Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  Skeeter started to protest, but Hicks cut him off. “Skeet, with your height, I need you in this Town Square place, right inside the entrance. I want you looking at every face that comes in or out. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Skeeter clearly wasn’t thrilled at the idea of allowing Riley out of his sight, but he was a soldier, and Hicks knew he would follow orders.

  “Riley and Khadi, you take the left side of Main Street. Scott and I’ll take the right. And people, we shoot to kill. Everyone got that? Riley?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Riley answered. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Fine. Any questions? Good. We’re five minutes out. Lock and load.”

  * * *

  4:32 p.m. PST

  Hakeem used the time between the two-minute warning and the end of the half to pray. All doubts were gone now. His time had almost come.

  “And that’ll do it for the first half, with the New York Liberty leading the New York Dragons by four,” Hakeem heard through his earbuds. “Stay tuned for our halftime show, coming your way in—”

  Hakeem clicked off the radio. Then he stood, dropped it in a garbage can, and walked toward the spot where his life would end.

  He stopped halfway down Main Street and faced back into the park. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small remote control device. On it were two buttons—one to arm and one to trigger.

  The four small bombs he had planted wouldn’t do much damage, but they would make a lot of noise and send up huge plumes of smoke, creating a panic that would drive the frightened people right toward him.

  The first button depressed with a click and remained down.

  This is for you, Father and Mother. This is for you, Uncle Ali. This is for you, sweet Alessandra.

  Hakeem took his last breath of calm sanity—catching a faint smell of peppermint from the candy shop next to him—and pushed the second button.

  * * *

  4:35 p.m. PST

  They were two miles out. The Black Hawk was coming in very low, just barely clearing the buildings below. Suddenly four black clouds rose up from the park ahead.

  “We’re late!” Hicks shouted. “Plan B! Everybody rig up! We’re going to have to drop onto Town Square at the entrance to Main Street to avoid the stampede! As soon as you’re down, push as hard as you can to move up that street! Hakeem will wait until the street fills up. That means we’ve got five minutes max before he detonates. This is it, people. Last chance.”

  * * *

  4:35 p.m. PST

  A stunned hush fell on the park as the mushrooms of smoke rose into the air. Everywhere around Hakeem, people froze in their tracks, eyes toward the sky.

  Then came a single scream, immediately opening the floodgates of panic as people shouted for their children and yelled for directions to the exits. Complete mayhem erupted as the guests tried to remember the way out of the park.

  Satisfied, Hakeem entered the Candy Palace; he needed a place where he could wait for the few remaining minutes. All the customers inside had rushed out to see what had happened, leaving him alone with the sole remaining employee. He walked through the store and around the counter. When the girl in the old-fashioned dress began to protest, Hakeem pressed his .40 cal to her chest and pulled the trigger. The teen crumpled to the ground.

  Hakeem looked back toward the entrance and noted with satisfaction that the noise and the panic outside had completely drowned out the sound of the shot. Adrenaline surged through his body as he took one last look at the girl to make sure she wasn’t moving. He moved to the front display window and stood watching the passing crowd begin to grow.

  So far, everything is working just as I planned.

  * * *

  4:39 p.m. PST

  The Black Hawk dropped to within thirty feet of the ground over Town Square, causing the already frantic people to slip into sheer panic. Five dark shadows appeared on the sides of the helicopter, then rapidly rappelled to the ground. When the team was down, they disconnected their lines, and the helicopter lifted back up.

  All around, people screamed and pointed at these five figures carrying automatic weapons. No one knew for sure whether this strange sight was the continuation of the attack or somebody coming to the rescue. No one wanted to risk finding out.

  People clambered over each other, trying to escape these possible terrorists. The only ones who weren’t frightened were some of the preadolescent boys who thought this show was way cooler than that cheesy one at Universal Studios. After the team separated, they were soon forgotten as the crowd continued its mad rush to the exit.

