Authors: Jason Elam
Blown Coverage (19 page)
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 3:30 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Grandpa slid himself back on his couch, which sat across from Riley. A long, low table supporting a mounted pheasant stretched
between them. Grandpa leaned his arm on the back of the couch and said, “Go ahead, son; I’m listening.”
Riley took several deep breaths in order to get control of his emotions. The hot coals of his rage were smoldering. If he
had any hope of a productive, intelligent conversation, he knew he had to keep that fire under control.
“I spoke with Scott just before you got here.”
Grandpa sighed disapprovingly. “I figured you would. You going back in with CTD?”
“No, Gramps,” Riley said angrily. “You’ll be happy to know they turned me down flat. Said I was too close—too unstable.”
“Were they right?”
“What do you mean, were they right?” If Grandpa kept talking like this, Riley’s coals of rage would soon be a blazing inferno.
“Think about it. Including Skeeter, you’ve got seven security agents in and around your house. There are people out to kill
you. You’re in your basement holding an Israeli assault weapon like it’s a throw pillow. And your dad . . .” Grandpa’s voice
caught. He paused a moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “Well, all that to say, how stable could you be right now?”
That was not the supportive answer Riley was looking for. “Listen, I’ve been in stressful situations before. I mean, good
night! Think about what my last half year has been like!”
“Yes, but they never touched your family until now, did they?”
Riley didn’t answer. His right index finger moved slowly back and forth over the serial number plate embedded in the left
side of the MTAR 21’s stock. In Riley’s mind, instability meant a lack of self-control, and
self
-control seemed to be the only kind of control he still had over his life.
“Listen, Grandpa, I agree that I’m overly emotional—I mean, who wouldn’t be? My dad’s been dead less than twelve hours. But
I’m not going to go fly off the handle and do something that puts other people at risk. Unstable? No. Maybe you could convince
me of
volatile
. But not unstable.”
Grandpa nodded agreement. “Volatile it is. But it still doesn’t change the situation.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Riley said, finally starting to calm down. “I just need you to understand where I’m at. I’m still a long
ways from the deep end, and in no danger of falling off.”
“I’m tracking with you. So, no CTD. Now, tell me about the Mustangs. I could see by your reaction when I mentioned them that
something’s going on.”
A disgusted chuckle escaped Riley before he said, “Apparently I’ve blown my Achilles. They’re talking about IR-ing me for
the year when training camp comes around.”
Grandpa leaned forward on the couch. “I’m sorry, Riley. Was that the Mustangs’ idea?”
“CTD’s. Needless to say, Scott’s not my favorite person right now. Oh, and one more little tidbit just to round things out:
I’ve been banned from Dad’s funeral.”
Grandpa eased himself back and stared at the ceiling. Riley waited for a response, but the old man remained silent. He hated
it when his grandpa was quiet like this, because it usually meant he was trying to find a diplomatic way to tell Riley he
was wrong. To save him the trouble, Riley shouted, “Go ahead and say it, Grandpa! Scott’s right and I’m wrong!”
Grandpa locked eyes with Riley and said, “Okay, Scott’s right and you’re wrong.”
Riley dropped the assault rifle on the couch and began pacing. A battle was raging in his mind.
You know
Grandpa’s
right. You know
Scott’s
right. You just
don’t
want to be wrong! You just
don’t
want to be
out of control of your own life! What would you have decided differently
if
you’d
been given the time to think it through? Nothing! Well, nothing
except for joining back with CTD.
That’s
the killer decision there! That
takes away all my options.
He stopped in front of a Texas Dall sheep and let his hand follow the curve of its horn out to the tip a few times. Still
not looking at Grandpa, Riley asked, “So, what are you saying? Am I just supposed to sit here with a target on my back until
eventually some
hajji
scores a bull’s-eye?”
The rhetorical question hung in the air for a minute until Grandpa said, “Why don’t you come sit back down? Let’s talk this
through.”
Riley stood there a few more moments, then made his way back to the couch.
As he did, Grandpa added, “And, no, that’s not what I’m saying.”
Riley dropped hard onto the couch. The emotions of the day were beginning to take their toll on him physically. “I’m sorry,
Grandpa. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t know what I’m saying. All I do know is that there are people out there who
killed my dad—
your
son
—and they need to pay.”
Grandpa looked at Riley with a sad smile on his face. “Finally something we agree on.”
