by Jason Elam
Skeeter burst through the front door and ran to Riley. “What—?”
“Shhh! Mom, can you hear me? Mom! Are you there?”
But there was no response. To his left, Riley heard Skeeter on the phone saying, “Scott, something’s happened at the Covingtons’ in Wyoming! Figure it out and call me!” He slammed closed his phone. “Pach, what happened?”
But Riley didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. Instead, he just stared at the computer screen looking for any signs of movement. Finally, after a few minutes of stillness, he dropped his head into his hands and prayed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 7:00 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Riley’s first impulse was to race to Wheatland, but Skeeter restrained him. There were too many unknowns, too many possible scenarios. The best thing to do right now was to sit tight and wait for word.
More than ten minutes passed before there was any movement on the computer screen. When it finally came, there was a lot of it. Police and paramedics suddenly rushed left to right across Riley’s computer.
“Hey! Hey, someone tell me what’s going on!” Riley yelled. Then he recognized one of the first responders from a charity event he had hosted. “Sheriff Cooper! Sheriff Cooper, talk to me!”
The kitchen table was hit by someone or something and pushed backward. This shifted Riley’s view to the refrigerator, which had been covered with pictures of friends and family and newspaper articles about himself. Now the door was completely bare. Riley strained to listen to what was being said.
A woman crossed the screen rolling a gurney. The table was pushed back again, apparently to make room. This time, however, the movement was too abrupt for the computer. The picture on Riley’s screen suddenly made a ninety-degree turn toward the ground, then froze. A bubble popped up on Riley’s computer indicating, “Mom&Dad has left the iChat.”
“Wait! Wait!” Riley’s fist drove hard into the kitchen table. He tried reconnecting, but there was no response.
Soon afterward, Grandpa made a quick call saying he was making the seventy-mile drive from Cheyenne to Wheatland. An hour passed after that call. Riley paced, he sat, he prayed, he paced some more.
“Skeeter, what’s Scott saying?”
Skeeter, who had positioned himself by the front window, shook his head. “Said there was an explosion. Said he’d call me back when he’s got more.”
So many thoughts were going through Riley’s mind. The prospect of life without his parents was an eventuality that had never even occurred to him. Riley’s family had always been small. His grandmother on his dad’s side had died right after Riley had been born. His dad had had only one brother, the man whom Riley had been named after. He had been a marine who was killed while guarding the final evacuation from Saigon in 1975.
Riley had never been very close with his mom’s side of the family. No real reason; it just kind of happened that way. He saw his Grandma and Grandpa Hopkins every couple of years. His mom had two sisters and one brother, but it seemed the only time he heard from his aunts and uncles or cousins was when they wanted an autographed ball or some tickets to a Mustangs game.
The waiting was killing Riley. His thoughts began flying all over the place. That leaves me and Grandpa, which means that I’m about ten to fifteen years away from being alone in this world. And Mom so desperately wanted to see her grandkids. Why couldn’t you have found someone to at least give her that pleasure? And realize that this has all happened because of you—because of your great desire to go out and play soldier?
Stop it! Don’t go there yet!
What’s taking Grandpa so long?
All mom wanted were a couple of grandkids so she could make little blankets and Halloween costumes.
“Skeeter, try Scott again!”
“Will do.”
How come I’m not in the car right now driving up?
Because, like Skeeter said, I’d be playing right into their hands. But what good am I here?
Answer the phone, Scott!
Lord, please help me to know what to do.
This cannot be happening. Help them, Lord. Protect them. Heal them.
Watch over the responders; don’t let this be a trap.
It’s been an hour. Where’s Grandpa? What did he say his record was for that seventy-mile trip? Was it fifty-two minutes?
What am I going to do about all those goats?
Finally a familiar ring tone sounded on Riley’s cell phone. Even without looking at the caller ID, he knew it read “Grandpa Covington.” Lord, let it be good news. He sat down at the table. “Hello?”
