Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  “Of course.”

  San backed into the small room. At the far end, a pair of bullet-proof glass doors slid open, granting access to a high-speed lift. He stepped onto the elevator, and a feminine voice said “Heart rhythm and facial analysis complete. Welcome, Doctor Santiago Torres. Proceeding to Sub-Level One.”

  His stomach fluttered momentarily as the lift began its descent. Several seconds later, he felt weight on his knees and shoulders as the elevator rapidly slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and he stepped into a dreary, utilitarian hallway.

  “Doctor Torres, over here.” It was the DNI’s voice.

  San turned on his heel and followed Director Buchanan into a conference room. The chairs had been pulled against the walls; dusty and damaged tactical gear was spread across the table, including three metamaterial bodysuits. Eugene, Ford, and Janson were dressed in casual attire, and they were stuffing small backpacks with radios, harnesses, and spare magazines.

  “What’s this all about?” San asked. He stared wide-eyed at the middle suit of armor and stuck his thumb through a hole in the center of the torso.

  “Beats me,” Eugene said. “General Custer said we have a follow-on mission, but he hasn’t given us the specifics.”

  Buchanan either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the insult. He wore a solemn expression and interlaced his fingers in front of his waist. “I have bad news. San, I asked you here because I’m concerned your operatives might tear me limb from limb when they hear it. And though I would understand such a reaction on a visceral level, it’s an outcome I’d like to avoid.”

  San shook his head. “We are all professionals here, sir. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Buchanan sighed and placed his knuckles on the table. “That’s not all. I owe each of you an apology. I never should have sent you after Four-Seven-Charlie.”

  Janson took a step forward, clasped her hands behind her back, and lowered her head. “Sir, I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m the one responsible for blowing the mission.”

  Buchanan studied her for a moment. “Thank you, Agent Janson, but I wasn’t referring to last night’s operation.” He stood taller and raised his chin. “This morning, Cyber Command intercepted communications between Audrey Stokes and her subordinates in New York regarding a pending attack. Stokes…eluded us in West Virginia. The property where she was hiding had been booby-trapped with sophisticated weapons and explosives. I’m sorry to report that none of the law enforcement officers I sent to investigate survived.”

  The room fell silent for several moments. Eugene was the first to speak, and his tone held no scorn or defiance. “We can’t change the past. What do we know about the upcoming attack?”

  The pinpoint question eased Buchanan’s discomfort. “We back-traced the communications to a hastily arranged meeting that happened last night. Apparently, Stokes or one of her agents met with a jihadist group based in New Jersey. We’ve been monitoring this group for some time. They’re an offshoot of ISIS and as radical as they come, but they lack funding and are poorly equipped. Their largest attack thus far was a vehicle attack on a county fair—one of their men drove a truck into a crowd and managed to injure twelve people. But that changed last night. We believe Katharos has provided them with suicide vests composed of high explosives and steel ball-bearings. They also have at least forty rifles and a dozen or more vehicles—that we haven’t been able to ID.”

  San’s face was grim. “Do we know where the attack will take place?”

  “They didn’t leave a digital trail of their potential targets, but our analysts have been following the situation closely. We picked up a verbal exchange outside a Mosque in Newark. The terrorists have targeted twenty-seven sites throughout Manhattan, and they have enough firepower to hit at least ten. Thankfully, we have extensive counter-terrorism assets in the city, and they’re already moving into position. But I’d like the three of you there to provide expertise and assistance as needed.” He glanced at San. “If it’s alright with you.”

  A twinkle passed through San’s eyes. “We aren’t the best at chasing vigilantes, but we definitely know how to deal with terrorists.” He shook the director’s hand. “They’re all yours, Director.”

  34

  Denver, Colorado

  Thomas Ward blinked in the morning light. He glanced at his watch, and his eyes widened. How could he have slept so long?

  He jumped to his feet and shook his head. He knew how he’d overslept. He hadn’t slept for more than three hours at a stretch for the past two days, so when he fell asleep last night, his body practically shut down. What he didn’t understand was why. The alarm on his phone should have roused him at midnight, so he could make sure Jarrod had made it to the Ackerton Estate.

