by Jason Elam
Keep coming, you demon spawn of the devil! I’ll send you to see the dark lord you serve, just like I sent this first one. Al-’Aqran hunched down, hearing his knees pop, and listened for his next victim.
7:51 P.M. EEST
“Scott, Scott, you okay in there?” Posada had been calling Scott for the past minute since the gunfire. So far, there had been no response. Posada wanted to go in, but he needed to keep pressure on the wound at the base of Hicks’s neck.
Kim Li finally arrived up the stairs, and Posada waved him over. “Hold this here. I’m going to check on Scott.”
“You got it,” Li replied, grabbing hold of the bloody rag that used to be Posada’s mask.
Posada left Hicks and started toward the door. Then a voice, barely audible, came through his earpiece, stopping him in his tracks. “Gilly, you there, man?”
“Right here, buddy.”
“Move to the door, but don’t come in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go down to the floor, and on my go, start hitting the door fragments like footsteps.”
“You got it.”
7:52 P.M. EEST
Scott didn’t know what parts of his body had been hit, but he knew it hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. When he had assessed the situation, he recognized that al-’Aqran was poised to pick off the Velvet Team members one by one until they came in with strength. Even then, the stubborn old man would probably take out a couple more before he went down.
I can take this weasel out; I’ve just got to get him in the open. But if I make any noise, he’ll be aiming right at me, which removes the “Olly olly oxen free” option. I just need a diversion, something or someone to draw his fire. That was when he called Posada.
“I’m in position,” Posada’s voice said into Scott’s earpiece.
“Okay, ready, now.”
A faint rustling noise started behind Scott. A moment later, the flashing barrel of the rifle appeared, followed by the face of al’Aqran—the Scorpion. Scott’s finger pulled back on his trigger, and a string of 5.56 mm rounds slammed into the old man’s body, throwing him against the back wall, where he slumped to the ground.
Posada ran past Scott and retrieved the man’s rifle. Scott tried to pull himself up, but his left leg wasn’t working like it should. Looking around, he saw al-’Aqran’s old walking stick.
“Gilly, is he dead?”
“No, the old man’s a fighter,” Posada said, leaning over al ’Aqran.
“Tell you what, bring me that walking stick, and then leave the room.”
Posada raised an eyebrow as he walked over toward his friend. “Scott, are you sure you want me—?”
“That’s an order!”
“Yes, sir.”
Posada got the stick and helped Scott to his feet. “Call if you need me.”
Scott just nodded his head. The pain in his side was making his head swim. Focus, man, focus! You can do this!
Slowly he made his way over to where the terrorist commander was raspily sucking in breath. Scott turned a chair from the table. The air whistled out of the cushion as he sat down. He pulled off his mask, removed the mic that was taped to his cheek, and nudged the old man with the barrel of his rifle.
Scott was gratified to see the look of recognition on al-’Aqran’s face when he looked up.
Leaning his arm back onto the table just behind and trying to hide the wince of pain this nonchalant move caused him, Scott said, “Hey, Mr. Scorpion, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Ah, the friends of Riley Covington, come to exact their revenge.”
“Revenge? This isn’t about revenge, old man; it’s about justice.”
Al-’Aqran laughed, but his laugh quickly deteriorated into a blood-spewing cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you Americans know about justice? We will see who is just when we stand before the one true, just God.”
Scott shook his head. “That we will, and I’m guessing you are about five minutes away from seeing him. Now tell me about the school attacks before I use my knife to dig out your one good eye.”
“What school attacks?” al-’Aqran answered. But Scott could see the surprise on the old man’s face.
“I don’t have time for your games,” Scott said, wincing as he pulled his knife from his right boot. “You are thirty seconds away from me punching your one-way ticket to hell.”
Again the laugh, but softer this time. “I may be on my way to hell. But at least if I am, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that your friend Riley Covington will be joining me there within the hour.”
Scott sat up quickly, sending lightning bolts through his body. He sucked in air, trying to get control of the pain. “You wish. Riley took care of your little boys up in the mountains.”
Another coughing fit sprayed blood across the floor and onto Scott’s boots. Scott was tempted to wipe them off on the man’s scraggly beard. “Oh, I’m not talking about the mountains. Maybe if you get me to a hospital, I’ll tell you a little more. Maybe we can even talk about your little children there too.”
He’s running a game! That’s all he’s doing; he’s running a game, trying to buy more time. There’s no way he’s going to tell a thing. I’ll find out about the school attacks and about Riley, but not from al-’Aqran. I’ll get the info I need from the guy down the hall with the bullet in his leg. Scott slowly pushed himself to his feet.
A bloody smile spread across al-’Aqran’s face. “How about it? You send me off to a dirty old prison and you get to save the lives of all those little fair-haired children. Deal?”
Scott shook his head. “Not this time, old man. I hate to tell you, but there ain’t gonna be no rematch.”
He pulled the trigger of his rifle twice, then slowly limped his way to the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 10:58 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Oh, Lord, not little Aly!
