Tripoli's Target: A Justin Hall Spy Thriller: Justin Hall Spy Thriller Series, #2

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The Story

How can they stop an assassination if they’re protecting the wrong man?

Justin Hall and Carrie O'Connor are Canadian Intelligence Service elite operatives in North Africa hot on the trail of an assassination plot. The intelligence comes from a questionable source, swearing the target is the US president.

Suspicions point to a powerful terrorist group bankrolled by an untouchable Saudi prince. What's worse, Justin and Carrie discover something is crucially wrong and need an ingenious solution. Can they stop the Saudi prince, dismantle the plot, and save the life of Tripoli's target?

​TRIPOLI’S TARGET

BOOK TWO IN THE JUSTIN HALL SERIES

ETHAN JONES

​Praise for Tripoli’s Target

Tripoli's Target is a great read...

-- Larry Bond, New York Times author.

There's a lot to like in Tripoli's Target. It starts with a bang with action in Tripoli . . . The descriptions of the locale are good and give a nice feel to the action.

-- Andrew Kaplan, author.

Taut, exciting and bang on the genre . . . very well done indeed.

-- Thomas Mogford, author.

​Table of Contents

Front Page

Title Page

Praise for Tripoli's Target

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Epilogue

Bonus Short Story Disappearance

Bonus Content from Iranian Protocol - Book 3

Praise for Iranian Protocol

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Acknowledgements

Copyright

"An army of sheep led by a lion would defeat

an army of lions led by a sheep."

It is better to die in revenge than to live on in shame.

Arab proverbs

Prologue

Tripoli, Libya

Satam, the driver of the suicide truck bomb, turned onto Ar Rashid Street, merging with the heavy traffic of the warm evening. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his short khaki pants, his gaze glued to the silver BMW SUV in front of him. He heaved a wheezing sigh and tapped on the brake pedal. A red traffic light halted the five-vehicle convoy.

A stream of cars rushed through the intersection leading to the business district of downtown Tripoli. Tall skyscrapers rose over most of the city’s old colonial-style buildings. The green and gold banner of Jacobs Properties—one of the major British real estate developers in Libya—beamed from atop the glass-and-steel façade of the newly finished Continental Hotel. The same logo had been painted hastily on the left side of the BMW packed with Semtex explosives. Walid, its driver and a Jacobs subcontractor, had exchanged his blue coveralls for a business suit and the promise of martyrdom.

A glance at the dashboard clock told Satam the synchronized explosion would take place in ten minutes. The thought of the coming carnage drained the last drop of courage from his heart. He rolled down the window, but the humid air—blended with the aroma of fried falafel, onions, and lamb donairs from a nearby street vendor—made him nauseated. He gasped for air, sticking his head out of the window. He coughed and struggled to catch his breath. Drivers from other vehicles shot him curious glares. Behind the truck, the driver of an old Mercedes sedan honked his horn twice. Satam swallowed hard and wiped the sweat off his narrow forehead. He waved at his audience to show them he was doing all right.

Satam, what’s the matter, brother? The radio set on the dashboard crackled. He recognized Walid’s gruff voice.

Satam looked at the BMW. His watery eyes couldn’t see the driver’s face, but Satam imaged Walid’s usual wicked grin stretching his lips, revealing his large buckteeth. Walid waved his hands wildly.

Nothing’s wrong. Just needed some air, Satam replied over the radio.

He rolled up the window before Walid could scold him with another howl.

Great. Now that you’ve closed the window, open your eyes. Walid barked. You’re not a coward like the infidels, are you?

Satam shook his head.

A third voice came on air before he could say anything. Cousin, I pledged my honor so you could be a part of this mission. Don’t you back down now. Satam’s cousin said. He was driving the Toyota sedan at the head of the convoy.

Satam sighed and paused for a couple of moments. I’m not backing down. You can trust me. I will not disappoint you or the brotherhood.

That’s my flesh and blood who is soon to be a martyr, said the cousin in a relaxed tone. Our families will be proud of us, and our reward will be glorious.

It’s easy for you to say, since tonight you’ll be welcomed to paradise, Satam said.

