Inside Threat Read online

  Getting back into football had been a difficult decision for Riley. Two years ago, when New York City was rendered uninhabitable by an EMP attack, Riley had abandoned the rest of the football season in order to aid the refugees who were waiting their turn to be transported to safety. It had taken nearly two months to evacuate the last of those who wanted to leave the city. But finally it was time for the replanting of the Big Apple to begin.

  Riley, his bodyguard and constant companion Skeeter Dawkins, and his friend and former teammate Keith Simmons were each faced with a decision—should I stay or should I go? There was plenty of work that could be done helping out the thousands of workers that now were descending on the city. But their hearts had really been drawn to the victims of the attack. Becoming part of the rebuilding support staff didn’t have that same sort of emotional pull.

  After a few evenings of debate, the friends decided to part ways—Riley and Skeeter to Riley’s home in Kenai, Alaska, and Keith back home to Denver. As the months went on, their paths continued to diverge even further. While Riley and Skeeter took the time to collect moose and bears and very large salmon, Keith took his time to collect kids—NYC refugees, to be precise. By the time he was done, nine of the ten bedrooms in his house had little munchkins sleeping in them; he was sleeping in the tenth.

  More than eight thousand children had been left parentless as a result of that terrible day. There were some whose parents had been killed, but there were also some whose parents just hadn’t been able to locate them. Sometimes it was because the kids were too young to be able to communicate who they were; others were just too traumatized. For a time, the reuniting of a parent with his or her child was almost a nightly story on the evening news—two came from Keith Simmons’s own house. But soon, the reunions trickled to weekly, then monthly, and now they had almost stopped.

  Riley filed into the hotel lobby, where a team staffer handed him an envelope with his key in it. Seeing he was only on the fourth floor, he opted for the stairs instead of waiting for an elevator.

  His feet echoed up the thinly carpeted stairwell as, for what seemed to be the thousandth time, he seriously questioned his decision to return to football.

  Admittedly, a large part came from simple boredom. You can only shoot so many elk, and you can only dig so many clams.

  The need to be challenged, to constantly be pushing himself beyond what he should be able to do, was a big part of what made Riley who he was. It was this drive that had helped him to excel in everything he had attempted—Air Force Special Ops, football, paramilitary, even bringing comfort to the hurting. “If you’re going to commit to something, give it all you’ve got,” his late father had told him many times.

  I’ve got no challenge anymore, he had thought. Nothing to strive for. But if I come back to football after two years off, that would be a huge thing! And on top of that, if I made all-star? I mean, who does that?

  Reaching his floor, Riley entered the hallway.

  Having made the decision to reenter football, the first challenge he had faced was the Washington Warriors owner, Rick Bellefeuille. Rumor was that the two weeks Bellefeuille had spent trapped in a New York football stadium had mellowed the man. However, if that was true, it certainly wasn’t evident in the conversation Riley had with him.

  A very long two hours passed while Riley struggled to keep his pride and anger in check. Finally Bellefeuille had agreed to allow him back on the team on the condition that Riley cut his salary by a third and double his required public relations appearances. So Riley had swallowed his pride and signed—and spent every day thereafter wondering what he had been thinking.

  The key card slid in and out, the light turned from red to green, and Riley opened the door to his room. It looked like every other hotel room he’d been in. He dropped his duffel onto the bed—a valet would be up later with his overnight bag—grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, and fell into a chair by the window. Pulling back a corner of the curtain, he saw that the only thing outside was Cleveland, so he kept the drapes closed.

  Turning the TV on to FoxNews, he saw a big ALERT banner. A senator was holding a press conference at the Lincoln Memorial. He mentally tuned it out.

  Soon after the incident earlier today, a shaken Tara Ross had called Riley to say that Scott had been shot but was okay. A couple of hours later, Scott himself had called to give him a rundown of the op as only Scott could. When the laughter had finally died down and they said their good-byes, Riley was left with a feeling of relief that Scott was all right but also with a twinge of jealousy.

  Hadn’t Riley always been the one who had it all together? Wasn’t he the one with the sense of purpose to his life? Now, here was Scott Ross saving the world one terrorist at a time; here was Keith Simmons saving the world one kid at a time; and here was Riley Covington saving the game one tackle at a time.

  Give it this season, just to show you can come back, he thought. After that, you . . . Wait, isn’t that Senator Andrews?

  Riley quickly turned the volume up. He still didn’t pay much attention to the words. Based on the story Scott had told him, the senator was probably less than a hundred yards from an active crime scene. Andrews had chosen the timing for his presser just right, so that the lights from the memorial were starting to glow in the growing dusk, while the white lights from cameras revealed him in all his congressional glory.

  Media hog, Riley thought.

  But the senator wasn’t the reason Riley was watching so intently. It was on the fifth question, when the camera widened to catch a view of Carl Cameron taking his turn from the front row, that he saw her. Off to the senator’s right, staring intently into the crowd, stood Khadi Faroughi. Then just that quickly, the shot tightened again, and Khadi disappeared.

