The Antelope Farm

© 2013 Vincenzo Spiaggi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1142-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1143-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915112

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

Epilogue

For All Those Who Commit Random Acts Of Kindness

"Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice,

Moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue."

Barry Goldwater, 1964

Subchapters denoted by a triple asterisk (*   *   *)

signifies a continuation of the ongoing Time line.

Subchapters denoted by a single asterisk (*)

signifies a flashback sequence of events.

Prologue

Sunday, December 25, 2011

to Friday, January 27, 2012

Everyone in the Roybal family looked forward to the annual Christmas dinner party at Eduardo Roybal’s house in Patagonia, Arizona, a sleepy little village in Santa Cruz County, not too far from the Mexican border. The Roybals mainly were pecan growers, and had been for many generations, although some family members had pooled their resources to also raise a herd of Santa Gertrudis cattle for their own consumption.

On the land for more than three hundred years, the family’s business was now operated jointly by two cousins, Eduardo and Johnny Skull. Eduardo, a former business major at the University of Arizona, had come back to Patagonia after graduation to help his grandfather, Manuel Roybal, to run the business.

Johnny had legally changed his name back to his ancestral Italian name of Giovanni Pasquale Scugliari. Skull, the Americanized version of the name Scugliari, was given to his immigrant grandfather in 1918 when he landed at Ellis Island. Johnny was the third in the line of Scugliaris with the same name; his son was the fourth.

A U.S. Marine before going to the University of Arizona to earn a degree in journalism, Johnny left the newspaper business in 2008 to return to re-establish his roots in Patagonia. His grandfather—Giovanni the elder, a native Sicilian—and his brother-in-law Manuel, had come back from the war in 1946 and proceeded to turn a marginal farm/ranch operation into a thriving business. It was at that time that Giovanni had married Manuel’s sister; it was a propitious event that solidified the fortunes of the two families.

Johnny and Eduardo, now both 41, had grown up together and were the best of friends.

Earlier in the year, Johnny had discovered a small safe at an abandoned mosque south of Patagonia, just north of the border town of Nogales. The mosque had been operated by a group of now-deceased mullahs. In the safe was a pile of cash and a safe-deposit-box key. Johnny’s wife, Darla, upon closer examination of the code numbers stamped on the key, surmised that it belonged to a safe deposit box at their Bank of Arizona branch down in Nogales. And, since one of Johnny’s cousin’s sisters-in-law, Harriet Tafoya, was the vice president at the bank, and since Darla knew that Harriet had the hots for Johnny, she suggested to Johnny that he turn on the charm with Harriet in an effort to convince her to allow him to have access to the safe deposit box. Ever since Johnny had found the key, Darla was champing at the bit to gain access to the box to find out what was inside. Her curiosity was driving her mad, and she was hoping that Harriet would allow Johnny access to the box since the mullahs were dead, and that he, Johnny, had possession of the key. You know, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and all that.

There she is, Darla said to Johnny as she saw Harriet enter the great room at Eduardo’s house, an early twentieth-century adobe villa he’d bought from a former neighbor pecan grower a few years earlier. The walls of the room were lined with tables that were covered with food for the Christmas dinner buffet; in the middle of the room were seven tables arranged in a circle, with six seats at each table.

Okay, okay, Johnny said, reluctantly, as he felt the key in his jacket pocket. But if she makes a move on me, or if she embarrasses me, I’m counting on you to come to my rescue. You know how impetuous and lusty she can be.

Don’t worry. Just get her to say that she’ll let you into the safe deposit box. Keep your eye on the prize.

But, don’t you think I should get her a little tipsy first?

Darla reached into a nearby tub of ice and beer bottles, pulled out a Coors Light, twisted off the cap, handed it to Johnny and said, Here. Now go.

Oh, alright. Johnny looked across the room at Harriet, took a deep breath, and began walking toward Harriet.

(Considered by many to be a handsome woman, Harriet Antonia Archuleta Tafoya was ten years Johnny’s senior, the widow of Jesus Vargas, and a sister-in-law of Johnny’s cousin Julio Vargas, a deputy sheriff at the San Juan County Sheriff’s Department’s field office in Patagonia.

Harriet’s younger cousin, Debbie Martinez, had been Johnny’s high-school sweetheart. Debbie would tell Harriet all about their sexual escapades, which, of course, turned Harriet on. Harriet’s fantasy over the years had been to have an affair with the hunky Johnny . . . someday. Then, when her husband died in 2009, she set her sights on her long-time, dreamed-of tryst with Johnny. Indeed, at the Christmas party the year before, she actually propositioned him; but, of course, he politely turned her down, explaining, Harriet, I’m a married man; I don’t fool around, d’ya know what I mean? He also was turned off by the overpowering amount of perfume she always wore. Harriet, of course, let him know that she’d always be available to him. So, when she saw him approaching her at Eduardo’s Christmas party, she became excited.)

Johnny, so nice to see you again, she said as she gave him a hug, purposefully pressing her ample breasts against his chest. How come I haven’t seen you down at the bank lately?

Harriet, it just so happens that that’s what I want to talk to you about, he said, as he held his nose, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her the beer.

