Sam Wick Ultimate Boxset

by Chase Austin

  “I know. Walt. ” Hancock said nothing further. He knew it was an emergency but the question was, what he should do now.

  “A team of the best CIA agents is already on the hunt to find out how it started,” Raborn said, trying to steer himself clear of any political mess that these events would result in.

  “Walt, join me in the Situation Room in thirty minutes. I have asked Baker to make some calls.” Hancock lied about calling Baker, but he couldn’t be seen as indecisive to his subordinates.

  The Situation Room, officially known as the John F. Kennedy Conference Room, was a 5000 square-foot conference room and intelligence management center in the basement of the West Wing of the White House. Run by the National Security Council staff for the use of the President of the United States and his advisors, it was used to monitor and deal with crises at home and abroad. The room was equipped with secure, advanced communications equipment for the President to maintain command and control of U.S. forces around the world.

  “Yes, sir,” Raborn responded.

  “Thank you, Walt.” Hancock disconnected the call. He then spoke on the microphone to move the cavalcade to the White House. He needed to do something else too.

  He opened his social media account and wrote: “I strongly condemn the cowardly attacks on our people today.” And pressed the publish button.

  Chapter 20

  Union Square Park, Manhattan — New York

  Khalid and his partner emerged out of the public restroom with heavy rucksacks on their shoulders. Richard’s gaze had never left them from the moment they had emerged out in the open again. Their edgy body language and shifting gaze made Richard extremely uncomfortable. His eyebrows squinted with surprise. Something wasn’t right and he could sense that. He hastily combed the crowd for Lily. She wasn’t where his eyes had left her. He instinctively got up. He had to find her.

  Khalid and his partner, unaware of Richard’s movements, shifted the weight of the rucksack onto one shoulder while unzipping it. Their other hand reached inside the bag and emerged out holding an assault rifle.

  Despite the distance, Richard instantly recognized the weapon. He knew what it meant, yet he couldn’t believe that this was happening.

  The militants wasted no time opening fire. Shooting from the hip, targeting the crowd in precise controlled bursts while moving in opposite directions in a semi-circular arc. Their walk was confident and unhurried. Their targets were the thousands of hapless protesters and people who were in the park — men, women, and children.

  The other three pairs were already in position. Their rucksacks open. Weapons out.

  Seven of the city law enforcement officers were leisurely observing the gathering when they overheard the first burst of shots to their right. They instinctively turned and saw two twenty-something active shooters with assault rifles firing at the crowd. Seven 9mm semi-automatic SIG Sauer P226s instinctively popped from holsters.

  What they didn’t realize was that they were not dealing with just two shooters. Another pair of shooters, covering the Union Square West, were keenly eyeing the officers. As soon as they saw the seven men getting ready for some action, without second thoughts, two suppressed barrels turned towards the uniforms. The barrels breathed forty rounds in the next few seconds. The first twenty hit four out of the seven officers squarely on their chest, rib cage and face. Dead before they knew it. The three others took cover behind the nearest stationary vehicles. The barrels moved with them and the next twenty bullets pierced the steel sheath of the cars, but the officers were still safe. They quickly understood one thing, these kids were not just some amateur school shooters. They needed immediate backup.

  One of the three officers took out his radio and yelled, “Multiple active shooters at Union Square Park. Heavy casualties. Shooters are armed with assault rifles, possibly AK-47s.”

  Another duo covering the North flank saw the three uniforms taking cover behind vehicles from the bullets coming down from the West. They both looked at each other and without exchanging a word, aimed their Kalashnikovs at their new targets. With their backs exposed, the three officers were sitting ducks for this duo. The guns blazed and the three officers’ bloodied bodies hit the ground limply.

  At the Union Square Park, the chaos was maddening. Men, women, the elderly and children ran in every direction for cover. It was screaming madness. The cries of fear, helplessness, and pain sounded as if someone was pouring molten lava into one’s ears. But what the ones running away did not know was that they were running from one shooting pair only to get in the zone of the next shooter duo.

  No one knew who the shooters were or why they were shooting mad.

  Even before the first shot was fired, Richard’s primal instincts had been to get to safety, but his love for Lily made him run to find her first. But he could not fight the rising wave of a maddened crowd. He got kicked in the gut and another kick crushed his knee. The blows were unexpected, and he hit the ground hard. As soon as he touched the ground, five people tumbled over him like falling pins. A barrage of bullets whooshed over. He didn’t realize it at that time but the five people who fell on him were all dead. And with that they crushed every hope of his finding Lily. A few feet away from him, a pregnant woman squealed for help. Richard could see the blood on her maxi dress, but he was helplessly stuck. He looked at her with whatever degree he could manage to lift his head up. Their eyes met, and a bullet blasted through her skull.

  The shooter’s laugh ricocheted in the air. Richard suppressed his screams, digging his face into the dirt, hoping that he was invisible from the shooter’s gaze. It was primal instinct at play. Self-preservation. Thinking about his family and Lily, his tears kept disappearing in dirt and blood.

