaved parking lot. Late in the afternoon there were only a few cars remaining in the enclosed area awaiting their owners who were working or shopping late. The intense afternoon heat in this sprawling city was cooled only minimally by the shadows of the two-story buildings bordering the western side of the lot. They arrived at the old, dusty car. Parked in the far back corner of the property, it was partially hidden by a small, squat wooden building most likely used for storage. The windows of the warehouses and garment factories surrounding the lot were covered against the scorching sun. No one else was in the parking lot. Perfect, thought Agha.

He had explained to Hakim earlier that they would leave together in this old, non-descript vehicle and drop him off at Hakim’s own car parked about a mile away. Hakim reached for the handle of the passenger door but Agha motioned for him to join him at the rear.

I have your new directions, he said as Hakim joined him.

I don’t know, Agha. If it’s for this weekend I have some family obligations. You know how it is.

Agha’s fists involuntarily clenched. I can’t take any more of his whining, he thought. He caught his breath. Relax. This will be done very soon. This is the end of the road for him. He could have been useful for future work, especially with the need for me to travel to the new attack site. But he cannot be trusted. I will end his time as a trainee for Project Scorpion today. Everything is in place. We don’t need him anymore. So, today he is terminated, since our rule is that everyone below Senior Associate be terminated at the conclusion of his task. No witnesses. The rule. There will be no trace of his involvement after today.

The new directions for you are in the trunk. Agha stared at the back of his colleague’s head as he reviewed how he would do this.

Hakim reached into the open car trunk for a manila envelope. Hakim straightened up and took a step back. Agha, now directly behind him, swiftly slapped his hand over Hakim’s mouth and yanked his head back as far as it would go arching his own body back to keep Hakim off balance. The startled young associate pushed a muffled scream against Agha’s firm hand, kicked his feet and flailed his arms uselessly trying to regain his balance. He sporadically pedaled his feet in the air just above the grit of sand and dirt. His hands groped without effect against Agha’s powerful grip across his mouth. Agha reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a spring-loaded knife. He slashed the razor-sharp blade deeply against the young man’s bared throat. Blood spurted from his gaping wound as Agah twisted him to the left to avoid splashing blood on the car. Bloody air hissed and gurgled from the gash in Hakim’s stretched throat. Agha dropped his body on the hard, compacted ground. His blood puddled red then black on the dry earth.

Agha grabbed the envelope off the ground where it had fallen, tossed it back into the open trunk and slammed it closed. He looked down at him. Hakim’s eyes stretched wide with panic as life slipped away. He bent over and wiped his knife clean against his dying partner’s white shirt deftly closing it with one hand and slipping it back into his pocket. The phlegmy sucking sound coming from Hakim’s wounded throat died with him. He turned away and walked to the driver’s side of the car. He quickly slipped into the seat. His first attempt to get the key into the ignition failed. He fumbled it in his shaking fingers and scraped it against the steering post.

Stop, he thought. Calmate – calm yourself. You’re moving too fast. Remember your training. First, take careful stock of everything around you. Second, take your time. Caution, not speed.

Agha got out of the car, examined the still body of his dead colleague, dark blood pooling beneath his shoulders and head. He looked quickly around the parking lot for any sign of witnesses. There was no one in sight. With a visual sweep of the buildings around the lot he could see no open or uncovered windows. He got back in the car with a measured, more relaxed pace, and calmly inserted the key, started the engine, drove slowly to the small lot’s only exit and into the short alley way. At the end of the alley his efforts to turn into the main street with its creeping mass of cars, small trucks and bicycles were blunted by frustrated drivers with no interest in allowing one more vehicle or pedestrian between theirs and their drive home. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to help keep him focused as he struggled to manage his trembling foot alternating on the brake and gas pedals.