  * * *

  4:41 p.m. PST

  Even from inside the Candy Palace, the noise of the stampede was deafening. Parents had abandoned their strollers and were carrying their children, sometimes two and three at once. Older people were getting shoved aside as the younger ones raced past.

  That right there is the root cause of what is wrong in this society!

  Any ounce of pity Hakeem had ever felt for these people was gone. He slid the detonator from his sleeve and placed it in his hand. After a final quick prayer to Allah, he stepped out the door.

  Chapter 38

  Sunday, February 1

  Disneyland

  Anaheim, California

  4:44 p.m. PST

  Riley and Khadi fought hard against the flood of people. The crowd was pushing all around them. Forward progress through the sea of bodies was made even more difficult by the people’s terrified reaction to the M4 in Riley’s hands.

  As they forced their way down the left side of the street, Riley scanned the faces around him. He could hear soft voices as they passed him—parents whispering to their children, “It’s okay, baby,” “Daddy’s got you now,” “Mama loves her little angel.” Several times Riley passed people who had blood on their faces. Others were limping or being helped by family members. All kept their eyes straight ahead, trying with everything they had to reach their goal of the front gates.

  How many of these innocent victims will be killed if we don’t get to Sal in time? Riley wondered.

  His foot caught on something that almost made him lose his balance. He looked to his left in time to see an aluminum walker tipping over and an elderly woman go sprawling after it. Resisting the urge to stop and help, he pressed forward—only once looking back to see a young man trying to help the woman back up. Lord, please help these people!

  His height gave him a little advantage, and Riley was able to keep a fairly good view of the area around him. Khadi stuck close behind him. All the stores seemed to be abandoned—the employees either fleeing to the back lots or out the exit. Someone bumped hard into Riley’s side, sending a nasty message from his mending ribs to his brain’s pain sensors. He dropped one arm to protect his side.

  Up ahead, under a yellow and white awning, something caught Riley’s eye. In the midst of the river of flowing humanity, there was one stationary person pressed against a wall. Riley signaled to Khadi, and they pressed that direction. When they were ten yards away, the man removed his hat, dropped it onto the ground, and rubbed his bald head.

  “I think I’ve got a visual in front of the Candy Palace!” Riley yelled into his comm unit.

  “Are you sure?” Hicks’s voice answered.

  “Negative, not yet! Khadi, cut left and head up the storefronts. I’m going to confirm whether that’s Sal.”

  Khadi nodded her approval. “Be careful, Riley.”

  Riley pushed ahead, but the mass of people made forward progress difficult. Suddenly the man looked up, and Riley locked eyes with his best friend.

  Lord, don’t make me do this! Not Sal! Please don’t make me . . .

  Surprise showed on Hakeem’s face for just a moment before his body went flying backwards as a shot from Riley’s M4 hit him in the left shoulder.

  “It’s him! It’s him!” Riley cried as he struggled toward Hakeem.

  “I’m on him!” came Khadi’s voice in his ear.
“He’s down but still—”

  Two shots cut through the noise, and Riley turned in time to see Khadi’s head drop behind the crowd.

  “NO!” he shouted just before he felt two sets of arms grab him around the neck and try to pull him to the ground. As he struggled to break their grips, he felt his rifle stripped from his hands. Another hand grabbed for his sidearm.

  Riley drove his elbow into the chin of one of his assailants, sending him toppling. A low leg sweep followed by a forearm to the throat dropped the second.

  Riley didn’t stop to find out who these guys were, but a quick glance at the first blond-haired man lying stunned on the ground in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt told him they were Good Samaritans trying to take down the guy with the gun.

  With his shoulder down, Riley drove the last few feet through to the area that had cleared around Hakeem. The terrorist was struggling to roll his body onto his mangled left side. A detonator lay just out of his reach, but he was getting close to grabbing it.

  Riley dove for Hakeem, but Hakeem turned in time to fire two shots into Riley’s chest.

