“Give me a moment,” she responded, still unsure of herself. It all felt so strange.
“Of course.” Harry laid the AK-47 back in its polymer carrying case, along with five fully loaded magazines. One hundred and fifty rounds of brass-jacketed 7.62mm — enough to start a small war.
Or end one.
He closed the case and hefted it on his back, closing the door behind him as he made his way out to the waiting SUV. There was no way of knowing how much time they actually had.
There were already five officers from the Security Directorate surrounding the car when Luke Ames arrived, accompanied by a German Shepherd dispatched by their K-9 unit.
Chamber’s car was a light-blue Toyota Camry, a four-door sedan.
The agent in charge of the security detail glanced over Ames’ credentials as he advanced toward the vehicle. “Everything’s in order, sir. Our preliminary scan isn’t picking up any explosives.”
The young analyst just nodded, his mind elsewhere. That Carol could be gone — it seemed unimaginable. She’d been the one that had shown him around the headquarters building his first day on the job, and they’d developed a close friendship over the last couple months. Never had gotten quite to the point of asking her out, but…
And now the DCIA was dead. And she’d been kidnapped. By one of their own.
Ames punched the Unlock button on the remote as he moved toward the car. Nothing.
Well, hey, batteries died all the time. Without a second thought, he slid the key into the lock and turned it.
As the key turned, it activated the triggering mechanism that had been built into the car’s door earlier that morning by “Alex Hall”.
Seconds later, the electrical pulse reached the two pounds of Semtex inlaid between the panels of the door. Luke Ames never felt what happened next.
He never felt anything ever again…
As he’d told Carol, CIA field officers were trained to prepare for every contingency. That didn’t mean you actually expected the day to come.
Harry placed the third long gun case under the false floor of the massive Ford Excursion, the one containing his Heckler & Koch UMP-45 submachine gun. It was a duplicate of the gun he had carried into Jerusalem, the gun that had mortally wounded Hamid Zakiri.
It was also illegal for private ownership, but that hadn’t stopped him yet. The same with the eight “flash-bang” stun grenades in the mesh bag nestled beside the gun case containing his Mossberg 500.
He stood there for a long moment, mentally reviewing the list of supplies, a list he had memorized so many times. The day was here.
Finally satisfied, Harry replaced the false floor and walked back into the house. The bedroom door was closed, and he was starting to turn away when he heard low voices.
“Carol?” he asked, a sudden alarm filling his heart. Nothing.
One hand on the door and the other on his Colt, he tested the knob. Unlocked.
“Carol?” Still nothing. Just the voices. The Colt slid from the polished leather of its paddle holster and he turned the knob, throwing open the door and entering with the gun leveled.
Carol was sitting on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chin, her eyes focused on the TV screen across the room. “…correspondent Roger Ginsburg and we’re here in front of the CIA’s Langley campus, where initial reports indicate a bomb went off just over ten minutes ago. Emergency vehicles have flooded the scene and there are reports of fatalities — but we’ve not been able to obtain details from the Agency…”
Harry holstered his weapon and walked to Carol’s side, his hand brushing gently against her shoulder. Her eyes were glistening with tears.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said, gently kneading her shoulder with his hand as he sat down on the bed beside her. “It’s going to be okay.”
She looked up at him and then back at the TV and he could sense that she was on the verge of breaking. “Why is all this happening? Dear God, they said people are dead at Langley.”
“We’ll know,” Harry whispered, drawing her towards him as her body convulsed in dry sobs, holding her close to his chest as the tears fell. “We’ll know soon enough.”
Work never seemed to stop at Snell & Kilmer, the young man thought, at least not when you were an attorney still trying to make a name for yourself. And that was hard to do when your current focus was tax law. It hadn’t been his dream when he’d moved from Pakistan five long years before…but here he was.
And yet the mood was different this morning as he walked onto their floor of the Hughes Center — his co-workers clustered around a small television. “What’s going on?” he asked, setting down his latte on his desk, right beside the small brass plate bearing the words Samir Khan, Attorney at Law.
No one seemed to hear him, except for his friend Cathy, standing at the edge of the group, her thumbs moving anxiously over the keyboard of her phone. “They’re saying that there’s been a pair of bombings in Virginia. And Dave isn’t answering his phone.”
He glanced from the black woman’s eyes to the screen, feeling his breathing quicken as he heard the anchor speak. Could it — could this be the beginning? “Ya Allah,” he breathed, barely even realizing he had spoken aloud — the Arabic coming easily to his lips. Oh, God.
“What did you say?” Cathy asked, her head coming up from her phone.
He forced a smile, moving back toward his desk. “Nothing, Cathy…it is just such a shock. I pray you can reach your husband.”
Powering on his computer, he leaned back in his office chair, staring at his fingernails. It had been so many years…so long that he had almost lost faith. I seek forgiveness from God…
Yet there was nothing in the Drafts folder of his e-mail when he opened it, no matter how many times he refreshed the account. As if their time had not yet come.
And as he looked around at his co-workers, as his gaze shifted back to the screen, he found himself wondering if he would be ready when it did. Insh’allah.
The corner of the parking garage where Chambers’ car had been parked had taken on the appearance of a charnel house.
Five dead. Ames, and four members of the Security team. Another four men, including the K-9 handler, had been taken away in ambulances. One was critical.
Flashing lights cast an eerie reflection against the blood-stained concrete as emergency crews worked to repair one of the support beams of the parking garage.
It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Too many times. A mounting fury grew in Kranemeyer’s chest as he surveyed the scene and he fought it back, only too aware that he had to retain control.
Michael Shapiro stood a few feet away, a handkerchief over his lips, his face drained of color. “How could this happen?” he asked, shooting a frightened glance over at his DCS.
“Clearly, we underestimated our opponent,” Kranemeyer observed, forcing an icy calm into his voice. He had to clear his mind. At that moment, Ron Carter materialized at his side.
“We lost another on the way to the hospital,” the analyst announced. “He bled out before they could stabilize him. And that’s not all.”
“What?”
Carter hesitated. “Our surveillance cameras place Nichols here in the garage less than twenty minutes before he abducted Chambers.”