“Mission accomplished,” Carl said as he got back in the minivan.
Merc Three said, “I thought we’d stay off the channel, so you could concentrate. Are you secure?”
“Secure for the moment. Heading to the safe house now.”
Three said, “Copy that. We’ll continue to monitor.”
Bonhardt said, “You have a safe house in Chicago? I thought you said we were going to the River Hotel.”
“Safe hotel,” Carl said. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
“Okay, we’ll be there in five.” Bonhardt raised his voice. “Is everyone okay back there?”
Carl heard another chorus of affirmative responses as the family members got up off the floor. He added, “Stay low until we know we’re safe for sure, okay?”
A few minutes later they pulled into an automated parking structure two blocks away from the hotel, and Officer Bonhardt parked the minivan front-in against a concrete wall in between two full-size SUVs. He and Carl scanned the garage and listened for cars following them.
“Well, I think we made it,” Carl said.
Carl got out and peeled off his battle armor down to his Under Armour tights and quickly got into casual clothes while the officer checked on his family. They all got out on the opposite side of the minivan and hugged while Carl bagged his gear. Then they all walked casually toward the hotel, Carl carrying his bag of armor and the Officer Bonhardt carrying the weapons duffel.
Carl had chosen the River Hotel because it was touristy. There were lots of people walking around even late at night and lots of lights. It was not the kind of high-visibility area fugitives would seek haven in. At the same time, their hunters would stand out if they found them. Besides, the assassins would be staking out the officer’s friends and family first. Either way, Carl had a plan to misdirect the hunters, a head-fake that might buy them enough time for his backup to arrive.
Carl listened as the parents put their kids to bed after a half hour of hugs and reassurances. He couldn’t begin to understand what the kids were thinking and feeling any more than he could understand what Lisette Cummings thought and felt. How do children cope with terrorists and assassins? How do they normalize gunfire and brutal car chases and grenades? How do they relate to the specter of impending death, of actually seeing death take place, or of people trying to kill them? How do they not fear an armored gunman, even though that man just saved them? Did it even register to the kids that he’d saved them?
He stood by the window and gazed at the hotel directly across the river, trying to wrap his heart across the thousand-mile gap between himself and the gangly twelve-year-old Lisette. Was she safe? Was she asleep? Was she having nightmares? Behind him, Mrs. Bonhardt spoke.
“Are we disturbing you?” He shook his head without looking at her. “I saw you on the news. Can you tell us what all this is about?”
He nodded. “It’s time,” he said.
“Time for what?” the officer said.
Carl stepped aside and motioned them to the window. He pointed at the hotel directly across the canal that he’d been looking at. “I had my computer whiz hack your credit card and reserve a room a couple hours ago in that hotel as a distraction. All the lights were off until a few seconds ago. I didn’t figure it would take this long for one of the hit teams to locate your room.”
Mrs. Bonhardt said, “But why would you lead them so close to us?”
Carl just smiled at her even as the flash of fire blossomed in his side vision. It spread out briefly from the balcony but didn’t spread to the adjacent floors.
“Oh my God!”
“Don’t worry. It was a small explosion, just big enough to consume the killers who went into the room.” They’d gone in and turned on the lights, no doubt confident in their numbers or weaponry or both. “I left some dud grenades in there to make it look like a team found you and blew up the room and just got caught in the explosion.”
“CSI will see right through that.”
“Sure, in a few hours. Hopefully, the hunters will believe my head-fake that you’re dead along with a couple careless hitmen until after we’re safely in the air.”
“Why are you helping us?” Officer Bonhardt said. “After the protest, I thought you wanted me dead.”
Carl lowered his gaze toward the river walk below. Pedestrians had stopped and were gawking at the scene of the explosion high above them.
“In another life, I wanted people like you dead. But there are other people in the here-and-now that really wanted you dead up until an hour ago. Now they’ve upped the bounty to capture you alive.”
“But why?” the woman said.
Carl shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Bonhardt.”
“I’m Claire.” She nodded toward her husband. “Richard or Ricky.”
Carl nodded, then said, “We’re still working on the why part.”
“We?” Richard said.
“I’m working with the TER agency.” They looked at each other, and it was clear to Carl that neither knew what the initials represented. “The Terror Event Response agency is the president’s highly classified anti-terrorist rapid response team. Apparently, Malik Tavares discovered some research data suggesting that someone has some kind of biotechnology method to control the behavior of the police…or anyone, for that matter. It seems to enhance aggressive behavior. We’re guessing the two protests were proof-of-concept tests.
“On the first day, I intervened and that broke the cycle of violence. On the second day, you”—he pointed at Richard—“did an unexpected thing and that also broke the cycle of violence. You appear to be immune or at least significantly resistant to the effects of this biotech. At first, we thought they put the contract on you to eliminate evidence of a possible vulnerability in the test control protocol, but now we think they’ve learned something critical about you, something that makes you physiologically unique, and that requires an assessment of why you seem to be outside of their control.”
Clair turned to her husband and said, “We should go to the police. There are a lot more of them than there are contract killers.”
