Fury From Within

Chapter Nineteen

Peter hoped to be in Washington by 2 PM, providing him with a safety cushion of a good 5 or 6 hours until his self appointed deadline of 7 or 8 PM. No sense digging in broad daylight.

One last prayer to Mecca — and only then would everything be set.

Turning to Boris, Forsythe placed his hand on his shoulder, wondering if they had come close to breaking it during the interrogation. “I would like to thank-you for the information Boris, you have been a real help,” Forsythe said sarcastically. “We are going to do you a big favor. The we being in the form of the United States government. We are going to allow you to walk. That’s right, you can return to your little villa in Switzerland.”

A look of shock spread across Boris’s bruised face as he looked from agent-to-agent wondering if this were some type of trick. If it were, it would be consistent with the same tactics his FSB people utilized. Good cop for a few minutes or several hours then revert back to the original game plan and bad cop. Boris had told them everything he knew with the exception of where the remaining 30 suitcase weapons were buried. Then again why tell them? They probably had no idea of their existence.

“First things first,” said Forsythe. “A trial would only bring out the sordid little details of your Russians suitcase bombs placed in the states. We don’t want this juicy little tidbit of information reaching the press now do we? That would only incite a panic in the states, something we really don’t need require at this juncture. So here’s what I propose. We are going to escort you back to your fancy hotel where you will clean up and pack your bags. From there, we will escort you to Philadelphia International Airport where you will board a Swiss Air flight departing at 7 PM tonight. Is this accommodating enough for you Boris?”

Boris managed a smile for the first time his capture. “Michael, I do thank you for your understanding of this issue. This is something I will never forget.”

“Boris, let’s be honest shall we? You are pond scum. You are a low life that exists only at night when you crawl out from under your rock. I don’t understand your rationale and hopefully never will. As a condition of your release, you won’t be allowed to leave your villa except for food shopping and bill paying. If you decide to leave for any other purpose, your old KGB and new FSB pals will be notified of your address. Last but not least, your phone will be monitored at all times so don’t try and swing any more deals you may have rolling around in your head. That is unless you would like to talk to a few of our people? Do you understand what I have so generously laid out for you?”

Boris sat in the chair contemplating his conditions of release wondering what could be worse: prison or house arrest? “Michael you have my word that I accept your most gracious offer and stay within the confines of my home,” rising from his chair, allowing the blood to circulate in his legs after having sat for the whole night handcuffed to the chair.

“As for you Boris, I bid you farewell,” Forsythe said. “I have a helicopter waiting to take me to Washington DC where we can put your little map to use,” holding up the paper on which Boris had so diligently hand drawn a map which revealed the location of the suitcase weapon.

Boris allowed a brief smile to escape in response to Michael’s goodbye, secretly knowing that the young rebel still had the capability to reach the second weapon in Philadelphia. The FBI foolishly suspended their questioning after finding out about the Washington weapon, thinking this would be the extent of the possible damage.

Another prominent case to be bungled by the FBI, thought Boris, looking Forsythe straight in the eyes, extracting some revenge.

So little did they know.

The Americans will never know what hit them, thought Peter. It was time to thank Allah before entering the great Satan’s capitol, for the devil was about to have its heart ripped from its chest. Peter wanted to pray for the third of the required five times per day for devout Muslims such as himself. He also required his strength, now more than ever.

The highway location would not be the wisest nor quietest spot for his prayers but this would be his last chance. He pulled off Highway 50 onto the emergency lane, slowing his truck to find a spot that would afford him some type of privacy, maybe some trees or hedges. Only yards ahead he noticed just what appeared to be an outcropping of hedges that approached the road, coming within 10 feet of the busy highway. He stopped by a road sign announcing that Route 495 lay two miles ahead.

Peter smiled. He was only hours away from eliminating the entire United States Congress, Senate, President and Vice President of the United States, along with 100,000 other souls already damned.

Sean Jackson sat watching the steady flow of traffic wondering how much his company would bank for the day. If his struggling company could keep its current pace for the next few months, they would pay off the very truck he was driving. One down, two more to go.

