

Yellow

Matthew Riehl

Second Edition

Yellow

Copyright © 2013 by Matthew Riehl. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit my website at www.riehlsuspense.com.

Dedication

To my parents, Gene Riehl, as much a friend as a father and author of the critically acclaimed novels, _Quantico Rules_ and _Sleeper_ , each published by St. Martin's Press (check them out; they won't disappoint); and Barbara Dobson, a woman with a heart of gold who has brought joy and comfort to my life during hard times, and has always been my staunchest supporter; my sister, Brenda Nickerson, an aspiring author (it's in our genes, no pun intended); my brother-in-law, Harvey Nickerson, who takes care of my big sis and has given her the bliss she's always deserved; my nephews, Ryan and James Lewis; my niece, Christina; my stepdad and very good friend, Eddie Dobson, also a talented author; and my stepmother, Diane Riehl. Your unwavering support of my work is, in part, what keeps me relentlessly pecking away at my keyboard each and every night. A little OCD and a lot of love of writing provide the rest of my motivation.

Snuggles, Columbus and Dalton, the blood, sweat and tears that I put into my work I dedicate to you, my four-legged friends, for your many years of unadulterated love and for giving me happiness during good times and bad.

# Contents

Chapter 3 17

Chapter 4 22

Chapter 5 24

Chapter 6 29

Chapter 7 37

Chapter 8 45

Chapter 9 49

Chapter 10 55

Chapter 11 63

Chapter 12 67

Chapter 13 75

Chapter 14 80

Chapter 15 83

Chapter 16 89

Chapter 17 94

Chapter 18 102

Chapter 19 111

Chapter 20 117

Chapter 21 123

Chapter 22 129

Chapter 23 133

Chapter 24 140

Chapter 25 149

Chapter 26 154

Chapter 27 158

Chapter 28 168

Chapter 29 177

Chapter 30 184

Chapter 31 191

Chapter 32 196

Chapter 33 205

Chapter 34 210

Chapter 35 215

Chapter 36 221

Chapter 37 228

Chapter 38 231

#

Chapter 1

"Damn it, Paul," I said with raised voice. "That report says top secret on it for a reason. Put it in the safe. If Colonel Washington walks in and sees that, you know who's going to get fired? Me."

It was 5:30 pm, early January, 2014. Paul Robinson, a man in his mid-forties—tall, around six foot four, strong and barrel-chested, with a square head, pale face and dark circles under his eyes—and I were alone in our office, a decent sized room roughly three times larger than my eleven hundred-square-foot apartment, well-lit, with six cubicles and no windows.

"It's only been there a couple minutes, Jax," Paul said.

"It shouldn't be there at all, especially face up in plain sight," I scorned. "Next time it happens will be the last." My cell started vibrating as Paul walked toward the safe with the papers, grumbling.

"Hey, babe," I said. "What's up?...Ah crap. Sorry. I'll be there in thirty. Paul, I have to go. Think about where you're working and what's at stake." Paul sighed as I walked out.

Later that night, after dinner at Outback Steakhouse on 16th Street, my girlfriend Janet––a stunning twenty-nine-year-old woman, around five foot seven, with blonde hair impeccably fixed and deep blue eyes, a curvy, beautiful body accentuated by her slinky black dress––and I were sitting in a bar she suggested, a place I'd otherwise never go. It was a dimly lit, smoky little hole in the wall with tacky neon beer ads scattered across the walls, a jukebox and some pool tables. It was called The Stumble Inn, which was a mile or so down the road from where we ate. A couple of rough-and-tumble looking guys were knocking the balls around one of the pool tables with fury, but like two blind men in a whorehouse, nothing was going in the holes. Pathetic, I thought.

I could feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket again. I removed it and saw it was my grandpa, Sebastian, with whom I'd been very close since I was a child, especially after the night he told me the story––the one that's haunted my dreams ever since. I was nine years old. Although at the time I didn't fully comprehend the gravity of what he was telling me, it was the first time I was exposed to the concept of a world where inexplicably horrible things happen.

"Be back in a minute," I said, got up and walked outside. It was bitterly cold in the desert that night. After the small talk, my grandpa, who I wasn't quite sure was still all there because some of the things he told me, quite frankly, seemed far-fetched and even paranoid, although he was always lucid and articulate, finally got to his motive for calling. I listened with skepticism before replying. "Okay, grandpa, I'll get you what you need. Talk to you soon. Love you." I hung up, walked back inside and sat down across from Janet.

"Is everything okay, Jax?" she asked.

"Yeah." Then I noticed a man walk in. As he approached our table, I put my menu over my face. "What the hell's _he_ doin' here?" I said quietly.

"Who?" Janet said.

"That a-hole, Paul. He doesn't drink. He's Mormon. Where's he sitting?"

"Three tables from us."

"Is he with someone?"

"Yeah."

"Man or woman?"

"It's a man, but his back is to us."

"I have to use the restroom real quick," I said before I got up and walked toward the bathroom, which was behind Paul and to the right. As I approached, I heard the unknown man speaking in a Middle Eastern accent. He was in mid-sentence.

"...a lot of money in it for you, Paul, more than you'll ever make at that dead-end job," the man said. "I know your wife needs a kidney transplant and I can guarantee she gets it. We'll pay all her medical..."

I entered the bathroom, stood there for a few seconds and walked out. I went back and sat across from Janet, reached in my pocket and pulled out a device.

"What's that?" she asked.

"It was in our mailbox this morning. I was headed to work so I brought it with me. It supposedly allows you to hear conversations clearly even in noisy places from up to thirty feet. Have you seen that hokey commercial where the guy's working out in the gym and..."

"Yeah. It's sooo stupid. _That's_ the gadget? Please don't tell me you ordered that."

"No. It's a gag Christmas gift from a friend. It's an inside joke. I'll explain later. I just heard something crazy." I put the device in my ear.

"Is it working?" Janet said.

"I don't know yet...Dang, it's actually working. I can hear everything."

"Hey, thanks for meeting me here," the unknown man said.

"I was surprised when you called after the beat down I laid on you Saturday on the golf course," Paul said.

"You only beat me by six strokes."

"Six strokes my butt. You took more mulligans than the Irish potato famine." They both laughed, as did I.

"So how are things going?" the unknown man said.

"If the word great were to mean I hate my job and my boss is a nitwit who couldn't find his rear end if it were sewn to his face, then I'm doing great."

"Real original, jerk," I said quietly.

"What did he say?" Janet said.

"Quiet."

"Quiet?"

"No, I'm telling _you_ to be quiet."

"Man, it's that bad, huh?" the unknown man said.

"It's worse," Paul said. "I was actually trying to sugarcoat it." They laughed again. I didn't this time.

"Well, maybe I can help change that for you," the unknown man said.

"I don't have any money if you're a hit man offering to whack my boss." Moron, I thought.

"Seriously, I have a business proposition for you," the unknown man said. Paul paused for several seconds.

"Ah, crap," he said. "I know what this is. I learned about this at work. This is un freakin' believable."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're a foreign national, you know where I work, you've slowly and subtly befriended me, and here comes the sales pitch. In other words, you're a spy. This conversation is over. Have a nice life, whatever the hell your real name is." Paul got up, put his coat on and started to walk away Janet said.

"There's a lot of money in it for you, Paul, more than you'll ever make at that dead-end job," the unknown man said. "I know your wife needs a kidney transplant and I can guarantee she gets it. We'll pay all her medical expenses and give you much more to spare." Paul stopped and stood there for what seemed like twenty to thirty seconds.

During that time I started thinking. I was just at our annual Christmas party and Paul and his wife were there. She didn't look even remotely sick. My gut was telling me Paul was conning this guy. My dad always told me, "You can't play a player." Paul was a loathsome SOB, but he was smart. He had to have known what was going on before now. We were constantly warned at work about this sort of recruitment and exactly how it happens. He turned, walked back to the table and sat. I wasn't surprised.

"Do you realize if I get caught talking to you, I'll be fired and thrown in prison for treason?" he said. "Then _both_ my wife and I will be serving life sentences."

"I understand the risk, but I'm an ally to your country," the unknown man said. "I'm an Israeli operative. I have concrete evidence that Hamas has already made contact with several people you work with, including your boss."

"What the hell?" I said quietly. "He's lying. I've never talked to anybody about the work I do."

"Jax is selling secrets to Hamas?" Paul said, seemingly stunned.

"Yes," the unknown man said. "He's been doing it for almost a year. As we speak, Hamas is acquiring the technology they need to create another Holocaust." Goliath, I thought, which was the only weapon system capable of causing that kind of destruction. But that was impossible. We were testing it at the proving ground and it was top secret. Myself and only the engineer testing the weapon, the weapon's manufacturer, the test crew and, of course, the U.S. government knew it was being tested. I wasn't supposed to know but the engineer, Josh Granderson, was a close friend of mine, and one night when we were hammered at my apartment and Janet was at the grocery store he mentioned the name. I inquired about it and he bragged he was the engineer testing the most sophisticated piece of weaponry ever produced and even gave me the premise, but that if I told anyone he'd have to kill me. Then he laughed. But it was true. If even the knowledge that we were testing this weaponry fell into the wrong hands it could have devastating, world-altering consequences.

Josh told me the next day he had a blackout and didn't remember anything after his fifth shot of vodka, which was minutes before he told me about Goliath. He asked me what happened the night before and I said nothing about Goliath. If anyone knew he told me, he'd be immediately fired and imprisoned for the rest of his life. There was no way this operative or anyone else could gain access to this technology unless the manufacturer, Raytheon, was leaking the design plans, which was a ridiculous notion. And the security around this project and the measures that were in place to maintain its anonymity made it impossible to access this information. It would be tantamount to breaking into Fort Knox. So I knew immediately the man was lying to get Paul to take the bait.

"It's dire to the state of Israel that we know what they have and how close they are to being able to use it," the mystery man continued. "If you refuse to help me, will you be able to sleep at night knowing you could have prevented millions of Jews from being annihilated?"

"I don't even know what it is you need and whether I can even gain access to it," Paul said.

"I was told you were the man to talk to." What? I thought. This whole thing was insane.

"Are you talking about Goliath?" Paul whispered. What the hell? I wondered. I could've sworn he said Goliath, but that wasn't possible.

"What?" the unknown man said.

"Goliath," Paul whispered a little louder. "Are you talking about Goliath?" Oh my God, I thought. I heard it clearly that time. How the hell did Paul know about it? It must've been Josh's loose lips, or something else was happening to which I wasn't privy.

"Oh, yes, Goliath," the unknown man said. It was apparent by his reaction he had no clue about what Paul was talking. I'm sure Paul knew this too. This man was likely just fishing for anything he could get his hands on. Unless the information had been leaked. Impossible, I thought again. Raytheon would never betray this country.

"How do I know you're not working for Hamas?" Paul said. I was thinking false flag as well and that it was _Hamas_ trying to get whatever intel they could to kill as many Jews as possible. But another Holocaust? Give me a break, although the recent uprising and bloodshed over there was a bit unsettling.

"Here are my credentials," the unknown man said as he took his wallet out and showed Paul what he needed to see. "You have to trust me. You can't afford not to. I can save your wife's life."

"Obviously, you're just using me for your own political agenda so cut the BS about this being a mutual benefit," Paul said. "Open your jacket."

"Excuse me?"

"I said open your jacket. Then unbutton your shirt. I want to see if you're wearing a wire. If you don't do it now I'm walking and you'll never see me again."

"Okay, I understand." He unbuttoned his shirt and there was no wire. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm trying to save my country, and I desperately need your help." Paul hesitated.

"Okay, I'll give you what you need under the condition that our conversations are in a private place where there's no chance what I tell you is heard by anyone," he said. "No more of this meeting in bars. It's too risky."

"Oh my God," I said. "He's about to commit treason."

"What are you going to do about it?" Janet said.

"I don't know."

"Okay, how do you want to do this?" the unknown man said.

"When we meet, it's going to be at a remote location of my choosing," Paul said. "We're going to leave our cars and talk outside. I don't trust you. For all I know, you're working for YPG or you're CIA and your car will be bugged. I'm going to ask you to unbutton your shirt again and make sure you aren't wired. You'll tell me what you need and I'll contact you when I get the information. It might take a few days. Then we'll meet. The same rules will apply each time. Those are my terms. If you don't like them, you're not getting a thing from me."

"Okay, I agree to your terms. Like I said, my only purpose is to save my country from extinction, Paul. It's also in your country's best interest to stop Hamas because America is also in grave danger. You'll be doing a service to your country." This was such obvious BS that only an idiot would fall for it, and, again, Paul was no idiot.

"Yeah, and thank you for blackmailing me into risking my career and life," he said. "Let's talk about the money. I want half up front. Otherwise, I'm not giving you squat."

"That can be arranged," the unknown man said.

"What kind of money are we talking about?"

"A quarter million dollars. This will cover your wife's medical expenses and ensure her a spot at the top of the donor wait list. It'll also cover your service to the state of Israel."

"I'll do it for a half million, not a penny less, all cash." The unknown man hesitated.

"Okay, that can be arranged," he said finally.

"So when we meet again, you'll have a quarter million dollars cash or I'm walking."

"Yes. Thank you, Paul, from myself and my country." Paul got up and walked out. The unknown man remained in his seat for a couple minutes before heading to the restroom. He walked out a short time later. I only saw him from behind. He was around five foot nine, thin, with wavy black hair, wearing khaki pants and a sport jacket.

"I'm gonna hire a PI and crucify this bastard!" I said.

"That's crazy, Jax," Janet said. "You'll be jeopardizing your career. You should report it to your security at work."

"You're right. That's exactly what I should do and typically what I would do. My entire adult life, I've done everything in my power to avoid risk, always playing it safe so I'd never have to feel the way I did that day again."

"Are you ever going to tell me what you did?"

"I don't like to talk about it."

"How bad was it?" Janet said.

"Pretty bad, but it's not like I killed someone or anything. Just drop it."

"All right. Fine." She had a sour look on her face.

"My point is, the net result of my unwillingness to do anything that exposes me to danger has been a life pretty much void of any kind of real excitement or significance," I said. "I feel the adrenaline surging through my body, and I like it. It's time I do something that makes me feel alive and relevant."

"I don't make you feel alive and relevant?"

"No, you do, absolutely. But I just realized after twenty-five years living life without taking chances isn't really living at all. I can't remember the last time I felt this kind of rush."

"If you need a rush, go sky diving or bungee jumping or something. We're talking about treason here. You'd be risking your job and your _life_."

"I'll be extremely careful."

I took everything Janet said with a grain of salt, as she was a crazy nympho, or so I thought. We made an odd couple. I was mister levelheaded––the non-spontaneous, ultra-conservative, workaholic type quickly moving up the ladder at work. Janet was the complete opposite. I was also a gym rat. As soon as I punched the clock at shift's end, I made a beeline to 4th Avenue Gym on 22nd Street across from the Post Office and pumped iron for about two hours. I admit it; I'm about as predictable as the sun rising every morning. Work and the gym made up about seventy-five percent of my life, sex and sleep the rest.

However, what nobody knew about me was that over the past few years, I'd come to believe in things I once considered the whimsy of the idiot. I'm talking about destiny, divine intervention, and that everything, good or bad, happens for a reason. I'd also come to believe that good and evil were tangible things, not just abstract labels we apply to people and the things they do. I considered myself an enigma. I was smart but could be extraordinarily stupid. I was a flake but extremely driven. I was serious and uptight (I could open a jar of pickles with my butt cheeks) but could make you laugh so hard your sides would ache.

I didn't have much of a social life. Besides working out, I watched sports; hung out with my buddies occasionally (we played Texas Hold'em or watched football usually); indulged in fantasy football; and Janet and I spent a lot of time watching TV, Netflix movies and in the sack. I had the good fortune of hooking up with a bona fide sex addict. I should probably mention that sarcasm was the only thing preventing me from throwing myself in front of a train; it gave me great pleasure. It wasn't long before I realized all sex all the time was overrated. We were going on our third month together and she was wearing me out.

Since our relationship was pretty much all about sex, there wasn't much in the way of conversation, and neither of us particularly liked small talk, so sitting there together without a buzz on was always kind of awkward for me. Nothing was awkward for Janet, however. She was giving my crotch a work over with her foot.

"Take it easy," I said. "Let's get out of here. We need to get home so I can find a PI."

"I can't help myself. You look so hot. Your pecs are driving me crazy. Have another drink. How was your day?"

"It sucked. The four people who work for me, including Paul, are as useless as an electrician in Amish country. I'm going to be working fifty to sixty hours a week until I retire."

"Aren't you worried about getting burnt out? Why don't you fire them and get a staff that's willing to actually do some work?"

"They're my meal ticket. Not only does their obvious mediocrity make me look like a superstar, but all that overtime bought that sweet little ride." We both turned and looked out the window at the shiny, yellow, classic '75 Jaguar XKE parked right outside. That's my baby, I thought. "I've been kicking around the idea of firing Paul for some time, but it looks like he's taking care of _that_ dirty work for me. Even without him, there's still enough incompetence in that office to keep the OT flowing." Janet continued to work on my crotch; she had it down to a science. Just think about baseball, I told myself. "Okay, I've had enough," I said. "I need to be able to drive us home. I'm not paying for another taxi."

"Fine," she said. I could tell she was annoyed, but I couldn't care less. I paid the bill, we got up and headed toward the exit, where I opened the door and stared at Janet's glutes as she walked out.

"Would you open the door for me if you didn't like my butt so much?"

"What? I'm deeply offended. I'm just being a gentleman."

"Right," she said. What did she expect? I thought. It was as if her caboose was sculpted from fine granite by Donatello. It was even colder now as we made our way across the parking lot. Winters were always cold there, but it was particularly cold.

"Dang, it's freezing," I said.

"I'll warm you up later," Janet said. I walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it for her, again admiring her back side before she got in.

"You're staring at it again, aren't you?"

"Get over yourself," I said.

I walked around the back of the car to the driver's side, opened the door, got in behind the wheel and started the engine, the purr of which was like sweet music to me. I cranked up the heat as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward my apartment, which was approximately two miles away. In Yuma, everything was in close proximity. We headed down 16th Street west toward Pacific Avenue. The light turned yellow and I gunned it, turning left onto Pacific. Ironically, my favorite song, "Yellow," by Coldplay, was playing on my CD. I don't know why I liked it so much. The lyrics don't make any sense. But the first time I heard it I was hypnotized. I cranked it up.

"You sure you aren't gay?" Janet said.

"If I am, I'm disguising it pretty well by screwing a female sex addict."

"Touché."

We headed up Pacific and I made a right on 24th Street, drove down about a half mile or so, turned left onto 8th Street and then made another left at 26th Street before making a right into the El Encanto Apartments parking lot. We got out of the car and it seemed even colder.

"It's gotta be in the thirties right now," I said, my teeth chattering. I put my arm around Janet.

"I know," she said. "Let's go steam the place up."

"Sounds good to me." This time I meant it. I was buzzed and our two warm bodies entangled sounded really good at the moment. We walked up the stairs to the second floor and I was fumbling with my keys as Janet was grabbing my crotch. "But we're only going for about an hour, two at the most," I said. "I need to find a PI."

"Fine, whatever," she said. "Hurry up."

"I'm trying." I finally found the right key, opened the door and we went in, her first as usual. Regardless of my intent, it was the act that mattered, I rationalized. We walked into the living room of my one-bedroom apartment, which was occupied by my fold-out couch and a forty-six-inch, flat-screen Plasma TV. The living room was considerably bigger than the bedroom so I made _it_ my bedroom. There was no dining room table so we just ate on the couch. I decided to use the bedroom for guests. I lived by myself, initially, but then I met Janet a couple months later, things escalated and she moved in. She thought it was odd I was sleeping in my living room, but I didn't care. It was my man cave, and that's the way I liked it.

I pulled the bed out and we made love for almost two hours. I was thinking about the conversation in the bar the whole time and couldn't wait for the sex to end. When it did, I jumped out of bed and grabbed the Yellow Pages from the drawer next to the oven in the kitchen, which was adjacent to the living room. I started looking for PIs and circled a few before I got tired and came back to bed, propped my pillows up behind me and leaned back and started watching SportsCenter while Janet thumbed through the latest edition of Playgirl.

"You ready for more?" she said.

"Sure, what the hell."

"You really know how to work the dirty talk."

We had sex for a couple more hours even though my mind again was occupied with the night's events. I was only there physically, so I couldn't tell you if it was any good or not, for me at least, but she seemed satisfied. That's all that really mattered. After she caught her breath she lit a cigarette. I was so tired I rolled over, but I didn't fall asleep immediately. A couple minutes passed and I heard Janet get out of bed. I heard her punching in numbers on her cell phone. Phone sex, I thought. That's another thing. She was racking up quite a bill; her phone was on my plan. I don't know what they were teaching her in that class, but it wasn't working, or she just wasn't going. I dozed off soon after.

Chapter 2

It was pitch dark and cold as hell the next morning. When I got to work I didn't even remember the drive––any of it. I was preoccupied more than usual, yes, but it was still strange. It was like a complete blackout. The parking lot was empty, and I got out of my car and headed toward the lobby door. I could see it was dark inside the building as I swiped my security card before entering. I walked in and started making my way across the small lobby when I heard some muffled voices. At first, I couldn't tell from where they were coming, but then I realized it was the main conference room. I found this highly unusual, as there were no cars in the lot and it was only 4:30 am, almost two hours before the engineers and management started coming in. The door to the conference room was closed. I was curious so I walked a little closer. I couldn't understand a word they were saying and soon realized why; they weren't speaking English. It was some sort of Middle Eastern dialect, perhaps Arabic. Then the conversation was interrupted, as another man began to talk with a tone of anger. _He_ was speaking English. I inched closer to the door but made sure to stay a safe enough distance away so if the door opened I could act like I was coming to use the restroom, which was about fifteen feet or so from the conference room. I could hear the man clearly, as he had a resounding voice.

"Now wait a second, that wasn't the original plan," he said. I didn't recognize the voice, but the man was probably in his fifties or sixties I guesstimated based on the inflection of his voice. He sounded a lot like Sean Connery. "If you want to be a cowboy and jeopardize this whole operation then I can call it off and sell to the next bidder. I'd prefer to work with you gentlemen as I believe in your cause, but we can't get greedy. I know this is all taking longer than we anticipated, but we knew from the beginning there was a high possibility of some unforeseen impediments. Now the Colonel is sniffing around. We need to wait her out. It may take a couple more weeks, or even months, before I can get this intel to you. I'm going to great lengths to help all of you, as I'm risking my career and life. If you're not willing to stay the course and follow the original plan, I'll end this thing right now, and good luck getting this information elsewhere. If you do, it's going to cost you at least twice what I'm asking. Now what's it going to be, Mr. Ali?"

What the hell's going on in there? I thought. And who the hell is Ali? There was a moment of silence before I could hear several of the men talking amongst themselves in their native tongue, and it started getting heated. I took a step back, as it was making me nervous. Then there was another moment of silence.

"Okay, we're willing to proceed as planned," Ali, I assume, said. I understood this time because he said it in English.

"Wise choice," the English speaking, almost certainly American man, said.

It sounded like their meeting had adjourned so I started walking away quickly. Just as I was about to turn the corner and head down the long hallway toward my office, I heard the door open and a voice call out.

"Hey, you there," a man said in a thick, Middle Eastern accent. I stopped dead in my tracks, petrified. "What are you doing?" he said. "Do you work here?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm the lead technical writer of this division."

"Why are you here so early and what are you doing in the lobby?"

"I'm working on a report that's due this morning and I need the extra time to get it done. I needed to use the restroom." I was lying, of course, and I think he could sense I was anxious. And why would I be, I'm sure he thought, unless I was listening to their conversation? I was a pretty intuitive guy, and I was dead on, as the man pulled a gun, a Glock-27 (I knew my guns), and pointed it at me. Oh my God, I'm going to die, I thought.

"I swear, I didn't hear anything," I said. _That_ just put the nail in my coffin. I may as well have given him a written statement. Then I heard a loud beeping sound. Was it the fire alarm? We were both caught off guard. Then I felt something in my privates. What the hell? I thought. Did he just shoot me in the crotch? I opened my eyes. I was sweating and terrified. It took a few moments, as it always did, but when I gained my senses I realized Janet was groping me as the alarm clock was going off. I pushed her hand away and hit the snooze button.

"What's your problem?" she said.

"I just had another nightmare. Jesus Christ. I can't take this anymore." I sat up and was shaking, and Janet put her arms around me.

"It's going to be okay, sweetie," she said.

"No it isn't. It's happening practically every night. It used to just be a couple times a week. And they were always the same. The death camps; the heavy, dark smoke rising into the gray sky; the terror in all their eyes; the children and their mothers screaming and crying. My grandpa never should've told me that story. But lately, they've changed. I have this ominous feeling that something terrible is going to happen. What time is it, anyway?"

"Five." I looked at the clock. She was right. This had to stop. Between the nightmares and the sex I was turning into a zombie, only getting three to four hours of sleep a night tops. I was fighting to stay awake at work, which was putting my career at risk.

"I know how to make you feel better," Janet said.

"Are you kidding me? I just had one of the worst nightmares ever and you want sex? I'm not exactly in the mood right now. Don't you get it? Are you capable of empathy or is sex all you care about?"

"I'm sorry. You know I love you, Jax. I was just trying to help."

"Well, I don't need that kind of help right now! And I have to find a PI before I go to work."

"I'm sorry, Jax," she said again.

"You should be. Your behavior is outrageous."

# 

# Chapter 3

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed the Yellow Pages again and continued my search. There wasn't much to choose from in Yuma. I'd have to get lucky. I just closed my eyes and placed my finger on the page below. Then I picked the one closest to my finger. Why the hell not? I figured. The private dick's name was Randy Carter, a retired cop with twenty-five years of experience on the force. Maybe my unorthodox and perhaps juvenile manner of selection was serendipitous and I found just the right man. Or, then again, maybe he was the worst PI ever. Time would tell. I wrote down his number before getting ready for work, putting on my San Diego Chargers beanie and gloves, as it was brutally cold, and headed to work. I got there at 6:30 am, waited until 8, left the office and went outside and around the corner of the building. I dialed the PI's number.

"Carter," he said.

"Yeah, Mr. Carter, I need someone to do some investigative work."

"That's what I do. What's your name, sir?"

"Mr. Smith." I gave him a phony name because YPG requires that if you're aware of any YPG employee contact with foreign nationals, you have to report it to the security office as soon as possible.

"You have a first name?" he said on cue.

"I'd like to remain anonymous because of the nature of the type of intel I need. It's a very delicate and potentially dangerous situation for me." I described in detail the conversation I heard and told him exactly what I needed.

"Espionage," he said enthusiastically. "This is a first for me. I'm usually following cheating spouses or looking for insurance scams. But I worked homicide on the force so I have vast investigative experience, the skills and the latest surveillance equipment to get exactly what you need."

After talking with him for a few moments I knew he was the right man for the job. He was articulate, confident––yet not cocky––and had a take-charge attitude. He was a lot like my dad and that was all the convincing I needed. I also asked him to look into Paul's wife's illness—find out if it was legit––and whether she was on any kidney transplant waiting list. Then I asked that he bug Paul's house to determine if his wife was an accomplice in this crime.

"You joking?" he said. "I can't do that. I'd be committing two felonies."

"What if I were to pay you double your rate?"

"It's a matter of principle, plus I don't want to go to prison."

"How about triple?" He paused.

"Dang it," he said. "Okay, fine, triple. What the hell." I guess 'a matter of principle' is a relative concept when a few extra dead presidents are thrown into the mix. But that was fine with me. God bless America. I told him Paul was his primary objective. Nailing his wife would just be icing on the cake. "Understood," he said. "When do you want to meet?"

"This afternoon, if possible. I don't want to sit on this."

"How 'bout Starbucks in the Yuma Palms Mall at 3 pm? I don't want to risk you being followed to my office." I didn't know if this was a good sign or not. I wondered if he even had an office. He probably did but was just being cautious, I told myself.

"Followed?" I said. "How would anyone even know about this?"

"Trust me, Mr. Smith, this is a delicate situation if we're dealing with the kind of people I think we are. We have to tread lightly and be discreet. If there's any chance either Paul or this unknown man saw you in the bar that night, believe me, they're going to be keeping a close eye on you. We want to meet in an open area where there're a lot of people. Approach me like we're just friends having a cup of coffee. Don't say, 'It's nice to meet you.' Order a drink and then come over and say, 'Hey Randy, good to see you, buddy' or something like that."

"Okay." He was making me nervous. "I'll need to see you have everything you claim before I give you any money, including your credentials and surveillance equipment."

"I'll bring all that with me."

"Okay. No offense, but I'm also going to google you and verify everything you've told me about your career."

"No offense taken. Do whatever you need to do."

"All right, see you at 3," I said before hanging up and walking back inside the building and into my office before sitting at my desk, where I googled Randy's name. From what I could see he was everything he claimed. I also looked at his Facebook page so I knew what he looked like. I emailed my supervisors and said I had a doctor's appointment about which I'd completely forgot. I was the golden boy so none of them had a problem with it. I continued to work but was so preoccupied with what'd happened the last twenty-four hours I couldn't focus.

It seemed like 2:15 would never come, but when it did I shot out of there like a hundred and five-millimeter projectile from a Howitzer. It was cold that day, probably in the mid-fifties. I put the beanie and gloves back on as I walked out the door and headed toward the parking lot. I got in my car, rolled out of the lot and started down Aberdeen Road toward Route 95. I made a left and after about three miles passed the two landmark "big guns," synonymous with YPG, on the right. That's when I began second-guessing myself. Should I turn around, go back and report the incident or continue with my plan? I fought myself the next ten minutes or so and finally just thought, What the hell; I'm doing this. I'm not letting this guy get away with treason.

I made the curve past Fortuna Road and headed toward the mall, the only place in Yuma that gave it a big-city feel. It would've been the perfect year-round hangout but for one glaring design flaw: it was outdoors! In a place where it felt like you were living on the sun four months out of the year, it was utterly nonsensical. There must've been a lack of oxygen in _that_ think tank. I continued down 95, which turned into 16th Street, so it was a straight shot. After about ten minutes or so, I turned right into the mall and made my way to Starbucks. I found a parking space, got out of my car, walked across the lot and into the store. I got in line and waited anxiously.

"Can I help you?" the cute girl working behind the counter said.

"Yeah, can I get a Café Latte, please?" When I got my drink I looked around and saw Randy sitting at a table reading a newspaper. The place was bustling. Randy was around five foot eleven, a bit portly, with wavy gray hair and brown eyes. I'm guessing he had his fair share of Krispy Kremes while he was a cop. Cliché, yes, but I knew it was true because there was hardly any crime in Yuma. Ninety-five percent was cars being jacked and Graffiti, the other five crazy stuff like a man doing a goat in a field at 2 am. I worked for the Yuma Sun, the daily rag there, for three years, and saw the police blotter every day. I'm not exaggerating. "Randy, what's up man?" I said.

"Not much, Mr. Smith, how are things goin'?"

"Great." I sat across from him.

"Can I just call you Smith?" he said.

"Sure."

"Okay, Smith, let's talk shop, but keep your voice down."

"Okay."

"The plan is simple. I plant at least one bug in Paul's house and one under his car. I still have my badge; I'm hoping to get into Paul's house without becoming a felon. Then I'll follow him wherever he goes. When he meets with this man I'll be listening to and recording every word and taking photos. That pretty much covers it. If he's selling government secrets I'm going to know about it. I'll call you every day with an update."

"Sounds good. I just need to see your credentials and equipment."

"Okay, I'm going to show you my credentials now. Say, 'Oh, you have pictures of Melissa?' I'll have my credentials underneath."

"Oh, you have pictures of Melissa?" I said, feigning interest. After removing his wallet from his jacket pocket, he took out a single picture of his daughter and handed it to me along with his credentials. "Wow, she's beautiful. Obviously, she got her looks from her mom's side of the family." He laughed as I looked at his credentials then handed them back. "Okay. I just need to see the equipment."

"It's in my car," he said quietly. "Let's take a walk." We got up and headed toward the exit. "I want to show you something real quick before you take off, buddy."

"Okay." We got to his car and he opened the trunk. He pulled out his golf bag.

"Unless you're planning on going Mrs. Tiger Woods on these guys I don't see how those are going to help," I said. He laughed and pointed at the surveillance equipment. It looked pretty freakin' sophisticated.

"Man, I didn't know you guys had that kind of stuff now," I whispered. "It's like James Bond or Maxwell Smart. Where's the shoe phone?" He laughed.

"I would've driven my desk here but it's too cold," he said. We both laughed. "Yeah, technology's come a long way the last decade. Every year they come out with something smaller and better. This here is my pride and joy––DetectEar. It provides crystal clear audio from over two hundred yards. And this is the Nikon D1 with Sigma auto-focus ultra-telephoto zoom lens. It gives me still images and video with amazing clarity from up to two hundred yards. I had a hard-on when I bought this stuff."

"Sounds like all you need to raise _your_ flag is think about your high-tech gadgets. I worry about calling out other women's names while in the sack. What do you worry about? Blurting out Detect Ear or Nikon D1 with Sigma auto-focus ultra-telephoto zoom lens?" Randy laughed so hard he began coughing.

"I'd never peg you as a technical writer," he said.

"I know it sounds like the most boring job in the world, except for maybe being an ice cube delivery man at the North Pole. But I like it." Randy laughed again.

"Stop it, man, you're killing me," he said.

"Okay. I like what I see. When can you start?"

"As soon as you give me the down payment." I took out my wallet and gave him five hundred dollars.

"I never welsh on a bet so here's the money I owe you," I said. I came up with that one on my own. "Stupid Vikings. Ponder, you worthless piece of crap." Randy laughed.

"You gotta love 'em," he said. "Hey, see ya soon, Smith."

"See ya, bud." He got in his car, a navy blue Honda accord, and I walked to mine. I was looking around to see if anyone was watching me. I got in my car and drove out of the mall, looking in my rearview mirror as I headed up Pacific Avenue toward 32nd Street. A car had been following me the entire time. I headed toward 24th Street and made a right. The car was still following me. I was starting to freak out. But when I turned onto 8th Avenue the car kept going straight. Jax, you gotta relax, I told myself. Paul didn't see you that night.

# Chapter 4

Randy pulled up in front of Paul's house at around 4 pm. No cars were parked outside. He looked around, popped the hood and got out of the car. He opened the trunk and took out a small block of dry ice before lifting the hood and placing the block on the engine, which started steaming. He then walked to the front door of the small, one-story house and knocked. There was no response, so he rang the doorbell.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Robinson inquired.

"Mam, my car died," Randy said. "I was wondering if I could use your phone. I'm an undercover police officer. I really need to get back to work."

"I don't open my door to strangers."

"Mam, I desperately need your help. I can show you my badge. You can probably see my blue Honda Accord steaming right behind me."

"Show me your badge," Paul's wife said before Randy put it up in front of the peephole. Shortly after, the door opened. Mrs. Robinson was a homely, middle-aged woman, barely over five foot tall and pushing two hundred pounds.

"Thank you so much, mam," Randy said. Mrs. Robinson led Randy to the small kitchen where the phone was. "This'll just take a minute," he said, removing his Triple A card from his wallet and dialing. As he did, he started coughing violently.

"Are you okay?" Paul's wife asked.

"Could you possibly get me some water?"

Mrs. Robinson turned her back to Randy, opened a cupboard door, grabbed a glass and started dispensing the water from the refrigerator. Meanwhile, Randy was still coughing while slowly opening a drawer in front of him and sticking a bug on the wood above. Just as he closed the drawer, the surprisingly nimble woman was suddenly right behind him.

"Here you go," she said, startling him before he turned and she handed him the glass.

"Thank you, mam." Randy started drinking the water as he pretended to speak to someone on the phone. "Yes, it's parked on the side of the road on Catalina Boulevard...Will do. Thank you." He hung up. "Thank you, mam. I'll wait outside." Mrs. Robinson escorted Randy to the door, opened it and closed it behind her as Randy headed back toward his car, closed the hood, got in and drove off.

Later that night, Randy was sitting in his car after following Paul to Avenue D and 32nd Street, where Paul and the unknown man had parked on the west side of Avenue D, gotten out of their cars and walked south down the sidewalk about fifty yards or so before they started talking. It was dark—the only light coming from the moon—and cold, as Randy could see the two men's breath. He was parked on 32nd Street, east of Avenue D, a couple hundred yards away listening to their conversation and snapping pictures. He got several shots of the man handing Paul money.

"Thank you, Paul," the unknown man said.

The conversation ended and Randy opened his door quietly and picked up the DetectEar, which was sitting on the curb. When Paul and the unknown man started to drive away, Randy ducked. He heard one of the cars stop right next to him.

"Crap," he whispered, with fear in his eyes, certain he was going to hear a door open next, and he'd left his firearm in his desk at his office.

Seconds later, although it seemed more like minutes, the car drove off. Randy breathed a deep sigh of relief. He waited a moment before sitting up, looking around and driving away slowly with the lights off. Approximately ten minutes later, he pulled over to the curb two houses down from Paul's place on the opposite side of the street and parked. He sat in the car listening to sports talk radio for approximately forty-five minutes before the lights finally went off in the house. It was go time. He got out of his car, crossed the street and walked briskly toward Paul's car, which was sitting in the driveway. After he arrived at the passenger-side door, he used his slim Jim to open it. He looked around, quickly bent over and placed a bug beneath the passenger-side seat before quietly closing the door and jogging back toward his car, opening the door, getting behind the wheel and pulling away from the curb.

"Mission accomplished," he said to himself.

The following morning at around 8 am, as I was at work pecking away on my keyboard, my cell phone began vibrating. I removed it from my pocket, looked at it, quickly left the office and started heading toward the exit before answering.

"Yeah Randy," I said. "Give me a second."

I left the building and walked hurriedly around the corner. I looked in all directions and there was nobody in sight.

"All right. I'm clear," I said.

"Okay, Smith. I've bugged Paul's house and car. I also got photos of the man giving Paul money. What Paul's giving the man is relatively benign according to the operative. Paul began explaining Goliath's premise. I'll let you listen to the recording and you should know right away if he's lying." Randy played the recording. When it finished approximately three minutes later, I responded.

"That's not evenly remotely related to what Josh told me. I'm pretty sure he's lying, unless what Josh told me is BS. Even if it isn't Goliath, we have hard evidence now Paul's talking to a foreign national about intel he's claiming is Goliath and took money from him."

"You still want to continue?" Randy asked hopefully.

"Yeah. For five hundred dollars, I'm gonna get my money's worth." Randy laughed.

"Okay, boss," he said. "That's all I have for now. I'll keep you posted."

# Chapter 5

Randy called the next day and wanted to meet. He said Paul provided the rest of what he claimed was Goliath's premise. But he had something more important to tell me that he said he wasn't comfortable doing over the phone. This time he wanted to meet at Barnes and Noble on 32nd Street, again at 3 pm. There were four chairs in the middle of the store, with which I was very familiar, as I spent many nights there after working out reading Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe so I could put off sex as long as possible. I was into the macabre, new _and_ old school. I read _The Stand_ , all seven hundred-plus pages, in a week when I was thirteen. I was spell bound until the end when that big hand appeared in the sky. Yeah, that tied up all the loose ends. What a cop out. If you can't think of an ending that makes sense just do another line and write the first nonsensical thing that pops into your head. Vintage King.

I left work again at 2:15 after making up another bogus excuse. It was still cold, so I put my beanie on, jumped in my car and headed into town. Every time I passed the big guns they became more significant. Strange, I thought. I got to Barnes and Noble just before 3. I walked in and picked out a book, didn't even bother to see what it was, then headed toward the chairs in the center of the store where I saw Randy.

"Randy, what's goin' on, man?" I said.

"Hey, what's up buddy? What are you doin' here? Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Told the boss I didn't feel well and took off. I was bored." I sat down in the chair next to him.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I have something to tell you, and I want you to maintain your composure because it's big."

"Okay," I said softly. "What is it?" I got goose bumps.

"On the first night of my investigation, like I told you, I got photographs of the mystery man. I emailed them to a friend at the Yuma Police Department. He ran the guy's face through the Interpol database and got a hit. He just got back to me last night. The man's working for Hamas, not Israel, and he's high on the terrorist watch list. His name is Achmed Haseem. And get this; he was connected to bin Laden."

"Holy crap!" I said loudly. "Bin Laden, are you freakin' kidding me?" A chill went up my spine.

"Keep your voice down, dang it."

"You said it was going to be big, but we're talking about bin Laden," I said quietly. Now I was scared. What the hell had I gotten myself into? I should've listened to my dad. Randy could sense I was nervous.

"Relax, Smith."

"Okay, I'll try."

"You sure you're okay? You're white as a ghost. Take a deep breath." I did. "Okay, the FBI, CIA and military have been looking for this guy for several years. Who would've ever imagined he'd be working in Yuma? It's the perfect cover. And it makes sense seeing as we have the Marine Corps Air Station and Yuma Proving Ground here. There's a lot of information out there and no shortage of people stupid enough to give it to the enemy."

Randy was right on the mark. We had training on this type of recruitment once a month. We even had YPG security officers scattered throughout the city––in bars, restaurants and hotel lobbies––listening to peoples' conversations. From the first day of orientation, we were told rule number one was to never engage in a work-related conversation, no matter how innocuous we may consider the information, with a stranger, especially one of foreign descent. But the enemy had become very proficient at duping YPG employees, especially the dimwitted, the disgruntled and those who'd do anything for a payout. And the money was good if you were willing to sell your soul to the devil.

"As far as the talk inside Paul's house, I've heard nothing suggesting his wife knows what he's doing," Randy said. "But there's also been no mention of a kidney transplant. That doesn't necessarily mean anything at this point but my instinct tells me if they haven't talked about it by now it's probably BS."

"I knew it," I whispered. "I knew he was playing this guy. You said Paul gave Haseem what he claims to be the rest of Goliath's premise?"

"Yeah, but Haseem said the premise is practically useless without the design plans. Paul said that's all he was able to get so far, but he wasn't going to jeopardize getting caught by doing anything stupid. Haseem agreed to give him more time. It's likely enough to get Paul arrested. It's your call whether you want to proceed."

I thought about it for a moment. I should call this off and bring the evidence to the police. Pursuing this further was extremely dangerous. "What does your gut tell you about the chances of this being enough evidence to put him in prison?" I said.

"Honestly, it's a coin flip. You never know with a jury."

I thought about Paul and how much I despised him; he was a racist, bigot and, worst of all, an anti-Semite.

"I don't think it's enough," I said. "Paul likely doesn't know the man is Hamas, or he's the narcissist bastard I think he is, and I'd like to get more damning evidence. I need to be sure Paul is put away for life, and I want to know if his wife is really ill or if she's an accomplice."

"Okay, it's a go then," Randy said. "Our next move is to try and establish a motive in case the evidence we have so far isn't enough. Man, this is the biggest adrenaline rush I've had since being smack in the middle of a hostage crisis at a grocery store here in the eighties. Helping put away a traitor would be the greatest accomplishment of my career."

"Mine too." Right after I said that I realized it wouldn't help my career at all because I was Mr. Smith. It was ironic. I'd be a hero, yet I couldn't take credit for it. "How do we establish a motive?" I said.

"It's not going to be easy because Paul and his wife, if they _are_ co-conspirators, aren't talking about it. Paul's being careful, but he's going to slip up at some point. They always do, even the smart ones. It might take a while though. We may have to be patient. In the meantime, I'll be gathering more audio and video evidence and taking photographs. We might not need to establish a motive if we have enough evidence that Paul is knowingly feeding secret information to a foreign operative. Motive is just the nail in the coffin."

"Okay. Keep me posted."

"Will do, I'll talk to you soon. I'm going to get up and leave. You leave a few minutes later, okay? By the way, look at the book you're holding. I didn't want to say anything earlier and embarrass you." The title of the book was _Breaking the Surface, the Greg Louganis Story_ , which he co-wrote with Eric Marcus. Oh, for Christ's sake, I thought.

"Dude, I'm not gay, I swear," I said. Randy laughed, got up, put his book away and left. A couple minutes later, I did the same.

Again, driving home I was looking in my rearview mirror the entire way. Anytime a car behind me turned on the same street I got nervous. This time, the same car made three turns right behind me but then went straight when I hit 8th Avenue, but a motorcycle that was behind that car turned onto 8th. I wouldn't have thought anything of it had the guy not been wearing a helmet with a red Mohawk on it. I'd seen this guy before several times while driving home from work. He worked at the proving ground, where and in what capacity I had no clue, and raced home every day after work at a speed I suspected was in the vicinity of his IQ––around eighty in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone. Highway 95, the only road between the city and the proving ground, which spanned about twenty miles, went from four lanes down to two a couple miles before the curve at Fortuna Road where the highway changed from eastbound to northbound. This was where it got crazy. The road was always lined with cars––almost exclusively YPG employees––when coming to and from work. It'd notoriously been dubbed the "YPG 500," in large part because of clowns like Mohawk guy who made a habit of passing ten to twenty cars at a time and darting back in line to avoid a head-on collision.

There were many others who made the drive treacherous, but this guy was the most reckless of them all. There were so many near misses I'd witnessed in the last few years that I considered it a miracle more people hadn't been killed. Just a few days earlier, after I'd left work, Mohawk guy cut me off and I had to slam on my brakes and pull onto the right shoulder to avoid running into him. The car behind me came to a screeching halt about a foot from me. I laid on the horn and the guy gave me the finger before darting out of line again and passing another ten or so cars. I admit it; I was kind of hoping to see him dead on the side of the road on the drive home. What the hell's he doing here now? I thought. I turned into my apartment parking lot and he followed right behind me. He stopped as I continued down about twenty-five yards or so and turned right into an empty parking space facing 26th and away from my apartment. When I got out he was just sitting there on his bike at the entrance staring at me.

"Do you need something?" I said. He didn't say a word, just revved his engine, which I guess was meant as an act of defiance or intimidation. "Do I know you?" I inquired. Still, no response. "You better watch yourself out there on 95! You're going to kill someone!" Again, he just revved his engine. "What the hell are you doing here?" He took his foot off the ground, made a U-turn and drove off. "I'm going to report you!" I yelled. My heart rate slowed as he headed down 26th. That was scary and bizarre. What the hell's going on? I thought. I remembered what Randy said about Hamas keeping a close eye on me if they knew about the investigation. What if this jackass was following me to see where I live? I realized for the first time there was a possibility of me getting myself killed. It scared me, yet I couldn't stop; I _had_ to see this thing through to the end. I wasn't going to let those bastards use my name as leverage to recruit people, or let Paul get away with espionage. I had to do what I thought a _man_ should do, not a coward. What just happened was a coincidence, I told myself. They don't know. When I walked into my apartment, Janet was sitting on the couch watching a porno.

"Can you turn the sound down for Christ's sake," I scorned. "You're gonna get us thrown out of here!"

"Okay, chill. How was your day?"

"I met with Randy again." I told her everything I'd learned that night.

"Bin Laden?" she exclaimed. "Oh my God. You should go to your security officer. It's enough for them to start an investigation and get Paul either fired or thrown in prison."

"I'm not stopping," I said defiantly. "I'm gonna nail this bastard! I just need to wait until we have evidence that Paul's given the terrorist something more concrete. Then I'll bring the evidence to the police. Screw the security office. I'll give the evidence to them anonymously so my work won't have a clue I'm involved."

"I think your vendetta against this guy is clouding your judgment. You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'll be fine," I said. "I'm going to order some takeout. How does Chinese sound?"

"Good."

After the food arrived, we sat snuggled on the couch watching _Burn Notice_ , my favorite show. Janet was feebly trying to use her chopsticks.

"You're dropping your kung pao all over my couch," I said. "Eat it with a fork, for Christ's sake!" She wrenched herself away from me, got up and sighed as she walked to the kitchen. After we finished eating we started kissing and went to the bedroom.

# Chapter 6

I awoke early Saturday morning to another horrible nightmare. This time I was being tortured by a man in a warehouse.

"Oh my God," I said. "Is this crap ever going to stop?" Janet woke up and looked at me with her eyes half open.

"Ah, sweetie, again?" she said.

"Yeah. This time I was being tortured by a man in a warehouse."

"Oh, that's awful. A whorehouse?

"Yeah, a whorehouse. I was being tortured in a whorehouse. It was some wild S and M. You would've loved it."

Janet rolled over and continued to sleep. I laughed, got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, grabbed the bottle of Nyquil PM and took several swigs. After about a half hour or so, I fell back asleep. Seemingly minutes later, I awoke again to Janet's snoring. I quietly got out of bed, headed to the kitchen and started pouring myself a bowl of cereal when my cell rang. It was almost 7. I saw the number. It was Randy so I picked up immediately.

"Randy, what's up?"

"Smith, the intel Paul gave Haseem was still relatively benign although Haseem said it was progress." Dang it, I thought. "Paul said he was pretty sure he could get something more concrete but that it may take a little more time. He said the longer this whole thing played out the more careful he had to be. Haseem was growing impatient but said as long as he got what he needed he was willing to wait. Again, it's your call. The longer this drags out, the more chance there is of Hamas finding out about this investigation."

"I understand. I'm willing to take that chance if you are. We have little more now than we did three days ago. I don't think it's enough. But like you said, it's progress."

"You're the customer, Smith. I'll call you as soon as I have more."

"Okay, Randy, thanks." We hung up.

"Jax, this is getting ridiculous!" Janet said sternly. She must've heard everything I said. "This isn't a game. You're getting obsessed. That moron isn't worth risking your life over. Think about what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing, dang it!" I retorted. "Who the hell are you to tell _me_ about rationality and obsession? Why don't you think about what _you're_ doing and get some _real_ freakin' help? You're no better than you were the day I met you!"

"I give up. You're impossible."

"Guilty as charged." I was going to just agree with anything she said because I didn't feel like arguing anymore. We went to the movies at 11, _Unstoppable_ , with Denzel Washington, which I loved, despite the fact Janet was giving me a hand job during the first thirty minutes of action before I pulled her hand out of my pants. She just sighed in her usual annoying way. She hated the movie. She wanted to see _The Black Swan_. I vetoed that. She got all huffy so I told her she could choose the next one. After the movies we went to Applebee's on 16th Street and had some lunch. Then we went to Paradise Casino, the California side, and played blackjack for a few hours. We left a thousand dollars richer so it made for a happy ride home and some really good sex. We went at it like wild animals until each of us nearly passed out. The sheets were soaked. After she caught her breath she got up and went to the bathroom. I could hear the shower running as I drifted off.

I dreamt Randy got everything he needed on Paul and that two men came into my office in black suits, arrested him and escorted him from the building as he was professing his innocence, saying it was me for whom they were looking. I just smiled and said, "Hope you enjoy your brief stay in federal pound-me-in-the-butt prison before you get the needle." When I woke up and realized it was just a dream I was devastated. It was so vivid I couldn't believe it wasn't real. And, for once, it wasn't a nightmare. But what happened next was. I didn't hear from Randy again for five days. I called him several times and left messages, and he didn't call back. I concluded he either took my money and ran or was dead. I was on the verge of a complete meltdown. But then on Thursday morning, while I was sitting at work staring at my computer, he called.

"Where the hell have you been, Randy?" I said frantically. "I left you like ten messages!"

"My mother is very ill and I had to visit her in Birch Bay. No cell phone reception there. I'm sorry." Birch Bay? I thought. That's where I went for the Fourth of July weekend with my family every year, and my cousin lives right next door in Blaine. And it was true; there was very limited cell reception. I felt like such a schmuck.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No. But thanks for asking. She doesn't have much time left."

"God, I'm so sorry," I said again. "Do you need some more time to yourself? The investigation can wait."

"No," he said without hesitation. "Let's nail this bastard. I'm going back out tonight."

"You sure you're up to it?"

"Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow."

I hung up and finished my workday and drove home. As I was daydreaming, Mohawk guy cut me off again and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid colliding with the car in front of me and pull off the road and onto the dirt to the right. "Dang it," I said, my heart pounding. "Enough of this crap." I was going to find that SOB at work and report him to YPG security. He was going to get someone killed, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be me. Plus I was still pissed off about our bizarre "altercation" at my apartment. After I regained my composure, I had to wait a few moments before I could slowly merge back onto the road, as the traffic was heavy. When I got to my apartment I told Janet why Randy hadn't returned my calls.

"Poor thing," she said. "And you're having him continue with this insanity anyway?"

"I gave him the chance to opt out. He wanted to keep going. He has a hard-on for this case."

"You're an idiot. Talking about hard-ons, how 'bout I give you one after dinner?"

I was stressed and needed to get this off my mind. Sex was probably the best thing I could do besides drink myself into a coma. So after dinner we indulged in an all-nighter.

"Man, that was the best sex ever," Janet said afterward.

"Yeah, just what I needed." I kissed her, got out of bed, shaved and took a shower before heading off to work. I was thinking the entire way about what Randy might've found, praying for good news. I got to work at 6:30 and Randy called at 8.

"Hey Randy. Please tell me you have good news."

"Well, it's progress again."