Carl looked at Richard and saw in the man’s eyes that he understood the truth of their situation.
“Claire,” Carl said. “You don’t have any friends on the police force. Not anymore. The people who controlled the police chief, the ones who put out the contract on you, are beyond dangerous because they answer to no one. Any good cops that might help you will be totally outclassed in weapons and authority by whomever they’d be going up against. More likely, any cops that offer to help you will be going after that five million.”
She looked exasperated by the bleakness of their situation. “So we have to put our lives in the hands of a terrorist?”
“Me and my people, yes.”
“He’s not really a terrorist, Claire.” He looked at Carl. “Are you? You’re a government operator.”
In his ear, Carl heard Merc Three chuckle.
“I’m not a government operator, folks. I most definitely am a terrorist. Call it a temporary partnership with President Mallory, motivated by mutual goals.” They traded skeptical glances. “You might want to sit down for this. It’s gonna take a minute and it’s a bit hard to believe.” He sat on the edge of the bed and waited while they took chairs at the dinette table.
“Three, are we secure here?”
“Copy that, Boss. We’re tapped into the hotel camera system as well as the city grid in your area. The police have the entire area cordoned off. Homeland is evacuating the other hotel.”
“Good,” Carl said. “I’m going off comm for a while, but keep the channel open.”
“Copy.”
Carl removed the comm device from his ear and laid his PDW within easy reach on the bed.
“Here’s the short story. Eight months ago, I was a commercial real estate broker. Then a Mexican national, a drug lord who looked exactly like me, kidnapped the president’s daughter. The TER captured and interrogat
ed me because they thought I did it. My son got killed in the mix. I blamed the TER and the FBI for the death of my son, and with good reason, so I sort of declared war on the government. I became a terrorist and started killing government agents. Turns out, the president asked me…begged me…to go rescue her daughter”—he shrugged—“because I looked like the bad guy.” He shrugged. “Well, the other bad guy.
“Vice President Walter Breen and his partners in the US and Mexico used Melissa Mallory to infect the president with the Contagion, and she infected almost everybody at her State of the Union speech. Breen’s secret cabal almost succeeded in killing the president and taking over the country, except my team and I worked with government agents to stop them.”
Clair leaned forward and parked her chin in her palms, elbows resting on her knees. “Are you telling us that a terrorist saved the president and her daughter and the country?”
Carl nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.” To Richard he added, “I have a friend I want you to talk with. We used to call him the Thinking Machine. He has ten different degrees, including three or four PhDs in theoretical physics, laser physics, quantum physics…that kind of stuff. He’s a government contractor and his real job title is Strategic Analyst. He can analyze problems and technologies to determine countermeasures and may be able to shed some light on what this biotech weapon is and why it doesn’t seem to work on you.”
Leaned against the dining table, Bonhardt shrugged with his whole upper body, including his arms. His voice hiked up a notch with frustration. “I asked you this before, but why do you even care about me, about us?”
Carl stood and glanced out the window again, then focused his gaze on the officer. “Well, if this test protocol is representative of some kind of mind-control or behavior-control weapon, it will have far-reaching, even global, implications. In particular, we’ve received intel suggesting this technology will be aimed at coercing the Secret Service to murder the president.”
Chapter 22
Richard and Claire started toward their room, presumably to digest and discuss what Carl had told them. Then the room’s phone rang. Everyone froze and stared at the device on the desk.
“We’re blown!” Carl grabbed his PDW and armor duffel. “Get the kids ready to move!”
They raced to wake the kids while Carl grabbed the phone.
Wizard said, “Boss, get on comm. We have a problem!” Then the line went dead.
Carl crossed to the nightstand and stuck his comm unit in his right ear. “Talk to me.”
“The Bonhardts have been ID’d on a traffic cam, and the minivan has been found and traced to your alias. Radio chatter suggests some heavy contract hitters are en route to your hotel right now. ETA, ten minutes. Trust me, the police and Homeland won’t be expecting this level of engagement. They won’t be able to stop them.”
“I should have anticipated this.” Carl began running scenarios in his mind at light speed, trying to find a way out. “The good news is the minivan was registered to Kyle Fortuna. They don’t know it’s me yet.”
“Won’t matter, Boss. They know the cop was driving the minivan, and they probably know by now that your alias is registered in that hotel. They’re going to tear that place apart to get to the Bonhardts no matter how many people they have to kill. Wait, here’s Three.”
“Boss, I’ve been on comm with Eighteen. He’s from Chi-Town, so he has assets there. We’ve got someone on the way right now, but it’s a race to see who gets there first.”
“Copy that. Advise me when he’s on-site.”
“From what I hear, you’ll know it when he gets there.”
Carl got into his battle suit and stuck as many extra mags in slots in his utility belt as it would hold. Bonhardt filled his pockets, removed the silencer from his Glock, and handed an extra handgun to his wife. She checked the chamber and stuck the weapon in the back of her pants. Carl notched an eye at her.
She shrugged. “I’m the wife of a cop. What do you expect?”
Carl nodded and looked at them. “You folks ready for this?”
