When he was done, he nodded to Scott, who took the empty bucket from him. As he lay back, another recollection came. This one had him glad that the overhead fluorescents were off and the only light in the room was that of the afternoon sun slipping through the blinds. Pain seared through his chest as he reached up to wipe his eyes. Quietly, he said, “Sal Ricci, Scott… Sal is Hakeem.”
“Yeah, we know. I’m so sorry, Pach.”
“I still can’t…” Riley stopped to collect his emotions. The wound was still too raw for him to dwell there. “So, tell me how I got here,” he said, changing the subject.
“Well, after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, we booked on down to Bari, picked up al-’Aqran, then grabbed our Gulfstream at the Bari International Airport.”
Riley nodded his understanding, and then a thought struck him. “Wait, wasn’t our jet parked up at Aviano?”
“Yeah, but Jim called it down. He figured that us getting out of there quickly was more important than getting out of there quietly-especially with you and Gilly.”
“Gilly? What happened to Gilly?” Riley asked, trying to sit up in bed but failing.
“Gilly’s going to be fine. He took a bullet to the left side-cracked some ribs, but it missed the organs. Guitiérrez kept him stabilized for the two-hour flight, and then the docs here got him patched up.”
“Anyone else hurt?”
“Jim got shaken up pretty good covering Gilly when we brought the building down. He’s feeling all fifty-whatever of his years. And… well… I don’t know if you remember Brad Musselman from the training, but he took some rounds to the shoulder and chest. He… he bled out before we even got on the plane.”
Riley closed his eyes. The reality of a man dying while trying to rescue him rocked him. He had spent his life with the attitude that he would willingly sacrifice himself for the sake of someone else. But having the tables turned on him was not something he was prepared for.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Scott said, “and you would have died trying to do the same thing for him-we all would have. That’s part of what we do.”
Riley nodded. It certainly put his own pain in perspective. Maybe horrific things had been done to him, but at least he was still alive.
A knock on the door drew his attention. Khadi came in, and Hicks limped in behind her.
“Riley, you’re awake,” said Khadi, whose concern was evidenced by how quickly she walked to his bedside. She rested her hand on his arm as she struggled to compose herself.
Riley managed a small smile for her.
“Yeah, he just popped his eyes open about five minutes ago,” Scott explained. “I’ve been telling him about Gilly and Brad.”
“Jim, I’m so sorry about Brad,” Riley said. “I… if I had…”
“He did it willingly,” Hicks replied. “When he saw your tape, you won him over. You won all of us over. But even if he hadn’t seen the tape, Brad knew what he was getting into. He died a hero.”
The room was silent for a couple of minutes. Khadi pulled a chair near Riley’s bed and slowly stroked his arm. The friction was shooting needles of pain through Riley’s overly sensitive nerve endings, but he refused to stop her. Gentle human contact, in contrast to what he had experienced over the last days, was worth the price.
Hicks hobbled over to the windowsill. He shifted a few times, trying to find a sitting position that was comfortable. Finally he gave up and stood against the wall.
Khadi spoke up. “So, did Scott tell you what the doctors have said about you?”
“No, but let me guess. Pneumonia or something in the right lung. Infected lacerations on my chest and side. Various contusions and abrasions.”
“Not bad, Dr. Covington,” Scott said. “But you missed the bruised kidney and the mild concussion.”
“The doctors want to keep you here for observation and recovery,” Khadi informed him.
“How long?”
“They’re talking about a week.”
Riley shook his head and turned to Hicks. “When are we heading out of here?”
The movement of Khadi’s hand on Riley’s arm abruptly stopped.
“You need to listen to the doctors, Riley,” Hicks answered. “Pneumonia’s nothing to be-”
“Blah, blah, blah. Give me a break, Jim. What would you do in my position? Would you just lie back in a hospital bed while your team put their lives on the line?” A fit of coughing stopped Riley’s words for a moment, as if audibly protesting against everything that he was saying. Eventually he continued, his voice grating in his throat. “And what would you do if you found out that your best friend was actually your worst enemy? Come on; nobody knows Sal like I do. You know that. You need me there, and I need to be there. So tell them to load me up with penicillin and get me out of here.”
Hicks was silent. There was no question as to what he would do if he were in Riley’s situation. But he still looked far from convinced that it was the right thing.
Khadi stared at him with fire in her eyes. “Jim, you’re not actually considering this? Tell him he needs to be in a hospital where the doctors can monitor him! Tell him he needs to-”
“Okay, Riley,” Hicks interrupted. “The commander here, Colonel Mark Amel, and I go way back together-all the way to Cambodia in ’72. Let me talk to him.”
Khadi stood up and gave Hicks a look that would have bristled the hair off a warthog, then stormed out of the room without another word to Riley or anyone else.
“I’m no great judge of the subtle signals that women give,” Scott said, “but I’m thinking that Khadi might not agree with your decision.”
Hicks chuckled, and Riley tried to squeeze out a smile.
“Well, I’m going to go track the colonel down,” Hicks said as he walked to the door, but suddenly he stopped himself short. “I almost forgot the whole reason I came to find you, Scott. Riley, this’ll interest you, too. Stan Porter got us all-access at the PFL Cup from the Secret Service. Now we just have to figure out how we’re going to use it. Also, how’s this for a little twist: apparently Secretary Moss wants us to bring al-’Aqran back to the States so he can put on a show trial.”
“He wants what?” Scott cried. “We might as well paint a giant bull’s-eye for the terrorists on whatever city hosts those proceedings. It’ll be a regular old bomb-o-rama.”
“Yeah, that’s what Porter figured. So his recommendation was that we accidentally lose the Scorpion in one of the CIA’s black-site prisons.”
“Wait,” Riley interjected, “are those the supposed secret Eastern European facilities? I remember hearing about them on the news. The CIA’s line was that they don’t really exist.”
“They’re right; those prisons don’t exist,” Hicks confirmed. “And once the Scorpion is incarcerated in one, neither will he.”
Chapter 32
Sunday, January 25
Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office
Los Angeles, California
Jim Hicks wondered if he had made the right decision. Riley’s cough hadn’t been too bad the day after they left the hospital in Germany. However, since then, it had steadily gotten worse. He knew it was distracting Khadi from her job. And Skeeter was inseparable from the man.
When Hicks had gone into the men’s restroom a few hours ago, Skeeter had been sitting up on the sink area. Instinctively, Hicks had looked toward the stalls, and sure enough, under the third door were Riley’s ever-present Merrell nubuck mocs.
“Hey, Riley,” Hicks had greeted him.