by Jason Elam
Riley saw a soft smile appear on Scott’s face. “Yeah, I figured as much. I’ve got all their information written down. I’ll just leave it with Skeet when I go.”
“Thanks, buddy. Hey, if it’s all right, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.”
Scott put the bear back on the table and sat back. Riley could see something in Scott’s eyes. It was the kind of look a person gets when they’ve had way too much to eat and know they’re in for a rough night ahead—a dread mixed with extreme discomfort.
“Go ahead, Pach. I’m listening.”
“I need your help, Scott. I need you to start whatever process it’s going to take to get me back in with CTD.”
Scott’s surprisingly silent response took Riley off guard. He had expected Scott to say that he already had things in motion—that as soon as he had finished meeting with his grandpa, Riley could go down and get fully briefed. But Scott just sat there completely still. Riley could tell that his mind was racing.
“Scott, did you hear me? I need for you to get things going again. I know you guys are going after the Cause. I’ve got to be part of that. You need me to be part of that.”
Riley saw Scott’s eyes reddening as he searched for what to say. Finally, he leaned forward and burst out, “Pach, dude, it just ain’t going to happen.”
Riley was stunned. He almost started laughing, thinking it was another of Scott’s ill-timed and ill-conceived jokes. “What do you mean, it’s not going to happen? It’s just like last time. You call me in, the paperwork gets done, and then we go out and take them down.”
“Not this time, Riley. You’re too close. You’re too . . . unstable right now.”
Desperate, Riley said, “Then give me a couple days to stabilize, Scott. Come on, you’re my best friend! You can’t do this to me!”
Scott’s voice had taken on its own pleading tone. “Can’t you see? It’s because I’m your best friend that I’m doing this.”
Riley leaped out of his seat. He couldn’t believe his ears. He began pacing in front of the fireplace. Then a thought struck him. “Are you doing this, or is it Jim? Jim’s dogging me again, isn’t he? Come on, man, you’ve got to fight for me! Make Jim understand that I’ll never put my own feelings over the mission! You know that!”
“It wasn’t just Jim,” Scott said quietly. “We all made the call.”
Riley stopped his pacing, and stared at Scott. “‘We all,’ meaning who?”
“Jim, me, Tara . . .”
“And Khadi.”
“Yeah, and Khadi.” Scott stood and moved toward Riley. “My friend, you need to trust us. Let us fight your battles for you. You know me. I swear I will do everything humanly possible to bring these guys down. We just need you to stay out right now.”
How could my friends have turned on me like this? He wanted to hit something—to hurt someone. Scott was temptingly close, so Riley walked toward the kitchen. This is just so insane!
Suddenly, he spun around. “So, what do all my friends expect me to do? Forget about the Cause and play the happy football player?”
Scott dropped down on the back of Riley’s leather chair. “That’s another thing, Pach. After we all talked, Jim called up the Mustangs and told them to put you on injured reserve for the year. They’re going to give some story about a blown Achilles.”
It was very good that Scott was no longer in swinging distance. Out of the corner of his eye, Riley saw Skeeter move a little closer to Scott so that he could intervene in case things turned physical. Yeah, you better move in, Skeet, Riley thought as he glared at Scott.
Scott shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Pach, think about it, and you’ll see we’re right. You’re too hot right now. You’d be putting the whole team at risk—not to mention the fans.”
Riley tried to find something to say in reply, but deep down he knew they were right. Just that quickly, his rage turned to sorrow, and he felt the darkness descending on him again. It was the same darkness he had felt not too many months ago after calling Meg Ricci to tell her that her husband had been killed in the Platte River Stadium attack.
Deflated and defeated, Riley asked, “Is there anything else that your little cabal decided for my life?”
“Just one more thing,” Scott said softly, but he seemed reluctant to say what.
“Come on. Out with it. Am I going into hiding in Montana? Or maybe the witness protection program? Yeah, maybe I’m getting a new identity. That would be swell.” Riley could see his sarcasm was cutting Scott, but he didn’t care.
“Nothing like that. It’s just we don’t think it’s a good idea for you to attend your dad’s funeral.”
“Is that ‘we don’t think it’s a good idea’ or ‘you’re not going’? Sorry, you’ve got to make things clear to a dumb, loose-cannon jock like me.”
“Come on, Pach, this isn’t easy for—”
“Answer the question!”
“We’ll set up a simulcast for you if you want. You can even say something at the service by video feed. But, no, you won’t be going.”
Riley went to the large, two-sided fireplace and placed his hands on the huge stones that made up the mantelpiece. Facing away from Scott, he said, “This morning, I lost my father. And now I’ve lost my career. I’ve lost my opportunity to avenge my father’s death. And I’ve lost my chance to celebrate his life. I’ve got you guys to thank for three out of the four.”
“Pach, it’s not like that.” Riley could hear the hurt in Scott’s voice. “You know we’re doing this because we love you.”
Silently, Riley stared at the mantle.
“Come on, man, don’t do this.”
“Hey, Scott—” Skeeter’s deep voice carried across the room—“he needs some space.”
“Sure, you’re right.” Scott walked up to Riley and said, “You need anything, Pach, you just call, okay?”
