Blackout (3 page)

Tuesday, July 7, 10:35 a.m. MDT

Parker, Colorado

Later, when Riley, Keith, and Afshin were relaxing in the backyard hot tub, letting the jets work through their sore muscles, Keith asked Riley, “So how're you doing, man?”

“I'm doing good,” Riley answered quickly. “A little sore, but good.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Okay, now that you got the pat answer out of your system, let me ask you again: how're you doing, Riley?”

Riley put his head back and sighed. Just over a month had passed since his father had been murdered—blown up—by a terrorist group trying to flush Riley out of hiding.
Collateral damage,
he had thought at the time.
That's all my dad was to them—collateral damage.

Then, less than a week ago, Riley's best friend, Scott Ross, and Riley's . . .
What? Girlfriend? No . . . Girl friend? Maybe . . . Who knows?
Khadi Faroughi had been suddenly transferred out of Denver, along with the whole counterterrorism division they were part of.

Khadi and Riley had hit it off last January and had only been growing closer since. The only thing that kept them from establishing a true romantic relationship was the huge chasm between their two faiths—Khadi was a Muslim. Her move to Washington, D.C., with the rest of the CTD team had already been misery for Riley, as it added physical distance to the existing emotional and spiritual canyon.

The only team member left was Riley's bodyguard and good friend, Skeeter Dawkins. Tilting his head, Riley looked over at the big man, who was sitting in an Adirondack chair, scanning the trees at the back of the property.
If you ever want a picture of loyalty and trustworthiness, there's your man.

“I don't know,” he finally answered Keith. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I guess I'm a little bit lonely. And while I'm so thankful that all the killing is over with, I also get the feeling that it's not really over with. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Keith said. “I'm not sure that I'll ever get past what's happened in the last year. I have no idea how I'm going to feel the first time I walk back into Platte River.” Last December, Keith had taken some shrapnel to his thigh during an attack at Platte River Stadium during a Colorado Mustangs
Monday Night Football
game. The physical damage had healed completely, but the emotional wounds were still open and raw.

Afshin, who was the only one of the three who had not been in the stadium that night, said, “I can't imagine, guys. I mean, I don't even know what to say when you start talking about it. But you know I'll be there for you both, praying you through and encouraging you however I can.”

Keith and Riley nodded their appreciation. Silence surrounded the men for a time.

Riley took a sip from his protein smoothie, then asked, “So what do you guys think of Zerin?”

“Man, if I could take back any moment . . . I can't believe how I let that taping get out of hand,” Keith said. “One minute I'm laughing, holding on to one of his legs. The next minute I'm wondering what just happened.”

“We were just as bad,” Afshin said. “We just sat back and watched. We should have stepped in and stopped it.”

“I tried apologizing,” Keith continued, “but he'd have no part of it. He just turned and walked away.”

“Yeah, me too,” Riley said. “I even invited him to come to our workouts, but I got the same response.”

Afshin shook his head. “Don't expect much else from him. It's an honor thing now. That's one thing about us Persians and the Arabs. If you insult our honor, then it's game on.”

“So what do we do?” Riley asked.

“Yeah, is there any way to repair the damage done?” Keith added.

“Time and prayer. That's how I got over your warm little welcome, Riley,” Afshin kidded.

Shame circled through Riley's stomach, even as he laughed with the others.
Forgive yourself and let it go. Z's forgiven you and moved past it; you've got to move past it too.
But even as Riley thought those words, he knew it would still be a while before he would get over the guilt of his prejudice.

“Speaking of repairing the damage,” Riley said, turning to Keith and changing the subject, “how's the work coming on your cabin? I still feel bad over that.” During the events of a month ago, Riley had holed up in Keith's mountain cabin/mini mansion, trying to draw out the terrorists who had killed his father. Unfortunately, Riley's plan had worked a little too well, and Keith's home had burned to the ground.

“Well, don't,” Keith said. “I told you, it's just stuff. Besides, I had some sweet insurance on the thing. They're just finishing clearing the rubble from the old place, and we've already got the plans for the rebuild. Puts the old one to shame. Seriously, it's almost embarrassing. Hey, why don't you cook me and Z some barbecue this weekend, and I'll bring over the blueprints?”

“Sounds like a date,” Riley said.

As he slid a little deeper into the hot water, Riley said a quick prayer of thanks for good friends.
Maybe things really can get back to normal for me,
he thought with a smile.

Tuesday, July 7, 7:15 p.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

The brilliance of the halogen lamp shining on the kitchen table banished any sign that outside the windows the sun was setting. Not that Hassan al-Aini could have seen the oncoming darkness anyway with the window shades drawn and fastened down with duct tape. On the side of the brown brick building ran a fire escape, and the very thought of a fleeing drug dealer clomping down the metal stairs or a love-struck girl cautiously sneaking her way past the window on her way to a secret rendezvous was enough to cause Hassan's brother, Ghalib, to take the extra precaution.

Hassan secured the soldering iron in its metal stand. Just below the tip were two brown-edged scars that had been burned into the table earlier in the day when the tool had slipped from its makeshift holder. Two teaspoons and more tape were all Ghalib had needed to reinforce the stand and make it stable. Hassan flexed his hand, trying to release the tension of the last five minutes' white-knuckle session.

Ghalib crossed the room to admire his older brother's work. “Is it done?”

“It is done,” Hassan said with a sigh.

