by Jason Elam
A disgusted chuckle escaped Riley before he said, “Apparently I’ve blown my Achilles. They’re talking about IR-ing me for the year when training camp comes around.”
Grandpa leaned forward on the couch. “I’m sorry, Riley. Was that the Mustangs’ idea?”
“CTD’s. Needless to say, Scott’s not my favorite person right now. Oh, and one more little tidbit just to round things out: I’ve been banned from Dad’s funeral.”
Grandpa eased himself back and stared at the ceiling. Riley waited for a response, but the old man remained silent. He hated it when his grandpa was quiet like this, because it usually meant he was trying to find a diplomatic way to tell Riley he was wrong. To save him the trouble, Riley shouted, “Go ahead and say it, Grandpa! Scott’s right and I’m wrong!”
Grandpa locked eyes with Riley and said, “Okay, Scott’s right and you’re wrong.”
Riley dropped the assault rifle on the couch and began pacing. A battle was raging in his mind. You know Grandpa’s right. You know Scott’s right. You just don’t want to be wrong! You just don’t want to be out of control of your own life! What would you have decided differently if you’d been given the time to think it through? Nothing! Well, nothing except for joining back with CTD. That’s the killer decision there! That takes away all my options.
He stopped in front of a Texas Dall sheep and let his hand follow the curve of its horn out to the tip a few times. Still not looking at Grandpa, Riley asked, “So, what are you saying? Am I just supposed to sit here with a target on my back until eventually some hajji scores a bull’s-eye?”
The rhetorical question hung in the air for a minute until Grandpa said, “Why don’t you come sit back down? Let’s talk this through.”
Riley stood there a few more moments, then made his way back to the couch.
As he did, Grandpa added, “And, no, that’s not what I’m saying.”
Riley dropped hard onto the couch. The emotions of the day were beginning to take their toll on him physically. “I’m sorry, Grandpa. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t know what I’m saying. All I do know is that there are people out there who killed my dad—your son—and they need to pay.”
Grandpa looked at Riley with a sad smile on his face. “Finally something we agree on.”
Riley nodded and pulled the assault weapon next to him. His hand began absentmindedly investigating it the way a person unconsciously explores the features of a lapdog they are petting.
Grandpa finally broke the silence. “Tell me why you want to be involved in tracking these people down. Who are you wanting to help?”
“I’m not sure I get your question.”
“Okay, let me put it another way. Are you wanting to do this for God?”
“Well, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because God can take care of Himself.” Riley had been down this road with Grandpa before and wasn’t sure he wanted to do it again.
“Go on. What do you know to be true about God?”
Riley exhaled heavily. “God’s in control. He’s got a plan. He loves me. He can turn any bad thing into good. Yada yada.”
“Okay. So you’re not wanting to hunt these people down for God—”
“Not solely for God.”
“Okay, not solely for God,” Grandpa amended his original statement. “Then who else?”
Angrily, Riley said, “How about Dad? Don’t you think I owe it to him to bring down the people who did this to him?”
“What? You mean like avenge his honor? Sounds like what you told me the rationale was for a certain stadium bombing.”
“Oh, come on, Grandpa! That’s below the belt!”
“Okay then,” Grandpa continued with remarkable calmness.
“What do you know to be true about your dad?”
“He’s dead!” Riley blurted out.
“Is he?”
Riley paused to cool down. He was finally starting to see where Grandpa was going with this. “Okay, physically, yes—which is too bad for us. Spiritually, no—which is wonderful for him.”
“Exactly,” Grandpa agreed. Then Riley saw the calm exterior begin to crack. “Son, I’m dying inside thinking of what Jerry experienced when that bomb went off. And I’m hurting desperately over what this means for your mom—and for you. But for Jerry himself, I’m not shedding any tears. Jesus was and is his Savior. Your daddy loved God and served Him every day of his life. And he is experiencing things right now that we can only imagine.”
Riley felt the same emotion building in him that he heard in Grandpa’s voice. “I hear you, Gramps. Like the apostle Paul said, we don’t grieve like other people who have no hope. We don’t need to fear death, because we know it’s only a beginning, not an end.”
“And why is that, Riley?”
“Because our hope, our faith, is in the real Jesus—the one who sacrificed Himself on the cross, rose from the dead, and promised us an eternity with Him if we receive Him as our Lord and Savior. Dad believed that, and I believe it, so I know that I’ll see Dad again.”
“So, does your dad need your help?”
“Guess not.” Riley remembered a time at the Air Force Academy when he had walked a Christian friend of his through that same reminder when that young man’s father had unexpectedly died in a collision with a drunk driver. Never thought I’d have to go back through it for myself.
“So, why do you want to do this, Riley? Why fight this war?”
Riley stared at the black-tipped orange feathers that smoothed their way down the chest of the pheasant on the table between the two men. Why do I want to join this fight? If it’s not a holy fight for God or an honor fight for family, what’s left? Am I really just doing this for me? Am I that self-absorbed? Lord, give me a reason to battle or take the desire away from me.
Riley looked up at Grandpa and saw that he had his eyes closed. His lips, though, were gently moving. The knowledge that he wasn’t the only one praying encouraged him to continue the thought process.
