The Big Short

*****

We didn't know what our next steps would be. So, we waited at the hotel until Chelsea called. That call came just before sunrise the next day. She said with some urgency in her voice, "Your target just cleared U.S. Customs at Dulles. I have a tracking app that is following him using the camera system in the airport. But, I'm going to lose him once he gets off the airport unless he rents the right car."

I said humbly, "I appreciate this no end Chelsea."

She added darkly, "You won't appreciate this. According to banking records, your one-and-a-half million dollars was paid out of an offshore account that is well-known to the intel community as a source of funds for terrorism. It would put a target on your back if anybody discovered that."

Seriously??!! I said, "That sounds like a set-up!!"

Chelsea chuckled and said sarcastically, "No shit Sherlock." She added, "You aren't on anybody's radar right now. So, the Feds would have probably taken a while to find it. But, if anybody had alerted them you would have gotten an up-close-and-personal experience with a CIA head-bag."

I said appreciatively, "Do you know who supplied the funds?

Chelsea said, "It took a little digging. But, the owner of that account is the guy who hired you, Peter-Paul Pritman." Suddenly Trey Pritman became a person of great interest. Maybe he wasn't as much of a willing cuck as he seemed.

Chelsea chortled good-naturedly, "I re-sourced the money to one of his brokerage accounts instead of the one that would have gotten you a one-way trip to ADX Florence. So, you're in the clear now."

That was bad enough. But the thing that she dropped on me next was a bombshell. She said, "While I was picking through Trey's brokerage funds I checked his other financials and he's also just gone short across the board."

I said, "Short? In what sector?"

Chelsea said, "He's all-in. He shorted his entire portfolio, over one-point-two billion and it's set to close on Friday!!"

The dreadful reality fell on me like a cartoon safe. Suddenly, I knew why Trey had given me so much money. They needed a sucker and that sucker would be me. Why me? Who knows? But, Trey was obviously intent on hanging a treason collar around my neck.

*****

Adeel enjoyed the BA flight from Gatwick to Dulles. It was almost as much fun as flirting with the blond attendant with the big tits. They toyed with each other for the entire eight-hour flight. Adeel knew he could have her, even though she was wearing a ring. But, Adeel couldn't take his mind off the stunning redhead.

He knew that the woman was dangerous and the gorilla who she was working with was a force of nature. But Adeel always got what he wanted, and he wanted Kelly McMahan. He thought about those luscious long legs as he retrieved his bags. He envisaged them wrapped around his waist as her womanly hips bucked to meet his powerful thrusts.

As he got on the Hertz shuttle, he visualized those big meaty tits bouncing, and her shrieks as she rode him to one thrilling climax after another. He imagined her wide sensual mouth open as she screamed her ecstasy to the world. He hoped she resisted. He particularly enjoyed breaking a struggling woman.

He handed the American Express Black to the guy behind the Hertz counter. The Caliph had given it to him to cover expenses. That card got him an Escalade. The people at Hertz know that anybody renting one of those garish vehicles feels a little penis deprived. So, they made him pay for it. But the Escalade DID have more electronic gizmos than the space shuttle.

As Adeel eased onto the beltway, headed for Baltimore, he savored the idea that the Caliph knew who the red-haired woman was, and they would meet again. That is, after he had killed the ape she was with.

*****

Kelly and I retraced our steps from Santorini back to DC, EasyJet to Gatwick and then Delta back to DCA. It was a relatively painless trip, even though we had to fly through six time zones and change planes once.

We DID manage to get some sleep in the first-class pods on the new Dreamliner. We normally rode in the back with the cattle. But I was resolved to travel in comfort. Our million-and-a-half was clear of any inconvenient associations now.

We needed a trail to follow. So, I called Chelsea as soon as we cleared Customs. She answered like she had been waiting for our call. Chelsea said, "We got lucky. He rented a Hertz car. It's not in their advertising but they put GPS trackers in their vehicles to keep an eye on their customers."

She added scornfully, "If they're going to pull that shit they ought to pay more attention to their firewall configurations. I'm texting you the address. He's been parked there for most of the day."

