Inside Threat

by Jason Elam; Steve Yohn

  He pulled it off and read in Skeeter’s surprisingly flowing script, Gilly called. Catch you up when I can. A twinge of jealousy panged his heart when he read the words.

  What’s that about? You’re the one who doesn’t want to be in ops full-time. Remember the whole “It’s not my calling” speech you gave to Scott a couple months back? He pulled a bag of mixed berries out of the freezer, then snatched up the remote control and turned on the kitchen TV.

  Over a flowing animated background floated eight boxes, each showing the aftermath of one of the many attacks of the day. One of them expanded to full screen, and he watched for a minute while a Fox Pittsburgh reporter gave the latest on the attack at the auto auction. Fourteen dead and twenty-six wounded; perp among the dead.

  The picture minimized, and one of the others zoomed up full screen, showing a diner in Tampa, Florida. More blood, more mayhem. Riley turned back to his blender. After dumping some berries in, he slid a can of protein powder over. As he scooped, he thought, But even though I don’t feel ops is my calling, somehow I always end up back in it. I’m like the reluctant warrior. You know, that’d be a good name for my biography—Riley Covington: Reluctant Warrior.

  He dipped a plastic measuring spoon into a bag of whey and emptied it into the blender. Hey, nice one, buddy! It only took you five minutes to take this whole tragedy and make it about yourself.

  He walked to the refrigerator and retrieved a carton of soy milk. Lord, forgive my self-focus. There are so many people hurting. Please help them.

  His prayer was halted by a news alert graphic flying across the television screen followed by video of the National Cathedral. Something triggered in his mind. What’s going on at the cathedral? A sinking feeling filled his chest as he watched the story. He set the soy milk next to the blender. His hands were shaking.

  “Gunmen have taken over the National Cathedral. In a coordinated attack, multiple armed men dressed in black military clothing stormed the National Cathedral during the memorial ceremony for longtime Senate chaplain Daniel Musman. Early reports are that more than three hundred were in attendance, among them Speaker of the House Cristy Johnston, Senate Majority Leader Dennis Nettesheim, Senate Minority Leader Bill Evert, and numerous other senators and congressmen.”

  Suddenly, all Riley’s fear and anxiety coalesced into one word—Khadi.

  He ran from the kitchen, searching for his cell phone. He tore through the mudroom, then upstairs to his bedroom. Finally, he spotted it in the living room, where he had been watching the news reports with Skeeter.

  Snatching it up, he speed dialed Scott. Come on, answer the phone! Answer it!

  Scott’s voice came on, not so politely inviting whoever was calling to leave a message and in no way promising a call back.

  “Scott, what’s happening with Khadi? Call me right away!”

  He hung up, then dialed right back in the hopes that if Scott was only screening his first call, he might pick up the second time. It went to voice mail.

  I gotta get to the RoU! I need information! He now began a frantic search for his keys, wasting precious minutes before finding them right where he always kept them—on the kitchen counter, hidden behind the carton of soy milk.

  The home phone rang.

  “Scott!” he said as soon as he pressed talk.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” his mom said. “Are you expecting a call? Should I hang up?”

  Deflated, he said, “I am, but . . . no, don’t hang up. Is everything okay?” He really needed to get going, but ever since a terrorist had taken his dad’s life two years ago, he lived in fear that the same could yet happen to his mom. And with everything going on . . .

  “I’m fine. I just wanted to find out how you were feeling with all these horrible things going on.”

  Riley breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s all a bit unbelievable.”

  “It certainly is. You have to wonder at the mind-set of these people. And to think, so many of them are our own neighbors! What’s this world coming to?”

  “I know, Mom. It’s crazy. How are you doing with it? I know these things always bring up memories of . . .” his voice trailed off.

  “Of Dad? That’s kind of why I was calling, sweetheart. It’s just . . . it’s hard watching this stuff all by myself without him around. Jerry—Dad was always the one who could put these things into perspective. Then they took him, and . . .”

  “I know, Mom,” Riley said, his throat lumping up. “Dad had a way of looking at the big picture and making everything seem like it was going to be all right.”

  Silence hung over the line. Part of Riley wanted to get off the line and get moving. But the better part of him kept him glued to this spot with the phone in his hand. He began scratching at the grout between the tiles with his fingernail.

  Riley’s mom broke the silence. “So you answered ‘Scott.’ Is he supposed to be calling you with some information on what’s happening?”

  “No, I had left him a message when I realized that—” Riley stopped himself. His mother loved Khadi dearly. Did he really want to burden her with this? Would that be fair to her? Besides, he realized, she’d probably also figure out that he was leaving to do something about it, and she’d try to stop him, and it would turn into a big thing—a big thing that he had neither the time nor the emotional energy to deal with right now.

  “You just realized what?”

  “I just . . . I just realized that Scott is involved in this National Cathedral thing,” Riley said, immediately feeling guilty for lying.

  “I figured he would be. How can I be praying for him?”

  Maybe God’s using my lie for good. Nothing wrong with getting people praying. “Just safety. Pray for safety and wisdom so that he can save those people.”

