by Milam,Vince
“I’m not following you, brother Cole,” Luke said. “Wait? Lay that out for me, please.”
Cole shifted the cell phone to his left hand and reached into his jeans’ front pocket—past his holstered weapon—to retrieve a piece of chewing gum. He offered a piece to Francois.
Francois declined the gum with a violent wave of his hand.
“Well, each of us had an encounter,” Cole said, pausing to chew. “Jean and Jude, you folks had the city park confrontation in San Francisco.”
“Cupertino,” Jean replied.
“Yeah. Cupertino.” He chewed gum and stared at the squirrel, who returned a watchful eye.
I beg of you, mon ami. I beg. Speak beyond your usual manner. I shall perish as I wait for words.
“And Luke,” Cole continued. “You and Nick at the graveyard. Virginia, right?”
“Correct, brother Cole.”
“And Francois and I in Baytown. Although that was an active sumbitch over there. No talkin’ to us, but a damn good attempt at boiling us like lobsters.”
“We are all aware, mon ami, of recent events,” Francois said. He attempted to maintain a calm tone as he waited on his slow-talking friend. As one would prod an elephant. One step, s’il vous plaît. Bon, bon. Now another.
“Now, those may have been a slap in the face,” Cole said. “I’ll grant you that. A direct challenge.”
Francois had a real concern over a heart attack. His chest pounded with frustration and he placed a hand over his heart—an attempt to still the anxiety of waiting for Cole to speak beyond the obvious.
“But what if they had wrapped up the recruitment of the killers at that point? I’m talking about the Enemy. Because the killing started the next day. And now the influenced, or infected, killers are on the loose. Recruitment’s over. They have let slip the dogs of war.”
“Recruitment over,” Jean agreed. “Now they’re sitting back in support mode.”
“You got it,” Cole said.
“Which puts it in our lap,” Jean said. “Us, the FBI, overall law enforcement.”
Silence ensued. The possibility of the Enemy in retreat—no, in hiding—had not presented itself as an option. Francois pondered the implications.
“So we sit around with our thumbs up our collective butts?” Jude asked. “And don’t do it, Luke. Those are anatomical realities.”
If this were the case—and such a possibility must be considered—then a larger question loomed. Were Jude, Luke, and him fini? Finished? The answer, of course, was an emphatic no!
“Allow us to assume our slow-speaking friend is correct,” Francois said. He paused to take a drag of his smoke and run his hand through his hair. “It most certainly does not follow we are through. Non. As we are aware of the Enemy, so he is aware of us. And shall strike. Strike at us, mes amis.”
Affirmations poured from Jude and Luke. The Enemy lurked, perhaps in the background, but there nonetheless. And the three of them understood, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their place among this was to be ready and aware. Events would swirl among the secular, to be sure, yet they faced the Enemy across the arena. Faced and waited, girded for confrontation.
Francois, Jude, and Luke each said a prayer, amen’d and affirmed by all.
“We shall talk again soon, brothers and sisters,” Luke said. “Meanwhile, I will remain mobile. Prepared.”
“Us, too,” Jude said, speaking for herself and Jean.
“And we are prepared to pursue, to move, immédiatement as well. Go with God, and I pray for safety for each of you,” Francois said and signed off.
They headed toward the hotel, Francois deep in thought. Death and horror abounded and yet they remained inactive. Frustration and the desire to fight, to battle, coursed through his body.
Chapter 27
Time, time, time, Nadine thought. Man, I’ve gotta move fast. Find answers. People are dying. Murdered. Right now. Every day.
The task force formed within hours. Zuhdi Kouri led the effort. He contacted Nadine prior to the first task force conference call.
“Everything we’ve got,” Zuhdi told her. “We’re going to pour everything we’ve got into this. That includes your sheriff and the Oakland ex-cop. This is day three. Another twenty-one dead.”
Nadine unleashed more bloodhounds into the data. They searched and sought threads of information.
“Fine,” she said. “No worries, but the rest of the task force is going to wonder why there’s a small-town sheriff and an ex-cop from the Bay Area involved.”