  Riley’s ballistic vest stopped the bullets from penetrating his body, but the impact drove the air from his lungs. He landed on top of Hakeem, causing both men to scream in pain.

  Blackness threatened to descend on Riley as Hakeem fought to push him off. Finally Riley felt his body being rolled sideways, even as he struggled to find the strength to stop Hakeem.

  And then Hakeem was free. He had the detonator in his hand.

  Over the sound of the screaming crowd, Riley heard Hakeem gasp, “Not this time, Riley. Allahu akhbar!”

  A loud bang and a hot liquid spray snapped Riley out of his semiconscious state. His eyes cleared, revealing the open back of Hakeem’s head. A few yards beyond, he could see Khadi lying on the ground, her gun in her hand.

  Riley wanted to go to her but knew that the detonator must still be in Hakeem’s hand or under his body. As he pushed himself up to look for it, a large, dark shape dove past him from behind, clipping his back and knocking him facedown again. When he looked up, he saw Skeeter lying on the ground, gingerly holding a wired metal cylinder. “’Scuse me, sir. I got the detonator. Now go get Khadi.”

  Riley nodded to his faithful bodyguard and stumbled toward Khadi. Sliding down next to her, he lifted her into his arms. He could feel the wetness of the blood that had pooled underneath her.

  “Medic!” Riley yelled into his comm unit. “Scott, get me a medic!”

  Khadi slowly shook her head. “He . . . he should have known, Riley. Never leave . . . never leave a sniper breathing.”

  Khadi smiled weakly, showing bloodstained teeth, rolled her head into Riley’s chest, and closed her eyes.

  Epilogue

  Thursday, April 16

  Paradisus Playa Conchal

  Guanacaste, Costa Rica

  The iguana lay on its back on a pool raft, a coconut shell drink in one scaly claw and the words Pura Vida in a speech balloon to the left of his mouth. The orange bucket hat upon which the lizard had been stitched was to Riley the single ugliest piece of headwear he had ever laid eyes on.

  “Remind me again,” he called out, “how much did you pay for that thing?”

  Scott Ross, who could have been the model used to create this masterpiece, tilted the hat off of his eyes and answered from the middle of the pool, “You can’t place a price on art, my friend. That’s why I snagged a second one of these beauties to take back to Tara.”

  “She’ll be thrilled.”

  Riley watched as a cabana girl waded over to Scott’s raft with another coconut shell brimming with Yoo-hoo, three multicolored paper umbrellas, two toothpick-skewered maraschino cherries, and one bendy straw. He smiled as he laid his head back on the deck chair, enjoying the coolness of the open-sided cabana’s shade.

  Riley was finally getting to the point where he could close his eyes without pictures of Platte River Stadium and Disneyland invading the darkness. But the what-ifs still plagued him—What if I had paid more attention to Sal back in Denver? What if I had dug deeper that Christmas Eve instead of putting a tough conversation off for another day? Why was my first reaction at Disneyland to put a bullet into my friend? Was there no other way? What kind of person does that make me?

  “Skeeter,” he said, knowing that this train of thought was taking him nowhere, “what time is it?”

  Skeeter, one cabana over, looked up from his copy of Goldsworthy’s The Fall of Carthage—a gift from Scott—and replied, “Five minutes since you asked last. Relax, Pach.”

  Riley sat up quickly and gave Skeeter an incredulous look. “Wait a second! You’re telling me to relax? Excuse me, but do you see anyone else around this pool with long pants and boots on? anyone else in this sunny tropical paradise wearing all black? You look like a giant shadow of someone who’s not having a good time!”

  “At least it matches,” Scott interjected from the pool.

  “What?”

  “The all black—at least it matches his piece.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, can you imagine Skeet wearing one of those green and red tropical shirts accessorized with that black nylon shoulder holster? What a horrible fashion faux pas that would be.”