  “I will.” Now his mom’s tone changed, “You know, Riley, you never were a very good liar, especially to your mother. So tell me what you were originally going to say.”

  Busted. “Mom . . .” he began, trying to come up with the right words to say. “Mom, it’s Khadi.”

  “What about Khadi?” she asked quickly.

  When Riley didn’t answer right away, she added, “Come on, Riley. That precious girl is like a daughter to me. You tell me what’s going on with her.”

  “Okay, okay. You know the thing at the National Cathedral? Well, it started out as a memorial service for the Senate chaplain. So quite a few senators and congressmen were there, including—”

  “Including Senator Andrews. Which means that Khadi is inside there. Oh no.”

  Riley dropped onto one of the stools that lined his kitchen island. His forehead fell into his hand.

  “I know, Mom. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. The good news is that they don’t seem to be reporting it like all the others—you know, go in and shoot up the place. It sounds more like a hostage situation. So there’s a much better chance that she’s still safe.”

  “Oh, dear Lord. Why Khadi? Father, she needs you more than ever right now. Touch her heart. Protect her body.”

  Riley tried to keep his emotions in check, something that is very difficult with one’s mother on the other end of the line.

  “So I suppose you’re contacting Scott so that you can help try to rescue her?” Sorrow and resignation filled her voice.

  Riley said nothing.

  A minute passed before his mother spoke again, this time with steel in her voice. “Riley, I want you to listen to me closely. Your dad and I had only been married six months when he shipped off for Vietnam. I prayed and worried every single day he was gone. They were the most difficult days of my life until . . . well, until you went to Afghanistan. Then I prayed and worried every day that you were gone.

  “But even though they were hard days and I did worry, I still had a peace that God would take care of you. Prayer will do that for you. Do you have your Bible near?”

  Riley looked over to the kitchen table, where he had been having his quiet time with the Lord over breakf
ast. There it sat—that worn black book with the packing tape holding the cover together. Written in its margins were the notes from a decade of sermons, Bible studies, and personal study times. It was like an old friend—a faithful companion that had carried him through good times and bad.

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s right here,” he said, getting up.

  “Turn to Philippians 4:6-7.”

  Riley stopped and sat down. This was one passage he knew.

  “Do you have it?”

  “I’ve got it,” Riley said, closing his eyes and picturing the familiar words on the page.

  “It says, ‘Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.’

  “Riley, that’s why I never tried to stop you or your dad. And I never made you feel guilty for going. Because you were in God’s hands. And also because I could never make you feel guilty for being who you are.

  “I’ve always thought of you and your dad like the knights of old—you know, wild yet chivalrous. Every time you enter a room, all the good people naturally feel safer and all the bad people begin to get nervous. It’s who you are. It’s what God created you to be.

  “So with that being said, I want you to know that you have my full blessing to go out there and save that girl. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And if something happens to you . . . well, just . . . just know that God always takes care of His children.

  “I love you, Riley, and I’m so proud of you. Now, please, do your mother a most blessed favor and tell her you love her . . . then hang up the phone.”

  It took half a minute before Riley could get the words out. “I love you, Mom.”

  He held the phone to his ear a few moments longer before he pressed End. The phone dropped to the counter, followed by his fist. His fist rose and dropped three more times before he launched up from the stool.

  He ran to his bedroom closet, where he kept a small gun vault. Most of his weapons were back in Colorado, but he still kept a fairly impressive miniarsenal here in Leesburg.

  After punching six numbers into a keypad, he laid his thumb on a biometric pad. The lock clicked, and he opened the door. He pulled out a Kel-Tec P-32 in an ankle holster and strapped it on his right leg. Next he removed his Smith & Wesson M&P Compact .40 and clipped its holster onto his pants in the small of his back.

  Looking up, he yanked on a shoulder holster, bringing it down with its hanger still attached. He cinched it on his torso, then dropped into it a Smith & Wesson Model 29 6½-inch .44 magnum. Images of Dirty Harry always popped into his mind when he carried it, making him feel a bit self-conscious. However, the thing could stop an elephant, and given the situation, the more power the better.

  Slamming the vault door closed, he pulled on a black hoodie with Thousand Foot Krutch stenciled on it and zipped it halfway up. He quickly checked the mirror. The sweat jacket didn’t do much to conceal the bulge under his arm, but it would have to do.

  Ninety seconds later he was in his Durango, tearing around the corner of his cul-de-sac, not caring at all about the enormous chunk of drywall his truck door had just taken out of the side of his garage.

  Thursday, September 15, 11:00 a.m. EDT

  Washington, DC

  So far it couldn’t have gone much better, Majid Alavi thought as he scanned the cathedral. All the sentries were at their posts, and all the stairways had been wired with explosives. A look into the Wilson Bay, down the south side of the nave, confirmed that the tech crew was busy wiring up the camera and the Internet connection. Each of the rooms adjoining the main sanctuary had been searched and their occupants captured or dispatched. All this without losing one single man to injury or death.

  Allah, you are with us today. Thank you for honoring our Ramadan sacrifice.

  Saifullah walked up next to him. “Do we have a final count?”