She answered his kiss with a kiss of her own on his right ear, rolling her tongue on its lobe, sucking it gently, then blowing on it. Yum, yum. So, tell me, what will be the subject of your visit?

Johnny shivered at the warm touch of her tongue and the wet coolness of her breath. Well, Harriet…

Just then, a man called to her from across the room. Harriet, can I get you a drink?

She turned toward the tall, handsome, distinguished-looking, well-groomed man and answered, Yes, Pablito, get me a martini. I’ll use this beer as a chaser. Then she said to Johnny, That’s Pablo Savedra. He just asked me to marry him. But don’t you worry, Johnny, if I marry him I’ll still be available to you.

Pablo Savedra… the famous lawyer?

Yes. He lives up in Tucson and he wants me to move up there with him after the wedding. Do you think I should marry him, Johnny?

"Well, he is a very wealthy attorney, and your kids are all grown and on their own. So, my advice to you is to do what you think is best for yourself… in the long run, that is."

"Thanks, Johnny. I just may take your advice. So, what will this meeting at the bank be about? I hope it’s not just about banking." She smiled a suggestive smile and licked her lips.

With his arms still around her waist, and her arms still around his neck, he said, Well, Harriet, I found this safe-deposit-box key. I’m pretty sure it’s for a box at your bank.

He reached into his pocket and produced the key. She took it and read the code number that was stamped on its side. Yes, it is from my bank; I can tell from the code number. Whose is it?

Well, I found it in a safe in some old abandoned mosque out in the desert north of Nogales. And… well… since the mosque is abandoned…

Do you mean that Lion of the Desert mosque that was run by those smelly old Iraqi mullahs?

Yes. The very same one. Johnny thought it was funny that Harriet was repulsed by the body odor of the Mullahs, but not by her own heavy and overly-pungent fragrance.

And you were wondering… what, exactly?

Well, I was wondering… well, since I have possession of the key, and since the mullahs have disappeared… well…

And you want to know if I’ll allow you to gain access to the box… right?

Well… yeah.

Harriet slid her hands around his neck again and whispered into his right ear, And what’s in it for me, Juanito? she asked suggestively, licking the lobe once more.

What would you like? he said, shivering again.

What do you think? She blew into his ear once more.

His knees wobbling in response to her hot breath and her overbearing odor, he shivered again and said, How about I check out the box when I come down to the bank in Nogales. Then we’ll go to lunch. We’ll chat more then.

She smiled and whispered, Well, at least that’s a beginning of a hoped-for romance… Sure, Johnny, it’s illegal as hell, but since you’ve got the key… she handed the key back to him ". . . and since no one knows where the smelly ol’ desert rats are… I don’t know why I shouldn’t let you have a look into the box. I mean, you are family. I mean, what the hell! I mean, I’ve gotta keep my eye on the prize… which is, of course, your family jewels."

Good. The lunch will be my Christmas present to you.

Just then, Pablo Savedra approached them and said, Here’s your drink, Harriet, my sweet.

Oh, thank you, Pablito, Harriet said, taking a sip of the martini and smiling. Turning toward Johnny, she said, Johnny, I’d like you to meet Pablo Savedra. The men shook hands. Johnny is Eduardo’s cousin. Actually, they’re partners in their family’s pecan business here in Patagonia.

Well, I’m so pleased to meet another family member, said Pablo.

Nice to have you in town, sir, Johnny said. Anyway, Harriet, I’ve got to get back to my wife… so maybe we’ll be able to chat a little later. If not, I’ll see you at the bank next week. Tuesday okay?

Tuesday’s fine, Johnny.

Good. I’ll be there at about eleven thirty. He smiled and walked away.

Moments later, Darla said to Johnny, "So, how’d it go? I mean, you two were getting a little chummy there for a while. I was about to come to your rescue when she swallowed your ear lobe… but she seemed to be enjoying herself so much, so I figured I’d let her have her cookies."

"She said she would let me have access to the box, Johnny said. So I’m gonna take her to lunch this Tuesday. I’ll check it out then."

Good for you, Johnny. Just don’t forget to wear your chastity belt.

*   *   *

The following Tuesday, shortly before noon, Harriet Tafoya, the vice president of the Nogales branch of the Bank of Arizona, led Johnny down the stairs to the subterranean vault that housed the safe deposit boxes. He carried a backpack on his shoulder. Surprisingly, the mullahs’ safe deposit box was the oversized kind: one foot high, a foot and a half wide, and three feet deep.

Y’know, said Harriet, I’ve often wondered why those mullahs wanted such a large box… you know, rather than the standard size.

Who knows? said Johnny. Maybe that’s where they kept their stash of weapons and explosives. He smiled at Harriet. I’m kidding, of course; but, then again, you never know with those freaks.

Harriet placed the bank’s key into one keyhole, then Johnny placed his key into the other keyhole. She turned both keys and heard the click that told her that the box was accessible. After she opened the door, Johnny pulled out the box and carried it to a small room, setting it on a table. Harriet then closed the door behind her, locking her and Johnny inside.

