Enemy of the People

by Peter Eichstaedt

  From the cave’s squat opening, they had a view across the tree tops to the valley beyond where the roof of the Vista Verde Lodge rose in the distance, a couple of the abandoned cottages visible among the trees on the sloping valley flanks.

  The drone had not returned, which made Raoul worry they’d been detected. If so, Hank would send a kill team once the dead guards had been discovered at the cabin. In the dim light of the cave, Raoul scanned his companions’ faces. “We’ll rest here for a while,” he said.

  “We can’t do this without help,” Kyle said. “And help isn’t going to come from Hank and your pals at the Atlas Global.”

  “I know that,” Raoul said. “Any overt action by the Secret Service, the FBI, or the CIA is probably off the table. My gut tells me they’ll put the whole thing in the hands of Benedict and Atlas.”

  “Which means we’re screwed,” Kyle said.

  “Maybe not,” Raoul said.

  Kyle gave him a puzzled glance.

  “I made some calls before we came up the mountain.”

  “And?”

  “We only need a few good men,” Raoul said. “A couple of my buddies from special ops in the Marines are with the Secret Service. Another is with the FBI. And a couple are CIA paramilitaries. They’re all disgusted with the lack of action. They’ve agreed to do whatever it takes to free the president.”

  “It doesn’t help if they’re not here.”

  “They’re here,” Raoul said, “just not visible. They’re not going to wait for orders from above because those orders aren’t coming.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Kyle asked.

  “They’re going to be dressed like Atlas Global agents.”

  They all fell silent as outside they heard the buzzing of a drone. As they sat silently against the cool rock walls deep in the cave, Raoul surveyed their weaponry. They had stripped the two dead guards of their handguns, then returned to the cabin where they’d gathered up two additional Heckler & Koch assault rifle.

  Chapter 33

  Alan Morris nodded gravely, his eyes drilling into the hard-packed dirt and grit of the cave’s floor. He wondered what kind of animals hid inside these sloping stone walls during storms or had made this fissure in the side of the mountain their home. Had ancients used it for ceremonies? He thought about returning to this cave someday to explore it deeper for artifacts like the others he’d collected over the years.

  His mind shot back to the task at hand, the plan their de facto leader Raoul Garcia had just outlined. They were going to get into the Vista Verde lodge, overwhelm the jihadis, and rescue the president. Yeah, right. It was delusional at best.

  Morris swallowed hard. He was the critical component to Raoul’s plan. He had agreed to his role because he wanted to get Jennifer out of there. He’d do anything to make that happen. Without her, his life was nothing. Morris cleared his throat and in the dim light of the cave and leveled his gaze at Raoul. “I need to know first she’s still okay,” Morris said.

  Raoul looked at him, thought for a moment, then said, “No problem.” He turned to Kyle. “Call Carlito. Talk to him. Tell him to put Morris’s daughter on the phone.”

  Kyle drew a deep breath, pulled his phone from his pocket, and tapped the screen. The screen came to life. “We need to go outside to get a signal,” he said, and took a couple of cautious steps toward opening, then stopped and turned. “If I call, Atlas Global can get a fix on us.”

  Raoul shrugged. “Just make it quick!”

  Kyle stepped outside the cave’s opening, looking warily over the towering trees to the bright sky beyond. He tapped the number for Carlito’s phone and listened to the ring.

  ***

  Jennifer Morris, aka Halima, sat on the floor and out of sight, but close to a window in the Vista Verde lodge. She was unnerved by the silence of the morning, her fingers warmed by the tea cup she held. She sensed she was going to die. It was the only way she would leave this place now. No one would ever forgive her now. And she would never forgive herself. The way she felt, death would be a welcomed relief. She turned to Carlito, who held his cup to his lips and sipped the last of his tea. How had it turned so wrong? She knew the answer. She had committed herself to Carlito and his cause. It was good and just. Or so she’d thought. But it was all lies. Nothing mattered anymore. Not even the truth. Death hovered in the air. She could feel it.

