by Richard Bard
Lacey frowned in the rearview mirror. “What—?”
“Just do it! If the biker doesn’t show up on your tail after two miles down the road, then come back and get me.” He moved toward the tailgate.
Lacey nodded and slowed the truck on the back side of the dense copse.
“Get the suckers,” Marshall said as Tony jumped over the rear.
He rolled to a crouch. And snapped his head around at the sound of Francesca’s scream.
“No!” she cried as the truck’s rear door swung open.
Ahmed tumbled out and sprang to his feet, still gripping the revolver. The truck jerked to a stop. Tony looked up at the sound of a chopper and saw it entering the tree line. He waved to Lacey and shouted, “Go, go, go!”
The Ram leaped forward, the open passenger door slammed closed, and Ahmed rushed to Tony’s side, his expression defiant. Tony knew the look. He’d seen it plenty of times on Jake. The kid was part of this op, like it or not.
Tony pulled him to a crouch in the thickest section of brush. “We stay hidden until they pass, then open fire. Understood?”
Ahmed nodded, his eyes flat. Tony ejected the mag on his Glock and counted six remaining rounds, plus one in the chamber. He slammed the magazine home and backed into the brush. Ahmed followed his lead. As the truck receded into the trees, Ahmed slowly expelled a breath, steadying himself for what was to come.
Atta boy.
The Harley’s roar reverberated behind them.
“Coming from your side,” Tony whispered, swiveling in that direction. “I’ll take the passenger with the rifle, you focus on the driver.”
Ahmed nodded.
From the sound of the motor, Tony sensed the biker slowing his approach. It set off his internal alarm bells just as the bike revved up and leaped past them, spitting dust in its wake—with only one rider.
Diversion.
Ahmed rapid-fired as Tony spun around and barreled through the dense brush behind him, his weapon firing even before his eyes found the second man angling his assault rifle toward Ahmed’s position. The man loosed a short burst as Tony’s fourth and fifth rounds ripped into his torso and blew him from his feet. Tony dashed over and put another round in the dirtbag’s forehead. Then he slipped the pistol into his belt, grabbed the man’s M4 carbine, and rushed back. He stopped cold when he rounded the brush.
The revolver lay in the dirt, but Ahmed was gone.
He spotted the overturned rat bike up the hill and ran toward it, the M4 pressed to his shoulder. The Nazi helmet lay in the dirt by the bike. The rider was gone, as was the machete the old biker had wielded earlier. There was blood on the seat, and a quick survey revealed a crimson trail leading up the hill. He rushed to follow, his senses on full alert.
When he cleared the ridge, he saw the biker facedown in the dirt, the side of the guy’s neck slashed to the bone, a pistol still gripped by his outstretched hand. Ahmed sat beside him, head bowed, elbows on knees, the machete in one hand dripping blood. Tony lowered his rifle and sat down beside him.
“What happened?” he asked.
Ahmed looked at him. His brow crinkled as he seemed to search for what to say. Finally, all he could manage was, “Ran out of bullets.”
The probable scenario ran through Tony’s mind:
Ahmed’s revolver running dry after downing the biker, the wounded rider escaping up the slope, the boy—no, the man—racing after him, grabbing the machete on the way...
He and Ahmed shared a look that reminded Tony of similar moments he’d experienced on the field of battle. It was a warrior’s exchange, a sign of respect, and a mutual acknowledgement of the pain of warfare. He was saddened to have had to share it with the adopted son of his best friend.
Tony simply nodded and said, “Out of bullets, huh? Yup, that happens sometimes.” He rose to his feet. “We gotta move.”
Ahmed blew out a breath, and discarded the machete to exchange it for the dead man’s pistol. It was a Glock like the one Tony had tucked in his belt. He admired Ahmed’s thoroughness as he scrounged the man’s cargo pockets and came up with two spare magazines and a cell phone. Ahmed handed one of the mags to Tony, and the two of them sprinted toward the road to rejoin the others.
