by Vince Milam
“I did it for you, Nick. You were in trouble,” Luke said. “And I don’t appreciate you mocking the reality of my gift.” The first part of Luke’s response was delivered with love and tenderness. The second part wasn’t.
“Sorry. I mean it. Sorry. I do appreciate the help. But you have to admit this contention of yours is hard to swallow.” This guy had tackled the gang member behind the car trunk and saved his butt. And talk about bravery! Luke Sikes had charged a man shooting a pistol at him—utter faith or insanity or a combination of both.
“You mean hard to believe. Well, believe, Nick. Believe,” Luke said. “As real as the sun and the stars.”
They had entered a realm Nick wasn’t going to dwell in—not now and maybe not ever. DHS dealt with lots of evil people. People devoted to killing, maiming, and terrorizing. Full menu. This special sauce topping the good bishop spoke of wasn’t going to find room on Nick’s plate anytime soon.
“Alright, Bishop Sikes. Alright.” It was time to exit and forget this aspect of the other night. Nick’s coworkers thought him a stud at the moment, and he could live with that. “Let’s keep the other night our little secret. Okay? It’s better this way.” Nick stood and extended his hand. Luke reciprocated, but kept his enormous hand wrapped around Nick’s and gave him a once-over.
“You have a card?” Luke asked. “Contact information? This meeting may be ordained. A part of God’s plan.”
Good grief, I don’t want this guy to contact me. I want to get back to D.C., my office, and my job. The bishop clearly wasn’t going to loosen his grip until he coughed up something. With a sigh, Nick said, “Yeah. If you’ll let go, I’ll get you a card. Please don’t use it. Really, Bishop Sikes. Really and truly.”
Nick flexed his right hand once to get the blood moving again and fished among his jacket pockets for a card. He handed one to the former NFL linebacker, current bishop of the Tabernacle of Divine Spirit, and—according to Luke Sikes—special envoy of retribution from God Almighty.
Luke took the card and smiled. “The Lord may have use for you. Use for you in my quest.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so, Bishop. Really. I don’t think so. Thanks for the tea.”
Nick exited the room to the sound of Luke’s low chuckle. Halfway down the hall, the bishop called after him. “For many are called, but few are chosen, young Nick Capellas. You would be wise to remember that.”
Chapter 8
Uday Masih called his assistant to complain about the smell. Situated on the third floor of a dilapidated building in Raqqa, Syria, Masih preferred to keep the office windows open. The ancient city, inhabited since antiquity, had perhaps seen better days. Evidence of change, Masih thought. Only that. It will improve.
For two years it had stood as the capital of the new ISIS caliphate and displayed the remnants of pitched battles and bombs. Wooden shutters dangled from single hinges, the surrounding walls pockmarked with bullet holes. Garbage and human waste, shoved to the edge of the potholed streets, joined burned-out vehicles. Yet Masih held no complaint for the odious smell of refuse and excrement that wafted throughout the city. Another distinct smell caused his displeasure.
A dozen human heads and half as many decapitated bodies, each in varied states of decay, dangled together from a wooden electrical pole outside his office windows. The heads hung by the victim’s hair, the bodies by a foot. The ground below held a permanent dark stain as the blood collected, pooled, and then dried in the arid weather. The question of whether the bodies and heads matched did not enter into consideration. Bodies and heads aplenty, and their display was an important component of ISIS’s message to the local populace.
Masih instructed his assistant to see to it the heads and bodies were removed and placed elsewhere. The smell and the flies had become intolerable. His office deserved better. Uday Masih oversaw the web presence, social media, and recruitment campaigns of ISIS.
ISIS websites presented glorious videos of beheadings, throat cutting, and small boys shooting the condemned. Websites also displayed videos of laughing children, happy citizens, and collective zeal. Facebook pages—orchestrated through his office—emphasized the glory of the ISIS culture. Social media had developed into a most powerful tool for recruitment. Men, and a surprising number of women, flocked to Syria from the world over, thrilled to join an Islamic paradise on earth ruled by Allah’s law. Iraqis, Libyans, Saudis, Yemenis. Chechens, Germans, Britons, Americans. They came, summoned, to join jihad. Jihad against Muslim apostates, Christians, Jews. Against any and all who failed to accept the pure and divine light.
