Inside Threat (31 page)

“May I have your attention?”

Khadi looked up and saw that the General had walked up and was addressing her group.

“I have good news for you. You will be released shortly. In the meantime, I must ask for your full cooperation. There are quite a few of you, and I want you all to leave here safely. So please, when the time comes, I will ask you to stand up row by row and walk out in single file. If you stand before your row is indicated, if you break line, or if you run in any way . . . well, let me just strongly encourage you not to do those things. Do we have an understanding?”

There were excited murmurs of affirmation from her group.

One woman asked, “What about our husbands? Will they be coming too?”

“Alas, they will not—at least not yet. There are still issues to be resolved with your government, and I'm afraid we must keep them a little longer. However, it is my fervent hope that an amicable solution can be reached, and you will be rejoined by your loved ones sooner rather than later. Now, are there any other questions?”

Hearing none, he said, “Very well. For now, please be patient and obey the rules. This will all be over for you soon.” The General turned and walked away.

Is this guy a sociopath? What else could explain the disparity between the charming man who just addressed us and the one we saw earlier calmly shooting two people without a second thought?
A chill ran up her spine.

Gladys gave Khadi's hand a squeeze. “It looks like this old broad may survive yet another adventure.”

Khadi started to answer but stopped. Another voice had distracted her. It was a familiar one, and it came from the Grab-Bag group—the third group, so named because there didn't seem to be any connection between the members or any reason for them to be singled out.

“Sir? Oh, sir?”

She spotted him.
Tyson Bryson, chief aide to Mr. Opportunity, pig in every sense of the word. What's he doing? Best thing for you to do is keep your head down and try not to be seen, you idiot!

One of the General's henchmen went toward Bryson. By the look on his face, his main goal seemed to be shutting him up as violently as possible. Bryson cowered under the man's upraised hand. He was doing his usual quick talking, but he was too far away for Khadi to hear what he was saying.

The man lowered his hand. He took a walkie-talkie off his belt and said something into it. After receiving a response, he took Bryson by the collar and lifted him from his chair. He half walked, half dragged the senatorial aide toward the General.

Oh, Tyson, you fool! What have you gotten yourself into?
While the very thought of him disgusted her, she still felt just enough of a connection—maybe no more than a coworker bond—that she didn't want anything
really
bad to happen to him.

Bryson was thrown to the floor in front of the General. Words were exchanged. The General took a step back, seeming to consider something, then nodded his assent. Bryson spoke again, and a surprised look came across the General's face. Then it hardened.

“Where?” Khadi could hear all the way across the long nave.

Bryson lifted his hand, extended his finger, and pointed it right at Khadi.

Her heart sank.
Oh, Tyson, you didn't . . .

It wasn't so much fear that she felt as the General and several of the gunmen made their way toward her. It was more of a resignation and a profound disappointment that someone, anyone, would actually stoop so low.

“Oh, my dearest Khadi,” Gladys said, squeezing her hand so tightly that her joints hurt. “I'll pray for you, child. God will watch over you.”

“Thank you, Gladys,” she said, squeezing back.

“You! What is your name?” the General said when he was still ten paces away.

“What's yours?” Khadi responded.

The General nodded to another man, who stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face. She fell sideways onto Gladys and immediately tasted blood in her mouth.

“What is your name?” the General asked again.

“My name is Khadijah Faroughi. But you already know that.”

“Where is your gun?”

“What gun?”

Again, a hand slammed down onto her face. Tears sprang to her eyes, but only as a natural reaction to the pain. There was no sadness in Khadi's heart, only a raging fire of defiance.

“Where is your gun?”

“What, is there an echo in here? I said I don't have a gun!”

The hand came down again, but this time she was ready for it. She deflected it forward and countered with a straight-fingered stab into her assailant's ribs. He doubled over from the pain.

Her victory was short-lived as another gunman drove the butt of his rifle into her shoulder, spinning her to the ground. The pain was intense and her vision blurred for a moment. She felt two hands reaching to help her and saw Gladys's beautifully lined face leaning toward her.

The General stepped forward, grabbed Gladys by the hair, pulled her to her feet, and placed a gun to her forehead.

“Where . . . is . . . your . . . gun?”

Quickly, Khadi said, “In the back of the sanctuary—information rack full of brochures. There's a phone in there, too.”

The General nodded to one of his men, who ran to the rear of the cathedral. As he waited, he never let go of Gladys's hair, and he never lowered the pistol. A minute and a half later, the runner returned. In one hand he had Khadi's phone and in the other her .357 snubbie.

The General released Gladys, who fell back to her seat. Taking the gun, he admired it. “Is this all? Just this one?” he asked Khadi.

“Just that one,” she replied.

“I believe you,” he said, smiling. He took a deep breath in, then exhaled. “Well, well, well, Khadi Faroughi, what an absolutely unexpected pleasure.”

The last thing Khadi saw before she blacked out was the magnificent reflection of the stained glass windows on the meticulously polished nickel gun as it hurtled toward her head.
I always take good care of my weapons—always.

Thursday, September 15, 12:05 p.m. EDT

The traffic on Massachusetts Avenue came to an abrupt stop just north of Macomb Street. Riley's GPS was telling him that he still had a good half mile until he reached his destination. He had no problem determining in which direction lay the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul—the official name of the National Cathedral, as his GPS system so helpfully informed him; he just had to follow the helicopters.

Riley looked ahead and saw absolutely no vehicular movement heading southeast.
Well, no guts, no glory!
Laying on his horn, he swung his Durango into the oncoming lane.

