He approached the door where the sound came from. There were no other sounds from the building, not on the first floor, nor on the second. He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He eased the door open partway, and it was just like entering the office at the municipal airport. The room stank of urine, excrement, and vomit.
Garcia and his wife and baby were cuddled in the near corner against the wall near the front window. The heater unit was set to low and the room was marginally warmer than outside. The young man leaned up against the wall and his wife lay across his lap holding the baby. They were all silent and unmoving.
All of the Chapman family except Tony lay sprawled across the tiny bed. The teen sat on the floor at the foot of the bed with his upper body parked against the mattress. Anita Chapman’s legs hung over the side of the bed, and Tony had wrapped his arms around her legs so he wouldn’t fall over. Though unconscious, he still held the MP5 in his grasp. The rest of his family was unconscious also.
Lenore Cummings and her daughter were huddled together in a corner on the far side of the bed. There were half a dozen empty wrappers from MREs and candy bars piled around them, along with empty sixteen-ounce water bottles. A small number of unopened water bottles and meals sat beside Lenore, who had propped herself in the corner against both walls so she wouldn’t fall over. Lenore must have seen the progression of symptoms the others had suffered and tried to prepare her space so that she’d have supplies at hand for when she was too sick to move around. Her daughter lay sprawled across her lap.
Lenore’s eyes were open and she was watching the door open. When she saw him, she brightened for just a moment, but that seemed all the energy she could muster. She had the TV remote in her side and he guessed she had turned up the TV so he’d hear it. Her service gun was at her side also, but he suspected she was too weak to use it.
Carl slipped inside and closed the door behind him, then turned off the heater and TV and went over to Lenore. It looked like the virus had taken everyone down quickly. It was pretty clear they hadn’t moved for many hours, unable to eat or drink.
He opened the case and withdrew two vials. He injected Lenore and Lisette, then patiently tried to feed Lenore water. Most of the water dribbled out of her mouth and down the front of her shirt, but she managed to swallow some. When he pulled Lisette into his lap, he was surprised to see her eyes were open. He cradled the girl against his chest and she watched him as he held the water bottle to her lips. The girl choked and coughed for a moment, then he gave her some more. She continued to watch him and suddenly his own eyes rimmed with tears and he was overcome by a wave of shame.
Carl felt the hot water running down his cheeks as the events of the week flashed through his mind.
“Baby-girl, I’m so sorry for what I did to you.” He took a deep breath and bit down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling. His words came out as a hoarse whisper. “Please forgive me.”
Lisette was too weak to say anything, so he kept feeding her water. Lenore found the strength to reach out and lay her hand on his forearm.
“Thank you,” she said.
Carl injected each member of the other families, but found one of the Chapman twin girls had died. Garcia’s wife and his child had also died. A cloud of sadness gripped his heart, and he stepped over to the window to gaze out at the silent parking lot. Central Avenue was completely devoid of traffic, but Carl still look around, waiting for something to happen.
He got drowsy and felt his eyelids drifting downward. He swayed on his feet and thought about sitting down, but he was afraid he would go to sleep. He was running on adrenaline after all the activity of the last two days, and he hadn’t been able to steal any naps. He was also hungry, but suddenly felt too tired to walk over and claim one of Cummings’s MRE packets. His reverie was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a powerful engine racing up Central Avenue, and he was instantly awake again. The sound stood out in an otherwise silent night, completely devoid of traffic sounds.
Chapter 56
1728 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque, NM
The Albuquerque field office of the FBI had exactly one tactical combat assault chopper in its inventory. In fact, it was a new addition on loan from the Denver office after last week’s substantial losses at the hands of the terrorist. Ed Murray himself had requisitioned the chopper because of its military-grade surveillance system. It carried low-light and infrared imaging systems.
The chopper was heavily armed, though that weaponry was limited in its use by federal antiterrorist rules of engagement that specified deployment in a domestic combat environment. The chopper had a laser designator for its mini-gun, and it possessed small armor-piercing missiles. It also had flack dispensers in case the terrorist’s mercenaries had black-market ground-to-air rockets at their disposal. The chopper was also armored against small-arms fire.
The jet-black aircraft, a civilian police variant of the army’s Blackhawk helicopter, flew over the empty ribbon of I-40, just high enough to avoid scraping its underbelly against the overpasses. The aircraft was in complete blackout mode. There were no navigation lights or anti-collision beacons anywhere on its surface. That would make it difficult to spot unless an observer was very close, but that was the purpose. Even the reflected radiance from the bright city lights was absorbed by the dull black surface of the aircraft.
Murray scanned the city below him as the chopper raced toward its destination. He’d never seen the streets of Albuquerque completely empty of all traffic, and the sight seemed surreal. That was due to the nationwide curfew ordered by the vice president, to contain the sporadic outbreaks of the virus, which Murray now knew were caused by the terrorist. The curfew seemed to stop the local spread of the contagion, though it was still unclear how many infected had traveled beyond New Mexico’s borders. Every now and again, Murray saw emergency vehicles with their flashing strobes, but those were the only vehicles allowed on the streets.