She wasn’t concerned with whatever rationale Zuhdi tossed out to justify their involvement. It was the other part—the demonic part—that required some tiptoeing.
“Don’t give a damn about the whys. The task force won’t either. Both the sheriff and ex-cop are engaged. That’s all that matters.”
“And the supernatural element, Zuhdi?” she asked. “You going to bring it up?”
A long pause followed. “No,” Zuhdi said at last. “No. Not yet. That’s covered by your priest, the pastor, and the bishop. Our mission is to stop the killing. Now.”
They signed off and scheduled the first conference call in one hour. The metallic knock on her door caused her to jump. Oh, man, gotta calm down. Find these SOBs. Stop this.
She let Cole and Francois in, updated them on the task force, and checked her electronic systems. Her search hounds collected information from every law enforcement entity in the country—city police, county sheriffs, and state police. Everyone.
Her computer system kicked out ongoing results. Three more dead. A young teenager in Tacoma, Washington. A Monroe, Louisiana, mail carrier. A Petersburg, Virginia, woman in a grocery store parking lot. Oh, Lord. No, no, no. She reset filters, ran heuristics, searched and sought.
She smelled the hamburger before she saw it. Cole had stopped at Whataburger—her favorite—and grabbed a burger, fries, and vanilla shake, all of which he placed on her tabletop. He added the admonition, “You gotta eat, Nadine.”
He was right, and it was sweet of him, and he did know her well because he remembered to hold the onions. Three burger bites and a handful of fries later, she stood up and walked over to Cole. He had yet to take a seat and was checking emails on his phone. Someone jaywalk in Rockport, cowboy? she thought, then admonished herself. Not his fault. Don’t be a bitch.
She hugged him, hard. He returned the emotion and she signaled Francois to join them. The three of them held tight, silent. Common ground, past battles, affirmation and love. Wales, Syria, West Africa, Mexico. Through hell and back, together. The Three Musketeers, buttressing each other, moving forward. She was supported, replenished.
“I’m feeling the weight of the world right now,” she said, gently tapping her forehead three times against Cole’s chest. “And helpless. Helpless to stop this.”
Francois squeezed her harder as he fed her empathy and concern and understanding. “Another three. Just now,” she said. They stood, embraced, Cole rubbing her back. “This is so bad,” she continued. “So bad.”
“Oui. This is so.”
“If you have anything, Francois. Anything. Please let me know. Anything to put us in front of this horror,” Nadine said, leaning to nuzzle the long, reddish-blond hair of the priest.
“I shall of course do so, mon ami. As of yet, nothing. The frustration is terrible, I must confess.”
One of her electronic bloodhounds beeped a finding, and she involuntarily shuddered. Another one killed. Francois squeezed her harder and Cole rested his chin on top of her head.
“They want you on the task force, Cole. First conference call in twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Jean, too.”
“Okay. I’ll call her.”
She returned a final hard hug to both men and separated. She no longer felt hungry and stared at the half-eaten burger. There was no singular badass demon to chase, no flagrant in-your-face hellish influence like the last times. Those events had scared the bejes
us out of her, but at least the enemy had been in front of them. Not now. The Enemy kept hidden, pulled levers, and unleashed hellhounds to kill. Lotta pressure, Big Guy, she prayed. Could use some help, big time. Lotta pressure and I’m asking you to guide me and help open up a can of whup ass on the Enemy. Please. Please, please, please.
“Can I bum a smoke, Francois?” she asked.
“But of course.”
“Would y’all at least open a dang window,” Cole said. “Pretty tight quarters in here.”
She exchanged a shrug with Francois as he lit two smokes and handed her one. “I’ll do you one better, bucko. We’ll stand outside on the stoop.”
Towering neighborhood oaks and pine trees burst with the light green foliage of rebirth. Vegetation also burst with pollen. Francois had a sneezing fit and used a blue paisley handkerchief to clean up the mess. It felt so good to escape to the stoop—away from the horror, away from the computer beeps of more death.
