Blown Coverage (20 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 7:00 P.M. PDT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

Naheed Yamani was in an extremely bad mood, and the wind that was noisily whipping the flags above her head wasn’t helping.

She was angry with herself for not realizing that her new LaROK French army jacket would do nothing to keep out the cool,
damp San Francisco air. She was angry with her friend June Waller for leaving fifteen “Are you all right? Is everything okay
with us?” messages on her cell phone, when all Naheed wanted was for her to go away.

But most of all she was angry with her contact for insisting on a face-to-face meeting, then making her wait for a half hour
in Union Square with only the Macy’s storefront to look at.
I should have
said no,
Naheed chastised herself.
This is way out of
standard operating procedure. I should have insisted
we keep to our regular system.
But she hadn’t, and now she was here . . . waiting.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she hunched over to protect her body from the wind and stared at the ground.
This is ridiculous!
I’ll
give
him five more minutes; then
I’m
out of here.

She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her—to her right, the metallic roll and clanging bell of a cable car
passing; behind her, a homeless man cursing a tourist who had refused him money; next to her, a pigeon cooing down by her
foot. She opened her eyes and saw that the bird was closer than she was comfortable with, so she gave the colorful male a
quick kick.

Suddenly, another foot appeared next to her on the bench, and a voice said, “You’re just way too pretty to be sitting here
all alone.”

Naheed looked up.
This is definitely not my contact.
A handsome, dark-haired young man wearing a UC Berkeley T-shirt was grinning at her and leaning a little too far into her
personal space. About twenty-five feet back, she could see two of his buddies watching and laughing.

Naheed just stared at him.

Apparently he was a guy whose good looks usually paid better dividends around the sorority houses, because he seemed genuinely
surprised that she wasn’t falling all over herself in his presence. Slightly flustered, he said, “Don’t worry, gorgeous, I
leave a lot of girls speechless. How about I buy you a drink and we’ll see if we can loosen you up a bit?” His grin turned
into a wide, toothy smile.

Still without saying anything, Naheed adjusted her gaze from “go away I’m not interested” to “I’ve killed once and I’m not
averse to doing it again.”

The artificially whitened smile quickly evaporated. Slowly backing away, the guy said, “Hey, miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
anything by it. I was just joking with you.”

Naheed watched as he quickly turned and rejoined his friends. One of them must have made a smart remark, because the guy pushed
him hard, then stomped off. The other two followed.

“Who is your friend?” said a heavily accented voice to Naheed’s right. Turning, she saw a Middle Eastern man whose age could
have been anywhere from forty to sixty—the baseball cap, sunglasses, and scars made it difficult to tell.

“Where have you been?” Naheed countered.

“That is none of your business, girl,” the man said with his eyebrows raised.

“And my friend is none of yours,” Naheed snapped back. “Now tell me why you broke protocol and insisted on this meeting.”

The man nodded. “They told me about you. Let us see if we can start again. My deepest apologies for being late.”

Naheed, feeling good that she had so quickly gained the upper hand, said, “You are forgiven.”

“Thank you,” the man said with a small bow. He stepped in front of Naheed, then took the place next to her on the bench. “Please
allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jibril.”

“Right—you’re Jibril . . . the messenger angel. If your name’s Jibril, then I’m Azra’il,” Naheed replied, tired already of
this man’s games and his forward demeanor.

Jibril laughed—a confident laugh that bespoke experience and control. Naheed began wondering if she really did have the upper
hand. “
Na’am
, I may not really be named after the great revealer of the Koran, peace be upon him, but you—you truly are the beautiful
angel of death.

“You asked why I broke ‘protocol,’ as you call it. I wanted to meet you to thank you in person for the work you have done
on behalf of the Cause.”

“So, you’ve thanked me. I’m cold and hungry. May I go?”

Again Jibril laughed. “Why are you in such a rush? We have things to speak of. Then maybe I can take you to a place where
we can both warm up and have a good meal.” He stretched his arm along the back of the bench, lightly touching Naheed’s back.
She bristled at the contact and leaned forward, causing Jibril to chuckle, but without the same good humor as before. “Sit
back and pretend that we like each other. We do not want to attract attention. We are just a man and woman enjoying each other’s
company.”

Who does this guy think he is?
“We look more like a father and the daughter of his waning years,” Naheed responded, reluctantly returning her back to the
bench.

A hard thumb suddenly dug under Naheed’s shoulder blade, causing her to flinch, but she bit her lip before she could cry out.
Water formed in her eyes.

Jibril leaned close to her ear. She could smell curry and stale coffee on his breath. “I have lived too long and seen too
much to be disrespected by a little girl like you. You are just a cog in a wheel; a first step of many steps to come. This
is not all about you, so stop acting like I should care about your feelings. Do you understand me, child?”

