The Blood of Patriots by William W. Johnstone Page B

hostage.
    Dickson tried to stand but couldn’t. The fact that Angie was involved made him sick.
    â€œI suggest you put water on your face,” Gahrah said. “Perhaps take a drive to clear your head and then go back to work. Nothing has changed, nothing is different. Hamza will take care of Mr. Ward. He will not bother you again.”
    â€œMore violence,” Dickson said.
    â€œOnly if it is necessary,” Gahrah said. “We did not ask him to become involved at the Randolph farm or your bank. Whatever happens he has brought it on himself. I believe he left you a contact number?”
    Hamza had good eyes. “It’s on my desk,” Dickson told him.
    â€œExcellent. Get it for me. It is my hope that no violence will be required. I am sure this unemployed police detective will be reasonable. Perhaps we will discover that all he is after is a bridge loan.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Dickson said.
    â€œAs I said, you needn’t worry about it,” Gahrah told him.
    The connection went dead. Dickson folded away the phone, pushed back his hair, and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Prioritize , he told himself. He had to put his family first. Gahrah was right about one thing: no one asked Ward to get involved. He brought this on himself.
    The banker went back to his desk, once again smiling benignly at his employees, once again the man he wanted others to think he was.

C HAPTER F OURTEEN
    Ward was just entering his room at the inn when his phone rang.
    â€œThat didn’t take long,” he muttered.
    The Muslims had shown that they weren’t afraid to use violence. But they wouldn’t want to use too much of it. The more clues that were out there the less likely they were to keep getting away with it. The more indignation that was out there, the less Chief Brennan would be able to work on this quietly. So it did not surprise Ward that the caller ID on his cell phone was from the Al Huda Center.
    â€œThis is John Ward,” he answered.
    â€œMr. Ward, my name is Aseel Gahrah. I am the director of the Al Huda Center. I believe you know of it?”
    â€œCouldn’t miss it as I drove into town.”
    â€œIt is a good location,” the man replied. “I understand you are interested in an investment opportunity.”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œWould it be convenient for you to stop by this morning?”
    â€œI can be there in about an hour,” Ward said.
    â€œVery well,” the caller said. “I will see you at eleven.”
    The caller hung up. It was exactly what Ward had expected. They were going to try to bribe him.
    He freshened up and checked his other phone messages. There was one from the Internal Affairs attorney who wanted to have a chat with him about “the incident” and another from Joel Duryea, one of the younger men in his unit. Ward had no interest in talking to the lawyer but he called Duryea back.
    â€œGood to hear from you,” Ward said. “How goes it?”
    â€œSame old. How are you, boss?”
    â€œNot as bad as I expected,” Ward told him. “Though maybe I’m fooling myself and it hasn’t really hit me yet.”
    â€œWell, we’re hoping it won’t,” Duryea said. “We’ve put up flyers in the park and also at the Hilton and the Ritz Carlton asking for anyone who might have been taking pictures down there to give us a shout. The guys pitched in for reward money.”
    That caught Ward by surprise. It was a few seconds before he could breathe, let alone speak. “Jeez, Joel.”
    â€œDon’t say it,” the kid replied. “We want you back and this is the best shot we’ve got.”
    â€œBut tourists don’t usually come back for a second day down there.”
    â€œTrue, but the media picked up on it. People who were in the park are hearing about it and calling. We’re just hoping we get something we can use to show that the