Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) Page 14

  Tomás continued. “I don’t think we should include whistleblowers on the list either.”

  They all straightened up on hearing that remark. Santos put his beer on the table and started waiving his hands. “What do you mean, we shouldn’t have whistleblowers on the list!? Those fuckers are giving more aid and comfort to the enemy than professors and journalists! They’re exposing our tactics. They alert the terrorists that they need to change the way they do business. It makes it harder for us to get them.”

  Tomás tried to justify his position. “Those guys are exposing corruption in the government. If government officials are violating the Constitution, the people have a right to know. They’re helping to make the country stronger by rooting out corruption. They—”

  Bennett interrupted. “What about that guy who disclosed all the stuff the NSA was doing? Don’t you think people like that need to be stopped? He was definitely giving aid and comfort to the enemy. He was also disclosing national security secrets.”

  Tomás replied, in a nervous voice. “I think that people who expose unconstitutional conduct are heroes. The people need to know what their government is doing. If we allow government officials to systematically violate the Constitution, it won’t be long before we aren’t any better than our enemies. If we don’t have a rule of law, we don’t have anything.”

  Hernandez, Bennett, and Wellington looked at each other in disbelief. Wellington tried to pacify the situation, which had gotten out of hand. “Look guys, we can agree to disagree on this point. Let’s keep journalists, professors, and whistleblowers off the list, for now. There are plenty of politicians and bureaucrats who need to be on our list. Would that make everybody happy?”

  They all nodded, but actually no one was happy. Before Tomás had opened his mouth they all thought they were on the same page. Now the group seemed deeply split, and there didn’t appear to be a solution that would return things to normal. They all felt uncomfortable at that point. They finished their beers and made excuses to leave. As Wellington left, he decided to arrange a meeting with the Boss to inform him of the conversation they just had.

  46

  “You did the right thing bringing this to my attention. Tomás has become a problem. We may have to eliminate him.” The Boss was responding to Wellington’s summary of the conversation that took place over beers at Santos’s house.

  “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. But let’s wait and see if this thing blows over. Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”

  “I don’t think that will happen, but there’s no harm in waiting to see how things evolve. If he can get back on track, there’s no need to get rid of him. He’s been a valuable asset.”

  “I agree. I’ll keep you posted.”

  47

  “Yeah, I know Saul Steinman. He’s a schmuck.” Rachel Karshenboym voiced her opinion of Saul Steinman to Sergei Turetsky as they walked outside her office at the Kendall campus of Miami Dade College. He had just finished briefing her on the assignment. The sound of her voice always annoyed him, but at least he could enjoy the breeze and the sight of the palm trees swaying on both sides of the sidewalk as they walked toward the parking lot. It was much better than Moscow.

  “He says he’s a strong supporter of Israel, but he’s totally against U.S. Middle East policy. He’s funneling money to the Palestinians. Killing people who funnel money to terrorists and who oppose U.S. Middle East policy would be doing both Israel and the United States a favor. I think we should coordinate our efforts to make sure he gets eliminated as soon as possible. We need to silence him and stop him from funding those Palestinians.”

  Sergei had expected some resistance. His prior dealings with Rachel had always been less than pleasant. Would Steinman feel comfortable even being in the same room with this woman, let alone inviting her to join his group? Could she keep her private views to herself? He doubted it. That would seriously compromise the mission.

  “All I’m asking is that you infiltrate his study group and keep us informed of what’s going on. I don’t know what Aaron has planned for him. Maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  Sergei was talking out of his ass and he knew it. Although he didn’t know precisely what Gelman’s plans were, he knew they didn’t include killing Steinman. He had to say something to calm her down because he could feel she was going to refuse the assignment.

  That seemed to pacify her. There was a change in her facial expression. Sergei noticed it.

  “OK, I’ll take the assignment, but I have mixed feelings about it.”

  “That’s fine. I understand. I’ll tell Aaron you have mixed feelings.”

  “You do that.” She didn’t like Aaron Gelman and she made no attempt to hide her feelings. She thought he was a politician who cared more about covering his ass than doing what was right for Israel.

  Sergei walked back to his car both relieved and anxious—relieved because he would be able to tell Gelman that she had accepted the assignment, and anxious because of fear she would screw up. He began to think of a backup plan.

  48

  James Young sat on the side of his bed, thinking about his predicament. It had been exactly three weeks since Santos Hernandez pummeled him at the airport. Less than three weeks since the Department of Homeland Security goons punched him, froze his bank accounts and credit cards, and got him fired. His broken ribs still hurt.

  The assault case the TSA filed against him would go to trial in a few months. He couldn’t get an attorney to represent him. They were all afraid of what would happen to them if they defended someone accused of being a terrorist. They could be accused of aiding and abetting.

  His mother’s brain was melting away from dementia. His wife had been cut back to part-time at work to avoid being subject to the federal health care regulations. They were practically out of money. The cash his wife brought home from her job wasn’t even enough for groceries.

