Authors: William W. Johnstone

The Blood of Patriots (25 page)

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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“If it involves payback, I'm in,” Randolph said.

Ward assured him it did. He outlined what he had in mind, and Randolph endorsed it enthusiastically.

“You understand, though, that this requires absolute secrecy,” Ward said. “The Muslims can't suspect anything.”

“They won't,” Randolph assured him. “We're gonna show those bastards they aren't the only ones who can wage a stealth war.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR

Earl Dickson was too ashamed to call his daughter. Nor did she call him, not that he expected her to. He could not imagine what was in her mindâif anything. Perhaps, like him, she was no longer a human being, but a shell.

He glimpsed from his desk as the van returned to the cleaner. He watched his baby get out, a tiny figure down the main road, followed by the lanky brute who had assaulted her. He saw her drive away again after the van was loaded, the young monster with her. His only consolation was that she would be safe as long as he cooperated.

He executed his responsibilities by rote, and if any of the officers or tellers suspected anything might be wrong, they said nothing. Most were still too surprised, some unnerved, by the hulking presence of the new security guard.

Dickson ignored him. He refused even to look at that creature. He had nothing to fear from the man: the Muslims had already done the worst they could do. And he had been powerless to prevent it except by capitulating.

Again.

You are a father but not a man
, he must have told himself a hundred times since the encounter at the community center.

At different times during the afternoon, Dickson went into his locked desk drawer and clandestinely removed the Muslim cash in small amounts. He put them in various trays, unseen by the tellers, as he pretended to count cash-on-hand. Then he personally cut bank checks for that money and deposited them in various accounts.

All of it without emotion. He was numb, dead, beaten.

After the bank closed and everyone went home, Dickson stayed behind to do paperwork, the normal business of the bank. He was deeply troubled by more than just the vulnerability of his family. He realized that the operation was not just about shuffling cash into the system. This was clearly a beachhead. The Fryingpan was handling more cash than they had initially agreed to, and over a longer period. He had gone along with that because the first phase had been successful and the second phase guaranteed more profits. After the initial two million dollars was funneled into the bank, three million more was routed. The service fees were lifesaving for the institution, and the mortgage division profited from the foreclosure purchases the Muslims made. Everything was hidden in MRI dealings, turned into real estate, or stockpiled in safe deposit boxes. His bank was a glorious example of the economic recovery-with-a-capital-R.

Except that it wasn't.

Dickson finished, locked the doors, set the alarm and went to his car. Hamza, who left the bank after banking hours, had stayed in his car in the parking lot. He didn't leave until Dickson did.

This situation was bad but it was going to get worse. Dickson was no longer naive. The operation would be expanded to funnel petrodollars into these accounts. Before long the operation would have to be expanded to include other banks; there was no way one institution could handle all that cash, show so much health, without the FDIC and other regulators noticing. If those banks declined to play, what would the Muslims do?

“They'll buy them,” he muttered. “Or they'll have the Fryingpan buy them.”

He would rise. He would become a giant in Colorado banking.

And he would be the Muslims' man.

“Why the
hell
didn't you think this through
before
?” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel with a fist.

Because he had been able to look at himself in the mirror when he thought about doing this, but not when faced with failure.

Dickson pulled into a driveway down the street from his home and turned the car around. He pulled to the curb and called his wife. She had been crying.

“Do you know what happened today?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” he answered, not wanting to tell her more than she might know.

“Angie said she got in a fight. She has cuts on her neck and face and her clothes are torn. She came home and shut herself in her room and won't come out.”

“It's going to be all right,” Dickson said. “I'm going to take care of this.”

“You knew?” she said.

“Yes.”

“And you're going to take care ofâ
what
?”

“It's one of the Muslim kids,” he said vaguely. “I'm going to see them now.”

“Earl, no. Call the police.”

“We can't,” Dickson said.

“Why not?”

The next sentence snagged in his throat. “Angie found out about the money. She's an accomplice.”

His wife was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was the growl of a lioness. “You said there was no wayâ”

“There wasn't, and it was supposed to be
over
by now,” Dickson said miserably.

“Then howâ?”

“John Ward found out,” Dickson told her. “He got her involved, had her look in the bundles.”

“I knew it, I knew it, I
knew
it!” she hissed. “I knew this would happen! How could I have allowed this?”

“Because you were as scared as I was,” her husband reminded her.

“About
money
, about losing our home,” she said. “Notânot like
this
! Earl, we have to stop, get out of it
now
!”

“Don't you think I tried?
This
was the result.”

“Oh God,” the woman sobbed. “I knew it! Oh dear, sweet
Jesus
!”

There was no point in continuing the conversation. Like everything else in his life, it wasn't going to end well. “I'll talk to you later. The only thing I ask is that you not call the police. Our girl will be safe after tonight.”

“Earl, what are we going to
do
?” she asked urgently.

