The Blood of Patriots

by William W. Johnstone

“But you—”

  “Everything I did for them was conducted online,” Dickson said with mounting impatience.

  “Oh? I understood that they have agents in town.”

  The banker’s expression no longer held even the hint of welcome. “I’m sorry, you really shouldn’t listen to men well into their beer. Was there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Ward said. “I don’t believe you.”

  Dickson shocked to full alert. It took a moment for the electric jolt to fade, then he leaned forward. “Mr. Ward, that kind of bullying may work on the streets of New York. Or in your case, it may not. Either way, it does not intimidate me.”

  “I’m not trying to intimidate you, Mr. Dickson. I’m trying to help you, to help the town where my daughter lives. I think the MRI does have people here and I think they’re up to no good.”

  “I’m not interested in your suspicions—”

  “I don’t believe that, either. I think they scare the pants off you. Why? Are you into something you shouldn’t be?”

  “That’s enough!” Dickson barked. He rose stiffly. “If you’ve no business here, please leave.”

  The staff was looking over. “Okay, Mr. Dickson.” Ward stood slowly. He had been watching the door. “By the way, it looks like you’ve got a visitor.”

  A swarthy man had arrived less than a minute before and was standing just outside, talking on the phone.

  Ward watched Dickson’s face as he turned. The bank manager’s cheeks flushed and his eyes snapped back toward the detective. “What have you done?”

  “I called the Al Huda Center and told them you have a new investment to discuss,” Ward said. He put his face close to that of the banker. “Hog futures. You tell them there’s no way in hell they’re getting the Randolph farm. You also tell them they’re going to replace every last pig they killed, with interest.”

  “I don’t want to get involved in this.”

  “I don’t care,” Ward said. “Just deliver the message.”

  “Why don’t you tell them yourself?”

  “I’m betting that slob outside knows you,” Ward said. “He’ll see you’re afraid. He’ll listen.”

  Dickson was looking around as though searching a sandbag to throw in the breach. “I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong idea.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ward replied. “An innocent man would’ve treated me as a crank caller. That guy outside—he’s pissed.”

  Dickson shook his head. “You’re making a terrible mistake, Mr. Ward. Another one. You have family.”

  “Oh, so we’re going the ugly route? You’ve got family too, which is why it’d be best if this ended here and now. It’s up to you.”

  “You don’t understand,” Dickson hissed.

  “I think I do. We’ve both got daughters we love, and they’ve got yours working at the Fawaz Dry Cleaner to keep you in line. I’ve mucked that up, which is all the more reason to talk to the law while you still can.”

  Dickson’s face was pale. “Get out.”

  “Mr. Dickson, call me the worst father in the world but I can’t live with the idea of handing my daughter a broken America, one where women have no rights and liberty is just a street name. I’m betting that you and the other townspeople will stand shoulder to shoulder and stop this before it’s too late.”

  The banker did not reply. Ward waited. The man didn’t even move. Ward sighed and wrote his cell number on a foreclosure notice. He pushed the document in front of the bank manager.

  “If you change your mind, call. I’d also like to know what your friendly neighborhood Muslim outreach liaison has to say, if you care to share that.”

  He left Dickson standing stiffly behind his desk, the two men uncertain what would happen next but only one of them eager for it. Ward passed the darker-skinned man on his way out. He was about five-eleven in a well-tailored beige suit and neat beard stubble, cleared away under the chin. Except for the facial hair, he reminded Ward of the muscle he saw in mob stakeouts. The man’s fingers were thick as carrots, his eyes dark, his mouth an unforgiving line. There was nothing in the man’s body or posture that said “compromise.”

  Ward passed without exchanging a glance, though he did look at the man’s feet. They were large—larger than the mush-prints he had seen at the farm. Ward suspected that this man had nothing to do with the attack. He didn’t look the hell-raising sort. This mule was probably just what he seemed to be: the dumb eyes and ears of whoever was unwilling to leave the Al Huda Center, albeit one who could take care of himself if he had to. Defense only. His brain probably wasn’t built for tactics.

