RUN!

by Ty Patterson

  Iqbal’s trucking company turned out to be a five-man cell that stood ready to outfit people like Namir: ISIS killers.

  The warehouse had all kinds of weapons: HKs, Sig Sauers, Remingtons, M16s, they were all available.

  Namir selected HK MP7s as their main assault weapons, and Sig Sauers for handguns. He stocked up on ammo and knives.

  ‘Secure phones?’ he asked the cell leader.

  Iqbal disappeared inside the warehouse and returned with a carton.

  He ripped it open and brought out a collection of smartphones.

  ‘Not those,’ Namir said, tossed them aside. ‘Older models. Much older models.’

  Iqbal brought out devices that had nothing much on them but keypads. All in black.

  Namir grunted in satisfaction. ‘Jammers?’

  ‘Those are hard to get.’

  ‘Get them.’

  Iqbal got them the next day, a whole carton full, and he added a bonus.

  ‘Satellite phone jammers,’ he announced proudly as he held up another box containing two box-like devices. ‘They have a two-hundred-meter radius and can jam any signal: cell, GPS, or sat phone.’

  Namir fingered the equipment and sat back in his chair. ‘Show me,’ he ordered.

  Iqbal leaped up and plugged one of the jammers into a power socket. He fiddled with dials and then inserted SIM cards into two phones.

  ‘Make a call,’ he said, tossing one to Namir.

  Namir dialed the number Iqbal read out, and held the cell to his ear.

  No response.

  ‘See?’ Iqbal grinned. ‘They work. Those babies are new. We paid big bucks to secure them. They are military grade.’

  Namir made no response. He looked at two of his men, who nodded silently.

  They rose and went to the warehouse doors. They rolled them shut and closed the rear exit as well.

  ‘What’s up, dude?’ Iqbal asked in confusion.

  ‘This,’ Namir replied, and shot him and the rest of the sleeper cell members.

  * * *

  ‘You wiped out the entire cell!’ Safar screamed at him that evening, over a secure Internet call on a laptop.

  Namir was in a motel, in a room all to himself. The computer was a used one he had bought and the call was through a messaging service—protocols he had agreed to after his escape from prison.

  ‘They saw our faces,’ he replied, unapologetically.

  ‘Anyone who can identify me, in this country, in your network, dies.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Finding Kenton Ashland proved easier than he anticipated.

  Namir searched for him randomly on the Internet, and there he was.

  The journalist was in Erilyn, a small town in Idaho, population 2,000. He was chief editor for The Erilyn Tribune, the local weekly.

  He went to the newspaper’s website and clicked on Ashland’s bio.

  His blood pounded as he read that the journalist was highly respected. He had received several awards for his reporting. The president had awarded him some kind of medal for his role in putting away Namir.

  The terrorist slammed his laptop shut and rose.

  He got a medal for putting me in prison.

  I will see just how brave he is.

  * * *

  When he’d calmed down, he looked up Erilyn.

  It was a small dot on the map close to something called the Frank Church Wilderness. The town was not far from the Montana state line, and south of the Canadian border.

  He lay on his bed, thinking. The journalist could have had a job in any large city. Why Erilyn?

  He went back to the newspaper’s site and, in an archived story, found his answer.

  In an interview, Ashland had said he wanted to bring up Sara Ashland, his daughter, in a small town. In the same place where his father lived.

  Namir searched some more, but there were no other details on Ashland’s family.

  It didn’t matter. Family or no family, Kenton Ashland was a dead man walking.

  * * *

  It took three days to get from Houston to Erilyn. From the south of America to its north.

  As he drove, Namir began to realize how vast the country was. Miles of nothingness would pass, as their vehicles drove over blacktop.

  In the distance, there would be a farmhouse, surrounded by fields of wheat or some other crop.

  There would be large swathes of barren land before a town appeared.

  There was traffic. Large eighteen-wheelers that trundled past them, occasionally sounding their horns.

  On the evening of the third day, after Namir rented a new set of wheels, they rolled into Erilyn.

  On the fourth day, he spotted Ashland.

  * * *

  The journalist was in a coffee store, seated with another man, laughing, as Namir walked past.

  The town wasn’t large. It had a Main Street, from which several branches sprang. Most of the houses were on the smaller lanes.

  Main Street had a few banks, a few grocery stores and hotels, and it had the newspaper office.

  Namir was strolling on the pavement when he saw the journalist. He recognized him immediately.

  The same reddish beard, the same green eyes. Ashland hadn’t changed.

  He liked the color of the journalist’s hair.

  It will match the color of his blood. Once I spill it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Now that his prey was in sight, Namir carried out his plan.

  He distributed his men in various motel rooms. They were tourists, exploring the country; that was their cover.

  He took a room close to the newspaper office and went about trailing Ashland.

  The journalist lived on Elm Street, in a red-brick house set back from the street by a generous front yard.

