The Apocalypse

Chapter 4

Ram

Los Angeles, California



“Oh this is going to suck big time,” Victor Ramirez said, running a hand through his thick black hair. He was sitting in a van parked just down the block from the mosque with three other agents, though none were sweating like he was.

“You got that right, Ram,” one of the men agreed. “But it's the job.”

“But is it my f*cking job?” he shot back. “We're DEA, not FBI, or NSA. This should be there shit job.” The Special Agent in Charge, Ron Fillmore only continued to stare out the window, which had Ram getting angrier. “Look, I knew going in that I'd be monkeying around in Mexico, trying to get into a cartel, but this? Do I look muslim to any of you?”

The senior agent, who looked like he had just strolled out of the whitest section of Whitesville, Connecticut only glanced his pale blue eyes away from the window for a second. “You're closer than I am.”

Ram pointed his deeply tanned hand at another agent and asked, “What about Shelton? He could be a black muslim. They have them you know.”

Fillmore shook his head. “Not at this mosque. Trust me. Those sand-monkeys are the most racist people imaginable.”

“Is that right?” Ram asked, dryly. “The sand-monkeys are racist?”

“What the hell's your problem?” Fillmore seethed, slamming a hand down on his chair. “This is the job. It doesn't matter right now that it should be FBI. Do you know how many mosques there are in this country? The Director has asked for our help and out of courtesy and damned love of country you're going to do this!”

“And what happens when this is another false alarm?” Ram asked quietly. “Who gets hung out to dry? Am I going to get thrown overboard as a supposed rogue agent?”

“This is nationwide, so no,” Fillmore replied, calmer now. “And for Christ's sake I hope it is a false alarm.”

In his gut, Ram didn't think it was going to be and that had him doubly nervous. In his seven years with the agency he'd had guns shoved in his face, he'd been beaten nearly to death, and he had dined with stone cold killers who made Ted Bundy look like a chump, but there was something about the ethereal and invisible nature of biological weapons that made him shiver at the very thought.

Was he even then infected? Or was his next breath going to be the one that killed him?

“What about clothes?” he asked, thinking that maybe he would like to wear one of the long robes he had seen middle-eastern muslims wearing. Sometimes they wore scarves, which would go a long way in hiding the fact that he was latino and not muslim, and which he figured he would breathe through in the hope of lessening any chance at catching the disease.

“What you have on is fine,” Fillmore answered after a glance. “Here, study these while you can.”

The senior agent handed over four photographs; all were of middle eastern men. Dreadful rumors had been rippling from every intel source and only in the last few days had they firmed up. An Al-Qaeda spin off group was thought to be bringing a weaponized form of Bubonic plague into the US. However the group was so secretive that only eighteen of them were even named and just four of those had ever been photographed.

The others were described in the most useless fashion: Arabic; olive skin tone; black hair; brown eyes.

“This is impossible,” Ram griped. “The pictures could be of anyone and I know it isn't PC to say this, but these descriptions are pathetic. They probably describe everyone in that damned building.”

Fillmore nodded, thin lipped. “They aren't all the same. Not all of them are Saudis, Fuad Mehdi, he's from Kazakhstan, and Shehzad Bhanji, he's from Qatar. Maybe they'll stand out. If you don't see anyone who matches the pictures, look for someone who's all by themselves, or a pair who don't belong. Use your training.”

“My biggest worry is that I'll find fifty people who look like these pictures.”

Fillmore tried a smile; it wasn't his strong suit under the best of conditions and this one was watery. “You're going to be fine, Ram. Now it's time to get moving. They should be calling the people to pray any minute and you should be in there before they do.”

Ram took a shaky breath, felt the pistol in the holster under his jacket, tapped the tiny two-wave radio in his pocket, and then stepped out of the van. “Wait, is it salmon aleekum,” he asked, fouling up the traditional greeting.

“No, hold on.” Fillmore looked at a folder and said slowly, “As-salam alaykum. Say it to yourself as you go.” With that the van door was closed in his face and Ram was left to walk down the street alone.

He tried again, “As salamun malaikum? Oh, Jesus! This isn't going to work.”

The mosque, a white rectangle of a building with a domed minaret in its center was fast approaching. He tucked his chin down and kept his eyes up, watching as men in twos and threes came up the street. Most were smiling easily, others seemed tired since the sun was already set. He followed a pair as they entered the front door and stepped to the side in a lobby. Everyone who entered took their shoes off and Ram did as well, though he took his time, deliberately.

Going to one knee he scanned the faces around him and as he did his training, as well as his natural inclination as an adrenaline junkie, kicked in. His nervousness disappeared and his eyes were sharp. He took in every detail of the men who drifted through the lobby, most of whom jabbered in this or that language.


Quickly he realized two things: one, the pictures and descriptions were as useless as he had supposed they would be, and two, he didn't need them either way. There was another man lingering in the lobby.

He was dark complected, even compared to the other middle-eastern men, and his clothes were odd: stylish, but out dated as only foreigners seemed to wear them. He and Ram locked eyes and the DEA agent knew this was his man. Unfortunately the man realized this as well, and without hesitation, he broke for the door in his stockinged feet.

Ram was right behind him, at first, however the man was fleet of foot, while Ram, though tall was more of a bulldog in form and in style. Still he ran as hard as he could with his shoeless feet slapping on the pavement as he yanked out his two-way.

“Suspect running north…on ninth…in pursuit,” he yelled this between gasping breaths. And then the middle-easterner sprinted up the first street he came to and this was lucky because down it the van roared and out jumped two of the DEA agents.

The man turned first one way, and then the other but by then it was too late. “One move, dip-shit and I'll drop you,” Ram threatened as he came up with his gun drawn and the trigger half pulled.

“You have got the wrong man,” the middle easterner said in a thick accent. There was fear in his face, but anger as well.

The senior agent frisked him from behind and pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. “My ass we do,” Fillmore said, holding it up. In a second Shelton cuffed the man and hustled him into the back of the van.

“I'm glad that we won't have to worry about a translator,” Fillmore said, with an evil glint to his eye as the van took off in a screech of tires. “Or about rendition either. There'll be no playing around this time. No lawyers, no judges, none of that crap. You understand what I'm saying?”

“Like I said you've got the wrong man. Check my pocket! I'm Iranian not a Saudi!”

“Oh, you're Iranian? Well Mr. Iranian, do you care to explain what you're doing here in the states?” Fillmore asked, searching the man's pockets and finding a number of photographs. “Meeting some friends? Who are they?”

He held the pictures up to the Iranian's face and Ram caught sight of them—two looked very familiar. Way too familiar. Ram dug out the four photographs that he was carrying and stared with a growing realization.

“My name is Sayyid Nosair and I'm doing the same as you,” the Iranian answered. “Trying to stop the world from ending. We're after the same people and you just ruined any chance that I could've had to stop them!”

“He may not be lying,” Ram said, holding up the matching pictures side by side. His insides felt greasy.

Back at the mosque a man slipped from the prayer line and hurried outside to intercept another two men before they could come in. With quick steps they walked to a late model BMW and drove away, losing themselves in the night.