  Nine minutes.

  Nine minutes later, the shooting paused.

  Nine minutes later, the place was buzzing with the ghastly silence of the dead. The eight militants remained unconquered. The stillness was occasionally interrupted by weak cries for help from the survivors among the knots of bloody, mangled bodies and were instantly silenced by a bullet.

  The shooters didn’t care how many were dead or still breathing but one look at the massacre, and they knew they had made Yasin proud. The first leg of the mission was complete, and they needed to move on to the next. Khalid checked the time and tried to imagine the situation in other cities but then he jerked the thought out of his head. They had to stay alive to complete the next step of the mission and he had to make sure of that. He heard multiple police sirens screeching at a distance, cruisers racing towards the crime scene with urgency.

  Khalid looked at the others and flicked his right hand. It was time to move. The nearby area had been deserted barring a few moving vehicles whose drivers didn’t get the time to navigate to safety. The shooters fired at the few moving vehicles, but then they didn’t want to waste much of their ammo on something that would not have the intended effect. Instead, they sprinted towards First Avenue. Their new target was the Bellevue Hospital Center, a mere one and a half miles away from Union Square. At the entrance, they saw a moving ambulance and shot three rounds. The driver wasn’t prepared for an assault and lost control of the van. The vehicle rammed into the hospital’s gates. The four unarmed security guards watched it unfolding and immediately sprang into action, shutting the hospital’s doors, but Khalid foiled their plan with twenty rounds of lead.

  Four more dead bodies at the gates. Though the hospital staff had already been alerted by the NYPD control room, they hadn’t had much time to prepare themselves. Now the fight was at their door and they literally froze as the gunmen stormed into the hospital. One of the staff switched off the main light switch. Others started to lock down the wards to protect over fifteen hundred frightened patients.

  Chapter 21

  Farmer’s Terminal Market, Philadelphia

  Mary was waiting for Stan when she heard the shots. Stan was still not back from the restroom. She saw people running in her direction. In a momentary
confusion she looked around and saw that four men with guns were shooting with blinding rage at the crowd.

  She got up from her chair as fast as her arthritis-weakened knees allowed her, her gaze fixed in the direction of the restrooms. But in the maddening rush of people, she could see no faces, only bodies rushing to get to safety.

  She heard an approaching scream and located it a second too late. A man was rushing towards her. Behind him was a shooter who had just opened fire in the running man’s direction. The bullets leaped towards the man’s spine. Mary shifted her gaze back to the man’s face and saw his expression freeze. His moving body jerked forward, and he lost his balance. Before Mary could understand anything, she was falling on her back along with the deadweight of that body. She hit the floor hard and a burning wave swelled through her spine. Her head hit the floor and bounced back. The concrete floor beneath her skull had started to get red. She fought hard against the blackness, but her weak body had already lost the battle. As she slowly slipped into darkness, all she could think of was Stan.

  Lead rained through the market aisles from eight assault rifles from every exit point. The shooters moved forward, inch-by-inch, tightening the circle.

  Stan was splashing water on his face when he heard the first couple of rounds and his first trained instinct was to duck. The sound was dreadful because he knew where it was coming from. His mom was out there waiting for him and his mind immediately wondered about her safety. His right hand went for his hidden leg-strap; his trusted SIG was there. He checked the magazines. Only one. Twenty rounds. No backup. That’s all he had. He hadn’t come here ready to face a full-blown terrorist attack.

  He focused on the sounds outside and closed his eyes for a moment. Amidst the screams, he could hear something revealing. There was method in this madness. Focused short bursts. The consistent gap, between each fire. There were four distinct sounds frequencies. He couldn’t determine how many shooters were outside, but the shots were coming from four directions. If he imagined it as a tight square, then the shooters were at the four corners of that square. He checked his phone to see any news about the shooting to help him ascertain the number of shooters. There was none.

  He looked around and found the stall doors shut. People who were inside had probably heard the gunshots too and decided to stay where they were. Stan could do it too, stay in the safety of the restroom and wait for the massacre to stop but his instincts weren’t going to allow him to go for that option. The biggest reason was the people outside, including his mom, facing bullets for no fault of their own.

  In his crouched position he quickly covered the distance to the door. He pushed it open and immediately thanked the maintenance team for doing their jobs diligently. The door had made no sound. From the sliced vision, the first thing he noticed was the floor’s color. As far as he could see, there was only red. He had no idea if any of the shooters were right outside the restroom. The shots were still raining down. Stan decided to get out. There was no point waiting for everything to be over. The attack was sudden, and he had doubts if anyone would have the firepower or the skills to stop the perpetrators.

  The men’s restroom’s door faced the women’s restroom and the passageway opened into a small foyer just as in the letter “T”. The middle of the passage had space to get back into the market. Stan slowly crawled out of the men’s restroom without opening the door fully.

