The Death Row Complex (2 page)

Silently, the
federales
crept through the house with firearms raised. As those behind him assumed formation along the wall of a narrow hallway, the leading officer kicked a bathroom door, and it flung open as he shrank backward against the doorjamb.

The evasive maneuver barely saved the officer from being shot in the face.

As the bullet cut through the thin drywall behind him and embedded into a rotting wall stud, the officer instinctively leaned in and flicked his index finger three times. The brief staccato of semi-automatic fire rang out, and the shooter fell gurgling into the bathtub.

The officer lowered his pistol to look down at the body. Then he turned to his team. “
Esto no es lo,”
he said coldly.
This isn’t him.

Two additional doors were visible along the narrow hallway. One was wide open. The leading officer caught the eye of the man nearest it and cocked his head toward the room. The flanking man stepped in, gun drawn. He strode to the closet and opened it, then stepped back out into the hallway and shook his head.

The attention of the team turned to the other hallway door. It was closed.

After making eye contact with the rest of the team, the leading officer repeated the motions of kicking in the door and then stepping out of the line of anticipated fire. This time, there was none. Cautiously, he followed the barrel of his weapon into the room, noticeably relaxing as he did.

Across the room, a man was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall, his gaunt body slumping to one side. A trickle of fresh blood flowed down the inner part of his forearm from a newly opened wound. The entire area of flesh was scarred, scabbed, and bruised. As the officers entered the room, the man’s half-opened eyes registered a slight recognition. A needled syringe dropped from his hand and rolled toward the officers in the doorway.

The brief lucidity that had graced Lawrence Naden’s eyes faded as the heroin flooded his bloodstream. His pupils fixed into a lifeless gaze onto a spot on the floor, and then the rush overtook him.

Part I: The Message

O
CTOBER 12, 2015
2:13 P.M.
EDT

The image was lovely in a somewhat odd, geometric way. A bouquet? Or maybe a tree? The flower heads were a jumbled mess, but the stems were perfectly arrayed—an intertwined cylinder spiraling downward from the wad of flowers on top. The overzealous rainbow coloring of it all was unlike anything existing in nature.

The leaves around Washington, D.C. were turning, and it was already getting cold. Rain was beating against the windows, and White House intern Amanda Dougherty scratched her back with a letter opener while frowning curiously at the bizarre image on the front of the greeting card.

The card had probably been white. It was now a slightly charred sepia from the UV irradiation. Despite its ugly signature on the paper, Amanda had felt much more comfortable about taking this job after Mr. Callahan had explained that decontaminating irradiation was a mandatory process for all incoming White House mail. It was done in a New Jersey facility after processing and sorting at Brentwood, the facility that had made national headlines years earlier when anthrax spores intended for U.S. government officials had infected several people and killed five.

Today, by the time the mail reached Amanda, it was safe.

Amanda flipped open the greeting card. “Oh, my word,” she said quietly. The handwritten text was small and neatly aligned, but Amanda most certainly could not read it. She thought the repetitive squiggles before her might be Arabic, or Hebrew, or Farsi—she could not tell those languages apart.

After a moment of thought, Amanda got up and walked to Mr. Callahan’s office, where she rapped softly on the door.

He yelled through the door for her to come in.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Amanda said timidly. “We got a greeting card in a foreign language. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these.”

“What language?”

“I don’t know. Something Middle Eastern. It has all those funny double-you looking things with dots over them.”

Mr. Callahan motioned for her to enter and took the card from her. He glanced briefly at the brightly colored bouquet on the front and then flipped the card open to look at the text inside.

“It’s Arabic, but I don’t speak it. I’ll give it to an interpreter. Thank you, Ms. Dougherty.”

On the other side of the country, a prison guard watched from across the visiting room as a man and a woman conversed at a small table.

Both leaning forward, the couple spoke intimately, his dark hands enveloping her black-gloved ones on the table. The standard-issue solid blue jumpsuit of the prisoner was a stark contrast to his visitor’s traditional Muslim attire—her formless black robe and the headscarf that shielded her downcast face.

Their conversation seemed hurried, urgent.

The guard nonchalantly crossed the room, slowing ever so slightly as he passed by the couple in a casual effort to overhear them. For a few seconds, he could hear the man impatiently reassuring his mate.

“It’s OK, I’ve taken care of it. You don’t have anything to worry about. So shut up already.”

The woman said nothing. She glanced up, and her dark face was partially revealed for just a moment from within the folds of the headscarf. She looked afraid. The inmate’s expression was one of defiance. To the seasoned guard, it was a familiar combination. He strolled away to watch over another visiting couple.

Overhead, electric eyes were faithfully recording the scene.

Ten minutes later in Washington, D.C., Jack Callahan handed the greeting card to an interpreter who had just entered his office.

The interpreter frowned.

“What?” Jack asked.

“This card may have a cute bouquet on the front, but the text… ” The interpreter trailed off, skimming silently down the card. Then he began to read aloud, slowly translating from the Arabic:

Dear Mr. President,

Your nation of puppets will soon know at last the price of fighting against our Islamic State. Those of you who survive Allah’s justice will reflect upon 11 September of 2001 and consider that date
insignificant.

A small taste of the pain we promise has already been put to course. Make no mistake that the blood that will flow is on your hands. Let it paint for you an image of our strength and resolve. Let it serve as a reminder that you cannot defeat
Islam.

You will stand powerless and witness this small shedding of blood, and you will then have the privilege of living in fear for two months, as our faithful brothers and sisters have lived in fear of your Christian Crusaders.

And finally, on your Christmas Day of this year, there will begin a cleansing of your country unlike any you can possibly imagine. It will blanket your nation and no man, woman, or child will be safe. Only Allah will decide who may be spared.

Our Muslim brothers and sisters have been imprisoned by the western leaders for too long. The world will now see that you are the prisoners, and Allah will praise the final victory of
ISIL.

The prisoner watched over his shoulder as the guard walked away. Turning back to his visitor, he raised one dark eyebrow and gave a subtle nod.

The visitor disentangled one gloved hand from the prisoner’s and lowered it to reach beneath the small table. The hand snaked into a fold of the loose black robe and then returned calmly to assume its former position. The guard was now on the other side of the room.

Couples were beginning to kiss goodbye, and the room was clearing out. The visiting hour was almost over.

“Stay in contact,” the prisoner whispered. “I will be calling on you.”

His visitor’s eyes flared in shock. This was supposed to have been their final meeting. “
What are you talking about?”

The prisoner smiled menacingly, revealing a broken fence of rotten teeth. “Oh, did you think it was going to be that easy for you, bitch? That I’d do all the work and you’d get the glory? I know a good negotiation when I see one. Don’t fuckin’ think I’m kidding.”

“Forget it, then! I’ll get someone else!”

“Too late, lover,” the prisoner said with a grin. “The cat’s already out of the bag.”

As the prisoner and his visitor were saying their goodbyes, an inmate in a remote wing of the prison was vomiting into his private cell’s toilet for the second time that hour. He half-heartedly cursed the prison food, but he did not really think he had food poisoning. He felt like he was coming down with the flu.