by Milam,Vince
“I can’t just pack up and travel, Bishop,” Nick said. “I have a day job, remember?”
“Certainly you have vacation days. This is Thursday. Take Friday and Monday off. How available are those jets of yours?”
No freaking way. Well, maybe. Couple of days’ vacation. Could manage it. And keep the boss out of this. But a DHS jet? No freaking way. “Okay, okay, I’m in. You and me. I’ll take vacation time. But no jet, Bishop. Well beyond my pay grade.”
Bishop Sikes, the golden goose. If this is what it took, so be it. But no traveling tonight. Reddish-blond hair, Southern accent. No way.
“Fine. You purchase the tickets. We’re not a rich church,” Luke said.
“What?”
“Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly.”
Nick waited to reply and considered the hit on his personal finances. “Where exactly are you and I traveling, Bishop?”
“Boise.”
“Boise? Idaho? That’s clear across the country.”
“Find an early flight for tomorrow. It is a long trip,” Luke said.
This is nuts. Vacation days. At least a thousand bucks for the flights. Plus hotel rooms. “This better be good, Bishop.” Nick attempted, once again, to don the tough DHS demeanor. “You’re asking a lot.”
“I am not asking. The Lord is asking. And we shall answer.”
***
“Boisé. Wooded, I believe you would say.” Francois trooped back into Cole’s office at the end of the workday. He had purchased a new tie-dye long-sleeved T-shirt. The mayor had hosted another of her Art Fairs, and a local “artist” had found in Francois a willing buyer.
“The Grateful Dead is, well, mostly dead, Francois,” Cole said. It borderline hurt his eyes to look at his short, round, and very-bright friend.
“An interesting name for a town, n’est-il pas vrai? Named by French trappers. A great number of trees along their river. Boisé. Wooded.”
Not a clue. Not a dang clue what he’s talking about. “Let’s go grab a beer. Closing time at the shop.” Cole began to straighten his desk. “Don’t light a smoke. We’re leaving.”
“Indeed. We must leave. The place of Idaho. I have investigated the location. One must say, it is isolated. I shall call notre belle amie. Nadine. We must prepare.”
Cole had grabbed his Stetson, paused, and replaced it. “What? Idaho?”
“Oui.” Francois called Nadine and put the call on speaker. “Mon amour,” he said when she answered. “We shall venture your direction. To the Houston. There, to fly out. Boise. In the Idaho. We must go. Quickly.”
“Cool!” Nadine replied. “I’ll book flights.” Her voice drifted across the office room.
“The first class, s’il vous plaît.”
“Righty rooney, Francois. I’m on it.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Cole said to both Francois and Nadine. “Need a little clarity on this. That’s a long way from here. What’s the purpose?”
Francois rolled his eyes, and Cole sensed Nadine doing the same. They both remained silent.
“This the gathering you’ve talked about? Boise?” Cole asked.
Again, silence, although Francois did light a smoke, moved to the window, and exhaled outside. He continued to hold his cell phone, stiff-armed, toward Cole.
“You know, Cole,” came the voice from the phone. “This gets so old. Just roll with it. Something brand new, something different, and as much as you hate anything new or different, this is also important.”
“I didn’t realize I was so dang deficient in the ‘let’s hightail it to Boise for no reason’ department. My apologies.”
“It’s not about Boise. It’s about believing. It’s about living in the moment.”
Francois stuck his head out the window and investigated the roses. He kept the speaker-enabled phone pointed toward Cole.
“Asking for a little definition before flying two thousand miles doesn’t have a thing to do with believing, Nadine.”
“For God’s sake, will you for once live life and take a chance?”
“We’ve taken plenty of chances. I’ll tell you what this is about. The whole—”
Francois pulled his head back indoors, tossed his smoke onto Cole’s roses, and interrupted, “Bon. Bon. We shall see you, mon ami, shortly. Three hours. Prepare the flights. A momentous trip. Au revoir.” He ended the call.
