The Blood of Patriots

by William W. Johnstone

  Someone had fired from within the terminal. Ward poked his head in.

  Pilar Ireland.

  The woman was standing just inside the door of a restroom on Ward’s side of the corridor. She had gone there, as instructed, and waited for the passenger Ward suspected was coming.

  Ward jumped back inside the terminal. Shatri was on the ground, gripping his side, just below the waist. The assault rifle lay several feet away. The man with the briefcase was still standing. He had turned in the direction from which the shots had come. He didn’t raise the handgun.

  Ward could pretty much figure out why. The Muslim was planning on getting something out of this mission—either killing the woman or trying to open the container, poison the terminal, kill Americans.

  Ward was betting he’d opt for the cesium-137. Unlike the Israeli Mossad, terrorists didn’t take revenge against people. They lashed out blindly at crowds. To them, it was a numbers game.

  The man said something in Arabic. It sounded conciliatory. Maybe he didn’t understand English. Maybe he was trying to bargain, buy time. It didn’t matter. The assault rifle was the modern Esperanto: everyone understood it. Ward approached, the barrel aimed at the Muslim.

  “Drop the gun and put the case down!” he said.

  The Muslim nodded, dropped the gun. He knelt slowly and lay the case before him, as if he were surrendering.

  Suddenly, the terrorist’s spindly fingers shot out and popped the latches.

  Ward fired.

  The man died with Allah Akbar on his lips and his heart exploding through his back. He slumped sideways, twitching.

  “I got screwed by one Muslim with a briefcase,” Ward said. “Never again.”

  The detective continued toward Shatri. The man was lying between the case and his gun.

  Ward kicked the gun away and moved the case several feet away with a toe. Ireland ran to Ward’s side.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  The woman nodded once. Ward noticed her pale face and drooping mouth. She was anything but fine. He was guessing she’d never had to shoot anyone before, had probably put in the job-minimum requirement on the firing range.

  “You did good,” he assured her.

  She nodded again.

  “Thing’s got a surprising kick, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her voice trembling. “Yeah, it does.”

  He took the weapon from her and smiled. “Raise your hands and go to the front door,” he said. “We don’t want anyone shooting you by mistake. Tell the state patrol where we are, that we have wounded and a sealed radiological device, and that the situation has been contained.”

  She nodded once more, then turned, lifted her hands shoulder high, and set off. Her arms were shaking. Ward watched for a moment to make sure she didn’t fall over, but he never let the Muslim out of his peripheral vision. When he was sure Ireland was all right, the detective turned back to the wounded man.

  “See her? That’s what you’re facing, little man,” Ward said. “Not pretend Americans like you but real ones. Americans who will do whatever it takes to preserve the Republic, even if it’s personally distasteful.”

  “We will ... overwhelm ... you ...” the wounded man said through his teeth.

  Ward sneered. “Punk, build all the mosques you want. Truth is, you haven’t got a prayer.”

  Ward heard the clap of footsteps running toward them from the main terminal. He lowered his weapon and lifted his hands as a phalanx of state police surrounded them. Chief Brennan was among them. She smiled broadly when she saw Ward.

  “I had a feeling you wouldn’t need the cavalry,” she said, motioning the police to move on, that he was all right. The state commander acknowledged then indicated how the men were to disperse as they approached the gate.

  “The radiological material’s in that case,” Ward told the officer before he had moved on.

  The lieutenant reported the information into his radio as he moved in with his men, after taking a moment to fire a salute at Ward.

  “There were other passengers on the private jet,” Ward told Brennan. “Better question them.”

  “They should be okay. We checked them out with the jet lessee. They were all businessmen, legitimate ones as far as we can tell.” She indicated the dead man. “This guy was the only one attached to the Chicago crowd.”

  “I was right,” Ward said. “That was the target.”

  “Appears so,” Brennan said. She looked down at Shatri, who was curled like a fetus and moaning. “The EMTs are looking after our people. They’ll get to you eventually.”

  “You’re all ... going ... to die.”

  “We can finally agree on something,” she replied. “But it won’t be now and not by your hand.”

  More police arrived along with EMTs. Shatri was cuffed and a trooper stood over him with a gun pointed at his head before the medics were allowed to approach.

  “Hey, this man needs attention,” Brennan said, noticing Ward’s leg.

  “It’ll keep,” he assured her. “I don’t want this guy bleeding to death until we can talk to him.” Ward took one last look at Shatri’s pained but unrepentant face. “Lord God, I hope I’m in on the interrogation.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be happening,” Brennan said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “No, I mean—someone’s been looking for you.”

