Iceman pointed toward the building. “That’s his headquarters and his house,” he said.
“Whose?”
“Jonathan Grave’s.”
“Why aren’t we attacking that?” Kellner asked.
Iceman flashed a bit of temper. “I’ve told you before,” he said. “Hurting Grave directly doesn’t hurt him the way I want to. It has to be the old lady. It has to be Mama.”
“Why her?” Kellner asked. “What makes you think they’re so close?”
“Start with the fact that she called him Jonny, and everybody in town calls her Mama. Plus, I could see it in her eyes when she was talking about him.”
Iceman turned right onto Water Street, past a restaurant and several slips of the marina. Then he turned right onto a road that paralleled Church Street. Modest houses lined both sides of the street. Up ahead, on the corner, sat a bank with a large parking lot. It was dead at this hour, its lights off, save for the lighted plastic sign on the roof.
Iceman pulled into the parking lot and backed the Suburban into the darkest of the parking spaces, in the back corner of the lot. He threw the transmission into PARK. “Okay, let’s go,” he said.
Kellner reached across the console and grabbed Iceman’s arm. “Let’s go do what? We don’t have a plan. You just want to stroll up the walkway and start shooting? That will not end well for us.”
“Suppressed rifles,” Iceman explained. “We can take out the guards from here. When they’re down, we can move. Open your door quietly, please.”
Kellner thought it through, then opened his door. It wasn’t much of a plan, but sometimes, simple worked best. He walked around to the back of the Suburban, where Iceman had opened the gate to reveal his stash of weaponry and gear. The dome light had been disabled, but Kellner was familiar enough with the gear to recognize the silhouettes he could see. Three AR platform rifles, three ballistic vests festooned with spare magazines, and a duffel-like equipment bag that he figured must carry the explosives that Iceman mentioned during the drive.
“Help yourself,” Iceman said.
Kellner started with the vest. It was made of Kevlar, but there were no plates. That meant the armor would stop pistol rounds but might as well have been a T-shirt for rifle rounds. The pouches held a lot of extra ammo. He pulled a magazine out of the pouch just to take a look. He knew just from the weight that it was 5.56 millimeter, the standard U.S. load for nearly five decades. Given Iceman’s mission parameters, he’d have preferred 7.62-millimeter ammo, but this would work.
“Have you got coms?” Kellner asked, hoping there’d be a way for them to keep track of each other via radio.
“Those were in the rally point,” Iceman replied. “We’ll try to stay close. If we get separated, just remember it’s my job to breech the house and take care of the old lady. You hold security outside.”
“How am I going to do that alone?”
“I figure most of the guards will be dead before we get to the house,” Iceman explained. “Then we get in, do it, and get out.”
Kellner continued to inventory his equipment. A pistol was integral to the vest, a Glock 19 nine-millimeter Velcro’d into a cross-draw holster at belt level, below the M4 mags.
The rifles themselves were unloaded, with their bolts locked open. That’s not how Kellner would have—
“Hey!” a voice called from behind, and they were blasted with a bright white light. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Kellner turned to confront a cop. He was young and skinny, but wearing a vest, with his right hand gripping his holstered pistol.
Iceman didn’t say anything, so Kellner filled the silence. “Oh, we’re just checking some—”
Iceman drew and fired with startling speed. He fired three times, a classic triple-tap, where the first two rounds nailed the officer in his chest, reeling him backward, and then a third bullet drilled him between the eyes. The cop’s legs folded, and he dropped straight down, his pistol still in its holster.
* * *
“We left a hell of a mess,” Boxers said. “How do you think Wolverine and company are going to explain that?” They’d done just as Gail had suggested, left the bodies and munitions where they were, and then they told Irene Rivers via Dom D’Angelo that a mess awaited her troops.
They’d divided between their vehicles as before, with Jonathan, Boxers, and Gail in the Batmobile and the others in Doug’s police vehicle.