The priest approached Cole and placed his hands on the sheriff’s shoulders. “Allow us to focus, mon shérif. The dress, the attire for such a place. What might be appropriate? And what sustenance might be available? One shudders to think.”
Cole stared back, silent. The sound of squawking seagulls, a rattling pickup, and wind through roses drifted in.
Francois’s countenance changed to one of love and empathy as he addressed his friend. “A most interesting assemblée. I do not know the answers. I do not know the reasons. I have faith. Join me.”
Cole patted his friend’s side and nodded. “I’m in, amigo. I’d just like to understand what is going on—what it means.”
Francois cocked his head, shook it, and said, “We enter a new place, mon shérif. A new quest. Different from the others, to be sure.”
Cole flipped off the desktop computer and retrieved his Stetson, his movements halfhearted. “I don’t get why she and I chew on each other like that.”
“Love has energy,” Francois said. “It may arrive in different forms. Do not agonize with such things. It is love. L’amour. Accept this.”
They left the building and climbed into Cole’s SUV.
“I do miss her.”
“Oui. But of course.”
They drove to Cole’s house to pack for the trip.
“I should add one thing, mon ami.”
“What’s that?”
“Be assured. Our Nadine loves you as well.”
Chapter 10
Darkness gathered over Raqqa. Singular gunshots represented apostates and moral offenders executed. The shots dwindled, replaced with a call to prayers. Uday Masih prayed for the Telling to fill his head, heart, and soul.
The room faded and an inky mist replaced the walls. Sheens of dark orange waved and flowed and licked at the floor. A rush of odors, putrid, saturated with decay. The Telling came.
The powers of destruction and death shall support your warriors, Uday. Yes. They wait. Wait to be unleashed.
“How do I realize this glorious plan, my lord?” Masih prayed.
First, you must be very clever, Uday, my child. Oh, so clever. Our enemy has many tools.
“Yes, lord. Most cautious, most careful. Devices used but once. Once each day. And then destroyed.”
Masih’s heart swelled. His ISIS department had thwarted their enemies through the one-time use of communication devices. It ensured the caller could not be traced. Cell phones among his team sent and received text messages, participated in chat rooms, made phone calls, then were destroyed. One day’s use. His team had become accustomed to the routine, and his department’s budget provided more than adequate funds to replenish the supply of Android and Apple devices.
Do not fail me. A slip, a mistake, and all fails. You would not wish to disappoint me, Uday.
He flinched, shivered. To plumb those depths, that darkness; too terrible to contemplate.
“I will not disappoint, lord. All is prepared.”
Seven in the northwest area of our target, my special one. To perform jihad. Understood?
The details of the plan began to formulate. Masih did not question the selection of specific areas within the United States. Seven in the northwest. Eight in the south. Six to the east. The Telling had its reasons and this was sufficient. Seven and eight and six! Twenty-one the total of this holy number.
As the Telling explained and detailed the strategy, Masih developed the tactics. His three Syrian recruiters would contact recruiters on the ground in America. The American recruiters would identify twenty-one soldiers of ISIS. Twenty-one committed to jih
ad. Twenty-one willing to kill, each and every day.
“I do not question you, great one. No. But the ones enlisted to carry this out. Can they be made to understand? To carry the strength for this glorious war?”
It has been revealed. Forces long established, ancient and strong, shall provide assistance in this matter, Uday, my dear. Fear not. An enlightenment and bright vision shall fill the selected ones’ hearts.
The floor shimmered with licks of orange flame, and the air was thick with the smell of death.
“You are most exalted, lord. These holy warriors will harvest terror and fear. The caliphate will rise, lord. The apostates and infidels will fall. Fall in their weakness and panic.”
Great your rewards, Uday, my splendid one. Great and glorious.
Masih contemplated the public face of ISIS and how to utilize this effort as a propaganda tool.
“Should I celebrate publicly? Use my tools for a message?”
Yes, my special warrior. Yes. Proclaim the glory of the effort. But do not specify numbers. Allow the infidels’ imaginations to run wild.
“Truly, such wise counsel. Truly. And when does it start?” Masih prayed.
