Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 8

  A man’s housecoat. A tall man. Like her father. She glanced into the foggy mirror, barely recognizing the shadowy silhouette as her own.

  Four hours.

  She could still remember the sound of his voice when he had called the previous night. He’d just called to check on her, so he said. He’d been doing that a lot lately, ever since shortly after the Jerusalem op.

  He had known. The realization came washing back over her with the strength of a flood tide. He had known.

  And now he was dead. Or, perhaps worse, taken hostage. She’d worked at Langley long enough to understand the ramifications of that.

  Gone, either way. She caught herself with a start, realizing that the tears would not come, the sorrow of those first few hours having been replaced by a brittle, equally terrifying calm.

  Carol took a deep breath and turned the doorknob, letting herself and a blast of hot, moist air into the adjoining bedroom.

  If she’d expected to be alone…Nichols stood by the side of the bed, busy loading ammunition into the rifle magazines strewn over the sheets. Her clothes were neatly folded and laid across from him, her top and skirt in one pile, her underwear in another.

  She felt a hot flush creep across her face and almost reflexively tightened the sash of the housecoat. Couldn’t he have gone elsewhere?

  “I’ll be out of here momentarily,” he announced, as though reading her mind. “You’re clean.”

  “Oh,” Carol responded, realizing a moment later that he was referring to GPS trackers. Of course.

  He looked up. “I’d wait to get dressed. At least until I cut your hair.”

  “Give me a moment,” she responded, still unsure of herself. It all felt so strange.

  “Of course.” Harry laid the AK-47 back in its polymer carrying case, along with five fully loaded magazines. One hundred and fifty rounds of brass-jacketed 7.62mm—enough to start a small war.

  Or end one.

  He closed the case and hefted it on his back, closing the door behind him as he made his way out to the waiting SUV. There was no way of knowing how much time they actually had.

  11:18 A.M.

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  There were already five officers from the Security Directorate surrounding the car when Luke Ames arrived, accompanied by a German Shepherd dispatched by their K-9 unit.

  Chamber’s car was a light-blue Toyota Camry, a four-door sedan.

  The agent in charge of the security detail glanced over Ames’ credentials as he advanced toward the vehicle. “Everything’s in order, sir. Our preliminary scan isn’t picking up any explosives.”

  The young analyst just nodded, his mind elsewhere. That Carol could be gone—it seemed unimaginable. She’d been the one that had shown him around the headquarters building his first day on the job, and they’d developed a close friendship over the last couple months. Never had gotten quite to the point of asking her out, but…

  And now the DCIA was dead. And she’d been kidnapped. By one of their own.

  Ames punched the Unlock button on the remote as he moved toward the car. Nothing.

  Well, hey, batteries died all the time. Without a second thought, he slid the key into the lock and turned it.

  As the key turned, it activated the triggering mechanism that had been built into the car’s door earlier that morning by “Alex Hall”.

  Seconds later, the electrical pulse reached the two pounds of Semtex inlaid between the panels of the door. Luke Ames never felt what happened next.

  He never felt anything ever again…

  11:31 A.M.

  The safehouse

  Culpeper, Virginia

  As he’d told Carol, CIA field officers were trained to prepare for every contingency. That didn’t mean you actually expected the day to come.

  Harry placed the third long gun case under the false floor of the massive Ford Excursion, the one containing his Heckler & Koch UMP-45 submachine gun. It was a duplicate of the gun he had carried into Jerusalem, the gun that had mortally wounded Hamid Zakiri.

  It was also illegal for private ownership, but that hadn’t stopped him yet. The same with the eight “flashbang” stun grenades in the mesh bag nestled beside the gun case containing his Mossberg 500.

  He stood there for a long moment, mentally reviewing the list of supplies, a list he had memorized so many times. The day was here.

  Finally satisfied, Harry replaced the false floor and walked back into the house. The bedroom door was closed, and he was starting to turn away when he heard low voices.

  “Carol?” he asked, a sudden alarm filling his heart. Nothing.

  One hand on the door and the other on his Colt, he tested the knob. Unlocked.

  “Carol?” Still nothing. Just the voices. The Colt slid from the polished leather of its paddle holster and he turned the knob, throwing open the door and entering with the gun leveled.

  Carol was sitting on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chin, her eyes focused on the TV screen across the room. “…correspondent Roger Ginsburg and we’re here in front of the CIA’s Langley campus, where initial reports indicate a bomb went off just over ten minutes ago. Emergency vehicles have flooded the scene and there are reports of fatalities—but we’ve not been able to obtain details from the Agency…”

  Harry holstered his weapon and walked to Carol’s side, his hand brushing gently against her shoulder. Her eyes were glistening with tears.

  “You’re going to be okay,” he said, gently kneading her shoulder with his hand as he sat down on the bed beside her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She looked up at him and then back at the TV and he could sense that she was on the verge of breaking. “Why is all this happening? Dear God, they said people are dead at Langley.”

