Chapter 16
Six Days, Twelve Hours
Before dawn, Richard DeMarco opened his eyes and stared up at the hotel room's tiled ceiling. The cratered surface was dirty, smudged with dusty bruises and dangling cobwebs. Studying them, he wondered when the last time the hotel's cleaning crew had truly attempted to prepare this room - his room for the time being - to honest, acceptable living standards. It certainly wouldn't take any effort to scrap a broom along the tiles - tiles that had undoubtedly hung over greedy American businessmen, tired tourists too poor to afford a room within the District of Columbia, and prostitutes performing for senators and congressmen far enough out of the Capital so as not to be caught by their trophy brides. DeMarco guessed that the housekeepers - much like all of the American breed - were lazy. They were inept. They were ignorant. They were as classless as he had been raised to believe them to be. Unquestionably, these 'servants' showed their classlessness - their lack of pride and duty - in their work. Back home, in his native Iraq, his mother - may she rest in peace - would've been morally ashamed to offer such a disgusting room to any guest, let alone an enemy of the state. 'Even villains deserve the sanctity of cleanliness,' she often told him, and hers - of all the people he had trained and served with - were lessons he took to heart and soul. They were timeless. They were universal truths. In fact, he believed that most of her sermons - even those that drew his blood - made him the 'patriot' he was today.
Quickly, he rose, inhaling a gulp of stale air. Closed his eyes, he allowed the momentary sensation of vertigo to pass, to lilt through his mind and body, and then he opened his eyes wide, smiling. The flowered curtains were slightly drawn, and, through the gap, he saw the incessant twinkling of street lamps lining the hotel's parking lot and leading into the street. In the distance, above the skyline of rising trees and buildings, he made out the shadow of sunlight cast across the early morning sky.
"It is time," he said.
He had much to do. The clock was ticking away on this, his first day in the United States, his first chance to make a lasting impression on those who truly mattered, those who would surely be looking for him once they learned of his entrance. With every passing second the chance to show his true patriotism was delayed, and, now that he was finally on American soil, he would begin.
"There is so much to do," he muttered and rose, naked, from the bed.
*****
He showered, standing under the stream. He let the hot water envelop his body. It encapsulated him, vigorously awaking and enticing his weary muscles at the same time. He flexed his arms slowly, bringing them up, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it across his face and neck. He rubbed them vigorously for several moments. Eventually, shutting off the flow, he stepped from the shower, reached for a towel, and quickly dabbed himself dry.
In his room, he fastidiously dressed in pearl grey Armani slacks, a white poplin shirt, and black Italian shoes. The shoes - what was the brand? - he had taken off an industrialist - a very wealthy American investor - he had himself killed in the deserts outside of Cairo. He didn't remember what the argument involved; he only recalled hating the American, the capitalist, the pig, the vile, the enemy. He hated the man so much that the thought of touching American flesh with bare hands was offensive. Instead, DeMarco clubbed the investor to death with the blunt handle of an ivory cane he fancied carrying at the time . another souvenir from another unfortunate American. To DeMarco's dismay, the beating cracked the cane, not breaking completely, but it was ruined nonetheless. So he left it with the body . left it sticking through the gurgling mess of blood-dripping flesh that was once the slain man's throat. In exchange, he took the American's shoes. He liked them - they were very dapper, too dapper to be wasted on the desert, but such was the way of so many American businessmen who traveled aboard. Somehow, the exchange seemed the moral thing to do.
On the bed, he ruffled through his suitcase, brushing aside the neatly folded clothes, until he found the object of his search. The pistol, much like a Glock, fit snug into the palm of his hand. It was largely glass and plastic in manufacture, the perfect barely-discernible decoy for any security system's x-ray. Of course, 'Grail' cost him a small fortune, but money was of no consequence. Victory required a high price, and DeMarco would purchase the ammunition he needed here - in the United States - illegally, as all criminal masterminds did. At least, that was a lesson he had learned from CNN, not his mother. Besides, he had the other guns from last night - the pistols he had taken off Emile, the weapons he had found stashed in his cousin's limousine. Firepower wasn't an issue for the time being.
