The Ticking Clock

by Daniel Roland Banks

  “No, just me.”

  “You said ‘we’. Who’s here with you?”

  “What I mean is, there are several of us on the lease. I’m here alone today, but we’ve all pitched in to get things ready.”

  “Uh huh. Can I see some ID, maybe your hunting license?”

  “Sure, but it’s in the house there. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “…Sounds good. I just need to look in the container first.”

  “Uh, why’s that?”

  “…Just doing my job. OK?”

  “I guess.”

  As the game warden stepped out of the brightly lit yard, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within the container. Nat Baha had the man’s silhouette in the front site of the Glock.

  When the game warden realized what he was seeing, his hand dropped for his service weapon, but it was too late.

  Nat Baha shot him six times. The roar of the gunfire inside the container was deafening. The game warden pitched over backwards with his arms flung out to the sides. He landed on his back in the yard, gasping for breath, his eyes staring up at the few puffy clouds in the fall sky. Nat Baha walked out of the container and shot him in the face.

  He looked over at Suliman and said, “This place is burned. We must clear out all our things and move to the secondary location.”

  “I’ll say! Man, you just killed a fed. They’ll be looking for us under every rock and tree leaf.”

  Scanning the area, Nat Baha nodded.

  “There is no time to properly dispose of the body. We’ll leave him to the buzzards. Bring the truck around, we must get moving.”

  33

  The Kyle Coltrane concert was sold out. Somehow, Christine had arranged for the four of us to have tickets and VIP passes. Like eels slipping through gaps in a net, we slid through the milling mass of closely packed humanity to where we were to be seated. Our seats were just off the center aisle, three rows back from the edge of the stage. For me, the recorded music was already too loud. We were too close to the huge banks of speakers flanking the stage. Nobody else seemed to mind.

  It was clear any conversation would have to be limited to a few shouted words, or acted out in pantomime.

  Hafsah had been true to her word. She wore a nearly floor length, long sleeved dress of embroidered silk, in a color I would call ‘peach’. She also wore the same opaque white hijab I’d seen before. Tonight, it was pulled up over her head and pinned beneath her chin. Somehow, the hijab framing her face made her look even more beautiful. I’d been sensitive to the stares we got as we worked our way through the crowd. Most people were just curious, a few were admiring, but some were openly hostile.

  I reminded myself there are pinheads everywhere.

  We found our assigned seats. We had four together, on the end of a row. Tony indicated Hafsah and I should take the inside seats. I was in the fourth seat, with Hafsah on my right. Christine was seated next to Hafsah, with Tony next to her in the aisle seat. Christine was dressed in jeans and boots, with a blue ‘Guns N Roses’ T-Shirt tucked into the jeans, her radiant red hair, loose about her shoulders. The cultural distance between the appearances of the two remarkable women seated next to each other was staggering. I had to smile. You might say the four of us represented guns and roses. I knew the gun under Tony’s jacket had nothing to do with roses and nobody wanted to hear it sing. They didn’t want to hear the sound of mine either. There was no question the ladies were as beautiful and different from each other as any roses ever seen.

  Presently, a guy and a gal walked out on stage. The crowd cheered and whistled.

  The pair was well-loved local radio personalities, “Roarin’ Randy & Rachel,” they had the morning show on Hot Mix-106.

  “Howdeeee!” Randy roared into the microphone, Rachel grinning beside him.

  “Howdeeee!” The crowd roared back.

  “Tonight we are going to party. Y’all know what to expect. KYLE COLTRANE is IN THE HOUSE!” Randy roared.

  The crowd went wild.

  Randy and Rachell clapped and grinned at each other for a moment, and then Randy continued his wind-up.

  “But tonight, folks, tonight we’re bringing you more than you expected. Tonight, we bring you the unexpected. Ladies and gents, put your hands together for…” He handed the microphone to Rachel, who announced, “Tyler’s own house band, the Honky Tonk Broncs.”

