The Ghosts of Gaylord

By Sean Laighean

Foreign-sponsored terrorist attacks aimed at conquering American communities and US territory have not yet become a reality. Such attacks, though not probable, are unfortunately not impossible. Actual events and even fictional stories about terrorism, both domestic and foreign, are often far removed from American communities and the reality of most people's everyday lives.

The Ghosts of Gaylord challenges that reality by dropping the devastation of such attacks onto an otherwise normal, peaceful American community. This troubling narrative is told through the actions of people--active military and veterans, law enforcement, and civilian groups--who unite and fight to preserve their way of life, all while reaffirming their belief in freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638600077

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

1: January Reveille

2: The Meeting at Ostrowski's Farm

3: The Imam's Arrival

4: Falikahadi Farm Inspection

5: Late January—the First Raid

6: February Special Meeting of Otsego County Planning Commission

7: The Next Day

8: The Imam's Directive to Falikahadi

9: The Meeting at Gideon's House

10: The Phone

11: The Cars

12: The Hunt Begins

13: The Prisoners

14: Late-February Contact

15: The Ambush

16: The Ostrowski Farm

17: The Amir's Visitor

18: The Helicopters Arrive

19: The Gray-Haired Interrogator

20: After-Action Fallout

21: The Kidnapping of Charlie Brown

22: The Launch

23: The Negotiators

24: The Merge

25: The Circle Tightens

26: Black Bear Commences

27: The Charge of Black Bear

28: The Battle Shifts

29: The Final Day

30: Mission Change

31: Malfunction Over Lake Huron

32: The Hospital

33: Early June

34: Role Call

Final Note

About the Author

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The Ghosts of Gaylord

Sean Laighean

Copyright © 2022 Sean Laighean

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2022

ISBN 978-1-63860-006-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63860-007-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

1

January Reveille

Mark Gideon took the last couple mouthfuls of his dinner and started to reach for a glass of juice when he felt pressure on his thigh. He leaned back in his chair and looked down at his leg. He was greeted by the upward stare of Tugger, his ever-faithful Belgian Malinois. The dog stared intently up at Mark without the slightest flinch.

This is my dinner. You had yours, Mark protested. The dog pressed his head down even harder on Mark's leg without breaking eye contact. Aw, dammit, Mark complained as he got up and walked the three steps across the kitchen to the dog's bowl. He bent over and scraped the rest of his dinner off his plate down into the dog's bowl. The dog waited until Gideon straightened up and then swooped in and lapped up every scrap in just a few seconds.

Gideon shook his head, shrugged, and walked to the sink to deposit his dish onto the pile of used dishes, which had grown there through the day, then he walked into the bedroom. Gotta go, guy, Gideon announced to the dog. Tugger's ears perked up high on his head as he began to prance around Gideon's feet.

You can't go on this one, Gideon declared in a sympathetic tone. He then, as he always did whenever he left the house, snatched a leather holster from the wall hook by his bed, slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, and pulled it on over his head. He picked up his Glock 19 from the dresser near his bed and stared at it for a moment. Let's hope I won't need this tonight, he thought.

After a quick press check to be sure there was a round chambered, he slid the gun and two spare magazines into the holster pouches. Gideon then sidestepped into his jacket, grabbed a pair of gloves, and walked through the house to the small laundry room that attached the house to the garage. Tugger followed close behind but paused dejectedly as Gideon pulled a biscuit from a box on a shelf near the door into the garage.

You watch our house, Gideon ordered as he tossed the biscuit to his dog. The dog let the treat land on the floor, considering it an unacceptable bribe, and instead watched expectantly, hoping to get a signal to rush out after Gideon. But Gideon stepped out into the garage, taking one last look over his shoulder almost as a departing gesture to his dog. He closed the door carefully, climbed into his pickup truck, and pondered, This could be a really interesting night. He paused again, sighed, then turned the key to start the truck engine.

*****

Typically, meetings of the Otsego County Planning Commission were routine, poorly attended, and even boring. But not this night. The commission was meeting in the multipurpose room of the office building used for county building department officials. The meeting room was long and rectangular with one door in the middle of the longer inside wall. The door opened to a hallway that ran through the entire center of the building.

The eleven commission members were seated against the wall opposite the door and the shorter wall to the left of the entrance. Their tables formed an L along the back wall and the side wall. Seating for the public in attendance consisted of about thirty chairs facing the commissioners just inside the entrance door.

On this evening, the public seating space was far from adequate. All the chairs were filled with more people standing along the wall behind the chairs. In addition, an overflow crowd numbering well over two hundred spilled out into the hall. Also unusual for such a meeting was the security provided by the county sheriff and two deputies who were standing with the crowd in the back of the room. In addition, two state police officers were stationed just outside the room on either side of the double doors. They were engulfed by the increasingly impatient crowd in the hall. The doors were propped open to allow everyone in the hall to hopefully hear what was said in the meeting.

