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  Blackout

  Copyright © 2010 by Jason Elam and Steve Yohn. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo copyright © by Michael Burr/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Jason Elam author photo copyright © 2007 by Stephanie Mack. All rights reserved.

  Steve Yohn author photo copyright © 2009 by Madeline Yohn. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Published in association with the literary agency of Yates & Yates, LLP, Attorneys and Counselors, Orange, California.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data to come

  Elam, Jason.

  Blackout : a Riley Covington thriller / a Jason Elam and Steve Yohn novel.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3172-0 (sc)

  1. Football players—Fiction. 2. Terrorism—United States—Fiction. 3. Football stories. I. Yohn, Steve. II. Title.

  PS3605.L26B57 2010

  813'.6—dc22 2009040053

  JASON ELAM

  It is to the real Jesus that I dedicate this book.

  STEVE YOHN

  To Madeline, my girl.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  An excerpt from the previous Riley Covington thriller: Blown Coverage

  Thank you, God, for love, patience, and creativity. Use this for Your glory.

  When we’re writing, we’re thinking of our families; when we’re with our families, we’re thinking about writing. Thanks to Tamy and Nancy and all the kids for putting up with us.

  We are deeply indebted to the whole Tyndale family—Karen Watson for making this all happen, Todd Starowitz for getting the word out, Dean Renninger and the design team for producing consistently amazing artwork, and Jeremy Taylor for putting the dress on the pig.

  A huge thanks to Matt Yates for your guidance and friendship. Finally, we owe a debt of gratitude to LTC Mark Elam, Joel C. Rosenberg, Amir Tsarfati, and Phil Irwin for your wisdom and depth of knowledge.

  Tuesday, June 30

  The impact was swift and sudden. Muhammed Zerin Khan cursed himself; he should have seen it coming. He had always prided himself on having a sixth sense—a special awareness of his surroundings. But this time, his gift had failed him, and now he would pay for it.

  The initial concussion knocked the air from his lungs and left him stunned. A dizzying pain forced him to squeeze his eyes shut until the wave passed.

  As he sucked for air, he spun and scrambled to all fours. He knew he had to get into fighting position or it was all over. But as he looked around, he knew he was done for. Where did they all come from?

  Hands were all over him. Something sharp pressed into his lower back. He tried to squirm away, but the grips on his arms and legs were like iron manacles.

  Less than a week ago, Zerin had walked into the Georgia State Prison and sat down in the tight cubicle. His father was waiting for him on the other side of the Plexiglas with the phone already in his hand. Zerin pressed his knuckles to the cool glass as he picked up the phone. His father leaned forward and completed the fist tap. “It’s been a while, Son. You good?”

  “I’m living. You?”

  His father slowly leaned back in his chair, stretching the phone’s cord taut. Zerin noticed how the man’s age had begun to reveal itself. The wrinkles around his eyes and the gray streaked through his beard made him look much older than Zerin remembered. The look was a little surreal, a little discordant with what he knew of his father’s past, because with the white kufi and the white prison-issue garb, his father actually looked like one of the wise imams Zerin had seen online.

  “Me? I’m doing well. Allah has blessed me. Besides, it does my heart good to know what’s on the horizon,” his father stated with a definitive smirk.

  “‘What’s on the horizon’? What do you mean?” Zerin asked him, puzzled.

  The older man slowly shook his head. “I’d love to tell you, Son. I want you to know—to be ready for—what’s coming down the pike. But I can only say so much. Let’s just say it’s gonna happen. It is gonna happen. And you’ll know it when it does. And you’ll also know that your old man knew about it before it did, because they came to me for help. They asked me to organize this. I am the only one in this whole facility to whom they have entrusted their plan.

  “So when it all goes down, you’ll know that your broken-down old pops was responsible for everything that takes place in this here facility. You’ll know that I was involved in the biggest thing that’s happened since . . . well, just trust me, boy, you’ll know. Meantime, we just have to be patient, and insha’Allah, we will make it count when the time is right.”

  Zerin said nothing. His father had taken these cryptic turns occasionally during recent visits. The first few rebuffs had taught Zerin not to try to dig for anything deeper than what his dad was ready to willingly offer up.

  After a short pause, his father sat upright in his chair, releasing the tension from the phone cord. “Enough of that for now. I want to know how my son is. How’s your training going? Tell me everything.”

  It was now less than one week later, and Zerin was glad he hadn’t had this story to tell his father. The weight on his back was pressing the air out of his lungs. He fought and squ
irmed with every fiber of his existence, but there were simply too many of them. There was laughter all around, mocking and cruel, as those in the room started a mini celebration.