There was a pause, then he heard Grandpa Covington’s voice.
Rather than its usual soothing bass, it seemed tight and strained. “Riles, son, you need to know first of all that your mom is all right. She’s got a concussion, but the doctors say she’ll be fine.”
“And my dad?” Riley asked hopefully.
Grandpa sighed heavily; then with a barely controlled voice he said, “Your daddy’s gone, Riley. They killed him. They killed my son.”
Riley felt dizzy. He wanted more information—needed more information—but couldn’t think of the questions to ask. “Why? How?”
“Someone rigged the barn door. When Jerry opened it, a bomb went off. The security detail was with him when it happened. One of them’s dead and the other is pretty near.”
Riley felt another punch to his gut. Not just his dad, but two more lives snuffed out on his account. Two more families destroyed because someone wanted revenge on him.
“Grandpa, I’m . . . Grandpa, I’m so sorry. They did this to get to me. I wish . . . I’m just so sorry.” Riley was doing everything he could to keep himself together, but he was failing.
Suddenly, Grandpa’s voice changed, and anger filled his words. “Don’t do that, Riley! Don’t you dare take this on your shoulders! My son was an honorable man, and he died an honorable death living the life that God called him to. Don’t you take that from him. Somebody is responsible for this, but that somebody isn’t you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandpa,” Riley said quietly.
“I said, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Riley responded, more out of reflex at hearing a commanding military voice than out of any conviction.
“Good. Your Grandma and Grandpa Hopkins are on their way here. Should be another few hours. I’m going to stay with your mom until then. Then I’ll be coming down your way.”
“Grandpa, shouldn’t you stay up there with Mom?” Riley protested. “Besides, it seems like I’m not the safest person to be around right now.”
“Listen, son, I need to see you. Whether you need it or not, I need it.”
Plans for revenge had already begun forming in Riley’s mind. The last thing he wanted was for his grandpa to come down and talk him out of it. “Listen, Grandpa, I don’t even know where I’ll be in three or four hours. I’ve got a call in to Scott Ross right now.”
Grandpa’s deep bass was back, but there was no soothing in it. “No, you listen, Riley. You’re the only blood I’ve got left. We need to talk. I’m asking you to be there when I arrive.”
Riley sighed. How could he say no? “Of course, Grandpa. I’ll be here. I just can’t promise how long.”
“Fair enough. I love you, Riley. We’ll get through this.”
Riley hung up the phone. He felt dazed, like when he took a fullfrontal collision from a fullback. Dad’s dead? It seemed so surreal.
Dad, who had survived two tours in Vietnam, who had made it through a horrific head-on accident with just a punctured lung and two broken legs, who had bested his high blood pressure by switching to goat cheese.
Dad, who was a husband, a father, a navy man, a patriot, a church deacon, a farmer.
Dad was dead—taken out by someone simply as a way of drawing out his son.
Dad was a casualty of war—collateral damage.
Riley felt Skeeter’s hand on his shoulder. “I
heard, man. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Skeet.” Riley stood and walked to the kitchen, where he leaned forward against the granite-top island. “I . . . I feel like I should be crying. But I can’t. It just doesn’t seem real.”
“Ain’t no way to be feeling, except how you are feeling.”
Riley nodded.
“Talked with Scott. He’ll get here soon as he can.”
“Thanks.” Then a thought struck him. “Is . . . ?”
“No, man. I told him to come alone.”
“Good. I appreciate it.” As much as he would have liked to see Khadi right now, after their last meeting her presence would only serve to confuse things more.
Skeeter went back to his position by the door, leaving Riley to think. For some reason a picture of learning to ride a bike flashed in his memory. It played like a movie in his mind, maybe because so many times he had seen the video his mom had taken that day.
There he was, pedaling along with his dad holding on to the seat. It was a Saturday, and Riley could remember how strange it had been seeing his school parking lot so empty. Riley and Dad would make a pass across the parking lot, then turn and go back the other way. Bit by bit, he was starting to get the feel of balancing the bike.