  “We’ll know,” Harry whispered, drawing her towards him as her body convulsed in dry sobs, holding her close to his chest as the tears fell. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  8:31 A.M. Pacific Time

  Law Offices of Snell & Kilmer

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Work never seemed to stop at Snell & Kilmer, the young man thought, at least not when you were an attorney still trying to make a name for yourself. And that was hard to do when your current focus was tax law. It hadn’t been his dream when he’d moved from Pakistan five long years before…but here he was.

  And yet the mood was different this morning as he walked onto their floor of the Hughes Center—his co-workers clustered around a small television. “What’s going on?” he asked, setting down his latte on his desk, right beside the small brass plate bearing the words Samir Khan, Attorney at Law.

  No one seemed to hear him, except for his friend Cathy, standing at the edge of the group, her thumbs moving anxiously over the keyboard of her phone. “They’re saying that there’s been a pair of bombings in Virginia. And Dave isn’t answering his phone.”

  He glanced from the black woman’s eyes to the screen, feeling his breathing quicken as he heard the anchor speak. Could it—could this be the beginning? “Ya Allah,” he breathed, barely even realizing he had spoken aloud—the Arabic coming easily to his lips. Oh, God.

  “What did you say?” Cathy asked, her head coming up from her phone.

  He forced a smile, moving back toward his desk. “Nothing, Cathy…it is just such a shock. I pray you can reach your husband.”

  Powering on his computer, he leaned back in his office chair, staring at his fingernails. It had been so many years…so long that he had almost lost faith. I seek forgiveness from God…

  Yet there was nothing in the Drafts folder of his e-mail when he opened it, no matter how many times he refreshed the account. As if their time had not yet come.

  And as he looked around at his co-workers, as his gaze shifted back to the screen, he found himself wondering if he would be ready when it did. Insh’allah.

  11:42 A.M.

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

&n
bsp; The corner of the parking garage where Chambers’ car had been parked had taken on the appearance of a charnel house.

  Five dead. Ames, and four members of the Security team. Another four men, including the K-9 handler, had been taken away in ambulances. One was critical.

  Flashing lights cast an eerie reflection against the bloodstained concrete as emergency crews worked to repair one of the support beams of the parking garage.

  It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Too many times. A mounting fury grew in Kranemeyer’s chest as he surveyed the scene and he fought it back, only too aware that he had to retain control.

  Michael Shapiro stood a few feet away, a handkerchief over his lips, his face drained of color. “How could this happen?” he asked, shooting a frightened glance over at his DCS.

  “Clearly, we underestimated our opponent,” Kranemeyer observed, forcing an icy calm into his voice. He had to clear his mind. At that moment, Ron Carter materialized at his side.

  “We lost another on the way to the hospital,” the analyst announced. “He bled out before they could stabilize him. And that’s not all.”

  “What?”

  Carter hesitated. “Our surveillance cameras place Nichols here in the garage less than twenty minutes before he abducted Chambers.”

  Kranemeyer swore softly. “Where’s Parker?”

  “Should be at Dulles. He was due there to collect Richards.”

  “Place a call and tell him I want them both back here. ASAP.”

  11:57 A.M.

  Dulles International Airport

  Virginia

  Waiting. Intelligence work was often described as long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of sheer terror.

  For Thomas, waiting in the terminal at Dulles, it was some combination of the two. He was sober now, stone-cold.

  Harry dropping off the CIA’s radar had sufficed for that. And now, six dead at Langley itself.

  The morning had gone from bad to worse. He found his hands trembling and shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat. Last thing he needed was TSA agents escorting him from the building.

  Waiting. Thomas found himself wishing for a smoke. He’d been a cigar man, himself, back in his days on Wall Street, but he’d finally kicked the habit. Didn’t really have any choice, not after he had tried and failed to pass the physicals his first time at the Farm.

  Still, the craving was there, every now and again. He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to turn away. As he did, he saw a tall figure walking across the terminal toward him. “Everything ready?”

  “Thought you were never going to get here,” Thomas said in exasperation.

  The Texan’s expression never changed. “Word of the attacks is snarling air traffic. We spent forty-five minutes waiting for clearance to land.”

  “I thought government flights had priority.”

  “They do,” Tex replied, casting a sharp glance in the direction of his old teammate. “The sky’s swarming with feds.”

  “Yeah, well, the ground’s not any different.”

  “Figures. Let’s get moving,” the big man admonished, “the sooner we get to the safehouse, the better.”

  “No dice—we’ve been ordered back to Langley, right away.”

  “Why?” Tex asked, turning to look Thomas in the eye.

  “Forty minutes ago, a bomb went off in the parking garage at Langley. Six fatalities. Kranemeyer wants you on-site.”

  The Texan reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Harry’s going to go blacker than black, you know that as well as I do. Intercepting him at the safehouse is our best, maybe even our only, chance.”

  “I know.”

  12:04 P.M.

  The safehouse

  Culpeper, Virginia

  There was an address book in the middle drawer of the bedroom’s dresser. Inside, on the third page, there was a list of numbers. No names, just numbers. It didn’t matter—he had committed the names to memory long ago.

  Harry palmed a prepaid cellphone and started entering the fourth number from the bottom. The phone had only been activated within the last five minutes, but it would be best to keep the call short all the same.

