“Hadn’t thought of him, but you’re right,” Gordon responded. “He and his family live just a few miles north of here. But they’re Christians.”
Dawud Koury had been their local interpreter in Afghanistan, and had accompanied them on most of their operations. The man had risked the safety of his own family to save their lives in more than one violent encounter, and they, in return, had helped him and his family immigrate to the US. Dawud, his wife, and their two children were now US citizens, attempting to assimilate.
“They’d be dead by now if they hadn’t been allowed to enter the US,” Charlie said. “Last time I was in their shop, he and his wife were keeping a low profile after vandals had done some damage to the place.”
“The same thing happened to the Japanese Americans during World War Two,” Gordon reminded.
Charlie nodded. “Let’s go back and listen to what Humphrey has to say. Maybe he’s going to think before he speaks this time.”
“Yeah. But keep an eye out for unicorns,” Gordon said.
When they arrived, the state senator was talking about the guests at the ceremony, focusing on those who’d been shot. Charlie listened as Humphrey described how Captain Whitaker had landed his Army helicopter under heavy ground fire more than once to recover wounded soldiers and Marines. Whitaker and his crew had received commendations on three different occasions. Just over a year ago, Captain Whitaker, now a civilian, had created a local company called Back Up. The specialized employment agency found jobs for vets, locating sources for full-time and temporary work in a variety of positions around the metro area. Back Up temps worked mostly day labor, construction, clerical, and delivery work, Humphrey explained.
Microphones had been set up on a metal stand, and Charlie knew that Humphrey’s words were going to be broadcast nationwide before the day was over.
Before long, Humphrey began to speculate on the attack, adding that if a local Muslim or other radical was indeed the shooter, everyone should be vigilant. It could happen again, and the shooter might be one of their neighbors, someone secretly full of hate for America.
“Here’s where it’s going to hit the fan,” Gordon whispered to Charlie, standing next to him.
“You can’t trust those ragheads,” came a shout that sounded like the same guy who’d encountered them earlier. “Send them back home along with the wetbacks!”
Cheers and shouts erupted from the crowd, along with several boos as well.
“Let’s not resort to insults, sir!” said Humphrey. “We’re better than that. But I understand your anger.”
“Hypocrite! Does every fool in the state support your racist policies, Senator?” came another loud voice.
Immediately there were cheers, boos, then even more shouts. Ahead, Charlie could see pushing and scuffling, and then two burly men in suits broke free from the crowd. They were hauling away a tall, slender teenager by his arms, half carrying, half dragging the youth, who appeared to be dark-skinned. People cheered as he was led across the street, then he and the security people disappeared from view behind the cars.
Charlie turned to Gordon. “Heard enough?”
“Yeah, let’s get back to the shop. It looks like Dawud’s produce market is in for a rough week. I’m going to give him a call.”
By the time they reached FOB Pawn, Charlie had warned their friend about potential harassment and vandalism headed his way. His wife, Jenna, always wore a headscarf that usually identified her as belonging to another culture, even though she was a Catholic. Dawud thanked Charlie for his concern, and promised to be very watchful for troublemakers. He also advised Charlie and Gordon to be alert and protect themselves if there was a terrorist in the community.
When they arrived at the shop Charlie took a long look down the alley and along the roof line of the adjacent buildings, grabbed his keys, then, along with Gordon, moved quickly to the door and let themselves in.
Ruth and Jake were in the front of the shop, taking care of customers. Both glanced their way. Jake nodded, and Ruth smiled, waving slightly with her fingertips as Charlie and Gordon walked into the main display area.
“Time to give these two a break, Gordon,” Charlie said softly to his pal, making sure the pistol at his belt was still hidden beneath his jacket.
“Copy. Once they’re finished with their customers we can send them to an early lunch,” he said, checking the clock on the wall opposite the front register. “Maybe they can bring us back a sandwich and we can get some serious work done this afternoon.”
* * *
It was fifteen minutes before closing time. Jake and Charlie were looking at the various locks they had available for sale, almost all of them sturdy padlocks. Ruth and Gordon were in the office, making sure the inventory was current on the new online site, which they’d named FOB OK. This service, a marketing idea conceived by Gordon, listed one-of-a-kind items that were available for sale to the first customer who came in to make the purchase. The customer could put a hold on the item also for a short period of time, if they’d already agreed on a price.
“Dawud wanted the strongest padlocks he could find, keyed alike if possible,” Jake explained as they looked through the inventory of fifteen or so locks in the plastic bin.
“For the business, not his home, right?” Charlie asked. “If I recall, the only keyed-alike locks we have are light duty, or those two deadbolts over there.”
