Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

“About the way he sounds. I figure he’ll end up either better, in the hospital, or dead. Any way you look at it, I think the decision’s out of my hands.”

“What about next Sunday?”

“Obviously, if he’s coughing like that, there’s no chance of him being on the PFL Cup ops team. But even so, we’d probably be able use him as Mother, coordinating the action.”

Suddenly Riley looked up from his computer and spotted the two men watching him. He gave a small smile and a nod of his head as if he knew what their discussion had been about and agreed with their conclusions. Then he went back to work.

“And I thought you were a hard guy to figure out,” Hicks said to Scott.

“True that,” Scott replied.

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry. I just got off a conference call with my little cadre of postmodern Gen Xers back in the Room of Understanding. Sometimes it rubs off. But that does remind me of why I came here. Virgil Hernandez came across a murder in East L.A. Guy’s name was Valentín Joaquín de Herrera. Now, you’re probably thinking, Mexican guy turning up dead in East L.A.? Not that unusual. True, except this guy had a rep as a coyote. A coyote’s one of the dudes who escorts folks across the border.”

“I’m familiar with the term. Go on.”

Scott took a long pull on his straw. Now that he was back in the States where he could add the Diet Mountain Dew Code Red to his Yoo-hoo, he was in sugary, caffeine heaven. This was his fifth 32-ounce drink today-the fifth that Hicks knew about, anyway-and it was only 3:30 p.m.

Scott stifled a cherry-chocolate belch and proceeded. “So, this guy gets taken out with one.40 cal shot to the forehead. Still not that unusual. But apparently this guy used to have a partner, Fabián Ramón Guerrero. Unfortunately for Señor Fabián, he was discovered out in the deserts of Chihuahua a few days after the Platte River attack. They pulled two slugs from his body-both.40 cal. I’ve got Tara trying to get those bullets from the Mexican authorities so we can run comparison ballistics on them.”

Hicks put up his hand to stop Scott’s monologue. “Wait, something doesn’t make sense. If you’re going to say Hakeem did this, then how does he get the same gun to Italy and back again?”

“Patience, Jedi master, patience. Now, Valentín spent the last four weeks or so down in Mexico City. Word is he was throwing around cash like it grew on cactuses… or is it cacti…? cactis…? cactoose…?”

“Scott!”

“Okay, okay. He was throwing around money like it grew on spiky desert plants. Also, he had a gun he was showing off that he said belonged to someone else, which I guess he was holding for someone, and anyway, it was a small silver gun and it had the words 40 Tactical printed on its side, and apparently he said the guy it belonged to had promised him another fifty grand and all he had to do was get him safely back across the border again.” Scott stopped to take a deep breath. “Sorry, run-on sentence. So, Valentín’s got a gun. Any guesses at what this mystery gun owner’s name was?”

Hicks, who hated guessing games of any kind, just stared at Scott.

Scott made a buzzing sound. “Nice try. Valentín was telling everyone that the gun belonged to a bad man, a ruthless desperado, un hombre malvado-”

Hicks slammed his hand on the desk.

“-a really naughty guy code-named… the Cheetah.”

Sunday, January 25

El Espejo Road

La Mirada, California

Her face was perfect. Round with the slightest pudge to her cheeks. Her eyes were almond shaped with heavy brows. That little nose of hers was still trying to figure out what it was going to do and in the meantime just sat softly above her small mouth. How has she changed in the past month? Hakeem wondered. Gently, he traced her outline on the small picture with his index finger.

My sweet Aly… beautiful little Alessandra. What will your life be like without me? You are my sole regret in this whole affair. The things that you’ll hear about me will not be kind. If only you could understand why I’m doing what I’m doing. Hakeem lifted his finger from the picture and wiped away a single tear that had slipped down to his recently dyed blond beard. This is not an irrational act. I am not crazy. Your grandmother and grandfather were murdered by the American government. Your great-uncle was killed by an act of terror. I’m doing this for their sake-to restore their honor. To restore my honor.

Hakeem unfolded the picture so that Meg could be seen holding Alessandra on her left hip.

Your mother is a good woman. She didn’t deserve the hand I dealt her. I trust her to find a good man who can raise you-a man who has not been burdened by fate the way that I have. But even though he might love you and provide a roof over your head, he will never be your father. And no matter what name he gives you, that will not be who you truly are. Because, sweet Aly, you are not a Smith or a Jones or an Anderson or even a Ricci-you are a Qasim! And what I do is not for my ancestors alone but for you! I do this to give you a better life apart from the tyranny of this evil government.

He refolded the picture, kissed the image of his daughter, and slipped the snapshot back under the insole of his shoe. He had not brought out the picture at all during the first three weeks following his escape from his former life. But now this monologue to his daughter was becoming a daily ritual. He tried to analyze where his compulsion to speak to her was coming from. All he could figure was that the reality that he would die in one week’s time was affecting his mind a bit.

This status of “dead man walking” was not what he had expected it to be. He had always thought it would be a period of one more time s. He had expected that there would be foods he would want to enjoy one more time, that he would want to experience every sunrise and sunset, that he would want to experience a woman once more this side of paradise. But the reality was that the family he was staying with had to constantly encourage him to eat, and it was hard for him to summon the motivation even to leave his room. He found himself thinking often of Meg and still felt that any physical relationship with another woman would be a betrayal.

The other person that he thought of often was Riley Covington. Why he felt guilt at leaving his former friend in the hands of his compatriots escaped him. It was Riley’s fault that he was in that position, wasn’t it? He came after me! He tried to block my destiny! He should be thankful I kept him alive! And he did ultimately end up serving my purpose, didn’t he?

Hakeem had never expected al-’Aqran to be released; that wasn’t the way Americans worked. What he hadn’t bargained on, though, was Riley’s being rescued from his cell. It had been two days since his hosts had passed that unbelievable message on to him, and he was still trying to come to grips with it. A chill spread across Hakeem’s body, and he zipped his fleece jacket even though he knew that the temperature wasn’t the cause of his trembling.

What was it about that man that made Hakeem so uneasy? He knew part of it was his intensity. Riley would not stop until he found Hakeem. But the chances of that were so slim. I’m holed up in a suburb of the second most populous city in the third most populous country in the world, he thought confidently.

The bigger part of Hakeem’s uneasiness was the way Riley made him question himself. Riley was so sure of himself. His conviction of his beliefs was so strong. His strength of character was so solid. The only time Hakeem had ever questioned his own calling was with Riley in that room back in Italy. He looked down at his hand, still feeling his friend’s cheek against his knuckles. Why didn’t he spit on me? That would have made things so much easier!