Inside Threat (37 page)

Friday, September 16, 12:10 p.m. EDT

“We've got to go in now!” Riley said to Scott. He knew he was out of control and desperate, but he couldn't help himself.

“We can't. The HERF is still on its way,” Scott replied helplessly. “We launch now, and the whole place will go up.”

“Well, we've got to do something!” Riley looked around at the other faces in the truck. “Come on, we've got the heads of every counterterrorist agency in America here short of the CIA, and you can't think of anything? Castillo? LeBlanc? Stanley?”

“Riley, until the HERF gets here, our hands are tied,” Stanley Porter said.

“Which will be one hour too late, right?” Riley watched as the eyes of all the others lowered to the ground. “Right? We'll launch an hour after they use a dull knife to hack off Khadi's head. That's what you're telling me? That's your plan?”

“No, Pach,” Scott said bitterly. “We'll maintain our 2300 launch time, because by two o'clock there won't be any need to go in early.”

Riley locked stares with Scott. Both men could see the pain in each other's eyes—the soul-crushing helplessness. Riley turned away.

I can't believe it! One hour late? I can't let it happen. I can't just let them kill her—not when I'm standing so close. God, show me what to do! Isn't there some way . . . ?

“Call him,” Riley said to Scott, the first inklings of a plan forming in his brain.

“Uh-uh,” Edward Castillo said. “He made it clear that we only call during prearranged times. You call now, you're risking lives.”

“Listen, Castillo, maybe you can sit here on your thumb while Khadi dies, but I'm not having it!” Riley took his friend by the shoulder. “Scott, he's playing a game now. The whole reason he's picked her out is because of what he knows it will do to you. He's there waiting for your call right now.”

“But then we're just playing into his hand,” Craig LeBlanc protested. “You give in to his games, then soon he's pulling all the strings.”

“He's already pulling all the strings,” Riley countered. “What can it hurt, Scott? A little humiliation, some begging and pleading—who knows, maybe, just maybe, it'll help. And if it doesn't . . . if it doesn't, man, at least you know you tried. You can't let her die without at least trying.”

Scott's eyes went to Porter, who said, “It's your call.”

Scott nodded, looked at Riley, and said, “Start praying.”

He pressed a button on his earpiece. Tara, who had shown up at the RoU late last night, answered.

Scott said, “Babe, put me through to Saifullah. . . . Yes, I know; that's why I'm calling—I'm gonna see if I can talk him out of it. . . . Thanks, Tara. Now put me through.”

As Riley watched this, instead of praying, he was processing.
Eye on the ball, identify the defenders, pick your moment.

“Yes, I know I'm not. But you've been expecting my call anyway, haven't you? . . . You know exactly why,” Scott said, moving away from the bolted table. He turned and faced the back corner of the command center. “I'm asking you to please reconsider and show mercy to Khadi. . . . Yeah, but aren't you guys always talking about the merciful Allah, the gracious Allah?”

Skeet's the only one now.
Riley chanced a glance at Skeeter and saw he was looking at the floor, concentrating on Scott's words.

“Yeah, but why now? Wouldn't it be better if you—?”

Riley launched. He drove his body into Scott's back, pinning him against the wall. The force of the blow drove the air out of Scott's lungs, and Riley felt his friend's legs buckle. With a swift move of his hand, he snatched the earpiece and let him drop.

Everyone in the truck seemed to recover all at once from their momentary shock. Anger flared, and the men rushed Riley.

“Give that to me,” Porter yelled, stepping over Scott. “Do you know what you've done?”

Instead, Riley pulled out his .44 magnum and pointed it at Porter. In response, Porter and all the others pulled their weapons and pointed them at Riley.

“Don't come any closer, Stanley. You either, Skeet. Khadi's life is on the line, so don't test me.” With his other hand, Riley fitted the earpiece into his ear.

“What's going on?” he heard. “Ross, talk to me, or I'll kill her right now!”

“I'm serious; back off,” Riley said to Porter and the rest. They took a step back.

“Is this the crazy old man from the video?” Riley asked.

“Who is this? How dare you talk to me like . . .” But then Saifullah paused. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer and much more pleasant. “Would I have the pleasure to be speaking to Riley Covington?”

“It may be a pleasure for you, but it's certainly not for me,” Riley said, turning the gun on Skeeter, who was walking toward him.

Skeeter reached out, took the gun from Riley's hand, and said softly, “You're safe. Finish your call.” He slipped the gun into his belt, then bent down to help Scott back up. One by one, all the other guns went back into their holsters.

Riley turned toward the wall, secure in the knowledge that Skeeter had his back.

“Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, because it truly is a distinct pleasure for me. How often does one get to speak to Captain America himself? Military hero, football superstar—I had a feeling you might be dropping by. May I ask if you are going to end this call by dropping the phone into a bucket of Gatorade?”

That was an unexpected shot,
Riley thought, surprised at the feeling of embarrassment.
Come on, focus. Your job is to knock him off his game, not the other way around.

“Listen, old man, I didn't just sucker punch my best friend so that I can stand here and banter with you.”

“Then why did you come on the line, Riley?”

“Because I wanted to let you know that I'm coming to kill you.”

Saifullah grunted. “That doesn't sound very Christian of you, Mr. Covington.”

“Cutting someone's head off on live TV isn't very Muslim of you. Oh, wait; I forgot. You practice that special kind of Islam—the kind where you decide who lives and who dies all by yourself and twist the words of your holy book to suit your own pathetic purposes.”

