Monday Night Jihad (44 page)

And then Hakeem was free. He had the detonator in his hand.

Over the sound of the screaming crowd, Riley heard Hakeem gasp, “Not this time, Riley. Allahu akhbar!”

A loud bang and a hot liquid spray snapped Riley out of his semiconscious state. His eyes cleared, revealing the open back of Hakeem’s head. A few yards beyond, he could see Khadi lying on the ground, her gun in her hand.

Riley wanted to go to her but knew that the detonator must still be in Hakeem’s hand or under his body. As he pushed himself up to look for it, a large, dark shape dove past him from behind, clipping his back and knocking him facedown again. When he looked up, he saw Skeeter lying on the ground, gingerly holding a wired metal cylinder. “’Scuse me, sir. I got the detonator. Now go get Khadi.”

Riley nodded to his faithful bodyguard and stumbled toward Khadi. Sliding down next to her, he lifted her into his arms. He could feel the wetness of the blood that had pooled underneath her.

“Medic!” Riley yelled into his comm unit. “Scott, get me a medic!”

Khadi slowly shook her head. “He . . . he should have known, Riley. Never leave . . . never leave a sniper breathing.”

Khadi smiled weakly, showing bloodstained teeth, rolled her head into Riley’s chest, and closed her eyes.

Thursday, April 16

Paradisus Playa Conchal

Guanacaste, Costa Rica

The iguana lay on its back on a pool raft, a coconut shell drink in one scaly claw and the words Pura Vida in a speech balloon to the left of his mouth. The orange bucket hat upon which the lizard had been stitched was to Riley the single ugliest piece of headwear he had ever laid eyes on.

“Remind me again,” he called out, “how much did you pay for that thing?”

Scott Ross, who could have been the model used to create this masterpiece, tilted the hat off of his eyes and answered from the middle of the pool, “You can’t place a price on art, my friend. That’s why I snagged a second one of these beauties to take back to Tara.”

“She’ll be thrilled.”

Riley watched as a cabana girl waded over to Scott’s raft with another coconut shell brimming with Yoo-hoo, three multicolored paper umbrellas, two toothpick-skewered maraschino cherries, and one bendy straw. He smiled as he laid his head back on the deck chair, enjoying the coolness of the open-sided cabana’s shade.

Riley was finally getting to the point where he could close his eyes without pictures of Platte River Stadium and Disneyland invading the darkness. But the what-ifs still plagued him—What if I had paid more attention to Sal back in Denver? What if I had dug deeper that Christmas Eve instead of putting a tough conversation off for another day? Why was my first reaction at Disneyland to put a bullet into my friend? Was there no other way? What kind of person does that make me?

“Skeeter,” he said, knowing that this train of thought was taking him nowhere, “what time is it?”

Skeeter, one cabana over, looked up from his copy of Goldsworthy’s The Fall of Carthage—a gift from Scott—and replied, “Five minutes since you asked last. Relax, Pach.”

Riley sat up quickly and gave Skeeter an incredulous look. “Wait a second! You’re telling me to relax? Excuse me, but do you see anyone else around this pool with long pants and boots on? anyone else in this sunny tropical paradise wearing all black? You look like a giant shadow of someone who’s not having a good time!”

“At least it matches,” Scott interjected from the pool.

“What?”

“The all black—at least it matches his piece.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, can you imagine Skeet wearing one of those green and red tropical shirts accessorized with that black nylon shoulder holster? What a horrible fashion faux pas that would be.”

“First off, I am not going to discuss clothing with you of all people—the walking fashion faux pas himself. Second . . . second, I don’t even remember what this whole discussion is about.”

“Score one for the faux pas,” Scott said as he slipped his hat over his eyes again.

Riley stared after Scott, then leaned back into his chair again, laughing. This trip had turned out to be everything he had hoped for, especially considering that his idea for bringing the team down to Costa Rica for some much needed R and R had initially seemed like it would be a no-go. Most of the members of Mustang team had already been redeployed to their old positions. Jim Hicks had appreciated the offer but declined, saying he was concerned he would get so bored on a beach vacation that he would start trying to stir up rebels to overthrow the Costa Rican government.