Mr. Hamza Falikahadi was standing in the short space between the commissioners' tables and the public seating. He was attempting to explain plans to convert his recently purchased 120-acre farm into a multimillion-dollar Muslim cultural center complete with a madrassa, a mosque with a 110-foot minaret, and a residence hall complex large enough to house up to four hundred guests. It also included numerous outdoor and indoor areas, which he termed educational and recreational facilities. The farm was located six miles to the east of Gaylord, just off state highway M-32. Falikahadi was dressed in a tailored dark-blue suit, white shirt with open collar and no tie. He spoke precise, measured English, enunciating each noun and consonant perfectly.

Abida Kashmala, his female assistant, was on the right side of the room and was handling large foam boards with full color illustrations. The display boards had been set up on two easels angled for all in the room to see. She was dressed in a black business pantsuit with no hijab or head cover, which some in the crowd felt was a shallow attempt to appear Midwestern American than traditional Muslim. Mr. Falikahadi was addressing the crowd as he pointed to features on the foam boards with a laser pointer, which he waved with a flair similar to someone fencing and brandishing a foil.

The crowd was attentive but had to be quieted frequently by the commissioners with help from the sheriff and his deputies, who were hoping to maintain order by being present and in plain sight. Despite attempts to keep things under control and orderly, tensions in the room were escalating, and the overall reception to Falikahadi's proposal was not favorable.

When Falikahadi concluded his presentation, Commissioner Andrew Rossi looked left and then right and asked if the other commissioners had any questions.

You are asking us to grant permits and allow variances on a number of matters which I feel do not comply with the county master plan and conflict with many tenants of our land use practices and intentions, began Commissioner Larry Myers. Myers was a spry seventy-two-year-old retired farmer who lived his entire life in the area and was very loyal to his constituents. This property is in my township, and I am hard-pressed to believe residents would be in favor of any of this because it has the potential to change the feel of the whole township.

Damn right! And we don't want it! a male voice shouted loudly from the doorway. This stirred a wave of disruptive protests and negative comments, which erupted through the entire crowd. The sheriff deputy nearest the door turned to address the man who had shouted out his disapproval, but the deputy was quickly besieged by others around the man, and he had to take a short step back to avoid physical contact with the increasingly volatile crowd.

Please, please, order. Order! demanded Commissioner Rossi.

Falikahadi, unshaken by the protests, stood stoically in front of the crowd and started to explain how he felt the proposal would benefit the community economically and culturally by providing new cultural and recreational opportunities for the residents and how it would draw visitors to the area and expose and educate the community as to how we could all live peaceably together in a troubled world.

The world is at war because of people like you! shouted another angry crowd member. This was met with more calls for order from the board members, but the calls were drowned out by a growing uproar from the crowd.

Just as things appeared to be broiling out of control, Mark Gideon, who was seated in the front row of chairs, stood up and looked directly at Commissioner Rossi, then at Falikahadi. I have a couple questions, he declared in a loud voice that surprisingly quieted the crowd.

Commissioner Rossi looked to his left, then to his right, at the other commissioners, and raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture seeking objections. Let him talk, one of the other commissioners declared loudly.

I'm Mark Gideon, and first, I'd like to state that the population of our county is about twenty-five thousand. Is that not a fact? The commissioners all nodded in agreement.

How many of these people are Muslims? Gideon continued. A buzz rippled through the crowd as Rossi admitted that he did not know and stated that the last census information he had reviewed did not indicate any such data.

Twenty-five thousand people in 515 square miles. Is it safe to say few, if any, are Muslims? Gideon asked with a slightly sarcastic tone.

Falikahadi raised a finger and started to speak, but Gideon waved him off, declaring loudly, I have the floor. He turned to the audience. If that is all true—and we agree that it is—why do we need a 120-acre Muslim community center that is totally out of character with our community, our history, our culture, our politics, and our religious beliefs and traditions?

The crowd again erupted in agreement. Order! Order! demanded Commissioner Rossi as he slammed his gavel on the table. Falikahadi still stood silently, but to the trained observer, he was becoming noticeably uneasy with his eyes beginning to dart around the room as he shifted his body weight slightly from side to side.

Gideon continued. My neighbors and I want to know where the money is coming from for this project. From who or what group? he demanded as he glared at Falikahadi.

Our supporters are all respected members of the community— Falikahadi began.

What community would that be? Gideon interrupted. I asked you, who are they? The room and hallway tension ratcheted upward, and the buzz of unfavorable comments in the crowd grew louder.

Well, sir, we have numerous individuals and organizations that believe spreading our message of peace and cooperation and education will enhance fine communities like yours by bringing in people who will help improve the community and culture—

Gideon interrupted again. "You still haven't answered my question. Here's another one: Who decided our community needs you to improve us?"