  She remembered the day she’d first laid eyes on Carlito, now Omar. It was after the death of her mother, and she’d sought solace and comfort from her father. But he had none to give as he, too, struggled with the loss of his wife, her mother, immersing himself in his work late into the night at his laboratory office.

  They had first stopped by the wool shop on the way back to Los Alamos after hiking on Wheeler Peak near Taos. She’d been a sophomore at Los Alamos High School, and after other subsequent hikes, they’d visited the wool shop often. She was captivated by Carlito’s eyes, the softest, brownest eyes she’d ever seen, sinking into them each time they met, responding to his flirts and smiles as he offered her the attention she craved.

  She’d never forgotten Carlito, though they’d never dated. It was as if they lived in two different worlds. Then the unbelievable happened. English class on the first day of the first semester of her freshman year at the University of New Mexico. She’d not expected to see him ever again. But then he was there.

  Their relationship began slowly, but quickly developed momentum. When Carlito explained his commitment to the land grant cause and the death of his grandfather and his father, she embraced his cause as her own. Then Carlito had discovered Islam. When he’d joined the mosque, so had she.

  But everything was crazy now. When Tariq had held the knife to the senator’s throat, the man had seemed so old and helpless. Jennifer thought Tariq was only going to threaten the man, not really kill him. But when the blade cut deep, she’d gone numb, frozen with horror. She’d wheeled and dashed into the kitchen, bent over the edge of the stainless steel sink, and wretched violently.

  Visions of the killing replayed in Jennifer’s mind, haunting her dreams, jolting her awake in the darkness. She now sat against the wall of the lodge, looking out a window and across the valley as the sun warmed the day. She thought about the Tariq’s words as they finished breakfast together in the dining hall.

  “This will be our greatest day,” he’d said, without explaining why.

  Jennifer knew why. Holding President Harris hostage could not continue. How long would the federal agents wait before attempting a rescue? The wait and the silence were unnerving. When the attack would come, Jennifer was certain she would not survive. But if by some miracle she did, her life was still over. She was a terrorist now. Their crime was unforgiveable. She’d spend the rest of her life in federal prison. Death was preferable. She’d become part of a terrorist group and an accomplice to multiple murders—murders recorded on video for all the world to see. There was no escape. Jennifer flinched when Carlito’s cell phone rang and stared at him with fearful eyes.

  Carlito pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the number. His frown melted into a puzzled look as he recognized the number and answered. “Kyle Dawson?” Carlito asked, quietly mouthing the words to her: the journalist.

  Jennifer nodded and tensed, wondering why this sudden contact from the outside, the world she’d left behind. Was it coming for her? Was it a warning? She exhaled slowly.

  Carlito listening intently, his eyes staring, his lips open in anticipation. After a moment, he glanced at Jennifer and nodded. “Yes, but her name is Halima now. She’s fine. We’re all fine.” He fell silent again, listening. “Yes. She’s here.” Carlito handed the phone to her.

  Jennifer’s heart pounded and her mouth went dry as she took the phone in her hand, unable to ignore her suffocating sense of guilt for what she’d done. Jennifer cautiously held the phone to her ear. She reco
gnized the voice. “Daddy? Why are you calling me?”

  “I’m going to get you out of there,” she heard her father say.

  “Don’t do that, Daddy. This is jihad. I’m with Carlito now. Whatever fate Allah has chosen for us, I must follow that.”

  “Jennifer, you’re getting out of there,” Morris said.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “There is not going to be any more jihad,” Morris said, calmly stating a fact.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bomb doesn’t work, Jennifer,” Morris said. “Not without me.”

  Jennifer fell silent as a chill swept over her, her stomach sinking, blood draining from her face.

  “You did that on purpose,” Jennifer said.

  “Of course,” Morris said.

  The implication of her father’s words flashed through her mind like a lightning bolt in the night sky. “But daddy, I ...” Jennifer stopped, her voice choked with emotion, her eyes staring blankly at the polished floor.

