Sniper Team
Scott heard the cargo van approaching. A movement at the far corner of the building caught his eye. Just before he fired, a voice came on his comm. “Sniper, this is Boomer. I’m rounding the corner.”
Scott’s feeling of relief that he hadn’t taken the shot was immediately shattered by a second voice. “Sniper, this is Tech One! I’ve lost control of the van! Repeat, I’ve lost control of the van!”
“Tech One, what do you mean you’ve lost control?” Scott yelled.
“I lined her up true, but then my controller burned out! She should be locked in straight, but I can’t guarantee it. You guys had better clear out of there!”
“I ain’t movin’,” Skeeter said calmly from beside Scott.
“Skeeter,” came Hummel’s voice again, “clear out! I can’t tell you for sure where it’s going to hit.”
“I said, I ain’t-” Skeeter’s words were interrupted by a burst from his M4 as another visitor to the room checked out-“movin’.”
“It’s too late now anyway!” Scott shouted.
The van raced toward them, the whine of the onrushing engine growing louder. Nobody moved; all the men kept their eyes on their positions. If it was going to hit them, it was going to hit them-nothing they could do about it now.
Room 147
Riley lay on the ground. He had taken cover under his chair. It was scant protection, but at least it was something. In the dim light, he could see the growing pile of bodies by the door.
How had the team found him? It had to be Scott and his computer brain. Now, as he waited for his band of brothers, he silently prayed for their protection.
A moment later the deafening sound of high-speed metal meeting stationary cinder block exploded all around him. He was thrown sideways, and he cried out in pain as the arm that was cuffed to the floor was yanked from its socket.
As the ringing in his ears from the terrible impact began to fade, it was replaced by an even more frightening sound-silence. Then the sound of automatic-weapons fire erupted in the hallway. Scott’s voice sounded from the window, cutting through the din. “Hang in, Pach! They’re almost there!”
Riley tried to say something in reply, but the pain in his shoulder had taken his breath away. A noise at the door caught Riley’s attention, and he turned just as a huge figure came bounding into the room.
Skeeter. He was followed by a determined-looking Guitiérrez.
Riley managed a weak wave but could say nothing as a cough racked his body.
“Pach! You hold still, okay?” Skeeter said as he positioned a pair of bolt cutters around the chain on Riley’s cuffs.
Riley cried out again.
“What is it?” Guitiérrez questioned.
“Arm’s out!”
“Well, then, hang on, ’cause this isn’t going to be pretty.”
While Skeeter kept an eye on the door, Guitiérrez positioned Riley. Then with a quick jerk that caused Riley to scream and slam the cement with his good hand, Guitiérrez popped the joint back into place.
Riley launched into another fit of coughing.
“Can you walk?” Guitiérrez asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Riley squeaked between coughs.
“No, you ain’t, Pach! Look at your feet! They been beatin’ on your feet?” Skeeter asked.
“I’m fine, Skeeter!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Skeeter said as he picked Riley up and threw him over his shoulder.
“Skeeter, put me down! I mean it, Skeet! That’s a direct order! Put me-” A cough cut off the rest of Riley’s words, but he knew they would have been wasted on the suddenly selectively deaf man anyway.
Delta Team
“Rescue complete! Pull out! Pull out!” Hicks’s voice came over the comm.
Kruse and Johnson each lobbed a flashbang followed by a gas canister to cover their retreat, then sprinted toward the entrance. As they ran through the front door and turned left, they saw Arsdale twenty yards ahead with Musselman on his shoulders. When they rounded the corner, their eyes were drawn to the new, large hole in the rear of the building, out of which poked the last five feet of the cargo van.
They ran on and finally reached the rendezvous site seventy-five yards down the port road. Alpha Team was twenty-five yards behind them.
Suddenly the clacking of an AK-47 broke the air. Gilly Posada dropped. Hicks, who was bringing up the rear, slid down and lay on top of him. As he did, he yelled, “Boomer! Blow it now!”
Matt Logan lifted the safety cap off the detonator, toggled the circuit on, and depressed the trigger.
Twenty-four explosive charges, eight on both the front and the back of the building and four on each of the ends, went off at once with a concussion strong enough to make the waiting team members’ ears pop a football field away. Anyone in or around the building who wasn’t immediately incinerated by the blasts was crushed as the warehouse’s outer walls fell and its roof collapsed.
Kruse and Johnson ran back to where Hicks lay on top of Posada. They each picked a man up and carried him the rest of the way to the waiting vans. As they laid the two men in the back of the first van, they saw Guitiérrez working hard to stem the flow of blood from Musselman’s chest.
Farther back in the vehicle, they saw Riley. His eyes were closed and his head was lying in Khadi’s lap. Scott sat next to him trying his best to tend to some of his former lieutenant’s wounds. At Riley’s feet squatted Skeeter, M4 at the ready.
It would be thirty-six hours before anyone could finally convince the big man to put down his gun and leave Riley’s side.
Chapter 31
Thursday, January 22
Department of Homeland Security Headquarters, Nebraska Avenue Complex
Washington, D.C.
There were a lot of things in this world that CTD Midwest Division Chief Stanley Porter didn’t like. He didn’t like French wine. He didn’t like black-tie dinners. He didn’t like designated hitters. He didn’t like his wife’s lasagna. But what Stanley Porter truly liked least in this world were pompous, self-absorbed, shortsighted, bureaucratic dolts like Director of Homeland Security Dwayne Moss.
“All I’m saying is that we’ve got to take some major precautions at the PFL Cup next week,” Porter said, sitting on the edge of his seat. The chair was way too soft and way too deep for him to sit back and still make his point.
“Because some PFL player turned secret agent thinks he overheard something while being tortured? I’d venture to say he was probably hearing everything from archangels to his dead grandmother,” replied Secretary Moss, who was settled comfortably back in his imported Argentine leather wingback chair. His feet were kicked up on the mahogany coffee table that separated the two men, and his chin was resting on the two index fingers extended from his interlaced hands. “I mean, really, Stan, is that the best you can give me?”
“What do you want? Are you expecting an engraved invitation to the jihad party at the PFL Cup? BYOB-bring your own bomb! Mr. Secretary, you know that’s not the way this business is run.”
“Oh, I know all right. I’ve been a professional in this business for twenty-five years now.”
Porter wanted to reply that he had meant the international law enforcement business, not the special-interest-kowtowing, keep-yourself-in-office-no-matter-what, governmental-leech business-but he thought better of it. “What I’m saying is that Riley Covington heard some very specific words from a man who was his best friend for two years. These words led him to believe that the PFL Cup would be the Cause’s next target. He so strongly believed this to be true that it was the one message he secretly communicated in a video, after which he fully expected to be killed.”
“Now, now-as you know, Stan, just because somebody believes something doesn’t make it true. I could believe that the moon was made of mozzarella cheese, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to go there to make a pizza.” Moss failed to hold in a smile at his own witty remark.