“Jesus,” Kyle said, his voice choked with emotion.
“Yeah, I know,” Raoul said.
They watched as Tariq wiped the knife and his hands on Blount’s blood-soaked clothes, as if he’d just finished butchering an animal. A couple of Tariq’s men then dragged Blount’s torso out the side doors of the lodge and left it on the sprawling flagstone patio.
The air outside the lodge erupted with distant gunfire as the Secret Service and Atlas Global agents fired at the jihadis, who had exposed themselves on the patio. Two of the terrorists twisted and fell the stone patio beside Blount’s body.
Kyle and Raoul then watched as Tariq stared out the patio doors to where his men lay sprawled beside Blount’s body. Tariq turned and looked up at the wall mounted surveillance camera and again pointed his knife.
“We will destroy all of you,” he said.
After a moment, his mind reeling from the murder they had just witnessed, Kyle turned to Raoul. “We need to go now if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Are you crazy?” Raoul said. “We’re in the middle of the biggest crisis this country has ever seen and you want to go for a drive? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Raoul, I know what I’m doing. The jihadis aren’t going anywhere. But we don’t have to stay here in place because everyone else is. We’re not at their mercy.”
“Think, Kyle! They called you once,” Raoul said. “You got an exclusive from them. You need to be in place when the next call comes.”
“That’s only IF there’s a next call. We need to get out of here,” Kyle said again.
Raoul only shook his head. “Okay. I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
Chapter 23
Raoul wheeled the Atlas Global Hummer through Taos and across northern New Mexico on US 64, connecting with US 84 north. There was no easy or fast way to get to where Kyle wanted to go. But finding Carlito’s mother, if she was still alive, was paramount.
Raoul’s skepticism about this trip was palpable as Kyle anxiously eyed the road. He refused to admit he, like Raoul, was worried this excursion could be a wild goose chase and leave them both hopelessly gone from the ranch when the inevitable assault began.
Raoul had assured him that while such an attack was being devised, it was not imminent. Kyle was not convinced, but knew that with Raoul’s help, he might unravel the method behind the madness gripping the country and now the world. Like he had done before, it meant following the threads. With a little luck, the mystery would unravel and expose the truth.
Kyle pointed to a narrow strip of crumbling asphalt leading from the main highway and into a small rural village of aging homes clustered close to the road. Raoul slowed the Hummer as it passed a simple, white-plastered adobe brick church and at Kyle’s direction, pulled to a stop in front of an old, western-style building with a covered front porch. A sign over the steps to the porch read: La Tienda Lana, the Wool Shop.
Kyle and Raoul climbed out and paused. “The wool store,” Kyle said. “Carlito’s mother is here.”
“I can read,” Raoul said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Kyle nodded, checked his shirt for a pen, and stuffed a notebook into his back pocket as they scaled the steps. Yanking the door open, a bell dinged loudly above them. The ringing died quickly and the store fell quiet. Kyle gazed at racks of handwoven wool sarapes and jackets arranged between stacks of blankets and rugs. It was all just as he remembered.
“We’re closed,” said a voice.
A stout woman with a full face and thick, white hair pulled into a pony tail, stood in the shadowy corner of the store.
Kyle drew a breath, forcing himself to relax. “I’m with the Washington Herald. I want to speak with Antonia.”
The woman’s left eye stared straight ahead, surrounded with scars. The eye was glass, Kyle realized, and he suddenly felt sorry for her. “I’m looking for Antonia,” he said, repeating the name.
“There’s no one here,” the woman replied.
Neither Kyle nor Raoul moved. Kyle knew she was lying and wondered why. Who was she trying to protect?
The woman sighed after a long moment, and with a small head shake, indicated that someone was in the back room.
A much thinner, older woman appeared from the back of the shop. She had angular features, a face creased with care, dark and searching eyes, and long salt and pepper hair pulled into a tight pony tail that trailed down her back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You said you’re with the Washington Herald?” She stared at Kyle.