Johnny, we’re alone at last, she said as she fondled his buttocks as he faced the table. She’d been waiting all morning to get him alone.

Harriet… now, be a lady, he said as he opened the box; however, he did not remove her hands, allowing her to satisfy her immediate needs as a payoff to her for allowing him access to the box. He lifted out several items, setting them all on the table: an unopened package that appeared to have gone the through the U.S. Postal System, showing cancelled postage stamps and a return address; a folded road map of Arizona with the names of several cities circled in red; and five two-gallon, heavy-duty plastic bags of the Ziploc variety—inside each was an aluminum-foil-wrapped package that was shrink-wrapped in heavy plastic. As he hefted them, Johnny estimated that each package weighed about two pounds.

Harriet was breathing heavily by now, but Johnny’s mind was not on her at all. Then, when he read the return address on the unopened mailed package, his heart skipped a beat. It was only when he felt Harriet’s hands down the inside of his sweatpants, that he realized he was allowing her to get a little too chummy by giving her a little too much liberty with his body. Harriet, he said, are you hungry?

Her eyes widened. "Oh, Johnny, are you asking me to do what I think you’re asking me to do? If it is, then yes, I’m starving."

What? No, Harriet. Not that. Don’t you remember me telling you that I would buy you lunch if you let me into the safe deposit box.

"Oh, that kind of hungry," she said, disappointedly.

"Yes, Harriet, that kind of hungry."

Well, okay. But, you will tell me all about the mullahs during lunch, won’t you? I’d really like to know what was going on with them and what all this stuff is all about.

Sure, Harriet. Sure.

Then, without another word, she pulled down his sweatpants and underpants in one quick motion and stepped back to view his bare backside. Oh, Johnny, that is the cutest little tattoo. A little skull. And your butt is firm and fuzzy like a peach.

Johnny quickly turned about, momentarily revealing his genitalia to her. When he saw her smiling, he quickly pulled up his pants; then he turned back to face the table and began loading everything from the safe deposit box into his backpack. Harriet, it’s time to go.

Dejected, but still smiling, Harriet said, Oh, alright, Johnny. Can we go to Mendoza’s to eat? Suddenly, I’ve got an appetite.

Sure. They’ve got the best pork chimichangas in town. And they usually put a fried egg on top of it for me. Yummy.

*   *   *

After securing the backpack under a blanket in his SUV in the shaded part of the bank’s parking lot, Johnny walked arm-in-arm with Harriet down the street to Mendoza’s for lunch. However, before they left the bank, Harriet, via the control panel on her computer, re-activated the vault’s surveillance cameras.

Moments later, seated at a window table, they ordered lunch and a pitcher of lemonade, and got acclimated to the cilantro-laced atmosphere of one of southern Arizona’s best cucinas.

Okay, Johnny, now tell me about those mullahs. And what do you think you found in their safe deposit box?

Well, I plan to get the material in the packages analyzed. Sooner or later I’ll find out what they contain. Concerning the mullahs… well, they were a bunch of homosexual men who used their mosque as a front for their deviant activities, which also included trying to start some sort of jihad among the peasants of southern Arizona; an effort that failed miserably, by the way. But, after finding what we found in the safe deposit box this morning, well, I can’t even imagine what else they were up to. Actually, I can. But, time will tell.

Do you mean to say that they were trying to convert the people around here to Islam?

Yes, I am. At least, that’s what their website said they were up to. They might as well have been trying to sell ice to the Eskimos. By the way, do you happen to remember the last time the mullahs accessed the safe deposit box at the bank?

I knew you’d be asking me that very question, Johnny, so I checked the records before you arrived this morning. The three of them came into the bank in the late afternoon of December 11, 2010, just over a year ago. I remember their visit, too. I was the one who took them down into the vault. One of them was carrying a backpack. Maybe it had in it the stuff you took with you this morning. After they left the vault, I had to use an entire can of disinfectant air spray to get rid of the smell of their bodies. That wasn’t the first time I’d had to do that, either.

(Earlier in the year, Johnny had gone to the Lion of the Desert mosque to scope out the place for World Interconnect, or WI-7, an international organization dedicated to the elimination of the world’s worst bad guys, with a focus on international jihadists. One of WI-7’s operatives had learned of the mosque’s jihadist intentions in southern Arizona, and she’d asked Johnny to check it out. He’d found the mosque to be an abandoned building out in the desert; the bodies of the three mullahs were found in the trunk of an old car behind the building. He’d also found a small safe in the mosque with some money and the safe-deposit-box key inside. The next day, Johnny and his cousin, Julio, a sheriff’s deputy, buried the mullahs in a nearby arroyo. Julio then decided to offer the mosque to the local fire department to use as a controlled-burn project for their new recruits.)

Thanks for checking on that for me, said Johnny.

My pleasure, Harriet said, smiling, as she reached under the table with her foot began stroking his leg. So, when’re we gonna do this again?

Now, now, Harriet. Be a lady.

"Johnny, I’m tired of being a lady."

*   *   *

After their meal, Johnny thanked Harriet; then he drove home to show the safe-deposit-box items to Darla.

