by Peter Telep
LaPorte took a more violent gulp of beer and reminded himself that there were other jihadis who would better appreciate him. He would join them, and together they would continue the Brotherhood’s work. Controlling the United States was even more important than supporting the mullahs of Iran or destroying Israel, he had learned. Doing so would have a huge and positive impact on the future of Islam. The most effective way to accomplish that goal was for American Muslims to infiltrate, undermine, and ultimately seize control of the government. With the United States under Sharia law, Islam’s enemies would finally be defeated. Between America’s assets and its new found spiritual truth, God’s Kingdom on earth would be established forever. Corruption, greed, lust, and materialism would no longer ruin people’s lives. LaPorte would find a wife, settle down, have some children, and raise them in a country that was no longer a wasteland. He would never abandon them for pleasures of the flesh.
Another of the prepaid cell phones rang. He considered not answering, but then he snatched up the phone and recognized the number. “Randy? It’s Kyle.”
LaPorte had trouble masking his suspicious tone. “What’s up, dude?”
“I think something bad’s happening.”
“What do you mean, something bad?”
“Artie just called me. He said the cops want to interview me again tomorrow. I think they’ve been watching me. Remember that guy who came into the shop, the one who was looking for you? He might’ve been a cop.”
LaPorte tensed. “I told you he’s not a cop. You know what to say.”
“Hey, I’m worried, man. They’re going to work me over good. I don’t know what you’re doing—dealing drugs, whatever, I don’t care. But we need to talk.”
“You mean you want more money.”
“Dude, you know I do. I could go to jail. Remember my cousin’s house in Murrayville?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you meet me there? Wait outside.”
“You think your cousin would let me crash for a few days?”
“Hell, yeah, dude, no worries. Just throw him a few bucks. It’s late, though, so just wait outside until I get there.”
“How long will you be?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“All right, on my way.”
LaPorte thumbed off the phone and made a hard U-turn, heading back to Murrayville. He could be there in five.
* * *
Johnny lowered the .45 from Kyle’s forehead.
The scrawny kid thumbed off his phone.
“Now you call your cousin. You tell him LaPorte is heading over there. You tell him to stay inside. Got it?”
Kyle swallowed and dialed the number.
They were inside the kid’s one-bedroom apartment, where their ever gracious host was seated at a table that had not been wiped off since spring break the previous year. Kyle had obviously been studying interior design with Ashur Bandar, and the place reeked of mold and something remotely stale. In the living room, piled before a 42” flat screen seated atop a buckling console, were hundreds of video games, with even more strewn across the glass coffee table and on the floor beside the sofa. The sink hole in the middle of that sofa was a broadening testament to Kyle’s addiction.
Just as the kid hung up with his cousin, Willie came out of the bedroom holding Kyle’s rifle, shotgun, and two cases containing his pistols. “Some nice toys you got here, son.”
“You look familiar.”
“3-Gun at Ant Hill,” Willie said. “Good to see you, too.”
Entering the apartment had been rudimentary. They had rung the doorbell, then had followed with a nervous knock. Johnny called out, “Kyle, dude, come on. Let me in!”
With glazed eyes and hair jutting at unwashed angles like the undead, Kyle had opened the door. Johnny had the kid’s neck in his hands before either could take another breath. They spent five minutes interrogating Kyle, who remained arrogant in the face of four menacing Marines. Even Johnny’s pistol did little to temper the boy’s sarcasm. Maybe he thought this was all part of a video game. Johnny groaned and thought, kids these days...
Kyle argued that LaPorte had dragged him into everything. While LaPorte never admitted to ripping off Reliance, he had the access to the warehouse and the opportunity. Kyle assumed he was dealing drugs, and LaPorte had hired him as a spotter, keeping tabs on the customers coming into the shop. That’s all Kyle knew. LaPorte had already paid him two grand for his services, and he had warned Kyle to keep his mouth shut.
