by David DeLee
Reza stepped to the side and let Bridget and Tara pass.
Bridget went first. The floor sloped downward the tunnel narrow. They had to proceed single file. Reza slammed the door shut with a heavy medal thud and brought up the rear.
“What is this? Where does it go?”
“You’ll see,” Bridget said.
Reza snapped on a penlight and held it over Tara’s head. The added illumination helped her avoid tripping over the unevenly placed pallets. He pushed her shoulder and grunted. Even without words, his message was clear: move it.
Tara walked, counting the tunnel’s crude timber bracing in an attempt to figure out how far they were going, but she soon learned the braces were spaced at such irregular intervals as to be useless as a gauge for how far they’d gone.
Twelve minutes later, the tunnel came to an abrupt dead end. A flat, black wall greeted them.
Reza handed his light to Bridget and appeared to dig his fingertips into the wall. He strained, pulling back, until what turned out to be a rolling steel fire door opened. Beyond the opening was a small room with gray cinderblock walls. A domed, caged light fixture hung from the ceiling and the room smelled sharply of chemicals. Once inside, Tara saw why. They were in a custodian’s closet. A slop sink was against the back wall and it was crowded by mops, brooms, buckets, and other cleaning supplies. Metal shelves were bolted to one wall and filled with rolls of industrial style paper towels, bathroom tissue, and cartons of toilet bowl fresheners.
Reza closed the sliding door behind them.
The room had a standard metal door with a brushed chrome knob and a louvered venting panel in the bottom half. Bridget snapped the deadbolt switch and opened the door. She peeked out before signaling the coast was clear.
She went out. Tara followed. They were in a narrow, tiled hallway that dead ended at the closet. Tara looked past Bridget but could only see that the hallway went on for a good length.
Reza signed Bridget, causing Tara to realize the big, bald guy wasn’t just the quiet type. He was mute. Tara didn’t know sign language and so she had no idea what he’d said to Bridget. Only that he ducked back inside the closet and took several minutes before he came out again.
He locked the closet door with a key.
“What was he doing in there?” Tara asked Bridget
“Not your concern.”
Tara grabbed her arm. “I am not your enemy. Tell me.”
Bridget sighed. “He rigged the door with explosives. Anyone comes after us will be in for a very big surprise.” She animated an explosion with her hands. “Ka-boom.”
“What about Yasra and Ahmad?”
Again the animated ka-boom.
They were eliminating loose ends along the way. A chill ran down Tara’s back. Not only because of the sheer ruthlessness of their actions—that was bad enough—but it was an indication of just how big the operation was. The scale must be enormous to warrant such secrecy, such sacrifices.
Bridget pushed her along the narrow hallway. “Go.”
When they reached the end, Tara blinked.
They were at the underground Broadway station for the Boston T. Several people were on the island platform waiting for the next train to arrive. None of them looked up from their newspapers, smart phones or tablets. Oblivious to their surroundings, they noticed nothing.
The three of them remained at one end of the platform, trying to look inconspicuous. Each time Tara tried to engage Bridget in conversation, the woman shut her down. “Stop with the questions. All will be explained to you. Soon.”
A train slipped into the station and slowed. The brakes squealed, drowning out the automated loudspeaker announcements. The train doors sprang open and passengers rushed out. Bridget took Tara by the arm and held her back until the passengers were off the train and streaming toward the exits. Then she pushed her into the last car. Reza stepped in behind them. He remained by the doors, his shotgun left back at the custodian’s closet, replaced by a handgun stuck in his belt, concealed by a jacket, but visible to Tara.
The train signaled the doors were closing.
A few seconds passed, the train lurched forward, and they were off, whisked southbound on the red line, traveling ultimately to who knew where.
CHAPTER NINE
BANNON REFUSED TO WAIT any longer. “Something’s wrong.”
He scooted back from the parapet and stood up.
Pierce chased after him. “Stand down, Bannon.”
He made a grab for Bannon’s arm, but McMurphy’s meaty hand clammed down on his wrist. He pulled Pierce’s hand away. “Didn’t you mother teach you, good agents keep their hands to themselves, Danny-boy?”
Pierce tried to shake his arm loose and couldn’t.
“Bannon, orders from high up the food chain have ordered me to bring you two along, but this is my operation. I’ll arrest you both for obstruction if I have to.”
Bannon leveled him with a stare. “Try it.”
Pierce tried a different tactic. “If you go in there, guns blazing, you’re as likely to get Sardana killed as rescue her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. How have you not put this together?” Bannon asked. “The op’s blown. That’s why they killed Amar.”
“They’re eliminating loose ends,” Pierce argued. “It’s how these animals operate.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
Pierce held up a device that looked like a smart phone. “She’s still in there. See? Her tracker hasn’t moved.”
“Means nothing. It’s a phone. Phones get left behind. They could already be gone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Think about it, Pierce. Where are their cars?” Bannon waited. Pierce didn’t answer. “There was only one car when we got here. The liquor shop owner, he’s gone. How did they get here? How do they plan on leaving? They knocked out her audio. Something’s wrong, Pierce.”
Pierce hesitated.