*****

Terror comes in many forms. Still, guns are difficult to conceal, and high explosives are hard to obtain. Weaponizing things like airplanes has been done and countered. The random terrorist can always run a car, or truck into a crowd. But, killing a few pedestrians doesn't really have the impact that a true terror event requires.

That is the reason why the terror community has branched out with innovative solutions involving common items such as the pressure cooker bombs used in Boston. The mubtakkar was one of those.

All that was required to turn terror into a reality were the plans and a prototype. Those were in the bag Adeel was carrying. The mujahidin were assembled when Adeel entered the warehouse. Each of them was dedicated to jihad. But none of them expected to die for Allah, at least not today.

The mubtakkar is made from two Mason jars. Sodium cyanide is packed in one of them and hydrochloric acid is poured in the other. Sodium cyanide is used in a lot of industrial applications so there were no red flags when a large amount of it was bought over the internet. The HCL was acquired from the chemistry lab at a local community college.

The jars are duct taped together with a small explosive charge. The explosive is placed between the jars and remotely detonated. The tiny explosion breaks the jars and allows the contents to mix. That generates Zyklon-B, which is what the Germans used at Auschwitz.

Eight mubtakkars would be placed in innocuous bags with a swoosh on the side. Then each mujahidin would drop their bag under the seat of a crowded subway, or train car. The restricted space would do the rest. There was nothing the authorities could do. That's because it's impossible to spot and intercept one determined terrorist amongst all of the people who utilize mass transit in big cities.

The mujahidin himself wouldn't be harmed. He would detonate the device with a cell phone - the moment he stepped off the train. All his fellow passengers would hear would be a ringing cell phone, a muffled pop and then the moving car would fill with deadly hydrocyanic fumes.

The Acela would be hit in the stretch between Philadelphia and Trenton. The Metro would be hit at the Union Station, Capitol South and Foggy Bottom stops. All were the best places to attack American leadership, or at least the underlings who do the actual work.

The New York Subway would be hit at the 42nd Street Bus Terminal, the Wall Street and Grand Central stops. Finally, to add a little symmetry to the masterpiece the last mubtakkar would be dropped at the World Trade Center stop.

In one fell swoop, two of the deadliest sins would be committed; wrath and greed. The terrorists would have their next nine-eleven and the resulting chaos would tank the stock market in exactly the same way it did that fateful day.

A projected loss of 14% across the board in stock value, which is what happened the last time terror won, would turn whoever was holding a short position into the richest man in the world. That is, if he had known in advance to put all his chips on one particular number.

*****

I called Chuck as soon as we got out of the terminal at IAD. I wanted to touch base, mainly to see what had happened since we last talked. The first words out of his mouth were accusatory. He said angrily, "Where did you get a million and a half dollars?"

Thanks to Chelsea, I knew why he was asking me that. I said mildly, "I got it from Peter-Paul Pritman. He paid me a ridiculous sum of money to track down his errant wife. I don't know why he did it. But I'm glad he did."

Chuck made an "un-huh" noise like I had confirmed something he already knew.

I added, "Anyhow, we found her. But, she had been murdered. So, we are going back to Chicago to check in with him. How did you know how much money he gave us?"

Chuck said, "A guy at the top in ODNI tipped us to check your bank balance. So, we did."

Right!! Now I knew for sure that I was being set up. They needed a fall-guy after whatever they were planning went-down. I still didn't know WHO was involved. But, I was beginning to get a picture of the five billion reasons why.

Chuck was still talking. He said, "But the source of the money is legit. It's from Pritman's revolving account at his brokerage." Then he added semi-apologetically, "The way it was reported it sounded like you might an associate of the guy we picked up."

Seriously??!! This was getting bizarre. I said conversationally, "What did you do with him."

Chuck said laconically, "He fell out of the aircraft. The whole incident is classified."

So, the dude was inconvenient to somebody. That set off more warning bells. I said, "Who was it that picked him up?

Chuck said, "You know I can't tell you that. It's a unit that operates directly under ODNI."

Very interesting... So, somebody in the Director of National Intelligence's shop was in on this too.

I called Chelsea. I told her everything I knew and said, "You can pay off whatever debt you think you owe me if you can tell me what the fuck is going on here."

She was in her Red Dragon persona. She said with steel in her voice, "I'm going to find out very quickly and you'll be the first to know."

