“The President sent me in here to deal with your level one threat,” General Mason begins with a smirk, “but I can take care of your sorry as too. How have you been, old friend?”
“I have been nearly dead.” Henri says, sitting up with a sober expression, looking squarely at General Mason. “That man is more dangerous than I ever gave him credit for… and I gave him a lot of credit before this most recent attack.”
“We have good news for you then,” General Mason replies with a smile, “the tracker that Maxwell found on Devlin’s dog is active, and we’ve traced him to a mall just outside of Chicago.”
“I’ll be dammed,” Henri says with a slight grin, “Devlin still has a compulsion to go shopping when he feels a lot of pressure. He’s got some weird, posttraumatic stress- deal that can only be calmed down by spending money on expensive clothes… How are you going to take him down?”
“No worries,” The General says with a reassuring expression, “I have a very large team, and they’re almost the best we have for a domestic terrorist like this one.”
The Mall
Devlin struts through the mall with his ‘service dog’ as he looks for new and expensive outfits to quench his desire for extravagant spending. He already has changed out of his street clothing into a new Armani jacket that makes him feel like a Bond villain. His mind is racked with the pressure of having taken down several of his fellow agents these past few days, and the shopping keeps him moving and feeling normal. Gloria trots along obediently in front of him, her wagging tail reminding him to be strong no matter what happens. As they pass through the various shops, he is able to get a comfy pair of designer shoes in the black Italian leather that he loves. These shoes compliment his casual dinner jacket with its gray microfibers and distinctive, soft interior fabric.
As Devlin walks out of the Sunglass Hut with a new pair of Oakley shades on his head, he notices that Gloria has picked up a scent, and is pulling at her leash for him to follow. He becomes immediately paranoid, remembering that the dog only behaves this way when she is certain to have smelled some type of explosive material. Devlin allows Gloria to lead him through the south corridor of the mall, moving briskly across the glossy, black and white flooring designed to keep shoppers enchanted and in a buying mood. He watches the stores for suspicious movements, careful not to give away his position by seeming too anxious.
Devlin is amazed when the dog quickens her pace, apparently following a young man with long brunette hair and a loose-fitting, blue fleece jacket. As they approach the man, Devlin begins to look him over suspiciously, but the dog moves past him, trotting around to his right. Gloria leads Devlin to an opening in the crowd where an older man is talking on a cell phone. This man is easily in his late fifties, appearing more interested in his phone conversation and the leather jackets on display in front of him. He has a large, silver shopping bag dangling from his left wrist, which bears the logo of a popular clothing store. Gloria walks up behind the older man and sits down on the shiny black, laminated floor, keeping her nose pointed toward his back.
Devlin looks the man over carefully, uncertain of what to do next. The older guy expresses himself in a manner that is sweet and homely; he doesn’t fit the profile of an agency asset, but the dog is certain that he has some type of explosive material. Devlin’s body begins to prepare for an assault, but his mind is exercising restraint, watching the delicate gestures of the man, and thinking that he could never be a killer. This man could be just another father out buying a birthday present, or he could be a dangerous CIA asset looking to kill him like the woman at the hotel. Beads of sweat form on Devlin’s brow as the preemptive guilt sets in. He pulls Gloria’s leash back, feeling certain that she has made a mistake and that all the different scents from the shops in this place have confused her senses.
To his astonishment, the dog pulls him back toward the man and sits down behind him again, indicating that he has explosives on his person.
“God forgive me!” Devlin says aloud as the man stops talking on his cell phone and turns halfway around to see who is behind him.
Devlin pulls the dog aside and, in a demonstration of ruthless, brute force, uses his left foot to kick the man square in the back, sending his body face first through the display window of the leather clothing store. After the man is down, he lets go of Gloria’s leash and carefully steps across the shards of broken glass to frisk him for weapons.
“Don’t move!” Devlin commands. “I have a pistol!”
Several shoppers are standing around watching this violent scene with amazement. A few of them have pulled out cell phone cameras to capture this moment for their family and friends. Devlin doesn’t feel anything unusual when frisking the man’s torso, and is about to walk away until he notices the gift bag tipped sideways on the floor. His instincts tell him that the solid shape bulging from the inside looks nothing like clothing. He uses the top of his expensive leather shoe to turn the bag upright on the floor, peering inside to see a submachine gun and two flashbangs.
“South corridor.” The man whispers into a receiver on his right hand while Devlin is distracted by the gift bag.
Devlin throws the submachine gun into the rafters, watching it disappear behind the support beams. With a fresh taste of anger for his enemy, he removes a flashbang from the bag, pulls the pin, and drops it next to the CIA agent in the display case. The moment this diversion device leaves his hand he grabs Gloria’s leash and starts to sprint through the mall. Within three seconds the device explodes, shattering windows within ten feet and setting off glass break detectors, which engage the blaring store alarms.
Gloria dips her head at the sound of the blast, giving off a high pitched whine as Devlin escorts her through the south corridor towards a large sporting goods store.
