Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  I didn’t bother responding.

  “It’s you. I recognize you from TV.”

  Again I didn’t respond, preparing to make my move. Unless he had a handgun, the shooter probably had his rifle zeroed on my spine, or maybe pointed at the back of my head. I also knew that at close range my ballistic vest would prove worthless against a high-powered rifle.

  But if he missed with his first rifle shot, the gunman would have to chamber another cartridge for a second attempt. That might give me time to fire back . . . if I was still alive.

  I’d only have one chance, and it was a slim one.

  “Drop the gun,” the voice commanded.

  Without my weapon, I had no chance at all.

  “Drop the gun and I’ll make this easy on you. If you don’t, I promise you’ll be thankful to finally die.”

  I took a deep breath. Regretting all the things I had left unsaid, all the times I had wasted, and all the loved ones I had disappointed, I extended my gun hand out to my side. Slowly, I eased to one knee, as if preparing to place the Glock on the loose shale at my feet. An instant later I dropped to the ground and tumbled to the right, hoping to get off a shot.

  I was too late.

  I heard the crack of a rifle.

  Strangely, I felt no pain.

  How could he have missed?

  Heart pounding, I rolled onto my back and quickly brought up my Glock. The fire-plug intruder I had seen in my house stood several yards away. A puzzled expression twisted his features. A widening patch of red bloomed on his chest. His rifle slipped from his grip, clattering to the rocks at his feet.

  The man stared at me with a look of surprise. He sank to his knees. Moments later he fell forward and slid down the slope, coming to rest with his face in the mud.

  Keeping my Glock trained on him, I rose to my feet. Moving closer, I kicked away his rifle. Then, carefully, I leaned down and searched him for other weapons. He had a sheathed knife, which I removed. Finally I checked for a pulse.

  There was none.

  “Is he dead?”

  Turning, I saw Taylor. She was carrying her scoped rifle.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “He’s dead.”

  Her face pale, Taylor made her way to the outcrop, never taking her eyes from the gunman. I remembered the first man I had killed, and I knew how she felt. It wasn’t good.

  “I . . . I was too far away to give warning,” Taylor stammered. “ I thought he was going to shoot you, and . . .”

  “He was going to shoot me, Taylor. I owe you my life. Thank you.”

  “Thank my dad,” Taylor replied shakily. “Along with kayaking, he taught me to hunt.”

  “I’m glad he did.” Then, noticing the look on Taylor’s face, I searched for something to say that might ease the feelings I knew she was experiencing. I searched, and came up short.

  Echoing from the compound below, the sound of gunfire reminded me there was still a police action taking place down there. I took a deep breath, then let it out. “Maybe we should head back and—”

  A gigantic explosion suddenly rocked the valley.

  Taylor and I both ducked—a reflex cringe triggered by the blast. Then, turning, we stared in disbelief at the valley below.

  The meeting hall into which Duffy and his partner had disappeared no longer existed. Instead, building materials, roofing shingles, and body parts were now raining from the sky, littering the meadow in an expanding ring of absolute and utter destruction. Fire was rapidly consuming what little was left of the central structure, with billows of smoke and ash rising on a twisting pillar of flame. Of the men, women, and children who had been inside, clearly there were no survivors.

  “Oh, my God,” said Taylor. “All those people . . .”

  Fortunately, most of our forces had been far enough away to escape injury. Nevertheless, having been in a similar situation, I knew that every officer close by wouldn’t be hearing well for the next several weeks. Many of them, especially the nearest SWAT units, were still lying flat on the ground where they had been knocked by the explosion. As Bureau agents and LAPD officers began slowly rising to their feet, I turned to Taylor. “I’m sorry about Duffy,” I said. “His partner, too.”

  “They were probably already dead,” Taylor said quietly.

  “Either way, I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  With an expression of utter desolation, Taylor turned and again regarded the man she had killed. The terrorist she’d shot had deserved to die. There was no arguing that. But having been there myself, I knew that for Taylor, nothing would ever again be the same. And with that realization, I finally knew what I wanted to say.