Not good! Not good! NOT GOOD!
A car swerved left; he swerved right. He thought he may have heard the clash of metal on metal, but it was hard to tell over the crunch of his truck launching over the curb. He found himself speeding through a small, grassy park.
Watch for small people! Turn into the skid!

He angled himself for Macomb Street, dodged left, just missing a tree; found himself heading straight for a large, multipointed, metal fountain thingy; swerved right; mowed down a small sign of some sort, which made frightening sounds as it scraped across his undercarriage; bounced back over the curb; and slammed on his brakes, sliding the truck to a stop just inches from a small silver Acura.

This Acura, Riley quickly assessed, was the last car in a solid line of stationary vehicles that blocked the street for as far as his eye could see.
Last car until I arrived! Time to ditch the vehicle!

To his left he saw a long building. The lettering to the side of the front doors read,
Washington Hebrew Congregation
. And right in front of the entrance lay a cement congregating area just the right size for a small group of Shabbat attendees or a large black Dodge Durango.

He quickly backed up, causing the car that had pulled up behind him to lay on his horn. He cut the wheel hard left, jumped the curb, and parked in front of the doors. On a whim, he left the key in the ignition, just in case they had to move it for services.

Even with all the activity around him, he covered the ground to the cathedral on foot in less than five minutes. As expected, it was a media circus. Every network was represented, and each of them had a truck. Satellite dishes extended from the roofs of the trailers into the sky, making the place seem like an urban space station.

After walking through the media maze, he came to the law enforcement layer. And it was impressive. There were police cars, Fed-mobiles, and SWAT trucks as far as he could see—probably enough to surround the whole of the cathedral grounds.

There was also the infamous yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape.

Riley ducked under.

“Hey,” someone called out. “Hey, get back under that tape!”

Riley kept moving forward, hoping against hope that maybe the voice was addressing someone else.

A hand clapped on his shoulder. “Where do you think you're going?”

Riley turned to see a metro police officer. Two more were on their way to provide backup.

“Hey, aren't you Riley Covington?”

Riley tried to smile. “I am, officer. I need to get to Scott Ross, head of CTD's Operations Group Bravo.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Well . . . not exactly.”

The two other officers arrived. “What's going on here?” asked the older of the two. “What are you doing beyond . . . ? Hey, aren't you Riley Covington?”

“That's who he is, Sarge. Says he's here to see some Steve Ross guy.”

“Is he expecting you?” Sarge asked.

What? Do these guys work off a script?
“As I was just telling . . .” Riley looked to the first officer.

“Marlin. Marlin Uhrich. That's Sergeant Ron Burchfield. And that's Eldon Auxier.”

“Hey, guys,” Riley said, nodding to each. “As I was just telling Officer Uhrich—”

“Marlin.”

“Okay . . . Marlin. I just need to see Scott Ross. I've got very important information about what's going on in there.”

“Can't you call him?”

“I can't get through. I need to get in to see him.”

“That's the problem, Riley,” Burchfield said. “We've got orders not to let anyone through this line who isn't carrying a badge. That includes you.”

“Come on, guys. You've got to help me. I've got to get in there.”
Why does everything have to be so unbelievably difficult?

“Hey, Sarge,” Auxier said, “how about if I go find this Ross character and see if he'll come escort him in?”

“Hmmm, yeah, good call. Any idea where Ross would be?”

“Just ask for the guy heading the whole show,” Riley said. “If it's not him, he'll be standing next to him.”

“On my way,” Auxier said.

The sergeant seemed to be sizing Riley up. “Listen, I'd love to hang out here and get to know you—I'm sure you've got some pretty killer stories to tell. But I'm betting you're not in the mood to talk, and we've got a whole line here we've got to watch. Will you give me your word that you won't bolt from here?”

“I give you my word that I'll stand right here—unless Officer Auxier comes back here with bad news. Then, honestly, you're going to have to chase me down.”

The sergeant thought for a moment, then a smile spread across his face. “An honest man. I like that. Well, let's just hope for both our sakes that Auxier comes back with good news.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.”

The two police officers walked off, leaving Riley to look around. He was surprised to see such a lack of activity around the cathedral building itself. Everyone seemed to be holding back.
There's got to be a reason for that. Usually, the more time you take, the more dangerous a situation becomes. You allow the enemy to set up, to entrench, to prepare countermeasures. Scott knows that—I taught him that lesson myself in Afghanistan.

Time seemed to crawl while he waited. Several times he was tempted to run. Burchfield and Uhrich were busy and appeared to have forgotten about him. But his word kept him where he was—that and the fact that Sergeant Burchfield seemed like a pretty savvy cop. If he ran, he was almost sure that the Sarge would be right behind him.

Finally, he saw Officer Auxier break through the crowd. Following him was Gilly Posada. Auxier pointed Riley's way, and Posada clapped him on the back. Riley waved to Auxier, who nodded his head and went back to his place on the line.

“What are you doing here, Pach?” Posada asked as he walked up. He wasn't smiling.

“What? No hug? No ‘How ya doing?'”

“Come on, man. Don't make this harder on me than it is.”

“Make what harder?”

“Seriously, Pach. You know exactly. You gonna make me say it?”

“Scott sent you to deliver a message, so deliver it,” Riley said. He knew he was being a jerk to a good friend. It wasn't Posada's fault he was in this position. But right now, this man was the only person standing between where Riley was and where he needed to be.