  “First off, I am not going to discuss clothing with you of all people—the walking fashion faux pas himself. Second . . . second, I don’t even remember what this whole discussion is about.”

  “Score one for the faux pas,” Scott said as he slipped his hat over his eyes again.

  Riley stared after Scott, then leaned back into his chair again, laughing. This trip had turned out to be everything he had hoped for, especially considering that his idea for bringing the team down to Costa Rica for some much needed R and R had initially seemed like it would be a no-go. Most of the members of Mustang team had already been redeployed to their old positions. Jim Hicks had appreciated the offer but declined, saying he was concerned he would get so bored on a beach vacation that he would start trying to stir up rebels to overthrow the Costa Rican government.

  But ultimately, the trip had been just what Riley needed—a lot of laughs, a little bit of adventure, and a bucketful of escape. There were no phone calls, no inquiries, no depositions, and best of all, no media. One week into the two-week trip, he was finally feeling like he was decompressing.

  “Hey, Skeet, what time is it?”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Covington,” came a female voice from behind him, “someplace you need to be?”

  Riley turned with relief to see Khadi standing there. She was dressed in hiking shorts and a wispy buttoned shirt that showed just a hint of the scarring on her shoulder. She had gone into the town of Tamarindo by herself, insisting on some “time away from the guys.” Riley had wanted to send Skeeter with her, but for some reason she had felt that might defeat the away-from-the-guys aspect of her excursion.

  As Khadi stretched out in the neighboring lounge chair, Riley closed his eyes again. “Actually,” he answered, “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.”

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  Lots of people have asked me how I made the jump from football to fiction. It’s a fair question!

  The genesis of Monday Night Jihad goes back about ten years to when my brother started keeping a journal of all the football stories I told. He always tried to talk me into writing a book, but for a long time it wasn’t something that interested me. Then about a year and a half ago, I began to think about the possibility of incorporating a military/terrorist element with all of my own football experiences. My goal was to give readers a great story full of action, adventure, a little bit of romance, and of course, football.

  After having lengthy discussions with my pastor, Rick Yohn, about the concept, I remember asking God to show me whether or not this was something He would like me to pursue. Eventually I became convinced to go forward. My desire in writing this book was—and still is—to contrast the
more radical elements of Islam with what I view as true Christianity.

  Many have attempted to distort the Jesus of the Bible, and so my hope and prayer is to honor the real Jesus. Second Corinthians 11:4 speaks of people who preach about a Jesus who is “different” from the true Son of God. My hope is that through this story each reader sees Jesus Christ for who He is—the eternal God who created all things. He is the God-man who took on human form to bring us hope. He is the one who allowed Himself to be the perfect sacrifice for us all. He is the one who suffered a brutal death on a Roman cross. He is the one who physically rose up from the grave. He is the one who now indwells all believers. He is the one who will return to take those who believe in Him to be with Him for all eternity. It is to this Jesus that I dedicate this book.

  Thanks for taking the time to read Monday Night Jihad; I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as Steve and I have enjoyed working on it. Be looking for our next Riley Covington thriller, due in stores in early 2009!

  Sincerely,

  Jason Elam

  About the Authors

  Jason Elam was born in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida, and grew up in Atlanta, Georgia. In 1988, Jason received a full football scholarship to the University of Hawaii, where he played for four years, earning academic All-America and Kodak All-America honors. He graduated in 1992 with a BS in communications and was drafted in the third round of the 1993 NFL draft by the Denver Broncos.

  In 1997 and 1998, Jason won two back-to-back World Championships with the Broncos and was selected to participate in the Pro Bowl in 1995, 1998, and 2001. He is currently working on an MA in global apologetics at Liberty Theological Seminary and has an abiding interest in Middle East affairs, the study of Scripture, and defending the Christian faith. Jason is a licensed commercial airplane pilot and lives in Denver, Colorado, with his wife, Tamy, and their family.