by Brent Towns
The deck shifted again.
“Just smoke the son of a bitch and let’s get out of here,” Brick urged. “This boat is going down fast.”
“We need information,” Traynor said. “We have to stop the attack.”
“You will get nothing from me,” Johnny vowed. “And you will stop nothing.”
“See?” Brick said. “He ain’t gonna tell you jack.”
It was true, Traynor realized. Johnny’s bowels had been blown apart, and shock had already begun to numb his pain. The man was a zealot, perfectly willing to die for his cause and become a martyr. Nothing else Traynor could do to him would overcome that. Johnny Jihad would rather suffer a slow, agonizing death than tell them how to stop the attack on One Police Plaza.
Enough screwing around, Traynor decided.
“You know what? You’re right,” he rasped. “Allahu Akbar, asshole.” He pulled the trigger and put a bullet between Johnny’s eyes, blowing his brains out all over the scorched wall behind him. From houseboat to hell in a single heartbeat.
“Grab everything you can,” Traynor said to Brick, “and let’s get out of here.”
“Now you’re talking.”
As Brick gathered up evidence, Traynor pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the dead terrorist. Much like Bin Laden’s much-ballyhooed killing, Traynor seriously doubted the public would ever actually see the corpse of Johnny Jihad, but he knew the President would require proof before he announced to America that the terrorist was dead. He sent the photo to headquarters. They would get it where it needed to go.
He slid the phone into his pocket and turned to see Brick staring at some documents. “What’s the matter?”
“Shit,” Brick said. “I think I know how the strike on One Police Plaza is going down.”
Traynor took a look. “Yeah, I’d say ‘shit’ about covers it. Let’s get out of here. We need to call Thurston ASAP.”
Traynor was glad their phones were waterproof, because with the stern of the boat now underwater, they were going to have to swim to get off the sinking vessel.
As he and Brick climbed out of the river and up onto the dock, Brick said, “The guy had an RPG, man. What the hell is a terrorist doing with an RPG on a damn houseboat?”
Traynor saw people staring at them from a distance. Trying to act nonchalant was a waste of time, given that they had just emerged dripping wet from a sinking boat that had been the scene of a gunfight and an explosion.
“Who knows?” Traynor said. “Maybe he was worried about Somalian pirates or something.”
“We’re in New Jersey, not Somalia.”
“Not a whole lot of difference.”
“We’re gonna go viral.” Brick pointed at the rubberneckers who had their phones out, recording for imminent YouTube uploads.
“Everyone gets their fifteen minutes,” Traynor said. “Maybe it’s just our turn.”
“We’re a covert task force,” Brick replied. “The morning news is not where they want our ugly mugs.”
“Nothing we can do about it,” Traynor said. “Besides, who you calling ugly? I consider myself to be rather dashing.” He shook the water off his phone and called HQ.
Brooklyn, New York
Ken Liddleman—dubbed “Little Man” by his patrol partner, thanks to the unfortunate combination of his last name and below-average height of just five foot three—had been policing the streets of New York City for nearly eleven years now. His partner, Monty Preston, had been on the beat for just under ten years. In their two decades of combined experience, they had seen things they would never forget.
They had been paired up for the last four years, starting out on the zombie shift before making the move to days a year ago. Neither of them missed working nights. Sure, bad stuff happened during the daylight hours, but there was more nightmare fuel once the sun went down.
Ken took a long gulp of coffee—sugar, no cream—and let out a long, tired sigh, hoping the caffeine would combat his weariness. Next to him, Monty chugged down a Red Bull for the same reason. They had been working damn near around the clock since the terrorist attacks and sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll.
As if on cue, Monty let out a jaw-stretching yawn. “Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head to clear away the fog. “I want my wife for, like, two minutes, and then I want to hit the sack for at least twelve hours.”
Ken yawned in sympathy. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”
Monty feigned indignation. “Did you just say you want my wife?”
Ken chuckled. “Nah, man, I’m too tired to give it to your wife. I’ll settle for the sleep.”
“So now Rachel’s not good enough for you? Screw you, Little Man.”
Ken chuckled again. “Monty, no girl wants to be with a guy called ‘Little Man,’ if you catch my drift.’
“Rachel says size doesn’t matter.”
“That’s what all the girls say to the guys with small dicks.”
They were parked just off the Brooklyn Bridge approach ramp on the Brooklyn side, taking a break. With a lot of businesses shuttered due to the terror attacks, looting was a major problem. They had made three arrests already today. Now, with shift change just an hour away, it was time to kick back and catch a breather. They would have eight hours off to see their families, grab some sleep, and be back in at midnight to pull another double.
“How’s the baby doing?” Ken asked. Monty had a four-month-old daughter.
“Good,” his partner replied. “Though at the rate we’re going, by the time I see her again, she’ll probably be graduating from college.”
“Well, look on the bright side, with all the mandatory OT we’re raking in, you’ll be able to afford her wedding pretty soon.”
Monty set his can of Red Bull up on the dash and pointed at two men crossing the street toward them. “Heads up. Looks like company coming.”