“Just leave it to me.”

“Noâyou have to call the police! They'll understand, about Angie!”

“They won't,” he said. “She panicked. She inadvertently sent them to attack Ward, another woman, put them both in the hospital. She's in this now up to her neck.”

“Then ... what?” she said pitifully.

“I said I'll take care of it,” he said.

“How?”

“I'm going to foreclose,” he said simply and hung up.

Dickson swung by the community center to make sure Hamza's car was there, then headed back to the bank. He went inside and locked the door, but didn't turn on the lights. He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer, took out a .38, and set it on his Fryingpan “We're cookin' up business” mouse pad. If Hamza tried to get in, the Muslim would be a dead man. Sniffing back tears but starting to feel clean for the first time in months, he began going back over the records, documenting every transaction the Muslims and MRI had made.

He would fall but his family would be safe. He'd see to that. He would FedEx the documents to Harold Carey, one of his old college chums who worked at the U.S. government General Accounting Office. The GAO spearheaded oversight of money laundering operations that were being worked through private banking activity. Carey would make sure the file got into the proper hands. Then Dickson would get his family out of town and turn himself over to Police Chief Brennan for safekeeping. She would know what to do about protecting his wife and kids.

It took Dickson hours to arrange the files; they had been scattered throughout the system to prevent anyone from making just such a reconstruction. But he knew where all the cash had gone.

It was nearly 1
A.M.
when Dickson left the bank. Still on the lookout for Hamza, he had the .38 in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He deposited the thick package in a FedEx pickup box across the street at the post office. He was exhausted and emotionally depleted and leaned against the box. He looked out at the dark, deserted street.

“I love this town,” he said through tears. “I'm going to miss it.” He glanced over at Papa Vito's. He understood now what the crusty owner had been trying to explain to him.

Witness protection.

He was wondering what kind of plea bargain he could engineer, especially if Homeland Security got involved. Maybe they'd want him to keep working with the Muslims.

“That won't happen,” he thought. “They won't deal with me if Angie and her brothers are gone, if my wife goes away.” And there was no way he was going to expose any of them to the Muslims, their money laundering, or their thugs again.

As he stood there, the banker heard a humming in the distance. It sounded like a lawn mower. He looked to the northwest, saw a single beam of light. It was an ATV doing what it shouldn't be doing, riding on city streets. It was heading in the direction of his house. Was this a changing of the punk-guards, the graveyard shift watching his place?

Dickson felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. He weighed a prospect he had never faced, the idea of an eye for an eye. Shoot out a tire and watch the Muslim bleed. It had a Koranish validity. He rose, driven purely by some uncommon animal id part of him, and walked toward the street so he would fall in the cone of the headlight. This was one way to get into protective custody. He took out the .38, held it stiff at his side. He wasn't breathing, yet, ironically, he felt hyper-alive. His heart was slamming like never before.

The driver saw him and slowed.

Dickson raised the handgun.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE

John Ward found the two-seat Arctic Cat relatively easy to handle. Certainly he had expected a tougher ride in the dark, over rough and unfamiliar terrain. Though he took it easy to keep from popping Saeed's bandages, he didn't go so slow as to make the ride comfortable. Now and then during the forty-minute trip the young man would wince and wake and moan; Ward just drove on.

He left the young man, without his wallet, lying on a bench outside the hospital and then blazed the ATV's horn. He watched in his rearview mirror as he drove away, saw an attendant run out. Lacking ID it would take the hospital just a little longer to identify him. Ward needed that time. Next, he sped to the police station and left the laptop on the hood of the police chief's car. He logged onto a radio station, turned up the volume so they would hear it inside, and left. He did not want Brennan following him. Then he sped along Midland Avenue, back toward the plateau and the route to the cave.

As he approached the post office, Ward saw Earl Dickson standing at the curb with a handgun. The detective's instincts took control and he ticked through the threat assessment: he couldn't know it was Ward, he was standing there waiting for someone, and he was armed. Ward saw the gun start to come up. The man wasn't really present; he was on autopilot. He must have snapped or something else might have happened. Ward flicked off the headlight and swerved off the road and over the curb onto the post office lawn. There, he cut the engine, jumped off, and ducked behind a mailbox. It wasn't much protection because the bandages prevented him from ducking very low. But it was better than nothing.

“Earl, it's John Ward!” he shouted. The night remained still and silent. “Earl?”

“John? Oh.”

Ward heard him deflate in just the space of those two words. Cautiously, he circled around. The glow of the spotlights at the post office gave him enough illumination to see where he was going. He reached the banker's side and took the gun, put the safety on, shoved it in his pocket.

“Earl, did something happen?”

“They beat her,” he said numbly.

“Angie?”

Dickson nodded.

“I'm sorry,” Ward said. “Will she be okay?”

“Physically.”

