Authors: Jason Elam
Blown Coverage (21 page)
THURSDAY, MAY 21, 4:15 P.M. MDT FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS DENVER, COLORADO
“Gooey, you been in my Yoo-hoos again?” Scott called as he pulled his head out of the FRRT refrigerator.
There was no response, but even from across the room Scott could hear the sound of bottles clinking as Gooey shoved his metal
wastebasket deeper under his workstation.
“Gooey, have you been in my Yoo-hoos?”
“Sorry, dude. I can’t hear you. I’m too busy working.”
“We’ve got a match!” Evie Cline called out, bringing to a halt any more discussion of Yoo-hoos. It had been almost twenty-one
hours since she and Virgil Hernandez had last left their workstations.
While everyone rushed to Evie’s workstation, Scott excitedly called Jim Hicks, “You’ll want to come down for this, boss. We’ve
got the girl.”
Without waiting for an answer, Scott dropped the phone and moved toward the crowd. Through the chatter, he could hear Hicks’s
door fly open and feet pounding down the metal stairs.
“Cline!” Hicks called out. “Send it to the big screen!”
“Sure thing,” Evie answered.
Immediately, everyone left Evie’s desk and grabbed a chair around the conference table. A large video monitor began its ascent
from a long black cabinet. It flashed on, and a beautiful female face greeted everyone.
“Talk,” commanded Hicks.
“Her name is Naheed Yamani. Age twenty-four. Saudi. Been in the country for six years. We had a hard time finding her, because
she didn’t come in through the standard channels.”
Hernandez now jumped in. “That’s right. Her grandfather is Prince Yaman ibn Abdul ibn Aziz al-Saud. Definitely not one of
the key power-broker al-Sauds, but still wealthy and connected enough to get what he wants. Apparently he pulled some diplomatic
strings to get her here and set her up in a Nob Hill address in San Francisco.”
“You’re sure this is our girl?” Hicks asked. “Nothing about her matches our typical profile.”
Evie split the screen with the picture Gooey had enhanced from the Hollywood attack. “I think there’s little doubt,” she said.
Hicks nodded his agreement. “Okay, Tara, I want you to contact the West Coast Response Team. I want a two-man crew to do a
silent recon into this gal’s residence. I want them to take her down if she’s there or wait for her if she’s not. Gooey, you
coordinate with Tara and WCRT to give us a video feed of the operation.
“Khadi, you find out all you can about this Prince Yaman character. See if there is anything we can dredge up to put some
pressure on him to give up his granddaughter. Everyone else, go back to what you were doing.”
Jim turned to go but quickly stopped himself. “I do want to emphasize, though, that we do not want this picture to get out—not
yet. We do not want Yamani to go underground, because chances are, if she does, she’ll end up hidden away in her grandfather’s
palace, far out of our reach. We understood?”
A chorus of “Yeah, boss” sounded around the table.
“Good. Scott, come up to my office with me. My brain hurts, and I need you to do some thinking for me.”
“Sure thing, Jim,” Scott answered with a frown. He knew that this usually meant Hicks was in desperate need of a quick shot
from his secret bottle, and since he had promised himself never to drink alone again, he liked to have Scott sitting across
his desk from him while he did it.
THURSDAY, MAY 21, 4:45 P.M. MDT
PARKER, COLORADO
Another phone call from Meg Ricci,
Riley thought as he silenced his ringer.
How many calls does it take to make the transition from concerned
friend to stalker?
But then, feeling bad for his attitude, he said out loud, “Cut her a break. She’s just being nice.”
“Simmons is here,” Skeeter called from the front window.
Riley ran to the other window and peeked through the curtain. Sure enough, here came Keith Simmons. He was wearing his after-workout
sweats and carried an envelope with directions and keys to the cabin prominently in his right hand.
Good man,
thought Riley.
Skeeter opened the door and took the envelope from Simmons while they were still in the doorway.
“Nice job, linebacker,” said Skeeter.
“Right back at you, bug man.”
