“He’s wounded. Gunshot. Leg? Shoulder?”
“Shoulder,” Ward answered. “He was getting set to fire at me.”
“How serious?”
“Clean, through the shoulder. I was waiting for him to pass out so I could patch him up. He was still pretty feisty.”
“Christ, John.”
“Hey, his fingerprints will be all over the AK-47,” Ward said. “I made sure I picked it up by the strap.”
“You bring your own evidence bag too?”
“I didn’t think this would be a working vacation,” he replied.
She laughed a little. “How do I not send a chopper out there to airlift him to the hospital?”
“You wouldn’t be able to get a resource of that kind close to this location, even if you could find it,” he said. “By the time they trekked here he’d be dead. Truthfully? I’m his best way out. And when I drop him off, it’ll be anonymously at the hospital.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“Hasn’t a clue,” he lied.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll make sure they don’t try and ID him until the morning. That’ll give us time to look this thing over. Take him first, then get me the laptop. I’ll meet you at the station and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”
“Fine,” Ward said. “How’s Debbie?”
“Awake and hurting,” Brennan told him. “Docs say she’ll need some skin grafts but scarring will be minimal.”
“On the outside.”
“Yeah.”
Ward’s eyes fell on Saeed. Was he one of the punks behind the home invasion? “Any evidence?”
“Not so far,” she said. “The guys who did this worked clean.”
“Probably because they were trained,” Ward said as his eyes fell on the martial arts dummy. “Right here, I’m guessing.”
“The law will see that they get what’s coming to them,” Brennan said.
“You’re wrong about that,” Ward replied. “Oh, we’ll incarcerate their bodies. But these lunatics don’t care. When the judge sentenced the failed Times Square bomber, he ranted about his cause and how others will take his place. The SOB is going to read his Koran in prison because the ACLU will make sure he can, and he’ll thump his chest to the grave. Same with these monsters. Meanwhile, Debbie will never know a night’s peace for the rest of her life.”
“You may be right,” Brennan said. “But our community is as strong as theirs—we just don’t show it. The day we do, with a loud voice, every Debbie from here to Kabul will sleep better. I’ll see you soon, John.” She hesitated, then added: “Nice work.”
“Thanks.”
The police chief hung up. She had a point. But until the hyphenates got out of the way of a unified America, that was only a local dream. It needed to become part of the American persona once more.
He wanted to be part of that big change, though that would have to wait. Despite what he had told Brennan, he had no intention of figuring anything out with the police chief. He had a better idea.
The detective opened the plastic first aid kit. He pulled out the bottle of zinc oxide, bandages, gauze medical tape, and small surgical scissors. Saeed’s eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow but regular. Ward cut open the kid’s shirt, poured the astringent on the entry wound—the kid didn’t even gasp at that, so he was definitely out—then carefully raised and angled the boy so he could douse the exit wound. He pressed gauze on both sides and fixed them in place with tape. Then he wrapped the bandages around his chest to keep the dressing from moving much. Finally, he propped the boy against the wall to lessen the flow of blood to the wound. It wasn’t a great patch job but it was probably better than the young man deserved. He didn’t do anything about Saeed’s broken hands.
“You’ll recover but you won’t be cutting any throats,” the detective observed.
When he was finished, Ward went to the cooler and found some power bars. He ate one as he got his own cell phone from his pocket. He walked outside and noticed, on a ledge, a small solar panel.
“Al Gore, you’re helping terrorists recharge their batteries,” he said.
He scrolled to Randolph’s number.
“It’s about time,” the farmer said. “I thought you were going to text me?”
“Not necessary.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been busy,” Ward said.
“Doing what? You’re also not whispering anymore, so where the hell are you?”
“In the cave,” he replied.
“Goddamn, I knew you’d try that!”
“I didn’t ‘try,’ Scott. I’ve got it. It’s ours, and it’s jihad central. The good news is, the bad guys don’t know I have it—yet. If we act quickly, we can really do some damage.”
“Brother John, I don’t know what angel is looking over you but I want him on my side. What’s the situation?”
Ward told him about the camp and about the airport. He explained that he was coming back to make the drop-offs but would need some guidance on how to get out through the valley. He said that he was coming right back but had a job for the farmer.
“If it involves payback, I’m in,” Randolph said.
Ward assured him it did. He outlined what he had in mind, and Randolph endorsed it enthusiastically.
“You understand, though, that this requires absolute secrecy,” Ward said. “The Muslims can’t suspect anything.”
“They won’t,” Randolph assured him. “We’re gonna show those bastards they aren’t the only ones who can wage a stealth war.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Earl Dickson was too ashamed to call his daughter. Nor did she call him, not that he expected her to. He could not imagine what was in her mind—if anything. Perhaps, like him, she was no longer a human being, but a shell.
He glimpsed from his desk as the van returned to the cleaner. He watched his baby get out, a tiny figure down the main road, followed by the lanky brute who had assaulted her. He saw her drive away again after the van was loaded, the young monster with her. His only consolation was that she would be safe as long as he cooperated.
