by Judith Lucci
Dressed in a flannel shirt, long johns covered by jeans, work boots, and work gloves, he could still feel the cold piercing his skin. Digger was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and a long, black braid streaked with gray. No one would question Digger’s Native-American heritage. As he looked at the sky, he knew the blizzard would be bad and decided to take his snowmobile over to the Congressman’s party so he could help some of the locals get home safely.
Finally, the pump sputtered and clicked off and Digger grabbed three five-gallon gas cans from his truck bed and headed back to the pump. He looked up again at the snow clouds and shook his head. This is a bad nor’easter and we’ll be slammed with two feet or better.
Suddenly, without warning, an old model blue pickup roared around the curve into the Quik Stop parking area and slid to a stop, spitting snow and ice and gravel all over Digger’s vehicle and boots pinging as it bounced off his gas cans. Digger was pissed. Fury consumed him but he held his tongue. He stared as the man slid his truck into a space opposite him, jumped out of the old battered blue Chevy truck with a white rusty hood, and rushed toward the pumps.
Digger swallowed heated words and said, “Hey stranger, you may want to use this pump. Pumps are frozen and it took this one a long time to heat up. I ‘bout froze to death filling my tank.” The man, who Digger supposed was from the Middle East, stared at him and inserted a prepaid VISA into the pump.
Digger examined the man carefully and watched as he shuffled his feet impatiently and kicked and cursed the pump, waiting for the gas. He ventured again, “You must not be from around here. You know pumps at these small stations are slow anyhow and …”
The stranger snarled at Digger and said, “Shut up, old man. I don’t need a lecture on how to pump gas.” The stranger’s hawk-like eyes glared at him, the words as biting as the cold.
Rage consumed Digger, and as it escalated, it heated him up and the cold and snow became a non-concern. He had a bad feeling about the guy and his suspicion was palpable. He pulled out his cell phone, the only modern gadget he owned other than a bunch of computers, pretended to make a phone call and snapped a picture of the man and his truck with his camera.
Digger decided to piss the man off a little more. “Looks like we’re in for a rough one. They say we may get 18 inches to 2 feet,” Digger informed Yassar, his voice affable. When there was no reply, Digger pressed forward, “You new ‘round here? I ain’t never seen you around here before.” Digger was incensed when the man still didn’t respond.
Digger was feeling just cold enough and just mean enough to make a little trouble. He went up and poked the man in the shoulder. “You, dude. I’m talking to you. Are you deaf?”
As the man scowled at him, Digger was startled by the loathing and hate reflected on the man’s face. The stranger’s eyes were hostile, his lip an angry snarl. Yassar stood silent for several seconds and ogled Digger, his eyes blazing, “Get your hand off of me. Get away from me or I’ll kill you.”
Digger gawked at Yassar as he yanked the hose out of his gas tank, threw it on the ground, jumped into his truck, slammed the door, and roared off. Digger quickly snapped a picture of the license plate as Yassar sped off into the distance. He wondered if the guy had even gotten any gas as his frozen fingers dialed the Hanover County Sheriff’s office.
Chapter 7
Stark’s sensitive ears heard the sound of boots in the snow. He looked up and saw Yassar emerge from the woods and crouch down behind a tree.
“Did you have any trouble getting the gas? Anyone see you?” Stark’s voice was quiet and noncommittal.
Yassar frowned and glared at Stark, “Yeah, some old, nosey Indian guy with pigtails, wearing a deerskin coat. I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t.”
“An Indian, are you sayin’ you saw an Indian,” Stark asked with surprise.
“Yeah, an Indian, I guess so.” Yassar smiled broadly as he spotted a man in the woods. It was the Secret Service agent he had seen earlier when Stark had ordered him to stand down.
His eyes gleamed in anticipation. “I wanted to kill the Indian, but I didn’t so I’ll just kill this guy instead."
Stark turned and looked in the direction of Yassar’s gun, but it was too late.
In an instant Yassar raised his assault rifle, silencer attached, and aimed at the retreating back of Seth Farmer. Seth fell to the ground, his blood spreading on the white snow.