Riley could still remember the feeling. As long as Dad was holding the seat, he knew he was safe. So Riley pumped the pedals moving faster and faster. But this time, when he looked back to see if his dad was keeping pace, there was no one there. His dad was standing way back in the parking lot with his thumbs up in the air. Riley panicked and almost lost control. But then he suddenly realized that not only could he do it on his own, he was doing it on his own.
Dad’s not going to be there to hold on to the seat anymore. But you know you can still make it. Thank You. Thank You, Lord, for the time You gave me with Dad. Please help me as from here on out I learn to ride on my own.
Riley went back to the table, put his head on his arms, and tried to shut down his brain.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 5:45 P.M.
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Evening brought no relief from the busyness of Istanbul’s streets. Al-’Aqran limped past the open stalls and small storefronts, his old walking stick taking some of the pressure off his knees. Hamad Asaf, speaking on his cell phone, slowed his usual pace in order to remain alongside his leader. As they traveled the narrow road, each open door brought a different sound—a stereo system, pans clattering on a stove, men arguing in Turkish, women haggling over fabric—that blended with the many smells: baking simit and lavash, kebabs and shawarma, cloves and saffron, coffee and spiced chai.
As the two men weaved through the mass of people, al-’Aqran reflected that the flow of pedestrians in these tight streets must be as mysterious and bewildering to a stranger as experiencing the automobile traffic patterns of a foreign country. A Westerner would always be easy to spot as he bumped into one person after another. But al-’Aqran and Asaf easily found their way through the hundreds of passersby.
Asaf hung up the phone. “It is done,” he said to his leader.
“Both the mother and the father?”
“Just the father,” Asaf responded with an apology in his voice. “The mother is injured.”
“Hmmm.” Al-’Aqran walked a few more paces, thinking. Finally, he said, “It is enough. A man would be a fool to go to war for his mother. But for his father? Honor demands a response. Is there any movement from Covington?”
“No, sayyid, not yet.”
The old man nodded. “It will come.”
Al-’Aqran turned into a teahouse and sat at a table near the door. He was not thirsty, but he was finding these walks back from the ’Asr prayer at the mosque harder and harder to take. Tea was as good an excuse as any to give his joints time to rest.
He ordered for himself and for Asaf. “And what of the pig-eater in Chicago?”
Asaf retrieved his phone, pressed a number of buttons, then passed the phone to al-’Aqran. A still picture showed on the small screen. A man was sitting in an expensive-looking chair. There was obvious fear on his face.
“Press the button marked ‘OK’,” Asaf told him.
When al-’Aqran did so, a video began. The man said, “My name is Mohsin Ghani.” Then his eyes widened and a red hole appeared to the left of the bridge of his nose just before the back of his head exploded out. The video ended.
Asaf took back his phone and said, “Our man retrieved the three backpacks from the apartment. One of them he used at the home of Covington’s father. The other two he is holding for a future need.”
“And tell me—” Al-’Aqran stopped himself as the black tea was delivered to the table. When the waiter retreated, the old man wrapped his hands around the tulip-shaped glass until he could feel the burn slowly penetrating his thickly calloused hands. “And tell me of the preparations for the next phase, once these initial waves are completed.”
“The warriors are waiting to be awakened. We know whom we will use and where they will attack. Logistically, phase two will be much easier than phase one. Easy-to-conceal automatic weapons will be used, and the security is very low. The martyrs will be carrying many rounds of ammunition, and obviously, the targets will be congregated together.”
“Very good, old friend,” said al-’Aqran, grasping Asaf by the forearm. “You have done excellent work. Have Tahir let our people know that it is time to launch the next step of our initial phase.”
“Yes, sayyid.”
