For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1

by Ted Peters

  “Ms. Foxx, do you know who we are?” asked the one riding shotgun, the right front seat.

  “No. But I hope you’ll tell me.”

  “We don’t plan to. What we would like from you is a name. A simple name. If you give us this name, we will let you out and drive away. You’ll never see us again.”

  “You want a name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s a name for you: Max Samuelson.”

  “Who’s Max Samuelson?”

  “Max Samuelson is the man murdered this morning by the guy sitting to my left.”

  “What?!” said the so-called white guy?

  “You heard me.”

  The shotgun rider looked at the white guy. “I thought his name was...”

  “Levy, Walt,” interrupted the one to Leona’s left. “That’s it. Levy. Who’s Samuelson, you fox?”

  Leona had now learned at least one name, Walt, riding shotgun. “He’s the guy you killed. Actually, he was my doctor. You’ll hear about it on the news, I’m sure. You guys seem to know how to misfire. So, why did you want to rub out Rabbi Levy?”

  The three tried to look one another in the eye. They were obviously confused, astonished at what their captive seemed to know. “I thought you said you don’t know who we are,” said Walt.

  “I did say that. I don’t know who you are. Inform me. Who are you and why did you want to shoot my favorite rabbi?”

  “Because he’s your favorite rabbi, I guess,” said Walt. “We had thought you knew more about us than you apparently do. We thought you had confided in Mr. Levy and that he could expose us, especially if you would turn up missing for a period of time. Let me ask about the other name. Here’s what we really want. Who is the Iranian in Tehran slowing nuclear weapons development?”

  Leona said nothing. No one pressed the question, at least not immediately. The Evanston Cleaners van droned on northward. Leona entered into her own thought world, a world where she was undergoing a conflict between the machine and heart. The word “martyr” came to mind. Might this be the day I will die? Might I be executed by this American triumvirate of CIA contractors? If so, would the word “martyr” apply?

  This word confused Leona. When she had first begun her theological studies, she learned how a martyr was a person who died confessing faith in Jesus. Justin Martyr, one of the great theologians of the second century, was burned at the stake because he would not compromise on his religious commitment. While Leona was in seminary, something odd happened. One of its recent graduates, a man of about thirty serving as a missionary in Ethiopia, had died in an auto accident. One of the seminary chapel services was dedicated to his memorial. During the sermon, the seminary president described the dead missionary as a martyr. This was confusing to Leona. An auto accident? Why a martyr? An auto accident is nothing like being burned at the stake. Is the term “martyr” simply honorific for people we like?

  What made this more disconcerting for Leona was the recent use of the label “martyr” in the world of Islamic terrorism. To die killing enemies of Allah meant that suicide bombers would become martyrs; and upon their death they would be given an immediate free passage to heaven. The same word could be used for a terrorist as was used for the saint Leona admired: Justin Martyr.

  Again, she pondered: What if I die today, executed by these thugs for keeping an international secret? I would not be dying for my Lord. I would rather be dying to keep an obscure Muslim from suffering this fate. It would be a trade, his life for mine. Where does this fit in the world of martyrdom? Leona clicked on her machine mind.

  42 Friday, Evanston, 12:31 pm

  The kidnappers’ van turned right on Wilson and left onto North Sheridan, driving north. Within a few minutes they were viewing Lake Michigan to their right. A voice broke in through the Bluetooth. “Is that you, Lanny?”

  The driver spoke, “Yeah, it’s me.” Leona learned a second name.

  “Is Walt with you?” the radio voice continued.

  “Yeah, I’m here in the passenger’s seat. Whatya want?”

  “I need ta doublecheck. Did you say the 85th floor?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Did you pick up your package?”

  “You bet. The package is in the back seat, ready for delivery.”

  “Good. We’re tracking you from above. Seeya on the ground.”

  “Okay.”

  Overhearing this conversation was fortuitous for Leona. Like basketball players, this team was telegraphing its passes. Walt, looking at his watch, mumbled deliberately and gleefully, “Less than thirty-two more hours.” Heads nodded. Leona scrubbed her memory. She reminded herself that Andy had said he and Mildred would be overnighting on the 85th floor of the John Hancock. Might this close the loop? Might the Plan B event take place about eight Saturday evening?