The hardness was back in the imam's voice when he said, “You seem to forget that I am the one holding all the cards here. I could put a bullet in your dear little Khadi's head right now.”

“Yeah, you could. But then you'd miss the opportunity to do it to me instead.”

There was a pause on Saifullah's end of the line. Then he said, “I'm listening.”

“Straight up swap—me for her.”

Riley heard Scott yell, “No!” but he didn't turn around.

“That's right, old man. You can be the one who finally puts Riley Covington—American hero, destroyer of the Cause, killer of countless Islamic terrorist whacked-out nut jobs like yourself—out of commission. She comes out; I come in—unarmed, hands over my head.”

Saifullah seemed to be considering it. Then he laughed. “This has
trap
written all over it. I was not born yesterday.”

“No trap. You have my word. We meet at the door. She comes out; I go in. Come on, she's just another woman. Think of the statement my death will make. Can you imagine millions of Americans watching my head come off? How demoralizing would that be?”

“But that's exactly why it has to be a trap. Why else would you do it, knowing you're a dead man?”

“If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand. Now, do we have a deal?”

“How do you know I won't just kill the both of you?”

“Because I believe that, despite all you've done, you're a man of your word.”

Silence. “I will have no mercy on you.”

“I wouldn't expect any.”

“When?”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“One and a half.”

“One.”

“Fine,” Riley said.

“You come shirtless with your hands above your head. When I see you coming up the stairs, the woman will show at the door. When you walk in, she will walk out. That is my word.”

“I'm still going to find a way to kill you,” Riley said.

“I'll see you at 1:30,” Saifullah said, then hung up.

Riley turned around and was knocked backward by a fist to his jaw. Skeeter quickly jumped in, holding Scott back.

“You idiot! You shortsighted imbecile! Do you ever think things through, Riley, or do you just act on the first, simple-minded, testosterone-laced impulse that pops into your mind?” Scott yelled. His face was beet red and his eyes were bulging. “Don't you realize that that guy's going to haul you from the door right into Wilson Bay, turn on his camera, and cut your brainless head off?”

“No, he won't,” Riley said, rubbing his jaw. “He's going to knock me around a bit first. He's going to savor the kill. He won't kill me right away.”

“So what? Whether it's right away or whether he waits an hour, he's still going to kill you!”

“Not if you kill him first,” Riley said staring hard at his friend. “My arrival there will be enough of a distraction—and believe me, I'll be causing a scene—for you to get the ops teams into place. The president gave the go-ahead for the operation. This truck is setting the time. So move it up. As soon as the HERF arrives, you launch.”

“And what if it's not in time, Riley? What if the thing arrives ten minutes too late? Or what if we can't pull off the positioning?”

Riley held Scott's gaze. “First of all, Scott, I want you to remember that if something goes wrong,
I
made this choice. I know that the odds are low, and I accept it. If I die, it's because of something I did, not because of something you didn't do. Understand?”

Scott didn't answer.

“But second, man—and I want you to think about this—what else could I do? I love that woman. I love her like I love no one else in this world. Think about it; if that was Tara in there, what would you be doing?”

When Scott still remained silent, Riley said, “Exactly! And there's no better way for me to love Khadi than for her to come walking out while I go walking in.”

“This is your call, Scott,” Porter said from the table. “Riley's not the one running the show here, so don't let him make the decision. If you say go, he'll go. But if you say no, he won't leave this truck.”

Scott looked to the ground. Riley could see him wrestling.

“Come on, Scott. Please. I have to do this.”

Without looking up, Scott said simply, “Okay.” Then he turned and walked out of the truck.

Riley dropped down to a squat.
Thank You, Lord, for having him say yes. Thank You.

But in that moment the reality of what he'd just signed on for hit him full force. He dropped his head into his hands.
Please, God, save me. Get that HERF here in time. Give Scott and the ops protection and success. I don't . . . I don't want to go through what I saw on that video screen. Oh, God, it terrifies me! I can't . . . I can't imagine . . .

Skeeter's hand rested on his shoulder. Riley opened his eyes and saw the big man squatting next to him. Everyone else was watching him too.

Riley said, “Skeet, I'm okay. I just need . . . just a little time to process.”

Skeeter nodded and stood up. All the others turned back to the table to focus on the upcoming assault.

You know my heart, Lord. I'm willing to do whatever You want me to do. I really don't want to go through this, but . . . but it doesn't really matter what I want, does it? I want Your will to be done—not my will, but Yours. So do it, Lord; do Your will. And no matter what happens to me . . . well, all I ask is that You give me the strength to make You proud all the way to the end, whatever that end may turn out to be.

Friday, September 16, 12:30 p.m. EDT

“Hey, Riley,” one of the line cops said as Riley passed him.

“How's it going?” Riley stopped briefly to shake the man's hand.

“Riley, what's up?” Riley fist-bumped another cop a few more yards down the security line.

“Riley, way to stick it to Bellefeuille,” called out a longhaired law enforcement agent who had
US Marshal
written all over him.

“Thanks, buddy,” Riley said.

All the greetings and encouragement from the cops was nice.
I guess once you're behind the lines, they just assume you're supposed to be here. And having Skeeter at my shoulder definitely helps cut down on the challenges.

But as nice as this is, this isn't what I need. I need some quiet, some solitude, so I can process things through.
An idea struck him.

He turned back to the US Marshal. “Hey, Deputy . . .”