Bishop's War (Bishop Series Book 1) Read online

  Dozens of people had just seen two men killed in broad daylight. They screamed and ran in panic.

  “He killed them! He killed them!” one hysterical woman shouted as she charged through the crowd.

  In the sea of human chaos John stayed cool. Holding firmly onto the firing button, he pulled open the dead terrorist’s jacket to make sure there were no trip wires or booby traps that would detonate the thick wads of plastic explosive strapped to the body.

  As an 18C SF weapons sergeant John was familiar with all types of ordinance. Tuning out the noise around him, he focused on disarming the device. The mechanism was a simple yet lethal design. You hold the four inch tubular device in the palm of your hand with your thumb depressing a button at one end. When the button is released the bomb goes off. This ensures that if the bomber is shot, or killed before detonating the device himself, it will automatically go off when his fingers relax. If John hadn’t grabbed the terrorist’s hand and held the trigger down in the same instant that he killed him they both would have been blown to bits along with hundreds of innocent people.

  The wires ran up the limp arm and into the back of the vest-like rig. He took his time examining each wire and then double checked before he cut the lead from the pack, making the button in the firing tube useless. He looked down at the long brick shaped strips of C4, or plastic explosive. Each “wad” had small ball bearings, marbles and nails imbedded in it, as did the vest itself. The bomb was designed to kill and maim. He estimated that everyone within thirty yards would have been dead or seriously injured.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  John stood up and looked around. Although some of the crowd had run far away from the grisly scene many remained close by. They stared at him and the lifeless bodies at his feet with morbid fascination. Both terrorists had blood pools expanding outwards around their heads and people were actually standing there taking pictures and phone videos. Ignoring them, he reached into the black nylon bag and removed the AK-47. After checking the clip, he turned the selector to semi-automatic and cocked the weapon.

  That got everyone moving. He felt, no he knew, that these two Afghans were not alone and people were stopping after fleeing only a short distance. They still weren’t far enough away to be out of danger so he said, “fuck it,” then fired four shots into the air. He watched with satisfaction as the crowd let out a collective scream and took off running for their lives.

  His yellow eyes were scanning the area for threats when he recognized the familiar echo of a nine millimeter pistol. In the fraction of a second it took his brain to process the situation, he recognized that his attacker was an excellent marksman. After the first two rounds hit the pavement at his feet, the shooter quickly adjusted fire sending the next shots whizzing by John’s head.

  In one fluid motion John crouched, turned to his left with the rifle pressed to his shoulder, got the sights on his target, and fired a quick three shot burst. The terrorist was mostly concealed behind a cab twenty yards away. John knew he couldn’t shoot through the engine block, so he aimed above it, sending rounds tearing through the top of the hood. He fired four more times and heard the grunt of a man who had just been hit and hurt.

  The terrorist stood up and John was about to finish him off when two things stopped him in his tracks. The first and craziest was that he knew this guy. He didn’t actually know who he was, yet there was no mistaking the face. It was the same long nosed asshole from jail who’d spit at him.

  “No way,” John said.

  The second thing was the police officer standing behind him, screaming at the top of lungs. “Okay Mohammed, drop the weapon! Police! Drop your weapon!”

  John watched the man who launched a loogie at him two days before and who shot at him just now run off holding his side as he slowly lowered the AK to the ground.

  “Officer, I’m Sergeant John Bishop, U.S. Special Forces,” he said, turning to face the officer who was screaming at him.

  “Stand still! Don’t fuckin’ move! Put your hands behind your head!”

  “Officer, these two dead guys were suicide bombers planning to blow up the market. I put them down.”

  Police officer Louis Johnson Jr. was shaking from the rage and adrenaline running through him. His father was a firefighter who died on 9/11 and he joined the force right after he buried his dad. Like most New Yorkers, and more importantly, anyone who’d taken a personal loss on that terrible Tuesday morning in September, he’d always dreamt of revenge. He now had what he thought was a live terrorist in his cross hairs.

  Louie heard what John was saying, but the words didn’t match up with what he was seeing. First of all, the guy claiming to be a Green Beret looked like an Arab and he’d just seen him shoot a machine gun in the center of Union Square Park. Louie wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Last time motherfucker. Put your hands behind your head and get on your knees!”

  When John slowly moved his arms up to comply, the Swiss Army knife he’d tucked in his shirt sleeve slipped out and hit the ground with a loud clack.

  With the bodies in front of him, the gunpowder in the air and the sudden sound, Louie reflexively pulled the trigger just as Felix kicked his gun hand skyward. The forty caliber round passed over John’s head by less than six inches. Louie quickly turned his gun towards his attacker. Felix swiveled in with perfect balance, punched up and in and cold cocked Louie with a terrible blow to the jaw. Catching him as he went down, Felix gently laid him on the cement.

  “My second knock out in two days!” he said. “Johnny, you okay!? I’m gone five minutes and you’re standing over dead bodies and a cop’s shooting at you. Dude, what the fuck?”

  John picked the AK back up. “Terrorist attack, Cat, and I don’t think it’s over. Grab the cop’s gun and let’s take cover until reinforcements arrive.”

