The Blood of Patriots (23 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE
For the first few moments—after realizing that there was a real situation at hand—John Ward felt strangely at home. Not relaxed, just on familiar turf. He was doing what he spent most of his professional life doing—watching—and it sat on his shoulders like a seasonal coat taken from storage.
Then the particulars of the job itself took over, as they always did. Ward hugged the tree with his side for about an hour, watching, daring not to move. When the men went back inside he moved lower on the mountainside and found a place behind a boulder where he could sit and watch. He realized, then, that he had left his snacks in the saddlebag.
Randolph would've remembered
, he told himself.
Of course, Randolph was a professional local. He knew his work
and
he knew the land. Ward was winging it. All it had taken was two days to remind him that as great and eclectic as New York was, it wasn't the world. And as tough as New Yorkers were, it was a thick skin they'd developed for specific kinds of challenges. Mountaineering was not one of them. It only just occurred to Ward that he had been so fixated on getting down that he had no idea how he was going to get up again. He had vaguely assumed Randolph could come through the valley and get him. But what if these guys didn't leave? Any of them? One man with an AK-47 was bad. Three or more, even if they were only armed with handguns, were far worse, especially at the fortified end of a path that was barely wide enough for their own ATVs. Even police tear gas might not get them out; not until Randolph found out how far into the mountain that cave went or whether it was ventilated by natural shafts or other openings.
Randolph called around nine p.m. The men had long since gone back inside. Ward hunkered down against the rock, cupped his hand around the phone, and answered with a quiet, “Yeah?”
“You okay?” Randolph asked.
“Yeah,” Ward said. He was listening with one ear facing the general direction of the cave. “What you got?”
“A dead end for them,” the farmer told him. “According to the U.S. Geological Survey Web site, that cave doesn't have any other naturally occurring opening. That was as of two years ago, and someone would've heard explosions or jackhammering or anything like that.”
“I don't think they'd want another opening,” Ward told him. “Makes it that much more likely they'd be discovered. How deep does it go?”
“Four hundred meters back before it falls into a pit. Looks like it was cut by the same waters that carved the valley.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, you sound funny. You sure everything's okay?”
“Fine,” Ward said. “Say, listen. I, uh—Muhammad wasn't coming to me so I came down the mountain to see what was going on.”
The silence at the other end was as disapproving as an oath. After a long moment Randolph asked, “Are you safe?”
“Yeah. Got a real good view, too.”
“How the hell did you—” Randolph began, then stopped. “Never mind. You pick up anything new?”
“A little. They've got at least one AK-47. Newly arrived, I think. Bayonetted. Three guys, so far, one lamp. I don't hear a generator, so it's probably kerosene.”
“Bayonet? Why?”
“So you don't have to put a knife away after stabbing someone,” Ward said, still listening carefully for any sound from below. “If you want to make an initial approach, take out a guard before an assault, that's how you do it.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. So I'm thinking this may be a training camp, but I won't be sure until I get a look inside.”
“Dammit, John—don't be an idjit! Not a bigger one, anyway! Just hang tight—”
“I can't,” Ward told him. “We need to move while they're probably down to just a night watchman. Then it'll be one-against-one.”
“One with busted ribs and a coupla years against a kid.”
“Hey, the gray hair counts for something,” Ward said.
“Yeah, slower reflexes.”
“Experience,” Ward countered. “And if something happens to me, at least you know what's going down.”
“John, I do
not
like this.”
“Me neither, but we're low on options.”
There was a long silence, then a resigned sigh. “All right. Check in again when you have something.”
“Will do.”
“Can you e-mail me from that phone?”
“Yeah,” Ward said. “I guess texting might be smarter if I can cover the light. And I'll tell you this, you were right about one thing, my friend.”
“What's that?”
“It gets real dark out here.”
“Just don't do anything
else
stupid, and stay calm,” Randolph said. “There are lots of things out there that can make a man jump—owls looking for field mice, bats, possum. A scream'll give you away too.”
“I'll bite my knuckles,” Ward said.
“Freakin' clown,” Randolph said angrily. “This ain't no joke.”
“I wasn't joking,” Ward said as he clicked off—on Randolph, calling them both “idjits”—and turned back to the cave.
He remained that way for two hours, crouched low behind the rock in an effort to stay warm. A cool wind was coming through the valley and up the mountainside; not only did it cause him to shiver, it shook small branches and leaves, stirred ground cover, and made it necessary to watch the cave rather than merely listen for any activity.
Just before midnight, five men emerged. Ward could see little more than their small silhouettes against the steady orange-yellow light inside the cave. He noticed their arms moving lazily when they moved at all. One man rolled his shoulder in a stretching motion. The men were not wearing heavy garments despite the cold.
You've been working out
, Ward concluded. And not just to stay in shape. They could have done that at the local health club.
Four of the men went forward and were lost under the tree cover. There was nothing but blackness and then the sound of the engines starting up. Within moments, four off-road vehicles went tearing along the valley floor—quickly, recklessly. That too, he guessed, was part of the reason they were up here. Learning to master fast approaches and getaways. The sound became an echo and then a hum before it was lost in the turns of the valley.