When Riley didn’t respond, Scott headed toward the door. Riley could hear Skeeter and Scott whispering, then the sound of one person slapping the other on the back. The door opened. The door closed.
Riley turned and saw Skeeter looking at him.
“You know he’s right, Pach.”
With venom in his voice, Riley said, “Shut up, Skeeter. Don’t make me hear it from you, too.”
“Let me finish,” Skeeter continued in his usual matter-of-fact baritone. “You know that he’s right. But that don’t mean it’s the end of the story.”
“I’m listening.”
Skeeter shrugged. “All I’m saying is sometimes when you’re losing, the best thing you can do is change the rules of the game.”
Confused, Riley shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Good. Then think about it. Maybe it’ll give you something to occupy your brain for a while other than self-pity.” Skeeter turned back toward the window indicating that his part in the conversation was over.
Riley tried to rekindle his anger with Skeeter, but Skeeter was one of those men who spoke so few words that whenever he made the effort to say something, it was usually worth thinking about. Besides, Riley’s mind was so filled with feelings of sorrow, guilt, betrayal, and desire for revenge that there was no room to be angry at his friend.
Sitting back down in his chair, Riley let the darkness flood over him. He gave in to thoughts of vengeance. His mind began visualizing the ways he could kill those who had killed his father.
But just as he began sinking into the depths, Skeeter’s voice pulled him back out. “Gonna have to dream of killing them all later, Pach. Grandpa Covington’s here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 3:00 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
A red dot danced on the small patch of white between the blesbok’s horns. The dot steadied, and a metallic click echoed through the large room. “That is an amazing piece of work,” Grandpa Covington said as he handed the assault weapon back to Riley. “How’d you come across it?”
Many tear
s had been shed when Grandpa first arrived—tears from an overwhelming sorrow at the loss of a father and a son; tears from an intense gratitude to God for the assurance that Jerry Covington was with Him; tears from a comforting peace that slowly took root as the result of grandfather and grandson being together.
When they were finally cried out, the two men sat down in the great room. Riley had been ready to start talking, but Grandpa said, “We’ve got plenty of time for that. First things first. If I remember right, last time I came to visit you, you met me at the door holding an M4. Now that you’re truly in imminent danger, I don’t see you carrying anything.”
“Gramps,” Riley answered in a way designed not to hurt his grandpa’s feelings, “I don’t know if you saw them or not—maybe they were making rounds—but I’ve got a four-man security detail outside, and Skeeter’s in with me. I should be okay.”
“I’m old, son, but I’m not blind. I saw them out there. And by the way, apparently your security detail has been upped, because now you have six including the two who were watching me from the house across the street.”
“It has?” Grandpa was a former air force pilot whose great eyesight and keen awareness of his surroundings had allowed him to chalk up seven MiG kills to his credit in the Korean War. Still, those two extra “security agents” could have just been the neighbors. “Hey, Skeeter, how many people we have out there?”
Without turning from the window, Skeeter held up all the fingers on his right hand and the thumb from his left.
“Fair enough,” Riley said to Grandpa. “So I’ve got six outside and Skeeter in here. There are motion sensors all through the back property. I’ll be okay.”
“Apparently it hasn’t sunk into your brain yet,” Grandpa replied, leaning forward and tapping Riley on the side of his head—one of the few things Grandpa did that drove Riley absolutely crazy. Riley could hear the beginnings of frustration in Grandpa’s voice. “You are in a war. You’ve got folks who want to take you out so badly that they just killed your father. Think about it—when you were in Afghanistan, were you ever without a weapon near you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Riley despised answering obvious questions. But out of respect for Grandpa, he said, “I was in a war zone, and you never know what’s going to happen in a war zone.”
“Bingo! I’m sure Scott’s got a good detail for you out front, and there’s no one I’d want by my side more than Skeeter. But the fact remains that they are still human, and humans can go down with one shot. You agree, Skeeter?”
“Yes, sir,” said Skeeter, who was apparently listening to every word from his place by the window.
Grandpa turned back to Riley. “So, let’s get you soldiered up. Then we can talk.”
Riley didn’t answer for a minute. He hated the idea of having to walk around his home armed. This house was his sanctuary. It was his place of safety where he could relax and let his guard down. But there was no arguing with Grandpa’s logic. People were out to kill him, and when the next attempt came, he didn’t want to get caught empty-handed.
There was a fine line between house and bunker. Riley felt that he was about to cross that line.
Riley reluctantly stood and said, “Let’s go. Skeet, we’re heading down to the vaults. We’ll be back up in a while.”
Skeeter gave a thumb-up in reply, and Riley and Grandpa moved to the basement. The bottom of the stairs opened into a large entertainment room. In the center of the room was an open minitheater with an enormous screen and recliner seating.
To the left of the theater was a game area containing a pool table, a shuffle board table, and a recently delivered Riley Covington’s Football Force pinball machine—a bad-taste venture from EA Sports that Riley just couldn’t bring himself to plug in. To the right was a kitchenette with bar seating, sink, soda machine, convection oven, and mini popcorn maker. On either side of the long bar were archways. Riley led Grandpa through the right archway and into the Dead Room.
