Inside Threat (41 page)

Friday, September 16, 1:38 p.m. EDT

“From your time with them, did you get any impressions of their ultimate purpose? Are they really going to release the hostages at the end of Ramadan?”

Khadi shook her head and said bitterly, “No one's getting out of there alive, unless we do something about it. I can guarantee you. They'll string us along, then blow the place at the end. All I can say is this rescue better work.”

She stood wearily in the command truck. Skeeter had dropped her off here, given her arm a squeeze, then disappeared. She had been quickly whisked inside, where Stanley Porter had been waiting.

He wrapped her up in his arms—gently, but still hard enough to make her wince.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she lied. “Tell me about Riley.”

“He's in God's hands now, Khadi. Scott's getting his teams in place. We need to pray they get there in time.”

Khadi felt her knees buckle. Porter caught her before she could drop.

“Get her something to sit on,” he commanded.

Someone pulled out a stool and set it down.

“Move it to the back.”

Porter helped Khadi to the stool and eased her down. The trailer spun for a few moments before her equilibrium returned.

Suddenly she shook Porter's hands off her arms.

“Why'd you let him do it?” Khadi demanded, her anger flaring.

“We didn't have a choice, Khadi. He pulled a gun on us, got on the phone with Saifullah, and taunted him into accepting a trade—him for you.”

That news shook her. She had thought this had been a CTD plan.

“Why'd he do it, Stanley? It's crazy! It's a suicide mission!”

Porter squatted down and put his hand on her hand. “We both know why he did it. And that's why we agreed. There's no way we could have stopped him. If we had shut down this way in to you, he would have just found another.”

“But . . . but . . .” she sputtered, trying to find another argument. Trouble was, she knew he was right. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I'm sorry, Stanley.”

Porter waved her apology off. “Listen, Khadi, I've got a couple people here who're going to give you the postincident grilling—you know the drill. Obviously, it's the absolute wrong time to do it, but I need everything you know. If there's anything that can help us . . .”

“Of course. Just . . . keep me updated on Riley, okay?”

“You got it,” Porter said, giving her a fatherly stroke of her head.

The questioning came from two CTD agents she had seen before but whose names she couldn't remember even after they reintroduced themselves. She tried to concentrate on giving thorough answers but had a hard time focusing. Every noise, every exclamation from the front of the trailer where the monitors sat drew her attention away.

“Why do you say they're going to blow the cathedral up?” asked the younger of the two agents.

“That's who they are. They're not out for any cause. They're just a bunch of murdering—”

“The Internet feed is up,” a voice called from the front of the truck.

Khadi leaped up from the stool and ran to the crowd that had quickly gathered.

“Move,” she said. And seeing who it was, the group parted.

As soon as she saw the monitor, she regretted it. The sight of Riley took her breath away. His face looked like a bad makeup job at a high school haunted house. It was so bloody and swollen that she had to strain to recognize any of his features. A random flash of hope told her that maybe it wasn't him, but she knew the truth. She knew.

A couple of unidentified hands placed themselves on her bruised shoulders, but she barely noticed. She began to feel dizzy and realized she had forgotten to breathe. Slowly, she inhaled.

Oh, Riley, why did you do it? I'm not worth it—I'm not worth this! Why would you sacrifice yourself for me?

Then a phrase Riley used to say to her dredged up from the depths of her memory.
“Greater love has no man than to lay down his life for a friend,”
he'd say with a big smile—a smile she couldn't imagine fitting into the jigsaw-puzzle face now before her eyes. Then often he'd follow up with
“And then Jesus went out and proved His love by doing just that—dying for us.”

And now here you are . . . dying . . .

Saifullah was saying something, but Khadi wasn't paying attention. Tears poured down her cheeks as the sorrow and guilt she felt for Riley blended with rage toward Saifullah and Alavi.

Please, Scott, get there in time. Please, Scott . . . Please, Scott . . . Please, God . . . Please, God . . . Please, God . . .

Friday, September 16, 1:38 p.m. EDT

Scott felt the SEALs before he actually saw them—a push of the air, a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw their team leader, Schneeberger—no first name offered. Seconds later, Matt Logan appeared at Scott's shoulder.

Looking at the SEAL who had taken a place next to him and at Logan, Schneeberger said softly, “You saw them setting it up on the video, so no possibility of mistakes. Get yourselves orientated before you disable the device. You don't want
hajji
showing up behind you. Get it done, and get back fast.”

Logan and the SEAL, both demolitions experts, nodded and began creeping up the stairs. Kim Li followed Logan, while another SEAL tailed his partner.

Scott nodded at Schneeberger. While still in charge of the operation, Scott had no problem delegating elements to those with more skill or experience. The reputation of this Schneeberger guy was that he was one seriously bad dude who had led combat missions in parts of the world that most people had never even heard of.
It's safe to assume he knows his stuff. Although I wonder if I should let him know that
orientated
is not a real word.

He glanced at his watch and shifted nervously.
What's taking that HERF so long?

