Kanter waved off Savas's anger. “You and Miller go, and try like hell not to get yourselves killed if you find him — these boys out there are not playing around. Meanwhile, Intel 1 will be a little short-staffed but will sacrifice increasing amounts of their lives, or at least sleep, to make up the difference.” Kanter turned toward the group, focusing on Rebecca. “Agent Cohen, I assume that you have no objections if I elevate you to temporary group leader in John's absence?”
“No, Larry, of course—”
“Good. Because I've got more calls than I have call-waiting circuits, and I don't have time to babysit you people. Your job is to figure out what the hell happened, who's responsible, and, if possible, have them in custody this evening.”
“We'll do our best…sir,” said Cohen.
Kanter frowned and stormed out of the room.
Savas looked at the ex-marine and sighed. “OK, Frank, you and I will carve out a little corner of the OR. The rest of you — Rebecca has the wheel.”
Cohen nodded but instead walked over toward Savas and pulled him aside. He blinked. She almost looked angry.
“John, you were unconscious after Indian Point for two days. You suffered radiation sickness and a broken rib. Do you think you need to be chasing this street punk and those assassins down while all the rest of this is going on? Is this mission really that critical?”
“Yes, I think so. Something important is tied into this.” He tried to calm her. “Look, we'll be careful, like Larry said. We know there are some nasties buzzing around this one.”
She just stared at him disbelievingly. “Sure, zero to sixty in 5.4 seconds, crashing explosives with a forklift in a radioactive death cell. Was your monster truck trick careful, too?”
Savas was taken aback. “Rebecca, I did what I had to there! Those explosives were rigged to blow. The cooling rods were completely exposed!”
Cohen nodded but with a frown on her face, her eyes distant. “John, it's not the details. It's the pattern. This is becoming a habit, don't you think?”
“What is?”
“You nearly getting yourself killed on every case.”
Savas looked away. This was a direction he didn't want any conversation to go. Not now, with buildings coming down and contacts on the run. Not with Rebecca.
Miller delivered him. The muscled agent strode up to the pair. “John, let's move. Manuel let me have the keys to the car, and I'm bringing up the tracking system. Let's see where he's running.”
Savas avoided Cohen's gaze and followed the ex-marine. Maybe the Sheikh wasn't the only one running.
There was a counterpoint of activity in the room as the majority of Intel 1 continued to focus on the unfolding terrorist attacks. Savas and Miller commandeered a terminal and went to work tracking down his contact.
“Manuel has transferred control of our communications software, John,” Miller announced, typing furiously on the keyboard. “I think I know what I'm doing with it. Look—here! His phone has a GPS, and we can track him. He's in Queens, apparently not moving — assuming, of course, that it's him alive with the phone.”
“Try the cell. If he's stopped running, he might answer.”
“Punching it, using your number as the caller,” said Miller. “I'll run a general scan on the phone as well.”
The digital tones of the dialed number played over the small computer speakers. There was a click, and a voice answered.
“Fuck you, G-man!” came the welcome. “A lot of good your muscle did me.”
“Shut up, Rasheed!” yelled Savas into the computer microphone. “We've got agents dead who were covering your ass! We need to come in and get you.”
“You'd better!”
“We will!”
“They know; it all started after I talked to you.”
“What started? Who's they, Rasheed?”
“Fuck that! No time! I need protection! Your men are down, useless. I need to come in!”
“OK, Rasheed, we know where you are.”
Miller covered the microphone and whispered to Savas “John, so does someone else. His cell's being tracked.”
Savas felt a surge of adrenaline. “Who?”
“Checking…no one legit!”
Christ! “Rasheed, you've got to hang up and call me from another cell, a new cell, prepaid, or a pay phone. Your cell is tagged. They're tracking you.”
“Fuck!” The phone went dead.
Miller turned to Savas. “He'll move from there; he's smart. He'll call us when he's got another phone.”
Savas nodded. “I hope so. Meanwhile, we know where he is, so let's get there.”
“Yeah,” said Miller, “before someone else does.”
14
The drive to Queens became an exercise in patience in the face of panic. Law enforcement had locked down all of Manhattan — bridges, tunnels, airports. Getting on or off the island required long waits through the stalled traffic and repeated discussions with police and national guard personnel to achieve clearance. Miller drove, and Savas could only boil inside as he played through multiple scenarios — most ending up with the Sheikh dead before they could get to him. He also did not forget that they were heading into a covert war zone, where unknown ciphers were playing a deadly game of cat and mouse. He had two dead agents, and a growing list of downed assassination targets, to remind him.
He reached over and removed his pistol, placing it on his lap. In a quick series of motions, he lifted the weapon, pressed the magazine catch, and let the cartridge drop onto his legs. He pulled the slide back and inspected the chamber to ensure it was empty, then allowed the slide to spring forward. He pointed the gun toward the right side of the car and pulled the trigger. The click was clear, smart, and drowned by the sound of tires over the Queensboro Bridge.
“You planning on breaking it down on the way over?” asked Miller wryly, his eyes on the road, the speedometer approaching sixty.
Savas shook his head. “Figured we may be reloading today, Frank. Wanted to have a peek at things inside.”
Miller nodded. “Shot placement is everything. I've seen guys unload and hit an assailant with more than ten rounds in the wrong places. The man just kept firing. Even without drugs, a determined man can take a lot of incidental damage and fight through the pain. Got to unplug the battery — heart, lungs, major organs.”
“I know, Frank,” said Savas, but the ex-marine continued.
“In the war, in Afghanistan, I saw shit you wouldn't believe. I've seen a two-twenty-pound pile of Special Forces muscle drop dead from a piece a shrapnel no bigger than a needle. I've seen men drag themselves with half a leg blown off, still firing, screaming obscenities, until they dropped from blood loss. The worst are the religious nuts, the jihadists who believe every dead American is another virgin in paradise. I've seen those bastards filled with ammo, and they keep coming. Human, of course — just got to hit them in the right place.” He shook his head sharply, as if trying to shake the visions out of his mind. “Seen the opposite, of course — young Arab kids who take a shot in the leg and learn the hard way that their faith was abstract. Those fall fast. Bunch of bawling kids on the side while you deal with the maniacs.”
“Sounds like hell, Frank.”
Miller smiled sharply. “I've heard it called so. When you're there, it just is what it is.”
Savas's cell rang out, and he picked up.
“Rasheed? Where are you?”
Miller concentrated, trying to hear the words spoken on the other end. Savas continued. “OK, we're almost there. We're going to pull up near the Astoria line. You'll see a black town car, FBI written all over it. Yes, I know! But it's all we had access to! In case you didn't realize, all hell's broken out in the city today!”