Book's Excerpts
The Fraternal Deception:
The assassin made his way to the front of the crowd, attempting to get a better view of his target, the first-ever female to be elected President in an African country. The proud Liberian head of state waved regally from her perch upon the backseat of her custom-made pewter silver Chevy SUV. As she dazzled the crowd of onlookers gathered along the Independence Day parade route with flawless smiles, the assassin reached into the pocket of his jacket, fingers closing around the detonator.
Nearby, a young girl cheered, waving her flag energetically as she sat atop her father's shoulders. As the Presidential convoy neared the corner of Center and Broad streets, the assassin allowed himself a quick grin before retreating back in the horde of smiling faces. Once he was far enough from the joyful assembly, he leaned against an electric light pole and checked his wristwatch. 11:14 a.m.
Following his leader, Robert Darkly's instructions, the assassin had safely placed the bomb on the sidewalk amongst the jubilating crowd and quickly walked away. Once he was two hundred feet away from the remote-controlled explosive device, he climbed up one of the perennial trees that lined the side of the busy street. He sat patiently and waited for his target to emerge. Like a lioness in an ambush awaiting its prey, he sat upon the branch of the tree and counted every passing second and minute that seemed to slowly crawl by.
He once more fingered the detonator and slowly pulled it out of his pocket. He smiled gleefully, his figure rigid with anticipation. How he had waited for this moment. How he had earnestly prayed to God to make him successful on this major mission that he believes would safe his country from taking a downward spiral.
Exactly at 11:15 am, the Presidential convoy came rolling down the crowded street amidst cheering and chanting from supporters mainly made of women and school children. Realizing the President was approaching the kill zone, the assassin began his countdown while the crowd cheered:
Ten...nine...eight...
"Make us proud, Madam President!"
Seven...six...five...
"You’re the best, your Excellency!"
Four...three...two...
"We love you!"
One.
The result was cataclysmic. The initial blast annihilated everything within a quarter of a mile, melting flesh and metal and stone alike in one raging furnace. The cheering and chanting were soon replaced with a deafening roar, a rounded shockwave raced outwards, gathering the buildings and streets of Central Monrovia together, and crushing them into a broken jumble. A spark of electricity shot into the sky in a plume of shrieking yellow, and then rained down on the city below. Broken glass fell from nearby buildings into million little pieces. The explosion left a gaping hole in the front of the country’s only immigration building.
The President eyes widened in horror as the bellowing wall of destruction thundered towards her. All she could see was whiteness and heat. This is the kind of fire that's so hot that it's no longer red or blue, but pure white. She took a deep shuddering breath, or at least she thought she did. She couldn’t feel anything but the burning whiteness creeping up her skin, and hands pulling at her, trying to drag her to safety.
Her mind was filled with hundreds of voices—a quick flash of children gnashing their teeth from their injuries soon clouded her mind. Weeping and screaming filled her ears, swirling into a torrent of noise that overwhelmed her. Then it all melted to darkness.
Amid the panic and chaos, an armed SUV tore down Broad Street, on its way to the John F. Kennedy Memorial Hospital. A grim faced security officer was at the wheel while two medical officers accompanied the President in the back seat, desperately trying to stem the blood seeping through her blouse.
A look of relief flitted over the driver's face as the hospital came into view, only to disappear as another explosion rocked the SUV. The bomb had been planted at the hospital's main entrance with the triggerman lurking nearby. Arriving at the scene, United Nations military officers and Liberian security personnel struggled to put out the flames that had engulfed the President’s blast resistant vehicle, BRV SUV.
Uncertainties pervaded the J.F.K Hospital area as well as Central Monrovia. Like a dog chasing after its own tail, security officers on the scene hopelessly stared into each other’s eyes in search for any element of guidance. This second wave of explosion discombobulated any rational thinking the men might have had. “We have to do something,” a man wearing a tatter sky-blue shirt and a navy blue pants shouted frantically. He too had miraculously survived the two bombings. He must have been one of the security bosses because the other men ran aimlessly in various directions upon hearing his frantic voice. The bloodshot eyes security personnel hastily hauled the President’s lifeless body into a waiting armored personal carrier as security protocols were quickly forestalled. With a loud roar of their cars’ engines, the men headed back towards Monrovia where it all began. Perhaps though, the men were taking their leader to a more secure hospital. The only well known secure hospital in the city is the UN Military Hospital on Bushrod Island on the outskirt of Monrovia.
