Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  Chapter 32

  Sunday, January 25

  Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office

  Los Angeles, California

  Jim Hicks wondered if he had made the right decision. Riley’s cough hadn’t been too bad the day after they left the hospital in Germany. However, since then, it had steadily gotten worse. He knew it was distracting Khadi from her job. And Skeeter was inseparable from the man.

  When Hicks had gone into the men’s restroom a few hours ago, Skeeter had been sitting up on the sink area. Instinctively, Hicks had looked toward the stalls, and sure enough, under the third door were Riley’s ever-present Merrell nubuck mocs.

  “Hey, Riley,” Hicks had greeted him.

  “Jim, make him go away,” Riley pleaded.

  Hicks looked at Skeeter, who defiantly looked back. “Sorry, man, you’re on your own. I don’t fight battles I can’t win.”

  The recollection made Hicks smile. He knew that he had made the only decision he could make regarding Riley, who was the one man he’d ever met whose stubbornness could come close to matching his own. As he glanced over at him, Hicks’s eye caught Khadi’s. She was sitting at the workstation across from Riley. She glared at him and turned back to her computer screen.

  Hicks wondered if Khadi might need to be pulled off the team. She was excellent at what she did, but she seemed to have lost all objectivity where Riley Covington was concerned. But she’s too good an agent, and she has way too good a head on her shoulders to let her personal feelings get in the way of the overall objective, he thought. Still . . .

  That final still weighed heavily on his mind.

  The crack of a can opening caught his attention. Hicks looked over in time to see Scott pouring a soda into a large plastic Dodgers cup as he walked over to Hicks’s desk.

  Scott snapped the cup’s lid back on. As he was about to speak, a deep, throaty cough echoed through the room. He nodded toward Riley and asked Hicks, “How’s he doing?”

  “About the way he sounds. I figure he’ll end up either better, in the hospital, or dead. Any way you look at it, I think the decision’s out of my hands.”

  “What about next Sunday?”

  “Obviously, if he’s coughing like that, there’s no chance of him being on the PFL Cup ops team. But even so, we’d probably be able use him as Mother, coordinating the action.”

  Suddenly Riley looked up from his computer and spotted the two men watching him. He gave a small smile and a nod of his head as if he knew what their discussion had been about and agreed with their conclusions. Then he went back to work.

  “And I thought you were a hard guy to figure out,” Hicks said to Scott.

  “True that,” Scott replied.

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, sorry. I just got off a conference call with my little cadre of postmodern Gen Xers back in the Room of Understanding. Sometimes it rubs off. But that does remind me of why I came here. Virgil Hernandez came across a murder in East L.A. Guy’s name was Valentín Joaquín de Herrera. Now, you’re probably thinking, Mexican guy turning up dead in East L.A.? Not that unusual. True, except this guy had a rep as a coyote. A coyote’s one of the dudes who escorts folks across the border.”

  “I’m familiar with the term. Go on.”

  Scott took a long pull on his straw. Now that he was back in the States where he could add the Diet Mountain Dew Code Red to his Yoo-hoo, he was in sugary, caffeine heaven. This was his fifth 32-ounce drink today—the fifth that Hicks knew about, anyway—and it was only 3:30 p.m.

  Scott stifled a cherry-chocolate belch and proceeded. “So, this guy gets taken out with one .40 cal shot to the forehead. Still not that unusual. But apparently this guy used to have a partner, Fabián Ramón Guerrero. Unfortunately for Señor Fabián, he was discovered out in the deserts of Chihuahua a few days after the Platte River attack. They pulled two slugs from his body—both .40 cal. I’ve got Tara trying to get those bullets from the Mexican authorities so we can run comparison ballistics on them.”

  Hicks put up his hand to stop Scott’s monologue. “Wait, something doesn’t make sense. If you’re going to say Hakeem did this, then how does he get the same gun to Italy and back again?”

  “Patience, Jedi master, patience. Now, Valentín spent the last four weeks or so down in Mexico City. Word is he was throwing around cash like it grew on cactuses . . . or is it cacti . . . ? cactis . . . ? cactoose . . . ?”