But then, when he saw Riley, all the humor drained out of his demeanor. “Pach, man, I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said,
giving Riley a hug. “It’s just so messed up!”
Riley returned the hug, then said, “Yeah, it is messed up. It still hardly feels real.”
“I know what you mean. It was like that for me when Grammy died.”
Simmons had been brought up by his grandmother. Riley could still remember how completely devastated Keith was when she had
unexpectedly died of a heart attack two years ago.
Simmons continued, “Hate to say it, bro, but it don’t ever really hurt less. You just learn better how to live with the pain.”
An awkward silence followed until Simmons asked, “Hey, is your gramps around? I’d like to meet him.”
“He is, but he’s taking a nap upstairs. Why don’t you hang around until he gets up?” Riley started moving toward the great
room, but Simmons stopped him.
“I appreciate it, but I just wanted to drop that junk off to you. You got too much stuff to do to worry about entertaining
me.”
Thinking again about what could happen at Simmons’s cabin, Riley asked, “You sure you’re okay with me doing this, Simm? It
could get ugly up there.”
“You mean things might get broken? Please, what do I care?” Simmons said with a shrug. “It’s just a building. Besides, if
you get the place all tore up, I know where you live.”
Riley smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, my friend.”
“Don’t think about it. Hey, Pach, before I leave, would you mind if I, like, you know, prayed for you?”
The tears that, of late, were always just below Riley’s surface welled up again in his eyes. “Dude, it’d be an honor.”
Simmons put his hand on Riley’s shoulder. “God, it’s Keith again. You know I’m not used to this, so please forgive me if I
mess it up or sound stupid. You know Riley—of course You know Riley; You knew him before You knew me—so, anyway, Riley here
is going to go fight some really bad guys. Guys who hate him, and who, best I can tell, hate You, too. So please protect him.
Help him to kill a whole bunch of them—I mean, if it’s okay to pray that he kills people; if not, then scratch that last part.
Just watch over him, okay, Lord? Bring him back safe. Oh, and Skeeter, too. I pray the bad guys fall over dead just by looking
at how scary he is. Thanks, God, for listening. Amen.”
Riley wrapped his arms around the big man. “Thanks, buddy; that was awesome.”
Simmons got a big smile on his face. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad, was it? So, Pach, you take care of yourself. And don’t give a second
thought about the cabin—I built it once, I can build it again. You got it?”
“I got it. Thanks.”
Riley watched as Simmons went back to the door. He stopped to say a few things to Skeeter, then laughed and slapped him on
the back. And then he was gone.
7:45 P.M. MDT
FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS
DENVER, COLORADO
The whole team was gathered around the table, watching the big screen. The screen was split in two and showed the same scene
from two different perspectives. Two CTD operatives walked down a short hallway, and the views the FRRT was watching were
from small cameras mounted on their protective eyewear.
Because they were trying to keep a low profile, the two men were dressed in casual clothing, and their weapons were tucked
away. Along with their regular firearms, each agent carried a Taser X26; they had specific instructions to take Naheed Yamani
alive.
As they arrived at the door, Scott and the analyst team could hear one operative telling the other, “Okay, let’s do this.”
The left operative knocked on the door. They waited. The tension was high in the Room of Understanding. The analysts were
anxious to see what was on the other side of the door. Scott, Khadi, and Hicks felt a different sort of anxiety, since each
of them had numerous times been in the same dangerous place as these two operatives. Anything could happen—bullets could fly,
the door could be rigged with explosives, someone could come up from behind or from across the hall.
The operative knocked again. After waiting a moment, one of them said, “Forget this, we’re going in.”
The shot on the left screen tilted down, and the viewers watched as experienced hands slipped the lock. He looked up at his
partner and said, “We go in on three. One, two, three!”
THURSDAY, MAY 21, 6:45 P.M. PDT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
The last day had been rough for Naheed Yamani. One moment, she thought she had steeled herself to go through with the bombing.
The next moment, she was ready to pick up the phone to call her grandfather. And through all the vacillations, one constant
remained—the feel of Jibril’s hand on her face.