Stark jumped Yassar, knocking him to the ground. The assault weapon discharged again, barely missing the tub of shrapnel. “You bastard, you crazy stupid idiot! What are you trying to do?” Stark seethed with rage, his hands wrapped around the jihadist’s neck. “I could kill you right now and not give a damn. You’re gonna destroy this mission,” he hissed.
Yassar was defiant, his dark eyes flashed with contempt, but his voice was quiet. “I am defending my faith. I am fighting jihad and you are in my way.” He locked eyes with Stark for a moment, turned his head to one side, and once again spat into the snow to show his disrespect. “Let me up traitor,” he said quietly.
Stark, seething with fury, continued to hold Yassar in the snow. He stared Yassar’s sardonic eyes, searching for a reason not to kill him. Yassar stared back, his gaze calm, unwavering.
Yassar struggled to get up, but Stark held him firm to the ground in the deepening snow. Stark pressed his Sig Sauer 228 into to Yassar’s neck and said quietly, “Shut up or I will report this behavior to the leadership and make sure you never go on another mission. You’ll be reassigned to jihad recruitment for the rest of your life. You will be training recruits and writing instruction manuals forever. Now, lay the hell back on the ground while I decide whether or not to kill you.”
Yassar complied, remaining still on the cold Virginia earth as snow fell on him and covered him. He didn’t notice the temperature because his anger was so intense, but he hid his furor.
“Let me up, Stark” he said quietly, as he struggled for control. “We have work to do,” he insisted, still irritated but doing his best not to let it show.
In one last burst of wrath, Stark turned Yassar’s face to the right and rubbed it into the snow. When he let go, the terrorist’s face was beet red -- whether from cold or rage, Stark didn’t know nor did he care.
“Get the hell up and load the shrapnel. If you make one move you’re not supposed to, I’ll blow your brains out and tell your boss you were a coward, and I had to kill you,” Stark threatened as he loomed over Yassar, his voice harsh and low.
Yassar struggled off the ground, but Stark pinned him down. “Listen up, I’m warning you one last time. The American FBI and Secret Service are highly trained. They are the best bodyguards’ in the world who, while not trained to kill you, will if need be,” Stark promised. “This place is protected like Fort Knox. If we don’t finish our work and get out quickly, we won’t get out at all. They’ll be watching this place more when people start to arrive. We have one chance to get out and if we don’t, we’ll be dead.”
The two men stared at each other, eye to eye, until Stark released him. Yassar rose from the cold ground, frozen to the bone, and moved to the shrapnel.
Chapter 8
Fear permeated John Cole’s spine. He fought panic and dread as he tried over and over to reach Seth on the radio. Out of habit he reached for his sniper rifle with the Helios lens. His finger massaged the rubberized grip. The weapon was the best in its class. It had a nitrogen-filled body, a small ring on eyepiece with a 10-25 zoom, and a mechanism that clicked into the last setting to assure focus. He picked the rifle up and looked through the lens. He saw nothing. He readjusted his earwig and called the Command Center.
“Treehouse to base. Treehouse to base. Come in.”
“This is base. Go ahead, sir.”
“Trevor, have you heard anything from Seth?”
Trevor recognized anxiety in Cole’s voice. “No sir, I’ve been trying to reach him, but nothing.”
“Would you check the visual and auditory feeds for
activity? Look for anything … anything that can help us locate him. He’s been out of communication for too long.”
Trevor cleared his throat. “Yes sir, will do, I will get back, but we have experienced some problems with the scanners and laser’s due to the weather. I will send what I can,” Trevor promised, as his gut constricted and bile raced up his esophagus and into his mouth. He back-swallowed, “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Check with the canine handler. See if the dogs have shown any reaction or behavioral changes, and just keep trying to reach him,” Cole’s voice was quiet and tense.
“Will do, sir,” Trevor promised as he signed off.
As the line clicked off, Cole looked over at Rob Henry and shook his head. “This isn’t good. If we can’t get him in a few minutes, I am calling in for aerial thermal imaging. That would help us find Seth and anyone else out there who shouldn’t be.”
