Gather The Seekers (Challenged World Book 3)

by Milam,Vince

  He turned to their French friend. “Fire up that radar, Francois.” Then back to Nadine. “Let’s bring down the hammer. It’s war.”

  Chapter 23

  Nick had received Nadine’s call the previous night and spent the rest of his evening contemplating today. This day, when he would meet with his boss, Zuhdi Kouri.

  He’s going to think I’m freakin’ loony. And he’s going to find out about the bishop, which exposes my past exploits as less than Nick Capellas, supersleuth.

  Nadine had made clear the gravity of the situation. Nick had paced his apartment and committed to come clean with Zuhdi. A conspiracy, murderous and widespread, with ramifications far beyond career considerations.

  Zuhdi Kouri, a Muslim, led the counterterrorism division of the Department of Homeland Security. He had wavy black hair with hints of gray, well styled, and was incredibly fit. He encouraged a similar level of fitness within his division at DHS. His “troops,” as he called them.

  Before Zuhdi’s DHS appointment, he’d worked as a federal prosecutor. His law degree was from the University of Nebraska. Prior to the law degree, a storied stint with the US Army Rangers, wounded twice in Afghanistan and awarded a Silver Star. Raised in Omaha, son of a doctor, known to speak his mind and not suffer fools, he also exuded care and respect for his troops.

  Nick knew him as a fine and good man, one who spoke with incredible directness but without a trace of snark. A leader.

  “What’s going on?” Zuhdi asked when Nick tapped his door and stood at the threshold.

  “Can I come in?” Nick asked. “Need to talk.”

  Zuhdi pointed to one of three chairs across his desk, his face expressionless.

  “Something’s going down. Something big.”

  Zuhdi nodded, waiting.

  “You’ve heard of Nadine May? The information technology contractor?”

  “She’s a lot more than that,” Zuhdi said.

  Clearly Zuhdi did know of her. No surprise there. “She called me last night.”

  “Called you.”

  “Yessir. She’s discovered something. A conspiracy. A plot.”

  “Nadine May called you.” Zuhdi stared, eyebrows raised.

  “Yessir. I’ve just recently gotten to know her. Through an affiliation.”

  “Affiliation.”

  “Yessir.” Hoo, boy. Here we go. “Sir, there is a Bishop Sikes—Luke Sikes—who leads a church in Culpeper. Culpeper, Virginia.”

  Zuhdi neither changed expression nor replied.

  Okay, into the deep end. “Bishop Sikes has fed me intel in the past. Intel leading to those D.C. and Baltimore arrests. The recent cases I headed up.”

  “So you’ve got a key informant. Good. What’s the backstory on our bishop?” Zuhdi asked.

  Nick’s boss had asked the right question. Nick wished he hadn’t.

  “None to speak of, sir. I mean, former NFL player turned bishop. Regular guy. Married. Family. No criminal record.”

  Zuhdi’s cell phone, placed on his neat desk, vibrated. He ignored it.

  “The thing is, sir, the bishop is able to, well, find evil. Home in on it. I can’t explain it. Sounds nuts, I know. But I’ve seen it.” Nick’s trust in Zuhdi was so strong, so resolute, he experienced relief with his confession.

  “And this ability is demonstrable, confirmed. By you.” Zuhdi’s tone remained flat, without a trace of incredulity or scorn.

  “Yessir.”

  Zuhdi nodded and leaned back, crossing a leg. “Tell me about Nadine May’s connection. To our Bishop Sikes. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”

  Nick relaxed a bit, and leaned back in his own chair. Zuhdi hadn’t dismissed the contention of Bishop Sikes’s ability. A good start. Nick intended to keep the conversation focused on as few players as possible and concentrate on the discovery of the conspiracy.

  “Nadine has worked with a priest in the same sort of capacity.” Nick left out the “French” part of Francois’s description. “And the priest and Bishop Sikes got together. Nadine and I tagged along. That’s about it.”

  He left out any mention of Cole, Jude, or Jean. Being part of such a large and strange gathering would place him firmly in the tinfoil hat crowd. Besides, Nadine’s discovery was the subject de jour.