  The curtains parted as Roarin’ Randy & Rachel, left the stage. The crowd noise was so loud, for a moment we couldn’t hear the rhythm being laid down by Aaron Parviz on the drums, with the three guitar players out front.

  While the current trend with musicians was ultra-casual, baggy jeans and tee shirts being the norm, these guys had adopted more theatricality. There was some attention paid to costuming. The lead guitar player sported a big sombrero, like a mariachi or caballero might wear. His wide guitar strap had been converted into a bandolier with what appeared to be real 7.62 x 39 rifle cartridges in the bullet loops. With his dark complexion and his black beard and mustache, he looked the part of the bandito.

  The rhythm guitar player wore a matador’s cap and jacket, the jacket studded with crystals, sparkling colorfully in the spotlight.

  The bass player had long hair and kept it pulled away from his face with a headband of a bright red kerchief tied behind his head. His green tank top and camouflage pants tucked into jungle boots completed the Rambo look.

  Aaron Parvis had chosen to wear the plain white caftan and skull cap, the traditional garb for many men in the Muslim world.

  They were good, surprisingly good. The opening number was kind of a throwback to the days of country/rock. They sounded a little bit like the Eagles with a touch of Lynyrd Skynyrd thrown in. I found myself tapping my foot involuntarily.

  The rhythm guitar player was the lead singer, with the bass player backing him up. The vocals were tight. The bass player was steady and true, the rhythm guitar kept the sound alive, but the lead guitar player with the bandito get-up was something special. That guy wove a haunting stream of sound through the song, touching some primal part of the whole audience.

  I was so captivated I wasn’t paying much attention to those around me. I felt Hafsah grip my arm. When I looked at her, her eyes were open wide. She was trying to tell me something.

  I tried to read her lips. “That’s him,” she seemed to be saying, pointing at the lead guitarist.

  It hit me like an on-coming train.

  The bandito lead guitarist for the Honky Tonk Broncs, was none other than the international Islamic terrorist, Hakim Muktallah, now known as Nat Baha.

  “Are you sure?” I mouthed at Hafsah.

  She nodded her affirmative response, setting her mouth into a thin line.

  Of course, she was sure. It just made sense. Tony told me about the suspected murder of the former lead guitarist. Now, here was Nat Baha, playing in his place. What a remarkable coincidence. Nat Baha wanted to get his music recorded, and suddenly there was an opening for a lead guitarist in a band that was clearly headed for the stars.

  Hafsah and I stared at each other in shock.

  Now what? We couldn’t exactly rush the stage and grab him, or kill him in the middle of a rather excellent performance. How would that look?

  We needed a plan, but we couldn’t even discuss it under these circumstances.

  I saw Christine looking at us with some curiosity.

  I turned my attention back to the stage as the band ended the first song to a thunderous round of applause and whistles. The momentary quiet as the crowd noise died down gave me just a second to speak to Hafsah.

  “Let’s go get some air.” I suggested, as the band started the next tune.

  Hafsah nodded and turned to speak to Christine, who turned to speak to Tony. Tony looked annoyed, but he stood up to let us out, as did Christine.

  It suddenly dawned on me, if we walked out at this moment, every eye in the venue would be on us. Hafsah would be particularly notice
d. I grabbed her arm just as she started to stand and shook my head at Tony. Tony gave me a quizzical look, but changed it to resignation and he and Christine sat down again.

  This musical offering was a ballad, a tender love song, accompanied by a light lead guitar that gently picked at our heartstrings and left notes hanging in the air. It was much quieter than the first song, which gave me opportunity to speak directly into Hafsah’s ear.

  “We can’t be seen walking out on this performance,” I looked at her eyes to see if she understood.

  She closed them and nodded her understanding. When she opened her eyes, there was a fire blazing there. I’d seen this before, right before we broke into the machine shop, and a little earlier, when she slapped me.

  She leaned in to speak into my ear. I was half expecting another slap.

  “We’ll kill him during the intermission.” She said.