He executed his responsibilities by rote, and if any of the officers or tellers suspected anything might be wrong, they said nothing. Most were still too surprised, some unnerved, by the hulking presence of the new security guard.
Dickson ignored him. He refused even to look at that creature. He had nothing to fear from the man: the Muslims had already done the worst they could do. And he had been powerless to prevent it except by capitulating.
Again.
You are a father but not a man, he must have told himself a hundred times since the encounter at the community center.
At different times during the afternoon, Dickson went into his locked desk drawer and clandestinely removed the Muslim cash in small amounts. He put them in various trays, unseen by the tellers, as he pretended to count cash-on-hand. Then he personally cut bank checks for that money and deposited them in various accounts.
All of it without emotion. He was numb, dead, beaten.
After the bank closed and everyone went home, Dickson stayed behind to do paperwork, the normal business of the bank. He was deeply troubled by more than just the vulnerability of his family. He realized that the operation was not just about shuffling cash into the system. This was clearly a beachhead. The Fryingpan was handling more cash than they had initially agreed to, and over a longer period. He had gone along with that because the first phase had been successful and the second phase guaranteed more profits. After the initial two million dollars was funneled into the bank, three million more was routed. The service fees were lifesaving for the institution, and the mortgage division profited from the foreclosure purchases the Muslims made. Everything was hidden in MRI dealings, turned into real estate, or stockpiled in safe deposit boxes. His bank was a glorious example of the economic recovery-with-a-capital-R.
Except that it wasn’t.
Dickson finished, lo
cked the doors, set the alarm and went to his car. Hamza, who left the bank after banking hours, had stayed in his car in the parking lot. He didn’t leave until Dickson did.
This situation was bad but it was going to get worse. Dickson was no longer naive. The operation would be expanded to funnel petrodollars into these accounts. Before long the operation would have to be expanded to include other banks; there was no way one institution could handle all that cash, show so much health, without the FDIC and other regulators noticing. If those banks declined to play, what would the Muslims do?
“They’ll buy them,” he muttered. “Or they’ll have the Fryingpan buy them.”
He would rise. He would become a giant in Colorado banking.
And he would be the Muslims’ man.
“Why the hell didn’t you think this through before?” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel with a fist.
Because he had been able to look at himself in the mirror when he thought about doing this, but not when faced with failure.
Dickson pulled into a driveway down the street from his home and turned the car around. He pulled to the curb and called his wife. She had been crying.
“Do you know what happened today?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he answered, not wanting to tell her more than she might know.
“Angie said she got in a fight. She has cuts on her neck and face and her clothes are torn. She came home and shut herself in her room and won’t come out.”
“It’s going to be all right,” Dickson said. “I’m going to take care of this.”
“You knew?” she said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to take care of—what?”
“It’s one of the Muslim kids,” he said vaguely. “I’m going to see them now.”
“Earl, no. Call the police.”
“We can’t,” Dickson said.
“Why not?”
The next sentence snagged in his throat. “Angie found out about the money. She’s an accomplice.”
His wife was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was the growl of a lioness. “You said there was no way—”
“There wasn’t, and it was supposed to be over by now,” Dickson said miserably.
“Then how—?”
“John Ward found out,” Dickson told her. “He got her involved, had her look in the bundles.”
“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” she hissed. “I knew this would happen! How could I have allowed this?”
“Because you were as scared as I was,” her husband reminded her.
“About money, about losing our home,” she said. “Not—not like this! Earl, we have to stop, get out of it now!”
“Don’t you think I tried? This was the result.”
“Oh God,” the woman sobbed. “I knew it! Oh dear, sweet Jesus!”
There was no point in continuing the conversation. Like everything else in his life, it wasn’t going to end well. “I’ll talk to you later. The only thing I ask is that you not call the police. Our girl will be safe after tonight.”
“Earl, what are we going to do?” she asked urgently.
“Just leave it to me.”
“No—you have to call the police! They’ll understand, about Angie!”
“They won’t,” he said. “She panicked. She inadvertently sent them to attack Ward, another woman, put them both in the hospital. She’s in this now up to her neck.”
“Then ... what?” she said pitifully.
“I said I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“How?”
“I’m going to foreclose,” he said simply and hung up.
Dickson swung by the community center to make sure Hamza’s car was there, then headed back to the bank. He went inside and locked the door, but didn’t turn on the lights. He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer, took out a .38, and set it on his Fryingpan “We’re cookin’ up business” mouse pad. If Hamza tried to get in, the Muslim would be a dead man. Sniffing back tears but starting to feel clean for the first time in months, he began going back over the records, documenting every transaction the Muslims and MRI had made.