“He needs them for hasps on cabinet doors, to secure the outside fruit and vegetable bins along the storefront,” Jake explained. “It looks like he’s going to have to settle for two keys, unfortunately.” He brought out two massive Master locks with hardened shackles and pry-resistant mechanisms. The keys were taped to the locks.
“These should do the trick. Any stronger locks and a determined thief would force the doors with a pry bar,” Charlie said. “He’s more worried about vandals than thieves, I’m guessing,” he added, looking up at the clock.
“What did he sound like on the phone?” Charlie asked.
“Anxious, though it’s hard to say just how much. The guy has become a little paranoid,” Jake said, looking toward the front door. “But being a Christian in Afghanistan must have resulted in a lot of looking over your shoulder anyway. Now that the Taliban is on the uptake again, he’s lucky to have escaped with his family. The problem is, too many people here in Albuquerque think that any woman with her head covered who isn’t a nun is the wife, sister, or mother of the enemy.”
“Got that right. Here he is,” Charlie added with a whisper as the door opened and a tall man in a red Lobos cap, tropical-style shirt, and khaki slacks stepped inside the shop.
Dawud, clean shaven and wearing sunglasses, looked around carefully before spotting Jake and Charlie behind the counter. “Gentlemen,” he greeted with only a slight accent, holding out his hand to Jake, shaking it vigorously.
Charlie stepped out into the aisle, and they man-hugged as usual. “Good to see you again, friend,” Charlie said. “You look like a tourist visiting from California, or maybe Florida. Congratulations.”
“What’s the saying? When in Rome…”
Dawud smiled again, then grew serious and looked around the shop again, spotting Gordon in the office window. Gordon waved.
“Just the staff here at the moment,” Charlie said, recognizing that his old friend was alert for trouble. It was sad that the Afghan man, now an American citizen, still had to live in fear after all he’d done to fight the Taliban. Maybe the extra padlocks would help just a little.
“You wanted to buy some locks for your shop?” Jake asked, bringing out two pairs of locks onto the counter, one the small, keyed-alike set, and the other the larger, much sturdier pair that required separate keys. “Here’s all we have, but the price is very reasonable.”
Dawud stepped over, then pointed to the small locks, checking the price tag at the same time. “These two will do the job. They’re just to deter shoplifting, not the serious thief. Most of my regular customers are well-educated professionals looking for nutritious fruits and vegetables, and I rarely have a problem except for those who come in looking for trouble.”
“Still experiencing some harassment?” Charlie asked.
“There are a few younger men who seem to come by every time there’s an attack, whether it’s Paris or California, plus a white-haired retiree or two with anger in his voice. They call us names, make accusations, and sometimes damage or throw fruit and vegetables. I have installed cameras inside, and after a few arrests the incidents have died down. I only have three part-time employees, but they are very loyal and they sometimes know the troublemakers on sight. But now…”
Charlie nodded. “Now that a vet was killed by someone claiming to be a terrorist, you’re thinking that it’ll get worse.”
Gordon came up just then, greeted Dawud with a hug, and then stepped back. “What’ll get worse? Someone giving you a hard time again?” he asked.
Dawud shrugged. “Not as yet, but I can see it coming, friend. The police are on alert, the community is angry, and those of us from that part of the world are automatically suspect. You know that is true.”
“Do you and your family need our help?” Gordon asked.
“Thank you, but no. What I need is a weapon—a firearm,” Dawud said softly.
Gordon nodded solemnly. Jake, meanwhile, looked at Charlie with raised eyebrows.
“You don’t already have one to protect your shop?” Jake asked.
Charlie knew that Jake was referring to the loaded shotgun on a shelf below the counter not three feet from where his employee was standing. Jake had been forced to grab for it once already, a year ago, but it had never actually been fired.
Dawud shook his head. “As I said, most of my customers are not stealing fruit or a hundred dollars in cash from my register. I see more credit or debit cards than twenty dollar bills, Jake, and I have one of those scanners for the smartphones.”
“You want to protect your family—at home,” Charlie concluded.
“Yes. Only in self-defense, a last resort, as you say. If the killings continue, there are those in the community who will want revenge. We’re different, Afghan, and many people incorrectly assume we’re Muslim. We had to leave our own country because we chose to follow Jesus, not Islam, but to some we are still the enemy.”
“What kind of support do you get from your church?” Gordon asked.
Dawud lowered his head, avoiding eye contact. “Just prayers and sympathy from those who know my family. We stopped attending services after our car was vandalized in the church parking lot—two times. Our vehicle was the only one damaged, no others. Someone didn’t want us there. Now we read the Bible and pray at home.”
“We keep our guns locked up in our secure area, but I can show you what we have to sell right now, then give you some basic handling and safety instruction,” Gordon offered, taking a quick glance at Charlie, who nodded with his eyes.