The traffic light changed, and he stepped cautiously on the gas pedal. The truck jerked forward a few inches before the ride turned smooth again.

Won’t take long before you join us there, Walid said.

Yes, but not before being dragged through the secret police cells… Satam’s voice trailed off.

Allah will give you strength, cousin, and soon he’ll take you home.

He will, brother, he will. Walid revved the BMW’s twelve-cylinder engine. For sure, I’m going to miss this ride.

There will be plenty of rides up there to keep you and everyone else busy, the cousin said with a quiet laugh. Now may Allah be with us all. I’m out.

Walid nodded and turned left toward the Continental Hotel.

Satam’s destination, the Gold Market, was to the right. He steered in that direction. He zigzagged through crooked streets and slowed down when he reached the Old City. The blacktop disappeared, and the uneven gravel crackled under the tires. Old cars, horse carts, and pedestrians came into view, along with whitewashed stores selling gold and jewelry. The streets narrowed into barely a single lane.

Satam rolled down the window for sideways glances to avoid brushing against planters, chairs, and vendors selling all kinds of junk. A stomach-churning stench from days old fish, fried grease, and sweat overwhelmed him. Satam felt his head grow heavy and hit the brakes.

Street vendors wasted no time peddling their wares. A crowd of young boys swarmed his truck. He yelled and shoved away a few of the bravest salesmen waving handfuls of souvenirs in his face. He kept pushing them away, when suddenly a pointed metal object touched his forearm. Startled, Satam withdrew his arm inside the cabin. He glanced at one of the boys holding a string of scimitar replicas, the sword tribesmen in North Africa carried in ancient times. The curved blade was dull and had a rounded point to prevent accidental stabs. Still, the swift jab at his forearm summoned awful visions of the future.

He saw himself hanging upside down in a dark, grim dungeon, tied to the ceiling beams, while three secret police agents interrogated him. They would use various methods to jog his memory and break his psyche. Sleep deprivation and intimidation by police dogs were just the welcome package. Other techniques included breaking fingers, simulated suffocation with plastic wraps, and water boarding. I will tell them everything right away before they even touch me. He struggled to wipe the vivid images from his mind.

Satam slammed on the truck’s horn to clear a path through the crowd. The blaring horn startled him more than the boys and the occasional onlookers. He glanced at the dashboard, realizing he had less than two minutes to reach the busy marketplace square five blocks away. It will be impossible to make it on time.

He blasted the horn again and stepped on the gas. The truck moved slowly, and Satam wrestled to make a left turn. The alley grew wider. The truck sped up, its wheels dipping and climbing in and out of potholes. He rushed straight ahead, inches away from oncoming taxis, their honks protesting his unsafe speed. A few sidewalk vendors dove out of the way, their overflowing baskets of bananas and grapes spilling all over the place. Tires screeched as he turned right, jumping the curb, and narrowly missing a large bronze planter outside a soap store.

The Mediterranean Sea was now visible to his right, through palm trees, coffee shops, and fruit vendor stands. Satam stared ahead at the square, one of the busiest markets in the Old City. The market rumbled with vendors squabbling over a few dinars with tight-fisted tourists. I made it. Yes, I made it. He turned his gaze to the left, toward Tripoli’s skyline, and slowed down before parking the truck in front of a small restaurant. He took a deep breath and dabbed at his forehead with the back of his hand, wiping off a sea of sweat.

The dashboard radio crackled and he picked up the receiver. "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" A loud voice echoed over the radio. God is the greatest.

Satam recognized Walid’s shouts.

A second later, a loud explosion rocked the entire square. Satam’s gaze spun toward the business district, where a cloud of grayish smoke billowed around the Continental Hotel. Chaos erupted among street vendors who scattered and forgot about their produce and the evening’s clients. Patrons of coffee shops rushed to the streets, staring in disbelief at the sight. Cries of hysteria overtook the growing crowd. Elderly women beat their heads and chests with clenched fists. Young men pointed and shouted, their bodies restless. The sharp siren of an ambulance sliced through the cacophony of terror.