"Significant progress?"

"Yeah, I'd consider it significant," he said. "Paul provided new information, but still hasn't gotten into any specifics about the technology he said Hamas needed, but he _did_ say he was very close. Haseem sounded genuinely hopeful. But he told Paul he needed something concrete because he had intel Hamas was acquiring the same information and time was running out. Paul threatened to back out, but Haseem upped the ante to seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Paul agreed to continue."

"Greedy bastard."

"I still haven't heard anything suggesting Paul's wife is involved or knows about what's going on," Randy continued. "But I think it's unusual she didn't ask Paul about his whereabouts on the two nights he and Haseem met. And they still haven't talked about her supposed terminal illness. I also found out her name isn't even on the national kidney transplant list. But she did complain about pain in her right lower abdominal area. That was it."

"I _knew_ it was BS."

"I think we're getting close to a breakthrough. Paul all but guaranteed Haseem he'd have something more specific next time they meet."

"I hope so. I'm a nervous wreck." That was an understatement. I was about to lose it.

"Smith, again, we can end this now. But there's no sign of these guys having any inkling of this investigation. We've taken it this far. My gut tells me we're going to get what you need the next time they meet."

"Crap, I don't know what to do." Janet was right. I was obsessed. The more I thought about Paul the more I wanted to hurt him. "Okay, keep going," I said finally. "Call me as soon as you have anything new." We hung up. When I got home that night Janet asked me if I'd heard from Randy. I told her everything he said.

"Jax, have you ever even thought about what you're doing?" she said.

"Yeah, quite a bit."

"You're allowing an American citizen to hand over our military's secrets to our greatest enemy while we have men and women dying overseas. What if what Paul has given Hamas _is_ useful and it's already been passed along to Iran and they're starting to use it. You're an accessory to this crime by allowing it to happen and doing nothing to stop it. You could be putting Israel _and_ us in serious danger. Has this even once crossed your mind?" Janet may be a crazy nympho, but she was smart, even with just the microscopic portion of her brain not obsessed with sex. I hadn't even thought about that. I put my head in my hands.

"My God," I said. "What have I done? I'm jeopardizing the lives of the people I've been trying to protect the past three years, making sure they have weapons that work while they're fighting for their lives. If any of the information I've allowed Paul to give to that evil bastard Haseem gets a single American or Israeli killed I'm as much responsible for it as Paul. I'm also putting Randy right in the middle of it." Tears began to slowly trickle down my face. I felt sick to my stomach. "I have to stop this immediately." I dialed Randy's number but there was no answer. I left a message telling him to stop the investigation and to give everything he had to the police as soon as possible. I waited anxiously for hours for him to call, but the phone never rang.

"Jax, there's nothing you can do about it until the morning," Janet said. She grabbed me and threw me on the bed. She unbuttoned my pants and got on top of me. If she hadn't I'd have gone out of my mind. I couldn't go all night this time. It stopped working. Stupid thing has a mind of its own. I think I was just too tired and stressed. Janet wasn't particularly happy about it.

"I'm not Superman, for Christ's sake!" I said.

"Obviously." She rolled over with a sigh and went to sleep. I was soon consumed again with the horrific thought of what I may have done. I went in the other room and called Josh. He was asleep.

"Yeah," he said.

"Josh, sorry to call so late but we have a serious problem. Remember the night you were at my house and got so drunk that the next day you couldn't remember anything. Well, you told me about Goliath. No details. Just that you were testing it." I was lying, of course, so he wouldn't wig out. He also told me about another top secret project, David, and the name of the engineer testing it, another good friend of mine. If Josh knew, he'd likely hang himself.

"Oh my God," he said. "Please tell me you're messing with me."

"No, I'm dead serious. The reason I'm calling is because I overheard a conversation in a bar a few days ago between Paul Robinson and a member of Hamas. The man offered Paul money to give him intel regarding the technology we're testing at the proving ground."

"What technology?" I could tell he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Goliath."

"What the hell? I never said a word to anyone besides you. I don't even talk to that idiot, Paul. And I've never had a blackout in my life other than that one night."

"Well, somehow Paul knows we're testing it. And I made the mistake of hiring a private investigator rather than follow protocol. I wanted him in prison because he's such a bastard, and I didn't think the security office could make that happen. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Paul asked the terrorist, Achmed Haseem, who had ties to bin Laden, if Goliath was the technology he was looking for. When he said the name, the man's response clearly indicated he had no idea what Paul was talking about. But the man tried to act as if he didn't hear him the first time and made Paul repeat it. Paul knew the guy was clueless and is conning him for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars by giving him what I assume is information that has nothing to do with Goliath." I explained to him in detail what Randy had heard and Josh confirmed it was not related to Goliath. I was relieved, although I was already certain that was the case.

"Oh my God," he said again, sounding dumbfounded. "What have I done? I wonder how many others know about this testing. I can end up going to prison for this. I might even get innocent people killed."

"Me too. We both screwed up big time. Josh, I know it's little consolation, but I don't think he found out through you, either directly or indirectly. But there's a leak somewhere."

"Christ. This is insane. What should we do?"

"Don't say a word about this to anyone. I'm going to have the PI go to the police with the evidence he's gathered. All we can hope for is that Paul is arrested for espionage and that the intel he gave Hamas doesn't get anyone killed."

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe this is happening. This is my worst nightmare."

"Hey, we all make mistakes, man. Mine was just as bad as yours. Let's just see how this thing plays out."

"Yeah, we make mistakes but this is far beyond that," Josh said, seemingly on the verge of tears. "This is unforgivable."

"I feel the same way, but there's nothing we can do about it at this point unless we're willing to tell our security officer and spend the rest of our lives in prison."

"You're right. I don't think I'd do very well in prison."

"Me neither. We'd have to go fight club on each other first. I have to go. I'll talk to you again soon."

"All right," Josh said before I hung up.

As I expected, I didn't sleep at all the rest of the night. While getting ready for work the next morning, Friday, my hand was trembling so bad I cut myself shaving and couldn't get it to stop bleeding. I was virtually paralyzed with fear. Yet somehow I managed to make it to work. I didn't even remember the drive. I called Randy immediately. He didn't answer so I left another message. I had to do it quietly so no one could hear me, which was almost impossible. I didn't know how much longer I could maintain any semblance of composure. I was temporarily jarred from my state of delirium minutes later by Paul's voice. He came to my desk and said something about his wife being sick and having to take her to urgent care, and he'd call me later with an update. I could barely comprehend what he said.

"What?" I said. "Yeah, okay, do whatever you need to do."

"You okay? You look like hell and your neck is bleeding." I felt my neck and most of my hand was covered in blood.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "I just cut myself shaving. I didn't notice it was still bleeding."

"How could you not notice that? There's a streak of blood all the way down your neck onto your shirt."

"I don't know. I'm preoccupied with something."

Paul looked at me as if I was out of my mind, which I was. Then he left. I went to the bathroom and cleaned up. I grabbed a paper towel and held it to my neck. After the bleeding stopped, I walked outside the building and called Randy again and left a message. I went back inside and waited about half an hour for a callback. But it never came. So I called him again and left another message. No answer, no call back. Must be his mom again, I thought. Crap. I called him fifteen minutes later. I just stared at my phone waiting for it to ring. Dang it, ring! I commanded the phone internally. At least I thought it was internal, but I obviously said it out loud because one of my coworkers, sixty-year-old Rob Wallace, said half-jokingly, "Waiting for an important call there, Jax?"

"Oh...yeah," I said after realizing what'd just happened.

"Is everything okay?" He must've noticed my voice trembling.

"Yeah." The next call I made was ten minutes later. Still nothing. I was so wound up I started calling him every five minutes leaving messages until his mailbox was full. "Son of a mother!"

"You working on Bloomquist's report?" Rob said.

"What?"

"Bloomquist, it sounds like you're working on one of his reports."

"Oh, yeah," I said mechanically. "My fourteen-year-old niece writes better than him."

I was in a full fledge panic now. I continued to work but couldn't focus. I was screwing up reports left and right when another one of my coworkers walked past my cubicle and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw my face.

"Jax, you look like you've seen a ghost," Joanie, a pretty blonde in her mid-forties, said. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know. I'm not feeling very well."

Something was very wrong. I could sense it. Either Randy already took the evidence to the police or Hamas found out he was following them. Maybe they killed him. Maybe they took him hostage. My mind was running wild with all the possible scenarios. I knew by this time the phone wouldn't ring. I couldn't take it anymore, so I decided I was going to leave work and see if he was at his office. But then I realized I didn't even know where his office was. I grabbed the Yellow Pages and found the address.

"Guys, I have to leave for a couple hours," I said. "There's a family emergency."

Just as I was getting ready to leave, two men in dark suits––one about six foot two, slim, with short, jet black hair, dark eyes, probably in his late twenties, early thirties; the other quite a bit older, probably in his late forties, around six-foot tall with a stocky build, brown hair starting to gray and blue eyes––walked into my office and I thought, This is it. It was just like my dream. They knew about Paul and were there to escort him from the building. Randy must've taken the evidence to the police.

# Chapter 7

"Hi, can I help you?" I said.

"Yes, we're looking for a Mr. Jackson Wright," the older man said. What the hell? I thought. This didn't make any sense.

"That's me. How can I help you?"

"You can help us by coming with us," the same man said.

"Wait a second, who are you guys?"

"Greg Willis and John Schwartz, Federal Bureau of Investigation," Greg said. He must've been the lead agent because he was the only one talking. It seemed like the younger agent was shadowing him.

"What's going on?" Adrenaline surged through my body as I sensed something horrible was about to happen.

"Mr. Wright, please stand up," Greg said.

"Can you tell me what's going on here?" I was in shear panic.

"Yeah, you're under arrest for espionage and the murder of a private investigator. Put your hands behind your back."

My thoughts were racing. I couldn't believe what I just heard. I was being arrested for espionage and murder? This can't be happening, I thought.

"What are you talking about?" I said. "This is crazy. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Mr. Wright, stand up and put your hands behind your back now!" Greg said more sternly.

I stood up, knowing by then it had to do with Paul and the investigation. But murder? Who the hell was murdered? I was in fight or flight mode. I wanted to run but realized, even in my current state of delirium, only guilty people run, and they _always_ get caught.

"Wait a minute, you have the wrong person!" I was hysterical. "I haven't done anything wrong! I swear! The man you're looking for is over there, Paul Robinson!" I pointed at him.

"You're the man we're looking for," Greg said. "Now put your hands behind your back or this is going to get unpleasant." I did what he said and he handcuffed me.

"This is crazy! I didn't do anything wrong! Paul's the one who committed espionage! I overheard a conversation he was having with a man in a bar about a week and a half ago. The man asked him for classified information. I hired a PI, Randy Carter, to follow him. Call him and he'll straighten all this out." They escorted me out of the office while reading me my rights. I was disoriented. This can't be happening? I thought again. "You guys are making a horrible mistake! Who told you I'm the one who committed espionage? I just talked to Randy yesterday. He'd been gathering evidence against Paul since the day after I heard the conversation."

"You can tell us all about it down at the station," Greg said. He opened the rear passenger door of the Black Toyota Camry and pushed my head down violently while shoving me into the back seat.

"What the hell's going on?" I was about to come unglued.

"Shut up, Mr. Wright!" Greg said. "We don't like guys who give our country's secrets to terrorists, not to mention cop killers! You're going to fry for this!"

I was frantic and yelling.

"Cop killer?" I said, trying to process what I was hearing. "What the hell are you talking about? I didn't kill anybody, and I didn't commit espionage! I swear to God, I have no clue what you're talking about! I love my country! I've done nothing but serve my country honorably the last three years! I'd never do anything to endanger our soldiers or our country! This is insane!"

"That's not what the evidence says," Greg said. "I'm not going to tell you again. If you don't keep your mouth shut things are going to get far worse for you."

I was numb and felt like throwing up. What the hell's happening? I kept thinking. We drove down 95 as my head was down. I began to cry.

"Oh, you're crying now?" Greg said. "I'd probably be crying too if I were you knowing what's about to come."

The drive seemed like it took forever. We finally arrived at the station, the other agent pulled me out of the car and they escorted me into the building, which I'd been in several times to retrieve the police blotter. But I'd never been beyond the waiting room. We went through the door on the right, walked down the hall and they opened a door on the right. It was a small room about twice the size of a walk-in closet with a table and three chairs.

"Have a seat right over there, Mr. Wright," Greg said. I sat down directly across from what I assumed was a one-way mirror. I'd seen the suspect sitting in a similar spot hundreds of times on TV and in the movies. Now I knew firsthand what it felt like. It was surreal.

"Now are you going to tell me what I'm doing here?" I said.

"Well, rather than tell you, I'll show you," Greg said smugly, laying out several photographs on the table right beneath my eyes. "Now do you know why you're here?"

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The photos were of me engaged in conversations with a man who looked Middle Eastern. I assumed it was the man with whom Paul was working. The photos showed me and this man sitting across from each other at a table in the bar.

"This is impossible!" I shouted. "I've never even seen this man! These photos aren't real!"

"Oh, come on, Mr. Wright, you can do better than that," Greg said. "No wonder you got caught. You're an idiot. We had our criminal forensics team examine these photos and they're authentic. They found no evidence of any tampering. I'll be right back." He left the room and I just stared at the photos one after another. What the hell? I thought. This is crazy. Greg returned about thirty seconds later carrying a magnifying glass in his right hand, which he handed to me. "Take a look," he said. "They look pretty real to me." I looked closely and they _did_ look real. I thought I was losing my mind. How was this possible?

"That's impossible," I attested. "What I'm telling you is true. Like I told you in my office, I overheard a conversation in a bar about a week and a half ago between a coworker of mine, Paul, and a man I only saw him from behind as he was leaving, which was about ten minutes after Paul left. Paul had agreed to sell this man U.S. military secrets. The man said he was an Israeli operative and needed the information to prevent Hamas from creating another Holocaust. He told Paul Hamas was gathering information from sources at YPG and they were getting close to acquiring all they needed to destroy Israel. He said he'd give Paul enough money to cover his wife's kidney transplant.

"He offered Paul two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Paul said his wife was facing a death sentence if he didn't come up with the money. He said he'd help for half a million dollars and the man agreed to pay him. After they left the bar, my girlfriend Janet and I left and went back to my apartment. She can vouch for everything I've said.

"I called Randy first thing in the morning and told him the situation and what I needed from him. Randy was an ex-cop and said he had access to the latest surveillance technology and could get photographs and audio. We met at Starbucks in the Yuma Palms Mall and I hired him. After he followed Paul the first time, he took pictures of the man. He went out a second time and got more photos and audio and then called me Friday and wanted to meet at Barnes and Noble. We met and he said he had a friend that works here run the man's face through a database and found out the guy was working for Hamas and was on the terrorist watch list." Greg cut me off.

"I'll be right back," he said. As he walked out I turned to John and said, "This is nuts." He just stood there staring me in the eyes, as if studying me. "I swear to God, I have no idea what he's talking about," I continued. "Everything I've said is true."

"All the evidence points to you, Mr. Wright," he said. "You're our only suspect. I don't know what to tell you."

"Jesus Christ. Paul is the one who should be sitting in this chair right now. _He's_ the traitor." Greg walked back in just as I finished my sentence.

"I just asked if anyone from this office ran an Interpol search for Randy and they said no," he said.

"That's impossible. Unless Randy lied to me or the men in this office are lying."

"Or, even more likely, you're the liar," Greg said. "You better come up with something more compelling real soon or you're going to find yourself taking a stroll down a long, dark corridor to chants of 'dead man walking' toward a room from which none of you scum bags ever return. It's the final stop on the way to hell." His words, even though they sounded scripted, as I'm sure this was one of his common scare tactics, painted a crystal clear picture that sent a chill shooting up my spine. I'd seen Sean Penn in _Dead Man Walking_. I remembered thinking, I can't begin to imagine what that would feel like. It was incomprehensible. I was paralyzed with fear now. I fought vehemently to prove my innocence because I wasn't going to be in that room strapped to that bed, no way in hell.

"I'm telling you the truth. After Randy told me this guy was Hamas he went out a third time and called me afterward and said the intel Paul gave the man was still innocuous, and even though the man was getting impatient he agreed it was progress and to continue working with Paul. Randy and I debated again whether we should call the whole thing off and bring the evidence to the police. But we decided to keep going.

"I didn't hear from him for like five days. I thought he must've taken my money and run. Then he finally called me on Friday and told me he was in Birch Bay because his mom is dying. I told him maybe we should stop the investigation considering the circumstances. He decided he wanted to keep going. He told me he was going back out last Friday night. He called me and said the man was pressuring Paul for more specific information and Paul told him he was going to walk away. The man offered to give him another quarter million dollars.

"After I talked to my girlfriend that night, I realized I had to call the investigation off immediately; I couldn't let this transaction happen. Whoever possesses this technology becomes an immediate military powerhouse and threat to Israel and the rest of the world. I spent the next three days calling Randy over and over, leaving messages until his mailbox was full. I was just about to leave my office to try and find him when you guys showed up."

"Okay, I've heard enough of this crap, Mr. Wright!" Greg barked. "You know Randy is dead! You killed him! Do you think we're morons?" Again, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"What the hell are you talking about? Randy's dead? Oh my God!"

"You know he's dead, you piece of scum, and I had to look his wife straight in the eyes and let her know her husband wasn't coming home that night! He had kids who are going to grow up without a father!" Greg pulled his gun out, a Glock-27, the firearm of choice for most law enforcement personnel.

"Greg, don't do it, man," John said. "He isn't worth going to prison." Greg put the lethal end of the firearm against my right temple. I thought this was it. I closed my eyes and waited. "Greg, put the gun down!" John said forcefully. "Think about what you're doing!"

"This smooth talking punk deserves to die!"

"Leave it to a judge and jury," John said as he approached Greg, whose hands were shaking. He removed his gun from its holster and pointed it at Greg.

"Put the gun down now!" he commanded.

"You aren't gonna shoot me, John! You want him dead just as much as me!"

"You're talking crazy, Greg," John said somewhat more calmly. "I'll shoot you if I have to. You're about to commit murder. You'll be throwing your career and life away."

After what seemed like five minutes, but was actually about ten seconds, I could feel the end of the gun barrel being removed from my head. Thank God, I thought as I opened my eyes. I was happy just to be alive. Greg was breathing hard and sweating profusely as he holstered his gun.

"What the hell were you thinking, Greg?" John said.

"I don't know."

"Christ. I thought I might actually have to shoot you."

"I've seen you on the range. That's not why I didn't shoot. I realized I have a wife and kids too to worry about. That's the only reason this kid is still breathing."

"You're a real jerk, Greg," John said.

"That's a great story you told, Mr. Wright, but it's complete bull," Greg said, ignoring the insult.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

Greg slapped a photograph from the crime scene down in front of me. I was stunned; it was ghastly. I began to feel sick again.

"You have anything you want to say about that, Mr. Wright?" he said.

"It's impossible! None of this is possible!" I paused for a moment and thought. "The only explanation is I'm being set up. Hamas must've found out Randy was following them, killed him and framed me for the murder. Plus Randy knew me as Mr. Smith, not Mr. Wright. I gave him a phony name because if you hear a conversation between a YPG employee and a foreign national you're supposed to report it immediately to your security office. Every time I talked to Randy, he called me Mr. Smith, or Smith. There wouldn't have been any reason for him to think I was anyone _but_ Mr. Smith. There's no way Randy would've known my real name, so those letters on the wall in that photo could only have been put there by someone who knew my real name. Only the terrorist and Paul knew my real name. They're obviously framing me."

"That would be a compelling argument if there was any evidence Randy knew you as Mr. Smith," Greg said.

"There has to be evidence in his office that has the name Mr. Smith on it––an appointment book, a notebook, anything," I said.

"Mr. Wright, Randy's office was completely cleaned out," Greg said. "All that was left was his body. But you already know that." Oh my God, this was the perfect frame. They had every angle covered.

"No I don't because I didn't kill him!"

"Save it for the jury," Greg said with a smirk. "Did you happen to know that Randy worked in this building for twenty-five years? He was a highly decorated homicide detective and has a lot of friends still working in this office. These people all want you dead. Each of them would give their left nut to come in here and put a bullet in your head. I almost saved them the trouble. We're so freakin' PC these days we can't give you guys what you really deserve. Instead, the taxpayers, including my partner and me, are going to have to foot the bill for your stay on death row, which I expect will be brief. Did you know killing a police officer is a capital offense, and that alone gets you the death penalty? Add espionage and they'll be itching to stick the needle in you. Congratulations, Mr. Wright, you're now public enemy number one in this country. Dillinger was a quire boy compared to you."

"This is insane!" I pleaded. "I'd never do anything to hurt that man! He was probably the only PI in town that would've taken this case! I respected him and considered him a friend!" My last few words must've touched a nerve. The hatred in Greg's eyes was palpable.

"You bastard!" he roared. "I should've shot you earlier! You think anyone here would care? They'd pin a medal on me!"

"Greg, relax," John said. "You look like you're going to have a stroke." Greg glanced at John, took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. "Oh, and I forgot to mention, we have an eyewitness who says he saw you leave the scene shortly after the murder." That's impossible, I thought. I'd never even been to his office.

"That person is lying!"

"Yeah, this is all just a big conspiracy isn't it, Mr. Wright?"

"No, not a conspiracy. I'm being framed!"

"And how do you explain this?" Greg placed a tape recorder on the table and hit the 'play' button. It was communication between Paul and the terrorist. But as I listened more closely I realized it was my voice on the other end of the conversation, not Paul's. This has to be a nightmare, I thought, as I began to feel disoriented.

"That's impossible!" I said again. "I've never talked to that man in my life! What the hell's going on?"

"We'll be back in a few minutes," Greg said. I felt like throwing up and was shaking violently. They came back about five minutes later. "Mr. Wright, during this interview we've been recording your voice and had a forensic expert compare it to the voice on the tape," Greg said. "It was a ninety-percent match. That's good enough for a jury to fry you. I tell you what, I'll take the death penalty off the table if you help us find the terrorist; otherwise you're getting the needle."

"I don't even know this man," I said as the level of dread I was feeling continued to escalate. "I have no idea where he is. How the hell am I supposed to help you find him? I'm being framed. Why aren't you listening to me?"

"I've lost count of how many times you've said that."

"I think it's four or five," John said.

I didn't hear a word they were saying at that point. I was in shock, trying to figure out how this could've happened. Could I have actually done all these things and not even be aware of it? What I was seeing was inexplicable.

"Who gave you this evidence?" I said.

"We're the ones asking the questions here, Mr. Wright," Greg said.

"I'm gonna throw up."

"I'll escort you to the bathroom," Greg said with a shit-eating grin on his face, like a man having accomplished exactly what he'd set out to do. "You puke on me and I'll shoot you." As I walked toward the bathroom I was still attempting to process what I'd just seen and heard.

"Greg, can I talk to you for a moment?" I could hear John say as the bathroom door was closing.

"Yeah, sure," Greg said.

"I'm just playing the devil's advocate here, but this guy seems genuinely surprised and distraught by all these accusations. Isn't it possible he's telling the truth and that he's really being framed? We get this evidence from an anonymous source and have no idea who this person is or if he or she is even credible. It seems like all this was gift wrapped for us."

"I know what they taught you at Quantico, but this is the real world. We have enough evidence to bury this guy. I don't give a crap if it came from Michael Jackson from the grave. If we make this arrest stick, do you know what it'll mean for our careers? It's not every day you get to take down a traitor. You should be on your hands and knees thanking God this evidence was sent to us. In the extremely slim possibility he's telling the truth, who cares? We have no other suspects or evidence suggesting there _is_ another suspect. He seems so genuine because he has no conscience. I've dealt with his type before. A sociopath has no remorse for their crimes and they're usually pretty good liars. Maybe he's a little smarter than I thought he was."

"But he's becoming physically ill. It's obvious he's in extreme emotional distress."

"Wouldn't you be if you were just arrested for espionage and murder when you thought you were smart enough to get away with it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

While I was puking, I continued trying to process what was happening.

# Chapter 8

It was Friday, January 5th at approximately 9:30 pm. Randy was sitting in his car a couple hundred yards from Paul and the terrorist listening to another conversation using his DetectEar and taking photos with his Nikon D1. He was eating pistachios while watching, shooting and listening and throwing the shells out the window. He had his jacket on and leather gloves, as it was cold again that night. He'd been there for about fifteen minutes. And there it was, the moment for which we'd been waiting. They finally began talking specifics.

"Bingo," Randy said to himself. "A couple minutes of this and I'm outta here."

About five minutes later, he was just about to turn the key when someone tapped on the driver-side window. Randy turned and looked. The man, short with a slim build, was dressed in all black and wearing a ski mask. He pointed his pistol, a QSV-92, an unmistakable, top-shelf firearm, at Randy's head.

"Roll the window down!" he yelled in a thick, Middle Eastern accent. Randy did. He didn't have a choice. There wasn't enough time to start the car and gun it without being shot.

"Give me the camera and audio device," the gunman said.

"Okay. Whatever you want." The gunman put the equipment in a large duffle bag.

"Now you're going to drive me to your office and I'm going to take your hard drive and any evidence you've been gathering for Mr. Wright."

"I'm not working for a Mr. Wright. I'm working for Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Smith is his alias."

"Okay, I'll do whatever you want. Just take it easy." The man walked around the front of the car pointing his gun right between Randy's eyes. He opened the passenger-side door and got in with his gun pointed at the side of Randy's head.

"Now start driving," he said.

Randy drove him to his office approximately ten minutes away. When they arrived, they got out of the car and the gunman put the pistol right against Randy's body from behind. They entered the three-story building and took the elevator to the top floor. Even though it was cold, Randy was drenched in sweat, certain the gunman was going to kill him. He had to prevent this somehow. He had a wife and two children. He'd have to do something once he got in the office, he thought. He unlocked the door and entered with the gunman close behind. The fluorescent lights went on automatically.

It was a large office, about the size of a racquetball court, with a Mahogany desk against the wall to their left with a twenty-one-inch, flat-screen computer monitor on top, one of those big desk calendars and a small black lamp with an adjustable arm. There was also a framed picture of Randy, his wife and two children––one, a boy in his early teens; the other a pretty girl a couple years older––and a coffee mug next to the monitor with the words "World's Best Dad" painted on it. Against the far wall was a beige, metal filing cabinet. There was a framed _Maltese Falcon_ movie ad poster on the wall opposite the desk.

"Where's your hard drive?" the gunman said.

"Right over here," Randy said as he walked toward his desk.

"Unhook the cables." Randy bent over, turned the hard drive sideways and removed the cables. "Okay," the gunman said. "Leave it there. Now I want your cell phone and any other electronic devices––Blackberry, PDA, recording devices and any digital cameras or video recorders." Randy gathered the items. "Put them in the bag." He did.

"Okay," Randy said. "All I have left is a cell phone, video camera and two tape recorders."

"Get them and put them in the bag." Again, Randy did before saying, "Okay, I've given you everything I have."

"What's in those file cabinets?"

"Just paperwork from previous cases." The gunman pulled on the top drawer, but it was locked.

"Open it," he demanded.

"Okay, the key's in my desk drawer."

"Get it."

"Okay." Randy's voice was trembling. He walked to his desk and opened the bottom drawer, took the key out and walked back and opened the cabinet.

"Take all the files and put them in the bag," the gunman said. There was one drawer full of files. Randy stored his more recent files electronically. He removed the files and stuffed them in the bag. "Open the other drawers," the man said. Randy did and they were empty. "Now I want any other evidence you've gathered during your investigation. If I find out you haven't given me everything I'll kill you and your wife and children."

Oh my God, Randy thought. He'd have to knock the pistol from the gunman's hand at some point. He was holding the gun close, but it needed to be a little closer or he'd get the shot off. Randy walked back to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. He had some audiocassettes, negatives from some of the photos he took, an appointment book and notebook. He put them in the duffle bag.

"What's in the top drawer?" the gunman asked.

"Just some blank appointment books." But there was really only a Beretta 92. This is my last chance, Randy thought, looking at the picture of his wife and children. He had to get out of there alive.

"Okay, open the drawer slowly," the gunman said. Randy did. The man was approximately two feet away. Randy wasn't sure if he'd have enough time, but he quickly grabbed the gun, turned and was milliseconds from pulling the trigger, but the gunman shot before Randy could.

"Oh God," he gasped before dropping his gun. He was shot in the stomach, but was so full of adrenaline he didn't realize the severity of his injury. The gunman picked up the Beretta.

"You screw with me again and I'll kill you!"

"Okay, okay, I've given you everything I have!" Randy said, shaking.

The gunman looked in the drawer to see if there was anything else. There wasn't. He bent over and picked up Randy's gun while pointing his own at Randy. He then searched the entire office for anything Randy may have been hiding. He couldn't find anything and raised his gun and pointed it at Randy's head.

"This is your last chance to tell me if there's anything else in this office."

"There's nothing," Randy said as he started to turn blue.

The gunman looked at the hard drive and then at his duffle bag. There was no room so he pointed his gun at the hard drive and fired three shots into it. Sparks flew.

"That takes care of that," he said.

"Okay," Randy said. "You have all the evidence I've collected so have some mercy and let me go and be with my family. I'm not a threat to you or the people you work for. I was strictly in this for the money. I don't care what you or your people are doing."

"Mercy?" The gunman began to laugh. "You represent all that is unholy in this world. I would be betraying my savior, Allah, and doing a disservice to my people if I were to let you live, and your knowledge regarding this case is a potential threat to our mission."

"I swear to God," Randy said in a last ditch effort to save his life. He was growing woozy and knew the end was likely coming. "I don't care about your mission. I'll help you. I'll do anything you ask."

The gunman just laughed again.

"Coward," he said. "You Americans are all cowards."

"I haven't seen your face," Randy pleaded as tears began to stream down his face. "There's no reason why you have to kill me. At least let me speak to my wife and children first. I'm begging you. I need to say goodbye to them and tell them I love them. Do you have any children?"

"Yes, and I would do anything to protect them, but they're not vermin. Take your gloves off and get on your knees."

Randy knew now it was over.

"Please don't do this," he begged, crying.

The man put his gun to Randy's head from behind and pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed out and spackled the dark brown, hardwood floor in front of Randy, accompanied by some brain matter, before Randy slumped forward and hit the floor, face down. The blood drained and began pooling rapidly around his head. The gunman touched Randy's blood with his index finger. He then went to the wall with the framed poster, which was a few feet away, and wrote the letters "W," "r" and "i" in Randy's blood and tailed it off down the wall toward the floor after the "g." He dragged Randy's body over to the wall just beneath the writing, leaving a snail trail of crimson-colored blood. He dipped Randy's right index finger––the gunman determined he was right-handed, as that was the hand he used to hold his weapon––in his own blood and left the office.

#  Chapter 9

#

It was January 5th, approximately 9:30 pm. Haseem and Paul reached their meeting point near the intersection of 32nd and Avenue C. They parked across the street from each other about a hundred yards south of 32nd on Avenue C. They got out of their cars and walked another ninety to a hundred yards south. They were each wearing hats, jackets and gloves. It was in the mid-forties. Randy, who'd been tailing them from a distance, turned his lights off and stopped on 32nd, made a U-turn after Avenue C and parked on the south side of 32nd near the intersection. He set up his audio equipment and got his camera ready. He opened a bag of pistachios and started listening and taking photos.

"Do you have anything more specific for me this time?" Haseem said. "I'm getting pressure from my superiors." Randy could see his breath.

"Yeah, I do," Paul said. "And I'm pretty sure this is what you've been waiting for." Over the next half hour or so, he told Haseem exactly what he had.

"Bingo," Randy said to himself. "A couple minutes of this and I'm outta here."

About five minutes later, after Paul said, "That's all I have access to," Randy was just about to turn the key when someone tapped on the driver-side window.

Meanwhile, Haseem said, "All right, I sincerely appreciate your help. Hopefully we have everything we need to prevent an attack on Israel. Paul, I have to tell you something, but I need you to remain calm. I learned about a week and a half ago a private investigator has been following us and taking photographs, and recording our conversations."

"What the hell? Why didn't you tell me this when you first found out?"

"I didn't want to scare you off, and I had the situation well under control. I couldn't risk losing you and jeopardizing the operation."

"How can you be certain the PI hasn't contacted the authorities? If I get caught I'm going to get the death penalty!"

"Relax, Paul, I've had my people tailing the private investigator the entire time. He hasn't made any effort to contact the authorities. I also have his office bugged and he's been receiving instructions to hold off on contacting the authorities. His client, a Mr. Smith, who I've since learned is an alias being used by your boss, Jax, sent him out again tonight to get the evidence he's been waiting for––the specifics regarding the technology we've been discussing."

"Holy crap," Paul said. "How the hell did Jax find out I was talking to you?"

"He must've been in the bar that night. That's the only plausible explanation."

"What if Jax has evidence against me?"

"He doesn't. It's all with the PI, I assure you. He was planning to go to the authorities with the evidence tomorrow morning. But the problem is being resolved as we speak. The PI should be out of the picture soon if he isn't already."

"What are you saying? He's dead?"

"If he isn't, he will be soon," Haseem said in a dubious manner.

"Jesus Christ!" Paul said, visibly shaken. "I didn't sign up for this crap! This man is going to be murdered? I'm no killer! I can't continue with this madness!"

"Mr. Robinson, there was no other way. It was either you, myself and my organization be exposed, which would jeopardize an entire country, or kill one man. I'm obligated to do what's for the greater good. Paul, you aren't a killer. You had no knowledge of this and are in no way complicit; the blood is on my hands and those of my associates. I know this isn't what you anticipated, but when a country's national security is at stake, it's the duty of its citizens to take whatever measures necessary to protect it. This was undoubtedly a necessary evil. Do you think I take pleasure in taking another man's life? If there was any other way to handle this matter without jeopardizing our mission, trust me, we wouldn't have resorted to homicide."

"Christ," Paul said, putting his hand on his forehead. "I'm going to hell for this." He removed his hand, looked up at the sky and just stood there for a moment shaking his head in apparent disbelief.

"Paul, I know this is difficult for you, but I just need you to do me one last favor before I give you the remaining quarter million dollars."

"It's not worth it. I can't keep doing this." Paul turned and started to walk away.

"Paul, I'm willing to give you an additional quarter million dollars." Like he did in the bar, Paul stopped, but this time looking up at the dark, star-filled sky. Finally, with his back still turned to Haseem, he said, "Well, I'm already going to hell, so what is it?" Again, a few extra dead presidents, especially a quarter million's worth, are all the incentive a person usually needs to do just about anything. Though I don't subscribe to the notion that the love of money is the root of all evil, there's no denying it provides the impetus for people, even scrupulous ones, to commit evil acts.

"I need you to place this recording device under Mr. Wright's desk tomorrow morning and remove it when he leaves work," Haseem said. Paul turned and walked back toward him.

"What the hell for?" he said.

"We're going to frame him for espionage and murder. My people have the technology to match the frequency of his voice to yours until it's _his_ voice conversing with me. It's a minimum ninety-percent match, and we'll soon have the camera in our possession. We have experts who can crop you from the photos and insert Mr. Wright's image. My men have taken several pictures of him talking with his girlfriend."

"But the police have the technology to distinguish a real photograph from a fake. This is preposterous."

"Our technology is just as advanced as that of the police and FBI. We have forensic experts on our payroll. Our ability to re-create a photograph makes it extremely difficult to distinguish any kind of manipulation. The pixels are nearly a perfect match. Couple that with the audio recordings and the evidence my man will be planting in the PI's office, the evidence against Mr. Wright will be overwhelming. There will be no evidence of any kind in that office implicating you––no paper, no photographs, no audio recordings, no video, nothing. The office will be completely cleaned out except for one piece of damning evidence linking Mr. Wright to the crime."

"What, fingerprints? The murder weapon?" Haseem's cell phone rang.

"Excuse me, Paul. Hello?" He listened for a moment and said, "Very good." Then he hung up. "The PI is no longer a factor. And to answer your question, no, we don't have fingerprints or a murder weapon, but what we do have is just as compelling. We have Randy's body and the first four letters of Jax's last name written in the PI's blood on the wall in Randy's office with Randy's body right below it with blood on his right index finger, which is on his predominant hand. Obviously, the police, when they get to the scene, will conclude he was desperately trying to identify his killer until his last breath. This is foolproof. Better yet, the most damning piece of evidence of all will be the eyewitness who saw Mr. Wright leaving the scene of the crime."

"Let me guess, one of the people on your payroll?"

"Yes. But the FBI has no way of knowing that. It's going to be so obvious Mr. Wright perpetrated this crime the FBI won't even have to closely examine the evidence. He's going to be fed to the wolves. We're also going to deposit seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars into his bank account proving his relationship with me."

"All right," Paul said, seeming a little more assured.

"He's going to get the needle, and you'll be in the clear," Haseem continued. "Once we've finished creating our own evidence we're going to mail it to the FBI anonymously and let them know about the PI. Once they've seen and heard the evidence we provide plus the evidence they find at the PI's office, they'll immediately arrest Mr. Wright. The last piece of the puzzle will be the audio recording you provide tomorrow. Then you'll get your remaining quarter million dollars, your wife will live and our relationship will have never happened. I thank you again for your service to my country, even though it was at a tremendous personal risk."

"I just thought of something else," Paul said. "What about my phone records? They'll show I never contacted the PI."

"All you would have to say is you knew of the PI by word of mouth and you came to his office in person and told him you wished to remain anonymous because your employer would fire you if you did not immediately inform your security office of what you'd seen and heard. You made an arrangement to call the PI from a payphone to acquire updates and the PI would contact you in the same manner. This is a perfectly logical explanation the FBI would have no reason to question especially when all the evidence points at Mr. Wright."

"I'd be fired for not following protocol."

"You may or may not. But you'll have seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, more than enough to pay your wife's medical bills and buy you time to find another job, one you actually like. But it's not going to come down to this. The FBI will never even question you."

"What about Mr. Wright's phone records? They'll show _he_ was in contact with the PI."

"We're taking care of that as well," Haseem said. "One of my men is going to call the phone company tomorrow morning and identify himself as Mr. Carter and ask that his number be changed because he's being harassed by an individual who's been threatening to kill him if he continued pursuing a case he was currently working. The FBI will assume this person was Mr. Wright. And there will be no record of Mr. Wright calling the new number."

"What if the PI's number is listed in the phone book?" Paul said, still skeptical.

"Fortunately, it isn't. Without this, what reason will the FBI have to suspect the number Mr. Wright was calling prior to today was the PI's number if they even bother to investigate this lead? They'll already have arrested the man they're convinced committed these crimes, and the evidence they'll have will leave no doubt in their minds they have the right man. When the FBI has that kind of evidence, there's nothing Mr. Wright can say to convince them otherwise."

"But what about Jax's lawyer?" Paul was thinking of every possible way he could get screwed. "He'll certainly investigate the phone records and find out the number was changed and what is was originally. That's going to prove Jax was contacting the PI. If they raise enough reasonable doubt and Jax is acquitted they're going to start searching for another suspect, me."

"Paul, even if it's proven Mr. Wright was contacting the PI, the prosecution will argue he was the person harassing the PI and threatening to kill him if he didn't stop pursuing the case. Nobody knows the times and dates when these audio recordings were made or when the photographs were taken. Did you ever mention times or dates during any of our conversations?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"We'll review the recordings to verify this, and if it isn't the case we'll dub out any references. You have nothing to worry about, Paul."

"What about the person Jax was talking to when your people took the photographs?"

"That was his girlfriend, Janet Anderson."

"What if she was there the night we met at the bar and saw me with you and overheard our conversation?" Paul said. "She's a witness and she'll certainly testify in court about everything she heard and that she was with Mr. Wright every night including the night of the murder. She provides a strong alibi. Has anything been done about that?"

"Mr. Robinson, there's no need to worry about her. She's on our side."

"How did you manage that? Threaten to kill her and her family?"

"No, she's on our payroll. She's a Jew and has family in Israel. She has at much at stake as all of us involved in this effort. Now that you've forced my hand, I have to be completely honest with you. The day she and Mr. Wright met wasn't by happenstance. And the night they were in the bar with us wasn't a coincidence. We wanted Jax to hear the conversation. Like I told you that night, I knew he had a grudge against you, and when I made the comment that he was working with Hamas my intention was to give him even more reason to want to find out what you were up to. Our plan worked. Janet informed us the night he made the decision to hire a PI. He unwittingly fell right into our trap. We have to stop him from continuing to help Hamas, and what better way to do it than frame him for murder and espionage and have him imprisoned and put to death?"

"Why didn't you just kill him when you found out he was helping Hamas?"

"For the first couple months, he was giving them essentially benign information," Haseem said. "It wasn't anything that posed a serious threat to us. I'm guessing he was afraid to give them what they were really seeking. But just recently we discovered he's been providing them intel directly related to the technology that'll allow them to destroy us."

"Why don't you just kill him now?"

"Paul, we need to show the public what's going on around them. We need them to know there are Americans working closely with their greatest enemy to destroy one of their most sympathetic allies while at the same time jeopardizing their own country's safety. We're hoping the media coverage of this trial and the fallout will slow down the burgeoning relationship between Hamas and those who are posing as patriotic citizens of your country. These traitors need to be shown there are severe consequences to sharing secrets with the enemy."

"This is going to backfire somehow," Paul said nervously. "There's no way all the bases have been covered."

"We've gone to great lengths to tie up all possible loose ends. I can assure you Mr. Wright will be convicted of espionage and murder. Within the next week, the FBI will show up at your office and arrest Mr. Wright."

"How do you know this with certainty?"

"I didn't want to have to tell you this but again you've forced my hand. I know it because we have people on the inside."

"Inside the FBI?"

"Yes."

"My God." Paul paused for a moment as if contemplating what he'd just heard. "This better go down the way you say it will, or my wife will be dead and I'll hang myself before going to prison for espionage. I'll get your audio and then we're done. And you better have the remaining half million dollars the next time we meet or I'm not giving you a thing." He walked away.

# Chapter 10

After I finished puking my guts out, Greg brought me back to the interrogation room.

"You keep saying you were framed," he said. "Do you have any evidence?"

"All the evidence was with Randy. Obviously, the terrorists manufactured fake evidence somehow and sent it to you. I also have a witness that was at the bar with me the night I heard the conversation. And depending on the nights that audio was recorded I'm certain I was at home with my girlfriend who lives with me. We rarely go out during the week. I swear to God, they're framing me. They got all the evidence they needed, paid Paul seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars and kept their promise to him by framing me for espionage."

"You hold tight and we'll find out if any large deposits have been made to Mr. Robinson's bank account," Greg said.

They left me there alone, terrified, in the midst of a nightmare that wasn't. My life is over, I thought. I started crying and thinking about what my parents, sister, niece and nephews were going to think when they heard this. There was a mountain of evidence against me and I had barely anything to prove otherwise. How could this have happened? Why didn't I report him the day after I heard the conversation? What was I thinking? I began sobbing. I felt so alone and helpless. I needed to talk to my dad. It seemed like an eternity before the two men got back.

"Mr. Wright, I'm afraid I have some more bad news for you," Greg said. "Not only is there no record of any large money transfer to Paul's account––in fact, there's not much money in his account at all––but it turns out your account shows a seven hundred and fifty thousand-dollar deposit made two days ago." What the hell? I thought.

"That's impossible! I swear! I never made a deposit!"

"You're right," Greg said. "Hamas made the deposit." I finally realized no matter how much explaining I did it wasn't going to matter.

"I need to make a phone call," I said.

"That's your right," Greg said. "I hope it's a priest because only God can save you now." He led me to the phone. "You have three minutes."

I dialed my dad's number.

"Hello?" he said.

"Dad, it's Jax," I said, crying. "I'm in trouble. I've been arrested. I'm at the Yuma Police Department."

"This is a joke, right?"

"No, I've been arrested for espionage and murder."

"Espionage and murder? Did I hear you correctly?"

"Yes. The night I talked to you and told you about Paul's conversation, I didn't report him the next day."

"Oh God, what have you done? What were you thinking, son? I told you what these people were capable of. What the hell were you hoping to accomplish?"

"I hired a private investigator to follow Paul and get evidence. I had no proof he had that conversation."

"It doesn't matter. You told me protocol was to go immediately to your security officer if you witnessed or overheard an employee interacting with a foreign national."

"I know. I screwed up really bad this time. My life is over. All the evidence was reconstructed to show Paul hired the private investigator to follow _me_." I told him about everything that happened in the interrogation room.

"Son, relax," he said. "I'll get you the best attorney I can afford. Just keep your mouth shut. He'll be there in a couple hours. Hang in there."

"I don't think it'll help, dad. I have virtually no evidence to contradict their story. All I have is that Janet was there the night of their conversation. I was also home with her every night, so I have an alibi for the nights those recordings were made. But they'll tear Janet apart on the stand. They'll say she's just lying to protect me. They'll attack her character and credibility too."

"Son, you'd be surprised what a good lawyer can do. Don't give up. I'll be by your side every step of the way. If we can get bail, I have the money to get you out. We'll find this man and a way to prove your innocence. I have resources of my own."

The fact that my dad was former FBI calmed me somewhat. Greg pointed at his watch.

"Time's up," he said.

"Dad, I have to go; they're cutting me off."

"I love you, son."

"I love you too." I hung up. Greg escorted me back to the interrogation room and I sat in the same chair facing the one-sided mirror again. "I'm not saying another word until I speak with my lawyer," I said.

"If you do that our offer of taking the death penalty off the table is void," Greg said. "Do you really want to risk putting your fate in the hands of a jury, especially while our troops are at war? They'll see a conviction as a way of contributing to the war on terror. There're no other suspects at this time, and Hamas has their hands on a technology that'll make Iran a serious threat to Israel and America. Do you really think a jury's going to acquit you and leave nobody held accountable for this atrocity?" Greg slid a notepad over to me. "All you have to do is write down the last place you met with this man."

"I told you, I've never seen or met this man before in my life. How can I give you something I don't have? I'm not saying another word until my lawyer arrives."

"I hope you fry in hell, you filthy cockroach. You just made the biggest mistake of your life." Greg escorted me to a holding cell, where a guard opened the door, I entered and the door was closed behind me. I looked around and I was the only "normal" looking guy in there. There were mostly Hispanics and African Americans, some shirtless, others wearing wife beaters, many with tattoos covering half their bodies, and a few unkempt white trash with dazed looks in their eyes, stoned out of their minds on God knows what. And then there were the drunks, most of them either sitting slumped over grumbling or lying on the floor asleep. The cell reeked of alcohol, puke and pot. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my khakis and button-up shirt. I couldn't believe I was in a cell with these people. I made the mistake of making eye contact with one of the Latinos wearing a wife beater with tats all the way up his neck.

"What you lookin' at, white boy?" he said.

"Nothing, man," I said, trying to play cool.

"Didn't think so. What you doin' in here?"

"They think I committed espionage and murder."

Suddenly it was as if the dynamic of our relationship turned a hundred and eighty degrees. The look in his eyes went from "seriously thinking of killing this white boy" to one of respect, maybe even a little fear.

"But I didn't do it," I said.

"We all innocent in here, homes." Several of the guys started laughing. He left me alone after that. I was petrified. Approximately two and a half hours passed before the guard came, called my name and told me my lawyer was there. He unlocked the cell door and told me to follow him.

"Good luck, homes," the Latino guy said.

"Thanks," I said out of common courtesy. The guard led me down a hall to a door on the right. He opened it and I saw a man stand up. I assumed, obviously, it was my lawyer. I was right.

"Mr. Wright, my name is John Hickson. I'm going to be representing you. How are you holding up?" The man was a little taller than me, probably around six foot three, with dark, slicked back hair and brown eyes. He had a wiry build and kind of looked like a thinner version of Steve Lavin, former UCLA head basketball coach turned ESPN analyst turned St. John's head basketball coach. He was probably in his early to mid-forties and was wearing a dark suit, shiny black loafers and carrying a black, leather brief case. He extended his hand and smiled. He had a presence about him that intuitively told me "this guy's a winner." It calmed me slightly, but I was still in a state of delirium. We shook hands; his grip was firm.

"I'm terrified," I said. "It's like a bad dream. I have no evidence to refute their allegations."

"That's far from true," Mr. Hickson said. "Have a seat." I sat in a chair across the table from him. He then sat. "Your dad filled me in on my drive over. We have plenty to work with. Their entire case is smoke and mirrors. The authenticity of the evidence––the audio recordings and photographs––is questionable at best. And your dad said you have an alibi for the nights these alleged recordings took place."

"Yeah, I was at home with my girlfriend sleeping." I didn't think it'd be prudent to tell him what I was really doing most of that time. But it didn't matter. The fact was, I was with Janet. "I go to bed every night at 9:30 pm because I typically have to get up at 5 for work. But the prosecution will argue she's just lying to protect me."

"It doesn't matter," Hickson said. "As long as she has a clean record, the jury will have to consider her testimony without bias, which raises reasonable doubt. As for the murder, there's no physical evidence at the private investigator's office—no fingerprints, no murder weapon, just a photograph the prosecution has no proof you created the subject matter of. The murder case is entirely circumstantial."

I didn't know if Janet had a clean record and it concerned me.

"But they said they have an eyewitness who saw me leave the scene of the crime," I said. "That isn't all just smoke and mirrors. How will you explain that?"

"Jax, it was approximately 10 pm. The office building was closed for the night. It was dark. How can anyone say with certainty it was you, and even if they convince the jury it was, how does this prove you committed the crime? This person, if he or she even exists, did not see the actual murder. For all we know, the FBI fabricated the existence of this person to get you to talk. Worst-case scenario is that it's circumstantial evidence. It can't be proven beyond reasonable doubt this is evidence you committed the crime. By the time I finish with this presumed witness, the jury will have doubt. I have a lot of experience with eyewitness testimony, and the growing trend is it doesn't carry nearly as much weight as forensic evidence. Eyewitness testimony has put many innocent people behind bars. Every day, DNA evidence is proving innocent people have been put in prison and even put to death based on circumstantial evidence, especially eyewitness testimony. The 'West Memphis Three' is a good example. In 1993, in West Memphis, Arkansas, three teens were arrested for the murder of three young boys. It was part of a satanic ritual. You remember that?"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, they were all convicted of murder based on flimsy circumstantial evidence," he continued. "One was sentenced to death and the other two to life in prison. Seventeen years later, after examining the DNA evidence, the case has been reopened. Damien Echols, who was considered the leader of the group and is still on death row, and the two other young men, may be set free because the DNA suggests there's a good possibility they didn't commit the crimes. My point is, physical evidence—blood, hair, skin, fibers, fingerprints—is what wins cases these days, not eyewitness testimony and other circumstantial evidence, like the so called evidence that was mailed to the police by an anonymous source. What's more important is an alibi. Did the FBI even tell you when the murder took place?"

"I don't know. I was in shock."

"It occurred January 5th at approximately 10 pm. Where were you at that time?"

"I was at home with my girlfriend asleep, just like every other night."

"So you have an alibi for the night and time of the murder as well. All these things raise considerable reasonable doubt. Without any concrete physical evidence, I think I have a good shot at convincing a jury you were framed for both of these crimes."

"But don't we need hard evidence that I didn't commit these crimes? My life is going to be in the hands of this jury. The prosecution will have much more than what the FBI showed me, and I think you're sugarcoating this."

"No, the prosecution has the burden of proof and their case is weak," Hickson said. "Plus we have more evidence than you think. First, we have access to your phone records and those of Mr. Robinson. They'll prove you were the one communicating with the PI, not Paul. Second, I have expert witnesses who will testify that the voice match on the audio tapes is only a partial match."

"But the FBI told me it was a ninety-percent match, which is more than enough to convince a jury."

"Mr. Wright, you have to realize this agent, Mr. Willis, was saying anything he could to make you confess. He was probably lying. I can prove the voice match is questionable. This will raise further reasonable doubt. As for the photographs, it's almost impossible to manipulate them without any signs of tampering. My expert witness will find any flaws that exist, I can assure you.

"I talked to your father and he told me you've received several commendations for your service to your country. Mr. Robinson, on the other hand, has been reprimanded several times for using obscene language in the workplace and insubordination. He called you a little butt kisser with no skills. Also, his wife, he alleges, needs a new kidney, although you believe he was conning the terrorist to get more money. But if he's telling the truth, this helps our case immensely. According to Paul, she's low on the donor wait list and running out of time. Mr. Robinson doesn't have the means to help her. This gives us an individual with a strong motive to perpetrate these crimes. You, on the other hand, have no motive. Do you have a criminal record?"

"No."

"More reasonable doubt. This is far from an open and shut case."

"What about the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars deposited in my bank account?"

"As long as you didn't make the deposit, the prosecution can't prove it's a payout beyond a reasonable doubt. It's circumstantial evidence. Besides, nobody risking being arrested for espionage would take anything other than cash in hand. This smacks of a frame. The evidence, at face value, appears to be so damning in this case that it borders on overkill. After we present our case, I'm very confident I can convince a jury that you were framed.

