by Jason Elam
Suddenly, the door opened behind Riley. He jumped up, slamming his knee into the table leg. “Oh, stinkdog!” he yelled, grabbing his wounded joint as he turned around.
Simmons was there laughing. “Buddy, you’ve got to learn some better cussword substitutes. I was just wondering if I should take the food off. It’s looking pretty done.”
Riley had totally forgotten about the barbecue. “Yeah, please. Thanks.”
“You okay, man? And what’s up with Rambo out there?”
“I’m fine. Just bring the food inside, if you would, and I’ll tell you about it when you get in. I don’t think Skeeter’s going to be eating with us.”
As Riley watched Simmons pull the steaks off the grill, he tried to think through how to break the news to his teammate. Simmons still carried a long scar on his leg from the December attack on Platte River Stadium. Riley knew that his emotional scar was a lot bigger.
What a shame, Riley thought as Simmons carried the food toward the door. Even with all this great food, I think Simm’s about to become the third person to completely lose his appetite.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FRIDAY, MAY 15, 7:30 P.M. PDT HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA
Hundreds of flashes lit up the warm California night. The premier of Larry Matthew’s latest directorial work was certainly a cause to be celebrated, and all the beautiful people of Hollywood had come out to do just that. Long cars, short dresses, and big jewels were evident all around. The red carpet was stretched out, and the rope barriers on either side could barely contain the entertainment reporters and paparazzi who were all shouting out, “Taylor! Taylor!” trying to get the attention of the costar of the film as he made his way to the entrance.
In the middle of this media circus, Naheed Yamani held her camera up and let its shutter click off a series of pictures. When the furor died down, she gave a squeeze to the excessively hairy arm of the man standing next to her. “I’m so glad you’re here to help me, Wes! I don’t know what I’d be doing if I hadn’t found you.”
Wes, who had the appearance of a man for whom female attention was not commonplace, got a big smile on his face. “You just lift your camera when I lift mine and point it in the same direction. We’ll get you through this.”
Naheed rapidly clapped her hands as she bounced up and down. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! If I don’t get these pictures, my boss will kill me, and I absolutely need this job. Oh look, here comes another one!”
A black Lincoln stretch limousine pulled up to the curb. Wes and a hundred other photographers got their cameras at the ready, elbowing each other to get the right position. Naheed followed suit. As the next batch of beautiful people stepped out of the car and made their way down the carpet, the cameras all started clicking and whirring, and shouts of “Ashley! Ashley!” filled the air.
While everyone’s attention was on the young celebrity couple, Naheed took the opportunity to look around at the security. No police or rent-a-cops seemed to be near her position in the middle of the media mob. Her placement seemed perfect.
“You can put your camera down now,” Wes said with a grin. “Besides, you forgot to press that little button on top that we talked about.”
Naheed looked at her camera like she had just now discovered it in her hands. “Oh! You’re right! I don’t know what happened! I just froze!” Tears began forming in her eyes.
Suddenly, the crowd swelled up again. “Lana! Lana!” Lana paused on the carpet as if she were actually astonished to hear her name. She let the look of surprise slide into her well-rehearsed, million-dollar smile. After giving a final wave, she continued into the theater.
“I stink at this! I’m so busted,” Naheed said as she grabbed Wes’s arm again and pressed her whole body up against his side.
Wes took a moment to experience each and every one of her curves, then answered, “Don’t cry. C’mon, I told you I’d get your back. I’ll tell you what, when I process my pics, I’ll shoot some off to you. They won’t be the same ones I’m using, but I can guarantee you they’ll still be great.”
Now the crocodile tears really flowed. “You’re an angel! You’re my big ol’ angel sent straight from heaven,” Naheed cried, pressing even tighter against him. Wes quickly handed her his handkerchief, the texture of which almost made her lose her lunch. “Thank you so, so, so, so much! But I’ll only let you do that on one condition.”
“Of course you can credit yourself for the pics.”