  Riley grabbed for the remote to rewind the picture, then realized he wasn’t at home and there was no DVR. He put the control back on the table and continued to watch. But soon the senator finished his moment of exploitative grandeur, and the shot cut back to the Fox studios, where a panel was waiting to analyze the man’s words.

  Riley turned off the TV, then stretched out on the bed and stared at the darkening ceiling. Khadi looked as beautiful as ever, with her dark hair, olive skin, and sharp Persian features. And beyond just her physical appearance, there was a self-assuredness—a sense of strength and control—that only heightened her beauty and appeal.

  As he lay there, his mind played through scenes of his and Khadi’s time together. There were good memories—hours spent talking through life, laughter over shared cups of coffee, accidental touches, intimate words. There were also not-so-good memories—angry prayers to God for allowing him to fall in love with a woman he couldn’t have, holding her bleeding body after she had been shot, saying good-bye.

  According to Scott, Khadi said she had made the decision to leave SOG Bravo because she was tired of being a target for bad guys’ guns. But when he pressed her, she admitted that there were just too many memories of Riley there for her to stick around. She needed a clean break. She had heard of an opportunity in a firm that provided security to senators and congressmen, and she had decided to take it.

  Riley had received an e-mail from her soon after she left telling him of her decision—really flowering up why this was such a great career move for her—and wishing him the best. He hadn’t responded. He hadn’t known how.

  That had been eighteen months ago. Every now and then Riley found a way to get some information about her from Scott, but when he heard she had started seeing a guy from the FBI, he stopped asking.

  “Not that I know of,” had been Scott’s response when asked if Khadi’s new man was a Muslim. And that’s what burns me most of all. The one thing that kept us apart—her Islam and my Christianity—doesn’t even matter to her anymore.

  Riley lay there a long time brooding in the slowly deepening darkness until someone pounded on his door and announced, “Team meeting in ten” before continuing down the hall.

&
nbsp; “Another night, another meeting,” Riley said to no one as he grabbed his notebook and headed out of his room.

  Saturday, September 10, 4:20 p.m. EDT

  Washington, DC

  “And I’m calling for a top-down investigation into these events. Everyone needs to be examined. Why should Homeland Security Secretary Stanley Porter feel safe in his position when the American people don’t feel safe in their own homes?”

  Khadi Faroughi did her best not to roll her eyes. Mr. Opportunity was the nickname given to Senator Clayson Andrews by all but his most senior staff members, because he never missed a chance to get his face on camera. Now he was calling out Stanley Porter, her old boss at the counterterrorism division—a man who had probably over the years had a hand in saving more lives than the number of votes this blowhard had received in his last election.

  “Does this mean you’re calling for Secretary Porter’s resignation?” asked an MSNBC reporter who was known for being especially dim.

  “Certainly not . . . yet,” Andrews answered, letting his trademark smile creep onto his face—the smile that had helped him win three terms in the Senate and bed somewhere around half the female lobbyists in town. “Seriously, I’m not calling for anyone’s head. All I’m doing is calling for an investigation. These attacks have to stop. And if this current crew at Homeland Security can’t do it, then we need to get some people in there who can. The lives of the American people are too valuable to worry about tramping on anyone’s feelings or whether or not somebody loses their job.

  “Next, let’s go to . . .”

  Tyson Bryson, Andrews’s chief of staff and a man whose parents had apparently hated him since birth, leaned forward and whispered something into the senator’s ear. Khadi immediately went on alert.

  “Actually, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like my time is up. Thank you for your time, and may God bless America.”

  As the senator backed away from the podium, Khadi stepped to his right side, while J.D. Little, the second member of the senator’s two-person security detail, flanked his left. They didn’t expect any trouble, but on a night like tonight, you never knew.

  Khadi had argued vehemently against holding the press conference right next to where the thwarted attack had taken place. Not only was there the usual danger of the random wacko, but there was also the very real possibility of a secondary strike—a second gunman or an explosive device set to detonate on the first responders and the crowds that had gathered to watch. But the lure of the photo op was too great for Mr. Opportunity. So he went, putting himself, his staff, and his security detail at risk. All so he could get those pearly whites on the network news.

  “Guess you were wrong, Faroughi,” Andrews said as they walked toward the waiting limo.

  “We’re not to the car yet, sir,” Khadi replied, using the word sir to replace the one she really had in mind.

  “You worry too much,” he said with a wink.

  “And you worry too little. Besides, worrying is my job.”

  “I’ve told you before, Khadi, if you want a job with a little less worry and a lot more fun, all you’ve got to do is—”

  “Please duck your head, sir,” Little said to the senator as he opened the door for him.

  “What? Oh, yes. Thanks, Little,” Andrews said as he climbed into the vehicle.

  Thank you, Khadi mouthed to Little.

  Little shook his head and rolled his eyes in response.

  It had taken the senator exactly six hours from the time Khadi first began her position in his security detail to make a pass at her.

  She had been sent to his house by Congressional Protection, Inc., a small, very specialized, and very solid security firm. She arrived at 5:00 p.m. for an overnight shift. All was quiet until 11:00 p.m. She was standing in front of a bank of television monitors when she heard someone enter the security office. She watched the senator’s approaching reflection in the glass of the screens. He was wearing magenta silk pajamas and he carried a drink. The smell of the alcohol arrived well before he did.