If you run, do you really think a man like that would just let you
go? Do you really think that, even if you could get out of the country, he
wouldn’t
find a way to hunt you down and kill you?
Naheed slid deeper into the bathtub until her head was under the hot water. This was her sixth bath in the last twenty-four
hours. For some reason it was the one place she felt at least some semblance of peace.
A sound reached her under the water, like a distant hammering. She quickly sat up to listen but didn’t hear any more. Her
body floated back down to the water.
Then the sound came again, and there was no doubting what it was now. Someone was at the door.
Naheed stood up and wrapped herself in a thick, white terry cloth robe. As she walked out of the bathroom, she heard something
that froze her in her tracks—the lock on the door was being disengaged. Like a deer in headlights, she watched as the door
opened.
Naheed heard a gasp from the person walking in. It was a Hispanic woman pushing a small cart. It was hard to tell which of
the two was more startled. The woman said, “
Lo siento.
I knock. Nobody answer. Room service, madam. So sorry.”
Smiling, Naheed said, “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I forgot I had ordered it. I apologize.”
“Oh, no, madam. You sign please?”
“Of course.” Naheed signed the bill, leaving a large tip.
The woman nodded her gratitude and left the room.
Naheed carried the food from the tray and set it on a table next to the window. As she ate, she watched the airplanes take
off and land and thought about the possibilities of escape. That was one of the best things about her handlers moving her
to the Airport Marriott—she was that much closer to getting on a plane if she felt the need to run.
7:55 P.M. MDT
FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS
DENVER, COLORADO
The loft was empty. The team had watched as the operatives scoured the place. There was no doubt that Yamani had been there
recently, but just how recently was hard to tell. Hicks instructed the agents to remain there in case the girl showed up,
then shut off the feed.
“So, when do we release her picture?” asked Tara.
Hicks was silent for a moment, then said, “Let’s wait until morning. It’s too late for her to do any mischief tonight, and
I don’t want her seeing herself on the evening news and bolting. Hopefully she’ll show up at her loft. If she doesn’t, then
we’ll blitz the media with her picture.
“Tara, let WCRT know our plans. I want them coordinating the coverage of the airports in case we have to go the news release
route. Also, let them know that Khadi, Scott, and I are on our way out there. I want to be on-site when they bring her in.
If WCRT has problems with any of that, have them take it up with your old boss Stanley Porter. That should shut them up.”
“You got it, boss,” Tara said as she quickly jotted down notes.
Turning to the analyst team, Hicks said, “You guys all did great work tracking down this Yamani woman. But don’t let it go
to your heads. We’ve still got another bomber out there to ID, and we still don’t know squat about who killed those two families.
So pat yourselves on the back, then get over it and get back to work. Scott, Khadi, we leave in fifteen minutes.”
Scott smiled at his team as Hicks returned to his office. Once the door was closed, he said, “Wow! That, my dear friends,
is a great motivator.” Then, giving his best Jim Hicks impersonation, he said, “You guys are almost, kind of good. But don’t
be thinking that I really think that, because even though I do, I don’t. So don’t let that go to your heads because—”
Suddenly Hicks’s door swung back open. “Scott, are you impersonating me again?”
“No, sir,” Scott said innocently to the snickers of his team, “just doing damage control.”
“Well, knock it off, and let your merry little band get back to work!” Hicks slammed his door closed again.
Williamson raised his hand. “What if we really did have a merry little band? We could play weekend shows in LoDo and call
ourselves something like Pickety Nosegeeks.”
“Or how about Ana and the Lysts?” suggested Evie.
“Roadkill Monkey,” offered Gooey.
“How about the Let’s Get Back to Work Players?” said Tara as she stood to go.
“No, that doesn’t quite have the edge of Roadkill Monkey,” replied Scott. “Oh, you mean how about we all just get back to
work. I get it. Good one, Tara.” Then, looking back at his analyst team, he said, “And, you guys? Good work! Take a moment
to celebrate. As opposed to Mr. Grumpy-pants, I don’t care how long you take patting yourselves on the back.”
