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The 1st precinct was all over the news, being one of the police stations closest to the explosion. There was no time to linger in panic and go to pieces. It was time to go—retreat. Meek hurried and got
dressed, and darted out of the room to inform his men of the situation.
“It’s time to go!” he shouted. “Pack everything up. We’ve been breached.”
Reaction in the room was prompt and sharp-witted. Everyone scrambled. Guns and bombing paraphernalia were hurriedly packed into bags and small wooden crates. Documents were shredded and hard drives were destroyed. The entire place was stripped clean, and anything important was loaded into two SUVs parked in the driveway. Each man fled in haste from the brownstone. There was no time to wipe the place clean in case the FBI was en route. Maserati Meek had only one option left—to burn it.
Two of his men lit Molotov cocktails and smashed them against the walls of the place. Immediately a fire erupted and spread intensely, heat and flames rising. Next were the cell phones. He and his men removed the SIM cards from the burner phones and tossed them into the blaze. Meek climbed into the passenger seat of one of the vehicles and they sped off, on the move to the next location. He had locations all across the city. He and his men moved like a ball in a pinball machine—fast and everywhere.
12
Officer Spielberg’s gut suspicion was right. He knew it! The minute the receiver answered the phone with a Middle Eastern accent, he strongly felt these were the people responsible for the club explosion. There was no way he could let it go. It had been eating at him. Off duty and on his way home, he decided to call the number on a whim—not knowing who was going to answer, or if there would be an answer at all.
Spielberg stood by the pay phone contemplating. What to do? His gut instincts told him he was on the right track, but a phone number he overheard an arrestee saying and a man answering with a Middle Eastern accent wasn’t exactly concrete evidence. He couldn’t go back to his sergeant on a whim. He needed something more. How would he get more? Whoever these people were, they needed to pay for their actions. They’d killed hundreds of people.
Then the light bulb went off in his head—the feds. They would surely pursue this new lead. They had the manpower and the technology to investigate further. Yes, the FBI would listen to him.
Officer Spielberg walked toward his Ford Fusion and climbed inside. He felt anxious. What was next? Hopefully the feds would listen to what he had to say.
He drove to the bomb site on Spring Street. Everything in the surrounding area had been shut down during the investigation. It was going on forty-eight hours since the explosion, and lower Manhattan was still active with police and the media. Heavy vehicular traffic plagued blocks because of numerous street closings, bodies were still being pulled from the rubble, and the FBI was swarming about everywhere.
It was a zoo. And the animals behind this, they were still out there, maybe plotting another bombing. Though New York City had suffered from the largest terrorist attack known to man—9/11—this still didn’t happen in his city. People were safe. They went on with their lives and American citizens didn’t have to worry about this kind of attack on the regular. But once in a while, they were reminded of what kind of world they lived in. That people still hated their country and wanted to destroy it. With fanatic groups like ISIS and Boko Haram, terrorist threats lurked everywhere. These organizations had men who would go to extreme lengths, even committing suicide to spread their message loud and clear—they weren’t going away, and they wanted people to die and suffer. They wanted to see organizations and democracy collapse, and to instill fear in America and all their allies.
Officer Spielberg climbed out of his Ford and approached the devastation as close as he could get. He flashed his NYPD badge and was allowed closer to the scene. What the media blasted across millions of television sets, he was seeing himself, up close and personal. Bloodshed spewed across Spring Street. The smell was horrendous. There were people everywhere, mostly law enforcement and FBI jackets milling around the area. Everything was investigated—no matter how small or big, it was scrutinized.
He could feel his eyes welling up with tears, feeling the emotions swarming inside of him although he had no connection to any of the victims. This was his city and his home, and someone had the audacity to strike it. He vowed to uphold the law and take action if a crime was happening. Spielberg wiped away a few tears and frowned. Jessica, he thought. That feisty little bitch had something to do with this, or she knew the men behind this attack.
He had seen enough. He turned away from the destruction and walked back to his car in sadness. He sat for a moment, thinking. Having been a police officer for eight years, he had seen it all—well almost. This was his first suicide bombing, and it would be something forever seared into his mind.
***
The following day, Officer Spielberg marched himself into 26 Federal Plaza—the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building. He was ready to meet with whomever possible and present the evidence he had attained. He had a phone number, a name, and a hunch. It might not be much, but Spielberg was sure that the FBI had solved cases with less than that.
He wanted justice for the lives lost that night, even if he had to implement it himself.
13
It was four in the morning, but the Harlem projects on 133rd Street were never fully asleep—never silent. On a June day, in the early morning before sunrise, there was still life inside the lobby of one of the towering project buildings. Several black men with their sagging jeans and jewelry showing stood around a craps game with a few hundred dollars up for grabs. They were in their own world, smoking weed and drinking alcohol, all while nestled around the corner from the elevators. There was no foot traffic and no police presence, and that was exactly how they liked it. They were loud and tipsy, and there were arguments between them, but nothing escalated into anything serious.
Nearby, a BMW X5 came to a stop on Old Broadway. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out. Dressed in a green cargo jacket zipped up to his neck and a pair of combat boots, the man coolly walked toward the project building with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He was expressionless. Though he wasn’t an African American male, he walked into the ghetto unworried and fearless. He marched toward a certain building. The X5 drove off, and now the stranger was completely alone. He never looked back. His eyes were on the alert. He trekked up the pavement leading into the nineteen-story project building and entered the dilapidated lobby, immediately catching the attention of the local thugs gambling close by. He immediately stood out in his coat and boots.
“Yo, what the fuck is this? Who the fuck is this clown-lookin’ nigga?” one of the thugs uttered.
“Yo, Arab! You lost, muthafucka?” another thug exclaimed his way.
The stranger didn’t pay them any attention. He was there for a reason. Ignoring the harsh comments, he proceeded toward the stairway. There was no time for the elevators. He moved opposite from the thuggish looking men. They took insult from his silence, and their dice game no longer became their priority.
“Yo muthafucka! You hear us talkin’ to you? What’s your business in this fuckin’ building, nigga?”
Still in silence and disregard, he entered the stairwell. This angered the men, and they followed behind him, ready to teach the Arab a hard lesson about disrespect. A few of them were armed with guns. They didn’t want to kill him, but they wanted to beat him down for his disrespect. This was their building—their territory, and no strangers were welcome.
The stranger made it up one flight before he was suddenly being chased. They were coming for him, charging up the stairs two at a time. But before they could dig their claws into him to teach him a lesson, he pulled out a gun and opened fire at them without any hesitation while ascending to the third floor.
Pow! Pow!
One thug took a bullet to his chest and tumbled down the concrete stairs. He was dead. The gunshot echoed through the stairwell. And now it was war. The thugs pulled out their guns and returned fire. A shootout ensued. This stranger was still undaunted. He struck another goon in the arm and moved forw
ard. The chase continued.
