Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller Read online

  “Unless you need anything else from us, we’ll be on our way now,” Chris told them. “Wishing you boys a nice evening and have a Happy Canada Day.”

  Chapter 6 – Friday, July 1, 2016

  Montreal, Quebec, 9:14 a.m.

  A troubled night of sleep had done little to diminish Mohammad’s frustration following his meeting in New York the previous day. Of course, he understood Al-Tashid was powerful and even accepted he had been naïve to expect the man would want nothing in return for the assistance and support provided. However, he did not accept the State of Islam leader’s blatant condescension, particularly his ordering Mohammad to refrain from pursuing further attacks without his permission.

  Perhaps Al-Tashid could refuse to help him but he certainly could not prohibit him to undertake any activities on his own. As it turned out, Mohammad had acquired a couple of pipe bombs from the man who had supplied the missile launcher and detonators used in Trenton. These bombs had been deemed impractical for the airbase attack and were currently safely stored in a mini-warehouse complex. With the Montreal Jazz Festival in full swing, not to mention numerous festivities scheduled to highlight the country’s anniversary of Confederation, he could not sit idly by, regardless of Al-Tashid’s pompous orders.

  He already had a simple yet effective plan in mind and briefly considered assigning the task to Chandhri but decided against it. They had not yet spoken since their conversation the previous day though Mohammad had received a short text message confirming all had gone well with the police. However, on the off chance the authorities were keeping tabs on the young Pakistani, it was best to keep him out of any planned activities for the foreseeable future. Anyhow, he had other recruits he could count on.

  He would call Chandhri for a more in-depth report about yesterday’s meeting with the police soon but his first priority was to ensure this Canada Day would be sorely remembered for years to come.

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 10:03 a.m.

  “Sorry I’m late, folks,” said Chris as he joined the others for a scheduled call with Nick Sharp. “What are the smiles about?”

  “Nick told me he’d be a few minutes late,” Jonathan replied, “So I was telling Leslie and Dave about our post-dinner activities last night.”

  “Some people have all the fun,” said Leslie, feigning a pout. “So, you just left them there?”

  “Nah, they might have got run over or something,” said Chris. “We informed the restaurant manager before leaving and he called the cops.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by Nick Sharp’s arrival via video conference and following brief greetings their daily update meeting got underway.

  “There’s been further activity on the MAS phone,” Chris announced. “Chandhri sent a text message yesterday which simply stated all had gone well with the police. That message was accessed in New York City. Less than an hour ago, two calls were made from the MAS phone, both originating in Montreal, which means our friend crossed the border.”

  Nick Sharp grimaced and said, “I’ll get some people on it but we’re talking our friend along with hundreds of thousands of others.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Chris agreed. “Now, about these two phone calls. One was to a currently unidentified number and lasted about ten minutes. We’re looking into the number and call locations. I’ll let you know when we find anything. The second call was to Chandhri which he received at home so we got his half of the conversation with our mikes. That’s what I was listening to before coming here and there’s not much to tell. He recounted his dealings with the cops at Qureshi’s apartment and ended the conversation with a ‘whatever you think is right. Let me know when you need anything.’ I’m guessing MAS told him to be good and lay low for a while.”

  “How soon do you think you can track this new number MAS called?” asked Sharp.

  “A couple of hours or so,” Chris replied. “Keep in mind it may be another burner.”

  “I’m an optimist,” said Sharp with obvious sarcasm. “Any good news from your man working on the emails?”

  Chris shook his head. “Still nothing about the origin of the emails. They were sent through a complex underground network, pinging off servers all over the planet.”

  “Can’t we just track those damned servers?” asked Sharp in frustration.

  “Nick, they can be anything from compromised company servers to PCs, phones, garage door openers and refrigerators,” Chris explained. “As Jon told you yesterday, it now seems likely the State of Islam was involved in the transmission. Ben’s still working on the tracking and is also dissecting the tablet and laptop we got from Qureshi and any bit of information which comes to light will be that much more than we had before.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Sharp admitted. “The truth is, you folks have already come up with more than the task force so I apologize if I sounded critical.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Chris. “We understand you’re frustrated because you want to crack this case. Well, trust me, buddy, that’s exactly what we’re going do, even if it’s with a little bit of luck.”

  Montreal, Quebec, 10:57 a.m.

  Twenty year old Fawad Zafar entered the six digit code and smiled as a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked. He entered the building and turned right then left at the first of several long corridors, each lined with locked doors protecting the property of the mini-warehouse complex’s clientele. He stopped at the seventh door to his right and glanced at the number stencilled on it, #157, then punched in the same six digit code which had allowed him access to the building. A whirring followed by a click were heard as the electronic lock disengaged. So far, so good.

  He was fairly certain he was alone in the building as Mohammad had confirmed no staff would be present because of the holiday. Similarly, since most of the customers at this downtown location were local businesses, it was unlikely anyone would be on the premises. However, erring on the side of caution, he looked left and right to ensure he remained alone before opening the door and entering the storage unit.