Rob nodded as he scanned the sky. “Yeah, if they can get a chopper up in this,” he added as they both searched the fields and forests with their field monoculars and watched the snow mount up. “Why not send up a drone and see what happens. We may get lucky,” Rob suggested as he stared down at the snow. “How much you reckon is down there now?”
Cole shook his head. “Don’t know for sure. Probably seven or eight inches.” He looked at his phone and groaned. “I’ve lost my one bar of cell service. I wonder where the closest cell tower is.”
Rob replied, “I don’t know, sir, but there’s no good high speed internet here on the farm. It’s still dial-up. That’s why the video feeds are so slow. It’s just too rural here for good surveillance.”
Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, the lack of cell service makes our job a lot harder.” He checked his watch, “It’s about time for our relief. Who’s on?”
Rob, a square-jawed, olive-skinned, former Special Forces operative with classic American good looks and a Texas drawl attempted to pull the schedule up on his phone. He’d worked for the CIA for several years and had recently transferred to the Secret Service. He squinted from the glare but he was out of juice. “Sorry, sir. We’re batting zero.”
Cole nodded, “They’ll be here. We have a couple of minutes left.” He reached over and picked up his vision glasses again. “I need to hear back from Trevor. What’s another thirty minutes in the Tree House in a blizzard,” he added as he tried to lighten the mood in a scary situation.
Rob smiled and said, “Not much, John, not much. I just want to hear from Seth. If we can’t communicate, he probably can’t either.”
Cole brightened a bit. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. He’s got a satellite phone, but I don’t know if he took it with him. Here’s hoping we hear from him.”
“Yeah,” Rob added as he once again scanned the fields toward the grove of trees with his monoculars.
Chapter 9
Alex thought her lungs would burst as she ran down the path in the woods following the swift-footed Belle. “Belle, Belle, wait up. I just want to talk for a minute,” she gasped, her voice coming out in disconnected syllables. She was literally freezing, her lips almost too numb to speak.
Belle slowed her pace for moment and allowed Alex to catch up with her. Alex faced Belle, jogging in place in an attempt to let her body cool slowly, without adding any more muscle pain. She finally caught her breath and said softly, “You look so afraid, Belle. What’s the matter?”
Belle remained silent and stared at Alex.
Alex persisted, “I’ve never seen you so scared,” she pleaded as she saw the fear continued to mount on Belle’s face.
The ghost was silent, but her frightened brown eyes spoke volumes. Belle reached her hand out to touch Alex’s shoulder, a gesture familiar to Alex, and she smiled in encouragement. Alex clasped Belle’s pale hand under her brown evening cloak. The formal cloak was in tatters. Alex could see the worn, frayed, pale blue lace of Belle’s ball gown. Legend suggested that Yankee soldiers had ambushed Belle and her husband, Captain Nathaniel Hargrove, on their way home from a Confederate Ball in Richmond in the fall of 1864. The legend also assumed that Captain Hargrove and Belle had escaped the skirmish but had become separated, and Captain Hargrove had been taken prisoner or killed. Belle had been searching for her husband ever since and had roamed the farms and land in Western Hanover County for over 150 years looking for him.
The two women gazed at each other for a moment. Belle smiled briefly, but her smile was short-lived. Her body stiffened perceptibly as her eyes darted to a grove of dense trees over Alex’s shoulder.
“Belle, Belle, what do you see? What is happening?” Alex was frantic, and Belle seemed unable to respond. She tried again, “Please, Belle. Please tell me what you see.”
Belle was transfixed and unable to move. Her brown eyes were enormous, and Alex wished she could see through them for just a few moments. She wondered what Belle saw through her lifeless orbs.
Alex touched her arm and asked again in a quiet voice, “Please, Belle. Tell me what you see.”
Belle looked at her, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “Alex, they are already here and we must go.”
“But, Belle, who is here,” Alex persisted, looking around. “I don’t see anyone. Please, tell me who you see?”
Belle’s skin was translucent, her fear overwhelming. It sent additional shivers up and down Alex’s spine.