  “And this priest has the same ability as our bishop,” Zuhdi said. Again, a statement, an opening for Nick’s voluntary elaboration.

  “Yessir. Apparently. At least, Nadine says so.”

  “Does all this fall under our mission?” Zuhdi asked and pointed to the DHS mission statement displayed on a wall plaque. To ensure a homeland that is safe, secure, and resilient against terrorism and other hazards.

  “Yessir. It does.”

  Zuhdi nodded and touched fingertips under his chin. A thoughtful pose that heartened Nick.

  “What do you believe, Nick, is the source of this ability? The ability our bishop and this priest demonstrate.”

  Loaded question. Man oh man, that’s a loaded question. “They claim the ability to radar in on the bad guys, to identify evil, comes from God.”

  “That isn’t what I asked you,” Zuhdi said.

  “My personal belief? I don’t know. Regarding the source of their ability. I really don’t know.” And that, Mr. Zuhdi Kouri, decorated Army Ranger, lawyer, Nebraska Cornhusker, and my boss, is the truth. Plain and simple.

  Zuhdi absorbed this for a moment, nodding slowly. “Fair enough. Give me the details.”

  They spent the next thirty minutes detailing Nadine’s findings. Zuhdi produced a yellow legal pad and took notes, then displayed professional leadership when he asked if Nick would mind if they called Nadine May. “I want to make sure I’ve got everything, Nick. No slight on your abilities.”

  They used the office speakerphone. Zuhdi introduced himself and noted Nick sat with him.

  “Hey, Nadine,” Nick said. “My boss would like to hear about it straight from you. Everything.”

  Zuhdi asked Nadine for clarity on specific items and she, in turn, asked him for rare bits of intel she wasn’t privy to.

  “I’m uncomfortable with the five hundred random murders a year figure,” Zuhdi said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Nadine replied. “I’ve filtered it, run algorithms, and it spits out a much smaller number. Somewhere around forty a year. About three a month.”

  “And you’re saying close to twenty random murders have happened each day over the last two days?” Zuhdi asked.

  Nick’s boss sat up straighter and lifted his head from the yellow pad, now filled with handwritten notes. He locked eyes with Nick, the look hard and eagle-like.

  “I’ve refined the data since I alerted Nick last night. It’s twenty-one. Twenty-one random killings.”

  “So for two days we incurred over forty deaths? At random?” Zuhdi asked.

  “No, Zuhdi, no.” Nadine paused. “Let’s focus on the pattern. Exactly twenty-one every day for the last two days. And checking homicide databases today, we’re already on track for another twenty-one. And it’s safe to bet tomorrow will be the same.”

  Nick produced a tablet computer to mimic his boss and take notes.

  “Don’t, Nick,” Zuhdi said, pointing to his tablet. “No electronic notes. Hard copy only. This is now officially top secret.”

  Nick returned the tablet computer to his coat pocket and looked around. Zuhdi opened a desk drawer and removed another legal pad. He handed it across the desk to Nick.

  “Did you catch that top secret comment, Nadine?” Zuhdi asked.

  “Got it.”

  “Any ideas or thoughts who’s coordinating this?” Zuhdi asked.

  A long pause followed. Don’t say Satan. Please, Nadine, don’t. Please.

  “Working on it,” she replied.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you, Nick thought.

  Zuhdi ran his hands through his hair as he digested the information.

  “Hey, Nadine,” Nick said. “Any pattern geographically? Or is that random a
s well?”

  “Hard to say at this point,” she replied. “The killers, and I can’t assume there are more or less than twenty-one of them, seem to be focused on large regions.”

  “Tell me about that,” Zuhdi said, staring hard at his notepad.

  “In rough terms geographically, the killings are clustered around the California, Oregon, Washington area, the Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana area, and…”

  “And what, Nadine?” Zuhdi asked.

  “Holy cow.”

  “What, Nadine? What?” Zuhdi asked.

  “Oh, man. I missed that. Holy cow.”

  Zuhdi started to speak again when Nick held up his hand and, with the other, hit the speakerphone mute button.

  “Sir, I’ve gotten to know her a bit. That Nadine May mind is pedal-to-the-metal, and she’s not going to hear whatever you say. Trust me.”

