“To force renegotiation in the middle of a job is not an honorable thing,” Hakeem said.
“Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s true. However, honor is a luxury that comes at too high a price for a coyote. A coyote must eat whenever he can and as much as he can, because he never knows how long it will be until his next meal.”
“Great, a philosopher. Fine. Tell me how much it’s going to cost me,” Hakeem said as he slowly lowered his right hand to get the wallet from his back pocket.
“Cut to the chase,” hairy Miguel laughed. “That’s what we like, eh, Miguel?”
When Miguel 2 smiled and turned to nod at his partner, Hakeem saw his moment. In a smooth, swift motion that he had practiced countless times over the past years in front of a mirror, he grabbed the .40 cal from his back, swung the weapon up, and pulled the trigger twice. The first round went into Miguel 2’s chest, and the second entered his skull just under his left eye. While Miguel 2 was still crumpling to the ground, Hakeem leveled the pistol at hairy Miguel’s face.
Seeing the gun, the man immediately dropped to the ground and began pleading for his life.
“Don’t worry, friend, my intent is not to hurt you,” Hakeem said in perfect Castilian Spanish. “Ah, I see by your face that you are surprised I speak Spanish. It seems there is more to me than meets the eye.”
“Please, sir! Don’t kill me! I will give you all of your money back and take you the rest of the way. Please don’t kill me!”
“I said I don’t plan to harm you . . . yet. And you will keep the money I have given you. I belong to an honorable people, and we pay what is due.”
“I am so sorry, sir. You truly are honorable. I never would have done this had I known the kind of man you are. In fact, Fabián forced me to renegotiate. I didn’t want to, but he—”
“Fabián? Is that his real name?”
“Yes, sir. Fabián Ramón Guerrero.”
“And what is yours?”
“I am Valentín Joaquín de Herrera. And you are . . . ?”
“Tired of listening to you. Toss your gun toward me.”
The coyote obeyed.
“Now, take out your other gun and throw it toward me.”
“But, sir, I have no other gun!” the man protested.
“Adios,” Hakeem said. He increased pressure on the trigger.
“Wait, wait!” Valentín reached deep into the front pocket of his cargo pants and brought out an ancient Colt Pocket Hammerless. The grip was wrapped with duct tape, and it looked like firing it would be more dangerous to the one holding the weapon than the one at whom it was pointed.
“That’s better. Now, do you have anything else that might be harmful to me—knives, box cutters, really sharp sticks? Before you answer, I want you to know that in a few moments I am going to have you strip down to nothing, and if I find that you were holding out on me at all, I will put two bullets into your stomach and watch you slowly bleed to death.”
Valentín’s hands dove into his pockets and brought out a utility blade, two ice picks, and one set of brass knuckles with the tops of the third and fourth rings broken out. He then began unbuttoning his shirt.
“No, wait,” Hakeem called out. “Seeing you undressed is an image that might possibly plague me for the rest of my life. Leave everything on the ground and get back in the truck. And don’t try to run. I am the Cheetah, and I will surely catch you.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Valentín ran to the truck and jumped in through the driver’s door.
Hakeem slowly walked around the back of the truck. As soon as he was sure the coyote couldn’t see him, he began shaking all over. He had killed a man—pointed a gun, pulled the trigger, and lodged a bullet in a person’s brain. His knees felt weak.
But this was ridiculous! Hadn’t he just been responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of people? Yes, but this was the first time he had pulled the trigger himself. This was the first time he had directly caused a body to topple to the ground.
Do I feel remorse? No. Would I do anything differently? No. Then why am I shaking? If it’s not fear and it’s not remorse, then what is it? Maybe it’s adrenaline. That’s got to be it. It’s excitement. Another step in making me the avenger my destiny says that I am. I have been blooded! Oh, Uncle, if you could see me now!
The shaking subsided, but the energy did not. It continued to well up inside him. Hakeem laughed, and then he slammed his fist into the side of the truck. Finally he drew in as much of the early morning air as he could and let out an ear-shattering howl at the sunrise.