Riley nodded and pulled the assault weapon next to him. His hand began absentmindedly investigating it the way a person unconsciously
explores the features of a lapdog they are petting.
Grandpa finally broke the silence. “Tell me why you want to be involved in tracking these people down. Who are you wanting
to help?”
“I’m not sure I get your question.”
“Okay, let me put it another way. Are you wanting to do this for God?”
“Well, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because God can take care of Himself.” Riley had been down this road with Grandpa before and wasn’t sure he wanted to do
it again.
“Go on. What do you know to be true about God?”
Riley exhaled heavily. “God’s in control. He’s got a plan. He loves me. He can turn any bad thing into good. Yada yada.”
“Okay. So you’re not wanting to hunt these people down for God—”
“Not solely for God.”
“Okay, not solely for God,” Grandpa amended his original statement. “Then who else?”
Angrily, Riley said, “How about Dad? Don’t you think I owe it to him to bring down the people who did this to him?”
“What? You mean like avenge his honor? Sounds like what you told me the rationale was for a certain stadium bombing.”
“Oh, come on, Grandpa! That’s below the belt!”
“Okay then,” Grandpa continued with remarkable calmness.
“What do you know to be true about your dad?”
“He’s dead!” Riley blurted out.
“Is he?”
Riley paused to cool down. He was finally starting to see where Grandpa was going with this. “Okay, physically, yes—which
is too bad for us. Spiritually, no—which is wonderful for him.”
“Exactly,” Grandpa agreed. Then Riley saw the calm exterior begin to crack. “Son, I’m dying inside thinking of what Jerry
experienced when that bomb went off. And I’m hurting desperately over what this means for your mom—and for you. But for Jerry
himself, I’m not shedding any tears. Jesus was and is his Savior. Your daddy loved God and served Him every day of his life.
And he is experiencing things right now that we can only imagine.”
Riley felt the same emotion building in him that he heard in Grandpa’s voice. “I hear you, Gramps. Like the apostle Paul said,
we don’t grieve like other people who have no hope. We don’t need to fear death, because we know it’s only a beginning, not
an end.”
“And why is that, Riley?”
“Because our hope, our faith, is in the real Jesus—the one who sacrificed Himself on the cross, rose from the dead, and promised
us an eternity with Him if we receive Him as our Lord and Savior. Dad believed that, and I believe it, so I know that I’ll
see Dad again.”
“So, does your dad need your help?”
“Guess not.” Riley remembered a time at the Air Force Academy when he had walked a Christian friend of his through that same
reminder when that young man’s father had unexpectedly died in a collision with a drunk driver.
Never thought
I’d
have to go back through
it for myself.
“So, why do you want to do this, Riley? Why fight this war?”
Riley stared at the black-tipped orange feathers that smoothed their way down the chest of the pheasant on the table between
the two men.
Why do I want to join this fight? If
it’s
not a holy fight for God
or an honor fight for family,
what’s
left? Am I really just doing this for
me? Am I that self-absorbed? Lord, give me a reason to battle or take the
desire away from me.
Riley looked up at Grandpa and saw that he had his eyes closed. His lips, though, were gently moving. The knowledge that he
wasn’t the only one praying encouraged him to continue the thought process.
Come on, God. Am I really supposed to turn the other cheek on this?
If I do,
aren’t
I a walking dead
man—
probably Skeeter, too? And then who
else is going to die besides us? Because these people have proven that they
will not stop. Who else besides us?
And suddenly, the fog cleared, and Riley had his purpose.
“It’s for them.”
Grandpa’s eyes opened after a moment, as if he was concluding a conversation before turning his attention to Riley. “It’s
for whom?”
“For them. For everyone else. For you and for Mom. For Skeeter and Scott and Khadi and Jim and all the others who are on their
hit list.”
“What about you? Isn’t this also for you?”
Riley shrugged his shoulders. “It’d be a lie to say that if I killed the people today who are responsible for Dad’s death,
I wouldn’t feel a sense of satisfaction. I’ve still got a darkness hanging over me that’s going to take a long time to shake.
God and I are going to have to work through that together.
“However, I can honestly say that my main motivation is not revenge. And it’s not self-preservation either. Jesus took away
that fear of dying. In fact, on days like today it doesn’t sound like a half-bad thing.”
“Okay, let me ask you this: You’ve got agencies all around that can hunt these terrorists down. Why
you
?”
