by Jason Elam
Khadi knew she wasn’t being fair. Scott and Hicks would go do their thing, and when they came back everything would be fine between them and her. But for now, it still hurt to be the one left behind.
“Hey, Khadi, I’m sending you something,” Evie Cline’s voice called out through the Room of Understanding. “Didn’t know if you’d seen it yet.”
An envelope popped up on Khadi’s computer screen. She double-clicked it, and the message opened. In the right corner of the masthead was a peace symbol wearing round John Lennon glasses. Below, Khadi read the words All we are saying . . . and again wondered what Evie was doing in a job like this.
Turning her attention to the message, Khadi saw that Evie had sent her a link. She clicked it, bringing up the Fox 31 News Web site and a story headlined “Covington Runs for the Hills.” Immediately her hackles were raised, and by the time she had finished the article, she was out for blood.
A reporter running a story about Riley’s “recuperation trip to Costa Rica” had almost gotten them all killed just over a month ago. Don’t these idiots know that the bad guys read the paper too?
Seeing that Whitney Walker had written the story, Khadi did a quick search in a database and found her private cell number. She endured four rings, then a pert, happy little message. Khadi’s message was not quite so happy.
“Whitney Walker, this is Khadi Faroughi with the Counterterrorism Division of Homeland Security. You have exactly thirty minutes to return this call before I send someone out to pick you up and drop you into an interrogation room.” She left the callback number, then hung up the phone and resisted the urge to slam it on her desk.
Bringing back up Evie’s e-mail, Khadi hit Reply and typed, “Find out what you can about this bimbo and get back to me.” By the time she hit Send, her telephone was ringing. Khadi looked at the number—Ah, apparently Miss Walker screens her calls.
“This is Faroughi.”
“Miss Faroughi, this is Whitney Walker. What gives you the right to leave threatening messages on my phone? I’ve a good mind to go to your superior!”
Suspecting that Whitney’s indignation was mostly bluster, Khadi tried to keep the upper hand by remaining calm. “While I can’t speak to the quality of your mind, I can tell you that my superior would agree with me. Besides, I wasn’t threatening you; I was just explaining procedure.”
When Whitney responded, Khadi could hear hesitancy in the midst of her outrage. “You have no right to insult me, Miss Faroughi! I am just responding to your request for a phone call. Now what is it you want? I have things to do.”
Khadi tried to keep control by counting backward from ten, but, by the time she reached seven, she launched. “You think that was insulting? You haven’t even heard the beginning of insulting! I want to know what kind of brainless idiot posts a story that gives the whereabouts of a person who has gone into hiding? You think terrorists don’t read the Internet or watch the news? In your great quest to break a story, you very well may have led the people who have been hunting Riley Covington right to his doorstep!”
“Wait a second. I thought I recognized your name. You’re Khadi. Riley told me about you.”
The use of Riley’s first name startled Khadi. “How do you know Riley?” she managed to say.
Whitney’s voice was much more gentle now. “We’ve gotten together for coffee a couple of times—just business, of course.”
Of course, thought Khadi, who had seen Whitney’s picture on the Fox Web site and had read her bio. “If you really are friends with Riley, that’s all the more reason why this story makes no sense.”
“I . . . I . . . Khadi, I don’t know what to do. Riley swore me to secrecy. Not only that, but I could lose my job—although that’s looking very possible right now anyway. You’re not the only one upset about the story.”
Feelings of competition and of alliance were wrestling for supremacy in Khadi’s heart. Put the jealousy stuff out of your mind right now, she chastised herself. This is about Riley, not you!
“Whitney . . . can I call you Whitney?”
“Of course.” There was relief in Whitney’s voice at Khadi’s new tone.
“Whitney, I would never ask you to break a confidence or divulge a source. However, it feels like you have something you think you should tell me. You need to know that whatever you do tell me, I will do my best to keep it under the strictest guard. You have my promise.”
Khadi could hear the other woman breathing. Finally Whitney said, “Riley asked me to put out that story. He told me he and Scooter were going into the mountains, and he wanted the people who were after him to find them there.”