  Once inside the eight by ten foot space, he flicked the light on and pulled the door shut behind him, sliding the deadbolt in place to ensure his privacy. He gazed about the contents of the room which corresponded accurately to what Mohammad had described – an old desk topped with a few small bookcases, a dozen stackable chairs, a small table and a number of archive boxes neatly piled at the far end. He went to the boxes and began moving some in order to access the bottom one in the back right corner. He pulled it out, opened it and removed a stack of files to retrieve the small nylon backpack hidden beneath.

  Setting it aside, he put the files folders back then replaced the boxes as he had found them. Once done, he picked up the backpack, set it down on the table and unzipped it, eager to examine its contents. Removing two cartons, he opened the smaller one and examined the two identical devices within. As Mohammad had described, they were roughly the size and shape of a small matchbox, two wires with connector plugs protruded from one end while two tiny switches, one black and one red, could be found on the other. A LED display was set into the face of each device.

  Turning his attention to the second larger carton, he opened it and pulled out the first of the two bubble-wrapped pipe bombs. He removed the wrap and inspected the twelve by three inch PVC cylinder, noting the grooves where he would slide the detonator boxes as well as the connection jacks. He unwrapped the second bomb and, with Mohammad’s straight-forward instructions etched in his mind, proceeded to install and power up the detonators before synching them to his phone and setting the timers. Once the devices were in place, a simple phone call would start the countdown.

  Another minute or two and the bombs were repacked and secured in the backpack which he slung over his shoulder. After ensuring no evidence of his visit remained, he left the room, locking the door behind him before making his way out of the building. The excitement of what was to come had made him hungry but he had ample t
ime to stop somewhere for a bite to eat before heading to his destination.

  * * * *

  Aboard the Junior III, Caribbean Sea, 11:32 a.m.

  “Hey, buddy,” said Ben as Chris appeared on the monitor. “I wasn’t sure if you’d even answer my call since it’s a holiday your way.”

  “Some of us have to work for a living,” Chris countered. “I’m surprised you’re already up at this time.”

  “We left Playa Del Carmen six hours ago,” Ben retorted. “We’re already halfway to the Cayman Islands.”

  “That’s not work,” Chris snorted. “I wish I could afford your lifestyle.”

  Ben laughed. “Cry me a river, Mr. Barry. You could buy me out ten times over.”

  “You’ve been hacking into my accounts again, haven’t you?” Chris kidded before turning serious. “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling about that hardware,” Ben replied. “Have you looked at it?”

  Chris shook his head. “I figured it was redundant since you were doing that. Find anything?”

  “Nothing of interest on the laptop,” said Ben. “Almost nothing on the iPad except for a Solitaire app.”

  “What’s interesting with this Solitaire app?” asked Chris.

  “First time I see a game app which requires fingerprint identification to gain access,” Ben replied.

  “That is interesting,” Chris admitted. “Did you figure out why?”

  “I haven’t broken the identification programme yet,” said Ben. “Can you get the owner’s prints? It would save us some time and effort.”

  Chris grinned. “Damn, I can ship you his hands if you like.”

  Ben winced. “You’re a sick bastard, Barry.”

  “You just don’t have my sense of humour,” said Chris, “And, yes, I can get the prints.”

  “Send them to me,” said Ben. “I want to play me some Solitaire.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 12:43 p.m.

  ‘This is perfect,’ thought Fawad Zafar as he stepped onto the vast grassy lot at the far end from the Montreal Jazz Festival’s Bell Stage.

  He had hoped that few people would arrive more than an hour before the Critical Fission concert scheduled for two o’clock. However, the local rock band had developed a strong following over the last year, increasing the likelihood of many showing up early to secure the best seating possible. As it turned out, though staff was busy setting up equipment and performing sound checks, the audience currently numbered less than twenty, located front stage centre.

  He continued his stroll, gazing around casually as he headed for one of many trash receptacles in place at the venue, his selection located roughly in the middle of the lot. Reaching the targeted garbage bin, he stopped and shrugged the backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the ground before scanning the area, ostensibly to determine where to settle down. He waited a minute or two, becoming part of the scenery as he ensured nobody paid him any particular attention then opened the backpack. Pulling out the carton, he slipped it through the opening of the trash bin and smiled as it dropped to the bottom.

  His delivery made, he waited another moment then pulled his phone out and keyed in the activation code before pretending to have made a call. His work was done and, though there were few people currently present, more were starting to trickle onto the lot. He was confident that when the devices detonated in an hour, the venue would be packed with a thousand or more spectators.

  He slung the now empty backpack onto one shoulder and considered where to go in the interim. Of course, he had no intention of remaining in the immediate vicinity but he did want to find a spot close enough to witness the success of his mission. He was certain he could find an acceptable vantage point and sauntered off to begin his search.

  * * * *

  “This is gonna be so cool,” twenty-two year old Jonas Billings exclaimed as he watched the crew onstage setting up, mere feet away. “We did good to get here early.”

