Jordan was nearly out of breath when he reached the subway station. He leapt down the stairs, sending one man flying and cursing behind him. When he reached the turnstiles, his heart sank. A figure had jumped them and was racing down the steps. If a train was waiting or came soon, he'd be lost. Jordan darted forward, screaming at people and waving his weapon. It was very effective. He moved through the dividing mass of people in line, jumped over the turnstile to several angry cries, and flew down the steps at a reckless and dangerous rate. His leg was on fire, the pain beginning to distract him. Jordan pushed it away, focusing on the chase.
The subway stop was a flood of humanity, like sardines in a can. He scanned the area, back and forth. He knew he wouldn't be able to see the man he was chasing, but if his quarry continued to panic, he would be doing the one thing he shouldn't in a crowd like this — he would be moving. There! He saw first the ripples in the crowd as someone pushed his way forcefully through. The sniper was about halfway to the next stairway, but Jordan knew that this was not his goal. The tunnel wind had begun, indicating an approaching train. In this density of people, Jordan realized that he would never reach the killer in time, and if he got on the train, the odds of continuing the chase successfully would drop precipitously. So he did the only thing he could think of in the moment.
“Allah be praised!” he yelled, springing on top of a bench and brandishing his firearm. “Everyone down, down or I will kill all infidels!” He fired his weapon at the ceiling. People screamed, and a great horde of them dropped straight to the ground. His quarry continued to panic, and instead of dropping as well, concealing himself in the crowd, he reached behind his back to pull out his weapon. Jordan crouched on the bench, steadied, and aimed. The man raised his weapon. Jordan pulled the trigger twice in succession.
Both shots were true. They struck the man solidly in the chest, and he shuddered, disoriented, discharging his weapon into the air and crying out as he fell. Several more people screamed, as did the train brakes as the lead car blasted out of the tunnel and into the stop, a rush of air flowing into the chamber. Jordan leapt down from the bench and raced across as people crouched in terror. He kept his weapon turned on the man but drew it up as he came close.
The gunman had collapsed and was sprawled on his back, blood soaking his chest and sputtering out of his mouth as he coughed. One of the bullets had hit the heart or a major artery. No longer a threat, his gun lay beside his hand on the ground. Jordan felt his stomach turn. The man was near death. His shot had done more damage than he had intended.
He bent down on one knee and grabbed the man's denim jacket. “Who sent you?” he barked out.
The man looked up, his eyes swimming at first, then focusing for a brief moment. “You will lose, Muslim,” he whispered, the word a curse in his mouth. “Mjolnir will strike, and strike soon. Burn, and burn again in hell.” His eyes rolled back, and he became heavy as his muscles completely relaxed. Jordan let go of him and clenched his fist. No! It was not to be helped. He had done all that he could. But it had not been enough.
“NYPD—freeze!” the shout was from behind him, the sounds of shoes running toward him unmistakable. “Hands up in the air! Now! Now! Now!”
Jordan placed his gun down and raised his hands slowly over his head. As the officer threw him on his face and cuffed him, he had a brief flashback to the many arrests he had endured as a young gang member, the last one leading to his imprisonment — and to his salvation at the hands of a Muslim cleric. It didn't matter, he thought, as he felt blood leak from his nose. He had failed today. What will tomorrow bring?
“You terrorist bastard,” said the officer standing over him, with his knee in his back. “We'll soon have you shipped somewhere nice. Where I hope they electrocute your fucking balls off.”
“I don't believe this! Right in our front yard!” said Larry Kanter, standing outside the FBI building, watching the ambulance pull out with a sedated Frank Miller inside. “Is he going to be OK?”
Savas followed the flashing lights. “Yeah, Larry. It ain't pretty, but it's only a shoulder injury. He's lost some blood, but Matt's the same type, and he insisted on riding with them just in case. The emergency responders gave Matt some flack, but took one look at him and his badge and eased up.”
Kanter nodded. “Good, good. Let's get back up now and figure out what the hell is going on. We've got an assassination attempt at our front door, hackers breaking into FBI networks — this is going down as one of our really good days.”
“You believe me now?”
Kanter scowled and looked away. “I guess I don't have much choice. These bastards pretty much made the argument for you. Damn! I should have listened to you earlier, but I just couldn't swallow something that big, that impossible. I don't think the powers-that-be will either, not even after this. But we'll deal with it.”
Savas didn't respond immediately. Finally, he looked at Kanter. “The bullet was meant for me, Larry. Frank stuck his shoulder in the way, threw himself in the way to get me out of the line of fire. He's bleeding now instead of my heart being blown out of my chest.”
Kanter's jaw tightened. “John, we all know the job brings dangers. We might think as analysts we are protected from the worst, but today you see differently. We are fellow soldiers in this war, and Frank has seen enough war for all of us. There are two kinds of soldiers, John. Those who will take a bullet for the platoon, and those who won't. You see which one Frank Miller is.”
Savas nodded. Kanter motioned for him to walk in. “Now, we've got some responding to do on this. First, we've got to put a security team on you right way. More than ever it looks like Gunn must be behind this. You were the one to confront him. He's focusing on you.”
Savas's stomach tightened. “Larry, I wasn't the only one there that day.”
Kanter looked him in the eye. “Yes, John, I know that. I've got men heading over to her apartment as of fifteen minutes ago.”
46
William Gunn switched off the television feed and glanced out over the sea of clouds below. The white ocean seemed to stretch forever, even to the edge of the horizon as viewed from this height. Waves seemed to be embedded in the cloud blanket, giving it the appearance of some heavenly body of celestial water, frozen in the moment. He glanced up above the plane, where the sky seemed to darken ever so slightly and lose its blue, and where, if he looked closely enough, he imagined, one might make out the brightest stars.
A man approached Gunn's private section of the aircraft and knocked on the wall next to the curtain separating the compartments. “Come in,” said Gunn.
It was Rout. “Mr. Gunn, sir. We will be arriving in half an hour. We have arranged for several different limos to depart simultaneously, and will switch vehicles three times, with cars following behind to search for tails.”
“Good. Have you seen the footage from today's missions?”
“I have, sir. Spectacular successes both in Sudan and on the airliner. The preliminary work has now been set, and every mission a success. The pattern is in place, and the final point is waiting to be added.”
“It is time we revealed ourselves, then. You have the press package readied?”
“Just give the signal.”
“Today. Send it to all the major news organizations. It is time to prime the trap for the final stroke.”
“It will be done.”