Carver frowned. There was no time for chivalry, privacy concerns or squeamishness. He pushed the soldier aside, stood on the milk crate and peered into the fiber optic probe for a moment. Then he stepped down, astonished.
“That woman,” he said, “is Angie Jackson.”
“Who?”
“Angie Jackson. As in Mrs. Dexter Jackson.”
“The SECDEF’s wife? No sir. She’s dead. Saw it on the news.”
“Believe nothing.” Carver twisted the optic and took another look. This time he found himself looking directly into Angie Jackson’s brown eyes. “Uh-oh. She’s onto us.”
*
Angie grabbed the optic probe and tugged on it. She managed to get about ten inches of it above the carpeted bathroom floor — just enough to realize that she was holding a tiny camera. She was being watched. Or videotaped. In the bathroom. She dropped the fiber optic and pulled up her pants.
Elvir knocked at the door. “What are you doing in there?”
“My stomach’s upset,” she called through the door. Were her captors actually videotaping her bathroom visits?
She tried to push the probe back down into the carpet. No dice.
“No more time,” Elvir said. “I’m coming in.”
Angie took the magazine from the counter and tossed it onto the floor just as the door handle began to turn.
*
Chris Abrams forced a grin as he slowly opened the Hamilton Arms lobby door. He and his men walked upright, at ease. Although their rifles were live, with rounds in the chamber, they did not assume an attack posture. Looking like friendlies was key to their success.
There were four Green Berets in the lobby, kneeling behind a barricade of stacked furniture. Their backs were to the main lobby door, rifles trained on the building’s primary escape routes — elevator and stairwell. When Abrams’ men came into view, sporting U.S.-issue weaponry, Ulysses uniforms and shaved heads, the Green Berets stood and dropped their weapons to their sides.
“Who called in Ulysses?” one of them cracked.
Abrams’ reply was a burst of M4 fire that cut two Green Berets across their waists and sent the other two diving over a couch. Both were quick to respond with grenades, which was a risky move at such close proximity. Abrams’ crew dropped and rolled to either side, seeking cover.
Both grenades went off simultaneously. Abrams felt a stinging jab to his left side that stunned him. He opened his eyes in time to see a long, square segment of metal ventilation shaft falling from the ceiling. He rolled behind it as the surviving Green Berets sprayed the cloud of smoke, dust and bodies with gunfire. He pressed his hand to his aching side. Though his uniform on that side was frayed, and his fingers pressed through the riddled body armor to his tenderized flesh, there was no blood.
Just three feet from him, a dismembered, claw-like hand twitched. Abrams considered playing dead and then surprising his attackers as they rose to count their kills. But these were Green Berets he was up against. They were too smart for that. Unless Abrams’ crew started firing back, and with a vengeance, the Green Berets would only keep lobbing grenades into the debris until there was nothing left of it.
Abrams removed the pin from one of his own grenades and flung it in a high arc to the other side of the room. It never made it that far. Abrams heard the sound of metal-on-metal as his grenade lodged into a piece of fallen ceiling. It hung there for three seconds until it exploded, bringing more chunks of the second floor raining down on them.
*
Elvir was baffled by the echo of explosions and gunfire downstairs. He had half-expected the government to come looking for Angie Jackson, but she was here before him. The two remaining members of his crew woke not ten feet from him. So who was fighting whom?
He flung open the bathroom door to check on Angie. He found her in the bathtub, wielding the shower curtain rod like some medieval jousting lance. “Easy, woman,” he yelled. “Remember for a second who saved you!”
His eyes searched the room and eventually came to rest on the magazine on the floor. He kicked it aside. He recognized the optic probe immediately.
He put his foot over the probe’s lens and looked at Angie. “Who’s watching us?” he demanded. Angie did not know the answer. She had thought the camera was Elvir’s.
An M4 salvo ripped through the floorboards. A round passed straight through the sole of Elvir’s boot and came to rest within the ball of his foot. Angie released the shower curtain rod and cowered in the tub just as another burst of automatic gunfire came from the apartment below. Elvir collapsed to his knees, bleeding from his groin.
Through the open bathroom door, Angie watched as Elvir’s cohorts rose from bed and got to their feet. But gunfire sliced through the carpet and cut them down before they could escape.
*
Carver stood looking through a series of holes in the ceiling that he had made with his own gunfire. A familiar face from Apartment 309 stared back at him. And he knew without a doubt she was the SECDEF’s wife.
“We’re pinned down,” came the frantic voice over his radio. “Two down in the lobby.”
Carver turned and barked at the two Green Berets. “Go up to 309 and get that hostage safe. Use the fire escape. I’m headed to the lobby.”
He was down the stairwell in thirty seconds. The door separating the stairwell from the lobby was blown clear off, and Carver was stunned to see that some of the second floor had caved in. The room was a haze of dust and smoke, but he spotted two surviving Green Berets, both half-buried in collapsed drywall. At the opposite end of the lobby, three guns returned fire near the main entrance. Carver shot from the third stair step and was sure he saw a spray of blood as the muzzle flash went dark.
Through the murkiness, Carver saw a uniformed figure sidewinding across the entrance. He readied his rifle to fire on the rushing attacker, and then saw a flash of an Army airborne uniform. It occurred to Carver that this could be some horrible friendly fire catastrophe — two units sent after the same target, cutting each other to bits because there was no central command authority. Carver realized he would only have himself to blame. This was the very definition of a skunk works operation.
He lost the figure in the smoky air for a moment. Then Carver saw a knife blade, its shank glimmering in the reflection of a half-destroyed chandelier that sagged low to the ground. The enemy gun went silent.
The other gun went silent around the same time, but it was difficult to see what was happening from Carver’s vantage point. Finally someone called out. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The voice was one he hadn’t expected to hear again. It was Sergeant Hundley.
Viper Squad’s returning fire slowly petered out. “Sarge?” someone said.
Hundley stood up straight. “Damn straight.”
Carver came down the stairs. He and the Sergeant locked gazes.
Hundley held a bloody 10-inch buck knife. The Sergeant stooped down and picked a rifle from one of the dead Ulysses soldiers. He held it in the ready position, with his finger on the trigger. The Sergeant’s huge deltoids twitched underneath his shirt. It occurred to Carver that Hundley could take his revenge now if he wanted to, and he was in no position to stop him.
“So you made it,” Carver said.
“I still run a four-four,” Sergeant Hundley replied.
“Lucky for us.”
“Agent Carver, tell you what. I’m prepared to forget about that incident on the street if you are.”
The idea of making a deal with a loose cannon like Hundley didn’t sit well. On the other hand, if Carver were to refuse, Hundley would shoot him on the spot, and the other Green Berets would undoubtedly cover for him. And there was the little matter of the national emergency to tend to.