Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  Kruse and Johnson ran back to where Hicks lay on top of Posada. They each picked a man up and carried him the rest of the way to the waiting vans. As they laid the two men in the back of the first van, they saw Guitiérrez working hard to stem the flow of blood from Musselman’s chest.

  Farther back in the vehicle, they saw Riley. His eyes were closed and his head was lying in Khadi’s lap. Scott sat next to him trying his best to tend to some of his former lieutenant’s wounds. At Riley’s feet squatted Skeeter, M4 at the ready.

  It would be thirty-six hours before anyone could finally convince the big man to put down his gun and leave Riley’s side.

  Chapter 31

  Thursday, January 22

  Department of Homeland Security Headquarters, Nebraska Avenue Complex

  Washington, D.C.

  There were a lot of things in this world that CTD Midwest Division Chief Stanley Porter didn’t like. He didn’t like French wine. He didn’t like black-tie dinners. He didn’t like designated hitters. He didn’t like his wife’s lasagna. But what Stanley Porter truly liked least in this world were pompous, self-absorbed, shortsighted, bureaucratic dolts like Director of Homeland Security Dwayne Moss.

  “All I’m saying is that we’ve got to take some major precautions at the PFL Cup next week,” Porter said, sitting on the edge of his seat. The chair was way too soft and way too deep for him to sit back and still make his point.

  “Because some PFL player turned secret agent thinks he overheard something while being tortured? I’d venture to say he was probably hearing everything from archangels to his dead grandmother,” replied Secretary Moss, who was settled comfortably back in his imported Argentine leather wingback chair. His feet were kicked up on the mahogany coffee table that separated the two men, and his chin was resting on the two index fingers extended from his interlaced hands. “I mean, really, Stan, is that the best you can give me?”

  “What do you want? Are you expecting an engraved invitation to the jihad party at the PFL Cup? BYOB—bring your own bomb! Mr. Secretary, you know that’s not the way this business is run.”

  “Oh, I know all right. I’ve been a professional in this business for twenty-five years now.”

  Porter wanted to reply that he had meant the international law enforcement business, not the special-interest-kowtowing, keep-yourself-in-office-no-matter-what, governmental-leech business—but he thought better of it. “What I’m saying is that Riley Covington heard some very specific words from a man who was his best friend for two years. These words led him to believe that the PFL Cup would be the Cause’s next target. He so strongly believed this to be true that it was the one message he secretly communicated in a video, after which he fully expected to be killed.”

  “Now, now—as you know, Stan, just because somebody believes something doesn’t make it true. I could believe that the moon was made of mozzarella cheese, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to go there to make a pizza.” Moss failed to hold in a smile at his own witty remark.

  Porter looked down at his feet, trying to control his exasperation. When he composed himself enough to look up again, he said, “While that’s a very valid point, Mr. Secretary, it still doesn’t negate the fact that we have a potentially serious, possibly even devastating, situation on our hands.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little overstated? From what I’ve been led to believe, the head and the heart of the Cause were removed in Paris and in Italy. Do we really think that they have the ability to do anything more? Especially when you think of the level of security that is already going to exist at the game. I mean, Sal Ricci would have to be Houdini to penetrate their perimeter. You don’t think he’s Houdini, do you, Stan?”

  “No, sir, I do not think he’s Houdini.” But what I wouldn’t give to buckle you into a straitjacket and dump you in a milk can, Porter finished to himself.

  This conversation was going nowhere; Porter decided it was time to abandon intellectual integrity in favor of expediency. “When it comes down to it, you are right, sir. The evidence is shaky at best.”

  Secretary Moss nodded.

  “I’m just concerned about what another attack on your watch might do to your future. People will forgive you for not doing anything to prevent the Platte River attack. I mean, how could you have known?”

  “Impossible to anticipate,” Moss agreed.

  “But another attack would most likely look really bad. Think of the way your opponents could use that against you if you ever decided to seek higher office.”