  Zerin’s rage boiled over, and he made a sudden effort to free himself. One arm got loose but was quickly clamped back down. Someone had his head pressed firmly into the short carpet and was rubbing it roughly back and forth, taking the skin off his right cheek directly under his eye.

  Suddenly he was flipped onto his side, and he heard the unmistakable sound of someone ripping off pieces of duct tape. Through the bodies, Zerin could see the one with the tape moving toward him. He tried to tuck his legs a bit in order to drive his heels into this man. Maybe he could break his assailant’s nose and in the frenzy free himself. It was a long shot, but at the very least Zerin could make them realize he wasn’t simply going to let them have their way.

  As the others made room for the taper, Zerin saw his chance. He lunged with all his might, kicking straight into what he hoped was the man’s face. At the last second, the attacker saw it coming and dropped his head just enough to take the full force on his forehead. While the man stumbled backward, dazed, the pile on top of Zerin grew even larger. Fists were driven into his side, and threats were made against any further resistance.

  Zerin had no hope now. His opponents held him firmly, and the tape began wrapping his legs. Once his ankles were secured, his wrists and arms were next. As his arms were pulled tighter behind his back, Zerin felt a piercing pain in his shoulder. He refused to cry out.

  Duct tape went around and around his head and eyes, and then a strip went over his mouth, causing his first moment of real panic. He had been breathing deeply through his mouth, but now he had to draw rapidly through his nose.

  Now he saw nothing but felt clothes being ripped off him. A chill told him when there was nothing left on his body.

  Then he was on the move. The complete darkness was disorienting. He tried to picture in his mind the direction he was being taken but soon got lost. The carpet he was being dragged across was creating more rug burns on his already-reddened body. Zerin was trapped between rage and terror.

  After a few more yards, he felt himself lifted off the ground and passed from hand to hand. There was laughing and shouting coming from all around him.

  Then, as quickly as he was picked up, he fell back down. His body slammed headfirst into the floor—only now the abrasive carpet had been replaced by hard tile. A searing pain shot through Zerin’s brain, and he immediately felt blood rolling across what little skin on his face wasn’t covered with tape.

  As he tried to collect his wits, hot breath made its way into his ear. “Khan, did you really think you could hide from us? Did you really think we wouldn’t get you? We get everybody!”

  The duct tape was ripped from his mouth. “You have any last words, Khan?”

  Zerin spit, not knowing if he hit anybody. Another big cheer went through the crowd, as well as one loud curse.

  Again he felt himself being lifted, and then there came another free fall. Zerin cringed and tried to brace himself. However, the impact was not what he expected. It felt like he had been dropped into liquid fire. The shock sucked all the air from his already-burning lungs.

  Then he realized that it wasn’t heat but cold—ice cold. He instinctively took a breath, and freezing water rushed through his sinuses. He began to choke. As quickly as he was in the water he was plucked out.

  Amid the laughter and cheers, he was flopped on the cold tile, gagging and trying to rid the water from his lungs.

  Suddenly the unmistakable voice of Roy Burton, head coach of the Colorado Mustangs, pierced the air. “What do you idiots think you’re doing? Get away from him, now! Somebody get some scissors and cut this boy loose.”

  Zerin heard the mass exodus of people, and by the time the tape was removed from his eyes, the crowd had grown very small.

  It was then that Coach Burton noticed the blood. “Get the trainers in here too. Quick!”

  Burton leaned down. “Son, you okay? I’m sorry about this.”

  But Zerin said nothing. What was there to say? He had been hurt and humiliated. They had attacked his body and his dignity. Those were not things he could just brush off and forget. Zerin had heard about rookie hazing in the Professional Football League, but this incident had gone way too far.

  Now the seeds of revenge had been sown. On that cold floor, he made a vow—a promise to himself that he would be patient. He would find his time. He would strike! Just as his father had said.

  “It is gonna happen. . . . We just have to be patient, and insha’Allah, we will make it count when the time is right.”

  Wednesday, July 1, 5:45 p.m. KST

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  The strip of paper was just durable enough to hold ink without falling apart. Any more thickness and it would lose its most important quality—the ability to dissolve if soaked in water . . . or saliva.

  The characters being etched upon this paper with a fine-tip pen were miniscule and seemingly gibberish. The hand writing them was calm and steady.

  The same could not be said of the rest of the author.

  Kuk Ho mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. One drop of sweat could easily ruin an hour’s worth of painstaking work. He stole another quick glance at the small window set in the door of his office. If he were spotted doing what he was doing, it would mean a tortured confession and death—not just for him but for the whole extended Kuk family. I can’t think about that. Just keep writing, he told himself.

