Authors: Jason Elam
FRIDAY, APRIL 24, 11:45 A.M. CRST SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA
There was not much that could give Riley Covington the heebie-jeebies—moldy sour cream, chewing on tinfoil, the music of
Barry Manilow—but looking at what was in the tall fountain glass that had just been placed in front of Scott Ross was seriously
making his skin crawl and his stomach dance the mambo.
“You try it,” Scott said as he slid the glass across the table with his fingertips.
“You ordered it, you drink it,” Riley countered, sliding the sweating glass back across the polished wood. The two friends
were sitting at an outdoor table at Las Fresas restaurant in San José, Costa Rica. Skeeter Dawkins and Khadijah Faroughi rounded
out the foursome.
“When I ordered guanabana juice, I thought I was going to get some sort of guava and banana mixture. This looks like they
took curdled skim milk, added water, and then took the glass to the back so that the cooks could each hawk a big, honkin’—”
Scott stopped when he noticed Khadi looking at him.
Riley grinned. He knew Scott had been trying really hard to use his verbal filter on this trip, albeit with limited success.
“Let’s just say that it looks like the guanabana had a bad head cold just prior to being juiced.”
“Thank you, Scott. Although I’m not sure that was much of an improvement over what you were going to say,” Khadi laughed.
“Just try it. You might be surprised.”
“My lips and this twisted tribute to postnasal drip will never meet this side of—”
Scott’s pledge was interrupted by a large hand grabbing the glass from in front of him. Bringing the glass to his lips, Skeeter
downed the juice in one continuous motion. Riley’s huge self-appointed bodyguard slammed the glass onto the table, wiped his
mouth with Scott’s napkin, then without a word turned back to the spot he had been watching down the street.
“Dude, that was my juice you just drank,” Scott whined. “What’s up with that?”
Riley took a sip of his fresh pineapple juice as he laughed. At the next table over, a little
tico
girl with enormous brown eyes and her hair in ponytails shyly turned for the fourth time to watch this big, happy American
man. She jumped as Riley caught her eyes, then quickly spun back around when Riley shot her a quick wink. The girl’s mom gave
Riley a smile and a nod in appreciation of his acknowledging her daughter’s attention.
These last two weeks in Costa Rica had been exactly what each of the four had needed to physically and emotionally recover
from the events of the beginning of the year. This group had experienced a lot of pain and had shed—and spilled—a lot of blood
in the search for Hakeem Qasim. Only now was Riley finally feeling ready to go back to Denver to face life again.
Riley Covington knew he faced a decision when he got home. Three months ago, he was an all-pro linebacker for the Colorado Mustangs. Then, suddenly, his old life had literally blown
up in his face when a terrorist group bombed Platte River Stadium in Denver during a Monday night game. Nearly two thousand
people were killed in that suicide attack.
Because of his post-Academy years in Afghanistan as part of the Air Force Special Operations Command, Riley had been pulled
back into the Special Forces life of guns and death.
Can I really go back to
the Professional Football League as if nothing ever happened?
I’ve
been
franchised by the team, so
it’s
obvious they still want me. But do I have
the passion anymore?
“Riley . . . earth to Riley,” Khadi’s voice drew him back from his thoughts. She motioned to the waitress who was trying to
put his food down.
“Oh, sorry,” he said to the woman as he dropped his elbows off the table. His jaw immediately followed his elbows when he
saw the plate that was put in front of him.
“Holy Mother Russia, what is that monstrosity?” Scott asked before realizing that two more were being delivered to him and
Khadi.
“Pastor Jimenez told me, ‘Order the
Ensalada de Fruta con
Helado
,’” Riley said. “He told me it’s just a simple fruit salad with ice cream.” But Riley had never seen so much fruit. His plate was overflowing with strawberries and huge chunks of pineapple, watermelon,
and mango. And if that wasn’t enough, three enormous scoops of ice cream topped off the tropical explosion.
“I’ll never be able to finish this myself,” Khadi complained. “In fact, I would never forgive myself if I did.”
“Don’t look at me. He never told me to get just one for all of us. I just assumed.”
“Yeah, well we all know where that gets us, Pach,” Scott said.