  “Scott!”

  “Okay, okay. He was throwing around money like it grew on spiky desert plants. Also, he had a gun he was showing off that he said belonged to someone else, which I guess he was holding for someone, and anyway, it was a small silver gun and it had the words 40 Tactical printed on its side, and apparently he said the guy it belonged to had promised him another fifty grand and all he had to do was get him safely back across the border again.” Scott stopped to take a deep breath. “Sorry, run-on sentence. So, Valentín’s got a gun. Any guesses at what this mystery gun owner’s name was?”

  Hicks, who hated guessing games of any kind, just stared at Scott.

  Scott made a buzzing sound. “Nice try. Valentín was telling everyone that the gun belonged to a bad man, a ruthless desperado, un hombre malvado—”

  Hicks slammed his hand on the desk.

  “—a really naughty guy code-named . . . the Cheetah.”

  Sunday, January 25

  El Espejo Road

  La Mirada, California

  Her face was perfect. Round with the slightest pudge to her cheeks. Her eyes were almond shaped with heavy brows. That little nose of hers was still trying to figure out what it was going to do and in the meantime just sat softly above her small mouth. How has she changed in the past month? Hakeem wondered. Gently, he traced her outline on the small picture with his index finger.

  My sweet Aly . . . beautiful little Alessandra. What will your life be like without me? You are my sole regret in this whole affair. The things that you’ll hear about me will not be kind. If only you could understand why I’m doing what I’m doing. Hakeem lifted his finger from the picture and wiped away a single tear that had slipped down to his recently dyed blond beard. This is not an irrational act. I am not crazy. Your grandmother and grandfather were murdered by the American government. Your great-uncle was killed by an act of terror. I’m doing this for their sake—to restore their honor. To restore my honor.

  Hakeem unfolded the picture so that Meg could be seen holding Alessandra on her left hip.

  Your mother is a good woman. She didn’t deserve the hand I dealt her. I trust her to find a good man who can raise you—a man who has not been burdened by fate the way that I have. But even though he might love you and provide a roof over your head, he will never be your father. And no matter what name he gives you, that will not be who you truly are. Because, sweet Aly, you are not a Smith or a Jones or an Anderson or even a Ricci—you are a Qasim! And what I do is not for my ancestors alone but for you! I do this to give you a better life apart from the tyranny of this evil government.

  He refolded the picture, kissed the image of his daughter, and slipped the snapshot back under the insole of his shoe. He had not brought out the picture at all during the first three weeks following his escape from his former life. But now this monologue to his daughter was becoming a daily ritual. He tried to analyze where his compulsion to speak to her was coming from. All he could figure was that the reality that he would die in one week’s time was affecting his mind a bit.

  This status of “dead man walking” was not what he had expected it to be. He had always thought it would be a period of one more times. He had expected that there would be foods he would want to enjoy one more time, that he would want to experience every sunrise and sunset, that he would want to experience a woman once more this side of paradise. But the reality was that the family he was staying with had to constantly encourage him to eat, and it was hard for him to summon the motivation even to leave his room. He found himself thinkin
g often of Meg and still felt that any physical relationship with another woman would be a betrayal.

  The other person that he thought of often was Riley Covington. Why he felt guilt at leaving his former friend in the hands of his compatriots escaped him. It was Riley’s fault that he was in that position, wasn’t it? He came after me! He tried to block my destiny! He should be thankful I kept him alive! And he did ultimately end up serving my purpose, didn’t he?

  Hakeem had never expected al-’Aqran to be released; that wasn’t the way Americans worked. What he hadn’t bargained on, though, was Riley’s being rescued from his cell. It had been two days since his hosts had passed that unbelievable message on to him, and he was still trying to come to grips with it. A chill spread across Hakeem’s body, and he zipped his fleece jacket even though he knew that the temperature wasn’t the cause of his trembling.

  What was it about that man that made Hakeem so uneasy? He knew part of it was his intensity. Riley would not stop until he found Hakeem. But the chances of that were so slim. I’m holed up in a suburb of the second most populous city in the third most populous country in the world, he thought confidently.