Silence filled the room as Riley processed this question. Finally, he said, “Grandpa, I’ve been put in a unique situation,
not of my own choosing. These people are going to kill me, and then kill again. And every day I can keep them focused on me
is one more day they won’t be going after someone else. And every one of them that I stop is one more whose killing days are
over.”
Riley could see tears brimming in Grandpa’s eyes. “Riley, I have to say that I hate everything you’ve just said. I hate it
because of what it means for you—how it puts you in harm’s way. I hate it because every word you said is true. You have been
placed in the middle of an impossible situation. People are coming for you, and they won’t stop until they get you. And I
hate that sitting back and doing nothing simply isn’t an option.”
A sad smile spread across Riley’s face. “Trust me, you won’t see me dancing up and down. I’d much rather go back to my safe,
easy life. Unfortunately, it looks like safe and easy have both been removed from the table as options.”
Grandpa leaned forward. “Well, you’ve answered the ‘why’ question. That’s the most important one. Once the ‘why’ is answered,
then the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ come a lot easier. And to answer those two questions, I think we probably need Skeeter with
us.”
Riley stood up. “I agree. Let me go—”
“Wait, son,” Grandpa said, holding up a hand. “Let’s talk about this after dinner tonight. We both need to pray this through,
and this old man needs to try to get a little rest.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Riley said, rushing over to help Grandpa up off the couch. “You head upstairs and
crash. I’ve got a little more work to do down in the vault.”
Grandpa let Riley pull him up and then embraced his grandson. As he held him, he said, “Your dad was so proud of you, Riley.
Proud of all you’ve done, but even more proud of who you are.”
Riley’s throat constricted, and he felt tears welling up, but he fought the urge to cry.
Hold it together.
There’s
too much to do.
You’ve
got plenty of time for grief later.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” he managed to croak out. “Thanks for everything.”
When Grandpa stepped back, it looked as if he was fighting the same urge as Riley. Without saying anything more, he turned
and went through the archway toward the stairs.
When he heard Grandpa reach the top of the stairs, Riley went back to the vault. He began stacking boxes of ammunition, magazines
for the automatic weapons, and clips for the handguns. Carrying the stacks out to the Dead Room, he carefully slid the pheasant
off the table with his foot, letting it drop onto the thick carpet. Gently, he set everything down onto the table. And when
he picked up his first clip and a box of 9 mm hollow-point rounds, he began Riley Covington’s transition from defensive player
of the year to a deadly offensive weapon.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 8:00 P.M. EDT NEW YORK CITY
The antacid tablets fizzed in the water. Isaac Khan held his hand over the rim of the glass and felt them effervesce onto
his skin. The sensation felt good—fresh. And freshness was something that his life was definitely lacking after five days
holed up in his small, simple studio apartment.
Currently, his life was similar to that of a detective on stakeout—extreme boredom mixed with moments of intense adrenaline.
Every time he heard someone outside in the hallway he found his heart beating faster and his hand reaching for his gun.
Last night, Isaac had nearly ruined everything. Around 11:00 p.m., a knock had roused him from a half slumber. He quickly
stood up from the kitchen table, accidentally knocking his chair over in the process. Grabbing his gun, he ran to the door
and looked through the peephole. The guy on the other side had been saying something, but Isaac wasn’t able to clearly make
out the words until he was at the door.
“Pizza,” the man had said.
Quietly, Isaac had lifted the barrel of the gun until it was pressed three inches of wood away from the visitor’s heart. He
examined the stairway behind for any movement and took full advantage of the fish-eye peephole lens to scan the hallway.
This has to be a ruse,
he told himself.
It is simply
too coincidental.
“Come on, dude! I know you’re in there! I heard you!”
Frantically, Isaac had weighed his options. He could try to climb down the fire escape, but they would surely have that covered.
He could detonate the bombs, but he didn’t have permission to do that.
“Dude, I’ve got two other pizzas and only ten more minutes to deliver them!”
Then a door had opened across the hall, and Isaac’s dilemma was solved. The deliveryman had given the neighbors their pizza,
then flipped the bird to Isaac’s door before disappearing down the stairs.
Isaac had fallen onto his bed and thanked Allah for the restraint that he was sure came from God alone. Allah still had plans
for him, and Isaac was grateful that he had not interfered with those plans in any way.
