Inside Threat (32 page)

“Okay, you want to hear it? Here it is. Leave, Riley! Get out of here! You're not needed and you're not wanted! Anytime Khadi's involved, you're too emotional and too unpredictable! So I'm sorry, Riley, but you've got to go!”

“You done?” Riley asked.

Posada remained silent.

“Feel better?”

“No, I feel like crap.”

“You gonna take me to Scott now?”

“You know, you suck, Pach! Seriously!”

Riley watched Posada with a sly smile.
This battle is so won!

“Follow me,” Posada said.

“Thanks, man,” Riley said, putting his arm around his friend as he walked. Posada tried to shrug it off, but Riley kept it locked on.

He tried to pump Posada for information, but the ops man was having none of it. When they finally got near the command truck, Posada just pointed, then walked off.

Riley watched him go.
Never seen him that ticked before.
He shrugged.
He's a good enough friend. He'll get over it.

Now, speaking of friends . . .
He turned toward the truck. Two men in black suits were standing at the door.
I am
not
going through this a third time.

He walked to the closest suit and said, “Send Scott Ross out here—now!”

“He's busy,” the man said without emotion.

Riley pushed past him and began pounding on the door. “Ross! Get out here!”

The first suit grabbed Riley from behind, but Riley was able to spin him around so that he careened into the second suit. He pounded the door again. “Ross!”

Backups began sprinting in from all directions, and soon Riley was pinned to the side of the truck.

“Scott! Don't make me hurt these guys!”

The whole mass of people slowly tipped to the ground.

The truck door flew open and Scott came bounding out. “Get off him,” he yelled. He began grabbing bodies and yanking them off. “Stand down, you idiots!”

Finally he got to Riley, who had the first suit in a headlock tight enough that the man was tapping the ground. “Tap all you want; this ain't the UFC,” Riley said through gritted teeth.

Scott smacked Riley hard in the back of the head, and Riley let go. The suit sat up, sucked in a deep breath, then dropped again.

“I think I killed him,” Riley said from his back.

“No, he's still breathing, you stooge,” Scott replied, reaching a hand down to help Riley up.

Another suit, this one distinguished from all the others only by a little more gray around his temple, ran up to Scott and began cursing him eight ways to Sunday.

“Relax, Ringle,” Scott said, putting his hand on the man's chest and backing him up a step.

“What do you mean, relax? I demand this man be put into custody! Did you see what he did to my guy?”

“Looks like a result of crappy training to me. He's lucky Riley held back.”

Ringle knocked Scott's hand away. “Are you going to do something with this criminal, or do I need to go into the truck and talk with Director LeBlanc?”

“And tell him what? Your security man just tapped out due to rear naked choke hold? Trust me, LeBlanc would be on my side. Now run along, will you? I've got to talk to Mr. Covington.”

“This isn't the end of it, Ross,” Ringle said as he walked away. “Not by a long shot.”

When Scott turned back, Riley was busy adjusting his various holsters—all of which had shifted around in the scuffle. All the laughs were gone now. It was one angry friend facing another angry friend.

“Why are you here, Riley?”

“Oh, shut up with the ‘Why are you here?' Scott! You know exactly why I'm here.”

“You shouldn't have come. You're just going to muddle up the works.”

Riley laughed angrily. “Right. Admit it, Scott, you've been hoping the whole time I'd get here.”

Now it was Scott's turn to laugh, but his sounded a little more uncomfortable. “Please! I've done everything I could to keep you away from here. How many times do you need to hear ‘No'?”

“Let me get this straight. You're saying you tried to keep me away? Is that why you made Evie, the one with the heart of Charmin, tell me to stay away? And that's why you sent Gilly to the line to tell me to leave? You knew Evie'd tell me to come here, and you knew Gilly couldn't say no! So here I am, Scotty-boy,” Riley said, tapping Scott on the cheek. “What now?”

Scott looked at the ground, saying nothing.

Riley put his hand on Scott's shoulder. “I'm here. Khadi's in there. Now you tell me how we're going to get her out.”

“Okay, Pach. Come on in.” Then under his breath, he said, “Ooooh, Porter's going to be so pissed.”

“Tell him to meet me out here. I'll choke him out.”

Scott laughed and opened the door of the truck. At the top of the steps, he turned and said, “But I didn't plan for you to come here. Get that out of your head.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Riley said. “Why do I feel like I've been masterfully played
again
by the Great Scottini?”

“Don't count on it. It'd take somebody really, really, really smart to be able to pull off that elaborate of a con on American hero Riley Covington,” Scott said; then he winked and walked into the truck.

Thursday, September 15, 12:45 p.m. EDT

Khadi awoke with a start. The tile beneath her cheek was still cool, so she figured she couldn't have been here long. The combination of waking up on the ground and the screaming pain in her head was very disorienting. Focusing on the red, green, and white diamond patterns on the floor for a minute helped her to feel a little more grounded. Finally, she tilted her head to the left so she could see up. A wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach, causing her to close her eyes and put her head back down.

A minute or so later, she tried again. This time, her stomach stayed put. Looking around, she could see that she was just inside an arched doorway—a camera stood under some stained glass windows. That was when the reality of her situation descended on her. She remembered where she was, and who all was beyond that arch. She felt like a condemned man waking up from a tropical dream only to see the bars and realize it's his execution day. His only chance at survival was a call from the governor. Khadi's only chance was for Scott to ride in with the cavalry.

