Lilburn felt his mobile vibrate. He had to yell over the phone to be heard. “Yes… we see it.” He relayed the information to his fellow officers — the roar of the Jeep on gravel and the wind whipping past the open vehicle didn’t help, but all his men knew what had been confirmed.
Not far ahead smoke could be seen pluming out of the fiery burst they had witnessed. Lilburn knew that by the time they got there the terrorist cell would be gone. He was now positive he was up against a professional killer, an experienced Takfir wal-Hijra. To some he would be a hero — to Lilburn he was just a killer; there was only one way to stop killers. Lilburn had been brought in to do a specific job he was very good at — and it was time for him to step up to the plate.
The four Homeland agents stopped to check for survivors at the end of the long straight. Three of the police officers had been cleanly shot, the fourth they found twenty yards away down the road heading away from the scene. His body was still smoldering as he lay sprawled out, face down. A bullet entry hole could be seen on the back of his charred head. Two of Lilburn’s men crossed themselves.
Lilburn looked up at the peaceful blue sky. He knew the drone was up there somewhere — he prayed it stuck to its target like glue.
Chapter Twenty-one
Once the aerial surveillance problem was taken care of, Bomani knew his chances of completing his objective would be greatly enhanced. It had been sheer bad luck that the infidels had discovered the plan to release the virus on American soil. It could have been so simple — instead it was now slightly more difficult. The scenario being played out, though, had been envisaged, right down to the use of a drone. The fathers of the plan had the foresight to place the strategic planning into his own hands, to devise an operation of which Osama bin Laden himself would have been proud. The honor was immense, and once the planning had been completed, he passionately pleaded to be allowed to be the one to implement the plan.
Bomani expanded the view on his GPS mounted on the dash. His next destination, where he intended to lose ‘the eye in the sky’, was over ten miles away. It was essential he made the location as quickly as possible to avoid more confrontation. The gravel road ended and the road became sealed; a sure sign they were nearing another community center. They passed an intersection and then through another. Bomani noticed several signs rammed into the ground with arrows pointing in the direction he was going. A slower moving vehicle came into view, he passed it. Further on there was another, then a faster car passed them. Traffic started to increase. The odd vehicle started to appear coming towards then from the other direction. Bomani spotted a large sign attached to a wire fence up ahead and slowed down to read it. Danbury Races — Free parking — two hundred yards.
This wasn’t in the plan. Unsure what sort of event this was, but concerned there could be a police presence, he sought his passengers’ opinion.
Yusuf had an answer. “It’s a race day — horse-racing, people come and gamble. There… see? Up ahead on the right, there’s the car parking… Wow, that’s a lot of cars!”
Most of the punters were already there, as the race meeting had started several hours earlier. There must have been at least five hundred vehicles in the grassed field that was doubling as a car park. Bomani could see an advantage in diverting from his plan. He decided to take it.
The Ford Explorer indicated and turned into the car park, its driver consciously looking for something in particular. Bomani ignored the empty spaces where vehicles were expected to park. He wound down his side window, smiling at the car-parking wardens directing traffic, telling them politely he had a delivery for catering.
“Where are you going? Why are you stopping here? The police can’t be far away!” Bashir was worried.
“Your security forces know exactly where we are, American boy, they are watching us right now. They have been ever since we left the cattle yards.”
“They aren’t our security forces! We are Takfir fighters,” said Bashir.
Bomani wasn’t surprised at Bashir’s response; he had seen potential in him early on. Unlike Yusuf.
At the far end of the car park, closest to the track and attached to the racecourse grandstand, Bomani found exactly what he was looking for — and an undercover parking area for caterers to unload their precious cargo undisturbed by inclement weather. He drove in where the sign said Caterers’ entrance and turned off the ignition.
“Listen to me.” Bomani imparted his instructions with clarity. “High above there is a drone, like the ones used against us in Afghanistan; it has been the infidels’ eyes. Right now, it knows where we are but can’t see us. So we find a new vehicle. Take your bags with you. Yusuf, bring the rifle bag. Let us go.”
The three left the Ford Explorer where it stood. This time, after taking the GPS with him, Bomani took the key out of the ignition and locked the doors.
Inside the catering and kitchen area under the grandstand Yusuf and Bashir followed their leader as he walked through the dry store area, past the large walk-in refrigerators and onwards through the kitchen, with bright stainless steel benches, sinks and stoves. The small army of professional caterers never gave the three strangers more than a second glance, their concentration set on meeting the demands of the chef. On the ground level next to the kitchen was a large function room set with rows of tables. Five or so men and woman dressed in black pants, white shirts and black waistcoats were busy unrolling large rolls of white paper over the bare tables as table cloths. The small army of waiters was being managed by a blond-haired man dressed in the same attire. His effeminate voice and exaggerated movements, together with a natural gift of the gab, certainly attracted the attention of everyone in the room. Some gritted their teeth as they were informed a particular item was out of place. Bomani walked towards the large windows and bi-fold doors looking out to the crowd of punters outside, eagerly encouraging their favorite horse and jockey as the leaders were about to cross the finishing line. Just as a roar of anguish and triumph erupted outside at the finish of the race, the blond man let out his own shriek. “Oh my lordy-be! I ordered lilac-colored napkins, lilac, not… blue. I strictly gave instructions for lilac napkins. How could you do this? Look at me when I speak to you!” A waiter of more burly physique was the brunt of the outburst. He placed both his hands on one of the tables, partly bent over due to his height, he brought his eyes back around to look at his head waiter having another hissy-fit. The part-time waiter gritted his teeth and forced the corners of his mouth upwards to give the outward look of a smile. With his teeth locked together, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, sorry butters no toast! Sorry…” The blond man stopped mid-sentence. A dramatically overacted physical shudder shook his body. “Well, as my darling mother always said, if you want something done co-rrect-ly, then you simply must do it yourself. Pay attention, everyone, look at me, look at me.” Satisfied he had everyone’s attention, he went on. “I shall have to go and procure the lilac napkins myself. I shall be gone forty-five minutes. When I return I expect to be pleasantly surprised to find the tables set — minus the napkins.” Clapping his hands together, he gave his usual parting remark. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Sharron, love, be a dear and take over while I’m gone.”