"Now you're going to have to stay in jail overnight (my heart sank at that moment, as I didn't know how I'd endure a night in jail with those animals), but I have an arraignment hearing scheduled early tomorrow afternoon," Hickson continued. "The prosecution will no doubt ask for remand, and say you're a flight risk. But I'll make it clear to the judge that remand is too severe given your yearly salary, your record of service to your country and that the physical evidence in this case is questionable. I'm almost certain you'll be afforded bail. Your father should have the means to pay it." After my dad retired he became a best-selling author, so I knew he had the money. "A court date will be set and it'll likely be within one to two weeks because of the severity of the charges," Hickson said. "During that time, my team will gather further evidence we can use during your trial. Just hang tight and trust me. This isn't as hopeless as you've been led to believe. These agents just want this arrest to stick because it'll make their careers. You didn't say anything to them that they can use against you, did you?"

"No. I just said this whole thing is impossible and that I was being framed. I said it over and over again."

"Good. Get some rest, and I'll see you tomorrow morning. Stay strong, Jax. I know your father, and if he tells me he has no doubt you're innocent I believe him. This is just the beginning of your redemption, not the end of your life. I'll do everything in my power to prove your innocence and end this nightmare. You have my word."

"Thanks, Mr. Hickson." He left and the guard came back in and escorted me back to the cell, opened the door and it clanked shut behind me.

"You still innocent, homes?" the Latino guy said. I knew if I were going to survive the night without being beaten like a rented mule or violated I'd have to play the role of a man with a respectable rap sheet.

"Like you said, we're all innocent," I said, looking at him with crazy eyes and my best evil grin. "I didn't kill that pig." I think my act worked because he turned his head and shut up and everyone else who was looking at me turned away as well. I felt safe for now at least and a little better about my situation after talking to my lawyer, but that lasted maybe fifteen minutes before I convinced myself I was screwed. The truth was somewhere between what the FBI told me and what my lawyer said. I didn't like my chances against a jury of my peers. What can be worse than espionage, especially now with our troops overseas in harm's way? You add on the murder of a police officer and that's just icing on the cake––the cake in this case being my fate.

I wasn't altogether unfamiliar with jail. I got arrested in Mexico during my college days. I sat that night in a rat-infested Mexican jail, not knowing when and if I'd get out. At the time, I thought I'd hit rock bottom. But the mess I was in now made that hellish experience seem like a night alone with Heidi Klum.

My life literally began to flash before my eyes as I sat there in the cell. Hundreds of memories popped in and out of my mind in a matter of minutes like clips of movie scenes. But none of the events that triggered those memories meant anything to me anymore. They were all erased in the blink of an eye. I was sitting in a jail cell amongst the scum of the earth, myself being the worst because of the heinousness of the crimes I allegedly committed, and I was likely going to end up somewhere far worse––death row. I couldn't believe my life was going to end this way. I thought if I closed my eyes real tight for a few seconds and then opened them, maybe I'd wake up in my bed having experienced my worst nightmare ever. Needless to say, this childish act of desperation didn't work. I opened my eyes and was right where I'd been seconds earlier. This was real and I was going to have to man up and deal with it. I didn't sleep that night before my lawyer arrived at approximately 9 am. The same guard who came and got me the day before walked up, called my name and opened the cell door.

# Chapter 11

"Mr. Wright, come with me," the guard said. "Your lawyer is here." He opened the door. Latino guy was sleeping. The guard led me to the same room where I'd first met Mr. Hickson.

"Jax, how are you holding up?" he said.

"Not good. I didn't sleep at all."

"I'm sorry to hear that." We sat down at the same table and he explained to me what was going to happen at the arraignment hearing. "Are you ready?" he said. I thought about the question. He might as well have asked me if I was ready to have my heart ripped from my chest.

"I guess," I said despondently. Greg and John escorted me from the police department. I was in my orange jumpsuit with my hands cuffed and my ankles shackled, something I'd only seen on TV and in the movies. Meanwhile, Mr. Hickson walked toward his hundred thousand-dollar Mercedes in his thousand-dollar Armani suit. I was shoved in the back of a police car and driven to the courthouse, which was less than a mile away.

"You ready to get what you deserve?" Greg said. I didn't say a word. I was petrified. I didn't think there was a chance in hell I'd get bail.

I was pulled from the car by Greg and escorted to the courthouse. The press swarmed us. Pictures were being taken, questions were being asked and angry citizens were screaming obscenities at me, telling me I was going to rot in hell and even less flattering things. It was so awful I can't even begin to describe how it felt.

We finally made it into the courthouse, which I'd been to about a year earlier for jury duty, but it was recently renovated and looked out of place in Yuma, like it belonged in a big city. Mr. Hickson and I sat there for about an hour, during which time he continued to try and convince me everything was going to be fine. But I knew in my heart it wasn't. We were finally summoned to the courtroom. We walked in and the jury was staring at me like I was Satan incarnated. It was bone chilling. I walked by my father. I could see the terror in his eyes. I was so

anxious the back of my head was numb. Is this really happening? I thought. We arrived at the defense table. The court clerk approached the judge.

"Docket number 62971, the people v. Jackson C. Wright, one count of espionage and one count of murder in the first degree," the clerk said.

"How does your client plead?" the judge said.

"Not guilty," I said.

"The people on bail?"

"Remand, your honor," the prosecutor, a woman in her late thirties, early forties, said. "The defendant is a flight risk."

"Your Honor," Mr. Hickson said. "My client makes sixty-thousand dollars a year and has an alibi for the nights these crimes the prosecution claims he committed took place. He's received multiple commendations for his unwavering and exemplary service to this country from his employer, a defense contractor. There's no murder weapon..."

"Your Honor," the prosecutor interrupted. "These are issues that should be addressed at trial, not at an arraignment hearing."

"I agree," the judge said.

"Your Honor," Hickson said, trying not to leave any bullets in the chamber. "It would be a gross miscarriage of justice to deny my client bail based on such questionable evidence."

"That's enough, Mr. Hickson. Bail is set at one million dollars, and Mr. Wright will be fitted with an ankle monitor in the event his bail is posted."

I dropped my head and began to cry.

"Jax, we got bail," Mr. Hickson said. "That's a victory." Yeah, for him it was time to celebrate. He could drive home with the top down and a big smile, knowing he did what almost no other lawyer could, pop open a bottle of champagne for him and his wife, girlfriend, lover, call girl, whoever, and then screw her, or him (you never know), until the sun came up. For me, it was like the sun was setting for the last time. All I could see was darkness ahead.

"It doesn't feel like it," I said, before shuffling out of the courtroom. It was like it was all happening in slow motion. It was a nightmare that just kept getting worse. What a waste. As far as everyone was concerned I was a traitor and murderer. I played by the rules and did everything right. I was the model employee and a good citizen. I was a patriot walking out of a courtroom a traitor. I felt like I was outside my body watching all this. The voice of my father brought me back.

"Son, I'll have you out of here in an hour," he said as the door was opened and I was escorted out. As the door was closing behind me I could hear him say, "Don't give up. This is all going to get straightened out."

I was escorted out of the courthouse. Reporters were asking me questions and Mr. Hickson intervened. He made a public statement about how his client was innocent and was being framed, and the truth would eventually come out and the real perpetrator of these heinous crimes would be brought to justice. Someone in the crowd hurled the contents of a bucket in my direction as we walked toward the police car. It looked like blood. It hit me square in the face and some went in my mouth before I spit it out. My eyes were burning, as my entire head and face were covered in what I assumed was blood.

"This is the blood of our soldiers overseas, traitor!" the man yelled.

"Good for you, my man!" Greg said. I couldn't wipe my face because I was cuffed. I must be in hell, I thought. I was shoved back into the car and brought back to the station. Before escorting me back to what was becoming my second home, the same guard went and got a wet towel and wiped as much blood from my face as he could. I could see clearly again, as both my eyes had crusted halfway shut, and the stinging sensation began to subside.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," the guard said before leading me to the cell. The Latino guy was still there and when he saw the top of my jumpsuit covered in blood, he said, "What happened, homes?"

"It's a long story."

"I got nothing but time." I think he actually thought I was his friend.

"Man, I just need to be left alone." I gave him the crazy eyes again even though I was dying inside. He dropped the subject. Meanwhile, my dad arrived and posted my bail. He was escorted to my cell.

"Come on, son, we're going home." Thank God, I thought.

"Hey, good luck, homes," Latino guy said again.

"You too, man. I appreciate it."

"What was that?" my dad said. "You make a friend in there?"

"Let's just get the hell out of here," I said, mentally exhausted.

I'd never been happier to see my dad. He was fifty-seven but kept himself in good shape. He was the spitting image of Sean Connery, now and in his younger years. He did a hell of a Connery impression too. His catch phrase was "You're the man now, dog!" from the movie _Finding Forrester_. Every time he said it I laughed so hard my sides ached. I saw pictures of him when he was younger and we looked very similar. He was the stereotypical tall, dark and handsome. Around my height, six foot two, he had a similar build, though I was more muscular. The primary differences between us were eye and hair color––mine were green and brown and his brown and black, respectively. But we had similar features. We were also both very good athletes. I played the three major sports in high school: football, baseball and basketball. I was good at all of them but great at none. My dad, on the other hand, played college basketball and had some mad hops. He could reverse dunk, which was impressive at his height. Me, well, I could barely touch the rim. This white man can't jump. But we could both shoot the lights out. We had a hoop in our backyard when I was a kid and we'd play games of "Horse" and "Around the World" that would last for hours because neither of us would miss. I remember sinking a fifty-foot hook shot from the side of the pool and he just said, "What the hell?" and walked off. We both started laughing hysterically. I'll never forget the day I finally beat him playing one-on-one. I was so proud, jumping up and down and rubbing it in his face, but I could tell it stung a little on his end even though he was a good sport and congratulated me. Looking back, I think he probably realized he was getting old. I still feel a little guilty about sticking it to him like that.

My parents met in high school in the small town of Bellingham, Washington. They were high school sweethearts and continued dating when they went off to college, my mom to the University of Washington, my dad to Saint Martin's College, where he set the collegiate record for most consecutive free throws made, which stood for several years. I've always been proud of that and a little envious. My mom, meanwhile, won the Miss Bellingham beauty contest and was a UW cheerleader. I saw the photo of her after she'd been crowned Miss Bellingham and she was beautiful. She could've been a model or movie star. She was around five foot seven, slim, with blonde hair and dark blue eyes.

# Chapter 12

Meanwhile, the guard opened the cell door, removed the shackles and handcuffs, escorted my dad and I to a room down the hall on the left and, before he closed the door, I thanked him for his professionalism and compassion.

"You're welcome, Mr. Wright," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, you're innocent until proven guilty. If that's not the case, why even believe in this country's justice system?" It was hard for _me_ to believe in it at the moment.

I changed into the clothes I came in wearing the previous day. Before I could leave I had to surrender my passport, and a thin, black monitoring device was placed around my ankle. My dad and I left the building, escorted by police officers, to a throng of angry protestors shouting obscenities at me, mostly "traitor" and "murderer," and reporters who started asking me questions. I just covered my face, kept my head down and couldn't wait to get to the car. I thought I was going to be shot and, honestly, I didn't really care. We got in the car and drove slowly through the lot toward the exit as protestors on both sides of the car, many holding signs, continued shouting horrible things at me while banging on the car. We finally made it out of the parking lot and began driving toward my apartment, which was only about two miles away.

"Oh my God," I said, crying.

"Jax, you're innocent," my dad said, trying his best to console me. I looked at him and he was visibly shaken as well, which didn't help. "I know that was dreadful, but keep your chin up and take solace in knowing you're not the one who committed those awful crimes. I know it's easier said than done."

"Thanks, dad, I appreciate your support," I said, trying desperately to believe him. But I didn't. What else was he going to say? "Son, you're a dead man?" He was going to say anything to try and keep my spirits up.

"I'm sorry it came to this and you had to be involved," I said. I just wanted to die at that point.

"It's all right, son. This'll all get straightened out and everything will be fine."

"You honestly believe that?" I said with a tone of genuine doubt. He knew I could see right through him but he was going to continue to fight.

"Yeah. You have one of the best attorneys in the country, and all the prosecution has is circumstantial evidence. I've spoken with Mr. Hickson and he says you have a lot going for you." My dad pulled into the complex parking lot, I told him where to park and we got out of the car and headed toward my apartment. We went up the stairs and I opened the door. What I saw when I got inside would've been inexplicable for just about anyone but me. Janet was pleasuring herself on the couch while watching a porno. As soon as she saw me she said, "Jesus Christ!" and ran to the bedroom and slammed the door. I looked at my dad and his jaw just dropped.

"What the hell was that?" he said.

"My life in a nutshell."

"Man, I've never seen that before in person."

I went to the bedroom door and opened it. Janet was getting dressed.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said. "I've been going through living hell the last two days and this is how you support me?"

"I'm so sorry. I couldn't help myself."

"As soon as you're dressed I want you to get the hell out of here, and I never want to see you again!" I was seething. "That's my dad I'm with, and he saw everything! Jesus Christ, just when I think things can't get any worse you do something like this! You're certifiable!"

"Jax, I'm so sorry, please don't say it's over! I love you and need you!"

"You should've thought about that before this little exhibition!"

"I thought you were in jail!" she pleaded. "I didn't think there was anything I could do! I was worried sick about you! I had to keep my mind occupied and that's the only way I know how! I promise; it'll never happen again!"

"That's what you said the last time, and the time before that. I'm done with you. I can't deal with this right now. I'm facing the death penalty. Do you understand that? Now get your stuff together and get the hell out of here!" I slammed the door shut behind me.

"Dad, I'm so sorry about that," I said before he just started laughing.

"You told me it was bad, but my God, give me a break."

"I know, but it's over. I was waiting for the right time to break it off and this is it." Janet walked from the room with her suitcase and looked at me with tears in her eyes as she passed. She opened the door and walked out. "What now?" I asked my dad. "I'm totally screwed. I can't just sit here for two weeks waiting for a trial not knowing my fate. I can't handle this. I need to do something. I need to find the terrorist and clear my name. I'm not just going to sit here with my friends and family thinking I'm a traitor."

"Son, that would be my first impulse too, you know that," he said. "But give Mr. Hickson some time to build your case and debunk the prosecution's. These people will kill you if you do what you're thinking. I worked counter-terrorism and these bastards are ruthless. They get off on killing Americans. You have a far better chance of clearing your name at trial than by trying to fight these monsters. There's no telling how many of them are here.

"They've infiltrated our government, the FBI, the CIA and our legal system." Jesus Christ, I thought. "You'd be going up against a force that I know from experience can't be stopped. There are sleeper cells in every city in this country. It's just a matter of time before America is reduced to ashes. You can't stop hatred that runs this deep. Give it a day or two to see what Hickson can do. He'll discredit the evidence that was manufactured to frame you. Anything that's manufactured has flaws that can't be hidden. Forensic experts will find every one of them. This _has_ to create reasonable doubt.

"Plus you have an alibi for every night. And there's no way an eyewitness can ID you with certainty in a dark parking lot. And how convenient is it that there's a witness at the scene of the murder four hours after all the offices were closed? And the phone records will prove you were in contact with the PI, not Paul. Jax, you have a great chance of being acquitted."

"But what if the prosecution has more evidence than the FBI showed me?" I said doubtingly.

"They don't; trust me. They used all their ammunition. Getting a confession from you would make their careers. I was in their position for twenty-five years. I can assure you, they weren't holding anything back. If anything, they were embellishing the strength of the evidence."

"Innocent people get sent to prison all the time," I said. "I just have a really bad feeling about this. Just days ago I was sitting in my office working, writing reports, anxious about deadlines as usual, going a hundred miles per hour, all to maintain my reputation as the best and hardest working writer on the base. Now I wonder what I was so worried about and why it was so important to me to please everyone. What's the worst thing that could've happened? Miss a deadline? Say the wrong thing? Screw up a report? It's all so trivial.

"I should've been doing something I loved this whole time, like creative writing. I could write the rest of my life and be happy. But I was incapable of being honest with myself, not just in my work life, but in my social life. My relationship with Janet was great I would say, regardless of whether it was true. In reality, she annoyed the hell out of me half the time. And you just saw firsthand what she's like. Believe it or not, having sex with the same woman six times a day takes all the fun out of it. But I could never admit this to her _or_ myself.

"I'm afraid of the truth, dad. My whole life I've done everything in my power to avoid it. And for what? If I can't be myself then what's the point of any of it? What's so scary about the truth? Your innermost feelings? I could've been happy all those years if I'd just had the guts to admit the truth and been myself, the person I was growing up. At least now I'd have far less regrets."

My dad began to cry.

"This is my fault," he said. "I saw you weren't happy, and yes, I gave you advice and tried to help, but I was incapable of being honest with myself as well. I had to believe you were fine. I wasn't able to face the truth either because it'd mean I was a failure as a father."

"Dad, you're a great father and friend. You've always been there when I needed you. This isn't your fault. Nothing you could've said or done would've made any difference. I'd take your advice, apply it for a while, and every time I'd fall back into my old routine. It's my burden, not yours. I love you more than anything in the world. You're the only person who truly understands me. Will you stay here with me until the trial? Honestly, I don't think I can get through this alone."

"Of course. Everything's going to be fine. I truly believe it. Have I ever been wrong when I've said this to you?"

"No. But it's never been this serious. I'm not in control of my own destiny this time. Every other time I was even though I didn't realize it at the time. My life is in the hands of a jury of my so-called peers, who we both know is half full of idiots. I don't like those odds. Do mom, Brenda (my sister) and the kids (my two nephews and niece) know about this?"

"No, I didn't tell them."

"Let's keep it that way for now."

"All right."

We talked for a couple more hours before going to bed, although neither of us slept that night. I didn't see how I was going to sleep at all over the next two weeks. I wanted to take action regardless of the consequence. What did I have to lose at this point? I'd rather go out trying to prove my innocence than via the death penalty. I'd forever be remembered as a traitor and murderer. The family name would be permanently tainted. I'd be remembered along with the likes of Benedict Arnold, who went from war hero and patriot to plotting to turn over the American fort at West Point to British forces during the Revolution; the Rosenbergs, who sold atomic secrets to the Russians during the Cold War; and, more recently, Robert Hanssen.

My dad told me all about Hanssen when the story broke. He worked with this man for a couple years in the late seventies while in the bureau. In the early eighties Hanssen transferred to the Soviet espionage unit within the FBI. He used his computer, wiretapping and electronic surveillance skills to sell lists of FBI double agents and other moles to KGB agents for huge sums of money. He was turned in to the FBI by his own brother-in-law. I was only a kid when he told me this but it stuck in my mind. It was like he told me the story yesterday. I was fascinated by true crime when I was a child. But it was mostly old-school stuff. Ma Barker, Capone, Dillinger, Kenneth Bianchi and Angelo Buono (jointly dubbed by the media as the Hillside Strangler), David Berkowitz (the self-named Son of Sam), Bundy, Manson. You name a notorious bad man or woman from the twenties through the eighties and I probably knew their story.

It made me physically ill thinking the name Wright would be associated with the most infamous criminals in American history, including people who betrayed their country and got countless Americans killed because of greed and a lack of conscience. My only hope was that my dad might someday be able to clear my name and let my family live in peace and remember me with pride as the person I really was. Early the next morning my cell rang. I looked at the number and didn't recognize it but I picked up.

"Hello?" I said.

"Jax, it's Robert Hickson." I was on pins and needles, praying for good news. "I'm afraid I have some bad news." I didn't say anything. I started feeling sick again. I didn't want to hear the news. It was like waiting for the doctor to tell me I have cancer. "Jax, are you there?" Hickson said.

"Yeah, yeah...what is it?" I said finally.

"I went to Janet's work and she's not willing to testify on your behalf. In fact, she's going to testify for the prosecution."

"What the hell? This can't be happening. Obviously someone got to her."

"She told me she hired a private investigator to follow you because you wouldn't come home sometimes until around 9:30 or 10 pm. She thought you were cheating. She said the PI told her you were selling secrets to a foreign operative who he recently learned was Hamas. She gave me a list of times and dates when these transactions took place. She says she was at your apartment alone on these occasions."

"That's impossible!" I protested. "I was there! She's lying! Hamas got to her!" I felt like I was losing my mind.

"Take a deep breath, Jax." I did. "You're probably right. When I asked her if Hamas had threatened her, she said no, but I got the sense she wasn't telling the truth; that she was afraid of something. She was looking around and seemed extremely anxious for me to leave. Jax, if you were selling secrets to someone you thought was an Israeli operative you can tell me. A jury will likely be sympathetic and the judge will probably grant you leniency because most Americans don't consider giving secrets to Israel espionage. This may help you avoid the death penalty."

"She's lying! Hamas obviously threatened her or her family and gave her that list! I swear to God, we were together on all those nights! I would never betray my country!"

"Okay, Jax, try to relax," Hickson said. "I believe you, but I had to ask. I know these monsters' modus operandi. I told Janet if Hamas had threatened her we could provide protection for her and her family. She said Hamas or nobody else had talked to her and she was telling the truth. She said to tell you she was sorry and then said she had to get back to work."

"I can't believe this. How could she do this to me?"

"Jax, I'm still working hard to build your case, and I think this is a setback I can overcome. The forensic team is still examining the audio recordings and photographs. Don't give up, Jax. This is still very much a winnable case. I'll call you as soon as I have more information. Just hang in there."

"Okay." But it wasn't okay. Now I had no other choice but to take action before it was too late. I knew now with certainty I wouldn't win the case.

"What the hell's going on?" my dad said. "What did he say?"

"He said Janet's going to testify for the prosecution. He also said Janet told him _I_ was selling secrets to Hamas and she gave him a list of times and places when the transactions took place."

"My God. Jax, I'd understand if you were selling secrets to someone you believed to be an Israeli operative trying to save Israel. I'd still love you and continue to help you. But if you were knowingly selling secrets to Hamas you're on your own."

"Are you serious, dad? I'm telling you the truth. Hamas had to have gotten to her. Either that or she's working for them. I can't believe you'd even consider I'm capable of giving _any_ foreign government our secrets let alone Iran. You know me better than that don't you?"

"I do son, but I had to ask," he said, just like Mr. Hickson. "I told you Janet wasn't right for you. She's completely nuts. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"I don't know. I've been trying to find the right moment to end the relationship but then she told me she loved me. I just couldn't do it. Dang it!" I tried to call Janet but she didn't answer. "Dad, I'm gonna go after this guy. It's my only chance."

"Son, I know this is a huge setback, but you can't do that. You'll be killed."

"I don't care anymore. I've made up my mind. I don't know how I'm going do it, but I'll find this guy and clear my name." My dad paused.

"Christ," he said. He obviously realized I had no shot at trial. "Okay, you're a grown man, and I can't tell you what to do anymore. But you're not doing this alone."

"Yes I am!" I said emphatically. "I'm not dragging you down with me. This is _my_ battle."

"Son, I'm fifty-seven years old. What the hell do I have to lose? I'm not going to stand by and let you commit suicide. You need my experience and expertise. I have contacts and friends who may be willing to help. At least it'll give you a chance."

"Dad, you have a wife, a daughter and grandchildren. I'm not going to put the burden of losing you on them. Losing me alone is enough."

"To hell with all that! You're my son, and you're not doing this alone! I'm going to call your cousin Kim and see if he's willing to help."

Kim was an ex-Green Beret honorably discharged after re-aggravating an old neck injury sustained while playing fullback at Washington State. I've heard the story many times. It was the third quarter of State's rival game against the University of Washington with a bowl bid at stake. Kim made a lead block for his all-state tailback and felt a crack in his neck when he collided with a two hundred and forty-pound linebacker. He was writhing in pain on the field as the team doctor attended to him. After about two minutes, he got up and walked off the field under his own power. After two or three plays, two of which the tailback was stonewalled in the backfield, the head coach asked if he was ready to get back in the game.

"This is a joke," the coach said. "With this idiot blocking for him he can't even get out of the backfield. We need you, Kim. We can't lose this game."

"Okay," Kim said, although the pain was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He went back in and played the last quarter and a half. The tailback ran wild and they won the game going away.

Kim was the Clint Eastwood of the family––tough as nails. The next day his neck was killing him. He went to the emergency room and two hours later X-rays revealed he broke it. He had emergency surgery and after a year of intense rehab his neck was around eighty percent. That was close to the best the doctors said it would get and that deterioration would begin as he got older. His football career was over but he graduated from Washington State with a degree in criminal justice.

He applied for the Green Berets a couple months later after his neck had continued to heal. He had to wait until he knew he could pass the physical and withstand the rigorous training he knew would come with the job. He passed the physical, made it through the training and became a Green Beret. He was promoted several times and became the lead of his unit. He saved many lives and received many commendations. But then disaster happened. After fifteen years of service and in the prime of his career, he re-aggravated the neck injury in an operation to take out a terrorist cell in Los Angeles. He was likely going to be discharged after doctors examined him and said his neck would never be the same.

He was distraught. Being a Green Beret was who he was, and he couldn't imagine life without it. He argued he could rehab for a few months and be fit for service. The government offered him a lucrative desk job but told him he'd never be able to work in the field again. He rejected the offer, telling them they could shove it up their butts, and moved to Birch Bay, Washington where he had family. He began to frequent the Wheelhouse, the local sports bar in the small town of Blaine, which was just south of the Canadian Border, living off his disability and pension and coaching high school football. He drank to dull the physical and emotional pain.

The Wheelhouse was your typical small town sports bar. It had six forty-six-inch, flat-screen HD TVs; six or seven tables; a jukebox; sports memorabilia on the walls, mostly Mariners and Seahawks; a few of those neon beer signs; two pool tables; and the bar, which seated about eight people. Every time I'd been there it was only about half full and everyone knew each other. Kim introduced me to all the regulars. He was also friends with the bartenders––Fred, who was a quirky but friendly guy probably in his mid to late forties; and Gwen, a pretty woman in her late thirties, early forties, with whom Kim had an off and on intimate relationship. I told him I thought she was hot and sweet and asked him if he was ever planning on settling down and getting married. He said he had no interest in that kind of thing. He liked things just the way they were.

"You get in a serious relationship and it all goes to hell," he told me last year when I was there for the Fourth. I couldn't argue with him based on my experience. That was the last time I saw him.

"If Kim is willing, his skills and muscle will be invaluable," my dad continued. "He's an adrenaline junkie. He's obviously miserable. Look at what he's done with his life recently. When he was discharged from the Berets it was like he lost part of his soul. In _his_ mind, he knew he could still do his job, but they wouldn't give him a chance. You know how he used to be when you were a kid. He was your best friend. Now you hardly ever hear from him. He may see this as an opportunity to get back a part of what he believes was wrongly taken from him. He lives for situations like this. He's wired different than us. He isn't afraid to put his life on the line. He once told me he gets off on it. Maybe some of his old Beret friends can help."

# Chapter 13

Kim was sitting at the bar in the Wheelhouse watching the Mariners get their keesters handed to them by the Yankees. A-Rod had just hit a three-run bomb.

"Yeah, just leave Hernandez in there until he gives up eight runs," he said with disgust. "I could manage this team better than that pea brain."

At that moment, two guys playing pool began to argue. It soon escalated into a fight. Two others joined in and pool cues were swinging, beer bottles were crashing to the floor and all hell broke loose.

"Kim," the bartender said. "I think it's time for you to do your thing."

"Ah, come on Fred, I'm watching the game. Let boys be boys."

"They're destroying my property," Fred said.

"All right." Kim slammed down his beer, got up and walked toward the fight. "Guys, come on, break it up, it's only a game."

"Mind your own business," one of the men said.

"I'm afraid this just became my business."

"Oh yeah, bring it on," the same man said.

"Oh boy," Fred said, knowing all too well what was about to happen. The man took a swing at Kim, who blocked the punch with his left arm and punched the man square in the nose. The guy was staggered, his nose bleeding profusely. He covered it while he was moaning. He stumbled over to Fred and asked for a towel.

"I'm not gonna let you soil one of my towels," Fred said. "Just put some pressure on it."

"Piss off," the guy said as he turned and walked out. In the meantime, Kim was struck on the back with a pool cue.

"Ah crap," Fred said. "This is gonna get ugly."

Kim turned and went John Claude Van Damme on the guy, kicking him in the face jujitsu style, sending him reeling.

"Whoa," Frank said. "Never seen that one before."

The third guy apparently had too much beer to see the writing on the wall. He ran at Kim who moved quickly to the side like a Matador, grabbed him and threw him against the wall. He bounced off it and fell flat on his face. He was out cold. There was no writing on the wall, but there was an imprint of the man's face.

"Crap," Frank said. "There's always collateral damage."

The last guy looked at Kim and had the sense, or more likely the sudden impulse, to back up.

"Take it easy now, big fella." Kim was an imposing six foot four and built like a brick house. He worked out religiously despite the neck pain before heading to the Wheelhouse every night. His pain threshold was almost super human. He was in his mid-forties now but was still a pretty good-lookin' guy. His shaved head and brown eyes were reminiscent of a slightly older Vin Diesel. Needless to say, he held his own with the ladies. He told me he hung with a group of gorgeous women in Canada. Many of them were Russian, and he said they all looked like super models. I didn't ask if he was having sex with any of them. Who knows, maybe they were prostitutes. He was planning to hook me up with one, Natasha I think her name was, after I broke up with Melanie. He showed me a picture of her and he was right, she was drop-dead gorgeous. It never came to fruition though.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Kim said as the last guy backed off. Kim walked back to the bar and sat down as if nothing had happened. "I'm getting too old for this crap. Give me another beer, Fred."

"Thanks, Kim," Fred said as he filled Kim's mug and set it in front of him. "You earned this one, man."

"Sorry about the wall," Kim said as he lifted the mug to his mouth. At that moment, his cell rang. He set the mug down, annoyed that the well-earned first swig had been postponed.

"Kim," he said.

"Kim, this is Geno."

"Dad, put him on speaker," I said. He did.

"Hey Geno, how are you doin'? It's been a while."

"I know, too long."

"What's up, buddy?"

"Jax is in trouble. He's been arrested and charged with espionage and murder."

"Is this a joke?" Kim said in a tone of skepticism.

"No, I wish it were, believe me. This is really bad. He's being framed for these crimes."

"What? How the hell did this happen?"

"He overheard a conversation in a bar between a man who works for him and a foreign national. He decided to hire a private investigator because he has a personal vendetta against this guy. He called me from jail after the arrest and told me he'd been interrogated by the FBI. I drove over to Yuma immediately. He had his arraignment hearing yesterday and got bail. I posted it and we're sitting in his apartment right now."

"Jesus Christ," Kim said.

"The PI Jax hired was killed and they framed Jax for the murder," my dad continued. "This foreign national, who passed himself off as an Israeli operative trying to save Israel from being destroyed by Iran, is actually a member of Hamas. They discovered the PI was following their man, killed him, took all the evidence the PI had gathered—audio recordings and photographs—and altered it to implicate Jax. They matched Jax's voice with Paul's so it sounds like Jax is talking to the terrorist. It's a ninety-percent match according to the FBI. I suspect they bugged the PI's office and also got Jax's that way, but it'd be near impossible to get a match that precise from a phone conversation."

"They probably had Paul plant a bug under Jax's desk at work," Kim said.

"Didn't think of that. You're probably right. They also manipulated the photographs the PI took, cropping out Paul and replacing his image with Jax's using photographs Hamas took of Jax talking with his girlfriend, Janet. One of the agents gave him a magnifying glass and Jax said they looked flawless."

"Forensic experts should be able to find signs of tampering. If a photograph is doctored, there're always signs."

"The thing is, they have their own forensic experts doing the work, and with the same technology the FBI has," my dad said. "They also have a supposed eyewitness who saw Jax leaving the PI's office building shortly after the murder. This person ID'd Jax in a lineup at the police station. Most damning of all is they have a photo from the crime scene with the first four letters of Jax's name written in blood on the wall just above the PI's body."

"Those bastards. They've got Jax by the balls. Does he have an alibi?"

"He did, but not anymore. His lawyer just called and said his girlfriend, Janet, told him he was selling secrets to Hamas and gave him a list of the exact times and places."

"Is it possible that Jax would do something like this?" Kim said.

"No. He was set up. Either Hamas threatened to kill Janet or she's on their payroll. He swears he was with her every night, including the night of the murder, and I believe him."

"Does the prosecution have any physical evidence?"

"No. According to Jax's lawyer, the prosecution doesn't have anything physical linking Jax to the crime––no murder weapon, fingerprints, hair, fibers, skin or blood."

"That's good. His attorney should be able to raise reasonable doubt considering the evidence is all circumstantial."

"But our alibi was the only concrete evidence we had that could clear him. And now that Janet is testifying against him he has no chance at trial. I need to ask you a favor, Kim, and it'd require an extremely dangerous personal sacrifice, one that I'll never be able to repay. But you're the only man I know with the skills needed to find this man without all of us being killed. Without your help, Jax is going to do this alone, and we both know what the outcome of that'll be.

"He needs people with the skills, knowledge and resources we have at our discretion to find this man and get a confession out of him or any kind of incriminating evidence that'll help clear Jax's name. I'm going to contact my sources still working with the FBI and some retired agents to try and persuade them to help, but I desperately need your help or Jax is going to essentially commit suicide."

"I don't know, Geno. I've been out of the game for a long time. It'll probably be a suicide mission for me as well."

"Kim, we need you, or else I'm going to lose my son," my dad said in a last ditch effort. There was a long pause. I was convinced he wasn't going to help, and I knew we needed him desperately if we had any chance of pulling this off. I was surprised when I heard his response.

"Okay, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Kim. Is there a chance any of your buddies you worked with would be willing to help?"

"I doubt it. They're all married with children, but I'll make some calls." They hung up. About ten minutes later, Kim called back and said no one was willing to take that kind of risk.

"Thanks for trying," my dad said.

"No problem. I'll catch the first flight out of Bellingham to San Diego, rent a car and drive to Yuma. I'll get there as soon as I can. I'll call when I'm close."

"Thanks, Kim." My dad hung up and then called his two sources at the FBI he'd kept in contact with to get information he needed to write his novels. He somehow persuaded them to help.

"They owed me a debt from several years ago," he said. "I worked closely with them for fifteen years and they know I'm an honest man. I showed them the ropes when they came to the office fresh from Quantico. They work counter-terrorism and they said this fits the classic profile of a frame. They know how Hamas works and they want a shot at taking some of them down."

Next, my dad called each of his ex-FBI friends he worked with his entire career. He was still close friends with a few of them. The two with a wife and kids wanted to help, but said the risk was far too great. But he was able to persuade his best friend, Clyde, to help. Clyde was divorced, his son died ten years ago in a tragic car accident, he was a gambling addict and he said he had nothing to lose. He was nearly bankrupt and owed some shady people significant money he didn't have.

# Chapter 14

Clyde was close to my dad's age––late fifties maybe. He was over six-foot tall, still good looking with reddish blonde hair and light blue eyes. He reminded me a little of Robert Redford. He was sitting in front of his big, flat-screen LCD TV sweating in his two-story, three-bedroom house on Cass Avenue in La Jolla, only about a mile from my dad's place, as he watched the clock wind down in the Penn State, Michigan State game Saturday morning. He wasn't sweating because it was hot. It was a cold and rainy day in La Jolla. In fact, he was bundled up in a blanket with a glass of Jim Beam in his hand. The cubes were clanking against the glass, as his hand was a bit shaky. The clock continued to wind down. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen... Penn State ran the ball from the left hash mark to the middle of the field, gaining about two yards down to the Michigan State five-yard line. They let the time run down to one second before calling their final timeout.

"Okay, this is a chip shot," Clyde said out loud, but he was still extremely anxious. He tossed off the blanket and stood up. Penn State was a one-point favorite and they were down one, setting up for what amounted to practically an extra point, which was successful about ninety-nine percent of the time. Clyde was playing a three-team parlay, with the other two games already in the book as winners. He had ten thousand down. If Penn State made this field goal he'd take home sixty thousand dollars, which would double his current debt to his bookie who was getting more and more impatient as Clyde kept making excuses for why he couldn't pay it back right away. In fact, if he didn't have the money by Sunday, his bookie said there'd be serious consequences.

The Nittany Lions set up to kick the game-winner, and Michigan State called their last timeout to ice the kicker.

"Dang it!" Clyde said in angst. The next two minutes of commercials seemed like an eternity. Clyde's hands were clammy and he wiped the sweat from his brow. Then another commercial came on. "Come on!" He took a sip of his Jim Beam. The game came back on and Penn State was set up for the field goal. The ball was snapped and Clyde's heart was in his throat. The snap was low and the holder had to snatch it off the ground. Clyde cringed. The holder started turning the laces as the kicker made impact. He pushed it to the right. Clyde was seeing it all in slow motion, like a car wreck. It looked like it had a shot of sneaking inside the right upright. Please God, he thought. The ball hit the upright, barely to the inside, bounced sideways and down, hit the crossbar, and bounced back toward the field.

"He missed it!" the announcer said. "Unbelievable! Michigan State wins!" Clyde just stared at the TV in disbelief as the Michigan State players were jumping all over each other. He watched the kicker walk toward the sideline shaking his head in disbelief. Clyde was holding his glass so tight it broke in his hand, which started bleeding but he didn't even notice. He now owed his bookie forty thousand dollars.

"Christ, you've gotta be kidding me!" he said in agony. "It was a freakin' extra point!" He put his head in his hands. That's when he realized he was bleeding. He didn't care because much worse was coming the next day. He was thinking of how he was going to come up with the money. He'd make another bet on the afternoon games, but all he had left were ten thousand dollars. If he could hit a three-team parlay he'd have the money to pay the bookie, but if he lost he'd be destitute and have to leave town or likely be maimed or killed and end up buried in cement in a wrecking yard. Then the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID anxiously, expecting to see his bookie's number, but it was my dad. He let it ring for a while before answering.

"Hey Geno," he said, feeling dead inside.

"Clyde, you sound like you just lost your brother. What's going on?"

"I started gambling again and I just lost a game that put me in the hole forty thousand dollars. All I have is ten thousand left. They're going to kill me."

"Dang it, Clyde, what the hell are you thinking?"

"I don't know. I was depressed and needed something to keep my mind off things."

"I have a proposition for you. I can solve your problem, but it'd take an extreme personal sacrifice on you part I can't guarantee won't have the same consequences."

"What is it?" My dad told him the whole story.

"Jesus Christ," Clyde said.

"This is my proposition," my dad said. "I'll give you a hundred thousand dollars if you help us clear Jax's name."

"I don't know if I'm in any kind of shape to be much help to you guys."

"Clyde, we need your skills if we're going to pull this off." Clyde was a highly decorated hostage negotiator for the last ten years of his career and worked undercover on several occasions with my dad earlier in their careers. "We don't have the manpower without you," my dad said. "I've called everyone I know and they have too much at stake to risk their lives. I know it's asking a lot, but I really need you buddy." There was a long pause.

"Okay, I'm in," Clyde said. "What do I have to lose anyway?"

"Clyde, I'm going to need you to get your hands on a surveillance van with all the bells and whistles. I'll also need you to bring some wires, bugs and some micro-sized wireless ear buds like the secret service use. Can you get your hands on some of those?"

"Yeah. I think the FBI's using them now."

"Okay, also bring your badge (agents, when they retired, got to keep their badges, although they were mounted on plaques) and two phony badges for Kim and Jax. I've already got two current agents working with us from the San Diego office. They're going to provide us with any intel they have on the terrorist cell in Yuma. I'll give them a call and let them know what you need and that you're on your way."

"Okay," Clyde said. "I'll head over there as soon as I can. It may be a while because I just cut my hand and it's bleeding pretty bad. I need to go to urgent care because it looks like it needs stitches. I'll use my badge to get to the front of the line."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'll call you when I'm close to Yuma."

"Thank you, Clyde. I owe you big time, buddy."

# Chapter 15

"Okay, Jax, we have Kim and Clyde on board, and my sources at the FBI," my dad said. "I'm not letting you get involved in this operation. It's far too dangerous for someone with no weapon or hand-to-hand combat skills. These people are trained assassins."

My dad was right of course. He worked undercover with these evil SOBs and knew exactly what they were capable of. In fact, he knew as much about them as anyone other than those who perished at their hands. He wrote a best-selling novel after he retired detailing just how real and imminent the threat to America was with the terrorist cells that exist today in this country. There'd been so many near misses during his twelve years in counter-terrorism that anyone who read this book would be genuinely afraid. I couldn't even finish it it scared me so much.

He wrote the book in an effort to open this country's eyes to the danger that was right in their own backyards. The government denounced it as being highly exaggerated and filled with half-truths and flat out falsities. They didn't want the American people to know the truth. The truly scary part was that the threat was growing. The cells were getting bigger and growing at a faster pace than every law enforcement agency's counter-terrorism task forces and the rest of America's national security. Because of the recession, the gap between those who'd go to any length to kill us and those protecting us was narrowing fast. It may not be in our lifetime, but there'll be a day when we're outnumbered by those intent on destroying us and our government.

My dad's experience in this field was the greatest asset and the only legitimate chance we had of pulling this off, and even _with_ him, it was virtually mission impossible.

"You wouldn't have a chance," he continued. "We'll take care of this on our own..."

"The hell you will!" I said with as much conviction as I could muster. "I'm not going to sit here while you guys risk your lives for me! I got myself into this mess by not listening to you! If I'm not included, we're calling this off and I'll wait for the trial!"

"We both know you're going to lose that trial," he responded. "We're doing this and you're not going to be involved. You have to trust me. Our odds are better without you."

"Screw that! I caused this mess and I'm going to help clean it up! I don't care _what_ you say!"

"Jax, take a deep breath and listen to me. If you participate you'll be killed and you'll put our lives at risk as well."

"Dad, listen to _me_. I can be an asset. I'm strong and physically fit and can handle myself. Just teach me to fire a gun and I'll be fine. I'm going to be part of this and I don't care what happens to me. I have nothing to lose now. My odds are better going after this guy than waiting for a trial where I know I'll be sandbagged by a prosecutor who'd kill her own sister to convict a man of espionage. It'll be her biggest achievement ever. I'll be convicted by the jury the second the prosecution presents its case. Either I'm in, or let me be fed to the wolves. It's your call." My dad put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Okay," he said. "But we're going to do this my way. You're going to do exactly what I tell you to do, do you understand me?"

"Yes." I knew he had no intention of letting me actually get involved. He was just placating me, and would go off in the middle of the night and leave me behind. No father would let his son participate in something this dangerous. But he was underestimating me, as most people often did.

"We need to come up with a plan," he said. "I can't take you to a firing range unfortunately because of that device on your ankle, but I can teach you some simple self-defense techniques. We don't have a lot of time, but you need to be as ready as possible when we encounter the kind of resistance I'm expecting. They know you're out on bail and have you dead to rights, and that you're desperate and will likely go to any length to prove your innocence. I'm sure they suspect you're going to go after Paul and that I'll be helping considering my background with the bureau.

"The wildcard here is Kim. I doubt they'll be able to make the connection, but anything's possible. They're going to be fully prepared for anything we can throw at them, trust me. We'll likely be able to find this man's location, but it's going to be far more complicated than just going and finding him and beating the truth out of him. This isn't _24_. We have to get a handle on how big their cell is. We can probably get this info from my sources. But we have to anticipate anything and everything. There's always the possibility my sources will set us up by sending us straight into their lair. I knew these men for several years, but you never _really_ know anybody. I told you the Hanssen story. We also need to get our hands on as many weapons as possible. I know how to get these things."

Something occurred to me.

"Can't we run a con of some sort that makes us the hunted rather than the hunter?" I asked. "Why don't we bring them to us? That way, there are no surprises. Like you said, they'll be waiting for us. I think our odds are far better if we set the bait and they come after it. These people want intel regarding our technology, which represents a new era of warfare. It's called Goliath. We'll tell them Paul was giving them bogus intel and that only the engineer, the U.S. government, the manufacturer and I had access to this information. I'll say the engineer has a drinking problem and that he trusts me implicitly, as we've been close friends since high school, and while in a drunken stupor one night, he told me the basic premise behind Goliath. I'll also tell them he told me about the only weapon in the world, David, designed to stop Goliath, which is also being tested at the proving ground."

"Hold on a second, Jax," my dad said. Ah crap, I thought. Here it comes. I paused and looked square in my dad's eyes, waiting for the inevitable, but after about three seconds all he said was, "What?"

"You told me to hold on," I said.

"I just had a thought, but it's nothing. Keep going." What the hell? I wondered. What happened to the accusations I knew were coming? If I knew Goliath's premise, how does he know _I_ didn't actually give them to the enemy? I guess I'd really convinced him earlier. Either that or maybe early dementia was creeping in. It was weird.

"Okay. Goliath, in a nutshell, is a nuclear weapon system that consists of a missile within a missile," I continued. "The outer missile is just a shell, or host, but has a GPS guidance component attached. Within the outer missile is a second, slightly smaller missile made from a super-heated metal a hundred times stronger than that of the black box used in planes. It has a fuze, propellant, deployable fins, an on-board camera, an advanced GPS guidance system with the most sophisticated software ever invented, a nuclear warhead, which is contained in a shell made from the same super-heated metal as the rest of the missile, and a parachute.

"The premise of the design is to make it impossible for the missile to be intercepted. Hypothetically—it's only been simulation tested to my knowledge, but with success—during the missile's flight, any heat-seeking counter-missile can strike it, destroying the outer shell. But the inner missile, even though it's sent tumbling through the air after the collision and explosion, stays intact before the parachute deploys. Once the missile stabilizes, the software components inside allow it to be maneuvered, by remote control, back onto its original, near horizontal flight plane, while the guidance system has the ability to re-lock the missile onto its initial target. The parachute is then discarded, the fins are deployed and the propellant is ignited, firing the missile in midair. The outer metal shell is also discarded before the missile impacts and the warhead explodes within twenty-five-meters of the target.

"The only way to stop Goliath is by using David, which fires a pair of heat-seeking counter-missiles for every inbound missile fired by Goliath––one to intercept the decoy carrier; the other, which is fired about fifteen seconds later, to intercept and destroy the missile with the warhead.

"Unless the country being attacked is aware of Goliath and has the weapon system to stop it, whoever has it can wreak havoc on a level never seen before because once the initial missile is destroyed, the opposition assumes the threat has been neutralized. Once they realize a missile is still coming it's too late to respond. It all sounds preposterous to me. A missile capable of firing in midair? It doesn't seem possible. Maybe what Josh told me was BS. He was so hammered there's no telling how much of it is fiction and how much is reality. But I guess if a fighter jet can come to a complete stop in midair, anything's possible."

"Yeah, it sounds pretty far-fetched to me," my dad said. "There's really a jet that can stop in midair?"

"Yeah. I read an article about it. It's called the F35-B Stealth Fighter and is supposedly going to replace the F/A-18 Hornet and Harrier."

"Hell, maybe this Goliath _is_ the real deal."

"Whether it is or not, we promise to deliver the entire package to Hamas, and they'll come to us on our terms. I realize they'll probably have a small army nearby and try to kill us once they have what they need, but I think we're smart enough to come up with a way to execute this plan successfully."

"Okay, we'll do it your way. Once we're all together, we'll get this all planned and make it work."

"Of course, we're not going to give them what they want," I said. "I have no idea at this point if they know what Goliath is, but the information they got from Paul certainly isn't related to it. Unless they learned about it within the last couple days, which is extremely unlikely, it shouldn't be that hard to BS our way into making them believe they're getting the real McCoy. If they _do_ know about Goliath, well, we're screwed obviously. What we're going to give them is benign compared to Goliath. I'm not going to give them anything that'll help them annihilate Israel, which they'll do first before coming after America. Not now. Not ever. It would take years for them to design and build the system. They need the design plans, and I don't have access to them obviously. If they believe what Paul gave them is related to Goliath, they don't have a clue anyway. We'll tell them what Paul gave them has nothing to do with Goliath and let them know I have the intel they need. Let's be honest, dad, you and I have perfected the art of BSing. It got me through college and the last three years at work. If what Shakespeare said were true––that life is a stage and we're all just actors––we'd have a room full of Oscars."

"I hear you. It got me through twenty-five years at the bureau. Basically, I've BS'd my way through the last thirty-five years of my life. After I sold _Quantico_ they put me on the news as a counter-terrorism correspondent. I didn't know anything more than what I saw on TV. If they only knew the truth. I spent ninety-eight percent of my time writing reports, and I use the term writing loosely. We just screwed around most of the time while Hoover was running around in his office in a dress and high heels and gathering files on just about everybody. He was one paranoid, crazy SOB." I actually laughed for the first time in two days, but it didn't last long because we were soon back in the moment, and a light bulb went on in my head.

"Wait a second," I said. "Instead of having them come to us, we'll have them come to Paul. I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier."

"Jax, I think I know where you're going with this," my dad said. "We get Kim to pay Paul a visit and say he's with the FBI using his fake badge. We'll wire him and have him ask Paul if he knows you. Paul will say, 'Yes, he's my boss.' Kim will then ask him if he noticed any suspicious behavior on your part over the past three weeks. Paul will likely say something incriminating about you. Kim will tell him the entire story. Then he'll tell Paul you're out on bail and you're claiming _he_ committed these crimes. He'll tell Paul all the evidence points to you, not him, and that he's not a suspect.

"But then he'll ask Paul where he was on the nights when the audio recordings were created and on the night of the murder even though, he'll say, he knows you committed the crimes, and the boss's made him come all the way to Yuma as a formality so if you were somehow acquitted the FBI would be able to say they investigated all possible leads and didn't rush to judgment. Kim will apologize for the inconvenience and say as soon as Paul answers the question he won't be bothered again. Paul will say he was with his wife of course and his wife will vouch for him. Kim will then say, 'Oh, I almost forgot, can I see your cell phone? Again, this is just routine and you're not a suspect in this case.' He'll look at Paul's incoming and outgoing calls and say, 'It's clean, just as I suspected.' Kim will ask if he can use Paul's bathroom, and on the way there he'll place a bug in the vicinity of Paul's home phone."

This all sounded really good so far, I thought.

"As soon as Kim leaves, I suspect Paul will freak out and think he's a suspect," my dad continued. "He's too smart to think the FBI would come to his house and ask about his alibi and check his cell phone if he wasn't a potential suspect. His paranoia hopefully will provoke him to contact the terrorist and tell him what just happened. The terrorist will likely tell him it was a ploy on your part to spook him and not to worry about it. He'll ask Paul what the agent's name was, Paul will tell him and the terrorist will investigate and find out Kim isn't an actual agent but is your cousin. He'll assure Paul he'll take care of the problem. We'll be outside in the van Clyde's bringing recording the entire conversation."

"I think that could actually work," I said. I had a sense of hope for the first time since I was arrested. "I'm _sure_ Paul will call the terrorist and say he thought this was already taken care of and now he's right in the middle of it again and that he was promised I was going to be convicted. And bingo, that's all we need to prove in court Paul was the traitor and I was framed."

"That's how it's going to go down, Jax. There's no way Paul won't contact the terrorist. This is a solid plan. The problem will be Hamas. They're going to come at us hard."

"We'll just move to another location. How will they know where we are?"

"It isn't going to be that simple. They'll find us by taking Brenda and the kids or your mother and use one or all of them as leverage to force us to give them the evidence we have, and they'll say if we don't they'll kill them all."

"But we'll have mom, Brenda, Harvey (my brother-in-law) and the kids moved to a remote location." My dad hesitated, as if thinking.

"That might just work," he said. "It sounds like _you're_ the seasoned agent."

"I only look and act stupid. Alzheimer's is probably setting in, old man." We laughed again.

"There's a good chance Hamas will come after Paul immediately after their conversation," my dad said. "They'll likely kill Paul and frame you and Kim for the murder just as they did with the PI. But it won't matter. We'll have the evidence to my FBI sources within minutes after the conversation. Now let me teach you some rudimentary self-defense techniques." We spent about a half hour doing this. "I hope you won't need to use these skills, but I have to be honest with you, there's a decent chance you will."

"Yeah, I know. We just have to make sure plan A works."

We talked for another hour about contingency plans if the first one failed. Then the phone rang. It was Kim. He was about ten minutes away.

"Man, that was quick," my dad said.

"Yeah, I got lucky and caught a flight out of Bellingham about an hour after I talked to you. I drove like a bat out of hell from San Diego to get here."

"Okay. Let Jax give you directions to his apartment."

At that moment, we heard gunshots and glass shattering.

# Chapter 16

"Get down!" my dad said. I already was.

"Let's go out the back," I said. "We're on the second floor so we'll have to jump. Can you make it?"

"What choice do I have?"

"Certain death?" We made our way to the back bedroom and I locked the door behind me. I opened the sliding glass door and we hurried onto the balcony as the apartment was being riddled with machine-gun fire.

"Okay, let's do this," I said. We could hear the front door crash open and then the men trying to break the bedroom door down while continuing to fire through it. I climbed up on the rail, crouched down and jumped. I hit the ground and rolled. I'd done this several times when I was younger so it was easy for me. I got to my feet and looked up at my dad. He was hesitating on the rail. "Jump now or you're going to die!" I yelled. He did, and hit the ground and rolled.

