Inside Threat (17 page)

Expelling his breath, Riley eased the club forward and gave his ball a solid tap.
Keep your head down. Follow through.
The ball trekked its way across the short stretch of grass to the cup, where it skirted around the inside of the lip and back out, rolling to the left, at which point it caught a downward slope that carried it another eight feet before it came to an abrupt stop against the edge of the fringe.

Tuesday, September 13, 8:10 p.m. PDT

Santa Rosa, California

The smoke was so thick in the car that it was becominging too much even for Donnell Marcum, a man who had smoked two packs a day for the last twenty years. But he didn't dare put down the window. No one could know he was in the parking lot.

Another straggler rolled in, and Donnell eased his body sideways onto the seat until the lights passed. The meeting had begun ten minutes ago, and he figured people would still be coming for another ten—
after all, these people are living on California time.
Then with a smile, he added,
Or you could say they're living on borrowed time.

It was three years back and forty miles south that Donnell had first been exposed to the radical teachings he would eventually embrace. He was in San Quentin serving a stretch for armed robbery—not his first time enjoying the hospitality of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.

The Muslims had always been around, and he had respected them—you had to respect them . . . or face the consequences. But he had never felt a draw to be part of them. Too many rules. Too much “we.” He was a loner—always had been, always would be. Connections held you back. Relationships brought responsibility.

Sure, while in prison he had joined the Black Guerrilla Family. He even had a guy tattoo a black dragon with the numbers 2-7-6 over it to show his loyalty. But that was prison life. In prison, you do what you have to do—and one thing you never do is go it alone.

Outside's different. Outside you could make it on your own. Outside you made up your own rules.

So he'd lived out his sentence as part of the family, until one day another BGFer shorted him on a cap of green. This dude was a BGF lifer and way up the ladder. But that didn't matter. You try ripping off Donnell Marcum, you're going to answer to Donnell Marcum.

Donnell had confronted the guy in the yard. Soon fists were flying, and Donnell was pounced on by four other BGFers. By the time the guards came, he was a bloody mess.

After his time in the hospital and in solitary, he truly was on his own. The BGF didn't want anything to do with him, and he obviously wasn't going to the Aryans or the Mexican gangs. It was then the Muslim brotherhood reached out to him. They were the ones who took him in, gave him a home, and covered his back.

As he spent time with them, he learned that while there were rules, they were rules with a purpose. Not only did they exist to please Allah, but they also were there to please the guards and the prison officials. And pleasing others meant one word—freedom!

If you please Allah, you are free from the cares of this world and the next. You serve him well in this life, he will reward you in the next.

If you play the game and please the prison toads, you get freedom of another kind. You leave their little hellhole, you leave their watchful eyes, and you receive freedom to do what Allah calls you to do.

So, he threw himself in completely with
Jam'iyyat Ul-Islam Is-Saheeh
. The Assembly of Authentic Islam gave him purpose he had never felt before, and finally he found himself really wanting to belong—to be part of something bigger.

And as he listened to the leaders, his hatred for America and Israel grew. But his patience and self-control grew in the same measure. Two and a half years later, he was paroled. And this time when he walked out those gates, there was a JIS car waiting for him.

For the past six months, he had been living in Oakland rent-free in a small apartment that sat adjacent to a JIS mosque. His days were spent in study or listening to the imam. His nights were spent fervently praying for the opportunity to be used by Allah.

His time finally came three days ago, when the imam called him into his office following the
Dhuhr
prayer. Ammar Kazerooni offered Donnell some lunch, but he declined. Even though he had thirty-five years under his belt—and countless parole hearings—this was probably the most nervous he had ever been in a meeting. It was the first time the imam had ever called him into his office. The news had to be important.

“Are you ready to fight for Allah?” Kazerooni had asked.

“I'm ready to die for Allah!”

“Are you? Are you sure?”

“I will do anything for my God,” Donnell insisted.

“Anything?”

“Anything!”

Kazerooni stared at Donnell awhile, as if trying to decide if he could trust him with an important piece of information.

“I promise you, Mullah, whatever you say, I will do. Let me prove it to you.”

After a few more moments, Kazerooni said, “I believe you, Donnell. I believe you will do whatever Allah calls you to do.”

Just hearing those words sent Donnell's heart soaring. In that moment, he knew that even if he was called to assassinate the president himself, he would find a way to do it.

“What I'm about to tell you is very secret. No one must know. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kazerooni lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Something big is about to happen. I can't tell you what. I can't tell you where. I can't even tell you when. But just know it will be big. And we have been asked to help.”

“Anything, Mullah. I'll do anything.”

“I know you will. We have been asked to create a diversion of sorts. You know of the attacks that have been taking place around the country?”

Donnell nodded. Of course he knew. He had heard them from the imam's own mouth during services and had laughed and rejoiced with each blow struck against the enemy.