  He pressed SEND and listened as it began to ring. Once, then twice. He cast a glance toward the closed bathroom door behind him. Carol was dressing.

  They needed to move. On the fourth ring, it was answered, a woman’s voice, her tones rich with a Jamaican accent. “Hello?”

  Harry allowed himself a faint smile. “You’re as cautious as ever, Rhoda. Haven’t forgotten a thing, have you?”

  “Why are you calling?” the woman asked, punctuating her words with a French oath. “Your name’s out to law enforcement—they’re already throwing out a net over northern Virginia.”

  “If you know that, then you know why I’m calling.”

  A long pause. “I’m good at what I do, but I can’t work magic, Harry. Not really. All the voodoo in the world couldn’t save your butt now—what did you do to get this reaction?”

  “Not over the phone. You know that,” Harry responded, clearing his throat. “You’ve forgotten Kingston?”

  Another pause, and then the woman sighed. A long, heavy sigh of resignation. “No, I haven’t. What time should I expect you?”

  “We’ll be on your doorstep within the hour,” Harry replied, closing the phone. The old Hollywood myth of the lone spy was just that—a myth. Nobody out in the cold survived without a network. It was just a matter of doing whatever it took to activate it. Sometimes that meant calling in favors and stepping on more than a few toes.

  11:32 A.M. Central Time

  Dearborn, Michigan

  It was perhaps one of the greatest ironies of Dearborn that in this city, once home to so many of America’s autoworkers, most of the residents now relied upon public transportation subsidized by the federal government.

  But it did help ease traffic problems. The black man let out a snort of disgust as he glanced into the rearview mirror, checking for any signs of the police. How have the mighty fallen.

  Now, the state and federal governments subsidized well nigh the entire police force of Dearborn. The only choice, really—for it was a safe bet that half the city’s population didn’t make enough to pay taxes, and the other half had no interest in a police force.

  Abdul Aziz Omar fit squarely in the second category, particularly on a day like today.

  He glanced into his rearview again, catching a glimpse of his passengers. Names? He didn’t know theirs—but the man in the middle, the young man with the faraway, almost ethereal gaze, he knew simply as the Shaikh.

  What he was doing here in Dearborn was also a mystery.

  All of which would be revealed in due time, the black man mused, reaching for his thermos of tea in the center console. Insh’allah.

  12:34 P.M. Eastern Time

  U.S. Route 211

  Virginia

  He’d had the feeling once before—chasing a serial killer across five states, back in the days before he’d joined the Bureau’s Counterterrorism Division. A sickening feeling of being just one step behind, always too late.

  Vic Caruso rounded the end of the SUV to find Marika Altmann standing there, holding a clear plastic baggie up to the sunlight.

  “Any luck finding the casing?” he asked, zipping up his coat against the wind.

  Altmann replied with a shake of her head, placing the baggie containing the deformed .45-caliber slug back in the evidence tray on the floor of the vehicle. “If he’s Agency, he probably picked up his brass. My guess is this guy is good.”

  “He is,” Caruso responded quietly. His partner shot him a sharp, piercing glance.

  “You know him?”

  “After a fashion,” he replied, turning to look her in the eye. “In mid-September, I was assigned to head up an investigation into a CIA leak. He was one of the targets.”

  “And?” Marika pressed, a shrewd look in her eyes.

  “And that’s a long sto
ry.” Long story indeed, Caruso thought, looking out across the highway to where the bodies had lain. He’d looked down the barrel of that 1911 Colt .45.

  The investigation had been blown when Nichols had come back and found Caruso in his home searching through computer files. He’d seen death in Nichols’ eyes, and lived. The two out on the highway hadn’t been so fortunate.

  “What do you think of this Russian immigrant—the guy our briefing ID’d as the bomber?”

  The woman didn’t answer for a moment, her face strangely unreadable as she stared out across the snowy countryside. A wisp of silver-gold hair escaped her ball cap and she tucked it back over her ear.

  “I think we’re being played for mushrooms,” she said finally, her voice cold as the wind that whipped around the SUV. “Kept in the dark and fed horse crap.”

  Chapter 4

  12:48 P.M.

  Graves Mill, Virginia

  He was never more frightening than when he was silent. Carol regarded her companion for another long moment, then turned her attention back out the window of the SUV, to the dirt-brown piles of snow shoved brusquely against the side of the roadway.

  He hadn’t spoken five sentences since they had left the safehouse. She could still see the expression on his face when he had executed the Russian—a look devoid of emotion. Calculating. Ruthless.

  The same look he wore now. The man who had held her close and comforted her as they sat on the bed of the safehouse was gone, replaced by…this. “What makes you so sure this woman will help us?” she asked finally, glancing over at him. His leather jacket was unzipped, gaping open to expose the bulge of the Colt holstered to his side. A weapon, just like the man himself.

  “Because she doesn’t have any other choice,” came the cryptic response. “Spend enough time out in the field and you learn that people will do things out of fear that they’d never do for love.”

  Blackmail. Carol had worked long enough at the Agency that it didn’t surprise her. Still, she found the reality unsettling, out from behind the protective walls of Langley.