  He and his teenaged daughter lived alone. She shared none of his features. Her brown hair and brown eyes bore no resemblance to his.

  Each day, Ashland walked her to school a couple of blocks away.

  The journalist then carried on to his office, where he spent the majority of his day. Sometimes he came out for a coffee. Or to meet someone.

  In the evening, he collected his daughter from school and walked back home.

  Everyone knew the editor. People greeted him on the street, stopped him to shake his hand, or slapped his back.

  On Sundays, Ashland and his daughter went to church.

  It was a tall building, imposing with its red-brick walls and white tower. It had an air of serenity about it, and induced people to talk softly as they entered it.

  The building was packed for Sunday worship. Namir counted a hundred people entering it—a hundred infidels, he corrected himself—as he discreetly observed from his vehicle.

  A plan started forming in Namir’s head as he watched the journalist emerge from the building, cracking a joke with his daughter.

  * * *

  ‘You are not keeping contact,’ Safar growled over the Internet that evening.

  ‘Which is good,’ Namir snapped back. ‘You promised me I would be a lone operator. What do you want?’

  ‘What progress have you made?’

  Namir rocked back in his chair in anger. ‘You thought I would come here, pick up guns, and start shooting randomly? You think I am a fool?

  ‘They call me Namir for a reason,’ he said, spittle spraying his screen. ‘I am smart. I make plans. I don’t strike blindly. You want to know progress? Watch the news every day.’

  He cut the connection and grinned. The anger was an act. He had no intention of letting ISIS know of his plans.

  They don’t care if I die here. Well, I have no intention of becoming a martyr.

  He wiped his computer off and researched the town. He measured the distance to the Canadian border, a stretch that seemed sparsely populated. That would be his escape route.

  He checked out the police presence in Erilyn.

  A chief of police and fewer than ten officers, housed in a building in a side street. N
owhere close to the church.

  Kill Ashland. Send some men to attack the police station and distract them.

  I will lead the rest to church.

  Not to pray. To massacre.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Namir got a break on Monday. He was in the coffee shop, a couple of seats behind Ashland and close enough to overhear his conversation with another man.

  They were talking of deadlines and scoops.

  And then the question that perked up his ears.

  ‘You are all set for your camping trip? To Frank Church?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ashland laughed. ‘Sara’s looking forward to it. She talks of nothing else. She’s planned everything. Where we will camp. Hike. What we’ll do for food.’

  ‘You’re going tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, and back on Saturday. In time for Sunday service.’

  The men rose when Ashland paid the check, and left the café.

  Namir didn’t follow. His mind was whirling.

  This is it. This is my chance.

  * * *

  He rushed to his room and researched the wilderness, then called his men and briefed them.

  They would follow Ashland wherever he went.

  The forest was ideal for what he planned.

  ‘More than two million acres?’ one of his men said, his mouth agape.

  ‘Yes. No one will hear him scream.’

  * * *

  He bought camping gear for his men in the afternoon and rented four fresh SUVs, different colors so they wouldn’t look like a single group.

  At dawn Tuesday, Namir was parked on Ashland’s street, a few houses away, waiting.

  The girl tumbled out the door at nine am, turned around and beckoned her father.

  Ashland came out presently, lugging two large backpacks.

  He dumped them in a red SUV parked on the street. High-fived his daughter, went back to the house, locked it, and returned.

  They left shortly afterward, unware that death was following them.

  * * *

  Ashland drove southwest for three hours and finally parked his vehicle in a large trailhead lot at the edge of the forest.

  Namir, leading his convoy, hung back, idling just out of sight while waiting for the pair to unpack their gear and begin walking into the forest. Once they had disappeared down the trail, he parked quickly and motioned for his men to follow.

  They unpacked their gear swiftly and followed.

  They could hear the girl’s laughter in the distance, her voice guiding them as they walked. When the Ashlands stopped for lunch, Namir and his men stopped, too.

  Looking back over his shoulder at his men, Namir felt proud of their discipline. Following him single-file, they carried their weapons openly, now that there was no one around.

  They made no sound. No crude jokes. All of them intent on their mission.

  * * *

  At six pm, Ashland halted in a clearing.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sara bounced up and down, holding a hand-drawn map. ‘Right here. The trees are behind us. You can hear a stream if you are quiet. Get to work, Dad.’

  Ashland pitched their tent and unfolded their sleeping bags inside. He hung two lanterns, and placed the gas stove in front of the tent.

  He put a pot of water on it and was lighting it when he heard footsteps.

  A man came out of the treeline, straight toward him.

  He was wearing a hat, with shades pushed back on his head. He was armed.

  Behind him, more men emerged.

  Ashland got to his feet. Armed men were not uncommon in the wilderness.

  ‘Hello, Kenton. It has been a long time.’

  II

  RUN!

  Chapter Nineteen

  Present day

  * * *

  Namir kicked the ground in rage.