Officer Bonhardt nodded. “As ready as we can be. Let’s take the stairs. We don’t want to get trapped in an elevator.”
“Agreed. I’ll lead this time. Let’s move.” Carl charged out the door, PDW up and ready with the barrel swiveling left and right. He moved swiftly down the stairs, followed closely by Claire towing her kids, and Richard Bonhardt brought up the rear. They arrived in the lobby just as Wizard told him his ride had arrived.
Carl approached the lobby’s rotating door. “Damn, Three! You found someone with a real APC?”
The army-green armored personnel carrier was old, but it hopped the curb and went airborne for a moment before crashing back down on the pedestrian sidewalk. It had eight all-terrain wheels that looked like they could withstand anything short of a grenade blast. It turned and skidded sideways until the back end was pointed right at the exit. More tires squealed as several SUVs and cars approached the hotel from both directions of the street.
Carl lowered his face shield into place. “We’re going to have to make a run for it. I’ll cover—”
The old APC burned rubber in reverse as the vehicle’s back end crashed right through the revolving door. Carl and the Bonhardt family dodged debris as the APC stopped five feet inside the lobby. The awning collapsed on top of the vehicle. The rear hatch on the APC dropped open with a clang and a gruff voice bellowed at them.
“Get in!”
Carl covered the family and as soon as he ran into the APC, Officer Bonhardt hollered, “Clear!” The rear hatch rose fast with the noise of grating metal. With little headroom, Carl walked hunched over until he was right behind the driver. The man looked about fifty with leathered skin and a shock of unruly white hair. His extra-large bright green Hawaiian shirt printed with white flowers couldn’t hide his massive belly.
“I’m Dutch,” the driver said. “Gehrhart sends his regards.”
Carl recalled that was Merc Eighteen’s real name. He patted Dutch on the shoulder. “Head for the Executive Airport!”
“Shit, that’s way on the north end of town!”
“Well, let’s not waste time chatting about it.”
Dutch turned his head sideways. “Hang onto something back there!”
The APC’s engine screamed and the beast took off east toward Lake Shore Drive. Carl grabbed one of the overhead leather loops hanging from the green metal ceiling. It looked like original equipment and reminded him of the old New York subway cars. He spread his feet wide for stability.
There were two bench seats on each side of the compartment, each big enough to seat two adults, and thick slats of criss-crossed leather took the place of backrests. Between each bench seat was a bulkhead door on heavy hinges midway along each wall of the APC. Claire had one arm wrapped through the webbing and the other clutched both her kids. They clung to her, rocking with the wild movements of the vehicle. Richard Bonhard sat sideways on the next bench with one hand holding the bulkhead webbing and a leg braced firmly on the opposite bench.
The approaching SUVs tried to block the path, but the heavy Vietnam-era army vehicle blasted right through them with an explosion of glass and metal. Carl heard the sound of gunfire pinging harmlessly against the vehicle. They were safe for now, but there was no way they’d outrun street vehicles all the way to the airport. Besides, if they had his alias, then they knew he rented the minivan from the Executive Airport. They’d already have a team en route there, and Carl knew the assassins would get there first. Despite virtually no traffic on the road at that late hour, the APC topped out at a mere fifty miles an hour.
When Carl looked out the green-tinted viewport above the rear hatch, he saw seven vehicles chasing them, three abreast. They were hanging back, looking for an opportunity, and it didn’t take them long to figure it out. He saw the flash in the darkness and knew what was coming.
“RPG!”
The driver hauled the APC over so fast Carl was flung aga
inst the bulkhead. He probably would have broken something if he hadn’t been wearing armor. He looked out the front and saw the missile flash into the distance. Then, when the highway curved a bit to the right, the missile’s path intersected that of a car coming the opposite way. The explosion was spectacular, though the driver probably never knew what hit him or her.
The first RPG missed, but the second did not. The left side lifted at a crazy angle and screams of terror filled the cabin until the vehicle bounced back down. They all heard metallic screeching like something was being dragged under the carriage.
“I think we just lost an axle,” the driver said. “Good thing we have three more.”
Richard Bonhardt said calmly, “At this rate, we’re not going to make it.”
Carl had a similar thought. “Three, are you still with me?”
“What’s your status, Boss?”
“Grim. Get Aaron McGrath on the line.” That task took fifteen seconds, while the driver kept swerving across the highway to spoil the RPG launcher’s aim.
“Status,” the director said.
“Aaron, we’re in the shit here. I don’t suppose you have an armed fighter jet nearby, do you?”
“Let me see what I can do.” His channel went dead.
Three said, “Gotta love that government guy. Doesn’t waste words.”
Carl stepped forward and forced the latch open on the left-side personnel door. He yelled at the driver. “On your next swerve to the right, execute a full U-turn to the left. I’ll try to slow them down.”
The APC swerved to the right, then arched through the U-turn and, for a brief moment, Carl faced the pursuing fleet through the open hatch. He put his PDW on full auto and expended an entire clip at the vehicles. Windshields shattered and sparks showered from the fronts of the cars. Then the U-turn was complete with the APC now traveling against traffic, near the concrete median wall.
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 81