No one ventured in Central Monrovia for several days. Even the habitual pickpockets acknowledge the looming danger—many of them avoided Central Monrovia in fear for their lives. The days following the attack, rumors were abundant. Newspaper headlines speculated that the President had been mortally wounded in the attacks and would be incapable of governing the country. While the nature of the attack was still unknown, many believed it was the work of the notorious Night Riders. The Night Riders is a local street gang that has been terrorizing the country for more than two years. The newly elected president had battling them ever since she took, and though there had been significant improvement in some areas, there were still a lot to be done in battling corruption and the impending domestic terrorism.
This attack was the first ever to occur in the impoverished West African Nation, founded to serve as a home for freed-black American slaves that were being banished from the United State by their former slave masters. Up until a century ago, the small country had relatively peaceful, only to find itself descending into a torrent of chaos and death from 1980 to 2003. One thing was evident, though, the government, having been accustomed to peace for so long, had no way to counter such acts of terrorism.
Ever since taken the oath of office in 2006, the President has been concerned for her safety and well-being. It was clear her critics didn’t like the fact she was being protected by foreigners from the U.S. Secret Service. The foreign security presence made the Liberian Special Security Service personnel appear incompetent. The President needed to be protected by locally available bodyguards, many of her critics openly argued. But how could she trust men that were ill-trained? How could she put her safety into the hands of amateurs? These were the questions she wrestled with. To calm down the political storm that had been raging over the presence of her foreign bodyguards, the President finally turned security over to local personnel in 2007.
One thing was evident after the turnover—the local security personnel lacked the advanced knowledge to protect the life of the leader who could bring true peace and prosperity to this war-torn nation. They mostly relied on the basic training given them by the Diplomatic Security Service, an agency within the United States Department of State that protects foreign dignitaries and US mission abroad. Whenever the President was out visiting a public place, she was an open target to any would be assassin—windows of buildings were left wide open, cars were allowed to ply the same street as the President’s motorcade. People trying to shake hands with the President were never thoroughly checked for weapons.
It was believed people wanted to topple the newly elected government. Four months following the inauguration, there were countless claims and counter claims of people wanting to overthrow the administration. A four-star AFL Lieutenant General, infamous for throwing hundreds of youths into a drinking well was arrested along with several allegedly plotting to oust the President. The general pleaded for mercy, and asked that his life be spare. He told his accusers that he was now a devout Christian and didn’t want to have any dealing with guns or government. It was quite hard to believe him since a lot of people hide under the veil of religions to commit crimes.
Two days afterwards, the Information Minister appeared on national television, his countenance detached and uncaring. He filled his speech with false hopes and empty promises. Citizens watching at home wearily turned from their televisions, left to wonder if the perpetrators would ever be caught and brought to justice. “Our ally, the United States, has promised to send in agents to aid us during the investigation,” he declared. Many citizens viewed the Minister’s speech as the same-old-same-old politics...
....Three years before the bombing, tens of thousands of Liberian refugees living in neighboring countries within the West African sub region returned home to be reunited with families and to rebuild their shattered lives. For most of these people, life had been tough in the refugee camps. Most of them had returned home hoping that lasting peace had finally arrived with a new president in power. Amongst the returnees were former military officials of pervious regimes. Raymond Morris was one of the returnees who came back home during a United Nations voluntary repatriation program. He had lost both parents during the crisis in 1990—he was only ten years at the time. He and his brother David had fled into neighboring Guinea to seek refuge from the war that was raging in their homeland. With three thousand United States Dollars in his pocket while fleeing Liberia in 1996, Raymond was able to successfully start a grocery store that grew into three other stores in Madina Market, in the capital city of Conakry.
