The icing on Dent’s unjust desserts was a witness who suddenly came forward.
A woman who was in her midfifties and was a bank executive claimed she witnessed the altercation and took off when she saw guns. She said the deceased initiated the altercation. The jury came back in an hour with a not guilty verdict.
In the courtroom, as Dent hugged him, he whispered, “Counselor, if you ever need to dispose of your wife or some ass wipe at your country club, call me. I hope you liked my star witness. Money talks.” Then he smiled at the jury and bowed with clasped, appreciative hands.
Goldfarb answered the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Dent announced. “It’s done. We’re even. If you need me again, it’ll cost you,” he said with a light chuckle.
“Jafri’s dead? You’re sure?”
“Jafri is my twentieth hit. That’s almost as many hits as The Beatles had.”
“Probably,” said Goldfarb who was now anxious to terminate the call.
“As long as I’m ahead of Michael Jackson,” Dent joked.
*****
Ahmad Nasif decided it was time to ratchet things up. He’d come to America to inflict damage upon the infidel whore. Three long years in hell he waited. His cell’s supposed mantra was that September 11 should be an Islamic holiday, but the leader of the cell kept planning and preaching. They could not act until orders had come from the head of the cell syndicate.
Nasif had enough. He wanted action. Muslims were being targeted, and still they sat on the sidelines. They had an anonymous contact, an apparent Muslim police officer. The man claimed there was an honest cop named Dom Presto who’d been silenced. Presto claimed there was an alliance between fundamentalist Christians and conservative Jews that orchestrated the recent killings. They wanted a holy war. The enemy was Islam.
Nasif went to his closet with a hammer in his hand. After clearing some hung clothes, he went to the left side. The closet was lined with wood panels, one of which had nails that protruded slightly.
After working the board free, he pulled out a crude vest that was often referred to as a suicide belt. This one was packed with C-4 explosives and steel ball bearings.
A half hour later, Nasif was on the streets dressed in an oversized trench coat that covered the deadly fifteen-pound vest. His destination was the Fifth Avenue Synagogue. This orthodox synagogue was where Goldfarb worshiped. Nasif had no love for Abu Jafri, the man Goldfarb had contracted to kill. He knew Goldfarb was in custody. He saw it on TV, and Goldfarb’s attorney used Pretso’s name. Nasif knew better. But if Goldfarb was part of the murderous alliance, then others at the synagogue must be also. Plus, they were all Jews anyway.
As he got near, he thought of his brother, killed by an American bomb that supposedly went off-target and struck their home on the outskirts of Baghdad. Then he thought of heaven. He was a martyr.
He was ready to kill. He was ready to die.
Allah Akbar.
*****
Assi Rick followed a trench coat–wearing man approaching the synagogue. His hand went to his mouth, and he softly spoke into it. Years on the Gaza border taught him well. His instincts sabotaged several suicide bombers’ attempts to slip into Israel.
Today, and now every day since the recent spike in religious hate crimes, four men rotated as undercover security for the synagogue. Previously there had been two, but with the recent outbreak of hostilities, the synagogue decided on extra staffing.
Rick watched his partner step out from a parked cab. Rick quickened his pace and was now only twenty yards behind the walking man.
The man tried to brush by his partner. Then, suddenly, the man swung an elbow back to the security man’s head, and his partner crashed to the sidewalk.
Rick watched the man in the trench coat run straight for the synagogue. He pulled his gun, aimed, and fired. He hit the man, as planned, in the legs, and the man went down screaming.
The suspect
A woman who was in her midfifties and was a bank executive claimed she witnessed the altercation and took off when she saw guns. She said the deceased initiated the altercation. The jury came back in an hour with a not guilty verdict.
In the courtroom, as Dent hugged him, he whispered, “Counselor, if you ever need to dispose of your wife or some ass wipe at your country club, call me. I hope you liked my star witness. Money talks.” Then he smiled at the jury and bowed with clasped, appreciative hands.
Goldfarb answered the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Dent announced. “It’s done. We’re even. If you need me again, it’ll cost you,” he said with a light chuckle.
“Jafri’s dead? You’re sure?”
“Jafri is my twentieth hit. That’s almost as many hits as The Beatles had.”
“Probably,” said Goldfarb who was now anxious to terminate the call.
“As long as I’m ahead of Michael Jackson,” Dent joked.
*****
Ahmad Nasif decided it was time to ratchet things up. He’d come to America to inflict damage upon the infidel whore. Three long years in hell he waited. His cell’s supposed mantra was that September 11 should be an Islamic holiday, but the leader of the cell kept planning and preaching. They could not act until orders had come from the head of the cell syndicate.
Nasif had enough. He wanted action. Muslims were being targeted, and still they sat on the sidelines. They had an anonymous contact, an apparent Muslim police officer. The man claimed there was an honest cop named Dom Presto who’d been silenced. Presto claimed there was an alliance between fundamentalist Christians and conservative Jews that orchestrated the recent killings. They wanted a holy war. The enemy was Islam.
Nasif went to his closet with a hammer in his hand. After clearing some hung clothes, he went to the left side. The closet was lined with wood panels, one of which had nails that protruded slightly.
After working the board free, he pulled out a crude vest that was often referred to as a suicide belt. This one was packed with C-4 explosives and steel ball bearings.
A half hour later, Nasif was on the streets dressed in an oversized trench coat that covered the deadly fifteen-pound vest. His destination was the Fifth Avenue Synagogue. This orthodox synagogue was where Goldfarb worshiped. Nasif had no love for Abu Jafri, the man Goldfarb had contracted to kill. He knew Goldfarb was in custody. He saw it on TV, and Goldfarb’s attorney used Pretso’s name. Nasif knew better. But if Goldfarb was part of the murderous alliance, then others at the synagogue must be also. Plus, they were all Jews anyway.
As he got near, he thought of his brother, killed by an American bomb that supposedly went off-target and struck their home on the outskirts of Baghdad. Then he thought of heaven. He was a martyr.
He was ready to kill. He was ready to die.
Allah Akbar.
*****
Assi Rick followed a trench coat–wearing man approaching the synagogue. His hand went to his mouth, and he softly spoke into it. Years on the Gaza border taught him well. His instincts sabotaged several suicide bombers’ attempts to slip into Israel.
Today, and now every day since the recent spike in religious hate crimes, four men rotated as undercover security for the synagogue. Previously there had been two, but with the recent outbreak of hostilities, the synagogue decided on extra staffing.
Rick watched his partner step out from a parked cab. Rick quickened his pace and was now only twenty yards behind the walking man.
The man tried to brush by his partner. Then, suddenly, the man swung an elbow back to the security man’s head, and his partner crashed to the sidewalk.
Rick watched the man in the trench coat run straight for the synagogue. He pulled his gun, aimed, and fired. He hit the man, as planned, in the legs, and the man went down screaming.
The suspect
Similar Books