“Does anyone have eyes on Devlin?” Mason asks from his position in the food court.
“It looks like he may be in…” Maxwell pauses to look at the GPS data from the dog’s chip. “He’s either in: the department store, cell phone store, sporting goods store, or the Victoria’s Secret in the south corridor.”
“Master Sergeant Couture, are you all right? We heard an explosion.” General Mason inquires, waiting for a response.
“I can’t hear you very well; my ears are still ringing from that flashbang.” Sergeant Couture shouts into his headset; his face now scratched and bleeding from being kicked through the display window. “I’m going to pursue him in these shops nearby; will let you know what I find.”
“Sergeant Couture, please stand down and wait for backup!” Mason orders, holding for a response. “Couture, I said stand down and wait for fucking backup!”
The mall has become pandemonium. Most people were cleared out of the south corridor after the explosion, but there are a few shoppers running and screaming the names of their loved ones with cell phones pressed to their ears. Couture ignores Mason’s order, feeling the fresh sting of glass cuts all over his face and the front of his body. He retrieves his backup pistol from a leg holster, evading the screaming shoppers as they gain sight of his gun. Couture pulls off his jacket and uses it to wipe the blood from his face, then drops it lazily on the floor, allowing his arms to move freely. His body glides with powerful, stealthy steps as he enters the sporting goods store, keeping low to the ground and maneuvering around the perimeter to the left.
Couture slows his pace as he gets near the various racks of clothing amongst the vast array of sports merchandise. He kneels down, pausing to survey the weight and golf equipment at his right, deciding there are no places to hide in that area. His gaze moves upward to a loft where displays of hunting supplies and archery equipment are housed.
“We have visual of the security cameras.” Maxwell announces through his headset. “I don’t have eyes on Devlin yet.”
From his position on the west side of the store, Couture hears the slight grinding sound of something hard rolling back and forth near the area marked ‘employees only.’ He hunker
s down low, his tall frame close to the carpet, making his way to the display case where the guns are sold. As Couture rounds the corner, he notices that the glass has been smashed in at the center section of the case. With his pistol gripped tight in his right hand, he belly crawls near the front of the display case, stopping to listen for movement as he gets closer. The sound of a heavy pendulum smashing something ceramic has abated, but he remains silent, waiting to hear footsteps.
He raises his muscular frame somewhat to inspect the broken gun case, noticing that a few boxes of shotgun shells have been opened. There is a curious, colorful object in the back that doesn’t appear to belong. Sergeant Couture moves in closer to inspect the small, red and green items at the back of the case, noticing that it is merely a bag of fly fishing lures. As he identifies the lures, there is an immediate, suppressed sound of CO2 discharging in front of his face, and Couture is instantly blinded by a shot of ceramic powder.
“Oh my God, I can’t see. It hurts! IT BURNS!” Couture shouts into his headset. “I have glass in my eyes. I can’t see shit!”
In disbelief he grabs at his eyes with his free hand, feeling the fine shards glass scrape and cut the entire surface of his pupils. His breathing elevates as panic sets in, and he shakes his head from side-to-side like a wild animal. Couture hears movement to his left, turning suddenly with his pistol.
“Who the hell is that?” He asks in desperation.
He listens carefully, trying to ignore his pain as the sound of someone sprinting behind him registers. Couture opens fire in a vigorous melee, training his weapon aimlessly on the sound. After firing three shots, he hears two shots in response; one that misses and a second that tears through his left thigh muscle.
“Mason, I just shot Couture, he was firing blindly into the mall and almost hit us.” Agent Sampson relays into the headset as he approaches the blinded CIA agent. “It looks like a flesh wound, but he’ll live.”
“Any sign of Devlin?” General Mason asks. “We know he was in the sporting goods store a few seconds ago.
Two short bursts of gunfire explode systematically from underneath the racks of clothing. Agent Sampson and his partner drop to the ground with wounds to the neck, head, and arms. A single shot pierces the air in the opposite direction, and Sergeant Couture falls lifeless to the carpet. Devlin moves quickly to inspect Sampson’s body, removing a few select items and some tactical gear before bailing out of the store. He looks around for Gloria, but soon realizes that she fled during the barrage of the gunfire.
“Agent, Sampson, is there any sign of Devlin? Did you see a body?” Henri inquires eagerly through the headset from the safety of the OBDAT platform.
“I’m here, Henri,” Devlin replies coolly, speaking with labored breath as he moves through the mall, “mind and body still intact.”
“You know that you’re gonna’ die for what you did to us the other day?” Henri evokes with rhetorical pride.
“I know there’s a good chance that I’ll die today…” Devlin admits. “But you’ll be exposed one way or another. Every member of this task force should know that you like to take the virginity of young blind women.”
“Disregard all comments made by the target,” Mason chimes in quickly, “he is desperate to throw us off our mission. Keep searching the south corridor until you have him cornered. Maxwell, do you have eyes on him yet?”