  The bigger part of Hakeem’s uneasiness was the way Riley made him question himself. Riley was so sure of himself. His conviction of his beliefs was so strong. His strength of character was so solid. The only time Hakeem had ever questioned his own calling was with Riley in that room back in Italy. He looked down at his hand, still feeling his friend’s cheek against his knuckles. Why didn’t he spit on me? That would have made things so much easier!

  A bigger question came into Hakeem’s mind. Will I be able to kill him? If he puts himself in my path again—if he tries to stop me from carrying out Allah’s will for my life—will I be able to pull the trigger? It hadn’t been hard for him to kill that smuggler out in the Mexican desert. And it hadn’t been hard for him to finish the job two days ago by killing the smuggler’s partner after that dishonorable vermin had transported him back from Mexico to Los Angeles. Why is Riley so different? After all, he is the epitome of the American system—rich, white, gun-toting, nationalistic, and myopic. He doesn’t understand the world except through his own skewed American perspective.

  Hakeem lifted the chain off his neck and laid the brass coin that hung on it in his hand. He read the words around the edge: onore, honneur, honor, Ehre . . .

  Lifting the coin up, he positioned it between his eye and the sun. He looked through the small hole and saw the beams of light shining through. Glory awaits me when this is through. True, Riley Covington is a man of honor. But so am I. So I will carry out that to which Allah has called me. And if Riley gets in my way, then no, I will not hesitate to kill him.

  Chapter 33

  Tuesday, January 27

  Los Angeles, California

  During the regular season, a PFL player’s life was all about routines, habits, and ruts. Each day had its own practices, its own meetings, and its own workouts. The routine helped keep down the stress level of playing a game in front of millions of people each week. The routine was the reality in what could often become a surreal existence.

  Unfortunately, when PFL Cup week rolled around, you could toss that routine out the window.

  This was especially true of this year’s New York Dragons vs. New York Liberty championship game. Apart from the excitement of a New York/New York rivalry, the hype surrounding the game included countless tributes and memorials for the Colorado Mustangs and Baltimore Predators. The fans were more passionate than ever, and the media took frenzy to a new level. The distractions for the players were almost unbearable.

  On the Tuesday before the big game, Jesse Emrick, rookie running back for the New York Liberty, woke up to find more bags in the entryway of his hotel suite. Each night, the security guards quietly opened the players’ rooms one by one to admit representatives from various companies. The reps would leave bags and bags of freebies in each suite in the hopes that maybe their shoes or their shirts would be seen protecting the feet or covering the backs of some of the players. It wasn’t unusual for a player to finish the PFL Cup week with twenty or thirty pairs of shoes, countless shirts, and multiple electronic gizmos and gadgets. Many players ended up shipping their stash home via UPS or FedEx, as it would be impossible to carry their enormous haul onto the charter flight.

  Emrick opened one of the bags and pulled out a beautiful black leather jacket with a Reebok logo across the back. This’ll come in handy in New York, he thought. He hung the jacket up, then tossed the rest of the bags into the hall closet—no time to examine their contents now.

  After getting dressed, Emrick checked the clock—7:25 a.m. Just enough time to get down to breakfast in the ballroom. He hurriedly left his room, nodded to the two LAPD officers stationed at the elevator, and headed downstairs.

  When he exited onto the main floor, the noise wound his already tense nerves even tighter. Fans who had managed to sneak their way into the lobby shouted their greetings. The ever-present and ever-diligent press called out their requests for interviews. Emrick did what he had seen some of the veterans do—he waved and flashed a smile, then quickly made his way to breakfast.

  Pancakes, waffles, oatmeal, cereals, breads, and every kind of meat commonly accepted as edible in the Western world were on the buffet table. Emrick watched as two offensive linemen stood over a warming tray, picking out fat sausages with their fingers and downing each of them in two bites. At the end of the row was an egg bar, where a third lineman was waiting for his six-egg ham-and-cheese omelet to be prepared.