Beep, beep
sounded from Isaac’s digital watch, telling him that it was the top of the hour. He swigged down the glass of milky antacid
water and picked up the television remote. CNN Headline News would be giving their hourly report. Isaac watched it faithfully
to see if any new information had been discovered about him or his fellow conspirators.
The first time he had seen a picture of himself on the TV, Isaac had gone into full panic mode. There he was, in full color,
walking in the Philadelphia subway station wearing a bright orange hat and carrying a backpack. The picture itself—one that
most of America was now very familiar with—was a grainy still lifted from a video. Based on size and build, the person in
the picture could have been one of ten million men of similar proportions in the country. The few features that one could
discern would maybe cut that number in half. Isaac, however, could clearly see himself in the picture and suddenly he felt
like every friend or acquaintance of the last ten years must recognize him too.
So he took to waiting at the table, the .45 caliber pistol that had been given to him along with the backpacks sitting in
front of him. Isaac waited for the accusing call from a coworker. He waited for the police to burst through the door. But
there was nothing; only Isaac, CNN, and the cockroaches.
Finally, Isaac had come to the conclusion that no one could recognize him, and that the only reason he could see himself in
the picture was because he knew it was he. Everyone else in America just saw an anonymous orange-capped figure. In fact, what
they saw was no different than what he saw in the still shot of the woman bomber from California—a faceless, nameless blob.
That realization had given him a greater feeling of peace in his apartment. However, he still didn’t want to wander outside,
although he continued his daily commute to the mini-mart located on the street level of his building. If those stopped, it
wouldn’t be long before Mr. and Mrs. Lee sent someone up to check on him. The Lees were good people—immigrants, like himself—always
kind to him. He hoped they avoided riding subways.
Headline News wasn’t saying anything new, so Isaac turned it off before he had to endure another story about a baby polar
bear or a music star who couldn’t remember to put on her underwear before she left the house. Both were equally inane and
irrelevant to Isaac. Both equally summed up the trivial and shallow nature of American culture.
Oh, how he hated this country! Isaac was ready to strike again. In fact, he was desperate to strike again. The exhilaration
of being a tool in the hand of his God was like nothing he had ever experienced before. He had felt such power, such purpose.
America spent its time straining to hear the quiet voice of Shaitan, the Great Whisperer, seeking to do his bidding and serve
his purpose. At first Isaac had just thought it was the government, but now he knew it was the masses, too. Last Friday, Isaac
had walked up to the people of America—to the listeners of the evil whisperer—and shouted the name of Allah! And his most
perfect, beneficent name was still ringing in their ears.
As he gloated in his victory, a call came through on his cell phone. Immediately, his breathing rate increased, yet he still
paused a moment.
Have I been finally found out? Or will this be my next set of
instructions? Great Allah, let me be your hammer once again!
Isaac answered the phone. “Yes?”
A voice heavy with a Middle Eastern accent said, “Map two. Friday. 7:30 p.m.” Then silence.
Isaac looked at the phone’s display and saw that the call had ended three seconds after it had started. Even though he had
committed the maps to memory, he still rushed the few steps to where he had the backpacks hidden under his bed. Wedged between
the two packs were the maps. Quickly, Isaac retrieved the envelope and sat back at the table.
Holding it in his hands, he ran his finger over the word
Warrior
that had been written on the front, feeling every bit of the power that word held. Isaac untucked the flap and pulled the
three pages out. As he turned to the second map, elation filled his soul.
Oh,
Allah, please help me to carry out your plan. These people, more than any
others, deserve to feel your wrath. May the weeping of this nation be my
song of praise to you!
Isaac returned the maps to the envelope and replaced them in their hideaway. Stretching out on his bed, he fell into the first
sound sleep he’d had for days, content in his calling and in the knowledge that God was watching over him.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 7:30 P.M. MDT
FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS
DENVER, COLORADO
“I’ve got her!” Gooey cried out from his corner of the FRRT Room of Understanding.
“You’ve got who?” Scott asked from across the room, knowing that the answer could be anything from a mouse that had been nibbling
away at his bag of Cheetos to a video of the Queen of England at a beach party dancing the Frug with the Duke of Somerset.
“Her! Legs Houlihan!”
Scott immediately dropped the file he was reading and joined the rush of bodies heading toward Gooey’s workstation. “Legs
Houlihan” was the nickname the analysts had given to the long-legged perpetrator of the Hollywood bombing. Scott elbowed Evie
Cline aside, ignoring the protest that would ultimately end up costing her $2 at the profanity jar.