Jonathan said, “I imagine that they will happily inform the citizenry of the nation that their ever-vigilant Federal Bureau of Investigation has found and killed the perpetrators of the Black Friday terror attacks.”
“Good thing we don’t do this for the credit for a job well done,” Boxers said.
“It may not be done yet,” Gail said from the back. “I didn’t see Kellner among the dead. This might not be over yet.”
“I didn’t see Vitale, either,” Jonathan said.
“Maybe they pussied out,” Boxers said. “Even if they didn’t—”
Behind them, Doug Kramer’s light bar erupted with flashing strobes.
Their tactical channel broke squelch. “Break, break, break. We’ve got shots fired in the Cove.”
Without dropping a beat, Boxers floored the gas pedal and the Batmobile took off, leaving the accelerating Suburban behind.
“Have you got more details than that?” Jonathan asked over the radio.
A new voice—Keeling, judging from the accent—took over. “The chief is working through stuff on his own channel. Doesn’t have time for you. If I overhear anything important, I’ll let you know.”
After a few seconds of silence, except for the roar of the Hummer’s engine, Jonathan said, “I think you’re right, Gunslinger. This isn’t over yet.”
* * *
The sound of the gunshots seemed louder than any gunfire Kellner had ever heard. On a quiet night in a quiet town, it was a sound unlike any other.
“There went surprise,” Kellner said.
“Not if we move fast,” Iceman argued. “Now.”
Kellner slid a rifle out of the bed, stuck his arm and head through the single-point sling, and pulled a magazine from his pouch. He slid it into the mag well, thumbed the bolt release, and he was ready to rock.
“Please tell me you’ve zeroed these sights,” he said.
“They’re zeroed to a hundred yards,” Iceman said.
Iceman’s gunshots had created a stir, and Kellner could feel it in the crisp autumn atmosphere. It took a few seconds for the sense of urgency to ignite, but when it did, the night began to erupt with the sounds of sirens. It wouldn’t be long until this bank parking lot was filled with cops, and when they found that one of their own was dead, all hell would break loose.
It didn’t help at all that their target—and their current location—was only a block and a half away from the police station.
As Kellner picked up his pace, he realized that this was evolving into a suicide mission. Returning to the Suburban was no longer possible, so they’d have to rely on the secondary exfil plan. But getting from the mansion to the marina would be a hell of a firefight. And then what?
“Focus, Fred,” he said aloud to himself. One step at a time.
They dashed across the rear parking lot, where they encountered a stockade fence dividing this property from the next. It had been a while since Kellner had climbed a fence, but the muscle memory was there.
When they flopped over to the opposite side, they were behind a Mexican restaurant that carried a Church Street address. Kellner intentionally slowed his pace as he crossed the parking lot because he knew that he’d soon be taking a long-range shot, and he didn’t want to have the yips when he did.
“The Dumpster,” Iceman said, pointing to the big green box that sat angled to the side of the restaurant. “See if we have a shot from there.”
The smell of stale salsa and rotting food turned his stomach, but Kellner wasted no time. He shouldered his rifle as he approached the
big trash container, leveled the muzzle in the direction of the mansion across the street, and peered through his scope. After dialing in 4× magnification, he had a pretty good view of the two guards flanking the front doors. It was a two-hundred-yard shot, give or take, so he’d have to hold a little high.
“I’ve got a good sight picture,” Kellner said. Iceman had settled in on the other end of the Dumpster, on his left.
“You take the guy on the right, and I’ll take the guy on the left?”
“Good for me.”
“On my count,” Iceman said. “Three . . . two . . .”
* * *
Boxers drove the Batmobile as if it were a jet fighter, his foot pressed to the floor and the engine screaming. From the shotgun seat, Jonathan didn’t dare look at the speedometer, but if it hadn’t hit the century mark, he’d have been shocked.
The dark countryside flew past in a gray blur.
“Come on, Boxers,” Gail said from the backseat. “If we hit a deer—”
“At this speed, with this much weight, we’d barely feel it and the deer would blow apart,” Boxers snapped.