The Dead Room was the name Scott Ross had given to the den, where Riley’s hunting trophies covered the walls. Domestic animals such as elk, moose, and deer mixed with the more exotic eland, kudu, and blue wildebeest in this static menagerie. Dozens of glass eyes watched Grandpa and Riley pass through to a hidden doorway tucked behind a full-standing gemsbok. Riley pushed the door open, and the two men entered.
Two large green vaults stood in this tight room. After punching in a four-digit number on the left vault’s keypad, Riley passed his thumb across the fingerprint recognition device. Three loud clicks told him that he was free to pull open the double doors.
The second vault held Riley’s few antique guns and his hunting rifles. This one, however, contained what might be considered an enthusiast’s weapons. In here were a wide assortment of handguns, an M4, an AK-74, and several other assault weapons—mostly gifts from buddies in the various branches of military and special ops.
It was out of this vault that Riley had pulled the personal defense weapon that Grandpa had just used to place an imaginary bullet into the blesbok’s forehead. Grandpa handed the rifle back to Riley, and they both sat down on couches in the Dead Room.
“It’s called a Micro Tavor. It’s become the standard assault weapon for Israeli special ops.”
Grandpa nodded appreciatively. “How’d you come by it?”
“You remember when I told you about my buddy, Munir Saygeh? The IDF guy who was in my AFSOC training?”
“Right. The one who was the military governor of Jericho when it was passed over to the Palestinians. I thought he was just a tour guide now.”
Riley’s eyebrows rose. “Sure, and Skeeter’s just my butler. Anyway, when he heard about all that happened last January, he wanted to send one of these MTAR 21s my way. I got Scott in on it, and he, in his usual Scott way, cleared it through the proper channels.”
“It’s a beautiful weapon. I’m amazed at how light it is.”
Riley hefted it up in his hands and tucked it into his shoulder. “Yeah, six and a half pounds, and only twenty-three inches long. And since it’s got an integral silencer, suppression doesn’t lengthen the barrel at all.”
“How does the short barrel do at distances?”
“This thing has the power of an M16 and the accuracy of a sniper rifle. Laser and MARS red-dot sight are built in and turn on automatically when the safety is off. It fires great, too. The short stock tucks right back into the shoulder.”
Grandpa whistled his admiration for the weapon, then said, “Riley, I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me that this MTAR isn’t going to leave your side until this whole thing comes to a resolution. There are people who are not going to rest until you’re dead. So when you shower, I want this leaning outside the glass. When you sleep, it’s sharing the pillow next to you. Will you do that for me?”
Riley laid the weapon across his lap. “Sure, Grandpa. You’ve got me convinced.”
The relief of not having to argue the point showed in Grandpa’s eyes. “Good. Now, I’m assuming the Mustangs are going to let you out of the rest of minicamp based on what’s happened. If not, you can probably have Jim Hicks . . .” Grandpa stopped when Riley leaned back on his couch. The darkness had come back, and Riley felt as if he had suddenly aged ten years.
“I think it’s time we really talked,” Riley said quietly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 3:30 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Grandpa slid himself back on his couch, which sat across from Riley. A long, low table supporting a mounted pheasant stretched between them. Grandpa leaned his arm on the back of the couch and said, “Go ahead, son; I’m listening.”
Riley took several deep breaths in order to get control of his emotions. The hot coals of his rage were smoldering. If he had any hope of a productive, intelligent conversation, he knew he had to keep that fire under control.
“I spoke with Scott just before you got here.”
“No, Gramps,” Riley said angrily. “You’ll be happy to know they turned me down flat. Said I was too close—too unstable.”
“Were they right?”
“What do you mean, were they right?” If Grandpa kept talking like this, Riley’s coals of rage would soon be a blazing inferno.
“Think about it. Including Skeeter, you’ve got seven security agents in and around your house. There are people out to kill you. You’re in your basement holding an Israeli assault weapon like it’s a throw pillow. And your dad . . .” Grandpa’s voice caught. He paused a moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “Well, all that to say, how stable could you be right now?”
That was not the supportive answer Riley was looking for. “Listen, I’ve been in stressful situations before. I mean, good night! Think about what my last half year has been like!”
“Yes, but they never touched your family until now, did they?”
Riley didn’t answer. His right index finger moved slowly back and forth over the serial number plate embedded in the left side of the MTAR 21’s stock. In Riley’s mind, instability meant a lack of self-control, and self-control seemed to be the only kind of control he still had over his life.
“Listen, Grandpa, I agree that I’m overly emotional—I mean, who wouldn’t be? My dad’s been dead less than twelve hours. But I’m not going to go fly off the handle and do something that puts other people at risk. Unstable? No. Maybe you could convince me of volatile. But not unstable.”
Grandpa nodded agreement. “Volatile it is. But it still doesn’t change the situation.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Riley said, finally starting to calm down. “I just need you to understand where I’m at. I’m still a long ways from the deep end, and in no danger of falling off.”
“I’m tracking with you. So, no CTD. Now, tell me about the Mustangs. I could see by your reaction when I mentioned them that something’s going on.”
