Blown Coverage (12 page)
Authors: Jason Elam
FRIDAY, MAY 15, 5:15 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
The thick smoke swirled around Riley’s head and stung his eyes. “You know, it’s a scientifically proven fact,” he said to
Keith Simmons, who was looking way too comfortable sipping an Arnold Palmer in an Adirondack chair, “that no matter where
you stand around a charcoal grill, that’s the direction the wind is going to blow.”
“Can’t argue with physics,” Simmons replied. “What I can’t figure out is why you have that little jobber burning when you’ve
already got your big old Nuclear Chef 2000 gas grill going. You could cook a water buffalo on that thing!”
Riley dabbed his forehead with a hand towel he had hanging over his shoulder. Although it had been two hours since he and
Simmons had finished their workout, the unseasonably warm afternoon sun combined with the heat of the grills made Riley feel
like his face would never be completely dry again. “Ah, my blissfully ignorant young protégé. First of all, this isn’t just
any gas grill; it is an infrared grill specially designed for the finest of steak-grilling perfection. However, for our corn,
we want a little extra flavor. Thus, the Weber and our mesquite charcoal.”
“Tell you what, Emeril, you cook the food, and I’ll eat it. Any details beyond that, you can tell them to Skeeter here. Right,
Skeet?” Simmons said, reaching to the next chair over and clapping Skeeter on the arm.
“Mmmm,” Skeeter replied, never taking his eyes off the tree line spread across the back of Riley’s property.
“See, I told you he’d warm up to me,” Simmons said.
“Trust me, where Skeeter comes from, that’s called a conversation.” Sparks flew as Riley dumped the white-dusted coals from
the smoker onto the grill. He quickly arranged the briquettes with a pair of tongs, feeling the heat curl the hairs on the
back of his fingers. After dropping the top grate onto the barbecue, he said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go snag the
food.”
“Go for it,” Simmons replied before turning to Skeeter and saying, “I ever tell you about the time I was playing beach volleyball
back in college? I was on spring break down in South Padre—”
The story cut off as Riley closed the patio door.
No big loss;
I’ve
heard that one so many times before. Guy jumps up for the spike . . . guy
lands wrong on the sand . . .
guy’s
toe pops off at the joint. Story still gives
me the heebie-jeebies thinking about it.
The coolness inside the house gave Riley a quick chill after standing in the heat for so long. As he crossed to the refrigerator,
he could see the red message light blinking on his phone.
Can’t
imagine anyone
I really want to talk to right now,
he thought.
Although that does remind
me . . .
He reached over to where he had dumped out his pockets on the kitchen counter and picked up his cell phone. Sure enough, he
had forgotten to turn it back on after practice.
The last thing anyone wanted to have happen at a team meeting was for their cell phone to go off, especially Riley since it
had been his first day back at minicamp and Coach Burton hadn’t seemed all that happy to see him. The $1,500 fine would have
been mild compared to the tongue-lashing he would have received. In fact, Coach hated cell phones so much that players and
coaches alike knew without a doubt that if their phone went off, they were one step closer to being out the door permanently.
Riley could remember one time when an assistant coach’s cell phone had started ringing during a full team meeting. The man
had gotten so panicked when he couldn’t figure out how to silence the ringer that he had finally thrown the phone across the
room, shattering it against the wall.
While the phone powered up, Riley pulled the steaks out of the refrigerator—three sixteen-ounce ribeyes, marinated to perfection.
A beep from his cell phone told him he had messages there, too.
I’ll
deal with those later,
he thought as he slid the phone into his shorts pocket. He swung the patio door open and was greeted with the two outdoor
constants—heat and Simmons’s voice. Stacking the butter baste on top of the plate of corn, he walked out to the grills, nearly
stumbling as he shut the door with his foot.
“Okay, Simm, come on up and learn from the master,” Riley interrupted.
“I told you—as long as it ends up on my plate, I don’t care how it gets there.”
“Sure you care. You just don’t know that you do. Come on.”
“Better go,” Skeeter encouraged him, “else we’re never going to eat.”
Simmons reluctantly pushed himself up from his chair. “What happened to the good old days when I could go to someone’s house
and just be served without actually having to participate? Okay, so show me the . . . Hold up, what is that?” he asked, pointing
at a bowl of yellow liquid.
“That, my dear uninterested friend, is a baste for our corn. Take a whiff,” Riley said, holding the bowl up to Simmons’s face.
“You’ve got melted butter, freshly cracked pepper, and a truckload of garlic.”