Come on, God. Am I really supposed to turn the other cheek on this? If I do, aren’t I a walking dead man—probably Skeeter, too? And then who else is going to die besides us? Because these people have proven that they will not stop. Who else besides us?
And suddenly, the fog cleared, and Riley had his purpose.
“It’s for them.”
Grandpa’s eyes opened after a moment, as if he was concluding a conversation before turning his attention to Riley. “It’s for whom?”
“For them. For everyone else. For you and for Mom. For Skeeter and Scott and Khadi and Jim and all the others who are on their hit list.”
“What about you? Isn’t this also for you?”
Riley shrugged his shoulders. “It’d be a lie to say that if I killed the people today who are responsible for Dad’s death, I wouldn’t feel a sense of satisfaction. I’ve still got a darkness hanging over me that’s going to take a long time to shake. God and I are going to have to work through that together.
“However, I can honestly say that my main motivation is not revenge. And it’s not self-preservation either. Jesus took away that fear of dying. In fact, on days like today it doesn’t sound like a half-bad thing.”
“Okay, let me ask you this: You’ve got agencies all around that can hunt these terrorists down. Why you?”
Silence filled the room as Riley processed this question. Finally, he said, “Grandpa, I’ve been put in a unique situation, not of my own choosing. These people are going to kill me, and then kill again. And every day I can keep them focused on me is one more day they won’t be going after someone else. And every one of them that I stop is one more whose killing days are over.”
Riley could see tears brimming in Grandpa’s eyes. “Riley, I have to say that I hate everything you’ve just said. I hate it because of what it means for you—how it puts you in harm’s way. I hate it because every word you said is true. You have been placed in the middle of an impossible situation. Peop
le are coming for you, and they won’t stop until they get you. And I hate that sitting back and doing nothing simply isn’t an option.”
A sad smile spread across Riley’s face. “Trust me, you won’t see me dancing up and down. I’d much rather go back to my safe, easy life. Unfortunately, it looks like safe and easy have both been removed from the table as options.”
Grandpa leaned forward. “Well, you’ve answered the ‘why’ question. That’s the most important one. Once the ‘why’ is answered, then the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ come a lot easier. And to answer those two questions, I think we probably need Skeeter with us.”
Riley stood up. “I agree. Let me go—”
“Wait, son,” Grandpa said, holding up a hand. “Let’s talk about this after dinner tonight. We both need to pray this through, and this old man needs to try to get a little rest.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Riley said, rushing over to help Grandpa up off the couch. “You head upstairs and crash. I’ve got a little more work to do down in the vault.”
Grandpa let Riley pull him up and then embraced his grandson. As he held him, he said, “Your dad was so proud of you, Riley. Proud of all you’ve done, but even more proud of who you are.”
Riley’s throat constricted, and he felt tears welling up, but he fought the urge to cry. Hold it together. There’s too much to do. You’ve got plenty of time for grief later.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” he managed to croak out. “Thanks for everything.”
When Grandpa stepped back, it looked as if he was fighting the same urge as Riley. Without saying anything more, he turned and went through the archway toward the stairs.
When he heard Grandpa reach the top of the stairs, Riley went back to the vault. He began stacking boxes of ammunition, magazines for the automatic weapons, and clips for the handguns. Carrying the stacks out to the Dead Room, he carefully slid the pheasant off the table with his foot, letting it drop onto the thick carpet. Gently, he set everything down onto the table. And when he picked up his first clip and a box of 9 mm hollow-point rounds, he began Riley Covington’s transition from defensive player of the year to a deadly offensive weapon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 8:00 P.M. EDT NEW YORK CITY
The antacid tablets fizzed in the water. Isaac Khan held his hand over the rim of the glass and felt them effervesce onto his skin. The sensation felt good—fresh. And freshness was something that his life was definitely lacking after five days holed up in his small, simple studio apartment.
Currently, his life was similar to that of a detective on stakeout—extreme boredom mixed with moments of intense adrenaline. Every time he heard someone outside in the hallway he found his heart beating faster and his hand reaching for his gun.
Last night, Isaac had nearly ruined everything. Around 11:00 p.m., a knock had roused him from a half slumber. He quickly stood up from the kitchen table, accidentally knocking his chair over in the process. Grabbing his gun, he ran to the door and looked through the peephole. The guy on the other side had been saying something, but Isaac wasn’t able to clearly make out the words until he was at the door.
“Pizza,” the man had said.
Quietly, Isaac had lifted the barrel of the gun until it was pressed three inches of wood away from the visitor’s heart. He examined the stairway behind for any movement and took full advantage of the fish-eye peephole lens to scan the hallway. This has to be a ruse, he told himself. It is simply too coincidental.
“Come on, dude! I know you’re in there! I heard you!”
Frantically, Isaac had weighed his options. He could try to climb down the fire escape, but they would surely have that covered. He could detonate the bombs, but he didn’t have permission to do that.
“Dude, I’ve got two other pizzas and only ten more minutes to deliver them!”
Then a door had opened across the hall, and Isaac’s dilemma was solved. The deliveryman had given the neighbors their pizza, then flipped the bird to Isaac’s door before disappearing down the stairs.