Answer his questions! came numerous shouts from the crowd. Commissioner Rossi again hammered his gavel, begging for order. The hope that the presence of the sheriff deputies and state police would help calm the outbursts was fading fast, and it became clear that the more they tried, the louder the resistance became.

Will you name your financial supporters or not? demanded Gideon with a cold glare at Falikahadi.

Most certainly. We will be happy to provide a list of supporters and benefactors to this commission at the appropriate time, Falikahadi replied.

This sure seems like an appropriate damn time to us, so cut the polite bullshit and answer my question. Commissioner Rossi slammed the gavel again and tried to reprimand Gideon for his choice of words, but the crowd erupted with more demands for Falikahadi to answer the question.

Sheriff Sullivan strode up next to Gideon and leaned into his ear. What the hell are you doing? I can't let you incite a riot here! he whispered desperately.

Gideon leaned away from the sheriff, looked directly at Falikahadi, and then declared, Isn't it true that you really do not want to join our community but that your cultural center bullshit is really more a colony, an outpost, and will be a terrorist training center signaling to other Muslims that you have established a base and are starting your jihad right here?

The crowd erupted with more shouts. Falikahadi glared briefly at Gideon, but then softened his expression and forced a tight-lipped smile. Gideon did not wait for a response but went on. Are you affiliated with Hassanberg downstate in Coldwater? He pivoted to face the crowd. For those of you who do not know, Hassanberg is an Islamist terrorist training camp downstate near Coldwater with ties to Muslims of America and other Islamic groups that are not here in our country because they like us.

No, no. Hassanberg is more a commune, a retreat, where people can practice our faith in peace and others can learn about Islam, Falikahadi protested.

"A lot of us here are farmers, and we know horseshit when we hear it!" one of the crowd shouted.

"And how did these peace-loving commune dwellers come up with the name Hassanberg? Gideon demanded. Falikahadi blinked slowly and started to speak but was cut off again by Gideon. Isn't it true that Hassan-i Sabbāh was the founder of the Order of Assassins back during the Crusades? he demanded. And isn't it true that Hassanberg is secretly advertising itself as a jihadi training camp?"

Sheriff Sullivan leaned into Gideon again. Shit, Mark! Where are you going with this?

Falikahadi's eyes were on fire with rage, but he kept his composure and made an attempt to explain that Hassan-i Sabbāh was a romantic and a legendary hero of ancient times, much like England's King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

More damn lies! taunted Gideon. The crowd exploded yet again, this time even louder. Falikahadi shook his head and raised his hands as if to protest, but the crowd responded with more anger. The people in the hall started to surge toward the door, forcing the two state police officers to try to block the door to keep the crowd from bursting forward into the already overcrowded room.

Falikahadi turned to face Gideon and lowered his head, staring over his glasses directly at Gideon. Commissioner Rossi jumped to his feet, slamming the gavel repeatedly. Other commissioners began packing their personal belongings and looking nervously toward the sheriff for a safe exit. The sheriff grabbed Gideon's arm and clamped down until Gideon stopped glaring at Falikahadi.

You're going to make me drag you out of here if you don't cool it! he barked into Gideon's ear.

Leave him alone! Yeah, let him talk! Answer the questions! The crowd shouted as the noise increased to a level where it was near impossible to hear anyone talk.

Abida Kashmala looked nervously at Falikahadi and then at the two Middle Eastern men that had been standing in the corner just away from the crowd along the back wall. One of them glared at her in a manner that froze her in fear. The other was intent on watching Falikahadi for cues. Sheriff Sullivan had identified the two men as obvious bodyguards and had earlier instructed his deputies and the state police to be aware of them at all times during the meeting.

The crowd continued to grow even more disruptive. Sheriff Sullivan frowned at Commissioner Rossi, hoping the commissioner would end the meeting. Order! Order! If we don't have order, we will end this meeting! shouted Rossi in desperation.

Gideon turned toward the door and raised a hand to the crowd. The uproar slowly dropped to a staccato of murmurs. Some of the crowd moved down the hall and spilled into the parking lot, many of them cursing loudly as they went. Commissioner Nancy Bell waited for a pause in the crowd noise and stared at Falikahadi. I would like to hear an answer to Mark's question.

I will have my assistants draft a document listing the supporters. You will all be surprised, I'm sure, by who is on our list. And we are not coming here as colonists or conquerors. We wish to— he started with a subtle tone of sarcasm.

Still not answering the question, interjected Gideon. Why can't you tell this audience and this board who your supporters are right now? How many terrorist groups are fronting your project? he spat as he also lowered his chin and stared defiantly toward Falikahadi.

Falikahadi seemed to shudder briefly at Gideon's tone but then straightened up and tried to answer, but the crowd shouted him down. He tried not to glare at Gideon, but he could only disguise a portion of his anger. His eyes betrayed his calm demeanor and clearly showed his indignation and contempt for Gideon. Falikahadi glanced at his two bodyguards standing at the back of the room. They returned his glance, searching for signals.