The mispronunciation of Skeeter’s name told Khadi that Whitney and Riley weren’t too close . . . yet. However, she still felt a twinge of jealousy that Riley would entrust his plan to this woman and not to her. You were the one who needed some time apart, remember? Deal with regrets later. “Did he tell you where he was going in the mountains?”
“No. But I’m sure you could figure it out. Riley spoke very highly of you when we were together.”
The phrases “spoke very highly of you” and “when we were together” battled in Khadi’s heart. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“No. I’m sorry, but that’s all he said.”
“Whitney, I owe you an apology,” Khadi said after a pause. “I thought you were using Riley to further your career, but it turns out you were just sacrificing for a friend.”
Whitney laughed softly. “It’s fine. I have to admit, it feels good to know there is at least one other person who knows why I posted the story. Everyone else thinks I need to either be jailed or loaded on the first plane out of town.”
“Well, if things get too bad for you, give me a call. We’ve got some pretty good resources around here. I’m sure we can find a way to make things better.”
“Thanks, Khadi. Riley was right. You do seem to be a pretty terrific woman.”
Khadi smiled. “No, thank you. I needed to hear that. I look forward to meeting you sometime.”
“Me too. Bye for now.”
Khadi hung up the phone, rested her elbows on her desk, and put a fingernail in her mouth. Just as she was about to bite, she remembered that she had given up that habit two years ago. Instead she grabbed a pack of Trident out of her purse and popped a piece into her mouth.
As she chewed away the nervous energy, her mind drifted. What’s Riley doing right now? I wonder if he’s thinking about me, or if he even thinks about me at all anymore. And why am I sitting here acting like a stupid little seventh grader with a crush?
Shaking her head, she pulled her computer keyboard toward her and began the process of finding Riley’s hideaway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TUESDAY, MAY 26, 9:00 P.M. CEST PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Death stood still, his stark bones only partially protected against the elements by the blue cloak draped over his shoulder. In his left hand he held an hourglass. In his right, a bell. Nobody moved as they waited to see what Death would do.
Suddenly, Death raised his right arm and the bell rang out once, twice, three times. The crowd around Scott began to ooh and aah as the bell continued ringing the time and the doors above Death and his three companions—Vanity, the Miser, and the Turk—opened and each of the twelve apostles took his turn blessing the crowd and the city from his place on the amazingly intricate medieval animated astronomical clock.
Eventually, the rooster crowed, the doors closed, and the onlookers dispersed as the chimes sounded out nine o’clock.
Scott faded away with the crowd and returned to his previous perch on the steps of the statue of Jan Hus. Five other members of the ops team were positioned in alley entrances and church doorways at various points around Old Town Square. But Scott’s Bohemian look fit in well enough with the ever-present European traveling hostel crowd to allow him to hide out in the open.
The night was perfect—mid-fifties with a fine mist creating arcs a
round the square’s lights. Scott pulled his trench coat tighter around himself, though not tight enough to reveal the outline of the Magpul Masada assault weapon that was pressed against his right side.
This weapon still amazed him. It was lighter than an M16, with a folding stock that made it perfect for concealment. But what really set this weapon apart was its barrel—free-floating for increased accuracy and completely interchangeable. Right now, all the team’s Masadas were fitted with AK-47 barrels, which meant that should gunplay erupt, the shell casings would initially lead the Czech authorities in directions other than American special ops.
There was much less hustle and bustle than usual tonight, but there were still plenty of people braving the elements—mostly couples walking arm in arm, being extra careful not to slip on the wet cobblestones. One area remained particularly busy—a constant flow of people went in and out of the restaurants that made up the far side of the square.
Scott’s stomach grumbled at him as he watched the Italian restaurant where Lecha Abdalayev and two of his men were having dinner with four members of the Abkhazian government-in-exile. In the window, he saw a pretty young woman using a fork and spoon to twirl pasta heavily coated with some sort of white sauce. Maybe Abdalayev will bring out a doggy bag.