Ward continued to watch the man who stayed behind. He came out after the others were gone, lit a cigarette, and remained standing in the mouth of the cave. It would be easy enough to take him out with a single shot. This wasn't New York and there wasn't a district attorney to squawk about Miranda rights. But, miraculously, these guys hadn't yet turned him into a murderer.
Besides,
he reminded himself
, you can't question a dead man
.
Ward waited another half hour or so until the light went out before rising from behind the boulder. He shook out his cramped legs. It was utterly dark now, darker than a man-made blackout in a hallway in the projects, but he had used the last of the light to study the hundred feet of terrain leading down, and the hundred or so feet that led to the mouth of the cave. He had a course mapped out in his mind; hopefully, if he made any noise, the kid inside would think it was an animal.
At least I'll have a little warning if he comes to check,
he told himself. The man inside would have to turn on a light to see.
He took the rifle from his back and started down, using the butt to poke ahead of him for anything that wasn't solid ground. He was making good progress—he had covered about fifty feet, by his estimation—and was feeling pretty good about it when he caught his foot under a root. It snagged just enough to drop him to one knee. He bent to that side, the pain of his broken rib causing him to suck in a long, painful, wheezing breath. It was not the kind of sound made by any nocturnal animal and a flashlight came on within moments. It stabbed the inside of the cave before spearing into the night.
Ward lowered himself to the ground, onto his left side. Gunmen who couldn't see their target tended to shoot high because they shot from the hip or shoulder; this position would present as low a profile as possible.
Each breath was like being stuck with a long needle.
Got to thinking you were Superman, didn't you
? he thought bitterly. You
don't need to rest busted ribs—no, not
you
!
Drawing air deeply through his mouth to keep from moaning, he slowly brought the rifle around with his right arm. He couldn't site it so he just propped it against his shoulder. He didn't relish firing: he would only be able to put a bullet in the vicinity of the man. The kid, in response, could chop about a hundred yards of woodland into splinters.
The light probed the darkness, falling short of where he was. The kid was standing just inside the opening.
Smart,
Ward decided
. You don't want to expose yourself to attack from above.
The question was, how far would the kid go? Would he return to the cave or would he take some kind preventative action, risk spraying the area with gunfire?
Ward heard the distinctive
clack
of the AK-47 being fitted with a loaded magazine. That was followed by the small click of the selector lever being adjusted. The kid was probably going to threaten to shoot and, if no one answered, he'd step out firing in a continuous sweep: up to the left or right, ahead, then up the other side. Overkill was all these young, edgy, inexperienced punks knew. At six rounds per second the odds were pretty fair that one bullet in the volley would hit him. The detective had to get the drop on the guy and there was only one way he could think of. He drew a deep breath and said:
“Guide us to the straight path, the path of those whom You have favored.”
They were the words burned in his brain by that scumbag vendor in Battery Park. As Ward had expected, the utterance from the Koran got him a momentary hall pass. Gunmen were unpredictable but Muslims were not.
The kid was silent for several seconds. Then, still inside the cave, he shouted, “Who is out there?”
Ward did not reply.
The young man started forward cautiously. Ward could hear the dirt crunch with each tentative step. He saw the front of his boots emerge from the cave before the young man stopped.
“Who are you?” he repeated. “Answer me!”
Ward was going to have to say something. “It's
me
,” he said weakly, not having to fake the pain. “We ... we were ambushed.”
“
What
?”
“The man from New York ... he was waiting ...”
That was all Ward said but he was watching the cave intently. He aligned the barrel of the gun with the opening as best he could. If the kid came out to help him, he'd have to shoulder the AK-47 and Ward would have about a second or two.
The young man came outside a few paces but not to help him. The boy covered one ear with his hand. In the other hand Ward saw an additional glow, a small one. He knew what
that
was. The kid was calling someone.
There was no time for stealth or further deceptions. With the boy outside—possibly for better reception—Ward moved to the south a few paces to where he knew there was a tree. He felt his way through the dark with an extended hand and leaned against the trunk for support. He raised the rifle. A hundred feet away, his ear pressed to the phone, the kid didn't hear him.
All he heard was the single shot that struck his shoulder and knocked him down.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-TWO
The kid landed hard just inside the mouth of the cave. Ward hurried to where he lay writhing and swearing. The detective ignored him for a moment. The phone had dropped behind him, just inside the cave. Ward picked up the device and listened. The wind was howling around him; that was why the kid had risked stepping outside. The mouth of the cave was like a turbine. Ward pushed a palm to his other ear so he'd be able to hear. Because it was late, the call had gone into someone's voice mail; he heard the tail end of the salutation and a familiar, silky smooth voice.
Gahrah, you two-faced prick
, Ward thought.
Ward killed the call. Then he composed a text explaining that he'd hit the call button by accident, and signed the kid's name, Saeed, which he pulled from an earlier text. Before sending it, Ward checked the old text further to see if there were some kind of special code. There wasn't. He pressed send. Then he put the phone on a cooler and looked down at the kid.
