Chapter 10
Painfully, Ross rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, rubbed at his cheek. Fine grit from the floor rasped at his cheek. Damn, how long had he been out? He gingerly balanced on one elbow and sat up, pulling one knee up to balance himself. Whoa, no cuffs. When had that happened? He must have been out of it for awhile.
He scanned the empty room again. Two bottles of water, an apple and three packaged granola bars were lying on a paper towel by the door. He crawled toward the door, opened and downed three gulps of water, followed by half of a bar.
He was ready to cram in the rest of the bar, and caught himself. They hadn't killed him yet, and apparently, didn't think him capable of mounting much resistance. Best they continue to believe that. He took another swallow of water, and carefully placed the bottle on its side, letting the water drain out. He ate another bite of the bar, but crumbled the rest of it and added it into the mess. Let them think he couldn't even feed himself.
He pressed an ear against the door. The only sounds he could distinguish were muffled men's voices. No one seemed close, at least one floor below or several rooms down a hallway. As long as he paid attention, he could do a little staging before anyone opened the door and looked in.
He checked the door thoroughly. It was an old door, but he imagined it was bolted somehow on the outside. It seemed solid, but if he hit it with a lot of momentum, something might give way. The window looked the same way. Brute force might get him out, but everyone nearby would know something was up.
He worked his way carefully around the room. Somewhere in this barren room, there had to be something he could use to his advantage.
Sergeant Powell looked pensively through the doorway of the situation room. Jeremy hadn't noticed him yet; his head down, slumped over crossed arms on the tabletop. The makeshift command center consisted of two laptops, two officers and several maps. The citywide street maps lined the walls, tracking the course of the search for Danny Ross. They had Jeremy assisting one of the officers in the center: marking search sectors, tracking duty rosters, cross-referencing information. The boy was smart. He caught on to the big picture, and the work kept him engaged.
The first six hours had been upbeat. The knowledge that the department had finally thrown resources into the fray produced a flush of optimism. Now, as the hours ground on, reality was setting in. They were generating precious few leads. A new shift of personnel was due to rotate in, and Powell was at a loss to deploy them in any rational way. He dreaded explaining to Jeremy that it was time for him to go home.
He slipped into a chair next to the young man. Jeremy sat up, his face blank, but Powell could see the trace of tears across his cheeks. "They can't find him, can they?" Jeremy said quietly.
Powell gently massaged the teen's neck and shoulders. "We haven't given up. You know that. We'll keep going house to house. There will be different people home in the evening. Something will break."
Jeremy's only answer was a nod. "You're exhausted, Jeremy. You waited up all night. You need to call it a day. You know we'll keep in touch. Did you call your mom?"
"Yeah. I told her not to come home, that she couldn't do anything anyway." A tear streaked down his cheek. "I – I think I just want to go home. I don't need a babysitter."
"No, but you're the family of a missing person. We'd encourage anyone not to be alone."
"I know that, and I also know you guys have broken all kinds of rules letting me stay down here. I'm too tired to think anymore, and I know you need to kick me out."
"Jeremy…you know we're not doing anything of the kind. I've sent Goren and Eames home, too, and they don't like it one bit either. I just can't let emotions outweigh common sense. You're at the end of your rope."
Jeremy wiped at his cheek. "What a wimp, sitting in here bawling like a baby."
"Your dad will be proud of how you've conducted yourself today, son. Showing some emotion isn't something to be ashamed of. He'd be the first one to tell you that."
Jeremy sniffed. "I know you're right, and besides, if I pitch a fit, you can't concentrate on finding my dad." He fiddled with some papers in front of him. "I know you're worried about me, but please just let me go home. I can warm up some soup or order a pizza. I promise I won't do anything stupid."
Powell studied Jeremy's expression. Danny Ross had often joked that Jeremy could lay down a diversion with the best, but he wasn't given to out and out lying. The kid had been on his best behavior since he'd arrived at the station. Maybe a little trust was appropriate.
"I have to go meet with Moran right now, and it might take awhile. I want you to go crash in your dad's office for a few minutes, and I'll get one of the patrols to run you home. I want you to call my cell when you get there. Are we clear on that?"
"Clear. I'll just straighten up some of this stuff before I go."
Powell stood up and gave Jeremy's shoulder one last squeeze. "Don't be afraid to call me if you need anything. If something breaks, I'll keep you posted."
Jeremy gave a half-hearted smile and gave him a wave as he left. He neatly organized notes and papers for nearly a minute before he sank into the nearest chair. "He can't be dead," he whispered. "He can't be dead." He rubbed angrily at one cheek, willing away the tears that were so close. Powell was like family, but none of his dad's detectives were going to see him cry. Resolutely, he marched into the bullpen to wait for his ride.
Fischer's hands shook in anticipation rather than fear, as he fumbled with the last lock. He kept the keys, although Ibrahim had been here many times in his stead. Together they had assembled the equipment, tested it, perfected it. Still, he needed to see it one last time, to be sure.
He'd never mounted a direct attack on his own. Moving supplies and personnel for others was routine, practically child's play. This was far more daring. Not 9-11, to be sure, but if this worked as he envisioned, it could be adapted and repeated in other cities, other countries with minimal investment. He, Armand Fischer, would be responsible for launching a new phase of the jihad. There had been buses in London, trains in Spain, and The Towers, and this would be the first of the next wave of attacks on American soil. His brothers would finally see what he had tried desperately to explain to them for years now.
Success would not be found in fools like Joseph! No, the way of the future was to recruit America's own to further the cause. They needed angry young men, individuals not restricted by ignorance of language and custom. Ibrahim was a perfect example. French-born, French-educated, he'd overcome every obstacle to gain a University education in engineering, only to have his native land refuse to accept him. In rejection and bitterness, he had turned to jihad. Imagine the fear and paranoia they could sow in the United States if attacks came from those raised in their own neighborhoods, rather than those hailing from the deserts of North Africa or West Asia. With a little encouragement, the Americans would tear themselves apart.
His hands were damp inside the heavy leather gloves, another precaution he made sure they always took. He studied the first item, the backpack. He lifted the false panel, admiring the charges, which Ibrahim had carefully prepared. The man was a genius in his own right. They had five of these completed, the targets selected, everything in place. He smiled at his own private joke. Death would come to the city hidden within pink Barbie backpacks. How fitting.
He had not shared his plans in advance. If he had done so, he would have been overruled. Only Ibrahim shared his vision. Here in a warehouse, even his superiors didn't know existed, his confidence and certainty returned. He was being too timid, too careful, too concerned about detection. Even though his other men had stayed in Philadelphia, he would make use of Joseph. The foolish young man longed for martyrdom, and his wish would soon be granted. Such a shame he wouldn't be able to share that information with Joseph thought. The rest of his plan could be handled by Ibrahim and himself.
And their prisoner? The man was too weak to be a problem, which gave him new options. He and Ibrahim had talked for hours, considering the fate of the police captain. If they put their plans in motion, this police officer could be used for ultimate shock value. After years of living a double life, hadn't he learned to turn obstacles into opportunities? Fortune favored the bold. Satisfied that all was ready and his mind at ease, Fisher locked the warehouse carefully and slipped away.