What is all this stuff? Darla asked as Johnny laid out the items on the dining room table.

I don’t know, said Johnny, "but it was your idea to go after it. And if it is what I think it is… well, this stuff may be part of something a whole lot bigger than our simple curiosity can handle. Johnny picked up the road map and unfolded it. Out from between the map’s folds was an unsealed envelope that tumbled onto the table. Hmm, it gets curiouser and curiouser." He opened the envelope and unfolded a letter. The date on the top of the page was September 30, 2009. Then he picked up the mailed package and noticed that the date on the postage was December 8, 2010.

What does the letter say? asked Darla.

I don’t know, it’s written in Arabic. But it’s written on Colorado State University stationery. I wonder what that’s all about? He thought for a moment, then said, I’m gonna scan it and then I’ll Email it to Jenny Jessup up in Wyoming. She reads and speaks Arabic; she learned it for her job at WI-7. He looked at the envelope again and said, But the return address on the envelope is written in English; it’s from someone named Fuad Azili Mifulani in Fort Collins, Colorado. That’s where Colorado State University is.

Johnny took the letter into his office and turned on the document/photo scanner. In a matter of moments, he had the letter scanned and sent to his computer. Then he Emailed the scanned letter to Jenny.

Mifulani? Darla said when Johnny came back into the dining room. Wasn’t that the last name of one of the mullahs at the Lion of the Desert mosque? An Iraqi, if I remember correctly.

You have a good memory, my dear. His first name was Achmed. He must have been a relation to this Fuad fellow. I mean, with a name like Mifulani, you’d certainly think they were related. Johnny opened his cell phone and dialed Jenny’s telephone number; she lived in Story, Wyoming, with her journalist sister, Saundra. When she answered, he said, Jen, it’s Johnny. I just Emailed you a letter that’s written in Arabic. When you get it, can you call me back and translate it for me, please?

Sure, Johnny. Two seconds later, through the phone, Johnny heard the ping sound coming from Jenny’s computer, signifying an incoming Email.

That was fast, he said, as he set the cell phone on the table and placed it in speaker mode so Darla could hear Jenny speak.

Okay, I’m opening it. Jenny paused, then said, "I see that it’s written on Colorado State University stationery. Okay, here goes… Dear Uncle Achmed, I am sending you several packages and a map by mail for safe keeping . . . Please go to your bank, rent a large safe deposit box, and store in it the items I have already sent to you . . . I have included a check for five hundred dollars to cover the rent of the safe deposit box for two or three years . . . Whatever you do, please do not open the packages . . . While the packages are safe to handle as they are, the material inside is very toxic . . . I will retrieve them at some time in the future . . . It might not be for a while, though; I’m waiting for the right time. Now, make sure you have two keys made for the safe deposit box . . . Make sure you keep your key in a safe place, and FedEx the other one to me . . . At a later date, I will be sending you another package . . . Do not open it; it is for me to use when I come to collect all the other packages . . . Put that package into the safe deposit box, too . . . Tell no one of this . . . My contact with you will be limited from now on . . . Allah be praised . . . Stay well, my uncle. Your nephew-in-jihad, Fuad."

Toxic? whispered Darla. I hope it’s safe for us to have in the house.

I’m sure it is, he whispered back. He thought for a moment, then said, Jen, could you please transliterate it for me into English and Email it back to me?

Sure, Johnny. What’s all this about, anyway?

It has to do with that Lion of the Desert mosque from earlier this year. I’ll fill you in later. I’ll also tell Greta and Jack about it, because I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A real bad feeling.

(Jack Davidson was the executive director of WI-7, based in New York City; Greta Vogelein was WI-7’s regional director, based in Denver. Johnny had been working with the super-secret World Interconnect organization over the past few years, tracking down some of the world’s worst jihadists. WI-7, for more than twenty years, had been very successful in the business of eliminating the world’s worst-of-the-worst bad guys.)

Okay, said Jenny. I’ll get it back to you right away. Bye.

Johnny closed his phone and picked up the other mailed package and checked the return address and the date. This was mailed over a year ago, and I guess Fuad hasn’t come down here to collect the items yet. I wonder if he knows that the mullahs at the Lion of the Desert mosque are dead. But whether he does or not, I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten about all this stuff.

Then, Johnny unfolded the Arizona road map that showed red circles around Tucson, Phoenix, Prescott, Yuma and Flagstaff. There were numbers written next to each city’s circle, the numbers 1 through 5.

What do you suppose those circles mean? asked Darla.

Oh, jeez! Johnny said, his eyes widening. Now, I know that I’m making a giant reach here, but do you suppose Fuad was planning to poison the water supplies of these cities?

With the toxic stuff in these packages? That could very well be. I mean, each package does have a number on it. Maybe those numbers correspond with the numbered cities on the map.

That could very well be… indeed. I mean, the letter did say that the contents were toxic.

Well, I think you should find out what this Fuad fellow is doing up at CSU.

And I’ll do that right now. Johnny picked up his cell phone from the table, then he checked for the CSU telephone number on the letterhead. As he dialed it, he said to Darla, I wonder if there’ll be anyone there; y’know, since we’re in the middle of Christmas break, and all. He was half surprised when someone answered the phone.