Masih had divided his team into three sections. Production, responsible for their several websites and the quality of the videos posted therein. Social Media, responsible for ISIS’s presence on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Tumblr, Instagram, and myriad other social platforms. The third section, Recruitment, found and attracted followers through forums, chat groups, and individual outreach. Followers filled with sufficient zeal, prepared for jihad. Here, Masih would focus.
His three sections communicated with each other—and he’d had to execute several members of his team to emphasize the point—only through a closed network. An intranet. This communication vehicle ensured no access to the outside—the Internet, the World Wide Web—would expose them to prying eyes and ears. For any internal communications, his team used separate and unique laptop computers. Laptops never connected to the Internet. Laptops connected solely to his closed network. The execution of the team members who violated this edict—burned alive—ensured compliance from the others. Special laptops, used solely with his local network: the ISIS network. His private domain, far from the enemy’s eyes and their electronic hackers, safe and secure.
Uday Masih’s recruitment department targeted disillusioned Western youth. Young people with no sense of purpose or belonging. Young people who sought a sense of family. Young people who craved for life meaning. His team’s efforts had been glorious.
And now to leverage my work for a great expansion, Masih thought. Leverage the followers and new believers. Craft a plan and carry out jihad. Expand the holy war to America. To the land of oppressors and apostates and nonbelievers.
The concept of social media and recruitment as more than an attractant and propaganda tool still met resistance among a few of the ISIS leaders. It was too open, too overt. To foment direct action and specific attacks required secrecy. After all, other leaders of ISIS had argued, many still covered their faces in battle, their identities secret.
Yet the caliph had agreed to an attempt. Uday Masih contemplated the format and structure and how best to utilize his social media and recruitment network. He prayed for the Telling.
Several years earlier a voice, distinct and caring and supportive, permeated his prayers. The Telling. It told of efforts and strategies and tactics—actions far outside Masih’s expertise, yet sound and shining. And these things worked. Success beyond his wildest dreams. Messages and propaganda flowed and actions resulted. The Telling came when beckoned, when requested, when prayed to. It spoke to him and comforted him from a place most ancient and powerful. The Telling helped him, lifted him. It lifted him with the proper mindset and commitment. It also lifted him, somehow, through direct intervention, direct help.
Masih locked his office door and spread prostrate on the floor. He prayed, requested, summoned. And the Telling came. A righteous conversation, bright and crystalline clear, conducted inside his consciousness, his soul.
A plan, most glorious. 786. The most auspicious of numbers, used for beautiful jihad. 786. So wise, the Telling! Twenty-one the sum and twenty-one the number. Each day, without pattern or grievance—random. Twenty-one dead apostates and infidels each day. Fear and terror would spread far and wide. His production and social media teams would support the effort as they proclaimed the glory of such jihad. Unstoppable, random, final.
Tears of joy flowed and fell to the floor as the Telling explained all. The Telling filled Masih with knowledge
and power. So he was told. So it would be done.
Chapter 9
Francois perched on the windowsill in Cole’s office. His sandal-clad feet dangled as he drank a local craft beer, smoked, and perused a map of the United States.
Nadine, returned to Houston, had admonished both Cole and Francois to call her if anything new developed. Cole had exchanged a hug and a kiss on the cheek as she departed.
Rockport street sounds drifted through the open window. A man demanded multiple times that his dog “come.” The critter clearly had other ideas. A woman walked along the sidewalk and chatted on her cell phone. The rattle of a diesel truck engine passed by.
A downtown Rockport merchant chewed Cole’s ear on the phone, upset over bike lanes. The merchant stated, in no uncertain terms, the bike lanes interfered with potential clients’ ability to park in front of his store. “I sell furniture, Sheriff. Furniture.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. But—”
“And bike people do not tote off a mattress. Or a dining set.”