  Alavi nodded as he looked out at the three groups that were now being individually searched for any weapons or communication devices. He pointed to the largest group and said, “That is the release group. It has 249—women, children, elderly, and the excess men we don’t have need for. I’ve also included some of the security people because, as we said, it’s better to have them outside than in here conspiring.”

  Saifullah grunted. “I’m still not fully comfortable with that decision, Majid. Won’t they take out valuable information?”

  “They will,” Alavi agreed. “However, probably not much more than what the Feds are already getting right now through their surveillance devices.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and the mounted cameras. “And as we have discussed, the benefits of keeping the surveillance devices active outweigh disabling them.”

  Saifullah nodded. “Once we demand the constant Internet feed on Saturday, people all over the world will be able to watch what is happening here twenty-four hours a day.”

  “And they will, too. The world is full of voyeurs. They’ll keep us open on their computers continuously, just waiting for something to happen. And as they watch, fear will embed deeper and deeper into their psyches.”

  “And followers of the faith will draw more and more strength from us.”

  “Exactly,” Alavi said. “So, yes, law enforcement will draw information from the released hostages and from the cameras, but we don’t really expect this is going to go the full thirty days anyway. Of course, if you want to retain the hostages, we will do as you say, but my recommendation is to stay to plan.”

  “No, send them,” Saifullah said, waving his hand. “You are right. How many are in the second group?”

  Alavi pointed to another cluster of bodies, mostly men in suits. “That is our fodder group—the expendable ones. There are twenty-five. We’re holding on to them primarily to keep the number of hostages up. And they will be the ones we will use if we have to make a point.”

  Saifullah turned toward the final group, located nearest to the front. “And in that group are our illustrious senators and congressmen.”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty-nine senators and thirty-seven congressmen—sixty-six total, fifty-nine men and seven women.”

  “Very good,” Saifullah said softly.

  Both men studied this assembly of diverse characters. While all these legislators had power, it was easy to tell which ones had achieved it based on character and which ones had bought, schmoozed, or cheated their ways to the top. The ones with character were cooperative in action but bore an underlying defiance in their attitudes. The burning behind their eyes bespoke a warning to Alavi and his men. These were the ones who would have to go first.

  But a larger majority of the congressional members were carrying on just as he had expected—crying, begging for their lives, making unfulfillable promises—Much like they do on the campaign trail, Alavi thought with a smile. They are spineless, sniveling vermin. Vermin that will soon experience the extermination that all pests deserve.

  “How long do you think we have until the Americans try a rescue?” Saifullah asked.

  Alavi thought for a moment. “Judging by the growing assemblage outside, I’d say not long. Fifteen minutes—twenty, tops.”

  Again, Saifullah grunted. “Then we’d best get our first message out and slow them down. Has the tech team prepared for the video recording?”

  Alavi removed a small walkie-talkie from his belt. “Tech, this is Lead.”

  A moment later, a voice responded, “Go ahead, Lead.”

  “What’s ETA for going hot?”

  “Two minutes for video. Ten for uplink.”

  “Roger. Lead, out.”

  He turned to Saifullah. “Let’s go do it. We aren’t uplinking this first message anyway.”

  Saifullah nodded, and the two men began walking toward the Wilson Bay and the video camera. “Two, this is Lead,” Alavi said into the walkie-talkie as they rounded the chairs on the south side of the nave. He could feel
the eyes of many of the hostages on them as they walked.

  “Go ahead, Lead,” Ubaida Saliba responded.

  “The imam is ready for his first vid. What’s the ETA on the first vest?”

  “Thirty seconds. We’re ready for you.”

  “Excellent. Send him over immediately. I’m with the imam, so you take the conn,” Alavi said, directing Saliba to take their place on the stage at the front of the sanctuary.

  “Ten-four. Out.”

  The surreal nature of his situation momentarily disoriented Alavi as Saliba signed off. In his mind, he was transported to the backyard of his parents’ house. It was as if the war games of his childhood were suddenly being played out in real life. As he thought of it, he realized that much of the déjà vu he was feeling originated in the terminology they were using.

  When Alavi had returned from his training in Somalia, he was determined to do everything exactly as he had been trained. But as soon as he began drilling the young men in the warehouse this week, he realized that very few of them understood a single word of the technical military jargon he was using. And why should they? True military training was an experience that they never had a chance to share.

  What they did share, however, was a childhood watching Power Rangers, X-Men, and Transformers. Later, most of them had graduated to CSI and NYPD Blue. Recognizing that, Alavi took a bold step. He dumbed down their communication from complex military parlance to a commonly understood blend of superhero- and cop-speak. Suddenly everyone knew exactly what everyone else was saying and what was expected of them.

  Now here he was, leading a band of real militants, shooting real bullets, fighting in the name of Allah, and using the language he grew up hearing come out of the mouths of Red Ranger and Optimus Prime. Better quit thinking about it, or you’re going to freak yourself out, Alavi thought, shaking his head.

  They walked through a small arch and into the Wilson Bay—a cutaway of sorts along the southern wall of the nave. In it was the final resting place of President Woodrow Wilson—The only president buried in Washington, DC, if I remember my history correctly. Those windows are beautiful, Alavi thought as he looked around.