Five years later, David was homesick. He hated his host country due to stringent laws that restricted refugees’ behavior in the predominantly Muslim nation. “I hate this damn God forsaking country. I can’t wait to go back to Liberia once things settle down,” he would often tell Raymond. Once he felt a sense of normalcy, David returned to Liberia leaving his little brother in the strange land with no one to watch over him.
Back in Guinea, Raymond would wakeup every morning at 6 a.m. to rush to his store located about twenty miles from the where he lived. He enjoyed living in Conakry, despite the occasional harassment he experienced from corrupt immigration officials. He was often taken to immigration headquarters for not having proper identification but would bribe his way out everytime. As long as he thrived in business, he didn’t care about how much money he paid in bribed to security personnel. The one thing that was clear though, was his love for home. Raymond yearned to go home—home was all he’d longed for all those years. For hours, he would be on the phone asking David about conditions in Monrovia. “How is the country, is the President making gains on the economy?” David’s answers were always the same, “Raymond things are not normal. You have to wait for a little while until these guys stop harassing innocent people.”
For more than eight years he had prayed sincerely for peace to return to the country he holds so dearly in his heart. For more than eight years he had waited for the slightest change in the security atmosphere in his native land so he could once again go home and be the kid he once was. Raymond wanted to sit under the mango trees in their yard and hear the birds chirp up in the branches. He wanted to wakeup to the aroma of Jasmine and other fragrance tropical plants his late mother had planted right under their windows. He missed the evening breeze that cooled off the upstairs living room at night. He reminisced about his best friend Miller and Wannie, the girl he’d always love but had been afraid to express this feelings to. He wanted to go back home and tell her how much he loves her and how badly he wanted her to be his wife. He wanted to walk down Broad Street and feel the Christmas spirit which often filled the air with singing and the voices of happy children running in the streets. He wanted to see the street peddlers calling out to last minute Christmas shoppers.
It was in 2006 his dream of returning home finally came true when a woman whom he really admired won the presidency to become the first female to ever be elected president of an African nation. Like man returnees, his hope of coming home was to bury his bitter past so he could move on with his life. He wanted to start a business like he’d done in Guinea.
The brothers repainted their parent’s house where both men lived. David remodeled his room—making it soundproof. Raymond successfully signed a five years lease on a building located on Randall Street. He had decided to transfer his business to Monrovia where he thought there were better opportunities. Everyday, he and David would go to the building to help out the men doing the renovation. They helped the men paint the ceilings as well as walls, steps, and façade of the store. They helped perform other minor repairs on the store and the upstairs offices. Raymond was happy to be home, David was too. Everyday, both men were together except when David had to attend his Tuesday and Thursday nightly meetings. Raymond also reconnected with his long-time friend, Miller. Miller now worked for Firestone Rubber Plantation Company as an accountant. He’d promised to help setup Raymond’s books as soon as his business was up and running.
Though the country now had a new president and relative peace, the security atmosphere was uneasy. In Monrovia, tensions ran high amongst disgruntled politicians. People filled the street as early as 5 a.m. to get drinking water from nearby wells. It was evident the President had reneged on a lot of her campaign promises. Infrastructure and economic developments had been stagnant—moving at a very slow pace. On the other hand, unemployment was still at an all time high of eight-five percent while corruption was at its best. Murder and political assassination were the only means by which unethical politicians could get back at their political rivals. Disgruntled politicians paid local gangs to takeout opposition politicians. Kidnappings and murders were the only livelihood by which unemployed ex-combatants turned gangsters could survive. Criminal Gangs wove a wave of corruption and sin that was engulfing the nation like a tsunami.
The streets had been doused with blood during the three year regime of the new president. No one dared to venture out into the streets after midnight lest they be added to the piles of rotting, disfigured carcasses that lined the streets in the morning. The security apparatus were in disarray—this also was blame on the fourteen-year-old conflict.