“Oh yeah. Consider my interest piqued. And what’ve you got on those steaks?”
Riley put down the bowl and lifted the Pyrex dish holding the steaks. “It’s called Montreal seasoning. This marinade and Mario
Lemieux are the best things that ever came out of that city.”
“The only good things,” Skeeter muttered under his breath.
“Now, now, Skeet,” Riley chided him, “while most of the civilized world may agree with you, you must remember that there are
certain things that we shouldn’t say . . . at least not out loud.”
Simmons took a deep whiff of the steaks. “Man, that smells incredible too.”
“Ask him what’s in it,” Skeeter said, still watching the trees.
“What?” asked Simmons.
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Ask him what’s in the seasoning,” Skeeter repeated.
“Who invited you into this conversation anyway?” Riley complained. “Go guard something.”
“So, Chef Pach,” Simmons said with a smile, “what’s in the seasoning?”
Riley sighed. “Okay, if you have to know, I have no clue what’s in the seasoning. It comes in a packet. You happy, smiley-boy?”
he said to a grinning Skeeter.
“Ecstatic.”
“Dude, don’t hate on my man Skeeter,” Simmons said, walking over and putting a hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “I like it when
he opens up.”
“Yeah, well maybe it’s about time he closes back down,” Riley said, dropping the steaks onto the grill. The ensuing sizzle
all but drowned out the last two words of his sentence.
As he reached over to start basting the corn before dropping it onto the Weber, he saw Skeeter whispering something in Simmons’s
ear.
Oh no. What now?
“Hey, Pach,” came Simmons’s voice as Riley placed the first ear onto the grill, “aren’t you going to ask me how I want my
steak done?”
Riley looked over and saw the two men laughing. Skeeter said, “There’s only one way a steak is cooked around here—the Riley
way.”
“Why? Don’t you know how to cook steaks any other way?” Simmons asked.
But before Riley could defend himself, Skeeter answered for him, “Sure, he knows how. He just figures, ‘Why would anybody
want it cooked any different from how I like it?’”
“Well, why would they?” Riley said with a smile. He set the rest of the corn on the grill, and then turned back to crosshatch
the steaks. The smells in his backyard were just reaching the heavenly stage.
A ring came from his front pocket, and Riley pulled out his cell phone. The caller ID said
Scott Cell
, so he hit Talk. “Hey, Scott.”
“Pach! Where’ve you been, man? I’ve been leaving messages all over.” Riley could hear concern in Scott’s voice.
That’s
never good.
“Sorry, my bad. I’ve got a buddy over, and we’re cooking some steaks. What’s up?”
“As you can imagine, things are going crazy here. I just wanted to see how you were handling all this.”
Great,
thought Riley,
another one of
Scott’s
cryptic calls.
“Scott, I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about . . . again. Handling all what?”
“All what? Philadelphia! Haven’t you been watching the news?”
A sick feeling spread through Riley. “Scott, we came right from practice to my backyard. I haven’t heard a thing.”
Riley heard popping starting from the corn on the grill and quickly began turning the ears over while Scott said, “We’ve been
hit again. A bomb in a subway station in Philly.”
“Oh no. Is it bad?”
“Rush hour combined with an explosive device containing thousands of screws. You do the math.”
“How did . . . hang on a sec. Skeet, can you come take over?” While Riley headed toward the quiet of the pool area, the big
man walked over. As they passed, Riley said to him, “We’ve been hit again—a bomb in a subway in Philly.”
Immediately, Skeeter grabbed Riley and pushed him toward the house. “Finish your call inside! Keith, get over here and watch
the food.”
Simmons was about to protest until he saw Skeeter drawing his gun. “You got it, man!”
Riley knew better than to argue with Skeeter. After he closed the patio door, he said into the phone, “Scott, you still there?”
“Yeah, what’s going on?”
“Skeeter.”
“Enough said.”
Riley looked out the window and saw Simmons standing in front of the grill, looking at him helplessly. Riley motioned for
him to flip the steaks over. Simmons gave a thumbs up and set to work.
Beyond Simmons, Riley could see Skeeter kneeling in a defensive posture, scanning the tree line with the barrel of his gun
looking like a third eye.
“Okay, tell me what happened.”
“There’s not much to tell yet. We still don’t even know if it was a suicide bomb. I’ll tell you what I
can
tell you when I get more intel. Right now, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“We’re fine.” Riley rapped on the glass door and pointed at the corn. Simmons began turning them again. “I can’t believe they’ve
started again.”