The remaining hall crowd now again began to surge forward toward the door into the meeting room. Sheriff Sullivan finally had enough and decided to end the meeting before things got totally out of control. He stepped forward toward the commissioners' tables, leaned toward Commissioner Rossi, and being as discreet as he could under the circumstances, pulled an index finger across his throat in a cutting motion. Rossi caught the sheriff's intent and gaveled the meeting quiet one last time.

Mr. Falikahadi, we will review your proposal and any new documentation you provide. We will get back to you with our decision at our next meeting, Rossi announced.

We really need a decision soon so we can begin construction. We see that winters are severe here, and we need to get new construction started as soon as possible, countered Falikahadi.

More lies. They've already started construction! a man in the third row of chairs blurted out as he rose slowly to his feet while glaring directly at Falikahadi.

And they've got speakers blasting out noise so loud my cows are getting rattled because it goes on all damn day! shouted a man standing along the back wall.

The heads of all eleven commissioners spun toward Falikahadi. Is this true? demanded Mrs. Bell.

We are just moving some materials and equipment in and preparing our property for improvements, answered Falikahadi. The speakers are merely announcing our call to prayer at the appointed times of—

Without an approved site plan? demanded another commissioner. He leaned forward and looked toward the county building inspector sitting at the end of the long table.

And blaring loud noise over speakers all day? still another commissioner blurted out. The crowd protests again grew louder as the commissioner asked the building inspector, Have you seen what they're doing, Bill?

I was not aware of any activity on the property. We will send an inspection crew out there right away.

Falikahadi teetered briefly as if he had just been punched but then recovered quickly. Why, certainly you are always welcome to visit our property.

You bet your ass he's welcome! a voice from the crowd shouted.

You better take the sheriff and some deputies when you go! another voice shouted. Again, the room erupted.

Rossi slammed the gavel down. Enough! The business of this meeting has concluded. Can I get a motion to adjourn?

Before any of the commissioners could respond, a voice from the crowd shouted, I've got a motion for you! At that, the sheriff turned to the crowd and loudly proclaimed that it was time for people to leave and to drive safely. The crowd booed and yelled a few less than pleasant summary comments and copies of the meeting agenda were torn and thrown in the air by some of the crowd.

Those attendees in the room stood and began gathering their coats as they mumbled comments about the proceedings they had just witnessed. The remaining hall crowd was still loud but had started to drift toward the exit at the end of the hall and spilled outdoors into the winter night. Small groups formed in the parking lot and heated discussions broke the snowy silence of the countryside. Inside the building, commissioners packed their personal belongings, donned their winter coats and hats, and hurried out of the room in small groups.

Nancy Bell cornered two of the commissioners and the building inspector before they could leave. Did any of you know about all this? she demanded. Bill Donnelly, the county building inspector, looked overwhelmed but then admitted he had heard rumors.

And you didn't think it worth checking out? demanded another commissioner.

We don't have time or manpower to chase rumors, Donnelly gave as an indignant explanation.

You better damn well make time for this one, Commissioner Bell ordered. I don't like surprises like this at public meetings. Do you understand?

I will get on it tomorrow and have a full report to all commissioners right away, Donnelly offered in apology. Bell grunted and spun around to gather up her coat and papers.

Best not piss her off, Bill! one of the commissioners suggested discreetly under his breath.

*****

The two Michigan State Police troopers moved to just outside the only exit doors and stood in the cold night air to monitor the movement of the crowd. Two state police SUVs were parked just outside the doors with a trooper inside each, engines idling and heater fans on high. In the meeting room, Gideon was being escorted toward the hallway door by the sheriff and a few friends. Falikahadi, his assistant, and his bodyguards were packing their presentation materials near the door. Falikahadi gave Gideon an unfriendly glance, but then he nodded and smiled politely when Gideon returned the glare. The bodyguards, however, stared at Gideon with noticeable contempt.

Gideon's group moved through the door and down the hall, out of earshot of the meeting room. Sheriff Sullivan stepped in front of Gideon and said, What the hell were you up to in there? You really poked the bear. We need to get the group together tomorrow, the usual place. We have to be careful here, or these bastards will be bringing in lawyers and start filing all kinds of federal discrimination charges.

Let them. We can handle it, one of the men interjected.

Tom, you know the deal, Gideon declared. We can't let this shit get any legal standing. These assholes are trying to smile and buy their way in here, and then the real trouble will start. This is our community, and we need to protect it from these invaders. They're not coming here because they love golf and snowmobiles.

That's right, declared another man next to Gideon.

Okay. Let's get the group together tomorrow night at Ron's place.

Make it so, agreed the sheriff, then he looked directly at Gideon. "And you watch your ass. I don't put anything past these bastards. Hassan-i Sabbāh? Holy shit, where did that come from?" he mumbled to himself as he shook his head and knocked open the exit door with a lowered shoulder.