  “You’re not listening to me,” said Walt, turning his attention back to Leona. “The name!”

  “I gave you a name. And, now, you want another name. Isn’t one name enough?”

  “You don’t seem afraid of us.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You should be. You might not live to deliver your sermon Sunday.”

  Leona continued to study the body language of her companions inside the van. She wondered whether or not Graham could hear this conversation and when he would take action. Graham could not hear her inner thoughts, to be sure; but he certainly would know when to rescue her. Her task at the moment was to learn what kind of terrorist act is being planned, most likely, at 8:00 pm on Saturday evening at the John Hancock. What could they be planning? How could she find out?

  A half football field behind them Graham drove in his CR-V, listening to the conversation between Leona and her kidnappers on his Bluetooth. Directly behind Graham was the second Evanston Cleaner’s van. Following the van was a SUV carrying Shmoo and two colleagues. All were keeping pace. These trackers would keep the prey in sight but not overtake the rabbit they were chasing.

  The van radio signaled again. “Are you there, Lanny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll drop down between the highway and the lake. We’ll hover until we see you hit the beach.”

  Leona surmised that momentarily she would be passed off. Perhaps that voice was coming from a chopper. If so, once in the air, then Graham and the rent-a-cops would be no help. She needed to act with haste.

  “So, again, where are we going?”

  “Do you like to swim?” asked Walt.

  “I love swimming. I’ve done the triathlon a half dozen times.”

  Walt turned to look out the windshield. “We have some friends who’d like to meet you at the beach. They’d like to hear a certain name from you. If you provide it, you’ll live to run another triathlon. If you don’t you might find the water of Lake Michigan pretty deep.”

  Graham heard it all. He began to run scenarios and options through his mind. Will Leona be exposed when the van stops? What role might the helicopter play? When should I make my move? He realized that he would need to put a stop to this before Leona could be transferred to the chopper. To make matters more complicated, this woman was coming to mean much more to him than merely an assignment. Graham studied the helicopter hovering above the shoreline.

  The first Evanston Cleaners’ van was now in Evanston itself, north of Chicago by a couple of blocks. To the right was an apron with thirty feet of grass and then seventy feet of sand before hitting the breakwater. A small beach area, not exactly private but relatively secluded. Lanny swung the van to the right over the grass toward the water. He slid to a stop in the sand. The helicopter hovered at water’s edge. Graham remained on the highway, driving past the turn off point a hundred yards to make a U turn onto the sand. He kicked the CR-V into four-wheel drive, churning sand as he accelerated toward the off-road van. A handful of sunbathers in the area were startled by the unexpected vehicle activity; they screamed and scattered.

  The kidnapper’s van had come to an abrupt stop. Wal
t leaped out. He flung open Leona’s door and leaned down to unfasten her seat belt. At this Leona split her hands free from the plastic ties, refolded them, and then came down on Walt’s neck with a rabbit punch. Walt drifted into a faint, collapsing on the ground. Leona slid out the panel door and dropped to the ground as well. She crawled toward the van’s rear, peering beneath the undercarriage to see what might be going on.

  Neither Lanny nor the white guy saw this. They had exited on the van’s left side and their attention was diverted to Graham’s car bearing down on them. Each took a spread-eagle stance with two hands on their weapons. They fired their handguns at Graham, putting holes and spider webs in his windshield.

  The helicopter, rocking while suspended above their heads, provided cover fire. Bullets from the sky punched more holes in Graham’s windshield. At this Graham stopped. He exited the car and used his open driver’s door as a shield. He continued firing, alternating between the chopper and the two gunman at the van.

  By this time Everett sized up what was happening. He swerved his van to his right and drove eighty feet before stopping at water’s edge, just south of the other van. He instinctively had created triangulation: his van, Graham’s car, and the gun blazing chopper. The three tams exited on the passenger side and took up positions with guns drawn, looking over the van’s hood.

  Scorp reminded himself that Leona had exorted him to refrain from using a weapon except… Scorp fired. He hit the helicopter window closest to the gunman. The helicopter gunman panicked at being caught in a near crossfire. He frantically jerked his hand upward to signal to the pilot to rise out of range. The craft headed up and north.