Naheed rapidly nodded her head. The thumb pushed deeper, then pulled back, resting on a place alongside her spine. Naheed’s
shoulder spasmed twice, then settled.

Okay, just get through this,
Naheed thought.
Try to show respect,
and then get out as soon as you can.
“What do you want from me,
sayyid
?”

“Oh, the formality. Please, call me Jibril. And it is not I who want anything from you. Remember,” he said with a twinkle
in his eye, “Jibril is just a messenger. What is important is what our leader wants from you.”

“You mean the one-eyed man?” burst out from Naheed’s lips before she could stop it. She had often had nightmares about the
old man who had visited her at her training camp graduation.

A dark look flashed across Jibril’s face—fear mixed with anger. But just as quickly, his smooth, in-control demeanor returned.

Very interesting,
thought Naheed.
I think I may have hit closer to
the truth than I expected.
She mentally filed it away for future exploration.

“You are not here to ask questions, young Azra’il. You are here to listen. At four o’clock Friday afternoon, you are to drive
to Pier 39. In your trunk you will find a backpack, same as the one before. You are to carry it to the
kurradj
—”

“The
kurradj
? You mean the carousel.”

“
Na’am
, the carousel. There you are to arm the device, and then walk away. Simple as that.” Now an intensity entered Jibril’s voice
that Naheed hadn’t heard before. “However, if you sense any trouble along the way, you
will
use the emergency detonator. Do not let yourself or the device fall into the hands of the evil ones. Do you understand?”

Naheed gave a bitter laugh. “Why do I sense that you are more concerned about the device than about me?”

Jibril spread his hand across her back, leaving his palm resting on the clasp of her bra. The physical contact made Naheed
cringe inside.

“We are all expendable—even the angel of death,” he said with a laugh. “Now, our interview is concluded. Would you care to
join me for a meal?”

The only thing Naheed wanted was for this man to leave and for herself to take a long, hot, cleansing shower. “Thank you,
sayyid
, but I must decline. I haven’t felt well since this morning.”

“Of course, womanly things. We will plan to dine next time. In the meantime, may the peace of Allah be upon you,” Jibril said
as he rose to go.

“And upon you,” Naheed mumbled, thankful to see this man leave.

However, just as he was nearly standing, he dropped back down. Putting one hand on Naheed’s cold-numbed knee and cradling
her chin with the other, Jibril said, “Maybe next time we meet, things will not be so tense. We can gather as two friends—fellow
warriors in the same struggle. I would like to get to know you better, Naheed Azra’il.”

When Naheed didn’t respond, Jibril smiled, gave her knee a painful squeeze, and left.

Thankful to be free of him, Naheed stood and hurriedly made her way back to her car parked around the corner at the Ellis-O’Farrell
Garage. As she went, she couldn’t shake the feeling of Jibril’s calloused fingers on her face nor the look of death in his
eyes.
He is the
one who should be named
Azra’il!
What has he
seen—
what has he done
in his life?
She shuddered.

Arriving at her MINI Cooper, she dropped into the seat and started the car but couldn’t bring herself to put the car in gear.
The trembling was making her too unsteady to drive. She reached over and turned the heat on full blast, knowing full well
that the temperature was only a small part of the reason she couldn’t stop shaking.

Another bomb, and this one at a carousel on a Friday afternoon when
it’s
sure to be packed with kids! Is this really what I signed up for? I thought
I’d
be assassinating leaders or sabotaging military installations. But blowing
up kids on a Friday afternoon?

The hot air soaking into her body helped soften her nerves.
You
always said
you’d
do this only as long as you wanted. When it
didn’t
feel
right anymore,
you’d
have Grandpa help make you disappear back home.
So
think—
do you still really want to do this?

Naheed was starting to get hot now, so she turned down the heater. The car slipped easily into gear.
Just one more,
she told herself as she drove.
Just one more to prove myself, then
I’ll
insist on something
different. If they say no, then
I’ll
be done. But if they say yes, then the real
adventure will finally begin.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

THURSDAY, MAY 21, 8:15 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO

“Covington Dad Killed in Bomb Blast” was printed across the top of the still-folded
Denver Post
. Below the headline was the top half of a picture that allowed Riley to see the devastation to his parents’ barn. He had
been leaning against the island in his kitchen staring at that photo for ten minutes now, but he couldn’t bring himself to
unfold the paper.
How could somebody do this? What must have
happened to Dad when that went off?

Finally, when he could take it no more, Riley stepped around the side of the island and pressed his foot down on the lever
that opened the trash can. The lid went up, the paper swept in, the lid went down. One problem solved. But Riley knew that
was the smallest of the problems he would be facing today.

When Riley had asked Skeeter yesterday evening to join Grandpa and himself for a planning session, Skeeter had wanted to take
the night to process through Riley’s request. Riley had put up a brief argument, but, because he was so emotionally drained,
he’d given up much sooner than normally he would.