“Yes, sir. I don’t imagine they do. But—”
“People with cars and trucks tote off furniture. Not bike people.”
“I’m aware of that, sir. But you’d best talk to the city council. Their call on bike lanes.”
“Can’t you do something? You’re the sheriff.”
Cole provided the merchant the phone number of the city council and tried to help. One of his deputies entered and placed papers on his desk, which he signed while continuing the conversation with the merchant.
The phone call done and papers signed, he observed his new French fixture. The antique roses outside his window—healthy, fragrant—were fresh recipients of Francois’s cigarette butts.
“Non-smoking, nondrinking building, Francois. This is, after all, the sheriff’s office.”
“Oui. This is so.”
Francois in agreement and Francois actually doing something about it were two different things. Cole sighed. I enjoy him. The evenings are fun. Great conversations. But having him hang around the office most of the day wears thin.
Three days had passed since Nadine had left. He missed her. Their reunion had provided an opportunity for her to ricochet ideas on terrorism, the state of Francois’s sixth sense, the weather, music, and the reasons they no longer dated. One of a kind. Mercy, she’s one of a kind.
“You’ve stared at the map all day, Francois. You have a hankering for a road trip? Bluebonnets everywhere in the Hill Country right now if you want to rent a car and take a drive.”
Francois took a deep draw of the dark brown beer, belched, and lit another smoke. “I am pulled. No. We are pulled. God has yet to define the location, although the northwest beckons. Why, I cannot say.”
Cole went back to his emails. A county resident demanded he arrest Millie Gustafson for her collection of rescue dogs. “A major health hazard. Do something.” He’d have to tread easy on this reply. Millie was a community fixture, and a good person.
“I shall take a walk. You, mon ami, shall continue to fight this town’s massive crimes. Without my assistance. Perhaps you can shoot some bicycle people.” Francois dropped from his perch and headed out the door.
***
Jean took Jude’s phone call as she performed an online search for information on an alleged cheating husband. Sometimes this private investigator stuff sucks. If he’s cheating, I’ll provide the evidence, and his wife will divorce him. All ugly. Sucks.
“Hey, Jude,” she answered. “What’s shaking in the supernatural world?”
“Boise.”
“Boise is shaking?” Jean continued to search credit card information—the accounts accessed through a credit reference service approved by her client, the aggrieved wife.
“Strong pull. Let’s go. Can’t define it or why Boise but let’s go.”
Jean remained silent as she noticed several hotel bills buried among the credit card information. A hotel in her client’s town. Cheating bastard.
“Don’t fart around with this, Jean. It’s real. We need to go.”
Jean accepted Jude’s well-tuned instinct. It fell outside the parameters of anything she’d experienced as a cop, it struck her as weird, but it existed. A reality, of sorts. But to haul buns to Boise of all places went well beyond the norm.
“So something bad in Boise. Is that right?” she asked her pastor friend. A litany of restaurant receipts. The charge amounts indicated two diners. Easy enough to ask the wife if she’d eaten there those days. Or eaten there anytime. Cheating bastard.
“No. Something good. Something great. Kindred spirits. Others with my sense. Six hundred miles. Ten-hour drive. Get off your ass. Let’s go.”
Jean stopped her credit card search and leaned back to stretch. Well, the pastor’s weird sense has been spot-on this far. Still. Boise. Jeez. But it would take me away from the depressing business of ending a marriage. “This is a leap of faith, Jude. At least for me.”
“And for me, too. Why do you assume I have my head wrapped around this whole thing? When we were in the parking garage and you became all Clint Eastwoo—”
“Alright. Alright, enough of that,” Jean interrupted. “I’ll go. And drive. With my ground rules.”
Silence.
“I control the radio. Music. Books on CDs. I’m not listening to the migraine-inducing pounding rock you prefer. I mean it.”
“Fine. I have headphones,” Jude said.