“The big ‘why?’ is really bugging me right now, Francois. Why is God allowing this?”
He had paused between sneezes to take a drag of his smoke. When the next sneeze came he covered his mouth and nose with the handkerchief and cigarette smoke flew out along with the usual.
“That’s pretty gross,” she said.
He cleaned his mustache, took another drag, and sneezed again. “Mon Dieu! One must wonder why people abide such a place as this. And the formidable heat returns soon, is this not so?”
“And all is lovely and perfect in France?”
“I do not live in France. I reside at the Vatican. As you well know.”
“Where everything is lovely and perfect,” she said.
“Where one is neither afflicted with such an assault of the pollen nor the scorching sun. To be sure.”
They finished their smokes and tossed the butts into the azalea bushes beneath the stairs. “You’re not going to address the ‘why,’ I take it.”
“And say what, cher? We have discussed this many times. God is unfathomable.”
As they turned to go back inside, she laid a hand against the priest’s cheek. “I’m begging. Anything. Feed me something, Francois. You have the inside track. The radar.”
His eyes welled with tears, the frustration and anger and sense of helplessness clear and palpable. The guy was a fighter—brave and true. But he had nothing to battle against, and he could only respond with a tight nod.
Cole had contacted Jean, and all parties had joined the task force conference call. Zuhdi did the introductions. Nick, along with a dozen DHS agents and an equal number of FBI staff, were brought up to date. They established an operational framework. Zuhdi led the effort.
“Nadine, post each killing as soon as it happens. I want an FBI agent tacked to each one, on-site. Draw resources from the nearest FBI offices.”
Everyone agreed. The effort would be massive.
“What about the public?” someone asked.
“Keep it under wraps,” Zuhdi said.
“That’s not going to last long,” the FBI lead said. “Someone is going to start asking questions.”
“Zuhdi,” Nadine said. “You were right. Your assertion earlier today. It’s ISIS.”
“You can confirm that?” he asked.
“They’re already celebrating it on their websites and social media. They aren’t specific as to the number of killings, but they are pretty emphatic it’s happening,” she replied. “Checked it earlier. It’s now well beyond what your folks found yesterday.”
“Damn,” a voice on the call said. “Then it won’t be long before the klieg lights hit us.”
An electronic beep sounded. “Longview, Texas,” Nadine said. “A schoolteacher.”
The others waited for elaboration.
“Shot through the classroom window,” she continued. “With a bunch of kids in the room.”
Variants of “son of a bitch” and “shit” filled the conference call. Zuhdi demanded silence and led a short, concise discussion. They established a communication team to coordinate with the highest levels of government, including the White House.
“We could buy some announcement time,” another voice said. “There were fourteen killings in Chicago alone this last weekend. So twenty-one a day across the country won’t exactly draw a lot of immediate attention. Plus, ISIS is always claiming all kinds of wild stuff on their websites.”
A short pause ensued, and one of Nadine’s sniffers beeped again.
“Ukiah, California,” she announced. “The California Highway Patrol found a man stretched out next to his car. He had been changing a tire. Head crushed. Nothing taken—not a robbery. No witnesses. His wife said he was going to get baby food.”
“People,” Zuhdi said. “These can’t be hidden by gangland shootings in Chicago or Detroit. Between ISIS making claims and the random nature of these killings, word is going to get out. Soon. This is day three. I don’t want to be talking on day five, six, or God forbid, day ten.”
“Is it always twenty-one?” a voice asked.
“So far,” Nadine replied.
“How many today?” another voice asked.
“Ukiah makes seven. Fourteen to go,” Nadine said. “Half of them have been at night.”
“Oh, man,” another voice said.
“Alright, people. Conference calls every four hours, twenty-four seven. Starting now,” Zuhdi said. “Find them. Find these scumbags and take them out.”
Chapter 28
Uh-oh, Cole thought as Aransas County Deputy R.L. Harris updated him on Rockport events. The levee’s going to break.
