Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  Riley dragged himself through the house. Every muscle in his body ached, and his head pounded from exhaustion. Still, he knew it would be a while before he was able to fall asleep.

  Walking into his great room, Riley flipped a switch on the wall that ignited his fireplace, then dropped into his favorite recliner. The coolness of the leather against his skin briefly eased the tension in his body. He reached for the phone to get his messages, then thought better of it and grabbed the television remote instead. He figured all the people that he needed to talk to he had already contacted—Mom and Dad, Grandpa, Pastor Tim, and Meg—and the rest of the messages would just be media. About an hour ago, Meg’s dad had called Riley’s cell phone to tell him that she was sleeping with the help of a sedative; he had promised Riley an update in the morning.

  Riley pointed the remote at the television, then put it back down without turning the TV on. All the stations would be carrying stories on the attack. As much as he wanted the details of what had happened, he knew he wasn’t ready yet.

  He stared at the flames, wishing for the hundredth time that he had installed a wood-burning fireplace instead of this gas one. The pale glow of the blue flame did absolutely nothing to lighten his mood.

  The question that dominated his mind was, what could he do about what happened tonight? He hadn’t asked to be drawn into this fight. In fact, he had left the Air Force Special Operations Command so he wouldn’t have to fight anymore. His days of ringing ears and dodging projectiles were supposed to be over.

  But now they had brought the fight back to him. They attacked his people. They killed his friend.

  How many children had been orphaned today? How many people died? How many would be crippled or in pain for the rest of their lives? All because one group of deluded terrorists wanted to make a point!

  Lord, where were You? You know I always try to trust You. I want to believe that You’re in control. And then something like this happens, and what am I supposed to think? One bomb after another after another—and the screams! Oh, God, the screams . . . Listen, I know that You are there—I do. I mean, this doesn’t make me doubt Your existence. I’ve seen too much evidence of You in my own life. In Afghanistan alone, You proved Yourself over and over. But . . . I don’t know . . . I guess this whole thing really makes me question Your character. I mean, c’mon, Lord, You saw what happened! You saw the disembodied souls flying up out of that stadium! One move from You, and it would have been done, over with, or it never even would have happened to begin with. Pastor Tim would tell me that You were there, that You’ve got a plan, that You’ll work everything out. I guess deep down I believe that . . . but honestly, I’m not ready to go down that deep yet. I’m sorry, Lord; I know You say that vengeance is Yours, but right now I’m ready to get a piece of that action.

  Riley got up and walked to his finished basement. All along the walls were trophies from various hunting trips—a moose, a gemsbok, a blue wildebeest, and various other horned and antlered animals. In the corner stood an eight-foot brown bear, an unexpected visitor Riley had encountered while hunting elk in Wyoming.

  Beyond the far end of the room lay a second, smaller room, which contained a large safe. Riley now opened that safe to reveal his collection of large and small firearms.

  His eyes moved across the various shotguns and hunting rifles. Then they settled on the M4 carbine—a going-away present from his alpha team. “In case you ever need it,” they had laughed. He reached in and lifted the assault rifle from its rack. As it always did, the lightness of the weapon surprised him. How could so much killing power be compacted into five and a half pounds of metal? He spotted a loaded clip but left it untouched. Let’s not get carried away, Kemosabe.

  Riley carried the rifle back into the trophy room and sat down on an overstuffed chair, placing the weapon across his lap. It was hard to weigh his options when he didn’t know what all his options were. He was still in the air force reserves and could easily re-up with them. However, the chances of his getting assigned to hunt these killers down were just this side of nonexistent, going that route.

  He could go off on his own trying to track these people. But that, too, was a less-than-brilliant idea. He could see the headlines now: “Vigilante Linebacker Sentenced to Life in Prison for Killing Wrong Man at 7-Eleven.”

  There had to be a way. He hadn’t picked this fight, but after what they had done, there was no way he was going to turn the other cheek.