The pilot called out “thirty seconds” and a flush of trepidation swept through Murray’s body. He and the four SWAT officers accompanying him had trained back east with FBI special tactics teams, which included helicopter drop-offs into hot zones. None had actually done it in real combat. That was why he was caught completely off-guard at the sudden appearance of not one, but two, RPG exhaust trails streaking straight for him as the chopper banked over Cummings’s motel parking lot. The flare dispensers fired automatically, but the RPGs were moving fast and were too close when they exploded.
Murray heard clanging sounds that threatened to rupture his eardrums as weapons and ammunition cans and the very seats themselves were ripped from the bulkheads by the dual explosions. Then the chopper fell from the sky.
Chapter 57
1728 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque, NM
Carl watched the spectacle unfold and felt a twinge of sympathy for the federal agents. Just two minutes earlier he’d heard the big SUV drive past the motel and knew instantly it was the Unit. If it had been an FBI truck, it would have come straight to the motel.
When the chopper finally showed, he saw the multi-spectral surveillance pod hanging down from the nose of the chopper—he used to design military versions of those optical systems back in his air force days—and also saw a multi-barrel mini-gun protruding from its belly.
At least they’re trying to do it right this time.
The Unit assassins waited smartly until the chopper flared to land so that it wouldn’t be able to evade the missiles, but Carl was surprised when decoy flares exploded from the front and back of the chopper. They performed their function well, causing the missiles to veer away and explode in the clouds of aluminum strips, sparing the crew from instant death. But the double explosions expended tremendous energy against the rear of the helicopter. The first explosion literally knocked the chopper ninety degrees in mid-air until the cockpit was facing Carl’s room head-on. The second explosion flipped the tail up into the air until the top of the rotor assem
bly was facing Carl’s room.
The chopper dropped straight down the remaining thirty feet and hit the asphalt of the parking lot. It didn’t explode into flames, but the huge rotor assembly broke off and flashed away to Carl’s left with a clanging of metal as the blades ripped through a couple of parked cars. The fuselage simply fell over sideways.
Because the crash was so horrendously loud and violent, Carl at first thought no one could have survived. Even as he was about to close the door to his motel room, he saw a man in combat gear trying to crawl out of the wreckage. Carl ran out and grabbed the cop by his armored vest as the man tumbled to the ground and half-dragged him into the room.
He was about to go back again to see if anyone else had survived, but stopped suddenly at the chirping of tires on pavement and the roar of an overpowered engine. He quickly closed the room door. When he turned to face the cop he’d just dragged in, he saw the man was pointing a wicked black handgun at him.
Carl just looked at the man. “If you fire that thing, they’ll find us.”
“They’re coming here anyway!” he whispered harshly.
“No,” Carl said with a shake of his head. “They’re going to room one-twenty-nine.”
He nodded his head behind the cop and the man turned his head and saw a very tired-looking Agent Cummings gazing back at him. He lowered his gun.
“This was her idea,” Carl said. “She didn’t believe the Unit would let these people live even if they had me, and neither did I. And apparently, you got my message.”
Outside, World War Three erupted as the Unit men poured automatic rifle fire into the wrecked windows and doors of the chopper’s fuselage. The gunfire ceased, and after a few seconds someone yelled “fire in the hole!” A muffled explosion rattled the hotel room.
Carl stepped over to the window and peeked around the ratty old curtain. He realized then that the curtain was made of the same material as the bedspread. It was a thick, red flowery fabric. It was tattered and old and it smelled of years of fast food.
The Unit sent five men this time. After nuking the chopper wreckage, they crept toward room one-twenty-nine. At the leader’s hand signal, they rushed in. They literally exploded back out on the leading edge of the blast from one of Agent Palmer’s high-tech square grenades. He’d pulled the pin and propped it under the nightstand, which he’d maneuvered as close to the door as he could.
If the Unit men had gone in slowly, they would have easily seen the booby trap. They would have seen the doorjamb had already been kicked in. Carl had plenty of experience with cops and soldiers, and the Unit guys were no different. They went in fast and hard, with plenty of shock and awe.
Carl yanked his door open and followed the suppressor-clad barrel of his Glock like it was a part of his outstretched arms. All five of the Unit guys were sprawled on the asphalt. The three men closest to the door had literally been ripped apart by the blast. A fourth man lay upside-down on the hood of an old car. His neck was slashed open and blood dripped from the hood of the car to the ground.
The fifth man was still alive. He writhed in pain on his back and looked like he was trying to turn over onto his belly, maybe so he could crawl away or something. Carl walked over to him and knelt beside him. He watched him for a moment and the man lay on his back watching him.
“You know who I am?”
“Johnson,” the man said. “You’re Carl Johnson.”
“They’ve briefed you on what I’ve done? What I’m capable of doing?”
“Yes.”
The man grimaced in pain. Carl was surprised at how young the man was. He looked barely even twenty. He was a big kid with unruly, sandy hair. He wore no combat paint.
Carl placed the suppressor of his Glock against the man’s groin. “You realize I will have no problem blowing away your family jewels and leaving you like this, right?”
