Authors: William W. Johnstone

The Blood of Patriots (4 page)

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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C
HAPTER
F
OUR

It wasn't exactly the
Bullit
car, but the Prius had better pickup and maneuverability than Ward imagined. He picked his way along the path through trees that bore a hint of twilight on their trunks. There were no foothills like the one through which Ridge Road ran. When he reached the plain, that was it. Beyond it, the Rocky Mountains rose straight and mammoth. If Ward had a poet's vocabulary something would have occurred to him to commemorate the moment. The only phrase that came to mind was “freakin' big.”

Before them, the punks seemed trivial. The noise was loud, though, echoing and nondirectional. Ward could barely make out the bikes in the setting sun. As his eyes adjusted to the dark under the peaks he saw the sparks of the engines. Those could probably cause a helluva brushfire. He also saw the lights of the Randolph home and just once the flare of his gun. He heard the crack a moment later. There did not appear to be a functioning fence between Randolph's spread and the field, just a few old posts that had fallen to the ground and rails that had long since rotted from the posts that were still standing. Before this, Randolph probably hadn't needed one.

Ward had driven up without his lightsâ
stealth mode
, he thought whimsically. The car was nothing if not quiet; he doubted anyone up here was aware of him. He took that advantage to reconnoiter. The field where the four ATVs were humming lay on the west side, Randolph's hog farm was in the center, and the slope down to Ridge Road and the valley beyond was on the east. The lights of Basalt were visible beyond; they were just starting to twinkle in the dusk.

Ward turned left from the dirt road onto the field. He proceeded slowly, trying to pick out any boulders or pits that could stop the car. The riders were turning circles and wide figure-eights. Randolph wasn't firing anymore; in the fast-deepening darkness, Ward could not tell what the farmer was doing. He was a shadow among larger shadows.

The sparking motors of the ATVs seemed to align for a moment before the vehicles revved and, as one, began racing toward the west in the direction of Randolph's place. They might veer off before they came within range. Then again, they might not. Maybe this was some idiotic Basalt version of Chicken.

Ward wouldn't be able to reach them in time to intervene but he felt he might be able to distract them. He fumbled for a switch to turn on the headlights and was relieved to find them come on by themselves as dusk settled in. Now that he could see the field he cranked up the acceleration. He sped toward the riders and not the farm so that Randolph wouldn't think he was with the bikers.

The ATV riders stopped; first one then the other three. They'd know he wasn't a cop since there were no flashing lights. But they couldn't know whether Randolph had an ally who might have been waiting for them. Three of them didn't stay to find out. They cut diagonally across the field, toward the roadânot the one Ward had taken but the real one, below the farm. Now that Randolph was armed, they avoided what the fence remnants suggested was the boundary of the farmer's property, staying to the outside. Ward used to tell students at a firearms class at the local YMCA: “If you ever use deadly force on your property, be sure to tell the investigating officer these words: âI feared for my life.'” He was sure the same dictum held out here. Those three riders were being cautious.

The fourth rider was not. He spun his ride ninety degrees to face Ward. He seemed to be weighing a run at the Prius.

I've got two tons, insurance, and an airbag,
Ward thought.
I'm good for a game of Chicken
.

The ATV engine roared once, deeply, and took off toward the detective. Ward accelerated as well, hard. The idea of Chicken was not to see who veered off first. That was the result. The best tactic was to narrow the window your opponent
thought
he had to make a final decision, to speed things up so that his instinct for survival overrides his bravado. Ward crushed the pedal to the floor. There was no accompanying howl of horsepower but the dim outline of the ATV got larger faster, and his own headlight would be doing the same. There were less than five seconds to impact. Ward had stiffened his arms on the wheel; he relaxed them, relaxed his body, so it would be flexible, no bones braced to snap in the ensuing collision, if it came.