  Zuhdi nodded back, said, “Okay,” hit the un-mute button, and waited. An old wooden wall clock ticked, and he signaled Nick to go lock the door. Interruptions were off the table at this juncture.

  “It’s a direct challenge,” Nadine said after a ninety-second break. “Of course. How could I have missed it?”

  Nick started to speak, but Zuhdi gestured “wait,” and they sat silent.

  “Okay, Zuhdi. Okay,” Nadine began again. “Clusters. Large clusters geographically, but clusters nonetheless.”

  “I’m still with you,” Zuhdi responded.

  “Think anchor points. San Francisco. Houston—or more likely Rockport, but it doesn’t matter with regard to frequency or centrality. And Virginia.”

  “Still with you, although I’m unfamiliar with Rockport,” Zuhdi said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Anchor points. A direct challenge. Areas clustered around those three points. Washington, Oregon, Northern California. Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana. Virginia, D.C., Maryland. The human organizing element, the orchestration, is still unclear.”

  Zuhdi preemptively signaled “quiet” to Nick, letting the silence work. Nadine May, legend among the clandestine and security services, required mental space and respectful attention.

  “So here’s the deal,” Nadine said after another long silence. “Nothing definitive that this is organized from outside the States. Could be purely domestic. A concerted effort driven by domestic evil.”

  At Nadine’s reference to evil, Nick cast a quick glance at Zuhdi. His boss showed no reaction.

  “These three regions. On a daily basis, any pattern there?” Zuhdi asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m not correlating any significance,” Nadine said.

  “Tell me about it,” Zuhdi said.

  “Well, so far there are seven each day in the west, eight in the south-central, and six in the east. It could change, of course.”

  “Are you sure?” Zuhdi asked. “Seven, eight, six?”

  “Yes. Two days in a row.”

  This time Zuhdi did react. His face became red, a forehead vein pulsed, and his breath quickened. Zuhdi’s hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Nick had never seen his boss in such a state.

  “It won’t change,” Zuhdi said, his voice low and filled with fire.

  “How do you know?” Nadine asked.

  Zuhdi sat silent. Rage—encompassing and absolute—radiated from his body. His eyes glared fiery, jaw muscles clenched, and his posture assumed a hardness, full of fight. Nick knew better than to move or speak.

  “Zuhdi?” Nadine asked.

  Still a long pause from Zuhdi, then, “No, it won’t change. Jihad, Nadine. It’s jihad.”

  Chapter 24

  He pulled into an empty city park lot at the edge of Eugene, Oregon, and checked for privacy. Perfect—no other vehicles, no people. He removed the duffel bag from the trunk and walked through trees and thick brush. The sound of a sporting event became clearer, more distinct. The surrounding conifers smelled of resin. A hundred yards in, he crouched and pulled the scoped deer rifle from the duffel, checking to ensure it was loaded. A chipmunk darted away at his activities.

  A soccer field, part of the city park complex, had been carved from the surrounding forest. Young children dotted the field, engaged in a soccer game. He crawled forward and observed two teams, a referee, and a line of lawn chairs filled with parents. The adults sipped coffee from thermoses and chatted. The children ran up and down the field, grouped and gathered as a herd of wildebeest on the Serengeti plains. Too young for individual actions, they ran as one large pack, a mixture of uniforms and frantic short kicks of the ball.

  He smiled and assessed the surroundings from inside the thick vegetation. Welcome to the war, people. Welcome.

  He sighted through the riflescope, and the crosshairs settled on a woman two hundred yards away. She leaned toward her friend in animated conversation. Both women occupied aluminum chairs, coffee cups steaming. The referee’s whistle blew at irregular intervals as the children ran, milled, and ran again.

  He flicked off the weapon’s safety, held his breath to steady his aim, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared, parents screamed, and the air filled with the confused howls of children.

  He crawled backward, dragging the duffel, then stood and ran to his vehicle. The small parking lot was still empty and no traffic passed nearby. He placed the rifle and duffel into the trunk, drove down an empty park lane and into a smattering of traffic, headed north. He dutifully pulled over with the other vehicles to let the siren-sounding cop cars and ambulances fly by, then he drove away.