“Hi, Antonia,” Kyle said. “Remember me?”
The corners of Antonia’s lips curled into a smile of recognition and her face seemed to crack, even soften. “You were with the Santa Fe newspaper,” she said. “My God! That was years ago.”
“Yes,” Kyle said, feeling relieved. “The land grant protests. When Carlos and his men armed themselves and tried to take the land back.”
She nodded. “I remember. Now you’ve returned?”
Kyle nodded as Antonia eyed Raoul suspiciously, seemingly intimidated at his quasi-military garb and the handgun in the nylon holster attached to his web belt. “Antonia, this is my cousin, Raoul Garcia. He’s in private security.”
Antonia nodded, remaining tight-lipped, then said, “Atlas Global,” reading the embroidered log on Raoul’s polo shirt.
“Are any of the men still alive?” Kyle asked.
“What men?” Antonia asked.
“The men who were part of the protest.”
Antonia shook her head slowly. “They’re all gone now.” She paused, her eyes unfocused, as if lost in the memory, then blinked herself back to the present. “So, you’re back because of the hostage situation at Vista Verde?”
“How did you know?” Kyle asked.
“It was only a matter of time,” Antonia said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Harris should never have trusted the Benedicts,” Antonia said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because of what they’ve done.”
“What they’ve done?” Kyle asked.
“The ranch is a training center for mercenaries.”
“We’re private security,” Raoul said, “Fighting terrorism.”
“Really?” Antonia replied.
“Yes,” Raoul said flatly. “Really.”
Antonia scowled at Raoul, shook her head in disgust, then turned to Kyle. “Those protest days are gone,” she said. “Carlos was the last of his kind. It’s all over, now. What do you want from me?”
“What happened to Carlito?” Kyle asked.
Antonia’s eyes narrowed, as she clenched her jaw. “Carlito watched his father die, shot to death by the police.” Antonia raked her hand through her hair. “We don’t talk anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Carlito became a Muslim,” she said. “He fell in with those people over there at the Al-Salam mosque.” Antonia eyes watered as she turned away, wiping her tears.
Kyle stepped forward to comfort her, but she turned away with a shrug.
“He said it was a place of peace,” Antonia said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “At first I believed him. But then he became angry. He began to say such hateful things.”
“About what?”
“Everything. America. That this country was evil. That it was the oppressor of people everywhere, especially the followers of Islam. He said he was going to join the jihad to cleanse the world of evil.”
“When did this happen?”
“It started a few years ago. But recently it became worse. He stopped returning my calls. When I went to the mosque a month ago to find him, they said he was gone.”
“Gone where?”
Antonia shrugged, her eyes watering again. “The mullah just waved to the mountain
s.”
Chapter 24
Raoul gunned the Hummer along a narrow paved road toward the Al-Salam mosque, slowing as he approached the side road marked with a wooden arch decorated with the words: Al-Salam. Raoul downshifted, the knobby tires grinding through the soft soil, raising a plume of dust.
The mosque sat atop a flat knoll affording a view of the sparse landscape of grit, tufts of buffalo grass, spiky yucca cacti, and scattered chamisa bushes. He parked near a couple of cars at the entrance. The mosque was eerily silent as they approached the main door and knocked. They paused, waited a moment, and hearing nothing, knocked again. Silence. Kyle reached for the handle as the door swung open from the inside.
An elderly man wearing a white skull cap and sporting a trimmed white beard faced them with his hand extended. “Welcome, my friends,” he said with a kindly smile. “My name is Hajji Ali Mohammed. Can I help you?”
Behind the man, the darkened mosque interior was clean and quiet.
“We’re looking for the mullah,” Kyle said.
“That would be me,” Ali said.
“Well then, we’d like to talk to you about a young man by the name of Carlito,” Kyle said.
“What about him?” Ali asked, his face becoming serious.