He was edgy, desperate to leave the scene before cries of alarm could capture someone’s attention. Recalling his training he relaxed his stiff hands and drew in a gulp of hot, stinking traffic air into his dry throat. He exhaled in relief. The street was thick with smoking, honking cars and trucks, bicycles and slowly moving street shoppers. A woman, peering at him defiantly from the eye opening of her burka, sauntered across his path into the traffic jam. He waited impatiently for her to pass. Then two more veiled shoppers stepped into the street following the first woman’s deliberate, slow path. His hands gripped the wheel again, sweating now. He unconsciously leaned forward in the direction he wanted to move.

Am I stuck in this place forever? Sweat now snaked down his back, a combination of frustration, the unbearable heat and dread of being caught here. His was the only vehicle leaving the parking lot. He feared someone would find Hakim’s body and scream for help while he sat here trapped by the traffic. I must move from this spot. An old truck stalled and that gave him his chance to move into the snaking line of cars just a fraction of a moment ahead of the women who would soon further block his way. He didn’t look back to see what he knew were angry looks from behind their veils. This was, after all, their precious territory. This older part of the city’s bazaar of shops, cafes and street vendors’ booths belonged to the pedestrians. The traffic moved at their pace.

It’s done. Stay calm. Don’t show your impatience. Take it slow. Don’t stand out to someone who might describe you to the police later. Just look normal, tired, going home from work, like everyone else. We’re too close to our goal to lose it now, he thought.

Yes, work. Great work for The Movement and Project Scorpion. A feeling of relief calmed him as the creeping traffic carried him along, away from his latest work. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as much a result of adrenaline as this sprawling city’s oppressive heat.

Agha pulled the sun visor down against the glow of the sun’s dusty orange-red disc as it sank below the roofs of Phoenix.

TWO

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I n mid-town San Diego, they sat discretely in the back corner of the dark Moroccan restaurant. The mid-day lunch hour passed leaving the dining room less than half full. The three at the table, two men and one woman were meeting today to finalize Project Scorpion. Each had worked on a segment of the Project whose implementation had been delayed until the most appropriate time. This would be their first and last meeting as a group. The attack would take place in two days, on Saturday. They were Associates of the larger group known among them as The Movement, a non-descript, passive name. They were committed to this Project but, they were not friends. In fact, two of them, Agha and Vadim often disagreed, an artifact of the Council of Seven’s decision to appoint Agha rather than Vadim as leader of the Project. Their year-long personal struggle would be over today. Agha would make sure of that. Sarita, the only woman in the project’s leadership, a successful immigration attorney had helped navigate the Project through avoidance of legal entanglements and searching out low level functionaries with similar anti-American sentiments to perform lower level tasks.

The three had come together for the first time during the year-long planning stage to make certain the attack on Saturday would take place as planned. It would be their only meeting as a group. After the attack on Saturday they would each receive their next assignments.

Agha leaned forward, elbows on the table in order to be able to speak softly and still be heard. Hakim is dead. It was my decision. In my opinion he could not be trusted. He balked at continuing parts of his assignment, something that cannot be tolerated. Nothing about him is tracible to us or the project. No one spoke.

I’m waiting for contact from Chalo, our San Diego area Junior Associate. Everything should be in place. The explosives have been delivered to him to be placed in their locations. I’m waiting to hear that the devices are in place. So, it’s almost done.

Not good enough! hissed Vadim, the other male at the table. You say it’s done then you say it’s almost done. Almost? Vadim’s thin, whiney voice rose. How can you say it’s done. The devices are in place, yes. Or, no, they are not in place. There can be no almost! Vadim slammed himself into the back of his chair, a show of finality.

All will be done as directed. Fingers steepled in front of him as he sat back in his chair Agha said calmly, And please keep your voice down.

Vadim became more agitated at being coached by Agha. Neither man liked the other. With his neck muscles visibly tensed he snapped back. You were to have all of the on-site arrangements completed before this meeting. I told them you were not ready to take on this assignment! Their discussion was becoming more noticeable to patrons near them. This violated the standing order that Associates blend quietly and unnoticed into the environment.