  Secretary Moss was now leaning forward in his chair. “I see what you’re saying . . . not that my personal career matters at all to me compared to national security.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I just wouldn’t want anything to happen to those American citizens in L.A.” He pondered this for a few moments and then shook his head. “But I’m afraid my hands are tied. The president’s declared this a National Special Security Event, so the Secret Service is handling the security for this PFL Cup. And although they are technically under the Department of Homeland Security, they’ve always been pretty much an entity unto themselves. They don’t like me intruding into their area of responsibility, nor do I like to do it.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. All I’m asking for is permission to take this information to the Secret Service. I’ll let them know that I’m not looking to interfere at all in what they’re doing for security—in fact, I can supply them with additional warm bodies from CTD if they would like. But I will ask that my two ops teams be allowed on-site and that they be given free rein.”

  “What? You want me to let Jim Hicks and his loose cannons into the PFL Cup? They’ll probably blow the place up themselves!”

  “Listen, Moss!” Porter shouted as he jumped out of his chair. Then he caught himself and slowly lowered himself back into his seat. Remember who you’re dealing with, he told himself. Expecting Moss to understand the ins and outs of international security issues is like asking a six-year-old to understand the intricacies of astrophysics.

  The secretary settled himself comfortably into his chair and put his feet back on the coffee table.

  Porter’s outburst had given the upper hand back to Moss, and the DC regretted it. “Please, sir. Hicks and company understand the Cause better than anyone I know. I’m just concerned how it might look if something happened and you had kept the most knowledgeable people out of the stadium. Besides, you’re too bright a man to let that happen.”

  Secretary Moss smiled. He clearly knew when he was being kissed up to, and he obviously liked it. “Okay, Stan, I’ll talk to Secret Service Director LeBlanc. However, I’m holding you responsible for Hicks and company’s actions. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, sir,” Porter said, rising out of his chair.

  “Wait a minute. Sit . . . sit. There’s one more thing. In exchange for this little arrangement, I want the Scorpion delivered here for trial. We need to show the world how America metes out justice to those who dare take her on.”

  Porter, recognizing another man’s photo opportunity when he saw it, protested, “Sir, pardon me, but that is insane! Do you realize the risk we would be bringing to our shores by trying him here?”

  “Still, I think it’s important for our citizens to see the face of the man responsible for these attacks, especially when he is convicted. Besides, I want to look at this man eye to eye.”

  Yeah, while the flashbulbs are popping, Porter thought. “I’ll see what we can do.”

  He rose and walked around the coffee table to the secretary. Moss extended his hand in a way that had the DC wondering if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He opted for the shake. He stood for a moment, staring at the secretary’s extended legs, which were blocking the direct way out. Then, wisely choosing what his head told him to do over what his heart said, Porter walked back around the table and out the door.

  Thursday, January 22

  Landstuhl Regional Medical Center
/>   Kaiserslautern Military Community

  Ramstein, Germany

  Riley’s eyes fluttered, then opened. The light in the room felt like a sledgehammer to his skull, so he quickly closed them again.

  Where am I? From his brief glance, he could tell he was in a hospital room—where, he had no clue. One by one, he wiggled his fingers and toes. They all moved, though not without some serious discomfort. So, everything is in operating order—nothing severed, nothing broken.

  Next question: how did I get here? His brain started rewinding its tape. He saw the rescue—Skeeter and Guitiérrez coming through the darkness. He saw the room where he had been cuffed to the floor; twin fires in his left wrist and shoulder protested the recollection. He saw the chair he had been tied to when they—

  Lord . . . how could they have done those things to me?

  He felt the knife across his chest and side, the bat against his stomach, the cane against his feet, the electrodes against—

  A wave of nausea rose through his body, mercifully taking over his thoughts. He rode the wave out until his insides settled again.