Chapter 21
Thursday, January 1
Federal Bureau of Investigation, Denver Field Office
Denver, Colorado
It had been twenty minutes since Riley had passed through the second set of security clearances, and he was starting to get a bit antsy. Although the lounge area had soft chairs, it did not seem a place in which one was meant to get comfortable. There was no reading material on the end tables, and there were no prints on the walls. The only decorative items of any kind were a large aquarium at the front of the room and an old television that still had knobs on the front.
Riley began pacing across the room, rehearsing for the fiftieth time the words he was going to say when the door to the inner sanctum opened. He kept finding his concentration broken by the smack of the air bubbles trapped under the poorly laid vinyl flooring with every other step he took. In an effort to drown out that incredibly irritating sound, on his next pass to the front of the room Riley twisted the On/Volume knob of the television.
The tinny voice of a female reporter sounded through the twenty-year-old speakers: “. . . and Baltimore, around the country, and around the world are still reeling as they try to cope with Monday night’s attack at Platte River Stadium.”
Riley turned toward the TV as the picture cut to a man with an American flag bandanna wrapped around his head and riding leathers covering the rest of his body. “This is what we get for letting them A-rabs in the country to begin with! They want a fight? I say we press the button and give the whole Middle East a nuclear shower!”
A quick camera change brought another face to the screen—a twentysomething with an eyebrow ring and a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt. “What do we expect? We’ve been pushing our imperialistic agenda against the oil-producing countries of the Middle East for decades. Should we be surprised when they fight back? This one’s on you, Mr. President!”
Another cut landed in an office, which, judging by the enormous number of books stacked on and around the desk, belonged to an academic. A font at the bottom of the screen identified the bespectacled gentleman as Dr. Martin Vatsaas, PhD, Distinguished Professor of Behavioral Science, University of Colorado at Boulder. “People will try to cope with this tragedy however they best can. Some will blame; others will lash out. Many will huddle with friends and family, trying to process the events of Monday night. I think the reactions will be very similar to the aftermath of 9/11. We can expect to see this country experience a temporary unification—socially and politically. We can also expect to see violence against people of Middle Eastern descent rise dramatically.”
The picture switched back to the network reporter standing outside of Platte River Stadium. “Not surprisingly, PFL fans across the nation have had mixed reactions to the announcement that the owners of the Colorado Mustangs and the Baltimore Predators have offered to forfeit Monday night’s game in order to, quote, ‘let our players, our staff, and our fans begin the healing process.’ They also believe that this will, quote, ‘allow the Pro Football League the best potential for carrying on with this year’s PFL Cup tournament.’ Eli Boermann, commissioner of the PFL, issued a statement offering his condolences and gratitude to the football clubs and the cities of Denver and Baltimore.
“As I stand here, hundreds of people surround me, and thousands of flowers, stuffed animals, candles, and cards surround the fence of Platte River Stadium. Prayers are being said and
tears are being shed for the almost two thousand people who died as the people of Denver try to find answers to this tragedy. This is Marcia Roland, ABC News.”
Riley twisted the television off and turned to discover that he was no longer alone in the lounge. Another man, who apparently had slipped in while Riley’s attention was focused on the TV, was now sitting across the small room from him. The man looked to be in his early twenties and wore a lined jean jacket and a skullcap imprinted with the number 100 surrounded by a broken circle. The two gave each other a quick nod.
Riley took a chair and hoped—too late—not to be recognized. Unfortunately, it seemed like the young man had already come to the realization that he was sharing the room with a Colorado Mustang, which was the last thing Riley wanted to deal with. The man kept glancing from his worn paperback copy of A Time to Kill and was looking like he was trying to get up enough nerve to say something. Riley watched him from the corner of his eye. Typically he was fine with fans introducing themselves or saying something to him. But he had way too much on his mind today to have to try to be friendly. The pain of the attack and of losing his best friend had not diminished much in the last few days.