Quiet down, Agha cautioned softly with a calmness that further irritated the intense Vadim. Agha purposely spoke with a precise staccato rhythm as if warning a child of pending punishment.

Vadim pushed himself forward at the table positioning himself to deliver another rebuke. Agha, whom he had disliked from their earliest days in The Movement always made him uneasy. He appeared cold and calculating, always maneuvering for recognition and approval. Now, Agha had angered him. His lips trembling with rage he spat, First, stop giving me orders. You are not my superior. You may be our designated lead agent but all of us are equals. Second, it appears that you have not taken the Council’s direction to you seriously. You were to make certain that all of the explosives and detonators were in place before you arrived at this meeting. By your own admission, you have not done so. Spittle glistened on his angry lips. Third…

Agha cut him off. Enough of this. If you do not control yourself you will endanger the Project. Everything is ready and now you want to practice counting in English?

This interruption made Vadim furious. I will not be lectured like a child by this opportunist whose Iranian roots are so evident in his arrogance, he thought. Who can ever trust a Persian? Stiff-necked he continued, And, third, as I was about to say, until you have completed every detail you have not followed your orders. In other words, as you have just pointed out yourself, you have failed to carry out your mission. This is what I plan to report to the Council of Seven immediately.

Vadim rose slowly to avoid the notice of other patrons. He smiled broadly and bowed slightly to give the impression of a cordial parting. He left the dining area with a false smile still on his lips.

He’s right, you know. You have not completed your assigned task. It’s not smart to anger him. He’s been involved in Project Scorpion from the beginning and he has the ear of several influential contacts as well as some of the Council members. You understand that the Council heads The Movement and has the final say in all matters. You know if he moves quickly enough, he could cause you to be removed from the Project, perhaps ending it or at least delaying it. But that would mean that you would never be heard from again.

I understand that very well, Sarita. However, if he reports what he now believes to the Council they will check it out and they will see that I have followed their orders to the letter. Everything has been completed. Vadim will appear to be the fool. He will be discredited. If the Council determines that he falsely accused me, especially at this late date, he is as good as dead. Agha sat back in his chair with a smile of satisfaction.

Then why did you tell us that the one critical detail, the placement of detonators was not yet complete?

Come on, Sarita. You know that he is not merely annoying. He is a dangerous member of the Project. Self-serving, stubborn, he is suspicious of everything we do or say. He is angry I was named lead agent. He’s been waiting for a chance to get me. So, I have provided him with one. Now we can move ahead without further interference. Hopefully he is calling his contact on the Council as we speak. He needs to be discredited. His arrogance and bad temper will do him in with little effort from us.

And the detonators?

Taken care of. Our agent at the site will carry and manually operate them himself and press the trigger, designed to look like a common cell phone. He will be outfitted to look like them. Marines.

"Sarita’s dark eyes were fixed directly on his. It was always hard to tell if she was pleased or unhappy. Even when she offered one of her infrequent smiles, she appeared cool, unemotional but always intense suggesting some inner struggle. Her long black hair framed her dark emotion free face, strikingly beautiful by any standard. She attracted attention from both men and women yet transmitted the impression that she was unapproachable.

What you say about Vadim may be true, but aren’t you being as deceitful and untrustworthy as he? It appears that you have deliberately set a trap for him. But he is well connected to our leadership. It is unwise to anger him. It could backfire on you and thereby on us, the Project. His pride may someday be his death but right now, so close to the finish line he could hurt you, us and the Project. You are foolish to play games with your associates and with the Council. It’s not smart, Agha. Sarita stood quietly, smiled a friendly good bye for the benefit of any who might notice and left the room with a serenity that belied her anger.