With a quick movement of his wrist, Satam consulted his watch. Just as the digits registered 18:31, another explosion shocked the crowd. This time, the bomb hit closer, much closer, just three blocks away. From inside his parked truck, Satam looked at the bright yellow glow of the blast. High flames leapt at a ten-story office building. A thick cloud of black smoke began to swallow up the tower. The crowd broke into smaller groups. People scurried in all directions. Some ran back to their shops and apartments. Others simply circled the area, perhaps unsure of the safe way out.

Satam’s time had come.

He revved the engine and stomped on the gas pedal. The truck arrowed toward the vendors’ tables. The market was mostly empty, and the truck crashed into crates of fish, baskets of grapes, and barrels of olive oil. Produce scattered everywhere as the truck rampaged through plastic tables and chairs.

A police truck zipped toward him. Satam steered around, not to escape, but to meet the approaching vehicle. The two policemen in the truck ignored Satam. They were going to drive past him, but he swerved hard. The right corner of the hood smashed into the police truck, which jerked to the other side. The driver pulled over and stopped less than ten meters away. The other policeman rolled down the window.

Satam stared at the muzzle of an AK rifle.

Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot, he shouted and opened his door.

A quick burst of bullets sent him ducking for cover in the front seat. A shower of glass shreds fell over his head.

They’re going to kill me before I even have a chance to open my mouth. Or one of the bullets will blow up the truck. I can’t let that happen.

He looked at the back of the truck. Thirty pounds of Semtex explosives wired into a homemade bomb were stored inside the seat compartments. The cellphone was on the floor mat by his left hand. He reached for the phone. All it would take to set off the explosives—and pulverize himself and the policemen—was to tap three preset numbers. His fingers hovered over the phone, but he remembered his family’s honor and the reward waiting for him in paradise. He dropped the phone to the floor, buried his head in the seat, and locked his fingers behind his head.

A minute or so passed before the shooting stopped, but the screaming continued. He heard the distinct thuds of combat boots marching up the street. The police were approaching his truck. He looked up slowly as a policeman pulled open the driver’s door of his truck and aimed an AK at his head.

Don’t move. The policeman ordered him.

Satam nodded.

Without a word, the policeman juggled the rifle and slammed its buttstock hard against Satam’s head.

Chapter One

Cairo, Egypt

Justin Hall did not want to fire his pistol. Too many witnesses crowded the street.

I’ll kill those two men following me if I have to. Then, I’ll clean up the mess.

His hand rested over the Sig Sauer P229 9mm inside the waistband holster at his thigh. He peered again at the reflections in the store window glass. He pretended to admire a black suit. In fact, he was checking every move of two young men behind him. Before he continued to his meeting, he wanted to make sure the pair, who had followed him for the last three blocks, were random strangers, rather than plainclothes police officers doing a poor surveillance job. Or worse. Assassins.

The two men did not stop by the store. They kept walking and, as they rounded the street corner, Justin followed them. He tailed the men for a couple of minutes. They wandered along the north side of Nile City Towers Mall, stopping at times for quick window-shopping but never looking over their shoulders. Still, he found their actions suspicious. He himself used the same counter-surveillance tactics. Justin wondered if a second backup team had replaced the first, after he had made the two men. If this is mukhabarat, there has to be more than one.

The sun had begun to set, its last golden rays bouncing off the reflective glass of nearby tall skyscrapers. A thin crowd was building up around the shopping district in downtown Cairo. Justin glanced around him on all sides. He tried to spot anyone who looked like they belonged to a surveillance team. He scouted the area for operatives in dull or baggy clothing, wearing boring sunglasses, sporting earpieces, or simply standing out in the crowd. He listened for the slowing of footsteps, the shuffling of clothes, and any metallic click.

No one fit the profile.

The men turned another corner, and Justin continued to follow them. Twilight shadows and the flow of pedestrians out for the evening should have made it easier for him to track his prey, but the dry, sizzling air, scorched by a punishing sun for twelve hours, countered all his advantages. Drops of sweat formed on his broad forehead. The bulletproof vest underneath his loose-fitting polo shirt felt twice as heavy as when he had put it on earlier in the morning.

His phone chirped from his pants pocket, the sound breaking his concentration. Without slowing down, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Where are you? the short text message asked.

