Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  Riley took a bite of his omelet and pushed his plate away. “Tribute or no tribute, I just can’t eat this,” he said, straining to swallow.

  Skeeter, with a mouth full of eggs, waved his hand toward himself and said, “Mmmph.” The plates made their way down to his end of the table.

  Riley went back to the kitchen and got a couple of bowls, some cereal, and some milk, while Skeeter continued his work on nine eggs’ worth of omelet.

  “So, what’s our plan?” Riley asked, sitting back down at the table.

  “Let’s first figure out what we know,” said the elder statesman of the group, pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios. “First, and most basic, there are people who want to kill you.”

  “And they’re probably not going to stop until the Cause has its head chopped off,” Riley added.

  “True,” said Skeeter, “but that ain’t our job. That’s for CTD and Scott and Jim at the Response Team. This can’t turn into no Riley Covington, International Man of Mystery thing.”

  “No, I hear you, Skeet. Let the big boys deal with the big boys.”

  Grandpa put down his spoon and said, “I think we can also safely assume that they don’t think they can hit you at your house with all your security. That’s why they tried to draw you out with what they did yesterday.”

  “Which is the whole catch-22 of this situation. If I stay here, I’m safe, but everyone else who is close to me is at risk. If I go out, I’m at risk, but everyone else is safe. It’s a lousy choice, but not much of a decision.” Riley sipped his coffee, then leaned his chair back on two legs.

  “I think there is one more thing we can put on our list,” Grandpa said. “I talked to my people, and I’ve been assured that the Cause has a limited supply of trained and ready soldiers. So every hit against them is a hard hit.”

  Riley and Skeeter looked at each other, then both started chuckling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m sorry. It just struck me kind of funny that you talked to ‘your people.’ I didn’t know you even had people.”

  A tired smile crept across the old man’s face. “Listen, at your age, son, all your friends are scrambling around trying to be stars. At my age, my friends wear their stars on their shoulders. A few phone calls to the right people, and it’s amazing what you can discover.”

  Quickly sobering up, Riley said, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. These must be the mood swings of instability.”

  “You’re not unstable, remember? You’re just volatile.”

  Riley nodded. Back to business, he thought. How do I draw these people away from the ones I love? “In football, sometimes an offense is surprised by a defensive formation. They know that if they don’t change things up, they’re going to get stomped. So, they call an audible. They quickly change the play at the line of scrimmage in order to try to regain the upper hand.”

  “We’re listening,” Grandpa said.

  “I was just thinking. They’re expecting me to either run up to Wyoming to see Mom or to stay here in hiding, in which case they’ll go after someone else. What if we were to call an audible and shake things up for them?”

  “What did you have in mind?” Grandpa asked.

  “How about if Skeet and I leave here and go into hiding someplace else?”

  “That’s no different than you staying here,” said Skeeter, putting his fork down for the first time in five minutes.

  “It is if we do a lousy job of it.”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Okay, you’ve officially lost me.”

  “Just walk with me on this. I’m still trying to formulate it myself. Keith Simmons has a cabin up in the mountains—Silverthorne or Dillon or one of those places. What if Skeet and I hole up at his place, then let it get out that we’re there? I mean, we don’t, like, pass out flyers and stuff, but maybe we get Keith and Afshin to accidentally let it slip in the locker room that we’ve gone to the mountains. If it gets to some of the rookies or bubble players who are trying to ingratiate themselves to the media, it will definitely get out. Maybe I could call up Whitney Walker, also, and either ‘accidentally’ mention it to her or even come right out and ask her to include something about it in a story.”

  Skeeter was nodding. “I’m tracking. Security here is operating under the assumption that somehow we are being watched. Another thing we could do is to have Keith come by and deliver the keys.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute,” Grandpa shouted. “Before you go working out all the ways that you are going to get them to where you’re hiding out, you’d better figure out what you’re going to do when you get there.”

  Riley shrugged his shoulders. “Wait for them.”

  “That’s your plan? Wait for them?”

