Riley took the eraser and swiped the whiteboard clean.
Chapter 43
A pink neon vacancy sign burned brightly against the predawn backdrop.
Akil eased the minivan off of County Highway 36 and pulled up to the office of the Lakeside Motel.
He gently shook Marissa’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
She yawned. “What time is it?”
“Five thirty in the morning.”
“Is this New York City?”
“Wisconsin.”
“I’ve never been to Wisconsin.” She opened a window and peered outside. “How long have we been sleeping?”
“Since Iowa.”
“It’s so quiet and cold,” she observed. “I think I can see my breath.”
“This isn’t California. It’s a farm town,” Akil said. “I used to stay here when I visited friends at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. It’s only an hour away.” He popped the rear hatch. “Do me a favor and check in. We should be in number twelve.”
“Okay, Eddie, but I don’t have a credit card.”
“You won’t need one.”
Marissa ran a brush through her hair and then shuffled into the motel’s office. There was a handwritten note and a room key taped to the counter:
Sanchez family—
We open at 7:00 a.m. Please fill out the guest registration card and leave it on the counter. You can pay later.
Thank you!
Marissa collected her children and walked to the room.
The interior was spartan clean and smelled of northern pine. The walls were painted gloss white. There were two queen beds.
“I didn’t have to pay,” she said, shivering. “Someone will rip them off.”
“People aren’t like that here,” Akil yawned. “They trust everybody.”
Marissa tucked Amber and Jo-Jo into bed and covered them. “Eddie, do you think we’re a family?”
“From now on, we’ll always be a family,” Akil assured, sliding a suitcase against the wall. He turned on the wall heater and draped a blanket over Marissa’s shoulders, rubbing her arms vigorously.
She leaned into him appreciatively. “I love the way you say that to me.”
“I love to say it.” He kissed her cheekbone and then her lips. “Are you hungry?”
“Sure. How long are we going to stay here?”
“Just today,” he said, checking the time. “Go back to sleep. I know a little restaurant. They should be open. I need to get gas and check the tires.”
Akil drove north on Honey Lake Road and then east on Academy Road to Annie & Angel’s Country Café in Honey Creek. The restaurant was slammed.
A silver Ford Taurus sat idling in the rear of the parking lot.
Akil saw it and instantly became furious. With a single brief glance, he immediately recognized the male driver as a soldier. He sported a beard with a thin mustache, deep-toned skin, tight black hair, thick extended eyebrows, and an overall suspicious, even guilty visage. The man was as out of place as a fire hydrant in the desert, a Middle-Eastern male stereotype whose face would match half of those on a terror watch list.
Akil backed the minivan alongside and lowered his passenger window.
The man sat motionless, staring straight ahead.
Frustrated, Akil finally tapped his horn. The man lowered his window. Akil smiled pleasantly. “Do they serve barbecue?”
“Only if it is halal,” the man replied with a distinct accent.
Akil drew his Glock and unlocked the passenger door. The man slid inside.
“Lift your shirt, slowly,” Akil said, instantly serious.
The man complied, twisting sideways, exposing his waist and back.
“What’s your name?”
“Abderouf Jdey. Allah has sent me to help—”
“Put your hands down,” Akil ordered. “From where?”
“Gafsa, Tunisia.”
“A long way from home,” Akil observed, carefully feeling the man’s thighs and ankles. “Where do you live now?”
“New York City.”
“Where do you work?”
“Hunt’s Point Cooperative Meat Plant. It is in the Bronx.”
“Why are you here?”
“You called me.”
“Wrong answer,” Akil said, his jaw muscles flexing. “One more and you die.”
“I am on orders… to assist you and your operation.”
“What operation?”
“I do not know.”
“Who am I?” Akil asked.
“I do not know.”
“What’s your skill?”
“Yudammir.”
“Destruction, huh?” Akil said doubtingly. “How?”
“I am expert with explosives,” Jdey answered. “Plastics, nitrates, powders. Concealed and timed. I have much experience.”
Akil studied Jdey’s face. “What ratio of RDX and PETN will make Semtex 1A?”
“Four percent to seventy-six percent.”
The RDX ratio was actually four-point-six. The rest was binder and plasticizer.
“What’s the molecular formula of PETN? Don’t guess.”
“C5, H8, N4, and O12,” Jdey recited confidently. “I serve you and your operation.”
“And so you shall, my friend,” Akil said, relieved. He eased the Glock back into his waistband holster. “Dude, this isn’t Tunisia. You need to relax in public. You look like you’re waiting to be arrested. And lose the beard. Try and look more… like a student. No more sport coats or expensive shoes. Wear old jeans and a cap with a college or sports logo. Nothing that draws attention. Find some lady to hang with, preferably with kids.”
“What do I call you?” Jdey asked.
“Kenny,” Akil said. “And you, my friend, will help me finish destroying America’s airline industry.”
“Praise be unto Him,” Jdey said, bringing his hands together almost gleefully. “I knew it was of our doing.”
“We’re going to kill one more plane,” Akil said matter-of-factly. “Correction… you are going kill one more. I will teach you. But first, I need you to gather information about your company’s beef operations. Processing, distribution, stockyard access, and security.”
“Three soldiers and I have worked at Hunt’s for two years,” Jdey explained. “We have earned their trust. All this information is accessible. What kind of stockyards?”
“Feedlots.” Akil yawned. “Particularly in Nebraska and Texas.”
Jdey turned to Akil, a question in his eyes. “The planes… how are they—?”
“An explosive killed those aircraft. Attached to the landing gear and then lifted inside.”
“Attached how? What type?”
“A stable mix of potassium chlorate. It works fine. But you need to listen carefully and do exactly as I say. It was placed on the landing gear by a flying drone that operates from a laptop computer. It sees with a small camera. Everything is radio-controlled.”
“Fascinating,” Jdey mused. “Think of the power of one thousand such drones. We could attack one thousand targ—”
“Halast,” Akil rebuked him in Arabic. “We’re not interested in attacking one thousand anything. There’s a plan in place, and we need to follow it. And that plan says one remaining aircraft.”
“Where will we strike?”
“I have an apartment in East Elmhurst, directly across the street from LaGuardia Airport,” Akil explained. “I need you to take the drone there and study it. In exactly sixteen hours, I’ll join you. Together, we’ll wait for the US president to open the skies.”
“Friend, I am overwhelmed,” Jdey admitted. “This is truly a gift from Allah.”
“It’s more than a gift,” Akil advised. “Our work can no longer be carried out indiscriminately. There’s a saying in America that suggests change is inevitable. It’s true. We must change to survive. Our fight must be guided by new technologies — technologies that we will pass to the next generation and beyond. Remote-control devices are a solution to many problems. Do you know American history?”