Naheed laughed and slapped his arm. “Not that, silly. You need to promise me that I can take you out for a drink when this is all done.”
Wes gave as big a bow as the cramped conditions allowed him and spoke using his renaissance faire voice. “Well, if that’s the cost these days for chivalry, m’lady, then I will gladly pay the price.”
Naheed replied with a curtsy. “My hero.” Wes’s big smile revealed teeth that made Naheed think of her great-uncle Abadi, whose rancid kisses all the girls hid to avoid.
After a moment, she said, “Oh goodness, I’ve been crying! I must look a mess!”
“You look beautiful,” Wes replied, instantly turning red.
Naheed gave him another playful slap on the arm. “Oh you! Flattery will get you everywhere! Actually, I really need to find a bathroom to freshen myself up.”
“Why do you need a bathroom? Here,” he said, turning his camera toward her, “you can look right into the reflection of my lens and—”
“Wes Freeman,” Naheed said, feigning indignation, “didn’t your mother ever teach you to never ask a girl why she needs to run to the restroom?”
Naheed squatted down and opened her backpack. Inside she found her small clutch purse. Right before pulling it out, however, she reached under the handbag and twisted a key. After pulling the key out and sliding it into the front zip pouch of her purse, Naheed stood back up and said, “You don’t mind if I leave my stuff here, do you? My boss gave me so much junk to bring, it weighs a ton!”
“Well, I’d hate for anything to happen to it while—”
“What could happen to it while the gallant Sir Wes is in charge? Ple-e-e-ase?”
Naheed could see Wes melting under her touch. “Sure. Let’s just put it right up against my legs so that I can feel it’s there.” He slid the bag up against himself. “Holy smoke, you aren’t kidding! What do you have in this thing?”
“For me to know, and for you later to find out! But no peeky. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good, a girl’s got to have a few secrets,” Naheed said with a wink. She stood up on her toes and gave Wes a kiss on the cheek, then said with all the earnestness she could muster, “Wes Freeman, I’m glad I met you.”
“I’m glad too. Now go, so you can hurry back.”
Naheed began weaving her way through the crowd. She could feel Wes’s eyes on her back, so she turned around and gave him a coquettish wave. Wes responded with another half bow.
What an idiot, Naheed thought as she turned around. Talk about someone who deserves to die just for being so stupid!
The three blocks to the car seemed like an eternity to Naheed. She had forgotten to look at her watch when she activated the device, so she had no clue when it was going to go off. Although she didn’t feel bad about placing the bomb, she wasn’t sure if she actually wanted to hear it.
She had just started her engine when the blast reached her ears. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw the rising cloud of smoke. You’ve done it, girl! Welcome to the wonderful world of terrorism! She tried to smile, but something in her heart was tearing.
Okay, you knew this part might be tough. Just don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it.
Do you realize how many people you just killed?
Just don’t think about it!
People a couple hundred meters away with screws imbedded in their bodies.
Just don’t think about it!
How many kids? How many kids are screaming in pain right now, or will be screaming when they
find out their mommy or daddy’s just been blown to pieces?
JUST DON’T THINK ABOUT IT!
Naheed snatched her iPod out of her purse, slipped in the earbuds, and spun the volume up to full. The music drowned out her thoughts during the drive to LAX, the dropping off of the rental car, the ditching of the blonde wig, the retrieval of her own car from long-term parking, and most of the drive back north to San Francisco. By the time the battery on her nano finally gave out south of Tracy, she had sung and danced the night’s events into a well-hidden and seldom-accessed drawer in her mental filing cabinet.
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 3:00 A.M. MDT
SHARON SPRINGS, KANSAS
A quarter mile up the road, Abdullah Muhammad could see the soft yellow porch lights of the farmhouse. In the fields surrounding his car, fireflies blinked on and off and crickets chirped in the balmy late spring air. As Abdullah dragged on his Newport, his mind processed his next steps. First thing, shoot the dog. All these places have dogs, and all these hicks have guns.