  ***

  The run-down car repair garage sat at the edge of Old Dime Box, Texas, its two bay doors open to the bright day. The tiny town stood quiet and semideserted. Inside the garage, a man worked underneath a pickup. Only his overall-clad legs appeared, one leg bent as he struggled and twisted, wrenching a recalcitrant truck part.

  She drove close to the open bay doors and parked. She smiled as she got out of her sedan and walked toward the pickup being repaired. The mechanic slid from under the truck on a roller dolly, flat on his back, and returned her smile.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. The garage, off one of the few side streets, adjoined no buildings, and was surrounded by weedy open ground and old junked cars. A grease-covered radio, tuned to a country station, played low. A meadowlark warbled from a nearby fence post, celebrating the fine weather.

  “Yes, but I hate to bother you.” She walked closer and squatted next to the mechanic.

  “No bother. What’s up?”

  A small stun device was concealed in one hand. She held down the trigger and applied it to the mechanic’s ankle. A hundred thousand volts surged and the mechanic convulsed, his body jerking and twitching on the roller dolly. She dropped the stun gun back into her purse and produced a six-inch hunting knife, sharpened to a razor’s edge.

  She glanced over her shoulder to the outside to ensure the area remained empty of traffic, and placed her free hand on one of the mechanic’s legs to still the twitching. The blade plunged into the inner thigh and she worked it, sawing, until the femoral artery was severed. Blood pulsed from the wound and spread across the concrete floor.

  A workbench provided several rags to wipe the blade clean. George Strait sang about Amarillo on the radio and the meadowlark continued its trilling. On her way out of the garage, she avoided the pooling blood and used a foot to shove the roller dolly and the dying man back under the pickup, his legs now still.

  She turned her sedan toward the rural highway as one hand tuned the radio to find the country station. She liked George Strait.

  ***

  He’d filled the eighteen-inch length of pipe with lead fishing sinkers and capped both ends. The resulting tube weighed over five pounds but slid inside his belted pants and allowed for easy walking. A windbreaker jacket covered the exposed half of the pipe. He’d used the weapon the day before, and the day before that—when war had started. The weighted pipe proved incredibly effective when applied to the back of their necks with sufficient force. They dropped like smacked flies.r />
  He thrilled at the hunt. The random opportunities and finality of the neck blow filled him with a surge of remorseless power over his enemies. He was a warrior—a true warrior battling the enemy close and personal.

  The small Baltimore diner had a main entrance and, in an adjoining alley, a delivery door. It held one patron and one waitress when he strode in. Her back was turned to him as she dealt with the customer. Neither noticed him enter. Aromas of bacon, grease, and coffee filled the space and the clanging of a short-order cook drifted from the kitchen.

  He walked along a short hallway to the bathroom, hunting. One toilet, unoccupied, and one urinal being used by a middle-aged man who looked over his shoulder, briefly, as he entered. The urinating man went back to his business and the warrior gripped his weighted pipe weapon with both hands. He delivered a strong, violent swing and the vertebrae at the enemy’s neck crunched. The brain stem separated from the brain and death was instant.

  He returned the pipe to his waistband, checked himself in the bathroom mirror and exited, turning right. The short hallway led to the delivery door. He exited, left the alley, and blended with the bustle of Baltimore’s pedestrian traffic.

  Chapter 25

  “No, it won’t change. Jihad, Nadine. It’s jihad.”

  Nadine stopped crafting swirls of oatmeal peaks at Zuhdi’s comment. Her breakfast, grown cold, had acted as a modeling clay substitute while her mind wrapped around the crisis.

  “You sound pretty sure, Zuhdi.” A chair squeaked over the phone connection—either Zuhdi or Nick had moved.

  “The Arabic phrase ‘Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim.’ It means ‘In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.’ It precedes almost every chapter of the Quran,” Zuhdi said, his tone hard. “Seven. Eight. Six.”

  She dove for a quick search, fingers flying on the keyboard. “Okay,” she said. “Got it. Ordinal counting. Something called the Abjad method. Man, that’s old stuff.”