  “Best I’ve got so far.”

  They all three sat silently. Finally Riley spoke quietly but earnestly. “Listen, Gramps. I’m betting that the place is surrounded by trees, so there will be plenty of places to stage a defense. Also, it’s isolated, so if anything happens, Skeeter and I are the only ones at risk. You said it yourself—any hit against them is a hard hit. I think this scenario gives us the best chance of delivering that hard hit.”

  Grandpa sighed heavily. “Well, if you’re going to do this, you could certainly stand to use a third gun.”

  “No, and please don’t make me argue the point with you. I need you to take care of Mom. Also, we may need you to do a few things back here or maybe call on your people again,” Riley finished with a forced grin.

  “You mean I can be old Alfred to your Batman?” Grandpa said with a sad chuckle.

  “Exactly. But I guess that does make Skeeter here the Boy Wonder.” They all laughed softly.

  Riley continued, “So, we’ve got a plan. Gramps, I did some work in the vaults last night. Would you double-check what I’ve done and see if I’ve missed anything? Skeeter, why don’t you see what information you can dig out of Scott about who’s after us. Don’t let him know yet what we’re doing, because I don’t want him involved in this. I’ll start making some phone calls to Keith and Afshin and maybe Whitney. Let’s look to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  As they stood up to go, Grandpa caught Riley’s arm in an unusually tight grip. “Hold back a second. Do you remember the story of Esther in the Bible?”

  “Yeah, she was chosen as queen of Persia and saved all the Jews.”

  “Exactly. I was just thinking about a conversation that Esther had with her cousin Mordecai. She knew she had to see the king, but doing so could cost her her life. Mordecai sent her a message saying, ‘God’s going to save his people one way or another. But maybe you’ve come to your position for such a time as this.’”

  “Yeah, I remember that. Amazing story.”

  “But do you remember her response, Riley? She says, ‘Get the people praying. I’m going to do what I have to do. I’m going to go see the king. And if I perish, I perish.’ That’s total commitment to doing the right thing. That’s what I’ve just heard from you. Jesus put it as, ‘Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’

  “Riley, I’ll be your Mordecai. I’ll get the people praying, and I’ll do whatever I can for you back here. As hard as it is to think about, I couldn’t be more proud of the fact that you are willing to show your ‘greater love.’

  “Now, I’m going to let go of your arm, but don’t say anything back to me, because if you do I’ll lose it and I’m just plain tired of crying.” Grandpa gave Riley’s arm a final squeeze, then went to the basement.

  Riley watched him go with a sad smile on his face. Laying down your life for your friends. Lord, that’s why I’m doing this. This isn’t for me. Honestly, I’m leaving it to You to pay back those who killed Dad. Please, Lord, just let me be part of stopping these people before they take more innocent lives. If I can give my life so that others won’t feel the pain that I’m going through, then so be it.

  After pausing for a moment to collect his emotions, Riley c
leared his throat low and deep and picked up his phone to start making calls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THURSDAY, MAY 21, 4:15 P.M. MDT FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS DENVER, COLORADO

  “Gooey, you been in my Yoo-hoos again?” Scott called as he pulled his head out of the FRRT refrigerator.

  There was no response, but even from across the room Scott could hear the sound of bottles clinking as Gooey shoved his metal wastebasket deeper under his workstation.

  “Gooey, have you been in my Yoo-hoos?”

  “Sorry, dude. I can’t hear you. I’m too busy working.”

  “We’ve got a match!” Evie Cline called out, bringing to a halt any more discussion of Yoo-hoos. It had been almost twenty-one hours since she and Virgil Hernandez had last left their workstations.

  While everyone rushed to Evie’s workstation, Scott excitedly called Jim Hicks, “You’ll want to come down for this, boss. We’ve got the girl.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Scott dropped the phone and moved toward the crowd. Through the chatter, he could hear Hicks’s door fly open and feet pounding down the metal stairs.

  “Cline!” Hicks called out. “Send it to the big screen!”