Colorado State University, home of the Rams… happy holidays, said the pleasant voice of a female operator. How can I help you?

Good afternoon, said Johnny. I’m trying to get in touch with someone at the university. He may be a student, or he may be a teacher. I’m not sure.

Certainly. What’s the name?

His name is Fuad Mifulani.

Surely. Let me check the directory on my computer listing. Momentarily, the operator said, Yes, Mr. Mifulani is a graduate student here.

What department, if I may ask?

Um… biochemistry. But I don’t think anyone will be at that department’s office; y’know, because of the holiday.

That won’t be necessary. Thank you, said Johnny. After he ended the call, he looked over at Darla with a concerned stare. He’s a grad student in biochemistry, so I guess it’s a good bet that he made the toxic substances in the school’s laboratory, probably in the middle of the night… I’ve got to notify Jack and Greta about this sooner than later. I’ll send the toxic material to Greta in Denver for analysis.

Good idea. But, don’t you want to know what’s in the other unopened package? Darla reached for the package and pulled the easy-open tab. She reached inside and pulled out another Ziploc bag. Uh oh, she said. Play money. After she counted the American currency bills, she said, Ten grand. I guess ol’ Fuad was planning on staying for a while, or at least he was planning on traveling a bit while he was down here. In high style, too.

Do you mean like to all the cities he circled on the map?

That’s exactly what I mean.

Just then, the house phone rang. Darla walked over to the portable phone that sat on a table in the hall. Hello.

Hello, Darla, it’s Harriet Tafoya. Is Johnny there, by any chance? It’s important.

Sure, Harriet… Johnny! It’s Harriet, she called. She walked back into the dining room and handed him the phone.

Hi, Harriet, he said, wondering if she was going to ask him to meet her at some sleazy motel out in the desert.

Johnny, you’re not going to believe this, but… guess who just left the bank?

I don’t know, Harriet… who?

Some guy who said he was the nephew of one of the mullahs from that now-defunct mosque.

Johnny froze, not believing how lucky he was to have chosen this day to go to the bank to retrieve the items from mullah Mifulani’s safe deposit box. His name wasn’t Fuad Azili Mifulani, was it?

Stunned for a moment, Harriet said, Johnny, how did you know that?

Harriet, I know everything. He’s the nephew of one of the mullahs… So, what happened?

Well, I took him down into the vault and assisted him in opening the safe deposit box. But when he looked inside and saw that it was empty, he almost busted a gut. He asked me when was the last time anyone had come to look into the box, and I told him that it was the three mullahs more than a year ago. Then he asked me if I knew what had happened to his uncle and the mosque, and I told him that I didn’t know and that I hadn’t seen the mullahs at the bank for more than a year. Then he stormed out of the building. He was really pissed. She paused for a moment, then said, Johnny, did I do the right thing?

Harriet, you did just fine. And thanks for calling me about it. I owe you another lunch.

She sighed and said, dreamily, Oh, Johnny…

Now, now, Harriet, be a lady… Oh, by the way, why don’t you check the surveillance video to see if the camera got a good look at his face.

I already did that. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat which blocked any real good look at him from the camera’s angle. Sorry. He was just a little skinny guy, though; but he wasn’t smelly like the mullahs.

Oh, too bad we didn’t get a good look at him on video. Well, thanks again, Harriet. I’ll call you soon. Johnny ended the call and looked at Darla, who was waiting for an explanation. So, it seems that ol’ Fuad finally made it down to the bank. Harriet said he was pretty pissed that the safe deposit box was empty.

That’s understandable. Do you think he’ll head out to the mosque?

Probably. But he won’t find anything. The Santa Cruz County Fire Department used it as a controlled burn for their new recruits last week. I mean, it had been abandoned for more than a year. There’s nothing left of the place.

Well, I’m glad you didn’t wait any longer to go to the bank. Who knows what ol’ Fuad would have done with the stuff… By the way, did Harriet behave like a lady with you this morning?

Johnny smiled. Yes. She behaved like a perfect lady. He wasn’t about to tell her that Harriet had pulled his pants down in the vault.

Well, good. And I think you were a perfect gentleman by offering to take her to lunch again… you know, for calling you about the mullah’s nephew.

Yeah, I guess. A random act of kindness is always followed by good karma. Anyway, I’ll call Jack about this in a little while, then I’ll call FedEx and have them pick up the package that I’ll send to Greta in Denver. I’ll pack it up real good and safe.

*

Johnny Skull’s first introduction to WI-7 was in 2008, when he worked hand-in-hand with Jack Davidson’s organization to hunt down, and assassinate, a Nazi war criminal. Johnny had been the associate publisher/managing editor of The Sheridan County Sunrise, an award-winning weekly newspaper in the village of Story, a lovely little town in the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains of northern Wyoming. Also on the staff of the newspaper, and playing a critical role in the effort to track down the Nazi, was Jack’s son, Paul Davidson. Born in Israel, both Jack and Paul were naturalized American citizens.