“Thank you. Please let me know what you would recommend. I will need something that my wife or children can use to defend themselves if I’m not there,” Dawud explained.
As Gordon and their friend walked down the aisle toward the rear of the shop, Jake stared at the floor.
“What’s on your mind, Jake? You think we should send him away empty-handed?” Charlie asked.
“If, and this is only hypothetical, if Dawud or his family ever end up firing a weapon at someone, whoever sold it to them is going to be in the hot seat. You know that,” Jake spoke up immediately. “Even if it’s clearly self-defense. There are some nutjobs out there who can’t be reasoned with or are incapable of rational thought.”
“Yeah, we have our own bad guys. I ran across a few in the Army, soldiers with that old Vietnam-era mind-set, kill them all and let God sort them out. Well, maybe not that bad, but bad enough. You know we can legally sell to people who are even on the no-fly list, or crazies who’ve been identified as mentally ill. I know Dawud personally, and he’s the kind of American who would have my back under any conditions. We have to give him the means to defend himself and his children.”
“Yeah, well. I still have my doubts, for the record. Your judgment has always been pretty solid, and you’re the boss. I just don’t want any blowback to come our way.”
“Gordon has good instincts. He’s not going to offer up any weapon that would be attractive to a potential terrorist, like an assault-style rifle with a high-capacity magazine. We’re also going to send the usual notice of the purchase with a copy of his driver’s license. Koury is a US citizen and he already has a lot of documentation with the Feds.”
“Mr. Koury has a son in high school, doesn’t he?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, good point. Maybe a trigger lock would be appropriate. Any kid that age can fly off the handle in a second if he starts getting any flak from hotheads at school,” Charlie said.
Ruth came out of the office just as two potential customers entered from the front, followed by another, and soon they were involved in asking questions, and, with Jake, arranging for the pawn of a watch and wedding ring.
Ten minutes later, it was time to lock up for the day. Ruth left immediately to pick up Rene from the sitter, and Charlie helped Jake close out the two cash registers and complete the paperwork. Shooing Jake out the back door, Charlie picked up a broom and started to sweep.
“You missed a spot,” Gordon joked as he and Dawud came out of the secure area. Gordon was carrying a 12-gauge Winchester slide-action shotgun pump with a short, twenty-inch barrel.
“Good choice for a home defense weapon. Scary big barrel, short enough to aim, and not likely to penetrate through walls and hurt unintended targets,” Charlie observed.
“Especially with number four buckshot,” Gordon said, glancing over to Dawud, who was carrying a box of shells.
“I don’t ever want to fire a weapon again,” Dawud replied, “but my wife and children have to be defended by something with more force than a fist or kitchen knife. I have a baseball bat at the shop, and that’s going to be it. However, at my home, I draw the line.”
“I gave him the basics in weapon handling in the secure area, but will you test Dawud on safety one more time while I write this up?” Gordon asked Charlie.
Ten minutes later Dawud left out the front door, carrying the unloaded shotgun in a hard-side case along with a bag containing the shells, a trigger lock and keys, and the two padlocks selected earlier. Gordon had thrown in a cleaning kit along with the purchase.
“He handled that shotgun like it was made of glass, bro,” Gordon said. “I wonder if he’ll even take it out of the case. You remember the firefight behind that burned-out mosque? First and last time Dawud ever used his weapon.”
“If he hadn’t fired off that clip into the doorway, we both might be dead. Neither of us had any idea there was a sniper in the back of the room,” Charlie replied.
“Two snipers. I’m including the guy with the RPG.”
“Dawud saved our butts, but it blew his cover. He and his family were dead meat from that moment on. Talk about a life-altering moment,” Charlie said.
“Yeah. We’ve had more than our share of those lately. Which brings up the current situation. I haven’t heard any news on yesterday’s events or the status of the investigation. You?”
“Naw, just been keeping busy. I suppose Nancy or DuPree would have called if there were any developments. Unless it was still going on. If they have someone cornered and SWAT is there, it may take hours for a resolution,” Charlie observed.
“I’ll put on the news while we clean up. If there’s a situation it’ll be on every channel right now.” Gordon walked back into the office and turned on the TV.
As Charlie swept the aisles, Gordon emptied the waste baskets into a larger container in the small hallway that led to the restroom, secure room, their office, and outside the back door.
Five minutes later, they set the timer on the alarm, turned off the main lights, and stepped out onto the small concrete porch and loading dock, which was illuminated by a light up on the outside wall. “I’ll lock up, Charlie. Go on home. Keep alert and stay away from trouble.”