Abdalayev’s free passage from the Czech authorities was turning out to be both a blessing and a curse. On the plus side, Scott and Hicks knew where their quarry was at all times. On the minus, the man was never isolated enough for the team to safely take him.
The last two nights watching the Chechen had been completely futile, but tonight Scott felt the first rays of hope. Because Abdalayev had chosen to have dinner in the middle of Old Town Square, he had a bit of a walk to get to his car. Also, this was the first night dark enough to allow the team free movement.
The front door of the restaurant opened, and Abdalayev’s two companions walked out. They stopped under the awning and lit cigarettes. As they joked back and forth, Scott could see their eyes scanning the square.
“Velvet One, this is Velvet Two. The goons are out. Get ready for movement.”
Scott had chosen the call signs for the operation in honor of the Velvet Revolution of 1989, when the Czechoslovakian people had overthrown their communist government without firing a shot. Gotta give folks like that some serious props.
“Copy, Velvet Two. Movement imminent,” Scott heard Hicks say through his earpiece.
Casually, Scott got up from the stairs and stretched. After taking one last look at the huge statue of the great religious reformer, he slowly walked off in the direction of Abdalayev’s car. The dampness that had soaked through his clothes sent chills into his skin as he moved through the square.
“Velvet One, Velvet Six. Party Boy is moving, but Party Host is still on the dance floor.” Abdalayev had left the restaurant, but apparently the Abkhazians were still with him.
Not good, Scott thought as he continued walking, giving a wide berth to a group of teens that had circled up with a hacky sack.
“This is Velvet One. If Party Host continues with Party Boy, we’re still a go. But Party Host only gets buzzed, not wasted. Repeat, Party Host gets buzzed. Only Party Boy gets wasted. Copy?”
“Velvet Two copies,” Scott said, then listened as the rest of the team spoke their affirmations. Hicks had been very clear that although Abdalayev’s men could be dealt with as needed, none of the Abkhazians should be killed. They could be hit with the Tasers, but nothing more unless they fired on the team. This had the potential of making things very complicated in the midst of battle, trying to figure out whom to shoot and whom to taze.
Scott ducked into a narrow alley between a flower shop and an art gallery. Abdalayev’s car was just around the corner. In his mind Scott pictured everyone’s position—Jim was stretched out under some newspapers on a park bench across the street from the car; Posada and Kruse would be coming up the street from the opposite direction; Kasay was tailing Abdalayev, watching him from a distance. The rest of the guys were split into two vans, one here and one waiting on the opposite side of the square in case things went all catawampus.
“Velvet One, Velvet Six,” came Kasay’s voice. “Party Host is breaking off. Repeat, Party Host is breaking off.”
“Copy, Velvet Six. Okay, boys, it’s party time.”
Scott’s heart started racing as the pre-action adrenaline hit his bloodstream full force. He was about to move into the dark depths of the alley when the sound of coarse voices and boots scraping across the cobblestones came right up next to him. Oh, great, the mist must have muffled their approach. Instinctively, Scott thrust his hips forward and pretended to urinate against the wall.
The three men spotted Scott as they passed the alley. Turning toward them, Scott locked eyes with Abdalayev. He shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. One of the men said something in their harsh language, and all three laughed. They continued on.
“Velvet Two here. Party Boy’s rounding the corner.” The relief was evident in Scott’s voice. He slid out of the alley and moved up behind the men. As he rounded the corner, shots began to ring out. Two double taps each from Posada and Kruse dropped Abdalayev’s driver, who had been waiting for his boss with the car door open.
Instantly, the mercenary’s two companions had their pistols out and began returning fire. Abdalayev turned to escape back the way he had come, but Scott came behind him ready to drop him with the Taser. Both men tumbled to the ground. Scott got a handful of the Chechen’s shirt, but a fist to his ribs allowed the other man to break his grasp, scramble up, and run.
Jumping to his feet, Scott gave pursuit.
