THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (35 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Jackson
awoke in the middle of the night, his heart thudding unevenly, a lump in his throat. Plagued by disturbing dreams, he’d done nothing but surface sleep for the past several hours. Whenever he lapsed into unconsciousness, he dreamed of
Lena
with her neck ravaged, glaring at him accusingly.

Colleen used to look at him like that, but for entirely different reasons. At least he couldn’t be blamed for neglecting
Lena
also. If anything, he’d been overprotective. But what kind of concerned citizen would leave her alone with
Davis
in a closed, locked store? If he hadn’t alerted Corey who’d come up with the idea of warning
Davis
about a room inspection, who knew what
Davis
might have done to
Lena
? His imagination supplied an appalling answer
.
 

Christ, he’d never fall back asleep if he kept up this line of thinking.

Things will get better, he assured himself, now that the Taskforce had sufficient evidence to start arresting people. Toby had let him know that between the list
Jackson
had found on Zakariya’s copier, the information Ike had extorted from the incarcerated rapper, and the files they could now access on Ibrahim’s computer, the Taskforce had pieced together a clear and chilling picture of the imams’ vision of Judgment Day.

Those receiving the propane were all original graduates of Gateway. For seven years, Gateway had been supplying each man with propane. While records stated it was to be used for heat, the apartment buildings were all upscale residences heated by natural gas and occupied by mainly white, upper-middle class professionals. That left only one viable use for the amassed propane
.

At a designated date and time, to be conveyed in code through Zakariya’s top ten music picks, all that volatile accelerant was to be released at once and ignited via remote detonators, instigating explosions throughout the city. Forty apartment buildings would collapse as a result, causing widespread death and injury
.

In the ensuing chaos, Five Percenters would arm themselves with the weapons Ike had found in the storage facility in D.C. and take to the streets to kill or maim any white man or woman in positions of power.
Jackson
shuddered at the thought of all those weapons in the hands of brainwashed ex-cons
.

Worse than that, documents in Ibrahim’s computer detailed plans to attack federal buildings, banks, and institutions of higher learning, not just in
Washington
,
D.C.
, but throughout cities on the east coast. If Ibrahim’s diabolical plan unfurled as he had architected it, the nation would be stood on its head, as the so-called gods of the Earth wrested the reins of power from those who presently held it
.

As long as the Taskforce took quick, decisive action to tear down the infrastructure of the Five Percent Nation, to confiscate their tools of war and stifle their communication, then Ibrahim’s plans for Judgment Day would never get off the ground.

At last, given the amassment of evidence accruing, the Attorney General was seeking warrants for both imams’ arrest. It could all go down in a matter of hours now. In the meantime,
Jackson
was to keep a low profile and not make waves
.

Heaving an unsettled sigh, he willed himself to fall more deeply asleep.
Ride it out,
he told himself
.
It’ll soon be over
.

**

Lena
blinked her bleary eyes and looked around. After nearly three weeks in her rental cottage, it came as a shock to awaken in her tastefully appointed
Alexandria
apartment, just across the river from the nation’s capital.

With its modern furniture and central air, the room was startlingly plush compared to what she’d gotten used to. Wincing at the stiffness in her neck, she turned her head to eye the bedside clock. She had slept until early afternoon.

After last night’s fiasco, she’d packed up her possessions and driven straight to the city, even though she knew it would be nearly dawn by the time she arrived. Crawling into bed, she’d tossed and turned, her mind too full of frightening visions of what
Davis
had in mind for her when she met up with him next
.

At 4 A.M., desperate for rest, she’d taken a sleeping pill to knock herself out. Now half the day was gone, and she felt miserable and hung-over
.

A composite of
Jackson
’s face, looking both determined and torn, loomed large in her mind. Yearning wracked her heart and made her body throb with want. They’d shared a passion unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Only, he’d gotten in the way of the one thing that meant most to her—putting her sister’s killer behind bars. How could she ever forgive him? 

Yet, the fact that he was still neck-deep in his own investigation made her feel guilty for even thinking that way. She might not forgive him, but she dreaded the thought of harm befalling him.

Rolling toward her bedside table,
Lena
fumbled for the landline phone. As tired as she was, it took a couple of tries before she punched in the number to
Crime and Liberty
’s main office correctly. Clearing her hoarse throat, she identified herself to Peter’s secretary and asked to be put through.

He came on the line several seconds later.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m back in the city,” she croaked. “My investigation’s over,” she added with a pang.