  Once he was out of the restroom, he saw a shop’s steel counter. His truncated view showed the counter to be deserted. He trod cautiously forward and found an elderly man’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. The man was possibly the owner of that counter. A gasp left Stan’s mouth. He felt the pressure building up in his chest. These were the butterflies of mortal combat. He took a deep breath to control the adrenaline rush. It was necessary to get his focus on to the most vital task — of containing the attack.

  He hoped to locate the shooters quickly, but before that, he had to find a solid cover. With no bulletproof vest to protect him, he knew that his success rate hovered in the negative territory. A SIG was no match for assault rifles. If the shooters got their eyes on him before he could spot them, the consequence would be definite death.

  He carefully slithered forward in the foyer and slowly the passage started to reveal itself. From the corner of his eye, he also kept checking the women’s restroom’s door. He didn’t want any surprises. Despite the chaos, the passage was untouched.

  Soon another pair of lifeless eyes found him and then he met the third, the fourth, the fifth, and after a point, he had to stop counting. Amidst this, his gaze landed at a spot. A perfect cover. The only issue was that it was ten to fifteen yards away from where he was right then. The pathway to it was laid out in the open, but he had to take that risk. Bending forward he checked the passage one last time before taking the plunge. Luckily, there wasn’t a single living soul lurking in the passage.

  Cowering, Stan hurried towards the spot, his eyes darting from corner to corner to spot any danger. Fortunately, he found nothing.

  Once behind the marked thick steel counter, he sat in a squat position among multiple dead bodies. The shooting had subsided but he could still hear an occasional burst of shots followed by shrieks of pain. He utilized the next few seconds to adjust to his new surroundings while scrutinizing them. The counter had an empty man-sized steel cabinet built to store unused containers, and it was unlocked.

  He was still busy thinking of his next steps when two pairs of faint footsteps grabbed his attention. There was someone on the other side of the counter. Stan looked up and immediately found comfort in the height of the counter.

  He sat still as one of the shooters thumped the counter with his hand, but the counter didn’t budge. Its legs were latched onto the floor with some solid screws. Stan took the benefit of the thumping sounds to swiftly crawl inside the unlocked steel cabinet and close it.

  Stan sat alert with his SIG ready to shoot anyone try opening the cabinet’s door, but no one did. Maybe the shooter didn’t know that counters had cabinets.

  Sitting inside, he cocked his ears to identify the position of the shooters. Following the sound of the footsteps, he figured that no shooter was near the counter now. He slowly got out, his back against the steel wall of the counter, intently listening to the sound of footsteps. The shooters walked slowly, with the measured steps of predators looking for their prey. Stan moved with them on his side of the counter.

  The edge of a gray rucksack emerged first, followed by the whole bag, hanging on a man’s shoulder and partially open to easy access. The terrorist’s back was towards Stan, but he wasn’t alone. Another militant, scanning the other side, walked a couple of steps in front of him. They were the ones who had probably checked this side of the counter and had found no one.

  The partially undone bag gave Stan the glimpse of the preparedness of these men. Discovering the arsenal engulfed him with a sense of unease but then something captured his imagination. Hand grenades.

  There was a way, and he knew how it could be accomplished. He waited for the shooter to pause while he moved his gun from his right to his left. As soon as the man stopped, Stan carefully put his right hand inside the bag. His fingers wrapped around one of the grenades. Without drawing his hand out, he plucked the safety pin. He then left the active grenade in the bag and carefully drew his hand out. The shooter, unaware of this, walked further, following his partner in the lead. Stan retreated behind the counter. He had six seconds to get himself to safety.

  One, Two.

  He decided to get inside the cabinet, holding its door from the inside.

  Three, Four.

  The two terrorists walked closer to the next shooter duo lurking not far from them. They were busy checking every aisle on their side and happy that as far as they could see the aisles had only dead bodies.

  Five. Six.

  What Stan didn’t know was that the haversack did not only have grenades. In a matter of seconds, the grenade blast combined wi
th the RDX blew everything to pieces in its vicinity and almost made the high ceiling of the market, redundant. The building wasn’t built to withstand such an intense blast, and neither were the bodies of the four militants. Rubble, shards, and shrapnel flew in every direction and caught the other terrorists off guard. Stan being closer to the attack felt the blow too despite being inside the steel cabinet. He had never expected the blast to be of this power and without the steel wall protecting him, he’d have suffered the same fate as of his enemies.

  Inside the cabinet, he couldn’t even imagine what had happened to the militants. A large portion of steel counter was blown away by the impact, but the rest of it remained grounded due to its nailed legs that held it together. The blast waves made Stan hit the steel wall with an intensity that almost made his left shoulder dislocate. The loosely held doors of the cabinet gave way and unbolted with a loud thud. The massive blast caused his ears to ring and his body shuddered involuntarily. Despite this, he didn’t lose the grip of his SIG. It was the only thing that would keep him away from his death.