Ahead he saw muzzle flashes and heard more shots. One man dropped, but the other man kept running. Kasay! “Velvet One, Velvet Six is down in the square! Repeat, Velvet Six is down in the square,” Scott yelled. As he raced past, he could hear Kasay groaning.
Scott was gaining on Abdalayev. Although he wasn’t in the best shape, his legs were longer and younger. To his right, toward the restaurants, he could hear people shouting. Stay where you are, folks! Don’t get caught up in this!
At the far end of the square, the two men passed through an archway and came alongside the massive, Gothic Týn Cathedral. Scott dove for Abdalayev and caught him around the waist. Both men went down hard, their weapons clattering away. Scott pulled himself up Abdalayev’s back and began driving his fist into the side of the man’s head. But the seasoned veteran had been involved in too many fights to let himself get taken that easily.
Surprising Scott with his strength, Abdalayev rolled himself over. Scott felt a blow to his side that took his breath away. Before he knew what happened, he was flung onto his back, and the Chechen mercenary was on top of him. A fist connected twice with the side of his head. Scott’s vision grayed. Something flashed in the lights from the side of the cathedral, and far back in Scott’s foggy brain he recognized it as a knife. So this is the end, he thought peacefully.
Suddenly, a body flew into Abdalayev. Scott rolled onto his side and saw Hicks drive his rifle butt into the Chechen’s face. All the while, Hicks was trying to keep the onlookers back by yelling, “Policie! Policie!”—the one Czech word that Scott had taught the team.
A loopy smile spread across Scott’s face. Wow, it’s SuperJim, he thought as the gray faded toward black, come to save the day. . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
TUESDAY, MAY 26, 1:45 P.M. MDT SILVERTHORNE, COLORADO
Riley trudged through the calf-high grass and thanked God again for his Doc Martens boots. He and Skeeter had too many other things to be on guard for to take the time to examine each other’s bodies for ticks.
He had woken up in a foul mood this morning. Today was his dad’s funeral. Even now as he walked through the beautiful high country, the bitterness of missing it burned in his throat. What’s Mom feeling? Does she really understand why I’m not there? Riley missed her desperately. He knew he could never be fully at peace until he heard her say that everyth
ing would be all right.
Added to that, June 1 would have been his dad’s birthday, and this was about the time he usually started scrambling to find a present. Last year, Riley had driven up to Wheatland to give him his gift in person—a Lincoln clay pigeon trap, fully automatic, with a 320-target capacity. He could still hear his dad’s laughter each time the trap adjusted its position. Grandpa had been there too, and the three of them had lost count of how many targets they’d burned through that afternoon. He did know it had taken them a full ten minutes to shovel up the shells.
Riley stopped and squatted low. The day was warm even at this elevation, and Riley took off his cap to wipe his face with his sleeve. Everything was quiet except for the wind blowing through the tops of the sixty-foot lodge pole pines and that stupid dog’s barking. Carefully, Riley moved ahead, one slow step after another.
Then he spotted it—a thin wire three inches below the top of the grass. Riley walked to the tree where it was tied off, then followed the wire twenty feet to the M49A1 trip flare. The thing looked like it had been around since the Vietnam era, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Riley was grateful for what Scott had given them.
Riley slowly backed away from the device, then began the short hike to the next one. On the other side of the property, Skeeter was doing the same thing. It had been four days since they had set the flares, and it was a wonder that some elk or moose or overgrown deer mouse hadn’t triggered one of them. What does that say about the chances of a bad guy triggering one? We’ve got to look at these as nothing more than lottery tickets—if they hit, great! But we certainly shouldn’t be counting on them.
The breeze cooled his face, and Riley stopped for a moment to relish the feeling. What would I say if I were at Dad’s funeral? That he was a good man? That he taught me everything I know? That I only speak in clichés?
Think, what would I say? That Dad was a godly man, and through his example he showed me what it means to live a godly life and what it means to truly be a man. Chills rose on Riley’s skin, telling him that he had nailed it. Going to have to tell that to Mom, he thought, continuing on.