  He hadn’t seen anyone in the moment his eyes had been open, but he knew he wasn’t alone. The sound of fingers on a laptop keyboard was evidence of that. As Riley listened, he recognized a very distinct pattern—one he had heard many times before. A quick burst of keys, followed by the tap-tap-tap of the backspace.

  “Hey, Scott,” he rasped.

  “Pach! Oh, man!” Riley heard the clap of the laptop being closed. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like my head was used by Evander Holyfield as a speed bag. Any chance of dousing those lights?”

  “Of course!”

  When he heard the click of the overhead lights shutting off, Riley slowly cracked his eyes—this time with more long-term success. “Where am I?”

  “Does something tell you we’re not in Italy anymore, Dorothy?” Scott laughed, and Riley forced a smile, though his friend’s enthusiasm for Riley’s consciousness was making the hammers in his head increase their pace. Seeing Riley’s expression, Scott continued, “Sorry, man. You know me—mouth first, brain second. We’re at Ramstein. Look familiar?”

  Riley nodded faintly, thinking back to the last time he had been here. His hand traveled toward the scar on his hip but was halted by the pain that the movement caused in the rest of his body.

  Scott handed him a small, clear cup of water.

  Suddenly a thought thundered into Riley’s mind, and he quickly turned to Scott, spilling the water as he did. “The PFL Cup! Did you get my message about the PFL Cup?”

  “Yeah, we did. I passed the info on to Division Chief Porter, who was going to take it up the chain.”

  “I knew you’d figure it out, Scott,” Riley said with a sigh of relief before a wave of nausea overtook him. He quickly signaled Scott for the small bucket that was sitting on his bed stand for just such an occasion. Riley heaved for a full minute, but nothing came out. The only nourishment he’d had over the last four days was from the IV that was still in his arm.

  When he was done, he nodded to Scott, who took the empty bucket from him. As he lay back, another recollection came. This one had him glad that the overhead fluorescents were off and the only light in the room was that of the afternoon sun slipping through the blinds. Pain seared through his chest as he reached up to wipe his eyes. Quietly, he said, “Sal Ricci, Scott . . . Sal is Hakeem.”

  “Yeah, we know. I’m so sorry, Pach.”

  “I still can’t . . .” Riley stopped to collect his emotions. The wound was still too raw for him to dwell there. “So, tell me how I got here,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Well, after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, we booked on down to Bari, picked up al-’Aqran, then grabbed our Gulfstream at the Bari International Airport.”

  Riley nodded his understanding, and then a thought struck him. “Wait, wasn’t our jet parked up at Aviano?”

  “Yeah, but Jim called it down. He figured that us getting out of there quickly was more important than getting out of there quietly—especially with you and Gilly.”

  “Gilly? What happened to Gilly?” Riley asked, trying to sit up in bed but failing.

  “Gilly’s going to be fine. He took a bullet to the left side—cracked some ribs, but it missed the organs. Guitiérrez kept him stabilized for the two-hour flight, and then the docs here got him patched up.”

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  “Jim got shaken up pretty good covering Gilly when we brought the building down. He’s feeling all fifty-whatever of his years. And . . . well . . . I don’t know if you remember Brad Musselman from the training, but he took some rounds to the shoulder and chest. He . . . he bled out before we even got on the plane.”

  Riley closed his eyes. The reality of a man dying while trying to rescue him rocked him. He had spent his life with the attitude that he would willingly sacrifice himself for the sake of someone else. But having the tables turned on him was not something he was prepared for.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Scott said, “and you would have died trying to do the same thing for him—we all would have. That’s part of what we do.”

  Riley nodded. It certainly put his own pain in perspective. Maybe horrific things had been done to him, but at least he was still alive.

  A knock on the door drew his attention. Khadi came in, and Hicks limped in behind her.

  “Riley, you’re awake,” said Khadi, whose concern was evidenced by how quickly she walked to his bedside. She rested her hand on his arm as she struggled to compose herself.