You know me, Tom, I do my homework and am the picture of personal caution and self-control, Gideon replied.

Yeah, and I'm the pope. Just keep that Glock and your dog close. This is the start of big trouble, replied Sheriff Sullivan as he looked back over Gideon's shoulder toward the meeting room. Sullivan paused, shook his head again, and looked back down the hall one more time before stepping into the cold night.

Roger that, boss. Gideon also took one more look down the hall himself. He noticed one of Falikahadi's bodyguards standing just outside the meeting room, staring directly back at him. Gideon grunted and followed the group out to the parking lot.

Sheriff Sullivan was still holding the door open and looking back toward the bodyguard, but then the bodyguard turned away abruptly and stepped back into the meeting room. What the sheriff did not notice was that the other bodyguard had already slipped out through a rear fire exit, and what that other bodyguard did not notice was that his exit was noted and closely monitored by three men who had been careful to mingle with the crowd and not draw any attention to themselves.

*****

The night air was cold. Temperature was in the low twenties and dropping. The unpaved parking lot was unlit, and frozen gravel crunched underfoot as the crowd moved in small groups to their cars and trucks. It just then started to snow. Gideon walked quickly to his truck amid a spattering of encouraging comments from those that he passed in the lot:

Good job, Mark!

Keep it going. We don't need these people around here.

If you need anything, call me. Others shouted encouragement that was favorable to Gideon's comments but not as diplomatic and even less politically correct.

He waved to a couple people and climbed into his truck and started the engine. Before he could put the truck in gear, the passenger door opened, and a man Gideon did not recognize dropped into the passenger seat. He was dressed in bulky, well-worn winter clothes with a scarf covering the bottom half of his face. The man abruptly shut the truck door, leaned forward, then rotated to face Gideon directly. He pulled down the scarf to reveal a neatly trimmed full beard that showed silver gray even in the dim light.

Gideon slowly slid his right hand across his lap and up into his open jacket. You won't need that. I'm a friend, the stranger said as he touched Gideon's arm with light but firm contact from his gloved left hand, effectively blocking Gideon from pulling his gun from its shoulder holster.

Gideon froze and waited for what would come next. You need to be careful. Do you have any idea who you are dealing with here? the stranger asked. Before Gideon could answer, the stranger continued. They are dangerous and not who or what they say they are, and you are going to need help.

Gideon blurted out, Who the hell are you? What're you talking about? The passenger door opened, and the man turned away from Gideon and started to slide out of the truck. Wait! Who are you? No, wait. Can I…?

The man paused abruptly, looked back, and said, We're around. We'll be in touch. He pulled his scarf up to cover his face and dropped down to the ground.

"We? Gideon looked blankly down at his steering wheel. Who the hell is we?" he said to himself. The door slammed shut behind the stranger. Gideon fumbled with his seat belt and rammed his shoulder into his door to open it. He jumped out and ran around the rear of the truck to the passenger side, but there was no sign of the stranger. He scanned the dark parking lot. The stranger had vanished.

Gideon stood for a moment and realized he was actually physically shaking. He took a deep breath and climbed back into his truck. He blew out another deep breath, then hit the button that locked the doors.

Holy shit, he mumbled to himself. Keep my Glock and my dog close was the sheriff's warning. Good advice, Gideon told himself. He put the truck in gear, crept through the parking lot, and then pulled out onto the road. Checking his rearview mirrors, he tried to watch the headlights of the remaining vehicles leaving the lot behind him.

The ride home was about eight miles and usually uneventful, but tonight, he deliberately changed his normal ride home and took a more indirect route while he constantly checked his mirrors. He watched for any headlights that might indicate he was being followed. The snow was now coming down heavier.

After a cautious two miles, he speed-dialed his neighbor John Goody and told him about the encounter with the stranger. He was also driving home from the meeting. Goody listened without commenting then quietly remarked, Call me when you get home. Maybe we shouldn't be talking about this on cell phones. The connection went dead.

In the distance, about a quarter mile back, Gideon thought he saw headlights that seemed to be keeping pace with him. He slowed, and the gap between vehicles closed quickly, but then the headlights seemed to slow down and drop back.

Really? Already? he thought. What next? He punched the accelerator and sped up to make a couple turns on back roads that he knew would be out of the line of sight to anyone following him, then he took the most direct route back to his house. Pulling up his steep drive, he parked in front of his garage and killed the engine and lights on his truck.

The large three-car garage was attached to the east side of the house, and the house faced north on a large, heavily wooded corner lot. The western side of the lot was bordered by a north-south road that meandered down a long grade and met the east-west road at the corner of Gideon's property. The house sat up on high ground, fifty feet above the intersection of the two roads. It overlooked the corner intersection and faced the east-west road that passed below and in front of the house.