  One girl. One little slip of a girl had evaded them.

  ‘Find her. Find who is with her. Bring both back. Alive,’ he yelled.

  ‘Stop,’ he roared when his men started scattering. ‘Not all of you, you fools. Six of you stay back. The rest, go.’

  His men broke up into four groups and went in four directions: one behind the house, another to its east, a third group to the west, and the last to the front.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ He challenged the six remaining men. ‘Go inside that hut. Find out who that person is. I need a name.’

  He stared broodingly at the light coming out of the shelter as his men ripped it apart.

  * * *

  Subduing Ashland hadn’t taken much effort.

  The journalist had been slack-jawed when Namir introduced himself, but had quickly dived to his backpack.

  ‘Sara. RUN!’ he had yelled in despair as two of Namir’s gunmen pounced on him. A third man chased the girl as she fled, caught her, and brought her back.

  Namir would never forget how the first cut had felt. How the blade had sunk into Ashland. The way he had screamed.

  He had tortured him slowly as his daughter cried and prayed.

  Namir had laughed. He was judge, jury, and executioner. He was God.

  And then, when everyone’s attention was on Namir and his knife, the girl had taken action: kicked her captor in the groin and escaped.

  Namir hadn’t even turned around. He was intent on seeing the light die out in Ashland’s eyes.

  When his blood lust was sated, he found his men had returned empty-handed.

  Sara Ashland was gone.

  * * *

  Zeb watched for a few moments longer.

  Three men were heading in their direction. Flashlights in one hand, guns in the other. Heads looking down.

  There was another bunch of three men and two groups of four, spreading out.

  He caught the girl’s hand and felt her shake.

  He looked down and pressed his finger to his lips.

  Started easing back, still facing the men. One step at a time. Feet rolling on the ground, distributing weight evenly. The way animals moved.

  She followed.

  The men merged into the shadows, and then they moved faster until they reached a dense copse.

  He let his eyes adjust to the deeper gloom. It was a natural hollow surrounded by trees.

  It would do.

  He hurried her inside.

  ‘Stay here. Don’t move,’ he whispered.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She forced the question through chattering teeth.

  ‘To get us a gun.’

  Chapter Twenty

  She pulled him back, her eyes pleading.

  He crouched in front of her.

  ‘I won’t be long. Less than ten minutes. Trust me.’

  Her eyes were dark pools of fear, her lips white. She looked at him as if she could read him. Then nodded shakily.

  He left swiftly. Ghosting from tree to tree. Breathing shallowly. Letting the beast in him rise and take over.

  Letting his awareness cast a net around him.

  Fifteen minutes later, he heard the crack of a twig.

  He took cover behind a pine tree, feeling its bark scrape against his cheek.

  It smelled earthy. Clean. He peered around it slowly.

  They were coming from his left. A trajectory that would take them away from the copse. Away from him.

  Single file. One behind the other.

  Their lights playing in front of them. Short bursts of whispers between them.

  Zeb waited till the undergrowth hid them and then moved.

  He picked up some loose gravel. Followed them until he could hear their movements.

  The last man came into sight, separated from the others by ten feet.

  Zeb tossed a pebble to the left.

  The killer froze. He didn’t call out to his friends. Just like Zeb had guessed.

  No one calls out at the first sound. It could turn out to be innocuous.

  The ten foot gap became fifteen.

  The killers at the front were now out of sigh
t.

  Zeb’s target pointed his light at the sound.

  All he saw was masses of bushes and small trees.

  He was turning to leave when Zeb struck.

  The butt of his Glock crashed into the gunman’s temple.

  His arm snaked around the shooter’s neck. His left leg kicked out the man’s legs.

  Squeeze. Strike. Squeeze. Strike.

  The man thrashed, his feet and hands flailing, trying to reach behind him.

  Zeb was remorseless. He kept pounding and suffocating, and tightened his grip when the man groaned inaudibly.

  ‘Abbas!’ a voice called out from far ahead.

  Zeb dragged his man into the deep forest.

  ‘Abbas.’

  Footsteps pounded. A gun chattered. Shots went off blindly, seeking a target. One that didn’t exist.

  Zeb was nowhere near the deadly rounds.

  He was hugging the ground as the body next to him twitched and went still.

  He could hear Abbas’s friends argue. And then their sounds faded.

  He looked at the body next to him. Felt nothing. A parasite had been terminated.

  One man down.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The girl was almost in shock when he returned, carrying Abbas’s possessions. His HK MP7, his cellphone, his water canteen and his power bars, and his wallet.

  She gasped loudly in relief when she saw him and fell into his arms.

  He held her until her trembling had lessened and then rose.

  ‘We have to go.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked tremulously.

  ‘Deeper into the forest.’

  Away from the Middle Fork River. Toward the mountains.

  He set off at a fast pace, using the dim light to guide him, confident that none of the killers would return.