“Pach, don’t go jumping to any conclusions. We don’t even know who ‘they’ are yet. There are a lot of other bad guys in this
world. We don’t need to automatically assume it’s the Cause.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” But the sick feeling in Riley’s stomach told him that Scott wasn’t right.
No, this is the Cause. You guys said it
yourselves: we hurt them, but we
didn’t
kill them.
“You’ll keep me up-to-date.”
“That’s what I promised you. Hang in, bud. I’ll call back later.”
“Thanks, Scott.” Riley pressed End, then sat down at the kitchen table. He put his head in his hands and prayed,
Lord, please
don’t
let
this start again. I just . . . I
don’t
want to go through this again. I
can’t
go through it again.
The dead face of his friend Sal Ricci flashed in his mind. His chest felt like a hand had gripped his heart.
But if You do
let it start, please protect those around me.
Suddenly, the door opened behind Riley. He jumped up, slamming his knee into the table leg. “Oh, stinkdog!” he yelled, grabbing
his wounded joint as he turned around.
Simmons was there laughing. “Buddy, you’ve got to learn some better cussword substitutes. I was just wondering if I should
take the food off. It’s looking pretty done.”
Riley had totally forgotten about the barbecue. “Yeah, please. Thanks.”
“You okay, man? And what’s up with Rambo out there?”
“I’m fine. Just bring the food inside, if you would, and I’ll tell you about it when you get in. I don’t think Skeeter’s going
to be eating with us.”
As Riley watched Simmons pull the steaks off the grill, he tried to think through how to break the news to his teammate. Simmons
still carried a long scar on his leg from the December attack on Platte River Stadium. Riley knew that his emotional scar
was a lot bigger.
What a shame,
Riley thought as Simmons carried the food toward the door.
Even with all this great food, I think
Simm’s
about to become
the third person to completely lose his appetite.
FRIDAY, MAY 15, 7:30 P.M. PDT HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA
Hundreds of flashes lit up the warm California night. The premier of Larry Matthew’s latest directorial work was certainly
a cause to be celebrated, and all the beautiful people of Hollywood had come out to do just that. Long cars, short dresses,
and big jewels were evident all around. The red carpet was stretched out, and the rope barriers on either side could barely
contain the entertainment reporters and paparazzi who were all shouting out, “Taylor! Taylor!” trying to get the attention
of the costar of the film as he made his way to the entrance.
In the middle of this media circus, Naheed Yamani held her camera up and let its shutter click off a series of pictures. When
the furor died down, she gave a squeeze to the excessively hairy arm of the man standing next to her. “I’m so glad you’re
here to help me, Wes! I don’t know what I’d be doing if I hadn’t found you.”
Wes, who had the appearance of a man for whom female attention was not commonplace, got a big smile on his face. “You just
lift your camera when I lift mine and point it in the same direction. We’ll get you through this.”
Naheed rapidly clapped her hands as she bounced up and down. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! If I don’t get these pictures,
my boss will kill me, and I absolutely need this job. Oh look, here comes another one!”
A black Lincoln stretch limousine pulled up to the curb. Wes and a hundred other photographers got their cameras at the ready,
elbowing each other to get the right position. Naheed followed suit. As the next batch of beautiful people stepped out of
the car and made their way down the carpet, the cameras all started clicking and whirring, and shouts of “Ashley! Ashley!”
filled the air.
While everyone’s attention was on the young celebrity couple, Naheed took the opportunity to look around at the security.
No police or rent-a-cops seemed to be near her position in the middle of the media mob. Her placement seemed perfect.
“You can put your camera down now,” Wes said with a grin. “Besides, you forgot to press that little button on top that we
talked about.”
Naheed looked at her camera like she had just now discovered it in her hands. “Oh! You’re right! I don’t know what happened!
I just froze!” Tears began forming in her eyes.
Suddenly, the crowd swelled up again. “Lana! Lana!” Lana paused on the carpet as if she were actually astonished to hear her
name. She let the look of surprise slide into her well-rehearsed, million-dollar smile. After giving a final wave, she continued
into the theater.
“I stink at this! I’m so busted,” Naheed said as she grabbed Wes’s arm again and pressed her whole body up against his side.
Wes took a moment to experience each and every one of her curves, then answered, “Don’t cry. C’mon, I told you I’d get your
back. I’ll tell you what, when I process my pics, I’ll shoot some off to you. They won’t be the same ones I’m using, but I
can guarantee you they’ll still be great.”