  Riley leaned his head back and let his mind wander to the moment when he would find the man responsible for this attack. He had him pressed against a wall with a knife to his throat. The man was begging for mercy. Riley pushed the blade up against the man’s neck and—

  RING! RING!

  Riley awoke and stumbled to the bar to grab the phone, grumbling about people calling in the middle of the night. Then he glanced at the atomic clock hanging on the wall—10:30 a.m. I’ve been asleep seven hours, he thought.

  Looking at the caller ID, Riley saw that it was his grandpa’s cell phone. “Hey, Gramps,” he answered. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’d be doing a lot better if you’d open your front door and let me in. I’ve been knocking for five minutes, and my saggy old backside is about to get frostbitten—heaven knows that wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

  Tuesday, December 30

  Federal Bureau of Investigation, Denver Field Office

  Denver, Colorado

  Scott was prepared for a shredding. You couldn’t give your division chief—especially one like Stanley Porter—the single-finger salute and expect to waltz back in like nothing had happened.

  Sure enough, Porter was waiting for him in the hall as he walked toward the interrogation rooms.

  “Listen, Stan,” Scott started, “I—”

  “First of all, shut up. And second of all, it has been and always will be Mr. Porter to you. Third, I’ve got something I need you to do. Down in IR-110 we’ve got the hot chocolate kid. I’m not going to send Hicks down there, because he’d probably slice the kid’s lips off or give him a full metal colonoscopy. You’re . . . odd enough that you might be able to make a connection with him. Find out everything he saw and get me a full report. I’m going to stay here and make sure that your friend doesn’t start attaching electrical wires to various parts of this guy’s body.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d be glad to go talk with him. Thank you, sir.”

  “Listen, Ross, we all have times when this job gets to us. I understand that. But just so you know, if you ever again do what you just did to me, I will personally snap that finger off your hand, dip it in ink, and use it to sign your exit papers. You understand?”

  “Understood, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  Scott turned and walked down the hall, trying to get the image of Porter’s threat out of his mind. He quickly ducked into the break room and grabbed a few of the Yoo-hoo bottles he had stashed away upon arrival, then stepped into a viewing room.

  Inside the room, a female CTD agent whose name Scott couldn’t remember was talking to an FBI agent. Scott interrupted their conversation. “Hey, I’m Scott Ross. DC Porter sent me down to talk with the kid. What can you tell me about him?”

  The CTD agent gave Scott a visual once-over and answered in a bored voice, “His name is Todd Penner. Twenty years old. No record. Scared to death. He’s a little banged up from the ordeal.”

  As she spoke, Scott checked Todd out through the two-way mirror. He was fidgeting, and his eyes kept darting around the room.

  “Kid’s got nice guy written all over his worried face,” Scott said. “Either of you take the time to tell him he’s not in trouble?”

  “We were told not to say anything to him until someone came to talk to him.”

  “Brilliant,” Scott said sarcastically. “Did you at least offer him some coffee?”

  “How could we do that, sir,” the CTD countered in the same tone, “without talking to him?”

  “Great point, agent. Way
to think out of the box. The kid’s a hero, and you let him sit there thinking he’s going to prison. That’s using the old noggin.” Scott walked out of the room shaking his head.

  He paused for a moment outside the door to the interrogation room in order to change his demeanor. Then he burst through the door and addressed Todd like he had just stumbled across a long-lost friend. “Todd! How you doing, buddy? Name’s Scott Ross.” Scott shook Todd’s hand, then reached into one of the leg pockets of his cargo pants, pulled out a Yoo-hoo, and dropped it on the table in front of the surprised kid. He then grabbed a second bottle out of the other side pocket, cracked it open, plopped down in the opposite chair, kicked his feet up on the table, and tilted his chair back.

  “So, Todd, how does it feel to be a hero?”

  “Really, Mr. Ross, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t mean to hurt . . . How does it feel to be a what?”

  “A hero—and it’s Scott.”