Jonathan didn’t think the physics would work that way, but that didn’t matter. He knew that this was the beginning of the attack he’d been anticipating, and he knew that he was out of position.
“How far out are we?” Jonathan asked.
“I can look at the road or the odometer,” Boxers said. “I’m pretty sure we’ll get there when we do.”
Jonathan turned around to look out the back window. “When did we lose Doug?”
“Long time ago,” Boxers said. “He needs a faster chief’s buggy.”
“Arriving dead is almost like not arriving at all,” Gail muttered, loudly enough to be heard.
Jonathan saw the Bender Farm up ahead on the right, sitting on its hill. That made them exactly three miles from the firehouse. And it meant that they’d gone sixteen miles in the last twelve minutes. Holy shit.
Boxers slowed from horrifying to merely terrifying as he negotiated the sweeping right turn around the peninsula of land that defined the Bender place, and then sped up again. If anyone had been coming the other way, it would have been instant death for all of them.
The radio popped in Jonathan’s ear. Venice sounded nearly hysterical. “Break! Break! Break! The mansion is under attack!”
Boxers pressed the accelerator even harder. “Okay to go faster now, Boss?”
Jonathan keyed his mic. “Mother Hen, what does under attack mean?”
There was no answer.
He looked to the driver. “Can’t you get any more out of this thing?”
Chapter Thirty-six
Once Jonathan and his team declared the scene to be secure and they were headed home, Venice had relocated to the secondary command center on the third floor of the mansion, and she’d taken Derek with her. Now guards had been shot at the front door and the world was coming undone. The shrieking emergency alarm—a sound she’d never heard—made a bad situation even worse.
After she alerted Jonathan, she jumped up from her chair. She pointed a finger at a very startled Derek. “You monitor the channels,” she said.
“Under attack?” he said. “What does that mean?”
Venice didn’t answer. She had to get Roman and Mama to Zulu—to the safe room. As she exited the command center, commotion bloomed large. People were yelling downstairs, and she heard furniture tipping over and urgent cries for help.
“Call an ambulance!” someone yelled. She recognized Oscar’s voice. “Greer and Munson have been shot!”
Instinctively, Venice ran down two and a half flights, past the second floor, so she could get a better view, and gunfire erupted outside. In the foyer, two injured men were sprawled on the floor, being stripped of their gear and clothing.
Above her, and behind, Derek called, “A police officer has been killed!”
Oscar’s head whipped around at the sound of Derek’s voice. “You! Ms. Alexander! Get to Zulu! Now!”
JoeDog appeared from somewhere and sprinted down the stairs toward the action in the foyer.
“JoeDog!” Venice shouted. “Come up here!”
The retriever ignored the command.
“Now, Ms. Alexander,” Oscar insisted. “If you get hurt, then none of this is worth anything.”
“How badly are they hurt?”
“They’ve been shot, but we don’t know!” Oscar said. Then his tone turned pleading. “Please, ma’am. You have your boy and your mother to think about. Set an example. And hurry.”
Outside, the rate of fire doubled, and the radio traffic became unintelligible.
“Venice!” Derek said. “He’s right. I don’t know what your safe room is, but you have a responsibility to your family.” He rushed down the remaining steps that separated them, then grabbed her arm. “Where are we going?”
“The safe room is on the third floor,” Venice said. “But Mama and Roman . . .” Before she turned to go up, she yelled, “JoeDog! Come!”
If the dog heard, she didn’t care.
Venice turned, climbed the half flight to the second floor. “Roman! Mama! Zulu! Zulu! Zulu!” They’d rehearsed this scenario, but not enough. Zulu meant Stop what you’re doing and get to safety. Don’t ask questions, just go.
Yet the hallway remained empty.
She headed across the hallway to the left to get to Roman. When she got to the door, it was locked. “Dammit!” She pounded on it with her fist. “Roman! Roman, wake up and get up! Zulu!”
Derek stepped up from behind. “Get out of the way.”