“Okay, Gordo. You too,” Charlie replied, walking down the three steps. His purple Dodge Charger was parked in the first slot south of the loading dock. He thumbed the fob on his key and the Charger beeped twice. Then he saw a vehicle straddling the alley at the end of the block, lights out.
“That look like a cop?” Charlie asked, pausing beside the passenger-side front tire.
A muzzle flash and a simultaneous blast answered his question.
“Cover!” Charlie yelled, dropping into a crouch beside the side of the Charger as a second bullet ricocheted off the brick wall three feet away. Long-developed survival instincts were already taking control. In his right hand, Charlie already had his 9mm Beretta out, barrel up.
“He’s not sticking around!” Gordon yelled as Charlie heard the squeal of tires at the far end of the alley.
“My car! Let’s catch his ass,” Charlie ordered, scrambling around to the driver’s side as he jammed his pistol back into the holster. As he put the key in the ignition, Gordon slid into the passenger’s seat. “Go!”
Charlie spun the Charger back and around, then turned on the headlights as he hit the gas, accelerating down the narrow alley. He swerved around the Dumpster behind Frank and Linda’s grocery, touched the brakes and slowed past the parking area of Melissa’s laundry, then screeched to a stop at the end of the alley.
“He went to the right,” Gordon called out.
Charlie pulled out into the street. “Crap,” he exclaimed, hitting the brakes hard as a laundry patron, basket in hand, stepped off the curb. The woman jumped back, nearly dropping her load.
“Sorry!” Charlie yelled, edging forward and around the startled lady.
“Call 911!”
“On it,” Gordon responded, holding up the cell phone in his hand for Charlie to see. “And by the way, there was a big manila envelope on the pavement next to Melissa’s back entrance.”
“Could be another terrorist tabloid,” Charlie suggested. “Hopefully it won’t get thrown away before we get back.”
At the next street corner, they looked in both directions. “Clear on my side,” Gordon yelled.
As he made a quick left out into the wide, four-lane street, Charlie could see three or four vehicles headed south, and a truck approaching. “Taking a guess here, Gordon.”
“Left?” Gordon suggested, then he told Dispatch about the ambush, the possible direction and street the shooter had taken, and the envelope at the end of the alley.
Charlie picked up speed, hoping to get close enough to the vehicles ahead to at least establish makes, models, and get a look at the tags. A car in the outside lane turned right into a residential neighborhood. He decided to follow and made the turn as subtly as possible, without a signal.
“Did you recognize the shooter’s vehicle?” Gordon asked, his phone still in hand as he looked ahead at the car, a block away now.
“No, just trying to psych out the shooter. I turned on a hunch,” Charlie responded. “Cops on the way?”
“Copy. Officers are going to the shop. They’re sending additional units to patrol the area, and warning calls are being sent to the guests who attended the ceremony. I wish we had more to go on,” Gordon said.
Charlie shrugged. “All we know is that someone, probably using a rifle, in a car of an unknown non-dark color, took a shot and drove off, maybe leaving another message on the asphalt. Unless the shooter creates enough attention to motivate a cop to pull him over, and the officer discovers a rifle inside that’s just been fired…”
“Basically we’re screwed.”
“At least we’re not shot.”
“We? I wasn’t the target. It’s a good thing you were on the move and had just stepped away from the light, Charlie.”
“Yeah. If I’d have been locking the door instead of you, we might not be having this conversation. Or following this car right now, hoping it contains an armed attacker trying to kill me.”
“Which sounds a little stupid, when you think about it.”
Charlie nodded. As they approached the possible suspect car, the sedan turned into a driveway, then came to a stop in front of a two-car garage door. Charlie slowed, wondering if the shooter knew he was following, and was prepping for a gunfight. Charlie’s Beretta was on the bucket seat beside him, and Gordon held his matching weapon across his right thigh, his window down so he could return fire.
As they drove past the driveway, an elementary school-aged girl wearing soccer team shorts and a numbered jersey jumped out of the passenger door and ran toward the front porch of the house.
“Well, so much for instincts,” Charlie said. “I made the wrong call, so there’s no sense in driving around anymore. Let’s get back to the shop and meet the cops. That envelope should still be there, but I doubt anyone will be able to recover a slug. The only hope is that it struck the empty rental place on the next block. Their end wall is stucco and timber, not brick.”
“There should at least be a chunk or furrow where the bullets struck the brick wall and left metal streaks. I heard the impacts. They looked like clean misses by, what? Three feet?”
“That’s about right,” Charlie said, circling the block and heading in the direction of FOB Pawn. “I should be grateful the shooter couldn’t hit a moving target. Come to think about it, I’d just stopped to look at the car, like an idiot. If that was the same sniper, I should have taken a hit. It was an easy shot.”
“You should be grateful that you were lucky, pal.”