The business of car towing was cutthroat, with others attempting to hone in on your territory. Even with a signed contract awarded by the State, the Gypsy trucks were oblivious. The Gypsy trucks stole business wherever, whenever, they could. Due to this, Sean developed a good reputation with the State Troopers who patrolled the State Highway, calling in the illegal trucks as he spotted them. As far as he was concerned, they were robbing money from his family. Money he needed to survive.

Sean neared the end of a hectic 12-hour shift, patrolling Maryland State Highway 50 for his fledgling towing company—Action Jackson Towing. The Action in Action Jackson a toast to his nickname while playing football for the University of Maryland. A running back for the Terps top 10-ranked team until his leg decided to go one-way and his body the other. Until that last game, Pro scouts drooled over his quickness and pass receiving skills, a sure first round pick in everyone’s playbook.

With three late model trucks now on the road, Sean made the best of a Maryland State road contract awarded to him less than a year earlier. Leading the nation in rushing for two years straight while at the University of Maryland still had some benefits. Once awarded, he quickly secured a bank loan based on the expected workload and bought an additional two trucks to handle the new business. This shrewd maneuver enabled him to hire his two brothers and essentially keep his business in the family.

Without fail, every time he worked the overnight shift his mind would drift back to his playing days. Dreaming the what if scenarios. The multi-million dollar salary, the first class accommodations, the ability to hawk his autograph to the middle aged yuppies on QVC.

Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you dreamed.

Since 1am, Sean had removed six disabled vehicles; assisted three motorists who run out of gas and even replaced an older woman’s fan belt. With another day in the can, he looked forward to popping open a nice a cold beer back in the office.

Only three miles from the Route 495 intersection and his regular turn around point, he realized he had to check in with his wife. God forbid if he missed a call. She would raise hell for days on end. It had to be like clockwork. At least five times a day, sometimes even on the hour, wanting to know his whereabouts. His wife wanted him to know that safety lay only a phone call away. He never told her but he actually enjoyed checking in.

With 99 % of vehicle breakdowns occurring in the emergency lane, Sean hung in the right-hand lane for his highway drives, making it easier for him to pull behind someone in need of his company’s particular service.

Leaning over to pick up his CB, Sean checked the frequency for his office. “Action Jackson home base come in, this is AJ1 talking to you.” He hoped his wife was in a good mood after another long 12-hour day of working the office. He wanted to hire some additional office staff when they broke even later in the year.

Sissy Jackson met Sean in his senior year of college, and they were inseparable ever since. Sissy even nursed him back from his career ending injury, both mentally and physically. After graduation, with no real prospects on the horizon, it was her idea that they start a business of their own. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it depended on which one you talked to; the only business available for those with a limited amount of money happened to be a towing franchise. Sissy’s father took a loan against his pension to provide Sean with the money to get started.

“Come in AT-1, I have a cold one waiting for you when you get back,” Sissy cooed.

“Sissy, I should be back in the office in about 20 minutes. I’m nearing my usual turnaround point now,” Sean said, before noticing a pick-up truck parked on the side of the road a couple of hundred feet ahead. “Scratch that Sissy, I have a broke,” squinting as he pulled up behind the vehicle. “Looks to be a Black, Ford F-150. Let me give you the plate number in case he’s a runner.” It wouldn’t be the first. Earlier in the morning, he filled a car with 2 gallons of gas only to have the driver take off without paying. “It’s a New Jersey Plate; five, nine, eight, zero, one.” Sean paused, staring at the man on the side of the road. “Baby, you’re not going to believe this, he’s praying on the side of the road, right here on Highway 50! This guy’s got to be nuts!”

Sissy didn’t like the sound of his potential customer, calling him right back. “Sean, just come back to the office, let one of the gypsy’s handle him,” her voice quivering. Something deep inside told her the situation was dangerous. “Do you hear me, Sean?”

Sean eyed the man for a few seconds more before responding back. “Sissy, he looks harmless enough. You know we need the money baby. Every job counts. I’ll get back to you after I find out his problem.” He put the mike down before keying it one more time. “And don’t forget to keep my beer cold!”

“Sean, you take care, you hear me?”