Surrounded by a thick stand of hardwoods, it was difficult to see the house from anywhere on either of the roads when the trees were leafed out. But in January, most of the trees were bare, except for the occasional spruce and pine scattered up the slope to the house. In January, the house was easily seen from both roads.

Not wanting to open the main garage door and set off the interior garage lights, he slid out of his truck and quickly moved to the service door of the garage at the rear of the house. He unlocked the door, slipped inside the garage, and without turning on any lights, felt his way through the dark to the door into the house. He opened it and was met by the familiar tail wagging of Tugger.

Easy, boy, he said softly as he and the dog slipped back outside and moved around toward the front of the garage. The dog bounced and pranced along, following playfully. Just then, Gideon heard a car coming down the long hill on the west side of his lot and saw the headlights bounce as it made the right turn to follow the road across the front of his property. He crouched behind a thick tree trunk and watched the car move unusually slow past his house and then stop at the bottom of his driveway.

Gideon's dog gave a low, guttural growl and stared intently down the steep hill at the car. Gideon could sense the dog tensing up and focusing totally on the strange car. He reached down and patted Tugger's head. Tugger broke his intense focus on the strange car and looked up quickly at Gideon as if to ask for a signal as to what to do next. Gideon then cautiously shuffled both Tugger and himself through the snow to drop behind a large spruce tree for more concealment. Then he pulled his glove off with his teeth and slipped his hand under his coat to access his pistol. He slowly unsnapped the retainer strap on the holster and slid the gun from the shoulder holster and into his hand. The gun felt warm from being tucked under his coat. He crouched down even lower and peered into the darkness toward the strange car.

The car pulled away slowly but then quickly gained speed. Gideon watched the red taillights move east and out of sight. Tugger sat next to him, still staring after the car. Suddenly the dog's head spun around looking back at the corner where the roads met and he growled again—this time even louder.

What the hell? Gideon whispered to himself. Without warning, a second vehicle—in the dim light, Gideon thought it to be a light-colored pickup truck—rolled slowly by the front of his house without head or taillights showing. He noted that it seemed to have no problem moving in the dark without headlights. The truck seemed like a ghost as it rolled by almost silently without lights and with what had to be a highly muffled engine.

Oh, damn! he exclaimed out loud. He passed the Glock to his left hand, fumbled in his coat pocket, and yanked out his cell phone. Gideon quickly pulled up his neighbor's number and punched the call icon. John Goody lived a quarter mile east on the same road. The phone buzzed, then clicked.

You home?

Just walked in.

I just had a strange car stop in my drive, Gideon said with some urgency.

On it. The dogs were barking at something a minute ago came the reply.

There's more…

What?

There was a pickup that went by right after the car. There were no lights on that truck—nothing. I could barely make it out in the dark and it was damn quiet. It seemed to be following that car.

No shit! Maybe your new friend is checking up on you? Goody chided.

Real funny. Maybe. Who the hell knows? You be careful!

Roger that. I'll call you back in a few, Goody replied.

If you don't, I'll be coming your way fast.

Understood!

The snow continued to fall as Gideon waited impatiently in the dark for another cold five minutes before his phone screen lit up and the phone buzzed. All clear here. Me and the dogs did a search around the house but didn't find anything. I did see fresh tire tracks in the snow on the road. You say there were two vehicles. I only saw one set of taillights going east, but it looks like more tracks than one car, John reported.

Yup. The second was that truck with no lights. Real quiet too. Better sleep with the big gun close by tonight, Gideon suggested with a short, nervous laugh.

Fer chure you frickin' troublemaker! No lights you say? And quiet? Not even diesel noise? John answered with a halfhearted laugh. Then his humor faded. That's sure different.

Yep. I think it all started to get real tonight, Gideon replied with a tone of anger and disgust. He reached down and found that his dog was still sitting patiently at his side in the snow. The dog felt physically tense and still quivered with alarm at Gideon's unusual behavior and the passing of the strange vehicles. It was then that Gideon realized the intensity of the emotions he had just experienced and that his hand was shaking.

Damn, he thought as he slumped down into a seated position in the snow.

2

The Meeting at Ostrowski's Farm

Early the next night, a group of concerned people began arriving at the home of Ron Ostrowski. The group was small, select, and had met informally in late December to discuss what might happen with the issue of the Falikahadi farm. Irregularities around the farm had been brought to the attention of certain members of the group by neighbors and others in the community. Although not representative of the community in total, those attending the meeting were key people who were influential with most things that happened in the county.

Ostrowski lived ten miles northeast of Gaylord, on a secondary road that ran north and south and connected to other roads in a grid that surrounded Ostrowski's two-hundred-acre farm. His house sat on a slow-rising hill at the end of a long gravel drive that climbed gradually up the hundred yards from the road to the house. The white two-story house was well-kept and over 110 years old, and although it was meticulously updated to modern standards, all improvements had been done in ways to preserve the look and charm of the old farmhouse.