Agha leaned forward and finished his cup of strong Moroccan coffee, now cool to his lips. Then he sulked back in his chair. It is one thing to be insulted by an Arab, he thought, but to be chastised by a woman is unacceptable. Even if she is respected as an Associate and is totally committed to Project Scorpion, she remains a woman.

He took a deep breath. Calmate. Calm down. Concentrate on the plan. We will bring this arrogant American government to its knees. Scorpion is our focus. It is everything.

Agha stood and placed cash on the waiter’s tray. Always cash to avoid leaving a trail. He left silently to avoid being remembered.

THREE

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T he hospital emergency room area throbbed with activity. He could hear it. Hell, he could feel it like the thrumming base in a rock band. The growing pressure in his chest was amplified by the low rumble in this usually chaotic part of the medical center. It unnerved him. He navigated between staff in scrubs who themselves were dodging the bewildered and the worried while they guided their gurneys and rolling IV stands toward the large swinging doors that opened into forbidden territory.

Directly in front of him a grandmotherly woman unconsciously clutched her purse to her bosom in stunned silence, her stricken husband now somewhere beyond those swinging doors. A young mother, in barely controlled panic moved in the direction signaled by a harried nurse, reluctant to turn her eyes away from her hoping for something more about her child than a simple pointed finger. This was Phoenix’ collection point for the inner city’s walking wounded. Police units brought their bleeding victims and drugged out suspects here. Most accident victims were transported here to the Trauma Center regardless of heritage or influence. This place was a Grand Central Station of groans, cries of grief, hopeless silence and vacant eyes numbed by tragedy.

He wove his way through the constant flow of people and rolling equipment. His uniform helped clear his way. People in hospitals preferred doctors to cops. He strode directly to the ER intake desk. He stood there waiting, his heart squeezed tight by apprehension. The nurse at the desk briefly observed him heading toward her. Bent over her paper work she didn’t bother to look up. He waited, the only person on his side of the desk. Not patient. The air conditioning created a coolness that morphed into a chill for anyone lingering long enough. The cooled air did nothing to reduce the patina of perspiration on his face and the back of his neck. His forehead grew furrowed with impatience. He knew the premise; if you make eye contact you have to engage. No eye contact, no obligation. He cleared his throat. The nurse’s head remained transfixed on her desk, her guardrail against the chaos. He cleared his throat again, this time louder.

Yes, Deputy, how can I help you? She said this with a tone of disinterest, without even looking up at him. Now he was angry. She had known he was there all this time and she knew he was a deputy sheriff. He paused to temper his response. No use pissing her off too soon, he thought.

I’m checking on Mrs. Brady. Socorro Brady. I understand she was brought here. His throat closed down strangling his words. He took a long breath and finished. From the accident scene."

Oh, yeah, she’s in there, she said carelessly without looking up, pointing with a hitch hiker’s thumb down an aisle closed off by white drapes. She didn’t make it. Baby’s dead too. Do you need to see the doc’s chart for your report, Deputy? Her tired eyes widened and her deadpan voice trailed off as she looked up from her desk top and saw the name plate over his uniform shirt’s right pocket.

Oh, Deputy Brady, I’m so sorry. I thought you were the reporting officer. Let me get the doc. She almost ran from behind the counter to avoid having to say more. As she turned into a space behind a dividing-wall he heard her say Doctor? And then some mumbling he couldn’t make out.

Almost immediately a portly, middle aged ER doctor came around the same dividing wall behind which she had escaped. The front of his pale blue scrubs were stained with dried blood.

You the husband? He spoke like this was the hundredth time he had done this today.

Yes. Brady said this holding back the anger he felt building in his throat. Can I see her? The hot fissure in his throat threatened to explode in his aching chest. He was angry with himself for his meek demeanor.

Well, I don’t think… The doctor slowly shook his head on the stump that served as his neck.

Brady already knew what the next words would be after the doctor’s failed attempt at an empathetic bedside manner.

…it would be he said as he resumed his pathetic slow head roll to the other side.