Making the best use of it was.
*****
Essential Capital Storage wasn't yet open for the business day, so he hoisted himself up and over the facility's back gate. He landed squarely on the asphalt. Immediately, he heard the electronic whirring and noticed the motion-sensored security camera pivot in his direction. He smiled. DeMarco didn't care if his image was captured on tape. By the time anyone with the ability to stop him would review the footage, he would be gone . long gone . in hiding . waiting for the next step in his plot for revenge. After all, he was here to make those responsible pay, and justice held a high price. After all, justice was his sole purpose for coming to America. In the meantime, any police investigators, federal agents, or government operatives who wanted to find him would serve as little more than comic relief. Target practice. Training. Sport.
Walking slowly and purposefully down the alleyway, he held his arms out in a grand dramatic gesture for the cameras to record.
'Look at me, all of you braggards and all of you cowards,' he thought as he paraded for the lenses. 'Look at me. Know that I am here, and realize what I mean to do. Once you do, you will know that your security measures - however far and wide they reach - do not work. You will know that you have already failed.' He stared at the nearest camera's eye, and his expression grew serious, fixed. 'By allowing me to walk on your soil, you have already lost this war.'
He wouldn't be here long - only long enough to detonate the explosives Emile had so carefully purchased and hid. He would set them to go off within the hour - long enough for him to be far away, long enough for the area police to arrive on the scene, and long enough for the Washington, D.C. rush hour to begin. That was it. The explosives were to serve no greater purpose. They couldn't. After all, explosions were passé. Meaningless. Pointless. As far as DeMarco was concerned, they served only one purpose: to create a suitable diversion, creating a false premise for America's under-educated law enforcement officials to follow to its dead end . perhaps 'dead' in more ways than one.
END of Chapter 16
Six Days, Twelve Hours
Before dawn, Richard DeMarco opened his eyes and stared up at the hotel room's tiled ceiling. The cratered surface was dirty, smudged with dusty bruises and dangling cobwebs. Studying them, he wondered when the last time the hotel's cleaning crew had truly attempted to prepare this room - his room for the time being - to honest, acceptable living standards. It certainly wouldn't take any effort to scrap a broom along the tiles - tiles that had undoubtedly hung over greedy American businessmen, tired tourists too poor to afford a room within the District of Columbia, and prostitutes performing for senators and congressmen far enough out of the Capital so as not to be caught by their trophy brides. DeMarco guessed that the housekeepers - much like all of the American breed - were lazy. They were inept. They were ignorant. They were as classless as he had been raised to believe them to be. Unquestionably, these 'servants' showed their classlessness - their lack of pride and duty - in their work. Back home, in his native Iraq, his mother - may she rest in peace - would've been morally ashamed to offer such a disgusting room to any guest, let alone an enemy of the state. 'Even villains deserve the sanctity of cleanliness,' she often told him, and hers - of all the people he had trained and served with - were lessons he took to heart and soul. They were timeless. They were universal truths. In fact, he believed that most of her sermons - even those that drew his blood - made him the 'patriot' he was today.
Quickly, he rose, inhaling a gulp of stale air. Closed his eyes, he allowed the momentary sensation of vertigo to pass, to lilt through his mind and body, and then he opened his eyes wide, smiling. The flowered curtains were slightly drawn, and, through the gap, he saw the incessant twinkling of street lamps lining the hotel's parking lot and leading into the street. In the distance, above the skyline of rising trees and buildings, he made out the shadow of sunlight cast across the early morning sky.
"It is time," he said.
He had much to do. The clock was ticking away on this, his first day in the United States, his first chance to make a lasting impression on those who truly mattered, those who would surely be looking for him once they learned of his entrance. With every passing second the chance to show his true patriotism was delayed, and, now that he was finally on American soil, he would begin.