  His hands probed his pockets, then his makeshift desk—the dresser next to his bed. He tossed papers, empty coffee cups, and vending machine wrappers onto the floor. Finding nothing, he opened every drawer in the room. Still nothing.

  Sitting on his bed, he struggled to recall what he had done with it. A hazy memory began to form. He was in bed, and the alarm did wake him up. Then he…

  Ward stood and retraced his steps. He vaguely remembered stretching, then sending a text message to his man in LA. The driver had replied, telling him that the drop off had gone well and that he would call him when Jarrod returned. Ward ran his fingers through his gray hair, then frowned. His head was damp.

  The pieces came together, forming a clear picture. He had gone into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, trying to shake off the drowsiness. When that didn’t work, he set his phone—no, both phones, the burner and his smartphone—on the counter. He had held his head under the faucet, and after toweling off, he’d left the bathroom and stretched out on the bed, knowing the second alarm would wake him at two AM.

  He shoved the bathroom door open and sighed. The phones were perched on the counter, side by side. He picked up the burner and checked the log. There were nine missed calls and fifteen text messages. His smartphone was even worse; it was loaded with new emails, texts, voicemails, and instant messages. Sinking into a recliner, he began sorting through it all. He checked both phones at once, piecing together a timeline. Apparently, Jarrod never linked up with the driver after completing his mission. And he had completed it—the media was already churning out reports of the “Hollywood Massacre.” Which was technically a misnomer; the palisades were nearly fifteen miles away from Hollywood, but Ward was more concerned with the casualty reports than the headlines.

  37 Confirmed dead. Cause of death largely unknown. No injuries reported among the survivors.

  The driver had tried to call both of his phones several times, then sent a text saying he was moving to rendezvous point Delta. Then there were several more calls from his company phone, then from his home phone.

  He winced. His wife, Phoebe, had called him, and he didn’t answer. She’d been patient with him for years while he traveled the world and put himself in danger. As part of the deal, he always carried a cell phone or sat phone, and he always answered when she called.

  Two quick taps on his phone, and he dialed the number. Phoebe answered on the first ring, then unleashed a furious torrent. He listened patiently until he was sure she had finished, then apologized.

  “I can’t explain the situation over the phone, but I’ll see you in person in a few hours. No, I’m still in Denver, but I’m going to get on the first available flight. I’m sorry again for worrying you. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”

  He ended the call and jammed the phones into his pockets. He could sort through the remaining messages when he was airborne. It took him a few minutes to stuff his clothes into a backpack and his paperwork into a briefcase, then he double and triple-checked the room to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. As he rode the elevator down to the lobby, he considered visiting Kayla and Eric in the hospital to brief them about the situation.

  No, he thought, they’ve been through enough. Wha
tever happened to Jarrod or because of Jarrod, Ward would take responsibility. He would have to bear the burden on his own.

  35

  Manhattan,

  New York

  Eugene aimed a camera with a telephoto lens at the sculpted portico of the New York Stock Exchange and snapped a photo. He lowered his head and brought the camera to chest-level as if he was examining the image, but behind his dark sunglasses, he surveyed the crowded brick street. To his right, a vendor handed out soft pretzels and energy drinks to busy professionals seeking a late-morning boost. Farther down, a statue of George Washington stood above the crowd, the right hand stretched out as if taking an oath. Tourists of every size, shape, and ethnicity passed by, intermingling with serious-faced locals.

  He shook his head and softened his gaze, waiting for subconscious cues to alert him to anything unusual. When the time came, he might have only a few seconds to react. Maybe less.

  He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece as he crossed the street and took a photo of a broad plaque embedded between the bricks under his feet. “Hey, sweetie, did you find anything interesting?” He tried to keep his tone light.

  “Not really,” came Janson’s reply. “Except for a car—a black Audi, like your brother has. I can’t tell if it’s him, though.”

  Eugene’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, really? He does work in this area…where is the car?”

  “Past the vehicle barriers, on Wall Street.”

  “Cool, I’ll meet you there. But if you see him first, say hi for me.”