  Riley managed a small smile for her.

  “Yeah, he just popped his eyes open about five minutes ago,” Scott explained. “I’ve been telling him about Gilly and Brad.”

  “Jim, I’m so sorry about Brad,” Riley said. “I . . . if I had . . .”

  “He did it willingly,” Hicks replied. “When he saw your tape, you won him over. You won all of us over. But even if he hadn’t seen the tape, Brad knew what he was getting into. He died a hero.”

  The room was silent for a couple of minutes. Khadi pulled a chair near Riley’s bed and slowly stroked his arm. The friction was shooting needles of pain through Riley’s overly sensitive nerve endings, but he refused to stop her. Gentle human contact, in contrast to what he had experienced over the last days, was worth the price.

  Hicks hobbled over to the windowsill. He shifted a few times, trying to find a sitting position that was comfortable. Finally he gave up and stood against the wall.

  Khadi spoke up. “So, did Scott tell you what the doctors have said about you?”

  “No, but let me guess. Pneumonia or something in the right lung. Infected lacerations on my chest and side. Various contusions and abrasions.”

  “Not bad, Dr. Covington,” Scott said. “But you missed the bruised kidney and the mild concussion.”

  “The doctors want to keep you here for observation and recovery,” Khadi informed him.

  “How long?”

  “They’re talking about a week.”

  Riley shook his head and turned to Hicks. “When are we heading out of here?”

  The movement of Khadi’s hand on Riley’s arm abruptly stopped.

  “You need to listen to the doctors, Riley,” Hicks answered. “Pneumonia’s nothing to be—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Give me a break, Jim. What would you do in my position? Would you just lie back in a hospital bed while your team put their lives on the line?” A fit of coughing stopped Riley’s words for a moment, as if audibly protesting against everything that he was saying. Eventually he continued, his voice grating in his throat. “And what would you do if you found out that your best friend was actually your worst enemy? Come on; nobody knows Sal like I do. You know that. You need me there, and I need to be there. So tell them to load me up with penicillin and get me out of here.”

  Hicks was silent. There was no question as to what he would do if he were in Riley’s situat
ion. But he still looked far from convinced that it was the right thing.

  Khadi stared at him with fire in her eyes. “Jim, you’re not actually considering this? Tell him he needs to be in a hospital where the doctors can monitor him! Tell him he needs to—”

  “Okay, Riley,” Hicks interrupted. “The commander here, Colonel Mark Amel, and I go way back together—all the way to Cambodia in ’72. Let me talk to him.”

  Khadi stood up and gave Hicks a look that would have bristled the hair off a warthog, then stormed out of the room without another word to Riley or anyone else.

  “I’m no great judge of the subtle signals that women give,” Scott said, “but I’m thinking that Khadi might not agree with your decision.”

  Hicks chuckled, and Riley tried to squeeze out a smile.

  “Well, I’m going to go track the colonel down,” Hicks said as he walked to the door, but suddenly he stopped himself short. “I almost forgot the whole reason I came to find you, Scott. Riley, this’ll interest you, too. Stan Porter got us all-access at the PFL Cup from the Secret Service. Now we just have to figure out how we’re going to use it. Also, how’s this for a little twist: apparently Secretary Moss wants us to bring al-’Aqran back to the States so he can put on a show trial.”

  “He wants what?” Scott cried. “We might as well paint a giant bull’s-eye for the terrorists on whatever city hosts those proceedings. It’ll be a regular old bomb-o-rama.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Porter figured. So his recommendation was that we accidentally lose the Scorpion in one of the CIA’s black-site prisons.”

  “Wait,” Riley interjected, “are those the supposed secret Eastern European facilities? I remember hearing about them on the news. The CIA’s line was that they don’t really exist.”

  “They’re right; those prisons don’t exist,” Hicks confirmed. “And once the Scorpion is incarcerated in one, neither will he.”