The area around the house was mostly flat, high ground with the house being the centerpiece of a group of larger buildings, which included an equally old barn, two large newer pole barns, and a few smaller structures that were home to an assortment of chickens, pigs, and goats. The area around the buildings was mostly low rolling hills of either lightly wooded pasture or cultivated fields that stretched out to the north and east of the buildings. Ron was widowed and worked the farm with his daughter, Karen, and her fiancé, Jake Swanson.

The first to arrive that night was Sheriff Sullivan. He drove slowly up the long drive to the house and then parked on the south side of the house. He got out of his pickup truck, looked back down the drive, and took a quick scan around the area before walking toward the house.

Ostrowski was waiting on the long, covered porch that extended across the front of the house with his German shepherd, Razor, sitting patiently by his side. A little cautious tonight, aren't we, Tom? he asked. And no G-ride?

These are strange days. Can't be too careful, the sheriff replied as he climbed the stairs and gave Razor a head pat. There's something to be said for not drawing attention to yourself, he added, referring to Ostrowski's comment about the sheriff not driving his sheriff's department SUV. Did you hear about Mark getting followed home last night? And his visit from some stranger? the sheriff asked.

Yeah, but was he really followed? You can't really confirm anything, right? But that does put a weird twist on all this!

Nothing yet on the car. The car going by his house was suspicious as hell, but that stranger is another deal altogether. I don't know what to think about the guy that talked to Mark, the sheriff added. Just then, two more sets of headlights made the turn off the road onto the drive and started up toward the house. Both men stood in the cold until the new arrivals parked their trucks and were recognized.

John Goody and Mark Gideon had just arrived in Gideon's pickup truck. Larry Myers, county commissioner, had also arrived in his truck. The three exchanged greetings after parking and then converged on the porch. Just then, the front door to the house popped open, and Ostrowski's daughter, Karen, admonished her father for having everyone stand outside.

Where are your manners, Dad? Can't you get everybody in out of the cold? she scolded as she ushered the guests into the house. Razor started to go into the house but then spun around and decided to stay on duty outside with Ron. At that moment, two more sets of lights made the turn off the road and started toward the house, followed shortly by a third vehicle.

You guys go on in. I'll wait for our late arrivals, Ostrowski said apologetically. The newly arrived truck, SUV, and one car were soon all parked in a row on the south side of the house. Jim Ward, Bob Flynn, and Nancy Bell moved as a group toward the house with Jim Ward taking Nancy Bell by the arm to be sure she didn't slip in the snow.

Ron Ostrowski waited until they were all safely up the steps, then swung the door open and directed them inside. Razor paused and seemed to wait for a clue from Ostrowski. Ron looked off into the dark for a moment and listened, checking for anything out of place. He wasn't sure why, but he felt uneasy. Then he consciously rejected his apprehension and turned to follow his guests. Razor looked up at him as if to assure him things were good, but Ron had an odd feeling—like he was being watched. He shrugged it off and looked down at Razor.

Yep, we can go in now, Ron said to his dog as he opened the door. Razor darted inside to greet all the guests. Karen had, by then, taken coats and directed everyone into the large living room. There was a welcome fire burning in the old fieldstone fireplace that commanded the center of the long exterior wall. Two couches and three overstuffed old chairs formed a horseshoe facing the fireplace. The guests all dropped into either a soft chair or a spot on one of the two long couches.

What can I get anyone—coffee, beer, coke, juice, water? she queried as everyone was settling. Karen then took orders from all the guests, and Ron helped her serve as everyone made small talk.

Finally, Gideon, true to his usual directness, spoke up first. Well, where are we on all this? Tom, Nancy, any news about our building inspector taking a tour of the Falikahadi place?

Supposedly, he is going there day after tomorrow, Nancy Bell replied.

Is he going alone? John Goody piped in with a pronounced tone of suspicion.

That was the plan. He doesn't want his inspection to look unusual, the sheriff added.

Really? Whose call is that? Gideon asked.

SOP. Standard operating procedure, Sheriff Sullivan replied. We will be close by, and I've told Bill to have his radio on when he's there.

Yeah, but maybe some support is advised. Maybe you should give that some thought, Goody suggested.

Yeah. I'm sure he'll get the grand tour, Mark Gideon commented sarcastically. Others in the group mumbled in agreement.

So what is the feeling of the group about all this? Nancy Bell interjected. We have always welcomed newcomers, but this is just all too suspicious to me. We've all seen or heard the stories about things like this downstate. That is not anything I want to see happen here. We don't need any of that in our community, and I'm pretty sure most people do not want to see the county change direction or character. I've been around here my whole life and know change can be tough, but this kind of change is another matter altogether, and… She paused. I do not feel we can trust these people.

