Al-Umari apparently misinterpreted this gesture to mean that he could say whatever he wanted-probably thought Hicks’s restraint a part of the ridiculous American commitment to free speech. He grinned and said again, “I… laugh… their… deaths!”
As the final word came out, Hicks lunged. His left knee landed with a crunch against al-Umari’s ribs. All the man’s air shot out of his lungs in an audible burst. Hicks grabbed the terrorist’s hair and flung his head back against the side of the truck. His knife was out of its sheath with a metallic ring and instantly was pricking blood from the prisoner’s Adam’s apple. “As I will laugh at yours,” Hicks said in Arabic. “As I will laugh at yours.”
He slammed al-Umari’s head one more time against the truck, then stood up. He looked at Guitiérrez and, pointing at al-Umari, said, “Stitch him up next. I want them both ready and in their right minds for interrogation when we get to the safe house.”
Guitiérrez nodded and turned back to stitching up Arsdale’s arm. Hicks went to the front of the truck’s box and ducked through the door into the cab. He dropped himself into the passenger seat, stared out the window, and began reviewing his next steps.
Chapter 24
Tuesday, January 13
A14 Motorway
East Coast of Italy
It wasn’t until four and a half hours into the eight-hour drive that Riley got his first glimpse of the Adriatic Sea. After flying through the night, his team had landed at 6:22 a.m. at Aviano Air Base outside of Pordenone, Italy. Now Mustang team was on a five-hundred-mile drive down Italy’s eastern coast to the town of Barletta, located right at the top of the heel of Italy’s boot.
Mustang team, Riley thought as he shook his head. He appreciated Hicks’s honoring the two football clubs hit in the Platte River Stadium bombing by naming the ops teams after them. But he still felt deep down that Hicks’s putting him in charge of ops for Mustang team was more of a dig than a show of respect.
Riley had been watching for a while for signs of water, and now, finally, south of Rimini, he spotted it.
The water along this part of the Adriatic Riviera was a rich blue, and the sands were white. It was too cold at this time of year for the beaches to be busy, but there were still some very large yachts moored offshore. You’d have to play in the PFL for a long time to afford boats like that, he mused as he tried to look around Skeeter Dawkins for a better view of one enormous craft. The boat was at least two hundred feet long, but it still wasn’t easy to see from behind Skeeter’s bulk.
It had been a great reunion with his old team: Matt Logan, Kim “Tommy” Li, Skeeter Dawkins, Gilly “Don’t Call Me Jilly” Posada, and even Billy Murphy-Sorry, now that he’s on Wall Street it’s William Murphy-who, despite his objections, had been called back anyway. Once Uncle Sam had you in his grip, he wasn’t always anxious to let go. Murphy was still sulking a bit, but Riley had no doubt the man could be counted on when the bullets started flying.
When the team first gathered ten days ago, Riley had given them one night to celebrate. They had taken full advantage of the evening. It was like old times with the alcohol flowing-even Scott had broken down and nursed a Sam Adams for most of the evening-and Riley sipping on his Diet Coke. That night as the men swapped old and new stories and as Li showed off his latest tattoos and as Scott won money off of other bar patrons by telling them the day of the week they were born based on their age and birthday and as Skeeter did his bizarre trick of flattening the bowl of a spoon onto the bar with just his thumbs, Riley had felt at home. He was friends with his football teammates, but these guys were his “Band of Brothers.” Seventy-five percent of the Mustangs he wouldn’t trust with his car; these guys he would trust with his life. Even more, he would trust them with his mother’s life.
Riley leaned back to look behind Skeeter, who was driving the black Alfa Romeo 159. His eye caught Khadi looking at him. She had been going over the latest intel reports with Scott in the backseat. Riley had nipped the “Khadi with a D” thing early on, and since then Scott and Khadi had been getting along much better.
Riley nodded his head slightly toward the water and said, “Beautiful.”
Unfortunately, Khadi missed the nod. Color came to her cheeks as Scott’s head popped up from his computer screen.
Riley quickly pointed and stammered, “The water… see, the sea. I mean, the ocean… no, wait, I guess it is a sea-the Adriatic Sea-not even connected to an ocean. Well, not connected unless you follow the Adriatic to the Mediterranean and on to the Atlantic…”
“I think you can also get to the Indian Ocean via the Suez Canal,” Scott added, grinning.
Riley shot him a look.
Meanwhile, Khadi had turned her head toward the water. “Yes, it is beautiful,” she said, then turned back to the file she had been reading.
Riley swiveled and faced out the front of the car. Scott gave a push with his knee into the back of Riley’s seat. Glancing over at Skeeter, Riley could see the slightest of grins on the man’s narrow face.
“Shut up,” he mumbled to the ever-silent man. “Just shut up.”
A half mile back from Riley’s car trailed an Iveco Daily cargo van carrying the second half of Mustang team. Li drove, and Murphy and Morgan sat in the cab with him. Gilly Posada was in the back with the equipment.
The other guys had offered to rotate back, but Posada had declined. He preferred the solitude and the darkness. He was a thinker, a strategizer, a planner, and it was hard to get a lot of thinking done within earshot of Li’s mouth. This setup gave him eight hours to read reports by flashlight, gather information using one of the team’s satellite-linked Toughbook computers, and silently process.
Posada pulled out his GPS tracker and determined exactly where they were. Two more hours, he thought. A few weeks ago, while he was stationed at Hurlbert Field in Florida, Italy had been the furthest place from his mind. But then came the attacks, and everything changed.
He thought back to the night he was sitting on his couch with his six-year-old son, Danny, watching Monday Night Football. Although it was way past Danny’s bedtime, Posada had let him stay up. Next to the Tampa Bay Tarpons, the Mustangs were the boy’s favorite team, mostly because Daddy’s buddy, Mr. Covington, played for them.
The two were sitting on the couch. Danny wore his knock-around Covington jersey-the signed one was framed and hanging on the wall of his room-and both were trying to clean up the remnants of a recent popcorn fight before Mom came in and discovered the mess.
When the screen had gone to an ESPN logo, Posada had immediately known something was wrong. Then the ESPN studios came on, and the tragic news was announced. As the minutes passed, more and more details poured out. Posada sat mesmerized, his emotions wavering between shock and anger. He changed from one channel to another, trying to get more information.
Then he became aware of a small movement next to him. He looked down and saw Danny. The boy was quietly trembling. Posada’s heart sank as he realized his little son had been hearing about all the tragedy and death along with him. He shut off the TV, scooped Danny into his arms, and held him for a long time.
Even now, as he thought of that night and the wet spot that lingered on his shoulder well after he finally put Danny to bed, anger welled up in him. Try explaining to a six-year-old why someone would want to do something like that. That night, those terrorists had stolen Danny’s innocence. When Posada had left for Denver a week later, the boy was still spending nights in Mom and Dad’s bed.
A beep from his laptop drew his attention back to the screen. Looks like we’ve got mail, he thought.