  “It’s gonna kick ass for sure,” his buddy, Scott, agreed. “Never been this close to a stage before.”

  “Uh, guys?” Cynthia, Jonas’ girlfriend, interrupted. “Something’s weird.”

  “Sup, sweets?” asked Jonas.

  “See that dude on his phone by the trash can?” said Cynthia. “He just pulled a box out of his packsack and dumped it in there.”

  “Maybe just some garbage,” Scott suggested.

  Cynthia shook her head as she gestured with her hands. “Box was about this big and, I dunno, just didn’t look like garbage to me.”

  “Well, looks like the dude is on his way,” said Jonas. “Let’s ask him about the box before he goes.” He turned to others of their party and said, “Hey, guys. A few of you come with me and Scott to chat with that dude.”

  * * * *

  As Fawad cut across the grassed lot toward St-Urbain Street, he noticed a half-dozen men break away from the group in front of the stage. Roughly of his age, they seemed to be heading his way though their banter amongst themselves suggested they weren’t paying any attention to him. They got closer and split into threesomes, clearly to circumvent him. However, as they reached him, they stopped abruptly, one of them stepping before him and blocking his path while the others circled closely around.

  “Hey,” said the one facing him. “Name’s Jonas. Who are you?”

  “That is none of your business,” Fawad replied. “Get out of my way.”

  “Easy, buddy,” said Jonas. “I just want to ask you a question.”

  Fawad glanced around him, noting that not only was he outnumbered, these guys were big. “What is your question?”

  “What did you put in that garbage can?” Jonas asked.

  “W-what are you talking about?” Fawad responded, feeling himself blanch.

  “The garbage can,” said Jonas, stepping closer. “Over there. What did you put in there?”

  “I, uh, some, uh, some old books,” Fawad blurted. “Old books I didn’t need anymore.”

  “Really?” said Jonas. “Old books?”

  “Yes, old books,” Fawad repeated. “Now, get out of my way.”

  “Hang on, we’re not done yet,” said Jonas, remaining still. “Why would you bring old books you don’t need here just to throw them out?”

  “Th-they were in my bag,” Fawad attempted to explain. “I was here and decided to get rid of them.”

  “You know what?” said Jonas. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care what you believe,” Fawad argued, his panic increasing. “Get out of my way or I will call the police.”

  “Tell you what,” Jonas suggested as he pulled his phone out. “Sit your ass down right here and I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m leaving,” said Fawad.

  He barely started moving when Scott grabbed him by the shoulders from behind while kicking his legs out from under him. Fawad landed hard on his butt and grunted as Scott, still gripping him leaned in close.

  “Stay there and stay still,” he warned. “I’ll hurt you if I have to.”

  “Hey, Jonas,” another friend said as he pointed toward the street. “Check it out.”

  Jonas looked in the indicated direction and smiled as he saw two bicycle cops slowing and looking at them.

  “Hey, officers,” he called to them, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Can you come over here?”

  The two cops hopped their bikes onto the sidewalk and pedalled the short distance over.

  “Afternoon,” said one as they got off their bikes. “What’s going on here?”

  “These bullies won’t let me leave,” Fawad cried from where he sat, his fear obvious.

  “The dude dumped a box into that garbage can,” said Jonas, pointing. “It didn’t look like your normal trash so we asked him what it was. He says it’s old books but I don’t believe him.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Cop #1.

  “Jonas Billings, sir. These are my friends and we’re here for the show at two
.”

  Cop #1 look down at Fawad and said, “You can stand up. What’s your name?”

  Fawad stood as the Jonas’ friends stepped back. “Why do you want to know my name? I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Then you have no reason not to tell me,” Cop #1 replied. “What’s your name?”

  “Very well,” said Fawad before suddenly bolting.

  He covered five or so yards before almost two hundred pounds of Cop #2 dive-tackled him from behind, slamming him into the sod and knocking the breath out of him. Seconds later Fawad was cuffed and being jerked to his feet as Cop #1 joined them.

  “Bad move, buddy,” said Cop #1 as he patted Fawad down. “Now I don’t believe you about the books either.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 1:28 p.m.

  “It took a bit longer than I wanted,” Chris announced as he entered Jonathan’s office, “But I have a name and address for the number MAS called this morning. Fawad Zafar, lives in Verdun.”

  Jonathan stared at Chris, dumbfounded, and said, “Would you repeat that?”

  “Fawad Zafar,” Chris replied. “Why? Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I was just about to call you. Check that out,” said Jonathan, gesturing toward the flat screen on the wall before reaching for the phone. “I have a quick call to make.”

  Chris turned to the monitor and took in the live images of the large deserted lot entirely cordoned off with yellow tape and surrounded by dozens of police officers.

  “Alexandre,” Jonathan said into the phone, speaking to the police director. “Your guys are very likely dealing with explosives at the Jazz Fest… Excellent. Keep Zafar in a safe place. This is connected to the Trenton attack so Nick will be calling you as soon as I bring him up to speed. Talk to you later.”