The menthol smoke streamed up through the crack in the driver’s side window and was quickly wisped away by the gentle night breeze. The thought of breaking into the house made Abdullah hesitate for a moment. In his mind he heard Denver Police dispatch announcing a 459 in progress. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. I guess I can’t worry about a simple B&E when I already have a quadruple homicide among the evening’s earlier activities.
That first operation had been a crucial transition in his life. It was the moment he had metamorphosed from law enforcer to lawbreaker; from protector to killer.
Abdullah’s badge had gained him entrance into the house on Sibbitt Road in Hyannis, Nebraska. His nerves caused him to shake outside the door, but once he crossed the threshold, he switched to automatic pilot. All the fears and doubts evaporated the second his silenced Walther P99 ended the life of the father in the entry hall. Abdullah could still see the look of surprise on his face, just before new holes opened up on his chest and on his upper left cheek.
When the mother poked her head out of the kitchen to find out “what all the hubbub was about,” a 9 mm slug dropped her, too. A second one at close range finished the job. All in all, that first part had been almost too easy—anticlimactic in a way.
However, he knew that the most difficult part still awaited him. Abdullah tried to separate himself from his actions as he climbed the stairs. He wanted to cut and run, but either adrenaline or an overwhelming sense of duty kept him moving forward.
The little girl’s room had a sign that read, KEEP OUT: TRESPASSERS WILL BE TICKLED! Slowly, he turned the handle, praying to Allah that the child would not wake. The last thing he wanted was to actually see his victim’s face. A powdery citrus scent met him as he opened the door. The room was very frilly and very pink. The walls were plastered with 4-H ribbons, pictures of the girl’s friends, and posters from the latest High School Musical movie.
For the first and only time, Abdullah felt a twinge of guilt about what he was doing. But he quickly dealt with that by pulling the P99’s trigger twice. The girl’s body twitched only once, then lay still. The movement had been so quick, so subtle. Abdullah stood in the doorway, waiting to see if she would move again—almost wishing she would move again, wondering if he could bring himself to fire another round if she did move again. Can’t get stuck here, he thought as he forced himself to leave the room. Gotta keep moving.
Abdullah then went to the next room and pumped the same number of rounds into the young boy—this time without stopping to look around. The less thinking he did, the better. He just let the hatred he had for America and its arrogant culture be his driving force. These kids might be innocent now, but just give them twenty years.
On his way out, he didn’t forget to leave the envelope on the father’s body—careful to avoid the blood that continued to spread on the man’s shirt.
Now you’ve got one more house to visit; then you can call it a night, Abdullah thought as he took one last pull on his cigarette. Rather than flicking the butt out the window like he usually did, he stubbed it out in the ashtray—no sense giving the detectives a free DNA sample. He turned the ignition key and his car quietly purred to life. Keeping the lights off, he engaged the transmission and slowly made his way up the county road.
The brake lights glowed red as he eased the car past the mailbox and turned to the right. The driveway was paved, so he went ahead and pulled in. Three-quarters of a mile off of K-27 at this time of night, there was not much chance anyone would drive by and see his car here. As he drove up behind the family’s Suburban, he let his side window slide down and held his pistol through the open space. Sure enough, a yellow Labrador retriever came running toward the car. The dog had time to let out one bark before a silenced shot put it down.
Abdullah held his breath as he watched the house for lights and listened for any sign of movement. It took a minute to satisfy himself that Fido had failed in his final mission. Before opening the door, Abdullah took a moment to perform du’a—a prayer of supplication for forgiveness and strength. “Allah, you have chosen me for this task. I do not relish it. In fact, I am appalled at what I have been asked to do. But still I will do it—for you, and for you alone. Forgive me for the violence I am about to commit. Bless me as I follow your will.”
Abdullah sighed heavily, and then reached to the passenger seat, where he had laid the Walther. He picked up the gun, then looked back at the second item that was lying on the leather. Unfortunately, this family was not going to meet as clean or quick an ending as the first. Give me strength, Allah. Give me strength.