“I can feel it, Pierce. We need to get in there,” Bannon said. “Before it’s too late.”
“When he feels something, Danny-boy,” McMurphy added, “I’ve learned it’s best to listen.”
Still not seemingly convinced, Pierce activated his commlink. “We’re going in. Let’s move!”
The three of them charged for the exit door of the building they were on. They ran down the stairwell in the northeast corner. One day it would be a fire exit stairwell. They hit the ground floor and sprinted across the parking lot as several SWAT team members converged on the nearest side door.
Pierce shouted to them. “Go! Go!”
One of them carried a fireman’s Halligan bar. He jammed it between the metal fire door and jamb while a second agent slammed a thirty-pound, steel-encased, concrete battering ram into the forced entry tool. The door bent, creaked, and after three attempts, finally popped open.
Three agents rushed through the open door. Pierce, Bannon, and McMurphy quickly followed. They were in a dark service hallway that went around the back of the building, behind each of the stores. It was lit by the faint hue of red exit lights. On the left were overhead bay doors, one for each of the four sub-lease spaces. To the right were doors into the storefronts.
Bannon counted down two doors and stopped.
The forced entry team jammed, hammered, and pried their way through the metal door.
The team entered a wide space. Two agents split to the left, and two others headed to the right.
Bannon slowed. His palms were sweaty and his heart raced as he thought about all the terrible things that might have already gone wrong. He forced the dark thoughts from his mind.
The space was pitch black except for the faint bluish light from the parking lot security lights out front streaming through a single door-size opening in the facing wall. He smelled smoke. “Something’s burning.”
Bannon spotted an oil drum, the glow of a dying fire still visible inside it. He moved toward it. The ping of a single bullet caught hi
s attention. Two agents had gone through the opening. One of them fell forward while the other one ducked back. More shots rang out.
Over the commlink, someone shouted, “We’re taking fire.”
Pierce shouted. “Take cover! Take cover!”
The shots were coming from the front section of the store.
“Team two,” Pierce called out. “We’ve got hostiles in the front of the store. They’ve got us pinned down in the back.”
Bannon grabbed Pierce’s shoulder. “Tara. Don’t turn this into a hostage situation.”
“Stand down, Bannon,” Pierce snapped back. “My people know what they’re doing.”
The other two agents with them had joined the third one by the door opening. It was the only way into the front section besides the front door. They pulled their downed agent back through the opening. He wasn’t moving. It was impossible to tell if he was wounded or dead.
There was a horrific shatter of glass. Bannon grit his teeth. He heard the hiss of gas grenades. Then a pop-pop-pop of gunfire. Small to medium caliber. A flash bang went off followed by the sound of several carbines firing. The barrage of gunfire neutralized the threat, ending it with a sharp cry of pain and the clatter of a dropped gun.
Then the deadly quiet that always followed a firefight.
Bannon waited a heartbeat before he rushed for the open doorway.
Pierce called out. “Wait for the all clear.” He threw his arms up in the air. “Why do I bother?”
The other three agents poured into the room. Bannon heard the sound of boots stomping through glass. He charged into the front space, his eyes watering from the still present gas and smoke.
“Tara. Where’s Tara?”
An agent pulled his gasmask off. “Not here, commander. Just these two.”
There were two bodies on the floor. Both men, young, dark skinned.
The agent kicked a handgun from one of their hands even though his chest was bloody and riddled with bullet holes. Both young men were clearly dead.
“No one came out?” Bannon asked.
“Nope. Had it under surveillance the whole time. No one came out. Just us coming in.”
Bannon looked around. “How?”
There had been a woman here. He’d heard her voice over the wire. Where could they have gone? He returned to the back room. McMurphy was by the oil drum.
The downed agent sat with his back against the wall. He rubbed his chest where his vest caught the slug, saving his life. “I’m fine, Pierce.” He winced. “But you might need to find another pitcher for tomorrow’s softball game against the BPD.”
McMurphy kicked over the oil drum. It landed with a hollow, resounding crash spilling ash and still-burning material. Everyone jumped, and two agents swung their weapons in his direction. Over the still-burning embers, McMurphy smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He used his toe to kick Tara’s cell phone free.
Pierce and Bannon joined him.
“That explains why the signal didn’t move,” Bannon said. “The fire hadn’t breeched the casing yet.” He crouched down and picked up the smoldering remains of Tara’s jacket. “And why we lost audio.”
He leveled Pierce with a hard stare. “They’re gone. We’ve lost them.”
“They can’t be gone. We had the place surrounded,” Pierce insisted.
“Yeah? Tell me where they are, then.”
Pierce waved his arms and raised his voice. “Search the place. Top to bottom. They have to be here somewhere. They have to be.”
His men moved out in teams of two to the four corners of the building.
Bannon and McMurphy moved out of earshot from Pierce and the others. “We’ve got a building with every exit covered,” Bannon said. “They didn’t get out through any of those, that leaves—”
“Up, down,” McMurphy said, “or they beamed out.”
“Let’s assume Star Trek tech wasn’t used for the time being.”
“We had full visual of the roof.”
Bannon dismissed that. “No good anyway, they’d need a way off the roof.”
