AN ENCOUNTER IN ATLANTA
A Mandi Steele Novel
Copyright (C) 2003 by Ed Howdershelt
ISBN 1-932693-04-1
Prologue:
Ahmed Musaffi combined three prayers on Friday afternoon; one for his
family, one for himself, and one for success in his holy mission. He then got
into the yellow Crown Victoria that had been provided for the occasion and drove
the few miles from Cascade Heights into downtown Atlanta through a drizzling
rain.
The Crown Vic had been 'heavily customized' -- a choice of words that had
been a source of great amusement among those who had labored for a week to pack
the trunk and every concealable cubic inch of the car with plastic explosive.
Every little bump in the road bottomed-out the shocks and springs, and
despite what he'd been told about his load being detonated only by radio, Ahmed
flinched hard at every jolt and swore viciously at the other cars around him.
A red, hard plastic suitcase shifted slightly on the seat next to him. Ahmed
reached to push it back in place and briefly cursed the fool who'd perched it
there, although no wires showed and there was no chance the case would fall.
At a red light one block from his goal, Ahmed wiped his face on his sleeves
and repeated part of his last prayer -- the part for himself -- one more time as
he twisted his grip on the steering wheel.
Clusters of people hurried across the street, some in various costumes he
recognized. Spiderman led Wonder Woman at a laughing dash to the shelter of an
awning, where they were joined by Lara Croft, a tall, furry creature, and a
couple of white-armored stormtroopers.
Ridiculous fantasies of the unfaithful, thought Ahmed. There was only one
true book under heaven and no man had ever been so foolish as to try to make a
movie of it.
Ahmed's little group had been instructed to strike on the second day of the
science fiction convention. No reasons had been given for choosing this
particular event as a target and -- as far as Ahmed was concerned -- none were
required. Their leader had spoken, and his words were the words of Allah in
matters of their holy cause.
When the light turned green, Ahmed's jangling nerves caused him to goose the
gas pedal. The back tires spun uselessly on the wet pavement until he rather
shakily let up on the gas a bit.
Continuing up the street, he turned left into the covered driveway of the
Rivage Hotel's reception area and joined a line of cars waiting their turns to
load or offload passengers and luggage at the big glass doors at the top of the
driveway.
Ahmed's was the fifth car in line when a family of five came through those
doors and walked past him, evidently on their way to some part of the science
fiction convention.
The three children all wore costumes; the two boys were waving their hollow
plastic lightsabers at each other and the blonde girl -- perhaps as old as
twelve -- was wearing a Batgirl costume and slinging her cape dramatically as
she walked.
A pang of pity lanced through Ahmed, but then he remembered his teachings,
hardened his heart, and severely chastised himself for his momentary weakness.
They were just infidels. Untaught, unholy, and therefore unfit to live. He
moved forward another carlength, and again watched the family in his rearview
mirror as they stood waiting to cross the street.
The blonde girl grinningly faced into the gusting wind to make her cape
billow behind her. Too bad, Ahmed thought appraisingly. The girl might possibly
have been found worthy of conversion to Islam.
Or not, he appended, remembering the dancers at the strip club the night
before. After all, even infidel females were good for purposes of pleasure and
labor. In the pure world that he and other holy martyrs would bring into being,
their children would be raised according to the teachings of the Prophet and the
women would be allowed to live only so long as they dutifully served the
righteous and faithful.
The car by the doors moved away as people got into the car behind it. It
then moved away, as well, and Ahmed was only one carlength away from where he
could aim his fake taxi up the ramp at the doors.
He eyed the walkway ramp -- easily five meters wide, with no posts or other
impediments -- and the doors above. In the center was a revolving door, flanked
on either side by doors that swung open. They would prove no barrier. All he had
to do was ram through and get the car into the lobby, then press the button on
the transmitter in his raincoat pocket.
Motion in his side-rearview mirror and the sound of something hollow
clattering on the ground caused him to look away from the doors.
A truly beautiful blonde woman in what appeared to be little more than a
bathing suit and boots stood just behind his car. She seemed to be looking for
something, probably some sort of accessory to her scandalously inadequate
costume.
Thinking that she must also be a visitor to the science fiction convention,
Ahmed's eyes locked on her marvelous bare legs and ample bosom for some moments
as she crouched and knelt to try to reach whatever had fallen beneath the taxi.
Her eyes met his in the mirror and she smiled coyly as she walked up the
driveway. Allah be praised for letting such a magnificent woman be his last
sight on Earth! And her glorious breasts were nearly leaping out of her costume!
Concentrating on her approaching breasts, Ahmed never saw -- and was
conscious only long enough to barely feel -- her fist slam into the side of his
head. The blow sent him sprawling against the luggage on the seat and into
oblivion.
The woman quickly shifted the car into neutral, went behind it to grab the
bumper, and began pulling the Crown Vic backward down the ramp to the street,
where she jumped to the front of the car, lifted it by the bumper and reached
under it to grip the frame, and launched upward with the Crown Vic dangling from
her grasp.
From the indoor cafe across the street, Mohammed Jamal took his eyes off the
policeman and another man who were having a light lunch at a nearby table and
stared with incredulous awe as a half-naked blonde woman lifted the Crown
Victoria and seemed to leap into the sky with it.
He'd frozen in mid-sip of his coffee with as much complete, mind-boggling
shock as anyone else witnessing the event, but he recovered fairly quickly as he
realized that there was still a slim chance to set off the bomb in or near the
canyon-like confines of the streets.
Hurriedly putting down his coffee cup, he reached for the transmitter in his
left coat pocket, but the chair arm got in his way. He stood up, wasting
precious seconds and knocking his chair over as he continued to stare upward
through the window at the Crown Vic. He'd finally managed to get his left hand
into his pocket as the two men he'd been watching also stood up and began coming
at him.
The one in a police uniform pointed at Jamal and said, "Freeze!" as he
reached for his sidearm. Jamal -- his radio transmitter momentarily forgotten --
made a grab for his Beretta 9mm pistol in his right coat pocket.
Jamal had thought the cop was the greater danger. He was wrong; before Jamal
could even finish bringing his own gun into line with the two men, the other man
yanked a pistol from a shoulder holster, leveled it at Jamal, and fired twice.
Mohammed Jamal felt the hot slugs plunge completely through his chest as
their impact slammed him back against the window facing the street. He was
barely aware that he fired his Beretta as he toppled; for a moment he actually
wondered why the light fixture by the coffee bar exploded.
The bullets that had passed through Jamal hit the window behind him a
split-second before Jamal did, turning it into a ten-foot-tall spiderweb of
shattered safety glass that collapsed around Jamal's body in a glittering cloud
as he fell to the sidewalk below.
The bushes below the window snagged Jamal's coat and violently twisted him
in mid-air, then he fell to the sidewalk on his left side, hearing and feeling
the bones of his arm snap as his head slammed against the concrete. Momentarily
stunned, Mohammed Jamal fought to remain conscious and stared upward, trying to
locate the Crown Victoria.
There! Almost directly overhead, an odd-shaped dark dot against the sky!
Jamal waveringly aimed his pistol at the men who leaned out of the window frame
above him and prayed to Allah that his transmitter hadn't been broken.
Forcing the unfeeling thumb and fingers of his shattered left arm to squeeze
the small transmitter took a supreme effort. Jamal cast the pistol aside in
frustration and dropped his right hand over his left to help it close on the
transmitter even as more bullets tore through his chest and skull.