  “I thought I was in trouble, sitting in this room for so long.”

  Scott glared at the two-way mirror as Todd’s eyes welled up with relief.

  Todd twisted the cap off his Yoo-hoo and chugged about half of it down before coming up for air. “I figured I was being charged with assault with a deadly weapon or something.”

  Scott laughed. “Yeah, I’ve tasted stadium hot chocolate—I can see your point. What made you think of chucking that thing at the dude’s head?”

  “I have no clue. It was either instinct or God. Hey, Mr. Ross—Scott—is there any way I could let my parents know that I’m okay?”

  “You mean they haven’t allowed you to phone home?” Scott quickly slid his cell phone across the table. “Your parents have to be worried sick. Take all the time you need.”

  Todd grabbed the phone and punched in a number. It barely had time to ring before it was picked up on the other end. “Dad? . . . Yeah, I know. I’m so sorry. . . . No, I’m fine; I’m fine. . . . No, really. . . . Yeah, it was, Dad—absolutely terrible, unbelievable. . . . I’m in a questioning room at some government building. . . . No, I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

  Scott again glared at the unseen faces beyond the glass.

  “Dad, will you let Jamie know I’m all right? . . . She was? How long ago did she leave? . . . Well, if you could call her, I’d appreciate it. By the way, Dad, they’re calling me a hero. . . . This government guy. He comes in and says, ‘How does it feel to be a hero?’ . . . Well, I probably can’t get into it right now; I should probably go. But I’ll tell you all about it later. . . . Yeah, I can hear them in the background.”

  Todd laughed at something—probably the cheering of his family that Scott could hear all the way across the room.

  “Tell them I said to go to bed—it’s a school night. . . . Thanks, Dad; I love you, too. Tell the same to Mom and to Jamie. . . . Bye.”

  Scott remained staring at the glass another minute while he heard Todd blow his nose and expel a couple of deep breaths, trying to regain composure. Finally Todd said, “Thanks, Mr. Ross.”

  “Hey, buddy, no problem. I’m sorry it took so long. The fam had to be scared to death.”

  “Oh, man! They were terrified.”

  “So, who’s Jamie?”

  “Jamie? She’s the girl I’m going to ask to marry me in a few days.”

  “Really? Congratulations! That’s awesome.”

  “Thanks. She’s pretty incredible.”

  “So, Todd, is it all right if we get back to you giving the bad guy a cocoa beaning upside the head? You feeling up to talking?”

  “Sure, sure, Mr. Ross—Scott. Like I said, I don’t know what made me throw the tray. I heard the first explosion, and everyone around me was completely quiet. Like we were all trying to figure out what happened.”

  “What made you notice the bomber?”

  “I don’t know. I think it was because he was the only person who was looking the wrong way—you know, up at the crowd instead of down toward the field. Then the guy holds up a football in one hand and something else in the other. What freaked me out was that there was a wire connecting the thing in the one hand to the football.”

  “A wire to the football? Interesting. . . . Did he say anything?”

  “Yeah, he did. I’ve been sitting here trying to piece together what he said. It was something like, ‘America’ . . . uh . . . ‘America, because I’ve come to your’ something—‘stores’ or ‘shores,’ I think. Then he said something like, ‘Prepare to meet the wrath of . . .’ And that’s when the tray hit him. Scott, are you okay? Mr. Ross?”

  But Scott waved him silent. His mind had slipped into the zone. The terrorist’s statement made no sense—‘because I’ve come to your shores.’ He processed the statement, mentally comparing it to other code words and chatter he had picked up. Nothing. Run through the statement again—‘because I’ve come to your shores.’ C’mon, what’s missing? An accent! Try it with an accent—‘because I’ve come to your shores.’ Be-cause. Be cause. The Cause.

  “Todd, are you sure of the words? Could he have said something like, ‘The Cause has come to your shores’?”

  “Sure, I guess. I was a little wigged out.”