Sean reached down for his trusty Swiss Army knife, placing it in his overall’s pocket. It was the one tool he found to come in handy for everything but the large jobs, saving him countless time from routing around for the right tools in the back of his truck. He waited until the traffic subsided enough to enable him to open his driver side door, jumping out of his truck and sprinting across the front. He reached the grass as a big rig blew past.

Sean walked to within a few feet of where Peter kneeled in prayer, waiting to see if he would turn around in response.

“Hey buddy you need some help or something,” Sean said. “I’m the authorized service provider for this section of the road.”

Kneeling beside the truck to hide from passing traffic, Sean had surprised Peter. He was getting ready to rise and continue on with his journey before being rudely interrupted by this heathen. Nobody in his own country would have dared interrupt someone deep in prayer. They would have waited patiently until one completed their prayer before even uttering a word.

“What do you want?” Peter shouted, feeling his waistband for his 9mm before realizing he left his weapon in the truck.

Raised on the mean streets of Baltimore, Sean realized the man was looking for his piece. Wanting no part of this crazy scene, Sean started to casually back up with his hands in the air. This was the one time Sean wished he carried his own piece. His wife told him on numerous occasions to carry a colt 45 her father had given her, but he refused, thinking it would only lead to more serious trouble.

“I don’t mean to interrupt you my man,” Sean said. “I just thought maybe your truck broke down. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” He kept walking backwards as he talked, a smile gracing his face as to not alarm the man. Upon reaching the passenger side of his truck he quickly flung the door open and jumped inside, sliding over to the driver’s side of the truck. The flat bed revved up with no problem, producing a heavy, black cloud of diesel smoke as evidence.

Springing up from his kneeling position, Peter reached through the open passenger side window for his 9mm, seeing it was no longer there. He calmly but quickly opened the door, searching the trucks floor, finding it where it evidently fell when he had braked to avoid a careless driver a few miles back.

Peter now pointed the weapon at Sean as he sat in his truck.

Get a hold of yourself, Sean said aloud. “You want to live another day. He looked in his rear view mirror, then back to the man with the gun. Sean saw his chance with an opening in the traffic, applying his foot full force on the accelerator, his trucks rear wheels spinning in response, swaying towards the side of the road. When his trucks wheels finally caught the asphalt, he narrowly merged between a semi and a school bus.

Realizing he lost any chance for a clear shot, Peter ran along the grass strip still trying to aim his 9mm at the escaping flatbed. When the flatbed appeared once again in his gun’s sight, a large semi-truck blared its horn due to Sean merging his truck a little too close to his own.

This one action saved Sean’s life as Peter glanced away momentarily, allowing Sean to move out of range of the 9mm.

Seeing he was free, Sean once again merged his truck to the outer lanes in order to escape the mad man. What in the hell did I do? Sean thought as he fumbled for his CB radio.

“Come in Action Jackson base,” he screamed into the CB radio’s mike, looking in his rear view mirror for the nutcase to suddenly pull up behind him somewhere. “Damn it Sissy, come in,” Sean yelled again into the mike.

Sissy had just exited the bathroom when Sean’s first request came across. She hurried back to the receiver in time for his second appeal. “Sean, this is Sissy. What’s the problem baby?” She said slowly and deliberately.

“Some nut case just pulled a weapon on me! Can you believe that? He wanted to shoot me because I only wanted to help him! What’s this world coming too?”

“It’s okay, baby,” Sissy said slowly, trying to calm him down. “Was this the same vehicle you provided me the plates only 5 minutes ago?”

That’s right! He forgot about that. He could call the plate into the State Police and get this guy pulled over. “Sissy, I want you to call the State Police and tell them what happened. I want you to tell them it was a black, Ford F-150; you have the plates. It happened at mile marker 25 heading west on 50. The man was dark skinned, middle-eastern I think.”

“Okay, I’m going to call it in right now.” She realized he was too upset to realize he could call it in himself over channel nine on his CB, the police emergency channel. “I want you to promise me that you will be back here as soon as possible. No more runs today; do you hear me? Turn that rig around and return to base!”