It did not. Ward kept going, surprised by his own apparently suicidal resolve, but the ATV swerved around to the driver's side, passing Ward like a missile. He picked it up in his rearview mirror, watched it pivot and swing back toward him. Now Ward had him. The rider closed on the Prius, obviously intending to bump Ward in the rear. The detective watched the ATV carefully then mashed the brakes and immediately jammed the gas. Rocks and dirt flew in a sheet behind the car and the rider was close enough to catch them full-on. Ward crushed the brake again, sped up again, and sent another wave flying behind him. He only needed to do it twice. The ATV swerved and swung away, toward the ridge, toward where the other bikers had stopped to watch. The leader, their champion, couldn't have been happy with what they saw. When he reached them they left together.

The sound of the ATVs faded not long after they disappeared over the ridge and headed down the slope to East Sopris Drive. Ward turned the Prius toward the house. He would have flashed his lights as some kind of signal if he could have figured out how to do so. Only as Ward thumped across the lumpy terrain did he realize his heart was beating rapidly, as it did just before he made a bust. It felt good to be in business again, even without portfolio. He passed through a broken stretch of fence and slowed as he neared the farm. It was dark now and he couldn't see Randolph. But he suspected the hog farmer was there. As the lights of the house revealed the dim silhouette of a man standing out front, Ward stopped the car. He did not turn it off but left the headlights shining ahead. He got out and walked into them, his hands slightly raised. Now that he was outside, and the bikers were gone, he could hear the pigs squealing on the other side of the farm. The detective had no idea what a happy pig sounded like, but these seemed agitated.

“Mr. Randolph?” he said softly. “My name is John Ward. I used to be married to Joanne McCrea who lives down on Ridge Road.”

“You took quite a chance there,” the man said from the darkness. It was a hard voice, like shale. He was near, maybe a hundred yards, and coming closer.

“No one ever accused me of being smart,” Ward replied. “I was down there and heard the noise. Joanne told me what was going onâthought I'd check it out, see if there was anything I could do.”

“Sir, I'd say mission accomplished,” Randolph said.

“An honorable phrase that's fallen out of favor.”

“Among some,” Randolph said. His voice was much closer now. Ward could hear the crunch of dry scrub and then the farmer was in the cone of the headlights. He was slightly shorter than Ward, rounder, and about twenty years older. He had a thick head of wavy gray hair beneath a beaten old Stetson, and dark eyes that had some steel in them. He tucked his shotgun under his arm and offered a big, raw hand. “Scott Randolph. Pleasure to know you.”

Ward felt his heart slowing. “Likewise,” he said with a smile.

Randolph reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a tobacco pouch. He offered some to Ward, who declined, then tucked a pinch in his cheek. “You're the New York cop, aren't you? The one who got busted.”

Ward nodded.

“Tough break,” Randolph said. “Can I interest you in a Coors?”

“I was supposed to take my daughter to dinner.”

“Understood. Another time, then.”

Ward hesitated. He wanted to know more about what had happened up here and what, if any, repercussions there might beânot just against Randolph but against the stranger in the white Prius. And, there was something more. Ward felt good right now, planted. He wanted to hold on to that a little longer, bring a better dad back to Megan.

He took his cell phone from his pocket and called Joanne. She was neither surprised nor happy to hear from him.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Yeah. I'm going to stay with Mr. Randolph a bit.”

“Of course you are,” she replied. “The job is still keeping you away.”

“It's not like that,” Ward said. It wasn't. It was bigger than that. Ward looked at the farmer standing in the white glare of the headlights, his backbone straight and his red neckerchief rustling slightly in the breeze. His eyes were turned to some distant vision, as the gaze of American farmers have always done. A chill ran up Ward's spine to his skull. “I'll come by in a little bit. You've got dinner thereâI'll take Megan for dessert.”

“Don't bother,” Joanne said.

“I'll be there in less than an hour,” Ward said firmlyâto dead air.

Ward folded the phone slowly. He considered calling Megan herself but decided against it. This was something you discussed in person. It wasn't an apology, it was an explanation. What was the old song or saying or whatever the hell it was about being good for yourself first before you can be good for somebody else?

