The perimeter was loose, disordered — chaotic, to be perfectly blunt. If Tarik Abdul Muhammad had a martyr on the outside waiting to perform a double-tap on the first responders, they were all dead. The Metro cop who had met him at the Do Not Cross tape had only glanced briefly at his government ID before hurrying off to find Parker at his request.
“Thomas!” he called out, watching his friend come toward him. Harry ducked under the tape, grasping Thomas’s hand. “We couldn’t reach you on your cell — what’s our sitrep?”
“The cellphone network is down.”
“Overload or part of the attack?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Thomas replied, waving the rest of Harry’s team in from the darkness. “No one knows anything for sure. There’s been more gunfire from inside the theatre within the last ten minutes. What’s left of the Bellagio’s security team is evacuating the rest of the casino — providing cover for the paramedics.”
“Who’s heading up the team?”
“Their chief of security’s a retired Israeli paratrooper — named Gilad Cohen, but he went into the theatre and they haven’t been able to raise him on their comms since.”
“Any demands?”
“Not yet.”
That wasn’t a good thing. Harry’s eyes swept the ground ahead of them, between the road and the entrance of the Bellagio, taking in the uniforms clustered here and there. “What’s the ETA on the SWAT teams?”
It was a moment before Thomas responded, a strange look passing across his face. “There isn’t one, Harry. Metro’s Zebra units responded to the reported launch position of the missile that took down Delta 94. A full roll-out, everyone that was on duty. They were ambushed turning off 589 into Winchester, a car bomb taking out part of their convoy before they were hit from both sides with RPGs and automatic weapons.”
He could hear Han behind him, cursing under his breath. “So, who is taking point on the hostage rescue?”
“You are.”
A police car passed him as he crossed the street, running behind schedule. In the chaos that they had created, it had taken fifteen minutes longer to reach his destination than he had planned. Precious time.
Even as Omar’s footsteps carried him across the road, he could hear the sound of gunfire from the south, borne on the wind.
It felt like an act of cowardice not to rush to the aid of his brothers, but they all had their own parts to play. As Allah had ordained.
He glanced up at the church in the darkness, a mural of Isa nailed to the cross covering the space over the door, the dying eyes of the prophet staring down upon him.
The door was unexpectedly locked, refusing to move under his grasp, and he lifted his hand to knock. “Please…I beg of you, let me in.”
A moment passed, sirens wailing in the distance of the night. Then he heard the sound of a bolt being slid back, a face peering out at him. “I need shelter.”
The priest hesitated only for a moment before opening the door wide enough for him to step through. “Come in — quickly, my friend. There is evil out there tonight, attacking our city.”
Omar followed him into the sanctuary, gazing around at the worshipers, no doubt gathered for the Christmas Eve mass.
“My brother-in-law is a lieutenant in the Metro police,” the priest continued, clearly nervous. “I called him from the landline in the office — asked his advice. He suggested that we all stay here until they can get the situation under control.”
Civilians, Omar thought, barely hearing the priest’s words as he looked about him. And the Qur’an forbad their murder.
Innocents…or were they? He closed his eyes, remembering those months following his conversion in prison, the teachings of Abu Kareem. They vote…
“Won’t you join us?” the priest asked. “As we pray for our city, we remember that on this night God sent forth His Son.”
Omar’s face tightened, his eyes darting around the sanctuary, up at the stained glass windows — saints keeping watch. Idolatry. Much as it had been in Mecca in the days of the Prophet.
His hand came out of the pocket of his jacket in one final moment of decision, detonator clenched between his fingers.
“God has no son…”
“Lie still,” Gilpin whispered, cradling her aide’s head in her lap. She looked down into the wounded eyes of the young woman, thinking of all the times they had spent together in the course of the campaign. Of the two little children awaiting her at home.
Steve Winfield lay a few feet away, apparently unconscious, bleeding from a gash across his forehead.
“You’re going to make it through this, you hear me,” she continued, struggling to force a smile to her face as her gaze flickered across Brooke’s shattered knee, blood seeping out from underneath a rude tourniquet fashioned from her jacket. “Rachel and Danny…you’re going to see them tomorrow. God will protect us.”
She looked up into the eyes of the terrorists’ leader, inhuman eyes shining out from beneath the balaclava.
“Enough talking,” came the hiss from beneath the mask. Gilpin met his gaze with hers, a stare of unyielding defiance. These people had given so much of themselves for her…she had to be strong for all of them now.
The muscles around his eyes tensed, the only warning she would receive as he lashed out, backhanding her across the cheek.
She heard Brooke scream, caught herself from falling with an outstretched hand. Pain. Her cheek burned from the impact, taking her breath away.
Reeling, she brought her head up, her eyes locking once again with his, proud — unyielding. For a moment, she thought he might strike her again, but he turned away, barking an order to one of his men.
And then she saw the video camera…
“No.” Marika shook her head, unable to believe that she was even entertaining the idea. “Do you have any ideas how many laws we would be breaking — an Agency team…conducting an operation on American soil?
She turned on heel, a long finger jabbing out toward Nichols. “Particularly one led by the target of a federal manhunt. I should put you in cuffs now.”
“If that’s your decision,” the tall man responded quietly, the lights of the computer screens in the back of the LVMPD command vehicle casting a glow across his face. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. If you have other options, I strongly suggest that you employ them.”
His tone made her think of Russ, now inside the Bellagio attempting to establish communications with the terrorists. Cool, dispassionate. Reasoned.
She shot a glare toward both of the CIA officers, focusing in on the one she knew as “Steven Todd.” The man Nichols had called “Thomas.”
More deception from the Agency, lies within lies. The fact that D.C. had validated his credentials barely mitigated her concerns.
“The FBI’s tactical teams were shredded in the explosion at the convention center,” Marika admitted bitterly. “Metro’s HAZMAT units are deployed to the scene, trying to contain the nerve gas. The city’s in chaos.”
“Have they identified the gas?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s soman. Dissipates more quickly than VX, but for the time being…a horrible way to die. We lost good people.”
“How about help from the outside?” Thomas asked.
“Nothing can get in by air, not after the shootdown of an airliner — we have no way of knowing what else is out there. LA is two hours out and dealing with their own release of the nerve agent from the Canoga Park site.”