Immediately frost built up on his mustache from his breath as he tilted his head into the falling snow. The icy air bit his flesh and constricted his lungs. He stood there not moving for a long time as the snow fell through the straps on his sandals, coating his socks.
When he could stand the cold no longer, he walked back inside, certain he was about to face the wrath of a very angry man.
Chapter 18
Tuesday, December 30
Parker, Colorado
The taxi driver waited to take off until the front door was open and Riley had turned around to wave-an unexpected gesture from a cabbie at 2:30 a.m.
Riley hadn’t trusted himself to drive home after everything he had been through, but he hadn’t wanted to get involved in a discussion with a cabdriver about the day’s events, either. The guy had been very compassionate about what had happened and seemed genuinely concerned about how the players were doing. Riley had given only monosyllabic responses to the man’s questions, doing his best to show the driver that he wasn’t interested in a conversation. He tried to convince himself that he was blowing the guy off because he was too tired to talk. But deep down, Riley knew his interest in communication had died as soon as he saw the name on the driver’s cab license-Hassan Muhammed.
Riley dragged himself through the house. Every muscle in his body ached, and his head pounded from exhaustion. Still, he knew it would be a while before he was able to fall asleep.
Walking into his great room, Riley flipped a switch on the wall that ignited his fireplace, then dropped into his favorite recliner. The coolness of the leather against his skin briefly eased the tension in his body. He reached for the phone to get his messages, then thought better of it and grabbed the television remote instead. He figured all the people that he needed to talk to he had already contacted-Mom and Dad, Grandpa, Pastor Tim, and Meg-and the rest of the messages would just be media. About an hour ago, Meg’s dad had called Riley’s cell phone to tell him that she was sleeping with the help of a sedative; he had promised Riley an update in the morning.
Riley pointed the remote at the television, then put it back down without turning the TV on. All the stations would be carrying stories on the attack. As much as he wanted the details of what had happened, he knew he wasn’t ready yet.
He stared at the flames, wishing for the hundredth time that he had installed a wood-burning fireplace instead of this gas one. The pale glow of the blue flame did absolutely nothing to lighten his mood.
The question that dominated his mind was, what could he do about what happened tonight? He hadn’t asked to be drawn into this fight. In fact, he had left the Air Force Special Operations Command so he wouldn’t have to fight anymore. His days of ringing ears and dodging projectiles were supposed to be over.
But now they had brought the fight back to him. They attacked his people. They killed his friend.
How many children had been orphaned today? How many people died? How many would be crippled or in pain for the rest of their lives? All because one group of deluded terrorists wanted to make a point!
Lord, where were You? You know I always try to trust You. I want to believe that You’re in control. And then something like this happens, and what am I supposed to think? One bomb after another after another-and the screams! Oh, God, the screams… Listen, I know that You are there-I do. I mean, this doesn’t make me doubt Your existence. I’ve seen too much evidence of You in my own life. In Afghanistan alone, You proved Yourself over and over. But… I don’t know… I guess this whole thing really makes me question Your character. I mean, c’mon, Lord, You saw what happened! You saw the disembodied souls flying up out of that stadium! One move from You, and it would have been done, over with, or it never even would have happened to begin with. Pastor Tim would tell me that You were there, that You’ve got a plan, that You’ll work everything out. I guess deep down I believe that… but honestly, I’m not ready to go down that deep yet. I’m sorry, Lord; I know You say that vengeance is Yours, but right now I’m ready to get a piece of that action.
Riley got up and walked to his finished basement. All along the walls were trophies from various hunting trips-a moose, a gemsbok, a blue wildebeest, and various other horned and antlered animals. In the corner stood an eight-foot brown bear, an unexpected visitor Riley had encountered while hunting elk in Wyoming.
Beyond the far end of the room lay a second, smaller room, which contained a large safe. Riley now opened that safe to reveal his collection of large and small firearms.
His eyes moved across the various shotguns and hunting rifles. Then they settled on the M4 carbine-a going-away present from his alpha team. “In case you ever need it,” they had laughed. He reached in and lifted the assault rifle from its rack. As it always did, the lightness of the weapon surprised him. How could so much killing power be compacted into five and a half pounds of metal? He spotted a loaded clip but left it untouched. Let’s not get carried away, Kemosabe.
Riley carried the rifle back into the trophy room and sat down on an overstuffed chair, placing the weapon across his lap. It was hard to weigh his options when he didn’t know what all his options were. He was still in the air force reserves and could easily re-up with them. However, the chances of his getting assigned to hunt these killers down were just this side of nonexistent, going that route.
He could go off on his own trying to track these people. But that, too, was a less-than-brilliant idea. He could see the headlines now: “Vigilante Linebacker Sentenced to Life in Prison for Killing Wrong Man at 7-Eleven.”
There had to be a way. He hadn’t picked this fight, but after what they had done, there was no way he was going to turn the other cheek.
Riley leaned his head back and let his mind wander to the moment when he would find the man responsible for this attack. He had him pressed against a wall with a knife to his throat. The man was begging for mercy. Riley pushed the blade up against the man’s neck and-
RING! RING!
Riley awoke and stumbled to the bar to grab the phone, grumbling about people calling in the middle of the night. Then he glanced at the atomic clock hanging on the wall-10:30 a.m. I’ve been asleep seven hours, he thought.
Looking at the caller ID, Riley saw that it was his grandpa’s cell phone. “Hey, Gramps,” he answered. “How’re you doing?”
“I’d be doing a lot better if you’d open your front door and let me in. I’ve been knocking for five minutes, and my saggy old backside is about to get frostbitten-heaven knows that wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”
Tuesday, December 30
Federal Bureau of Investigation, Denver Field Office
Denver, Colorado
Scott was prepared for a shredding. You couldn’t give your division chief-especially one like Stanley Porter-the single-finger salute and expect to waltz back in like nothing had happened.
Sure enough, Porter was waiting for him in the hall as he walked toward the interrogation rooms.
“Listen, Stan,” Scott started, “I-”
“First of all, shut up. And second of all, it has been and always will be Mr. Porter to you. Third, I’ve got something I need you to do. Down in IR-110 we’ve got the hot chocolate kid. I’m not going to send Hicks down there, because he’d probably slice the kid’s lips off or give him a full metal colonoscopy. You’re… odd enough that you might be able to make a connection with him. Find out everything he saw and get me a full report. I’m going to stay here and make sure that your friend doesn’t start attaching electrical wires to various parts of this guy’s body.”