Ken turned and studied the pair as they approached. Young men, early to mid-twenties, wearing dress jeans and casual sports coats. Probably worked for one of those hip new companies that had a relaxed, modernized version of casual business attire. They both smiled as they walked up to the patrol car. One of them tapped on the window.
Ken rolled the window down halfway. “Howdy, folks. What can we do for you?”
“Hello,” the man said. “My name is Paul.” He gestured toward his companion, who stood just behind him, hands in the pockets of his sports jacket. “That’s Rick. We’re trying to find One Police Plaza and were hoping you could help us out.”
“Sure, no problem.” Ken pointed at the approach ramp. “Take the bridge. It’s a little over a mile walk.”
“A mile?” Paul seemed surprised. “Bit far, huh?”
“Little bit,” Ken agreed. “But not too bad.”
“Any chance you could give us a ride?”
Ken turned and gave Monty a look, eyebrows raised. You didn’t hear that question every day. Chuckling, he turned back to Paul. “Sorry, fella, but we’re a patrol car, not an Uber.”
Paul’s smile never wavered. “Sure, I understand. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
“Oh, but there is.” Paul stepped aside as Rick whipped a .22 semi-automatic pistol from his coat pocket and put two rounds into Ken’s forehead.
Monty snarled a curse and tried to drag his sidearm from its holster, already knowing he wasn’t going to make it. He thought of his wife holding their baby girl in his final second of life before the bullets tore into his skull.
Team Reaper Headquarters
Thurston got off the phone with Traynor and immediately called General Jones. He answered on the third ring and immediately said, “Be advised, Mary, I’m with the President.”
“Perfect, put me on speaker.”
A brief pause, then: “Go ahead, Mary. We can both hear you.”
“Johnny Jihad is dead.”
“Oh, thank God,” President Carter said.
“One hundred percent confirmed?
” Jones asked.
“Slick is sending you the photos right now.” She snapped her fingers at the computer wizard, who nodded.
“Excellent.”
“But there’s another problem,” Thurston said.
“What’s that?”
“We think there’s going to be an attack on One Police Plaza in New York City today.”
“How sure are you?”
“Not one hundred percent, but pretty sure.”
Jones got right down to business. “Tell me what you need.”
“Can you scramble a chopper out of McGuire to pick up Reaper Five and Bravo Two at the marina?”
“You’re thinking of neutralizing the threat from the air?”
“Unless you’ve got a better play.”
“No, that’s as good a plan as any. I’ll send a couple of Apaches to give your boys a lift. If we can identify the target, or targets, we’ll blow them to hell and back.”
“We also need to evacuate One Police Plaza ASAP, and as much of the surrounding area as you can.”
“I’ll make the call as soon as we hang up.”
“Then I won’t keep you. Just one more thing.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to put Bravo Two in touch with the commanding officers of the Manhattan North and South Boroughs and tell them to follow his instructions.”
“I’ll make that happen as soon as the chopper picks him up.”
“Copy that.”
“Thurston?” President Carter said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell your team I said nice work.”
“Thank you, sir. But we’re not done yet.”
New Jersey / New York
The rubberneckers whipped out their cell phones again when the two Apache gunships landed in the marina parking lot, whipping up clouds of dust like a Saudi Arabian sandstorm.
As soon as Traynor climbed into the Boeing AH-64’s cockpit and settled into the gunner’s chair, he put on the helmet and almost immediately heard the pilot’s voice coming through the com. “I’ve been told your call-sign is Bravo Two and your buddy is Reaper Five. You can call me Deadshot. The other pilot goes by Gator, on account he’s a Cajun boy. Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Traynor said as he buckled up. “Why do they call you Deadshot?”
“Because whatever I shoot at gets dead,” came the chuckled reply.
“With Hellfires and a chain gun, they damn well better,” Traynor said. “You’ve been briefed on the mission?”
“Ten-four. Stop a terrorist attack on One Police Plaza. Just give me and Gator a target, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“Working on it.”
As they lifted off, Deadshot said, “Fifteen minutes to Manhattan. Meanwhile, I’m patching a call through to you.”
“Copy that.”
A moment later a new voice came through the com. “Bravo Two, this is Assistant Chief Steven O’Reilly, Commanding Office of the Manhattan South Patrol Borough. I’ve got Assistant Chief Jeffrey Hughes with me, from Manhattan North. Some very important people ordered us to get in touch with you and follow your instructions. What have you got for us?”
Traynor said, “Cutting right to the chase, gentlemen, One Police Plaza has been targeted for a terror strike.”
“So we’ve been told. Evacuation procedures have been initiated.”
“Good.”
“Any idea what shape the attack will take?” Hughes asked.
“Affirmative,” Traynor replied. “A car bomb. They used Semtex on the cruise ship and church, so we’re guessing more of the same here.”
“There’s no way to just drive a car up to 1PP,” O’Reilly said. “We planned for that when we built the place. There are barriers everywhere.”
“Civilian vehicles, maybe,” Traynor responded. “But what about police cars?”
The radio silence let him know he now had their full attention as the ramifications hit home.
“My God,” O’Reilly finally said. “They could just drive right in, and we wouldn’t bat an eye.”