"Oh God!" he cried out. He remained on the ground holding his right leg. I could hear the bedroom door crash open. I helped my dad to his feet and had to hold him up while moving as quickly as possible toward 26th Street. It was a shorter distance than to my car. He was groaning the entire way and bullets were whizzing past our heads. I was just waiting to get hit. By God's grace we made it to the street, which luckily was only about forty feet from where we landed. A minivan was coming our way and my dad hobbled out in front of it and pointed his gun, a German-made HK USP, at the driver. I knew right away what kind of gun it was, as my dad was an avid gun buff and had a collection in our house when I was growing up. He had a variety of rare antiques dating back to the Civil War and both World Wars. He also had guns used during the Korean and Vietnam Wars and all the most popular modern pistols, revolvers, submachine guns, sniper rifles––you name it, he likely had it; and if he didn't, he knew everything about it.

When I was a child I'd often just stand there and stare at them in awe behind their glass case. I was especially enamored with the Civil War guns, I guess because they were so old it seemed like they were from an entirely different world. My dad enjoyed that I took a fancy to them, and whenever he noticed me standing there in wonderment he'd walk up and proudly tell me every detail about each of them, but he'd never let me touch them no matter how much I begged and pleaded. He was so passionate about them I don't even think he realized he kept repeating himself, which eventually made me as much of an expert as him. After he divorced my mother he continued to add to his collection, and _my_ interest in the guns continued as well. When I'd stay with him on the weekends we'd stand in front of the glass case and he'd point out the newest additions to his collection. Even to this day, he continued adding the latest and greatest to his collection and kept me abreast of what he had. There likely wasn't a gun in existence I wouldn't recognize immediately and be able to teach a seminar on.

Meanwhile, back on the street, my dad was busy trying to commandeer a car as bullets continued whizzing past us. I was certain we were going to die.

"Get out of the car!" my dad shouted. "Now!"

"Okay, okay, just don't shoot!" the driver, an elderly woman, said.

"I'm with the FBI! You'll get your car back, but I can't guarantee it'll be in the same condition!" We got in as the gunmen, three or four I think, continued firing from the balcony. "Duck!" my dad said. I already was. The back window was obliterated. Yep, he was right, the value of the minivan just depreciated by a few thousand dollars. How they managed to miss us earlier was a miracle. We should've been dead. The odds of them not even giving either of us so much as a flesh wound were probably more than a thousand to one. Either God was fending the bullets off or these men were the most incompetent group of assassins ever assembled. I firmly believed the former. The Three Stooges could have turned us into Swiss cheese from that distance and with that much ammo. "You okay?" my dad said.

"Yeah, I think so." I looked down and didn't see any blood. "What about you?"

"I'm fine, but my right knee is killing me. Just tell me where to go."

"Go straight and make the first left." He blew through the stoplight, tires squealing, almost hitting another car. We were headed south on 4th Avenue. "Keep going straight," I said. He ran the red light at 24th, again almost striking another car, and then the red lights at both 22nd and 20th Streets. Cars were screeching to a halt as my dad was swerving around them, barely avoiding one accident after another. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

"Where are we going?" he said.

"To Highway 95. They have a speed trap set up there. Make a right at 16th, which turns into Highway 95. He ran through the red light and headed east and we could hear several horns honking in our wake.

"Take it easy, dad," I said. "You're gonna get us killed."

"There's a black SUV about two hundred yards back," he said. "They're closing fast. Where's this speed trap?"

Just as he said that we saw a highway patrol car on the right side of the road a couple hundred yards ahead. We were going a hundred miles an hour in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. The lights and siren went on as we passed. The cop had to wait for the SUV to pass before he merged onto the highway. The SUV was getting closer, maybe fifty yards back, but the highway patrolman was soon right behind it. They were pulled over.

"Dad, they got pulled over; we're in the clear. Keep going. When you get to Fortuna, make a right." As we started heading south on Fortuna, Kim called.

"What the hell happened?" he said. "It sounded like a war zone." My cell must've been on the entire time.

"Hamas came after us," my dad said.

"Put him on speaker," I said.

"But we got away," my dad said. "They were stopped by the highway patrol on Highway 95. What's your twenty?"

"I'm almost to the 16th Street exit, and Clyde is about three miles out with the van."

"Take that exit, Kim," I said. "Make a left and just keep going. After Pacific, 16th turns into Highway 95. Dad, stop the car. Kim, keep going straight until you hit Fortuna. It's about six or seven miles. You'll probably see a black SUV on the side of the road and a highway patrol car."

"Yeah, I see them."

"Make a right when you get to Fortuna," I said. "Stay on the line."

"Okay, I'm passing the SUV. Four men are face down on the ground with their hands behind their backs."

"Great. You should be about three miles from Fortuna. After you make a right we're a couple hundred yards down on the right in a bullet-riddled minivan with no back window. We'll ditch this car. We had to steal it to get away."

"Yeah, I know. I heard it. Are both of you okay?"

"I'm fine but my dad hurt his knee pretty bad. We had to jump from the balcony of my apartment on the second floor. Don't go more than five miles per hour over the speed limit. There's a speed trap."

"He's pretty occupied right now. I don't think he'll even notice me." Kim pulled up about three minutes later. We got out of the minivan and I helped my dad as we walked to Kim's car and got in. "What's our next move?" my cousin said.

"We need to get to Paul's house," I said. "Go straight until you hit 8 West. Call Clyde." Kim dialed the number. "Put him on speaker," I said.

"This is Clyde."

"Clyde, it's Kim. What's your twenty?"

"I'm on 16th Street headed toward Pacific Avenue. Are you all at Jax's apartment?"

"No. We're headed west on 8 toward 3E."

"Clyde, it's Jax. You need to turn right on Pacific Avenue and take it all the way to 32nd Street. There'll be about four lights before you get there. We're turning onto 3E right now and headed toward 32nd. We'll wait for you on the side of the road right after you make the right at 32nd. We're in a silver Camry. Flash your lights after you make the turn so we know it's you. Slow down so we can pull out in front of you. Follow us to Paul's house. When we get there you're going to put a wire on Kim and set up the equipment. Kim will present himself as undercover FBI. You have the badge right?"

"Yeah," Clyde said.

"Dad, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"What's goin' on?" Kim said. I explained the plan to him.

"Thanks for the heads up," he said.

"There was no time," I responded.

We headed down 32nd toward Arizona Avenue.

"Clyde, do you have the bugs and wires?" my dad said.

"Yeah."

"Make a right here," I said to Kim. "Then make the first right. Paul's house is the second on the left. It should have a red Volvo parked in the driveway or on the side of the street."

"Let's park a couple houses down," Clyde said. We both stopped two houses down. We got out of the Camry and into the back of the van. Clyde wired Kim, turned the equipment on, tested it and then gave Kim a bug.

"Man, they make these things small now," he said before he got out of the van and walked toward Paul's house. When he got there the front door was slightly ajar. "Hello?" we heard him say. There was no answer. We could hear a faint murmuring sound. He told us later he grabbed his gun from his ankle holster as he'd done so many times in the past and slowly entered. He said he hadn't experienced that kind of adrenaline rush in several years. It made him feel alive. The house, which was good size, was dimly lit, and we could tell he was having trouble seeing, as he whispered, "Christ, I can't see anything." We could hear the tension in his voice and his breathing as he was moving closer to the sound. Not being able to see him was nerve wracking.

"It's Agent Stone with the FBI." As he said it we heard the murmuring growing louder.

"Found her," he whispered. "She's tied to a chair with duct tape over her mouth." We could hear a ripping sound and then screaming.

"They kidnapped my husband!" Paul's wife cried out. What the hell? I thought.

"Who did?" Kim said.

"I don't know," she said fervently. "They were wearing masks. There were three of them. They dragged him from the house. I could hear them drive off."

"When did this happen?"

"About five minutes before you got here. That isn't why you're here?"

"No, I wanted to talk to your husband about a case we're working on. Can you tell me what direction they were headed?"

"West toward Catalina Boulevard, I think." Kim pretended to dial 9-1-1 and tell the police what'd happened.

"Mam, the police will be here shortly," he said. "Does your husband have a lot of money?"

"We have more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars," she said.

"I suspect he was taken for ransom. You should be getting a phone call soon from these people. Don't worry. If they were going to kill him they would've done it here." He untied her. "The police will do everything they can to get your husband back to you safely." He walked away and out of the house as Mrs. Robinson bellowed, "Where are you going?" When Kim got back to the van he said, "Sorry, Jax, they're one step ahead of us."

"It's okay," I said. "It's not a total loss. We have evidence now that Paul has seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which happens to be the exact Hamas payoff. If we fail to prove my innocence before the trial, this'll give my attorney valuable ammunition. Paul only makes fifty thousand dollars a year. The FBI told me they checked his bank account and there was hardly any money in it. Plus his wife doesn't work, and if she needs a kidney transplant like Paul says, and he claims they don't have the money, these two pieces of evidence will create reasonable doubt. But it's not enough. I'm still not willing to put my fate in a jury's hands. Kim, go get your car and follow us. We're going to the Shilo Inn to prepare for plan B."

"All right." Kim ran back to his car, got in and followed us north down Arizona Avenue to 16th Street where I told Clyde to make a right. I guided him to the hotel. When we got there, Kim got out of his car and walked toward the van. We got out and Kim and I helped my dad get to the lobby. We checked in under a false name, Matthew Marklukenjohn, and paid in cash.

# Chapter 17

We got to our room on the second floor and it reeked of cigarette smoke.

"Dad, how's your knee?" I said. "Do we need to get you to the hospital?"

"I'll be fine. We don't have time for that. We need to talk about plan B."

I thought for a second. My mind had never been clearer. I'm guessing it was because of the adrenaline and the fact that I was fighting for my life.

"I have Paul's cell number," I said. "First, I need someone to get this monitor off my ankle. I'm sure the police are tracking every move I make. My face is also going to be on all the news stations and in the paper. I won't be able to go anywhere without being noticed." Clyde managed to remove the bracelet without damaging it.

"Just a little trick of the trade I learned in the bureau," he said.

"Thanks. Clyde, I need you to drive down to Wal-Mart and get me some peroxide, a razor, shaving cream and some Aleve for my dad."

"I don't think now's the best time for a makeover," he said.

"Very funny. I need to bleach my hair and get rid of the goatee."

"Done," he said. "Just tell me how to get there." I gave him the directions and he left.

"Okay," I said. "I'm going to call Paul's cell."

"What are you going to say?" my dad said.

"You'll see." I dialed the number. It rang five times and I was sure it was going to go to voicemail. Paul was either dead or the terrorists took his phone. I had a sinking sensation. I knew this might be our only realistic chance. "Come on, pick up!" Seconds later, he answered.

"Hello?" His voice was trembling.

"Paul, this is Jax. Don't say a word. Follow my instructions and they'll keep you alive. Your name is Goldstein and you have a grandfather in Israel. Say 'hello' again."

"Hello?"

"You found out you were dealing with Hamas, and I was an engineer for ten years prior to taking the lead tech writer position," I said as fast as I could before I heard Haseem in the background say, "Who is it?"

"I can't tell," Paul said. "It's breaking up."

"Say 'hello' again," I said.

"Hello?" We were running out of time.

"Paul, you were feeding them false intel because you needed the money to help your wife. Now say 'Jax' as a question, and say it's Jax Wright and he wants to talk to you." He said it, and shortly after Haseem was on the line.

"Mr. Wright, this is quite a surprise," he said.

"Listen to me," I said. "Mr. Robinson's real name is Goldstein. He's a Jew. His grandfather lives in Israel. He found out you were Hamas. The information he's been feeding you will be of little use. He'd never allow Israel to be destroyed."

"Mr. Wright says your name is Goldstein," I could hear him say. "Is this true?"

"Yes, it's true; please don't kill me," Paul begged pathetically.

"Hear me out, Mr. Haseem, before you do anything rash," I said.

"I'm listening."

"I was a nuclear engineer for ten years prior to becoming Paul's supervisor. I couldn't handle the stress of the job so I took a pay cut to take my current position."

"What's your point? I have a gun pointed at Paul's head and I'm ready to pull the trigger."

"My point is I was in charge of testing Goliath. It was a top secret operation and required top secret security clearance. Only the U.S. government, the technology's manufacturer and I knew about this testing. Mr. Goldstein doesn't even know this technology exists, so he can't possibly be giving you what you need. Paul is a very smart guy. He was playing you. He knew you were an operative the day he met you. What he gave you was real but it's not the technology that'll allow you to destroy Israel. I heard the audio recordings and I can assure you that none of what he told you is in any way related to the real technology."

"Mr. Goldstein, were you aware Mr. Wright was an engineer before he became your supervisor?" Haseem said.

"Yes, but nobody knew what he was working on. We just knew it was something big because it's only one of two programs at the proving ground with top secret status."

"So what Mr. Wright is telling me is true? You didn't have access to the technology we need?"

"No. I didn't. I'm sorry. I just needed the money to help my wife. She's dying and I was desperate."

"I don't believe you," Haseem said.

"Mr. Haseem!" I shouted.

"Yes, Mr. Wright."

"Go to your superiors with the intel you've acquired from Paul. It'll be _your_ funeral." He paused.

"This is too coincidental and convenient to be true," he said.

"Just hear me out; Paul is of no use to you," I said, trying desperately to convince him. "He won't be able to give you what you need to carry out this operation. Do you really want to risk failure?" He paused again. Every time he did this it made me nervous.

"I'm listening, Mr. Wright," he said finally.

"Okay, I have a proposition for you. We make a trade. Paul for several DVDs that have every piece of data acquired from five years of testing Goliath, as well as the design plans."

"What's your motive?"

"Besides clearing my name, I want vengeance. I wanna be the one who puts the bullet in Paul's head."

"I understand. I'll give this some consideration." He hung up.

"Wait, Mr. Haseem...Mr. Haseem!" I yelled. "Crap, he hung up!"

"Do you think he bought it?" my dad said.

"I don't know. I doubt it considering he hung up."

"What did he say before he hung up?"

"He said he'd consider it."

"He'll call back. You sold it pretty well. How did you think of that?"

"What do you mean?"

"That you were a nuclear engineer for ten years."

"I don't know. It just popped into my head."

"That's amazing. That's exactly how an agent would've played it. That really just entered your mind spur of the moment?"

"Yeah." My dad seemed flustered and a little shaken. "Are you okay?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He didn't look fine.

"Dang it," I said. "I can't handle this. I'm not strong enough."

"You're strong enough, Jax," Kim said. "You've proven it already."

"Thanks, man."

We sat there and waited for what seemed like an eternity, although it was only five minutes, before my cell rang.

"It's Paul's number," I said before answering.

"Okay, Mr. Wright, we'll make the trade, but only under the condition that you come alone and unarmed," Haseem said. "The trade will take place at a location of my choosing."

"Okay."

"I'll call you back shortly with the location," he said before we hung up.

"I think he bought it," I said. "He's deciding where he wants to make the trade. He insisted I come alone." Then the pessimist in me came out. "You know, he probably didn't buy it. He's probably just luring me into a trap and planning to kill me and Jim. We should probably expect the worst if this meeting takes place."

"The eternal pessimist," my dad said. He was dead on as usual. "He bought it hook, line and sinker," he said. "Everything's going to work as planned." Right after he said that my cell rang.

"Jax," I said.

"Mr. Wright, we'll meet at 32nd Street and Avenue E at 7 pm," Haseem said. "Like I said, you'll come alone and if I see any sign of others the deal is off and Paul dies. I'll also need to authenticate the DVDs before I give you Paul."

"Fine, but only if you hand Paul to me when I hand you the DVDs."

"Mr. Wright, you're in no position to bargain with me."

"You can understand why I have reason not to trust you. And let's face it, I'm the one with the information you need." There was another pause.

"All right," he said, knowing it made no difference because he wasn't going to let us go anyway.

"Okay, I'll be there alone and unarmed at 7 pm with the DVDs," I said before hanging up. "Okay, guys, this is goin' down."

"My God," my dad said. "Who are you? You're certainly not the person I know––the flaky kid who wrecked four cars and had a fifth one impounded at the Tijuana border after spending a night in a Mexican jail all before you turned twenty-one."

"I guess you can say I've evolved," I said, which made him laugh. "Dad, a wise man once told me stress is the fertilizer of creativity. That man (my father, of course) must've been right." I gave him a wink. He smiled and shook his head in disbelief. "We have to get out of here as soon as possible," I said. "The police are honing in on that bracelet."

Clyde walked in with the items I requested.

"That was quick," I said.

"Yeah, I used my badge to get to the front of the line. It was a zoo in there."

I went in the bathroom and shaved off my goatee and saturated my hair with peroxide. I used the hotel blow dryer to bleach it blond within minutes.

"Would you recognize me if you didn't know me?" I said.

"No," my dad said. Clyde and Kim agreed.

"You look like a completely different person," Kim said. "Like you should be in a boy band."

"That's not the look I was going for, but if it gets me past the police I'll take it," I said. "Okay, let's go." We left the room, with me and Kim helping my dad, and took the stairs to the lobby. When we got there I saw the police walking in. Kim and I let go of my dad and he did his best to walk normally. He must've been in tremendous pain. Keep your composure, I told myself. We walked right past them. I was able to exhale. "Jesus Christ," I said quietly. We got to our cars. "Okay, Kim, follow us. Dad, you okay?" His face was pale.

"That was a real gut check, son. I'm really hurting."

"The Aleve will kick in soon," I said. "Hopefully that'll help."

"I doubt it. I think I need some Vicodin."

"We'll get you to the hospital after the trade. Just hang in there."

"I'll be fine."

"Sorry, dad."

"It's okay, son, really." Seeing him in that much pain was killing me. We arrived at our cars, Clyde got in the van and the rest of us got in the Camry. He followed us down to the end of the block, where we made a right turn and stopped. We all got out to discuss our next move.

"Okay, as we all know, I don't have any DVDs on me and we have less than three hours to get them," I said. "I know how we can get our hands on some DVDs that we should be able to pass off as the real thing. They impounded my Mini when they arrested me. I have a second car that's still at my apartment. It has a sticker on it that provides access to YPG. Obviously, I won't be able to get on the base. I also have a lanyard in the glove compartment with my contractor's name on it. The security at the guard gate is pretty lax. Kim, I'm going to need you to do this for me. Do you have a pen and paper in your car?"

"Yeah." He opened the passenger-side door and then the glove compartment. He pulled out a pen and small notepad.

"Okay," I said. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

"All you need is a sticker on your car and a driver's license. On the lanyard is a laminated card with the phone numbers of everyone who works in my building. It's the ROC, building 3185. When you go through the gate it's the second building on the left right before the fire station. The lot will be empty except for one or two cars. Hardly anyone works on Saturday. You'll need to go to the west entrance, the one closest to the parking lot. Now you won't have a card to access the building, but one engineer is there every Saturday. His name is Carl Williams. Call his number and tell him you're a customer of the Lightweight Howitzer program and you're there to meet with Larry Diehl. Remove the lanyard. If the engineer sees you're a contractor he'll know you're not a customer. Customers come in and out all the time without showing ID. Nobody questions them. Carl will let you in.

"If Larry isn't there, tell Carl Larry called you a half hour ago to meet you there. Carl won't have any reason to believe otherwise. He'll likely ask you if you know where Larry's office is and you'll say yes. Larry won't be there, but you'll walk down the hallway past the bathrooms and make your first right. You'll walk to the end of that hallway. It ends at Larry's office door. If the door is locked, Carl will likely tell you Larry will be there soon if you want to wait. He might offer to show you where the break room is. Say you'll just wait at the door; that you're sure Larry'll be there any minute. Carl will leave. He works in a location where he won't be able to see you.

"Larry's door code is 4231 pound. Go to his desk. It's the first cubicle when you enter the room. He has a stack of DVDs sitting on the left side of his desk labeled 'Firefox,' which contains dates and times and other information. Remove the labels. Larry will have some new labels in one of his desk drawers. Put the new labels on, find a black dry erase marker in one of his drawers or on his desk and write the words 'Goliath' and 'Top Secret' and the same information that was on the original DVD labels in exactly the same manner as the original DVDs. He's supposed to put them in a safe when he's not using them, but hardly anyone follows protocol, especially Larry. These DVDs will not contain the technology Hamas is looking for but it's a new technology they'll likely be unfamiliar with, which should buy us some time. The only way they could know about this technology is if the information was leaked by one of our engineers. This is very sensitive information and giving it to them will make me a traitor, a _real_ traitor this time. But they'll find out later it isn't what they need to destroy Israel and America." Kim was writing all this down as I was talking. "Follow us over to my apartment. They took my keys at the station, but I keep a spare under my left front wheel well on top of the tire. Kim, this is your chance to get out before you become complicit in committing espionage."

"I'm still in," he said without hesitation. "I knew the potential consequences going in and I won't go back on my word."

"Clyde?" I said.

"I'm not going anywhere either. I gave my word to your father and I'm not letting you three do this alone. I understand the risks involved and I'm ready to face them, live or die."

"Dad, you have a wife, daughter and grandchildren. If this backfires we'll all be remembered as traitors. I can't let you guys go through with this. Kim, after you get me the DVDs, I want you all to leave. I'm going to handle this myself. I can't bring three innocent men to prison with me if I fail, and life in prison may be the best outcome we can reasonably expect. You already know the worst-case scenario."

"Son, I'm not going anywhere. This is going to work and we'll clear your name." Kim and Clyde also refused to leave.

"If we're going to do this, we need to do it now," Kim said. Clyde got back in the van and followed us to my apartment. My car, a tan Mazda, was parked in the lot. I looked over at my bullet-riddled apartment, which was surrounded by yellow police caution tape, but no police cars were in sight. Kim parked and he and I got out of the car.

"I'll be right back," I told my dad. We walked to my car and I reached under the wheel well, grabbed the key, gave it to Kim and he got in.

"If there's a problem, call me immediately," I said.

"Okay."

"Go to the end of the street, make a left and then a right at the stop sign. Go straight until you reach 3E. Make a left and that'll lead you directly to 95. Then make a right and take 95 all the way to Aberdeen Road. It's about twenty miles or so. You'll drive past two large guns on the left and Aberdeen Road is about another three miles. Make a right there and it'll lead you to the guard gate. Don't go more than five miles per hour over the speed limit on 95 because they have that speed trap. Meet us at the Marriott afterward, which is right next to the last hotel we stayed in. If you get lost just give me a call."

"Got it." He turned the key and drove off. I walked back to the Camry and got in the driver's seat.

"Okay," I said. "We're going to the Marriott." I put my arm out the window and motioned to Clyde to follow us. We got to the hotel, which was only two minutes away, didn't see a single police car, and parked. Clyde and I helped my dad to the lobby and checked in again under a false name, Phillip McCracken this time (my dad thought we might as well have a little fun to lighten the mood), and went to our room on the third floor, which was a little nicer than the last one, and smoke free.

# Chapter 18

"Okay guys," I said. "Now it's your turn. I'm out of my league in this area. How are we going to do this?"

"You're going to drive to the meeting point," my dad said. "You'll be wired. We won't be more than a couple hundred yards behind you. We'll drive up with the lights off. We just have to hope they don't have any men down the road forming a perimeter. If there's even a hint of that, we're getting the hell out of there. If it's clear, you're going to drive to the meeting point and get out of the car with the DVDs. I'm sure Haseem will give you instructions what to do next. They'll warn you that if you're being followed they'll kill you and Paul. If that happens, it'll mean they didn't spot us. They'll pat you down to see if you have any weapons, and if we're lucky, they won't search for a wire. If they do, we're coming in immediately and you're getting the hell out of our way by running straight sideways. If they don't, you'll tell them to bring Paul to you before you give them the DVDs. Hopefully, they'll agree. You also won't give them the DVDs until they bring the DVD player out and you see it. You'll hand Haseem the DVDs, and again, if we're lucky, they'll begin the authentication process. This is assuming they bought your story to begin with. What's your sense?"

"What was that talk about them buying it hook, line and sinker?" I said.

"I said that to keep your spirits up."

"Christ, dad. I _think_ they were sincere. How else would Paul have verified everything I told Haseem?"

"Good point. I don't know if they'll watch one DVD or all the DVDs. If they aren't familiar with this technology, things should remain status quo. As long as we maintain the status quo, we remain on equal footing and the operation should proceed as planned. If we lose the status quo because the circumstances change, they gain the upper hand. Your instinct will tell you when or if this happens. So will ours. If it does, we're coming in and you're getting the hell out of the way as fast as you can. We'll wait to open fire until you're clear. We don't know what their plan is but they know almost certainly that you pose no threat to them even if you do have some help. If we're lucky, they'll authenticate the DVDs. If we're not lucky, they'll take both of you. We'll be there within seconds if this happens."

"Jesus Christ, dad, you could've left that last part out. If they take us, you won't be able to stop them. We'll both be killed."

"Sorry, son, but I have to be honest with you. Anything's possible. You knew that going in."

"Yeah, but actually hearing the words is freaking me out. I don't know if I can go through with this."

"It's your call, Jax. _I_ don't want to do it." I thought about waiting for the trial and that I might get lucky and be acquitted. But I knew in my heart that wasn't going to happen and that I'd likely be sentenced to death. Either way I was pretty much doomed. It was better to go out fighting to prove my innocence than to die a traitor as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

"I'm doing it," I said finally.

"Okay," my dad said. "I need to get my hands on some weapons. I worked with an arms dealer six or seven years ago. Hopefully he's still in business."

"We don't need prosthetics," I said. "We all have two arms and two legs. We need heavy artillery." My dad and Clyde laughed.

"I'll give him a call," my dad said before he dialed the dealer's number. "Ron, hi, it's Geno Browning." That was my dad's alias when he worked undercover with this guy.

"Geno, it's been a while," Ron said. "How are things going?"

"To be honest, I've got a situation on my hands and I need your help; that is, if you're still in the business."

"Sure am. Business has never been better. What are you lookin' for?"

"I need some heavy artillery––four AK47s (he liked the Israeli-made Uzi more but opted for the Russian-made AK47 instead because it holds more ammo); four hand guns, Glock-27s preferably; a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher and several rockets; a few hand grenades; some flash bang grenades; several sticks of C4; and plenty of ammo."

"That must be some kind of situation. Wow. Yeah, I have everything you need."

"The thing is, I'm in Yuma," my dad said. "I know you used to have a guy here. Is he still around?"

"Yeah."

"Does _he_ have what I need?"

"Yeah. When do you need it?"

"Now. I'm willing to pay extra because of the short notice."

"Okay, let me give you his number. Tell him we're old friends and that we did business several years ago. His name is Mark Watson."

"Thanks, Ron. I owe you one."

"It was good to hear your voice after all these years, Geno."

"Same here; take care Ron." My dad hung up and then dialed Mark's number. He answered and my dad told him what he needed. Mark gave him his address. He said he had everything my dad needed and that he could come anytime.

"Any friend of Ron's is a friend of mine," he said.

"Thanks a lot," my dad said. He hung up. "I'll be back in around forty-five minutes to an hour. This should be right around the time Kim gets back, right Jax?"

"Yeah, if Kim doesn't get hung up for some reason."

After my dad limped out, Clyde and I continued to talk about the plan and all the possible scenarios. He had a contingency plan for everything. He was as good as advertised. But he always had plenty of backup and more tools at his disposal when he was with the bureau. This operation was much more complicated considering the lack of manpower and the unknown size and firepower of the enemy. My dad's sources still hadn't figured out how big the cell was in Yuma.

"A lot is going to depend on luck," Clyde said. "Everything is going to have to go pretty much exactly as planned. Honestly, that doesn't happen that often. There's always some kind of fly in the ointment."

"Yeah, I know. What are the odds of anything ever going as planned?"

"It's a crap shoot, Jax. You just need to remain calm and in control. I know that's easier said than done considering you've never been in a situation like this. Just do as this guy tells you and know we have your back."

"All right." We continued to talk until Kim arrived. He had the DVDs. "Did you have any problems?" I said.

"No. It went just about like you said it would. Where's Geno?"

"He's getting the firepower you guys need in case this thing goes south––some automatic weapons, hand guns, a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher and several rockets, C4, hand grenades and flash bang grenades."

"He's able to get that stuff here?"

"He worked undercover with an arms dealer a few years ago," I said. "He called the guy in San Diego and asked if he was still in business. The guy gave him the number of a guy who works for him in Yuma who has everything my dad asked for."

"Huh," Kim said. "Yuma of all places."

We filled Kim in on the contingency plans Clyde and I discussed until my dad opened the door and limped into the room.

"Did you get everything?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's all in the van," he grunted, wincing in pain. "There's going to be a slight change in the plan. Kim, have you ever used a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher?"

"Several times."

"How close do you need to be to get a clean shot on an SUV?"

"I don't know. A minimum of fifty yards I guess."

"If we're lucky enough to get to the point where they begin to authenticate the DVDs, Kim is going to move slowly up to a point approximately fifty yards from the SUV," my dad said. "If you can get closer Kim that'd be great."

"I'll get as close as I can. If they see me, obviously they'll scatter and we'll be screwed."

"Okay, Jax, Kim will move in at the start of the authentication process," my dad continued. "How long do you think it'll take you to get in position, Kim?"

"Give me around two minutes."

"Okay, Jax, after approximately two minutes, your sign to Kim will be two loud coughs. Kim will then begin counting down from three. Immediately after you cough I want you to grab Paul and run from whichever side of you Paul is on directly sideways away from the impact. You may get knocked down by the shockwave but you shouldn't sustain any serious injuries. After the impact, Kim, Clyde and I will move in with heavy gunfire in case any of the terrorists escape the blast. If you're able, get up and take Paul and continue in the direction you were headed. After we've cleaned up, we'll come get you. I hate putting you in this kind of danger but they're not going to let you guys go, whether they believe they got what they needed or not."

"I know," I said. "That's not the way they operate. It's a chance I'm willing to take. There's really no other option."

"You're right."

"This is our best chance of getting out of there alive," Kim said. "Your dad's right. Three seconds plus the time to impact should give you enough time to avoid the explosion and serious injury. I know from experience."

"Okay, let's do this," I said before looking at my watch. "We barely have time to get there and set up."

As Clyde was putting the wire on me, my dad's cell rang and he started limping away.

"It's Diane (my dad's second wife)." He opened the door and went into the hallway. When he got back about a minute or two later we left the hotel. I got in the Mazda and led, while my dad, Clyde and Kim followed in the van, with Kim behind the wheel. I headed down 32nd toward Avenue E. As I got closer I became more nervous and scared, which was almost impossible because I was already terrified. This could be it, I realized. I prayed to God to get me through this.

"I've never needed your help more than now," I told him out loud. "You understand that good and evil exist in this world and I beg you to let four good people defeat these monsters. If you truly exist, you'll protect us from evil and allow me to clear my name. You know that I'm not a traitor and murderer. I'm a patriot and a caring and compassionate person. I have strong moral values and am trying to make the world a better place. I've spent the last three years of my life serving my country, which is at war with evil."

As I finished my conversation with the man upstairs, I went through the light at Avenue C. My hands were trembling and I was starting to sweat. I'd never been in a situation like this, as Clyde said. I was horrified at the thought of what I was about to do. But I had no other option. I still couldn't fully comprehend how and why I got to this point. I passed Avenue D and it was pretty desolate out there. I drove another half mile and could see the black SUV parked on the side of the road. I parked about twenty feet away and thought about making a U-turn and getting the hell out of there. After about twenty seconds of serious contemplation, I decided to get out of the car. This is the only way, I realized. I walked toward the SUV. The back of my head was numb and my legs felt like jelly. There were five men with Uzis standing there.

"Mr. Wright, I didn't think you'd have the balls to show up," Haseem said. "Stop right there." I did. Another man was holding an HK USP, one of the world's most popular handguns, at Paul's head. Even in the moment, the beauty of the piece wasn't lost on me. Haseem walked toward me. He got to me and patted me down from my hips to my ankles. I prayed he wouldn't find the wire, although I was certain he would. But he didn't and I was slightly relieved. I had the DVDs in my hands. There was a DVD player set up on a small table about five feet from the SUV. "Hand me the DVDs, and my man will give you Paul," Haseem said. That wasn't going to work, I thought. I don't know where I mustered the courage to say what came out of my mouth next.

"You hand Paul over to me first and _then_ I'll give you the DVDs. I'm unarmed and pose no threat to you. You know I can't run."

"You _do_ have some balls, Mr. Wright. I admire that. Most of you Americans are cowards. All right, I'll give you Paul." He motioned to the man holding Paul to bring him to the table. "Hand him over," Haseem said, and the man did. My instinct was right. What difference did it make to Haseem? He had no intention of letting us walk out of there, and he had no reason to fear me.

When I had Paul, I handed Haseem the DVDs. He looked at each of them with what appeared to be skepticism. I began to panic. But he said, "Okay, let's see what we have here." He put the first one in the DVD player and began watching it. He watched about a quarter of it and turned the player off. He paused and looked at me. I had no idea what he was thinking or what he was going to do or say next, but I expected the worst. I tried my best to maintain my composure, but beads of sweat were forming on my forehead, and it was like in the mid-forties out there.

Then something amazing happened. A calm came over me. Suddenly I wasn't scared anymore. It was like someone else entered my body, one who didn't fear evil. I was staring it straight in the eyes and felt nothing but contempt. I stopped sweating. I knew in my heart God and my father wouldn't let anything bad happen to me. They never had, at least nothing life threatening. Haseem seemed to be studying me, trying to figure out what was going through my mind.

"What the hell's he doing?" Clyde said. "Why didn't he give the signal? Haseem is going to shoot him."

"I don't think so," my dad said. They both had night vision binoculars and my dad could see Haseem's face as if it were right in front of him. "Either Jax is following his instinct or he's too scared to pull the trigger," he said.

It was moments after the calm came over me that Haseem put the second DVD in and began watching it. Before that, I'm certain he could see the fear in my eyes and the sweat, and I could tell his suspicion was growing. It was in his dark, empty eyes.

"I don't believe it," Clyde said. "Jax made the right call, whether he meant to or not."

"Okay, Jax, this is the time," my dad said. "You can't put it off any longer."

"This isn't Goliath," Haseem said. I didn't know if he was bluffing or if he actually knew about Goliath so I didn't know what to say, so I coughed twice loudly as Haseem yelled, "Shoot them both!" I grabbed Paul, who was on my left, and we started to run. Before Haseem's men could get a shot off I heard a thunderous explosion. Paul and I were knocked to the ground. I was dazed but I don't think I was seriously injured. I felt nothing but fear. I could hear heavy gunfire, which sounded like it was coming from both directions.

"Are you all right?" I asked Paul.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, let's go." We got up, I grabbed him and we ran across 32nd Street into an empty field. The gunfire continued but the rate of fire slowed considerably before it stopped and it was dead silent. I thought maybe I was partially deaf from the blast. I didn't want to look back, fearing the worst, but when I did I saw my dad, Clyde and Kim standing where the SUV once was. It was reduced to rubble. I'd never seen anything like it. They looked around for a while until they knew the threat was over.

"Jax, are you all right?" my dad yelled. He couldn't see me and Paul in the dark.

"Yeah, I'm fine!" I shouted back.

"We'll get the van and come get you," my dad said. Kim and Clyde ran to the van and had to wait for my dad who was hobbling behind.

"Sorry, Geno," Clyde said.

"Oh God," my dad said, sweating profusely. Kim opened the back doors and they helped my dad in. The cops were going to be there soon, as a number of people living in the vicinity had to be calling 9-1-1 after they heard what sounded like a war going on right outside their homes. Kim ran around the van, got in and drove toward Avenue E. Paul and I met them at the side of the road. Clyde opened the back doors. We got in.

"Are any of you injured?" I said.

"Not even a scratch on any of us," Clyde said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I can't believe it worked." I could see tears in my dad's eyes, which I assumed, naturally, were due to the horrendous pain he was in. "You okay, dad?"

"I'm hurting bad, but I'll be fine."

"Why didn't you give me the signal after three minutes?" Kim said, looking back at me.

"I couldn't make myself do it. I was thinking of the possible consequences. You'd have to make a perfect shot. I wasn't sure if you could do it. You've been out of practice for a while. But the look he gave me after he watched the first DVD told me I didn't have a choice if I'd even get the chance again."

"We thought you might not have the nerve, and we were getting a little anxious," my dad said. "We thought we were going to have to move in soon."

"I calmed down somehow and just said to myself, Screw it, this is the plan and I have to execute it. I knew I couldn't wait for a trade and that I was going to have to do it sooner or later. Then Haseem obviously made the decision for me. Okay, make a U-turn Kim and drive down 32nd until you reach Avenue B. Then make a right and drive down a few hundred yards. We'll stop and talk about our next plan. I don't believe this crap. If Haseem wasn't bluffing about Goliath to try and determine if what I was giving him was bogus intel, and they really have it, or even part of it, they're eventually going to destroy Israel." But then I thought about it. Why would he order his men to kill us if he wasn't sure what he was getting was real. He _had_ to have known about Goliath. Jesus Christ, there _was_ a leak, I concluded. Maybe it was Josh. Maybe he'd told others, either intentionally for money or while in a drunken stupor. It would be naïve to think this hadn't happened more than that one time. Maybe he was a traitor. I'd know him for over fifteen years and it was hard for me to believe this, but again, anything was possible. Or maybe the leak came from somewhere else, perhaps one of the test crewmembers. Most of them only had high school diplomas or GEDs and were living paycheck to paycheck. This seemed more likely than Josh giving America's most coveted secret ever to our greatest enemy. Honestly, I didn't know what the hell to think anymore.

I just began praying for Israel. Unless the design plans were leaked early on, years ago, Israel wasn't in any immediate danger because it would take Hamas at least a couple years to fabricate the weapon and test it before using it. But that obviously wasn't the case. If they had the design plans already none of this would be happening. So all they had, most likely, was a rudimentary knowledge of how Goliath works, and maybe some video of it being tested. They needed the design plans. If Raytheon were helping them, again, why would they need us? I stroked my chin. Then came the moment of epiphany. Perhaps someone at Raytheon, possibly a Hamas agent who managed to infiltrate the company or a regular employee with no conscience (there was no shortage of them out there) looking for a financial windfall, leaked the information, which Raytheon discovered and stopped before Hamas had the entire package. Maybe Hamas needed the rest—the final piece of the puzzle.

But if they knew about Goliath, and Haseem knew Paul was feeding him bogus intel, why would Haseem continue to work with him? And why did Haseem sound and act genuinely surprised when I told him the "truth" about Paul? It wasn't adding up. The only possible explanation was that they must've known about me from the beginning and that I was giving my grandfather intel to protect Israel. If that were the case, it _was_ all a setup. They wanted me all along. But then something else occurred to me. How the hell did they know I was going to be in that bar that night? That's when the light bulb finally went on; Janet must've tipped them off. She _was_ working with them. She was playing me all along. It made no sense to me at the time why we even went to that crappy little bar. It was so out of character. Haseem _knew_ I'd be curious and try to eavesdrop on their conversation and that I wouldn't be able to resist an opportunity to get back at Paul. And to make me even more eager, he mentioned I was working with Hamas.

Why didn't you just follow protocol, moron? I scorned myself internally. I knew this was going to come back and bite me in the back side. It was karma. I'd been giving U.S. government secrets to a foreign government. Albeit Israel, it was still espionage. Hamas must've assumed _I_ had access to the design plans from the beginning. Now those animals knew I didn't and realized they wasted their time and resources and got a bunch of their men killed, including one of their highest-ranking officials. That gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction, even though I knew they were going to want revenge. I was as good as dead. The sound of Kim's voice broke me from my train of thought.

# Chapter 19

"Crap!" Kim said. "We have company!" We could hear a Middle Eastern voice yell "Get out of the van now, all of you!" Kim could see four men with Uzis in the rearview mirror. They began to walk toward us.

"We don't have a chance if we try to fight," he said. In desperation he hit the pedal and began driving away. "Get down!" Heavy gunfire shattered the back window and bullets were whizzing over our heads. In the rearview mirror, Kim could see the men get back in the SUV and start driving. "Anyone hurt?" he said.

"I think I was just grazed on the ear," Clyde said. His ear was bleeding.

"It's bleeding pretty bad," I said.

"Put your hand on it and apply heavy pressure," my dad said.

"I'll be fine."

"Is anyone else injured?" Kim said.

"No," each of us said. The SUV was closing fast.

"Guys, we're in trouble!" Kim said. "They're gonna be right on us in about five seconds!"

"We'll have to open fire," my dad said. Clyde, my dad and I picked up the AK47s and started firing as the SUV closed in. It was the first time I ever fired any sort of real weapon. I don't count the bee-bee gun I used for target practice in my back yard where I shot my best friend, Gary Ross, son of former San Diego Padres pitcher Gary Ross Senior, in the side of the head. I'll never forget him running into the house screaming, "Mommy, mommy, Jax shot me!" I got the belt for that one, but even worse, my dad confiscated my weapon. We blasted the windshield out of the SUV and could see the driver and passenger ducking. Yet they continued to close in.

"Aim for the tires!" my dad shouted. We all started firing at the tires and someone managed to hit one and it exploded. The SUV swerved, lost control, flipped over and rolled several times before stopping upside down.

"Holy crap!" I said. "We got 'em! Kim, you can slow down."

"Hell yeah!" he exhorted. "That's what I'm talkin' about!" He continued down Avenue B to the next intersection.

"Keep going straight," I said. "Pull over about a hundred yards ahead."

"Okay."

"What are you guys going to do to me?" Paul said.

"Exactly what you deserve," I said. "You're going to experience what I have, but a hundred times worse." There was a car coming toward us. I didn't think anything of it until I noticed it was a black van. I was paranoid by then. "There's a black van coming toward us," I said to Kim.

"It's nothing," he said. "They can't be every..." He didn't even get a chance to finish his sentence before the van swerved right into our lane. Kim swerved to the right to avoid a head-on collision and went off the road into an embankment. There was a telephone pole about twenty feet ahead. He slammed on the brakes but we hit the pole head-on. The airbags deployed in front. Kim was the only one up there. The rest of us were flung forward into the back of the front seats.

"Jesus Christ!" Kim said. "Are you guys okay?" We were all shaken up and stunned, but none of us were seriously injured.

"My shoulder hurts but I think I'm all right," I said.

"I'm fine," my dad said. Clyde's ear was bleeding profusely and he looked dazed.

"Clyde, are you okay?" my dad said.

"I think so. I'm just a little woozy."

"Paul, are you all right?" I said.

"Yes." At that moment, three men with Uzis were next to our van. One was at the right rear, one at the left rear and one at the driver-side door.

"Get out now, all of you!" the one in the front yelled. We all staggered out.

"Get on your knees!" he said. We did. My dad grunted. I thought they were going to kill us right there on the side of the road. "Put your hands behind your backs!" They tied our hands and blind folded us. Then they put duct tape over our mouths. People were driving by slowly but no one was stopping. I know someone had to be dialing 9-1-1. "Now get up and get in the van!" We got in. I couldn't believe what was happening. I thought we'd gotten away and I was so relieved. I actually thought this might all work out. I already knew exactly what our next move was going to be, and it was fail-safe. But I'd never get the chance to execute it. I was so close to ending this nightmare. I felt like I was going to throw up again. I was more terrified than ever, knowing now this nightmare was never going to end. Dang it, God, weren't you listening to me? I thought, looking up, disgruntled with my maker.

My dad was right. I had no idea what we were up against. It seemed like half the town was Hamas. I asked myself why I didn't listen to him. We're done, I thought. They were probably driving us out into the middle of the desert. We'd already taken out several of their men. The van stopped and I prepared myself for the inevitable. Tears began to run slowly down my cheeks. I wanted to tell my dad how sorry I was for involving him and tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell my mother and sister and niece and nephews how much I loved them. I wanted to apologize to Kim and Clyde, who sacrificed their lives to try and help me clear my name. But I couldn't say a thing.

"Get out," the man said. We all did and I could hear my dad groaning. They grabbed each of us and escorted us to God only knows where. I knew it had to be in the desert. I couldn't hear a sound. I waited for him to say, "Get on your knees." But then I heard a door open. We were shoved in. I assumed this was either an empty warehouse in the middle of nowhere or possibly their base. The door closed behind us before we made a right turn and another door opened. We were shoved inside.

"Now get on your knees," the man said. We did and my dad grunted again. The man bound our ankles. "I'll be back," he said before closing the door behind him. I could hear voices on the other side of the door but they were speaking in their native language. It's just a matter of time before he comes back and ends this, I realized. At the time, I could hear one of our group rustling around. I knew whoever it was was trying to free himself. My gut told me it was Kim. I knew being an ex-Green Beret he was trained to deal with almost any situation including escape tactics when being tied, bound and gagged. He was programmed to handle these moments.

I prayed to God, even though I was questioning his existence, that Kim would be able to free himself before the door opened, but I knew it wasn't likely. I heard what sounded like rope being cut, which continued for several seconds. Then I heard movement. I assumed he'd cut the rope from around his ankles somehow, but with what I had no idea. They'd patted us down for weapons. Then the cutting sound began again, lasting several more seconds. I could still hear the voices of the men in the other room. They were probably discussing how they were going to handle this or talking to their superiors waiting for orders. We all knew what the outcome was going to be. The cutting sound stopped. Next, I heard a ripping sound and then Kim whispered, "I'm free and I'm going to get us out of here. I'm moving behind the door. Just stay calm." That was easy for him to say, I thought. I hoped he still had it.

Seconds later, the door opened. Before the man had a chance to even notice one of us was missing, I could hear Kim grab him. Then I heard the door shut. He must've had the man in a chokehold because I couldn't hear anything. Then I heard a snap. I knew what it was. I heard something strike the ground and assumed it was the man's weapon. Then I heard a thud, obviously the man falling to the ground.

"I got his gun," Kim said. "Who wants it first?" he said loudly with a Middle Eastern accent. It sounded authentic. "Okay, guys, I'm going to free you." He cut the ropes, removed the blindfolds and ripped off the duct tape. He then fired a shot to make the others outside think it had started. "Go over to the far corner of the room." We did. Kim stood directly in front of the door this time. "When they don't hear another shot they're going to ask what's going on or open the door."

"Is there a problem in there?" one of the men said after about thirty seconds.

"Everything's fine," Kim said in the disguised voice. "I'm just having a little fun with them." He fired another shot. "Satisfied?" he said to them. Then he said to us, "Now I'll just wait until one of them either opens the door or says something."

After a few seconds of silence one of the men said, "What the hell's going on in there? They should all be dead by now."

"My gun jammed," Kim said. "I'm going to need another."

"Okay," the man said. He opened the door and Kim shot him point blank in the head. The man slumped to the floor. Kim unbuttoned his jeans, reached into his pants and pulled some sort of device out. He tossed it into the other room. The device went off seconds after with a loud bang. Smoke started to enter the room.

"Go to the exit now!" he commanded. "I'll provide cover."

"Put your arm around my shoulder, dad!" I said. We started moving toward the exit. We could hardly see a thing as we left the room, and Clyde stumbled over the second dead man's body and fell. The rest of us made it to the exit amidst the exchange of gunfire. Miraculously, none of us were hit. Clyde made it out seconds later. The gunfire continued as we made it around the side of the building. Then it stopped. We had no idea if Kim made it or not, but we heard the outside door open. If it's not Kim, we're screwed, I thought. We didn't have any weapons. There was the sound of footsteps approaching. I was petrified. The steps were getting louder as whoever it was was approaching the corner of the building. We're done, I was convinced.

"Guys, I got the keys to the van," Kim said. I could exhale.

"Thank God it's you, Kim," my dad said as Kim walked around the corner and we started walking toward him.

"Are any of you injured?" he said.

"No," we said collectively, all of us coughing and rubbing our eyes.

"Are you all right?" I asked Kim. There was blood on his right arm.

"Yeah, I took a shot in the arm but I'll be okay. I need one of you to make a tourniquet." He walked toward us. I was wearing a long sleeve shirt so I volunteered. He handed me a knife and I took my shirt off and began cutting off one of the sleeves. "I don't know how I made it out of there alive," he said. "I couldn't see a thing. He took the first shot and I could see the muzzle flash. I turned and began firing in that direction. He continued firing and finally hit my arm. But after my next shot I heard a grunt and a thud. My eyes and lungs were burning. It was just dumb luck." He started coughing. "Man, my eyes are still burning." I finished cutting off my shirtsleeve and wrapped it tightly above the wound. "Okay, that's good," he said. "Tie it off." I did.

"How the hell did you get free in the first place?" I said.

"I had that knife encased in foam between my foot and the sole of my shoe. I just had to bend over backwards, remove my shoe, pull the knife out and begin cutting the rope from my ankles. I'm pretty sure they didn't know one of us was an ex-Green Beret or they wouldn't have waited so long to come in."

"When did you put the flash bang grenade in your pants?" my dad said.

"Before the trade. In case something goes wrong, the more weapons you have the better."

"Why didn't you put a hand grenade down there instead?"

"Because I didn't want to get my balls blown off."

"That makes sense," my dad said. We started laughing, except Paul of course, as we walked toward the van, with Kim and I helping my dad. Paul looked terrified.

"Ah come on, Paul, this is likely your last chance to laugh, because nothing funny may happen again before you get what's coming to you," I said. We all got in the van except Paul. I had to grab him and shove him in. Kim drove us to our van, which appeared to be okay other than the front end being smashed in.

"Kim, you're going to take this van," I said. "We'll get in the other van and see if it's drivable. If it is, you'll follow us. We're going to check into another hotel, the Hampton Inn. We'll take all side streets. Most of the Yuma Police Department I'm sure is looking for us. I've already figured out our next plan. The only way it can fail is if Hamas or the police get to us first. You got the keys?"

"Yeah," Kim said before handing them to me.

Again I had to shove Paul into the back of the van. I walked around to the driver-side door, ripped the airbag out and got behind the wheel. I turned the key and the engine started. I backed up, made a U-turn and guided Kim to the hotel, which was near the Marriott we were in earlier. We didn't see a single police car during the drive, but could hear sirens in the distance. We checked in, again under a phony name. My dad said, "Benjamin Dover, but my friends just call me Ben" in a southern accent when he was asked his name.

"Okay, Mr. Dover, it's room number 342," the receptionist said. "Just take the elevator up to the third floor and make a right. It's down a couple doors on the left. Have a nice stay."

After we got in the elevator we started cracking up, again except for Paul. He was pale as a ghost.

"That's so freakin' juvenile," my dad said hoarsely, obviously in excruciating pain. "But it never gets old." We all laughed like a bunch of knuckleheads. Paul looked like a zombie.

# Chapter 20

When we got to our room, a small, one-bed suite, I told the guys I had to make a call and would be right back. I walked out of the room and down the hallway to make sure I was out of earshot. I called my grandpa who I now knew had been spot on all along about everything he'd told me.

"Sebastian," he said.

"Grandpa, it's Jax."

"Hello, Jax, how are you?"

"Fine. But I think we have a major problem."

"What is it?" I could hear the concern in his voice.

"I recently learned about a technology we're testing at the proving ground––the most sophisticated weapon system ever developed, easily capable of destroying Israel or any other country. It's called Goliath. I also have good reason to believe Hamas knows about my communications with you, and that they set me up from the start. I think Janet tipped them off that I was going to be in the bar the night Haseem and Paul met, and they intended for me to overhear the conversation and hoped I would go after Paul knowing how much I despise him. They provided even more incentive by accusing me of committing treason. I think they did all this because they thought I had the design plans for Goliath. If they knew I had access to intel to help save Israel, they probably assumed I had access to intel that could help destroy it.

"I also think Raytheon leaked the design plans to Hamas, but that the leak was caught before those animals got it all. The fact that they set me up and agreed to trade Paul for myself proves they don't have the entire package. I don't have the design plans, and I think they know that now, but I suspect they'll eventually get the rest of what they need one way or another."

"My God, Jax," he said. "How could they possibly know about our conversations?"

"I have no idea. But it's the only logical explanation I can think of for what's happening right now."

"I pray to God you're wrong and that our cover isn't blown. Otherwise, Israel is going to eventually be destroyed."

"I do have some good news," I continued. "Even if they do have most of what they need to build and use Goliath, we're also testing the only weapon system in the world, David, that can possibly stop it." I explained how I got the information for both weapon systems and how each of them worked.

"Can you get access to the design plans for David so we can prevent Goliath from destroying us?" he said.

"I know the engineer who's testing it, but I doubt he'll give me the plans. He likely doesn't have the plans; those would be with Raytheon, and he'd be committing espionage. Maybe if I were to give him a million dollars he could make it happen. I know he's sympathetic to Israel. All I can do is call him and ask."

"Please, Jax, do anything in your power to get that information. We can't allow another Holocaust. I can get the million dollars." I didn't realize he'd take me literally. How the hell was he going to come up with that kind of money? I thought.

"Seriously?" I said.

"I'm dead serious. These monsters can't destroy Israel. Make Mike an offer and if he says yes I'll wire the money to you." Oh my God, I thought. This is more serious than I believed. But for the first time during this entire ordeal I saw the forest for the trees.