Sean couldn’t agree more. This being the first time anybody had ever pulled a gun on him. “I couldn’t agree with you more baby. I’m on my way home.”

One mile back, Peter still stood by the side of the road, eying the passing vehicles before realizing he still held his weapon in clear sight for all to see. He quickly tucked the weapon back into his pants waistband before jumping back into his truck. As he did, Peter noticed the vehicle’s CB radio mounted on the side of its dashboard. This might come in handy. He knew from his briefings in Syria that the American CB radios also operate a police frequency. Another possible weapon to throw the police off his trail.

Seeing an opening in the traffic, Peter carefully merged his truck onto the highway, proceeding to Washington D.C. and immortality.

Officer Mark Lipatree of the Maryland State Police sat in an unmarked police cruiser west of the Routes 495 and 50 interchange, pulling speed checks. It was one of the two uninspiring necessities of police work, the other being testimony in court. He couldn’t complain, it was only his 2nd time in almost 30 days of “pulling speed” as his brethren would refer to it. Mark didn’t mind the routine duty, even thought he preferred to be on patrol or street assignment. That’s where the real action lay, catching the criminals and not your typical Joes who casually sped a few miles over the limit.

The mere presence of his vehicle provided enough of a deterrent for the speeders to slow down. At least until they passed him. No matter, this was downtime to him. It provided him with a few extra hours of time to study his computer programming course work. With only 4 years left until retirement, he hoped to have his degree in hand on the day he left the force.

Sitting in his unmarked car, he would occasionally look up to give the appearance of performing his civil duty. Sometimes even resetting the roof mounted radar unit to “shoot” a car or two. Only someone stupid enough to cruise by at ten miles or more per hour over the speed limit would find him giving chase. Most of the day would find him with a calculator in one hand and a well-used pencil in the other, trying to figure out his Advanced Calculus workload for his next class.

“Baker 12, Baker 12, we have a report of a man with a weapon,” the women dispatcher stated in a mono-tone voice. “He is at Route 50, mile marker 25, now proceeding west. It’s a black Ford F-150 pick-up, New Jersey Tags # five, nine, eight, zero, one. He should be considered armed and dangerous. Confirm please.”

Mark placed his books on the passenger side of the cruiser, reaching for his radio mike mounted to a shoulder harness, having replaced the old, bulky dashboard mounted radios of past. “Rodger Annapolis Center, Baker 12 will check out and report.”

He expertly unsnapped the radar gun from the roof, tossing it beside him. As he shifted from park, a truck matching the description sped by.

As he eased out into the highway, the traffic mysteriously parted to accommodate his police vehicle. Driving an unmarked car, the driver of the pick-up would have a hard time identifying his vehicle, using all 8 cylinders of his specially outfitted Detroit cruiser to gain position. Mark fluidly weaved in and out of the traffic pattern, careful not to be seen.

“Annapolis Center this is Baker 12, I have the suspected Black F-150 under surveillance. The vehicles plate matches your numbers provided. I will attempt to pull over it over at Mile marker 30. Back-up would be nice with this one.”

“Rodger that, Baker 12. Will attempt to have back-up available,” the distant, unseen female voice replied.

Slowing his police cruiser in order to position his vehicle behind the suspect’s pick-up, Mark turned on the siren.

Having figured out the basics for operating the CB, Peter selected the random mode. This allowed the CB scanner to randomly search channels, picking up any transmissions that were made within its limited range. The first channel it stopped on picked up a conversation between two truckers whose accents placed them well below the Mason\Dixon line; they were discussing the high price of diesel fuel. On the second attempt, he found what he was searching for, a transmission between a base station and a police cruiser. Listening carefully to the discussion, Peter overheard them discussing a black pick-up truck. He looked from side-to-side for any sign of a marked police car. Seeing none, he continued to listen to the conversation, losing the transmission briefly as he passed under the Route 495 overpass. As the transmission resumed, he saw a black car parked diagonally to the road off to his right, obviously a police car from its positioning.

In his rear view mirror, Peter saw the car quickly merge onto the highway and gradually ease its way up to his position, just slightly behind his truck, off to the right. No doubt the police officer wanted to be absolutely positive it was the right vehicle. Listening further, Peter determined the police were going to attempt to pull him over at mile marker 30. Peter waited patiently until the next marker appeared. At that point, the car to his right moved into a position behind him, turning on his siren and lights.