Now, god damn it! Now! Brady roared like a big animal on the attack.

Deputy Brady, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see her right now. She’s

I already know she’s dead, he yelled. The baby too! Your eloquent nurse already informed me. She’s almost as sympathetic as you! So just drop the piss poor mortician imitation. I want to see her now. Now!

At this the doctor’s head snapped upward at full attention, his sleepy eyes now wide and focused. Yeah, sure, he said, surrendering. He turned and shuffled wearily toward a draped cubicle. Not much to see though. He caught himself short. Sorry. I just didn’t want you to be surprised. She was badly mangled in the wreck.

Deputy Carlos Brady strangled on the harsh words he wanted to scream at the doctor. The weary ER doctor parted the drapes and stood aside to allow Brady a clear path in, sensing his growing rage and his likely reaction to what he would see.

Brady stepped forward and hesitated until the drape had closed behind him. He shuffled tentatively to the head of the bed. The sheet covering her body was stained red and black with fresh and older dried blood. He stopped two feet from the head of the bed, bent forward, took the corner of the sheet with his right hand and slowly pulled it away.

Brady did not realize that the pitiful, agonized scream that pierced the subdued chaos in the hospital’s busy corridors belonged to him.

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Carlos Brady jolted awake. He was sweating like a hog with the flu. The scream shocked him awake and doubled him over in a sitting position on his bed. Groggy with sleep he tried to focus his eyes in the ink black room. He saw something. What the hell is that, he thought. His eyes refused to focus in the darkness. Trying to remember where he was his brain seemed scrambled. That scream. Who the hell was it? His mind was blurred by the effects of restless slumber. His straining eyes were drawn to the strange red glow to his left. His police training had taught him not to trust a red glow in the dark. A burglar? An intruder? A laser? A laser could mean a gun pointed at him. The luminous glow began to take on a shape. A numeral…the number four emerged from the blur. Two red zeros. Alarm clock. Hel! Four AM. He exhaled a breath of relief, unaware that he had been holding it. His pulsing heart beat slowed in his chest releasing its tense hold on his body. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. He kept the room dark. Turning on a light would only make it worse.

That dream. Shit! Still groggy. His shoulders dropped, relaxed. He realized the source of that violent wakeup scream. That damned dream! His mind raced through a blur of that hospital scene, the source of his recurring nightmare of that night his beautiful wife and unborn son had been brutally killed in a head-on crash. And that scream. His scream.

Now, five years later that nightmare came to him less often but it had not lost any of its terrifying power. He took another deep breath. He sat on his bed, in the dark, feeling drained. Brady took another deep, calming breath. His hands still trembled.

Corry, Socorro Brady, was eight months pregnant when a drunk driver crossed the center line and slammed head-on into the front of her Honda sedan. He was doing eighty in his Ford F-350 pick-up truck. The ER doc was been right. There was little left of Corry that was recognizable. Often Brady wished he’d listened to the doctor’s warning about not looking at her as she lay in the hospital bed. Especially after his recurring graphic nightmares began. If he started thinking about that hospital scene he could not concentrate and, especially, he could not sleep. But the nightmare recurred whether he prompted it or not. The vision was always exactly as it had appeared in the ER. Her face and left side of her head were a pulpy mass of crushed bone, bloody torn muscle and bloodstained parchment that had been her beautiful cinnamon tinted skin. Piel canela-cinnamon skin he would often whisper to her as he caressed her. He could no longer remember what she looked like before the accident, as if the memory had been erased from his brain. His last look at her is all that remained of his memory of her, especially in that recurring, haunting dream. That hospital scene overwhelmed the memory of everything Socorro.

What could be worse than to have the last memory of someone you loved so deeply appear so grisly? Better, he thought, not to have looked and to remember her as that diminutive, beautiful very pregnant woman, her long black hair shining down her back, her startlingly white teeth frozen in her breathtaking smile.