It was obvious that Trey Pritman was involved. Whether he was just the lackey in some evil scheme to get-rich-quick or the overmind behind it remained to be seen. I was planning on turning him inside-out to get the answer. But that could wait.

It was obvious that something really significant was about to go down and Adeel Al-Asad was the critical piece. So, we decided to drive up to Baltimore to pay him a visit. I was going to ask him nice - at first. Then I was going to become more "persuasive." This fellow had sicced five of his goons on the love of my life. I was in no mood to be gentle.

It was a beautiful late spring day in DC, the cherry trees were in full bloom, the air was soft and the breezes light. There was no hint of imminent life-changing events. But, that was exactly the same weather we had on the eleventh day of September 2001.

*****

The warehouse was in the district by the Ravens stadium. It was chosen for its very innocuousness, small and nondescript. It gave the mujahedeen a place to stay once they had assembled their mubtakkars. The rack of bunks and halal provisions were sufficient for a warrior of Islam. The blacked-out windows gave them privacy.

There was no reason to fear the authorities. All of the mujahedeen were American citizens, culled from the ranks of believers. They came from various mosques around the country. Most of them had had American names before they saw the light of Allah. They were a range of races sizes and colors. But they were all men.

They would scatter to their assignments early the next day. But in the meantime, Adeel had other plans. He scanned across the warehouse space as each mujahedeen completed and packed the device in its innocent looking container. He said, "Pray and sleep well my brothers. For tomorrow we will strike a blow at the heart of Crusader America."

Then he turned and walked out the access door, which was embedded in the big sliding panels of the warehouse. His Escalade was parked at the curb. He got in and did a quick U-turn, intending to go to his luxury rental. Adeel was above the mundane world of the mujahedeen.

As he made the turn, he caught a flash of red in a car parked down the street. He smiled in anticipation. In fact, he had expected it. It was the copper hair of the Crusader bitch.

It was just a short jaunt down to his place across from the Inner Harbor. His rental faced out on the harbor side. But, he made a point of parking on the Key Drive side, near the grove of trees in the back.

He went inside and got the gun. It was his favorite, a Beretta Pico .380. Night had fallen as he crept back out. They were sitting next to his Escalade, in a rental Chevy Malibu. It was dark among the trees that overlooked the parking lot. That was how he had planned it.

The ape was talking to somebody on the phone. Adeel worked his way silently around to the driver's-side door. He knew that success was going to rely on quick and decisive action. Luckily the driver's window was rolled down.

The Crusader woman was looking out the window to her right, in the direction that Adeel had originally gone. She didn't see him coming. Without aiming, he hastily put the gun to the back of her simian friend's head and pulled the trigger.

There was a satisfying bang, blood splattered on the dash and the big guy lay unmoving, face down in the steering wheel.

The redheaded bitch whipped her head around, horror in her eyes. Adeel gestured with the gun. She looked almost catatonic as she warily opened her door and got out of the vehicle. For Adeel, the odor of gunpowder and blood coalesced with the harbor smells to fashion a lovely scent of murder and rape.

*****

Thank God for my spidey-sense!! I bobbed my head forward the instant I felt the metallic pressure. The move didn't stop the bullet from creasing the back of my skull and the muzzle blast from knocking me out. But I have a very strong neck and the nod kept my brains from being spattered on the windshield

I had a splitting headache when I came-to. But, I didn't sense my imminent demise. I had only been gone for a few minutes and there was blood everywhere. I had the inappropriate thought, "There goes my damage deposit!"

I wasn't thinking clearly. But I could guess what had happened. I was in the process of calling Chuck to tell him what we'd discovered, and the distraction of doing that let the mother-fucker creep up from behind. I shook my head to clear it and more blood splattered on the windshield.

I reached up and felt the crease. It was a deep gouge ascending at a forty-five-degree angle from the back of my head to a space above my right ear. It had been close, and I probably needed medical attention. But, I had a varmint to skin before that and I was royally pissed.

Our bags were in the trunk. I gingerly took out a t-shirt and wrapped it around my head. It would do as a makeshift bandage. I had no idea where my prey was. But my guess was that he lived in one of the apartments we were parked next to.