  Ward was sure his picture was being taken by the cell phone. It would be sent to whoever did do the actual ass-kicking. That was fine. He’d be happy to have the bad guys come to him. He only needed to make sure Megan was out of the line of fire. He was betting these guys didn’t want to kill anyone yet: if they had, Scott Randolph would be in a box instead of the hospital. Still, now that he’d declared himself, Ward couldn’t afford to put anything past them. He would pick up Megan after school, take her home, and tell Joanne to keep her there except for classes or any other activity where she was in a crowd. Joanne wouldn’t like it and Megan might be frightened, but it had to be.

  Ward couldn’t wait for that conversation. But he believed what he told Dickson. His brother had died for that ideal. This was not a poker game with a fold option.

  The detective got in his car, checked the rearview mirror, saw the man taking a picture of the Prius. He wasn’t even being subtle about it. Ward wasn’t surprised. Part of their job was to try and make people paranoid. That was why they call it terror. Ward considered going over and calling him out but decided against it. He had a feeling where this was going and wanted to let it play out.

  Ward pulled from the spot and headed toward the inn. As he drove up the road he found himself smiling. He had faced down a Russian gunrunner. With guns. Let this guy and his handlers think that Ward could be frightened. The greatest strength of a man, of a people, is when the enemy underestimates them. Ward realized that what he was doing here, what Randolph and Chief Brennan and he were all doing, was erasing the destructive hyphenates. They weren’t a New York–American or Basalt-American. They weren’t a Farmer-American or Cop-American. They weren’t a Male-American or Female-American.

  They were, simply, American.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Immediately after Ward drove off, Earl Dickson went to a back room where the safe deposit boxes were kept. He moved in an unhurried fashion, forcing himself to smile at the tellers as he went behind the counter, affecting composure he did not feel. He said something to no one in particular about that being the “crazy cop from New York” as he entered the room and shut the door, pushed the “in use” button, and with shaking fingers speed-dialed Aseel Gahrah on his cell phone.

  The smooth, familiar voice answered at once. “Good morning, Mr. Dickson.”

  “Scott Randolph’s farm!” Dickson said through his teeth. “Did you do that?”

  There was a long, unsettling silence. “Why don’t you call me when you’re feeling better?”

  “We need to talk about this now!” Dickson insisted. “I heard about it on the radio. I had a sick feeling in my gut but I didn’t want to believe you had anything to do with it.”

  “Do you know this man who came to see you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Who is he?”

  “John Ward,” Dickson said. “He’s the New York cop who was in the news for harassing a street vendor.”

  “So Hamza thought when he observed him,” Gahrah said. “Another Muslim-hating, unemployed American. Why is he here?”

  “He came to visit his daughter.”

  “Why did he see you?”

  “He said he wanted to invest in MRI,” Dickson said. “When he brought up pigs I told him to leave.”

  “Did he really want to invest with us?”

  “I don’t know.”
r />   “I’m told he was at the Randolph place last night. Did you ask if he did it?”

  Dickson frowned. “How do you know he was there?”

  Gahrah did not reply. The banker leaned back hard against a row of boxes. Despite the air conditioning he was perspiring.

  “Listen, Aseel,” Dickson went on. “This whole thing was supposed to be a peaceful process, everything off the radar.”

  “Nothing has changed. There is one troublemaker—”

  “Plus what happened on the Randolph farm,” Dickson said. “Never mind the pigs—they assaulted someone, put him in the hospital!”

  “That need not concern you,” Gahrah said.

  “It need not but it does,” Dickson snapped. “Look I don’t know why Ward is snooping around but I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gahrah said. “Your job is to continue making acquisitions and relocating funds.”

  “‘Relocating funds,’” Dickson laughed humorously. “My God, you make it sound clean.”

  “If the purpose is pure the methods do not matter,” Gahrah said.

