He opened the back door just as the person cocked his arm, aiming the bottle, which was now flaming at the mouth.
“Stop!” Charlie yelled just as the guy hurled the firebomb right at him.
Charlie yanked the door shut just as the bottle broke against the outside metal. There was a loud whoosh and the instant, acrid scent of burning fuel from the Molotov cocktail. Charlie jumped back and looked to the bottom of the door. Fortunately the flaming liquid didn’t penetrate into the hall.
“Firebomb struck the back door,” Charlie yelled, grabbing the CO2 fire extinguisher from the wall hook. “Gordon, we’ll have to go out the front and around. Ruth, call 911 and keep Rene hidden below the front counter. Lock the door behind us.”
By the time Charlie reached the front door, Gordon already had his keys in the lock. He stepped back, pulling the door open for Charlie, who stepped outside onto the sidewalk, aware that the fire might just be a diversion. He looked for a shooter, but saw nothing more than two cars passing by.
He raced to the corner, then around and down the north side of the building, which faced the side street. In the dark he could make out a figure, running away to the east down the road. Should he attack the fire before it reached the vehicles or chase the arsonist?
He stopped at the alley and looked toward the loading dock. The burning fuel, probably kerosene from the smell, was concentrated on the metal door, the brick walls, and splashed across the raised concrete dock.
Gordon came up beside him and jammed some keys in Charlie’s jacket pocket. “I’m going for the punk,” he said. “Work on the fire and save the vehicles.”
Charlie had encountered fires several times while in the Army, and knew how to put out a fuel fire despite the difference in available suppression equipment. He raced up close enough to see that the burning liquid hadn’t splashed back on his car or Gordon’s truck, so he could attack the fire first.
He pulled the pin on the handle of the extinguisher, directed the big plastic cone at the base of the flame, and then quickly rotated the dense white cloud of carbon dioxide over the flames. The fire was out almost instantly on the door and wall, and when the cloud descended on the porch, the flames went out as well. The entire process took less than ten seconds.
He stood back, surveying the scene and looking for anything he’d missed. The scent of kerosene and something else, maybe motor oil, was still very strong and he had to watch for any potential reignition from a hot surface. The air was thick with smoke and floating black tendrils, and there was a second, intense odor with a metallic bite to it, probably from the paint that had burned off the heavy sheet-steel door. He discovered a disgusting residue, dark goo on the door, maybe from plastic packing peanuts that had been added to thicken the solution and make the fuel stick to the surface like napalm.
The good news was that the outdoor light fixture above the door was mounted high enough and at the right angle to avoid getting splashed with the fuel mixture.
He looked down the alley, wondering if he should back up Gordon. If this was the same attacker, he might be armed. But then again, Gordon carried a 9mm on his hip, and his pal had serious tactical skills. Hearing a siren in the distance, Charlie decided to move his and Gordon’s vehicles. He’d park them down the alley far enough so a fire engine could get in and maybe hose down and cool off the door, walls, and loading dock.
A few minutes later, he hurried around to the front and knocked. “It’s me, Charlie,” he called out loudly. The sirens were getting close and he wanted to check on Ruth and Rene.
The door came open immediately, and she leaned out and gave him an impulsive kiss on the lips. “You’re okay! Where’s Gordon?”
“He went after the arsonist. How is Rene?” Charlie asked, looking over her shoulder.
The boy rose up from behind the counter and waved. “A-okay, Charlie.”
“Good! You two stay inside, away from the back door. It’s gonna be hot, and we want to keep any fumes out of the shop. Right now I’ve got to check on Gordon.”
He reached down and gave her hand a gentle squeeze before closing the door.
Charlie circled back around to the alley and found Gordon standing by his pickup, looking at the damage as he caught his breath. “The bastard got away again,” Gordon said, shaking his head. “I lost him in the dark somewhere, and so did our friend.”
“Our spook?” Charlie asked, thinking of Russell Turner.
“Yeah. Russell says he was shadowing us today, backed off on our slow-speed pursuit of Azok’s brother, then decided to hang out at the far end of the alley and do some laundry at Melissa’s at the same time.”
“Did he manage to get a look at whoever threw the Molotov?” Charlie asked.