But ultimately, the trip had been just what Riley needed—a lot of laughs, a little bit of adventure, and a bucketful of escape. There were no phone calls, no inquiries, no depositions, and best of all, no media. One week into the two-week trip, he was finally feeling like he was decompressing.

“Hey, Skeet, what time is it?”

“What’s wrong, Mr. Covington,” came a female voice from behind him, “someplace you need to be?”

Riley turned with relief to see Khadi standing there. She was dressed in hiking shorts and a wispy buttoned shirt that showed just a hint of the scarring on her shoulder. She had gone into the town of Tamarindo by herself, insisting on some “time away from the guys.” Riley had wanted to send Skeeter with her, but for some reason she had felt that might defeat the away-from-the-guys aspect of her excursion.

As Khadi stretched out in the neighboring lounge chair, Riley closed his eyes again. “Actually,” he answered, “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.”

Dear Reader,

Lots of people have asked me how I made the jump from football to fiction. It’s a fair question!

The genesis of Monday Night Jihad goes back about ten years to when my brother started keeping a journal of all the football stories I told. He always tried to talk me into writing a book, but for a long time it wasn’t something that interested me. Then about a year and a half ago, I began to think about the possibility of incorporating a military/terrorist element with all of my own football experiences. My goal was to give readers a great story full of action, adventure, a little bit of romance, and of course, football.

After having lengthy discussions with my pastor, Rick Yohn, about the concept, I remember asking God to show me whether or not this was something He would like me to pursue. Eventually I became convinced to go forward. My desire in writing this book was—and still is—to contrast the more radical elements of Islam with what I view as true Christianity.

Many have attempted to distort the Jesus of the Bible, and so my hope and prayer is to honor the real Jesus. Second Corinthians 11:4 speaks of people who preach about a Jesus who is “different” from the true Son of God. My hope is that through this story each reader sees Jesus Christ for who He is—the eternal God who created all things. He is the God-man who took on human form to bring us hope. He is the one who allowed Himself to be the perfect sacrifice for us all. He is the one who suffered a brutal death on a Roman cross. He is the one who physically rose up from the grave. He is the one who now indwells all believers. He is the one who will return to take those who believe in Him to be with Him for all eternity. It is to this Jesus that I dedicate this book.

Thanks for taking the time to read Monday Night Jihad; I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as Steve and I have enjoyed working on it. Be looking for our next Riley Covington thriller, due in stores in early 2009!

Sincerely,

Jason Elam

Jason Elam was born in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida, and grew up in Atlanta, Georgia. In 1988, Jason received a full football scholarship to the University of Hawaii, where he played for four years, earning academic All-America and Kodak All-America honors. He graduated in 1992 with a BS in communications and was drafted in the third round of the 1993 NFL draft by the Denver Broncos.

In 1997 and 1998, Jason won two back-to-back World Championships with the Broncos and was selected to participate in the Pro Bowl in 1995, 1998, and 2001. He is currently working on an MA in global apologetics at Liberty Theological Seminary and has an abiding interest in Middle East affairs, the study of Scripture, and defending the Christian faith. Jason is a licensed commercial airplane pilot and lives in Denver, Colorado, with his wife, Tamy, and their family.

Steve Yohn grew up as a pastor’s kid in Fresno, California, and both of those facts contributed significantly to his slightly warped perspective on life. Steve graduated from Multnomah Bible College with a BS in biblical studies while barely surviving a stint as a youth pastor.

While studying at Denver Seminary, Steve worked as a videographer for Youth for Christ International, traveling throughout the world to capture the ministry’s global impact. In 1997, he joined the staff of Fellowship Community Church and is now the director of adult ministries, a job that allows him ample opportunity to indulge two of his great passions—speaking and mentoring.

Surprisingly, although his hobbies are reading classic literature, translating the New Testament from Greek, and maintaining a list of the political leaders of every country worldwide over the last twenty-five years, he still occasionally gets invited to parties and has a few friends. His wife, Nancy, and their daughter are the joys of his life.