Chapter 6
AHMED JUMPED INTO HIS SEAT in the truck and closed the door. He stiffened under hugs from Sarafina and his mom. When he pulled back and noticed a spot of blood had transferred from his shirtsleeve to his mom’s forearm, he averted his gaze and stared out the side window.
“Are you hurt?” his mom asked.
He shook his head but didn’t turn around. He twitched when he felt his sister’s hand on his knee, the gentle squeeze her way of telling him she understood. He appreciated it, but didn’t let out his breath until she let go. They’d been together a long time, since before Mom or Dad had entered their lives, and she knew him better than anyone. She’d been witness to a long list of childhood problems caused by his spectrum disorder, including his extreme phobia to physical contact. It was thanks to his brain implant—and the understanding he’d found from her and his new family—that he’d become more comfortable with it. But right now, after what he’d done, even the thought of touching another human twisted his insides.
“Hit it,” Tony said through the shattered window behind Ahmed. Lacey stomped the gas, the truck surged down the forested road, and Ahmed wondered how many more would have to die before they were safe.
He flashed on the childhood teachings of his tribe in Afghanistan, preached by the father figure that his current family knew as the terrorist who’d ripped their lives apart. The sheik Ahmed had known as Abdul Modham Abdali—whom the world knew as Luciano Battista—had taught that one must do whatever is necessary to protect his faith. Whether with roadside IEDs, suicide bombers, or nuclear holocaust, it had been the sheik’s ultimate belief that violence was the only solution against infidels who attacked Islam, the only way to bring peace to his tribe and be true to his faith.
My family is my faith.
Ahmed’s jaw clenched as he nodded to himself, forging his resolve. There will be more killing before this is over.
And I will do my part.
He glanced past Tony to the road behind. No one was on their tail. The danger had subsided but he knew that wouldn’t last. He moved his palm to the butt of the pistol wedged under his belt. It felt comfortable in his hand.
“Remove the batteries from your phones and toss ’em out,” Marshall said, rolling down his window and tossing the pieces of his phone into the woods. Lacey handed hers over and it sailed out next.
“Already ditched it,” Tony said from the back.
Mom handed hers over, and Ahmed quickly dismantled it before letting it fly along with his own. He stopped himself before pulling the biker’s phone from his back pocket, deciding there was no risk of someone tracking it. He held his hand out for his sister’s phone. She hesitated. Her earphones were plugged into it, and her music was the only thing keeping her sane right now. She’d composed most of the music herself, and they’d been forced to sever links to their cloud drives.
“It’s all I have left,” she whispered. Her lower lip quivered.
“Don’t worry,” he said, unable to give in to the urge to take her hand. He nodded toward Marshall. “He’ll find a way to save it.”
She placed it in his palm and he passed it to Marshall. “Can you save her music before we toss it?” he asked.
“Afraid not,” Marshall said. He stripped the phone and tossed it out the window.
Sarafina gasped.
Marshall turned around and winked. “Relax. I’ll be able to backdoor into your cloud later. Now listen up, everyone. We’ve got to be smart about this. Everybody and their brothers are going to be looking for us, including the government. We’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before they coordinate their systems and pull out the stops to find us. Cops, traffic cams, and anyone with a cell phone camera represent a threat. We all know the plan, and once we’re saf
e, we’ll figure out how to find Alex.”
Tony reached a hand through the rear window and squeezed Francesca’s shoulder. “That’s a promise,” he said, and Ahmed knew he meant it.
They’d been through worse, and their shared history had hardened each of them in its own way. Jake’s death had shattered their hearts but not their resolve, and Ahmed forced himself to believe that one way or another they’d find a way to get through this.
He watched as Lacey used a free hand to dig into her backpack and grab a baseball cap. She pulled it over her head and put on sunglasses. His mom wrapped a scarf around her head. Sarafina sank lower in her seat, and Marshall was donning his fake mustache and thick glasses.