  It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

  “You did good, Sara,” I said.

  Standing in the steadily falling rain, Taylor raised her eyes to mine.

  “So did you, Kane,” she said. “So did you.”

  Chapter 52

  Silent as a shadow, Jacob stood outside the darkened house. Careful not to make a sound, he used the key stolen on his earlier visit to unlock the front door. Repocketing the key, he withdrew his pistol, eased into the entry, and closed the door behind him.

  Inside, the security panel began blinking.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Jacob thumbed in a number: 6666.

  The blinking stopped. An LED display above the keypad read, “Good evening. Everything looks good. Your system is ready to arm.”

  He was in.

  He paused, hands sweaty inside the latex gloves.

  He listened.

  Nothing.

  He relaxed his grip on the silenced Beretta. Holding his breath, he continued to listen, his other hand fingering the black-handled knife at his waist.

  Give it a few minutes. Better safe than sorry.

  Still nothing.

  Satisfied, Jacob breathed a sigh of relief. Still, he waited several additional minutes before moving, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

  It was time.

  Crabbing down a hallway to the left—pistol out front, back pressed against the wall—he made his way to the master bedroom.

  After his escape from the compound, Jacob had watched the beach residence for the past several nights. He knew that only one other person was present in the house, and that person was about to pay for his transgressions.

  Jacob had elected to wear a balaclava for tonight’s holy mission. When the moment came, he wanted his victim to know what was about to happen, and the mask said it all.

  Stealthily, Jacob edged into the Kane’s bedroom.

  From his earlier visit, Jacob remembered the layout. In patches of moonlight filtering in from a window, he could make out shadowy images in the room—desk, handgun safe, door to an adjacent bathroom. And against the back wall, Kane’s king-sized bed.

  Kane’s bulky form lay outlined beneath the covers, silent and sleeping. The cop was larger than Jacob had first thought, definitely bigger than he would have been able to handle without Rudy.

  Taking no chances, Jacob raised his silenced pistol and put a bullet into Kane’s lower back, careful not to hit anything too vital. Jacob wanted to cripple Kane, not kill him . . . yet.

  Kane had to be alive and conscious when the time came for the knife.

  The Beretta’s sound suppressor muffled the shot. The blast was nowhere near the “Hollywood quiet” often depicted in films, but quiet enough. Trusting that the noise had been adequately reduced so as not to alert neighbors, Jacob fired two more rounds, putting a bullet into each of Kane’s shoulders.

  Strangely, although the muzzle flashes temporarily impaired his vision, Jacob sensed that Kane hadn’t moved.

  Nor had he made a sound.

  Something was wrong . . .

  “Don’t move,” a harsh voice commanded.

  *****

  The intruder froze.

  “What happens now is up to you,” I warned, the Glock in my hands rock-steady, the muzzle centered on the intruder’s back. “Drop
your gun, or die.”

  “You won’t shoot me in the back, Detective Kane,” the intruder said, not moving. Still gripping his pistol, he raised both arms, extending them outward. “Wouldn’t look good on your record, would it?”

  “Drop the weapon, Jacob.”

  The intruder stiffened, telling me I had guessed correctly. “Of course, Detective,” he said. “But first, how did you know?”

  “Guys like you always leave someone else holding the bag,” I replied, my finger tightening on the trigger.

  Jacob Lee Wallace’s remains hadn’t been found in the aftermath of the explosion, opening the possibility that the cult leader might have escaped. It was a possibility I couldn’t afford to ignore. I had suspected all along that the commune’s unexplained rush to their central building had been the result of our surveillance being discovered. And for our concealed position to have been spotted, someone outside the compound must have spotted us. As such, I’d had a hunch I would be getting a visit from that particular someone.