It was from Carrie O’Connor, his partner. They worked for the Canadian Intelligence Service, and they should have been at the Fairmont Nile City Hotel an hour ago. They were scheduled to meet with Sheikh Yusuf Ayman, one of the masterminds of the terrorist organization Islamic Fighting Alliance, but the sheikh had scrapped the meeting with hardly a moment’s notice. Carrie was still surveilling the Fairmont, while Justin was returning from following two of the sheikh’s associates to a previously unknown safehouse.

I’ll be there soon. A few more minutes.

He followed the two men until they entered the Desert Rose, a hip bar favored by the young and rich. Justin kept a close eye on the main door, throwing casual glances at their table by the window. At the same time, he searched the streets for the elusive second surveillance team.

Ten minutes later, after the two men had finished their first drinks, Justin concluded they weren’t secret police, and he wasn’t being watched by them or anyone else. But this was Cairo, and one could never be too careful. In a country still ruled by the General Intelligence Service, known simply as mukhabarat, one wrong turn could be the last, even for professionals like him. Controlled paranoia had saved his life more than once in the most dangerous back alleys of North Africa.

Justin headed toward the Castle, a small coffee shop where Carrie was waiting for him. The Castle was to the left of the Fairmont, with an unobstructed view of the hotel’s VIP entrance. Rahim, the owner of the café, was on the CIS Cairo Station’s payroll. The coffee shop provided a casual yet safe place for CIS agents to run covert operations.

Before pushing open the carved wooden door of the Castle, Justin stopped and glanced at the alley in front of the coffee shop. He noticed a white sedan, an old-model Ford, parked halfway between the entrance to a three-story apartment building across the alley and a grocery store. Justin squinted and saw the silhouette of a small woman wearing a hijab crouched in the front passenger seat. A tall man was talking to the shopkeeper by the fruit and vegetable stand outside the grocery store. Is that her husband? Her brother? Justin searched the windows of the apartments, but there was nothing suspicious. He threw another sweeping look at the other side of the street and stepped inside the coffee shop.

A thin cloud of tobacco smoke billowing from a handful of patrons engulfed him. Justin sneaked in, skirting around the tables and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He stood near the counter until Rahim, who was filling a couple of glasses with dark beer, took notice of his presence.

Where have you been? Rahim asked in a low voice. You’re late.

Making sure I wasn’t followed. Is somebody waiting for a ride? Justin gestured with his thumb back toward the door.

I don’t understand.

There’s an old Ford parked outside.

One of the neighbors, Rahim said, his pot-like head bobbing with every word.

A few servings of kofta, minced lamb sprinkled with spices, sizzled on the grill behind Rahim.

Did you send Nebibi for a closer look? Justin asked.

No. Why?

A surveillance camera was installed above the archway entrance to the Castle, hidden inside one of the lighting sconces. It transmitted clear images to Rahim’s computer screen, which doubled as a cash register. With a few clicks, he could keep a constant eye on what happened on the street. Justin preferred to be on the scene, the difference between being an observer and actually understanding an evolving situation.

Justin pointed to his left, toward the kitchen separated from the bar by a reddish curtain. Have him check things out.

Rahim nodded and disappeared inside the kitchen.

The CIS trusted Nebibi, the cook, like they trusted his uncle Rahim. Justin, on the other hand, hardly trusted anyone. Rahim had great financial incentives to provide actionable intelligence to them, as the CIS paid him handsomely for his services. But Justin worried about another buyer tempting Rahim. The man was willing to trade in nearly all secrets for the right price. The Egyptian was not bound by the same code of honor streaming through the veins of the CIS agents. Justin realized the CIS had to rely on local sources to navigate the labyrinths of Cairo’s streets and Egypt’s foreign policies. Still, he kept his reliance on Rahim to the bare minimum.

Rahim returned.

A man was talking to some guy from the grocery store when I walked in, Justin said.

He’s a good friend of the store owner. Nebibi is going out the back. Are you hungry?

No, not really. Still two hours until supper.

Yes, for Egyptians.

I am half-Egyptian.

You’re half everything. Rahim turned around to attend to his grill.