It shall be revealed to you. I shall return at the appropriate time. Have faith, Uday.
“Great faith, lord! You have guided me to glory! The splendor of such an attack! My heart swells with anticipation.”
Masih pushed to his knees, his prayer complete. Tonight he would assemble his team. Tonight he would begin the process. Soon, with the help of the Telling, he would commence war on America.
Chapter 11
Cole, Nadine, and Francois entered the bar of the Boise hotel, early evening. No patrons, no staff. A young man appeared through the kitchen’s swinging doors. He acted surprised to see them, recovered, and asked them to sit anywhere. Cole enquired if the outdoor patio was open, and an assured affirmative led them through a glass door to flagstones, wrought iron tables, and wrapped-up deck umbrellas.
Cole ordered a beer, the other two wine. A few runners and cyclists moved along the paved Greenbelt path alongside the patio. A young couple tossed cottonwood sticks into the Boise River for their yellow lab, taking advantage of a slack backwater to avoid the rushing spring-melt waters. Upriver, a fly fisherman tried his luck in another slack water area. It smelled of fresh cold river and riparian vegetation newly sprung to life. The couple with the dog called and laughed as the lab romped in the shallows.
This is the great gathering? Cole wondered. The venue for an ass-kicking delegation from God?
“And so,” Francois said as he lit a smoke. “We shall wait. The others are near.”
Cole and Nadine had long ceased to question his personal radar and neither responded other than to make small talk.
“Pretty town,” Nadine said. “Bet it’s cold in the winter.”
“Okay. I’ve gotta say, this is more than a little strange. Being here. Waiting,” Cole said.
“Amen,” Nadine said. “I wasn’t expecting fireworks of wonder, but this is pretty mundane for a gathering of spiritual badasses. Francois?”
The priest remained silent. Francois’s posture lacked the usual insouciance. He closed his eyes, mumbled a short prayer, and continued to stare into the distance, disconnected from his friends.
Their drinks arrived and the lone waitstaff informed Francois of the no-smoking policy. The priest ignored the stated policy and sipped his wine. The young staffer looked around—either for support or to affirm the absence of other patrons—and shrugged, then asked if they might want food.
“Maybe,” Cole replied, “but we’re liable to have others join. Let’s put a hold on the food for a while.”
Two Canada geese, wings locked, approached as large feathered aircraft. They honked their imminent landing on a gravel bar at the edge of the river and drew the rapt attention of the yellow lab. Cole smiled as the ancient animalistic vignette played out on the river, then turned as the patio door opened.
A small, tight woman in yoga pants and purple-spiked hair stopped and stared at their table. Evidence of a tattoo crawled up her neck and peeked above the collar of her fleece jacket. Cole could make out a piercing in one eyebrow. A middle-aged woman followed her—attractive, a no-nonsense demeanor on full display.
Francois, back to the patio door, had brought the wineglass to his lips. He froze, mid-sip, and placed the glass down. The priest stood and turned, nostrils flared and eyes wide.
The small woman approached him, and the priest, her. They stopped several feet apart, intent, absorbed. The rushing of high-water river filled the silence.
The woman extended her hand for a handshake, then broke into a large grin and slammed into Francois, arms wrapped around his neck. He returned the gesture with fervor and delight and expressed, “Oui! Oui! La joie! La joie!”
They held each other tight, rocked back and forth, drew in something unseen and unfelt by the others with expressions of relief and justification and righteousness. It flooded their embrace, relaxed in the feel and touch of another. Another warrior. Isolation and doubt fled their faces. Cole had never observed his French friend in this condition of relieved association.
“Jude,” the small woman said as she took her fists and thumped gently on Francois’s chest. “Jude Gill. Pastor. So I’m not crazy.” She turned to address her female companion. “Maybe not so crazy after all.” Her friend nodded back, face curious.
“Francois Domaine. Priest. Truly and passionately at your service.” He hugged her again, laughing, and she joined him in celebration. Time stood still. Both shed tears, exchanged kisses, and continued to rotate their joined bodies with slow, fierce affection.