  Following our botched surveillance in Trancas Canyon, I had called my Metro friend, Charlie Padilla, hoping to learn how the intruders had breached my security system. Upon examining my alarm panel, Padilla had discovered that someone had added a new entry code, confirming my suspicions. I had instructed Padilla leave in the new code. I had also asked him to leave my webcam surveillance in place, and then to forget he had ever visited.

  “Last chance, Jacob,” I said. “Drop the gun.”

  “You’re Satan. I don’t take orders from the Devil.”

  The intruder still hadn’t moved. He also hadn’t dropped his pistol, despite my warning.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, attempting to delay the moment I knew was coming. “I know, because not long ago I was in the exact same position that you are now. You’re thinking if you’re fast enough, maybe you can get off a shot and take me down. Believe me, that won’t happen. You’ll be dead the moment you move.”

  “God put me on this path. He will protect me.”

  “Like He protected the rest of your followers?”

  Upon interviewing the scant few surviving cult members—several fortunate women and a few children who hadn’t been in the central building when it exploded—we had learned of Jacob Lee Wallace’s fanatical hatred of Muslims, and of his determination to expel them from our country. From there it hadn’t taken much imagination to figure out the rest.

  “My followers were a necessary sacrifice. They died so I could continue God’s holy work.”

  “Don’t count on God’s help this time, Jacob. Live or die. Your choice.”

  “God will protect me,” Jacob repeated.

  I tensed.

  An instant later he made his decision.

  He chose to die.

  After kicking away the intruder’s weapon and confirming that he was dead, I gazed down at the body, my ears still ringing from the gun blasts. I decided to leave the balaclava mask in place. It seemed appropriate. Besides, I didn’t really want to look at his face. I already knew who he was. In my opinion, Jacob Lee Wallace was just another zealot who thought he could do anything in the name of religion, and who had paid the ultimate price for his actions.

  Withdrawing my cellphone to report the shooting, I realized once more that killing a man is something you never get over, something you never forget. But if I had things to do over, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Recalling the butchered bodies of Gary and Arleen Welsh, and the Davenports, and the entire Nichols family, and Dr. Clark, and all those who had died at the compound because of the man at my feet, I was again struck by the thought that some people didn’t deserve to live.

  Jacob Lee Wallace was one of them.

  Epilogue

  With the coming of spring, weather in Southern California again turned pleasant, the rainsqualls and storm surf and mudslides of winter gradually fading to a distant memory. Days were lengthening, temperatures were rising, and fields of wildflowers, native grasses, and sage were once more blanketing the coastal mountains. Best of all, with the coming of spring, Allison’s delivery date was fast approaching as well.

  On a sunny Sunday morning in May, Nate and I were eating breakfast outside on our redwood deck. Grandma Dorothy, who for the past several weeks had been staying in Allison’s old bedroom upstairs, had recently moved into Ali’s guest room in the Palisades, leaving Nate and me to fend for ourselves.

  Earlier that morning, Nate and I had attended 8:00 a.m. Mass at Our Lady of Malibu Catholic Church. It was the first time I had been to church in quite a while. After Catheryn’s death, I hadn’t felt much like going. Actually, I wasn’t sure how I felt about God or religion or any of that anymore, as following recent events it had seemed to me that, on balance, the religions of the world may have done more harm than good.

  On the other hand, I knew that my admittedly prejudicial opinion wasn’t completely fair. It wasn’t religion per se that had caused the faith-based suffering of the world. It wasn’t Islam, or Christianity, or any of the other sacred philosophies that were at fault. It was the malevolence of men who had perverted those beliefs, twisting them to their own hateful uses. And that perversion was still going on.

  Nevertheless, I had driven Nate to church that morning anyway, which I suppose said something. Bottom line, I guess I hoped a spiritual approach might benefit my son, and I wanted to hit his problem from all angles.

  Upon returning home, I had prepared us a huge breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and roasted red potatoes. Although I have always liked spending time in the kitchen, I also realized there was more to my preparing a meal for my son that morning than simply cooking breakfast.