He tucked the phone in his pants pocket. “I guess I've got some time,” he said.

“Joanneâshe's a tough one,” Randolph said.

“She's a Brooklyn girl,” Ward replied. “You drive a car at
them,
they'll just stare you down.”

Randolph let loose another throaty laugh and slapped his companion on the back. Ward turned off the car and followed Randolph to the house, the headlights lighting their way before winking off.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

The wood-paneled room was lit by the shaded glow of a single desk lamp. Aseel Gahrah, director of the Al Huda Center, sat behind the large, clean, mahogany desk, stirring tea. His round face was serene behind his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He felt comfortable here and, despite the news, he felt comfortable at this moment. He understood that few plans run smoothly and that corrections were sometimes necessary. Results were more important than expediency.

Nineteen-year-old Hassan Shatri had not yet learned those lessons. He stood shifting from foot to foot before the desk, his expression grim bordering on angry, his fingers curled to fists. Now and then his eyes flashed on the darkness behind the desk before quickly dropping away; two pinpoints of light seemed to hover there, like stars.

Gahrah listened impassively as, with flourishes of self-reproach, the young man told him what had happened.

“We didn't know who it was,” the swarthy young man said. “The decision to challenge him was mine
.
The others did not wish to take a chance that the car belonged to an off-duty police officer, someone Randolph might have hired toâ”

“But
you
did,” Gahrah interrupted. “You were willing to risk being arrested or slain, exposing us all, inviting scrutiny.”

“You gave us a job, Uncle. I wanted to make sure we finished it.” His voice dropped. “I had hoped to make you proud.”

“By running yourself at an oncoming car?” The man's face remained calm but his voice had an edge. He did not want to beat the boy down, merely make him aware that not everything could be solved by frontal assault.

“I did not want to shame you with cowardice,” Shatri replied.

“Courage is not merely in the sinew of a man,” Gahrah told him. “Many fools have that. As our brothers-in-arms in the Holy Land learned centuries ago, one must also have the judgment, the wisdom, the
patience
to know when a retreat today is the groundwork for victory tomorrow.”

The boy considered that. “It is difficult to know this in the moment,” he answered.

“Hindsight is useful,” Gahrah said. “I know that your passions have been raised by the imam. There is good and there is danger in that.” The director had turned his head slightly to the side when he said that. “Let us agree that if a plan is to be changed, unless you can tear the eyes from all who might see you, and deafen all who might hear you, the wisest course is to withdraw. Yes?”

The young man hesitated then nodded once. “Yes, Uncle.”

“It is done,” Gahrah said, softening. “Your identity was not revealed and your actions
did
tell us something. Whoever was on that field tonight was not a tourist, someone who came upon you by chance.”

The young man's interest perked. “Then you think the farmer has hired someone?”

Gahrah shook his head. He smoothed his beard with a hand while he considered what had happened. “Private security would not have been permitted to intervene on public land. Not in the way you describe. No, this was someone who was willing to become involved either by design or chance.”

“A friend of Randolph's?”

“Possibly. But waiting in the field? No. Randolph fired at you. I believe this person was passing by.” Gahrah thought aloud. “In any event, they may be emboldened by this. We cannot allow them to unify and start patrolling the field.” Gahrah raised both hands and set them down, indicating the matter was closed. “Join your brothers. We will speak of this no more tonight.”

The young man bowed slightly then left the room. When the door had shut a short figure emerged from the shadows to the left of the desk.

“A disappointment,” a soft voice said.

“Not entirely,” the director replied. “The farmer did fire on them this time, Imam. The boys achieved that much.”

The imam raised an eyebrow. “You assume I was referring to the boys?”

Gahrah frowned. “You give them fire without a torch to hold it. That can be dangerous. He needed to hear what I had to say.”

“Wildfires can be useful,” the imam replied.