“Tara, sitrep on Riley,” he whispered.

“Don't know. He's out of sight. HERF just arrived. Should be online in minutes.”

Schneeberger, who was on the same com line, gave Scott an encouraging thumbs-up.

Come on, Logan! Get that wire disabled.
Although the trap that had been laid at the top of the stairs was much more elaborate than a simple trip wire, that's still how Scott conceptualized it. He was no munitions expert.
That's what I keep Logan around for—that and the fact he makes killer guac.

Two clicks on his earpiece signaled that Logan and the SEAL had completed their mission. Scott gave a sigh of relief. Moments later, the four men reappeared. Scott fist-bumped Logan and Li. The SEALs just retook their places in their squad.

“Tara, I need the HERF now,” he whispered urgently.

“Less than . . . The Internet feed just went live,” Tara said. “Saifullah's talking. Alavi's holding Riley—he has the knife to his neck. Oh, Scott, how is he even conscious—it doesn't even look like him!”

Scott balled his hands into fists and fought back the rage.
I'm so close! I can't let this happen! I should never have let him go in!

Tara continued to narrate the action on the screen, but Scott wasn't listening.
Please, God, I may not be one of Your church people, but Riley is! Do something! Save him!

Tara's voice cut through his prayer. Three words—all he needed to hear: “HERF is online!”

“Fire it! All teams go, go, go!”

Friday, September 16, 1:43 p.m. EDT

It didn't feel like the knife had cut the skin yet, but the constant pressure of the heavy blade on Riley's Adam's apple was causing his gag reflex to want to kick in. He did his best to swallow down the physical irritant, knowing that any sudden movements could lead to more permanent damage.

Saifullah stood in front of him, his long robe reaching the tarp below.
Help me not to hate this man, Lord. I don't want to leave this world with hate in my heart.

“Men and women of America,” Saifullah said with a self-righteous blend of smugness and pomposity, “today it is with great solemnity that I visit justice upon a war criminal of the first order. Allah, in his great beneficence and mercy, has granted a second chance to the betrayer of the faith, Khadi Faroughi. My sincerest hope is that she will use this undeserved blessing to mend the error of her ways and follow the righteous path back to the true submission.”

In the midst of the agonizing pain, Riley couldn't help but smile in his heart.
Khadi—safe. That's all I needed to hear. Thank You, Lord, for rescuing her from this fate. You are so good.

“But where Allah in his wisdom released a minnow, he has used her as bait in order to capture a shark—Riley Covington.”

Alavi pulled hard on Riley's hair and twisted his face toward the camera. Behind that lens, millions of people were watching him right now in horror, wondering what he would do. How would the great Riley Covington show his unbroken spirit?

Riley willed himself to do something defiant—call out a patriotic slogan, sing like that senator, put up a fight to get away—but all he could do was stare at the camera. Because the truth was that he truly was broken, at least physically. They had beaten away every ounce of strength he had left. The only thing even keeping him semiupright was the mass of hair in Alavi's hand.

But he still had his heart. They hadn't broken his will. He stared hard into the camera, praying that the people could still see through his eyes that the terrorists had not won.

“This man you see before you—this man your media calls Captain America, as if he were the epitome of all your nation finds true and virtuous—this man is nothing but a criminal of the worst kind. Beginning with his time in the military while participating in your country's unjust incursion into Afghanistan, through his career in the sinister black operations—the activities your rogue government doesn't want you, the citizens, to know about—this man has raped, tortured, and murdered his way through countless innocents. . . .”

Raped? Tortured? Murdered? Lies!
Riley said desperately with his eyes.
All lies! Don't believe him! Please, I would never do those things! Don't let that be your final impression of me! Everything I've done, I've done for the good. . . .

Then something Grandpa had said cut through his growing anguish.
“You got to make sure you're right with God and with the people who love you. Let Him take care of the rest.”

In that moment, all the fear, all the anxiety, all the wondering what was going to happen and how he would be remembered—all of it disappeared. Replacing it was faith—the complete and unquestioning belief that God is on His throne and that Riley was in His hands.

He felt the hardness in his eyes soften.
Lord, do with me what you will. Make this about You and not me. Let me decrease and You increase. Let me fade away, so they can see You—Your love, Your forgiveness, Your salvation.

Another jerk of his hair brought Riley back into the here and now. Saifullah was still speaking: “. . . and today justice will be carried out. The Prophet—peace be upon him—has written, ‘If anyone killed a person not in retaliation of murder, or to spread mischief in the land—it would be as if he killed all mankind.' This man is a murderer of mankind. Today, he receives his retribution.”

Saifullah stepped to the side. The blade lifted from Riley's neck.

Father, I am Yours.

The first cut was like fire burning so hot that all the other pain in Riley's body seemed to coalesce itself in that one spot. Then the knife sawed back, taking the agony to a new level.

Please, Lord, let it end quickly! Take me into Your hands!

The blade began its cut back down again—muscle ripped and cartilage tore.

Then the lights went out.