Authors: William W. Johnstone

The Blood of Patriots (22 page)

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE

The 7UP Dickson had slugged down felt like it was still bubbling in his gut as he crossed to the community center. He was anxious, no doubt about that. Vito's talk had only given him so much confidence when it came to “doing the right thing.” The rest was a combination of desperation, indignation, and anger.

You tried this earlier and it didn't work
, Dickson thought.
But things were different, then. You weren't ready to call his bluff.

Now he was. He looked up a number and programmed it into his cell phone, kept the device in his hand as he entered the center. He noticed, before going inside, that Hamza was in his car at the bank parking lot. The thug was watching him.

Dickson didn't care. With a little luck, he'd be rid of the man before very long.

He walked up to the reception desk and asked to see Gahrah. The receptionist told Dickson he was in a meeting with the imam.

“Where are they?” Dickson asked. “I'll be happy to talk to them both.”

That felt good. These people had told him what he could or couldn't do for the last time.

The woman just stared at him for a moment, then punched a number, spoke a few words in Farsi, and told Dickson the director would see him in the office.

The banker knew the way. He turned from her without smiling. He'd had it with being polite. She hadn't earned that courtesy.

The door buzzed open, he went inside, and walked quickly down the corridor. The insurance he needed had a shelf life of maybe five minutes.

Gahrah was just entering through a side door as Dickson came in the front. The director stepped behind the desk and wordlessly held his hand toward a seat.

“No thanks,” Dickson said. “This won't take long.” He was taller than Gahrah by nearly a head and for the first time he felt it. “Mr. Gahrahâwe're done.”

“Mr. Dickson,” the director said with a trace of impatience, “I thought we put this behind us.”

“I guess not. Having your man in the bank has everyone on edge. They're afraid we're going to be robbed and that I'm lying to them. And your boy hanging aroundâI don't like it.”

“I am sorry those things were necessary, but it was your ownâ”

“Stop! I'm tired of being blamed for things that are just
you
being a control freak, overreaching because you think you have me in a corner. Well I don't care anymore. If I go down, you go down with me. All of you.”

Gahrah eased into his chair. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“You've left me no choice. I did what I was supposed to, we both benefited, and now I'm finished. That's how business works, Mr. Gahrah. A lot of partnerships simply come to an end.”

Gahrah reached for the desk phone without hesitation. He speed-dialed a number and put it on speaker.

“Yes?” said the voice on the other end.

Gahrah said, “Do it.”

The director hit the mute button and watched Dickson. He heard someone tell Angie to pull over.

“Who is that?” Dickson asked.

“Hasan Shatri,” Gahrah said. “He is making the rounds today with your daughter.”

“Why?”

“Learning the route,” Gahrah replied. “I had no choice, you see. Your daughter gave her notice today. I believe she was going to discuss it with you this evening.”

Dickson felt sick as he heard her ask why she had to pull over. He told her there was something he needed to do. There was silence for a moment, the squeak of a tire against the curb, then Dickson heard scuffling and sharp, muffled sounds. Slaps? He thought he heard Angie say something but he couldn't be sure. There was too much other noiseâwire hangers moving on metal bars, boxes falling. Then he heard a sound and knew what it was: his daughter had screamed a short, choked cry.

“What's going on?” Dickson demanded.

“He is putting your daughter on her back,” Gahrah said, his voice losing none of its silky poise. “He is wearing his Bluetooth in case you want me to stop this. Of course, if it falls out I won't be able to reach him.”

Dickson raised his hand to call the number he'd input, dispatch at the police station. “I'm calling theâ”

“Police? They will not get there before he has finished raping her. And yes, he is willing to go to prison for me.” Gahrah's voice became uncharacteristically hard. “He will
die
for me. And you will be in the same place because next time it will be your wife or your sons. Perhaps, with the boys, we will use the knife to make sure
they
have no sons.” Gahrah sat back, his voice resuming its normal tone. “Or you can stop all of this now.”

Dickson heard a few shrieks. From behind his mouth or a gagâhe couldn't be sure.

His resolve crumpled to ash. “Stop it! Stop him!”