  “Sure thing,” Evie answered.

  Immediately, everyone left Evie’s desk and grabbed a chair around the conference table. A large video monitor began its ascent from a long black cabinet. It flashed on, and a beautiful female face greeted everyone.

  “Talk,” commanded Hicks.

  “Her name is Naheed Yamani. Age twenty-four. Saudi. Been in the country for six years. We had a hard time finding her, because she didn’t come in through the standard channels.”

  Hernandez now jumped in. “That’s right. Her grandfather is Prince Yaman ibn Abdul ibn Aziz al-Saud. Definitely not one of the key power-broker al-Sauds, but still wealthy and connected enough to get what he wants. Apparently he pulled some diplomatic strings to get her here and set her up in a Nob Hill address in San Francisco.”

  “You’re sure this is our girl?” Hicks asked. “Nothing about her matches our typical profile.”

  Evie split the screen with the picture Gooey had enhanced from the Hollywood attack. “I think there’s little doubt,” she said.

  Hicks nodded his agreement. “Okay, Tara, I want you to contact the West Coast Response Team. I want a two-man crew to do a silent recon into this gal’s residence. I want them to take her down if she’s there or wait for her if she’s not. Gooey, you coordinate with Tara and WCRT to give us a video feed of the operation.

  “Khadi, you find out all you can about this Prince Yaman character. See if there is anything we can dredge up to put some pressure on him to give up his granddaughter. Everyone else, go back to what you were doing.”

  Jim turned to go but quickly stopped himself. “I do want to emphasize, though, that we do not want this picture to get out—not yet. We do not want Yamani to go underground, because chances are, if she does, she’ll end up hidden away in her grandfather’s palace, far out of our reach. We understood?”

  A chorus of “Yeah, boss” sounded around the table.

  “Good. Scott, come up to my office with me. My brain hurts, and I need you to do some thinking for me.”

  “Sure thing, Jim,” Scott answered with a frown. He knew that this usually meant Hicks was in desperate need of a quick shot from his secret bottle, and since he had promised himself never to drink alone again, he liked to have Scott sitting across his desk from him while he did it.

  THURSDAY, MAY 21, 4:45 P.M. MDT

  PARKER, COLORADO

  Another phone call from Meg Ricci, Riley thought as he silenced his ringer. How many calls does it take to make the transition from concerned friend to stalker? But then, feeling bad for his attitude, he said out loud, “Cut her a break. She’s just being nice.”

  “Simmons is here,” Skeeter called from the front window.

  Riley ran to the other window and peeked through the curtain. Sure enough, here came Keith Simmons. He was wearing his after-workout sweats and carried an envelope with directions and keys to the cabin prominently in his right hand. Good man, thought Riley.

  Skeeter opened the door and took the envelope from Simmons while they were still in the doorway.

  “Nice job, linebacker,” said Skeeter.

  “Right back at you, bug man.”

  But then, when he saw Riley, all the humor drained out of his demeanor. “Pach, man, I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said, giving Riley a hug. “It’s just so messed up!”

  Riley returned the hug, then said, “Yeah, it is messed up. It still hardly feels real.”

  “I know what you mean. It was like that for me when Grammy died.”

  Simmons had been brought up by his grandmother. Riley could still remember how completely devastated Keith was when she had unexpectedly died of a heart attack two years ago.

  Simmons continued, “Hate to say it, bro, but it don’t ever really hurt less. You just learn better how to live with the pain.”

  An awkward silence followed until Simmons asked, “Hey, is your gramps around? I’d like to meet him.”

  “He is, but he’s taking a nap upstairs. Why don’t you hang around until he gets up?” Riley started moving toward the great room, but Simmons stopped him.

  “I appreciate it, but I just wanted to drop that junk off to you. You got too much stuff to do to worry about entertaining me.”

  Thinking again about what could happen at Simmons’s cabin, Riley asked, “You sure you’re okay with me doing this, Simm? It could get ugly up there.”