"Grandpa, even if Hamas eventually acquires everything they need to build Goliath and are able to use it at some point in the near future, Israel's national intelligence services, which we both know are the best in the world, would know every move they're making, especially since you've told them everything that's happening. They'd order Iran and Hamas to discontinue the manufacture of the weapon, and if Iran played dumb or refused to cooperate they'd threaten them with immediate military action. Or they wouldn't even give Iran the option and destroy the weapon the first chance they get. There's no way Hamas could keep this hidden and pull off a surprise attack."

"That's a very astute assumption, Jax. You're obviously right, but when dealing with matters like this you can't _assume_ anything. We cannot, under any circumstances, allow Hamas to build this weapon system. They could sell the design plans to another country or terrorist group and launch an attack from there. There are a number of possible variables. Who ever thought 9/11 was possible? How could the national security of the United States have been caught off guard and not responded more quickly? We have to treat this as if we know the outcome is going to be the worst-case scenario."

"Okay, I'll do it, but not right now. I was framed for espionage and murder and I'm trying to clear my name."

"What?" he said, in a tone that implied he couldn't believe what he was hearing. I explained everything to him in a condensed version. "My God," he said. "I'm so sorry. That's awful. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, but I'm right in the middle of this and time is running out. I think I'm close to clearing my name, though. Then I can call Mike and see if he's willing to help. But don't get your hopes up. I have to go, grandpa. I love you." I hung up, walked back to the room, opened the door and came inside.

"Who were you talking to, Jax?" my dad said.

"I just had to talk to mom and let her know I'm okay." I began to lay out my plan.

"Here's what we're going to do," I said. "First, Kim will drive the black van over to Paul's house."

"You bastard!" Paul yelled. "Don't involve my wife in this!" He began to make a move toward me but Kim pointed his gun at his head.

"Sit down," he said sternly.

"Kim, you'll park about two houses down," I said. "The police will be at Paul's house with Paul's wife waiting for a ransom call. You'll go to the other side of the street and walk down about four houses east of his. How much C4 does it take to blow up a car?"

"One stick," Kim said.

"Okay, you're going to place one stick each under two different cars near each other in that vicinity. Next, you'll light the fuzes. Will that give you enough time to get a safe distance away?"

"Geno, is the C4 you got equipped with timers?" Clyde said.

"Yeah, no fuzes. No remote either. Just need to set them."

"Even better," I said. "Okay, Kim, you're going to set the timers for as long as it takes you to get far enough away. Go west toward Paul's house and hide behind a car in someone's driveway. When the police hear the explosions I'm pretty sure all, or at least most, of them will leave Paul's house immediately and head toward them. Stay behind the car as the police pass you. At the same time, we're going to be parked about six houses down to the east. Dad, is there any way you can drive?"

"Yeah," he said.

"After they pass, Kim, you're going to walk to Paul's house, enter and find Paul's wife," I continued. "If any police are still in the house, you'll have to deal with them quietly. When you find Paul's wife, she'll recognize you as the agent who visited her earlier. You'll tell her Hamas created the diversion outside and they're coming for her and she needs to come with you right away. If she doesn't believe you, take her at gunpoint. Do whatever the hell it takes to get out of there. When you get to the front door, make sure no police remained behind. You already know what to do in that case. Then you're going to get the hell out of there. As soon as you get to the van and the two of you get in say, 'go.' Dad, you'll gun it, tires squealing, and drive off. They'll obviously think it's the perpetrators and run back to their cars, get in and start their pursuit."

"Jax, are you crazy?" my dad said. "You can't kidnap her. She's an innocent woman who may have a terminal illness. We're not going to participate in this madness."

"Dad, hear me out. Randy bugged their house and during a two-week period there was no mention of a kidney transplant nor did Paul's wife ever ask Paul about his whereabouts on any of the nights he met with Haseem. Plus I met her just weeks ago and she was as healthy looking as you and I. She claims to have seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which just happens to be Paul's payout from Hamas. She doesn't work and he only makes around fifty thousand dollars a year. Think about it. The only plausible explanation is that she's complicit in this crime. Anyway, she'll likely think Kim is really trying to save her and there'll be no harm done."

"He's right," Kim said. "I think Jax may be rationalizing and oversimplifying this whole thing, but it's probably the only way we're going to get him out of this mess."

"Right," Clyde said. "Geno, you're the one who once told me that in extreme situations, sometimes you _have_ to circumvent the law if it serves the greater good. It can't get any more extreme than this, and if these monsters get their hands on this technology, and it's as potent as Jax says it is, they're going to destroy Israel and then come after us."

"Okay," my dad said after a long pause. "But if it turns out she's innocent, we've committed a serious felony and there're going to be severe consequences."

"I'm willing to take that risk at this point," I said. "I have nothing to lose and I think this is our only real chance, like Kim said. Have you thought of anything else we can do lawfully to clear my name?"

"Honestly, no. We'll go ahead and use Paul's wife as leverage to get a confession from him."

"Okay, Kim, after you two are in the van, get out of there immediately," I said. "Take as many side streets as possible and find a place to park. We'll have a good head start on the police and take side streets until we're clear. We're going to wait until we can't hear sirens and drive to the police station. We'll park around the corner out of sight. Then we'll put a wire on Paul, and you'll be wired too, Kim, and we're going to give you a choice, Paul. There'll only be two options and both I guarantee will far surpass your worst nightmare." He was white as a ghost, trembling and tried to speak but couldn't say a word. "Your choices will be to either walk into the police station and say _you_ were the one working with Haseem and committing espionage and were complicit in the murder of Randy and that I was framed for these crimes, or you can keep your mouth shut, refuse to go to the police and I'll give Kim the order to shoot your wife and then I'll shoot you." I was lying, of course. I'm no murderer, but he didn't know that.

"You bastard!" he wailed. "If you harm my wife I'll kill you!"

"Well, fortunately, you won't be in any position to do that," I said. "There's some good news if you choose the first option. We'll let your wife go and let her keep the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That way, she can stay alive and she'll have plenty of money to live comfortably the rest of her life." At that point I still didn't know whether I was willing to follow through on this promise, but it didn't matter. "I think that's a very generous offer," I continued. "Don't you guys agree considering she's a traitor herself and should suffer the same consequences as Paul?"

"I think it's more than generous," Kim said.

"Which option are you going to choose, Paul?" I said as he began to cry. After he regained his composure he said, "If you have my wife, I'll confess."

"Wise choice," I said. "I know you're thinking you'll just walk into the station and tell the first person you see that you were forced to enter the building and confess to crimes you didn't commit. That's what I'd do. But if we hear a word come out of your mouth, we'll give Kim the order. If you rip the wire off, we'll give the order. If you cover the microphone, we'll know you're trying to conceal your words and, you guessed it, we'll give the order. Comprende?"

"Yes," he said.

"You're going to walk to the building, enter and go to the window straight ahead," I said. "You're going to ask to talk to Agent Greg Willis and say it's urgent. He's a really nice fellow. I think you'll like him. Willis will come out and ask if he can help you. The next thing you're going to do is tell him your name. He'll probably say you were just kidnapped this morning and police officers were at your house waiting for a ransom call when they heard two loud explosions, ran outside and saw two cars on fire. They had to leave the scene when a van sped off moments later. This just happened about an hour ago.

"You're going to say you were kidnapped by Hamas. They were going to call your wife and say they wanted their seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars back or they'd kill you. They didn't trust you to keep your mouth shut. They had no intention of letting you go. The money was just icing on the cake. They knew the police in this town posed no threat to them. They mocked them, you'll say. You're going to say you were at their base, bound and gagged with a gun to the back of your head. But then there was a loud explosion. They ran off and left you kneeling on the floor. You could hear them drive away. You managed to escape while they were gone. Then you're going to say you're there to confess to espionage and that I was framed for that crime and Randy's murder.

"Willis will be stunned. He'll probably ask why you're confessing when you aren't even a suspect and they'd already arrested and charged another man, me, with the crimes. You're going to say you can't live with the guilt of knowing that an innocent man is going to be put to death for something you did, and Hamas is going to hunt you down and kill you anyway. He's likely going to take you to an interrogation room. You won't say a word unless prompted by Greg or we'll give the order. They'll begin interrogating you and we'll be listening to and recording every word.

"Then you're going to tell them in full detail how you and your buddy Haseem framed me for the crimes. You'll say I had absolutely no involvement in these crimes. If you deviate in any way, we're going to give the order. Do you understand me?" He was stark pale. I saw what it looked like to experience sheer terror like I had less than twenty-four hours earlier. "Now you know how I felt," I said. "But at least I had a shot at trial. I didn't give them any information because I didn't know anything, obviously. Your buddies didn't do as well as they led you to believe in framing me. But they got to my alibi and I was forced to take measures into my own hands. On the other hand, you have no chance in court. Your odds of being acquitted are about the same as a man singing 'You make me feel like dancing' while passing a large kidney stone.

"You can be sure that your wife isn't going to provide you with an alibi. It wouldn't matter anyway. The confession along with all the details that only the perpetrator of these crimes would know will be more than enough to convince a jury. As you probably know, people don't take too kindly to traitors in this country, especially when our troops are fighting a war overseas." At the same time I was talking I was thinking about my reckless behavior earlier, so my pleasure in his pain was dulled significantly. "You're done my friend. Not bad for a little butt kisser with no skills." I used finger quotes where applicable. "I guess I have some skills after all." I smiled and patted him on the back. "Se la guerre. Now answer the question, traitor!"

"Yes, I understand," he said mechanically. I'm pretty sure he knew it was checkmate.

"You made the right choice," I said. "Okay, Kim, it's time for us to go. Clyde, wire Kim. This way if he runs into any obstacles we can be there in seconds. Follow us over there, Kim."

"Will do," he said.

# Chapter 21

We left the hotel and Kim and I helped my dad up and into the driver's seat of the van.

"Dad, you sure you're up to this?"

"Yeah." He started the van and we headed toward Paul's house with Kim following. When we got there we could hear Kim stop the van and the door open and close.

"There're two police cars here, so I'm assuming there are two to four officers," he said. We could hear him walking and breathing before we could see him walk to the other side of the street and four houses down to the west toward us. "I found a car in the driveway and one parked on the street about fifteen feet away," he said. We could see and hear him rustling around in his backpack before pulling out the C4. We could see and hear him setting the timers and then sliding the sticks under the cars. Then he walked back toward Paul's house and up a driveway before disappearing behind a car. "They should blow any second now," he said.

We could see the first car explode and then seconds after the second car explode. It was like nothing I'd ever seen. Almost immediately after, we could see four policemen leaving Paul's house and running toward the cars, which were both engulfed in flames. It looked like a war zone. A few of the neighbors ran outside to see what'd happened. It was pandemonium within seconds. We could see and hear Kim walk down the sidewalk east and cross the street toward Paul's house. Then he was out of sight. We could hear movement for several seconds.

"They left the door open," he said. We could hear a couple of steps and then silence before he'd say, "Clear." He did this three times. I'm assuming he was going from one open area to another ensuring there were no impediments. It was obvious he was a Green Beret again, maybe not technically, but as far as we were concerned that's what he was. Then we heard another voice, male, not Kim's.

"Crap," I said. We just sat there and listened.

"Freeze!" the man's voice said.

"I'm Federal Agent Kim Stone."

"Don't move!" the man said. "Slowly bend over and place your weapon on the ground." There were about five seconds of silence.

"Okay, I'm unarmed now," Kim said. "Let me just show you my badge."

"Just stand right there and don't move or I'm going to put a bullet through your head. What are you doing here?"

"We need to get Mrs. Robinson out of here immediately," Kim said with a tone of extreme urgency. "Those explosions were a diversion to get your men out of the house so Hamas could come in and take Mrs. Robinson. They're going to be here within seconds. Let me just show you my badge. We don't have time for this."

"Okay, very slowly remove your badge." We could hear rustling.

"Okay, here it is," Kim said.

"Toss it to me," the man said. We could hear some movement and then a couple seconds of silence. "Okay, I'm sorry, Agent Stone. Here you go. Officer Hartsock, YPD. You said they're coming here now?"

"Yes, we need to get that woman the hell out of here immediately or we're all going to die."

"How do you know about this?"

"I'm working with Agent Willis. Now let's get her and go."

"Okay." There was a pause. "What the fu..." We heard a grunt and then nothing but heavy breathing that lasted maybe thirty seconds. Clyde and I were on the edge of our seats. Then we heard a thud.

"What the hell's going on in there?" I said.

"I think Kim just put Officer hard cock to sleep," Clyde said. Despite the intense anxiety, I couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay, as you probably heard, I ran into an officer," Kim said on cue. "I had to put him to sleep. Mrs. Robinson's here alone sitting on the living room couch. Mam, Hamas is coming for you. They created a diversion to get a clear path to you. They'll be here in seconds. You need to come with me."

"Oh my God!" she said.

We could see them leave the house and start running toward the van. As soon as they were both in, Kim said the word and my dad gunned it. We peeled out and headed west. I could see the police run toward their cars in the rearview mirror. They were just getting in as we screeched around the corner onto Arizona Avenue and headed north. We could hear the sirens. There was also the sound of helicopters flying overhead. I looked up and couldn't tell if they were police or media.

"Dad, just start turning down as many streets as possible." He made an immediate right, an immediate left and another right, tires squealing at each turn, before stopping on the side of the road and turning off the lights. We could hear the sirens close by and I began to panic. But then they began to fade.

"I think we're clear," my dad said. After about ten more seconds, it was dead quiet. But then we heard sirens again and a horn blow several times. "It's just the fire department and emergency vehicles headed toward the scene." He was right. The sirens grew louder and then began to fade before we couldn't hear them. Meanwhile, Kim had left the scene and was several blocks from Paul's house.

"I've got Mrs. Robinson," he said. "She's safe. I'll await further orders."

"Okay," I said to the guys as the adrenaline was pumping through my veins. "The first part of the mission is accomplished."

"Why are we stopped here?" Mrs. Robinson said.

"We have to wait a few moments until it's safe to go to the police station," Kim said. "I'm waiting for orders from my boss."

"Okay," she said, her voice trembling.

"Now it's your turn, Paul," I said. "Dad, start the van and drive toward the police station. You remember where it is?"

"Yeah." I guided him there.

"Okay, park right around the corner on 1st Avenue," I said. "You okay?"

"Yeah, the adrenaline is masking some of the pain."

We pulled over to the side of the road approximately fifty yards from the station parking lot.

"Remember, Paul, you stray at all from the plan and we'll make the call immediately," I said. "Kim won't hesitate to pull the trigger." We could hear Paul's wife ask again why they weren't going to the police station yet.

"We need to stay just a little longer," Kim said. "This is for your own safety. As I said, I have to wait for the call from my supervisor to let me know that it's safe to bring you in. You need to trust me, mam." Then I thought of something.

"Which kidney is it that your wife needs replaced?" I asked Paul. He paused.

"What difference does it make?" he said. I looked at Clyde. He knew what the look meant, took his gun out and held it to Paul's head.

"Tell me now or Clyde pulls the trigger."

"Okay, it's the right!"

I called Kim.

"Agent Stone," he answered.

"Yeah, Kim, it's Jax."

"What's up?"

"Kim, do me a favor and ask Paul's wife which of her kidneys needs to be replaced."

"Why?"

"Just do it, man."

"Okay. Mrs. Robinson, I know you're ill and I'm very sorry to have to put you through all this. But I promise to keep you safe."

"All right," she said nervously.

"My father had a kidney transplant five years ago and he's doing very well," Kim improvised. "What kidney is it that you need replaced? Maybe we can help expedite the process."

"How do you know about my kidney?"

"My colleagues are working with the Yuma police and they're gathering as much information about Paul as they can to try and determine a possible motive for his kidnapping. This is just a piece of information that turned up. Mam, I have something I need to tell you, and it isn't pleasant."

"What is it?" We could hear the anxiety level rise every time she talked.

"We think Paul may have been working with an Israeli operative, feeding him classified information in exchange for money to try and save your life."

"Are you saying my husband is a traitor?"

"In the eyes of the law, yes. But his sole intent was to save your life. We believe the operative used this as leverage to blackmail him into helping."

"I don't believe this. You're lying. They already arrested Paul's boss, Jax Wright, for the crime. The police told me and it was all over the news."

"During the course of our investigation we discovered that your husband and the foreign operative framed Mr. Wright for this crime and the murder of the private investigator."

"I don't believe you. This is insane!"

"We have the evidence to prove it. I'm very sorry, mam, but it's true."

"This can't be happening." I expected her to start crying but didn't hear anything.

"The Israeli operative told Paul Hamas was close to acquiring the technology they needed to destroy Israel, and we believe he was also using this as leverage to make Paul believe what he was doing was morally right," Kim continued. "If what the operative said is true, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't blame him for trying to help. He'd be saving you _and_ Israel."

"Oh my God." Her voice was quivering.

"We believe Hamas found out about your husband's relationship with this man and that secret information was being traded. We also believe this was the motive for his kidnapping."

"They're going to kill him aren't they? They aren't holding him for ransom."

"Come on, Kim, we don't have all day," I said. "Get to the point."

"Jax, just be patient and let him do his thing," my dad said. "He knows what he's doing."

"We believe they're trying to extract all the information he gave to the Israeli operative and further information regarding our technology that'll help their cause," Kim said. "As long as he's able to keep feeding them information, they'll let him live. We believe we're close to finding their location."

"How close?"

"Minutes. If he's still alive, there's a good chance we can rescue him. You just need to remain calm."

"I can't." She began crying.

"Mrs. Robinson, we've brought in a special ops task force. These men are very good at their jobs."

"My kidney is the reason why this is all happening. Paul was so desperate to help me. He said he'd take care of the money somehow. I should've known when he started coming home late that something was wrong. He told me he was working a lot of overtime."

"Like I said, we may be able to help you with that. Which kidney is it?"

"What difference does it make?"

"I need to know in order to help. I'm going to make a call and I need to be able to tell these people which kidney it is." She paused like Paul and looked like a deer in headlights Kim later told us.

"It's the left," she finally said.

"Okay, we just killed two birds with one stone, no pun intended," I said. "I knew it was BS. You're just a greedy SOB as I suspected all along."

"This bogus confession isn't going to work!" Paul yelled.

"You better make it work or your wife's dead," I said calmly. "Oh, I almost forgot (not really; I was just saving it for the right moment). You're going to wear these glasses. Why, you're probably wondering? Well, these aren't just ordinary glasses. They're equipped with a camera embedded in the right lens. Don't you just love modern technology? Anyway, the camera provides a wide-angle view of everything in front of you. So if you were thinking about using hand gestures to tell Greg the real story, forget about it. It ain't happening, pal. We'll see everything you see. If you turn to the side at any time we're going to assume you're making hand gestures and we'll make the call. You're going to look straight at Greg, and anyone else you may talk to, the entire time. When Greg finally asks for your written confession, and slides the notebook over to you, you'll look directly at the page from the first pen stroke to the final period. If we don't see every word you write, well, you know the rest. Now try these babies out."

"Screw you!" he said helplessly.

"Put the glasses on or you know what's going to happen!" I said more sternly. I assume he noticed the conviction in my eyes, as he immediately put them on. "Clyde, turn the monitor on. Man, it's clear as day. Those Japanese are brilliant. Check it out, Paul." He looked at the screen and we could see the look of defeat in his eyes. "I bet you were thinking these dummies are going to let me walk in there with just a wire. Like my dad and I always say to each other, we're no dummies. It's almost always said in sarcasm because we typically _are_ dummies. But for the first time I can recall it's actually true, isn't it dad? We can finally say it with sincerity." He just laughed and looked back at me while shaking his head.

"Now get the hell out of the van, Paul, and go straight to the station entrance." He didn't move so I gave him a nudge; actually, it was more like a shove. He stumbled out of the van. "Remember, we'll be watching and listening." I gave him the Deniro _Meet the Parents_ two fingers to my eyes and then to his. "One sign of deception and Kim gets the call."

# Chapter 22

Paul walked with obvious reluctance toward the station. We could hear and see him open the front door and walk toward the window.

"Can I help you, sir?" the woman said.

"Yes, I need to speak with Agent Greg Willis."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I have some important information for him."

"Can I ask what this is regarding?"

"I just need to speak with him. It's urgent."

"Just a moment." About a minute later, we could hear and see the door open.

"I'm Agent Willis, how can I help you?"

"I'm here to..." Paul began before Kim yelled, "Guys, we have a problem! A black SUV is pulling up behind me!" As he finished his sentence we could hear heavy gunfire. "Get down!" he shouted. We could hear tires screeching. "I'm under heavy fire! I need you guys to get over here now! I'm turning onto Arizona Avenue and heading south toward 24th Street! If you're at 16th and 1st Avenue, head toward Arizona Avenue!"

"We're on our way," I said. "Why the hell can't anything be easy?" The adrenaline kicked in again. We were just a block from Arizona Avenue but south of 16th Street. My dad started driving down 1st Avenue toward 16th. "Make a left here, dad." He squealed around the corner at 16th. "Make your next right," I commanded. We screeched around the corner at Arizona Avenue avoiding yet another near collision. "Clyde, can you use that rocket launcher?" I said.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Get it ready; we're gonna stop here!" I said before my dad pulled over and skidded to a stop. We could hear glass shattering and Mrs. Robinson screaming.

"I just went through the intersection at 24th!" Kim said.

"They're only a few blocks away now," I said. "Clyde, you have that thing loaded?"

"Yeah."

"They're right on me!" Kim shouted.

"Clyde, get out of the van and set up!" I yelled. We could see them coming and hear the gunfire. Clyde got out of the van and hid behind the passenger side. They were about a hundred yards away, then fifty, then twenty-five. Clyde jumped out from behind the van, braced himself and fired at the SUV as Kim passed. He hit it head on and there was a massive explosion that blew the driver-side window out of the van. The shockwave made the van rock to the side and I was propelled sideways and slammed into the passenger side of the van in the back. I was stunned and didn't know what was going on. When I regained my senses and realized what'd happened I asked my dad if he was okay. I think my shoulder was separated. It'd happened once before while I was playing football in high school so I knew exactly how it felt.

"Yes," my dad said, moaning. I could see in the rearview mirror that he was bleeding. I threw open the back doors, jumped out and ran to the driver-side door and opened it. My dad looked dazed. There were shards of glass in the left side of his face and he was bleeding heavily. I unbuckled his seatbelt and helped him get out and held him up as we walked to the back of the van before I lifted him up and in.

"You're going to be okay, dad," I said, although I wasn't really sure. "I'll be back in a second." I got out to see if Clyde was okay. He was lying on the ground on the sidewalk on the other side of the van.

"You all right?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he groaned.

"Are you okay to get up?"

"Yeah."

"Let me give you a hand." I grabbed him by the forearm and lifted him to his feet. He was wobbly. "You sure you're okay?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just a little woozy. How's your dad?"

"He's bleeding pretty bad, but I think he'll be fine. We need to get him to the hospital immediately. Can you help stop the bleeding?"

"Yeah," Clyde said as he got in the van and I closed the doors. I ran around to the driver-side door, jumped in, started the engine and raced down Arizona Avenue toward 24th Street. I could see Kim's van about two hundred yards back in my rearview mirror. I called him. We could hear screaming on the recording device.

"Yeah, Jax," Kim said.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I just got grazed on my right shoulder. It's not too bad."

"Thank God. What about Paul's wife?"

"She's fine, just hysterical. Are you guys okay?"

"My dad's injured and I need to get him to the hospital immediately."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yeah, but his face is a mess. The glass shattered in the van because of the shockwave from the explosion. I think he'll be fine as long as we get him to the hospital."

"My God. What the hell did you guys do to stop them?"

"Clyde got a direct hit on them with the rocket launcher."

"Unbelievable."

"Kim, Paul and Greg are talking. Can you wait a few seconds? I'll call you."

"No problem." I got in the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb. We were all listening to the conversation anxiously.

"...need your written statement and the specifics pertaining to the two crimes you're confessing to committing," I heard Greg say before hearing what I assumed was a notepad followed by a pen being slid over to Paul and then the sound of pen on paper as my dad and Clyde were listening and watching. When Paul was done, I could hear the notepad and then the pen slide across the table again.

"Mr. Robinson, please stand up and put your hands behind your back," Greg said. "I should put a bullet in your head. We wrongfully arrested a man for these crimes and a close friend of mine was slaughtered by these animals because of you. I'm going to be in the front row watching when they put the needle in you."

I heard and Clyde and my dad saw the cuffs being put on at the same time Greg began Mirandizing Paul. I knew all too well what that felt like. God save his soul, I thought to myself. I also prayed for my own. This all could've been avoided had I reported Paul the morning after I heard the conversation. And I may still pay the consequences of letting secrets get into the hands of our greatest enemy without taking measures to stop it. I prayed to God that Hamas didn't get anything that could help them in any way. I'd never be able to forgive myself if anyone was injured or killed because of my recklessness.

Don't get me wrong, there was a tremendous sense of relief that accompanied these feelings, and I knew my guilt was mainly a result of my having to listen to and see all this play out. I'd certainly get over it in time and start living a normal life again, but it wouldn't be in this town. I'd never be safe as long as Hamas was here. After the havoc I wreaked upon them I'm sure I was number one—well, maybe number two considering Israel––on their hit list. I knew any minute they could be there and I felt extremely uneasy.

"Kim, I need you to bring Mrs. Robinson back to her house," I said. "Drop her off around the corner in case the police are there. I promised Paul I'd do this if he confessed."

"So he did?" Kim said.

"Yeah. He was just arrested."

"So you're off the hook?"

"I hope so. Kim, as soon as you drop her off, come to the hospital. It's on 24th Street just after Avenue A on the left."

"Roger that. Nice job, Jax."

# Chapter 23

We got to 24th Street, made a right and could hear sirens nearby. It sounded like every emergency vehicle in the city was headed to the scene. I drove down 24th, passed Avenue A and arrived at the hospital. I parked at the emergency entrance, ran in and said I had two injured FBI agents with me and another one on the way. EMTs came running out of the hospital to the van. They opened the back doors and escorted Clyde and my dad to the emergency room.

"What happened?" one of them said.

"A car exploded on Arizona Avenue between 24th and 16th Street as we were driving by," I said.

"Yeah, we heard it on the scanner and we have units on the way," the EMT said. "So you guys are FBI?"

"Yeah. The Yuma PD called us about four hours ago about a kidnapping and several apparent terrorist attacks. A car was blown up on 32nd Street near Avenue E."

"Yeah, we know," he said. "It's been all over the news." I looked up at the TV and CNN was covering the story live. "Who do you think's responsible for these attacks?"

"We have intel it's Hamas."

"Hamas is in Yuma?" Expectedly, he looked shocked.

"Yeah, there's a cell here. They've been relatively dormant until today." My dad and Clyde were taken to an interior waiting room immediately to await treatment. Clyde's ear was bleeding again. "I want to go with them," I said.

"No problem," the EMT said. "Are you okay?"

"I think I separated my right shoulder but the adrenaline I suspect is masking the pain."

"We'll get you some help too," he said.

We sat in the interior waiting room for a few minutes.

"You're going to be fine, dad," I said.

"How bad is it?"

"It's not as bad as you think." I was lying. It was ghastly. An attendee came in with a gurney and the staff lifted my dad onto it. "Dad, I'll be waiting for you out here." They rolled him away and said they'd come talk to me immediately after evaluating and treating him. Clyde's injury wasn't nearly as severe. A nurse gave him some gauze to hold over his ear until they could admit him.

"It won't be long, sir," she said. "Just apply significant pressure. Mr. Wright is it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Someone will be out here for you in a bit, okay sweetheart."

"No problem," I said.

"I hope your dad's okay," Clyde said. "That looked pretty nasty."

"Yeah, I know. But we're all still alive, which is a miracle."

"I know. I can't believe it. The last three to four hours have been more dangerous than my entire twenty-five years with the bureau. I only had to use my gun once and was only shot at once." We talked for about five minutes before Kim walked in. We could hear him at the front window in the ER lobby.

"Can I help you, sir?" a woman said.

"Yeah, I'm Agent Kim Stone, FBI. I've been shot twice." He was immediately brought into the interior waiting room where we saw each other.

"How's your dad?" he said.

"I think he'll be fine. They said they'd let me know as soon as they evaluated him."

"How are you holding up, Clyde?" Kim said.

"I'm fine. Just worried about Geno." An attendee came in with another gurney and carted Kim away. As they did with my dad, they said they'd update me as soon as they evaluated and treated him. "We'll be right here waiting, buddy," Clyde said.

"As soon as all of you get patched up and they put my shoulder back in place we're going to have to go," I said. "The police and Hamas will eventually catch up with us." An orderly came in and said they were ready for Clyde.

"Would you like a wheelchair, sir?" the man said.

"No, that won't be necessary." He got up and was wobbly. The man grabbed his arm and helped him out of the room.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I, the root cause of all this, was the only one sitting in the waiting room essentially unharmed, but for what I assumed was a separated shoulder, while my friends and father, who basically agreed to go on a suicide mission to try and clear my name, were all being treated for serious injuries. I felt awful. But I was also scared. I was waiting for the police to walk in or Hamas, but Hamas wouldn't be as obvious. Anyone could be Hamas. One of them could walk right in and shoot me before I even realized what was going on. I had to block that thought from my mind. I told myself they were probably circling the wagons right now trying to figure out what hit them and what they were going to do next. Then my cell rang.

"Yeah, grandpa?" I said.

"Have you spoken to the engineer working on David about the design plans?" he said.

"No, not yet. I've been fighting for my life. I'll call him as soon as I get a chance."

"Okay, Jax, I'm counting on you."

"I know grandpa. I'll do my best and let you know. I love you." I hung up. After several minutes of anxiety another orderly approached.

"Mr. Wright?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Come with me. Let's get that shoulder taken care of." When we got to a room he said, "Have a seat. The doctor will be in shortly." I was sitting there for about five minutes before a doctor came in.

"Okay, Mr. Wright, take off your shirt and let me take a look," he said.

"I'm pretty sure it's separated," I said.

"It sure is. You've had this happen before?"

"Yeah, once. But I was in much more pain."

"Okay, this isn't going to be pleasant. I'm going to count to three." When he got to three he popped the shoulder back in place. Now _that_ hurt.

"Jesus Christ!" I bellowed. "Thanks, doc."

"No problem."

"Can you find out if my dad, Geno Wright, is okay? He's being treated for facial lacerations and his knee is the size of a grapefruit."

"Yes. Sit tight for a minute." I just sat there and prayed. The doctor was back within a couple minutes. "Your father's going to be fine," he said. "The shards of glass have been removed from his face and he has a concussion. However, he's going to require extensive reconstructive surgery and surgery on his knee. He tore his ACL. We're going to need to keep him here for a few days." I felt sick but at the same time thankful he was all right.

"Can I see him?" I said.

"Of course. Come with me." I got to his room and sat in a chair by his bed. "I'll let you two have some privacy," the doctor said.

"Thank you," I said before he closed the curtain. "Hey dad, how are you feeling?" The entire left side of his face was wrapped in bandages.

"I just have a headache, but at least the pain in my face is gone," he said groggily. "They numbed it before they removed the glass. And my knee doesn't hurt."

"I'm so sorry I got you involved in this. All I got was a separated shoulder, which was just fixed, and some scrapes and bruises while all of you are seriously injured. It isn't right. I hate myself right now. I'd give anything to take your place."

"Don't worry about it, son. I'd do anything on earth to protect you. I don't want you to feel guilty about this. You did what you had to do. You were screwed by Paul and didn't have a chance in hell at trial. We willingly decided to help knowing the possible consequences. Hell, if it wasn't for your quick thinking we'd all be dead. Son, I love you, and I hope this is over." He reached out and touched my arm. I was crying. "It's going to be okay, son, I promise."

"Dad, they want to keep you here for a few days, but we have to get out of here as soon as possible. I'll drive you all to Grossmont Hospital in San Diego and you can receive further treatment there. We're sitting ducks right now."

"I know. Can you bring me my clothes? They're in that bag right over there." I got up and grabbed them. I pressed the button to get a nurse or doctor in there. As my dad was getting dressed the same doctor walked in.

"What are you doing, Mr. Wright?" he said.

"We have to go," my dad said. "We have intel that Hamas is planning another terrorist attack. The police need our help. I'll check into a hospital later."

"My God. How big is Hamas's presence here? Are the people in Yuma safe?"

"We've mitigated the threat significantly over the past four hours. You should all be safe. But we need to get back to work immediately."

"Mr. Wright, I strongly advise against you leaving. You're in no condition for any kind of strenuous activity. You lost a significant amount of blood and have a concussion. Any further trauma may jeopardize your life."

"I appreciate the sentiment and concern, doctor, but I don't have a choice. Please unhook the IV."

"Okay. I can't keep you here against your will."

"We also need to know the status of Agents Stone and Cameron. As soon as they've been treated we need to leave."

"I'll check on them right away," the doctor said nervously.

"Thank you." We sat there talking for several minutes about the day's events and how fortunate we were to be alive.

"These last four hours have seemed like a week," my dad said. "Just four hours ago we were sitting in your living room talking."

"I know," I said. "The last forty-eight hours for me have been surreal. I've been through the whole gamut of emotions, and not just once. I seriously don't know how I managed to keep it together. What were the odds of us pulling this off?"

"Probably about the same as being mauled by a polar bear and regular bear in the same day." We laughed. "I've seen more action in the last four hours than I saw in my twenty-five years with the FBI."

"That's exactly what Clyde said. What's the deal, did you guys just sit around with your thumbs up your butts?"

"Pretty much. Like I told you, I spent ninety-eight percent of the time writing reports. I worked undercover now and then and spent some time with the counter-terrorism unit, but not once was my life in any real danger, at least that I was aware of. It was mostly surveillance inside a van just like what we've been doing here or on stakeouts where we just sat there and watched and listened for hours on end. It was painstakingly monotonous. There's been nothing monotonous about today, however, that's for sure. In all my years at the bureau I've never seen anything as impressive as what I've seen from you today. It was like your body was possessed by a seasoned law enforcement veteran with extraordinary skills, intelligence and the composure and guile of a cat burglar. It was without a doubt the most impressive thing I've ever seen––in real life, on TV or in the movies."

"It's funny you say that because during the trade we made for Paul, I felt a calm come over me. I suddenly and inexplicably felt no fear. I looked Haseem right in the eyes and felt nothing but contempt. I think the only reason he didn't kill us both at that moment was because he realized I wasn't afraid of him. I'm sure he was thinking I was going to crap my pants. I guess an innocent man about to be sent to death row is what it takes to get that man to maximize his potential. I've never been so focused. I also truly believe God was there helping me make all the right decisions. There's no other plausible explanation."

"Son, I think it was all you. I think you had this inside all along. Neither of us just ever realized it. You're a brilliant man. You've proven it at work and over the past four hours. I truly believe there's nothing you can't do." The doctor walked up and pulled the curtain back.

"We've removed the bullet from Mr. Stone's right arm and stitched up the back of his right shoulder," he said. "They've also stitched up Mr. Cameron's ear. He'll also require some reconstructive surgery. They're getting dressed as we speak. None of you who've been treated are in any condition to drive as you're all on strong pain medication."

"That's all right; I'll be driving," I said. "I'm not on any pain meds."

"I can't stress enough the risk you're all taking, and I'll say once again that I strongly advise that you stay here," the doctor said. Obviously, he didn't want the hospital to be sued. Who could blame him?

"I appreciate your concern, doctor, but we have bigger issues to take care of right now," I said. "The police here don't have the manpower or skills necessary to handle this situation themselves."

"Okay. But as soon as you're done working you need to continue to get medical attention immediately. You're all required to sign a waiver stating that you refuse further medical treatment deemed necessary by the doctors at this facility."

"Can we do it quickly?" I said.

"I'll be right back," the doctor said. He walked out and came back about a minute later with a waiver. I signed one and my dad another. "Thank you," he said. "Why don't you go to the waiting room. Mr. Cameron and Mr. Stone will meet you there shortly. I'll bring them the waiver."

"Thank you, doctor, for all your help," I said. "We owe you one for taking care of us so quickly."

"No, I owe all you guys for protecting my city. You're true heroes." We walked to the waiting room.

"Dad, I need to make a call real quick." I walked out into the hallway and found a quiet place to talk. I dialed Mike Adams' number.

"Mike," he said.

"Mike, it's Jax."

"My God. Are you okay? On the news they said you guys fled to Mexico. I can't believe what I've been seeing. The only thing people are talking about here is you. Everyone's been glued to their televisions at night."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I have a favor to ask of you and you're likely going to tell me I'm crazy."

"What is it?"

"Intel about Goliath was leaked and I have every reason to believe it's in the hands of Hamas. I don't know what they have or how much they have, but they definitely know about it."

"Jesus Christ," he said, sounding extremely concerned. "That isn't possible."

"Not only is it possible; it's a fact."

"I can't believe this. How can you be sure?"

"You just have to trust me. I know they have it. I need something from you."

"Yeah, what is it?" I couldn't believe what I was about to say to him, and I knew what his response was going to be.

"I need the design plans for the weapons system you're testing."

"What are you talking about?" he said. I'm certain he was told implicitly not to divulge any information regarding the testing of this system, even if tortured, or he'd go to prison and be sentenced to death, so I wasn't surprised.

"The only technology that can stop these bastards from destroying Israel," I said. "Josh was in a drunken stupor and told me all about it."

"He's crazy. I don't know what the hell you're talking about." I knew I wasn't getting anywhere and would have to use the heavy artillery.

"I'm willing to give you one million dollars cash if you give me the design plans," I said. "I know your girlfriend and mother of your unborn child, Adrianna, is from Israel and has family there." Mike had spent a lot of time there over the last two years. They were planning to get married soon. "You have as much to lose as I do if Hamas destroys Israel," I said. "We have to do everything in our power to stop it. It's going to happen if we don't, trust me."

"I still have no idea what you're talking about." He obviously wasn't going to budge.

"Okay, if that's how you want to play it I suggest you sleep on it," I said.

"There's nothing to sleep on. You're out of your freakin' mind. I have to go." He hung up. Crap, I thought. That was my only legitimate shot. He wasn't about to commit espionage, especially if he didn't know everything I did and that I wasn't a traitor myself helping Hamas. I walked back to the interior waiting room.

"Who were you talking to?" my dad asked.

"Oh, just mom again." He looked at me funny like he was trying to determine whether I was telling the truth. I don't know why he'd have reason to believe I wasn't. A couple minutes passed and I was feeling more uneasy. Where the hell are they? I wondered. About a minute later, they came in. "Let's go guys," I said. We walked out of the emergency room, and again Kim and I helped my dad, as he still wasn't able to put weight on the knee. We headed toward our beat up van, leaving the terrorists' sitting in the parking lot.

"Where are we going, Jax?" my dad said as we helped him into the back of the van.

"I told you, Grossmont Hospital so you guys can be readmitted and we don't have to worry about Hamas or the police. I'm going to stay there. I can't come back. I'll have to start a new life over there. I love my job, but it's obviously far too dangerous to stay here and I'll probably get fired anyway for not reporting what I saw and heard in the bar that night to the security office. Hamas and I are Yuma PD's top priority now regardless of Paul's confession. The police are going to want to know everything I know. They may also arrest me for all the destruction we caused. We stole two cars, turned two SUVs into rubble and blew up two cars. Let's just hope we can get to the freeway without any interference. The way things have been going we should expect the worst."

# Chapter 24

We left the hospital parking lot and I took a right on Avenue B and headed south toward 1st Street. When we got to 1st I made a right and headed toward 4th Avenue. I took a left on 4th and headed toward the freeway entrance. I got on 8 West and headed toward San Diego. After I'd merged onto the freeway I could see a police car in the rearview mirror.

"Dang it!" I said. "Un freakin' believable! When are we gonna catch a break?"

"What?" my dad said.

"There's a cop behind us."

"Maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Come on, dad. We're in a bullet-riddled, white van which every police officer in town is looking for."

"Just keep going the speed limit, Jax." At that moment, the police car's lights started flashing.

"Crap! He's pulling us over. What the hell should I do?"

"It's all right," my dad said. "Relax. Pull over."

"Are you crazy? We've made it this far and you want me to surrender?"

"We'll just show them our badges and they'll let us go. Otherwise, we'll have to improvise. Trust me, son, car chases are never won by those being chased. They either end up in jail or dead."

"Okay." I was petrified. I couldn't believe this was happening. Just minutes ago I could taste my freedom.

"Mr. Wright," a loud voice said from behind. He was using his intercom. "We know you're innocent and that you were framed. Another man confessed to the crimes. We just want to talk to you about today's events. You're not going to be arrested. We know Hamas has been trying to kill you. We need any information you have so we can find these men and stop these attacks."

"He's lying," I said to the guys. "What if they've linked me to all that collateral damage we caused? It's too risky to let him take us."

"Just let him approach the van," my dad said. "We'll take care of it."

"All three of you are supped up on pain meds. I'm getting the hell out of here. I have a plan."

"Jax, don't do it!" my dad said emphatically.

I'd gone with my gut all day and it was working so I wasn't going to ignore it now. It was screaming at me to get out of there. I put my hands out the window to show the officer I was surrendering and that he could approach. As he got out of his car with his gun drawn I let him get a little closer then pulled my hands in, put them on the wheel and gunned it. I got a good head start but it didn't take long before he was only a couple hundred yards behind me and closing fast. We were about a quarter mile from Algodones Road. Right as we approached the exit I swerved hard to the right, almost rolling the van. We were literally on two wheels briefly. I braced myself for a roll, but by God's grace, or dumb luck, I made it safely onto the exit. The police car drove right by. I got to Algodones Road, made a left and drove until I could see the cars parked along the side of the road a couple hundred yards from the Mexican border. I skidded to a stop at the first car.

"Okay guys, take the tapes out of the recorders and get out quickly!" I said. "Kim, we need to take that red Camry right there. Can you start it?"

"Yeah." He picked up a rock and broke the driver-side window, opened the door and leaned in under the steering column. Within moments he'd started the car.

"Okay, all of you get in!" I said frantically. Kim got in the passenger seat and my dad and Clyde got in the back. My dad was groaning.

"Ahhh, Jesus Christ!" he said.

"Hang in there, dad. Pop another Vicodin." He did.

I got behind the wheel and headed back north toward the freeway. I saw the police car coming from the opposite direction, lights flashing and siren blaring. Get down guys. We passed right by him before I could see him in the rearview mirror. He got out of his car with his gun drawn and slowly approached the van. Then he was out of sight. I got on the freeway again and headed west.

"You're unbelievable," Kim said. "Now they probably think we're in Mexico."

"Darn straight. Now no more telling me what to do." I was getting cocky and I think deservedly so. We made it all the way to Grossmont Hospital without any more obstacles. It took approximately two and a half hours. Nobody said a word the entire way. We were all physically and mentally exhausted. All three of them were fast asleep about fifteen minutes after we got onto the freeway. I pulled up right to the ER entrance, showed my badge and explained our situation, and Kim, Clyde and my dad were admitted to the hospital. Minutes later, I was sitting in my dad's room in a chair next to him. Then my phone rang. It was Mike Adams' number.

"Dad, I'll be right back," I said.

"Okay, son." I answered after I'd left the room.

"Give me a second, Mike." I walked down the hallway to a quiet area.

"Jax, I'll help you," he said. I was stunned. "I just found out everything you told me was true. There _is_ a leak and Hamas _does_ have intel regarding Goliath. I just don't know how much. But we have to assume they have it all. And don't worry about the money. Saving Israel is all I care about." He said security was ramped up after Paul was convicted of espionage.

"Can you get this information to me without jeopardizing your job or your life?" I said.

"What choice do I have? I can't let Hamas destroy Israel. I'll do whatever it takes to stop these bastards even if it means losing my job and going to prison. But I'm going to have to be extremely cautious. It might take a week to get the info to you because I'm going to have to mail it. They're closely scrutinizing our emails. They also banned all thumb drives and other portable media. They even banned shredding. I might not be able to get it all to you at once either. It might have to been in smaller chunks. What address do I need to send it to?"

"I'm in transit now. I'll get you an address within forty-eight hours." I hung up before calling my grandfather and explaining to him that I'd have to provide the plans to him in pieces, as Mike was walking on eggshells there due to the ramped up security, and that I'd get the first piece to him within the next two weeks.

"I understand, Jax," he said. "Hopefully it's not going to be too late. Thank you. You're doing a tremendous service to my country and I'll never be able to repay you. But I know God will."

"Thanks, grandpa." I hung up. Then I dialed 4-1-1 to get the number of the Yuma PD. I called and asked for Agent Willis. I was on hold for a moment before he picked up.

"Mr. Wright, this is quite a surprise," he said. "You're harder to find than a whore in church."

"You're not looking in the right churches." He laughed.

"That was quite a stunt you pulled on Officer Jane earlier," he said. "So you're in Mexico now, huh? Slick move. But things are out of control here and we need your help. We know you're innocent. You're a free man now. But you possess vital information regarding Hamas that can help us put a stop to this horror show."

"Mr. Willis, you're never going to see me again, I can assure you. I just called to let you know you may find the fingerprints of three men––two former FBI agents and an ex-Green Beret. The four of us, while in the process of clearing my name, single-handedly took out a significant portion of the terrorist cell that resides in your city. The men who helped me are heroes and patriots and put their lives on the line to save mine, which you came within a sliver of snuffing out without even listening to my side of the story. A stranger handed the evidence to you on a silver platter, someone you knew nothing about. Do you typically use evidence from anonymous sources to convict people?" He tried to interrupt but I continued.

"You made a rush to judgment and for that I'll never forgive you. Here's the deal. I'll tell you everything I know about Hamas's presence and intentions in Yuma and you'll let bygones be bygones, meaning you'll let my three friends––one my father, another my cousin and the last my dad's best friend––live in peace."

"Jax, I know now that you were framed for these crimes and that you did what you thought was necessary to clear your name. I'd have done the same. But you have to understand that I was under enormous pressure to make an arrest, and every shred of evidence pointed directly at you. I admit, I made a mistake and I'm going to pay for it. But the perpetrator of these crimes confessed and has been arrested. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am about the way you were treated. That being said, it's not going to be easy for me to just look the other way. You and your friends, heroes or not, caused a lot of damage in this town and somebody has to foot the bill."

"Do you have evidence that we caused any of the damage?"

"Not at the moment, but we will soon. We always do."

"In other words, you have nothing now. Were any innocent civilians killed or injured?"

"Not that I'm aware of." I was relieved.

"I'm a law abiding citizen and I'll take full responsibility for my actions in terms of restitution if and when you have any evidence that we damaged anything, even though if we did it was in self-defense," I said. "I think that's more than generous. Also, if I'm going to give you all I know about Hamas, I'll need you to investigate Paul's wife. I have good reason to believe she was complicit in committing espionage. Also, Mr. Carter called the American Kidney Foundation and Mrs. Robinson's name wasn't on the donor wait list. I have other evidence that I can't divulge that gives me strong reason to believe she was part of Paul's scam. I want her arrested and brought to justice. If she is in fact a co-conspirator, she is equally responsible for putting me through a kind of hell you could never begin to imagine."

"We'll look into it; you have my word."

"I take it you're agreeing to my terms." He sighed.

"Yes. Honestly, what you did was more courageous than anything I've ever done. I don't think I would've had the stones for it."

"You'd be surprised what you're capable of when backed into a corner, and there's no corner darker and more terrifying than the one I was in. I'll be in touch soon."

"Let me give you my personal number. Call me anytime, even if it's the middle of the night."

"Thanks." I hung up and programmed his number into my phone. I didn't know whether to trust him or not but he seemed genuinely sincere. I went and talked to Kim for a few minutes before going back to my dad's room.

"Dad, I called the agent in Yuma who arrested me and he agreed to leave us alone if I give him everything I know regarding Hamas's presence in Yuma. I also agreed to pay for any damage we caused if they find any evidence that we're responsible. I don't see how they would. As far as I can tell, nobody saw us do any of these things, except the lady we had to take the car from. Her minivan was the only damage we caused other than to Hamas and ourselves...oh, and the other two cars we torched on Paul's street. Agent Willis said no innocent people were injured or killed, thank God. I think you and Clyde are in the clear. The thing is, I'm not safe in this country anymore. I'm on Hamas's radar and we both know they're going to want revenge. I'll always be looking over my shoulder. I can't live like that."

"So what are you saying, son? You're leaving for good?"

"Kim and I are going up to Canada to open a sports bar. That's been his dream ever since being discharged from service. He spends half his time in Canada anyway. That's where most of his friends are. Some of those friends have told him they'd be willing to invest in the business. I'm going to give it a shot. I'm also going to write a novel based on the last forty-eight hours. It's a can't miss especially since every bit of it'll be true. I'm going to be breathing down your neck on the bestseller's list." He managed to laugh despite the obvious despair he was feeling, which I assumed was brought on by the thought of me leaving. "I'll never be able to repay you for what you've done for me," I continued. "You've always been there for me, but your sacrifice over the last day has proven that you're a man of extraordinary courage, and I'm the luckiest guy on earth to have a father like you. I love you with all my heart. You're not only my father; you're my best friend." I leaned over and put my arms around him and we both began to cry.

"I love you too, son. Do what you need to do."

When we stopped bawling like babies, he said to me, "Son, the truth is, I hardly did anything. I just got the hell out of your way after I realized you were mentally a step ahead of all of us. You, not me, are responsible for taking your life back. I was just along for the ride, and what a hell of a ride it was."

"Yeah, I was wondering when you guys were going to chip in. It's hard to soar like an eagle when you're working with a bunch of turkeys." He laughed. "Dad, you're delusional because of the pain meds. You were the one who paid my bail––one million dollars for Christ's sake. That's not exactly chump change. Without you, I'd be sitting in jail waiting for my trial. If it weren't for you, I'd be headed to death row. You're the man now, dog!" I tried to do my best Connery impression, but it was awful. We both cracked up.

"Hey, that's _my_ shtick," he said. "Plus you have to work on it before you go public with it. You'll embarrass yourself." We laughed again.

"Seriously dad, I'll never be able to repay that debt. Just add it to my tab."

"Oh yeah, I'd completely forgot about the seven hundred dollars you owe me for all those parking tickets you racked up that first year of college, and the two hundred dollars it cost to bail your car out of impound."

"Yeah, I bet you forgot. You have the memory of an elephant. So I guess I owe you one million, nine hundred dollars. Actually, you also paid for that first year of college. What the hell were you thinking? Seeing me drunk at your daughter's wedding when I was sixteen wasn't enough of a clue that such an investment wasn't exactly prudent?" He laughed.

"Yeah, I'd say I was a little naïve," he said.

"So I actually owe you a couple thousand more. Let's settle this right now. Will you take a check?"

"Not one made of rubber."

"You worried it'll bounce?"

"No, of course not. I'm just allergic to rubber. The first time I used a condom my penis grew to the size of a large cucumber. The girl I was with ran out of the room screaming. When I looked down, _I_ started screaming. I would've made the world's greatest porn star. If it weren't for that allergy you wouldn't be here today or would have a different mother."

"Easy, dad. You're goin' all Andrew Dice Clay on me. What happened to your regular Dennis Learyesque inappropriate wit? That I could handle. You've taken it to a new level. This is downright unseemly."

"It was getting stale so I decided to try some new material."

"Well stop it. You're making me sick you dirty old bastard." We both laughed until we couldn't breathe. It felt so good. For a brief moment I forgot about the mess I'd caused. It was like old times. But after the laughter stopped, reality slapped me in the face harder than Janet did the first time I told her no. I had a headache that night for Christ's sake.

"Jax, there's nothing in this world more important to me than you, your sister and my grandchildren. You need to stop and talk to them on your way out. You should also call your mother. She must be worried sick."

"I will, dad." We hugged again as tears streamed down our faces. "Diane can pick you and Clyde up, right?"

"Yeah." He was wiping the tears from his eyes.

"I'll be in touch soon, dad. Take care of yourself." I wiped the tears from _my_ eyes.

"I will. Talk to you soon, buddy." I left my dad's room and went back to Kim's.

"Has the doctor told you how long he wants to keep you?" I said.

"Three to four days," he said. "But I know you aren't safe here. I'm going to ask to be discharged. I can get further treatment when we get to Vancouver." He buzzed for the nurse and she arrived moments later.

"What do you need, hun?" she said. Man, she was hot.

"I need to be discharged immediately. There's an emergency Mr. Wright and I need to attend to regarding this country's national security."

"Oh my God. Does it have to do with the terrorist attacks in Yuma?"

"Yes, mam. And no, you aren't in any danger. We need to get over there and help."

"I understand. But Mr. Wright is in no condition to leave this hospital and neither are you. Certainly there are others who can handle the situation."

"We need to get over there as soon as possible," Kim said. "Yuma PD doesn't have the manpower, and we're a vital part of the counter-terrorism task force. And I was talking about Geno's son, Jax, here."

"I strongly advise against you leaving. You lost a lot of blood. You really need to be in a hospital bed receiving fluids and resting. If you leave now, especially to go back to work, you're risking your life. Are your superiors aware of the extent of your injuries?"