Ghalib placed his hand on Hassan's damp shoulder. “Then we are ready to go?”

“Tomorrow, Ghalib. We will do it tomorrow.” Hassan patted his brother's hand, then stood and took Ghalib by both shoulders. Although only six years separated the two siblings, the premature gray around Hassan's temples and the extra three inches of height seemed to triple that spread. “Father would have been proud of you, little brother.”

“And of you,” Ghalib replied with a heavyhearted smile.

With one final shoulder clap, Hassan walked to the kitchenette and put a pot of water onto a hot plate. As he stood leaning on the narrow counter, he noticed that his right leg was bouncing up and down. He forced himself to stop. Ghalib needed to see strength and confidence, not this nervousness.

Tomorrow didn't scare him—death held no fear anymore. Hassan just wanted to make sure that they would die in such a way as to further Allah's cause. If only he could be certain that they were doing the right thing. Just a quick phone call, a brief
“Is this okay?” “Yes, it's okay”
would set his mind and heart at ease. But that was impossible now.

Two months ago, all communication had halted from the leadership of the Cause to Sheikh Hamza Yusuf, the leader of the madrassa where Hassan and Ghalib had been taught the truth about Islam and what Allah expected from his followers. Then, two weeks ago, the madrassa and its accompanying mosque had been raided. Sheikh Yusuf had disappeared during the raid—whether into the hands of the American government or through one of the escape routes, Hassan did not know.

For days afterward, Hassan and Ghalib had remained paralyzed in their apartment, waiting for the inevitable knock. Hassan knew that the amount of explosives and accompanying electronics squirreled away in their small living space was enough to send them both to prison for many years. The television said that the raid on their madrassa had been just one of a massive series of raids across the country that had effectively put an end to the Cause in America.

Confused and frightened, the brothers had prayed for direction for their next steps. It had all seemed so right and so clear as they'd listened and studied and grown through the wisdom of Sheikh Yusuf. Step one, step two, step three—it was a formula that would lead them directly to paradise. But now they were on their own. Allah knew their hearts, and he knew the paths they should take. He must speak to them now.

The beginnings of their answer came one night as they were watching the television. A special report broke into the investigative crime show, telling of a suicide attack on a bus in Portland, Oregon. Two days later, word came that another bomb had gone off at a religious music festival in Illinois. A day after that, two more explosions took place in Dallas, Texas, and Charlotte, North Carolina.

That was when Hassan realized that Allah
was
speaking to him. Leaderless cells like his were no longer looking to men for guidance. They were looking directly to God. And what would God have Hassan and Ghalib do? Finish what they had started!

That “aha” moment had taken place three nights ago. Now Hassan and Ghalib were ready to make their own mark in the cause of Islam. Tomorrow the brothers would each don a vest containing twenty-five pounds of explosives and several thousand flathead screws, travel to the National Zoo, and then continue their journey to paradise. On a crowded Saturday, the death and mayhem left behind would be considerable. And if a few wild cats happened to escape in the aftermath, well, the terror would just be prolonged.

Hassan reached into a doorless cabinet to get a tin of tea and two cups. As the kettle began to whistle, another sound struck Hassan's ear—a slight scraping sound on the wooden floor. He turned in time to see a thick, black wire sliding back underneath the front door.

“What . . . ? Ghalib!” he yelled as the door burst open.

Three masked figures dressed all in black and carrying automatic weapons rushed into the room. A confusing cacophony of orders filled the apartment: “Drop!” “Don't move!” “Get on the floor now!” Hassan froze in place as one of the barrels trained itself on his chest.

Then he saw something that caused his heart to sink at the same time that it swelled with pride and envy. Ghalib was diving for the vest nearest himself. The tall man in the middle of the group fired two quick shots, striking the young man in the head and chest. Hassan closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw Ghalib on the ground—blood rapidly pooling around him. Thankfully, the shots had spun him the other direction, so Hassan didn't have to see what the bullets had done to his brother's face.

“I said get on your knees now!” The rifle stock of the man nearest Hassan drove into his thigh, dropping him to the ground and bringing his attention away from Ghalib's body. Two more dark figures had entered the room, and he could see more movement outside in the hall.

“Clear,” one of the men said as he came out of the apartment's bathroom.

“Clear,” another echoed as he exited the bedroom.

“Cuff him, Tommy,” the tall man said as he made his way toward Hassan. Hard plastic encircled Hassan's wrists and pinched his flesh as it was pulled tight. “Let him stand.”

Hassan felt a hand slip under his armpit and easily lift him to his feet. The man giving the orders reached up and pulled his mask off, revealing a face highlighted by distant, melancholy eyes; a slight, wry smile; and a goatee that hung four inches below his chin.

“Why'd your brother have to go and make me shoot him, Hassan? If only he'd stayed nice and calm like you.” The man accentuated the last words by patting Hassan lightly on the face. Then he grabbed Hassan's face tightly and turned it toward Ghalib. Together they stared at the body.

Finally, he spoke. “
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
What a waste.” Then, with a quick sigh, he released his grip. “Tell you what, Hassan: Mr. Li here is going to take you on a little drive to a place where we can talk more privately—you know, sort of like a get-acquainted session. You might not be surprised to find out that I have a few questions I'd like to ask you.”

With that, the man turned and walked out the door, leaving Hassan dizzy, scared, and more than a little sick to his stomach.