Agreed! proclaimed Jim Ward. Ward owned a local eatery in town and voiced his concern about how an influx of people who did not look or act like tourists—or locals, for that matter—might be bad for local businesses, especially those businesses relying on tourist traffic.

We've all heard the stories about what's happening in Europe with this kind of migration, Bob Flynn started.

Migration! What are you talking about? exclaimed Larry Myers. He owned farmland just north of the Falikahadi property, and his family had farmed that land for six generations.

Bob Flynn was an area real estate broker and had noticed a marked uptick in interest in properties near the Falikahadi farm. There is a greater than normal number of buyers sniffing around, and I'm hearing rumors that somebody is looking to purchase quite a few of the farms and homes near there. Funny thing is, we get calls and price questions but have not yet seen too many formal purchase offers. We really can't pinpoint who the buyer or buyers are, but many of them are interested in cash sale prices—but not mortgages.

The room went silent as everybody seemed to ponder the possible meaning of this news. More terrorist money from Falikahadi's unnamed sources, Gideon thought, but he held back, hoping others would come to the same conclusion on their own.

Larry Myers broke the silence. I do not like the sound of that. I do not like the way any of this looks. Falika-whatever is too slick for me. And what's with the two goons that are always with him whenever he shows up in town? Are you catching that, Tom?

We are trying to keep tabs on them, but they seem to come and go from that old farm at odd hours, the sheriff answered.

Nancy Bell slid to the edge of her seat and said very slowly but in a voice that everybody in the room heard, So what is really going on here?

This is some serious shit. But what can we do? They are doing everything legally, aren't they? Jim Ward asked in a nervous voice that sounded like he had already surrendered. "Nobody wants to say the T word, but what if they're terrorists?" he added nervously.

The entire group seemed to squirm at the mention of terrorists. Before anyone else could put words to the increased anxiety level in the room, Gideon blurted out, "You mean like I was saying last night?"

Ostrowski's dog, Razor, had been lying next to Karen, but he suddenly sat up. His head pivoted left and right, then cocked to one side. He ran to the front door, staring at the doorknob and then looking back at Ostrowski. Ostrowski stood up and said, Need to go out, boy?

Just then, Mark Gideon's phone buzzed. He pulled his phone from his chest pocket and looked down. Unidentified caller, he said out loud to himself. Gideon looked up and around at the group. This is weird. Given the last twenty-four hours, I'm going to take this. Glances were exchanged around the room, and then everyone looked expectantly at Gideon. He hit the call button, lowered his head toward the phone, and spoke, Hello?

May I join your meeting? Gideon's jaw dropped, and his face paled as he looked around at the others in the room. Ostrowski stopped halfway to the door and pivoted back toward Gideon.

How did you get my number? How the hell do you know where I'm at? Gideon demanded loudly into his phone.

What? Who is it? John Goody asked.

Gideon had immediately recognized the voice as belonging to the stranger who had invited himself into Gideon's truck the night before. "It's that guy, the guy that got in my truck last night! And he wants to join our meeting," Gideon announced slowly without looking up. Just then, they all heard knocking on the front door. Razor whined and looked at the door, then back at Ostrowski. Oddly, he did not bark his usual warning about someone at the door.

What? Sheriff Sullivan jumped up and bolted toward the door. Ostrowski was right behind him. Gideon sat frozen for a second, then jumped up and followed. The others looked nervously at one another and around the room. Karen Ostrowski darted down the hall into a back room and returned immediately with a shotgun.

Jeezuss, Karen! Jim Ward exclaimed. Karen ignored him and stepped in behind the men at the door.

Easy, girl, John Goody added as he, too, stood and faced the door. Karen stepped back into the hall to where she had a clear view of the front vestibule as the sheriff, her father, and Mark Gideon stacked up in a line at the front door.

Ron Ostrowski reached for the doorknob but paused and looked at the sheriff. Sheriff Sullivan nodded, stepped off to the side as he drew his off-duty pistol from a holster under his flannel shirt, and held it low along his thigh. Gideon reached up under his fleece jacket, pulled his gun from its shoulder holster, and lowered it to the same low position just behind his thigh. Then he put his hand on Ostrowski's shoulder and said, Okay, open it.

Ostrowski took a breath, flipped on the outside porch light, and swung the inside door open. There, in the golden glow of the porch light, stood the silver-bearded man who approached Gideon the night before. Behind the stranger, Ostrowski could see a gray pickup truck sitting on the circle drive in front of the house. Ostrowski looked down at Razor and wondered why his dog hadn't barked at the sound of the stranger's truck. Then he looked out through the storm door at the man.

Please tell everyone not to be alarmed. We're here to help, the man said calmly but loud enough to be heard through the glass of the storm door.

"‘We?' There's that ‘we' again. Who the shit are you, and who is ‘we'?" Gideon exclaimed, pushing past Ostrowski and throwing the storm door open. The stranger stepped back to avoid getting hit