Friday, September 16, 1:20 p.m. EDT
Khadi lay shivering on the cold stone bench in Wilson Bay. Her head rested on the corner of a long red bench cushion. After the second beating, which had come immediately following Bill Evert’s murder and her video appearance—live and in person—Alavi apparently had found the last fading spark of compassion left in his cold, dark heart. Although he wouldn’t allow her battered body the comfort of actually lying on the cushion, he did provide her with just enough padding to rest her swollen head.
But you will not break me! I don’t care what you do to me; I will go out of this life with my head high. And if I find a way to take one of you with me, then you better say your prayers.
Letting her watch the execution of Bill Evert had been the exact wrong thing for Saifullah to do. Watching his strength in the midst of an unspeakable death relit a fire in her soul that had been in danger of going out last night. From the moment the tarp was rolled up, her mind had begun singing “God Bless America,” “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and strangely enough for her, that hymn from the funeral—“A Mighty Fortress”—and it hadn’t stopped.
So despite the fact that her body was rebelling against her and she had lost all feeling in her extremities due to the zip ties, her mind was sharp, and her will was strong. She had no idea when they were going to come for her—when her neck would be offered up to the knife—but she didn’t care anymore. Her peace had been made with God, even though she still wasn’t sure which God. She had prayed that the one true God would hear her prayers and show her mercy. There’s not really anything else I can do, is there?
“Come on, old man, what are you waiting for?” she called out. She was ready to die now, but she wasn’t convinced that she’d still have this strong of a resolve a few hours from now. If I’m going to go, I’m going to go in my time and with my head held high! And maybe with one parting shot at whoever gets closest to me.
“What’s wrong, you raggedy-bearded psychopath? You afraid I might bite? Oh, Saifullah . . . come out, come out wherever you are! Here, boy! Come on, boy!”
Majid Alavi came striding in, his face red with anger.
“Oh, the big dog’s sent his little lap—”
Her final word was cut off as Alavi pulled the cushion from under her head, letting her skull hit the stone with a thunk. Khadi’s brain was just beginning to process through the pain when she felt the cushion pressed down tightly on her face. Her zip-tied body flopped like a fish out of water as she tried to find a way to get some air. Finally, when she was just starting to gray out, he lifted the cushion.
Khadi sucked air deep into her lungs. Pain, fear, adrenaline, and relief all rushed through her body, making the world around her spin.
Alavi leaned in close. “Shut . . . your . . . mouth,” he hissed.
Khadi spit in his face, and the cushion went back on. This time she knew she was a dead woman and was just making peace with the fact when the darkness finally lifted and the sweet air poured into her starving lungs.
“Have you had enough?” Alavi asked. But this time he stood a little farther back, and the projectile from Khadi’s mouth fell short of its mark. Alavi’s hand hit the side of Khadi’s face once, twice, three times, sandwiching her head against the stone bench. Khadi’s world spun again.
“Hey, Alavi,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you still beat your wife?”
“Your time is soon.”
“Bring it on, little man—lapdog.”
Alavi turned to go but stopped short. “Actually,” he said with a smile, “I think your time has arrived.”
He stepped back, and Saifullah, the cameraman, and the two executioners walked into the bay. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t take her eyes off the long blade that hung in the one man’s belt.
“I hear you were calling for me,” Saifullah said.
“And you came—I’m touched,” Khadi replied in a voice that was half mumble, half groan.
“I came because it was time, not because you called.”
“Probably an important point for you, but for me—not so much,” Khadi said with all the false bravado she could muster. But inside, she was screaming. I can’t imagine that knife on my neck! Please, no! Someone—God, Scott, anyone—please keep me from that blade!
“Your eyes betray you, little girl,” Saifullah said with a smile. “Why do I feel your courage is all talk?”
“Take these cuffs off, and we’ll see how much is all talk. Five men in this room, and you still have to keep the little girl tied up.” Come on, rise to the challenge . . . take the bait!
