Jamal heard a shout of surprise, followed almost instantly by a burst of rifle fire.
He saw a uniformed guard fall back into the shattered glass doors of the Bellagio, staining the stone with his blood as the mujahideen fanned out from the vehicles.
It took the sound of yet another full-automatic burst to break Jamal’s focus on the body of fallen guard, reminding him of the job he had been chosen to do.
Stumbling out of the vehicle, Jamal seized hold of the nearest luggage cart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the Pakistanis enter the casino, saw the muzzle flashes from within. Death.
His hands trembled as he manhandled the two bombs containing the nerve agent onto the luggage cart. Weighing nearly twenty pounds each, they contained the rest of the soman, far more than they had left at the convention center…or sent with Abu Kareem.
He found himself sweating, afraid to drop the bombs in his haste. Two minutes, he thought, recalling the words of the shaikh. “From the moment the first shot is fired…”
The Bellagio, like most of the resorts on the Strip, was a surveillance state in microcosm, with cameras covering every table, every dealer, every entrance.
And the men manning the resort’s security center watched in dumbfounded shock as the mujahideen swept from the atrium of the Bellagio into the casino itself, firing as they came.
One of them reached for the phone — the casino’s landline — dialing 911.
Busy…
Gilad Cohen had nearly reached the Bellagio’s poker room when he heard the shots, the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons fire drowning out the silken voice of Sinatra coming through the casino’s sound system.
Pulling his jacket open, he jerked his Jericho 941 from its shoulder holster, falling back toward the “O” theatre. The Israeli switched on his earbud mike, connecting him to the Bellagio’s security network. “This is Cohen, report in. What is our status?”
“At least a dozen shooters,” an anxious voice responded. “They’ll be on top of your position in thirty seconds. We’ve got dead and injured all over the place.”
“Roberts and the QRF?” Cohen demanded, raising the Jericho in both hands as one of the terrorists appeared from the poker room. He squeezed off two rounds, the 9mm slugs going wild among the machines.
“Two minutes.” The quick reaction force wasn’t going to be quick enough to save them, Cohen thought, collapsing behind a pillar as a hail of fire came his way. He saw one of the guards from the “O” doors fall, his body pierced by bullets.
“I’m going in — they’re going to be taken.” There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the radio as his man digested his words.
“What are you saying?”
“We’re going to need someone on the inside.”
Had Andropov lied? Or had he himself been deceived? None of that really mattered now. Harry thrust aside the questions angrily, doing one last sweep through the motel room to ensure that they were leaving no trace of their presence behind.
The door to the outside opened, a cold rush of night air following Samuel Han into the room. “Got a flash from Thomas — the Bellagio was just stormed by masked gunmen.”
“They didn’t get the warning in time?” Harry glanced over at Carol as she asked the question, taking in the mixture of anger and grief on her face.
The response was a shake of the head.
Harry shrugged on his leather jacket over the holstered Colt on his hip. “Do they have a twenty on Congresswoman Gilpin?”
“No one has a twenty on anyone, Harry,” the former SEAL replied. “Vegas is in chaos and 911 is overwhelmed with calls. My guess is that we’re either looking at a hostage situation or she’s already dead.”
Harry closed his eyes, fighting against the anger that rose within him. The feeling of helplessness. “How long before the LVMPD SWAT has their teams on-scene?”
“Thomas didn’t know. No one seems to. But he’s en-route to the Bellagio, wants you to join him and the remnants of the Bureau team there. Provide tactical support for a possible rescue.”
For a moment, Harry didn’t respond, emotions warring within him. He knew what he wanted to do, knew the right thing to do. “It won’t do anyone any good — I’ll be arrested the moment I set foot on the Strip.”
“He says he can get you in.”
Run, his mind warned him, screaming of danger. He had spent his career breaking the law, but this had been different. Prison was the best thing lying at the end of this road. Yet it wasn’t in him to turn away.
“Tell him we’ll be there,” he said, feeling as if the earth had opened at his feet, a yawning chasm threatening to engulf him whole.
The door closed behind Han, leaving the two of them alone once more. “You’re doing the right thing,” he heard her offer. Was it? He couldn’t bring himself to reply, unable to shake the feeling deep within him…that this was the end of it all.
There was so much he wanted to say in that moment, but honest words had never come easily to him.
She reached for the doorknob and Harry found himself putting out a hand to hold it closed. Now or never.
He leaned down, capturing her lips with his own, his hands around her waist as he drew her close, her back pressed against the door.
The salt of tears was on her lips as he kissed her fiercely, as if it was their last moment on earth. Her fingers came up to caress his cheek, running gently over the stubble of his beard, the warmth of her body pressing against him.
“You have to promise me,” he breathed, holding her close. “After all of this is over, after the last shots are fired…that this won’t be the end.”
He paused, almost afraid to go on. “That there will be a future — for us. Beyond all the fighting. All of the war.” The words slipped from his lips with painful uncertainty and he found himself incapable of looking into her eyes. “Promise me.”
It seemed an eternity before she responded, and when she did, it was in a voice filled with tears. “Yes.”
It seemed a nightmare — blood and fire.
A scene from hell, the god of chaos unleashed. Laura could hear the screams ringing in her ears, still see the blood staining the waters of the “O”, dead bodies slumped over the crimson seats of the theatre.
“In here,” Cohen hissed, taking her by the shoulder and thrusting her into a darkened room backstage. She caught a glimpse of the pistol in his hand just before he closed the door upon them.
“Where’s Steve?” she asked, her breath coming in quick, short gasps as she leaned back against a nearby table.
“I don’t know,” came the Israeli’s voice in the half-darkness. “Two of my men were with him — you were my responsibility.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “We’d received a flash from Metro just before the assault — an airliner was shot down over the city.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. She could still remember the morning of 9/11, watching the smoke rise into the autumn sky from a wounded Pentagon. And she’d known that day that it would happen again. Only a matter of time.
“There were at least a dozen gunmen,” the bodyguard continued. “Armed with Kalashnikovs — fully-automatic too. God only knows where they got them.”
Cohen caught himself. “But you don’t need to think about all that. You’ll be safe here.”