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 7:30 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Even though the drive up to Silverthorne would be less than ninety minutes, Riley wanted to get an early start. The more time
he and Skeeter had to scout the cabin’s location and set up defenses, the better he would feel about his basic plan, which
thus far consisted of:
Step
One—
Go up to Keith
Simmons’s
cabin.
Step
Two—
Shoot the bad guys before they
shoot you.
Might be worth fleshing out step two a bit, he told himself. The rear of the Yukon looked like it belonged to an international
gunrunner. All told, there were four assault rifles, two sniper rifles, six handguns, various and sundry small explosive devices,
and as Scott Ross would say, ammunition out the yin-yang.
Which reminded Riley that he needed to give Scott a call. This conversation would not be a fun one, but it was only right
to let FRRT know what he and Skeeter were up to.
“Hey, Skeet, can you put that call in to Scott now?” Riley wanted to use Skeeter’s phone since it had encryption capabilities.
Skeeter put down the heavy tarp he was carrying to the truck and pulled out his phone. After a few moments of going through
the encryption process, he handed it to Riley.
“Scott?”
“Hey, Riley. How’re you doing, man?” Scott’s voice sounded tired and a little hesitant.
“Hanging in. First off, my friend, I owe you an apology. You were just doing what you thought was best for me. I didn’t treat
you right.” While he talked, Riley walked over to his leather chair in the great room and settled in.
Scott’s voice seemed to lighten just a touch. “Don’t sweat it. It’s forgotten. How’s your mom?”
“She’s okay. It’s killing me not to see her, but I know it’s best.”
Riley took a deep breath, preparing himself for the next part of the conversation. But before he could say anything, Scott
jumped in. “So, what’s up, Riley? Calling to say you’re going rogue?”
Riley was momentarily speechless. Then he asked, “Did Skeet talk to you?”
Scott gave a soft laugh. “Impressive. You put the words
Skeet
and
talk
in the same sentence. Dude, remember, who am I?”
“You’re the evil genius,” Riley answered with a small smile.
“Exactly. I’ve been waiting for this call. I just didn’t expect it quite so soon.”
“So, what do you think?”
Scott didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was as serious as Riley had ever heard it. “I think there’s a strong
likelihood that you and Skeeter are going to get yourselves killed.” There was another long pause. “But I know that for you,
there’s really no other option. You’ve always seemed to lack that basic self-preservation gene. That’s why we followed you
in Special Forces in Afghanistan. That’s why at the beginning of this year we followed you in Italy and California. We knew
that when it came down to it, you’d take the bullet for us. So we were always ready to take the bullet for you. And, Riley,
that’s what makes this time so hard, because I can’t be there to take your bullet.”
“Thanks, Scott. I—”
“That’s not to say that I like what you’re doing, or that I think it’s the right thing. I’m just saying that I understand.”
Riley squeezed his eyes tight and rubbed the back of his head.
“Fair enough. This wasn’t really an ask permission kind of call anyway.”
“It never is with you, Pach. It never is. So, can you tell me where you’re going?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know that if I had five minutes to think about it, I’d figure it out anyway.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Listen, you need any questions answered, you just call me, okay?”
Surprised, Riley asked, “What if Jim finds out?”
“Jim? You leave him to me. What’s he going to do? Fire me?”
Riley smiled when he heard Hicks’s voice in the background yell, “Yes!”
“Listen, Scott, I told you this because I thought you all had a right to know, and because, in case anything happens, I didn’t
want to leave our friendship on a bad note. You know you’re like a brother to me.”
“Thanks, Pach. I needed to hear that. Now, I’ve got things to do, so I’m going to go before I start getting all moist-like.
Take care, buddy, and call if you need the cavalry.”
“You got it, Scott. Hey, and will you tell Khadi that . . . just tell her what’s happening—tell her that I wanted her to know
what’s happening?”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, Scott. Later.”