“What’s wrong with your voice?” he asked. “Are you sick?”

“It’s just a cold,” she insisted. “I got a partial confession,” she added, in answer to his first question. “Would have had everything but we were interrupted.”

He was quiet for several seconds. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you,” he said with a question in his voice.

Regret wrung her heart anew. She wasn’t in the mood to provide Peter with details. “Thanks.”

“So, will you be coming into the office any time soon?”

“Maybe next week.” Her neck would look worse before it looked any better. “How’s your research coming on the investigation at Gateway?”

“Oh, great,” he said on a note of disdain. “Get this: the Feds think the leaders there are backing Algerian rebels.”

“How do you know they’re not?”

“Oh, come on. Do you know how easy it is to plant that kind of evidence? I told you,
Lena
, they’re trying to frame the Muslim leaders because they deplore diversity.”

“Whatever, Peter. Just remember that you promised me a week’s notice.”

“No worries. I’m not going to run the piece until October.”

Why would Peter wait that long? But then she thought of the senator who’d helped him identify
Jackson
. “Let me guess. You’re counting on your article to impact the Presidential election?”

“Of course. This is the perfect example of how paranoid the President is. If you’re a Muslim and a former prisoner, then you’re automatically a terrorist.”

“I doubt it’s that’s simple, Peter. Do me a favor, if you change your mind and run your story any earlier, I want you to call me, okay?”

“Why?” he asked, ever the journalist
.

“I’ll explain later. Just remember who brought this to your attention in the first place,” she pointed out
.

“Fine, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks. Listen, I have to go.” Her head had started throbbing. Without waiting for his good-bye, she dropped the phone into its cradle and rolled out of bed to find her cell phone. Toby would probably like to know that Peter wasn’t running his story for another two months.

**

Jackson
slipped out of his dorm room into a balmy evening to jog to the forest and meet up with Toby. No sooner had he shut his door than a local sheriff’s car, driven by the deputy who’d guarded Artie’s, swerved into the entrance at Gateway right in front of him. Two official vehicles from another district followed right on his tail. All three cruisers were moving fast and displaying their lights.

Jackson
blinked in surprise. The logo on the sides of the second two cars told him they were D.C. Metropolitan Police. What the hell? Was the Taskforce arresting the imams without giving
Jackson
so much as a head’s up?

Postponing his run, he chased the cruisers around the dormitory and found them blocking the gate to the basketball court. Ten or so parolees had frozen in the midst of a game to gape at the lawmen popping out of their cars with pistols drawn.

“Hands up and spread out along the fence!” Deputy Hazelwood shouted. He and three Metropolitan police officers approached the cage. Two of the four edged into the enclosure just as the halogen lights, operating on a timer, flickered on.

“Which one of you men is Rupert Davis?” the larger officer demanded.

Stunned and curious,
Jackson
inched closer
.

None of the parolees spoke up to rat out
Davis
, probably because none of them knew him by his birth name, but
Davis
took a wary step backwards, drawing attention to himself.

“You’re Rupert Davis?” demanded the Metropolitan police officer, honing in on him.

Under the bright lights,
Davis
’s skin shone with a film of perspiration. “My name is Sulayman,” he snarled, his gaze shifting left, then right.

Jackson
smiled, anticipating the sight of his arrest
.

Just then Imam Ibrahim came rushing out of the mosque, his sleeves flapping like the wings of a stricken bird. “What is going on here?” he cried
.

Jackson
strained to hear Deputy Hazelwood’s reply.

“We have a warrant for the arrest of Rupert Davis.”

“On what charge?”
Davis
asked, no longer denying who he was. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“For the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl,” answered the cop approaching him.

“Those charges were dropped ten years ago,”
Davis
protested, the whites of his eyes more evident than usual
.

“New evidence has cropped up,” the officer stalking him said.

Jackson
couldn’t believe his ears. What new evidence? Even if
Davis
had finished confessing to
Lena
, which he hadn’t, she’d surrendered her spy camera to the Taskforce agents. She didn’t have the proof to instigate this kind of action.

“Hit the ground,
Davis
,” the officer continued. “You know the drill. Arms behind your back, legs spread. The rest of you put your backs to the fence and stay there.”

Eyes rolling,
Davis
hunted for an escape route. But the fleeing felon rule that authorized police to shoot persuaded him to drop stiffly to his knees. In the next instant, he lay face down on the asphalt.