The Hammer of God

From the side of the concourse, a forklift-type machine rolled out and towards the trashcan. The Kevlar and composite resin receptacles lined with blast absorbing bubble wrap like insulation, were located throughout the station and specially designed to direct a blast upward, not outward, to minimize collateral damage if a traditional bomb were planted in one, or, as in this case, placed there by police to limit damage. The forklift carried a two-ton cover cylinder of the same material as the can. It slid the cover over the can, sealing it under 4,000 lbs of weight. For good measure, the cop driving the lift pressed the forks down on the top, adding the weight of the machine to the downward force. In all, 32 seconds elapsed between the takedown of the target and the securing of the canister. Unfortunately, it took the rumors less than half that time to spread to the street.

CNN, being right upstairs and across the street from Penn Station, had the first scoop. Then it took all of three minutes and the word was out — worldwide. Dirty bomb at Penn Station. Every news organization was heading towards 34th Street and 7th Avenue, including at least 14 additional news copters who were not covering the Broadway theater hostage drama.

“Let me know if he talks.” Bill slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Bridgestone. “They’re waiting for a robot x-ray of the bomb containment vessel to see what they’re dealing with. Rashid ain’t talking yet.”

“Whose got ‘em?”

“FBI AIC.”

“Too bad. The agent will have to play by the book.”

“She’ll have to. The Agent-in-Charge is Brooke Burrell. Joey is heading to Headquarters. But you just gave me an idea.”

Bill reopened his phone and pressed a speed dial key. “Get me the President.”

Number 1 had just heard of the events at Penn.

Number 2 was concerned. “If it didn’t go off, are we still going ahead?”

“Yes. Half of the news establishment is already at the theater. No detonation means there will be more reporters there, waiting for something to blow up so they can catch it on film. Yes, the threat of the bomb works better for us than the bomb itself! Let’s go! Number 10 should be in position for transfer in five minutes.”

“Roger that.”

Agent Burrell couldn’t believe her ears, but she trusted Joe and knew Bill. She hung up her phone, ordered all of the other agents out of the room, and told them to guard the door.

Rashid protested. “No woman. Only man! No woman!”

Brooke turned to a shackled Rashid. “Because women don’t have balls, Rashid? They are beneath you because they don’t have testicles? Well, we can fix that. That call was bad news, Rashid. The President of the United States just gave me permission to remove each one of your balls slowly and feed them to you.” She opened a knife that no self-respecting agent, let alone a woman, should carry. “So, soon we’ll be equals.”

Rashid stiffened.

Agent Warner turned immediately upon the first screams that echoed through the theater and instinctively grabbed Janice and headed for the exit. She was his primary concern due to her security clearance. Unfortunately, he was not responsible for the elder Hiccocks. Janice protested, but he overwhelmed her and got as far as the lower stage-right exit doors. They opened as two men, in long overcoats and brandishing machine guns appeared. Warner pushed Janice safely out of the line of fire and tapped two perfect kills in the foreheads of each intruder. As he reached down for Janice, she saw his chest explode as a fusillade of bullets ripped him from behind. He fell and didn’t move.

Number 4 grabbed Janice. “Your in-laws are dead unless you do everything we say.”

Janice was in shock, yet she noticed men in long coats placing sacks in doorways and stringing wires. Others were herding people at the back of the theater. The Hiccocks were being corralled up the aisle. To her, it was all like a dream in slow motion.

“Where is your husband?”

“He’s not here. Why are you doing this?”

He slapped her. “Shut up. No questions.” He then yelled to two others, “Find him. Try the lavatories.”

“Hey pal, can I use the can?”

“Yes, it’s by the white truck,” Sammy said to Hiccock who hastened his step in the manner of a man responding to nature’s call.

Bridgestone remained and chatted up the caterer. “Egyptian?”

“Yes. Been in America for 12 years now.”

“Good business?”

“I have three trucks and do over 500 meals a day.”

“It smells good.”

“Try this.” Sammy tore off a piece of flatbread and dragged it through some baba ghanoush. He handed this to Bridgestone with a napkin under it.

“Mmmmm, that’s really good. Cumin?”

“Yes, and paprika and dill.”

“That’s really tasty. I can see why you are successful. What’s going on here today?”

“First day of an Iranian film. They are shooting all the exteriors here in New York. Then they’ll go back to Teheran and shoot the interiors. They should be here for a month. That’s why the Halaal food.”

“Who’s the producer?”

“Rashani. Biggest producer in Iran.”

“Which one is he?”