  Dickson was still leaning against the boxes. He shut his eyes. He wished he could undo all of this, had never gotten involved with these people. He told himself he didn’t have a choice. It was either that or the bank went under, and with it, himself. His family. His self-respect. He would have been just another of the unemployed locals—Earl Dickson, the man who pulled himself up from poor Auraria on the South Platte, went from a teller in Denver to a bank founder by the time he was thirty-four. Not a prodigious achievement, but he felt darn good about it until the economic collapse in 2008. And with that went his professional and personal wealth. The bank was crippled with toxic loans and tight money. Government loans were slow in coming and he refused to go back to poverty.

  That was when the MRI got in touch with him. They had been looking for a stand-alone bank, one without a diverse board of directors. He was it, and he grasped at the lifeline. He had survived, just barely, but then the big money had not even started coming in yet—the major construction funds for more faith-based buildings, the accounts for new residents, the expanding acquisitions. There wasn’t enough money to send Angie to school but at least the Muslims gave her a job for the semester she would be missing.

  A job. His gut knotted again. An unwitting accomplice, he later learned. And now a possible hostage.

  Dickson tried to stand but couldn’t. The fact that Angie was involved made him sick.

  “I suggest you put water on your face,” Gahrah said. “Perhaps take a drive to clear your head and then go back to work. Nothing has changed, nothing is different. Hamza will take care of Mr. Ward. He will not bother you again.”

  “More violence,” Dickson said.

  “Only if it is necessary,” Gahrah said. “We did not ask him to become involved at the Randolph farm or your bank. Whatever happens he has brought it on himself. I believe he left you a contact number?”

  Hamza had good eyes. “It’s on my desk,” Dickson told him.

  “Excellent. Get it for me. It is my hope that no violence will be required. I am sure this unemployed police detective will be reasonable. Perhaps we will discover that all he is after is a bridge loan.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dickson said.

  “As I said, you needn’t worry about it,” Gahrah told him.

  The connection went dead. Dickson folded away the phone, pushed back his hair, and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Prioritize, he told himself. He had to put his family first. Gahrah was right about one thing: no one asked Ward to get involved. He brought this on himself.

  The banker went back to his desk, once again smiling benignly at his employees, once again the man he wanted others to think he was.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ward was just entering his room at the inn when his phone rang.

  “That didn’t take long,” he muttered.

  The Muslims had shown that they weren’t afraid to use violence. But they wouldn’t want to use too much of it. The more clues that were out there the less likely they were to keep getting away with it. The more indignation that was out there, the less Chief Brennan would be able to work on this quietly. So it did not surprise Ward that the caller ID on his cell phone was from the Al Huda Center.

  “This is John Ward,” he answered.

  “Mr. Ward, my name is Aseel Gahrah. I am the director of the Al Huda Center. I believe you know of it?”

  “Couldn’t miss it as I drove into town.”

  “It is a good location,” the man replied. “I understand you are interested in an investment opportunity.”

  “Always.”

  “Would it be convenient for you to stop by this morning?”

  “I can be there in about an hour,” Ward said.

  “Very well,” the caller said. “I will see you at eleven.”

  The caller hung up. It was exactly what Ward had expected. They were going to try to bribe him.

  He freshened up and checked his other phone messages. There was one from the Internal Affairs attorney who wanted to have a chat with him about “the incident” and another from Joel Duryea, one of the younger men in his unit. Ward had no interest in talking to the lawyer but he called Duryea back.

  “Good to hear from you,” Ward said. “How goes it?”

  “Same old. How are you, boss?”

  “Not as bad as I expected,” Ward told him. “Though maybe I’m fooling myself and it hasn’t really hit me yet.”

  “Well, we’re hoping it won’t,” Duryea said. “We’ve put up flyers in the park and also at the Hilton and the Ritz Carlton asking for anyone who might have been taking pictures down there to give us a shout. The guys pitched in for reward money.”