  “We’ll see…” I mouthed back at her.

  Hafsah set her mouth in a thin line. I could see she was working on a plan, a plan that might or might not include me. She’d promised to take her cousin alive, if it could be done. Her body language and facial expression suggested she now intended a different outcome. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and began typing furiously. I figured she was sending a text to her team.

  34

  To say the musical set the Honky Tonk Broncs played was well received, would be a serious understatement. Their performance and song choices were superb. The incorporation of the new lead guitar player was, well—instrumental.

  He played three or four different guitars over the course of the set. In the third song and later, in the final song, Nat Baha played lead guitar solos that were stunning. At times he was ripping riveting riffs, shredding it. At other times his playing took us on voyages of imagination.

  I was amazed. This guy was gifted and he’d practiced his craft, refining and fine tuning it to the point of genius. No wonder he wanted to get his music recorded. What a waste of God’s gift. He might’ve used his gift to bring honor and glory to his Creator; instead he’d turned the passion and fire God had given him into a tool of the devil.

  His music was celestial; his life’s work was diabolical.

  I’d noticed Tony slipping out during the final song.

  With a crescendo at the end of their closing number The Honky Tonk Broncs brought down the house. The crowd went nuts, as the curtain closed.

  Roarin’ Randy & Rachel came out on the stage, waiving the crowd to quiet down.

  “Howdeee,” Randy roared.

  “Howdeee,” the crowd roared back.

  “Wow, I mean…WOW! Am I right?” Roarin’ Randy asked.

  There was a thunderous applause, punctuated by whistles, in response.

  “Yep, I hear you, and I think the whole world is gonna be hearing some of that!”

  I could feel the tension and energy building in Hafsah to the point of her being ready to leap up out of her seat.

  The crowd agreed with Roarin’ Randy. As they settled down, he told us he and Rachle had a special announcement.

  “Ladies and gents, we’ve been asked by a member of the Tyler Police department, if he could have just a moment to ask a question. Let’s welcome him onto the stage. Ladies and gents, I give you…Lieutenant Tony Escalante.”

  Randy & Rachel pumped up the crowd as Tony walked out to the microphone.

  Christine, Hafsah, and I all looked at each other, wondering what in the world Tony was doing on the stage.

  He looked terrified, but his voice didn’t waiver. He was blinded by the spotlight, but he looked over in our general direction.

  “Hey folks, thank you for giving me this moment. I have only one question, the most important question I’ve ever asked in my life…Christine Valakova; will you marry me?”

  The spot light lit up Christine, Hafsah and me, in the process.

  For just a moment, Christine was so stunned and shocked, she was frozen. The crowd was silent with anticipation.

  Suddenly, she grinned and yelled.

  “…Of course I will, you big gorilla!”

  And… the crowd went wild.

  One of the security people led Christine to the stairs, from which she rushed onto the stage and into Tony’s arms, where they kissed in front of several thousand of their closest friends.

  Hoopla ensued.

  This was the perfect moment for Hafsah and me to leave our seats. We went to the security guy and showed him our VIP passes. He took us through a side door putting us in a corridor where several people were traveling to and from some restrooms.

  Through the walls, we could hear the muffled sound of Roarin’ Randy doing his wind-up to introduce the headliner, Kyle Coltrane.

  I asked someone where we might find the guys from Honky Tonk Broncs.

  “Get in line, seems like everybody wants to meet those guys. Go over there to that second door. It’ll take you backstage. Somebody back there will point you in the right direction.”

  I pulled Hafsah aside.

  “This is not the time or the place.” I told her.

  Hafsah made a face, her frustration clearly evident. She bobbed her head once, in acknowledgement.

  “I mean it, Hafsah. There are too many people here. Too many witnesses and too many who could get hurt. Tell me you understand.”

  She met my eyes.

  “Yes, John. This is not the time or the place. We are so close, but we must proceed with caution. I understand. You can trust me.”