The guy seemed to get his nerve up and began to rise, but Riley beat him to the punch and quickly stood and walked to the aquarium.
The young man sat back down.
Riley spent the next fifteen minutes looking into the aquarium before finally coming to the conclusion that it was totally devoid of any marine life.
Finally the door flew open, and Scott Ross came bounding in, throwing his arms around Riley. “Pach! I’m so sorry I kept you waiting!”
“No problem,” Riley replied as they separated. “I was just admiring the fish tank.”
“Yeah, isn’t that an odd thing? They tell me some people will spend fifteen minutes staring at that thing before they realize there’s no fish in there. Imagine that.”
“Yeah, who’da thunk?” Riley said, quickly scanning around to see if there were cameras that had been monitoring him.
Scott looked behind Riley and said, “Hey, Todd! I heard they were bringing you back in. Riley, I want you to meet a genuine hero. Riley Covington, this is Todd Penner. Todd, Riley.”
“Todd Penner? The hot chocolate guy?” Riley walked across the room, inwardly kicking himself for having snubbed him. He stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Todd shook his hand and seemed to struggle to find the right words to say. “Thanks. . . . I mean . . . I only did what anyone else would do.”
“No, actually you did what seventy thousand other fans couldn’t or didn’t do. Thanks. . . . Truly, man, thanks.” Riley finally let go of Todd’s hand as Scott walked over.
“Well, Todd, now that you’ve had the excitement of meeting the incomparable Riley Covington, you need to promise me that you won’t tell anyone that you saw him here.”
Todd looked surprised for a moment; then he gave a faint smile and said, “That’s fine, Mr. Ross. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over these past few days, it’s to never ask why.”
“Thanks, bud. C’mon, Riley.”
Riley gave Todd’s hand one final shake before he and Scott walked out of the room together.
“So, Scott, it’s been what, three years?”
“Sounds about right. Tell you what, Pach, I really want to catch up with you, but we need to talk business first. Then you can tell me what it’s like being Mr. All-Star.” Scott held a second set of doors open for Riley, and the two of them headed down to a bank of conference rooms. “First, I want to tell you how sorry I am about what happened Monday night. I’ve heard stories about what you personally went through. You holding up okay?”
“Yeah. The whole experience has brought back some tough memories, though.”
“I bet.”
As they walked, Riley ran his mind through the little speech he had prepared to give to Scott. But he had neither the mood nor the desire to do anything except cut to the chase. “Scott, I want back in. I don’t know how to do it, and I don’t know who to talk to, but I’ve got to get back in.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Riley said, thrown by the question. “Why do you think? They just blew up our stadium! We had nineteen hundred people blown apart or trampled to death! They put thirty-five hundred more into the hospital! What do you mean ‘why’?”
“Let me rephrase the question. Why you?”
The question stopped Riley, and he stood trying to think how to answer Scott. What do I say—rage, anger, hatred, a desire for vengeance? Why am I really here? Because I want to cut the heart out of the people who ripped the heart out of me?
He slowly began walking again. “I don’t know, Scott,” he said softly. “I guess . . . I guess I don’t want to be on the outside looking in. These people came into my house, they went after my people, they killed my best friend, and now . . . I guess I want to return the favor. When you called me to come down here for questioning, I thought . . . well, whatever—I needed to give it a shot.”
Scott had stopped in front of a conference room door. He had that trademark Scott Ross grin on his face—sort of an “I-know-what-Santa’s-going-to-bring-you-for-Christmas-but-I’m-not-telling-you-yet” look. As he opened the door, he said, “Pach, I think you’re going to like what you’re about to hear.”
Riley followed Scott into the room. Inside was a long table from which two people were standing up to greet the newcomers.
Scott made the introductions. “Riley Covington, this is Khadi Faroughi. She’s a CTD agent who is fluent in Arabic and knows the counterterrorism business inside and out.”