  “You mean things might get broken? Please, what do I care?” Simmons said with a shrug. “It’s just a building. Besides, if you get the place all tore up, I know where you live.”

  Riley smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, my friend.”

  “Don’t think about it. Hey, Pach, before I leave, would you mind if I, like, you know, prayed for you?”

  The tears that, of late, were always just below Riley’s surface welled up again in his eyes. “Dude, it’d be an honor.”

  Simmons put his hand on Riley’s shoulder. “God, it’s Keith again. You know I’m not used to this, so please forgive me if I mess it up or sound stupid. You know Riley—of course You know Riley; You knew him before You knew me—so, anyway, Riley here is going to go fight some really bad guys. Guys who hate him, and who, best I can tell, hate You, too. So please protect him. Help him to kill a whole bunch of them—I mean, if it’s okay to pray that he kills people; if not, then scratch that last part. Just watch over him, okay, Lord? Bring him back safe. Oh, and Skeeter, too. I pray the bad guys fall over dead just by looking at how scary he is. Thanks, God, for listening. Amen.”

  Riley wrapped his arms around the big man. “Thanks, buddy; that was awesome.”

  Simmons got a big smile on his face. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad, was it? So, Pach, you take care of yourself. And don’t give a second thought about the cabin—I built it once, I can build it again. You got it?”

  “I got it. Thanks.”

  Riley watched as Simmons went back to the door. He stopped to say a few things to Skeeter, then laughed and slapped him on the back. And then he was gone.

  7:45 P.M. MDT

  FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS

  DENVER, COLORADO

  The whole team was gathered around the table, watching the big screen. The screen was split in two and showed the same scene from two different perspectives. Two CTD operatives walked down a short hallway, and the views the FRRT was watching were from small cameras mounted on their protective eyewear.

  Because they were trying to keep a low profile, the two men were dressed in casual clothing, and their weapons were tucked away. Along with their regular firearms, each agent carried a Taser X26; they had specific instructions to take Naheed Yamani alive.

  As they arrived at the door, Scott and the analyst team could hear one operative telling the other, “Okay, let’s do thi
s.”

  The left operative knocked on the door. They waited. The tension was high in the Room of Understanding. The analysts were anxious to see what was on the other side of the door. Scott, Khadi, and Hicks felt a different sort of anxiety, since each of them had numerous times been in the same dangerous place as these two operatives. Anything could happen—bullets could fly, the door could be rigged with explosives, someone could come up from behind or from across the hall.

  The operative knocked again. After waiting a moment, one of them said, “Forget this, we’re going in.”

  The shot on the left screen tilted down, and the viewers watched as experienced hands slipped the lock. He looked up at his partner and said, “We go in on three. One, two, three!”

  THURSDAY, MAY 21, 6:45 P.M. PDT

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  The last day had been rough for Naheed Yamani. One moment, she thought she had steeled herself to go through with the bombing. The next moment, she was ready to pick up the phone to call her grandfather. And through all the vacillations, one constant remained—the feel of Jibril’s hand on her face.

  If you run, do you really think a man like that would just let you go? Do you really think that, even if you could get out of the country, he wouldn’t find a way to hunt you down and kill you?

  Naheed slid deeper into the bathtub until her head was under the hot water. This was her sixth bath in the last twenty-four hours. For some reason it was the one place she felt at least some semblance of peace.

  A sound reached her under the water, like a distant hammering. She quickly sat up to listen but didn’t hear any more. Her body floated back down to the water.

  Then the sound came again, and there was no doubting what it was now. Someone was at the door.

  Naheed stood up and wrapped herself in a thick, white terry cloth robe. As she walked out of the bathroom, she heard something that froze her in her tracks—the lock on the door was being disengaged. Like a deer in headlights, she watched as the door opened.

  Naheed heard a gasp from the person walking in. It was a Hispanic woman pushing a small cart. It was hard to tell which of the two was more startled. The woman said, “Lo siento. I knock. Nobody answer. Room service, madam. So sorry.”