Chapter 1
In a perfect world, Ronald Temple wouldn’t be sitting in his Barcalounger in the living room of his retirement home in Levittown, New York, with the side window open and a blanket across his legs, wishing a rifle was in his lap, ready to kill the terrorists living next door.
Yeah, he thinks, lowering his Zeiss 7x50 binoculars. In a perfect world, the Twin Towers would still be standing, scores of his friends would still be alive, and he wouldn’t be slowly dying here in suburbia, lungs clogged with whatever crap he breathed in while working the pile for weeks after 9/11.
The light-blue house next door is normal, like the rest of the homes in his neighborhood, built in 1947 in an old potato field on Long Island. It was the beginning of the postwar rush to suburbia. Levittown is now a great place to go to school, raise families, or retire, like Ronald and his wife, Helen, are doing.
But their new neighbors?
Definitely not normal.
Ronald lifts up the binoculars again.
They had moved in just three days ago, when it was overcast, the dark-gray clouds threatening rain. A black GMC Yukon had pulled into the narrow driveway and a family had tumbled out, all dark-skinned, all in Western clothes they looked uncomfortable wearing. An adult male and an adult female—apparently the parents—and a boy and a girl. Ronald had been sitting in this same chair, his oxygen machine gently wheezing, tubes rubbing up against his raw nostrils, as he saw them hustle into the house.
And the woman and the young girl both had head coverings on.
It was a bit suspicious at first, so Ronald had watched the activities next door as much as possible, and he became more concerned with every passing minute and hour. No moving van had pulled in after that first day. Only a few suitcases and duffel bags had been brought into the house—quickly, from the Yukon. And the adults had not come over to introduce themselves to either him or his wife.
He moves the binoculars in a slow, scanning motion.
There.
He sees a large man walk past the kitchen window across the way.
That was the other thing that had gotten his attention three days ago.
Their driver.
Oh, yeah, their driver.
He had emerged first from the Yukon and Ronald could tell he was a professional: he wore a jacket to hide whatever hardware he was carrying, his eyes swept the yard and driveway, looking for threats, and he had kept his charges inside the Yukon while he had first gone into the house to check everything out.
Like the other four, he was dark-skinned. He was nearly bald. Although he wasn’t too muscular—not an NFL lineman on steroids—he was bulky enough, similar to those Emergency Service Unit guys Ronald had met during his time in the NYPD.
A bodyguard, then?
Or maybe the terrorist cell leader?
Ronald sweeps the house again, back and forth, back and forth. He keeps up on newspapers, television, and internet news and knows this is the new way of terrorism and violence. People nowadays move into a quiet neighborhood, blend in, and then go out and strike.
The kids?
Camouflage.
The husband and wife?
Like that couple that had shot up that holiday party in San Bernardino, California, last year.
They blended in.
And the bulky guy…maybe he was their trainer, or maybe their leader?
He was probably ready to prime them to go out and kill.
Ronald lowers his binoculars, adjusts the oxygen hose around his head again. It was just too damn strange, too damn out of the ordinary. No moving vans, no friends stopping by; neither the husband nor the wife—if they were really married, who knew—left to go to work in the morning. No deliveries, no lawn mowing, nothing.
They are definitely hiding out.
Ronald wishes once more for the comfortable weight of an AR15 across his lap. To take down a cell like this one requires firepower, and lots of it. With a 20-round magazine and open iron sights—he sure as hell didn’t need a telescopic sight at this range—he could take care of the three adults with no problem. If, for example, he saw them walking out to the Yukon, wearing coats, trying to hide weapons or a suicide bomber’s belt, he could knock them all down with an AR15 before they even got into their SUV.
A series of cramps run up his thin legs, making him grimace with pain. And the kids? Leave ’em be…unless they picked up a weapon and decided to come over here and get revenge. Lots of kids that age were doing the same thing overseas, tossing grenades, grabbing AK-47s, setting up IEDs.
He picks up the binoculars once more.
In his twenty-one years on the New York police force, Ronald drew his service weapon only three times—twice at traffic stops and once while checking out a bodega robbery—but he knows that if he had to, he’d do what it took to get the job done, even today, as crippled as he is.
He removes one hand from the binoculars, checks the lumpy shape under his blanket, resting on his lap. It’s his backup weapon from when he was on the job, a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special.
Ronald nods with satisfaction. He’d had a chance once to be a hero on 9/11, and he blew it.
He’s not going to let another chance slip by.
Chapter 2
Lance Sanderson walks into the kitchen of the rental home to get another cup of coffee. His wife, Teresa, is working at her laptop set on the round wooden dining table, and he gives her neck a quick rub as he goes by. Teresa has a nest of notebooks and papers and other reference books nearby as she types slowly and deliberately.
After pouring himself a cup, Lance asks, “Get you a refill?”
“Not right now, hon,” she says. “Maybe later.”
He stands at her side, takes a sip. Due to the last few weeks out in the harsh North African sun, his wife’s skin has darkened, making her look even more radiant than usual. The sun had streaked her light brown hair, wavy and shoulder length, and had bronzed her legs and arms. Even after two kids, she’s kept her body in good shape, with long legs and a cute round bottom. He remembers with pleasure the first time they made love, when both were in grad school. She had whispered, “My boobs aren’t much, but they’re designed for babies. The rest of me is yours…and wants a real man.”
Lance rubs her neck again and she sighs softly, like a satisfied cat. “What’s new?” he asks.
She doesn’t look up from her keyboard as she continues wr. . .
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