Riley caught a glimpse of his pale face in the rearview mirror. Cars are not designed to move this slowly, he thought as he struggled to keep the VW Beetle at twenty-five through the small downtown district of Parker. But the last thing I need right now is to have to explain to a cop where I’m going and why I’m driving this thing.
Fighting a steadily losing battle with panic, Riley had eventually gotten the facts from Meg.
“Three men,” she had told him. “They were dressed in black.”
“Slow down, Meg,” he’d said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I had just changed Aly in the living room, and I was throwing out her diaper. When I came back in, there they were. I don’t know how they got in—I always keep the alarm on just like you told me. One of them was holding Aly, and she was reaching out for me.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“One of them came up to me and said, ‘You tell Riley Covington to come over alone and unarmed. When he does, we’ll trade you your little girl for him. We’ll call you in an hour.’ Then he pushed me, and I fell over the back of the couch. When I got up, they were walking out the door. Aly was screaming for me, Riley; she was screaming!”
“What time was that, Meg?”
“They just left! You have to help me, Riley! I don’t know what to do!”
After checking the time on his watch, Riley had said, “You don’t do anything except wait for me! I’m on my way over!”
He’d fired off a quick text message to Khadi’s phone, then turned his own phone off and rocketed in the direction of the Ricci residence.
A mother pushing a running stroller suddenly appeared in front of him. Riley slammed on the brakes, skidding right up to a crosswalk. Angrily, the woman pointed to the flashing yellow lights indicating that someone was crossing. Riley waved his hand apologetically. You bonehead! Get it together. If you can’t even see the big flashing lights, how can you possibly expect to think clearly enough to get Alessandra back safely? He accelerated and slowly made his way e
ast.
Riley was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. Even the adrenaline pumping through his veins was not enough to fully sharpen him up. He knew he was playing tired—and playing tired is a good way to get your head handed to you on a plate. The whole trip from downtown Denver had been one muddled thought after another. And now that he was three minutes from Meg Ricci’s house, he still didn’t have even a semblance of a plan.
Lord, this is going to have to be all You. I don’t have this in me, but You promise us in the Bible that when we are weak, You are strong. So, give me Your strength. You also promise that if we lack wisdom, all we have to do is ask. So, I’m asking—give me Your wisdom, because right now I’m utterly clueless.
You know my heart, Father. I don’t care what happens to me. “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain,” right? I truly believe that. Just help me save Aly. Please, Lord, protect that precious little girl.
A chorus that he had sung in church about falling down and laying crowns popped into his mind, but he couldn’t remember the words. So, he hummed a couple of lines, then faded into silence.
Just before Riley turned onto Meg’s street, he pulled to the side, reached around to the small of his back, and pulled out a Ruger LCP .380. Giving it a quick once-over, he confirmed that he had a full six in the clip and one in the chamber. Don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this thing, but there’s absolutely no way I’m going into that house unarmed, he thought as he slid the pistol back into place. Slipping the car in gear, he made his turn and pulled up to his destination.
Before getting out, he scanned the neighborhood. This whole thing could be a setup so that they can pop me on my way into the house. I don’t see anyone . . . which means absolutely nothing. Saying one more quick prayer, he got out of the car and hurried to the front door. Meg was waiting for him.
“Oh, Riley, you came,” she cried out as she embraced him and sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Of course I came. What else could I do?” Riley replied, holding her tightly. After a moment, he gently pushed her back so he could look her in the eyes. “We’re going to get Aly back, Meg. Do you understand me? We will get her back!”
Meg tried to stifle her sobs. “Okay, Riley, I believe you. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Riley twisted his wrist to see the time. “Now, we’ve still got a half hour before they call. I want you to tell me again everything that happened when the men were here.”
Meg nodded as she moved into the family room. She sat down in her late husband’s leather chair; Riley sat on the edge of the couch across from her. The look on her face sent an uncomfortable feeling through his body. Come on, let it go. You don’t have time to be paranoid. “Okay, Meg, start from the beginning. You were in . . . where? . . . Was it the kitchen throwing out her diaper?”
Suddenly, Meg’s whole demeanor changed. She heaved a deep sigh, and the muscles on her face relaxed. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. Reaching down into the crevice next to her chair’s large bottom cushion, she pulled out a handgun and pointed it at Riley.
“Riley,” she said so quietly that he could barely hear her, “I’m so sorry. You have to put your hands up. Please, for Aly’s sake, put your hands up.”
At first, in his exhausted state of mind, Riley thought it was a joke. But just as quickly, the reality of the situation hit him. He dropped back into the couch. Lifting his arms, he held them up for a moment, then let them fall down to his side. All the fight had left him. Quietly, he said, “Meg. What are you doing, Meg?”
A voice broke in from the direction of the kitchen. “She’s only doing what I’ve asked her to do. It’s time I introduce myself to you, Mr. Covington. My name is Abdullah Muhammad, and I must tell you, you certainly are a hard man to kill.”
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 8:05 P.M. EEST
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
“He’s not looking good,” Kim Li reported to Scott. “He’s lost a ton of blood.”