The chair creaked as al-’Aqran leaned back. Other than one coward, everything was going according to plan. Soon America would hear from the Cause again, and what little confidence they had left in their security would come crashing to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 2:00 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Riley watched as Skeeter turned the doorknob with his left hand while holding his HK45 with his right. When the door opened, Scott Ross walked in, and Skeeter quickly closed the door after him. Scott wore his usual Birkenstocks and torn jeans, and today he rounded out the ensemble with a Molly Hatchet Flirtin’ with Disaster 1979 tour T-shirt.
“Hey, Skeeter,” Scott said somberly.
“Scott,” Skeeter answered, returning to his post by the front window.
This meeting had been heavy on Riley’s mind. If he had any chance of hunting down the people who had done this to his dad, he had to get back in with the Counterterrorism Division. And if there was one person who could finagle him back in at CTD, it was Scott Ross.
Riley rose from the kitchen table and met Scott halfway through the great room.
“Serious apologies for taking so long to get here.”
“I just appreciate you coming,” Riley said as he embraced his friend.
“I’m so sorry, Pach,” Scott responded with a crack in his voice. They separated, but Scott still held Riley by the shoulders. “From everything you’ve told me about your father, he was a good man.”
“That he was.”
Riley sat down in his overstuffed leather chair. Scott dropped himself in his usual place on the matching couch and crossed one leg on top of the other.
“It’s bizarre, man,” Riley said. “Sometimes it feels real; other times it’s like living out a movie script.”
Without looking up, Scott replied, “I can’t imagine.”
The two men sat in silence for a minute. Scott was fidgeting with the strap on his sandal. Riley knew that was usually a sign that he had something on his mind.
“Was that Meg Ricci I saw pulling out?” Scott finally asked.
Riley nodded. “Yeah, she came by to see if there was anything she could do.”
What Riley didn’t say was that it had been a very strange visit.
Meg had come across as part friend, part psychiatrist, part mother, and part wife. Riley tried to make it clear without offending her that he wanted nothing to do with any except the first of that list. Unfortunately, she seemed to miss every sign he tried to s
end her. The hug at the end of her visit, along with a surprising kiss, had left Riley feeling very uneasy, particularly since it had all taken place under Skeeter’s watchful eye.
“That’s nice,” Scott said as he moved to the edge of the couch next to Riley. When Riley didn’t respond, he continued, “I read the doctor’s chart on your mom. It sounds like she’s going to be okay.”
Riley was momentarily surprised that Scott had seen his mother’s medical report; then he remembered whom he was talking to. “I’ve just heard concussion. Anything else I need to know?”
“No, she was lucky that the barn was set so far back from the house. The house itself kept its structural integrity. The blast wave just blew out windows and shredded the siding with shrapnel.” Scott stopped a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, Pach. That was a pretty callous way of putting things.”
Riley waved his hand. “No, Scott. I need to know. You’re fine. Go on.”
Scott rubbed the back of his neck while he talked, and Riley could see that he was having a hard time making eye contact. “Well, your mom went down with the blast and smacked her head hard on the kitchen counter. She also received some cuts from the falling plates and glasses. Your dad . . . If it’s any consolation, he never knew what hit him.”
A vision of his father’s body bursting into thousands of pieces flashed into Riley’s mind. He quickly pushed it away. “No, it’s not much consolation, but it’s something. What I want to know is how did they get the bomb in place? What happened to our security?”
A small bronze bear cub was sitting on one side of Riley’s coffee table. Scott picked it up and began rolling it from one hand to the other. “There was security, but they weren’t ours. I’m guessing these guys probably made regular rounds—too regular. It was all just a matter of timing. The perp came through the back property. He could have set the thing and been gone in under five minutes.”
“Were the night guys the ones killed?”
Scott shook his head. “No. They had gone off about two hours before the explosion. These guys were the day shift.”
Riley nodded, and tears formed in his eyes. He forced them back down. “Somewhere along the line I want the names of the detail who were killed. I want to do something for the families. I just don’t think I can deal with it quite yet.”