Gahrah leaned forward casually and killed the mute. “Shatri!” he said. “You may stop!”

The sounds of struggling ceased. There was only sobbing.

Dickson's hand fell to his side. “Tell him to let her out.”

“They will finish their route.”

“Christ, he just assaulted her!”

“She will consider herself fortunate when she realizes that you have saved her, that she is safe now. You will reinforce that later at home. And, Mr. Dickson, you will never deliver an ultimatum again.”

Dickson was not just beaten, he was without hope. Whatever Vito had been doing he obviously got out, got away, before anything like this could happen. There was nothing a man himself would not endure to spare his family this kind of trauma.

He left the center in a daze and threw up his lunch on the street. He didn't know if anyone had seen him and he didn't care. He was in hell and it was worse damnation to know that he had brought his family with him.

He went to his car and sat there crying until he had nothing left. Then he called the bank and said he was going home for the day.

When he left, Hamza followed.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

No one became a cop unless they liked danger, at least a little; no one became an undercover cop unless they liked danger a lot.

John Ward had always loved taking risks. As a kid, a playground wasn't just a playground. It was an adventure. He would approach each piece of recreational equipment as a challenge: how to ramp up the thrills. With a swing it was easy: you got a good arc going back and forth then slipped your arms inside the chains that held the seat. Unencumbered, you were free to launch yourself into space. With the slide, it was trying to walk down the slippery, shiny metal surface. Monkey bars were more exciting, he discovered, if you tried to work them sideways, facing sideways like a fly on a wall and using the same-side arm and leg to try and climb. Even a broken wrist and countless bumps on the head didn't stop Ward from always going back and risking more. Though even he had to admit that transforming himself into a mountaineering Frankenstein Monster, a pastiche of West and street, was probably the most reckless expression of that.

Yet in his adult life there had always been a correlation between risk and purpose. One fueled the other and he had never yet found the limit of that synergy, when one would fail to drive the other. That was especially true when pain was factored into the equation. His torso was protected by the thick bandages and flannel shirt, but all that did was prevent further injury. The breaks he had still punched like little awls through leather. But it was okay. Once, in his rookie year, he'd been palm-heeled in the face by a drug dealer in Washington Square Park. The pain of a broken nose, the taste of his own blood on his tongue, made him chase the guy even when his legs told him to stop. Another time he'd been hit by a car while pursuing a perp across Broadway. He kept going, despite a hairline fracture to his hip. It isn't only a matter of using the pain or refusing to succumb to it. He believed the shock to his system helped him get through the moment, like an afterburner.

Purpose and pain. Together, they fueled his determination to reach the tree line.

Using the studded stirrups as brakes, Ward went down the cone of rock on his belly. It struck him as a big, fat firehouse pole that was well off the vertical. It guided him, prevented him from rolling down helplessly. He kept his hands beside his shoulders, the leather helping him to add some drag to his fall. In that way he half-slid, half-pushed himself down the slope. He was even able to find small, nublike handholds here and there that were invisible from above. Those helped to keep him from building up too much speed. The biggest discomfort was the bunching of his shirt, which rode up to his chest within moments and stayed there. He should have thought to tie it down somehow. The good news was the bandages held and prevented him from abrading the flesh of his belly.

The slope became a little less severe the lower he got. Toward the end he felt more like Spider-Man than just a guy sliding down rock. Ward actually had to push himself down the last 200 feet or so as the momentum alone no longer carried him. He made a soft landing on the fringes of the foliage, flopping over onto his back so the vines and thistles didn't rip up his face as he came to rest. Breathing heavily, he lay on his back in the dusky quiet and pulled down his shirt. It had been bunched up there so tight he had to rip it to get it down. As he flattened the frayed edges, his eyes rolled up to the top of the cliff. He couldn't believe he'd attempted the descent, let alone made it. He still had about a thousand feet to go to the floor of the valley but he was eager to see what his journey had given him in terms of reconnaissance. He looked for the nearest tree; there was an aspen seven or eight feet farther down. He sat up, took off the bindings and stirrups, then rose on a pair of very wobbly legs. After a few seconds he dropped back on his seat.