  “Care for a little drinky-winky, my lovely Persian queen?” With one hand he held the glass in front of her, while his free hand slowly slid down her side from rib to thigh.

  Never taking her eyes off the monitors, Khadi said, “I’ll give you three seconds to take your hand off me before I shoot you in the kneecap. Then I’ll go upstairs and tell your wife why you’re down here bleeding.”

  “Oh, my . . . I guess I should have expected the infamous Khadijah Faroughi to be a fighter,” an undeterred Andrews said with a laugh and a squeeze to Khadi’s backside.

  Before the senator had time to react, Khadi whipped her pistol out and pressed it to his forehead. His glass dropped to the ground and the front of his silk pajamas darkened.

  Through gritted teeth, Khadi said, “Senator, I will watch over you and protect you. You can call me at all hours of the day or night, and I will come running. I will fight for you and I will die for you, because that is my job. But one thing I will not do is allow you to disrespect me. Do we have an understanding?”

  The senator didn’t respond. He just stared with terrified eyes.

  Realizing that holding a gun to a US senator’s head probably wasn’t a great career advancement move, she lowered her weapon and turned toward the monitors.

  When she heard the door to the office latch closed, she dropped into a chair, put her head in her hands, and cried. What have you done? she thought. You left the one job you’ve ever had that you absolutely loved. You were born for SOG! Why would you do such a stupid thing?

  But she knew why she had done it. There was never a real question. The fact was that Riley Covington’s ghost was all over that office. Everywhere she looked, she saw him—laughing with Scott, looking over Evie Cline’s shoulder, sharing a Gatorade with herself out in the courtyard.

  She couldn’t do it. She had to move beyond Riley, and the only way to do that was to get away from the Special Operations Group.

  Now here she was, crying in an office, the stench of urine and bourbon in the air, having been groped by a senator, and quite possibly facing charges for assault with a deadly weapon.

  But surprisingly, the next morning the senator came down like nothing had ever happened. The incident was never mentioned then or since. He still made verbal passes at her almost daily, but he never again touched her.

  After that initial horror, Khadi’s life had developed a routine. She found new friendships. She was even spending some time with a real up-and-comer in the FBI. Sweet guy, hardworking, great looking, treated her like a princess; he was everything a girl would want, but . . . but he’s not Riley Covington. There was still just something missing.

  As she slid into the limo and sat across from Andrews, who was clearly only half listening to Bryson’s ramblings, she wondered what Riley was doing. She knew he was in Cleveland. But it’s not like I’m following his every move. Everyone knows the Warriors are playing an away game against the Bulldogs this weekend.

  Poor guy’s got to be worried sick about Scott. Even with all the junk Scott put him through, Riley was always such a good friend to him. But that’s just the kind of guy Riley is.

  “So, Khadi, about this other job,” the senator said with a wink.

  Khadi shook her head, stared out the window, and dreamed of what her life could have been.

  Saturday, September 10, 4:35 p.m. EDT

  Dearborn, Michigan

  The building shook with the sound. Even above the din of the machinery—and the voices struggling to be heard over that machinery—it was clear what was happening outside. Another Michigan thunderstorm.

  Majid Alavi shook his head angrily. He knew what this meant. After nine hours of making sure the Visteon’s transmission control modules would actually shift Ford vehicles when Ford vehicles need to be shifted, he would get to go home to his third-floor apartment to clean up the puddle that would inevitably have formed somewhere in his bedroom or hallway.

 
“Never on the tile,” he grumbled, “always on carpet.” His temporary home was permanently musty and, depending on the level of humidity outside, carried a varying level of odor reminiscent of teenage locker room.

  As he was about to curse under his breath, a thought hit him. But wait, tonight is different. What do I care what happens to that dump? Let the roof cave in and the apartment flood. It’s not my problem anymore.

  Another blast caused Alavi to look up toward the factory’s high windows. He noticed several others doing the same thing, slipping their earphones back to see if they could catch the next strike. His eye caught that of his cousin, Kaliq, who smiled and used his hands to imitate a missile striking the ground and the subsequent explosion.

  Alavi grinned and nodded, then turned back to his work. Kaliq would be one of the few that he would actually miss. His cousin understood the stakes. He hadn’t caved in to the lure of American decadence.

  Although born twenty-two years ago in Mishawaka, Indiana, Alavi considered himself no more an American than Osama bin Laden. He was a Muslim first and foremost, and the followers of Allah were not limited by man-made borders. Allah was his president and almighty king, and the domain of his king was worldwide.

  Ninety minutes later, Alavi was dodging puddles left behind by the afternoon squall. The parking lot hadn’t been repaved in what seemed like decades, part of a Chapter 11 cost-cutting decision. The result was an enormous stretch of asphalt that contained more lakes than Minnesota and Manitoba combined. As Alavi and the other employees made their way to their cars, he imagined the view from high above must resemble that of a mass of small frogs hopping their way through bumper-to-bumper traffic.