“The purpose of these attacks is to draw attention away from the big event. Sometimes if there are enough flies swarming your face, you don't see the bull behind them. We have been asked to be one of these flies. Do you understand, Donnell?”

Donnell felt he knew where this was leading, and he could hardly contain his excitement. “Yes! Yes, I do. By making smaller attacks, we will draw manpower and other resources away from the agencies who are tasked to monitor anti-American activities. That way they will be looking the other way when the big punch comes.”

Kazerooni smiled. “Exactly! And I have chosen to give you the privilege of carrying out this attack. By agreeing, you will not only gain honor and praise in this life but a martyr's welcome in heaven.”

“Just tell me! Whatever it is, I'll do!”

That conversation had led to Donnell's being here, outside this building, watching the last of the procrastinators enter through the glass double doors. The clock on the dash said 8:25. He took one last deep drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray.

He stepped out of the car and moved to the trunk, popping it open with his key fob. He slid two .45s into the rear of his waistband and filled the pockets of his windbreaker with six more clips. He would have felt better with an automatic weapon, but getting one into this meeting undetected would potentially have been difficult.
Instead, I'm going to have to kill them the old-fashioned way—one at a time.

He hoisted a gym bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the building. Just outside the front door stood a white board:

North Bay Patriots

Tonight, 8–9:30 p.m.

All are Welcome!!

You may want to rethink that last line,
Donnell thought as he pulled open the door. Across the entryway through another set of closed doors, he could hear someone speaking. He was saying something about taking back America and the evils of Washington.
“Evils of Washington,” huh? Maybe we have something in common after all,
he thought with a smile.

Stepping to the right side of the outer doors, he set down the gym bag. From inside, he removed a hammer and one small nail. With one practiced swing, he embedded the nail about a third of the way into the wall six inches up from the floor.

He replaced the hammer and moved the bag back to the other side of the doors. Once the bag was down again, he fished out from its corner a small tab with a round hole punched in it. Attached to it was a thin wire that fed out as he walked back toward the nail. He slipped the tab over the nail and returned to the bag. Reaching in, he flipped a toggle, then zipped the bag back up.

A little surprise for anyone trying to run away. Or for any first responders who might think about coming to help.

He faced the inner doors. Taking a deep breath, he prayed, “O Allah, you gave me back my life when I had thrown it away. And now, in reverent gratitude, I give it back to you. You are great, O my God!”

He pulled both doors open and stepped in. The room was filled with over a hundred people. All were facing a man behind a podium with an American eagle emblem on it.
Perfect!

Reaching with both hands behind his back, he grasped the two .45s and pulled them out. But before they had cleared his back, a woman in a seat next to him cried out, “Gun!”

Surprised, Donnell hesitated a moment, and that moment was all it took for him to lose his advantage. Instantly, ten, fifteen, twenty—more than he could count—people stood up, guns drawn, facing him.

Shouts of “Put the gun down!” and “Drop it!” mixed with the screams of those nearest him. There was chaos all around him. Instinctively, his hands went up over his head, and he saw some of the men begin to approach him.

But then he remembered why he was here.
There is no honor in being arrested! There is no honor in saving your life! I'm here to become
shaheed
! I never planned on getting out of here alive to begin with! To your glory, Allah!

With a cry, he brought his guns back down. But before he could get a shot off, the air filled with the sound of gunfire. All over his body he felt impacts, and he flew back through the doors.

Panic filled him. This wasn't the way things were supposed to happen. He didn't know how many times he had been shot, but he knew he was in major trouble. He couldn't move his left side, and the room was spinning around him. In that moment, the most basic of instincts kicked in—survival.
I've got to get out of here!

He could hear shouting and commotion just behind the doors. Half running, half stumbling, he made for the exit.

Gotta get through! Gotta get home!

He punched the crash bar on the front doors just as the first of his pursuers slammed through the doors behind him. None of them lived to know what hit them.

Tuesday, September 13, 11:15 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Majid Alavi murmured a greeting to the man guarding the warehouse door, then slipped out into the warm night. He was leaving a very unpleasant meeting. They had just heard of the botched attack in California, and Saifullah was fuming.

“That's what we get for trusting the JIS! Prison rats! Gutter trash!”

“But we still accomplished our purpose,” Alavi had protested. “Many more people focused on that incident.”

“Bah! Quit defending them! They gave all of Islam a black eye with their incompetence! Our goal with this whole operation is to wreak as much devastation and carnage as we possibly can. This fool squandered his opportunity.”

Outside, Alavi breathed deeply, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. Although it was a fairly large warehouse, it wasn't big enough to mask the smell of twenty-four hot, tense, sweaty men, and the old odors of gas and grease that had absorbed into the cement floor over the years just thickened the atmosphere that much more.

As number two, he was one of the few allowed outside. For all others, stepping a foot through the door meant severe punishment. Saifullah had made it clear how dangerous it would be to have fifteen or twenty men standing outside an abandoned warehouse smoking and shooting the breeze.