“What do you need from us, Bravo Two?” Hughes asked.
“The documents we seized from the terrorists indicated they planned on hijacking a police cruiser. Do you have a way to contact all your patrol units at the same time?”
“Affirmative.”
“Send every squad car within a mile radius to some emergency. Make one up, an all-hands-on-deck scenario. Tell them there’s been another terrorist attack for all I care. Just get them going away from 1PP. The car that keeps rolling toward 1PP will be our bomber. We’ll take them out from the air.”
“Roger that,” Hughes said. “We’ll do it now.”
“Wait ten minutes,” Traynor replied. “We need to be in position when you make the call.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks, gentlemen. Bravo Two out.”
As the Apaches soared through the air like steel dragons, powered to over 200 mph by their twin turboshafts, the New York City skyline appeared in the distance. Traynor briefly thought about Mike Reardon, laid up in a hospital bed. He wondered if Omega would even bother to return to finish the job now that the DEA-cartel alliance had been crushed. Hopefully the assassin would just fade into the shadows and never resurface, happy to have survived the Reaper blitz, and just leave Mike and Jeremy to live their lives in peace.
The pilot’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Deadshot to Bravo Two, you awake up there?”
“Just enjoying the scenery. Something on your mind?”
“Couldn’t help but overhear your little chat. You say we’re dealing with Semtex?”
“Not sure, but that’s our best guess.”
“That could be a problem,” Deadshot said. “Because when we find that car, we’re gonna shred it with the chainguns.”
Traynor caught on immediately. “You’re worried the Semtex will blow.”
“We hit one of the detonators, and it’s gonna be big-bang time.”
“Chance we’ll have to take,” Traynor said. “They’re gonna blow it up anyway, so we might as well take a shot at stopping them.”
“Your call, Bravo Two. Just wanted to point out the risk.”
Minutes later, they thundered across the Hudson River and entered the airspace over Manhattan. As they banked around the skyscrapers and peered down into the concrete canyons, they saw dozens of police cars, lights flashing, tearing down the city streets.
“There go the good guys,” Traynor said, not happy about having to send the boys in blue on a wild goose chase, but knowing it was the right play. He doubted there was a cop down there that wouldn’t understand once it was explained to them. “Now let’s find our bad boys.”
Brooklyn, New York
Paul and Rick stripped the police officer’s uniforms off their bodies, then managed to stuff the corpses in the trunk. On a normal day, this would have been impossible to accomplish without witnesses, but the series of attacks had left the city streets a ghost town. Those that could flee to safer parts had done so; those that could not had hunkered down in their homes and apartments to ride out the storm of violence.
Inside the trunk, they found duffel bags containing various police-related supplies, including lightweight jackets with POLICE emblazoned across the back in reflective lettering. These served perfectly to conceal the suicide vests they wore, each bearing five pounds of Semtex. They would insert the detonators at the last minute. No point in risking an accidental detonation while they were rolling to the target.
Their plan was to drive right up to One Police Plaza and walk inside, using the officers’ guns to shoot their way as far into the heart of the building as they could before detonating the explosives, killing scores of infidels, and earning their passage to paradise. If the rumors of virgins were true, so much the better. Once Paul and Rick got there, those virgins wouldn’t remain virginal for long.
As they settled back into the police cruiser, they turned off the radio t
hirty seconds before a high priority call went out dispatching all units to an active shooter situation. They didn’t want the distraction of radio chatter as they prayed their final prayers, begging Allah to honor their sacrifice and welcome them home.
Prayers completed and souls ready for their final mission, Paul put the cruiser in gear and merged onto the approach for the Brooklyn Bridge. There was almost no traffic on the bridge to impede their progress, but Paul hit the lights and siren anyway. With the siren’s banshee wail for a soundtrack, they sped toward their date with martyrdom.
As the Apaches circled above the city like giant birds of prey, it was Brick who spotted the cruiser. “Reaper Five to all call signs, suspect spotted. Brooklyn Bridge.”
Deadshot immediately banked his gunship toward the iconic landmark. Out his window, Traynor saw the police cruiser nearing the middle of the bridge, lights flashing.
The other Apache was closer. “Bravo Two to Gator, you need to stop that car.”
“Roger that, Bravo Two.”
The Apache reached the bridge in mere seconds. It swung around and dropped down to block the incoming police cruiser. Traynor knew the 30mm M230 chainguns were slaved to Gator and Deadshot’s helmets using the Integrated Helmet and Display Sighting System, meaning the weapons would track the pilots’ head movements and point wherever they looked. Traynor had no doubt Gator’s M230 was aimed right at the squad car, which had screeched to a halt to avoid ramming nose-first into the assault chopper.
“Gator to Bravo Two, this is your party. Want me to light ’em up?”
“Negative, Gator. Not until we’re sure those are the bogeys and not just some boys in blue taking the scenic route.”
The police cruiser slammed into reverse, smoking the rear tires and leaving behind strips of rubber.
“Bravo Two to Deadshot, cut him off.”
“Thought you might say that.” Deadshot brought the Apache around and dropped into position behind the reversing cruiser.