(A year before the Nazi-war-criminal affair, before Johnny became a collaborator with WI-7, he, along with several newspaper staff members, foiled an attempt by a mad imam to take over northern Wyoming and turn it into an American-Islamic caliphate, to be called Muhammadia.)

In 2010, two year’s after Johnny left the newspaper business to concentrate his efforts on his family’s pecan-growing operation near Patagonia, Arizona, he aided WI-7 in their efforts to thwart an assassination attempt on the life of Mikki Paarsalu, the Estonian pro-Western Secretary General of the United Nations, himself a secret agent for WI-7.

Also aiding WI-7 in foiling that assassination attempt were: Greta Vogelein; Paul Davidson; Nevada Congressman H. Mathias Neimark; Saundra Jessup, a reporter for The Sheridan County Sunrise; Saundra’s twin sister, Jenny, a new recruit for WI-7; Levi Ashkelon, a Mossad agent; Jimila Jimmie Masroun, a coed at the University of Wyoming, and her cousin Fannie Scalisi, both Afghan orphans; Hernanda Molina, a nun at a church in southwestern Colorado; WI-7 agents Morty and Solomon Cohen, twin brothers who, at that time, were sheriff’s deputy interns in Sheridan County, Wyoming; Sharfiq Zebdahni, a Muslim who supplied Greta with important information on the radical jihadist elements at the Ibn Asir Meshkiri mosque in Boulder, Colorado; and Xerxes Malouffi, a Persian-English, non-Muslim, London-based restaurateur and a member of WI-7’s consultant-status force, a small group of undercover agents who were paid a monthly stipend just to keep their eyes and ears open for any jihadist, or jihadist-related, activities in their respective communities.

And, in 2011, Johnny, Jimmie, Fannie, several WI-7 agents—including Jarvis Greene, a WI-7 agent inside the White House—and two Mossad agents, helped foil the jihadist agenda of the top advisor to the President of the United States, Vespa Jiggs, in her effort to start World War III.

Before becoming a journalist, Johnny was an assassin in the Special Operations Forces of the United States Marine Corp, following in the footsteps of his grandfather, Giovanni Pasquale Scugliari, who had been an assassin of Nazis for the United States Army during World War II.

*   *   *

His head was exploding with anger as he turned west onto a dirt road off Hwy 82, about five miles north of Nogales. Fuad Mifulani had not been in contact with his Uncle Achmed for more than a year, when he’d sent the package of money to be put into the safe deposit box. He just figured that it would be safe, along with the toxic material he’d sent the year earlier.

When he came to a ridge that overlooked a small valley, he expected to see the turret of the Lion of the Desert mosque. He’d been there only once several years earlier, and although he wasn’t too impressed with the place then, he was just glad that he had a contact in southern Arizona with whom he could count on to use as a base of operations when need be. Fuad’s father, his Uncle Achmed’s brother, had bankrolled the construction of the mosque years earlier. The fact that Uncle Achmed and his two sidekick mullahs were flaming homosexuals and devil worshippers, didn’t seem to bother Fuad too much; he just needed his uncle to be an area-presence, and to act as a guardian for the secret storage of his toxic wares.

But when he looked toward the site of the mosque, all he saw were piles of ashes where the mosque and shed once stood, and a burned-out shell of a car. At least he’d had the good sense to store his toxic material and the money in a safe deposit box in a bank, rather than have the mullahs hide it somewhere in or around the mosque.

But now, with the safe deposit box empty, his uncle nowhere to be found, and the mosque nonexistent, he knew he would have to start all over again to create his special poisons that would be the basis of his own personal vendetta against America. For it was the death of his entire family at the hands of American soldiers eight years earlier in Iraq, that instilled within his soul the desire for revenge. The memory of their painful screams had been indelibly burned inside the confused head of the then-15-year-old Fuad, who had escaped the killing spree by hiding himself in a closet in his family’s house. When he finally emerged from the closet, the sight of the carnage caused him to go into shock; when he woke up hours later, the first thing he saw was American soldiers scurrying from room to room.

What he didn’t know, however, was that the slaughter of his family was carried out by an al-Qaeda vigilante group loyal to Saddam Hussein, and that the Americans he’d seen in the house had arrived long after his family’s killers had gone. When Fuad came to America as an orphan later that same year, he vowed to cause great harm to the supposed killers of his family. And what better way to gain his revenge than by living within the belly of the beast: America, the Great Satan.

He turned his rented vehicle around and headed north to Tucson, where he would board a plane back to Denver and then drive up to Fort Collins, all the while planning his new strategy.

*   *   *

At three thirty that afternoon, after he’d received the transliterated letter from Jenny via Email, Johnny called Jack Davidson’s cell phone.

Jack, I’ve got something that might be of interest to you.

Johnny, good to hear from you. Actually, I was going to call you later today. I’m here in Denver at WI-7’s regional office… By the way, Greta says ‘hello.’

Please return my greetings to her. Anyway, I think I may have uncovered something that could be pretty devastating.

Go ahead, we’re listening. I’m putting my phone on speaker mode.