Ahmed marveled at the ease with which they’d all assumed the role of fugitive. He didn’t have a disguise, since up until now his image—like Sarafina’s and Alex’s—hadn’t been broadcast. Of course that could all change after what had happened at the motel.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and perhaps it was time to grow out the thick beard that was part of his heritage.
“We’ve gotta switch vehicles,” Tony said. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his Yankees baseball cap.
“Working on it,” Marshall said. He powered up his iPad and pulled up a map of the area.
“Can’t your tablet be tracked, too?” Ahmed asked.
Marshall shook his head without looking up. “Not this baby. Special modifications.”
The two-lane road wound through a forest of pines, and traffic had been nonexistent so far. But as they rounded the next bend, a stop sign and a scatter of mailboxes indicated they were heading into a populated area. In the distance, a couple of cars were heading their way.
“Turn left at the stop,” Marshall said.
“Ain’t that gonna take us toward the casinos?” Tony asked.
“Exactly,” Marshall said. “It’s our best shot.”
Tony shook his head as he dropped out of sight into the truck bed.
Ten minutes later Ahmed, his sister, Mom, and Tony were crouching in the forested area skirting the backside of the Harrah’s Casino parking lot. They’d ditched the truck a hundred yards back, where it couldn’t be seen from the road, and now they watched as Marshall and Lacey walked arm in arm between the rows of RVs parked in the long-term back lot. They stopped beside a grungy-looking Winnebago. After Marshall checked something on his tablet, he nodded to Lacey and she knocked on the door. When nobody answered, she went to work on the lock. Sixty seconds later the old motor home pulled out of its spot and headed toward them.
The interior of the vintage RV smelled of air freshener. It was small but well kept, with a dinette situated behind the driver’s seat, a loveseat along the opposite wall, and lace curtains over the tinted windows. One wall held a framed photo of a grinning elderly couple, the heavyset man clad in fishing gear holding a large trout, and the white-haired woman beside him holding a frying pan. The wide-brim hat the man wore in the photo hung from a hook beside the frame. The vehicle’s midsection contained a sink, stovetop, closet and bathroom, and the back third held a queen-sized bed. Lacey was behind the wheel and Marshall had already connected his tablet to a portable keyboard at the dinette. Ahmed grabbed a spot beside him, and his mom and Sarafina settled into the loveseat.
Tony was the last to enter, and Lacey had the vehicle moving even before he closed the door. “Pretty damn good with that lock pick, girl,” Tony said as he sat in the front passenger seat. His focus panned left and right as they made their way out of the lot. He still held the assault rifle.
“Did a lot of RV camping when I was a kid. It could get pretty boring, so my older brothers and I turned breaking and entering into a game. Any empty RV was a fair target. We got pretty good at it, especially on these older models.”
Tony arched an eyebrow. “You know I’m a cop, right?”
“Shut up. We never stole anything. Of course we did rummage around a bit, and that’s when we discovered that almost everyone hides a spare set of keys inside.” She jiggled the key ring dangling from the ignition. “Found these in the pantry behind the coffee.” She flicked on the windshield wiper, and the blades squeaked as they worked to clear the glass of grime.
“Did you have to pick the filthiest one on the lot?” Sarafina asked.
Ahmed felt a swell of relief at hearing the simple question. It was the first sign his sister was battling through her fear. His mom pulled Sarafina a tad closer, and he knew a part of her shared his relief, but her expression told him her thoughts were with Alex.
“The dirtier the target the better,” Marshall said. “It means it hasn’t been used for a while, so it’s less likely they’ll notice it missing anytime soon.” He glanced at his iPad. “Plus, right now the owners of this rig are on an all-day group excursion in Zephyr Cove, which includes horseback riding, an outdoor barbeque, and a three-hour boat tour around the lake. Plus, they aren’t planning on leaving town for another three days.”
“How could you possibly know all that?” Sarafina asked.