Peter Rainsford Brady III, their first child was soon to have been born. He would have been five years old this year. Named after his great, great grandfather, a former Arizona Territorial Senator, land surveyor, rancher, businessman and the first elected sheriff of Pima County he would have carried their family name forward.

The drunk man who killed his wife and unborn child, an influential Tucson businessman with solid connections throughout the state was sentenced to probation and community service. Boiling with contempt for the local judicial system Brady looked for ways to escape Tucson and the Pima County Sheriff’s Office. He found it in the Department of Homeland Security after a difficult sojourn with the FBI.

Carlos Brady was a street-smart law enforcement activist who used strenuous methods to bring criminals to justice. He was tough on himself, especially when he was unsuccessful. Expecting as much from others he often irritated colleagues who were less assertive. He rubbed some officers the wrong way. While on loan from the Sheriff’s Office to the state Drug Enforcement Task Force he brought more citations against drug dealers than any officer before him. Twice shot and stabbed once by clients he had apprehended he became the Agency’s top cop, a model for others. When his team went on line, a deep twenty-four-hour surveillance mode, it delivered the highest number of arrests and convictions. More accolades came from supervisors and more resentment from among some fellow deputies. He accepted an offer from the FBI. Due to a single event that went bad with the FBI he took advantage of an invitation to join the Department of Homeland Security. That decision saved his career in law enforcement.

Damp with sweat Brady slipped his long naked legs over the edge of the bed. Still unnerved by his dream he sat with his feet on the floor but he hesitated to stand. Slowly, he rose to his full six foot three inches, steadied himself and headed to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water and with both hands on the shower door frame he pulled himself into the stinging hot stream. The vivid recreation of that hospital scene rekindled his feelings of outrage at the injustice of the system that had allowed his wife’s killer to go free, at the hospital that was helpless to be anything more than an informal morgue for her and their son and at his own impotence in trying to come to grips with it all. His head would often ache from those competing sensations. Stinging hot water helped to melt the anger. He stood immobile and let the water sooth the hurt away. His cell phone, still next to his bed rang.

Shit! Now what? I need my shower first, he thought, as he pulled the thick glass shower door shut. I’ll check it after I can think straight. A hot shower usually released the tension in his neck and shoulders and helped clear his mind of these vivid recollections. Brady slumped under the drumming hot spray, his headache fading. His mood shifted away from brooding panic. He began to relax even as the insistent ringing of his cell phone filled his empty bedroom.

FOUR

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S arita lifted her hand to a spot above her cell phone on the bedside stand and hesitated. She thought about walking away. She could just run away, a child’s solution to a threatening problem. She sat on the edge of her bed transfixed, staring at the phone. Placing this call, or not would determine her future. If she did not place this call, she would live. If she did call, she would die. A certainty.

She felt safe in her small but adequate boutique hotel in San Diego, the prescribed location for her rather than an apartment with permanent nosy neighbors. At first, she thought that The Movement’s leadership decision to assign her to this large, sophisticated city surrounded by universities, medical and technology complexes and its large military installations would prove complicated and risky. But the growing immigrant population and the transitory nature of this border community permitted her the anonymity to come and go freely. The flow of traffic and people commuting to and from downtown San Diego made her even less noticeable with more access to recruits for The Movement’s activities. This was especially helpful since she was neither a business woman nor an academic, medical or corporate employee. She could not have felt more secure. Until now.

The Movement’s current plan, Project Scorpion’s attack, scheduled to take place within the next forty-eight hours was something she could not accept. Her meeting with Agha and Vadim yesterday where she learned for the first time of the planned attack on a public military parade convinced her that she could not only not support it but that she had to try to prevent it. She knew such an action would be her death warrant. She had not slept all night. Struggling. How to stop the attack? Calling law enforcement would not work. Her lack of credibility, lack of sufficient time to act, usual cumbersome police investigative procedures and bureaucratic jurisdictional problems would ensure no chance of stopping the attack. Not within just two days. During her sleepless night she had determined she would have to go to a more direct source for help. She had decided to call an old friend, an Agent in the Department of Homeland Security who might have a chance of stopping this atrocity. She knew that would make her a target. They would know. Whether this approach worked or not Sarita knew she would not survive.