  He looked at her. “Who?”

  “Guys from New York,” she replied. “Your phone’s probably dead. They said they left messages, then tracked you to me through your ex-wife.”

  “Did they say what they wanted?”

  She smiled. “Yes. And I have a feeling you’re about to break this police chief’s heart.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Brennan was right: his phone was dead. It was not just dead, it was crushed from one of the falls or slams or jumps he had made.

  The police chief held off the state patrol commander from questioning Ward until he could call his voice mail. He did that from Director Ireland’s office.

  The message was from Lee McClure, one of his Organized Crime Control Bureau brothers. Like McClure, the message was short and direct:

  “Boss, we found video from skateboarders who were taping their Tony Hawk moves. We’ve got clear images showing you barely touched the guy. IA has given the footage to the commissioner. It was on the news. The Muslim has disappeared. Welcome back.”

  Ward sat with the phone pressed to his ear. His body was near exhaustion and the firefight was still singing loudly inside his head. But he knew he would never forget the words, the tone, or the soul-stirring impact of McClure’s message. He realized that without the coalition, the brotherhood that was at the heart of him and his work, he would not be going home. Without it, he could never have stitched together the coalition of Americans who had saved countless lives today. Yes, at a price—the price freedom seems to demand from time to time.

  Numb in mind and body but full in spirit, he took a moment to call Joanne’s cell phone. She answered at once.

  “John, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “How are you and Megan?”

  “Fine,” she said. “When I heard the news flash about the airport, I knew.” For the first time in a long time her voice didn’t sound critical. She almost seemed relieved.

  “I want to come and see you once this is all buttoned up,” he said.

  “You can’t, John. I mean, you can—but we’re in Utah.”

  “Utah? The state?”

  “Yes, John. The state.”

  “Sorry, I’m a little tired and that was kind of a surprise. What’s there?”

  “Hunter’s parents. We decided to take Megan out of Basalt until this was over.”

  He exhaled. His chest hurt. His ribs were still not fully healed and he hadn’t done them any good today. “Good move. Smart. Can I talk to her?”

  “She and Hunter’s folks just went north, to Dinosaur National Monum
ent. Meg’s teachers are letting her do a video report as part of her schoolwork. I didn’t know what was happening with you—I didn’t want her sitting around watching the news.”

  Ward laughed thinly. “That’s great. ‘Daddy may be dead—let’s check out the pterodactyls.’”

  “Not fair,” she said. “She was very upset.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand you need to get back to New York,” Joanne said.

  “Seems so.”

  “The man who called, McClure, said they knew you were innocent. I guess I should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “It’s okay. It worked out.”

  Guilt free, maybe, he thought. But innocent?

  He wondered if anyone in this jihad-poisoned world could ever be innocent again. Even young girls like his daughter, provincial girls like Angie, would never feel safe and secure in their own heartland community. To him, that was a greater tragedy than what almost happened here today. A systemic, corrosive plague instead of a one-time punch that could be absorbed.

  “Tell Megan I’ll come and see her when I can,” Ward said.

  “She’s been wanting to come back and visit you,” his former wife said. “Maybe during spring break?”

  “Great. I’ll try not to get into trouble in April,” he promised.

  “Cute,” Joanne said.

  The door opened and a state patrol face peered in. Ward said his good-byes and hung up the phone and stood to face one Colonel Luke Dallas.

  “Is every member of the CSP six-foot-four and built like a linebacker?” Ward asked.

  “Pretty much,” the fiftysomething officer replied. His mouth was lost in his square jaw, but his gray eyes seemed to smile. “I just want you to know that as he was being loaded into an ambulance, Major Crockett made a point of asking me to thank you.”

  “He and his team did all the heavy lifting,” Ward said.

  “Detective, I’m told we also have a grip like a bench vise. Care to find out?” He offered a monster of a paw and this: “It’s an honor, sir.”

  Ward shook his hand and it got to him. Everything that had happened, the courage and unity he had seen, ordinary men and police standing elbow-to-elbow to defend their community. He tried to say something but the words snagged in his throat. He thought it instead:

  The honor, sir, is mine.

  EPILOGUE

  It was a short visit, only a day and change, but it was all Scott Randolph could spare. He had a business to rebuild back in Basalt.

  But it was a welcome reunion, and the pig farmer had never been to New York. It wasn’t nearly as intimidating as he had expected. His late, beloved pigs were louder, sometimes, than the traffic, and the mountains made the buildings look like foothills. What impressed him more was how so many people, all so different, all moving hip-to-hip, got along so well. It was a lesson for the world, he thought.

