Terminal Rage (2 page)

TWO

Two days earlier, Thursday, November 3, 2011—5:30 a.m.
Sherman Oaks, CA

S
eth is in the lobby of an exquisite hotel in the Middle East. The bomb is wrapped and hidden in a pink
Hello Kitty
bag parked under his feet. He built it himself—the explosive elements, the charge, the wires, and the timing device. In sixty-eight seconds, the timer will stop counting and the bomb will go off. It
’
ll take him fifty-four seconds to get to the swimming pool if he starts moving right now. If he can make it there in time, dive in, then hold his breath underwater for twelve more seconds, he
’
ll survive the explosion. But if he stays here, he
’
ll be vaporized. He
’
s right at the core of this impending inferno, and his body will serve as initial fuel.

Fifty-four seconds left.

There is a deafening silence except for the familiar ticking sound. People
’
s lips are moving but Seth can
’
t hear what they
’
re saying. Not a damn thing. He scans the lobby. Near the reception, a hostess with hardly any clothes on serves chilled mango juice in small shot glasses to the tourists.

Forty-five seconds.

Against his will, he gets up and makes his way to the exit. His legs are carrying him to safety, but every fiber of his being is rejecting this salvation. His body is functioning in total defiance of his mind and soul. And it
’
s sickening.

Thirty seconds.

Uninhibited tears slide down his cheek.
This is not how it was supposed to happen.

He
’
s on the grass now, running towards the pool.

Fifteen seconds.
He
’
s nowhere near the bomb, but the ticking is still pounding in his head.

He gets to the pool and dives in.

Time
’
s up.

With his eyes wide open underwater, Seth feels the pool shaking like a deranged washing machine on the rinse cycle. Water splices through his ribs but he manages to remain submerged. Above him, hell has opened its gates and engulfed everything. From under the water, he sees the night sky lighting up in a big bright orange flash. He holds his breath and counts the seconds.

Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two. One.

“
Let
’
s get you up to speed for this Thursday, November third. Investors on Wall Street are watching what
’
s happening in Europe, and we
’
re keeping a close watch on the markets and your money. Stocks closed higher yesterday after a decision by the European Central Bank to cut interest rates. Right now, the Dow is up just ninety-four points, but every little cent counts..
.”

A ferocious, pulsating pain kept his eyes shut even though he was awake. The fluttering lights of the television in the background seeped through the thin membrane of his closed eyelids and quietly nauseated him. Freshly squeezed tears were still damp on his cheek.

This recurring nightmare has haunted him for six years now. Nothing ever changed
. Especially
the
intensity of his desire to be there when the bomb went off. He wanted to feel the explosion as it shattered through the air. To be engulfed by its devastating heat. To witness its awesome power to transform living, molecular mass to black, charred nothingness.

Where the hell am I?

It wasn
’
t a real question, at least not the sort a rational answer could satisfy. Just a visceral reaction to what was happening to his body. His heart was all but ready to rip through his rib cage and make a run for it. Cold sweat gushing out of his pores. Blood flooding his head cavity. A premonition of a panic attack. And when that happened, there was only one thing he could do—reach out to that voice deep inside.
A part of him he had plucked out from his consciousness and relegated to a secret place in the inner folds of his mind. He only summoned it when he was desperate. And it never failed him.

Take a deep breath and ignore your body. You are nothing but a robot programmed to count from one to five in an infinite loop. Keep your eyes closed until your heart rate comes down and the hammering in your head has faded. I have taken over your feeble body now and you will listen to me and grant me full control until I fix you. Commence counting. One, two, three, four, five.

It must have been ten minutes before the subroutine had finally taken effect. Just like an antivirus program that purified him of the maladies of self-doubt, insecurity, and raw fear. He and the version of him that had woken up terrified were poles apart. Slowly he cracked his eyes open and gazed around.

Still not certain of where he was, he ran his fingers down the side of his left arm to feel a long scar that webbed from his shoulder down to his elbow. Every time he touched this six-year-old wound he felt a tingling sensation that reminded him of the slashing pain he had experienced when his skin was cut open. The trauma of his jagged, gaping flesh and his blood pouring out everywhere. The scar was his anchor point. It rebooted his sense of reality whenever he touched it.

Still dark outside. But time for me to get up.

This wasn
’
t the first time he
’
d stayed at the Hampton Inn in Sherman Oaks. A small, anonymous hotel that attracted minimal attention, and was close enough to everywhere he wanted to be in Los Angeles.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, then walked over to the bulky oak desk where he had docked his MacBook Pro. One touch of the cold aluminum track pad resurrected the notebook. But no amount of times clicking on refresh would change the fact that his Gmail account displayed zero messages.
When the hell are they going to send those damn instructions?

He went back and reached under the bed for his grey backpack, his only piece of luggage. Inside he had packed gym gear, a change of clothes for the rest of the day before his flight, and hidden inside a custom-made pouch, a Beretta Sub-Compact.

The hotel gym was a tiny room on the lobby floor. He grabbed a fresh towel, hopped on the treadmill, and aimed the remote control like a firearm at the suspended screen. After surfing briefly, he settled on a morning news show. The networks were gloating over the death of Gaddafi with an orgy of graphic pictures of his final moments. New cell phone footage had just emerged showing rebels sodomizing him with what appeared to be a gun or a metal rod.

Good riddance.