A new pain suddenly made its presence known. Tugging gently at her arms, she realized that her wrists were zip-tied together behind her back. The sharpness of the pain told her that it was more than just tightness that was causing the pain; the plastic was cutting into her skin.

A hand grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head up. The pain was so intense she cried out. Gropey's face appeared.

“Ah, so you're awake? Good. I have someone who wants to meet you.” He let go of her hair, and since she had already been trying to pull away, her head slammed to the tile. Her vision grayed as she rode the pain wave.

Please, God, let me survive this. Give me the strength to help these people.
When she could, she opened her eyes again. Across the room, through the tears, she was able to see an arched entryway that matched the one she was under. As she followed it up, she saw a statue of a man tucked in a tiny alcove just above the point of the arch. There was writing on his pedestal, but her vision was too blurred make out the words. She figured he was a saint or a disciple or something.

Although he was just a stone figure, there was something comforting about having him there looking down on her. He looked so peaceful, so . . .
compassionate
was the best word she could come up with. He made her feel like she wasn't alone, wasn't completely friendless—like someone was watching over her.
Don't you go anywhere,
she thought.
I may need you before this whole thing is over.

There was movement in the arch below him, and in walked the old imam she had seen with the General.

“Sit her over there,” he said, nodding to a stone bench built into the wall below the stained glass windows.

She was surprised by four hands lifting her up from behind and carrying her by her armpits to the bench. Looking back to where she had been laying, she saw a small pool of blood and she prayed that someone would accidentally slip in it and crack his head open.

Following her gaze, the old imam said, “Clean that up.”

Bummer,
she thought turning her eyes back to the imam.

“So you're the guy who's going to burn in hell for all this,” she said, more as a statement than a question.

“Khadi Faroughi,” the old man said, ignoring the comment. “So, my dear sister in the faith, may I ask what you are sacrificing for Allah on this most holy first day of Ramadan?”

“Hopefully your life.”

The imam laughed. “Well, that wouldn't be much of a sacrifice for you, would it?”

“I don't think your life would be much of a sacrifice for anyone,” Khadi replied.

The old man's smile diminished for a fraction of a second, then spread again. “You know, you look much prettier in your pictures.”

“My apologies. I was looking much fresher this morning before the General decided to pistol-whip me.”

“The General? Who is . . . ? Oh, you mean Majid. Majid Alavi, my number one man. Believe it or not, he went easy on you. By the rules we had set down, we should have killed ten people and then you. He was actually quite merciful.”

“I'm touched,” Khadi said.

“You should be, Khadi. He has shown you mercy once, and he will not show it to you again. Nor will I.”

For once, she didn't have a smart remark in return. Instead she was suddenly taken by the thought of how much she did not want to die. All the fearlessness Riley used to show about death, all the peace he had about what came after—right here, right now, she was realizing that she had none of it.

“You know, you are much more lovely when you are silent,” the imam said. “Now you appear ready to listen. My name is Saifullah.”

“The Sword of Allah,” Khadi said softly.

“Yes, the Sword of Allah. Very good. And while Saifullah is simply a
nom de guerre
, it does describe perfectly who I am and why we are all here.”

“Understood,” Khadi said.
Be as agreeable as you can right now. The more time you buy, the better chance you have of surviving this, and hopefully bringing some people out with you.

“I must tell you, dear sister, among the people I know, you are quite famous—or infamous. Yes, that would be a better term. So finding you here was quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Why
are
you here?” Khadi asked. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“Big picture? Why, what every good Muslim wants—Sharia, of course.”

Khadi shook her head. “And this is the means you are using? Killing people to force Islamic law?”

Saifullah spread his arm out over Woodrow Wilson's stone casket and toward the people in the nave. “These people? Why are you concerned over the lives of these people? Does not Surah Al-`Ankabut say, ‘And who does more wrong than he who invents a lie against Allah or rejects the Truth when it reaches him? Is there not a home in Hell for those who reject Faith?' These people are full of lies about the true faith. Anything they experience is just retribution.”

“But doesn't Surah Al-Baqarah say, ‘Let there be no compulsion in religion: Truth stands out clearly from Error: whoever rejects evil and believes in Allah hath grasped the most trusty handhold, that never breaks'?”

Saifullah nodded in appreciation of Khadi's point. “That is true. Well said. But what you must understand is that nobody is forcing anyone to submit to the Truth. All are free to reject it—as long as they are willing to accept the consequences.”

“But don't you see—?”

“Enough for now,” Saifullah said, holding his hand out to still Khadi. “We are on a time schedule, and I have already spent too much time bantering with you. I want you to remain where you are. Pay close attention to what happens next, knowing that your fate will be similar.”

Saifullah stood and exited the bay. Moments later, two of the men in black came in carrying a large, dark green plastic tarp. Knowing that tarps meant blood, Khadi watched in anticipatory horror as they unfolded it so that it covered the entire room, even tucking it under the tripod that held the camera.

As soon as they exited, Khadi heard a scuffle and some frightened, angry words; then a man in a black hood was pushed into the room, pleading and whimpering. He stumbled onto the tarp and fell, hitting his head on the corner of Wilson's tomb. Two men followed him in. Both had black knit masks on their faces; in the belt of one was a long-bladed knife.

Khadi was in full panic.
Oh, God, please stop this! Please don't let this happen—not here in America!
She had to do something. But with her arms bound, she was helpless. Then three more men walked in—Saifullah, Alavi, and a man who took up position behind the camera.