Inside Threat (4 page)

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.

The lingering humidity from the warm storm caused his shirt to cling to his torso. He knew his physique was surprisingly muscular for his seemingly wiry frame. From the time he was a teenager, Alavi had considered his body a tool for Allah. He constantly exercised and was very careful about what he ate. He took care of himself the same way he was so meticulous about cleaning his guns, and for the same reasons. You never knew when Allah would call you up for service, so you had to be ready.

“Majid, wait up!”

Alavi turned to see Kaliq splashing toward him. When he reached his cousin, Kaliq put an arm around his shoulder.

As they walked, Kaliq said, “So, you're really going through with it.”

The sentence came off more as a question than a statement, and Alavi at first wasn't sure how to answer him.

“Allah has called us to serve him in the name of jihad. Do you doubt that what we're doing is right?” Alavi asked defensively.

“Of course not, cousin,” Kaliq answered quickly, steering them both around an old white and rusty Taurus in order to avoid a particularly expansive lake. “You know better than that. You saw how desperately I begged the imam to let me participate.”

“You're right. I'm sorry. I would have loved to have you alongside me. But you know as well as I that the correct decision was made. You have a family at home to take care of.”

“Bah,” Kaliq said with a dismissive wave of his free hand.

As they walked, they took less and less notice of the puddles. Once shoes and pant legs reached a certain level of soaked, it just didn't matter anymore.

Alavi knew that it was hard for Kaliq to see him go. Kaliq's family had pushed him into a marriage when he was just eighteen to a girl that he didn't love and hardly even knew. In the four years since then, she had only managed to give him two daughters, no sons, and a lot of headaches.

As the cousins had spent their teen years with just two houses separating them, they had always talked about fighting together. They had dreamed up plots to strike devastating blows upon the Great Satan. Often their ideas would become bigger and bigger and the results more and more ridiculous until they would both end up losing themselves in laughter the rest of the night.

Through it all, there was one thing they knew. They were going to fight for Allah, and they were going to do it together.

But now that the time had actually come, one cousin was going while the other was staying behind.

“There are other ways to carry out jihad than becoming
shahid
, dear cousin,” Alavi said.

“True. But none so glorious.” The disappointment in Kaliq's voice put Alavi at a loss for words. They continued walking in silence.

The cousins came to a stop next to Kaliq's Jeep Cherokee.

Alavi was surprised to see tears in his cousin's eyes as Kaliq said to him, “Go with God, my brother. Take courage from the righteousness of your actions. And may
al-Malaikah
guard your every move.”

“And may the angels watch over you, too,” Alavi said, pulling Kaliq into an embrace.

After a moment, Alavi let go and walked away without saying another word. As much as he loved Kaliq, his cousin was now of the past. And as he was trained to remember, the past is past. All family, all relationships, everything was now in Allah's hands. From here on, nothing mattered except the future, the mission, the calling.

Alavi threaded through two more rows of cars before he came to his little black Focus. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he began to laugh as he looked around the parking lot.
How is it that we can despise this capitalistic system so much, yet when it comes to cars, we all still buy American?
Shaking his head, he got into his tiny Ford.

With one last look to confirm that he had, in fact, put his bag on the backseat this morning—trainings past echoed in his brain:
Stupid, little mistakes are the ones that get you killed before you accomplish your mission
—he started the car, backed out, and headed south.

Sunday, September 11, 12:40 p.m. EDT

Cleveland, Ohio

“Okay, Riley, now tell me how you're feeling right now—I mean,
really
feeling.”

“Angry.”

“Good, good. Now, try putting that into a sentence. Like, ‘I'm really feeling angry right now because . . .' You know, then you can fill in the blank with whatever. Just remember to make it real, make it raw! Go!”

Riley stared at the producer—
Narbinger? Narvinger? Novinger—that's it, Mike Novinger
—trying to keep control.
Come on, watch what you say! Don't forget you've got a mic on! Think about it before you open your mouth! WWJD, buddy!

Typically, with a little bit of mental reasoning and a few deep breaths, Riley was able to maintain a solid handle on his words and actions. Unfortunately, this time his inner monologue didn't quite have the desired effect on his outer response.

Slowly standing from his bench in the Cleveland Bulldogs' visitors' locker room, he leaned into Novinger's personal space. He could feel his face reddening, and he fought to control the volume of his words. “You want to know what I'm feeling? Really? Then how's this? I'm really feeling angry right now because I've had a camera in my face since 7:30 this morning!”

“But that's just part of—” the producer sputtered.

“
And
. . . I'm really,
really
feeling angry right now because some obnoxious little Chris Berman wannabe keeps asking me every five minutes what I'm feeling and why it is that I'm feeling the way I'm feeling!
Comprende?
That clear enough for you?”

“Sure, Riley,” Novinger stammered. “You know, I don't mean to be such a pain. I'm just trying to do my job the best I know how.”

Riley sighed deeply and looked toward the ground. It was true that, ultimately, this guy wasn't to blame. Instead, his anger should be directed toward the owner, Rick Bellefeuille. He was the one who contacted HBO and offered up the ultimate subject for their new PFL series,
Sunday Warriors
.

He could imagine Bellefeuille's pitch:
“Who better to follow around the entire day of the game with three cameras, multiple mics, and a producer/sports psychologist who could really get into the mind of the player than the ultimate Sunday Warrior—Captain America himself, Riley Covington?”

Great plan, Bellefeuille, and if you get your team a little more publicity and yourself some extra spending cash in the bargain, well then that's just bully for everyone around. Everyone except for the zoo animal you're putting on exhibit!

Lifting his head so that his mouth was right next to Novinger's ear, Riley put his hand around the back of the man's head and said, “Listen, I know you're only doing your job. It's just that I don't like your job. And I don't like that I've been forced to be part of your job. So I'll tell you what: I'm going to go hit the head. While I'm gone, I'll see if I can get myself back into the ‘It's okay, Riley, you're only going to be exploited for one day' frame of mind. Deal?”

“Sure, Riley. It's a deal.”

Riley could feel his hand dampening with the man's perspiration. He started to let go, but then clamped his hand tighter. “One more thing. I'd consider it a great favor if you muted my mic for the next five minutes. Some things are just personal, and if anything like that made it into your little show, well, let's just say you've read my bio—you don't want to have Captain America out gunning for you, do you?”

“Of course not. I mean, of course so,” Novinger grunted as Riley gave his neck a final squeeze. “I mean, no problem; we'll mute the mic.”

Riley released the man, then walked past two of the cameramen. As he did, he heard Novinger whisper, “Did you get all that?”

He turned his head in time to see one of the boom mic operators holding a thumb up. “Frickin' awesome,” the operator whispered back.

Shaking his head, Riley continued onto the sticky tiles of the bathroom and shower area. Immediately, the stench hit him—a miasma of odors emanating from years of opponents' nervous stomachs combining with this week's new offerings.

Swallowing back a gag, Riley found an empty stall and closed the door behind him. Thankfully, he didn't really have to go—the thought of any part of his anatomy actually coming into contact with that chipped, semi-whitish fixture caused another wave of revulsion. He was just looking for a place to get away for a few moments, and this was the one place he hoped he could get at least a semblance of privacy.

Well done,
he chided himself.
You lost your cool and gave them exactly what they wanted.
He punched the metal divider with his taped and gloved hand, rattling the whole rickety stall system and causing groans of protest from a few of the players who were leaning against it trying to regain their composure.