“Can we talk in private?”
“Yes of course,” Ali said with a nod. “Please leave your shoes by the door. Come with me.”
Raoul and Kyle wrestled off their shoes and followed Ali into a quiet office with white plastered walls and blond aspen wood furniture. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, settling in behind his small desk.
“Why?”
“Vista Verde.” Ali nodded and stroked his thin beard.
“Carlito is there and is involved with the terrorists,” Kyle said. “He was a devotee here. According to his mother, he converted to Islam. But she says he stopped talking to her.”
“He’s new to Islam,” Ali said, “but was a good and faithful student.”
“What about others?” Raoul asked.
Ali’s eyes widened and he swallowed. “We had some foreign guests here recently. They were also very dedicated.”
“The men who attacked Vista Verde Ranch?” Raoul said. “That makes you an accomplice.”
Ali closed his eyes and began to rock back and forth. He stopped, opened his eyes, and waved. “There was nothing I could do! They threatened to kill everyone! And they would have.”
Raoul took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Ali, who opened it and spread it on the desk. It was a printed photo of Tariq taken from the execution of Kennard. “Were they led by the man known as Tariq?”
“That’s him,” Ali said with a nod, pointing nervously.
“When did they leave?” Raoul asked.
“A week or so ago,” Ali said.
“Where did the go?” Kyle asked.
Ali shrugged and waved toward the mountains. “One day they were gone. Carlito was gone as well.”
“Then they knew about the meeting at Vista Verde Ranch ahead of time,” Kyle said, looking at Raoul.
“How many were there?” Raoul asked.
“A dozen, I’d say, including Carlito and the woman, Halima.”
“Who?”
“The woman from Los Alamos,” Ali said. “She was in love with Carlito. Because of him, she became a Muslim.”
“Did they have weapons?” Raoul asked.
“This is a place of peace, my friends. Weapons are not allowed.”
“You said they threatened you,” Raoul said.
“Tariq and his men stayed by themselves,” Ali said.
“Where?” Kyle asked.
“Come,” Ali said. “I’ll show you.”
Raoul and Kyle followed Ali along graveled paths to three canvass yurts half hidden amid the sparse piñon trees about fifty yards behind the main mosque. Ali opened the door to one. Inside were metal framed bunk beds and thin, bare mattresses. “Tariq and his men often took their meals here. They preferred to eat alone.”
“What else?” Raoul asked.
“They were very strict in their practice of Islam,” Ali said. “They were an inspiration to all of the people here.”
“Tell me about the young woman from Los Alamos,” Kyle said.
“Her father is a scientist,” Ali said. “He came here several times. He wanted her leave Islam and return home.”
“But she refused?” Kyle asked.
“Halima was her Muslim name,” Ali said with a nod.
“What was her given name?” Kyle asked.
“Morris. Jennifer Morris,” Ali said.
Kyle scribbled the name in his notebook.
They turned and looked skyward as the air shook with the sound of helicopters thundering overhead, pounding the air. They closed the canvass door to the yurt and watched as two Black Hawk helicopters swept over them, circled in the distance, and returned. Kyle glanced at Raoul. “What the hell?”
Raoul shrugged. “I believe this interview is over.”
The three hurried back along the path to the mosque as the two Back Hawks hovered about 100 feet above them, gunners clinging to machine guns dangling from slings and pointed to the mosque.
Three black Chevrolet Suburbans followed by three camouflaged Humvees churned onto the mosque grounds, sliding to a stop in cloud of dust. Soldiers dressed in desert tactical clothes and wielding assault weapons leapt from the Humvees and dropped to kneeling positions, training their weapons on Raoul, Kyle, and Ali, who raised their hands.
Plain-clothed FBI agents stepped from each of the Suburbans as chalky dust floated in the air.
“Nice of you to join us,” Raoul said.
