Cohen stepped into his office, partially closing the door. “John, I think morale is beginning to slip. It's two weeks into August, and we aren't any closer to finding out who is behind this. Frankly, we aren't sure where to look anymore. Manuel is down to ten percent confidence in his database associations — that's all that's left, and let me tell you, when you are at ten percent, it really is pretty random. J. P. and Matt have taken to bickering for the most part, and Angel has completely withdrawn.”
“Well, we need to keep focused on what this is about. They need to see beyond their own frustrations.”
Cohen frowned. “John, it's not that they don't. It's that they want this so badly. Larry picked us all in part because we had a commitment, an emotional one, to combating terrorism. That much has become clear over the years. In the past two months, we've seen two horrific attacks, one right under our noses. In our own city! That also brings back so many painful memories, as if it weren't bad enough by itself. The strain is coming because they want to bag these guys. But right now, it's starting to seem to them that their goal is somewhere way out of reach.”
Savas winced. He understood. He understood because that was exactly how he was feeling as well. Outside of a few small leads, they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. What few leads they did have were being pursued thousands of miles away by the CIA, leaving the FBI to await information, search databases, conduct late-night brainstorming sessions over stale coffee. Essentially, twiddling their thumbs. It was time for a mind clearing for all of them, a pep talk of some kind. Savas realized he needed to reset the course for the team.
A loud knock came at the door, and it swung open suddenly. Startled, Savas looked up. It was Rideout. His face was ashen and yet touched with fury. He spoke, slightly out of breath, clearly having raced over to the office.
“John, Rebecca — you'd better come. There's been another one.”
30
Cubicle dividers and desks continued to explode around him, and Jordan crawled toward the side of the building and away from the doorway. He placed his back against the wall and brought his Uzi forward, gazing through the room. Women were still running to the far end of the building. Dust and sparks filled the air from the massive weapons assault. He saw two of his men on the ground, likely dead, riddled with bullet holes. Others were crouched down, weapons drawn, looking over to him for guidance. His mind raced. To follow the women out the front seemed the easy solution and also provided the advantage of cover. He and his remaining team could race inside that crowd and seek to escape in the chaos, perhaps commandeering one of their vehicles and heading straight for the safe house.
He rejected that strategy immediately. He knew if he were leading the assault from outside, this would be the obvious response, and Jordan could expect a welcoming gunfire spray should he take that route. Less obvious would be to face head-on the devastating firepower that had just wreaked havoc in the building. He motioned to the back door. His men did not hesitate, he was proud to see. They moved forward with bursts of speed and crouched on either side of the doorway. The firing had stopped. The targets were out of sight, and no doubt an ambush was being readied at the front of the building. Jordan prepared to give the signal to rush through the door.
Suddenly, a man toting a submachine gun darted through the doorway, weapon aimed over the heads of those who crouched low to the ground. The man scanned the room as an operative to his left rolled onto his back into the line of sight of the door, less than a foot in front of the man, and opened fire from the floor. Three shots struck the man in the chest; he staggered backward in retreat and fell onto the ground outside the building. Jordan and his team then leapt through the doorway, weapons firing.
Shots rained around them. Several gunmen had taken cover behind vehicles parked directly in front of the entrance. Another trap, and his men paid a high price. They had the disadvantage in position but the advantage in skill. Jordan sprayed fire with his Uzi toward three gunmen behind one of the cars. Each fell back, one wounded and disoriented, spinning around and firing rounds into the air.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a figure and sensed a hostile intent. He dove to the ground for cover, feeling at that moment a sharp, searing pain in his right leg as the sound of a gun blast reached his ears. He looked down and saw blood darkening in crimson the white of his robes. Behind him he heard a laugh.
“You stupid man,” screamed Kharitonov, standing near the entrance with a pistol in his hand. “You think I have no way to send message?” Jordan tried to spin around to aim the Uzi, but his right leg was badly wounded, and he knew he would not make it in time as the Russian raised his weapon and fired. Jordan's shoulder exploded in pain as he twisted sideways. He was still conscious, however, and turned around in time to see Kharitonov arch his back as red bursts exploded out of his abdomen. The Russian dropped immediately to his knees, cradling his stomach and rolling over. The CIA operative who had shot him was then pinned by submachine gunfire against the wall of the building, shaking violently as multiple bullets wrecked his body. All Jordan's men were now down.
He grabbed the Uzi with his left arm and fired on the last of the men behind the cars. His aim was poor, but the Uzi made up in spray for what it lacked in precision. The man fell backward, moaning, crawled several feet, then did not move.
Jordan guessed he had less than a minute. The noise must have alerted the team placed at the front of the building, and they would be racing back at this moment. The bullet-ridden car of the dealer's hit men was less than twenty feet away from his current position. He raised himself to his feet using all his strength and willpower, the pain in his leg flaring bright like a nova in his mind, eclipsing that of his shoulder as he staggered toward the vehicle. It seemed to sway and tilt as he moved, and Jordan hoped he could cross this distance and remain conscious. He turned toward the other two cars and opened fire on them, the tires rupturing.
Reaching the open door, he dropped his weapon, stepped over a dead body, and clasped the frame with his hands, pulling himself around and into the driver's seat. He grimaced, realizing that his right leg was useless. He grasped it with his left hand and screamed in pain as he awkwardly shoved his right foot over into the floorboard of the passenger side.
He was lucky it was an automatic. He turned the ignition and the car started. Using his left foot on the brake, he closed the door and shifted into reverse, then gunned the car backward, smashing closed the door of another car and, after about thirty feet, turning the wheel sharply to the left. The car spun around, and he shifted into forward gear and hammered the accelerator. Shots shattered the rear window, but he was not hit, and within seconds, he was shielded by parked cars and other buildings on the left side.
With his left hand steering, he pulled out toward the highway. Blood covered his clothing, the steering wheel, the seats, and the gear shift. Jordan knew that he was losing blood quickly and would not be able to stay conscious for long. He also knew that men were soon likely to be following him. The safe house was where? His mind blanked, his memory blurry and threatening to fail him.
The backpack. He froze, remembering nothing of taking it or what had become of it. He glanced around the front seat of the car and breathed in relief. Somehow he had carried it looped over his left shoulder, and it was wedged in the car against the door. He had the records. The records that would show them the trail to those who had purchased the S-47, their only lead, their only hope to discover the identity of this new terrorist group. He tried to focus. The data in the backpack. It was everything.