  At that moment the blast wave from a huge explosion at the south end of the park hit them like a punch in the gut, sucking the air from their lungs and knocking them off their feet. The ground shook. Dust and debris rolled over them.

  John had been put on his ass by high explosives more times than he could count. He’d seen soldiers that were untouched by the blast get so disoriented by the aftershock that they walked right up to enemy positions with their hands held out in greeting and been blown away. Still on his back, he shook his head from side to side to help clear it before he sat up and looked down at Felix.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Just shaken up,” John said. “Take it slow. You’re going to be off balance for a few minutes.”

  “Holy shit,” Felix said. John helped him up and brushed off his cousin’s hair and clothes. They each had a few nicks and cuts, but otherwise they were unharmed.

  “Aw Christ! I hope they didn’t get any kids. There were a lot of kids here,” John said.

  They stood in silence for a moment watching the huge smoke cloud rising skywards. Small branches and leaves fell from the trees all around them.

  Sirens were wailing and people were running towards the scene. Then the awful screaming started. The primal sounds of shock and fear, of death and dying. Felix started to move towards the carnage when John put a hand on his arm.

  “We can’t help those people right now. Stay here.”

  “Stay here? Why?”

  “Because there’s an unexploded bomb at my feet and a bag full of evidence that these terrorists didn’t expect to be found. This attack may not be over and we can’t walk around with guns in our hands without getting blown away by cops arriving on the scene. Let’s grab the weapons, the bomb and the bag and take cover over there,” John said, pointing to the steps leading towards the now empty playground.

  “Whatever you say, primo. You’re the man when it comes to this shit”

  “Okay, I’ve got the explosives and the AK. You bring the bag.”

  As Felix reached down to pick it up John grabbed his hand and held it firmly. They looked at each other and John was shaking his head slowly back and for
th. “Just dawned on me that I never checked it for booby traps. Let me take a look first.”

  A shot rang out and hey both crouched and turned towards the sound.

  “Police! Freeze!” Six angry cops ran up and surrounded them. Each one glanced down at the unmoving officer Johnson and the two dead bodies. John and Felix knew that if they moved they were both dead. They slowly dropped their weapons and put their hands behind their heads.

  “This cocksucker had Louie’s gun in his hand,” said Officer Martin Sullivan, Louie’s partner.

  “On the ground! On the ground!” and they went down with hands locked behind their heads.

  Even lying face down Felix knew the kick was coming. He couldn’t protect himself in his prone position so he exhaled a second before the heavy shoe hit him in the right side just below his rib cage.

  “Hey! We’re the good guys here,” John said.

  “We’ll see about that” said another cop who had just made the “10-13” officer down call on the radio.

  More cops came running and the cousins were frisked, roughly handcuffed and dragged to their feet.

  Felix wasn’t saying a word, which John knew made him even more dangerous. He was staring intently at Officer Sullivan.

  “What are you looking at, asshole?”

  “Making sure I never forget you.”

  “Felix, cálmate (relax). We’ll deal with that shit later.”

  “Yes we will,” he responded. His yellow eyes bore into the cop that kicked him.

  A police captain and an FBI agent arrived on the scene and took control.

  “Captain, I’m Sergeant John Bishop, U.S. Special Forces. I put down these two suicide bombers. This is my cousin Felix.”

  “Yeah, we’ll check you and your story out downtown, but for now the cuffs stay on.”

  The Captain turned to look at Officer Johnson who was now sitting up, shaking his head from side to side and gently rubbing his jaw.

  “How did my man get hurt?” the Captain asked.

  John disregarded the question. “Captain, I just got back from Afghanistan. I’ve seen these types of coordinated attacks and I don’t think it’s over. Once responders arrive on the scene they usually set off a car or truck bomb. They use the suicide bombers as a smoke screen to go after the real targets. You and your men. You should check every vehicle in the area and any apartments or offices facing the park.”

  There was a long three seconds where no one said a word. Everyone looked at John differently now and although he was still cuffed the officer that had been firmly holding him by the arm involuntarily released his grip.

  While staring directly at John, Captain James Ryan got on his radio. “Command, we need ESU and the Bomb Squad up here now to check vehicles for explosives.”

  “They’re on scene Captain, holding at 14th and Broadway.”

  “Bring ‘em in. Start checking cars and trucks on Union Square west and expand from there, over.”

  “10-4 Captain,” came over the radio in response.

  “Next, I want officers to check every apartment, storefront, or office with a park facing view and all the surrounding rooftops. We may have more terrorists in the area. Take down doors and proceed with caution, over.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Hearing that there could be more terrorists in the area put everyone into overdrive. More cops continued to arrive on the scene, sprinting in every direction. They all wanted the same thing, a chance for some payback.

  “You should also get on the horn about the other terrorist,” John said.

  “The other terrorist?”

  “Yeah, and he’ll be hard to miss. Mid-forties, five-ten, dark hair, long broken nose, and a bullet in his left side just below the chest where I shot him. He ran west on 16th Street.”