For the next half hour Seth did strength training of his upper body with dumbbells.

On the way out, he stopped to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. For five years he
’
d been preparing his body for what lay ahead. His arms were toned and well-defined. A powerful chest and sculpted legs. Although his T-shirt had long sleeves to hide his tell-tale scar, underneath it was a tough-as-steel abdomen.

The whiffs of coffee drifting from the breakfast area in the lobby reminded him to pick up a few bananas and a tub of yogurt before he went back to his room.

In the shower, he leaned his head on the white tiles and closed his eyes. Hot water cascaded like endless rain on his head and shoulders before disappearing down the drain forever.

Deep in his mind he drifted away to a previous life when he didn
’
t need to fake an accent or use an alias to stay afloat. Another life that should have had a happier ending.
This is my fate. I didn
’
t choose it. But I have to play the cards I
’
ve been dealt. It
’
s all going to be over soon anyway. Then all the pain will stop.

After his shower, he rebooted his laptop.
Yes!

The email was from Jon Abrams, a fictitious name no doubt. Someone he
’
d never met, who worked for a guy called Jacob with whom he was engaged in a very expensive transaction. He
’
d already paid Jacob in Las Vegas a week ago and the email would provide the delivery instructions. But there was nothing in the body of the message. He dialed the digits in the subject line, which he assumed was a phone number.

“Who
’
s this?” A harsh, unfriendly voice.

“I
’
m calling about the wedding dress.”

“Ten o
’
clock at
Aroma Tea and Coffee
. 4360 Tujunga Avenue in Studio City. When you get there, text 818-850-3727. Wait for a big guy. His instructions are to wait for just five minutes. If you don
’
t show up, tough shit.” He hung up.

His black BMW X5 was one of two cars still parked in the back of the hotel by the time he turned the ignition key. The other one, a silver Mercedes CLS, pulled out right after him.

The freeways will be hell at this time of the morning, that much he knew. So he decided to navigate on surface streets to avoid the worst of the congestion
.
He had two hours to get to Studio City, but before that he had to pick up something else.

Traffic was smooth on Sepulveda until he turned east on Ventura and it turned into a parking lot. He waited patiently until he escaped through Beverly Glen to go through the hills to the West Side. His destination was a Mail Boxes Etc. in Westwood.

With confident strides he walked in the facility but looked away from the security camera he
’
d staked out on a previous reconnaissance. Using a small key, he opened his mailbox but found nothing. He stared at it for a while, as if he could will it to change its contents from empty to full just based on the power of his gaze. When that didn
’
t work, he slumped his head and went back to speak to the girl behind the counter.

Huge blood-red Beats headphones dwarfed her already tiny head. She was typing demonically on the screen of her smartphone. Quite a feat given how long her psychedelic nails were.

“Hey. Any more mail for box ninety-four?” He raised his voice to pull her out of her trance. Seth was surprised how quick she was to look up at him, considering the multiple impulses that were already
draining what he had assumed was a microscopic attention span.

“Lemme check.” A huge wad of bubble gum the same shade of pink as her hair was swimming in a sea of saliva in her mouth when she spoke. Piercings everywhere. Ears, lips, nose, tongue—and other places for sure. Her voice was more womanly than what her girlish body gave her credit for. She disappeared into the sorting room in the back, then returned a few minutes later with a FedEx envelope.

“Good thing you asked. ID?”

He flicked open his wallet to show a fake California license.

“Cool. Just your autograph here.”

Back in the car he tore open the FedEx envelope, which was addressed to the D. Bell Corporation. There was a new passport with his picture in it in the name of Seth Mendoza, a Texas driver
’
s license for the same fictitious person, and a one-way ticket to New York early next morning on Virgin America.

Seth wasn
’
t his real name. He had chosen this alias as the last in a string of numerous monikers he had used in the past for this operation.

A silver Mercedes CLS was tailgating him on Wilshire.
Now what are the odds of that? This looks exactly like the car that pulled up behind me at the hotel just an hour ago.

Seth touched his gun and kept a close eye on the other car. He merged onto the 405 freeway, doing a tad below sixty-five miles per hour, and then slid to the penultimate lane on the left swiftly. The Mercedes was hot on his tracks. He floored the gas pedal and merged illegally into the carpool lane, now doing a hairy eighty-five. Once again the Mercedes shadowed him.
Shit, I don
’
t need to be dealing with this now.
He merged back into the right lane and clenched his gun ready for whatever was coming at him.

The Mercedes accelerated. When the two cars were side by side, Seth turned his head towards the driver and lowered his window. A scrawny face hidden by black Ray-Bans. Like a better preserved version of Keith Richards. He seemed to be having a heated argument on his Bluetooth earpiece. Without even glancing at Seth, Keith shot ahead in the carpool lane at some insane velocity.
False alarm.

When his nerves had settled down, Seth slid open the sunroof. The smooth, raw power of the car, the last of the fresh morning air caressing his skin, and the dancing rays of the sun warming his arms almost made him feel like smiling.

He walked past the book shop in the rear of the café and sat at an empty table. He opened his backpack and took out a tacky souvenir mug with the Argentinean flag and placed it on the table.

As instructed, he sent a text to the number he was given.
I
’
m here. Look for the flag of Argentina
. A response bounced back almost instantaneously.
I
’
m parking. What
’
s Argentina? LOL
.