  I squeezed her shoulder.

  “OK, then. Let’s go find Nat Baha.”

  We went down the corridor and through the second door. The sound and activity were nearly overwhelming. There were roadies, technicians, stage hands, set dressers, and people whose functions were unclear, rushing around behind the stage. One man was moving the drum set that belonged to the Honky Tonk Broncs. Out on the stage, we caught a brief glimpse of Kyle Coltrane’s profile, lit by the spot lights. Behind him and his band, there were fog machines and fans, laser lights whipping around, and a huge screen with images of flames and horses running across it. The crowd was rocking the place. Coltrane’s band began to play. The noise level was intense.

  We made our way through and around the workers and found Tony and Christine entwined directly behind the giant screen, the light of the flames illuminating them in shades of yellow, orange and red. I was reminded for a moment of the images from the night a farm house had burned while I watched helplessly. Tony put his hands over his ears and then pointed at a door in the opposite wall. We all hustled in that direction, not much concerned about where it might lead. Anywhere quieter had to be better.

  We went through the door and found ourselves in another corridor. Although we could still hear Kyle Coltrane and company, performing less than twenty-five yards behind us, it was much quieter here.

  This corridor was filled with people who appeared to have an interest in Kyle Coltrane or his band members. Some were probably family and friends. Others were members of the media or in the music business. The rest were probably groupies or folks like us, just wanting to meet the musicians.

  I turned to Tony and shook his hand.

  “Congratulations, Tony. You got the girl. That was some proposal, by the way. It took guts. I could tell, because you looked a little green around the gills. I believe you achieved your goal in spectacular style. She’ll never forget this night.”

  “Thanks, J.W.” He said, grinning from ear to ear.

  Hafsah and I kissed Christine on the cheek. We wished her well and invoked God’s blessing on both of them and their marriage.

  “How about we all go somewhere and celebrate.” Tony suggested, beaming.

  “Don’t you want to go back and see the Kyle Coltrane concert?” I asked.

  “Naw, not really. What could be better than this?”

  Christine was in full agreement.

  “It sounds like a great idea, Tony. How about Hafsah and I meet you somewhere? We have some bu
siness to attend to.”

  “Business? Tonight? Come on, J.W., get with the program.” Tony said.

  “We will. You and Christine go on. We’ll meet you as soon as we can.”

  Tony and Christine studied us for a moment.

  “J.W., is this serious? Do you need some back-up?” Tony asked.

  “No, Tony. This is part of something we’ve been working on for a while. We just need to meet somebody, briefly. We’ll be along right after that.”

  Tony said, “OK, then. We’ll go get a table somewhere and give you a call. Don’t be long. We might not wait on you.”

  I could tell he was concerned.

  “Super. I’m looking forward to it.” I said.

  “Yes, I am as well.” Hafsah added.

  I shook Tony’s hand again, and they turned toward an exit sign farther down the corridor.

  Christine turned back.

  “Is this part of that thing I don’t need to know about?” She asked.

  “You don’t need to know, Christine.” I said.

  She tilted her head for a moment, about to say something, but then she turned back toward the exit, in step with Tony.

  I turned to Hafsah.

  “Well then, I guess it’s time for us to meet your cousin.”

  “It is past time.” She replied.

  35

  We asked where we might find the Honky Tonk Broncs, and were directed down the corridor to an unmarked door where several people were milling about, apparently waiting to get in.

  There was a security guy standing outside the door, so we headed straight to him.

  “Hello, this is Nadia Ahmed, and I’m Earl Hightower, with Harmotech Records. Aaron Parviz is expecting us.”

  The security guy was intrigued by Hafsah.

  “What did you say your name was?” He asked her.

  “Nadia Ahmed.”.

  “Nadia Ahmed.” He repeated. He pointed at me. “Hightower, right?”

  I nodded my affirmative.

  “Please tell Mr. Parviz I am here.” Nadia said.

  “Nadia Ahmed.” The security guy repeated.