Ward looked past Dickson. He expected to see Chief Brennan racing after him any moment, trying to get him before he went up into the foothills. “I want you to go home now. Be with your daughterâ”

“I can't,” he said. “IâI have to go to Gahrah.”

“No, Earl, that's what you
don't
want to do.”

“I have no choice.”

“You shoot him, they'll take revenge.”

“And if I shoot myself?”

Ward didn't see that coming. He had to admit it wasn't a bad planâends the laundering and frees the familyâthough it
was
premature.

“Look, we're
going
to get these guys,” Ward said. “I just dumped one of them in the ER and I'm going back to round up the rest.”

Dickson regarded Ward. “How?”

“I found a hideout they've been using.”

“Take me,” Dickson said. His voice had gained sinew.

Ward considered that. “Do you know how to fire the gun?”

“My granddad owned a gun shop.”

Ward reached into his pocket, gave it back. “Let's go.”

The men jogged to the ATV, which was still running. Ward switched the light back on and Dickson squeezed onto the seat behind him.

“I smell horses,” Dickson said.

“It's beenâan eclectic day,” Ward replied.

Easing over the curb he tore up the road, throwing Dickson back against the seat as he accelerated. The wind rushed hard around them, making it impossible to speak. It was just as well.

Dickson pretty much said it all
, Ward thought.
It was long past time to put an end to the bullying.

Coming down, Ward had followed the route Randolph laid out for him, noting all the landmarksâthe fallen aspen that slanted across the mouth of the valley on the eastern side, the boulder shaped like a “U” that marked the start of the old trail, the bat cave that you didn't want to enter unless it was an emergency because you'd break a leg slipping on guano. The return trip was easier. Ward knew there were no major impediments, no disabling gullies, no sudden drops. He saw the distinctive shapes easily in the headlight. In fact, as he ascended, he was able to sneak a look to the south. He smiled slightly when he noticed the lights on the plateau. Scott Randolph was doing his job. Ward wished he'd had time to stop there. In all his years of police work he had never attempted what he was about to do. He could have used a few pointers. In that respect, it was good to have Dickson with him. Even though he spent his days in a bank, he was a local. And locals tended to know things an outsider never couldâeither a New Yorker or a Chicagoan.

It was almost a comfort to reach the leaning aspen, like coming home to a hotel. He traversed the narrow valley quickly, pulled the ATV into the foliage where Saeed had parked it, and went to the cave. He approached, staying close to the western side. If, for whatever reason, someone were up on the cliff with a rifle and a night-vision site, the overhang would not permit them a shot. He moved in with his rifle at the ready but saw no fresh tracks in the dirt or newly crushed grass.

Dickson followed him in.

“Do you think they have sentries?” the banker asked, jerking his head upward.

“They didn't before,” Ward said, “except for the guy I took out.”

“You killed one of them?” Dickson asked eagerly.

“Wounded.” He added, “Badly.”

Dickson grunted. He was looking around. “I can't believe this is out here, though I guess I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Why?”

“These higher elevations are not exactly widely traveled,” Dickson said. “My dad once told me the CIA had training facilities in the Rockies.”

“The CIA?” Ward asked.

“Back in the early sixties, for Tibetans fighting Chinese in the Himalayas,” Dickson said. “Camp Hale, I think it was called. I always thought it was sort of an urban myth. Maybe not.”

Locals,
Ward smiled.
They know stuff
. He was pleased to see life and vigor returning to the banker.

“I wonder if these bastards have a name for this place,” Dickson said. “Like Muhammad Base or something.”

Ward hadn't thought of that. The idea that an enemy facility on American soil might be named for a radical terrorist made him want to tear the place apart with his teeth.

Reaching the cave, Ward grabbed the flashlight he had left beside the solar panel. Then he went to the cooler where he had left the Muslim's cell phone. It occurred to him that he hadn't gotten the kid's password but he didn't need it. Ward was still able to access the text function. What he saw alarmed him. The detective's lips pursed tightly.

“What is it?” Dickson asked.

Ward looked at his watch. “The return trip took us forty-five minutes,” he said.

“What of it?”

“There's a text asking Saeed to confirm that he sent the last message.”

“Okayâ”

“
I
sent it.”

“Can't you send another?”

“Wouldn't do any good,” Ward said. “There's another text from someone saying that if he didn't respond they would be taking action.”

“Meaning?”

“I guess they'll come to investigate,” Ward said.

“When was that sent?”

“Nearly a half-hour ago.”

Dickson's expression showed anxiety for the first time.

“They know the trail better than I did, so it may not take as long as it just took me.” Ward thought for a moment. Do they stand and fight or retreat to the mountains? He couldn't see that there was anything worth dying for in here.

As he considered the situation the chirping of crickets and the occasional cry of a night bird were consumed by the hum of multiple engines.

Their options had suddenly narrowed to one.

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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Read Book Download Book

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