Pach
was Riley’s nickname back from his Air Force football days, when his speed and hitting power drew comparisons to the AH-64
Apache attack helicopter. “If I try to eat all this, it could make for a long, painful flight home. This stuff will shoot
through me like . . . like . . . like refuse through a Canadian waterfowl,” Scott finished lamely. “Khadi, this whole verbal
filter thing is really a pain.”
Khadi reached over and patted Scott’s arm. “I know it is, and I appreciate it.”
Scott called the manager of the restaurant over and had him take a picture of the three of them with their fruit salads and
Skeeter with his Cuban sandwich.
“Nice smile, Skeet,” Scott said as he checked out the picture in the digital viewer of his camera. “You look like someone
just stole your brass knuckles.”
“Mmm,” replied Skeeter, who turned his attention back up the street.
“It’s always great having you part of the conversation, my friend.”
Riley, Khadi, and Scott attacked their fruit salads, effectively halting conversation other than the occasional “Oh, yeah”
and “That’s good.”
A passing box truck spewed black diesel exhaust into the sidewalk café, causing Riley to cough and look up for the first time
in five minutes. As he waved his hand in an attempt to clear the air in front of his face, his eyes were drawn to Skeeter,
who was so intent on something up the street that he had completely ignored his plate. “Hey, Skeet, you okay? What’s up?”
Skeeter turned around and noticed his sandwich but didn’t take a bite. “I don’t know, Pach. There’s a couple of guys halfway
down the block. Caught them looking this way a few times.”
“Where’re they at?”
“Your eleven.”
Riley casually looked around Skeeter’s big frame and saw the two men. One was sitting on a car, and the other was leaning
against a building. Their close-cropped black hair and full beards seemed out of place on a Costa Rican street. Both men were
smoking. As Riley watched, a third man walked out of a
farmacia
and joined them. “Don’t look now, but your two have turned into three.”
“Will you two relax?” Scott said as he turned around to look at the men. “You guys have been seeing bogeymen behind . . .
Whoa, hold on. They do look a little more
hajji
than
tico
.”
Khadi spotted the men also. “They sure do. And I’ve asked you to please quit using that term.”
“What?
Hajji
? That’s just what we called all the Middle East folk when we were out on patrol in the ’Stans.”
“First of all, this isn’t the ’Stans. And second, if that’s true, then I’m a
hajji
, too.” Khadi was from a Persian family who had fled Iran just prior to the fall of the shah.
“Come on, Khadi, that’s ridiculous.
Hajji
s are guys. You’d be like a
hajjette
or something.”
“Thanks, Scott. That’s far less demeaning.”
“They’re moving,” Skeeter broke in. As the four watched from the table, the three men walked to the far end of the block and
turned out of sight.
“There! Did you see that last guy take a quick glance back before he rounded the corner?” Riley asked.
“I’m kind of getting a bad feeling about this,” Khadi said. “We need to think about making ourselves scarce.”
“Good call.” Riley caught the waitress’s attention and made a scribbling motion on his hand indicating he was ready for the
check. “Skeeter, what are you packing?” As Riley’s official bodyguard, Skeeter was the only one allowed by Costa Rican immigration
to bring in firearms.
“Got my HK45 and a Mark 23.”
“Good. Pass your Mark to Scott under the table. Now, there’s no way anyone could know we’re here, so this is probably total
paranoia. But still, it’s not worth taking chances. Scott and Khadi, as soon as I settle up, I want you two to walk to the
corner and hang a left. Skeeter and I will cross and head up the next street to the right. We’ll meet back at the hotel as
soon as we can get there.”
Khadi laid her hand on Riley’s wrist. “I don’t feel good about us all splitting up.”
Riley knew that by “us all,” Khadi meant the two of them. The feelings between Riley and Khadi had continued to grow over
the months since they had met in the aftermath of the Platte River Stadium attack. The only thing separating them now was
the only issue big enough to keep them apart—their religious beliefs. Both Khadi’s Koran and Riley’s Bible prohibited cross-faith
unions. But, while both could control their actions, it was much harder to control their emotions.
“I understand, Khadi. But if these really are
haj
—bad guys, I don’t want you or Scott anywhere around me. Skeeter can take care—”
A screech of tires made Riley jump.