  Leona found herself in the eye of a hurricane of roaring vehicles, gunshots, and human chaos. She turned her head skyward to study the helicopter. It looked to her like a Long Ranger, a duplicate of the president’s. Only, this one was white. The president’s had been dark blue.

  Walt, now awakening, took advantage of Leona’s diverted attention. He grabbed her from behind, locking his left arm around her neck. With his right hand he pressed his Glock 17 to Leona’s temple. They stood up, slowly. With her under his control, he eased her around the rear of the van, taking small side steps. Like a rabbit disappearing into the thicket, the copter disappeared into the distance.

  In the meantime, on the left side of the CUB van, the white guy was rattling his MAC 10 automatic at Graham’s car. From behind Graham a SUV appeared, also in four-wheel drive, fishtailing through the sand toward the action. It was aimed like a missile at the parked van. The top of Shmoo’s torso hung outside the back seat window. Shmoo was firing his Steyr Tactical Machine Pistol. The white guy took a bullet in the chest. He was thrust backward against the van, dropping his weapon and sliding down into a quiet slump on the ground. Blood re-colored his gray and maroon clothes.

  Then Lanny stood up with both hands on his handgun, only to be downed by one of Shmoo’s bullets through the forehead. Shmoo ceased firing. The SUV stopped. Shmoo jumped out. He and Graham stepped cautiously into the cloud of lingering gun smoke. They crept cautiously toward the apparently pacified Evanston Cleaner’s van.

  From the van’s rear Walt emerged, holding Leona hostage. A tense showdown situation commenced. Everyone became quiet. Walt waved his gunhand so that all could see that he was the one in control. Leona would die immediately if Graham or Shmoo or the two men still in the SUV’s front seat made a false move. It was a frozen moment.

  Graham and Shmoo looked at each other. Their faces were asking, “Can you get a clear shot?” Their eyes answered, “No.”

  Walt raised his voice. “I want you all to drop your weapons and walk toward the CR-V. I want you to leave the SUV running. Keys in it. Ms. Foxx and I are going to take a little drive. Do you hear me?”

  The two rent-a-cops in the SUV opened their doors and stepped out. Each held his hands up, shoulder high. They walked timidly toward the CR-V. Shmoo and Graham paused without moving.

  “Drop ‘m,” screamed Walt. Shmoo and Graham had no choice. Their weapons fell into the sand at their feet. The two walked backwards toward the CR-V. Within ten seconds, these four soldiers in Leona’s army were grouped. Walt and his hostage took small steps toward the SUV. Walt cleverly kept Leona between himself and the four men. The four could only watch helplessly.

  As the kidnapper and hostage neared the SUV, Walt whispered to Leona, “Now, you get in the passenger seat. Slowly, with your hands on your head. Understand? Move!”

  Leona put her hands on her head and took one step toward the open driver’s door. A second passed. A loud gun shot. The Glock dropped from Walt’s hand. Walt crumpled and fell heavily into the beach sand. When all eyes turned to find the source of the lethal bullet, they saw Scorp standing there, lowering his weapon. A single, clear and deadly shot.

  Leona ran to Scorp and gave him a hug. Then, like the flip of a coin, her face turned to business. “Look,” she addressed the four plus Scorp, “we have not yet drawn police attention. Let’s vacate and let any bystanders guess what happened. We’ll meet at the church parking lot. I’ll ride with Shmoo. Scorp, clear the van and abandon it. It’s too easy to recognize on the road. Make sure you get my Kimber. The three of you Stoners ride with Graham. Now, get going!”

  Shmoo walked toward the two of the three bodies lying on the left side of the Evanston Cleaners’ van. He raised his gun at the white guy.

  “What are you doing, Shmoo?” yelled Leona.

  “Gonna finish ‘m off. We don’t want any witnesses in court.”

  “No, Shmoo. Get back into this car.”

  Shmoo looked up puzzled. He shrugged his shoulders and did what Leona asked him to do.

  A siren shrieked in the distance. Soon everyone was in their vehicle. The two vehicles took off, heading south. Leona found herself in the back seat of the SUV, telling the driver where to go. Shmoo grabbed her hand. Leona spoke first. “Shmoo, I can’t tell you what a sight it was to see you coming on firing like Eisenhower’s army on D-Day. I owe you.”