“How ya doing?” Ward asked.
Blood was pushing through the white shirt, around young fingers which were scratching pitifully at the wound. Ward picked up the AK-47 by the strap, flicked the safety on using his fingernail, and carefully lay the gun over his shoulder. He leaned his own rifle against the cave wall and looked around. He found a bottle of water on a large, oblong crate. He grabbed it and knelt beside the young man. The kid twisted and kicked his feet on the ground in an effort to get away.
“Thirsty?” Ward asked.
“You bastard!” the boy said through his teeth.
“That may be, but I'm all that stands between you and bleeding out,” Ward said. “You gonna let me save you or not?”
The kid spit at him. The saliva landed back in his own face.
Ward sat back on his heels to keep his back straight. “You gonna tell me what you were doing up here?”
The boy said nothing.
“Sure, sure. You got pride. I'm impressed. You got a mother, Saeed?”
Fury filled the young man's eyes. Ward didn't know if he took that as a threat or if he was simply offended that an infidel had mentioned the sainted woman.
“I only ask,” Ward told him, nodding toward the phone, “because I'll need to know which number to punch when you've headed off to Paradise—which'll be in about a half-hour, I'd say. I'm sure she'll want to know.”
The kid looked away. He was huffing hard, trying not to show pain, apparently resigning himself to torture. He was also shivering from the cold; the cave was naturally cooler than the outside and was made even colder by catching the valley wind. But the boy showed no intention of yielding. Ward decided to wait until he had bled a little more, had a little less fight in him, before trying to patch him up—or interrogate him. From what he could see, the wound was high and clean. The detective felt bad, but then the kid was out here waving around a weapon that looked like it had been through a few wars.
Which it probably has
, the detective thought. He picked up the kid's flashlight and rose. A kerosene lamp on the floor revealed some of what was in here, none of which was designed to make friends. There was a collection of handguns and rifles hanging from a pegboard, along with knives and even a trio of hand grenades.
“You've made a bunch of back-alley scumbags very happy, haven't you,” Ward said. “The question is, why?”
He turned the flashlight on the area below the pegboard. A pair of fold-out chairs served as desks. There was a laptop on one and a Koran on the other. The kids obviously knelt here while working.
“Guess you're used to kneeling,” Ward said as he noticed two shelves stacked high with tightly rolled prayer mats. He went over and counted them. There were six on each. “A dozen jihadists.”
He shined the flashlight into the darkness beyond. The sight was not unexpected but it chilled him all the same. A rope ladder was strung up one wall, to the cave roof some fourteen feet above. Several feet behind it hung a thick rope reaching halfway to the floor. “Climb the ladder, transfer to the rope, climb down, drop to the floor. Jump back up to the rope, climb, swing like Tarzan back to the ladder, then down.” To the left of them was a chin-up bar fixed between two outcroppings of rock. “You got yourself a little terrorist training camp here, don't you?” He continued to explore with the flashlight. Also against that wall were bedrolls, two life-size martial arts dummies—hard rubber torsos and heads mounted on a pole, scuffmarks showing where they'd been struck with blackjacks—and, hanging from hooks, the most chilling sight of all: three sets of street clothes stuffed with straw.
“Scarecrows for bayonet practice,” Ward muttered. And for the first time he felt sick. There was a man, a woman, and a child with holes in each.
He turned back to the computers, saw Saeed trying to claw his way to the pegboard. Ward walked over and drove a heel down on the back of his right hand. The young man screamed.
“You practice on
children
, you twisted son of a bitch? You can't afford to let them scream so you cut their little straw throats?”
Ward lifted a heel and broke the man's left hand as the knuckles on his right were turning reddish-purple. Saeed's second scream was more of a loud sob. Ward could've stood there and done that all night, up one arm and down another. But he had other work to do. He went to the laptop, knocked the pack of cigarettes off the top.
“So, families,” Ward said. “Is this just a general education or are you planning on attacking families out here?”
The laptop was still on and Saeed was still logged in. Ward was almost disappointed. He had made a bet with himself that he could get the password with kerosene, a cigarette lighter, and Saeed's head.
There were local maps, mostly of Basalt and Aspen, with bookmarked sites for tourist spots. But the biggest file was on the Aspen/Pitkin County Airport.
“You've got photos and schematics but no schedules,” Ward thought aloud. “What's that about, Saeed?”
Ward looked through the photos. They were mostly ordinary shots taken inside the terminal, a few exteriors, and then shots of people moving en masse toward exits with security personnel going the other way. He looked at the date stamp.
“Eight days ago,” the detective said. There was something bobbing around in his memory—then he remembered. The car rental agent said something about a security scare the previous week.
A test run?
With sudden, stomach-twisting fear, Ward saw dots starting to come together.
He pulled Police Chief Brennan's card from his wallet and, rather than drain his own battery, used Saeed's phone to call her private number.

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