Maxwell looks at the LCD screens from his position at the control panel of the OBDAT. He rubs the fresh dent in his head, running his fingers slowly over the damage in obscure, counterclockwise circles. His chest bears a flood of deep emotion; mostly the fresh wound after Henri bashed him in the head for making a mistake. He looks up at the screen, watching Devlin in the department store with unmistakable clarity. His eyes dart to the left watching a team of CIA agents closing in on the space. Maxwell places his fingertips together and closes his eyes, knowing that he has the power to trap Devlin and possibly end him right now.
“Yeah, I see him,” Maxwell responds slowly as he opens his eyes, “he’s moving between the cell phone store and the bathrooms.”
On the LCD display, Maxwell sees a smile form on Devlin’s face as he looks up at the camera with gratitude.
“That’s a choke point,” Henri says after a few seconds of examining the schematics of the mall, “don’t send your men in there, Mason.”
“We have him outnumbered seven to one, bearing down with superior firepower. Explain to me why we should stave off our attack?” General Mason asks with a genuine concern for the safety of his men.
“Mason, that’s a perfect operational choke point. The sonofabitch has made his career leveraging this type of scenario.” Henri replies with alarmed suspicion.
“All team members move in,” Mason orders, ignoring Henri’s theory, “seal him in, and take him down.”
“This is Sergeant Burke; I have eyes on the dog. She’s standing here alone.” The young Sergeant moves in close to the golden Labrador, visibly terrified and sweating from the anticipation of a gunfight with Devlin.
“That’s an ambush. Don’t go near the dog!” Henri warns in a motherly tone.
Sergeant Burke feels a sudden flash of panic and squeezes the trigger of his pistol, hitting the Labrador just below her left ear. The dog bolts upright at the dreaded stinging pain, yelping and trying to escape on the slick laminated flooring. Her body convulses twice before she drops lifeless in front of a large display window.
“The dog is down…” Sergeant Burke reports in a relieved fashion, hoping to draw Devlin out with this sacrifice.
“What the fuck are you doing!?” Henri scorns through his microphone. “That dog is a CIA asset; she was never a target!”
“Congressman Edwards, please remain silent on this channel until the operation is complete.” Mason orders with more than a hint of frustration. “All units move in on the hallway with teargas and flashbangs… smoke him out.”
A team of seven men converges on the hallway in advance of the restrooms, each of them wearing clear, plastic gas masks. They file in slowly, four men on the left and three on the right. As they open the double doors, the large white hallway is exposed, about eight feet wide with plain white walls and cheap eggshell tiles. They maintain their formation, stepping into the entrance of the hallway with the faces of proud hunters. The men in front kneel down to toss flashbangs and teargas canisters towards the far end of the structure. Meanwhile their colleagues cover them from behind with submachine guns in a standing position.
Amidst the array of flashbangs and billowing smoke at the far end of the hall, a more faint sound emerges from behind the counterinsurgency unit. Within seconds, a small, black metal box slides across the floor between the two teams of men, appearing deadly with red and blue wires protruding from the ends.
“We have a device! Get cover!” One of the men shouts from his standing position.
Both teams begin to scurry forward in the hallway to escape the blast radius of the device, moving almost over the top of one another as they go. From the entrance of the hallway, behind the seven men, Devlin appears holding a pump-action shotgun. He fires in quick succession, taking down one team member after another as they stumble toward the smoke with their backs to him. The men scream in terror as they find themselves caught between their own diversion and a volley of shotgun fire.
Devlin drops the shotgun after all of the rounds are spent and maneuvers quietly to where the panicked crowd has gathered outside the mall. He makes an effort to conceal his perspiration and rage, trying to blend in with the people and fade back into anonymity.
“This is Razor,” a young Chinese agent says to Maxwell through a private intercom connected to the OBDAT, “I’m following Devlin away from the building.”
“Stay on him, Razor,” Maxwell instructs, “and keep your distance. Don’t communicate on the main channel, he is listening, and so is Mason. We’ll give you further instructions soon.”
“Good work, Maxwell! I don’t want Mason
capturing our guy; we’ll deal with him our way.” Henri says with a serious expression, watching Maxwell closely from his seat at the center of the OBDAT. “You confirmed that the dog is dead and Mason won’t be able to track her anymore?”
“Yes, the dog is dead; I talked to Burke before they went out.” Maxwell replies, looking down at the servers below the OBDAT platform. “What if Mason figures out that we screwed his op?” He asks with a concerned stare, rubbing his bald head nervously near the fresh wound.
“We warned him about the choke point, didn’t we? …Now Devlin thinks you’re a friend, which makes him vulnerable.” Henri says with satisfaction. “Get Lorabell on the phone, I’d like to see her in the OBDAT as soon as possible.”
Devlin’s Neighborhood - Chicago
‘The dog is down.’ This statement echoes in Devlin’s mind, haunting him as he makes his way back to the duplex he rented a few days ago. No more credit cards or snooping hotel managers, just one rental payment a month to run this vengeful operation as he pleases.
She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) Page 18