Instead, Saifullah turned to the executioners. “I’m tired of hearing the ranting of this mongrel whore. Silence her.”
Khadi’s eyes went wide. Wait, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be! What about the camera? What about Saifullah’s speech? Aren’t I supposed to have an opportunity to read a false confession? I’m not ready for this! God, help me! Please, God, help me!
Despite the duplicity of her eyes, Khadi kept a reasonably strong facade. Her face was tight and she pressed her lips closed, not trusting what might come out of them if they parted.
The man not holding the long blade moved quickly toward Khadi. With small wire cutters, he snipped the tie off her ankles. Immediately, blood began flowing back to her feet, causing her to bite back a scream. He grabbed her by her arms and flung her to the ground. She skidded to a landing up against Wilson’s tomb.
The man with the blade lifted Khadi by the hair. The pain was excruciating, and she tried to take some of the pressure off by bringing her knees up under her. But she still didn’t have any strength in them after being tied up for so long, and they flailed around beneath her.
Saifullah leaned down to Khadi’s face. “Prepare to see hell, gehbah.”
Khadi closed her eyes and heard the long knife slide out from the executioner’s belt. The cold, dull blade rested against her tight neck, then pulled across it. She cried out, the executioner released her hair, and she fell hard to the ground.
She lay there gasping and weeping—confused, relieved, angry, hurting. What happened? What just happened? I’m not dead—I know that because I’m in too much pain.
A shoe wedged itself under her chest and rolled her over. Her eyes opened, and she saw all five men laughing cruelly at her.
“I think a quick death is a little too good for you,” Saifullah said. “I’ve got something else in mind that will burn like a coal in your heart for the rest of your miserable, traitorous life.”
The cuffs on her wrists were cut, and pain again shot through her body. A cold, wet towel was thrown on the floor in front of her.
“Clean yourself up,” said Alavi.
Khadi tried to grasp the towel but found she couldn’t control her fingers. Instead she lifted it between her wrists and wiped her face across it. The pain was intense, but with every swipe came renewed hope.
The rest of my life, he said. I think that means I’m going to live! I don’t know what just happened, but, God, if that was You—thank You! Thank You so much!
“That’s enough; it’s time,” Alavi said.
He snatched the towel from her hands and lifted her to her feet. She took one last look at Saifullah and was chilled to the bone at the pure evil that was in his smile. He nodded to her, then walked away.
Alavi tightly gripped her upper arm and pulled her forward. Stumbling, she followed him. The footsteps of the other three men echoed behind her. Turning to her right, she could see all the hostages watching her. Where is he? Where is he? There!
In the midst of all the bewildered and anguished faces, Alan Paine gave her an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. Then he pointed to the sky for a moment before reverting back to the thumb. Khadi wished she could say thank-you, wished she could tell him how he had saved her life last night—I’ll say it when I come back to get you, she promised silently.
She was nearing the front door when one of the terrorists pulled it open. It’s really true.
They’re letting me go. Oh, thank You, God!
Alavi released her with a push, and she stumbled into the light of a September afternoon. Reaching out to steady herself, she caught hold of the handrail. Free! I’m free! I can’t believe—
At the bottom of the stairs was Riley, shirtless, walking her way.
Confused questions flew through her mind. Did he do this? Was Riley the one who negotiated my release? Is he really my knight in shining armor? Why is he looking at me like that? She wanted to run to him, but her legs were still shaky. She took a tentative step, both hands glued to the rail.
Slowly he approached—one step at a time. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him not take stairs two steps per stride. Something’s wrong! This doesn’t feel right! Come on, Riley! Come and get me!
His hands slowly raised and locked behind his head. Two red dots danced on his chest. Why are they laser-sighting him? He’s unarmed—can’t they see that?
Their eyes locked, and what she saw sent terror into her heart. Nowhere was the joy, the relief that should have been there. Instead, what she saw was trepidation, determination, fear, sorrow.