“They could be inside, hiding. Waiting for a chance to steal away,” McMurphy said, working through the problem. “Or…”
Together they said, “Underground.”
They turned toward Pierce as an agent called out from across the room. “Guys, you need to see this.” They joined him in the back corner. A small, wooden wedge was jammed under the open fire exit door. “This doesn’t lead outside.”
Instead, it led down a hallway along the back of the building, apparently alongside the service hallway they’d used to come in. At the far end they found a stairwell with a yellow, metal handrail leading downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs they found a second metal fire door.
“What’s this?” Pierce asked.
The breech team had it open in seconds and they found out.
“A tunnel,” Bannon said. He snatched his .45 from his thigh holster. McMurphy did the same.
“We’ll deal with this,” Pierce said.
Bannon pushed past him and entered the tunnel. McMurphy shouldered past Pierce and his agents, too.
Pierce shook his head. “Son of a—Come on,” he said to the two agents with them.
Bannon and McMurphy opened up the flashlight apps on their phones.
The tunnel was dirt walled and braced with wooden timbers. They followed the bare 40-watt lightbulbs strung in a line from the ceiling. The walls were damp. The tunnel was cool and dank with an earthen smell to it. Old wooden pallets were laid one after the other, over puddles of muddy water and the unevenly dug dirt and rocks.
Bannon led the way with his gun out, following his cell phone light over the rough boards laid down like a makeshift sidewalk. The boards were soiled and covered in dry dirty boot prints. The tunnel grew cooler the deeper they went. Bannon felt the others behind him but didn’t look back or slow to make sure they were with him. His focus was on Tara.
“Join the Coast Guard,” McMurphy groused. “Go to interesting places. Meet interesting people. Be annoyed by them.”
“That’s not our motto,” Bannon said. “It’s always ready, remember?”
“It should be.” He brushed at his shoulders. “And, ugh, spiders.”
“Looks like the end of the road,” McMurphy said about ten minutes later when they reached the tunnel’s apparent dead end.
Bannon stopped and panned his light along the edges. “It’s a fire door.”
Pierce impatiently pushed his way past Bannon and McMurphy. “Then let’s find out where the hell it leads.”
As he reached for the door, Bannon’s stomach soured. He knew it. That sickening feeling he got whenever his instincts told him something was wrong. He grabbed Pierce by the shoulder and pulled him away from the door.
“No!”
Too late. Pierce slid the door back. There was a bright white flash of light. Bannon heard the click as the booby-trapped switch made contact. With his hand still on Pierce’s arm, he held on as McMurphy grabbed him in a bear hug and threw him to the ground.
Bannon, Pierce, and McMurphy crashed to the pallet-laden floor. Filthy, muddy water splashed up around them.
The IED wired to the door exploded, unleashing a thick, hot, roaring fireball that barreled through the tunnel, incinerating everything in its path.
CHAPTER TEN
“THE EXPLOSION EARLIER TONIGHT that shook the Broadway Station of the T has been attributed to a ruptured natural gas line. According to authorities, the blast was caused by a welder conducting routine repair work in the subway’s tunnel when a welding spark ignited the leaking gas.”
The report came from the widescreen TV mounted on the wall in the small lounge area where Bannon sat. The pretty blonde reporter continued, “Luckily the worker escaped injury, and disruption to service was kept to a minimum. OSHA and other safety inspectors on the scene are expected to deliver their final findings within a few days.”
She smiled at the screen
. “We’re so thankful no one was hurt. Jim, how’d the Red Sox do against the Yankees this afternoon?”
Bannon aimed the remote at the TV, shutting the sound off.
Back in Portsmouth, back in the McIntyre Federal building, he checked his watch. Eleven-twenty at night. He crossed to the windows and pulled the venetian blinds open. He looked past his ghost-like reflection in the glass at the lights of Daniels Street below, reminded of how close he’d come to being a ghost.
He’d changed into his civilian clothes—a black Polo shirt, light brown khakis, and Sperry dock siders, without socks. The collar of his shirt irritated the back of his neck. He tenderly touched his cheek and the side of his neck. The skin was still hot, as was the back of his hands, but no worse than a really bad case of sunburn. He’d been damned lucky.
When he’d called out and grabbed Pierce, McMurphy had been close enough—and strong enough—to pull them both back, yanking them to the ground. He’d slammed into the pallet walkway, face up, and Bannon and Pierce fell on top of him, face down. The fire ball had rolled over them. The two agents accompanying them weren’t so lucky. With no time and nowhere to go, the fireball slammed into them, knocking them off their feet.
Bannon would never forget the roar of the explosion in his ears, the sounds of the two men’s final screams, the smell of flesh as it burned or the sight of their faces, blackened and charred, after being hit by the full force of the roaring fire. The skin seared off their skulls, their hands turned into blackened skeletal digits still clutching their rifles. Their corpses, barely looking human, lay smoldering.
He hadn’t even known their names. He knew them now. Acosta and Trejo. One of them single, the other left behind a wife and two children.
Bannon fisted his hand. Whoever had done this, he would track them down and make them pay. With their lives, if he had to.
