Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs (21 page)

God will provide. Everything we need is at his hands. Praise be—”

He saw a very attractive and shapely blonde get out of her car, and sashay,
really
sashay the way it was supposed to be done, with her fine ass swinging back and forth, encased in her light pants and no pantyline either. He loved that American women wore thong underwear. Their men were idiots to let them go out like that, just asking to be fucked. Her delicate footsteps clacked up the stairway in her high-heeled sandals. He watched every motion until she reached the top and disappeared inside.

He worried they would see his distraction, but all the boys were gaping as well, whispering amongst themselves.

“That one’s off limits. You are not worthy to lick the ashtray she uses or sniff the tissue she wipes herself with in the rest room, understood?”

They nodded, but grinned just the same.

Babies. Perverts.

Well, there would be time enough for all that thought, if they survived. “So, as I was saying, the blue pickup has room behind the seats, and in all four wheel wells. You are to take pictures with your phones if you like, so you can remember where you’re going to put the material.”

They nodded.

“Then, at the bar—and there are two, so don’t go to the tasting bar, go to the one that serves coffee and drinks—there are cubbies and compartments all over the place. Over this area, and I’m not going to point, but I’ll go up and order an espresso and you can see, above the bar are the executive offices and private conference facilities. We don’t have access to that area, but we don’t need to be there.”

He further explained that the tall copper spires would make it impossible for firefighters and rescue workers to fight any blaze or conduct a rescue from a rooftop setting, which gave them an advantage.

“You are to smile, be respectful. Examine things in the showroom, but when the clerk comes up to ask you if you need help, and they will, you tell them you don’t have any money and are just looking, okay?”

“Can we buy something?” Adnan asked. The group standing around him looked back to Victor for an answer to this serious question.

“Like a bottle of wine? They’ll ask you for I.D. and you want to show yours, Adnan?”

“No, of course not. But some trinket to take home, perhaps?”

Victor wanted to tell them it wouldn’t be necessary, but decided to be more prudent. “If you like, but keep it small, something you don’t have to take in a bag, which they will charge you for, but something you can slip into your pants pocket. A pen, perhaps, keychain, or a magnet. But I warn you, they are expensive.”

He inhaled and began his way over to the elevator. He pushed the call button and within seconds they heard the rumbling of the old commercial lift. He could see Adnan sported a frown, having discovered he’d missed it in his report.

The doors opened to reveal a handcart stored in the back corner, but otherwise it was clean and vacant. They pushed the “2” button and exited on the deck by the pool. Crossing the patio, they walked through the double glass doors with the distinctive scripted Zs of the Marco Zapparelli Winery etched into the glass.

Music from movie trailers echoed throughout the building. The back wall of the tasting room bar played Westerns, but without sound to interfere with the trailers. Victor casually walked to the show room, admiring the shiny green pick-up truck on display. In the driver window sat a tray, affixed with long plastic covered hooks, which balanced on the glass window. The tray had simulated drinks with straws and imitation fries and hamburgers wrapped in red and white checkered tissue paper.

He stepped on Adnan’s foot when he caught the recruit examining under the rear tire wheel well. Several of the men took pictures. They peered inside the cab, and then dove into wine barrels filled with shiny metal objects with the distinctive Zapparelli logo. Books and tee shirts, as well as coffee mugs, beer steins, cookbooks and journals were carefully displayed around the room.

Through the tasting bar, he could see the attractive blonde on the other side talking to the bartender. He was suddenly thirsty for his espresso, and made the motion of sipping a cup, pointing. He was pleased when the group didn’t break and follow him en masse, but one by one made their way toward the same area he was headed.

“He’s supposed to meet me here to approve the list of donors,” the lovely lady said to the man behind the bar.

“Go check with the reservations desk,” and he pointed to the podium beside the entrance to the restaurant. The podium was vacant.

She looked back at the man, and he added, “They should be right back. They have a telephone to call upstairs.”

She said thank you and then left.

“Help you, sirs?” the bartender asked Victor, giving quick side glances to a man on either side of him.

“Yes, we would like three espressos.”

“You take anything in it?”

“No. Just black.”

The aroma of fresh coffee was delicious, but not as delicious as the view of the blonde lady from behind. He could stand all day and sip espresso, watching her fine ass and the way her long blonde hair nearly touched her butt cheeks.

God provides everything we need. It is all in God’s hands.

But Victor was already thinking about other hands, and what it would feel like to squeeze her flawless white flesh.

“That will be eight and a quarter.”

Victor took out his wallet and paid the man a ten. Victor brushed his hand to the side, indicating he didn’t need change.

Adnan and the other men stayed in the vicinity, examining the glass cases with pictures of the scenes from western movies that were playing on the wall. He was also fascinated with the zombie mannequin holding the severed head, and pointed to it. He and two others had a quiet conversation about things Victor could only imagine. He wondered to himself why the director, who owned the winery, would put such a disgusting bloody display in the middle of an area where people would be walking to eat dinner or taste wines.

Americans are strange.

He knew that in France or Germany, it would only be in a museum such could be found, and he’d seen several that were much worse than this display, depicting prisons and torture devices, almost as if it were an art form. Torture was a Western failing and something he disliked. But he never feared death. He looked forward to it, as a matter of fact.

Their surveillance was over approximately an hour later. He noticed the posters for the children’s event were plastered everywhere, calling parents and teachers to bring the little ones.

He knew the vineyards were harvesting soon. He was beginning his harvest as well. He was grateful for the opportunity his harvest would afford their cause. If he made it back to Syria, it would be to a hero’s welcome.