Now the crocodile tears really flowed. “You’re an angel! You’re my big ol’ angel sent straight from heaven,” Naheed cried,
pressing even tighter against him. Wes quickly handed her his handkerchief, the texture of which almost made her lose her
lunch. “Thank you so, so, so, so much! But I’ll only let you do that on one condition.”
“Of course you can credit yourself for the pics.”
Naheed laughed and slapped his arm. “Not that, silly.
You
need to promise
me
that I can take you out for a drink when this is all done.”
Wes gave as big a bow as the cramped conditions allowed him and spoke using his renaissance faire voice. “Well, if that’s
the cost these days for chivalry, m’lady, then I will gladly pay the price.”
Naheed replied with a curtsy. “My hero.” Wes’s big smile revealed teeth that made Naheed think of her great-uncle Abadi, whose
rancid kisses all the girls hid to avoid.
After a moment, she said, “Oh goodness, I’ve been crying! I must look a mess!”
“You look beautiful,” Wes replied, instantly turning red.
Naheed gave him another playful slap on the arm. “Oh you! Flattery will get you everywhere! Actually, I really need to find
a bathroom to freshen myself up.”
“Why do you need a bathroom? Here,” he said, turning his camera toward her, “you can look right into the reflection of my
lens and—”
“Wes Freeman,” Naheed said, feigning indignation, “didn’t your mother ever teach you to never ask a girl why she needs to
run to the restroom?”
Naheed squatted down and opened her backpack. Inside she found her small clutch purse. Right before pulling it out, however,
she reached under the handbag and twisted a key. After pulling the key out and sliding it into the front zip pouch of her
purse, Naheed stood back up and said, “You don’t mind if I leave my stuff here, do you? My boss gave me so much junk to bring,
it weighs a ton!”
“Well, I’d hate for anything to happen to it while—”
“What could happen to it while the gallant Sir Wes is in charge? Ple-e-e-ase?”
Naheed could see Wes melting under her touch. “Sure. Let’s just put it right up against my legs so that I can feel it’s there.”
He slid the bag up against himself. “Holy smoke, you aren’t kidding! What do you have in this thing?”
“For me to know, and for you later to find out! But no peeky. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good, a girl’s got to have a few secrets,” Naheed said with a wink. She stood up on her toes and gave Wes a kiss on the cheek,
then said with all the earnestness she could muster, “Wes Freeman, I’m glad I met you.”
“I’m glad too. Now go, so you can hurry back.”
Naheed began weaving her way through the crowd. She could feel Wes’s eyes on her back, so she turned around and gave him a
coquettish wave. Wes responded with another half bow.
What an idiot,
Naheed thought as she turned around.
Talk about
someone who deserves to die just for being so stupid!
The three blocks to the car seemed like an eternity to Naheed. She had forgotten to look at her watch when she activated the
device, so she had no clue when it was going to go off. Although she didn’t feel bad about placing the bomb, she wasn’t sure
if she actually wanted to hear it.
She had just started her engine when the blast reached her ears. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw the rising cloud
of smoke.
You’ve
done it, girl! Welcome to the wonderful world of terrorism!
She tried to smile, but something in her heart was tearing.
Okay, you knew this part might be tough. Just
don’t
think about it.
Just
don’t
think about it.
Do you realize how many people you just killed?
Just
don’t
think about it!
People a couple hundred meters away with screws imbedded in their
bodies.
Just
don’t
think about it!
How many kids? How many kids are screaming in pain right now, or
will be screaming when they find out their mommy or
daddy’s
just been
blown to pieces?
JUST
DON’T
THINK ABOUT IT!
Naheed snatched her iPod out of her purse, slipped in the earbuds, and spun the volume up to full. The music drowned out
her thoughts during the drive to LAX, the dropping off of the rental car, the ditching of the blonde wig, the retrieval of
her own car from long-term parking, and most of the drive back north to San Francisco. By the time the battery on her nano
finally gave out south of Tracy, she had sung and danced the night’s events into a well-hidden and seldom-accessed drawer
in her mental filing cabinet.
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 3:00 A.M. MDT
SHARON SPRINGS, KANSAS
A quarter mile up the road, Abdullah Muhammad could see the soft yellow porch lights of the farmhouse. In the fields surrounding
his car, fireflies blinked on and off and crickets chirped in the balmy late spring air. As Abdullah dragged on his Newport,
his mind processed his next steps.
First thing, shoot the dog. All these places have dogs, and
all these hicks have guns.