“Secondly, no e-cig in the car.”
“Jean, it’s a long drive through shitty country. Desolate,” Jude said. “It’s just vapor. Not smoke.”
“I’m serious. You puff on that thing and I toss your butt out in the big lonesome of Nevada or eastern Oregon.”
Silence. Jean waited.
“Fine. Come pick me up. I’m packed.”
Sly—Jean’s husband—remained on a Bolivian highway project high in the Andes. The other tie at home was Banjo, her dog.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Jean said. “With Banjo.”
“Good,” Jude replied. “He understands me.”
“Glad somebody does, Jude. Glad somebody does.”
***
“We must travel, you and I.”
Nick Capellas had taken the phone call on his cell while he dropped coins in a vending machine outside his D.C. office. A morning fix of Red Vine candy—a comforting routine. He recognized the voice, but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“Who is this?”
“Please stop pretending,” Bishop Luke Sikes replied. “You are a smart young man. It doesn’t become you.”
Nick pulled the candy from its drop slot. He cradled the cell phone on his neck as he opened the packet, removed a single Red Vine, and took a bite. The flavor brought back childhood memories—a New Jersey home, free rein with the other neighborhood kids, Mom’s cooking. Good times. He turned back to his office and paused to smile at an attractive young lady who worked down the hall. She flashed a big smile back.
“Bishop,” he said. “Where are we going to travel? And, more importantly, why?”
Bishop Sikes had proven a huge asset. He’d identified another effort—a terrorist effort—in the D.C. area since they had met on the Potomac River docks. At the scene, the bishop had arrived on the periphery, intent, and left with an air of dissatisfaction.
From a career perspective, the bishop represented Nick’s ace-in-the-hole. The dock shoot-out and the stopping of this latest terrorist attempt had both been attributed to Nick. He’d failed to mention he had access to a man with very special mojo. A radar, tuned to evil activities and driven by a special calling. A hotline from God as per Luke Sikes.
Nick occupied the dubious side of the scale regarding the bishop’s claim of divine guidance. But the bishop had nailed that last terrorist attempt, and Nick’s skepticism had begun to fade.
His failure to reveal the bishop’s intervention had caused more than a few pangs of guilt. Nick imagined his explanation to his superior at DHS to
rationalize his nondisclosure: “Well, boss. There’s this big black guy from Culpeper, Virginia. A bishop. Tabernacle of the Divine Spirit. Former NFL player. Talks with God. Gets the scoop from the Lord. Don’t know who dials who, but the intel is spot on.”
“A major event, Nick. A gathering. A gathering of seekers, warriors. For God’s purpose. You people have airplanes, don’t you? Jets?” Luke asked.
Nick had a date that night with a stunning young lady from Georgetown University. They had met at a party of mutual friends. She’d called him the next day. Today after work he would go work out, shower, and meet her at a restaurant.
“So here’s the deal. Sounds like an event right up your alley. Not mine. I stop bad guys. Remember? But if you want to travel to meet with like-minded folks, well, good for you. Have fun.”
“You and I, Nick. ‘Therefore, brothers, be all the more diligent to make your calling and election sure.’ We are called. We will answer,” Luke said.
His date had reddish-blond hair and legs up to here and a laugh holding promise and excitement. “Can’t answer that call anytime soon, Bishop. But good luck. I mean it.”
He did mean it. Luke Sikes owned a special reality—an ability to anticipate destructive activities before they happened. But this didn’t involve such activities. A gathering of spiritual warriors? A get-together where they speak in tongues and flop around on the floor? No, thanks. Chrissy. Her name was Chrissy and she came from North Carolina and had had a tinge of Southern accent. An accent nothing short of fine and better than dandy.
“Do you need permission from your boss? A hall pass, young man?” Luke chuckled as he spoke—a deep resonance, filled to the brim with mirth.
Nick’s personal alarm bells screeched. He removed the Red Vine from his mouth. No, no, not the boss! Let’s leave him out of this.