But then, like a ray of sun cutting through a sky full of clouds, his face slipped into a soft smile, and that smile said it all. It was full of peace and love. The peace she knew was because of his faith in his God; the love was all for her.
It dawned on her what was happening. Her knees buckled, and she steadied herself with the handrail.
“Riley, what are you doing?” She said with a hoarse croak. “No! You can’t do this! I refuse! I won’t let you do this, Riley.”
But Riley just kept walking and held that same smile that said more than any volume of love poems ever could. He was just a few feet away now, and she reached out her hand to him. “No, Riley. Please, no!”
Her fingers landed on his stomach, and she dug her nails in, trying to stop him. But they just left red trails across his flesh until there was no more of him to hold on to. And all the while, his eyes never left hers until he was past.
She spun around in time to see him step into the cathedral.
The doors closed.
“No!” she cried out. “Riley, no!”
She tried to pull herself back up the stairs, back in the direction she had come, back to Riley so they could go to their deaths together like some twisted, modern Romeo and Juliet.
Suddenly, hands were on her, lifting her easily. In a brief moment, she was scooped up and held to her rescuer’s chest.
It was then she recognized Skeeter and knew the battle was over. Once in his arms, she never considered fighting him—never tried to talk him out of his destination. When Skeeter Dawkins had a plan in mind, it would get done.
Instead she wrapped her arms around Skeeter’s neck and began to cry.
Friday, September 16, 1:30 p.m. EDT
Gunmen grabbed Riley and roughly shoved him forward as soon as he walked in.
“I’m here, everyone,” he called out as he stumbled. “Captain America’s come to save the day!”
Something hard hit him squarely between the shoulders, dropping him to his knees. Riley turned to see a man in black holding his assault weapon butt first.
Create as much havoc as possible, he thought. Anything you can do to get everyone’s attention so that Scott and the guys can get into place.
“Why, Majid Alavi! As I live and breathe,” he said to the man who had hit him. Alavi pulled up short on his next blow. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I saw you on the surveillance cameras. I know all about you.”
He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “I hear your dad stunk rocks as a clothes salesman.”
Alavi launched at Riley, gun butt first. In a move he hadn’t used since his Air Force Special Ops training, Riley grabbed hold of the gun and pulled hard, yanking Alavi off balance. At the same time, he rocketed himself to his feet, driving his shoulder into Alavi’s chest. Just like he’d done against blocking sleds since he was twelve, he pushed the man backward until a pillar stopped their momentum. All of Alavi’s air rushed from his lungs.
Riley swung the terrorist in front of him, pulled the pistol that was in the man’s belt, and held it to his head.
“Stop where you are,” he yelled to the rapidly approaching gunmen. Alavi was gasping for breath, and the back of his head was bleeding. “Come any closer and stinker here gets popped.” Then to Alavi, he said, “And you really do stink. Do you guys ever bathe? You smell worse than a hockey goalie’s equipment bag.”
“Drop the weapon now!” said one of the gunmen.
Recognizing him, too, Riley said, “Forget it, Saliba. By the way, did you tell all your friends here about that girl you knocked up a few years back?”
Saliba made a rush toward Riley and Alavi. Riley fired a shot into the floor. It ricocheted off the tile and embedded itself who knew where. Saliba pulled up, but Alavi took the opportunity to try to pull away.
Riley cinched his hold around Alavi’s neck tighter and clocked him hard on the side of the head with the pistol.
“Wait a second, this is Khadi’s gun,” Riley said, giving him two more hits. Alavi was bleeding from four places on his head now.
As Riley looked around, every eye was on him—hostages and gunmen. Not one terrorist that he could see was watching out the windows or looking at the stairs. Freaking amateurs!
“Stop! No more,” said a new voice. Riley looked over and saw Saifullah walking toward him. He had an aura of smoldering rage about him, and Riley knew he was no one to underestimate. Walking just behind the imam was another gunman—Bazzi, I think. He was calmly leading Senator Lowell Martin, holding a pistol under the taller politician’s chin.