"I haven't told them. If I do they won't allow me to participate in this operation, and I'm the agent in charge. In the time it'll take to get another agent briefed, another attack is likely to happen. We're running out of time."

"Okay," the nurse said. "I understand, but you need to promise me you'll get medical attention as soon as possible when you're done. I can't overstate how important it is that you rest and get fluids."

"Will do, mam, and I appreciate your concern."

"Can you hold tight and wait at least a moment for your doctor to talk to you?"

"Unless it's right now, no, we have to go. I'll be fine."

"I can't say exactly when the doctor will be here. He has several patients."

"Can you please unhook the IV then," Kim said.

"You'll need to sign a waiver stating that you are refusing medical treatment deemed..."

"I know about the waiver. Just bring it to me and I'll sign it." She walked out as both Kim and I were watching. She looked as good going as coming. We were mesmerized. She walked back in seconds later with the waiver. Kim signed it. "Now can you please unhook the IV," he said.

"Sure, sweetie." She unhooked it and slipped Kim a small piece of paper while smiling at him. Kim took his gown off, pulled his close out of the bag and got dressed. As we were walking out Kim looked at the piece of paper and smiled.

"She gave you her number, didn't she?" I said.

"Sure did."

"Lucky dog. That's a sweet piece of tale. How do you get so many hot women with those looks?"

"What are you saying, Jax? I'm not a hottie?"

"No, you're smokin' hot, dude. If I was gay, and we lived in West Virginia, I'm just sayin'." He laughed.

"That's disturbing," he said. "We have to go thank Clyde and say goodbye."

# Chapter 25

We got to Clyde's room and the curtain was closed.

"Are you decent, Clyde?" Kim said. There was no answer. "Clyde, can you hear me?" Still no answer. Kim ripped the curtain back and an orderly was standing over Clyde. We walked toward the bed and saw that the man was smothering Clyde with a pillow. Kim grabbed him, pulled him away and then snapped his right arm. He fell to the floor screaming.

"Kim, grab his ID and cell phone and any weapons he has!" I said. Clyde was unconscious. I looked at the monitor beside him and he was flat lining. "We need help in here immediately!" I yelled. The same nurse and another came rushing in and asked what happened after she saw the man grunting and writhing in pain on the floor. "Don't worry about him!" I said. "He just tried to kill my friend! Clyde isn't breathing!"

The nurse looked at the monitor, began to perform CPR and called out "code blue, I need a doctor in here immediately!" She continued the chest compressions as the other nurse bagged him. I was just standing there staring in disbelief. This can't be happening, I thought. This thing was supposed to be over. Finally, a doctor ran in and took control.

"How long has he been unconscious?" he said.

"Almost two minutes maybe," the nurse said. He grabbed the paddles and yelled, "clear" before shocking Clyde's chest. There was no response. He waited a moment and shocked him again. Still no response. He then continued CPR.

"Don't let him die!" I implored. He continued for another five minutes or so.

"I think he's gone," the doctor said.

"This man's an ex-FBI agent and hero!" I pleaded. "You can't let him die!"

"He's gone too long without oxygen," the doctor said. "He'll likely have severe brain damage at best."

"You don't know that for sure! Keep going!"

"Okay." He continued CPR for another five minutes. "I'm calling it," he said. "Even if we get a pulse he'll have no brain activity."

"Oh my God!" I said.

"Time of death 2305," the doctor said. I fell to my knees and yelled, "No, Clyde, you can't die on me!" Then I realized he was gone and there was nothing I could do. Tears began to stream down my face. I looked at Kim and he also began to cry. It was the first time I'd ever seen that.

"Jax, we have to go check on your dad," he said. "We don't know how many of these guys are in the hospital."

I just stayed there on my knees looking at Clyde. I couldn't believe he was dead. I didn't hear a word Kim said. Kim was quickly able to regain his composure, I'm assuming because he'd seen this kind of thing many times during his years with the Green Beret. He was trained to function at a high level during the most execrable circumstances. Since I was in shock, he took charge realizing the imminent danger we were in. He grabbed me and said, "We need to go check on your dad now!" I got up and we ran to my dad's room. He was lying there awake.

"Geno, we need to get the hell out of here as soon as possible," Kim said. "Hamas found out we're here. One of them, posing as an orderly, just killed Clyde."

"What?" my dad said in apparent disbelief.

"Clyde is dead," Kim said again.

"My God. How could this've happened?" He looked stunned. "How the hell did Hamas find out we're here?" I realized something and started feeling sick again.

"Dad, I might have made a horrible mistake. When I called Agent Willis earlier, what if he traced the call and somehow found out we were here? What if he's working for Hamas and called this man?"

"How long were you on the phone with him?" my dad said.

"Probably two minutes."

"Christ, what were you thinking?"

"The thought never even crossed my mind that he might be one of them. Oh my God. I might have gotten Clyde's killed." I walked into the bathroom and threw up. When I came back out my dad said, "Son, how could you let this happen? Haven't you learned anything over the last few days?"

"Dad, I'm so sorry." I didn't know what else to say. I wished I were dead.

"It was an honest mistake even a veteran law enforcement agent could've made," Kim said in my defense. "And it may have had nothing to do with Clyde's death. It's just speculation. They probably already knew we were here. Anyway, it's beside the point now."

"You're right, Kim," my dad said. "I'm sorry, Jax. You had no way of knowing. You're not responsible for Clyde's death. Those monsters are." I was still considering going to the roof of the hospital and jumping off.

"We need to get out of here now," Kim said before yelling, "We need help in here immediately!" The hot nurse came running in. "You need to lock down your hospital and notify security immediately," Kim said with urgency. "The hospital's been compromised by terrorists. The man in Clyde's room was an assassin posing as an orderly."

"What?" the nurse said with horror-filled eyes. "How do you know that?"

"He smothered Clyde and killed him," Kim said. "Mr. Wright and I saw it happen before I pulled him off Clyde and broke his arm. You need to go look at that man and see if he's on your staff. I'm certain he's not. Before you go, please unhook Mr. Wright's IV. We need to leave now. We're their target. As long as we're here everyone in this hospital is in danger." She unhooked the IV and ran from the room as my dad started getting dressed. The nurse rushed back in, panting, and said she'd never seen that man before, nor had the doctor who attended to Clyde.

"Did you notify security?" Kim asked.

"I'll do it now," she said.

"You also need to verify your staff and make sure everyone is accounted for, or if there are more employees in the hospital than those scheduled for today." The nurse hustled out of the room.

My dad finished dressing and Kim and I helped him from the room. We headed down the hallway looking for the nearest exit before we were stopped by security.

"Nobody is allowed to leave the hospital," one of them said.

"We're with the FBI," Kim said. "We're the target. What's the quickest way out of here besides the main entrance?"

"Can I see your IDs?" the same guard said. We all showed him our badges.

"Okay, just walk down to the end of the hall to the exit sign," the guard said. "You'll have to go down a flight of stairs. You'll be exiting from the west side of the building."

"Thanks," Kim said. We hurried toward the exit, Clyde and Kim raced down the stairs––I had to help my dad down so they had to wait a moment at the bottom––and we exited the hospital, looking for any signs of Hamas. We made it to the car. As we got in, we could hear sirens in the distance, I'm assuming the local police. I got behind the wheel. As soon as Kim and my dad got in and closed the doors I headed toward the exit. I drove toward the I-8 East onramp. We passed the police on the way. We made it to 8 and I started driving toward I-15 North. I took 15 to 52 East and headed toward I-5 North. I was still extremely shaken and distraught. I was having trouble focusing as I was trying to process Clyde's death. I'd never seen anyone die in front of me. And I felt responsible.

"Slow down, Jax," my dad said. "The speed limit is sixty-five." Apparently, I was going ninety and didn't even realize it. I slowed down.

"Sorry, I can't get the thought of seeing Clyde die out of my mind," I said. "I can't believe he's gone. How can this be happening? God's not supposed to let things like this happen."

"God has nothing to do with this," my dad said. "This kind of thing happens every day all over the world. If there's a God, his plan isn't to prevent bad things from happening, that's for sure. My best friend's dead. I was praying for all of you and what good did it do?"

My dad had lost his faith several years ago. He told me when I was sixteen or so that he didn't believe in God anymore, though he was raised a Catholic and went to church with us every Sunday before divorcing my mom. Something awful happened while he was with the bureau that convinced him God didn't exist, but he said he couldn't tell me what it was.

"Can you drop me off before you head to your sister's?" he said.

"Yeah," I said. When we got to his house on Taft Avenue and got out of the car we hugged and I struggled to hold back the tears. "Dad, I'm so sorry for your loss. Clyde was a great man and deserved a better fate. I take full responsibility for this. I hope you find it in your heart to someday forgive me."

"Son, in a war there are always casualties. We just learned that firsthand. Clyde died honorably and a hero. I'm devastated by the loss, but I'll be fine."

He wasn't as distraught as I would've expected, which I thought was unusual. And I don't think the reality of Clyde's death hit him yet. When it did, I prayed he had the fortitude to endure the pain and the compassion to forgive me because I knew he'd be bitter knowing I could've avoided this whole mess had I just gone to the security officer. I knew _I'd_ never forgive myself.

"Dad, get yourself to a hospital as soon as you can. I think you're safe now."

"Honestly, I don't give a crap anymore. If they want to come after me let 'em. I'm not going to live my life looking over my shoulder, and I'm not afraid to die."

I continued to get the sense that something didn't seem quite right with him. He was calm and visibly void of emotion. I just assumed he was in a semi state of shock or possibly denial because he'd just lost his best friend and didn't fully comprehend what was happening. Maybe it was the concussion.

"Dad, thanks again for having my back as always." I felt so guilty I didn't know what else to say. Nothing I could say could change what happened. "Dad, I love you more than anything in the world," is all I could muster.

"I love you too, son. Kim, thank you for risking your life for Jax and saving us all. It's tragic one of us had to die, but we knew going into this there was a good possibility of this happening. We're lucky it was only one of us. All I have to repay you with is my sincerest gratitude and respect."

"You owe me nothing, Geno. We're family and family looks out for one another. You actually saved me from drinking myself to death. You have my deepest sympathy for the loss of Clyde. He was a great man. Take care, Geno."

"You too. Call me when you get there, guys."

"We will," I said. He turned and limped up the steps toward his front door. I felt so guilty watching him. I began to cry again but told myself to man up. I'd have to live with this. There was no way around it other than doing the unthinkable. We left my dad's and started driving to my sister's place in Del Mar. I drove down to Garnet Avenue, made a right and headed toward 5. Then something occurred to me.

"Kim, look in the terrorist's cell and see who made the most recent call to him," I said.

"Okay." He took the cell from his pocket and opened it. It took him a couple minutes to figure out how to use it. "Okay, got it. The number is 858-325-9465."

"What?" I said, dumbstruck, as what he just said couldn't be possible. I must've misheard it. "Read it to me again."

"858-325-9465."

"That's impossible! Let me see it." He was right. I began to feel sick, pulled over to the side of the road, got out of the car and threw up, something that was becoming far too common.

"What the hell's going on, Jax? Whose number is that?"

"What?" I was disoriented and dizzy.

"You're pale as a ghost," Kim said.

"It's not possible," I said. "I think I'm gonna pass out."

"Just take some deep breaths and move around. Calm down." I did and I slowly started to regain my senses, but I still couldn't process what I'd just heard and seen. "Are you okay?" Kim said.

"I don't know. There has to be a logical explanation for this."

"Whose number is it?"

"I can't tell you. Get in the car."

"Why?" We got in and I started the car.

"There has to be some kind of mistake," I said, although anything was possible after seeing and hearing the evidence that was manufactured against me. "I need to find out what's going on." I made a U-turn.

# Chapter 26

"Where are we going?" Kim said.

"Back to my dad's."

"That was your dad's number?"

"Did I say that? I just need to talk to him and see if he can make sense of this."

"Whose number was it?"

"I don't know." I was lying because I didn't want him to know until I knew what was going on.

"That's a bunch of crap!" Kim said angrily. "You're obviously lying! Why won't you tell me?"

"Because what's happening isn't possible."

"What's happening? I don't understand."

"Dang it, Kim, quit asking me!" I shouted. "This is turning into a freakin' Abbott and Costello routine. I just need to talk to my dad!"

"All right. Relax. Jesus Christ." I could tell he was irate, as the vein in his forehead started to bulge. We got to my dad's and I parked on the street.

"Stay here, Kim," I said.

"Why can't I go with you?"

"Just stay in the car."

"What the hell's going on, Jax?"

"I don't have time to tell you. I'm going to find out right now."

I got out of the car and walked to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again and there was still no answer. I had a spare key so I let myself in. Apparently, Diane wasn't home. It was dark, and I walked through the small living room and kitchen and into my dad's bedroom. He was lying on the bed in the dark with his gun, the Glock-27, in his right hand, resting on his chest. There was a bottle of Jim Beam and a half-empty glass on the nightstand.

"Dad, what the hell's going on?" I said, terrified.

"Jax, what are you doing here?" he said mechanically.

"Why do you have a gun in your hand?" He didn't respond, just started crying. "Is it because of Clyde?" I said.

"Yes and no."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't deserve to live." He was despondent, his eyes glazed over.

"Why?" I said, perplexed.

"I'm too ashamed to tell you."

"Does it have something to do with this?" I handed him the cell phone.

"That's my number," he said. "Whose phone is that?"

"It belonged to the man who killed Clyde. Kim picked it up after breaking the guy's arm. What the hell's your number doing in his received calls? Is this why you're holding the gun? What the hell's going on? You have to confide in me so I can help you. I know there has to be a reasonable explanation for this. Were you trying to stop this man from killing Clyde? Do you know these men?" He paused as he grew pale.

"Yes," he said finally. I was stunned and began feeling dizzy again. I took a deep breath and continued talking––well, yelling actually.

"What the hell's going on here? I don't understand! Did you hire that man to kill Clyde and the rest of us?"

"Son, there's something I need to tell you..."

"Answer my question!" I said. "Did you hire that man to kill us?"

"Son, just let me explain." I held my tongue, praying for a logical explanation. There had to be; my dad wasn't a killer. "Back when I was working counter-terrorism––I think it was 1995––I volunteered to go deep under cover to infiltrate a terrorist cell and gather as much intel from them as possible," he said. "I befriended a member of a Hamas cell in New Mexico and they recruited me a couple weeks later. During the seventh month, I received a call. It was the man who recruited me telling me he knew I was working for the bureau. I vehemently denied it, but he had indisputable evidence. He said if I didn't continue working for them and agree to provide the FBI false intel and leads, they'd take your mother and begin sending pieces of her to me one at a time, and that you and your sister would be next."

"Why did you come to Yuma and bail me out?"

"Because you're my son, and I love you more than my own life. I wasn't going to let you be put to death. And I bailed you out under a false name so Hamas wouldn't know I was working against them. They didn't know I was in Yuma helping you. And I'd never seen any of the men working for that cell, and none of them had ever seen me as far as I know."

"Why the hell did you call that man and have him come to kill us?" I was seething.

"They called me and told me they'd discovered I'd been helping you and that if I didn't make the call they'd kill your mother, you and your sister," he said with lifeless eyes.

"But _I_ was in the hospital!"

"I told them you'd left the country," he pleaded. "They had no idea you were there, and I made sure you weren't checked in under your real name. I'd never let anything bad happen to you. You, your sister and my grandchildren are all I have left. I was doing what I thought was necessary to protect you from these animals."

"You're one of them!" I shouted. "You can rationalize it all you want!" Then I remembered something. At the hotel room a day earlier my dad received a call and said it was Diane before walking out into the hall. "The call you got in the hotel hours before we made the trade that you said was Diane; that was Hamas wasn't it?" I said. He paused.

"Yes," he said. "Please son. Tell me you forgive me."

I'd never been so angry and disgusted. My own father betrayed me in the worst possible way. Then something else occurred to me.

"Oh my God," I said. "The day they kidnapped Paul. You told them we were coming, didn't you? They knew. You bastard! We could've proven my innocence then and avoided everything that's happened since! Clyde would still be alive! And you had the audacity to make _me_ feel responsible for Clyde's death after I called Willis!"

"I'm so sorry, son."

"You're pathetic." I felt nothing but contempt, but he was still my father and I'm sure if he had it to do over again he would've done the right thing. I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead and held his arm. I was torn. I didn't know what to do. Should I try to grab the gun from him? My instinct, or some higher power, finally intervened and suddenly I knew the answer.

"Do what you need to do," I said, and walked away.

"Son, where are you going? I need you. Tell me you understand and you'll forgive me." I just kept walking. I opened the front door, walked out, closed it behind me and headed to the car and got in.

"What's going on?" Kim said.

"We got it all straightened out. That's all I'm saying right now."

"Who the hell's number was it?" He was livid. The vein in his forehead was bulging again.

"Dang it, Kim, just leave it alone! It doesn't matter anymore. We're going to Canada to start a new life, and nobody's going to stop us. I've wiped the slate clean. The past is the past and my new life is beginning."

"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "I don't get you. Your dad's number is in a terrorist's cell phone––the man who killed Clyde––and you're not going to tell me what the hell's going on? You owe me at least that much for helping you!"

"This conversation is over, Kim!"

He fired off a few expletives while I just ignored him.

# Chapter 27

I pulled away from my dad's house and we headed toward 5.

"Are we going to stop and see your sister?" Kim said.

"I don't want to risk being followed and get them tangled up in this mess," I said. "I'll call them later."

"You should call them now. They need to know you're okay, and so does your mom. She's probably hysterical right now."

"We need to get out of here and I don't want to get pulled over for talking on my cell. I'll call them later." I got on the 5 and we headed north toward a new life. We both were looking in the rear and side view mirrors all the way to LA to ensure we weren't being followed. "I think we can relax now," I said.

"Yeah," Kim said.

We took turns driving for eight-hour periods so each of us could sleep. The only stops we made were for gas, food and to take a piss or dump. Diane called two days after we left my dad's house and said he'd shot himself. She was sobbing. I prepared myself for this moment because I knew it was coming, but it still hit me like a ton of bricks. The reality of my dad actually being dead was a shock. Tears began to slowly run down my cheeks. But at the same time I knew in my heart that what happened was God's will. It gave me peace of mind. I also thought about my grandmother and grandfather and how some justice had finally been delivered on their behalf.

"Oh my God!" I said, feigning disbelief. "That's impossible! He was fine the last time I saw him!"

"It's true," Diane said. "He left a note saying he couldn't live any longer with the guilt of knowing what he'd been doing the last fifteen years. He explained everything. Were you aware his cover was blown while he was in the FBI and he was forced to work for Hamas to save the lives of you and the rest of your family?"

"No. I can't believe this. I can't believe he's gone. I thought this nightmare was over, but now I know it'll never be over as long as Hamas and others like them are still out there."

"His funeral is...is Friday," she said, still crying. "I understand if you can't make it given the circumstances." She was sobbing again but after a moment continued. "He also said in the note that in his will, all of his money was going to be split between you and your sister. He said how sorry he was for letting you down and that he loved you more than his own life."

"Diane, I'm sorry, I'm too distraught to talk to you right now. I won't be able to attend the funeral. It'd put everyone there in danger. I'm so sorry. I have to go."

"I understand," she said, still crying. "Take care of yourself."

"You too."

"Your dad is dead?" Kim said, stunned. "What the hell?"

"Yes. He shot himself."

"Tell me what the hell's going on, Jax!"

"He told me when we got to his house that he was working deep cover and had infiltrated a Hamas cell and that his cover was blown six months later," I said calmly. "Hamas kidnapped my mother and threatened to kill her, my sister and me if he didn't continue to work with them. He said he would so they let my mom go. He's been helping them since. He said Hamas ordered him to call the man who killed Clyde and who was going to kill you. When I talked to him he had a gun in his hand resting on his chest. He explained everything. He said he had to relieve himself of this burden, and I could see in his eyes there was nothing I could say or do to stop him from doing the inevitable, so I walked away."

"Are you out of your mind?" Kim said, looking at me as if he'd already made that conclusion. "Why didn't you stop him? He was trying to protect you and your family!"

"I know. But I couldn't continue to let him help Hamas kill innocent people, including Americans. He was a traitor and murderer. He wasn't the man we thought he was. He was my father and I'll always love him, but if I'd stopped him two days ago he would've done it later. If you saw the look in his eyes you'd know what I mean. Believe me, it was the hardest decision I ever had to make, but it was the right one."

"I can't believe this crap," Kim said. "This's been the worst week of my life. You and I are the only ones still alive."

"I know. We're just going to have to move forward; we can't change the past."

"How are you so composed after just hearing that kind of news?"

"I don't know," I said. "I just feel like this is all part of God's plan."

"God's plan? What a bunch of bull! Was Clyde's death part of God's plan?"

"Only God could answer that question." That was a _good_ question actually. I'd been struggling with that paradox for several years and even more so over the past four days. Some things were just inexplicable. God works in mysterious ways, but I know he was there helping me this entire time. If he wasn't I'd be dead or would've had a nervous breakdown. I wasn't Jack Bauer for Christ's sake. Before all this I was an average person who was afraid of the thought of dying and of loved ones and friends dying. I'd had a couple friends die and I was a complete wreck and in therapy for several months each time. But now I was at peace despite the hell I'd been through. Either that or I was just an emotionless shell. I wasn't in as much pain emotionally as I would've expected. And I wasn't afraid of death anymore. The fact that I was still alive was truly a miracle. So too was the fact that I wasn't sitting in a prison cell waiting to be convicted of espionage and murder and ultimately put to death. There's no way I had the mental fortitude to do what I did the past few days and handle the deaths of my father and Clyde without the help of a higher power. I thought about Clyde's death for a moment and something occurred to me. "Think about it, Kim," I said. "Clyde died a hero rather than in disgrace at the hands of some bookie. I'd bet my left nut he'd rather be remembered that way."

Kim hesitated before looking at me with a hint of fear, as if he might be sitting next to a lunatic. "How can you be so cavalier about it?" he said. "I think you've lost your mind."

"I don't think cavalier is the right word choice, but yeah, maybe I have."

"Dang, you're really starting to scare me."

"I'm the last person you should be afraid of," I said. We arrived at Birch Bay two days later on Monday at around 11 am. It was snowing and cold as hell, probably in the mid-twenties.

"I just need to pack my stuff," Kim said as we pulled into the driveway of his small, one-story Victorian-style house––nothing fancy, but it overlooked the bay, which made it worth a fortune. "There isn't much," he said. "I'll just get the essentials and we can come back and get the rest later."

"Okay." Kim got out of the car and jogged toward his front door. Moments later, he walked out with a large duffle bag. "That was quick," I said.

"Berets always have a week's worth of travel supplies ready in case of an emergency," he said as he got in the car. I pulled out of the driveway, drove to the freeway and headed toward Canada. We got to the border and showed our passports and IDs. I began to drive away from the station.

"Kim, where's the nearest hospital?"

"Why? I don't need a hospital! I just need some rest."

"Kim, I'm taking you to the hospital whether you like it or not. You aren't thinking straight. And you aren't in your twenties anymore. Unless you put a gun to my head or are willing to jump from a moving car, you're going to the freakin' hospital." Knowing him, he'd probably jumped from a moving car at some point in his life. I looked over to see if he had his hand on the door handle. He noticed and said, "What, you think I'm crazy enough to jump out of a moving car?"

"I don't know, man. Knowing you, you probably could do it without even getting hurt."

"What, you think I'm some kind of super hero?"

"If you can play a quarter and a half of football with a broken neck and save us all from certain death earlier you're capable of doing just about anything."

"Well, I'm human, flesh and blood just like you," he said. "I can't stand hospitals."

"Well get over it because you're going to be there a while. Now where's the nearest one?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Okay, I'll just use my cell phone navigator," I said.

"A-hole!" He was pissed but must've realized there was no way out. "It's about two and a half miles northwest of here. Son of a..." I cut him off.

"I'll check you in and you're going to stay the three to four days the doctor at Grossmont said you needed."

"Fine." He could tell I wasn't going to budge. I know he had no intention of staying there that long and was just appeasing me.

"After I drop you off and see that you're admitted, I'll get us a hotel until we can find an apartment," I said. He just grunted something unintelligible Clint Eastwood style.

We got to the hospital and walked into the emergency room. I told Kim to sit. I went to the reception area and let them know I had an FBI agent that needed immediate treatment; that he'd been patched up at another hospital so he could continue doing his job and that he was told to check into a hospital as soon as possible when he was done.

"What's the extent of his injuries?" the woman asked.

"He was shot in the right arm and in the back of his left shoulder, but he was only grazed by that bullet," I said.

"How's he feeling right now?"

"He's a real tough guy so unless a limb is missing he'll always say he's fine. But he doesn't look fine. He's pale and has a dazed look in his eyes. He's also acting irrational." I made sure he could hear me because his whining was really getting on my nerves. I could hear him call me an a-hole again. So could she. "See what I mean?" I said. She nodded.

"Okay, someone will be out shortly," she said.

"Now they're going to want to take me to the psych ward, jerk off," Kim said.

"Get over it, Kim." That vein was bulging again. I'm pretty sure he was about to grab me, but an orderly came out with a wheel chair just in time.

"I don't need that stupid thing," Kim said obstinately.

"Okay," the orderly said, somewhat taken aback. "Just follow me." They went into the interior waiting room and I was close behind. I sat with him listening to him piss and moan for about fifteen minutes before a nurse came in with a gurney.

"Thank God," I said. "I was about to take out my gun and shoot him he was being such a pain in the butt."

"What do you expect, Jax? This is the third hospital I've been to in four days. It's déjà vu all over again."

"That's an oxymoron, idiot. Now do you understand why I brought you here? You're not thinking straight."

"Piss off," he said as the door closed behind him.

"Right back at ya, pal. And you're welcome."

I left the hospital, got in the car and clicked on hotels on my cell phone navigator. I went to the nearest one, a Marriott. Again, I checked in under a false name. This time it was a normal one, Keith Snellinger. There was nothing humorous about the situation anymore. After all that'd happened the last four days nothing was going to be funny again for a long time. My life was in complete shambles. After I went to my room, I went back down to the reception desk. I asked the concierge where the nearest drugstore, grocery store and department store were. He told me and gave me directions. They were all within two miles.

I went to Walgreens first and got all the toiletries I needed and other bare essentials. Then I went to the department store. All I had with me were the pants, underwear, socks and shirt I'd been wearing since I was arrested. It was still snowing and getting colder so I needed a heavy jacket, some long johns, an umbrella, gloves and a beanie. I got enough clothes for a week and headed to the grocery store where I got enough food for a week. I went outside and bought a newspaper so I could start looking for apartments as soon as I got back to the hotel.

I drove back to the hotel and went to my room. It was clean at least, and fairly good sized with two queen beds. I spent the next hour or so looking at apartments for rent. I finally found something that looked good and was in close proximity to the hotel. It was a two-bedroom apartment, fourteen hundred square feet, in a brand new complex that was reasonably priced and had all the amenities Kim and I would need––a washer and drier in the apartment, a workout room, Jacuzzi and swimming pool. I got into bed and just stared at the ceiling. I was so tired I couldn't see straight, but all I could think about was my father. Now I was angry but also a little sad at the same time. Oh God, I thought. Maybe it _is_ going to hit me. I prayed to God to give me the strength to handle it if it did. Maybe I _was_ just in denial earlier. I'd become a master of denial. After a couple hours of worrying, I finally dozed off. It was 5 pm. I didn't wake up until 9 pm the next day. I thought it was the same day, but I looked at my watch and it was Tuesday.

"Christ," I said. The last few days must've caught up with me. I'd never slept that long in my life.

I went to the hospital to see Kim but he was incorrigible, saying he was only staying another day, but I talked to the nurse, told her I was his superior and made it clear he needed to remain there as long as necessary. Because he was being such a jackass, I only spent a few minutes there and left.

"Call me when you get discharged you miserable bastard," I said as I walked out.

"Screw you, Jax!" His words didn't surprise me at all, nor did they bother me. He called two days later and said they were releasing him. He apologized for his earlier behavior and admitted I was right. Plus his nurse was a hottie, he said, so it wasn't so bad.

"Man, you've had some good luck with the nurses lately," I said. "They've all been smokin' hot. By the way, I don't like hospitals any more than you do. I'll be there in a few minutes. Did this one give you her number?"

"No. She had a ring on her finger."

"That's too bad. The other one really does you no good since we're three thousand miles away."

"Now you're just rubbing salt in my wounds."

"Payback's a...well you know the rest," I said with a sense of pleasure.

After I arrived at the hospital and picked him up, I drove us back to the hotel. I told him about the apartment I found and he said it sounded good.

"Do they have a good fitness room?" he said.

"Yeah, it's almost gym quality. It has free weights and Nautilus." We went and checked the place out and it was even nicer than I'd expected. "What do you think?" I said.

"I like it. Let's take it." We went to the office and signed a month-to-month lease before heading back to the hotel, checking out and moving into our new home. Kim contacted his friends and told them he wanted to open up the sports bar he'd been talking about the last fifteen years. They were stunned, as they never thought he'd actually do it. He managed to recruit enough investors to get the necessary cash. We began scouting potential locations. We found a perfect spot with a building for rent about two miles from the border. It was about as big as a Buffalo Wild Wings, but needed some renovation.

We drew up a design and hired some contractors to do the work. Meanwhile, we got our business and liquor licenses and bought fifteen forty-four-inch plasma TVs and two enormous big-screen TVs. We also spent ten grand on advertising and hired some bartenders and waitresses––hot waitresses of course, mostly from Kim's group of friends he swore all looked like super models. He wasn't exaggerating. And Natasha was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. I couldn't even put a sentence together when I first met her, but soon we became friends and then lovers. We decided no strings attached for now, though. About two weeks into the renovation I asked Kim what we were going to name the place.

"I was thinking Kim's Sports Bar and Grill," he said.

"What the hell? You're a glory hound. I put just as much money into this as you. And that's such a generic name. How long has that idea been rattling around in that empty skull."

"But it was my idea and I got all the investors."

"After all we've been through together, you're going to be a selfish jerk?"

"Okay, let's hear some of your names," he said.

"The Wright, spelled with a W-R, Stuff Sports Bar and Grill." I was just trying to get back at him, so as soon as the words left my mouth I knew what was coming.

"You're a real piece of work," he said.

"Let's come up with a bipartisan name, something original and clever," I said. "This is an extremely important decision in terms of marketing this place, seriously. We really need to think about this." We bounced some ideas off each other, but we couldn't agree on anything. I thought Survivors Sports Bar and Grille. That definitely captured what we were. But then I considered those who survived far worse––cancer patients; Holocaust survivors; people in New Orleans; people in Japan after the quake, tsunami and nuclear fallout; people falsely imprisoned for fifteen years (I was specifically thinking of the West Memphis Three). Making any kind of comparison between what we survived and what those people went through would be a disservice to them. We survived, yes, but what made it all truly special was that four ordinary men took extraordinary measures and showed practically superhuman courage to clear an innocent man's name, all by choice. Any or all of my brothers in arms could've said no, and _I_ could've waited for my trial. But instead, we managed to do the impossible and take out a significant part of a terrorist cell hell bent on creating a second Holocaust. We may have saved Israel and America, and who knows, maybe the world. How do I sum up everything we accomplished in one or two words? I thought. Come on, you're a technical writer. This is what you do. Finally it hit me.

"Patriots' Pub," I said.

"You nailed it," Kim said. "It's perfect. You're a genius." I was starting to believe I was.

About two and a half months later, after we made our last hire, we had our grand opening. It was an overwhelming success, far exceeding our expectations. Word spread quickly and within two months the place was packed virtually every night. We were like rock stars, signing autographs and drunken women's tits. It only took three months for us to break even, and after that we were making money hand over fist.

"I knew this would work," Kim said. "That's the only thing I didn't like about this place when I came up here. They didn't have a decent sports bar. Not only does it have one now, but it's ours. _I_ even started doubting this would ever happen. We're set my man."

"Boo yeah," I said. We bumped fists. But what should've been a joyful occasion was dampened by the emotional pain I was feeling. As time passed, I could no longer ignore what'd happened just a few months earlier. I was starting to feel the loss of my father, even though I despised him, and Clyde, and the guilt that came with knowing I triggered it all.

Kim and I got hammered after closing time to celebrate our newfound success, and to dull my pain. It was around 2 am. We walked out of the bar afterward and toward the car. It was raining and cold as usual. It was always raining there. There were maybe two or three days since we'd been there when it _wasn't_ raining. I actually liked it. I was so tired of sunny day after sunny day in Yuma. I was three sheets to the wind but my common sense kicked in.

"Kim, you aren't driving," I said.

"The hell I'm not! We're only a couple miles away!"

"Kim, give me the keys; you're drunk."

"I drive better when I'm drunk!" He was slurring his words.

"Everyone says that, but it's bull crap," I said sternly. "You don't need to ruin the best night of your life with a DUI or by killing someone. Give me the keys!"

"Screw you!" he retorted.

"Don't make me come over there and take them."

"Are you serious? I'd crush you into a fine powder." I walked over to him. He took a swing at me and missed by two feet. He tried again, but I ducked and kneed him in the groin. Those self-defense tactics my dad taught me actually came in handy. He dropped to the ground and began crying like a baby. "Jesus Christ," he said while in the fetal position holding his crotch. "You bastard!"

"Hey man, all you had to do was give me the keys." I called a cab. By the time it arrived Kim was up and still cursing at me. We got in the cab and headed back to our apartment.

"Don't think this is over between us," he said.

"Whatever." We got there, paid the driver and walked to our apartment. When we got inside I got a bag and put some ice in it. "Here, Kim. I think you'll be needing this." He took the bag and threw it across the room. It struck our new forty-six-inch, flat-screen TV, cracking it. "You SOB!" I yelled. "You're unbelievable! What the hell are you thinking? You're buying the next one!"

"Sorry, man," he said sheepishly.

"Ya know, Kim, just get the hell out of my sight!" He went to his bedroom and slammed the door. It's like living with a child, I thought. The TV still worked at least so I began watching _The Day After Tomorrow_ on HBO before dozing off about a third of the way through. Disaster movies were like watching _Bambi_ after what I'd been through.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs. Kim was trying to make up for breaking the TV and acting like a horse's hind quarters I guess.

"How do you like your eggs, Jax?" I was still so hung over.

"Huh?" I said.

"How do you like your eggs?"

"Not black and blue."

"That's not funny."

"Okay, scrambled."

"That's not funny either."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Then I realized what he meant and laughed. "Man, is that how they feel?" I said. "You better not be putting something in my eggs."

"No, you'll pay for last night, but not right now."

"Man, if I get sick after eatin' those eggs I'll cut off what's left of your balls."

"The only reason I didn't crush you like an ant last night is because I was so drunk I saw two of you," Kim said brashly.

"Yeah, I know." Thank God he swung at my doppelganger the first time. Dostoevsky was a brilliant writer, one of my all-time favorites, and _The Double_ was a literary masterpiece. I read all his work in college. The premise of _The Double_ is that each of us has an identical twin, what he dubbed a doppelganger, not by conventional means (via birth, that is), but more like an exact replica with the same genetic makeup, somewhere in the world.

After Kim and I ate, we started watching _The Forty-Year-Old Virgin_ on Blu-ray on our cracked TV. We were both still too hung over to go to the bar. I was craning my neck to get a better view. Kim looked over and noticed.

"What's wrong?" he said. "You getting a glare?"

"No, it's just that big, jagged crack. It's right in the way." I was merely trying to make a point because it was annoying the hell out of me that he was sitting there as if nothing had happened.

"Okay, I'll get the new TV today," he said begrudgingly. "Jesus Christ."

"Darn straight you will."

"I'm going to call a cab so we can head to the bar," he said.

"Okay." My head was still throbbing.

# Chapter 28

It was three months later, Wednesday, June 25th, after closing time. Kim and I were cleaning the bar. I was drying a beer mug with a rag while he was sweeping the floor behind the bar when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?" I said.

"Jax, this is your grandfather."

"Give me a second, grandpa. Kim, I'll be back in a minute." I went outside and walked around to the side of the building. "What's up, grandpa?"

"I just want to let you know how sorry I am about the loss of your father. I also offer my deepest condolences for the loss of you and your father's friend and for having to go through that horrible mess. I followed it all on the news. I prayed for you every night. I was so relieved when your coworker confessed to the crimes. You must've gone through hell."

"Thanks, grandpa. It's been rough. I lay awake at night thinking about my dad. I understand why he did what he did. But I still can't justify it and I'll never forgive him. Yet I still love him and often feel pain and guilt that I did nothing to prevent his death. Does it make me a bad person that I never grieved for him like a son should when his father dies?" I didn't tell him what else was keeping me up at night. It'd only upset him and make the situation worse.

"No, Jax, not at all," he said. "What your father did was an abomination. He was an evil man." That didn't sound like something my grandfather would say, but considering what my dad was doing made it understandable. "But you'll likely continue to feel some pain the rest of your life, and guilt too."

"What's the latest on David?" I said.

"We've completed about sixty percent of the fabrication. We've been working through the night. I just pray we finish in time."

"Me too. Another Holocaust would be the biggest atrocity in history. There are only approximately twelve million Jews left on earth. The population of one city, Shanghai, is almost twice that number. It's mind-boggling. I'll do everything in my power to help you."

"I know you will, Jax. When is Mike going to get us more intel?"

"I should get it soon. Like I said, grandpa, he needs to be extremely discreet. I'll scan the next batch and email it to you the second I get it."

"Thank you, Jax. Tell him I appreciate his help."

"I will. I heard you guys bought some time by hacking into their nuclear reactor and making them think their Plutonium was spinning at the proper rate. Didn't it take them like five or six months to figure out why nothing was happening?"

"Yeah. They're not the smartest bastards in the world, but now that they have Goliath it won't really matter. Time's not on our side." I'd never heard my grandfather curse before. He was always such a gentleman and so soft hearted. It sounded strange, but again, he must've been feeling the pressure.

"Grandpa, you know I love my country (I was talking about America), but my undying allegiance will always be to Israel, especially since the day you told me grandma died in the Holocaust. There are a growing number of people in America and other countries that believe it never even happened. Paul was one of those people. That's a slap in the face to you, who managed to survive, grandma, God rest her soul, and all the rest of the Jews who died in such a horrific manner that I can't even begin to contemplate. It sickens me. If there's any justice in the world, that bastard Paul will rot in hell for eternity."

"Honestly Jax, it hurts as much now as it did sixty-seven years ago whenever I think about it. I would've taken her place if I could. I have to go now. Thank you, Jax, and God be with you."

"You too, grandpa. I love you."

Right after I hung up I heard what sounded like a gunshot from inside the bar. I ran inside and saw Kim on the ground in front of the bar. I ran up to him and he was unconscious. I leaned down to see if he was breathing. He wasn't. He was shot in the chest and there was a lot of blood.

"Oh my God," I said before getting on my knees and dialing 9-1-1. When I was connected, I cried out, "My cousin's been shot! He's unconscious and isn't breathing!"

"What's your name and location, sir?" the dispatcher said. I told him my name and the address. "Do you know how to administer CPR?" the woman asked.

"Yes, I've already started it," I said frantically.

"An ambulance is on the way as we speak. Is he breathing yet?"

"No, nothing." I was in near shock. I continued CPR for the next few minutes but there was no response. "Don't die on me, Kim." I had to put the thought of losing him out of my mind. I didn't think I could take it. The paramedics will revive him, I tried to convince myself. The ambulance arrived and paramedics rushed in. I raised my hand and yelled, "Over here!"

"We'll take it from here, sir," one of them said. "How long has he been unconscious and not breathing?"

"About five minutes, I think."

They wheeled a gurney in as one of the paramedics continued to perform CPR. They got him on the gurney and rushed him to the ambulance. I asked if I could ride with him. They said yes. With sirens blaring, we headed toward the hospital, which was approximately five minutes away. Kim still wasn't breathing. They shocked his chest. No response. They shocked it again. Still no response. This can't be happening, I thought.

"God, please don't let him go," I prayed out loud. "I'm not strong enough to endure another loss, especially Kim." They kept working on him but there was no response. "He's dead isn't he?" I couldn't ignore the reality anymore.

"Mr. Wright, I'm not going to lie to you," one of the paramedics said. "It doesn't look good. I don't think he can survive much longer without oxygen to his brain, but we'll be at the hospital in a minute. They'll be able to assess his condition better." They continued the CPR, but there was still no sign of life.

"Come on, Kim, breathe!" I implored.

We got to the hospital and they wheeled him into the emergency room as I followed close behind. When we arrived at a room a doctor grabbed the paddles and shocked his chest again. Nothing was changing. I knew he was going to die at that point. I began to cry. If he died it might just push me over the edge. After approximately ten minutes of trying to revive him, the doctor pronounced him dead. I just stood over him in utter despair, bawling like a baby. I didn't know what I was going to do. Every person that'd agreed to help me was dead. I couldn't help but wonder why I was the only one left. At that moment, I'd have taken any of their places. That decision was a no-brainer now.

I should've just waited for my trial and hoped for an acquittal. Even if I was convicted and sent to death row that would've been better than this. At least my father, cousin and my dad's best friend would be alive. I asked God why he'd put me through so much pain when I was wrongfully arrested for two heinous crimes. I deserved better. He could take _my_ life; I could handle that. I reached out and held Kim's hand for a moment and then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

"I'm so sorry, Kim," I said as my tears dripped onto his face. "I love you more than anything in the world. I'll see you in heaven."

I was thinking of killing myself. I called a cab and left the hospital. I went back to our apartment. When I got there I sat on the couch and just stared at the wall. I had my gun in my hand and I was just waiting until I could muster the courage to put it in my mouth and end this nightmare. I sat there for more than an hour, but I couldn't do it. I downed enough Nyquil to put an elephant to sleep and dozed off at around 3 am. The next morning I woke up at around 11 am. For a brief moment I was fine until I realized what'd just happened the night before. The pain was so intense I reached over to my nightstand, opened the top drawer, took my gun out and put it to my head. I was going to pull the trigger this time. But I thought about my promise to my grandfather. I had to gut this out. I could finish the job later. I started praying to God but then wondered, What's the point? I'd been doing all this praying yet I kept enduring one disaster after another. When the hell was he going to step in and give me a hand? Maybe it _was_ all me that regained my freedom earlier, like my dad said. Maybe it wasn't divine intervention and I was capable of doing things I never imagined were possible.

Honestly, I didn't know if I believed in God anymore. I had a lot of time to think about it over the past several months. I thought he had a plan for me and that he put me in this position for a reason, perhaps to save Israel. But what I'd done had probably made Hamas an even bigger threat to Israel. Had I turned Paul in after that initial conversation, even though he wasn't feeding them Goliath, perhaps none of this would've happened. Maybe the increased security that would've likely resulted from that incident could've stopped Hamas from acquiring the unthinkable. Where was God then? Why did he allow me to let my emotions cloud my judgment and make a decision that set this cataclysmic series of events in motion? I couldn't think of any logical reason how any of this was helping anyone. I'd lost everyone, and Israel was on the verge of annihilation.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't rationalize how a compassionate and loving God could let these things happen. There's more evil in the world than there is good. I started to believe that if there _was_ a God, all he did was create this world, shake it up like a snow globe and sit back with his hands in his lap just watching. What other reasonable conclusion was there? My grandmother, and millions of others, died in gas chambers. How could God let _that_ happen? Then I thought about my dad. These are the questions my dad was probably struggling with after his cover was blown. I understood now how he could lose his faith.

Once I'd convinced myself God no longer existed, I began to think about what I was going to do next. I realized there was no way I was going to be able to sleep in my current state of mind so I got up, put some warm clothes on, left my room and walked toward my car. The rain had let up a bit but it was cold as hell. I got in the car and headed to downtown Victoria, looking in my rearview mirror the entire way. I made a few turns and nobody was behind me. I turned on to Michigan Street and pulled over to the side of the road when I saw some young men I suspected might be drug dealers. They were two black guys, both wearing jeans five sizes too big riding halfway down their butts, revealing their boxers. One had a Washington Nationals cap on backwards with the tags still on it. He was tall, maybe six foot three, and slim. The other was a big, husky guy a couple inches shorter. He also had a baseball cap on, Phillies, but his was turned sideways. Both of them had jackets and gloves on. I could see their breath. They looked at me as I pulled up. I opened the window.

"Hey, you guys have any drugs?" I said.

"What, cuz we black you assume we dealin', white boy?" Apparently, I'd offended him. "What you doing in this neighborhood so late? You crazy?"

"Probably," I said matter-of-factly.

"You believe this guy?" he said to his friend. The big guy looked in my eyes.

"Look at his eyes," he said. "He looks crazy, man."

"I should put a cap in him," the thin guy said as he opened his jacket and showed me his gun, a Croatian-made HS2000, a beautiful firearm and one of my personal favorites. Jesus Christ, even the street thugs are packing some high-quality heat, I thought. He didn't pull it on me, just wanted to show he was "the man" or something. I didn't give a crap. I actually preferred he shoot me.

"Look, you have anything or not because I don't have time for this crap?" I said. "I'll just keep driving until I find another seller."

"Man, I can't believe this cracker. He don't even look scared. Yeah, I have some stuff. What you looking for?"

"Weed, crack, coke, meth, whatever. I don't care. Give me some of everything you got."

"Hells yeah, man. I got everything you need. Be right back." He certainly wasn't a master linguist, I mused. He walked across the street to his car and opened the passenger door and then the glove compartment. He pulled out three or four small bags before walking back to my car. He had a crack pipe, some coke, heroin, meth and a needle. Then his cell phone rang. "...It's bananas, "B-a-n-a-n-a-s..." It was Gwen Stefani. He fumbled around for his phone but couldn't find it. The song just kept playing. It was awkward and funny at the same time. He finally found it and shut it off. "My girl's been playin' with my phone again," he said. "Whore. _I_ didn't put that on there." His friend started laughing. "What you laughin' at, punk? Maybe I should put a cap in your sorry butt." He turned back to me trying to look cool but I could see the shame in his eyes. I almost felt sorry for him. He was probably just dealing because his dad was in prison and his mom was on crack or something, and he was trying to make a living the only way he knew how. He had to play the tough guy role, I suspect, if he wanted to survive in his world. "This what you lookin' for?" he said.

"Yeah, I'll take it all."

"This dude's crazy," he said, looking at his friend. "Okay, you got four bills?" I pulled my gun out and pointed it at his head.

"Give it to me now or I'll blow your head off," I said.

He'd put away his gun and his buddy either wasn't armed or didn't want to get involved. I suspected the latter; he looked scared.

"Who you think you talkin' to?" the closet Gwen Stefani fan said.

"I don't care if you're Mother Theresa. Give me the product or I'll blow your brains out." I said it calmly before disengaging the lock. Now he knew I wasn't messing around.

"Okay, man, take it easy," he said as he handed the bags to me. "But this ain't over."

"Bang," I said as he and his buddy cringed. "Now it is." I lowered my gun and drove away.

"You're a dead man!" I could hear him yell. I couldn't get that nonsensical song out of my head so I cranked up Coldplay, "The Scientist," one of my favorites. I loved how lead singer, Chris Martin, said the word "progress" with the hard "o," letting the listener know he was from across the Atlantic. Now I had "The Scientist" stuck in my head, but at least it was a vast improvement.

When I got back to my apartment it was raining harder and was even colder, and I jogged to the door. When I was inside I took off my jacket, wiped myself dry with a towel and did a line of coke. I chased it with several large swigs of Nyquil, like three times the recommended dose, and then my head was empty and I fell asleep within half an hour. When I woke up at around 9 am Thursday morning I wished I hadn't. I was groggy as hell and wanted to die more than ever. Then I thought again about Israel and the promise I made to my grandfather. These were the only things keeping the bullet in the chamber. Plus the coke. Then my cell rang. It was my mom. We'd been talking a couple times a week since I'd been in Canada.

"Jax, how are you?" she said.

"Not good. What are you doing up so late?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was worried about you."

"Mom, I have to tell you something. Are you sitting down?"

"Yes. What is it, Jax?" I could hear the trepidation in her voice.

"Kim is dead. Hamas killed him."

"Oh my God." She started crying. "Jax, I'm so sorry. When did this happen?"

"Early this morning."

"Oh my God," she said again, sobbing now. It took her a moment before she regained her composure. "Why didn't you call when it happened?"

"I couldn't even admit it to myself let alone you. Mom, it's awful, I know, but it's going to be okay." She was still sobbing.

"Are you safe?" she said when she was able to talk again.

"Yes." I had to tell her what any mother would want to hear. I was a sitting duck.

"Are you still seeing your therapist?" she asked.

"Yeah." I _had_ to perpetuate the lie I'd told her earlier.

"Is it helping?"

"Yeah, I think so, but this is a major setback."

"You don't sound right."

"I'm just tired," I said. "I haven't been sleeping much."

"I'm worried about you, Jax. You aren't thinking about harming yourself, are you?" There was a pause. "Oh, your Aunt Margaret is calling."

"Take it, mom. I'm sure it's about Kim." Margaret was Kim's mom and my aunt. God, this was awful. I sat there crying. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was my mom, and she was crying again.

"Jax, Kim's funeral is Friday," she said. "Brenda, Harvey, the kids and Eddie and I are flying up tomorrow night. Obviously the Fourth of July party has been cancelled. Margaret is completely distraught. This is heartbreaking. After the funeral I'm going to come stay with you."

"Mom, you guys can't come," I said after she forced my hand. "Hamas is here and it'll put all your lives in danger because I'm sure they're coming for me next. I know you want to go to the funeral but Kim would tell you the same thing. Under no circumstances can you come here right now."

"Oh my God. You need to go to the police immediately. They can protect you."

"Honestly, I've already taken measures to protect myself. You all coming up here might jeopardize what I've done." I was lying, of course. I was actually _hoping_ Hamas would find and kill me.

"What did you do?" she said.

"I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"I just can't," I said firmly. "Maybe another time. You just have to trust me and do as I say. I'll call the FBI in San Diego to stop you if you insist on coming."

"What does the FBI in San Diego have to do with this?"

"I can't tell you the details, mom. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"This is ridiculous, Jax!" Her maternal instinct was full throttle. "No one who's been through the kind of hell you have can handle it alone. When your grandmother died when I was a child I wanted to die. Your grandfather didn't believe in therapy, thought I'd be labeled mentally ill. I cried myself to sleep every night for six months before the pain gradually began to subside. My father just told me grieving was natural and God would take care of me. But I should've been in therapy. The pain took away part of my soul. I haven't been the same since because I never learned how to deal with it in a healthy manner. But at least I had my father. You're alone and only talk to your therapist a couple times a week." I wish that were true. She was making me feel guilty. "You need companionship," she continued. "I don't think Kim's death has hit you yet, and that time will come, and when it does the grief is going to start all over again."

"I know, mom, but I can't put you in danger. I _won't_ put you in danger."

"Jax, give me your address..." I hung up. She and my sister and her family were all I had left. I wasn't about to lose anyone else. I began crying again as the memories began flooding back. It was like the Hoover Dam broke. My phone started ringing repeatedly. It was my mom, so I shut it off. I did another line and got in bed and stared at the ceiling, again with my gun in my hand, but after contemplating for a while I began to relax and fell asleep. It was like 10 am. I woke up at around 3 pm. At first I didn't recognize where I was I was so out of it. The emotional and physical pain was getting worse so I finally made an appointment with a psychologist for Friday morning before doing another line of coke. Then I went to the bathroom and wrapped a piece of rubber tightly around my lower bicep, tied it off, found a vein and injected some heroin. I'd only done it once in my life in college. I just couldn't take this anymore. Almost instantly I was feeling better than I had in a while. I still didn't want to mess with the meth, but by Sunday I was cooking some up. The next several days were literally a blur.

On Thursday, a week after Kim's death, I received more intel regarding David. I scanned it and emailed it to my grandfather who emailed me back, thanking me and letting me know fabrication was at about seventy-five percent. I responded that we'd get him more as soon as possible and asked that he be patient. He expressed concern but knew the situation was beyond his control.

When I awoke Friday morning, I did a few lines of coke before heading to my shrink appointment. The doctor couldn't believe I'd waited so long to seek therapy after I told her my story. She didn't realize I was the one who made all the headlines in the news several months ago. I told her she couldn't say a word to anyone or it would likely get me killed. She said she'd never betray doctor-client confidentiality. Besides, if she did she'd lose her license. I started seeing her a couple times a week, but without the drugs, talking to someone about problems of this magnitude was entirely useless, and I wasn't about to stop taking the drugs; thus, seeing her was pointless. But she had nice tits, so I kept my appointments.

With the money I received from my dad's inheritance and was making at the bar I decided to find a place to live in Birch Bay. It was expensive but I had more than enough money. I found a place about five hundred yards from the bay. It was a small, Victorian-style house––about twelve hundred square feet––with two bedrooms, but it was enough for me.

