“That’s why there are three teams,” a man seated beside her said. “And more birds in the air than kites at the Blossom Kite Festival. Plus re-tasked satellites, infra-red, and some toys that ain’t even been made public yet. We won’t lose the President again.”
Drake kept his silence. One thing was certain, if Kovalenko could snatch Coburn from under the noses of the elite Secret Service, then he could get him out of DC. “You know,” he said. “If Kovalenko hadn’t hit our HQ and our team we’d know the bastard’s plan by now. Karin would have used his own men to get close.”
“We’re all hopping around on our back foot,” Dahl agreed. “But the FBI will be on top of that, mate, I’m sure.”
“Let’s hope.” Drake peered out the window and saw the Sikorsky lifting off. Straight away it veered onto a northwesterly course and the comms system yowled into life.
“Ground units. This is command. Take Constitution to Virginia and await further instructions. All roads as far north as F Street and east to 21st are clear.”
In addition, more teams were ordered back into the hotel, this time to perform a meticulous sweep. Every scenario had been imagined.
The Humvee lurched forward, propelled by a heavy nervy right foot. The seated men clutched their weapons harder, muttering. The black vehicles, five in total, blasted up the wide road between stately buildings and rows of bare trees, aiming for the fork that would take them to Virginia. A convoy of vehicles followed, many loaded with men in army uniforms. All around them stood empty streets, empty sidewalks, and closed buildings; to their left stood the floodlit, scaffold-surrounded Washington Monument, stunning by night or by day; on every roof sat an ‘eye in the sky’, a sniper with a spotter beside him, ears attuned to the comms. The route of the chopper was being tracked at every level and by every means. Drake started to wonder what Kovalenko would pull next to cover his escape.
The possibilities scared him. One thing was sure — it would go down in history.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The Sikorsky flew unhindered through the dawn skies, carrying with it the nightmares, hopes and immediate future of the United States.
Drake watched it fly straight as they sped up Virginia Avenue. The road was like most in DC: wide and practical and straight. The way forward was perfectly clear as they passed statues and offices, heading into the university area. As far as F Street the way stood clear, but beyond that the driver was already calling for the DC cops to stop more traffic. The operation was entirely fluid; the chopper could change course at any time but, unless the VP and his advisors wanted to sacrifice President Coburn, this was as tight as it was going to get.
Alicia craned her neck. “Dammit. We’d have been better off taking the bikes.”
“Bikes already had riders,” Dahl told her. “Trained ones.”
The five-vehicle convoy shot up Virginia past Anniversary Park and the F Street turn-off without slowing down. Not surprisingly, the streets were quiet this morning. Drake stared. “Is it starting to come down?”
Instantly, every man and woman slid over to the right-side windows. The Sikorsky was losing altitude and fast. Drake watched the tracker and the blinking red dot, overlaid by a 3D map of Washington DC. The dot was descending into a wide greenish circle.
“What is that place?”
The driver clicked his fingers and threw the vehicle up New Hampshire Avenue. “That’s Washington Circle Park. Good cover. Four exits. And then a shitload of roads leading away. A ton of getaway scenarios. Can’t believe that madman’s coming down in DC.”
Dahl leaned forward. “How many roads is a shitload exactly?”
“Dunno. Eight maybe.”
“That does qualify as a shitload. Get your foot down, driver.”
Dahl sat back, stroking his chin. Drake shook his head. “From now on you should start all your sentences with ‘I’m sorry, I’m Swedish, but…’”
“Only if you start yours, ‘I’m a dumb Yorkshire knob’.”
The Sikorsky continued to descend. All eyes were fixed to the hovering chopper and its vague, indistinct payload. Team Bravo had hands on every door, weapons ready, and total focus. Their driver squealed to a stop at the top of 23rd Street outside an orange-signed Burger Tap and Shake, on the crosswalk between black iron glass-topped signal poles. The seven-story brick edifice of the George Washington University Hospital stood to their left, identified by its big black signage and fronted by holly trees and planters. The Washington Circle was empty of traffic, a surreal sight even at the quietest of times, but the park inside the sizeable roundabout was anything but.
Drake leapt out of the vehicle, chasing the first two teams who were already pounding across the road and through the nearest wide entrance. Broad grass strips and big sycamores and oaks stood all around, barren but still hampering their efforts and obstructing their vision. A four-foot-tall, chain-link fence ringed the interior of the park. Drake saw the usual water fountains, black trash cans, and black iron benches as he rushed along, all apparently designed to complement the tall broad-based street-lights that had colonized most of central DC.
Gunfire erupted ahead, bullets flying in all directions. Drake doubted it was the attacking force and flung himself behind the nearest waste basket. When he chanced a momentary glance, a scene of bizarre and deadly chaos met his eyes.
The chopper rested on its skids, its rotors spinning at full speed, the resulting wash buffeting hard at anything nearby. The horsed bronze statue of George Washington stood just behind, sword bared, the horse’s green nostrils barely out of rotor range. Six men knelt in a circle around the chopper, guns raised, firing indiscriminately. Four more men stood by the open chopper door.
Everyone wore identical black suits, gloves and balaclavas. It was impossible to tell who was who. The shooters might be prime targets, but Drake knew it would be a brave man who fired on them for fear of a luckless ricochet or even a through and through that might strike Coburn.
Before the attackers had time to settle or take stock, a shout went up from one of the men surrounding Kovalenko, maybe even the Blood King himself. Instantly, the whole contingent started to run.
“What the—” Alicia blurted.
But Drake was watching carefully. The four men nearest the chopper were joined by one shooter and broke to the south, the closest point to his position. Two other men broke to the northwest, and the remaining three to the southwest. All ran for park exits, firing hard as they went. Two unlucky soldiers took bullets, folding where they stood. In each fleeing group one man did not fire. Even now, they couldn’t tell each man apart. Would the techs at command be able to pinpoint the President’s signal?
“Hold fire!” the call screamed through the comms. “Hold yer damn fire!”
Fleet of foot, the Blood King and his men disseminated through the park. Reports came in through the comms from all surrounding areas, between the snipers and spotters on the roofs and the teams on the ground, the FBI trackers and the countless army patrols. It was more a case of too much information than too little.
Drake watched the craziness unfold, making a fast decision. “That group.” He indicated the cluster of five men, but looked to the Team Bravo leader before moving. The man nodded quickly, not consulting his comms. It was fast becoming clear that someone’s decision-making capabilities were somewhat lacking.
“Trust the goddamn suits,” he muttered as he pushed past Drake. The team crossed a paved area and ran onto a concreted exit path. Bullets slammed into a man’s vest, sending him to his knees with a grunt. Drake understood it was an unusual situation. No one could fire on Kovalenko’s men, but at the same time Kovalenko couldn’t directly threaten the President. What the hell else did the man have up his sleeve?