Peter closed his eyes for a few seconds, appealing to Allah to intercede. The unsuspecting police officer attempting to pull him over would be just another statistic in a few minutes.

“Baker 12, this is Annapolis Center,” Mark’s radio barked as he maneuvered his car to within 20 feet of his suspect.

“This is Baker 12, come in Annapolis Center,” Mark said in response.

“We have no back-up for you Baker 12—there is a major accident on Route 495 with two people killed. We have moved all available resources into the area for traffic duty. You are advised to proceed with caution. I can alert the DC police if chase proceeds into their jurisdiction. Sorry Baker 12.”

Mark Lipatree could only shake his head. He was on his own. As he drove closer, Mark noticed a Police Association decal on the truck’s cabin window. This guys a cop? He despised pulling over fellow officers — especially ones who had been drinking or involved in a domestic dispute. The badge would come out as if it were some magical ticket to freedom and then a weapon would most likely be shown next.

Looking in his rear view mirror, Peter could see the police officer moving into position. He needed a diversion. Peter accelerated to 85 miles per hour before swerving into the right lane, tapping a car’s rear bumper, causing the car to swerve into another lane where it was promptly rammed by a truck.

Mark narrowly missed hitting the truck as he matched Peters every move, settling back once more behind Peters truck.

Peter knew the police in the United States had orders to break off high-speed pursuits, he decided to take advantage of the liberal law. Pushing the accelerator down to the floor, he quickly reached 100 miles per hour. He swerved into the lanes on either side of him before settling into the right hand lane.

Mark was following Peter to the best of his ability, trying to avoid being the cause of another traffic accident. He decided to move across two lanes of heavy traffic and then into the emergency lane. This allowed him to avoid the burden of traffic and move up alongside Peter.

“Will the driver in the truck, slow down and pull over,” Mark ordered over his loudspeaker. “Don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”

Peter leaned over to his right hand side to look down at the police cruiser before extending his middle finger. Using the truck as a weapon, Peter veered to his right, slamming into the police cruiser’s driver’s side door, causing the car to swerve up a grassy bank before correcting its path and veering back onto the emergency strip.

Once back on the road, Mark eased to the right and the rear of the truck, positioning himself for a tip maneuver he had learned in his Police offensive driving class only weeks before. Increasing his speed, Mark bumped his vehicle into the trucks rear quarter panel, causing it to swerve from right to left and then back again. As Peter tried to regain control, Mark pulled ahead and tossed a nail studded “road stopper” out his window and into his trucks path.

Peter saw the officer throw something out his window, unable to avoid it, he drove over it. He suddenly heard two loud,pops — his steering capability degraded dramatically with both tires on the right hand side now flat. Peter steered over to the emergency lane — sparks flying from underneath the truck. He had no choice but to stop. Now he had to pick the spot to make a stand.

The truck coasted to a stop underneath a roadway overpass. Peter looked in his rearview mirror to see the police cruiser pull in 20 feet behind him.

Peter removed the 9mm from his waistband.

Mark sat in his police cruiser mentally reviewing his own status — bulletproof vest, weapon loaded, pepper spray. Within a minute, his in-car computer produced a printout of the vehicle’s owner. Looking over the information, Mark noted that this guy never had so much as a parking ticket. But there’s always the possibility it was stolen and not reported yet. Just to be on the safe side, Mark unsnapped the top of his leather holster, freeing his weapon for easier access as he opened his door.

Approaching the 2nd minute since his forced stop, Peter was anxious. He realized that if the police officer received any kind of assistance, his mission would be over. Peter knew he could take care of one or two, but not the possibility of three or four police officers responding to his call. Sitting on the side of the road made him the proverbial dead duck. Fingering his 9mm, he needed to make a move and fast. Opening his door with weapon in hand, Peter jumped to the asphalt roadway just as the police officer was exiting his cruiser.

Both seemed stunned for an instant, looking at each other as if in some macabre western gunfight. Peter had the advantage with his weapon already out.