“Nothing else here,” said Corey, coming out of the bedroom. They were searching for anything that indicated Kyle was a jihadi.
“Wasn’t jack in the closet,” added Josh.
“What’re you looking for?” asked Kyle.
Johnny ignored the question. “I’ll take that phone. And the keys to your truck.”
“You’re stealing my ride?”
“Borrowing. Let’s go.”
Willie handed off the kid’s weapons to Josh and Corey.
“I’ll expect my guns back,” said Kyle.
“You hear this kid?” asked Willie. “We’ll hang on to them for now.” He crossed to one of the video game controllers and tore free a piece of wire. He bound Kyle’s wrists behind his back. The kid stood there, his collar bones protruding from beneath his t-shirt.
“This is totally illegal,” Kyle said, flinching as Willie tightened the cord.
Corey snorted. “You mean like aiding and abetting a terrorist?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Is LaPorte a Muslim?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t know. Who are you guys? Homeland Security?”
For the first time since they had entered his apartment, young Mr. Jessup sounded scared. It was about time. A sense of pleading came into his eyes, and his voice sounded like a broken clarinet. “Am I really in serious trouble?”
“Have you thought about converting to Islam?” Josh asked.
“Allahu Akbar,” Corey said, wriggling his brows.
“You think I’m a terrorist? That’s insane. Go look at the paper targets in my closet! I got pictures of ragheads on them!”
“Oh my god, he’s a racist,” said Willie.
“Look here, you do what we say, and you walk away,” Johnny said. “Nobody knows about anything. We don’t want you. We want your buddy.”
“He’s yours.”
Willie grinned crookedly at the others. “He’s not much on loyalty, either.”
They escorted Kyle outside, where he protested about the cold and how he should be wearing his hoodie. His arms were covered in gooseflesh.
“It’s even colder at the morgue,” Willie quipped.
They locked up Kyle’s guns inside Willie’s SUV. Then they shoved the scarecrow into his crew cab Tacoma. Willie and Corey would drive Kyle’s ride, leaving Willie’s SUV behind. Johnny and Josh had taken their motorcycles, and the group headed off in three different directions to challenge any spotters watching Johnny’s house. To the best of their knowledge none of them had picked up a tail, but they would remain vigilant.
As Johnny cruised down the highway, with the 2007 Ultra Classic purring between his legs, he considered shooting LaPorte a few times before questioning him. One in the arm, one in the leg, just to let him know they were serious. As he shivered over that, he realized he had made another mistake. He should have asked Kyle to better describe LaPorte. The photo Johnny had was a portrait from the shoulders up.
For a second, Johnny squinted through the darkness, past the road and into the main foyer of his brother’s house, where the man with the balaclava was just turning a corner. He wore dark clothes and a backpack hung from his shoulders. He was taller than Daniel, at least six feet, two inches, and more broad-shouldered. Kyle was about the same height but much too lean; however, LaPorte could be their man. A punk college kid might have taken his brother’s life. That seemed awfully pathetic.
Johnny’s breath shortened. They were close. He could ba
rely contain himself. Josh rolled up on his imposing sport bike, a Triumph Daytona 955i with geometry borrowed from the aerodynamic machines of some science fiction film. He nodded.
Just ahead, Willie turned off the highway. After backing off the throttle, Johnny squeezed the clutch lever and downshifted. They followed Willie into a neighborhood of mostly ranches set far back on their property lines and roosting like quail beneath dense clusters of longleaf pines and southern red oaks. There were no sidewalks, only a narrow strip of cracked chip seal leading into even more dense sections of canopy paralleled by tall fences of pampas grass. The occasional street lamp left hazy puddles on the road, and the occupations of some residents were readily apparent, as they parked their landscaping trucks or work vans with business magnets along the grassy shoulder.
Willie’s brake lights flashed, and Johnny held his breath. He was downrange again, experiencing that strange mixture of intoxication... and dread.