God is good.

‡

L
izzie dressed Charlotte
all in pink, matching her pink dress. She’d braided her hair and placed flower barrettes at the ends. Lizzie wore a matching clip in her hair, drawn up over her left ear.

She’d gotten the news that Jameson would be back in California this evening, and then he’d be headed on the first flight out he could get to Sonoma County from San Diego tomorrow. He’d stepped on the transport and didn’t call her until he’d actually lifted off.

Home! He’s coming home.

She felt Charlotte’s excitement too as she hopped around and twirled, not wanting to sit still to finish her breakfast and going into the bathroom twice but forgetting to go potty.

“Stop wiggling, Charlotte. I know you’re excited, and I am too, but you’ve got to help me out or we’ll be late.”

“Okay, Mommy.” But before Lizzie could slip on her shoes and find her car keys, Charlotte was jumping and clapping her hands together. “I want to wear my watermelon hat too.”

“But I just did your hair.”

“But I want to wear it because Daddy’s coming home.”

Lizzie got the hat, but let Charlotte put it on.

“Perfect! Now, think about your story, Charlotte. We have to concentrate.”

“I am, I am!”

Traffic was heavy,
so Lizzie and Charlotte took the elevator up to the reception area once they got to the winery. Tables were set up outside, one for every group or school represented, as well as some examples of the student projects done there. Charlotte’s reading camp was supposed to be represented. A string of portapotties were lined up on the outer wall of the pool area, blocking exit to the staff parking structure.

Amy met them on the deck. “Thought I was going to have to go find you. They’re sitting down now. Zak is saving seats.”

“Need to just pop in to say hi to Charlotte’s reading coach, but I don’t see her.”

“Okay, but we have to hurry. I understand Mr. Zapparelli was looking for you earlier.”

“Oh Christ. Must be something wrong.”

She found the table for the camp, but no one was seated behind.

“I think they’ve gone inside. You guys are up second or third. Early in the program. I think they’re getting set up.”

“Makes sense.”

The trio darted inside. The entire restaurant had been converted into a mock library with book shelves stocked with children’s books for all ages. In the center, chairs were arranged in a semicircle theater-style, surrounding the raised podium where the performances were going to be. Lizzie saw Zak saving three seats near the kitchen side about two-thirds back. He waved, but as they slipped through the crowd to take their seats the strong arm of Marco Zapparelli grabbed her, yanking her back behind one of the shelves. Zak frowned, looking concerned.

“I have to talk to you. It’s an emergency,” Zapparelli said.

Lizzie could see his eyes were wide with panic. She turned, “Amy, can you take Charlotte? I’ll only be a couple of minutes, I promise.”

“No problem.” Lizzie could see she was mad, but took Charlotte’s hand and led her to the reserved seating.

Whirling around, Lizzie barked at Zapparelli. “I’m with my
family.
My daughter’s reading—”

He cut her off. “The Fire Marshall said there’s been a bomb threat called in, and he wants us to consider shutting down.”

“A bomb threat? Today? Who would want to interfere with a children’s festival like this?”

“I think it’s bogus. He was all over my case with a punchlist a mile long. Had to bring those ugly green plastic things in and put them poolside just to keep him happy.”

“I saw those. They weren’t pretty.”

“They nearly block the ADA ramps. I had to double the security detail, too.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Zapparelli. But about this threat, is it credible?”

“Well, he doesn’t know. He’s already notified the police. The caller was young, and usually that means a crank call. But nowadays, every threat is taken seriously. My hunch is that it’s someone’s older brother trying to ruin someone’s day.”

“So it’s a suggestion, something voluntary?”

“That’s right. But the police could shut me down without my permission.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d sue his ass and have his job if he shuts down my festival.”

“But Mr. Zapparelli, in light of all these terrorist things—”

“I’m not going to do it. They’ll have to arrest me.”

“Oh, God.” She put her face in her palm.

“What’s up?” Zak was at her shoulder. She wasn’t aware he’d snuck up on their conversation.

“Mr. Zapparelli said someone called in a bomb threat. But it sounded like a teenage prank call. A young punk.”

Zak took two seconds to scan the room. He glanced at the two-story windows and the stone columns extending up, the catwalk overhead and then lastly at the crowd of children in front of him.

“You get the hell out. Make it calm and orderly. I’m gonna make some calls.”

“Hold it, son. I’m not going—”

Zak pulled the director by the shirt collar and nearly spit in his face as he whispered. “You do as I fuckin’ say or you’re gonna have the blood of dozens of children on your hands, do you understand me?”

He relaxed his grip and calmly asked. “When did this come in?”

“The Fire Marshall just told me. Just now. If everyone wasn’t already here, I’d have closed it, but how do we get all these kids out without causing a panic and getting people hurt?”

Zak took a patient inhale. “Because if they stay, they might get worse. You have a PA system?”

“No.”

“Well, you try to announce it. Get your people and try.”

Zapparelli ran off towards a gathering of some catering and wait staff.

Zak turned to Lizzie. “Grab Charlotte and Amy. Go through the kitchen and meet me out front. Don’t run, but don’t delay.”

She nodded. “So you think…?”

“Time for thinkin’s over, Lizzie. Time for action.” He waited to see that she was hurrying and then ran through the restaurant doors and into the main lobby, his cell phone plastered to his ear.

Looking over the crowd of eager big and little faces as she made her way to Charlotte and Amy, Lizzie was struck with Jameson’s admonition to be careful. But this wasn’t a night club or a soccer stadium. This was just a winery packed with children and their parents and teachers, and—then it hit her.