“Just shapes. He’d grabbed his phone to call us when he saw the dude light the top. Once it hit the door and exploded all he saw was the figure head east down the street. Russ decided to try to flank the guy by circling the block. When we met up—nothing. We figured the flamethrower had turned to the north, or hid out somewhere in between. There are several buildings where he could be hiding. Russell suggested I head back here in case there was a second attacker, or the guy planned to take you out with his rifle while you were dealing with the fire.”
“Makes sense.”
“Sorry I couldn’t run the guy down. If I’d have had my M-4 and night-vision optics I could have nailed the bastard.”
Charlie shrugged. “Yeah, well, next time we’ll be ready.”
“Looks like the damage is limited to a smoky wall and the steel door. Are the cameras okay?” Gordon added, pointing to the two mounted up high, close to the roof.
“Don’t know,” Charlie said. “No matter. We got lucky. The guy threw the bottle at the door, not our vehicles. If one had caught, we might have lost both of them.”
“He threw it just when you looked outside, right?” Gordon asked.
Charlie nodded. “If I hadn’t shut the door in time, the shop could have been toast.”
Gordon thought about it a moment. “And so would have you. Charles, the guy knew the cameras were there, and he was waiting for someone to take a look. He planned to take one of us out in a very painful, agonizing way.”
Charlie started to say something, but the siren of the approaching fire truck and the honking air horn made the effort pointless, so he just stood back to give the big vehicle clearance when it came around the corner.
* * *
It was close to midnight when Charlie finally pulled up into the driveway of his house. He was alone now. Detective DuPree had one of his officers drive Ruth and Rene to their apartment hours ago. Ruth had insisted she was in much less danger than Charlie, who’d been the clear target of the last two attacks. With no news of her missing ex, the threat to her was still unknown and speculative. Besides, Charlie needed some rest, and her sofa was no substitute for a bed. Still, he had asked that patrols in her neighborhood be increased.
He pulled the Charger into the garage, closed the overhead door with the remote before he got out of the car, and then quickly went into the house. He was weary, but too pumped to sleep at the moment. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he turned out the light and walked into the darkened living room, finding the couch by memory and the faint streetlight shining through the curtains. Pulling off his boots, he eased into the cushions and leaned back, stretching out his long legs.
The events of the past few hours played over again in his head, keeping him awake. He’d spoken to several federal agents, from FBI to Homeland and another agency he couldn’t remember, then with DuPree, Nancy, and two firemen. One of them was an arson investigator, the other some kind of deputy chief. The FBI had taken the physical evidence with them—all the glass they could gather from the broken bottle—plus scrapings of residue from the wall, steps, and asphalt pavement. As a TV crew recorded the action, law enforcement had also hauled away the back door. Now there was just an improvised barrier of plywood, wired shut and blocking the entrance.
After everyone else was gone, they’d flipped a coin. Gordon had lost and was now sleeping just outside their office upon a cot and wool blankets from the for-sale merchandise.
Looking at his watch, Charlie realized that he needed to get up at four and go relieve his pal. One of them had to guard the shop until businesses opened and they could arrange for a new door—and locks. He stood, took a quick look outside through the curtains, and walked into the bedroom. He dropped onto the bed and grabbed a pillow. Sleep came within a few minutes.
* * *
Charlie arrived at the shop well before dawn, parking in the alley beside Gordon’s pickup. He walked up the sidewalk on the north end of the building and quietly let himself in the front. Quickly he placed the two bags he was carrying on the counter beside the cash register and turned off the alarm, which had a short delay. He relocked the door, then saw Gordon across the room, seated on the cot and buttoning up his shirt.
“You’re right on time, Chuck,” Gordon said. “Nothing to report. Nobody got inside last night except a cricket, and I was too wiped to hunt the noisy beast down.”
“Good. I passed by the truck stop over at University and Candelaria and ordered a couple of their breakfast burritos. Thought you might want to take one with you,” Charlie said, holding up the bags.
“Naw, I’m ready to eat right now. You had breakfast?”
“Not yet. Let’s eat.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
* * *
The business day started out quickly, with their first calls to warehouse stores in the search for a replacement door, then a locksmith to provide the level of security they required. Fortunately, Jake showed up early, as did Ruth—once she’d taken Rene to school—and that left Charlie and Gordon available to install the door once it was delivered.
They kept getting calls from local news outlets, asking for interviews, and Charlie learned that a local mosque now had a small group of protestors gathered on the sidewalks outside. Clearly news of the firebombing had quickly spread throughout the metro area. Twice, reporters came inside, trolling for sound bites to air on the evening news, but Charlie and Gordon were brief and factual, disappointing the news people, who were obviously hoping for something more sensational.
