“Fabián? Is that his real name?”
“Yes, sir. Fabián Ramón Guerrero.”
“And what is yours?”
“I am Valentín Joaquín de Herrera. And you are…?”
“Tired of listening to you. Toss your gun toward me.”
The coyote obeyed.
“Now, take out your other gun and throw it toward me.”
“But, sir, I have no other gun!” the man protested.
“Adios,” Hakeem said. He increased pressure on the trigger.
“Wait, wait!” Valentín reached deep into the front pocket of his cargo pants and brought out an ancient Colt Pocket Hammerless. The grip was wrapped with duct tape, and it looked like firing it would be more dangerous to the one holding the weapon than the one at whom it was pointed.
“That’s better. Now, do you have anything else that might be harmful to me-knives, box cutters, really sharp sticks? Before you answer, I want you to know that in a few moments I am going to have you strip down to nothing, and if I find that you were holding out on me at all, I will put two bullets into your stomach and watch you slowly bleed to death.”
Valentín’s hands dove into his pockets and brought out a utility blade, two ice picks, and one set of brass knuckles with the tops of the third and fourth rings broken out. He then began unbuttoning his shirt.
“No, wait,” Hakeem called out. “Seeing you undressed is an image that might possibly plague me for the rest of my life. Leave everything on the ground and get back in the truck. And don’t try to run. I am the Cheetah, and I will surely catch you.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Valentín ran to the truck and jumped in through the driver’s door.
Hakeem slowly walked around the back of the truck. As soon as he was sure the coyote couldn’t see him, he began shaking all over. He had killed a man-pointed a gun, pulled the trigger, and lodged a bullet in a person’s brain. His knees felt weak.
But this was ridiculous! Hadn’t he just been responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of people? Yes, but this was the first time he had pulled the trigger himself. This was the first time he had directly caused a body to topple to the ground.
Do I feel remorse? No. Would I do anything differently? No. Then why am I shaking? If it’s not fear and it’s not remorse, then what is it? Maybe it’s adrenaline. That’s got to be it. It’s excitement. Another step in making me the avenger my destiny says that I am. I have been blooded! Oh, Uncle, if you could see me now!
The shaking subsided, but the energy did not. It continued to well up inside him. Hakeem laughed, and then he slammed his fist into the side of the truck. Finally he drew in as much of the early morning air as he could and let out an ear-shattering howl at the sunrise.
Chapter 21
Thursday, January 1
Federal Bureau of Investigation, Denver Field Office
Denver, Colorado
It had been twenty minutes since Riley had passed through the second set of security clearances, and he was starting to get a bit antsy. Although the lounge area had soft chairs, it did not seem a place in which one was meant to get comfortable. There was no reading material on the end tables, and there were no prints on the walls. The only decorative items of any kind were a large aquarium at the front of the room and an old television that still had knobs on the front.
Riley began pacing across the room, rehearsing for the fiftieth time the words he was going to say when the door to the inner sanctum opened. He kept finding his concentration broken by the smack of the air bubbles trapped under the poorly laid vinyl flooring with every other step he took. In an effort to drown out that incredibly irritating sound, on his next pass to the front of the room Riley twisted the On/Volume knob of the television.
The tinny voice of a female reporter sounded through the twenty-year-old speakers: “… and Baltimore, around the country, and around the world are still reeling as they try to cope with Monday night’s attack at Platte River Stadium.”
Riley turned toward the TV as the picture cut to a man with an American flag bandanna wrapped around his head and riding leathers covering the rest of his body. “This is what we get for letting them A-rabs in the country to begin with! They want a fight? I say we press the button and give the whole Middle East a nuclear shower!”
A quick camera change brought another face to the screen-a twentysomething with an eyebrow ring and a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt. “What do we expect? We’ve been pushing our imperialistic agenda against the oil-producing countries of the Middle East for decades. Should we be surprised when they fight back? This one’s on you, Mr. President!”
Another cut landed in an office, which, judging by the enormous number of books stacked on and around the desk, belonged to an academic. A font at the bottom of the screen identified the bespectacled gentleman as Dr. Martin Vatsaas, PhD, Distinguished Professor of Behavioral Science, University of Colorado at Boulder. “People will try to cope with this tragedy however they best can. Some will blame; others will lash out. Many will huddle with friends and family, trying to process the events of Monday night. I think the reactions will be very similar to the aftermath of 9/11. We can expect to see this country experience a temporary unification-socially and politically. We can also expect to see violence against people of Middle Eastern descent rise dramatically.”
The picture switched back to the network reporter standing outside of Platte River Stadium. “Not surprisingly, PFL fans across the nation have had mixed reactions to the announcement that the owners of the Colorado Mustangs and the Baltimore Predators have offered to forfeit Monday night’s game in order to, quote, ‘let our players, our staff, and our fans begin the healing process.’ They also believe that this will, quote, ‘allow the Pro Football League the best potential for carrying on with this year’s PFL Cup tournament.’ Eli Boermann, commissioner of the PFL, issued a statement offering his condolences and gratitude to the football clubs and the cities of Denver and Baltimore.
“As I stand here, hundreds of people surround me, and thousands of flowers, stuffed animals, candles, and cards surround the fence of Platte River Stadium. Prayers are being said and tears are being shed for the almost two thousand people who died as the people of Denver try to find answers to this tragedy. This is Marcia Roland, ABC News.”
Riley twisted the television off and turned to discover that he was no longer alone in the lounge. Another man, who apparently had slipped in while Riley’s attention was focused on the TV, was now sitting across the small room from him. The man looked to be in his early twenties and wore a lined jean jacket and a skullcap imprinted with the number 100 surrounded by a broken circle. The two gave each other a quick nod.
Riley took a chair and hoped-too late-not to be recognized. Unfortunately, it seemed like the young man had already come to the realization that he was sharing the room with a Colorado Mustang, which was the last thing Riley wanted to deal with. The man kept glancing from his worn paperback copy of A Time to Kill and was looking like he was trying to get up enough nerve to say something. Riley watched him from the corner of his eye. Typically he was fine with fans introducing themselves or saying something to him. But he had way too much on his mind today to have to try to be friendly. The pain of the attack and of losing his best friend had not diminished much in the last few days.
The guy seemed to get his nerve up and began to rise, but Riley beat him to the punch and quickly stood and walked to the aquarium.
The young man sat back down.
Riley spent the next fifteen minutes looking into the aquarium before finally coming to the conclusion that it was totally devoid of any marine life.