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 6:40 A.M. PDT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
“Later,” said Scott as he hung up the phone.
Hicks was watching him from across the conference room in the West Coast Response Team headquarters. Khadi had her head down
in her hands. Three minutes passed before anyone spoke.
Finally, Jim could stand it no longer. “Scott, I’ve trusted your judgment in the past, and it’s worked out. That is the
only
reason I’m not putting Riley under protective custody right now. ’Cause if the Lone Ranger and Tonto go off and get themselves
killed, it’ll be both our jobs.”
Khadi raised her head and glared at Hicks with red eyes.
“Sorry, Khadi. You know how I feel about Riley and Skeeter. Ever since Costa Rica, I promised myself I’d never let things
get out of my control like that again. And now, here I am stuck in California while people are gunning for those two back
in Colorado. It’s just a lousy situation.”
“We know what you’re saying, Jim,” Scott assured him.
“And if he calls for help?” Khadi asked.
Hicks stared at them for a moment. “Give him what he needs. Just don’t tell me about it.”
By a visible force of will, Khadi kept the tears from escaping. “Thanks, Jim, but—”
Suddenly, the door burst open and Niko Garisyan blew into the room. Garisyan was the head of the West Coast Response Team
and had a reputation for having a personality similar to Jim Hicks in a really bad mood.
“So, we’ve got nothing on that Yamani woman. You going to finally release the picture? Because, I swear, if she hits us again
while we’re sitting on her photo, I will personally make sure you stand trial. You understand?”
“My, aren’t we all full of vim and vigor this morning?” Hicks said with a smile on his face. Scott couldn’t help but smile
too. He knew that Hicks cut the man a little slack, because even though Garisyan was a pain in the backside, he was very good
at what he did. Hicks had also told him that the WCRT director was none too happy to have someone else come into his office
and take charge. Scott couldn’t imagine if the roles were reversed. Hicks would be a terror to be around. But that’s just
how things were, and Garisyan would have to deal with it.
“So, there wasn’t any street activity? No visits or phone calls made?” Hicks asked.
Garisyan rolled his eyes. “What? You think I’m new at this? If there was any activity, I would have told you about it. So,
do we release the photo?”
Hicks looked briefly at Scott and Khadi. “You got all the airports covered in case she makes a break for it?”
Garisyan gave a sigh like he was disgusted at even being asked such a question.
“Okay then, Niko. I grant you permission to release the photo.”
Without saying anything, Garisyan turned toward the door. Before he made it out, Hicks said, “Hey, Niko, we’re getting a little
hungry. Any chance of you fetching us a few Danishes while you’re out?”
The slamming door drowned out Garisyan’s two-word response.
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 8:15 A.M. MDT
PARKER, COLORADO
It felt good to be on the road. The parting with Grandpa had been rough, but both men had successfully kept it together. A
few hugs and a double slap on the hood of the Yukon as Riley pulled out, and they were gone.
Lord, if I live to be that old, let me be just like that man,
Riley had prayed.
After turning onto the freeway, Riley turned to Skeeter. “You ready for this?”
“I was born ready,” the big man replied with a grin.
“Nah, you were born ugly, and you’ve just never outgrown it.” They both let out a little nervous laughter.
The plan was to head downtown, do a little “wrong way on a one way street” action to make sure they weren’t being followed,
then head up to Simmons’s cabin. But on the way, Riley had a call to make.
“Hello?” said Whitney Walker, in an I’m-a-very-busy-person-don’t- waste-my-time-you-better-make-this-interruption-worthwhile
tone of voice.
“Whitney, this is Riley Covington.”
Instantly, Whitney’s voice changed completely. “Riley! I’m so sorry about your father. How’s your mother?”
“Thanks. Mom’s doing all right.”
“And how are you doing? Do you want to meet and talk?” Then it seemed like she realized how she sounded. “I mean, off the
record, of course.”
Riley shook his head.
Once a reporter, always a reporter.
“Actually, I’ve got something for you on the record. You just can’t name me as the source.”