  “Dude, you’re awesome! They’ll be throwing parades for you! I gotta go talk with some folks. I’m sure we’ll get you out of here soon.” Scott reached deep into his cargo pockets again and pulled out another Yoo-hoo, sliding it across the table. “Is there anything else I can get you while you’re waiting?”

  “Well, I didn’t really want to mention it again. I know so many other people are really hurting. But I’m thinking I should have somebody look at this.” Todd lifted his shirt revealing an entire left side that was black and blue. “I think I busted a few ribs when the crowd was pushing down on us. I should probably make sure nothing inside is messed up.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

  “Well, yeah, the lady who brought me in here. She said that I could talk to a medical person after I’d been debriefed.”

  Scott looked toward the two-way glass, his face a mixture of anger and disgust. “Two minutes! That’s the amount of time you have to get a doctor in here. You understand?” Turning back to Todd, he said, “I’m so sorry, buddy. We’ll get someone in here right away. I gotta go, but I’ll be back to check on you when I can. You all right here?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Scott.”

  Scott burst out the door and headed down the hallway toward the other interrogation room. Suddenly, Hicks bolted out of the other door. They met halfway between the two rooms, and both said in unison, “It’s the Cause!”

  * * *

  Riley ran upstairs and hurriedly turned the locks on the front door. “Grandpa, I am so sorry. I fell asleep in the basement and didn’t hear a thing.”

  His grandpa didn’t answer at first. Then with a wry look he nodded toward Riley’s left side. “You being a little overcautious there, son?”

  Riley looked down and gave an embarrassed grin. Without thinking about it, he had slung the M4 over his shoulder before running to open the door. “You know those media types. Gotta find ways to discourage them.” He slid the rifle off and set it by the doorway, then gave his grandpa a huge hug. He ushered him into the great room, which was now well heated from the fire that Riley had left on all night, and settled him into his recliner. “Coffee?”

  “You gotta ask an air force man if he wants coffee?”

  Riley laughed as he went into the kitchen to put on a pot of Costa Rican Tarrazu. “So, what are you doing here, Gramps?”

  “Well, your dad and I talked, and we figured that after what happened, you’d have revenge on your mind. We thought it best that one of us come out to talk with you. I drew the assignment—him being a navy guy and all.”

  Riley stood in the kitchen and leaned on the cold granite of his center island. “You looking to talk . . . or to talk me out of it?”

  “Just talk, son; just talk. I learned long ago that I couldn’t talk you or you
r dad out of anything. So, your wandering around strapped with an M4 makes me think that we weren’t too far off in our assessment.”

  “Grandpa, I’ve never seen anything like it—not in Afghanistan, not anywhere. I had my hands inside a guy’s body trying to stop the bleeding as he died. And the worst part? I know somewhere people are dancing and celebrating what happened last night. What would you do? I mean, if you still had a chance to make these murderers pay, could you stay home?”

  Grandpa took a few moments to sort through what he was going to say. Finally he looked Riley in the eye. “Can’t say as I could, Riley. I’ve told you before that I’m much less concerned about what you do than I am with what’s in your heart. If you go after these guys out of hatred or revenge, it’ll eventually tear you up inside.”

  Riley walked over with two cups of thick, black coffee—no time to dainty up your joe in the field.

  “Mmmm, strong stuff,” Grandpa said appreciatively.

  “I remember what you always said: ‘It’s not coffee unless you can stand a spoon in it.’” Together they chuckled softly. “Listen, I know that what’s in my heart is not good right now. But if hate is what it takes to get me motivated to get back in the game, then so be it.”

  They both sat silently, looking at the floor and sipping their coffee.

  Finally, Riley broke the silence. “I know, I know. That’s messed-up thinking. It’s just . . . where was God last night? Where was He when people were getting blown to pieces and getting trampled? Where was He when I sent Sal away to his death? Why didn’t He stop me from killing my best friend? I mean, what kind of God is that? Where’s His love? Where’s His compassion? Where’s His power?”