I was walking around the building when I heard a piercing scream. I thought, "My wife still has faith in me." As far as she knew she had seen my head blown off. But she was broadcasting a distress signal nonetheless.

The scream had come from the apartment just to my left. Each apartment had one of those expensive sliding screen door arrangements and the piece of shit had forgotten to close the glass.

I turned and stole silently over to reconnoiter. The douchebag still had a gun and I didn't want to get shot twice in one night. I didn't need to bother to be quiet. The room that held window-wall was completely empty and dark. Of course, the slider was locked.

I pulled a little pocket knife from a sheath strapped to my right calf. Pocket knife might be a misnomer since it's a Gerber Ghoststrike. It's seven inches of black ceramic-coated 420 HC steel that holds an edge that cuts through anything. The lock was no challenge.

I could hear scuffling and a noise from the single bedroom at the end of the hall. Even though we had assumed that this was just surveillance. I keep my Asp Talon fighting baton with me at all times. it's eight compact inches. But it deals out serious hurt.

I took it out of my windbreaker pocket and with a flick of the wrist deployed it to its full two feet. Then I silently made my way up the dark hall.

I saw that stealth wasn't required. Kelly was lying spread eagled on the bed with her arms and legs in restraints. She was naked, with her magnificent tits sitting on top of her ribcage like a couple of proud mountains.

Kelly had just said, with a voice dripping venom, "If you touch me with that you had better kill me. Because I'll never rest until you are dead."

The greaseball was as naked as she was. He had a lean and well-muscled body that told me that he wasn't a guy to mess with. He clearly liked Kelly because his impressive hardon was at full mast.

He chuckled condescendingly and said, "Relax and enjoy this my little whore. You will be my own personal slut after this night is over." The he added with glee, "And it will be a long one, filled with infinite pleasure."

With that, he jammed the head of a big wand vibrator into Kelly's folds, right above her clitoris. She made an, "Uggghhhh!!" sound and her hips elevated slightly. But she was fighting the overwhelming stimulation.

That was the point in the narrative when the lights went out for our mutual acquaintance. The first Asp strike was across the back of both knees. That was designed to put him on the floor. He shrieked and collapsed. But, he wasn't unconscious.

I took care of that with the butt end of the baton. I didn't use the Asp itself. I didn't want to kill him - right away. The accelerator knob left an indentation in his skull. It was reciprocal. He'd creased me, so now it was my turn to dent him.

Kelly made a sound between a sob and a gasp and said, "Thank God!! I thought he'd killed you." Then she saw my head, wrapped in a t-shirt and dripping blood. She said, panic in her voice, "Get me out of these."

I said, "Stop struggling." They were simple leather cuffs with heavy Velcro strips. But Kelly was writhing impatiently, trying to get at me, and it was nigh unto impossible to get the Velcro pried part with her trying to sit up.

I tore off her right wrist cuff and stripped off the ones around her ankles. Meanwhile, she had disposed of the one holding her left arm. Shot in the head and standing in a terrorist's bedroom I still took an appreciative gander at my wife's luscious naked body. I admit it. I'm a hound.

Kelly launched herself off the bed and into my arms. She's a hard-case. She doesn't cry. But she was sobbing uncontrollably. I held her while she wept. She was clutching my neck, with her magnificent naked body plastered to me

She said, "I thought you were dead. I would have fought him harder before he restrained me. But I couldn't find any equilibrium. Your loss drained me. I was just devastated."

At that point, her former captor groaned. We both looked at each other. Kelly sprang off me and began frantically tugging on the guy, pulling him up onto the bed. I could see what she was planning. So, I lifted him the rest of the way.

Meanwhile Kelly was strapping on the restraints. We didn't have to strip him. He'd already done that himself and his cock was still impressively half-mast even though he was mostly unconscious.

I got a big glass of water from the bathroom while Kelly dressed. I dumped the cold water on his face. Instead of sputtering and struggling, the dude opened his eyes calmly like a waking cat.

I said grimly, "Welcome back asshole, we have a few questions to ask."

He looked at both of us with utter hatred and said, "You may execute me if you like. But, the Prophet has promised 72 virgins to martyrs for Islam."