  “Let me talk to Tariq.”

  “Don’t do this. Please.” She paused, surprising herself at the swirling emotions in her heart, a surge of concern for her father knowing what might happen to him now because of her decisions, however fatalistic she had become.

  “Now!” Morris said, growling in her ear.

  Jennifer flinched at the anger and resolve in her father’s voice. This was about much more than just her and her father. Didn’t he realize? Jennifer swallowed hard and lifted her gaze to Carlito, searching his eyes as she struggled to explain. “The bomb,” she said. “It doesn’t work.”

  Carlito’s eyes widened. “That’s bull shit,” he said, shaking his head. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe only he can arm it.”

  Carlito stared, mulling the implications. “That means….”

  Jennifer nodded. “There’s no reason they won’t attack now.”

  “How many people know this?” Carlito asked.

  Jennifer shrugged and shook her head slowly.

  “We need to tell Tariq.”

  Jennifer nodded. “My father wants to talk to him right now.” She handed the phone back to Carlito.

  His stomach churning, Carlito held the phone to his ear and said, “I’ll take the phone to him now.”

  “Good,” Morris said. “I’m waiting.”

  Carlito stood, his legs feeling weak, and hustled out of the room and into the lodge’s lobby where some of Tariq’s men lounged on the leather couches and sprawled on the padded chairs, their eyes half open, their automatic rifles nestled in their laps, the pockets of their camo pants heavy with ammo magazines.

  Carlito continued down the short hallway, pausing at the entrance to the spacious library. Tariq turned immediately from his two closest men, each sitting on the thick, blue patterned carpet, their knees nearly touching, surrounded by the piano and couches they’d pushed against the walls. A silver tray held a pot of tea and bowl of sugar sat in the center of their tight triad, each with a cup and saucer. They stopped and stared.

  Seeing the look on Carlito’s face and sensing the urgency, Tariq motioned for Carlito to come. Carlito dropped to his knees on the carpet beside Tariq, whose eyes opened wide.

  “What is it?” Tariq asked, suddenly apprehensive.

  Carlito’s eyes met those of the two others, now silent. He mashed his lips together, trying to formulate his thoughts and find the right words as he held the phone against his chest, his breath short and hard. “The bomb,” Carlito whispered, leaning close to Tariq. “It’s no good.”

  Tariq scowled, as if he’d bitten into an onion, his eyes searching Carlito’s face.

  “The father of Halima,” Carlito said, his voice hushed. “He made the bomb. He says it can’t be armed except by him.”

  Tariq paled, his face drawn as the implications descended.

  “Here,” Carlito said, thrusting the phone to Tariq’s face. “Morris wants to talk.”

  Tariq nodded, dread rearranging his face. How was this possible? Anger squeezed his chest and soured his stomach. He drew a short breath, searching Carlito’s face. He had not anticipated this. But he immediately realized he should have. If the bomb was useless, he and his men were vulnerable. But wait! Who knows about this, other than the man who made the bomb, who was now on the phone? A smile returned to Tariq’s lips. Perhaps Allah was giving him a gift. Tariq drew a deep breath, struggling to compose himself, and held the phone to his ear. “Salam, Mister Morris.”

  “This is what we’re going to do,” Morris said, his voice gruff and dictatorial. “You’re going to release my daughter in exchange for me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tariq said calmly. “We don’t need you or your bomb.”

  “Really?” Morris said. “If you could have, you’d have killed the president by now. But the president is in a safe room. Your only hope for martyrdom is to detonate the bomb.”

  “That is an assumption you should not make,” Tariq replied. “Don’t forget. We got into the room with Senator Blount. His body is on the patio. It is waiting for you and your friends to collect. Don’t you think the senator deserves a decent burial?” Tariq listened to the silence for a moment.

  “Tariq,” Morris said, “I’ll say it again. The only chance you have for the martyrdom you seek is with the bomb. But it doesn’t work without me launching the detonation sequence.”

  Tariq said nothing, and listened to Morris’s exasperated sigh.