  Being male, my natural reaction upon confronting something broken has always been to fix it. Although I understood Nate’s problem, both intellectually and emotionally, I also knew that “fixing” my son was utterly beyond my ability. Nevertheless, I guess I thought that if nothing else, I could at least cook for him. Food was something that gave comfort, something I understood. As a result, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen following Nate’s return home.

  A few days after the windup of the Infidel Case, Nate had been released from the UCLA psychiatric hospital, and for the most part he seemed back to his old self. Although I was still driving him to Westwood on a weekly basis for outpatient counseling, and he was still taking prescription meds, Nate had returned to classes at Santa Monica High and had quickly caught up on his studies. He had even resumed his former position on the Vikings’ baseball team. Everything seemed to be back to normal, but I knew from experience that it was impossible to know what was actually going on in someone else’s head.

  That morning, as we were partway through breakfast, Nate gazed out at the beach. “Know what the ocean said to the shore, Dad?” he asked.

  “What?”

  Nate grinned. “Nothing. It just waved.”

  “Good one,” I chuckled. “I recall hearing that one in first grade. Brings back memories.”

  Nate laughed and continued eating, working on a huge portion of scrambled eggs and potatoes piled high on his plate. Then he paused, seeming to sense my thoughts. “Dad, I still miss Mom,” he said. “But I’m going to be okay. Stop worrying.”

  “I know you’re going to be okay,” I replied, again wishing that Catheryn were there to help. “I can’t help worrying, though, at least a little. That’s my job. I’m your father.”

  “As long as it’s only a little.”

  I nodded. “Deal.”

  “And I’m sorry I caused everyone so much trouble,” Nate went on. “I wish I could do a few things over.”

  “You’re no trouble, kid,” I said. “Well, maybe a little,” I admitted with a smile. “As for doing things over, the world doesn’t work that way.”

  “I know. Nobody ever said life was easy.” Nate paused again. Then, changing the subject, “So what do you think about our driving to Idaho to check out
Agent Taylor’s kayak race?”

  Nate had viewed several North Fork Championship videos with me on YouTube, and he’d been as blown away as I had. “Idaho’s a long way,” I said. “Are you sure you want to go?”

  “Oh, yeah. I want to go. Sara promised that after the race, she’d get me into a hard-shell kayak and take me down the Main Fork of the Payette.”

  “Sara? That’s Agent Taylor to you, kid.”

  “Right. Agent Taylor,” Nate corrected. “Anyway, she also said we could camp on the South Fork at a really cool spot where kayakers hang out. It sounds like fun. I like her.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Nate regarded me closely.

  “She’s a friend, Nate,” I said, anticipating his question. “I’m not looking for anything more.”

  Nate remained silent.

  “I’m not looking,” I repeated, realizing that Nate was being protective of the memory of his mother, and feeling the same way myself. “No one is going to replace your mom. Not now, not ever.”

  “Well, I still think Agent Taylor is nice,” Nate said finally. “And I think we should go.”

  As this was the first thing in which Nate had shown a real interest in quite a while, I decided to consider it. “A road trip,” I mused. “Just you and me? I’ll tell you what. I still have a few vacation days left. No guarantees, but I’ll see whether I can set things up.”

  “All right!” said Nate, his face lighting with enthusiasm.

  Our conversation had drifted into an area I hadn’t anticipated. Given the situation, I wasn’t certain whether driving to Idaho for Taylor’s race was a good idea. On the other hand, Nate really wanted to go. Fortunately, my cellphone buzzed before I had to think any further on the subject. The call turned out to be from Mike. As I listened to his message, I felt a grin spreading across my face. “We’re on our way,” I said.

  “What?” asked Nate as soon as I had disconnected.

  “Mike, Grandma Dorothy, and your sister are all on their way to Saint John’s,” I replied, still smiling. “Ali’s baby is coming.”