Chapter Nineteen
“You know what the problem with you boys is? You give the jihadis a clean shot at your heads—because you’re too busy covering your asses.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
Willie pulled to the curb and thought, okay, now we’ll be charged with kidnapping. So there it is. If you’re going to do something stupid...
“It’s right around the corner on Ferndale,” Kyle said. “Thirty-one-twenty. Two bedroom house with a detached garage out back.”
“You’re being a lot more cooperative,” said Corey. “We like your new attitude.”
“I’m thrilled to be here,” Kyle said.
Corey snickered. “I spoke too soon.”
“What does Randy drive?” asked Willie.
“Dodge Ram pickup,” answered Kyle. “It’s white. He’s got big mud tires.”
Johnny and Josh ran up alongside the truck. Willie gave them the address and a description of LaPorte’s truck. “You got a warning order, boss?”
“I’m thinking about it,” answered Johnny. “We’ll get some eyes on him first.” He glanced over Willie’s shoulder, toward Kyle. “How tall is your buddy?”
“I don’t know. Five-eight?”
“So he’s not taller than you?”
“No, pretty short guy.”
Johnny looked disappointed. “All right. Be right back.”
As they took off running, Willie faced Kyle. “I took another look at your scores at Ant Hill. They weren’t too bad.”
“What do you care?”
“You work for some good people. And you might have some talent. Be a shame to throw away your life on something like this.”
“You think you’re a badass because you win over there, huh?”
Willie frowned. “I win because I practice. And because I love it. The day you brag is the day you lose.”
“I would crush you in any video game, you name it.”
“Did you not hear what I said?”
“Any game, dude.”
Willie chuckled under his breath. “A video game? Really? Son, there was a night back in Fallujah. I wish you could have been there.”
* * *
Ferndale was even narrower than the perimeter streets, and that worked to their advantage. Johnny led Josh around the corner, and they sprinted from tree to tree, moving in toward the home from the east, searching for the nearest covered and concealed position. The idling pickup was parked about six doors down, with gray exhaust rising from its tailgate.
While Johnny felt his age, he was back in his element, selecting the next tree and bridging the gap like a wraith in jeans and leather biker’s jacket. Still, the cold air bit hard at his lungs, and he needed extra time to recover between each tree. Sitting behind a damned desk and doing paperwork had taken its toll on his fitness. They drew within two doors of the house, then crouched behind a broad trunk, their boots slipping across the pine needles, their shoulders brushing against the scaly bark.
“We could try to take him right now,” Johnny said breathlessly.
“It’ll be real loud if he takes off and we need to fire,” Josh pointed out, gasping and red-faced himself.
“You’re right. We need to get him out of the truck.”
Josh pulled up a map of the neighborhood on his smartphone. “Check it out. Willie comes right up the block, then cuts in front of his car, boxing him in. We roll in from the north, around the corner. If he realizes he’s boxed in, he might surrender.”
“If Willie cuts him off, he’ll know something’s up. Let’s have Willie roll up behind him. Maybe he’ll get out. Then we got him.”
“Sounds a little more risky.”
“Yeah, but if he doesn’t get out of that truck—”
“I know, but if Willie drives up behind him—”
“There’s a chance he’ll see Kyle’s not driving the truck,” Johnny concluded. “I got you. So let’s do this.”
Johnny shared his plan with Josh, who mulled it over for a moment. He finally nodded and said, “One more thing. What if he’s armed? Are we willing to get into a gunfight? Wake up all the neighbors? Leave behind evidence? Maybe get shot ourselves?”
Johnny swore under his breath. “I’m asking too much of you guys already. I’ll go in alone. You just back me up.”
“Look, I’m just bringing it up. We’ll assume he’s armed. Ain’t no other way around it. Maybe Willie can get a bead on him before he makes a move.”