Johnny spent the next fifteen minutes explaining the situation with the safe-deposit-box key, the items found inside the box, the letter Fuad Mifulani had written to his uncle—the dead mullah of the Lion of the Desert mosque—and the fact that Fuad was a grad student in biochemistry at CSU and had come to Nogales to collect the items that very afternoon.

After digesting the information, Greta said, And you have this toxic material in your possession?

Yes, I do. I was going to send it to you for analysis.

Johnny, said Jack, will you be at home tonight?

Yes.

Is there a landing strip in Patagonia?

Yes. There’s a rancher neighbor of mine who has a lighted and paved strip. Are you thinking of landing your Learjet here?

Yes.

Well, you’re in luck. He has his own small jet plane. He comes and goes in it all the time.

Will you let him know that we’ll be flying down this evening and that we’d like permission to use his facility.

Sure will. You can stay at my house tonight. Call me about half an hour before you’re gonna land, and I’ll come to get you. It’s only about ten minutes from my house.

Terrific. We should be arriving at about eight. Greta will be coming with me.

Cool. By the way, Jack, what was it that you were going to call me about? Does it have anything to do with Dewey, South Dakota?

After a pregnant pause, Jack said, We’ll chat later about that.

Johnny smiled, knowing that he’d hit the nail on the head. Okay. See you later, Jack. When the call ended, Johnny said to Darla, Sweetheart, get the guest rooms ready and defrost some steaks. Company’s coming.

*

The previous May—on the night Osama bin Laden was relegated to room temperature and then dumped into the Indian Ocean to become part of the aquatic food chain—Noori Melu was murdered in the old ghost town of Dewey, in the southwestern part of the Black Hills of South Dakota, adjacent to the Wyoming state line. Noori, a graduating geology student at Black Hills State University in the town of Spearfish, was one member of a four-student team doing field mapping in the Black Hills near Dewey. He was the son of Abdel Melu, a nuclear research engineer and a high-ranking official in the Iranian government; Abdel Melu also was the great-nephew of Iran’s supreme leader, the Ayatollah Tumala abd Blaqumi.

A few hours after Noori had expressed his pro-jihadist views and his dismay at the news of bin Laden’s death to his field mates, that night one of the other students dispatched him to Islamic paradise to cavort with Allah, Muhammad, the seventy-two virgins, and the newly arrived Osama bin Laden.

Jimmie Masroun—a non-Muslim, anti-jihadist Afghan orphan, a geology-major coed at the University of Wyoming, and a member of Noori’s field team—upset at Noori’s arrogance over the death of bin Laden, buried the pick-end of her geology hammer deep into the middle of his head in the middle of the night. She then dumped his body into the middle of a seventy-five-foot-deep, flooded shaft in the middle of an old abandoned coal mine; the team had been camping just outside the portal to the mine.

Abdel, Noori’s father, who had been distraught at the news of his missing son, then sent a cousin of his named Mustafa Qurafi to South Dakota to search for Noori. Qurafi, too, met the same fate at the hands of Jimmie Masroun and her cousin, Fannie Scalisi. A third man sent by Noori’s father to find him, Flatulani Suleiman Suleimani, eventually met up with Noori and Qurafi in the cold water at the bottom of the shaft. This time, Jimmie and Fannie were assisted by Jenny Jessup, a WI-7 operative.

Six weeks later, Vespa Jiggs, the American president’s top political advisor, joined the crowd at the bottom of the shaft after it was learned by WI-7 that she was planning to start World War III and eventually escape to her native Iran. She had been dispatched to Muslim Valhalla by Johnny Skull.

During her years at the White House, Jiggs had secretly made hundreds of videotapes of her private conversations with the president and others, the content of which she’d planned to eventually use against the president from the safety of her new home in Iran. Jiggs’s top assistant at the White House, Jarvis Greene, an undercover WI-7 operative himself, was able to abscond with the videotapes and their damning evidence against the president after Vespa’s death. He then turned the tapes over to his boss, Jack Davidson.

It was the explosive content of those videotapes that caused Jack Davidson to make plans to purchase the old ghost town of Dewey, South Dakota, and its environs, which included several abandoned coal mines in the hills around the town. After listening to the tapes, he completely understood the president’s real political agenda, and he also realized that he could not allow the president to win another election. Jack knew that the future of the United States, and, moreover, the future of Israel, was at stake, not to mention the worldwide future of freedom and liberty. It had become personal for him, and his plan for the old ghost town of Dewey was as radical as it could be.

*   *   *

At nine thirty that evening, Jack Davidson breathed out deeply as he sat back in his chair on the patio of Johnny’s house near Patagonia, Arizona. Johnny, he said, sated from the meal, that was the best steak I’ve ever had.

Johnny smiled. "Jack, you can thank my lovely wife, Darla. She’s the master barbecuer around here. Or, as I like to call her, The Mistress of Meat."

Jack looked across the dinner table at Darla and said, Madam, my compliments.

Darla smiled. Jack, all I did was put it on the grill; but you can thank the cow if you like. Although it would have to be posthumously.

Jack smiled and looked back at Johnny. So, Johnny, he said, where can we go to talk a little… in private and without distraction? What I’m going to tell you is pretty top secret. Jack did not want to be interrupted by Johnny’s four children during his explanation.