The young Unit man said nothing.
“Who is your boss?”
The young man grunted painfully. “Costas Drake.”
“Thank you.” Carl stood. There were many more questions he could have asked the man, but he knew the merc wouldn’t have the answers to strategic questions and wouldn’t get Carl closer to the vice president. “Women and children?” he said to the wounded man. “Not cool.” He shot the man in the face, then went back to Cummings’s room and the group of barely alive people. He cast his gaze upon the wounded tactical officer. In that moment, he knew how he was going to get the FBI to listen to him and save the president.
“Let’s go for a ride, Mister.”
Chapter 58
1830 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque, NM
It took Carl nearly an hour to reach his destination. The FBI tactical officer, who gave his name as Ed Murray, was in bad shape, but Carl could tell he was a tough and seasoned combat veteran. He had multiple broken bones and shrapnel wounds, one of which was still bleeding profusely. It was too high on the man’s thigh for a proper tourniquet, so Murray kept pressure on the wound and bore his not-insignificant pain in silence.
The irony of his latest escape was not lost on Carl. He was driving the Unit’s SUV, which was, in fact, an FBI motor pool vehicle. He found the switch for the blue and red emergency strobe lights and turned it on as he departed the motel. He saw faint reflections of blue and red light on darker sections of the street as the grill-mounted strobe pulsed in the night.
He stayed off the interstate highway and the main boulevards for fear the Unit would locate them and launch another assault. He was reasonably certain he was safe from air attack. The Unit was not a government outfit, but through the vice president’s authority, they could commandeer virtually any government assets. The good news was that Murray had assured him the FBI had only one combat chopper, and that to his knowledge, there were no military units at Kirtland Air Force Base with combat-ready helicopters for the Unit to use.
There were several police helicopters available, but the Unit had deployed them in their operation to secure the Gulfstream at the airport. As Carl pulled up to the main gate of the FBI field office, he glanced over Agent Murray. The agent was on the verge of losing consciousness. His hand had fallen off the pressure bandage and he had a glazed look in his eyes.
“Are you certain this Figueroa fellow isn’t with the Unit?”
Murray nodded and grimaced immediately. “Known him twenty years.”
That will have to do, Carl thought.
He had no doubt that Vice President Breen had recruited many high-level government employees to his cabal. His government take-over plan had been in development for a long time, but until last month, when the FBI had confused Johnson for Alfonso Reyes, there was no tactical connection between Breen’s plan and Albuquerque. Carl was taking a chance that Breen’s sphere of influence did not extend as far down as an FBI field office commander in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
What are the odds, right?
He pulled the big SUV up to the gate and squinted into the bright lights shining through the front windshield. The fence surrounding the property looked very sturdy. The thick vertical posts were painted a neutral color that blended with the landscape. The entry barrier, on the other hand, was a stark black, steel structure that jutted forward near the ground. The front of any vehicle that tried to force its way through the barrier would be lifted off the ground on impact. Carl knew nothing short of a tank could get through.
The guard that had started to approach from the guard shack stopped right outside his window. He recognized Carl, brought up his automatic rifle, and began shouting.
“Get out of the vehicle! Let me see your hands!”
Ten seconds later, the SUV was completely surrounded by armed guards in full tactical gear. A track-wheeled vehicle rumbled up to the gate and faced Carl’s SUV on the other side of the barrier. Armed men poured out the back of the vehicle and spread out, weapons pointed at his head. He didn’t know much about armored personnel carriers, but he could easily see this particular APC was ar
med with a big-ass machine gun, and the barrel of that big gun was pointed right at his face. His SUV wasn’t armored, but Carl knew armor wouldn’t have made a bit of difference with a gun that big.
Carl sat calmly. He had expected this kind of reception, so he showed them his hands. He raised them slowly with both palms facing forward so the guards in front of the SUV could see the grenade he held. With his right index finger and thumb, he slowly and deliberately pulled the square black pin out of the grenade and waited.
Chapter 59
1831 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque FBI Field Office
Special Agent in Charge Guillermo Figueroa stood by the window of his third-floor office and watched the scene below. The alarm had gone off throughout the facility even before the unidentified SUV pulled to a stop in front of the gate. He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece and monitored the chatter on the security channel.
He recognized the American Terrorist in the harsh glare of the security lights before the gate guard did. Then he saw Ed Murray sitting in the front passenger seat. The agent’s face was drawn and pale. Johnson held up his hands and suddenly all the guards backed off a dozen feet. Over the net, Figueroa heard, “He’s got a grenade!”
The SAC said, “All personnel fall back forty feet. I’ll be right down.” He stood up to leave his office, then added, “Tactical, I want two snipers on the roof, locked and loaded.”
“Already done, sir.”
“Hold for my order.”
Figueroa pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. Then he pulled his black flack jacket on and tightened all the Velcro straps. He checked his service gun as he left his office. He’d been trying to get answers as to why the op to retrieve Agent Cummings had suddenly gone silent. Now he was sure the answer had driven up to his main gate.
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 63