Sarita held her hand above the phone, trembling. Life or death. Waste no more time. I’ve been committed to The Movement, she thought. But yesterday, with Agha’s report about Hakim I learned that I am a party to murder, to killing a worthy colleague who may have been just a little less committed and to a slaughter of innocents. Once again, she went over the elements of her night-long debate with herself.

Why should I not just move ahead, not look back and just do my part? Then I could just leave the rest of this bloody project to others. She absently pulled her hand back onto her lap. But I am still a part of this damned Project. It is impossible to just walk away, run, escape, and be done with this thing. My hands are already bloody with the Project’s work. And, there is no place to hide. They will find me no matter where I go. If I dare to leave, I will end up like Hakim. As she completed this thought, she raised her eyes to the ceiling knowing full well that there was no hope of leaving Project Scorpion and The Movement. Not alive.

During her late flight back to San Diego from Phoenix she reviewed Agha’s briefing in her head. She realized that her anger was not so much a reaction to Agha but disgust that she had allowed herself to be pulled this far into The Movement. Project Scorpion, with its planned bloody slaughter of innocents added to her growing sense of self-loathing. She had been angry for as long as she could remember at the injustice of growing up poor and a minority in America. What she had sought in joining The Movement was justice. Not murder. Not fratricide.

All night these agonizing thoughts had buzzed through her head allowing her no sleep, zigzagging between Hakim’s bloody death and the horror she knew would take place in just a few days. How had she not seen the pending clash of The Movement’s goal of stunning the Western Christian world in all of its iterations in Europe and the Americas into a worldwide Caliphate that would produce a more humane form of government for the governed and where the old Christian institutions became a part of their putrid past? How can I even think of giving up that dream? Justice?

As she thought all of this through again her hand rested in her lap. She had not yet dialed the private contact number that Angela had given her months ago when they had met for lunch. As a matter of course, Angela Arciniega, usually known as RC, had shared her private telephone code should she ever feel the need to contact her. She closed her eyes. Then she took a deep breath.

God damn it, girl! Get it straight! They’ve turned you into a murderer. A mass murderer. They are leading us into chaos. Stop thinking about it. Do it. Do it now! This is your last, no, your only chance to stop this. Do it now. Make your call to RC. She can help stop this senseless slaughter of so many innocent people. Political change is what you want, not a bloodletting such as this. Call her now!

Sarita squeezed her eyes even tighter, then opened them. She looked at the hands that lay helplessly in her lap. Suddenly, her head snapped up. She drew in a deep breath of new air into her lungs. She again moved her hand in position over the phone.

Do it. RC made it so easy for you. Just do it. Her hand was shaking again as it hovered over the phone. She picked it up. She turned the phone so that it faced her and carefully punched in the number she had memorized. As her finger touched the last number her finger jerked up involuntarily. Her hand trembled slightly. She felt a pain in her chest. Done. She wiped her free hand along the back of her neck, irritated at the hot dampness the seeped from her pores.

She waited. She feared she may have dialed the wrong number. She heard the two beeps. She punched in four digits, the code that RC had provided. As directed, she made no sound. Simple. She hung up her phone. At this moment she had the urge to bolt from the room and disappear into a faceless anonymous world. The child’s solution again, she thought.

She waited. She would receive a call on her cell phone and should not speak a word at any time. Voices could be identified. She must leave no trail. Sarita waited. Anxiety growing.

Two minutes later, seeming far longer, her phone rang. She remembered not to pick it up. It rang five times. Then it stopped. Message received. She would meet RC at the appointed place in an hour. The coffee shop they used to meet for a monthly get together. Just enough time to get there.