“Okay, I’m listening.” There was a little hesitancy in her voice.
She’s
in a quasi-reporter mode,
Riley thought.
Respond to her that
way. Here goes.
“I want you to report that an anonymous source told you that Riley Covington has left Parker to go into hiding. After the
death of his father, he was too afraid to stay in his house, so he has left the city for the mountains.”
“Why does this sound like a planted story?”
Riley could hear resistance. He knew Whitney was too sharp for him to try to finesse things, so he opted for the truth. “Because
it is. Listen, Whitney, I can’t tell you much.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skeeter give him a look of warning. Riley
nodded at him. “All I can tell you is that my dad is dead, and that more people will die if I don’t do something. So I’m doing
something, and I need your help for it to work.”
“Is what you’re saying in the story true?”
“Mostly. Well, the first half at least.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“I really need for you to get this out, starting with the Web this afternoon, then the newscast tonight. If you do this, I
promise you I’ll give you an exclusive interview when this is all done.”
Whitney’s voice took a hard edge. “Don’t insult me, Riley. If I’m doing this, it’s for you, not for a story. Believe it or
not, sometimes reporters do stuff just because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry. So, will you do it?”
“I’ll do it. The Web this afternoon and the newscast tonight.”
Riley breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Whitney. You don’t know how important this is.”
“You just take care of yourself.”
“You got it.”
Riley ended the call.
Between Keith and Afshin getting the word
around camp and Whitney getting the word out directly in the media, I
can’t
imagine the
hajjis
won’t
see it,
he thought.
Then, with Keith dropping
off the key, hopefully
they’ll
be smart enough to put two and two
together to track us down. Now all Skeeter and I have to do is to figure out
what in the world
we’re
going to do once they find us.
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 8:30 A.M. MDT
INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
Keith Simmons watched the perspiration form on the forehead of Clayton Cox.
It’s
good
he’s
sweating,
he thought.
Dude deserves to
sweat!
Simmons’s face was only inches from the other man, and although Cox’s stale coffee breath made him want to gag, he refused
to back away.
Maybe a little intimidation is what it takes to remind this
idiot that
he’s
working for me!
Finally, Simmons pulled back a bit. However, he still remained on the edge of his chair in the Colorado Mustangs cafeteria.
“You’re a lucky man, Clayton. If this were last year, my reaction would have been quite a bit different. But I’m a new man
now,” Simmons stated proudly.
Relief seemed to spread across Cox’s face. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Congratulations on your new—”
Simmons’s hand came down hard on the table. “But that don’t mean I’m a pushover. You’re my agent! You’re supposed to be working
hard for me! The front office has been promising a new contract for over twelve months now. I see guys getting re-signed all
over the place, and what are you doing? You’re playing around in Cancun.”
“Now, wait just a minute, Keith,” an offended Cox answered.
“No, you wait just a minute! When is the last time you talked to them?” Simmons knew he was working himself back up into a
frenzy, but he couldn’t help himself. “Answer me that,
Clayton
! When was the last time you talked to the Mustangs about
me
?”
“Keith, you have to look at it from their perspective as well,” Cox answered, skillfully dodging the question. “What incentive
do they have to give you an extension and be on the hook for a more than $10 million signing bonus? If I were them, I’d do
the same thing. I’d watch you closely all the way through the minicamps, the organized team activities, and the off-season
workouts. I’d watch your physical strength and your mental and emotional commitment to the team. If you still looked like
the Keith Simmons of old,
then
I’d start the negotiating.”
Simmons dropped back into his chair. This was not what he wanted to hear. The sooner he could get a contract, the sooner his
future could be stabilized, and the sooner he’d get that huge up-front check—really, the only guaranteed money he’d have.
Without that signing bonus, who knew what could happen between now and then—a workout injury, a car accident, even tripping
and falling at home could keep him from getting his contract.
Sometimes you feel
like rolling yourself up in Bubble Wrap just to keep from getting injured.
Shouldn’t
Cox know how tough this waiting is?