  Kuk Ho had been thirty years old when the “Eternal President” died. He had taken to the streets of Pyongyang and cried his crocodile tears along with the hundreds of thousands of others. Later, he cheered and rubbed more hot pepper paste in his eyes in order to show the proper emotion at the accession of the new Dear Leader, son of the old Great Leader. He did it because that was what was expected, and in North Korea, if you didn’t do what was expected, then you had better plan on an unscheduled trip to police headquarters to be asked why.

  The day that Kim Jong Il had taken over, Kuk Ho’s heart had broken. All hope for a new Korea had died. The failing national policy of Juche, or self-reliance, would continue with the new Little Dictator. Hundreds of thousands of Koreans had died of famine and disease in the past decade. The economy was failing. Public executions and prison camps were needed just to keep the ruling party in power. And the nation’s foreign policy was almost begging for a United States–backed South Korean invasion. If that’s self-reliance, then give me imperialism any day of the week.

  And yet, in spite of this history of failure, many of Kuk Ho’s fellow countrymen worshiped the Dear Leader and his father before him as gods. No more, Kuk Ho had decided that fateful day that saw the ascent of a leader and the continued descent of a country. No more will I contribute to the destruction of my homeland. No more will I turn a blind eye to the holocaust directed toward my fellow citizens. That was the day that in his heart Kuk Ho had become a traitor.

  A note slipped into the palm of an assistant to a visiting Western dignitary had sealed the deal. Six weeks later, he received his first contact.

  At that time Kuk Ho was just a junior member in the Ministry of People’s Armed Forces, but in the intervening fifteen years he had risen in the ranks to his current position of deputy vice minister.

  There was a period when Kuk Ho had hoped his treason would be temporary—that eventually, after Kim Jong Il died, there would be hope for a new Korea. But once the Dear Leader had named his youngest son, Kim Jong Un—“Our Commander Kim,” as he was already being hailed—his successor, all hope had died. The future ruler was truly his father’s son and his grandfather’s grandson.

  So Kuk Ho continued to use his position to get more and more important information—information that he passed on only when he was sure that the payoff would be worth the risk.

  There’s no doubting the worthiness of this intelligence, Kuk Ho thought as he pe
nned the last few characters. How the Dear Leader let himself get talked into this scheme, I’ll never know. Although, if this plan of theirs does succeed, it could mean a crippled America. And if America is crippled, there’s no one to stand in the way of the Little Dictator as he mows through our southern brothers and sisters and makes them pay for what he perceives as a half century of disrespect and abuse.

  Finished, Kuk Ho gently rolled up the paper and slipped it into a pliable, waterproof sheath barely larger than a wooden matchstick. The sheath was slightly perforated in three places in case it was necessary to quickly dispose of the message. Three seconds of grinding with his molars and the note would be history.

  Slipping the note into his mouth, Kuk Ho used his tongue to tuck it up between his gums and right cheek. A mirror from his top desk drawer confirmed that there was no noticeable bulge, and some spoken words assured him that his diction had not been altered.

  Kuk Ho reached back into his desk and retrieved his keys, then headed to the parking lot. Although his position afforded him the luxury of a vehicle, it did not provide him a driver. Today, this arrangement suited him fine.

  Walking out was always the worst part. It felt as if he had traitor written all over his face. With every good-bye he said, he was sure the incriminating evidence would come flying out of his mouth. With every turned corner, he was certain he would face an armed guard ready to escort him back upstairs to the minister’s office. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, and the moist heat from his body fogged his glasses. Pulling his handkerchief out, he toweled off his face and cleared his glasses.

  Finally he reached his car—a black Pyeonghwa Hwiparam, quite a different vehicle from the vice minister’s Mercedes-Benz. His glove box provided him with a fresh handkerchief, which he quickly soaked. Starting the engine, he saw that the gas gauge settled just under half full. Good enough reason to stop for a fill-up, he thought with a relieved smile.

  Wednesday, July 1, 6:30 p.m. KST

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Pak Bae’s adrenaline started rushing as soon as he saw the car in line. It wasn’t the vehicle itself—Pyeonghwa Motors was the only manufacturer licensed to sell cars in North Korea. I still don’t know how the Reverend Moon was able to pull off a deal that allowed the Unification Church–owned company to be the sole carmaker in officially atheistic North Korea, he thought. Money and influence allow for strange bedfellows. No, what drew Pak Bae’s notice were the driver’s frightened but hopeful eyes, partially hidden behind thick black glasses and set deep in the jowly face. Frightened eyes were not unusual in North Korea. Nor were angry, sad, resigned, or empty eyes. Hope, however, was not an expression one saw every day.