  That caught Ward by surprise. It was a few seconds before he could breathe, let alone speak. “Jeez, Joel.”

  “Don’t say it,” the kid replied. “We want you back and this is the best shot we’ve got.”

  “But tourists don’t usually come back for a second day down there.”

  “True, but the media picked up on it. People who were in the park are hearing about it and calling. We’re just hoping we get something we can use to show that the judge and the DA that you didn’t abuse the SOB.”

  “You guys are amazing,” he said. The lump was still lodged squarely in his throat.

  They chatted briefly about the other men and then Duryea had to go. Ward was glad. The call made him miss the badge and the fellowship so bad it hurt.

  Tears pressed forcefully behind Ward’s eyes as he drove up to Ridge Road. He knew the feeling of brotherhood would take a hammering when he talked to Joanne. But it would never truly be gone. Cops, soldiers, firefighters all put the strength of teamwork in a special place to draw on when there was no one else around to get your back.

  Joanne answered the door, surprised to see her former husband.

  “Is everything okay? Megan—?”

  “She’s fine, fine,” Ward assured her. “I just need to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “Randolph,” he lied.

  Joanne took him out back where Hunter sat on the patio with his easel and paints. Joanne’s laptop was on a metal table. She handled the orders for their art prints. They sat in metal chairs with foamy cushions. As they sat, leaves crackled where they had dropped from the surrounding trees.

  “Do you mind if Hunter is here?” she asked belatedly.

  Ward shrugged. “This affects him too.”

  “I thought you said it’s about Randolph.”

  “Yes, that whole thing,” Ward admitted.

  Until now Joanne had merely been guarded. Now she was concerned bordering on ready-to-blow. “What is it, John? What’s going on?”

  “I think I found the guys who attacked him,” Ward told her. “I’ve discussed this with the police chief. She can’t approach them. I can.”

  Joanne slapped her knee and shot to her feet. “I told you he’d
do that. I told you!”

  “Jo, I can’t just let this sit—”

  “Don’t talk to me!” she shouted. Hunter had put down his brush and come over to hold her. She squirmed away and yelled to no one in particular, “He can’t let this sit. Of course not! He can’t let anything sit, except me and our daughter night after night.” Then her eyes found him like lasers. “Goddamn you, John!”

  Hunter said, “John, I think you’d better leave.”

  “Yeah.” Ward rose.

  “You’re endangering your daughter’s life!” she screamed. “Just how reckless and irresponsible and stupid can you be?”

  “I seem to have surpassed myself the past few days—”

  She slapped him, hard. He knew he deserved it.

  “Get out!” she yelled at John. She was sobbing now. “Get the hell out of my house!”

  “I’ll go, but we need to make sure Megan isn’t left alone for the next few days.”

  “This isn’t happening!” she cried.

  “We can do that,” Hunter replied, struggling to keep her calm with his voice, his hands open ready to grab her if she became violent. Ward was guessing he had never seen Joanne this out-of-control.

  “You selfish bastard!” Joanne snarled at Ward. “Christ, what is wrong with you?”

  “I don’t think anything will happen to her,” Ward went on, addressing Hunter for the first time. The painter was a bit of a buttercup but at least his ears were still functioning. “I just want to take some precautions.”

  Hunter nodded. “Will she be all right at school?”

  Ward nodded.

  “All right,” Hunter said. “I’ll pick her up afterwards, stay with her at soccer. But you say you don’t think she’s really in danger?”

  “I’m on my way to talk to these clowns now, make sure they stay focused on me.” He looked at Joanne. “Nothing’s going to happen to Megan. This will all be over soon.”

  “Go and don’t ever come back!” Joanne said like a lioness flashing teeth. “I swear, I’ll get a court order to stop you from ever seeing Megan again. You put her in danger! What kind of a father are you?”

  Ward left without looking back. He realized that a lot of what he just saw and heard from Joanne had been suppressed for years. He went to the car and as he drove away his mind couldn’t help finishing the conversation.