Justin grinned, rubbing his dimpled chin. His Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, wavy raven hair, big black eyes, and a large thick nose, inherited from his Italian mother—allowed him to blend in naturally among the countless nationalities living in the bustling city of eighteen million. Youthful stamina, a natural talent for languages, and an overdose of stubbornness had allowed him to master spoken Arabic like a native Egyptian.

"Can I bring you some mezze at least?" Rahim asked, referring to appetizers.

Sure.

Coffee?

Definitely.

Rahim turned around and poured coffee from a long-handled pot into a porcelain cup. Justin savored the strong aroma of the thick, concentrated drink and clenched the cup in his left hand. He climbed the concrete stairs, which took him to the second floor. A narrow hall led to two safe rooms, once part of Rahim’s family apartment. Now they were reserved for the private use of CIS operatives. Justin knocked twice on the brown door of the first room.

Come in, a woman’s soft voice called from inside.

Hi, Justin greeted Carrie.

She sat cross-legged on a chair by one of the windows. A pair of powerful binoculars and two manila folders lay spread over a plastic table, next to a CIS-issued Sig Sauer P229 9mm and a tea mug. Poster-sized photographs of the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Sphinx covered the beige walls.

You finally made it. Carrie tossed her reading glasses onto one of the open folders. She tilted her head back, stretching her neck muscles. Her shoulder-length auburn hair, which she usually kept in a loose ponytail, flowed down her slender neck. What took you so long?

Trying to shake what I thought was a tail. A couple of guys who turned out to be nobody.

Double-checking never hurt anyone.

Sorry I’m late.

Don’t worry about it. Still hot out there? She pointed to the soggy shirt stuck to his chest. A trickle of sweat had made its way down his neck.

Ninety degrees in the shade.

He placed his coffee cup on the table and stumbled onto an empty chair across from her. He took a deep breath, enjoying the cool breeze flowing down from the air conditioner mounted on the wall.

Did you see a white Ford downstairs? Justin asked.

Nothing there when I came in.

Rahim hadn’t checked it out, but he’s sending Nebibi now.

Let’s hope it’s nothing.

Justin dabbed his face with a Kleenex. Where did Team One lose Sheikh Ayman?

"We didn’t lose him. Johnson ordered us not to make contact, just track his movements, which we did. Sheikh Ayman arrived at Terminal 3 of Cairo International. Then he boarded a Sudan Airways flight bound for Khartoum."

Claire Johnson was the CIS Director General of Intelligence for the North Africa Division and their boss. Johnson’s reputation within the CIS was that of a meticulously thorough individual. Terrified of committing a career-ending blunder, Johnson displayed a certain amount of sluggishness that crippled field agents. They joked that she was more efficient at witch-hunting than terrorist-hunting, as scapegoating often resulted from botched operations in her division.

Justin chewed on Carrie’s words. The sheikh’s departure aboard a regular commercial flight meant he wasn’t hiding from Egyptian authorities.

If mukhabarat is looking everywhere for the sheikh and his brotherhood, how come he can sneak right under their noses? Carrie asked as if reading Justin’s mind.

"I was thinking that too. The short answer: He’s the sheikh, and this is Cairo. The sheikh’s men are everywhere, even inside mukhabarat. They may be looking for him, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to find him. And according to the Egyptians, the sheikh is only allegedly linked to the Alliance."

"Allegedly? What more do they want? A written and signed confession saying ‘I am the second-in-command of the Islamic Fighting Alliance’?" Carrie clenched her fists.

Justin stood up. It’s more complicated than that. The government is fragile, unable to defeat the militants by force, at least at this time. Maybe after the elections.

Oh, that’s months away. Carrie sighed.

"That’s why we usually don’t accept support from the secret police. There’s too much to lose by sharing intel with mukhabarat."

Justin unfastened his holster and placed it on the table. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, along with his bulletproof vest. He felt Carrie’s admiring eyes. He thought she cringed as he turned around, knowing she would never get used to the sight of three deep scars, almost eight inches long, carved along his shoulder blades. They were reminders of the time he was captured in Libya after a hostage rescue operation that went wrong.