A few minutes after five, however, Charlie got a call from Dawud on his cell while finishing up the paperwork on a turquoise and silver bracelet that had just been pawned. He glanced around the room, noting that Gordon was talking to a customer over near the gun safes.
“Greetings, my friend,” Dawud began, his tone revealing some hesitation in the words. “I hope your day is progressing well, or at least better than your previous one. I heard that someone tried to burn down your shop last night. Are you all okay?”
“Hello, Dawud. We’re safe, there was no damage that can’t be fixed, and business is back to normal, maybe even better than normal. Has someone been bothering you or your family? How’s Caleb?” Charlie replied, stepping away from the counter as Gordon came over with the customer, a purchase tag in hand.
“There is some hostility at my business, but no one has interfered. My son hasn’t mentioned any more problems at school since you spoke to his classmates, but I just received a call from my daughter, Justine. She and Caleb came home from school and there were people waiting outside our home carrying signs and shouting … the usual insults.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes, and they have an officer outside my produce market. There have also been shouts and insults, but nobody has brought their anger inside our shop. This time they are insulting my customers. The police say they are stretched too thin, and can’t protect both my business and my home,” Dawud explained. “I can’t leave my wife here alone. Would you or my friend Gordon stand with my children for a while this afternoon until we can join them? Caleb tells me he will protect Justine. But who will protect him?”
“At least one of us will be there in twenty minutes,” Charlie assured. “Let Caleb know we’re on our way. I doubt that these protestors will do anything stupid.”
“They are cowards, they will likely wait until dark, friend. That’s when I worry. Thank you very much. My wife and I will close our shop early. We just need some extra help at the moment.”
“Give Caleb my cell number. Tell him and his sister to say nothing and remain inside the house, away from the windows. They also need to keep the doors locked. Have them call me if anything looks wrong.” Charlie put down his phone and looked over at Gordon, who was loading the gun safe locker onto a dolly.
“Let me help you with that, Gordon. We need to talk,” Charlie said, stepping out behind the counter and joining his pal.
Less than twenty minutes later they approached the Koury house, located in a well-maintained lower-middle-class neighborhood on Albuquerque’s west side. It was only a mile from where they’d rescued Caleb from his tormenters just a few days ago. A television news crew was across the street, filming the activity, and vehicles were parked along both sides of the streets for the entire block. Charlie noted that there was an old black pickup blocking the empty driveway of the Koury house—a small, pueblo-style rental property. The American flag was still flying on a small flagpole in the yard. A few years ago Charlie and Gordon had been there, helping the Kourys move in. They’d also been invited to an outdoor barbeque the day the entire family received their citizenship documents. They’d helped the family raise the flag for the first time.
Currently there were at least twenty people, mostly adults of both sexes, along the sidewalk in front of the house, several of them holding homemade signs or carrying American flags.
“Where we going to park?” Charlie asked, looking down the block.
“Leave that to me,” Gordon responded, coming to a stop just behind the black pickup.
He honked the horn loudly, and startled several of those in the small crowd. “Park it, boys, just don’t block the street or somebody’s gonna bitch!” a husky-looking man in his thirties wearing a camo T-shirt and red ball cap yelled.
“Ah, the self-appointed leader.” Charlie smiled.
Gordon leaned out of the window. “Somebody move this crappy pickup before I push it down the street. I’m gonna take over their driveway.”
Somebody cheered. “Way to go, pal!” and several people laughed.
“Where the hell am I gonna park?” a tall, slender guy holding a sign yelled.
“Just move that hunk of junk, Ted!” the guy in the camo shirt ordered.
The man named Ted moved his pickup down to the next house, double parking beside another vehicle at the curb, leaving only a narrow lane in the center of the street.
“Told ya,” Gordon chuckled as he pulled into the Koury driveway. “These people are sheep. All you have to do is point the Judas goat in the right direction.”
Charlie nodded. “Just be aware, Gordon. The goat has a sidearm on his hip.”
As they stepped down out of Gordon’s truck, Charlie heard a shout from somewhere behind the house.
“That sounded like Caleb,” Gordon said. “Let’s check it out.”
Together the two strode quickly across the xeroscaped front yard, a patterned design consisting of colored gravel and southwestern plants, then hurried alongside the garage side of the house.