  He felt under attack, isolated, and alone.

  He walked over to the bedroom closet, took out his gun, slapped in a fully loaded clip, and tossed it into a large cloth bag, along with the extra clip. When he picked it up by the handle, he noticed the outline of the gun barrel and the end of the clip were visible. They poked the cloth bag from the inside. That would draw too much attention. He walked to the bathroom closet, took out a bath towel, and wrapped it around the gun. That would soften the angular features so they wouldn’t be too prominent.

  He got in the car and headed for the Miami International Airport.

  49

  If you can’t kill the general, kill the foot soldiers.

  James felt dead inside as he drove to the airport. His mind. His spirit. The federal government had killed him with its laws. Everything but his body. His elected representatives and their cronies had betrayed him. They had betrayed the trust of all Americans. They were safely ensconced in Washington, but the foot soldiers, the enforcers, were in Miami.

  Some of them were at the Miami International Airport. And they were vulnerable, especially if you didn’t care about getting away after you did what needed to be done. He didn’t care about getting away.

  He pulled into the Dolphin parking garage and took the first space he saw. He didn’t try to get a space near an exit or an elevator. He didn’t plan on making a quick escape.

  He turned off the ignition. Grabbed the extra clip from the bag. Put it in his pocket. He picked up the MPA 10SST. Checked to make sure it had a shell in the chamber. Rewrapped it in the bath towel. Returned it to the bag. He got out of the car and started walking toward the terminals. It was a large airport. It would take a while to get to his destination, but time was no longer a factor for him. No job. No cash. Pending court case. No attorney. No hope. All because the TSA assaulted him and his mother.

  He passed a few TSA agents along the way. He resisted the urge to kill them on the spot. That would derail his plan. He had a specific target in mind.

  A few minutes later he arrived at the same terminal he h
ad been at three weeks before. The terminal where the TSA had whisked his mother away in her wheelchair. The place where Santos Hernandez beat him. He would have to show his ticket to the TSA agent posted at the podium before he could gain entrance to the search area. He didn’t have a ticket. He would present his MPA 10SST instead. No photo ID needed.

  He got at the end of the line, and waited for his turn at the podium. The line was short. It would be his turn soon. He looked over at the search area as best he could. His view was partially obscured by the machines and the people ahead of him. He could see the woman who had pushed him aside and wheeled his mother into the private screening room. He couldn’t see Santos Hernandez.

  He spotted two TSA agents with side arms, both off to the left just beyond the electronic scanners. There could be more. A few wore Kevlar vests.

  They’d started wearing the vests and carrying firearms shortly after one of them got shot by a disgruntled patriot at the Los Angeles airport. There had been a few other shootings since then, and the frequency was starting to increase, but not to epidemic proportions. Most Americans still didn’t protest the warrantless searches and the verbal and physical abuse. Most still preferred to give up a little liberty in exchange for temporary security. But the TSA had started to get blowback from the small segment of the population that had had enough.

  He didn’t know much about shooting people, but he did know that shooting someone in their Kevlar vest was a waste of time. Those people had to be shot in the head. He would shoot the ones carrying firearms first.

  The woman ahead of him had just had her ticket and ID checked. He was next.

  “Ticket, sir?” The TSA agent at the podium held out her hand to take his ticket. She looked Hispanic. Dark eyes. Black hair. In her early thirties. TSA uniform neatly pressed.

  He reached into the bag, pulled out the pistol, and pumped a round into her chest. – BAM! — splattering her blood and flesh on the people behind her.

  Everyone screamed. Panic. Scattering like cockroaches.

  James ran through the scanner, setting it off, then turned to the left. The two armed agents stood there, in a panic, trying to draw their guns.

  He aimed at the head of the closer one and squeezed the trigger. BLAM! He missed. He corrected his aim and squeezed off another round. This one hit him just below the left eye. His head exploded into red mist. James shifted his aim to the other agent. The shot caught him in the throat, just above his Kevlar protection.

  The immediate threat was over, but it wouldn’t be long before other agents with guns would appear. He had to act fast.

  Some travelers were still screaming.

  “Don’t worry, folks. I’m only killing TSA agents today.”

  The screaming stopped, but the looks of terror on their faces remained.

  He looked around, trying to spot Santos Hernandez.

  He turned to one of the male agents, pointing the gun at his face. The gun was getting heavy. He held it with both hands. In a slow, deliberate voice, he asked, “Where is Santos Hernandez?”

  “He’s not here today. I don’t know where he is.”

  Damn. I was really looking forward to killing that bastard. After all he did to me and my family. Well, I came here to kill as many TSA agents as I can. They’re all the same anyway. Just like cockroaches. It doesn’t matter where you start. Kill the closest one first.

  With that, he took aim at the agent standing in front of him and squeezed the trigger. The agent’s brains splattered all over the agents next to him. Then he turned to the female agent who had pushed him aside three weeks earlier to grab his mother. He aimed the gun at her head. He focused on the spot between her eyebrows, just below her bangs. “Remember me?”