FIVE

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"I am an Associate in a group known as The Movement, a Muslim led activist organization. And I’m a major player in a smaller cell called Project Scorpion. A Project is a specific terrorist activity with a specific target. Project Scorpion’s target is the U.S. military in an attack planned here, in the States. I am going to share this information with you. As a result, I am certain I will not survive. We don’t have enough time for me to share everything I’d like you to know. What I will tell you is real and will certainly happen. I also need to tell you what the planned outcome is, that is, the planned aftermath which I am certain will occur. My hope is that you will ultimately be able to stop that as well."

Sarita and RC, best friends since law school, sat at a table farthest from the front door of the busy Peets Coffee Shop. The shop was across the street from John Wayne Airport, roughly midway between the airports in Los Angeles and San Diego. Sarita sat with her back to the wall. The coffee shop was crowded with customers even though it was still dark outside. Two lines of customers bisected the area for ordering and pick-up. The rest of the place was filled with small tables and chairs. All full, some with the ubiquitous laptop lounge rats using empty paper coffee cups firmly planted in front of them to stake their claims to their tables. Sarita had chosen a small table for two in the rear corner. She already had RC’s coffee the way she liked it. Black. No sugar.

They spoke softly. Just loud enough to be heard over the chatter, loud coffee steamers and blenders. To RC, Sarita appeared nervous, even anxious which was not like her at all. She continuously looked around the busy coffee shop, especially at the entrance and windows at the front. Her eyes reflected fear as they flicked right and left nervously looking for someone she hoped was not there. This worried RC. Sarita had always been fearless. This kind of wariness was not something she would ever have expected from her.

An attack, Sarita? You need to tell me who, what, and where right now so I can get this information to my people. Then we can discuss the why.

No. I know how you operate. I don’t blame you. It’s what you are supposed to do. But if I tell you that up front you will start the wheels moving and you will disappear without knowing some things that are equally critical. As she spoke, Sarita continued to search the front of the shop. The morning traffic of commuters seeking their morning coffee and pastries entered and left in constant motion. I’ll tell you what you need to know, but under my conditions so that you get the full story. We don’t have long. Bear with me. So that you will understand the urgency of this I will tell you when it will happen. But I will not tell you where until I’m done.

Sarita, I understand your concern. I will stay and listen but you need to tell me where so I can have something of substance to tell my people. If it’s soon we need some lead time to stop it.

"I will tell you when but not where until I have shared the problem of the aftermath.

And if I don’t agree?

If you don’t agree then I will leave now. I have not put my life at risk of certain death so you can stop one attack but lose a chance of stopping an even greater attack on this country. Sarita searched the window fronts again, her anxious dark eyes betraying her fear.

My safety is already compromised by this meeting. She now looked directly at RC, her voice straining to speak softly.

But. I can help you. My colleagues and I can get you out of here to a safe place.

You cannot promise to protect me. My life is already forfeit. I risk a death sentence by merely meeting with you here. They are too powerful. They reach into the highest levels of our government. So, don’t promise me safety. You cannot deliver it. Because of this meeting your own safety is forfeit. You may already be dead. As am I.

Then, why did you ask me to meet you here? Why have you put me in the same danger as you? RC tried to control her growing frustration.

"Why do you think? First, so you can stop it. You are the only person I know who can. Second, to save so many more lives than yours and mine. And third, because I don’t want to go cheap. To go out in disgrace. I want people, especially my family to know that I died honorably for a good cause. I want the Movement to be stopped by paying the highest price for it. Selfishly, I want some credit for that. That means death for me. For you, in your position, death is a part of your life, always there, waiting for the slightest slip. Death always awaits you and your colleagues in the shadows.

Someone has to be there to stop what will happen in the next few… She stopped, then began again. "And, tag, you’re it. I can’t stop it alone. I believe you can help me do that. You have