Moments later, Abdullah was walking up the flagstone path to the front door. Stepping onto the porch, a terrible thrill went through his body as he saw his reflection in the glass storm door. A black nylon mask covered his face. In his left hand the Walther was pointed straight ahead. In his right, a machete angled down to the ground.
Good thing you said your prayers, he thought. You’re in for a long night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 8:45 A.M. MDT FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS DENVER, COLORADO
“If I wanted to know what everyone else knows, I would have recruited out of Quantico or Langley! But I didn’t! I recruited you! So quit feeding me information that everyone else knows, and give me something new!”
Scott Ross watched as Jim Hicks stormed back into his office and slammed the door behind him, shaking all three of the glass walls. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he struggled to control his own temper. Any other supervisor, any other time of his life, Scott would have let his inner passive-aggressive spend the next five minutes plotting the best way to sabotage the casters on his boss’s roller chair. However, Hicks had proven to Scott many times in the past months that he was a man to be respected.
Scott turned back to the conference table. Despite the heavy air-conditioning in the room, there was a lot of heat coming from where his team sat—most of whom were plotting their own methods of creative revenge. He took a long pull on his Yoo-hoo & Diet Mountain Dew Code Red, feeling the cool carbonation hit the back of his throat and slide on down.
Let it go; set the example. It’s time to grow up. He could see the anticipation in the eyes of the analysts, waiting for him to throw out one of his classic Scott-isms. Sorry, guys, not this time.
“Jim’s right, gang! Let’s hit it!”
A look of disappointment spread across the faces of his team. Evie tentatively raised her hand.
“Yes, Evie,” Scott reluctantly said, knowing that whatever she had to say would not be helpful in the least.
Wearing her most innocent puppy-dog look, she asked, “Does this mean we aren’t going to have an opportunity to assuage our wounded feelings by exacting revenge against Mr. Hicks through cutting gibes and biting sarcasm?”
Scott tried to fight back a smile. Come on, set the example. Set . . . the . . . example! Yeah, right! Who am I kidding? Besides, I think growing up is best done wit
h baby steps. “I’m sorry to say that’s true, Evie. Besides, with Mr. Congeniality so audibly back in his office, such comments, although well deserved, would technically be behind his back, thus having the very real potential of infracting the Office Sniping Code of Ethics. So, let’s leave Mr. Feed-Me-Something-New alone. Now, is there any other business we must address before we get down to it?”
Not one to be left out of a meaningless banter session, Virgil Hernandez answered, “Well, now that you mention it, Scott, I was thinking it would really be cool to get one of those Dippin’ Dots vending machines—you know, that super-frozen ice cream stuff— and, like, any money we make off of it we could put toward an end-of-the-year Christmas party.”
“Dude, I love Dippin’ Dots!” Gooey said, looking interested in the conversation for the first time since their meeting began. Evie and Williamson joined in with their support for the idea.
“It’s against code to have vending machines in this building’s work rooms,” Tara quickly pointed out.
“Scott,” Khadi said with a look of impatience. She moved her hand in a circle indicating that she would very much like to get the show on the road.
“Right,” Scott replied, taking control of the meeting again. “Virgil and Joey, you form an off-hours vending machine task force. If you get one, bring it in at night and make sure you hide it well. Remember, it’s only a code violation if you get caught.” Scott ignored the exasperated sigh from Tara and pressed on. “Now, how about a little business? Is Mr. Attitude really right that we don’t have anything new on Philly or SoCal?”
“I’m afraid he is,” Khadi answered. “Right now we’re depending on other sources for our intel, and it’s slow in coming.”
“Is that because they don’t have any new intel or because they aren’t giving it?” Scott asked.
Hernandez, suddenly very agitated, answered, “I can guarantee you they’ve got more than they’re giving us. They’re just not in any rush.”
“It’s just more of that interagency politics we’re always dealing with,” Khadi added.