You can't see anything sitting on your butt
, he told himself and got up again. He kept his legs under him long enough to stumble down a grade to the aspen. He hit it with a hard hug but at least he remained standing.

Not only was he closer but he had navigated to the east. That gave him a better, though still not optimal, view of the valley floor. Through the foliage he could see a few feet into what was definitely a cave. Lanterns had been turned onâthe glow was too steady to be a fire, and interlopers wouldn't want smoke to rise from the siteâand there were probably four people inside, judging by what appeared to be the number of off-road vehicles outside. Even with the binoculars, he couldn't tell much. The ATVs still were not clear enough to see what, if anything, they had been used to carry. He hadn't heard the engines in a while; he suspected that if the men had brought anything up it was offloaded by now.

“All of which still tells you a big fat nothing,” Ward muttered. Even if one of the riders showed himself, Ward was still too high to ID him. “And for doing what? Driving around on public land and going into a cave?” He needed to get to the valley floor.

If he moved now, he still had some light to make it down. But he also ran the risk of being seen or heard by the people inside, especially if he accidentally sent some rocks rolling down the slope. It would be safer when they leftâsave for the one who Ward guessed was a permanent fixture up here. That was what the rifle was for.

Ward started down. He was surprised how far back he was forced to lean in order to remain upright. The footing was not as inviting as he had imagined, with roots and gopher holes or soft mole furrows buried beneath fallen leaves or concealed by grasses. It wasn't like a pothole in a street or a tree root that split the sidewalk. You could
see
those. Unlike the first portion of the descent, this section required careful navigation. It reminded him why he always preferred the city over the country. It was one of the arguments he and Joanne had at least once a week.

And I was right, dammit
, he thought.

The detective wondered where the wildlife wasânot that he particularly wanted to run into any of the creatures Randolph had mentioned. A chipmunk or raccoon he could handle. Then he realized there was no water on the slope, except what washed down during rains, which might explain why the undergrowth was so thick. None of the larger herbivores came around to eat it.

His ribs were acting up now too, reminding him they were there, and broken, with little stabbing pains every time he drew a breath. Ward hadn't realized how hard he was breathing until it started to hurt. He didn't slow his pace but found that taking shallow breaths more often mitigated the pain somewhat. It didn't help that he was trying to keep an eye on the cave in the event that someone came out and he had to make a hard stop.

It happened when he was about one hundred feet from the bottom of the slope. Two men emerged from the cave. They stood just outside, smoking cigarettes. Ward had descended west of the cave mouth so he could observe it at an angle; he was well out of their line of vision. It was dark and they did not look up.

And then a third man emerged. He did not look up either. But Ward looked at him. Carefully, through the binoculars.

The drama had come full circle, and the detective tasted something vile in the back of his throat. The man was holding an AK-47 assault rifle, no doubt purchased from someone like the New York gunrunner. They could be purchased legally, but Ward was willing to bet none of these guys wanted their names attached to that gun. The Russian-made weapon could fire 600 rounds with an effective range of roughly 350 to 450 yards on full or semi-automatic settings, respectively. That was a lot of firepower, enough to bring down a herd of deer, the hunters who were stalking them, and any ducks that happened to be flying by. It was not a hunter's weapon.

What made this one especially creepy was the bayonet attachment.

I'm guessing you're the permanent resident
, Ward decided. The kid could take out a snooper or innocent hiker up-close or with a short pop at a distance. Chances were good no one would find a body or two up here, especially if they were left near a watering hole where huge chunks would vanish overnight.

Why an AK-47?
Ward wondered. Up here, where shots would echoâand where any hunter's rifle would have a distinctive, single burstâa handgun with a silencer made more sense. Then there was the way the kid was examining the gun. Ward was disturbed by the way he turned it over, hefted it, sited it without firing. It suggested that this was the first time he had held one. Since the team had obviously been coming here for a while, that suggested to Ward the gun wasn't necessarily for use in this little stronghold.

Something else was clear now as well. The young men weren't just using this cave as a clubhouse.

Somehow, Ward was going to have to get inside.

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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