“We’re gettin’ calls, Sheriff,” R.L. said. “There’s rumors flying around about some conspiracy. Crazy scuttlebutt. Folks gettin’ killed at random. All over the country. Those crazy ISIS folks doing it. Folks want to know what’s going on.”
It was day five with eighty-four dead the previous four days and ten already killed today. He’d listened to the conference calls, every four hours, adding nothing. He and the others on the task force slept as best they could between calls.
Cole had chatted privately with Jean Murphy, and they both agreed there was little to do until a lead developed or a demon appeared. Jean wasn’t entirely buying into the latter but didn’t dismiss it, either. “Grasping at straws, Cole,” she’d said. “But right now, it’s all we’ve got.”
Nadine finally curled up on her couch and caught a few z’s. Cole had insisted she do so after emphasizing she’d be useless to the effort without rest. He also insisted she turn off the audio alarms when her systems identified a new victim. Those beeps had her leaping up from the couch during the first hour of trying to get some rest. Francois stayed at the hotel and paced, smoked, and muttered to himself.
The news from Rockport was a benchmark. If the Aransas County Sheriff’s office received calls of concern, then word had spread nationwide. He considered tossing in his two bits at the next task force call. You’d best come clean, folks. The American imagination isn’t your friend, right now.
Zuhdi started the next call with an update on communication protocols. Cole let Nadine sleep. Lord knows she needs it, he thought. It’s been over twenty-four hours since she closed her eyes.
DHS, the FBI, and the White House had kept a tight lid on the terrorist conspiracy, but Zuhdi explained that was soon to change.
“The Internet is buzzing,” Zuhdi said. “Rumors spreading like wildfire. Investigative reporters are digging.”
Zuhdi went on to explain public perception showed signs of boiling over. It wouldn’t take the American people long to make the link to the ISIS websites and social media feeds. An initial communiqué had been developed at the highest levels and was to be used immediately. There were no new developments or leads to track, so the call ended early.
Cole reclined in the lounger and checked his laptop. He used earbuds for the audio as Nadine continued to sleep on the couch. Her gentle snoring provided backdrop. Mule wandered over, stared him up and down, and mo
ved to perch above Nadine on the back of the couch.
Cole accessed a news website. “We’re actively investigating these deaths, attempting to find out if there is a tie or a relationship between them,” the DHS spokesperson said. “It’s unclear as to motives or the number of citizens killed.” The FBI spokesperson and White House press secretary parroted the message. Reporters yelled questions. There were no definitive answers given.
A spring thunderstorm had moved across Houston from the Gulf. It brought thunder and a brief deluge, followed by a light rain. The window above Nadine’s racks of computers showed an ill-functioning rain gutter pour a stream of water on the plants alongside the garage apartment. Cole stared at Nadine, her lips parted, eyelids twitching with REM sleep, shocks of hair strewn on the couch pillow. The moment became so poignant, so quiet and full of love, he was tempted to lie next to her and wrap his arms around her exhausted body.
A quiet life in Rockport. The two of us. Away from all this.
He shifted his gaze to the window, absorbed by the falling water. The low hum of working computers accompanied the patter of rooftop rain. But there’s no escape from our reality. Not now.
He sighed and moved silently from the recliner to Nadine’s door. His joints creaked from the lack of regular rest. He’d make the phone call from the stair stoop and not waken Nadine.
“Zuhdi,” he said. “Cole Garza.”
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Zuhdi spoke over the handheld phone to someone in his office. “Then double the agents on local law enforcement outreach. And get me Agent Williams on the phone. Now.”
“Won’t keep you long,” Cole said. “Know you’re busy. But the bullshit has to stop.”
A slight pause on the phone indicated Zuhdi Kouri’s full attention. “What are you talking about, Sheriff?”
“That statement from you folks, the FBI, and the White House.”
“We’ve ascertained this is the best near-term approach, Sheriff Garza. Less than perfect. I know that.”
“I’ve got zero expectations you’re able to influence communications at the top level. That’s not a putdown of you, but you’re an operations guy, and the message they’re delivering is political.”