Read Online Brothers In Arms by Marcus Wynne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcus Wynne
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e-mail. He was starved for human contact. As an only child, he hadn’t learned how to easily make idle conversation, to strike up dialogues with the people around him. So he made the rounds of the coffee shops, and eavesdropped on other people his own age, planning their excursions and laughing with one another.
It made him angry.
There was a seed of bitterness in him that the Al-Bashir recruiters had seen, a deep loneliness that had been assuaged by his membership in the terrorist organization. It was like belonging to a large company. There were picnics with the families of other operators, parties where the senior organizers and leaders socialized with rank and file soldiers, regular infusions of money for living expenses, and tasks to accomplish. But he had none of that now, and comparing his past experiences to the present just made him more bitter.
Today would be a good day to spend in rehearsal. His final operation wouldn’t take place here, but it was good training ground. He’d been taught, and taught well, how to conduct reconnaissance and prepare the ground for his actions. Taking action now would be good, and give him a satisfaction that his action would someday show the world that he wasn’t small and insignificant; no, he was someone of hidden importance and that was something these young people shunning him would someday see.
He finished his coffee and left a few small coins on the table when he left. He shouldered his courier bag, weighty with his laptop computer and a few belongings, and strolled toward the Central Train Station with its gray towers and gabled walls. At the bridge that crossed the canal in front of the station, he paused for a whileand let the crowd move and swirl around him, watching the station and the people coming and going. Then he entered the station and wandered in the crowd, one hand curled in his pocket around the atomizer he carried there. He took out his hand, the atomizer concealed in his closed fist, his thumb resting on the spray head, and let his hand swing naturally with his body motion.
The first target was an old woman dressed neatly in a black dress and stockings; she got a spray on her back. A young man about Youssef’s age was chatting up a group of girls; he took a spray on his sleeve as Youssef brushed by him, eyes straight ahead as though nothing were taking place. Two girls ran by to catch a train; they got a spray directed at their head scarves. None of them noticed the faint mist from behind or the side; Youssef was doing well, the natural motion of his hand hiding the atomizer that sent a mist on each victim. Today it was just water.
Soon it would be something else.
TORTURE REHABILITATION CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA CAMPUS, MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
“Hi, Darla,” Ford said to the cook as he squeezed through the narrow kitchen toward the back door of the center. He was dressed in running shorts and singlet, and had his radio and handgun concealed in a blue fanny pack strapped around his waist.
“Hi, Greg,” the young black woman said. “Going for your run?”
“Yeah, thought I’d get a quickie in.”
“Quickie sounds good.”
Ford grinned and said, “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, girlfriend.”
“You’re so bad!” Darla said. She snapped a dish towel at his lean flanks. “Go on, get out of here!”
Ford laughed as he shouldered open the back door. He paused, from long force of habit, and looked far and then near, wide and then close, before he set off in an easy shamble that ate up the miles. He went over the little hill that adjoined the center and down to the bicycle and jogging trail that paralleled River Road and followed the banks of the Minnesota River as it meandered south. The path was pleasant: level with gentle curves and plenty of hills, tree-lined, with a good view of the river. His basic course took him five miles out andback. Normally he wouldn’t take such a long run on a job, but the boss had said to go ahead and
It made him angry.
There was a seed of bitterness in him that the Al-Bashir recruiters had seen, a deep loneliness that had been assuaged by his membership in the terrorist organization. It was like belonging to a large company. There were picnics with the families of other operators, parties where the senior organizers and leaders socialized with rank and file soldiers, regular infusions of money for living expenses, and tasks to accomplish. But he had none of that now, and comparing his past experiences to the present just made him more bitter.
Today would be a good day to spend in rehearsal. His final operation wouldn’t take place here, but it was good training ground. He’d been taught, and taught well, how to conduct reconnaissance and prepare the ground for his actions. Taking action now would be good, and give him a satisfaction that his action would someday show the world that he wasn’t small and insignificant; no, he was someone of hidden importance and that was something these young people shunning him would someday see.
He finished his coffee and left a few small coins on the table when he left. He shouldered his courier bag, weighty with his laptop computer and a few belongings, and strolled toward the Central Train Station with its gray towers and gabled walls. At the bridge that crossed the canal in front of the station, he paused for a whileand let the crowd move and swirl around him, watching the station and the people coming and going. Then he entered the station and wandered in the crowd, one hand curled in his pocket around the atomizer he carried there. He took out his hand, the atomizer concealed in his closed fist, his thumb resting on the spray head, and let his hand swing naturally with his body motion.
The first target was an old woman dressed neatly in a black dress and stockings; she got a spray on her back. A young man about Youssef’s age was chatting up a group of girls; he took a spray on his sleeve as Youssef brushed by him, eyes straight ahead as though nothing were taking place. Two girls ran by to catch a train; they got a spray directed at their head scarves. None of them noticed the faint mist from behind or the side; Youssef was doing well, the natural motion of his hand hiding the atomizer that sent a mist on each victim. Today it was just water.
Soon it would be something else.
TORTURE REHABILITATION CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA CAMPUS, MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
“Hi, Darla,” Ford said to the cook as he squeezed through the narrow kitchen toward the back door of the center. He was dressed in running shorts and singlet, and had his radio and handgun concealed in a blue fanny pack strapped around his waist.
“Hi, Greg,” the young black woman said. “Going for your run?”
“Yeah, thought I’d get a quickie in.”
“Quickie sounds good.”
Ford grinned and said, “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, girlfriend.”
“You’re so bad!” Darla said. She snapped a dish towel at his lean flanks. “Go on, get out of here!”
Ford laughed as he shouldered open the back door. He paused, from long force of habit, and looked far and then near, wide and then close, before he set off in an easy shamble that ate up the miles. He went over the little hill that adjoined the center and down to the bicycle and jogging trail that paralleled River Road and followed the banks of the Minnesota River as it meandered south. The path was pleasant: level with gentle curves and plenty of hills, tree-lined, with a good view of the river. His basic course took him five miles out andback. Normally he wouldn’t take such a long run on a job, but the boss had said to go ahead and
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