  The rookie back speared some fresh melon wedges, six slices of sourdough toast, and a 24-ounce glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was trying to eat a little bit lighter than usual. His insides had been bothering him the last couple of days, which he was sure related more to his nerves than to any virus.

  * * *

  When the players’ stomachs were full, the team boarded buses and headed to the Rose Bowl—site of the big game.

  Simply making one’s way to the bus was an ordeal. Hundreds of fans crowded the driveway, forcing the uniformed members of the LAPD to create a pathway with their bodies. If Tuesday is this bad, Emrick wondered, what will Sunday be like?

  When the buses arrived at the stadium, the players went to the locker room to dress in their uniforms—no pads—and then headed onto the field for the daily hour of interviews.

  Emrick had played in eleven different PFL stadiums and countless college ones, but this field was different. Fifteen years ago, he had come to this stadium with his father and watched Tyrone Wheatley lead the Michigan Wolverines to a 38–31 victory over the Washington Huskies. That day he had decided he would do whatever it took to become a running back in the PFL. He breathed in the cool air, wishing his dad, who had died two years ago, could be here to see that dream fulfilled.

  On most days during PFL Cup week, tents were set up at the practice facilities, and the press lined up to interview the players there. But today was special. This was the mother of all media days. Each player and coach was stationed in a different part of the stadium, and the press could talk to any or all of them at their leisure.

  Because of his rookie status, Emrick’s table was placed in the upper rows of section 24. He sat down and pulled out a paperback, figuring no one would want to make the trek up just to talk to a second-string rookie. When the media were let loose, he barely had time to read half a page before he had to put the book down for the day.

  The sheer number of print, radio, and television reporters was staggering. They had come from all over the world. Rarely was any player without at least one reporter, while some of the star players would have fifty to seventy-five waiting at any given time. Emrick never had more than seven in his line, but the number never dropped below four.

  He had just finished an interview with a lady from the Peoria Journal Star when up stepped a man from Japan’s TV Asahi. That interview completed, a TV crew from Eurosport moved to the front
of the line. Once he even had a reporter from Al Jazeera put a microphone in his face.

  At first all the media attention was a bit of a head trip for Emrick. People actually wanted to know his opinion of the coaches, the other team, the refs; they wanted to know his history and where he saw his career heading. Soon, however, the excitement wore off and tedium set in.

  Despite the massive amount of media, the questions rarely varied from reporter to reporter. Emrick had heard offensive linemen constantly answer the question, “Do you feel that you guys on the line get the respect you deserve?” Kickers were asked countless times, “Is it a lot of pressure knowing that the game might ride on one kick from you?” Emrick’s déjà vu question was, “Is it a dream come true to make it to the PFL Cup your rookie season?” He found it difficult to keep up the enthusiasm the fiftieth time he answered, “Yes.”

  And these were just the mandatory interviews. In addition to the thousands of reporters and tens of thousands of questions asked during this hour and the other daily media times, Emrick had a couple hundred requests for private interviews waiting for him back at the hotel. And he knew that his little stack of requests was nothing compared to the ones the big-name players faced.

  Yesterday, one of the veteran players had seen him sorting through his pile. Emrick had been wrestling with his need to keep balance in his schedule and his feeling of obligation to fulfill at least some of these requests. The vet had snatched the stack from Emrick’s hands, dropped it in the trash, and said, “See how easy it is? Keep your head in the game, boy. You ain’t got no necessity for making these guys’ jobs easier.”

  But ignoring the media requests was often easier said than done. Last night, more than a dozen Liberty players had received 1:30 a.m. phone calls from a reporter pleading, “Come on, man, do me a solid! Set me up with an interview tomorrow!” Needless to say, the tactic had been less than effective. The next day, all the Liberty players had reregistered in the hotel using pseudonyms. Emrick had been christened Bill Glover by one of the veteran running backs who said Emrick reminded him of his toddler’s television hero, Little Bill. The quarterback moseyed around acting out his new name—John Wayne. The starting left guard asked to be renamed Anne Heche—everyone was sure there was a story behind that, but they were all afraid to ask.