# Chapter 29

We're all equipped with a coping mechanism that allows us to deal with unimaginably horrible things. Otherwise, suicide would be the number one cause of death in the world. But my coping mechanism wasn't quite cutting it anymore. I'd been through far too much emotionally. Thank God for liquor and drugs. I'd ramped them up as my body started building a tolerance. They gave me the capacity to not care about anything. And I needed that desperately right now. When I came to therapy days later and was rambling incoherently, a la Charlie Sheen, my therapist put two and two together and referred me to a rehab center. When I refused to go she dropped me as a patient. Screw her, I thought, and her silicon tits. But man were they amazing.

I was so wasted most of the time I was virtually a walking zombie. I didn't leave the house for at least four or five months except to get food and other necessities. I got a DUI so I cut back on the drinking but kept taking the drugs. I had to, not only to cope with life, but also because I was addicted. I'd stopped working at the bar and one of the partners "volunteered" to take over for me until I was ready to come back. I think he was concerned about me ruining his investment, and for good reason.

About a month or so later, January 2015, a full year after this whole mess started, I began feeling a little better so I started going down and sitting by the bay. I was now a functioning addict. Yet what was once so breathtaking was now just a large body of water with a tide that came in during the day and went back out at night. But it was quiet and peaceful and every day I felt a little better. I got the sense, though, that someone was watching me. I wasn't afraid; it was just a sense lingering in the back of my mind. The drugs were probably making me paranoid. I spent several hours, from about 2 pm to 5 pm, sitting in the same spot watching the water slowly work its way in, listening to it lap up over the rocks and then watching it slowly recede. It was hypnotic in a way and helped take my mind off all the awful things that'd happened to me and what I'd done. It was three hours of peace and tranquility, almost like I was in another world where nothing else mattered.

Don't get me wrong, I was still damaged goods, but I could sense there would be a time, maybe not today, maybe not next week, but someday in the not too distant future, when I could begin living normally again and be at peace. One day, Monday I think it was, I was sitting in my spot and heard the light patter of footsteps approaching from behind. I immediately thought Hamas. I wasn't scared though. I was so stoned nothing really frightened me anymore. Well, with the exception of that big hairy spider in the shower earlier that I stalked for at least a half hour before gathering the nerve to slam my shoe on it with my head turned. The footsteps were growing louder as I just sat there and stared straight ahead. What was it going to be? A bullet through the back of the head? Piano wire wrapped around the neck? A throat slash? Hopefully something quick and painless. Then I felt something warm on my shoulder, like a hand. Now I was a little scared. I didn't expect engagement. I couldn't imagine a scenario in which what was going to happen next could be anything but horribly unpleasant. Then I heard a familiar voice. It couldn't be, I thought. I turned my head and looked up. Unless I was hallucinating or dreaming, it was _her_.

"Hi, Jax," the familiar voice said.

"Janet?"

"Yeah, Jax, it's me." She was smiling.

"What, did they send you to kill me?" I said. But there was no gun in her hand...or knife. There was nothing there but her.

"What?" she said.

"I know you were working with them. You were setting me up from the beginning. I should've known that randomly running into a beautiful woman who just happened to be a nympho was too good to be true."

"What are you talking about?" she said, seemingly perplexed.

"I was told you were on Hamas's payroll and you were going to testify against me in court."

"That's ridiculous. They said they took my mother hostage and were going to kill her if I didn't help them. I said no. They didn't do their homework. My mom died when I was thirteen. So I refused. They said they were coming after me so I went and stayed with my aunt in Idaho."

"Oh, come on, you were playing me from the beginning, tipping Hamas off that I was going to be at the bar that night."

"What are you talking about?" she said again.

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about," I said, still convinced she was one of them. "What, do they still believe I have the design plans for Goliath? Because I don't, and I never did."

"Goliath? What's that?"

"You're a great actress. You had me fooled the whole time we were together and you look truly surprised now."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she professed. "I'm not working for Hamas. I swear to God. That's absurd." She looked like she really had no clue what I was talking about.

"Then why haven't you called me?" I said.

"Because I thought you hated me plus I didn't know where the hell you were, you changed your number, I didn't know if you were even alive and I didn't want to put your life in danger," she said very genuinely. "I've been thinking about you since the day you threw me out...justifiably. I still love you, Jax. It took a lot of investigative work to find you."

"I don't believe you." But I was actually starting to.

"I swear to God. Jax, I'd never betray you. I love you deeply. You can always trust me. I just hope you still love me. I've gotten help, _real_ help this time, and I'm a different person now. I learned how to control my urges through cognitive therapy." My sister taught me all about cognitive therapy, and that stuff really worked. I'd used it several times in the past to get me through tough situations. My gut said she was telling the truth, but my mind was still suspicious. I decided to trust my instinct.

"I do still love you, Janet," I said. "I never stopped." I got up and we hugged and kissed.

"You smell like pot and booze (oh yeah, I forgot to mention I'd added weed to the mix recently), and when's the last time you showered or cut your hair or trimmed your beard?" she said. "We need to go get you cleaned up, sweetie. I know you've been through hell. It's time you start living again."

When we got up to the house I opened the door and when Janet walked in she immediately saw all the drug paraphernalia on the kitchen counter.

"What the hell?" she said. "Are you taking all that?"

"Yeah. What'd you expect? My best friend died, my dad died and _his_ best friend died. How'd you expect me to survive all that besides killing myself?"

"We need to get you into rehab immediately!"

"No freakin' way!" I said defiantly. "I'm fine!"

"Stop yelling at me," she said. "You're scaring me. You don't look fine. You look like a meth addict. Have you seen your face in the mirror lately? You used to be a very handsome guy. You look like you've aged ten years and lost at least twenty to thirty pounds."

"I don't give a crap! I'm not going through rehab! It's hell! I've already been there and I'm not going back!"

"Well, then you're going to die!" I'd never seen her so angry.

"I'm fine!" I hadn't gotten this worked up in a long time. Then I started feeling faint. What the hell's happening? I thought. I started sweating profusely and the room began spinning.

"What's wrong, Jax?" Janet said frantically.

"I don't feel good; I think I'm gonna..." Before I could say, "pass out" I already had. When I opened my eyes I was in a hospital bed. Somebody was holding my hand. I looked over and it was Janet. "What the hell happened?" I said.

"You collapsed. The doctor said you have so much poison in your system it's a miracle you're still alive. As soon as your body is ready you're going to be admitted to a rehab center."

"My head hurts."

"Just be thankful you're still here."

"Why should I be thankful for _that_? So I can just continue to feel pain that never ceases?"

"You have me to be thankful for, right?"

"You're about the only thing." I remained in the hospital for two days with Janet at my side. She even slept there, God bless her.

"Okay, Jax," my doctor said after he walked in. "It's time to get you over to the rehab center." Crap, I thought. I didn't know how I was going to handle it. The first week was living hell. I begged Janet to bring me some meth or heroin; that I was in so much agony I couldn't take it anymore. She adamantly refused.

"Whore!" I said.

"Jax, it's for your own good. You'll thank me later."

"I want to die! Please help me!"

"You're going to be fine, baby," she said. "You'll start feeling better soon."

"That's what you said two days ago! It's getting worse!"

"You're right in the middle of withdrawals. Just hang in there."

"Bring me the puke bucket." She did, and I puked up all liquid. I wasn't able to eat yet. "Oh, Christ, make it stop!" I cried out.

But two days later I began feeling slightly better.

"See, I told you you'd make it," Janet said.

"Thanks for being here for me. I'm sorry I've been such a miserable jerk."

"It's understandable after what you've been through. It's only going to get better."

I was able to start eating and keep it down. I gradually felt better every day until I was ready to go home after my month stay. Then the _emotional_ pain began creeping back. I'd completely forgotten about it, as I was in so much physical pain. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stave off the memories of all that had happened. I had my doctor prescribe me Ambien so I could sleep. I also started seeing a new therapist five days a week and just prayed to a God I still wasn't even sure I believed in anymore to give me the will and strength to live. At least I got Janet back, which not only saved my life, but also gave me a reason to want to live for the first time in over a year. It was hard to believe it'd been thirteen months already from that day I made the most regrettable mistake of my life.

The next two months it was as if Janet and I were newlyweds. We were having sex, but now only five or six times a week. She seemingly _was_ cured. I maintained my daily ritual of walking down to my spot near the bay and watching the tide roll in and out every day. Now I had company and it felt nice. I could see myself being happy eventually. I was even considering proposing to her.

I started working at the bar again after Janet had been there about a month. I got her a job as a waitress. She loved it, and fit in nicely, although Natasha didn't particularly like it. And I didn't tell Janet Natasha and I had been sleeping together for almost six months prior to Janet's arrival.

One day, about two months after Janet got there, we left the bay and headed home. We walked inside, with me back to my old routine of staring at her amazing butt, sat on the couch and I turned on the TV. We started watching the _King of Queens_ , which used to make me laugh out loud, but for the past seven or eight months I hadn't laughed once. But then it came. We both burst out laughing when Deacon, Doug's black sidekick, said, "I don't know. It's like he's the vagina whisperer." It was the episode when Kelly and Carrie found the perfect gynecologist. I surprised myself. Did I actually just laugh? I thought. I couldn't have. But then I laughed again when Carrie lost her gynecologist because of Doug's idiot cousin, and her new gynecologist called her in the middle of the night and let out a big perverted sigh and said, "Hello Carrie." It was Holly's—a dog walker Doug hired to walk Arthur to get him out of the house so Doug could have more sack time with Carrie, which backfired like most of his cockamamie schemes when Carrie decided to use the spare time for spinning classes at the gym—gynecologist and she'd told Carrie earlier in the show about his strange, early morning phone calls.

I was definitely laughing. It felt strange. But I've always believed if you're able to laugh it's a sign you're okay and there are actually moments when you're no longer consumed with guilt, sadness and anger, which had torn out a large part of my soul. I was about as miserable as a person could possibly be and still remain functional. But this was a definite indication I was getting better. When you're ready to start living again, the body just does it on its own schedule, when _it's_ ready, not when _you_ want it to be ready. Janet hugged and kissed me, as it was the first time she'd seen me laugh since our reunion. Suddenly breaking news interrupted the show.

"It has been confirmed that between the hours of 8:20 and 8:30 pm Eastern Standard Time, several terrorist attacks occurred in the cities of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem," the anchorwoman said. "Six suicide bombers, four in Tel Aviv and two in Jerusalem, entered densely populated areas, killing hundreds of Israelis and seriously injuring many others." I couldn't believe what I was seeing and hearing.

"Oh my God," I said.

"Israel's Prime Minister is going to make a public statement within minutes..." Meanwhile, there was footage from Tel Aviv at the location of one of the attacks, which looked like a convenience store. The images were gruesome. I started feeling sick. Minutes later, Israel's Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, was on air.

"Fellow Israelis and others around the world, as you may already know, a series of terrorist attacks have been committed against the people of Israel," he said. "The terrorist group, Hamas, has taken credit for these heinous and cowardly acts, which represent an act of war. I promise justice will be swift and without mercy..."

"Oh my God," I said again. "What the hell's happening, Janet?"

"I don't know." I was crying but she didn't show any kind of emotion. She must've been shell-shocked. She put her arm around me. Then they cut away from the Prime Minister. The same anchorwoman was back on the air.

"Oh my God," she said. I don't know if she didn't realize she was on air or just in shock like the rest of us. "It has just been confirmed that at 8:40 pm Eastern Standard Time, Iran fired four nuclear missiles at Israel. Three were shot down by the Israeli army over Jordan; however, one impacted in Jerusalem." There was live footage of the mushroom cloud produced by the impact. I was dumbstruck. This has to be a nightmare, I thought. "We're taking you live to our correspondent in Tel Aviv, Israel." It was complete pandemonium all around him.

"We're getting reports that over two million Israelis are dead, and the count is rising rapidly, and thousands more are seriously injured," he said.

Again, I couldn't believe what I was seeing and hearing. This couldn't possibly be happening. But I flipped through the channels and all of them were covering the story.

"Oh my God," I said yet again. I called my grandfather, who lived in Jerusalem, and there was no answer. I assumed he was dead.

"Jesus Christ," I said. "This can't be happening. I must be dreaming." I felt faint. I looked at Janet and she was just frozen. This was by far the most horrific thing I'd ever witnessed. It was on a whole different level than 9/11. I kept watching as estimates of the dead and injured continued to grow. Then I realized what'd happened. They used the suicide bombings as a diversion to catch Israel's military, intelligence services and law enforcement off guard by making them scurry to stop any further attacks. My grandpa was right. Those evil bastards found a way to carry out their plan. This scenario had never even occurred to me. Then they broke to a news conference with President Dobson.

"Fellow Americans, a series of atrocities was committed against our friend and ally, Israel, within the last thirty minutes that is unlike any this country has ever witnessed," he said. "After several suicide bombings in the cities of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, Jerusalem was struck by a nuclear missile. Reports coming in indicate that most of the city has been reduced to ashes. Over two million Israelis are confirmed dead and the count is rising. We have just received word that Hamas has taken credit for this heinous and cowardly act and I promise all of you justice will be quick and without mercy in the same manner Hamas destroyed the city of Jerusalem..."

He kept talking as tears continued to stream down my face. This may not have happened had I gone straight to the security office at work or called the FBI. I wanted to die more than ever. Sadly, the triggering mechanism for this was the annihilation of the Promised Land. I got up and went to our room and got my gun from the nightstand drawer. Janet followed me.

"What are you doing?" she said in apparent horror. I sat there on the bed holding the gun in my lap. Maybe this time I'd be able to muster the courage to do what I should've done months ago. "Jax, I know you feel responsible for this, but it's not your fault. It's those evil bastards who took everything away from you. But now you have something to live for: me."

"I love you, Janet, but I can't live with this pain and guilt." I put the gun in my mouth and began to squeeze the trigger. Janet lunged at me screaming, "No!" But then my cell rang. I removed the gun from my mouth, placed it on the bed and Janet grabbed it. I didn't recognize the number. Maybe it was my grandfather, as he'd called from a different number the last time I spoke with him.

# 

# Chapter 30

It was approximately 4:30 am, Monday, March 22nd in the small retirement community of SaddleBrooke in Tucson, Arizona. There was a knock at my mother's front door. My mom awoke.

"Eddie, did you hear something?" she said.

"No," he grumbled, half asleep.

"I heard something," my mom said nervously.

"It's probably just javelina or the bobcat." They lived above a canyon where wild animals roamed freely and frequented the yards of residents within the community. My mom would always feed the javelina, and her cat, Topspin (my mom was a tennis fanatic), would engage in staring matches with a bobcat. They even had deer come in their yard. It was like they had their own personal zoo just outside. I always loved visiting. I'd come over about once a month during football season and watch the Charger games. We all bled navy blue and yellow, and I left most of the time broken hearted as only a Charger fan can appreciate and understand. Norv Turner was an idiot. There were a series of louder knocks.

"Oh my God," my mom said. "It's the police coming to tell us Jax is dead. I've been waiting for this." Eddie was fully awake now.

"Stay here, Barbara. I'll see who it is." My mom was already crying. He put his robe on and walked through the living room in the dark feeling around to make sure he didn't run into anything. He bumped into one of the bar stools and stubbed his toe. "Crap," he said, before fumbling around in the dark for a while trying to find the kitchen light switch, which was to his right. He finally felt it and turned the light on. His toe was throbbing. He got to the door and looked out the peephole. "Holy crap," he said. There were three men dressed in all black wearing ski masks and carrying machine guns. He ran back to the bedroom. "Barbara, it's not the police," he whispered. "We need to go out the back now!"

"Why, what's going on?" Her voice was trembling.

"There are three men with guns at the front door." Right after he uttered the words there were several more knocks, louder this time.

"Oh my God," my mom said.

"Let's go," Eddie said. She grabbed her robe and he held her arm as they went out the back bedroom door and into the backyard. It was a cold, dark night. As soon as they were both outside a man walked around the corner of the house and said, "Stop right there or you're both going to die." They stopped dead in their tracks. He walked over and grabbed my mother. Eddie took a swing at him, striking him square in the side of the head but then lost his balance and fell down. He was also holding his fist.

"Son of a mother," he said. The man pointed his Uzi at him. Eddie was a big man, only about five foot eleven but country strong. He was a good-looking guy, even in his mid-sixties, with white hair, most of it still intact. He reminded me a little of John Wayne. He was very athletic when he was younger and played rugby at Berkley, which was a big deal at the time as they traveled around and played the best teams in the country. He was a man's man. A few months ago, a scorpion stung him, but instead of going to urgent care he went to the clubhouse to play Texas Hold'em with his buddies. The venom started attacking his nervous system. His right arm was getting numb and his vision was impaired. Yet he stayed until he was almost blind. He finally called my mom and she rushed him to the emergency room. He almost died.

"What the hell were you thinking?" my mom asked him on the way home.

"I was cleaning everyone's clocks," he said. "I had almost all the chips. I thought the venom would just work its way out of my system. Then I couldn't see anything."

"Crazy Eddie," she said. In fact, he gave her reason to say that a lot. He was smart as a whip but a little eccentric. Meanwhile, he was lying on the ground waiting to die when he heard another voice.

"Don't kill him," a man said as he approached. He was carrying a flashlight. "Our mission is to get Mr. Wright's mother and bring her back to San Diego. You fire that weapon and it could blow this whole operation." This man obviously was the leader of the group.

"Okay," the man, while rubbing the side of his head, said. "You live for now, vermin."

They dragged my mom away as she was kicking and screaming. Eddie stood up and started chasing them.

"Stop right there or you die," the leader said, letting go of my mom (the other man still had a grasp on her) and pointing his FN 57, arguably the finest handgun on the market, at her.

"Stay there, Eddie!" my mom shouted. "Go inside and call 9-1-1!" He started to run toward the door.

"Stop," the leader said. "You dial 9-1-1 and the next time you'll see your wife she'll be in a body bag. If we hear sirens on our way out she's going to die."

"Okay," Eddie said. "Barbara, you're going to be all right. Just do as they say." He knew she was a tough and sometimes obstinate woman, having grown up the daughter of a Holocaust survivor and victim. She wasn't about to let these anti-Semite bastards take her dignity. "Don't fight them, you hear me!" He was emphatic. "They'll kill you!"

The two men each held one of her arms as she struggled to try and free herself, screaming as loud as she could for help, hoping to wake a neighbor who'd see her being kidnapped.

"Shut up or we'll kill you and your husband right now!" the leader said. She stopped as they walked around the side of the house. The leader, holding the flashlight, opened the gate and they walked toward the driveway where their black SUV was parked. The man who had the run-in with Eddie shoved my mom into the back seat.

"You open the door and run and you die," he said. He went around to the other side and got in, sitting across from her. The leader got in the passenger seat. The third man was behind the wheel. They all took off their masks.

"Where are you taking me?" my mom said venomously. "You bastards better not have done anything to my son!" The man beside her backhanded her across the face. Her lip began bleeding.

"Keep your mouth shut, lady!" he said.

"What the hell's going on?" my mom said.

"I'm not going to warn you again," the same man said.

"Screw you, you bastard!" Nothing was going to stop her from speaking her mind. "Where are you taking me?" The man reached in his pocket and grabbed a roll of duct tape. He ripped off a piece and covered her mouth. She could only murmur now. Tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks. She told me later it was the longest and most agonizing drive of her life and she was convinced I was dead or they were taking her hostage to get to me.

They left SaddleBrooke and headed south down Oracle Road before making a right on Tangerine, which led to I-10 West. It was about a twenty-minute drive to the freeway. They got on the 10 and headed toward San Diego. After about an hour, they got to 8 West and took it the rest of the way.

Approximately six and a half hours later, they arrived in Del Mar and parked on the side of the street three houses from my sister's place. They opened the doors and pulled my mother out. She was trying to scream. They walked down the sidewalk and when they got to the door and knocked, it was close to 11:30 am. Nobody answered. My mom remembered they were out of town and weren't getting back until the evening. They knocked again and rang the doorbell. Again, nothing. Then the violent man ripped the duct tape off my mom's mouth.

"I want you to tell them it's you, and you need to remain calm," he said.

"They're not home," she said. "They're on vacation." He backhanded her across the face again, opening the wound on her lip. It was already swollen and black and blue.

"Liar. Ring the doorbell and tell them it's you."

"I'm not lying, you coward. Does it make you feel like a man to beat up on a fifty-eight-year-old woman?" She could see the anger in his callous eyes.

"I'm going to give you one more chance," he said.

"I told you, they aren't home."

"When are they coming back?" the leader said. He could see she was telling the truth.

"I don't know," my mom said.

"You either tell us now or your son, Jax, is going to die."

"Oh my God. You bastard!"

"I'm losing patience with you. I'm going to make a call right now and your son is going to die."

"Okay," she finally conceded. "They'll be back around 5 pm."

The leader walked through the bushes to the living room window and used his elbow to break the glass. He was wearing gloves and cleared away the shards that remained. He climbed inside and seconds later opened the front door. The man holding my mom, the one who'd bloodied her lip twice, shoved her into the house. It was dimly lit, as the sun had already started rising. The leader turned the lights on. They were in the living room, which was large with two leather sofas, a leather recliner, a forty-six-inch, flat-screen 3-D TV, and an enormous hundred-gallon fish tank. The kitchen was set off to the right toward the middle of the house. Beyond the kitchen was a hallway that led to the master bedroom, and farther down the hall there were two more bedrooms. The man walked in and grabbed a chair from the kitchen table. He set it in the middle of the living room.

"Sit," the leader said, with his gun pointed at my mom's head. She screamed, "Somebody help me!", praying a neighbor might hear. He looked at the violent man, who knew what it meant and put duct tape over her mouth again.

"Now sit down!" the leader said. She did. He then took some rope from his jacket pocket and began tying her to the chair around the upper torso. When he was done, he tied her hands to the armrests and her legs to the chair legs.

"Okay, now we just wait," he said. "Let's see what they have to eat." He went to the refrigerator and took out some lunchmeats and condiments. He began looking in the cupboards until he found the one with bread. He took his gloves off and began making a sandwich. The other men followed his lead. My mom turned her head and watched them, terrified. When they were done they sat at the kitchen table and talked in their native language. They finished and walked back to the living room. The leader took out his cell and dialed a number. He began talking in his native tongue.

"All right," he said in English and hung up. "The others will be arriving within the next two hours." It was around noon.

Almost two hours later, just before 2 pm, there was a knock at the door. The leader got up and looked through the peephole. He opened the door. Three men walked in, two around the same age as the others, all in their thirties my mom estimated, but one in his late eighties, early nineties. My mom's eyes became huge. She recognized the elderly man. But what she was seeing was impossible. This has to be a dream, she thought. Similar to what I'd done over a year ago while in jail in Yuma, she closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them she'd be lying in bed next to Eddie. But it didn't work for her either, as when she did there he was, her father, without question. She tried to communicate with her eyes.

"Barbara," he said. What in God's name is going on? she thought. She tried to say "dad" but couldn't move her lips. She began murmuring and staring at him inquisitively. "You're much more beautiful in person," he said. His eyes weren't friendly; in fact, they were cold and lifeless. She said later it was like staring into the eyes of the devil. This wasn't her father, who had warm and loving eyes. But he looked and talked exactly like him. Who was this man? she wondered. She became disoriented and felt like she might faint. One of the men who just came in took charge immediately. The other men followed him into the kitchen and they started talking. My mom couldn't understand a word, as they were speaking Arabic. After about half an hour, she could hear what sounded like cards being shuffled. Moments later, she could hear them talking and laughing. They were playing a card game. This was the most horrifying and surreal scene my mom had ever witnessed. It was even worse than her nightmares about the Holocaust. These weren't human beings, she thought. They weren't even animals. They were evil anthropomorphized. She was swooning now. She said later it seemed like they were there for days.

They were still playing at 5 pm when they heard voices approaching the front door. They got up and started walking toward the living room and could hear the key enter the lock and see the doorknob turn. My mom tried to scream. My brother-in-law, Harvey, walked in first followed by my sister. My mom could hear my niece and nephews talking and laughing as they walked toward the door. Harvey immediately saw my mother tied to the chair and all the men standing around her.

"Oh my God," he said. "Brenda, get the kids and run, now!" She looked up and saw what he did and froze.

"None of you are going anywhere," the leader said. "Come inside and bring the kids or I'm going to shoot you both."

"Run, kids!" Harvey said before the leader raised his gun and shot him in the leg using a silencer. "Oh, God!" Harvey moaned as he bent over and grabbed his thigh. "Dang it! Kids, come inside."

"What's going on in there?" my beautiful young niece, Christina, said. She was hysterical.

"Come inside," my sister said, trying to comprehend what was happening. "It's going to be okay."

My two nephews––Ryan, who was sixteen; and James, who was fourteen and Christina's fraternal twin––came in first and saw what was inside.

"Oh my God," Ryan, a handsome kid with long brown hair and dark brown eyes, said. James couldn't speak. Christina followed and was screaming.

"Shut her up," the leader said. Duct tape man ripped off a piece and covered her mouth. There was sheer terror in her eyes. My nephew, James, ran to my sister's side and grabbed her. He'd always been her protector. My sister's ex-husband physically abused her in front of the kids. Since their divorce, James was always by his mom's side. Nobody was ever going to hurt her again. Ryan just stood there with a look of disbelief and horror.

"Harvey, are you okay?" my sister said after she regained some of her composure.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he groaned. "He just shot me in the thigh. What the hell's going on?"

"If any of you scream for help, I'll shoot her," the leader said, pointing his gun at my mom's head. He barked out orders to his men. "Get the other chairs from the kitchen." The three men who abducted my mother went and grabbed the remaining chairs, but they were one short, so one of them grabbed a chair from the dining room table. They tied the rest of my family in the same manner they had my mother, and put duct tape over all their mouths. Then the leader pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed a number.

# Chapter 31

"Hello?" I said.

"Mr. Wright?" a familiar voice said.

"Yes?" It was a _very_ familiar voice, but it couldn't be Him. "Who is this?"

"You know who it is," the man said. What the hell? I thought. That's impossible. He's dead. Nobody survived that explosion.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I said.

"No. It's me. I know you recognize my voice?"

"But none of you survived the blast that night."

"Your father tipped me off about the con job. Right when you began coughing I grabbed the DVDs as I told my men to shoot you. I started running toward the field on the other side of the street."

"That doesn't make sense. Why would you agree to the trade if you knew you were going to be ambushed?"

"The CIA was closing in on me. It was just a matter of time before they found me. The men who accompanied me that night were dispensable. But I'm not. I'm integral to the leadership of this organization. So you and your group, who proved to be quite formidable surprisingly, provided the perfect opportunity for me to fake my death and establish a new identity. By the way, you won't recognize me when you see me."

"I bet you're even uglier than before if that's possible."

"Did you see our little display on the news tonight?" he said.

"Yes, you coward! Iran's going to be reduced to ashes if it hasn't already, and if you come looking for me I swear to God I'll kill you, Haseem!" Now I didn't want to die; I just wanted vengeance.

"The reason I'm calling, Mr. Wright, is because I have your family––your mother, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephews."

"What?" I said, stunned. "I don't believe you."

"Remove the duct tape," I could hear him say prior to a ripping sound and then he said, "Would you like to talk to your mother?" I became disoriented again. The room was spinning.

"Yes," I said.

"Jax, it's your mother," she said, her voice trembling.

"Mom, are you okay?"

"Yes. But they say they're going to kill Brenda, Harvey, the kids and I if you don't come here immediately. He says he'll let us go. All he wants is you. I don't know what to tell you to do. I'm so sorry..." Haseem grabbed the phone from her.

"Satisfied?" he said.

"Yes." I was completely shell-shocked.

"I'll give you until 9 am tomorrow to get here or they all die, and it isn't going to be pleasant. You killed two of my brothers that day and someone's going to have to pay for it. I'd prefer it be you. I want to be the one to put the bullet through your head. I think you would agree."

"You bastard! My family has done nothing to you! If you know where I am why didn't you just kill me here? Why did you have to involve my family?"

"Because I want you to suffer," he said smugly. I was convinced I was talking to Satan himself. This man had no soul. "So what's it going to be, you or your family?" he said.

"Me," I said without hesitation. "Do you think I'm afraid to die after everything I've been through? I lay awake every night wishing I were dead. I'll be there at 9, but I have friends that'll make you pay dearly if you don't release my family!"

"I'm a man of my word, Mr. Wright. I'll let your family go as soon as you arrive. I'm at your sister's house. She's a very pretty lady by the way."

"You touch her and I'll kill you! Then you can spend the rest of eternity screwing all your virgins, and trust me, after two or three months of that you'll wish you were in hell!"

"Mr. Wright, you're dangerously close to getting your family killed. Remember, you have until 9, not a second more. And as was our agreement before, you come alone, unarmed. If there's any hint of police or FBI, your family is dead."

"I'll be there, you piece of crap!" I hung up.

"Oh my God," Janet said. "I'm going with you."

"You can't. They'll kill you."

"I'm not going to let you go on a suicide mission!" She seemed distraught.

"There's no other option," I said. "I can't sit by as they kill the rest of my family. God has a plan for me. I'll see you when I get back." She started bawling, as she knew there was nothing she could do to stop me.

"You better not die," she said. "I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you more than my own life." I sat next to her, put my arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.

"Everything's going to work out. I promise." Of course, I was just placating her, as I knew there was virtually no chance we'd ever see each other again. I did my best to remain composed and hide the emotion I was feeling. I loved her, and knowing I was going to lose her was extremely painful. I called Allegiant Air and booked a flight to San Diego. It was scheduled to leave at 6 am the following morning. I called the FBI and asked for Agent Martinez, one of my dad's friends who'd agreed to help us, and let them know what'd just happened.

"My God, Jax" he said. "What the hell's happening today? We're on the verge of a nuclear war and now this. The world is coming apart at the seams. How did Haseem know where you were?"

"Is that a rhetorical question? They were up here obviously, as they killed my cousin. I don't know what the hell they were waiting for all this time. Maybe they had some other terrorist crap to take care of before they got back to me." I expected a laugh but got nothing, I suspect because I likely sounded like a lunatic.

"Jax, you need to come to our office as soon as you get to San Diego," Martinez said. "I suggest you wear some sort of disguise in case Hamas is tracking you."

"It's too risky. If they find out I'm working with the FBI they'll kill my family. The only reason I'm calling is to let you know Haseem is still alive. I'll turn myself into him. I don't want your help, and I'm not afraid to die."

"I understand what you're saying, but we're going to work on this end to do everything in our power to save both you and your family. We can do it without involving you. But I'm not going to open up the newspaper two days from now and read your obituary. We're not in the business of letting good people die if there's anything we can do to stop it. We're trained professionals. We can handle this."

"No. Like I said, it's too risky. Stay away. I'm doing this alone. If there's any chance Hamas knows you're planning an operation to save us they'll torture and then kill my family. Haseem's given me no reason not to believe him. This man is pure evil. He's going to take extreme pleasure in killing my family, and if not them, me. I took two of his brothers and he'll get vengeance even if it means dying in the process. I won't allow my family to suffer."

"Okay, Jax, you're on your own. God help you."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Agent Martinez." I hung up. Janet looked at me funny and I could sense fear.

"You don't sound like yourself," she said.

"I'm not the same person you knew before all this started," I said. "It's changed me in a way that's hard to explain. Yes, I was exaggerating somewhat (actually I wasn't) to get my point across to Agent Martinez so he doesn't get my family killed, but I meant it when I said I'm not afraid to die. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to do everything in my power to save my family and get out of there alive and come back to you."

"Are you just saying that, or do you really mean it?" she said. I looked directly in her eyes.

"I mean it, okay?" I said.

"Okay." She kissed me. We continued to watch the news with our arms around each other until I couldn't stomach it anymore. The death count was growing every minute. I turned the TV off.

"I have to go down to Walgreen's and get some things to disguise myself," I said.

"Okay," Janet said. She seemed nervous.

When I got to the store I bought some "Just for Men," a pair of black-framed glasses and some tape to wrap around the bridge of the glasses above my nose. When I got back, I dyed my hair back to its original color but it was long and scraggly now. I looked like Tom Brady during the 2011 season. Janet liked it that way. I brushed it for the first time in almost nine months, pulled it back and put it in a ponytail. I also shaved off the goatee, which before Janet got there looked like a freakin' tarantula had rented a space on my mug. I put the glasses on and looked like a cross between Steven Segal and either of the Hansen brothers from the movie _Slap Stick_. I had my disguise, and a darn good one, not like it mattered because if they _were_ tracking me they'd see me leave my place and drive to the airport.

"Would you recognize me, Janet?" I said.

"No, not at all. You look scary."

Tomorrow I was either going to have a reason to live or it was going to be the worst day or end of my life. I fully expected the latter, so right before we got in bed I once again downed enough Nyquil to probably kill an elephant, knowing that was the only thing that would allow me to sleep. Janet lay next to me with her arm around me. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I love you."

"I love you too," I said.

I woke up the next morning groggy. Janet pleaded with me not to go, but there was nothing she could do to stop me. It was around 4:30 am, just enough time to get ready to head over to the Bellingham Airport for my flight to San Diego. I didn't bother taking a shower. What the hell was the point? I brushed my hair back, put it in a ponytail and put the glasses on. Man, did I look ridiculous. I went from a seven and a half, eight (of course, that was just my modest opinion of myself) to a four or five tops. I wouldn't have any trouble fighting off the ladies on the plane. Janet put her robe and slippers on and we walked out to my car. It was bone-chillingly cold and snowing lightly. We got to the car and turned and looked at each other. Her teeth were chattering.

"God be with you, Jax," she said. "I'll see you soon." She was wiping her eyes. I think she was crying.

I didn't believe it, but I said, "Yes, you will. Now go inside. It's freezing out here." She gave me a long and passionate kiss. She stood there as I got in the car and began to back out of the driveway. We waved goodbye. Her tears made me depressed. I regretted putting her through this hell. I headed to the airport. I wasn't even remotely afraid of facing Haseem knowing what was likely going to happen. I was just concerned about my family. If they decided to make the trade, which I doubted, I'd be the happiest man alive. I got to the small airport––it only had two gates––parked my car and walked in the sliding doors. I showed my driver's license to the receptionist at the check-in desk.

"This doesn't look anything like you," she said.

"This is kind of embarrassing, but I'm a famous actor in Canada's adult film industry," I said. "Maybe you've heard of my latest film, _Hung_." Unless she was a porn addict, she likely didn't even know what the hell I was talking about.

"No," she said, blushing.

"I have to travel around in this ridiculous disguise so people don't recognize me. See the scar below my left eye. Look at my license. It's exactly the same."

"Okay, I believe you." She handed me my boarding pass and smiled, and it wasn't one of those "she's just doing her job" smiles.

I bought a newspaper, ordered a cup of coffee and sat at the terminal. I kept my nose in the paper, peeking over the top from time to time to see if anyone was watching me. Just the woman at the reception desk. Man, she must have low standards, I thought. But then a man of Middle Eastern descent walked in. I raised the paper over my eyes. I peeked a few minutes later and he was looking at me. For Christ's sake, is he going to blow the plane up just to kill me? I thought. Moments later, I peeked again and he was gone. Maybe he was just there to ensure I was at the airport and ready to board. Or maybe I was just paranoid. But the girl at the reception desk was still looking at me and smiled every time I looked. She undoubtedly had the hots for me. Even with that gaudy disguise was I still attractive? I wondered. Maybe it was my "don't give a crap about anything" attitude that turned her on. Or, more likely, she was star struck. I almost laughed to myself.

I waited forty-five minutes total until it was time to board. I got a window seat in row twenty-seven. I put my ear buds in and listened to some Coldplay. Why is it that women assume a guy is gay just because he likes Coldplay? I pondered. What the hell's so gay about "Viva la Vida"? That song rocks. I realized that might be the last time I'd hear that song or fly again. It felt strange. The flight was two and a half hours, so after Coldplay it was on to some OneRepublic and Snow Patrol. I focused intensely on the music, trying desperately not to allow any negative thoughts to enter my mind. It wasn't easy. After I landed in San Diego, the negative thoughts came flooding back again. I was at my final destination, literally. I knew it in my heart. I got off the plane and walked up the ramp. I still wasn't scared, just worried about my family. I called Haseem when I got inside the airport.

# Chapter 32

"Haseem, it's Jax. I just landed in San Diego. I should be there within an hour."

"Perfect," he said devilishly.

"I want to talk to my mother." He handed the phone to her.

"Jax," she said. "These men are lying to you! Don't come here! It's suicide! They're going to kill us all whether you come or not!" She was hysterical.

"I have to," I said. "It's your only chance. You're all going to make it out of there alive."

"That's enough," I could hear Haseem say. He was back on the line.

"Is what she said true?" I said. "Is that what you told them?"

"No. She's making an assumption."

"You lying bastard. You better be true to your word. My family's done nothing to deserve this. If you don't swear to your savior, Allah, that you'll let my family go, I'm not coming, and you'll never see me again. This is between you and me. My family has nothing to do with it."

"I know. I swear to Allah. All I want is you. Your family is just leverage. As soon as I have you, my men will let them go." Yeah, right, I thought.

"Not good enough," I said. "I'm going to come within thirty feet of the front door. Before I walk toward the door your men are going to release my family. I'm going to stop when they reach me midway, say goodbye and tell them to run to their car. If you don't like it, just kill them all now and try to catch me."

"Mr. Wright, you're in no position to bargain with me, but because I'm a reasonable man, I'll agree to your terms. You're different than most Americans. You're not a coward. You and I have more in common than you realize."

"You're right. We both have hatred that runs so deep we'll go to the end of the earth to kill those who've caused us to hate. My hatred is focused on you, and yours, I'm sure, on me. We're going to end this mano a mano."

"Yes," he said. "I'll allow you to look directly into my eyes before it happens."

"Great. I look forward to it."

"I'll see you within the hour." He didn't sound pleased. Everyone had always been afraid of him, even the butchers working with him, and this young, brash, Caucasian American showed no sign of fear. I think I was bruising his ego a little. We hung up. I didn't trust him at all.

I went outside the airport and got in the back seat of a taxi. We left the airport and I began to become more anxious. As we approached the 5 North onramp, I was growing even more concerned. I'd convinced myself they weren't going to be willing to make the trade. They only let hostages go when they have something substantial to gain, like in my father's case. Merely getting rid of me wasn't going to be enough incentive, especially for Haseem. They'd likely either come from behind and grab me or have three or four Uzis pointing at me when I got out of the cab and force me to come to them. They were probably going to take care of my family in front of me and then me last. They knew I wasn't afraid for myself but that my family was all I had left. Haseem wanted me to suffer, and this was the perfect way to make it happen.

As we approached my sister's place my anxiety gradually started to increase, again, for my family. With each passing second, the more I convinced myself they had no intention of letting my family go. We pulled into the driveway. Two of Haseem's men left the house with my mother, brother-in-law, sister, niece and nephews. Each had an Uzi, one pointing at my sister and mother, the other pointing at Harvey and my niece and nephews. I got out of the cab and the driver looked mortified before backing up and getting the hell out of there, tires squealing. I was approximately thirty feet from the men. Then Haseem came out. I looked behind me and didn't see anyone.

"Mr. Wright, it's good to see you," he said.

"It's good to see you too. And I was right. You _are_ uglier. Who did your plastic surgery? Hannibal Lector? Mom, Harvey, Brenda, James, Ryan, Christina, are you all okay? Did those bastards hurt you?"

"No," they said, almost in unison. I could see the terror and angst in all their eyes.

"Everything's going to be okay," I said. "They only want me. You're just leverage." I desperately wanted to believe this, and I thought my calm words may impact Haseem's decision if it hadn't already been made.

"He's right," he said. "I'll remain true to my word. Mr. Wright, start walking toward us and we'll let your family come toward you."

"No. It's going to be the other way around. You let them go and I'll start walking. What do you have to lose? We're at point blank range. A blind man could shoot us all from fifteen to twenty feet."

"Okay, let them go," he said. They all began to walk toward me as I walked toward them. We met approximately twenty feet from the front door in the driveway. We all hugged as tears streamed down their faces.

"Jax," my mom said. "You can't let them take you. I can't lose you. You're my only son." She began sobbing.

"Mom, it's okay, I've made my peace with it. I need you all to go immediately to Brenda's car (it was parked on the side of the street in front of the house) and get out of here. Take as many side streets as possible and just keep going."

"No," my mom said. "I'm not leaving you. Brenda, you and the kids get in the car and leave. Jax and I are staying here."

"No!" James said. "I can't lose you and my uncle!" He was bawling, as was Christina.

"Mom, we can't just leave them here," she said.

"We have to," my sister said. "I'm not losing my children, and my children aren't losing their mother. Jax, mom, I'm so sorry. I love you both with all my heart. But Jax, you got us all into this mess by making a terrible mistake. You almost got my family killed, and Harvey was shot." She was sobbing.

I can't believe this is happening, I thought. What have I done? She was right. This should've never happened. Now I wanted to die more than ever.

"I'm so sorry, Brenda. I hope you find it in your heart to someday forgive me after I'm gone."

"Don't talk that way. You're my brother, and I'll always love you. Don't act as if you're already dead. I can't handle the thought of losing you. I'll be praying for you to get out of there alive."

"Okay, that's enough," Haseem said. "Whoever's leaving leave and whoever's staying stay." Brenda and the kids began to run to the car, with Harvey hobbling close behind.

"Mom, you need to go with them. I'm not going to watch them kill you." I shoved her in the direction of the car.

"I'm not going anywhere!" I could see the conviction in her eyes.

"Start walking toward us," Haseem said.

"Now we're both gonna die, mom!" We walked toward him. We got to within a couple feet and one of his men patted me down, searching for weapons and a wire this time. Another one of the men grabbed my mother.

"Very good," Haseem said. "You're a smart man." They escorted us into the house to the living room. "Get on your knees, Mrs. Wright."

"You don't need to do this!" I implored. "I came to you in good faith on your terms, and you swore to me you would let my family live!"

"And I kept my word. I _was_ letting all of them go but you have a stubborn mother. I can't let her live now. Besides, you killed two of my brothers and I'm going to kill you and your mother so you know how it feels. I'm sure you're familiar with the phrase an eye for an eye. Wouldn't you rather see your mother go before you than wonder what was going to happen to her after?"

"I'm begging you, let her go! She's done nothing to you! I've already lost my father and cousin and a very close friend! I'll do anything you want if you let her go! I'll help you! I'll kill for you! I have access to information you can use to blow up the whole freakin' world if that's what you want!"

"I know about your grandfather. If it weren't for him, most of Israel would be gone. He saved millions of Jews from extinction. You honestly think I'm stupid enough to be convinced you'll work alongside me to kill those you love most. If I let your mother go, you're just going to let us kill you. I can see it in your eyes. You don't care about your own life."

"I'll do anything!" I pleaded. "I swear! My grandpa is dead, and he, my mother and grandmother were the only reason I'd been working with the Israeli government to stop you! All I care about now is my mother! I couldn't care less what you do to Israel or America! I've lost my will to live and any sense of empathy for anyone but my family!"

"Why would you not care about what we do to America if your family is here? Now I know I can't trust what you're telling me." I screwed up bad that time and now there was nothing I could say to stop this from happening.

"By the way, your grandpa is alive," he said, smiling. "Well, sort of."

"How do _you_ know he's alive?" I said. "And what do you mean _sort of_? What have you done to him, you bastard?" My grandpa appeared from the hallway.

"Oh my God, you _are_ still alive!" I said to my grandpa. But then I realized he wasn't being held hostage. "Grandpa, what are you doing here?" I said, baffled.

"That's not your grandfather," my mom said. What the hell's happening? I thought, becoming disoriented again.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said. "Of course it is."

"It isn't, trust me," my mom said. "He's the devil." She was obviously delusional, I thought.

"Grandpa, what the hell's going on?" I said.

"Jax, you're like a filthy cockroach," he said. I couldn't believe what I just heard. I must've been delusional as well. "You just won't die. I'm not your grandfather. Your grandfather's been dead for several months, but not before he had enough intel to help Israel build David unfortunately." I looked straight in his eyes and realized he was telling the truth. That wasn't my grandpa. But the resemblance was uncanny. It had to have taken extensive reconstructive surgery and several months of practicing my grandfather's voice. Or maybe it _was_ my grandfather and he was brainwashed. "He was working with the Israeli government gathering intelligence to help them fight us," the man continued. "He was a major obstacle, as he had an in with many American government employees working on the most sophisticated weaponry the world has ever seen. That weaponry was considered a game changer. But you already know all about that. The intel you were giving me was going straight to Hamas. We tested Goliath, and the success rate, even against David—which we succeeded creating thanks to you and some reverse engineering—was seventy-five percent. Even though only one of four missiles impacted, it was our main target, Jerusalem, so we consider it a great success and victory for the state of Islam.

"Who knows, if your grandfather were alive today, Jerusalem may still be intact. What a shame. Oh, and before you die, I want you to know that it was your father who gave us the design plans for Goliath. Well, at least most of them. Raytheon discovered the leak before we had the full package. We believed you had the plans as well. Obviously, we were wrong, but we were able to get the rest from another source. Now you and your mother are going to suffer the consequences of you killing our brothers."

His words immediately triggered a memory. It was the nightmare I had over a year earlier––the one where I came to work early one morning and overheard the conversation in the conference room between the American man and the group of Middle Easterners. I specifically remembered the name Ali. I remembered the American man sounded like Sean Connery, and was in his late fifties, early sixties. It must've been a premonition. My God, I realized. That man was my dad. I'd had these types of dreams in the past. I dreamt of the Japan tsunami the day before it happened. Even though I knew I was about to die, I wanted to confirm my suspicion.

"Did he sell the plans to a man named Ali?" I said.

"He didn't _sell_ them to Ali; they were working together," he said. "How did you know? Did he confess his sins to you before he shot himself?"

"What difference does it make?" I was devastated and dropped my head. If what he was saying were true, and now I was convinced it was, my father was responsible for the second Holocaust and, even worse, I helped him. Whether I knew it or not at the time was irrelevant. I contributed to what I considered the most iniquitous crime in human history. But how did my dad gain access to the design plans? The SOB must've taken the information I gave him and got the plans from Raytheon somehow. Hell, maybe I was right earlier and Hamas had infiltrated Raytheon and forced my dad to do their dirty work. I couldn't imagine him doing any of these things under his own volition. They probably used him to do much of their dirty work. It didn't matter either way. If he had any scruples at all, or courage, he would've let them kill him before giving them America's most coveted secret ever and participating in other heinous acts. I hoped he was rotting in hell. I couldn't wait for Haseem to put a bullet in my head.

When I raised my head I looked at this man who'd been playing me the last several months. He had an evil grin. I could literally see what I believed was the incarnation of Satan beneath his skin. Likely it was post-traumatic stress and I was hallucinating, but I saw it and it sent a chill up my spine. I still wasn't convinced it wasn't my grandfather. He looked and sounded _exactly_ like him.

"Grandpa, I know it's you!" I beseeched. "They've brainwashed you! It's me, Jax. You _know_ who I am!"

"Jax, your grandfather is dead," he said with a devilish grin.

"I told you I'd make you suffer, Jax," Haseem said. He was certainly true to his word, as I'd never been in so much emotional pain. He pointed _his_ FN 57––the freakin' terrorists had better firearms than us––at the back of my mom's head. She was crying.

"At least let me say goodbye," I said.

"I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to my brothers."

"No, please!" I begged.

I closed my eyes. Then I heard glass break followed by a thud. I opened my eyes and saw Haseem on the ground with a hole between his eyes and a pool of blood next to his head. I was standing there in near shock. The man closest to Haseem's body pointed his Uzi at me, but a bullet went through his head from behind. He fell to the ground as the Uzi was spraying bullets everywhere. Neither my mom nor I was hit, but the man posing as my grandfather was lying on the ground bleeding profusely. Then I heard broken glass and a loud bang before the room filled with smoke, immediately followed by the sound of the front door crashing open and then the back door.

"Hostages, get on the ground!" I heard a voice say. My mom and I immediately hit the floor, lying face down next to each other. Then I looked up and through the smoke, which was becoming denser, and saw men carrying large black shields and wearing masks move in toward the two remaining men. The two men began firing but were shot immediately. The men with the shields, followed by men carrying German-made, HK MP5 submachine guns, moved through the house. They all had the big, yellow letters "F"-"B"-"I" printed on the backs of their jackets.

"Clear, boss," I could hear an agent's voice say over a radio. "All the hostiles are dead, except one who needs immediate medical attention. He's bleeding out. He looks to be in his late eighties or early nineties and is unarmed." I looked up and through the smoke saw an agent dragging an elderly man out what once was the back door.

"I wonder who the hell he is?" another voice said nearby. "This is Agent Martinez. I need a bus at 1345 Carmel Valley Drive. We have an elderly man here in extremely critical condition. He's bleeding out." My mom and I continued to lie on the floor coughing because of the smoke before I heard footsteps approaching and looked up.

"I told you we're not in the business of letting good people die," the man standing above me said.

"Agent Martinez?" I asked.

"Yes, Jackson."

"You did it," I said. "You guys are amazing." He smiled as I turned my head and looked at my mother. "You okay, mom?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get you two out of here," Martinez said.

A couple of the men helped my mother and me to our feet and guided us from the house, which was still filled with smoke. Once outside, my mother and I were coughing violently and rubbing our eyes. A couple seconds later, we embraced as tears streamed down our cheeks. My mom turned to Agent Martinez.

"Thank you," she said. "I thought it was over. We'll never be able to repay you and your men."

"Just seeing all of you alive is all the payback we need, Barbara."

"I can't believe this is over, Jax," my mom said.

"It isn't," I said. "They're going to come after me, and they already blew up Jerusalem with a nuclear missile yesterday."

"What? Oh my God!"

"Over two and a half million Israelis are dead. It's another Holocaust, just as Hamas promised. I'm sure either Israel or us has already struck back."

"Not yet, but the news is saying things are growing more unstable across the world, and we may be on the verge of a global nuclear war," Martinez said.

"Oh my God," my mom said again.

"Mom, I'm so sorry about your father," I said. "Grandpa was a great man. He fought valiantly for his country. I'm sure he's in heaven now." We hugged again as the tears continued to flow from my mom's eyes. I started thinking.

"Oh my God," I said.

"What, Jax?"

"The night Kim was killed, that evil bastard posing as grandpa called me right before Kim was shot. He must've known we were in the bar together and that I'd leave Kim alone so I could talk."

I ran inside my sister's house, looked around and saw the agent still tending to the elderly man, trying to stop the bleeding. I pushed him aside, put my hand over the man's mouth and stared into his dark, vacuous eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" the agent said. He grabbed my arm. I shrugged him off, pulled out my gun and pointed it at him.

"Stay away!" I said. "This man killed my best friend and millions of Jews! I'm gonna be looking right in his eyes when he dies!" The evil man looked at me in horror; I stared back.

"How does it feel, vermin? This is for my grandfather, grandmother, cousin and the state of Israel, which will only grow stronger as a result of your cowardly acts!"

After about thirty seconds, I was looking into his lifeless eyes. I had to look away immediately because I swear I could feel the evil penetrating my soul. It was unnerving and I was a little disoriented. But then I heard the agent's voice, which broke me from my semi trance.

"Boss," the voice said. "He died."

"Call off the bus for 1345 Carmel Valley Drive," I could hear Martinez say over the radio. "The man died."

"Thanks for having my back," I said to the agent beside me. "Are you going to arrest me now?"

"No," he said. "But next time you pull a gun on me, I'm going to shoot you between the eyes."

"Duly noted. What's your name?"

"Chandler Parker."

"Thank you for saving my family, Agent Parker."

"You're welcome. Now go back to your mom."

I got up, walked through the smoky house and back to my mom, who was still crying.

"Mom, it's going to be okay," I said, putting my arm around her. She turned to Agent Martinez.

"Where are Brenda and the kids?" she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"We have them," Martinez said. "They're safe and uninjured, except for your son-in-law, Harvey, but he should be fine. My men are bringing them to us now."

"Thank God," my mom said.

"Thank you, Agent Martinez," I said.

"Anytime, Jax."

"Oh God, I have to call Eddie!" my mom said. "They took me right in front of him." Just as she started dialing, a van pulled up to the curb with Brenda, Harvey and the kids. They got out, except for Harvey, and ran to me and started hugging me. Moments later, there was the faint sound of an explosion from the east and we could see a mushroom cloud rising into the sky. It was a long way off. As everyone at the scene was standing there dumbstruck, a black SUV screeched around the corner.

# Chapter 33

"Jax, get your family behind the van!" Martinez shouted. The ops team open fired on the SUV at the same time the men in the SUV started firing. We huddled down behind the van.

"Oh my God!" my sister said. We could hear grunting and the words "agent down" several times. The SUV came screeching toward us. It ran into the police van and we were all jettisoned forward onto the sidewalk.

"Put your weapons down!" a man with a Middle Eastern accent said. We could hear groaning, I assume from members of the ops team.

"Okay," Martinez said. "I'm going to lay my gun on the ground."

"Now slide it over here!" the man said. We could hear the gun slide across the ground. Then we heard a gunshot, a grunt and what sounded like a body fall to the ground. Oh my God, I thought. He must've shot Martinez. We're all going to die.