Marshall pointed at his tablet. “You’re kidding, right? This is my world, remember? Crosschecking the plate against the owner’s name, and then hacking into the hotel’s registry and concierge service bookings took all of about thirty seconds.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sarafina said. “You’re TurboHacker. At least you were until Alex—”
She stopped and everyone quieted. Alex had assumed the TurboHacker handle a couple of months ago when he’d borrowed Marshall’s Spider headset to play a thought-controlled online video game. The game had turned out to be a subliminal mind-probing trap that targeted gatekeepers of the most secure computer networks in America, leaching passwords from the minds of the unsuspecting participants. Marshall had been on the target list because of his high-level network security consulting business. He’d been too busy to try out the game so he’d passed it on to Alex. But Alex’s unique brain hadn’t responded like everyone else’s, and when his mind linked to the network, he’d slipped through the game’s heavily encrypted firewall with ease, unknowingly marking himself and his family as targets for the global terrorist group behind it all. In the deadly events that followed—which included crashing in the jungle and evading a drug lord and facing down an army of terrorists intent on killing them all—Alex’s spirit and courage had been revealed, and they were all alive because of it.
Ahmed turned to Francesca. “Alex is going to be okay, Mother. He’s smarter than any of us. He left with a purpose, and there is little he can’t accomplish once he sets his mind to it. Take comfort in knowing that he’s probably a lot safer than we are right now.”
His mom’s expression softened.
Lacey turned east onto the highway fronting the casino. When it became apparent they weren’t being followed, Ahmed sensed everyone’s relief. Tony rose from his chair. “It’s probably best if I keep my ugly mug out of view.” He motioned toward Sarafina. “How ’bout swapping with me?”
“Okay,” she said. They traded places.
“Oh, crap,” Marshall said under his breath. “Speaking of your ugly mug...” He adjusted his tablet so the others could see it. A static image of Tony filled a YouTube window. He was crouched outside the back door of their room at the motel, with a grenade in his hand. Marshall tapped PLAY and the video showed Tony cracking open the door, tossing the grenade inside, and running toward the stairs. The image jumped when the explosion blew the door apart and smoke streamed outside. When it settled back down, it followed Tony until he disappeared around the corner with a gun in his hand.
“Jeeesus,” Tony muttered.
“This isn’t the only video,” Marshall said. “There are a bunch of others being uploaded under the hashtag AmericanTerroristStrikesAgain.”
“Oh, God,” Francesca said. “Can it get any worse?”
Marshall said, “So far, except for an image of Ahmed from the back—don’t worry, it doesn’t show his face—none of the r
est of us are in any of the clips.”
Tony’s face reddened. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He stopped when the sound of approaching motorcycles echoed from behind them. Ahmed spun around and caught a glimpse through the tinted rear window of two riders speeding toward them. Emergency lights twirled behind them and the bikers whipped past without giving the Winnebago a second look. Lacey slowed and edged to the right as two highway patrol cars zipped past in pursuit, sirens wailing. They disappeared around the next corner.
“That ought to keep them busy for a while,” Lacey said. “You think we’re free of them?”
“Who knows?” Tony said. “Too many unanswered questions. Who put ’em up to it? Where’d they get their intel? Were they operating on their own or was this part of a larger operation? Did somebody from Doc’s team give us up?”
Ahmed remembered the biker’s phone. He pulled it out.
“Hey,” Marshall said. “I told you to ditch—”
“I know. This isn’t my phone,” Ahmed said. “It belonged to one of the bikers.” He woke it up and saw it was locked. He looked at Marshall. “Can you unlock it?”
Marshall rolled his eyes and took the device. “Never put anything on your phone you don’t want others to see.” He powered it down, removed the back cover, did a quick inspection of the interior, and snapped it back together. As it came back on, he focused on his tablet and drilled through search windows. “The vulnerabilities of every phone on the market are updated daily on the darknet.” He expanded a window and studied the screen for a moment. Then he opened the phone’s emergency dial pad and made a series of entries while repeatedly clicking on the camera shutter button. A moment later the phone was unlocked and Marshall was scrolling through recent text messages. When he stopped to zoom on an attached image, his jaw went slack and color drained from his face. He rotated the phone so the others could see the photo. “It was my fault,” he muttered.