"There is so much to do," he muttered and rose, naked, from the bed.
*****
He showered, standing under the stream. He let the hot water envelop his body. It encapsulated him, vigorously awaking and enticing his weary muscles at the same time. He flexed his arms slowly, bringing them up, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it across his face and neck. He rubbed them vigorously for several moments. Eventually, shutting off the flow, he stepped from the shower, reached for a towel, and quickly dabbed himself dry.
In his room, he fastidiously dressed in pearl grey Armani slacks, a white poplin shirt, and black Italian shoes. The shoes - what was the brand? - he had taken off an industrialist - a very wealthy American investor - he had himself killed in the deserts outside of Cairo. He didn't remember what the argument involved; he only recalled hating the American, the capitalist, the pig, the vile, the enemy. He hated the man so much that the thought of touching American flesh with bare hands was offensive. Instead, DeMarco clubbed the investor to death with the blunt handle of an ivory cane he fancied carrying at the time . another souvenir from another unfortunate American. To DeMarco's dismay, the beating cracked the cane, not breaking completely, but it was ruined nonetheless. So he left it with the body . left it sticking through the gurgling mess of blood-dripping flesh that was once the slain man's throat. In exchange, he took the American's shoes. He liked them - they were very dapper, too dapper to be wasted on the desert, but such was the way of so many American businessmen who traveled aboard. Somehow, the exchange seemed the moral thing to do.
On the bed, he ruffled through his suitcase, brushing aside the neatly folded clothes, until he found the object of his search. The pistol, much like a Glock, fit snug into the palm of his hand. It was largely glass and plastic in manufacture, the perfect barely-discernible decoy for any security system's x-ray. Of course, 'Grail' cost him a small fortune, but money was of no consequence. Victory required a high price, and DeMarco would purchase the ammunition he needed here - in the United States - illegally, as all criminal masterminds did. At least, that was a lesson he had learned from CNN, not his mother. Besides, he had the other guns from last night - the pistols he had taken off Emile, the weapons he had found stashed in his cousin's limousine. Firepower wasn't an issue for the time being.
Making the best use of it was.
*****
Essential Capital Storage wasn't yet open for the business day, so he hoisted himself up and over the facility's back gate. He landed squarely on the asphalt. Immediately, he heard the electronic whirring and noticed the motion-sensored security camera pivot in his direction. He smiled. DeMarco didn't care if his image was captured on tape. By the time anyone with the ability to stop him would review the footage, he would be gone . long gone . in hiding . waiting for the next step in his plot for revenge. After all, he was here to make those responsible pay, and justice held a high price. After all, justice was his sole purpose for coming to America. In the meantime, any police investigators, federal agents, or government operatives who wanted to find him would serve as little more than comic relief. Target practice. Training. Sport.
Walking slowly and purposefully down the alleyway, he held his arms out in a grand dramatic gesture for the cameras to record.
'Look at me, all of you braggards and all of you cowards,' he thought as he paraded for the lenses. 'Look at me. Know that I am here, and realize what I mean to do. Once you do, you will know that your security measures - however far and wide they reach - do not work. You will know that you have already failed.' He stared at the nearest camera's eye, and his expression grew serious, fixed. 'By allowing me to walk on your soil, you have already lost this war.'
He wouldn't be here long - only long enough to detonate the explosives Emile had so carefully purchased and hid. He would set them to go off within the hour - long enough for him to be far away, long enough for the area police to arrive on the scene, and long enough for the Washington, D.C. rush hour to begin. That was it. The explosives were to serve no greater purpose. They couldn't. After all, explosions were passé. Meaningless. Pointless. As far as DeMarco was concerned, they served only one purpose: to create a suitable diversion, creating a false premise for America's under-educated law enforcement officials to follow to its dead end . perhaps 'dead' in more ways than one.
END of Chapter 16