"Jax!" the voice said.

"Yeah."

"Come out from behind the van!"

I staggered to my feet and walked around to the other side of the van. There were bodies everywhere and more blood than I'd ever seen. All the agents appeared to be dead or dying. I looked up at the man. He was dressed in all black wearing a ski mask. Where had I seen that before? I thought sarcastically.

"If you're gonna shoot me do it now!" I yelled. "But let my family go! They can't identify you and they haven't done anything to you!"

The man walked toward me and grabbed me by the arm. He dragged me to the SUV, opened the rear passenger-side door and shoved me in. I tried to unlock it as he started to walk around the back to the other side but the child safety lock must've been engaged. It was just as well; I had no chance of escaping. He got in and sat next to me. There was a dead body slumped over the steering wheel and another slumped over sideways toward the driver on the passenger side. There were two of them still alive. The other man, dressed the same but taller, pulled both of the bodies from the front of the SUV and got in. The man who grabbed me had an FN 57––must've been Hamas standard issue––pointed at my head. The driver started the SUV and took off.

"Jax, no!" I heard a voice, I think my mom's, cry out.

"You bastards!" I said. "Just kill me now and get it over with!"

"We have other plans for you," the man next to me said.

"What else could you possibly want from me? You have everything you need!"

"Not everything. You're going to help us save the rest of what's left of the Middle East."

"How the hell am I gonna do that? You have everything I know!"

"But you're the only one with the means of calling off the attacks by Israel and the United States."

"I'm not in a position of power!" I shouted. "I can't help you!"

"Liar!" the same man said.

"It's too late now. Iran has been reduced to ashes. I'm sure the same is probably happening to Iraq at this moment if all our troops have evacuated."

"They haven't yet, but time is running out." The man had a knapsack in his hands and reached over and put it over my head. Now where the hell are they taking me? I wondered. We drove for about five minutes and slowed down and made a right turn. I flashed back to when the terrorists were driving Kim, Clyde, my dad and Paul and I around Yuma after they'd run us off the road. I had the same feeling they were going to drive me to a remote location and put a bullet in my head. But this time I wasn't afraid. I truly wanted it to end because I knew it was inevitable. They were never going to stop coming. There wasn't a square foot on the face of this planet where I'd be safe; they'd find me and eventually kill me. That, or like I said earlier, I was going to eat my gun.

Seconds later, we stopped. The man next to me got out of the car, walked around the back to the other side, opened the door and pulled me out. We walked along the pavement and stopped. I began talking to myself in silence. Well, this may be it. Sorry grandma and grandpa, I did the best I could. I guess it just wasn't meant to be. Maybe it wasn't God's plan for me to save Israel and avenge your deaths. Maybe there _was_ no plan for me and this was all just random. I thought of God shaking the snow globe. Then I heard what sounded like a warehouse door opening. I could hear the chains as the door was apparently being raised. We walked inside and went about a hundred feet before the man turned me around and sat me in a chair.

"Now tell us everything you know," he said.

"Screw you! I've already done enough damage to the two countries I love most! I'm not saying a word! I don't care if you kill me!"

"Just I suspected. Haseem said you were a tough guy." I heard some footsteps in the distance that gradually grew louder. I heard what sounded like a cart, as one of the wheels was squeaking. Then I heard what sounded like a man putting on latex gloves. Oh my God, I thought. They're going to torture me. "Mr. Wright, you're either going to tell us everything you know or you're going to suffer to an extent I assure you you'd never even be able to imagine," the same man who'd been doing all the talking said.

I heard what sounded like metal instruments being picked through on a tray. Jesus Christ, I thought. I've seen enough movies to know what was about to happen. To make matters worse, I'd just seen _Law Abiding Citizen_ , with Jamie Foxx and Gerard Butler, whose character turns vigilante after a plea bargain sets one of his family's killers free. As I sat there, all I could think of was that bloodcurdling scene when he brutally executed that man body part by body part, and it made my skin crawl. I was horrified. You can handle this, Jax, I told myself. I'm not giving these monsters what they need.

"Piss off!" I said.

"You're either an extremely brave man or crazy," the man said. "Okay, go ahead."

Someone strapped my arms at the biceps and the wrists to the chair. Then my legs were bound. Next, someone grabbed my right hand. I felt a sharp metal object wrap around my thumb above the knuckle. It felt like it was barely piercing the skin. A second later, I could feel the metal object clamp down and hear a crunch, which was followed immediately by the worst pain I'd ever experienced. It was like my thumb was literally on fire.

"Ahhhh! Oh my God!" It was agony. Tears began to roll down my cheeks.

"Now are you ready to talk?"

"Go to hell!" Then I felt the metal object clamp down on my right index finger. Oh God no, I thought. I can't take this anymore. I was just about to start talking but then I thought about my grandmother and grandfather. If they and the rest of them endured a kind of terror I couldn't even begin to comprehend then I could handle the pain of losing another finger. This is for you, grandma and grandpa, I professed internally. The pain was getting worse, not better, and what was going to come next would double it, I knew. God give me strength, I prayed.

"Mr. Wright, you're stronger than I suspected. Do it." I felt the sharp metal expand around my finger and the piercing of the skin. Then came the crunch again.

"Ahhhh!" I cried out. "Jesus Christ! God, please help me!"

"There's no God here to save you, Mr. Wright."

I can't even describe how much it hurt. Only a person who's been through it would have the capacity to fathom it. I started crying harder.

"Mr. Wright, is all this pain really worth it? You can end it right now by simply telling us what you know. Then you can go be with your family."

"You think I'm dumb enough to believe you're not going to kill me after you get what you need? I'm not saying anything, you demented bastard! Your friend, Josef Mengele there, can cut off all my fingers if he wants!"

"Okay, you just made your bed." I heard what sounded like one metal instrument placed on the tray and another picked up. The torturer grabbed my middle finger as I was sticking it up in defiance. He pulled it back in anger I assume.

"Jesus Christ!" I yelled.

He then let it go and I rested it on the arm of the chair. Then I felt something latch onto my fingernail. I assume it was a pair of pliers. Oh my God, I thought. I bit down hard and braced myself for what I knew was going to be the most hideous pain I'd ever felt. God, give me strength, I said again in silence. Doesn't bravery in the face of evil count for something? Let me endure the pain and maintain my dignity. Even God probably thought I was crazy at that point. Then I felt a pulling and heard a ripping sound. It was so bad I almost lost consciousness.

"Oh God!" I screamed. "Ahhhh! Please, God, make it stop! Jesus Christ, I can't take it anymore!"

"That's the furthest I've seen anyone take this. Sebastian didn't even make it this far. Do you believe this guy, Martinez?"

"No, honestly, I can't," the other man said. I didn't know if it was the butcher or not. Martinez? I thought. I was feeling woozy. I must've been losing a lot of blood.

"Did you say Martinez?" I said.

"Yes," the man said.

_"Agent_ Martinez?"

"Yes," Martinez said. I was delirious. It couldn't be. But it sounded like him. Maybe I was hallucinating. Were they all Hamas now? I wondered.

"You traitor!" I said. "You're gonna rot in hell like the rest of these scum bags! What, they make you an offer you couldn't refuse?"

"Who are you, Marlon freakin' Brando?" he said. "Yeah, they're paying me ten times what the FBI did over twenty years of service."

"You're just gonna have to kill me, because I'm not talking!" I said defiantly. The pain was still just as intense.

"Okay, Mr. Wright," the other man said. "I'm done playing games. Go ahead and give it to him." What the hell was next? I wondered. The man who'd been torturing me the last ten minutes grabbed my right arm and I felt a sting and then a burning sensation. It was a needle. I felt it go all the way in and come back out. A few seconds later, I felt even woozier, like I was on heroin, one of my favorite drugs during my darkest hours just months earlier. I was seeing double and tracers. Truth serum, I realized.

"Now you're going to talk," the bastard who'd done almost all of the talking said.

"Okay, here it is in a nutshell," I said. "You have your tape recorder running? You're going to want to get all this."

"We're ready," the same man said.

"Okay, let me start from the beginning. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away..."

Someone punched me in the jaw, my head dropped and I'm pretty sure I began singing the words "Hurts so Good."

"Okay," the man said. "I think it's hit him. Let's begin. What do you know about..."

Before he could finish his sentence I heard three gunshots, one right after the other, then I heard grunting and three thuds, again one right after another. I had no idea what was going on.

"Move in, Thomas!" a man's voice said. I heard what sounded like two men running toward me. But I may have been dreaming. I may have been dead. I didn't know and I didn't care.

"What's going on?" I think I said.

"Jax, it's Agent Parker," a voice said. "I need a bus immediately at..." That was all I heard before it went black.

# Chapter 34

I was sitting on my couch in Birch Bay watching _Seinfeld_ , the "man hands" episode, laughing hysterically, when breaking news interrupted the show.

"We've just received unverified reports that a nuclear missile struck the city of Los Angeles," the anchorwoman said. "What?" She paused, apparently listening to a voice in her earpiece. "We've just received amateur video from Mission Viejo confirming the reports." The video was shaky and I could hear screaming. It made me think briefly of the dreadful movie _Cloverfield_ , a film chronicling a monster terrifying New York with all the footage shot using a handheld camera. In this case, the camera was focused on a mushroom cloud like nothing I'd ever seen. It was so large it was almost too hard to believe. I was in awe. This was Armageddon. I didn't think I'd live to see this day, although I suspected it'd happen eventually. The video was rolling as the person carrying the camera was trying to narrate.

"I've never seen anything like this," a shaky male voice said. He panned from the mushroom cloud to the street around him and people were running from their houses to their cars, trying to head south away from the fallout I assume. I could hear tires screeching as cars began racing out of their driveways. Several of them crashed into one another. It was like watching a disaster movie but far worse obviously because it was real.

"Oh my God!" the man said. He panned back to the mushroom cloud, which had to be several miles in the air at that point. I could see ashes begin to fall from the sky. The man started running and the picture went fuzzy gray and then black.

I couldn't move so I just sat and stared in disbelief. Those bastards are destroying the United States of America, the most powerful country in the world; that is, until Goliath fell into the wrong hands. It was truly going to end unless something miraculous happened. God, you can't let this happen, I implored internally. I knew I could help but it was too late. I flipped over to CNN. Soon, news helicopters were flying overhead relatively near the perimeter of the cloud, which continued to grow and fan out from its epicenter with a speed and ferocity like nothing any human being could ever have fathomed. Along its perimeter was an avalanche of fire probably half a mile high that within seconds swept across downtown LA incinerating everything in its path. It was headed in all directions, spreading west/southwest toward Malibu, Santa Monica, Marina Del Rey and Culver City; east toward Alhambra and Monterey Park; south toward Inglewood and Huntington Park; and north/northeast toward Glendale, Pasadena and Burbank. I dialed 4-1-1 and asked for the Whitehouse phone number. Seconds later, a woman answered.

"This is the Whitehouse, Melinda speaking," she said, her voice trembling.

"This is Jackson Wright!" I said urgently. "I need to speak to the President immediately!"

"President Dobson is preparing for a press conference," she said.

"I need to talk to him now! I might be able to stop this before it's too late!"

"What's your name again?"

"Jackson Wright! We don't have time for this!" There was a pause.

"Mr. Wright, I'm going to transfer you to someone who's better equipped to handle this." After about fifteen seconds, a man was on the line.

"Mr. Wright, this is Walter Bates, Secretary of Defense. I've seen your name in the news. You said you might have a means of stopping this?"

"Yes, leverage against the enemy."

"What do you mean by leverage?"

"I don't want to talk over the phone. They're probably listening to our conversation."

"Well, I'm not going to send a plane over there without knowing what you have is something that we don't already know," Bates said. "Your background, from what I've read, is in technical writing."

"I do much more than that!" I said emphatically. "But you're not going to see any of it because it's top secret! I know things about the enemy and their intentions that the CIA and FBI aren't privy to! That's all I can tell you! It's probably already enough to get me killed if this call is being traced!"

"Calm down, Mr. Wright. I understand. I'm going to have a private jet pick you up. What's your location?" I told him in code that any intelligence agent would recognize. "I don't know what that means," he said.

"Write it down and give it to the CIA," I said before repeating it. "Send a plane for me once you've determined my location. I'll be waiting. I'm not going through airport security, as I'll be armed."

"Okay," he said.

I directed him to send the plane to an airport in Vancouver, Canada, not Birch Bay. I still had several sticks of C4 from my dad's stockpile of ammunition from Yuma and some duct tape. I tightly wrapped four sticks to my chest, put a heavy jacket on, shaved my head and put some dark shades on to disguise myself, threw a beanie on and left the house. It was raining and windy, but I didn't _feel_ the rain or the cold. I drove to Vancouver International Airport looking in my rearview mirror the entire way. Nobody was following me as far as I could tell. I made it there in about forty-five minutes, parked and walked through the rain and into the airport. I bought a cup of coffee, a bagel and a newspaper, found a seat and began reading the sports section. I made sure to keep my face covered, as I did in Bellingham. About an hour later, I heard footsteps approaching and could sense someone was standing in front of me.

"Mr. Wright?" a man said. I looked up. "Kyle Walker, FBI," he said. "Come with me. Your plane is waiting outside."

"I need to see your ID," I said. He showed it to me. It was legit. I followed him to the tarmac and we walked to the plane. I was looking around but didn't see anything suspicious. When we boarded I asked to see the pilot and his credentials. He showed them to me and I was satisfied. We began taxiing down the runway and stopped. Then we started again once the traffic cleared. Soon we were in the air. I sat there and made small talk with Agent Walker. After about an hour, he pulled his gun out, a Glock-27 of course, and pointed it at me.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said.

"Mr. Wright, you're under arrest for multiple felonies, including impeding a federal investigation."

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

"Put your hands behind your head," he said. Instead, I began opening my jacket. "Whoa, I said put your hands behind your head," he repeated. "I'll shoot you right here if I have to." He disengaged the lock and aimed right between my eyes, but I continued to open my jacket until he saw the C4.

"Looks like you brought a gun to a bomb show, Walker," I said. "You shoot me, we all die." I put my finger on the triggering mechanism in my right hand, which was connected to a wire that went up the inside of my shirtsleeve and attached to the explosives. He could see my finger on the trigger.

"Okay, take it easy," he said.

"Put the gun down! You have no idea who you're dealing with! You guys obviously don't believe I have what I say I do. You're risking the lives of all Americans if you don't take me to see the President." He slowly placed the gun on the floor and I relaxed, but then he came toward me quickly. I wasn't about to push the button. God, Israel and America needed my help. He whipped his body around and scissor kicked me in the jaw, knocking me down. I think he broke it because I heard a crack. I knew he wasn't an agent now, at least not for my country. He came at me again and I whipped my feet around and took his legs out from under him. We both got to our feet and I put my finger on the trigger again.

"Okay, stop right there!" I said.

The pilot, meanwhile, ran from the cockpit with a parachute on, opened the plane door, looked out, hesitated and jumped. What the hell was going on? Was I dreaming? I didn't feel like myself. I started having brief visions of sitting in a warehouse where horrible things were being done to me. Was I losing my mind or did that really happen? Was _this_ really happening? I was overwhelmed with confusion and fear. Then I heard a voice.

"Jax," it said. "Do what you need to do to stay alive. They never had any intention to land this plane. They're going to destroy the Whitehouse. You're going to save it and humanity." Oh my God, I thought. I'm hearing voices. Either God is speaking to me or I'm delusional. The plane began descending and was slowly moving from horizontal to vertical. I struggled to retain my balance. The man who called himself Agent Walker saw I was daydreaming, put on a parachute and rushed toward the open door. I came to my senses when he was a couple feet away. I grabbed his arm but he had too much momentum and I lost my grip. He jumped. Instinctively, I jumped right after him, grabbing a hold of his back and holding on tightly. He fought to wrench me off but I had a death grip on him.

"Pull the cord!" I yelled as loud as possible. The wind shear was deafening. "We're both gonna die!" We were descending rapidly and I could see the plane right beside us. Then I looked down and the ground was getting closer. I realized the man I was clinging to––the one posing as a government agent sent by the freakin' Secretary of Defense of all people––couldn't pull the cord even if he wanted to because I was right on top of the chute. I slowly shifted my body toward his left side until the chute was clear. He was fighting me the whole time, but God I assume was giving me the strength to hang on. The man began praying to Allah. Oh, for Christ's sake, I thought. When am I going to catch a break? How the hell am I supposed to save the world, God, when the guy in charge of our military is part of the conspiracy? But that was the least of my concerns at the moment. "I'll blow us both up before we hit the ground!" I yelled.

"Do it!" the man shouted back. Either he was calling my bluff or he didn't care if he died. I suspected the latter.

"I'm gonna do it in three seconds, I swear to God!" I yelled. "I'm not afraid to die either, trust me!" I began counting down as the ground was growing dangerously close. I could see cars driving on the streets. It was now or never, I realized. One of us had to take action. If it wasn't him we were both going to die. I continued counting, "...two, one..." He finally pulled the cord. Apparently he _did_ want to live. I almost lost my grip as our momentum slowed dramatically but I somehow managed to hang on. He was struggling to free himself from me. I heard an explosion nearby. Our plane crashed within a couple hundred yards and I could see the flames and smoke before we landed hard seconds later. We were both dazed. I gained my senses before him, as he endured the brunt of the impact with me landing practically on top of him. I have no idea where the hell we were. It looked like the middle of a death camp, which was strange because I'd never seen one before. I was definitely delusional. I put my knee on the man's chest and pinned his arms. He kneed me in the groin and I rolled over onto the ground. He got me in a chokehold and demanded I tell him everything I know. "I'm not giving you anything!" I said. With his other arm he punched me in my fractured jaw. I felt no pain, which was strange. Then I heard an explosion to the east and could see a mushroom cloud ascending into the sky. Oh my God, the Whitehouse, I thought. I knew that's what it was. It was over. I'd failed.

"Talk now or die!" the man shouted.

"Screw you!" I retorted. Apparently I'd upset him, as he punched me again before everything went black.

# Chapter 35

When I opened my eyes all I saw was a shadowy figure. Am I still alive? I wondered. Is this heaven? Hell? Where am I? But then my vision cleared. I could feel a hand on my arm. I looked over and it was my mother.

"Oh my God!" she said. "You're awake!" Tears began trickling down her cheeks.

"They just destroyed LA and the Whitehouse," I said. "I was headed there but the men on the plane were working for Hamas. We had to jump from the plane. When we hit the ground, I heard an explosion and saw a mushroom cloud. I'm sure it was the Whitehouse. Where am I?"

"Jax, you're in a hospital bed. You were rescued in a warehouse in Del Mar. You were never on a plane."

"Yes I was. Turn the channel to CNN."

My mom flipped through the channels to CNN and there was just regular news, no towering mushroom clouds over Los Angeles or the Whitehouse or a plane crash.

"I know what I saw and what happened," I said. "They're lying to you. The government is hiding this. We're in danger."

"Jax, look around," my mom said. "You're hooked to an IV. You're fine. We're fine. LA's fine. The Whitehouse is fine. There was an attack on Dallas. That was the mushroom cloud we saw earlier before you were taken. Maybe that triggered your dream. You were found in a warehouse. President Dobson was on the news yesterday at the Whitehouse."

"Yeah, yesterday. This just happened."

"Jax, you've been in a coma for four days."

"What? That's impossible. They're lying."

"I've been here with you the entire time. Son, you were dreaming." What the hell's going on? I thought.

"I remember sitting in a chair somewhere," I said.

"Yes. Those evil men were torturing you in a warehouse," my mom said.

"I remember hearing gunshots and then voices approaching. Maybe that's when I blacked out. Maybe it was all just a dream."

"That's what happened, son. Agents Parker and Thomas saved you."

"I can't believe it was a dream. I was far more lucid then than I am now." I stared at the ceiling as images were flashing in and out of my mind.

"Jax, what's going on?" my mom said.

"God spoke to me. He's chosen me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Why me, though? And why didn't he warn me about Israel or Dallas?"

"Jax! Oh my God! You've lost your mind!"

"No, mom. My mind's never been clearer."

"You just looked like you were hypnotized. Did you hear anything I said besides the last part?"

"Yeah, but it's like my mind is putting together pieces of a puzzle."

"Jax, you're not thinking clearly," my mom said with apparent fear in her eyes. "It's probably the pain medication and trauma. Relax. You've been asleep for a long time."

My entire family walked in the room and when they saw me awake talking to my mom they became exuberant and each of them came up and hugged me. My sister and niece had tears in their eyes. I looked around and didn't see Janet.

"Where's Janet?" I said.

"I don't know," my mom said. "I called her four days ago and left a message."

"That doesn't make sense. I know she loves me. Maybe Hamas did something to her. Mom, can you grab my cell for me." She started digging through a plastic bag on the chair next to her, found it and handed it to me. I dialed Janet's number and it went to voicemail. "Dang it," I said. "I don't get it."

"I'm sorry, Jax," my mom said. "I know how much you care about her. Maybe she just couldn't handle all this emotionally."

"No, she could handle it. Either those monsters killed her or she was working for them all along. Maybe she was sent to help me heal so I'd be ready to meet with Haseem."

"I think you're being paranoid, Jax." My mom took her hand off my arm and left the room. Then I thought of something.

"What is it, Jax?" my sister said.

"I'm starting to remember more about the warehouse," I said. "That's where I heard it."

"Heard what?" she said.

"Martinez. He was there. He's working for Hamas." Meanwhile, my mom had walked back in.

"Jax, you're talking crazy again," she said. "Where's the doctor?" At that moment, a nurse walked in.

"Jax, my God, you're one tough cookie," she said. "We weren't sure if you were going to make it."

"How long am I going to be here?" I said.

"At least three or four weeks."

"I can't wait that long. I have to save the rest of this country, and the world." She hesitated.

"What?" she said.

"Time is running out! Can you get the doctor in here please?"

"Yeah." She walked out. I could tell she was spooked after seeing the conviction in my eyes.

"Jax, relax, you need your rest," my mom said. "Our government and military are taking care of the problem."

"No, they aren't! I know things they don't! They need my help!" The doctor walked in.

"Jax, good to see you awake, my friend," he said.

"I need to get out of here as soon as possible!" I yelled.

"We can't release you for at least three weeks. We can't even consider it. You just awoke from a coma."

"I may be the only person who can save this country! In a matter of days, maybe even hours, we'll all be dead! Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"That's not what the President's been saying," the doctor said.

"Of course that's not what he's saying! He doesn't want people running around in the streets like chickens with their heads cut off! It'll create mass chaos if they know the truth!" At that moment, the lights went out. Seconds later, the emergency generators kicked in. "Unhook me!" I urged. "We have to get out of here, now!"

"This has happened before," the doctor said nervously. "It's probably just a local power outage. There's a big storm outside with winds up to fifty miles per hour." I was convinced we were in imminent danger.

"Doctor, get my family as far away from this room as possible! They're coming for me! You all should be safe! If you stay, we may all be dead in the next two to three minutes!"

"Okay." He looked terrified, as did my whole family.

"Have the hospital locked down immediately!" I said. "And call 9-1-1 and tell them we have a possible terrorist attack in progress!" He picked up a phone and called security and 9-1-1.

"Jax!" my mom bellowed. "I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Mom, listen to me, I'm not going to let you get killed because of my reckless acts. Just know I love you. Brenda, Harvey, Christina, James and Ryan, I love you all with all my heart. Now get to safety. Doctor, unhook the IV. I'll do my best to get out of here alive. What floor are we on?"

"Five," he said. Crap, I thought.

"Okay, all of you leave immediately!" I exhorted.

"Jax, I'm not going to leave you here for slaughter!" my mom wailed with horror-filled eyes.

"Mom, I'm not worth dying for. I let dad die. I knew he was going to shoot himself and did nothing to prevent it." I was actually proud of that but I needed them to leave. Calling that monster my dad made me sick. "Now get the hell out of here!" At that moment, a security guard walked in with a flashlight.

"Is everything okay in here?" he said.

"No! You need to get my family away from here immediately! There are terrorists coming to kill me!"

"What?" he said.

"I'm their target. Can you give me a firearm? I'm staying in this room and I have no means of defending myself."

"I'll stay with you," the man said.

"Don't try to be a hero," I said. "You're going to get yourself killed, trust me. You have no idea who you're dealing with." It was strange, now seeing the situation from my father's perspective. You truly don't know until you know firsthand.

"Okay," he said. "Take my weapon." It was a Beretta 92 ironically, the same Randy carried.

"Thanks. Now get everyone, including my mom, out of here even if you have to use force. We're wasting time."

"Okay."

"Close the door behind you."

"No, Jax...nooo!" my mom cried out as the officer took her by the arm and pulled her away. "I can't lose my only son!" She was sobbing as they left the room.

"I love you, mom," I said.

"I love you too, Jax!" I could hear her say as the door was closing.

Now what was the plan? I had to think fast. I had to get out of there alive but was five floors up with nowhere to run or hide. I wasn't about to let everything I'd done to try and save my country, America and myself be in vain. The pain and grief I endured to keep Hamas from acquiring more of our secrets weren't going to be for nothing. I had to redeem my grandmother and grandfather's deaths. I realized I likely played a role in the second Holocaust, all for self-serving reasons, and I hated myself. But if I were going to die in this hospital room it'd be fighting until my last breath. At least I'd be remembered a brave man who fought to keep his family alive and protect his country.

I knew in my heart the odds of me making it out of there alive were either slim or none, and that SOB, slim, had high-tailed it from the building. This was the best way for me to go, I decided, but I was going to take as many of them with me as possible. The lights went out again. They took out the generator, I was convinced. I prayed for my family. "I'll see all of you in heaven if I'm lucky enough to get there," I said to myself quietly. I lay in bed waiting. I could hear people running around in the halls yelling. I got up and was dizzy, lost my balance and almost fell, but I grabbed the bed rail and regained my balance. I walked over and stood behind the door. Kim, I need your help, man. I know you're here. I anxiously waited for the door to open, but minutes passed and nothing happened. Where the hell are they? I wondered. But then I heard footsteps outside which were gradually growing louder. I visualized how I was going to kill him or them. I know Kim was helping me because I was thinking of jujitsu moves I'd never even learned or seen. But then the lights came back on and I could hear a man's voice over the hospital intercom.

"False alarm," he said. "The blackout was caused by the storm. We've cancelled the lockdown and called 9-1-1 and let them know it was a false alarm. There's no sign of a terrorist attack or any other kind of threat. Everyone who should be in the hospital has been accounted for. No others are in the building. Again, this is a false alarm..."

I was actually more disappointed than relieved. I was so mentally and physically exhausted. It was my time. I felt like I was about to pass out as my entire family entered the room.

"Oh, Jax, thank God!" my mom said, bawling. Everyone else was thanking God too just as they had only about twenty minutes earlier. "You're pale," my mom said. "Are you okay?"

"I don't think so." My vision was getting fuzzy and I started swaying but the doctor caught me and helped me over and into the bed. He hooked me to the IV.

"His blood pressure has dropped significantly, but he should be fine in a few minutes," the doctor said. My vision gradually started to clear. "You feeling better now?"

"Yes," I said before my family let out a collective sigh of relief.

"I told you it was probably the storm," the doctor said.

"Doctor," I said as I continued to become more lucid, "I'm afraid this may just be the calm before the storm."

# Chapter 36

I lay there in bed for the next several days watching CNN, waiting for the inevitable "breaking news" that was for all intents and purposes going to knock the earth off its axis. Family members and friends continued coming in and out of my room telling me to relax. But still no Janet. I called her every hour but she wouldn't answer. I left messages until her mailbox was full. The more I thought about it the more certain I became she _was_ working with Hamas the entire time. I remembered how she didn't show any emotion or grief when we heard that Jerusalem had been destroyed.

The news was saying how things around the world were beginning to stabilize, as the U.S., Israel and what was left of the rest of the Middle East were in negotiations to declare a truce and ceasefire. The three parties agreed, according to all the headlines, that any kind of escalation would ultimately lead to full-scale nuclear war, which would put the entire human race in peril. But I had no doubt D.C. and Los Angeles were going to be attacked. No amount of talk was going to convince me otherwise. God, those evil bastards and I knew the truth. I decided as soon as I regained some of my strength I was going to take action.

Two days later, I woke up feeling better. However, I told the nurse I was having a bad day and didn't want any visitors. My mom called and asked what was going on and I said I had a bad headache and just needed some time alone. She said she understood. I asked her if she'd heard from Janet and she said no.

"Just get some rest, Jax, and feel better," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow." No she wouldn't, I thought. I felt bad for her. I'd already put her through hell, and now I was going to disappear again. We hung up.

I was contemplating how I was going to get out of the hospital. I told the nurse I wanted to get up and walk around, so I slowly got out of bed. I was still weak and a bit wobbly and she held my arm for the first few steps. I was walking down the halls with my IV still attached and then headed toward the elevator. Nobody even noticed. I took the IV out myself while in the elevator, and when I reached the first floor I got out and headed toward the hospital exit. The receptionist asked me where I was going, as I was in my gown, and I said, "I'm leaving."

"I can't let you do that," she said predictably. I could hear her call security. I walked out the door and then started running to the first car I saw in the parking lot and sat behind it. I was feeling woozy and breathing hard. Seconds later, I could hear footsteps and voices within about twenty-five yards. It sounded like there were two of them. I knew they'd find me, and I was just waiting for one or both of them to walk around the car and take me back inside. A few moments later, the voices were getting farther away. I peeked around the corner and the two men were now about fifty yards away looking around all the cars. My heart was racing. Minutes later, the two men were joined by two others. But instead of coming closer they continued to move farther away. Kim, you gotta help me, man. I was going to have to break into and hotwire the car I was hiding behind. There was no other way. The only problem was I only had one hand to work with, as my right one was still heavily bandaged. I got up, went to the driver-side window of the white Ford Taurus, and used my club (that's what I started calling my right hand) to break the window. I didn't feel a thing. There was no alarm on the car, thank God, but I could hear one of the security guards yell, "Hey, stop right there!"

I opened the door and got in and under the steering column. I ripped off a panel––well, it was the only panel there––and saw a bundle of exposed wires. I had no idea which wires needed to be cut and touched together. I'd have to guess. There was just no way. There were too many wires and no time. I'd just have to wait for them to come and get me.

"Dang it," I said. But then I heard a familiar voice coming from the passenger seat. What the hell? I thought.

"Jax," the voice said. I raised my head quickly and bumped it hard.

"Crap," I said. What I saw when I looked over was impossible, literally.

"Kim?" I said.

"Yeah, buddy," he said.

"What the hell? I watched you die. I was there when the doctor pronounced you dead. What the hell's going on?" He was covered in blood and his face was ashen color, the way he looked that night.

"Listen to me, Jax," he said. "You're running out of time." I was nearly in shock. "There are five wires going into the ignition. The only one that remains the same color on all cars is the red one. This is the main hot wire for the whole ignition. The fastest way to know what is what is to remember that all the wires but one can be connected at one time. The first thing you want to find is the starter wire. Quickly cut and strip all the wires. Then, one at a time, touch them to the red wire. When the starter turns over you've found it. Next, connect all the other wires to the red one. This will turn on the ignition. Then all you need to do is touch the starter wire to all the other wires just long enough to start the car. Do it now."

I realized there was no way to do this unless I took the bandage off my right hand. I unwrapped it quickly and it wasn't a pretty sight. I used a shard of broken glass to cut the wires as I could hear footsteps and voices growing closer. I did what Kim told me as fast as I could despite the fact I only had three fingers and two nubs on my right hand and suddenly there was a spark, and I shocked the crap out of myself.

"Son of a mother!" I said. Kim laughed. At the same time, to my utter disbelief, the car started.

"Kim, it worked, man," I said. I got up from under the steering column, but when I looked over he was gone. "Kim, where the hell are you? You need to get to the hospital." I looked outside and didn't see him anywhere. That was it. Either I was officially insane or that coma did something to my mind that allowed me to see dead people. I was really freaked out and scared. I immediately thought of Christopher Walken in _The Dead Zone,_ one of my favorite King novels and movies, where Walken's character, Johnny Smith, after a long coma resulting from a devastating car crash, could envision the future by shaking a person's hand. I could hear the footsteps of the security guards getting closer. I looked to my left and two of them were within twenty feet. I sat down and put the car in reverse as they approached with their guns drawn.

"Stop right there!" one of them yelled. He had his gun pointed right at my head, but I knew he wasn't going to shoot me.

"I don't think so," I said before I backed up, tires screeching, turned the wheel to the left, put the car in drive and headed toward the exit. I could see the men in the rearview mirror running back toward the hospital. I knew the police would be there shortly.

"Thanks, Kim," I said. I started feeling the guilt associated with his murder, as he'd still be alive today had I made the right decision from the beginning. But I also knew I couldn't change the past. I had to be focused now.

I had no idea what to do. But then something occurred to me. It was so obvious, but I was in such a fog during the last week and a half I never even considered it. The current adrenaline surge must've invoked some clarity. With the U.S. military on the highest alert imaginable, it would be impossible for _anyone_ to pull off a surprise missile attack, especially on the Whitehouse. Maybe Los Angeles was going to be the diversion, but that couldn't _possibly_ work again. Our government isn't _that_ stupid. But I knew the Whitehouse was going to fall. There was only one way that was possible––if the threat was from within. I was convinced Bates was involved, although I never mentioned this to anyone or I would've likely been committed. That SOB, or others doing his dirty work for him, was going to bring down the Whitehouse. But how the hell was I supposed to convince anyone of this? I had no proof; I had nothing. If I said it was a premonition they'd laugh at me. And the notion of the Secretary of Defense plotting to destroy America was so far-fetched that nobody would _ever_ believe me. I had to figure out a way to contact the President directly (God help me if _he_ was involved), but I didn't have the slightest clue how to do so. I'd have to talk to others first. There was no way around it.

Then something else occurred to me. I could prove my theory, at least to myself, just by knowing if Bates was at the Whitehouse or if he had any travel plans. I might be too late, but if not, how could I find this out? I had to get my hands on a phone. I could hear sirens in the distance. Okay, they're coming, I told myself. I didn't have a lot of time. Then I noticed the car had Bluetooth, so I made a call to one of a select few I felt I knew I could trust.

"Agent Parker," a familiar voice said.

"Parker, it's Jax."

"Jax, how are you?" he said.

"Fine, but I need a favor."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"You're likely going to think I'm crazy, but I have strong reason to believe that the Whitehouse is going to be attacked by Hamas."

"What? How did you learn about this?"

"Agent Martinez told me in the warehouse. He assumed I was going to die so I guess he was just rubbing salt in my wounds."

"Jesus Christ. Are you serious? I knew he was rogue obviously, but this is crazy."

"It gets even crazier," I said. "He told me the Secretary of Defense is involved. It makes sense. With the U.S. military on the highest alert imaginable, it'd be impossible for _anyone_ to pull off a surprise missile attack, especially on the Whitehouse. I think Los Angeles was going to be the diversion, but that tactic couldn't _possibly_ work again like it did in Israel. There's only one way an attack can happen––if the threat is from within. Bates, or others doing his dirty work, is going to bring down the Whitehouse. I just don't know when."

"This is surreal," Parker said. "The FBI also recently learned the Whitehouse might be in danger. We didn't know where the threat was coming from though. I have contacts at CTU who've been working with the Whitehouse. They've been waiting to take action until we had something more concrete. This may be it."

"Then you're willing to help?"

"Of course."

"Can you call the San Diego police and tell them to back off and let me come talk to you?"

"Yeah, I'll do it right after we get off the phone."

"I'm in my hospital gown, so how do you want to do this? I don't want to come to the federal building. I need to meet you somewhere."

"Meet me at La Gran Tapa at 611 B Street downtown," Parker said. "You know how to get there?"

"Yeah." My dad worked in the same building as Parker so I knew the surrounding area pretty well and I'd been to that restaurant. "Can you bring me a change of clothes and some socks and shoes?" I was still in my hospital booties.

"Yeah," he said.

"I can be there in about twenty to thirty minutes." I hung up, skeptical, but had no other option now. If he was luring me into an arrest, it was over. But at least I'd know I did everything in my power to prevent the attacks.

I arrived, found a metered parking spot and got out of my car. I looked around for anything suspicious. It didn't appear that anyone was watching me, so I headed toward the restaurant entrance. Still, I expected the FBI to swarm in and grab me. But nothing happened. I walked in and saw Parker sitting in the far back corner. He waved at me so I walked over to the table.

"Jax, you look ridiculous, man," he said as he was eating a tortilla chip.

"No kidding."

"Here are the clothes."

"Thanks." I headed to the bathroom to change. I walked in and started to undress. A man of Middle Eastern descent was washing his hands and looking at me via the mirror. It had to have been an unusual sight––me stripping down from my hospital garb––so I thought nothing of it. But when he finished and wiped his hands he walked by and said, "Tread very lightly, Mr. Wright. They're watching and listening." I was in my boxers at that point.

"Wait a second," I said. "What are you talking about? And who are _they_?" But he just kept walking, opened the door and left. "Holy crap," I said. Was this guy threatening me or warning me? I had no clue. I just stood there trying to figure it out. Then I realized I was still in my underwear. Parker had given me a pair of gray slacks, a white, long sleeve, button-up shirt, a gaudy tie, some white socks and shiny black loafers. I dressed quickly, which again wasn't easy without a thumb and index finger on my right hand, noticed the pants were about two inches too short, damned Parker then left the bathroom maybe thirty seconds later and looked around for the mystery man, but he was gone. I walked back to the table.

"Have a seat," Parker said. I sat across from him and he extended his hand to shake mine. I used my left hand. "What are you doing?" he said. I raised my right hand.

"Remember?" I said.

"Yeah. Christ. How did you let them do that without giving them anything? You were within minutes of dying. You're amazing."

"No. I'm just a patriot. I was willing to let them take all my fingers. I wasn't giving those monsters squat. I was begging them to kill me I was in so much pain."

"You're unbelievable, man." Parker shook his head.

"Did you see a Middle Eastern-looking man leave the bathroom before me?" I said. "He was a couple inches shorter than me with a slim build."

"No. Why, what's up?"

"The guy was looking at me as I was getting dressed, and when he was done drying his hands he said something to me as he passed."

"What did he say?"

"'Tread very lightly, Mr. Wright. They're watching and listening.' This guy is in some way associated with Hamas, either working for them or against them. Oh, and the pants you gave me are two inches too short. I look like Michael Jackson."

"That's all I had in my locker," he said. "What, did you expect me to go to Macy's and shop for you?"

"No. You didn't see _anyone_ come out of the bathroom about thirty seconds before me?"

"No. But I was watching everyone who came in and out of the restaurant and keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. None of the people looked even remotely Middle Eastern. Are you feeling okay?" He was looking at me like I was crazy or delusional.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "I know what I saw and heard. I don't get it. You sure you didn't get distracted by that hot blonde over there?"

"I _did_ , but only for a split second. I know I didn't miss anyone leave this place."

"What the hell's going on, Parker?"

"You tell me. I heard you were in a coma for four days just a couple weeks ago. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you." He made me wonder. Maybe the man in the bathroom was dead or just a figment of my imagination. I honestly had no idea, yet I knew without a shred of doubt that the Whitehouse was going to fall.

"Honestly, Parker, I have no idea."

"Man, you need to get back in the hospital. I'll take care of this from here."

"No way. I started this mess and I'm going to stop it. You need me. I haven't been delusional for the last week and a half (I didn't mention seeing Kim of course). Why would it start now? Either that guy, who apparently vanished into thin air, was warning me or threatening me. My gut says he was telling me I'm in serious danger if I continue to pursue this. But who are _they_? Hamas or those giving them our secrets? Why can't anything ever be easy? For over a year now it's been like trying to figure out the plot of _Inception_. I can't tell my friends from my enemies anymore. All we have is my intuition, which has led me straight into a brick wall several times. In fact, it began this whole nightmare." The waiter walked up.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" he asked.

"Yeah, can I just get an iced tea please," I said before he walked off. "How do you want to work this?"

"I'll call CTU and tell them what you told me," Parker said. "They'll likely have a bomb squad search the Whitehouse and be on the highest alert possible for days or even weeks since we don't know when it's going to happen. It'll be impossible for someone to plant a bomb under those conditions."

"Parker, I think we should get out of here. I'm sensing something bad is going to happen."

"Okay, Allison."

"What?...Oh, Allison DuBois. Very funny." Parker pulled out his wallet, motioning to the waiter to bring us the check. He paid with cash and put a couple dollars on the table before we walked out.

# Chapter 37

As soon as I opened the door, a black SUV came screeching around the corner onto B Street. I knew what it was immediately so I started running for cover. Parker didn't, however. The SUV's passenger-side panel door slid open and heavy machine gun fire ensued. I dove behind a car, but Parker was a sitting duck.

"Parker!" I yelled. But it was too late. He was shot multiple times. It was like it was in slow motion as he fell to the ground and lay there motionless. I ran over to him after I believed I was out of harm's way and he was somehow still alive, barely breathing. "Someone call 9-1-1; tell them a federal agent has been shot and give them the address!" I shouted.

A man walking by pulled his cell out and dialed.

"Stay with me, man," I said. "A bus is going to be here in minutes. You're going to be okay."

"Jax," he said, his voice hardly audible.

"Yeah, Parker." I leaned in to hear him.

"Please tell my children I love them."

"You'll be able to tell them yourself. Just hang tight, man. Hear the sirens? They're almost here."

"Jax, tell them for me. Promise me. I want to sleep." I could barely hear him.

"I promise, man. Parker, stay awake. They'll be here in seconds. You're going to be fine."

"Take my cell. It's in my right pants pocket. CTU's number is in my incoming and..." Then he was gone. I checked for a pulse and there was nothing. I didn't have time to perform CPR. There was no point anyway; nobody could survive that. His body was riddled with bullet holes and was a bloody mess. He was one tough mother hanging on as long as he did. The ambulance was getting close and I had to get out of there.

"Rest in peace my friend," I said with tears in my eyes.

That guy in the restroom bathroom warned me. I should've heeded his words and expected something like this would happen. Hadn't I learned anything over the last year? I wondered. I hated myself more than ever. I ran down the street a few hundred yards, caught my breath and dialed several numbers––one the number of a woman who screamed, "So it was just wham bam, thank you mam, and you don't ever call me again! You son of a..." I hung up.

"Dang it," I said. After a few more attempts I finally got someone from CTU on the line. "Yes, hello," I said. "I have strong reason to believe the Whitehouse is going to be attacked by Hamas." The man I was talking to told me the line I called was for serious tips and needed to remain open and that I was committing a federal crime by using it to make a prank phone call. He also said that people like me should be in prison. "Would it make a difference if I told you this is Jackson Wright?"

"This is absurd," he said. "You have very little time to prove yourself before I hang up and have the authorities come pick you up."

"First of all, look at the number I'm calling from. It's the number of FBI agent Chandler Parker. I'm using his cell phone."

"Hold on a second," the man said. I waited for about twenty to thirty seconds. "How did you gain possession of Agent Parker's phone?" he said.

"Because he was just shot minutes ago and told me to look in his incoming calls for this number and to call it."

"I'm going to place you on hold again." I waited another thirty seconds or so. "We just confirmed that Agent Parker was shot," he said. "Is he still alive?"

"He isn't breathing and doesn't have a pulse and I performed CPR until just before the paramedics arrived. Maybe they can resuscitate him. I had to leave the scene because I needed to call you guys. I can see them just down the street. I'm going to go back as soon as I get off the phone."

"So you were with Agent Parker when he was shot?"

"Yes. We'd just left a restaurant on B Street right next to the federal building when a black SUV drove by and open fired on us. Parker was shot multiple times, but I managed to get behind a car as they continued firing."

"How do I know _you_ didn't shoot him?" the man said.

"He saved my life and those of my family and then saved me again when I was being tortured in a warehouse in Del Mar," I said. "What possible motive would I have for killing him? I was working with him to prevent the attack on the Whitehouse. He told me you guys have reason to believe the Whitehouse has been compromised by Hamas, but didn't have any concrete evidence with which to move forward. I know you aren't going to confirm or deny this, but how could I possibly know this information unless I'm telling you the truth?"

"I'm going to have to put you on hold again," the man said. This time I had to wait about two minutes. "Jackson, we're going to contact the Whitehouse immediately and warn them of an impending attack," he said. "Hold on a second. Okay, we're on the line with the Whitehouse. Please call us when you know more about Agent Parker's condition. Many of the people in this office are close friends of his."

"I will. Thank you." I hung up and didn't go back to the scene because I didn't want to be questioned and I couldn't risk being arrested. I prayed for Parker's soul, as I knew he was gone. I walked down the street searching for the nearest hotel, looking all around me for anything suspicious, fully expecting to be shot or abducted, but I saw a hotel on the other side of the street, ran across and walked into the lobby. I checked in under a false name––Jake Westbrook––and went straight up to my room on the third floor and locked the door. The room was small and I went to turn on the light right inside the door next to the bathroom and it didn't work. It figures, I thought. I tried the one by the nightstand and it worked. I kicked off my shoes, sat on the bed, turned on Fox News and just waited to see what was going to happen next. I sat there for two days glued to the TV waiting for breaking news. Then it hit me. I ran out of the room, out of the hotel, to my car and sped off.

# Chapter 38

Two days later, the Whitehouse had been evacuated. Air Force One was in the air as well as several helicopters carrying the rest of the staff away from the Whitehouse. D.C. residents were scurrying to leave the city. In the bowels of the Whitehouse, two men from the D.C. FBI's bomb squad were looking at a device.

"We have just over six minutes to diffuse this thing, Carl," Pierzynski said as he closely examined the device. In twenty-five years, I've never seen anything quite like this. Have you?"

"No," Stevens said. He put his video camera in front of it.

"Jon (the world's foremost expert with over forty years of experience in the field), are you seeing this?" Pierzynski said. Jon was in the office of his San Francisco townhouse.

"Yeah," he said. "Christ. I don't recognize it...well, wait a second. It looks vaguely similar to a device which last I heard was still in the developmental stage." He searched his database and found what he was looking for. It was the nuke being built by Hamas, the design plans for which were stolen by an undercover CIA agent and fed to the U.S. government. That agent's true identity was discovered before he was killed three months earlier.

"Jon, you know what we're dealing with here or not?" Pierzynski said.

"Yeah, I'm not a hundred percent certain, but I think it's the same device but with some design modifications," he said. "Honestly, though, if it isn't we've got a serious problem. We're going to have to use the procedures to disarm the bomb I have the specs for and pray to God it is what I think it is. But the modifications are impossible to identify or predict. Sorry guys, but we're going in on some blind faith."

"Okay," Pierzynski said. "God help us. Let's do this." Stevens held the camera.

"Okay," Jon said. "You're going to have to unscrew the cover." It was see-through plastic. "You need to turn it over first to unscrew it. Hopefully, one of the modifications is not to blow as a result of any kind of motion or contact."

"Thanks for sharing that thought," Pierzynski said as he slowly turned the device over, bracing himself for an explosion. "Okay, it isn't motion triggered at least. Carl, can you help me hold it?" Pierzynski pulled out his electric Philips head screwdriver. There were four screws, which he removed within seconds.

"Now, very carefully, turn the device over, set it down and remove the cover," Jon said. Pierzynski did. They were down to four and a half minutes.

"Now what, Jon?" he said with urgency. "I've never seen so many freakin' wires."

"Most of them are dummy wires," Jon said. "Only a handful are live. But some of the dummies are the same color as the live ones."

"Thanks for the history lesson. How are we supposed to know which are the live ones?"

"I know what color the live wires are so we can rule out all the rest. The live ones are yellow, red, pink, green, blue, gray, white and orange."

"Okay, so we'll ignore the rest," Pierzynski said, hesitating for a moment. "Christ. It looks like there are three of each of the colors you mentioned. We have three minutes and forty-five seconds until the Whitehouse and the rest of D.C. are reduced to ashes."

"Take out a magnetized screwdriver," Jon said. "The live wires have an electrical current running through them. The magnetized screwdriver will stick to the live ones."

Pierzynski took a screwdriver out and touched the first yellow one. It was dead. He touched the second yellow one. It was live. He then proceeded through all the colors Jon mentioned and determined which wires were live. This took about a minute and a half.

"Okay, Jon, now what? We have two minutes and fifteen seconds."

"You're not going to like the answer to this, but two of those wires need to be cut to disarm the device, if in fact this is the device I believe it is," he said. "But the two are either the orange and the green, the yellow and the blue, the red and the pink, or the gray and the white; we don't know which because our man on the inside was killed before we could determine this."

"You've gotta be kidding me. So I have a twenty-five percent chance of picking the right wire? And that's assuming your specs are even accurate."

"Yes. But the good news is, if you cut the right wire, you know which one to cut next."

"If this thing blows I want you to tell my wife and children how much I love them." Pierzynski was sweating profusely. Stevens' hand was shaking and he was doing his best to hold the camera still.

"I'll do that, but it won't be necessary," Jon said, trying to reassure the two men. "We're going to disarm this thing."

"What is this _we_ crap?" Pierzynski said. "You're not the one holding the wire cutter. We have one and a half minutes to Armageddon. Jon, do you have any suggestions on which one to cut?"

"Statistically, yellow and red are wires that are most often diffusers. In every bomb that's ever been diffused and recorded and is in my database, sixty-two percent of the time, one of these two colors are diffusers."

"Jesus Christ. We have forty-five seconds." Pierzynski, who was known for his ever-cool demeanor under even the most intense, life-threatening circumstances, was visibly nervous, as his hand began shaking. "What does your gut tell you, Jon?" Jon didn't like the idea of the fate of his colleagues and long-time friends being in his hands, but he didn't have a choice. His instinct was telling him yellow. He was usually right, but not always, as two of his colleagues had been killed twenty-one years earlier as a result of his guesswork. But he understood that kind of risk goes with the job. It took him years to get over that incident, and since then he'd been having relatively frequent nightmares about it. "Jon, what the hell, we have thirty seconds," Pierzynski said.

"Red," John said.

"Did you just flip a coin?" Pierzynski said.

"No, cut the red one." There were twenty seconds.

"He's wrong; it's the yellow one," Stevens said.

"What the hell?" Pierzynski said. "Which wire should I cut?"

"Red," Jon said. Stevens pulled out his Glock-27 and pointed it at Pierzynski.

"What are you doing, Carl?"

"Cut the yellow one, now, or you die!" Stevens said.

"What the hell's going on?" Jon said. "Carl, have you lost your mind?"

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen the digital display read.

"Cut it now!" Stevens said. "I've come too far to let it end like this!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Pierzynski said. Ten, nine, eight the display read. He reached down and put the blades around the yellow wire.

"Cut it!" Stevens said.

Pierzynski closed his eyes, clamped down on the wire and cut it. Pierzynski and Jon anticipated an explosion but nothing happened. Five, four, three... He then knew to cut the blue one. He clamped down on the wire and cut it, again expecting an explosion, but again nothing happened. There was one second remaining on the digital display. The two men stood there motionless, Pierzynski still waiting for an explosion. After five seconds or so, he realized the bomb wasn't going to go off.

"Jesus Christ," Pierzynski said, breathing hard and sweating profusely. "Carl, how did you know?"

"Kim told me," Stevens said.

"What?...Who the hell's Kim?" Pierzynski said. He took his headgear off and just looked at Carl, who then removed _his_ headgear.

"Who the hell are you?" he said.

"Jackson Wright."

"What? Jon, did you hear that or have I lost my mind?"

"I heard it," Jon said. "I have no idea what's going on, but I've seen that man before."

"I had to put Stevens to sleep," I said. "He's fine. I knew which wire to cut. If you'd cut the red one, D.C. would be rubble right now." Pierzynski just stared at me in disbelief. Then Stevens walked in.

"Who the hell's that?" he said, looking at Pierzynski.

"Jackson Wright," Pierzynski said, with a dazed look in his eyes.

"What?" Stevens said. " _The_ Jackson Wright?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Holy crap," Stevens said. "Are you the SOB who put me in a choke hold?"

"Yeah. I had to. Sorry about that."

Stevens looked down at the bomb and saw the wires cut and a second left on the display.

"Christ," he said. "You guys did it."

"How the hell did you get in here?" Pierzynski asked me.

"With a little help from a friend," I said. Pierzynski and Stevens stared at each other, dumbstruck. "It all makes sense now," I said.

"What does?" Pierzynski said.

"My infatuation with the color yellow––my car, the song by Coldplay."

"What?" Pierzynski said.

"You know the song." I started singing the lyrics. "Look at the stars, look how they shine for you, and everything you do, yeah, they were all _yellow_ ..."

"Dude's definitely insane," Stevens said, interrupting my melody.

"I saved the Whitehouse didn't I?" I said.

"What do we do now?" Pierzynski said, looking at me.

"Sit back and watch how the rest of this plays out. What the hell can _we_ do about it? They're everywhere now. All I know is that I'm done. If our military can't stop them, the fate of the world's in God's hands, and from what I've seen from him, or her, so far, we'll be lucky if we're not all dead in a month." Right on cue, we could hear the distant sound of another explosion.

The End