He would fall but his family would be safe. He’d see to that. He would FedEx the documents to Harold Carey, one of his old college chums who worked at the U.S. government General Accounting Office. The GAO spearheaded oversight of money laundering operations that were being worked through private banking activity. Carey would make sure the file got into the proper hands. Then Dickson would get his family out of town and turn himself over to Police Chief Brennan for safekeeping. She would know what to do about protecting his wife and kids.
It took Dickson hours to arrange the files; they had been scattered throughout the system to prevent anyone from making just such a reconstruction. But he knew where all the cash had gone.
It was nearly 1 A.M. when Dickson left the bank. Still on the lookout for Hamza, he had the .38 in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He deposited the thick package in a FedEx pickup box across the street at the post office. He was exhausted and emotionally depleted and leaned against the box. He looked out at the dark, deserted street.
“I love this town,” he said through tears. “I’m going to miss it.” He glanced over at Papa Vito’s. He understood now what the crusty owner had been trying to explain to him.
Witness protection.
He was wondering what kind of plea bargain he could engineer, especially if Homeland Security got involved. Maybe they’d want him to keep working with the Muslims.
“That won’t happen,” he thought. “They won’t deal with me if Angie and her brothers are gone, if my wife goes away.” And there was no way he was going to expose any of them to the Muslims, their money laundering, or their thugs again.
As he stood there, the banker heard a humming in the distance. It sounded like a lawn mower. He looked to the northwest, saw a single beam of light. It was an ATV doing what it shouldn’t be doing, riding on city streets. It was heading in the direction of his house. Was this a changing of the punk-guards, the graveyard shift watching his place?
Dickson felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. He weighed a prospect he had never faced, the idea of an eye for an eye. Shoot out a tire and watch the Muslim bleed. It had a Koranish validity. He rose, driven purely by some uncommon animal id part of him, and walked toward the street so he would fall in the cone of the headlight. This was one way to get into protective custody. He took out the .38, held it stiff at his side. He wasn’t breathing, yet, ironically, he felt hyper-alive. His heart was slamming like never before.
The driver saw him and slowed.
Dickson raised the handgun.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
John Ward found the two-seat Arctic Cat relatively easy to handle. Certainly he had expected a tougher ride in the dark, over rough and unfamiliar terrain. Though he took it easy to keep from popping Saeed’s bandages, he didn’t go so slow as to make the ride comfortable. Now and then during the forty-minute trip the young man would wince and wake and moan; Ward just drove on.
He left the young man, without his wallet, lying on a bench outside the hospital and then blazed the ATV’s horn. He watched in his rearview mirror as he drove away, saw an attendant run out. Lacking ID it would take the hospital just a little longer to identify him. Ward needed that time. Next, he sped to the police station and left the laptop on the hood of the police chief’s car. He logged onto a radio station, turned up the volume so they would hear it inside, and left. He did not want Brennan following him. Then he sped along Midland Avenue, back toward the plateau and the route to the cave.
As he approached the post office, Ward saw Earl Dickson standing at the curb with a handgun. The detective’s instincts took control and he ticked through the threat assessment: he couldn’t know it was Ward, he was standing there waiting for someone, and he was armed. Ward saw the gun start to come up. The man wasn’t really present; he was on autopilot. He must have snapped or something
else might have happened. Ward flicked off the headlight and swerved off the road and over the curb onto the post office lawn. There, he cut the engine, jumped off, and ducked behind a mailbox. It wasn’t much protection because the bandages prevented him from ducking very low. But it was better than nothing.
“Earl, it’s John Ward!” he shouted. The night remained still and silent. “Earl?”
“John? Oh.”
Ward heard him deflate in just the space of those two words. Cautiously, he circled around. The glow of the spotlights at the post office gave him enough illumination to see where he was going. He reached the banker’s side and took the gun, put the safety on, shoved it in his pocket.
“Earl, did something happen?”
“They beat her,” he said numbly.
“Angie?”
Dickson nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Ward said. “Will she be okay?”
“Physically.”
Ward looked past Dickson. He expected to see Chief Brennan racing after him any moment, trying to get him before he went up into the foothills. “I want you to go home now. Be with your daughter—”
“I can’t,” he said. “I—I have to go to Gahrah.”
“No, Earl, that’s what you don’t want to do.”
“I have no choice.”
“You shoot him, they’ll take revenge.”
“And if I shoot myself?”
Ward didn’t see that coming. He had to admit it wasn’t a bad plan—ends the laundering and frees the family—though it was premature.
“Look, we’re going to get these guys,” Ward said. “I just dumped one of them in the ER and I’m going back to round up the rest.”
Dickson regarded Ward. “How?”
“I found a hideout they’ve been using.”
“Take me,” Dickson said. His voice had gained sinew.
Ward considered that. “Do you know how to fire the gun?”
“My granddad owned a gun shop.”
Ward reached into his pocket, gave it back. “Let’s go.”
The men jogged to the ATV, which was still running. Ward switched the light back on and Dickson squeezed onto the seat behind him.
The Blood of Patriots Page 23