Liberian and UN security forces had been doing all they could in apprehending those responsible. The lack of civilian cooperation had been their nemesis or rather, their downfall. On occasions, the President would plead with civilians to come forward with any bit of information that might be of some help to their investigation. However, the people feared the repercussions of being seen cooperating with government's officials and stayed mute as their lives depended on it. Members of the gang lived in their very neighborhoods.
At first, the government believed the Isakaba Boyz, a notorious street gang had been behind the chaos, having already terrorized the destitute civilians that lived about the city. The Isakaba Boyz, however, were crushed in 2007 by a joint operation carried out by members of the Liberian government's security community and the United Nations Mission in Liberia (UNMIL).
All hope seemed lost until the summer of 2009, when the leader of one of Monrovia's notorious street gangs, “The Black MOL” was finally arrested and tortured while in government’s detention.
Jeffery Hammond was arrested, tortured, and eventually confessed that his group, the Black MOL had been carrying out its mission of anarchy under the instructions of a larger organization aptly called 'The Brotherhood of HOPE', a local political think tank. Afterwards, Jeffery begged for protection, fearing that his life would be in danger now that he had ratted out on his fellow associates.
The Inspector General of the Liberian National Police merely smiled. "And who might this Brotherhood of HOPE be, Mr. Hammond," she asked, her voice charmingly acidic. "I'm sure if you produced a few names and base locations, the government might be more inclined to protect your meager, little life."
The only time she had heard of such a name was when she studied criminal justice and law enforcement at a university in the United States. The group she knew about was, 'The Muslim Brotherhood'. This group was a worldwide organization whose aims are fostering peace and understanding among Muslims and they also gave relief to fellow Muslims all over the world. The Inspection General of the Liberian National Police or IG as she is commonly called; did not give in to the man’s appeals; she wanted more information about this Brotherhood of HOPE.
"What is this Brotherhood of HOPE, who is the leader of this group?" She exclaimed. "I cannot protect you unless you tell me who they are, Jeffery." The Director took a drink from a glass of water. "You must tell me the whole truth, only then will the government protect you,” she remarked, looking straight into the captured gangster’s puffed-up eyes.
Fat tears rolled down Jeffery's face and his shoulders heaving as great sobs rocked his body. "Please, no more. I cannot tell you any more. My life is already forfeited with the information I have given you...," he trailed off, shuddering as his mind conjured up images of what the Brotherhood might do to him once they learned of his betrayal. "You must know I had no choice. I had to follow their orders or they would have slit my throat and fed me to the dogs. Please, please, I beg you! Help me!"
Jeffery gave a pathetic sniffle and the Inspector rolled her eyes in disgust. "Your begging is beginning to irritate me, Mr. Hammond. Now I ask you again, where is this Brotherhood of HOPE?"
But Jeffery was beyond hysterical now. "They're everywhere! Everywhere, Inspector! They will get you, too! Please understand I did not do this of my own free will! You cannot refuse the orders of the Brotherhood! I had to do it, Inspector, I wanted to live--"
The Inspector brought her fist down hard on the table, knocking down a glass of water she had placed there. "By killing thousands of innocent people?!" she snarled, eyes narrowing venomously at the pathetic excuse for a man sitting across from her. "Where was your will to live while they were being slaughtered? Do you really think your wretched existence is more important than one of theirs…those innocent people you killed?!"
Her lips curled into a mutinous smirk and she leaned across the table, her face inches from the trembling man. "Let your 'Brotherhood' come," she hissed, her eyes spitting fire. "I will crush them just as I did the Isakaba Boyz."
Jeffery's eyes widened as he realized that she was not going to help him. That she never intended to help him. "Please, no... Please, you have to help me! God, have mercy on me!"
A truly ugly sound spilled from the Inspector's lips and only after a minute did Jeffery realize it was laughter. "I'm afraid that God does not have time to deal with spineless, little worms like you, Mr. Hammond." She turned towards the two officers that stood by the door. "Take him away." And Jeffery Hammond let out a terrified wail as the two officers dragged him from the room, knowing he would never see the light of another day.