“And unpredictable,” Gahrah shot back. “The plan was to provoke the farmer to go after them in public. When he does that we will have the arrest we desire.”

“A hate crime.”

“That
was
the goal,” Gahrah reminded him.

The imam shook his head slowly. “It is no longer enough.”

The imam shuffled around the desk, his slippered feet whispering along the rug. He stood by the room's one window and looked down the main street toward the mountains. He was a tall man with hunched shoulders and hawkish eyes peering from beneath thick gray brows. His skin was deeply wrinkled and his white beard came to a sharp point just below his thin neck. Bony fingers locked behind his back as he stood there.

“What we need are
basijis
,” the holy man said, almost wistfully. “Then we would have results.”

The holy man was referring to the undercover operatives who mingled with the civilian population in Iran. When suspected anti-government activists were found, the secret police would draw them out by pretending to be fellow revolutionaries.

“That would not work,” Gahrah pointed out. “You have not been here long enough. You do not know Americans. The citizens of this town know each other, they only trust each other.”

“Your banker?”

“He trusts money,” Gahrah replied. “He is the exception.”

“These Americans,” the imam said disdainfully. “That boy fights against his instincts and you encourage that. He has been raised in a country where men are taught to be like women and women to be like men. It is a sin against the order of things.”

The director had a sip of tea then sat back. He did not agree with the imam. The young men had been following the plan the director had laid out for them: to get a judgment against the farmer, then convince him to sell the farm in exchange for the charges being dropped. The land was the immediate goal, not ideology. Gahrah was aware of the laws and the ways to manipulate them in a way the imam was not. But the holy man was nearly eighty. For him, patience was a weakness. Inactivity showed a lack of faith.

“The swine must be gotten rid of,” the imam said suddenly.

“The pigs,” Gahrah clarified.

“Yes. I have lived these weeks with those creatures of the devil and with the stubbornness of their owner.” The imam was silent for a long moment then fixed his gaze on Gahrah. “Do it tonight.”

Gahrah regarded him with open surprise. “Are you certain?”

“I am certain that we shall be the victors in this, and I tire of waiting,” the imam said.

“Imam, I understand,” Gahrah said. “But the boys are needed for the other mission. If we were to lose any of them nowâ”

“âThose that have left their homes and fought for God's cause with their wealth and with their persons, it is they who shall triumph.' What the boy did tonight was rash but his heart was true. Let ours be likewise, tempered with the tactics of our
jihadi
brothers. If the time and place are unexpected, we will bend events to us, not the other way around.”

Gahrah mouthed his silent accord as the imam retired to the adjoining prayer space of the community center while the director considered how they should enact the will of their partners. One turned to God for guidance; one turned to the Internet for practical applications. Gahrah took his laptop from a drawer, opened it, and studied the map of Basalt. It was marked with virtual pins: property they owned was in red, property they wished to own was in green, public lands were in white.

The colors of the flag of Iran, their native land. A country they had not seen in over a score of yearsâthe young men, never. They had lived their lives among the Arab community in and around Michigan Avenue in Chicago. It had been necessary that the group not travel, that they remain invisible to airlines and immigration officials, especially in the aftermath of the September 11 strikes.

Gahrah brought up a Google Earth image of the Randolph farm. He studied it for several minutes. There was only one way the thing could be done. He would inform the boys after dinner. They would prove to the imam that they were not afraid. They had, all of them, embraced the imam's dream, the vision articulated by the late Ayatollah Mohammad Zarif, the Islamization of the west in a single generation. So ordered, they would do whatever was necessary.

The director shut the computer and looked around. Yes, he was comfortable here. The room reminded him of the religious center where he had studied in Tehran. Books were brought to students at a desk and, there, one was transported to Paradise and the presence of God. What greater comfort could one know than that?

Perhaps the imam is right
, he thought. He was the spokesman of God, and perhaps it is God's will that everyone know that joy as soon as possible.

Either they would know joy, or Hell would be their home.

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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