  She looked puzzled by the question. She didn’t remember accosting him or his mother. She had assaulted so many people over the years that she no longer realized she was violating their rights.

  “Three weeks ago you assaulted me and my mother. I came back to celebrate our anniversary.”

  He squeezed the trigger again, but as he squeezed, she moved to the right. He missed her. The bullet caught the agent standing behind her in the shoulder, causing her to scream and fall to the floor. He turned toward her again, took aim, and fired two rounds into her chest.

  He still had more than twenty rounds left in the first clip and another thirty rounds in the clip in his pocket. There were six agents remaining in his immediate area. He took them out one at a time with shots to the torso, going from right to left. Then he walked up to each of them, aimed at their head, and squeezed the trigger again.

  He noticed the agent he had shot in the shoulder accidentally was still alive. Very much alive. She was propped up against the wall, holding her shoulder and whimpering. Staring at him in terror. He walked over to her and looked her directly in the eyes. She was in her early twenties, skinny, light brown skin, short black hair, a little kinked. Some kind of mixed race. Caucasian and something else. Maybe African. Maybe Haitian. Maybe part Hispanic. She was the new generation of American. She had a soft look about her. Not hardened like the other TSA agents.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you. I’ve done enough killing for today.”

  She nodded her head. She looked a little relieved by what he had just said. Just a little.

  “You need to quit this job. Don’t work for the federal government.”

  She nodded her head vigorously, still staring him in the eyes. “OK. I’ll quit.”

  Just after he finished his sentence multiple shots rang out. Something struck his back. James saw his chest explode as the four rounds the TSA agents had fired into his back exited his chest. The force of the rounds propelled him forward. He landed next to the girl. She faded away into darkness, and peace finally came.

  50

  Paige and Sveta were having dinner at her place when they heard the news on television. It was the lead story, not only in Miami but nationwide. The reporter provided some background information, but gave an incomplete and biased account.

  “Shortly after 11 a.m. this morning, a person identified as James Young entered Terminal D of Miami International Airport and opened fire on several TSA agents, killing 10 and wounding one. Three weeks earlier he had been accused of assaulting an agent in that same terminal. Information is sketchy at the moment. The police said that he had recently been placed on the terrorist list, but have not given any further details. The investigation is ongoing. He is survived by his wife, his mother, two children and three grandchildren.”

  “Robert, isn’t that the same man who got beat up by a TSA agent at the airport? The one whose bloodied face was on the front page of the Miami Herald?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s the same guy.”

  “How can they say he assaulted a TSA agent when the photos and film taken at the scene clearly showed that the agent was the one who assaulted him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe some government censor wrote the script for her. Or maybe they’re afraid to give the whole story. If they say anything positive about someone who’s on the terrorist list, they could be accused of aiding and abetting the enemy and arrested for treason.”

  “But Nelson Mandela was on the terrorist list until he was ninety, long after he became president of South Africa. People said lots of nice things about him.”

  Paige picked up his fork and took a stab at his salad. “That’s different. Nelson Mandela had a following. James Young didn’t. Nobody’s going to get arrested for saying something nice about Nelson Mandela.”

  Sveta leaned forward to make a point. “But Nelson Mandela shouldn’t have been on the terrorist list.”

  “James Young probably shouldn’t have been on it either. Even if he did assault a TSA agent, that’s no reason to be put on the list. That’s not an act of terrorism. It might be an act of patriotism. Those guys have been abusing people and conducting warrantless searches since 2001. They need to be smacked around from time to time.” Paige picked up his knife and sliced o
ff a piece of steak. “I heard that a lot of people are on the terrorist list who aren’t terrorists. They can’t get on airplanes. Sometimes they can’t get jobs. Some of them are babies or children. One U.S. senator was put on the list by mistake. The government refuses to publish the list for national security reasons.”

  Sveta was getting animated. “Robert, I’m upset. This is starting to sound more and more like Soviet Russia. You get accused of something but you can’t confront your accuser because it might compromise national security.”

  “Yes, the country does appear to be going in that direction. One reason we have the right to a jury trial is to prevent abuses by government, but if the government merely alleges that the defendant is a terrorist, the right to a jury trial goes out the window.” Paige sat back in his chair. “Somebody needs to do something.”

  51

  “Hi, John. What kind of protectionist crap is the Commerce Department pushing these days?” Paige was taking Wellington’s call on his cell phone.

  Wellington smiled. He knew it was a well-known joke within the business community that the Commerce Department did more to block trade than facilitate it. He adjusted his glasses.

  “Is that any way to speak to a humble public servant?” He knew the criticism was valid. He did what he could to facilitate trade, but he had to comply with the various anti-trade policies the Commerce Department foisted upon its all-too-willing employees.

  “Bob, I’d like to chat with you about developments. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”