Justin fetched a short-sleeved shirt from a white cabinet by the door. The shirt smelled of bleach. It seemed Rahim had forgotten to ask his wife, who often did their laundry, not to use chlorine. Justin sighed as he noticed slight bleeding of his favorite navy-blue shirt.

Did any of the sheikh’s men come back to the Fairmont? He returned to his seat and sipped his coffee.

Yes, one of his bodyguards. He retrieved the armored Mercedes from the valet parking. I have the address of the house where he dropped it off. Carrie tapped one of the folders.

The sheikh’s abrupt, but not secret, departure is unusual. Why leave in such a hurry and without giving a reason? What’s so urgent? Is he afraid of something? He’s protected in Egypt. There’s nothing to fear.

"Well, maybe there is something to fear."

If so, it has to be something big. Something powerful, for the sheikh to abandon our long-planned meeting.

Their meeting had been in the works for over a month. Middlemen working for the Alliance had contacted the CIS Cairo Station, seeking a meeting with them. Johnson initially had chosen another team of agents to handle this case, suspecting the militant was a low-level soldier. Once the identity of the senior leader requesting the meeting became known, Johnson insisted Justin organize all aspects of the operation. His presence became even more essential when they learned Sheikh Ayman held information about an assassination plot against a Western head of state.

What do you think spooked him? Carrie asked.

I don’t know. Very few things would scare someone like Sheikh Ayman.

Will he reschedule our meeting?

I hope so.

While the location and the time of their meeting were determined two weeks ago, they knew nothing about the specifics of the assassination or the intended target.

I just don’t want it to take place in Sudan.

Why not? It’s easier to bag him down there, Carrie replied with a wide grin.

Kidnapping or eliminating the sheikh had crossed his mind too, albeit as a fleeting thought. Sudan was a lawless land and the perfect place for such a hit. The zeal in Carrie’s voice didn’t surprise him. According to her, the most efficient solution to a problem was often also the most extreme. The one she always favored.

That’s not our mission, Justin said.

Carrie shook her head in resignation.

Justin walked over to one of the windows that overlooked the Fairmont VIP entrance and the Nile. Glowing lights from towering buildings shone from Giza, a suburb of the capital across the river. A constant stream of cars rushed through the top level of the Imbaba Bridge, which connected the two parts of Cairo, their headlights flickering through the heavy smog. Justin hated the Imbaba Bridge. In fact, he hated all bridges. A bridge had shattered his life when he was only eleven years old.

Justin took the last sip of his coffee. He stepped closer to the other window, facing the apartment building across the alley. In a second-floor apartment, two lights were on. They were almost in a clear line of sight to the agents’ room. Justin squinted. A man was in the living room. A television set was flickering in one of the corners. A knock on the door startled Justin, and he turned around.

It’s me, Rahim said, I brought the mezze.

Come in, Justin said.

Rahim walked in, holding a round tray with pita and garlic bread, pickled olives, slices of cucumbers, and a few bread dips. Carrie had begun to make room on the table for their food when a bullet pierced the window glass and slammed into Rahim’s chest. The man tumbled to his knees. The small plates of food flew across the table.

Get down, down, Justin shouted.

Carrie had already hit the floor, her hand clenching her pistol.

A short burst of gunfire exploded, breaking the other window. Sharp slivers of glass rained over the agents’ shoulders.

Two shooters, Carrie shouted.

Justin nodded, reaching for his Sig Sauer pistol. He cocked it and held it tightly in front of his face.

Can you handle them? Justin asked as he stared at Rahim. A dip dish still spun next to Rahim’s lifeless face.

Yeah, I got them, Carrie replied.

Cover me.

He crawled to the door and ran outside.

* * *

As soon as the gunfire paused for a brief moment, Carrie peeked over the shredded windowsill. A gun muzzle flash betrayed the location of one of the shooters. She squeezed her trigger. She ducked as bullets sailed past her head. A few long moments dragged on. She lay low, her chest heaving with each quick breath.

The gunfire stopped.

She looked up just long enough to fire the rest of her magazine. She reloaded, leaned against the wall, and listened. Chaotic screams and rushing footsteps came from