As they turned the corner and reached the thin grass of the fenced-in backyard, Charlie discovered a fit-looking man in a red, white, and blue T-shirt crouched on one knee on the lawn. He was aiming a semi-auto pistol at the back of the house, where several inches of a shotgun barrel was poking out the barely opened rear door. The crudely sprayed word, “terrorist,” had been sprayed in foot-high letters across the door and wall in black paint. Three more men, one of them a teenager, were crouched down or standing at the far side of the yard, also watching the shotgun barrel, which was sweeping back and forth.
One of the trio was holding an aluminum baseball bat, the teen was carrying a can of spray paint, and the third guy was filming the scene with his cell phone.
The fourth man aiming the handgun didn’t bother to look at them. “The rag head punk is just asking for a bullet. He points that barrel at me and he’s going down,” he added.
Noting that the man didn’t have his finger near the trigger, Charlie reached over and grabbed the pistol by the barrel, twisting it down and yanking it from the man’s grip.
The man yelled, cursed, and tried to turn and stand at the same time, wobbling off balance.
“Stay down!” Gordon ordered, pushing him just enough to send him falling to the grass onto his knees.
“None of you trespassers move!” Charlie ordered. “Caleb, it’s me, Charlie Henry. Gordon is here too. We’ll deal with the vandals. Stop waving around that shotgun and close the door!” he yelled.
They heard the voice of a girl inside, and, after a few seconds, the barrel disappeared from sight and the door closed.
“Lock the door, Caleb. You and your sister go into the hall. Stay out of sight until you hear from me again,” Charlie said.
The guy on the ground, massaging his injured hand, tried to stand.
“Stay down, pal, we don’t want you to make a fool of yourself again,” Gordon ordered.
“No problem,” the man said, looking at Gordon’s waistband, where the model 95 Beretta rested in a holster.
Charlie casually released the magazine on the semi-auto pistol he’d confiscated and let it fall to the lawn, then ejected the round already in the chamber. Sticking the unloaded weapon into his jacket pocket, he walked over to the teenager, who was tall and slender, almost his height but maybe fifty pounds lighter. The person with the cell phone continued to record the events, and Charlie wanted to take advantage of the opportunity.
The man with the bat stood beside the kid and raised it up as Charlie got close. “Stay back or I’m going to clock you, Indian.”
Charlie ignored him. “Make sure you get that evidence into your movie,” he said to the guy with the cell phone, pointing to the paint.
The kid dropped the aerosol can like it was on fire.
“Lower your slugger, pal, unless you want me to shove it where the sun don’t shine,” Charlie ordered Bat Man.
“Now I know who you are,” the guy blurted out, bringing the bat down to waist level. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything personal, Sergeant Henry. But what the hell are you doing here, standing up for this punk Arab? I watch the news. You and your lady could have been killed at the park, shot in the alley, or burned to death just last night. Now you’re protecting the kid who’s been trying to kill you?”
Charlie heard the sound of approaching sirens, then noticed some activity behind him. There were three more protestors, signs in hand, standing at the corner of the garage, watching. “People, nothing going on here. Let’s all meet out front on the sidewalk,” Charlie ordered. He looked over at the guy with the cell phone, who was still recording everything.
“What’s your name, pal?” he asked the young man, who was probably in his early twenties.
“Andy.”
“Okay, Andy. Hang on to that phone and stick with me. The officers might want to take a look at what you’ve recorded. It’ll probably make the news.”
Andy smiled.
They all returned to the front yard just as first one, then another black-and-white APD cruiser came up the street. Just a few seconds behind were two SUVs.
Gordon, who’d stopped to pick up the pistol magazine and bullet left behind, joined Charlie just as all four vehicles stopped on the street. “Here come the men in black,” he announced.
Someone near him laughed, and Charlie turned back to look at the house. Caleb was looking out through the curtains of the living room window. “You didn’t call the Feds, did you, Gordon?”
“Hell no, I called Detective Medina. Nancy said they were sending a couple of patrol units.”
“Charlie, Gordon. A word,” came a familiar voice from the sidewalk. It wasn’t Nancy, it was Detective DuPree.
DuPree kept his eyes on the suits climbing out of the black SUVs as he uncharacteristically hurried over to join Charlie and Gordon. “What’s the situation here? I need to know before the FBI moves in.”