Leaning over Gooey’s shoulder, Scott said, “Let’s see her.”
“Just a second,” Gooey said. Once everyone was assembled, he began, “So, I went through all the standard security cameras
from the various buildings, and—”
“Goo, can we for once see the picture without hearing a story with it?” Scott said impatiently.
Gooey shook his head. “Trust me, you’ll want to hear this; it’s a good one. I moved on to ATMs—”
“Gooey! Picture, not story!”
“But—,” Gooey pleaded.
“Now!” Scott demanded.
Gooey turned and glared at him, then spurted out, “Illegalgamblinghousesecuritycamera!”
Scott, half frustrated and half intrigued, sighed and said, “Okay, out with it.”
Gooey’s big smile showed his variously gapped teeth. “You guys know my sister is with LAPD, right?”
“You have a sister?” asked Joey Williamson.
“A female Gooey. Ewww,” said Evie.
“So, anyway, I give her a call,” Gooey proceeded, ignoring their comments with aplomb. “I have her racking her brains trying
to think of another camera we’ve missed. Then she remembered this punk clothing store that has illegal gambling in the back.
PD knows about it, but they let them keep it open because they run undercover ops out of it. This place is apparently big
on security, so they have these mega-expensive cameras hidden outside the door and on the street.
“When Homeland put out the call for all video in the area, these guys are obviously not going to go announcing they’ve got
tapes. So, I ask Bunny—”
“Bunny?” coughed Virgil Hernandez after losing his mouthful of bottled water.
“—to pay them a visit. She gets the video, no questions asked, which is actually on disc. Uploads it to me. And this is what
I found.”
Gooey pressed enter on his keyboard and his thirty-inch flat panel display filled with the image of a stunningly beautiful
blonde woman in the process of walking down the sidewalk.
A low whistle emanated from Williamson, who then said, “I told you she’d be a looker.”
“Careful what you say, Joey,” said Hernandez. “I think the current politically correct term is ‘hottie’.”
“Both of you, shut it,” said Scott. Although he, too, was struck by her beauty, he didn’t want to let that cloud his judgment.
“Don’t forget what she’s accused of doing. Goo, you’re sure this is the same woman who ducked out the back of the media crowd?”
“No doubt,” Gooey answered, and with a few more keystrokes, he split the screen with the current picture on the right and
a still of the woman leaving the site of the movie premier on the left. “These two pictures were taken two blocks and three
and a half minutes apart.”
“Tighten up on her face,” Khadi commanded. Gooey complied.
“Look at her features,” Khadi continued, using her finger to trace the woman’s cheekbones and lips. “She’s definitely Arab.
I’d say Saudi or one of the Gulf states. Gooey, can you run the video of her walking?”
“Coming right up.” The screen changed and the cars in the background began moving. The woman appeared in the screen, walked
five steps, and then disappeared under the camera’s view.
“That’s what I thought. Run it back one more time. Now watch her posture—straight up and down. This girl was not raised in
a slum.”
“Good call, Khadi,” Scott said. He paused for a moment to quickly think through a plan of attack. “Okay, here’s what we do.
Goo, clean up that picture best you can. Also, if Khadi’s right about her being Arab, then this girl potentially has dark
hair, and I’m guessing that the blonde muskrat she has on her head probably ended up as roadkill on the side of the highway
somewhere. So, put together a spread with her having blonde hair and black hair. Then send it and the video around to all
of us.
“We’ll want to get this to all other agencies and the media, but not quite yet. If she sees herself, we’ll lose her. Before
we do that, Virgil and Evie, I want you to do a facial analysis and run her through every database we can get our hands on.”
“Start with Middle Eastern work and visitor visas,” Tara added.
“Excellent,” said Scott. “This girl doesn’t look like she came in trekking across the Coahuila countryside. I’m going to give
you twenty-four hours to ID this chick. After that, we’re going to have to let it out. Goo, send the pics to me first. I’m
going to go brief Jim.”
Everyone quickly moved back to their workstations. Scott knew this group prided itself on being better than anyone else—on
being able to find what no one else could find. The threat of bringing other agencies in was the best motivator he could have
given. As he ascended the steps to Jim’s office, watching the flurry of activity below, he prayed they had enough time to
find this woman before she struck again.