“Denver?”
She shook her head in the negative. “With multiple attack scenarios already in progress, Buhler’s locking the city down. We’re on our own, at least for the next few hours.”
An eternity of time. Marika looked over to find Nichols glancing along the row of screens on one side of the vehicle, focused on a map of the LVMPD deployments.
“If you assemble a team that has no experience handling these situations,” he announced slowly. “It’s going to be a bloodbath. If the tangos are even half-way competent, you’ll lose every last hostage — probably your entry team as well.”
It was the truth, and she knew it. “But how can I trust you?”
Nichols straightened, looking her in the eye. “You can’t…and I wouldn’t.”
Vic had believed that he was innocent, she thought, calling to mind the image of her partner, lying in a pool of his own blood.
Before she could even reply, one of the LVMPD sergeants called to her from the far end of the vehicle. “This just hit the Internet, going out live.”
The image was shaking slightly, as if perhaps the video camera was hand-held. But it was clear enough, showing the red seats of the “O” theatre in the background. Congresswoman Laura Gilpin was on her knees in front of the camera, staring defiantly into the lens, seeming to disregard the Glock aimed at her head, the masked figure standing behind her.
“…speak to America, and the President of the United States. We have proved our ability to strike at the heart of your cities. To bring you down from the skies. Did you think that you could defy God for so long, that your sins would not reach even to Paradise?”
“What do you want?” Altmann murmured, as if expecting an answer from the screen.
“Within ninety minutes, a plane will touch down at the American military base in Guantanamo Bay, the prison where I was tortured for so many years. In return for the lives of Congresswoman Gilpin and the rest of the hostages, you will trade us Khaled Sheikh Mohammed, ending his unjust captivity by your imperialist forces. If he is not on the plane two hours from now, leaving freely — every hostage will pay the blood price.”
“Do you have an open comm with D.C. yet?” she asked, glancing over at the sergeant.
“Still working on it.”
The camera panned as the masked figure abandoned Gilpin, walking over to the group of hostages. “To assure you that I will not fail to keep my promise if our demands are not met, I will execute one hostage every twenty minutes until the plane departs from Guantanamo with the warrior of Allah aboard. Starting now.”
There was no warning, nothing. Just his gun hand coming up, the Glock moving to cover a middle-aged woman in the front row.
There was nothing anyone could have done. Marika watched in cold fury as the muzzle of his pistol exploded in fire, the camera recording every gruesome detail for the world to see. Death.
The screams of the yet-living.
“You have your authorization,” she began, turning to Nichols. “On my authority and mine alone.”
A nod. He knew exactly what she meant. “We’ll all twist in the wind together.”
Chapter 27
“I want it taken down…now.”
“They’re working on it, Roger,” Cahill answered, placing a bottle of water on the table in front of the President. “It’s being streamed through someplace in the Middle East…DHS has already shut off stateside service providers from being able to access it.”
Hancock looked up at the clocks on the wall of the Situation Room. “What is our status with the Joint Chiefs, Ian?”
Cahill shook his head. “It’s Christmas Eve. General Nealen is on his way in from the Commandant’s residence, but he’s the only one in town — the rest of the JCS is scattered. We’re trying to establish a satellite uplink with General Rosenberg in St. Thomas. I’ll be frank. We can’t wait on them to help make a decision. The situation demands swift action on your part.”
“Don’t patronize me! I know what I need to do.” The President ran a hand across his face. “We have to get ahead of this, Ian. This is the largest attack since 9/11 and it’s happening on my watch.”
An aide entered before Cahill could respond. “We have Las Vegas for you, Mr. President.”
“Put them up on the screen.” Hancock watched as the large plasma came to life, revealing a middle-aged woman standing in what appeared to be a darkened vehicle — perhaps a mobile command center. She was wearing an FBI windbreaker, her hair tucked up under a ball cap. She looked familiar.
“Mr. President.”
“Special Agent…uh—”
“Altmann, Mr. President. Marika Altmann. After the death of S-A-C Powers, I became the ranking agent on-scene.”
“A tragic loss,” Hancock murmured. “What is the situation at present, Agent Altmann? We’re hearing everything and nothing at the same time.”
“The Bellagio’s security, working with LVMPD officers, has successfully contained the terrorist threat there to the “O” theatre. We’re still in the process of evacuating the rest of the resort. Reports are spotty from north of the Strip, but I understand that Metro SWAT is still in a firefight there.”
“And the crash site of Delta 94?”
“Emergency personnel were dispatched, sir. I’ve heard nothing — we’re still dealing with the active scenarios. I’ve been attempting unsuccessfully to establish contact with the Southern Nevada Counterterrorism Center…perhaps you would have more success.”
“Understood. Do you anticipate being able to launch an assault to free the hostages before their deadline runs out?”
She looked off-screen for a moment before replying. “I don’t know the timeframe, Mr. President. Our tactical team just arrived on-scene. We’ve begun to prep assault options.”
Hancock opened his mouth to say something, hesitating as if thinking better of it. “I want to know…before you go in, Agent Altmann. If an assault proves to be too risky, we may want to consider our — other options.”
“Does anyone know how many people are still inside — how many hostages we’re potentially looking at here?” Harry asked, walking through the bullet-shattered doors of the Bellagio’s side entrance, into the atrium.
It was like stepping into a charnel house, the tiles smeared with still-wet blood where bodies had been dragged away by the first responders.
Altmann shook her head in the negative, barely a half-step behind him. “We’ve lost all audio-visual inside the theatre. The stories from those who escaped are all over the place. I’d say the reality is probably between fifty and eighty. Living hostages.”
“He can keep this up all night.” Harry’s lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless line, his eyes flickering across the casino floor. The wounded had been evacuated to a makeshift triage being set-up deeper in the hotel, but some of the dead still lay where they fell, one man’s lifeless body draped over a video poker machine. “Where are we at on the guest list?”
“Still working on it, in between evacuating the resort,” Altmann replied. “It was apparently a special showing of Cirque, so only Gilpin’s entourage was in the theatre at the time of the attack.”
“He knew that.” Harry paused, glancing along the narrow corridor back to the “O”. “Knew that all of his targets would be in one place — to themselves. This was well-planned, and he’s not leaving anything to chance. Anticipating our tactics.”