Belle continued, "There is war here, and he will use you to get them. You must leave, all of you, now. You must leave now.”
“Leave now, before it is too late,” Belle repeated, her voice shrill.
Alex was paralyzed with fear and hysteria. “War? We are at war? What do you mean, Belle?" Alex squinted her eyes in the snow, but Belle was becoming more difficult to see. She strained her eyes as Belle faded away into oblivion.
Fighting fear in her heart, Alex was frustrated by Belle’s disappearance. She stopped, brushed snow off a log, and sat for a few moments as she pondered their conversation. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders in defeat and decided to continue up to the horse barn, grab a cup of coffee with farm manager Joe Parker, and feed apples to the horses. Spending time with the horses always calmed her. Besides, she hadn’t visited her horse, Dundee, for several days and was a bit ashamed about it. Then she remembered she had dropped her bag of apples when she was chasing Belle through the woods and decided to pick some up from the shed near the barn.
Chapter 10
Yassar stood and brushed the snow from his clothes as he continued to load shrapnel. He was incensed, but held his temper and tongue as he went about his work.
As he piled shrapnel in containers, he imagined how several hundred Americans would die in a few hours. He daydreamed positive thoughts as he examined the sharp metal, ball bearings, and nails, and imagined them as they sank into the bodies and hearts of the infidels. He focused on selecting the sharpest pieces. This is going to be wonderful. I wish I had a camera to capture the blood and agony. Praise Allah! Even though he didn’t know much about America, it wasn’t important because in a few years there would be nothing American left in America but triumphant, wealthy jihadists sculpting a new land for Allah.
Stark looked up from his iPad mini and turned around to check on Yassar’s progress. “You’ve gotta move quicker so we can get out of here. We’re running out of time. Let me check this one last time and then I’ll help you,” Stark offered, his voice quiet in the howling wind.
Rage churned Yassar’s stomach, and made him sick. His finger tightened around the trigger of his assault weapon, but he controlled himself because he knew that his cause could not succeed without people like Jake Stark. Stark’s ingenuity and contacts had gotten them to the estate of Congressman Adam Patrick Lee of Virginia. In fact, his brothers had other plans for Jacob Stark. The infidel’s ability to diffuse major security systems was legendary and his contacts were invaluable. The jihad needed him badly. In the mind of his leaders, Stark was a valuable asset, even though it was rumored that he was a double agent.
Stark’s sharp eyes hadn’t missed Yassar’s itchy finger curling around the trigger of his assault weapon. He kept his eye on Yassar and watched him closely. There was little trust between them.
Stark and Yassar unloaded shrapnel into the tractor a hundred yards away. Yassar was quiet and worked steadily. He wanted to return to the warmth of his hotel.
Thank Allah I was able to get the first load of metal in the truck last night and hide the truck in the metal building near the barn. Yassar shook his head as he remembered the evening before and how Stark, a genius with the security systems, had disabled the entire security system at Congressman’s Lee’s farm. The system had been shut down for over 40 minutes, just enough time for him to slip in and out with the truck and leave the semi loaded with shrapnel. Shark had even disabled the emergency generator by crimping the hose to the gas. Brilliant.
The leaders are going to be pleased with my work. I will soon be the one who is the mission leader. Yassar almost laughed aloud as he remembered how easy it was. What is it the Americans say … like taking candy from a baby? Yassar laughed out loud at his own joke.
Stark grabbed Yassar’s shoulder roughly and shook him. He thought the jihadist was crazy, at least delusional. “Shut up, are you crazy? Do you want us to get caught,” he hissed. “Sound carries well in these woods. You’ll get both of us killed!”
Yassar’s rage returned full force, but he kept his face passive as he continued to work. “Shut up Stark. No one can hear anything out here. The wind is blowing too hard.” As he continued to unload the lead, his anger increased. He decided Stark would never see another sunrise.
Chapter 11
Yassar threw his last piece of metal into the crate, checked his watch, and said, “I’m hauling this to the tractor and attaching the Christmas lights to the fuse and the burner phone. Anything else you want to do?”