Scott looked down at Jim Hicks. He wanted to stop and do something—to let Hicks know that he was there with him. But his friend’s words kept ringing in his ears. Get moving, you idiot!
“I want you to get him help as soon as the Turkish cavalry arrives! And you don’t leave his side, not ever. You got it?”
As if on cue, the distinctive wail of the Turkish police cars sounded from outside.
“You got it, Scott.”
Scott moved forward as quickly as he could, which wasn’t saying much. The walking stick seemed to be doing the lion’s share of the work. With every tap . . . shuffle, shuffle, he continued a trail of blood on the tile hallway. As he moved forward, his eyes remained fixed on the man by the stairs. For the first time in many years, Scott felt blind hatred.
The man must have seen it in Scott’s eyes, because he clasped his hands together in front of himself and began whimpering while Scott was still fifteen feet away.
Go ahead and cry. You think that’s going to get you mercy? You’ve already killed Johnson and Kruse and Guitiérrez and two good CIA men. My boss and mentor is bleeding to death, and my best friend is about to get killed by another of your people. “Do you really think you’re going to get mercy?” Scott yelled out in broken Arabic. “Do you?” Fat chance! What in the world are you thinking, you murdering piece of trash?
Scott stood in front of the man and used the barrel of his rifle to swat the man’s hands away from his face. “Look at me! You think those soft hands will stop my bullets? Look at me!”
The man slowly dropped his arms to his side.
In his earpiece, Scott heard Ted Hummel say, “Scott, the police are here, and they’re wanting up bad.”
Scott took his mic and pressed it back against his cheek, where it hung loosely. “Give me three minutes,” he growled. He could hear the sounds of very unhappy voices in his earpiece and down through the stairway.
“How? They really want up!”
“I don’t care how! You’re a professional; figure it out!”
“Yes, sir!”
“What’s your name?” Scott demanded, turning his attention back to the wounded man who was sitting propped against the wall.
“Talib. Tahir Talib,” the man replied in a shaking voice.
“Tell me about the school attacks! Where? When?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not the answer I want to hear,” Scott yelled, kicking the bullet wound in the man’s thigh.
Talib cried out, “I swear I don’t know. That other man who was shot up here with me—he was to begin waking the sleepers tomorrow!”
“So you’re telling me that the attacks are not scheduled to begin yet?” Relief flooded through Scott’s body.
“Yes, sayyid. The process has not yet begun.”
“You better be telling me the truth! Otherwise, I will find you in whatever pit of a prison cell they throw you into, and I’ll dismantle you piece by piece. Now, tell me about Riley Covington! What are your friends preparing for him?”
“I . . . I don’t—”
Scott raised his rifle and placed the end of the barrel on the bridge of the man’s nose. Talib cried out, “Hakeem Qasim’s widow! Her daughter is being used to draw Covington in!”
Scott was suddenly confused. The loss of blood was starting to make his head swim. He stepped back, catching his balance with the walking stick. “Is this the truth? Is it true?”
Talib’s hands were back in front of his face. “It is, it is. I swear it!”
Again the rage took over. These people will do anything and use anyone. Do any of them have the right to live? Does this piece of garbage really deserve to leave this building alive? Answer: 100 percent, unequivocally NO!
Scott tucked his rifle under his chin and pointed it back at Talib’s head. “Look at me! LOOK AT ME!”
Finally, Talib lowered his hands, resigned to his fate. Scott’s finger gripped the trigger. Sweat was pouring down his face, and his whole body was
shaking. “AAAH!” he screamed, and then turned and limped away leaving the man crying on the floor.
“Scott, you all right?” came Kim Li’s voice from down the hall.
“Yeah,” was all Scott said as he pulled a satellite phone out of a deep pocket in his cargo pants. “Hummel, I need two more minutes.”
“I’m doing my best, boss.”
Scott quickly dialed a number. Come on, answer, answer!
Riley’s voice sounded before the first ring. “This is 303-8 . . .” Of course he’s got his phone off, Scott thought as he dialed another number.
This time Khadi answered. “This is Faroughi.”
“Khadi! I don’t have time to talk! Is Riley with you?”
“No, he sent me a text saying he was going to Meg’s house. Since then his phone has been off.”
“No, no, NO, NO! Listen to me, Khadi! They’ve set a trap for him. They’re holding Alessandra hostage to force Riley to come to them. You’ve got to get over there now—I mean, right this moment!”
Voices filled the stairway next to Scott, drowning out Khadi’s reply. Turkish police began pouring onto the third level. Officers were yelling at him, guns were pointed. Scott dropped his weapon and raised his hands, and as he did, the room spun and he dropped.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 11:10 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
“You’re the guy from the mountains,” Riley said as he watched the man limp into the room carrying a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson.
“Oh, you’re bright . . . for a football player,” Abdullah said sarcastically. “Although not so bright that you don’t run out of a house directly into the line of fire. How did you know there weren’t other guns out there waiting to take you down?”
“I didn’t. I only knew it was me or my friends.”