“Moves in for what? Arrest the protestors? That’s APD’s job, isn’t it?” Gordon asked.
“Just be glad they didn’t call in SWAT. Tell me. Who’s inside the house?” DuPree pressed.
“Just Caleb Koury and his sister, Justine—I think,” Charlie replied, wondering what the hell was going on.
“Where did the extra handgun come from?” DuPree noticed the pistol grip sticking out of Charlie’s pocket.
“It belongs to the jock over there mad-dogging me,” Charlie said, nodding toward the man. “I borrowed it after he started waving the thing around.”
“Borrowed?”
“Our kind of borrowing, Detective,” Gordon announced with a grin as he held out the loaded magazine. “We’ll return it, eventually. Unless you want to check and see if it’s stolen or something.”
“Might as well,” DuPree said, taking the weapon and magazine and sticking them into his jacket pocket.
“So what’s the deal?” Charlie asked.
“All I could get was that the Feds want to take the Koury kids in for questioning,” DuPree responded, glancing over at the local FBI SAC, special agent in charge, Tyler Jackson. He was a tough, broad-shouldered agent. They’d encountered Jackson before in difficult circumstances when the big black man was working undercover, seemingly part of the other side. “Are the kids armed with anything besides the shotgun? Explosives? What’s their demeanor?”
“Pardon the cliché, but why make a federal case out of this?” Gordon asked. “All the kid did was poke the barrel of a shotgun out the back door when a vandal started tagging the house. No shots were fired, nobody that we could see actually had a barrel pointed at them, and when Charlie asked him to lower the weapon, shut the door, and stay quiet, Caleb complied. That was just a few minutes ago.”
“Detective Medina told me that Koury placed a trigger lock on that weapon, and their children didn’t have the key,” DuPree said.
“That’s what Dawud agreed to do when we sold it to him,” Charlie affirmed. “But if the Feds start waving around their weapons, threatening the kids in the house, and Caleb is able to fire that shotgun, I don’t know what’s gonna happen. How about if Gordon and I talk the kids out?”
“I doubt Jackson is going to force a confrontation, he’s a smart man. But what if young Koury turns the shotgun on you?”
“Not gonna happen,” Charlie said. “The kid isn’t a killer, and I think he trusts us. My guess is that he’s just protecting his sister and his home. They’ve been living in a dangerous environment for years, and lately it’s been getting worse.”
“Charlie’s right on this one, Detective,” Gordon added. “And why do the Feds want Caleb? We told Nancy about our intervention when Caleb was jumped by those high school punks. Did he commit a crime?”
“Nobody has told me a thing, but both the Bureau and Homeland plan to detain and interview the Koury kids,” DuPree said.
“Yeah, well, I guess first thing we need to do is bring out Caleb and Justine.” Charlie said, watching as SAC Jackson huddled with three other Feds up on the sidewalk along the street. “Will you tell the suits that we can bring out Caleb—and Justine—without any problems?”
“God’s ears,” Gordon mumbled.
Five minutes later, Gordon and Charlie walked alongside the Koury teens’ sides as they crossed the front lawn. The crowd had been ordered onto the street, held in place by APD cops. Quickly the suits rushed up, placed cuffs on both kids, and one of them, a woman, started to pat down Justine as a male agent did the same to Caleb.
Justine recoiled, embarrassed, and Caleb yelled, twisting away from the Feds. “Hey, get your hands off my sister,” Caleb yelled. Immediately SAC Jackson brought the boy to his knees with two powerful arms.
Gordon stepped forward, but DuPree got between him and the Feds. “Not now, Gordon.”
Gordon shook off the hand and turned angrily. Then he relaxed. “Sorry, Wayne.”
“What are you charging these kids with?” Charlie demanded to the fed standing next to the detective as an APD handler and his dog went into the house. “Explosives? Drugs?”
The agent shook his head.
As Justine and Caleb were manhandled to the awaiting SUVs, the crowd cheered and shouted racist comments.
Tyler Jackson came over and responded to Charlie’s question in a low voice. “They’re being detained, that’s all at the moment, Charlie. There is newly uncovered evidence that Caleb Koury has been in contact with Middle Eastern individuals or groups via the internet. His school’s IT person found some emails on one of the library computers, and Caleb Koury was signed into that device at that time. We may have found a link between him and terrorists. Now all we need to do is locate the rifle—after the house is cleared for explosives.”