  After putting Amir’s description out on the radio Captain Ryan turned back to face John. “Sergeant Bishop, we’re going to move you and your cousin out of this area to our command center south of the park. Procedure dictates we have to keep the cuffs on, but assuming your story is true we all owe you our thanks for what you’ve done here today,” he said, putting his hand gently on John’s shoulder. “And quite possibly an apology as well.”

  “Thanks Captain. It’s my cousin who needs the apology, but right now focus on making sure no one else gets hurt,” he said, turning to look at the cop who kicked Felix.

  Officer Sullivan put his head down and fumbled around with his belt buckle as John and Felix were walked to a squad car.

  While he was being escorted away John looked back at Ryan and added casually, “By the way, there’s a bomb at your feet.”

  Everyone froze.

  “I diffused it after I killed the guy over there wearing it. The nylon bag belonged to them too and it may be booby trapped so be careful with it. Also, the one still wearing the jacket could have a nasty surprise on him so you should let your bomb guys examine him too.”

  “Command, this is Ryan.”

  “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “Would you mind sending bomb squad members to my location? I have an unexploded device at my feet.”

  “Say again, sir?”

  Ryan stared intently at Bishop as he was led away.

  Chapter 11

  Meecham

  26 Federal Plaza, Downtown Manhattan

  New York FBI and Homeland Security Headquarters

  John and Felix were briefly held at the temporary command center south of Union Square before being taken downtown to 26 Federal Plaza. They had each been placed in separate interrogation rooms and John figured about five hours had gone by since the door closed. He sat on a hard metal chair that was bolted into the floor in a tiny room painted stark white.

  He knew they were busy. There was a lot going on and they’d get to him eventually. Still, he wanted to know how everything played out and more importantly he needed to call Maria. She knew he was going to Union Square for lunch and must be worried sick.

  The door swung inward and two bulky Homeland Security Agents in matching blue suits and dark ties entered the room.

  “Sergeant Bishop, will you come with us please.” The delivery was polite, but it wasn’t a question.

  John got up, fascinated by their identical outfits. On any other day would have asked them if they shopped together. Today was too serious.

  The twins escorted him to a large conference room that had a long oak table with fifteen black leather seats on each side, perfectly spaced and neatly lined up. There were twenty men standing in a tight group at the far end of the room. John knew a few of them and some of the others he’d seen on TV.

  General Marcus Palmer, the head of SOCOM (Special Operations Command) was in the center of the group. John knew him well, though he hadn’t seen Palmer for several years. The last time was when the general presented him with the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second highest military honor.

  Only average height, the general’s bearing and air of command made him appear much taller, and he was a man John both liked and respected for being tough yet fair. Palmer was also one of only a handful of senior officers that had come up through the ranks of Special Forces. He understood their tactics at every level and fought to get his troops everything they needed from training, to funding, and equipment. The general was both a legend and a hero to the men under him.

  Captain Ryan of the NYPD was there as well. His uniform was dusty, his face looked drawn and haggard, but his blue eyes were sharp and alert. The corners of his mouth rose slightly when he saw John come in and they each nodded a hello.

  A feisty little man in a sharp custom made gray suit quickly stepped into the room with a nervous assistant trailing behind him. The atmosphere immediately changed when he came in, and John could sense that everyone was suddenly tense and guarded. General Palmer shot John a look that said, watch out for this guy.

  “Well, Mr. Bishop, you’ve had quite a day. My name is Michael Meecham, Deputy Director of Homeland Security.” Me
echam’s words and his movements were exaggerated, almost theatrical, designed to inspire fear and intimidate those around him. It didn’t work on John. He stared into Meecham’s brown lifeless eyes for three long seconds, noting the pointy, almost rodent-like features in his face.

  Dismissing him without acknowledging the introduction, John turned his back on Meecham and came to attention. He crisply saluted General Palmer and the two light colonels at his side who were his aides. They returned the salute and the general simply said, “At ease Sergeant.”

  Meecham, not one to be ignored said, “He’s not in the army any more so there’s no need for all that. Bishop, we need you to tell us exactly what you saw. Every detail of what happened, what you did and why.”

  “General, where is my cousin, Felix Valdez?” John asked, still keeping his back to Meecham.

  “We’ll get to that later. First we need answers, Bishop,” snapped Meecham.

  Looking over his shoulder John addressed him for the first time. “You get Felix in here now weasel, or I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “What did you call me? You understand that if you don’t answer my questions to my satisfaction or impede this investigation in any way I’ll have you arrested and held without bond.”

  “Arrest me then, because until I see Felix I’ve got nothing to say. And once he gets here someone other than you better ask the questions or I’ll put you over my knee and give you a spanking. I’m in no mood to be barked at, or threatened.”

  Meecham’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck and his face flushed with rage. He was about to explode, but was cut off by another man wearing a smart dark blue suit with a bold red striped tie.

  “Mike! This is counterproductive, and we have a lot of work to do here.” He pressed a button on the phone bank on the table. “Agent Matthews, bring Mr. Valdez in here now.”

  “Sergeant Bishop, my name is Terry Hall. I’m Special Agent in Charge of the New York FBI office.” He walked over and extended his hand. He had a firm grip and looked John directly in the eye when they shook hands.