Isaac had fallen onto his bed and thanked Allah for the restraint that he was sure came from God alone. Allah still had plans for him, and Isaac was grateful that he had not interfered with those plans in any way.
Beep, beep sounded from Isaac’s digital watch, telling him that it was the top of the hour. He swigged down the glass of milky antacid water and picked up the television remote. CNN Headline News would be giving their hourly report. Isaac watched it faithfully to see if any new information had been discovered about him or his fellow conspirators.
The first time he had seen a picture of himself on the TV, Isaac had gone into full panic mode. There he was, in full color, walking in the Philadelphia subway station wearing a bright orange hat and carrying a backpack. The picture itself—one that most of America was now very familiar with—was a grainy still lifted from a video. Based on size and build, the person in the picture could have been one of ten million men of similar proportions in the country. The few features that one could discern would maybe cut that number in half. Isaac, however, could clearly see himself in the picture and suddenly he felt like every friend or acquaintance of the last ten years must recognize him too.
So he took to waiting at the table, the .45 caliber pistol that had been given to him along with the backpacks sitting in front of him. Isaac waited for the accusing call from a coworker. He waited for the police to burst through the door. But there was nothing; only Isaac, CNN, and the cockroaches.
Finally, Isaac had come to the conclusion that no one could recognize him, and that the only reason he could see himself in the picture was because he knew it was he. Everyone else in America just saw an anonymous orange-capped figure. In fact, what they saw was no different than what he saw in the still shot of the woman bomber from California—a faceless, nameless blob.
That realization had given him a greater feeling of peace in his apartment. However, he still didn’t want to wander outside, although he continued his daily commute to the mini-mart located on the street level of his building. If those stopped, it wouldn’t be long before Mr. and Mrs. Lee sent someone up to check on him. The Lees were good people—immigrants, like himself—always kind to him. He hoped they avoided riding subways.
Headline News wasn’t saying anything new, so Isaac turned it off before he had to endure another story about a baby polar bear or a music star who couldn’t remember to put on her underwear before she left the house. Both were equally inane and irrelevant to Isaac. Both equally summed up the trivial and shallow nature of American culture.
Oh, how he hated this country! Isaac was ready to strike again. In fact, he was desperate to strike again. The exhilaration of being a tool in the hand of his God was like nothing he had ever experienced before. He had felt such power, such purpose.
America spent its time straining to hear the quiet voice of Shaitan, the Great Whisperer, seeking to do his bidding and serve his purpose. At first Isaac had just thought it was the government, but now he knew it was the masses, too. Last Friday, Isaac had walked up to the people of America—to the listeners of the evil whisperer—and shouted the name of Allah! And his most perfect, beneficent name was still ringing in their ears.
As he gloated in his victory, a call came through on his cell phone. Immediately, his breathing rate increased, yet he still paused a moment. Have I been finally found out? Or will this be my next set of instructions? Great Allah, let me be your hammer once again!
Isaac answered the phone. “Yes?”
A voice heavy with a Middle Eastern accent said, “Map two. Friday. 7:30 p.m.” Then silence.
Isaac looked at the phone’s display and saw that the call had ended three seconds after it had started. Even though he had committed the maps to memory, he still rushed the few steps to where he had the backpacks hidden under his bed. Wedged between the two packs were the maps. Quickly, Isaac retrieved the envelope and sat back at the table.
&nbs
p; Holding it in his hands, he ran his finger over the word Warrior that had been written on the front, feeling every bit of the power that word held. Isaac untucked the flap and pulled the three pages out. As he turned to the second map, elation filled his soul. Oh, Allah, please help me to carry out your plan. These people, more than any others, deserve to feel your wrath. May the weeping of this nation be my song of praise to you!
Isaac returned the maps to the envelope and replaced them in their hideaway. Stretching out on his bed, he fell into the first sound sleep he’d had for days, content in his calling and in the knowledge that God was watching over him.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 7:30 P.M. MDT
FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS
DENVER, COLORADO
“I’ve got her!” Gooey cried out from his corner of the FRRT Room of Understanding.
“You’ve got who?” Scott asked from across the room, knowing that the answer could be anything from a mouse that had been nibbling away at his bag of Cheetos to a video of the Queen of England at a beach party dancing the Frug with the Duke of Somerset.
“Her! Legs Houlihan!”
Scott immediately dropped the file he was reading and joined the rush of bodies heading toward Gooey’s workstation. “Legs Houlihan” was the nickname the analysts had given to the long-legged perpetrator of the Hollywood bombing. Scott elbowed Evie Cline aside, ignoring the protest that would ultimately end up costing her $2 at the profanity jar.
Leaning over Gooey’s shoulder, Scott said, “Let’s see her.”
“Just a second,” Gooey said. Once everyone was assembled, he began, “So, I went through all the standard security cameras from the various buildings, and—”
“Goo, can we for once see the picture without hearing a story with it?” Scott said impatiently.
Gooey shook his head. “Trust me, you’ll want to hear this; it’s a good one. I moved on to ATMs—”
“Gooey! Picture, not story!”