The menthol smoke streamed up through the crack in the driver’s side window and was quickly wisped away by the gentle night
breeze. The thought of breaking into the house made Abdullah hesitate for a moment. In his mind he heard Denver Police dispatch
announcing a 459 in progress. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
I guess I
can’t
worry about a simple B&E when I already have a quadruple
homicide among the
evening’s
earlier activities.
That first operation had been a crucial transition in his life. It was the moment he had metamorphosed from law enforcer to
lawbreaker; from protector to killer.
Abdullah’s badge had gained him entrance into the house on Sibbitt Road in Hyannis, Nebraska. His nerves caused him to shake
outside the door, but once he crossed the threshold, he switched to automatic pilot. All the fears and doubts evaporated the
second his silenced Walther P99 ended the life of the father in the entry hall. Abdullah could still see the look of surprise
on his face, just before new holes opened up on his chest and on his upper left cheek.
When the mother poked her head out of the kitchen to find out “what all the hubbub was about,” a 9 mm slug dropped her, too.
A second one at close range finished the job. All in all, that first part had been almost too easy—anticlimactic in a way.
However, he knew that the most difficult part still awaited him. Abdullah tried to separate himself from his actions as he
climbed the stairs. He wanted to cut and run, but either adrenaline or an overwhelming sense of duty kept him moving forward.
The little girl’s room had a sign that read, KEEP OUT: TRESPASSERS WILL BE TICKLED! Slowly, he turned the handle, praying
to Allah that the child would not wake. The last thing he wanted was to actually see his victim’s face. A powdery citrus scent
met him as he opened the door. The room was very frilly and very pink. The walls were plastered with 4-H ribbons, pictures
of the girl’s friends, and posters from the latest High School Musical movie.
For the first and only time, Abdullah felt a twinge of guilt about what he was doing. But he quickly dealt with that by pulling
the P99’s trigger twice. The girl’s body twitched only once, then lay still. The movement had been so quick, so subtle. Abdullah
stood in the doorway, waiting to see if she would move again—almost wishing she would move again, wondering if he could bring
himself to fire another round if she did move again.
Can’t
get stuck here,
he thought as he forced himself to leave the room.
Gotta keep moving.
Abdullah then went to the next room and pumped the same number of rounds into the young boy—this time without stopping to
look around. The less thinking he did, the better. He just let the hatred he had for America and its arrogant culture be his
driving force.
These
kids might be innocent now, but just give them twenty years.
On his way out, he didn’t forget to leave the envelope on the father’s body—careful to avoid the blood that continued to spread
on the man’s shirt.
Now
you’ve
got one more house to visit; then you can call it a night,
Abdullah thought as he took one last pull on his cigarette. Rather than flicking the butt out the window like he usually did,
he stubbed it out in the ashtray—no sense giving the detectives a free DNA sample. He turned the ignition key and his car
quietly purred to life. Keeping the lights off, he engaged the transmission and slowly made his way up the county road.
The brake lights glowed red as he eased the car past the mailbox and turned to the right. The driveway was paved, so he went
ahead and pulled in. Three-quarters of a mile off of K-27 at this time of night, there was not much chance anyone would drive
by and see his car here. As he drove up behind the family’s Suburban, he let his side window slide down and held his pistol
through the open space. Sure enough, a yellow Labrador retriever came running toward the car. The dog had time to let out
one bark before a silenced shot put it down.
Abdullah held his breath as he watched the house for lights and listened for any sign of movement. It took a minute to satisfy
himself that Fido had failed in his final mission. Before opening the door, Abdullah took a moment to perform
du’a
—a prayer of supplication for forgiveness and strength. “Allah, you have chosen me for this task. I do not relish it. In fact,
I am appalled at what I have been asked to do. But still I will do it—for you, and for you alone. Forgive me for the violence
I am about to commit. Bless me as I follow your will.”
Abdullah sighed heavily, and then reached to the passenger seat, where he had laid the Walther. He picked up the gun, then
looked back at the second item that was lying on the leather. Unfortunately, this family was not going to meet as clean or
quick an ending as the first.
Give me strength, Allah. Give me strength.
Moments later, Abdullah was walking up the flagstone path to the front door. Stepping onto the porch, a terrible thrill went
through his body as he saw his reflection in the glass storm door. A black nylon mask covered his face. In his left hand the
Walther was pointed straight ahead. In his right, a machete angled down to the ground.
Good thing you said your prayers,
he thought.
You’re
in for a long
night.