Mark cursed loudly when he saw Peter with a gun in his hand. “I’m a Police Officer— drop the weapon — now!”

Peter fired first, hitting the driver’s side door that Mark was using as cover.

Mark responded with 3 shots in quick succession, the first hitting and shattering the driver’s side window that Peter stood in front of. The second and third bullets imbedded themselves in the doors steel cross ties.

Peter sought shelter in front of his truck, maneuvering around the still open driver side door and wildly firing 2 shots in the general direction of Mark to cover his run.

Mark cowered behind his cruisers door for cover as two more bullets flew harmlessly over his head.

Mark reached for his radio while scouting for Peter, seeing him ducking in front of his truck, using the engine block for cover no doubt. He must have some type of military training because anyone else would have run by now, making himself a potential target. This guy is going to stay and fight.

“This is Baker 12, repeat, this is Baker 12. Officer needs immediate assistance. Shots fired, repeat, shots fired. Highway 50, mile marker 30. Suspect is still armed.”

“Baker 12 this is Annapolis base, I read you loud and clear. I have 3 vehicles on their way. ETA is 3 minutes. Repeat, ETA is 3 minutes.”

Mark dashed out from behind his temporary cover of his vehicles door, moving to the rear of the suspect’s truck. “Roger that Annapolis, 3 minutes,” Mark replied. He lay down on the road to look under the truck. With the truck providing a 2-foot clearance from the ground to its frame, Mark viewed Peter’s feet as he paced back and forth as if a caged animal searching for its master.

Mark took careful aim at Peter’s exposed right foot, squeezing off two shots from his standard issue Beretta, hitting the wheel rim on the first shot and grazing Peter’s foot with the second. Peter fell to his knees in pain, now on the ground in full view. Mark yelled for him to once again drop his weapon, taking careful aim, both hands on his weapon.

Peter could see the police officer pointing his weapon directly at him. Looking at his own wound he could see the bullet had just grazed him, nothing that should keep him from walking or running if need be. Peter assumed a runners start position with his weapon in his right hand flat on the ground. Looking back at the officer and then at this weapon. In one brief second, Peter made the rash decision to bring his weapon to bear and fire. Not taking time to aim, he emptied his clip by shooting under the truck towards where Mark lay on his stomach. Five of the six bullets hit the roads asphalt and ricocheted harmlessly up into the trucks rear cab. The sixth managed to hit Mark square in the chest, forcefully pushing his body up and slamming him into the trucks rear bumper, knocking him unconscious.

Peter ejected the empty clip onto the highways hot asphalt, withdrawing a new clip from his waistband before professionally inserting it into its rightful place. Quickly looking under truck, his weapon ready for action, Peter noticed the officer lying sprawled on his back. Peter carefully made his way to where Mark lay in the rear of the vehicle. Holding his 9mm in front of him, both hands locked together as instructed. He carefully peered around the trucks rear panel before seeing that the officer was indeed dead. Moving over to where he could stand over the fallen officer, kicking him once before prying the Officers 9mm from his hands.

Peter retrieved his bag, mockingly saluting the fallen officer, before tossing the bag into the back seat of the police cruiser as the traffic continued by, oblivious to what just happened.

“Only in America,” Peter said aloud as he pulled out into the heavy traffic that again seemed to give way to the police vehicle.

Mark eased himself up from where he lay on the hot asphalt. A sudden pain in the center of his chest caused him to cry out in pain. Reaching down, he unbuttoned his shirt only to be rewarded with a deformed piece of lead imbedded in his vest, saving his life in the process. Eyeing the slug, Mark decided to put it in his pocket, a keep-sake for future reference. Looking about, he could see that both his weapon and police cruiser stolen. “Shit!” he said aloud. Reaching for his radio, he called in his status, still looking around for his backup.

“Annapolis base this is Baker 12, come in Annapolis base,” Mark said, his hand searching for the impact spot beneath his vest, one that would surely produce a grapefruit sized bruise in a day or two.

“Baker 12 this is Annapolis base. Your backup is in route. One minute ETA.”

