Sure, the test for nitrates on my hands was negative, proving that I didn’t fire the gun that killed Wilson — but what good did that do me? Everything else pointed to murder. I’d been at the scene of two killings and an attempt on Keyes’ life in less than forty-eight hours. The judge and prosecutor didn’t care about the nitrate test.
For the first time in my life, I was ready to give up. My head was spinning. What the hell am I going to do? I was so filled with anxiety I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t think at all. I just sat there, dumbstruck and seriously depressed. I was used to adversity, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the troubles confronting me now. I was raised on a tobacco farm and for years worked long into the night doing farming chores to help my aged parents barely eke out a living. My muscles grew strong from the farm work and this helped make me a good athlete. On the high school football team, Herb Waters and I were in the backfield together. Herb was fullback and I was tailback. I was offered a football scholarship but instead chose an academic scholarship at a state college. During the summers, I worked on the farm, and during the academic year I took on a few campus jobs to make extra money for my parents. There was no time for sports. I made high grades in college and med school, and excelled in my surgical training.
I’d trained for surgery under Dr. Jerome Fusco. Under his regime I had to be prepared at any time to quote articles from the thirty or so surgical journals published each month. I had to study and memorize the techniques of each operation in which I was involved, so that if a surgeon on the case fell ill, I could take over. At the same time, I had to provide patient care during killer shifts of “on thirty-six, off twelve” hours. After my paperwork was finished, that often meant zero off hours.
Now all those years of hard work and training seemed to be for naught. I lay on my bed that night thinking about what to do next, but the mental and physical toughness that I’d developed in the tobacco fields was gone. I wished I had the $1.5 million I spent building my surgery center for facial reconstruction. With no surgery on the books, there was no income coming in. I was screwed. I was broke and there was no way I was ever going to make bail. All the extra work I had put into my surgical training seemed like a thing of the past now.
Earlier in the day, one of the guards had read aloud a brief article to me and my jail mates. It told of Herb Waters, who was now the president of Jackson City Hospital, being seen in town having dinner with my wife. My knees grew weak. My chest ached. If I had Wilson’s gun again, this time I’d shoot myself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The top of the Mack’s trailer had been peeled back, and the terrorist recruits were assembling the launchers on the truck bed. The four men and two women were dressed as farmers. Nearby, the chief engine mechanic had been working on the deceased Billy Watson’s backhoe for two hours. Ideally, the old vehicle would be used to move the missiles quickly, from the crates to the launchers.
But the old diesel engine just wouldn’t turn over. The chief mechanic wiped sweat from his face with his forearm, smearing grease on his face, and muttered, “Can’t get the son-of-a-bitch started.”
Michelle came into the barn and walked over to fix the truck herself. “I need that machine. Get the fuck outta my way.”
As she approached the vehicle, the mechanic stepped toward her, and as she bent down to take a look, he copped a feel of her ass. Michelle laughed, shrugged, and then hit him in the jaw, knocking him to on the ground. She scowled, “I’ll cut off your balls and shove ‘em up your ass if you even think of touchin’ me again.”
The man held his jaw and apologized. “God, Michelle, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Michelle kicked him in the side with the pointed toe of her Western boot, and screamed, “Don’t fucking touch me!”
One of the other men pulled her away before she killed him. Michelle took the mechanic’s tools and began working on the old diesel engine. Within thirty minutes, she had the engine running.
Michelle had trained in Israel with some of the best weapons experts in the world. She’d worked with missiles confiscated by the border police as well as Scud missiles that had been fired their way but had fallen short. She’d learned how to take the devices apart, piece by piece, and repurpose them. She’d removed the kerosene-propelled motors and converted them to solid fuel engines. She’d added GPS guidance systems to relics of past wars and had made them capable of hitting targets 200 miles away.
Now, Michelle headed up the covert operation in the United States, where, among other things, she was charged with installing automatic target recognition (ATR) guidance systems in the silkworms. Manufactured by General Electric, the ATRs had been legally sold to Israel for the development of its missile defense system. Using money Hormand had sent, Nicole had purchased six of these units at black-market prices from Michelle’s Israeli “friends.”
Michelle had worked through the night trying to get all six missiles ready. In the summer heat, she sweated profusely. Since she never wore a bra, her nipples were visible through her wet blouse, yet no one in the group dared to glance at her chest. Although most of the men were devout Muslims, none objected to Michelle’s revealing attire.
Michelle was in the process of installing the ATRs when she received a package from Hormand containing an attachment developed for naval warfare. In mid flight, the attachment could locate the GPS signal given out by a ship in trouble, and accurately lock on to the distressed vessel. Hormand had sent only one of these devices, which Michelle was to install in the first rocket that would be fired.
When she finally finished, she announced, “The missiles are ready. They’re accurate enough to hit the United States Capitol from here — if that was our target — and they would be powerful enough to flatten the motherfucker! As soon as Celena gets off her ass and locates the real target, our missiles are going to rip this country open.”
At long last, the ISIS chief could send a text to Kahliclass="underline" MY MISSILES ARE READY TO STRIKE. AFTER CHARLIE IS DEAD, I WILL AUTHORIZE THE USE OF ALL MY MISSILES TO DESTROY THE CITY. PRAISE ALLAH.
Celena, Hormand’s operative, checked her texts. THE AMERICAN AND HIS CONTROL STATION MUST BE LOCATED AND DESTROYED BEFORE HE KILLS MORE OF MY ISIS BROTHERS. DEADLINE IS ONE WEEK.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harris was stumped. And worried. Someone had paid James’ full bail with cash, and it wasn’t a bail bondsman. After more than twenty telephone calls, Harris still hadn’t identified James’ mysterious benefactor. Judge Wilkins refused to give him the name, and nobody at the courthouse seemed to know where the money had come from.
Harris tightened his jaw. Not gonna do it. Not til I have ta.
Harris figured that ignoring the release order might at least buy him some time to track down who was behind this, and it would keep the hospital president, Herb Waters, off his back.
It wasn’t time enough. After making a few phone calls that led nowhere, Harris was nosing around on the computer when a courier delivered a memo from the judge: “RELEASE JAMES NOW OR I WILL CHARGE YOU WITH CONTEMPT OF COURT.”