Grandpa and Riley had eaten a quiet homemade dinner delivered by Pastor Tim Clayton’s wife, Ashlee, then retired to the great
room. There they told funny stories about Jerry Covington for a few hours until they were too sad to talk anymore. Giving
each other a final long hug, the two grieving men retired to their bedrooms, where both had lain awake for most of the night
wrestling with their own despondencies.

Now, despite being as physically and emotionally wiped out as he’d ever been, Riley was still feeling the itch—the itch to
do something. He had never been one to whom waiting came naturally. There were people out there who had hurt not just his
family but also hundreds more families in recent attacks. Now they were coming after him. Inactivity was simply not an option.

Riley pulled three small pans off a hanging rack and dropped them onto his range. Turning three of the six dials to medium,
he called out, “Ten minutes until breakfast!”

Grandpa’s voice echoed from upstairs. “I’ll be there!”

Skeeter didn’t respond from his place by the front door. Riley wondered if he had moved at all last night.

Extra-virgin olive oil circled each pan exactly one and a half times; then, while that heated up, Riley began cracking eggs
into a large bowl. Last night, after heading upstairs, he’d had a chance to talk with his mom for a short time. That had been
a very difficult conversation, full of sorrow and apologies on his side, and grace and mercy on hers. One thing she had said
still stuck with him: “With all you military men in my family, I’ve always had to hold on to you with a loose grip. I put
my faith in God, and He always protected you. Now, if I’ve always trusted God in the good times, how could I not trust Him
in the bad times, too?”

Lord, give me that kind of faith,
Riley prayed as he twisted the top off a can of spinach.
You’ve
given me so many good times;
don’t
let me
bail on You just because things get tough.

He opened the refrigerator to pull out the cheese for the omelets. As he reached for a nice Swiss that he had picked up the
other day, his eye caught a block of Covington Farms goat cheese. With a sigh, he made his choice and finished off the omelets.

Grandpa came down in time to butter up some toast and press the coffee. When the plates were all down, Skeeter joined the
men at the table.

“Would you mind blessing the food, Gramps?”

“Of course. Precious Lord, thank You for your constant provision and Your unending grace. Guide us now as we seek Your next
steps. Amen.”

Skeeter raised an eyebrow to Riley when he took the first bite of the omelet. Grandpa tasted it and grimaced. “Goat cheese,
huh?”

“I thought it might be a good tribute,” Riley said quietly.

“No, it was a good thought, Riley. It’s just . . . honestly, I could never stand the stuff. I pleaded with Jerry and Winnie
to open a real dairy,” Grandpa said with a laugh.

Riley took a bite of his omelet and pushed his plate away. “Tribute or no tribute, I just can’t eat this,” he said, straining
to swallow.

Skeeter, with a mouth full of eggs, waved his hand toward himself and said, “Mmmph.” The plates made their way down to his
end of the table.

Riley went back to the kitchen and got a couple of bowls, some cereal, and some milk, while Skeeter continued his work on
nine eggs’ worth of omelet.

“So, what’s our plan?” Riley asked, sitting back down at the table.

“Let’s first figure out what we know,” said the elder statesman of the group, pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios. “First,
and most basic, there are people who want to kill you.”

“And they’re probably not going to stop until the Cause has its head chopped off,” Riley added.

“True,” said Skeeter, “but that ain’t our job. That’s for CTD and Scott and Jim at the Response Team. This can’t turn into
no Riley Covington, International Man of Mystery thing.”

“No, I hear you, Skeet. Let the big boys deal with the big boys.”

Grandpa put down his spoon and said, “I think we can also safely assume that they don’t think they can hit you at your house
with all your security. That’s why they tried to draw you out with what they did yesterday.”

“Which is the whole catch-22 of this situation. If I stay here, I’m safe, but everyone else who is close to me is at risk.
If I go out, I’m at risk, but everyone else is safe. It’s a lousy choice, but not much of a decision.” Riley sipped his coffee,
then leaned his chair back on two legs.

“I think there is one more thing we can put on our list,” Grandpa said. “I talked to my people, and I’ve been assured that
the Cause has a limited supply of trained and ready soldiers. So every hit against them is a hard hit.”

Riley and Skeeter looked at each other, then both started chuckling.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry. It just struck me kind of funny that you talked to ‘your people.’ I didn’t know you even had people.”

A tired smile crept across the old man’s face. “Listen, at your age, son, all your friends are scrambling around trying to
be stars. At my age, my friends wear their stars on their shoulders. A few phone calls to the right people, and it’s amazing
what you can discover.”

Quickly sobering up, Riley said, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. These must be the mood swings of instability.”

“You’re not unstable, remember? You’re just volatile.”