Venice pivoted out from the door and watched as Derek unleashed a huge kick with the sole of his shoe. The doorjamb splintered, and the door exploded inward. Roman was on his bed, dressed in pajama bottoms, a computer on his lap, his head encased in earphones. He slammed the laptop shut and ripped the phones from his ears.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What the hell!” Then, after a couple of seconds: “What is that noise? Is that the Zulu alarm?”
As if to answer his question, the gunfire outside intensified even more.
“Safe room!” Venice ordered. She pulled him off his bed by his arm. His laptop crashed to the floor.
“Hey, stop!” Roman protested. “Jesus, that was my computer!”
“Watch your mouth,” Venice scolded.
He pulled his arm away. “I’ve got to get dressed!”
Venice scooped the back of his neck with the webbing between her thumb and forefinger and propelled the boy out of the room into the hallway. When he looked back, there was real fear in his eyes. Maybe it was about the larger situation, but Venice preferred that he be afraid of her tonight.
By the time they returned to the stairway, Mama had wandered out of her bedroom. She looked confused and thoroughly rattled by all the noise. Mama’s nightclothes looked like they were stolen from the Victorian era. She liked long “dressing gowns” that stretched all the way to the floor.
“Oh, thank God, Mama,” Venice said. “We need to get upstairs to the safe room.”
As they started up the stairs to the third floor, Roman pointed at Derek. “He’s not coming, too, is he? There’s not much room in there.”
“Roman!” Venice said.
“I’m just making sure you get there,” Derek said.
“You’re coming, too,” Venice demanded.
“We’re not having this argument,” Derek said.
It turned out that the safe room was directly across the attic space from the command center.
“I thought that was a closet,” Derek said.
Roman got there first and went to the adjacent bookcase, where he dislodged a dusty old book to reveal a keypad. He checked over his shoulder to make sure Derek wasn’t watching, and he punched in the code. Something clicked, and then he pulled on the closet door. It opened to reveal what appeared to be a well-furnished bank vault.
Roman helped Mama in, and then turned to Venice. “Come on, Mom,” he said. “
You’re next.”
Venice hesitated. Why should she be protected when all these other people were risking their lives and getting hurt? How was that fair?
“I know you want to fight,” Derek said. His eyes were soft, knowing. “But you’re a mom above all. That’s always got to come first.”
“But you . . .”
Derek smiled and touched her face. “I’m going to kick some ass and come riding back to you on a black charger.”
Venice felt the grin on her face. “The horse type of charger or the car?”
He laughed, then kissed her.
“Mom!”
Derek said, “See you in a few.”
As she stepped inside, he helped close the door.
* * *
As the scenery flew by at impossible speed, the Batmobile found every bump in the road, and the shitty suspension magnified them all. Jonathan pulled his radio from its spot on his shoulder and shifted from the encrypted tactical channel to Channel 8, the frequency used by the security force at Resurrection House.
“Security Four, this is Security Ten. Situation report, please.”
Wilma’s Ice Cream Emporium screamed past the window. “That puts us two miles out,” Gail said.
“Security Four, Security Four,” Jonathan nearly shouted. He had to control that. Speaking louder did not make a radio transmission better. In fact, it made it worse. “Answer up, please.”
“Security Four,” the voice said. It was Oscar. Whatever bitterness Jonathan had felt that he’d not volunteered for the assault had now evaporated.
“Thank God, you’re there,” Jonathan said. “Sitrep, please.”
“Ten, we’re under attack,” Oscar said. “Two men are down, but they were hit in the plates. They’ll be okay, but they’re out of the fight.”
“Where are the attackers?” Jonathan asked.
“I don’t know. Everywhere?”
“Are you on lockdown?”
“Affirmative. The family is Zulu.”
“Roger,” Jonathan said. “We’re only a few minutes out.”
Boxers hit the brakes hard. “Oh, shit!”
Directly ahead, the police vehicles had blocked the road, their blue strobes painting frantic splashes on the trees.
Total Mayhem Page 37