We can drive up to my family’s cemetery, said Johnny. It’s about as private as you can get. We can be there in just a few minutes. I’ll take some lanterns with us… and blankets. It gets pretty chilly at night in the high desert.

*   *   *

There was a definite nip in the air when, fifteen minutes later, Johnny, Jack, and Greta entered the Scugliari family cemetery that was situated atop a hill overlooking Arroyo Seco. Johnny hung several lanterns from the underchassis of a large cottonwood tree and the trio sat down on three small benches, facing each other.

First, Jack said, let me say that we’ll analyze the packages you found in the safe deposit box, then Greta will do some research into the background of this Fuad Mifulani fellow. But the real reason I wanted to talk to you… was to let you in on our plans for Dewey, South Dakota.

I’ve been wondering when you were going to clue me in on that, said Johnny. Ever since Jack had mentioned that he’d bought the old ghost town and surrounding countryside at their recent annual Thanksgiving Day get-together at the home of Brian Robbins up in Story, Wyoming, a month earlier, he’d been trying to figure out why Jack had purchased the land. Sounds intriguing.

"Yes. Intriguing is a good word. However, since I started watching the videotapes that Vespa Jiggs had made of her conversations with the president and others, I knew that WI-7 would have to take action sooner rather than later. His gaze moved from Johnny to Greta, and he smiled; then he looked back at Johnny. Ostensibly, we’re going into the business of raising exotic animals for the purpose of selling them to zoos and hunting ranches."

Johnny did a double take, then said, "Ostensibly? What about actually?"

In actuality, the exotic-animal farm will act as a cover for a detention center that will house certain people whom we will kidnap and hold until after the election in November. I’ve got some good friends in the exotic-animal business. It’ll all be on the up-and-up; quite legal.

And all this will be in and around Dewey?

"Yes. We’ll be building a large, one-story housing unit that will be camouflaged by the use of materials taken from Dewey’s old buildings. We might even have to house some of our guests inside one of the old coal mines on the property, but I think that’ll only be for those who behave the worst. However, I don’t think they’ll be misbehaving too much.

"It will be a quiet existence for the inmates. They’ll be fed well, although their food and drink will contain sedative-like chemicals that will keep them docile and controllable. They’ll have controlled-access to radio and television, and we’ll be able patch into any radio and television station in the country, using the technology provided by some really fancy satellite dishes. The people in our surveillance/control room will be able to play anything they wish on the televisions and computer screens in the inmates’ rooms. That will be useful if we want the inmates to view live or replayed television broadcasts of the news of their own disappearances, or other news broadcasts we’ll deem worthwhile for them to see.

"They’ll also have selected books on electronic literary tablets, and iPod and CD players will provide them with mellow music. They’ll have controlled, non-interactive Internet access, which means no Email; but they won’t have cell phones, and they’ll be under constant surveillance inside their quarters via closed-circuit television, video cameras and audio microphones. They’ll be supplied with comfortable uniforms, and new linens, towels and underwear on a weekly basis. Needless to say, there won’t be any interaction with the other detainees; and, until all of them are assembled, they won’t even know there are other detainees, or why they’re there, or where they are.

"Their living quarters will be climate controlled and well vented, so there won’t be any need for them to go outside for fresh air. It will be like a semi-luxurious solitary confinement. And there will be restricted access to the areas where our guests will be staying… only authorized personnel will be permitted to be near them.

"There’ll be several water wells on the property to serve the compound and its environs, including several well-placed water wells to provide drink for the animals. There’ll be a ten-foot-high, double-segment, chain-link-and-barbed-wire electrified fence around the perimeter of the property, with lots of cameras surveying the acreage. Actually, the construction of the fence already has begun. When the state officials asked me why I needed a double-segment fence that also was barbed-wired and electrified, I told them that I didn’t want any predators entering the property. Y’know, mountain lions and bears, mainly. Actually, it’s because we want to encourage the guests to remain on the premises for the duration; that is, in the highly unlikely case one of them escapes their confined quarters. Also, construction of the administration facility and living quarters for the WI-7 staff is ongoing as we speak; luxurious double-wide trailers, to be sure. It’ll be an expensive undertaking… but, what the hell, we’ve got plenty of money…

(The previous late-spring and early summer, WI-7 and the Mossad foiled a plot by Vespa Jiggs—the president’s top advisor and deep jihadist agent—to start World War III. In the process of eliminating that threat, Jack Davidson was able to gain access to the bank accounts of Jiggs and another jihadist agent, a total of more than twenty-two million dollars.)

". . . Of course, the kidnappees won’t know where they are. And when the president is defeated in November, they’ll all be released. In due time, once we get them all collected, they’ll be told as much. But let me reiterate, until they’re all assembled, they’ll be kept in the dark as to why they are there; it will be at that time that they’ll be told that they are not alone in their incarceration. By the time election day rolls around, they’ll be praying for the president’s defeat. That is, if they remember how to pray… or if they ever prayed at all. Godless bastards."

And if the president wins a second term?

Jack glanced