As Khadi and Riley shook hands, he noticed that although her hand felt fragile and was cold from being in the climate-controlled conference room, her grip was as strong as any man’s he knew.
“Mr. Covington, I’m so sorry about what you’ve gone through. I can’t imagine what these past three days have been like for you.”
“Thanks, Katie.”
“That’s Kha-DI—with a D,” Scott interrupted with a barely suppressed smile.
Khadi glared at him.
“And this is Jim Hicks. He’s the head of our operation.”
Riley gave the customary shake to Hicks, but one word in Scott’s introduction had started his mind racing. He turned to Scott. “Our operation?”
Hicks broke in before Scott had a chance to answer. “Mr. Covington, why don’t you have a seat?”
As Riley and the others sat, Hicks continued. “I’m going to cut to the chase here and then let Khadi fill you in on all the details later. The people who were responsible for the attack on the Mall of America are the same ones who masterminded the attack at Platte River Stadium. We know a bit about who they are and a bit more about where they come from. We have been authorized by the secretary of Homeland Security to form two off-the-record teams—black ops, you might call them—to go and hunt these people down. I’m leading one of the teams. Scott’s got the other one but needs someone to head up the operations side. For some reason, he’s got you in mind for this position.
“Now, personally, I think it’s insanity to bring in some pretty-boy PFL player who’s three years out of his military service to head an ops team. And I’ve spent the better part of the last two days trying to convince Scott of that. However, he’s sure that you’re the guy. Even though Europe is very different from Afghanistan. Even though you’re used to straight military ops, not undercover. Even though you’ve got a personal stake in this and you’ll probably let your emotions cloud your judgment. Even though—”
“Jim,” Scott interrupted, “we’ve been through this. You don’t know Riley; I do. You’ve gotta trust me on this one.”
Hicks heaved a big sigh and turned back to Riley. “Scott’s an odd duck, but he is rarely, if ever, wrong. So, although it goes against all my better judgment, I’m giving you the green light to be part of this team.”
Riley sat staring at the table. There were so man
y emotions coursing through him—appreciation to Scott for believing in him; anger and wounded pride because of Hicks’s words; excitement, fear, and a bit of “what-are-you-getting-yourself-into” as he thought of what might be ahead of him.
Finally he looked up. “Okay, Mr. Hicks. Pretty Boy’s got some questions before he says yes or no. First, you said Scott’s leading the team, but then I heard you say it’s insanity to bring me in to head it. Which is it?”
“The team is mine, Pach,” Scott answered. “You follow my lead on where we’re heading and on intel gathering. I, in turn, will follow your lead when it comes to extractions and the actual placing of bullets into the bodies of others.”
“Extractions? You mean like people-snatching?”
Hicks answered, “There are a few people we really would like to talk to who probably won’t be too fired up to talk to us. So by extraction we mean you grab them and then convince them to tell us what we want to know.”
“Convince them. Like show them both sides of the issue and hope they choose correctly? Or are you talking about the ‘attach-electrodes-and-crank-up-the-juice’ kind of convincing?”
“Guess what, Mr. Covington?” Hicks exploded. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a rough, nasty world out there! If you don’t have the—”
“Listen, Hicks,” Riley shot back, “I need to know what kind of operation I’m looking at and what my parameters are! All you’ve done since I walked into this room is doubt Scott and dog me! So unless you’re going to start contributing something to this conversation other than questioning my abilities, feel free to pull yourself out of it.”
Hicks was on his feet. “Son, I was running ops back when you were skinning up your knees pretending to be Joe Montana with a Nerf football in your backyard! And remember one more thing: I am in charge of this whole operation! So I will contribute to this conversation whatever I think I need to contribute to this conversation! You understand?”
Riley stood abruptly, his chair clattering backward across the floor behind him. But before he had a chance to respond, Khadi spoke up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Come on, guys. We’ve all been through a lot this past week. Let’s slow it down a bit, okay?”
Monday Night Jihad Page 20