  “I’m willing to work with you,” Morris continued. “I get something I want. You get something you want.”

  Tariq scratched his beard, his mind racing. “You don’t expect me to fall for this trick, do you?”

  Morris was silent for a moment. “No trick, Tariq. You get the bomb. I get my daughter.”

  Tariq swallowed, his unease with the offer growing. But Morris was right. The woman Halima was useless to him. The only reason he had let her come along on the mission was because of Carlito. “Who else knows about this?” Tariq asked.

  “No one in the government, I can assure you,” Morris said. “I will come alone.”

  Tariq sensed Morris was lying. But still, he needed the bomb to fully accomplish the mission.

  “You lied to me, Morris,” Tariq said. “You said the bomb worked. Now it doesn’t. Why should I trust you this time?”

  “But you lied to me!” Morris said. “You promised you’d release Jennifer if I gave you the bomb. But you didn’t.”

  “That was her choice,” Tariq said. “She refused to leave!”

  “You could have sent her away,” Morris said. “She’s of no use to you.”

  “The hand of Allah has guided her,” Tariq said. “She has chosen her fate.”

  Morris groaned into the phone and collected his thoughts before he spoke again. “Did she choose her fate or did you choose it for her?”

  Tariq did not respond.

  “Did you really think I was going to hand you the bomb and give me nothing in exchange?” Morris asked, unable to hide the cynicism in his voice.

  Tariq scowled, his gut instinct screaming that Morris was setting a trap. But how? What can this old man do? He’s just one man. Once he has armed the bomb, I will kill him, Tariq thought. Yes! I will execute this crazy old man just like the senator. He envisioned Morris’s headless body beside the others on the porch for the world to see. Soon the world will tremble at the foot of Allah and fear the face of Islam! No matter what happens now, this is a great victory. Tariq clenched his jaw and inhaled, his nostrils flaring.

  “Okay,” Tariq said. “This is what you do.”

  Chapter 34

  Alan Morris emerged from the shadowed trees on the slopes near the main lodge and stepped in the late morning sun. He paused at the tree line, squinted at the lodge porch, and exhaled s
lowly, his throat choked with fear. What the hell am I doing? I’m an idiot! I’m in too deep! He struggled to quiet his raging mind. This is a job for a young man! Don’t do this!

  But there was no one else who could initiate the launch sequence. The bomb was his baby, a unique and special device. Morris clenched his jaw and steeled his resolve, inhaling . Yes, you can do this. This is for Jennifer, despite her misguided cause, her mangled thoughts. He shook his head in disgust.

  The bastards he was about to confront had twisted her mind, just like they had with Carlito and the others, convincing them they were joining a noble battle for the good of all mankind. They were nothing but a crazed horde of zealots who slaughtered innocent men, women, and children in the most brutal and sadistic ways possible. And they did it proudly, their hands bloodied, convinced of their own righteousness. No, Morris told himself, clenching his jaw. He was going to bring back Jennifer or die trying.

  Morris’s pace quickened as he strode across the grassy field, knowing that a dozen sets of eyes followed his every step. He unclenched his jaw and told himself to relax, trying to ignore the tingle in his muscles that put a spring in his every step. You’re in good shape, he told himself. At least you’ve done that right! At the age of 54, you’re as strong as anytime in your life. The time to act is now.

  Morris paused at the base of the steps to the lodge porch, then bounded up them, stopping a yard away from the door, his heart pounding, his breath fast and hard.

  One of the lodge’s main double doors opened slowly inward, revealing a jihadi fighter, the man’s figure indistinct behind the screen in the dimness of the lobby. Morris grasped the elk horn door handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

  The jihadi wore a black and white patterned scarf over his head with the corners around his neck like an Arab desert marauder. A loose black t-shirt covered his thin chest, forest green camo pants were cinched tight at his waist, and his feet were inside leather Mexican sandals. Two other fighters stood behind the first jihadi, each holding an AK-47 automatic pistol, barrels pointed at Morris.