Riley nodded.
Back to business,
he thought.
How do I draw these
people away from the ones I love?
“In football, sometimes an offense is surprised by a defensive formation. They know that if they don’t change things up, they’re
going to get stomped. So, they call an audible. They quickly change the play at the line of scrimmage in order to try to regain
the upper hand.”

“We’re listening,” Grandpa said.

“I was just thinking. They’re expecting me to either run up to Wyoming to see Mom or to stay here in hiding, in which case
they’ll go after someone else. What if we were to call an audible and shake things up for them?”

“What did you have in mind?” Grandpa asked.

“How about if Skeet and I leave here and go into hiding someplace else?”

“That’s no different than you staying here,” said Skeeter, putting his fork down for the first time in five minutes.

“It is if we do a lousy job of it.”

Grandpa shook his head. “Okay, you’ve officially lost me.”

“Just walk with me on this. I’m still trying to formulate it myself. Keith Simmons has a cabin up in the mountains—Silverthorne
or Dillon or one of those places. What if Skeet and I hole up at his place, then let it get out that we’re there? I mean,
we don’t, like, pass out flyers and stuff, but maybe we get Keith and Afshin to accidentally let it slip in the locker room
that we’ve gone to the mountains. If it gets to some of the rookies or bubble players who are trying to ingratiate themselves
to the media, it will definitely get out. Maybe I could call up Whitney Walker, also, and either ‘accidentally’ mention it
to her or even come right out and ask her to include something about it in a story.”

Skeeter was nodding. “I’m tracking. Security here is operating under the assumption that somehow we are being watched. Another
thing we could do is to have Keith come by and deliver the keys.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute,” Grandpa shouted. “Before you go working out all the ways that you are going to get them to
where you’re hiding out, you’d better figure out what you’re going to do when you get there.”

Riley shrugged his shoulders. “Wait for them.”

“That’s your plan? Wait for them?”

“Best I’ve got so far.”

They all three sat silently. Finally Riley spoke quietly but earnestly. “Listen, Gramps. I’m betting that the place is surrounded
by trees, so there will be plenty of places to stage a defense. Also, it’s isolated, so if anything happens, Skeeter and I
are the only ones at risk. You said it yourself—any hit against them is a hard hit. I think this scenario gives us the best
chance of delivering that hard hit.”

Grandpa sighed heavily. “Well, if you’re going to do this, you could certainly stand to use a third gun.”

“No, and please don’t make me argue the point with you. I need you to take care of Mom. Also, we may need you to do a few
things back here or maybe call on your people again,” Riley finished with a forced grin.

“You mean I can be old Alfred to your Batman?” Grandpa said with a sad chuckle.

“Exactly. But I guess that does make Skeeter here the Boy Wonder.” They all laughed softly.

Riley continued, “So, we’ve got a plan. Gramps, I did some work in the vaults last night. Would you double-check what I’ve
done and see if I’ve missed anything? Skeeter, why don’t you see what information you can dig out of Scott about who’s after
us. Don’t let him know yet what we’re doing, because I don’t want him involved in this. I’ll start making some phone calls
to Keith and Afshin and maybe Whitney. Let’s look to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

As they stood up to go, Grandpa caught Riley’s arm in an unusually tight grip. “Hold back a second. Do you remember the story
of Esther in the Bible?”

“Yeah, she was chosen as queen of Persia and saved all the Jews.”

“Exactly. I was just thinking about a conversation that Esther had with her cousin Mordecai. She knew she had to see the king,
but doing so could cost her her life. Mordecai sent her a message saying, ‘God’s going to save his people one way or another.
But maybe you’ve come to your position for such a time as this.’”

“Yeah, I remember that. Amazing story.”

“But do you remember her response, Riley? She says, ‘Get the people praying. I’m going to do what I have to do. I’m going
to go see the king. And if I perish, I perish.’ That’s total commitment to doing the right thing. That’s what I’ve just heard
from you. Jesus put it as, ‘Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’

“Riley, I’ll be your Mordecai. I’ll get the people praying, and I’ll do whatever I can for you back here. As hard as it is
to think about, I couldn’t be more proud of the fact that you are willing to show your ‘greater love.’

“Now, I’m going to let go of your arm, but don’t say anything back to me, because if you do I’ll lose it and I’m just plain
tired of crying.” Grandpa gave Riley’s arm a final squeeze, then went to the basement.

Riley watched him go with a sad smile on his face.
Laying down
your life for your friends. Lord,
that’s
why
I’m
doing this. This
isn’t
for me.
Honestly,
I’m
leaving it to You to pay back those who killed Dad. Please,
Lord, just let me be part of stopping these people before they take more
innocent lives. If I can give my life so that others
won’t
feel the pain that
I’m
going through, then so be it.

After pausing for a moment to collect his emotions, Riley cleared his throat low and deep and picked up his phone to start
making calls.