“Don’t matter now! Here they come,” Skeeter yelled as he pushed Riley to the ground. Scott and Khadi dove for cover.
“Get inside,” Riley yelled to the next table. The mother grabbed her daughter and ran through the front door.
A rusting red sedan tore around the corner where the three men had disappeared and sped up the street. One masked man was
leaning over the roof of the car, and a second was hanging out the rear driver’s-side window. Both were armed with AK-47s.
The sound of the assault rifles combined with the shattering glass of the windows sent screams up all around the restaurant.
Riley prayed that the mother had made it to the ground in time. Scott and Skeeter returned fire with their handguns. A shot
from Scott put a hole in the knit mask of the man leaning over the roof. He flew off his side window perch and exploded the
rear glass of a parked car.
All of Skeeter’s shots were directed at the driver, with one finally hitting its mark. The car swerved, caught a tire, and
began to roll. On the third spin, Riley could see the other gunman ejected from his window. The last Riley saw of him was
when the car landed on top of him then skidded up against a delivery truck.
Riley quickly turned toward Khadi. Blood streamed down her cheek from a shard of glass. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. How’d they know we were here?”
“I have no clue. Scott, Skeet, you guys okay?” Before they could answer, all four heard the familiar
whoosh
of an RPG launch. “Incoming!” Riley yelled.
They dove to the ground just as the rocket plowed into the restaurant, showering them with pieces of the building. The explosive
wave slammed hard into Riley’s body and drove the air out of his lungs. Plaster dust hung like a fog, burning his eyes. He
lay there gasping for breath, trying to clear his brain. People screamed around him, but they sounded like they were down
a long tunnel.
He didn’t know how long he remained in that state before the sound of automatic weapons fire snapped him back to full consciousness.
He looked to his left and saw Khadi moving slowly. Beyond her, Scott knelt behind two large fern planters, returning fire.
Next to him, Skeeter was stretched out. There was blood on his forehead, and he wasn’t moving.
“Scott, sit rep,” Riley called out, looking for a situation report.
“Minimum three bogies with AKs hoofing it down the opposite direction from our first batch. Skeet’s out but breathing. I’ve
got two more clips for his Mark, and three for his .45.”
“Got it! Slide me the .45 and the clips!”
Scott complied.
Riley picked up the weapon and lost his fingers in the thick grooves of Skeeter’s custom-made grip. However, Skeeter’s gun
was not unfamiliar to Riley, and he made a quick adjustment to his hold. Turning to Khadi, he said, “Scott and I are going
to press these guys back. Soon as we’re forward, I want you to check on Skeet.”
Khadi tried to respond but started coughing instead. Tears from her grit-filled eyes were making streaks down her dusty face.
She put a thumb up instead.
Turning back around, Riley said, “Okay, Scott. Just like back in Afghanistan, except this time we’re outnumbered, outgunned,
and surrounded by innocent civilians.”
Scott grinned, “Look out,
hajji
, here we come!”
“On
go
, you cross the street and split the fire! Three—two—one—GO!” Riley began firing up the street as Scott bolted across. His
peripheral vision caught Scott suddenly veering course. He turned in time to see Scott grab the first casualty’s rifle off
the pavement and dive behind a car.
The
guy’s
good,
Riley thought.
He signaled Scott, who began to lay down cover fire. Running past the corner restaurant and across the intersection, Riley
could hear the whiz of bullets all around him. The discordant scents of fresh baked bread and gunpowder hung in the air as
he flattened himself against the side of a
panadería
. Chunks of pulverized brick showered his face from the corner of the building.
Riley looked back to see Scott ejecting the magazines that had been taped together and shoving the fresh box into his AK-47.
That’ll
give him thirty more rounds,
Riley thought as he slid a new clip into his handgun.
Not much, but
it’ll
have to do.
Suddenly, he saw Scott’s eyes get big. Scott quickly signaled to him that there was another RPG ready to fire but that he
wasn’t in position to get a shot at it.
Riley leaned out just a touch and used the glass of the buildings up the street to give him a picture of where the gunmen
were. His eye caught a dark shape with a long cylinder stepping out into the street.