  “Leona, I’m just so glad that you’re still with us.”

  Their two hands squeezed.

  43 Friday, Chicago, 3:21 pm

  “Let me get this straight,” said Jarrod Grimes into his mobile telephone. “Lanny is dead. Walt is dead. And that local guy with the beard is dead. All dead. How could this be?”

  Grimes nodded grimacing as he listened to the recounting of the afternoon gunfight on the Evanston beach, an eyewitness account reported from someone aboard the hovering helicopter. “Where is that pastor, that Reverend Foxx?” A minute passed.

  “Oh, shit!” Grimes muttered. The two muscle men studying their iPads in the sitting room did not look up. Grimes listened to more coming from the phone and then commented, “I think we both know what this means. But before taking any action, let me check once with the boss. Call me back in a half hour.”

  Grimes hit the off button. He turned to look with disgust at his two comrades. Then he walked to one of the two closed doors in this Palmer House suite. He rapped on one. A gruff voice bellowed, “Enter!” A loud exchange blasted through the closed door. When Grimes stepped out, he spoke to his two henchmen. “It’s clear. Our only option is the alternative plan: 9/11 the 2nd.”

  44 Friday, Chicago, 6:30 pm

  The ride south from Evanston provided a moment of relief, a moment to reflect. The four in the SUV engaged in a discussion of the details of what had happened. Leona learned that the two rent-a-cops were Hammer and Wade. Hammer and Wade had never been in a gun battle like this. They had never confronted this much life-threatening danger. Yet, the tone of victory seemed to satisfy a yearning they had been only obscurely aware of.

  Leona was double-minded. The machine-minded Leona deemed what had happened to be a well-executed assault. They had decimated the enemy. She retrieved the information she had wanted regarding terrorist Plan B. Or, at least she thought she might have gained this information. And CUB would have become aware that it faced a formidab
le enemy in Leona and her rag tag army.

  On the other hand, heart-minded Leona felt depressed. Once again, the earth was strewn with dead bodies, bleeding into the soil. Why do our lives have to be so violent? Why do I have to be so sensitive? Why can’t I be like Shmoo and take violent death as simply part of a day’s work? Leona tried to limit her thinking and re-thinking to what had just occurred. There was no time for sentimentality, for licking her wounded conscience. Events were moving fast. The possibility of a Plan B brought a sense of urgency. Strategies needed to be discussed. What next?

  Leona asked, “Do you guys want to eat?”

  A chorus of “yeahs” could be heard.

  Leona found her Droid and called Graham. “We slew the dragon, didn’t we, Graham!”

  “Sure did. But Lee, how do you feel?” responded Graham with both triumph and tenderness.

  “No time for my feelings right now. Would you stop at Jewel on the way and pick up some steaks? Maybe some sweet corn? Beer? And I need some charcoal for the Weber. No matter how traumatized we might be by what happened, we need to plan our weekend strategy. We might need to conscript our newfound soldiers-in-law.”

  “Do you guys want something to eat?” Graham asked over his shoulder.

  The three tams voiced enthusiasm for the idea.

  By six-thirty that evening the Weber was spitting smoke, the steaks were sizzling, and the buzzing vigilantes were juggling beer cans in the parsonage front yard. Hillar joined the throng but got his hand slapped when he reached for a beer. Buck introduced himself to everybody; everybody took a turn holding Midnight.

  Leona needed a breather. She went to her room, dropped her dirty clothes into a hamper, and put on a fresh tee shirt and jean shorts: a subconscious ritual of purification.

  She paused to examine her face in the full body mirror. Her eyes shone with tears. A prayer rose up almost to her lips. How many did we kill today, God? Have you called me to be a blood-shedder? Wherever I go, I meet death, violent death. Is this what you’ve called me for? Is this my vocation? I wanted to bring love where there is strife. I wanted to bring light into the darkness and wisdom into ignorance. I wanted to bring peace on earth. Short of that, I just wanted to bring moments of grace into people’s lives. But whether I like it or not, somebody else will have to be the Messiah. Amen.”