  John Ward had been back a week and on the job for just two days, so he didn’t have a lot of time to spend with the man he referred to as his “war buddy.” It was an apt description. The events had made the news and the showdowns at the mountain training camp and the Aspen airport had been described as “pitched battles.” Ward had declined interviews—he had his job back and didn’t want to say anything to undo that—but Police Chief Brennan, Angie Dickson, Scott Randolph and others had finally given up trying to find another way of saying “hero.”

  “That’s what John Ward is,” the police chief told Fox News. “He’s a bonafide American hero. How else do you describe someone who saved a major American city from a dirty bomb?”

  To Ward’s surprise, that city was not Chicago. Documents on the dead jetsetter showed that his final destination was Albuquerque, New Mexico. After his arrest, Mahnoosh Fawaz had confirmed that to Homeland Security. The idea was to cause chaos in a border state so that other illegal sympathizers could make their way into the United States—some of them with additional radiological material from the former Soviet Union.

  Fawaz had not been a radical sympathizer, he swore, and was cooperating to prove it, he said. He had been in this to build dry cleaning shops across America and become a wealthy capitalist.

  No one believed him. But the information he provided proved accurate. As a result, he and his wife were the only Muslims who were not charged with terrorism, aiding terrorism, weapons charges, and money laundering. They ended up in witness protection—somewhere in Mississippi. Ward wondered how long they would survive there.

  Earl Dickson was not so lucky. Though he accepted a plea deal to cooperate with authorities, he still faced a minimum five years of jail time. Ward’s testimony on his behalf would ensure that the banker would get that minimum as well as a reduced sentence for good behavior. He seemed grateful for that, and for his wife and daughter being kept out of it.

  Over drinks the day he arrived, Randolph also assured Ward that Angie and also Deb were doing all right. Before leaving for his New York hearing and reinstatement, Ward only had time to thank the airport team and the training camp posse. Sleep, the media, and the signing of statements and police reports consumed the rest of the twenty-four hours he had left, and made alone-time impossible. Also, he didn’t want his presence to draw undue attention to the women. They needed alone-time to recover.

  “They’ll be okay,” Randolph promised. “Both got some steel in ’em, like those pioneers who cut their way through the mountains. That’s how we grow ’em out in the shadow of the Rockies.”

  But none of that was the reason for Scott Randolph’s visit. It was all about the early evening on the night of his departure.

  Before flying east, the pig farmer had spent a day in his cabin on the Internet, doing research and making connections through mercenary Web sites. He finally found the name he was looking for, got a contact number, and after sunset he was waiting in the alley to pick up his .375 Magnum from Alexander Cherkassov. Police Chief Brennan had loaned him some of the Muslim cash from the evidence locker to make the purchase. And she gave him one thing more from her own personal stash.

  Now the pig farmer was standing in an alley admiring a Thunderstorm pistol, a favorite of the Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces.

  “Nice,” Randolph said as he felt the weight of the handgun in his gloved hand. “How much?”

  “Five thousand cash,” the Russian told him. He was facing the street so he could look back whenever he heard a car go by.

  “Rubles?” Randolph joked.

  “Dollars,” Cherkassov said humorlessly.

  “I wanted a silencer as well,” Randolph said.

  “Another two thousand.”

  Randolph handed him the gun then reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and removed a wad of cash. He quickly counted out seventy one-hundred-dollar bills and handed it to the Russian. The Russian gave him the weapon.

  “How do you put it on?” Randolph asked.

  The Russian turned away. “I do not have time—”

  “Another five hundred,” Randolph said.

  The Russian hesitated, turned back, then held out his hand. Randolph counted out five more bills. Cherkassov screwed in the suppressor, handed the weapon to Randolph. “That’s all you needed to do,” he grinned. “Easiest money I—”

  “The last money,” Randolph said and shot him through the heart with the bullet he’d loaded while the Russian’s back was turned. The bullet he’d borrowed from Chief Brennan and kept in his heel. A heel that did not go through security because Brennan took him to the airport and walked them around the metal detector.

  The Russian’s chest caved in and he dropped like a deflating used car lot balloon. Randolph dropped the gun on his chest and took the cash from the Russian’s pocket. He pulled off a glove, licked a finger, held it under the Russian’s nose.

  “That’s how I tell if pigs is dead,” he said.

  There was nothing.

  Randolph stood and walked briskly from the dark alley. He didn’t know if Ward would ma
ke the connection for sure; it didn’t matter.

  This is Basalt’s way of thanking you for everything you gave us, he thought as he picked up his carry-on, hailed a cab, and headed for the airport.

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2012 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3010-1