Francois reluctantly released his hug and grasped her upper arms. “Come. Come. You must meet my compatriots. Ah—and the mademoiselle?” he asked, nodding at the small pastor’s companion as he wiped his eyes.
“Jean Murphy,” the no-nonsense woman said with a nod as she turned to scan Cole, Nadine, and the immediate terrain.
Hard-bitten cop, Cole thought as he moved toward her, hand extended. “Cole Garza. That’s our friend, Nadine May.”
Introductions made, they gathered together at the table and shared awkward looks. Wrought iron legs scraped on flagstone, a signal for the waiter to appear.
Jude ordered a basil gimlet. The waiter offered he wasn’t familiar with basil gimlets. She ordered a Fernet on the rocks. That, too, failed to register. Francois, next to her, patted her hand and provided sympathetic clucks.
“How about a vodka martini? Possible?” Jude asked. The waiter raised his eyebrows and nodded. Jean ordered a scotch and soda.
“A trial, a trial, in these primitive conditions. Très certainement,” Francois said. “And yet, we struggle through, do we not?”
Jude placed her hand on his and squeezed an affirmation. “It’s too much to request a civilized drink?” she asked.
“Certainly not, mon ami. Crosses to bear.”
Jude fished an e-cig vaporizer from her jacket pocket and Francois lit another smoke. The priest shared his emerald-green handkerchief with Jude as more tears welled for both.
Cole glanced from Nadine to Jean and back again. Alright, this is weird. One for the books. What’s next?
The patio door blew open to present a very large and well-dressed black man, middle-aged. He cast a quick glance around the patio and fixated on them. Another man, young and good-looking, attempted to peer around his large friend’s torso.
Francois and Jude locked excited eyes, leapt up in unison, and turned to the still-open doorway. The large man broke into a wide, ebullient smile and strode toward the standing pair. They returned the advance and, again, flung themselves into each other’s arms.
“Well, well, well,” the large man chuckled as he leaned over to embrace and squeeze and bounce the other two up to their toes. “The Good Lord has delivered us. By His power, amen!” He laughed and drew them to his breast, their faces smothered against his double-breasted jacket. “M
y heart! My heart sings with joy!” The large man raised a hand and his face to the heavens and smiled toward God.
“As does mine, mon ami!” Francois called and laid a hand on the back of the large man’s neck. “As does mine!”
“God has a grip,” Jude said as she pulled the man’s face down to deliver multiple smacked kisses. “A grip on us, for whatever reason. Amen!”
The three laughed and hugged and cried. No attempt was made to wipe away the tears that cascaded. Pure joy flowed—joy and affirmation and relief. The group hug tightened, unrelenting, and filled with the passion of long-lost return. Their energy and love radiated, palpable and strong.
An acknowledgment of others waiting and watching brought them back from their newfound world and into the here-and-now of a hotel patio in Boise, Idaho. Handkerchiefs passed between them and tears were dried, yet the physical touch of each other would not dissipate. Here lay firmament and redemption. Warriors who no longer battled alone, isolated.
A twinge, regret, rocketed through Cole. He, Nadine, and Francois—the three musketeers. A team. But the embraced trio before him shared a different bond. A cosmic glue he and Nadine could never match.
Introductions were made. “Bishop Luke Sikes. Call me Luke,” he said. “The young man squirming behind me is Nick Capellas.”
They moved to a larger circular table, one that held the seven of them and allowed each direct eye contact with the others. The waiter appeared and took more drink orders. Luke requested ice tea and a supply of sugar packets. Nick opted for craft beer.
Well, here we sit. An assembly. A gathering. Holy smokes. The tug and pull of the connectivity between Francois, Jude, and Luke drew Cole. He sat next to Nadine and found her hand under the table. He squeezed to convey his amazement. She returned the gesture.
Along with the group energy, a subtle sign of demarcation. An indicator he, Nadine, Jean, and Nick would be relegated to outsider status. This presented a dangerous possibility and one Cole intended to avoid. Too much riding on this. We gotta team up.