“Roger that.” Johnny tipped his head in the direction they had come, and they slipped away, returning to the truck a few minutes later. They went over the plan with Willie and Corey, who agreed that getting LaPorte out of his vehicle was their number once concern. Kyle would lie across the backseat, out of view. The threat of gunfire was ample persuasion for him. Corey would keep low in the passenger’s seat, armed with a P226 9mm pistol. Willie had his Glock 34 in his strong hand, his weak one on the wheel.
“Call me when you get over there,” said Willie.
Johnny nodded, and he and Josh mounted their bikes, fired them up, and rolled off, taking a perimeter road around the neighborhood to come in from the opposite direction. They kept far enough away so that their engines were only a faint drone at LaPorte’s location. Josh was watching his GPS as they reached the corner, then pulled over to the curb. With his heart triphammering in his chest, Johnny called Willie and said, “Good to go. Let’s do it.”
“On our way,” said Willie.
“All right,” Johnny said. “Stay on the line.”
* * *
LaPorte sighed with relief as headlights flared in his rearview mirror. What the hell had taken Kyle so long? The Tacoma raced by and parked in front of his truck. LaPorte was about to roll the key and shut down the engine when he looked up and stopped. Although the Tacoma’s rear window was tinted, he could still discern the driver’s silhouette, the head extending beyond the padded headrest. That head appeared much larger than Kyle’s. Maybe LaPorte was just seeing things, the beer blurring his vision, the stress turning to paranoia.
He reached for his prepaid cell and dialed Kyle’s number.
Why wasn’t he getting out?
* * *
Corey looked down at the ringing phone in his lap. “It’s him,” he told Willie. “What do we do?”
“Let him answer it,” Willie said, gesturing to Kyle.
Biting his lip, Corey reached back, thumbed the phone to answer, then held it to Kyle’s mouth and ear. Corey mouthed the words Tell him to get out!
“Randy, hey, yeah dude, I’m here. I was just calling my cousin to wake him up first. Don’t want to be rude. Come on.”
Corey thumbed off the phone and motioned for Willie to open the driver’s side door, as if Kyle were getting out. Willie did but held back.
“Damn, he’s not getting out,” said Willie. “He’s waiting for us first.”
Corey glared at Kyle. “What did you tell him?”
“You heard what I said!”
“Did you tip him off?”
>
“No. You heard it!”
“What’s going on, Willie?” Johnny asked from the phone.
“Hang on,” Willie told him.
* * *
LaPorte caught a glimpse of the gloved hand that had opened the door. A large hand exposed below the arm of a light brown winter jacket, probably a Carhartt similar to the one LaPorte was wearing.
The only trouble was, Kyle always wore hoodies, sometimes two at a time against the cold. He didn’t like Carhartt jackets and was not a leather man, either. Sweatshirts, hoodies, no matter the weather.
So that was not him. And this... this was a police set up, and LaPorte had driven right into it like a fat bastard trying to pull off a real estate scam. He threw the truck in gear, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and rolled the wheel, racing past the Tacoma. He checked his rearview mirror as the truck fishtailed and tires screeched across the rutted road.
* * *
“Sorry, Johnny, he took off,” hollered Willie. “He’s on the move, heading your way!”
Were this Iraq or Afghanistan, Johnny would have ordered his men to shoot out the tires of LaPorte’s truck, end of story. But now they had to apprehend their boy swiftly and silently, without leaving behind rounds in rubber tires or brass casings on the side of the road. How far was LaPorte willing to run? Or more importantly, how much gas did he have?
The punk came roaring around the corner as though he were competing in a monster truck show, the Ram a second away from rolling over. Johnny and Josh peeled off from the curb, just as LaPorte crushed their ghosts. They were in front of him now, the beams from his headlights bouncing across their path.
Josh broke left, riding along the shoulder, and Johnny darted in front of him—just as LaPorte veered across the road, forcing them toward a stand of trees. Josh braked hard, and Johnny nearly hit him before sliding out on his back wheel. They dropped behind the truck as those enormous mud tires spat gravel across their faceplates.