Mark wondered what in the hell he was going to tell his boss as he fingered his mike. “Annapolis base, Baker 12 has been shot. I repeat, shot. Vest stopped bullet.” He fingered the bullet’s bruise that made it difficult for him to breathe before continuing. “Annapolis base, my cruiser and weapon have been stolen by the suspect while I was unconscious. Please alert DC police that the suspect is probably heading their way.” He stood up with the aid of the truck’s bumper in time to see his back up maneuvering through the traffic, sirens blazing.

I am going to catch that bastard. And when I do — I’m going to kill him.

Three minutes passed since he left the officer to die along the side of the road. By now an all points bulletin would be posted. He knew the Americans did not take kindly to the murder of their police officers. Little did they realize, but this was already number two for the day — with many more to follow.

With the Washington DC city limits fast approaching, he wanted to ditch the police cruiser and steal another mode of transportation. No doubt driving a police cruiser would make it harder for him to blend in.

Driving past a Honda Civic, he noticed a young woman behind the wheel. Peter quickly hatched his next plan. Being in a police vehicle, he could pull over any car he chose; couldn’t he? The Americans are a law and order society and would obey a police officer’s command to stop. That’s it! I could seize the vehicle of an unsuspecting person, someone naive or young enough not to ask questions. Someone similar to the young female he had just passed. Brilliant!

Wendy Wexler battled early afternoon traffic due to an accident slowing both sides of the highway. She was on her way home from attending morning classes at Montgomery County Community College. As she drove on Highway 50, she mentally reviewed her Physics Final she had taken that morning. She needed 6 credits to complete her Associates degree, and if she passed Physics, only one more course to go.

Turning to her right, she saw a police car slowing beside her. Looking down at her speedometer, satisfied she was within the speed limit, she went back to reviewing her Final.

Slowing to 50 miles per hour, Peter stayed in the outside lane, allowing Wendy’s Honda to approach him. Peter slowed the car even further, gradually allowing her to pass. She glanced at him as she drove by. Peter pulled his car behind hers. He then noticed her nervously fidgeting in the driver’s seat, looking from rearview mirror to the side mirror, and then slowing her speed to 50 miles per hour.

Peter had his victim—now he just needed an appropriate area to pull her over.

Looking ahead past the flowing traffic, Peter saw his opportunity in an off-ramp only about a ½ mile ahead. It was once again coming together. This would fit right into his plan. If he could get her to drive up the ramp and off the highway, they would be away from peering eyes.

As he drove Peter also searched for the switch to turn on the cars siren. In course finding the police radio. Might be nice to have the latest on what type of reception they are planning he thought, fidgeting with the buttons on the radio, he turned it on. Seeing nothing labeled for siren, he noticed a well-worn switch with no name affixed to it. Peter flipped the switch, and the siren sprung to life.

Wendy wondered why a police cruiser suddenly took up position behind her car. She wasn’t speeding. The car was recently inspected, so her license tags weren’t expired. She looked in the rear view mirror to notice the flashing lights first, followed by the siren. My father’s going to kill me if I get a ticket.

Wendy looked immediately to her right in order to oblige the officer and pull over. Once again the traffic magically parted for both Wendy and Peter as he stayed behind her Honda, in effect riding its bumper with his vehicle as she made her way over to the emergency lane. Once in the emergency lane, she stopped 100 feet from the 14th Street exit ramp.

With two speeding tickets in the past year, Wendy knew the drill: show me your license, registration and proof of insurance. Same routine.

Peter couldn’t help but notice the 14th Street exit ramp only a few feet ahead of the Honda. He had to coax his prey to drive the remaining distance up the ramp and off the highway to a more secluded location. He looked about the car’s interior before finding a switch labeled megaphone. Peter pushed what looked to be the power button causing a green light to illuminate. Picking up the microphone, he pushed the detent a few times before hearing a clicking sound on a speaker outside of his cruiser.

“Will the young lady in the Honda please drive up the ramp and exit to the right? The traffic is too heavy for me to exit my vehicle.”

Wendy heard the policeman’s request to drive up the ramp, waving out the window in response. She then drove up the ramp at 10 miles per hour and exited as instructed.