“Drop the gun, Mr. Covington, or Mr. Bazzi will kill the senator.”
Riley laughed. “What, like that’s a threat? Have you seen the crap that’s been coming out of Washington lately?”
“The time for joking is over,” Saifullah said, and Bazzi cocked the gun.
“Okay, okay,” Riley said. “Don’t get your ceremonial loincloth in a bunch.”
He shoved Alavi hard, and the terrorist sprawled out on the floor. “It’s just, I’ve got this thing about being touched,” he said, as he slid his gun away, “so if you could please just tell your boy here . . .”
He stopped talking when Saliba pulled a new weapon as he strode toward him. Riley looked down at his bare chest and saw a red dot.
“Not good,” Riley said, just before two prongs released from a Taser gun and embedded in his chest. His whole body clenched, and he dropped to the ground. He had been tasered before as part of his Special Ops training, but that had lasted only five seconds. This just rolled on and on as the electricity pulsed through his body.
As soon as the current stopped, the pain stopped. But his muscles were exhausted from the strain. Opening his eyes, he saw Majid Alavi standing over him.
He was holding a long metal rod.
Riley lifted his hands to protect his head. But that left the rest of his body exposed. The first five blows landed across his back, sending shocks of pain from his spine and kidneys. He rolled and tucked himself into a fetal position.
Help me, God! Help me! “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. . . .”
The first rod was joined by a second and then a third. Blow after blow fell on him—bruising ribs until they cracked; crushing the knuckles on his fingers as they tried to protect his head; breaking joints as ankles, knees, elbows, and shoulders were targeted.
“He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul. . . .”
Riley’s battered fingers gave way, and the blows began landing on his unprotected skull. Each crack seemed to knock him momentarily outside himself, before the pain snapped him back into reality.
He walks . . . He walks me beside . . . the valley of shadows. . . . He guides me . . . in my enemies . . . I will not fear . . . I will not fear . . . I will not fear . . .
“Enough!” a voice called out. A stillness like the eye of a hurricane descended on the scene. But even though the rods had stopped landing, phantom blows kept raining down on Riley’s body as his nerves and brain danced, trying to process what had just happened.
Eventually, the contortions stopped, but the pain didn’t. It was like nothing Riley had ever felt before, and it made him scared to even breathe in. Then fingers grabbed his ear, twisting it and lifting his head up from the tile. Riley fought down a scream.
“My father is a great man,” Alavi said.
Riley tried to smile, but his face instead contorted in something that was very much not smile-like. “That’s . . . what . . . Saliba’s mother . . . said.” The semilaughish convulsion his body made sent blood and spit shooting out his nose and mouth.
Alavi threw Riley’s head down onto the tile.
“I said enough! We are scheduled to go live in six minutes,” Saifullah said. “I don’t want to be delayed by having to wait for him to regain consciousness. Bring him.”
Friday, September 16, 1:30 p.m. EDT
Scott watched Riley entering the cathedral. The small handheld monitor didn’t give the cleanest of pictures, but it was clear enough for Scott to know that his friend was in trouble. Two of the terrorist foot soldiers were stationed on either side of the door, and Majid Alavi was waiting for him. Scott’s foot tapped nervously, and his forehead beaded with sweat. The rest of SOG Bravo ops—Skeeter, Gilly Posada, Ted Hummel, Kim Li, Matt Logan, Steve Kasay, and Carlos Guitiérrez—watched on a monitor set into a tech bay in their deployment van.
“Careful, buddy,” Li said.
“Get ready, boys. Let’s see just how much of a stink Pach can raise,” Scott said.
Everything depended on how much of a distraction Riley could make. He was going to have to make a spectacle of himself, and he was going to have to suffer the consequences.
Scott still hated the plan, but Riley had made sure it was a fait accompli with Saifullah—and it did get Khadi out. But the whole premise was just so wrong. The chances of everything falling exactly into place and Riley walking out of that cathedral alive were less than one in ten. In other words, Riley was walking into a death trap.
Inside Threat Page 27