The lead FBI agent sized up Raoul, who was wearing his Atlas Global shirt, camo cargo pants, and desert boots. “What are you two doing here?”
“I’m Captain Raoul Garcia. I’m with Atlas Global.”
“I’m Kyle Dawson, Washington Herald,” Kyle said, turning to the mullah. “This man is Mullah Ali. This is his mosque.”
The lead FBI agent narrowed his eyes at Ali, as if looking at something odious. “We’re placing you under arrest for aiding and abetting acts of terror against the United States.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Ali cried in protest. “I’m innocent!”
“Tell it to the judge,” the agent said.
The FBI agents grabbed Ali’s unresisting arms, twisted one behind his back, and forced him to his knees. Another agent slapped handcuffs on his wrists.
Kyle grimaced and said, “He wasn’t resisting!”
“Shut up!” the lead FBI agent barked. “You never know what these bastards are going to do.” He looked at Kyle and Raoul from behind his sunglasses. “Unless you’re interested in being arrested as accessories, I suggest you leave.”
“Gladly,” Kyle said.
“Ali’s got some good information,” Raoul said with an advisory tone. “I suggest you go easy on him.”
“Are you crazy? Those bastards with the president have a bomb! A damned tactical nuclear weapon!”
Raoul and Kyle looked at each other, stunned.
“Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
Chapter 25
Raoul guided his Hummer around the government’s Suburbans and Humvees and back down the dirt road where he bounced onto the paved road, heading to Los Alamos.
“Carlito is the key,” Kyle said. “He grew up in these mountains and spent his summers with his grandfather, the shepherd. Carlito knows these mountains like the back of hands. He could have easily guided Tariq and his men through the mountains, undetected.”
“So they could mount the attack?”
“Exactly.”
“How does a kid like Carlito fall in with people Tariq and his men?”
“It’s simple,”
Kyle said.
“Simple? Nothing is simple.”
“Not only did Carlito see his father killed by police, he found his grandfather murdered as well.”
“You told me.”
“I told you that the Vista Verde Ranch was originally part of a Mexican land grant.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, to keep the heirs of the land grant happy, they were allowed to graze their sheep and cattle on parts of the Vista Verde ranch.”
“Peace in the valley,” Raoul said.
“For a while, anyway. But when old man Benedict bought the Vista Verde Ranch, he said to hell with all of that. He put up fences. Said it was his ranch and the locals could go fuck themselves.”
“Of course,” Raoul said. “It was private property.”
“Young Carlito had a horse and could ride fairly well, I’m told. One day he rode up there and found his grandfather dead, shot in the back, beside one of the new barbed wire fences Benedict had built. It seems the old man had been cutting it to let his sheep through.”
“Poor kid.”
“That’s when Carlito’s father, Carlos, decided to fight back. He claimed a piece of the Vista Verde Ranch as his, being heir and all, and took it by force. But Carlos was killed. ”
“So, this is Carlito’s revenge.”
“Yes. It is. Big money killed his grandfather,” Kyle said. “The government killed his father. He hates them all. That’s why he’s drawn to Tariq.”
Raoul fell silent as he drove.
“What about Miguel?” Kyle asked.
“What about him?” Raoul said.
“He was Carlito’s roommate. He must have known that Carlito was thinking.”
“Maybe,” Raoul said with a shrug.
“Have you asked him?”
“We talked a little about Carlito.”
Kyle waited as Raoul stared at the road. “And?” he asked. “What did he say? Carlito is the one who got Miguel and his girlfriend to attend the mosque in Abiquiu. He must have had an inkling as to what Carlito was doing.”
Raoul glanced at Kyle, then returned his eyes to the road. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Yeah, Carlito got Miguel and his girlfriend, Aliyah, to go up to the mosque. They went mostly out of curiosity. I’ve always told Miguel to keep an open mind about everything. That it’s important to decide for himself and not just accept other people’s opinions as his own.”
Enemy of the People Page 17