Peter turned up the volume of the police radio when he overheard radio traffic concerning the policeman he had shot few moments earlier. One particular comment piqued his interest. The officer he shot evidently survived due to his bulletproof vest, suffering only a concussion during the incident. An intense manhunt was now underway to locate Peter and the stolen police cruiser.

He didn’t have much time. He had to ditch the cruiser and fast.

Peter followed Wendy into the parking lot for a single story office building. He seized the opportunity and used the office building and the car to his advantage, pulling in beside her but allowing the office building to block his vehicles view from the street. He positioned the police vehicle out of view of anyone but Wendy. Peter then used the cruiser’s megaphone to summon Wendy.

“Please approach with your registration papers and drivers license at the ready,” Peter said. He was ready to kill her if she didn’t comply.

Wendy gathered her documents and exited her car, walking in between the office building and the police car.

“Officer, I didn’t mean to do whatever I supposedly did wrong. Please don’t give me a ticket,” Wendy pleaded. “I can’t afford my car insurance as it is,” she said, thrusting her documents through the open window at Peter. She looked down at his shorts and suddenly realized that something didn’t make sense. She knew the police had undercover units, but they usually operated in the urban environments, not on traffic detail.

“Hey wait a minute, you don’t look like a cop,” slowly backing up as she said it. “Is this some type of joke?”

Peter pointed his 9mm at Wendy. “I don’t think so.”

Wendy started crying hysterically, holding onto the car for support.

“Stop where you are little lady,” Peter ordered, exiting the police cruiser.

Peter took stock of the situation and looked in both directions, satisfied that no one could see them. “I’m not going to hurt you; you have my word. I only need you to provide me a ride downtown before I let you go. If you do as I say, this experience will be over in a matter of one or two hours.”

Looking back at her car and then to Peter, Wendy’s mind started racing. She had seen the nightly news and read the newspapers; young women such as herself were being raped and killed by people every day. She wasn’t about to become another statistic. Fingering her car keys as Peter walked closer to her, mentally counting the closing distance—6 feet, 5 feet, 4 feet……

Peter kept his weapon at his side as to not frighten her.

She waited until Peter stood beside her before raising her can of pepper spray, directing the spray towards his face.

Peter instinctively blocked Wendy hand as she reached out, blocking most of the spray, causing most of it to deflect back onto Wendy’s own face and into her eyes. She screamed in agony as the pepper worked its way into her tear ducts. She knew she had to get control of herself and the situation; she struck once again by using anything at hand, striking Peter across his face with her ignition key. The cut started just above his right eyebrow and proceeded to his left cheek, the cut now bleeding profusely.

Peter grabbed Wendy, brutally slapping her across the face. Wendy slipped and fell into the rear quarter panel of her own car, opening a large gash on her forehead.

She screamed once more.

Peter had to control the situation and quickly.

Waiting several minutes for the effect of the pepper spray to wear off on Wendy, Peter smiled at her as she looked up at him, admiring her lioness courage. This one is a fighter, he thought to himself. She will do well in her future endeavors. He could never hurt a woman brave enough to fight him in hand-to-hand combat, besting him more than any Russian commando had ever accomplished. She even drew blood, only having to look to his hand for evidence.

Peter smiled as he removed the car keys from her hand.

This time, Wendy put up no resistance.

His original thought was to kill her and dump her body. Her courage changed his plans. Gently lifting her up from the ground, cautious and ready for any action she may still take, Peter led her back over to the police cruiser. Once there, he pointed for her to sit in the driver’s seat.

She hesitated at first before finally obliging, feeling a tight knot in her stomach as she did.

Peter produced a pair of handcuffs he removed from the cruiser, applying one open cuff to her left hand before threading it through the steering wheel and then cuffing the right.

“Sorry for the accommodations, but it is the best I can do,” Peter said sympathetically, moving to the other side of the cruiser, smashing the police radio before removing the officer’s shotgun and his own bag.

Looking back at Wendy as she struggled to try and remove the handcuffs, Peter admired her fight. He waved before driving out of the parking lot in her Honda.

Peter knew he would succeed — for Allah had intervened once more.