“Yo man, I seen on the movies — this car had one of these things and you got to push something in with your foot to make it go. Like you need to use both legs or somethin’ like that.”
The driver looked down between his legs and saw there were three pedals, where he had expected there to be only two. Pushing the first clutch he had ever seen to the floor he again started the engine and accelerated. The car’s engine screamed as the revs increased. “We ain’t going nowhere.” He relaxed the pressure on the clutch, tired of holding it down. The engine was still revving, extremely high. Suddenly the gears engaged and the car just didn’t lurch forward — it careered forward, wheels spinning on the seal, G-forces pushing the occupants back in their seats. The driver hung on, too startled to know what to do. “Aarrgh!”
“Turn the wheel, turn the wheel… brake!” The Nissan screeched to a bone-rattling stop, sending its occupants flying forward, only to come to an abrupt stop, the youth in the front passenger seat cracking his head on the windscreen. Cries of angry profanity rang out followed by a relentless abuse at both the driver and the vehicle’s maker.
“One more go, one more,’ said the driver. The road was clear ahead as he tried to recall how he made the vehicle move. Pushing the left side pedal to the floor, and putting his other foot on the middle pedal, he turned the key — only this time this time he didn’t apply as many revs. The engine started again. “OK, OK, baby.” Very carefully the driver let the pressure go on the clutch, the gear engaged… and the car moved off. “Yeeha, you motherfucker.” Moving forward normally the driver increased the speed.
“Turn left here.”
The driver applied pressure to the brakes and the car slowed until it only just rolled forward. Turning the wheel to take the corner, a big smile broke out on the driver’s face, “Who da man, who da…” The vehicle jerked then jerked forward again as the motor slowed… too slow for the gearing. The driver did the only thing he could think of: he floored the accelerator and the car exploded forward giving him such a fright he slammed on the brake followed once again by the accelerator. The car bunny-hopped out of control until finally the engine died.
“Piece of shit… you fucking piece of shit!”
“Leave it,” the front passenger said, frustrated that their easy pickings had turned into a disaster. “Let’s go find a real car.”
By now five angry and frustrated boys pushed the car doors open, hurling contempt at the Nissan. They were so busy ranting, raving and kicking in the panels to notice the blue uniformed men and the weapons trained on them.
“NYPD. Place your hands in the air and don’t move.”
Chapter Seventeen
The three terrorists and their payload of spray cans silently left the Bronx, the Ford Explorer first crossing the smaller Harlem River, then the mighty Hudson, spanned by the George Washington Bridge. Even Bomani was impressed by the huge iron structure, with its immense steel cables running the length of the bridge in a reversed arch, supported near the ends by huge towers. They were awe inspiring and the views between the vertical suspender cables majestic. A wonderful target for a future mission, he thought.
His passengers were now better informed about the general direction they were headed. West. As they drove further from the Hudson, the greater their confidence grew. Of course they would succeed — failure was unthinkable, with Allah on their side. Yusuf felt less and less that he had made a terrible mistake by joining the Takfir wal-Hijra brotherhood. He grinned at his friend.
Any illusion of a road trip vanished as soon as Bomani spoke without taking his eyes off the road. “In one hour from now we will arrive. Tell me exactly what you are going to do.”
Bashir and Yusuf were both taken back. This close? For weeks they had speculated they might be heading to Texas, Kansas or Nebraska, some of the leading cattle-producing states. When they had received instructions to buy bus tickets to Binghamton, even though they knew this was a false trail, they had resigned themselves to less adventure and not going far from home. But this close?
Bashir looked at his friend. Yusuf was no longer smiling. Taking a large swallow Bashir said, “Only an hour? We assumed we would…”
“Assume nothing,” snapped back Bomani, interrupting him. “Our strength is surprise and speed. Already you have been compromised, but we have planned for this contingency. Now tell me your instructions and how you will carry them out.”
“Yusuf and I go to a cattle auction. We find where the cattle are penned, choose a place where there are few people walking about, then reach in between the rails and spray the virus on the cattle.”
Bomani nodded. “And what sort of cattle are you looking for?”
“Breeding cows or young cattle.”
“And why?”
“Because those are the ones most likely to go to other farms, which will mean the virus is spread far and wide.”
“Good. Now, tell me what you are to do when we have finished our work for Allah. You, Yusuf, you tell me.”
“We … we return to our home and assimilate ourselves back into Western society. We are never to mention this to anyone.”
It was Bomani’s turn to smile; it was the only time there had been anything other than a stern, uncompromising look on his face. “Of course, my brothers. Once a Takfir, always a Takfir.”
He looked straight ahead — and if Yusuf and Bashir could have seen his eyes, they would never have set foot in the Ford Explorer. Bomani had survived this long only because of his primeval instinct for survival. Fools, he thought, you have assumed again.
Inox, New Jersey — population just under nine thousand, in 2004 named the eighty-first town out of the Top One Hundred to Live and Work in the USA, by Money magazine. It hadn’t been included since. Surrounded by farmland and beautiful forests, in fall the undulating landscape turns to an absolute symphony of bronze, yellow, red and green.
Mainway’s Auctioneers run twice-weekly auctions; one livestock, the other general merchandise. Bidding for the cattle sales takes place in a large, closed-in pavilion. Outside were steel and wooden livestock yards, a large graveled parking lot for vehicles and a further large building.
The livestock auction of a line of cattle was nearly completed for the estate sale of one of the local identities. With the vendor’s untimely death, his Holstein-Friesian herd of in-milk, in-calf cows and yet-to-calve heifers had been placed on the market. Buyers had come to bid, recognizing the proven bloodlines and milking potential of this particular herd. Big Bill Lomas, the owner and proprietor of the auction establishment, was sitting at his desk in the sales office. He stared at his computer screen, trying to fathom the email from the New Jersey Police Department.
“What in tarnation is this all about?”
The livestock sales clerk looked up from her books, puzzled by his remark.
“I’ve just got this message from the NJPD, telling us to be ‘diligent and proactive in our observation of any unusual or suspicious behavior.’ It goes on to say ‘any suspected or observed incidents must immediately be reported with the utmost urgency to this office.’ Goddamn, Josie, what do you make of that?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she replied. “Maybe we have a serial killer?”
“In Inoz? At the saleyards? Now… I can think of something worse than that. I mean… they sent it to us, a livestock yard. Maybe it’s one of those, you know… perverts?”
“No, you got me, Bill.”