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  There was a grumbling sound in his ear, and he smiled. Ford was on sniper duty while Janson and Eugene played the role of husband and wife touring the city. Ford wasn’t happy about the duty assignments, but Eugene had been adamant that he stay off the street—his wide shoulders and permanent scowl always screamed, “I’m a black-ops assassin.”

  And Eugene could never pass up an opportunity to irritate his least favorite teammate. “Say, once we’re done here, do you want to head back to the hotel and slip into the Jacuzzi? Clothing is optional, of course.”

  Janson tried to hide her irritation. “Uh…I think I want to see some more sights, first.”

  “You’re right, we should let the anticipation build for a while.”

  “We’re hunting terrorists, in case you forgot,” Ford growled.

  Eugene paused and stood on his tip-toes, searching the crowd. He spotted Janson standing next to a pair of concrete barriers. “I see you. Be there in a second.” He let the camera hang from its strap and ran his thumb across the lump in his shirt where an FNS-9 Longslide pistol was concealed.

  He tried to look calm as he hurried through the crowd, but inside, he was feeling the pressure. Using intelligence provided by the NSA, the FBI and NYPD had stopped eleven terrorist attacks in the past three hours. They had intercepted thirty-two terrorists headed toward Madison Square Garden, Grand Central Terminal, Times Square, and several other popular tourist attractions. Twenty-six terrorists were dead and six were in police custody.

  Everyone thought it was over, and the Hillcrest team was ready to return to Baltimore without having fired a shot. Then, another message was intercepted—an attack was planned in the financial district. Law enforcement moved in, establishing a presence in the most likely target locations. Eugene and Janson took to the streets, patrolling the most crowded areas that weren’t easily accessed by vehicle and blending in as much as possible to avoid causing mass-panic. Until now, they hadn’t seen anything suspicious.

  “Hi, dear,” Janson said, wrapping him in a hug. She subtly turned him so he faced the Audi, then whispered, “Do you see it?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “I think it’s worth checking out.”

  The Audi’s windows were tinted nearly as dark as the glossy paint on the doors. It was a four-door with enough room to fit seven people if they squeezed together. Still, Eugene was confident he and Janson would have the upper hand if a firefight broke out. The problem was the steady stream of civilians between them and the vehicle.

  He took her hand and nodded. “Want to get some lunch, I saw an exquisite hot dog stand on the way in.”

  She smiled and unzipped her lightweight jacket a few inches—loosening the fabric to give her better access to her own concealed weapon. “What’s a visit to New York without trying the street food?”

  Eugene started forward, angling toward the rear of the Audi. As they drew closer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A uniformed officer was approaching from the opposite direction, his hand on his pistol and his eyes scanning the street.

  He willed the officer to stay back until he and Janson could get closer, but it was too late. All four of the Audi’s doors opened at once, and six men with AK-47’s spilled out. The men in the front opened fire, striking the police officer in the chest. One of the rounds struck him in the face, another in the soft flesh beneath his neck. He was dead in an instant.

  The gunmen at the rear aimed their rifles skyward and rapidly tapped the triggers. The stream of pedestrians became a torrent, foaming and surging in every direction. Eugene and Janson drew their weapons, and the tumultuous crowd parted around them.

  The terrorists in the front immediately picked out the operatives and opened fire. 7.62mm rounds zipped past Eugene’s head, striking men and women behind him. He grit his teeth and tried to shut out the noise. Unlike the terrorists, he didn’t have the luxury of blindly attacking his opponents.

  The FNS bucked in his hand. His first shot struck one of the gunmen in the forehead. His second pinned another in the shoulder. Beside him, Janson’s pistol rattled through its ammunition like a machine gun. She dropped the remaining four terrorists before Eugene could line up his third shot.

  “Check ‘em,” Eugene said, lowering his pistol. “I’ll cover you.”

  Janson sprinted forward, then skidded to a halt. Her pistol moved from skull to skull like a computerized router, barking repeatedly.

  Eugene faced the retreating crowd, searching for additional targets.

  More gunshots were being exchanged to the south and west—other terrorists engaging law enforcement. Eugene sprinted toward the noise, then suddenly stopped short.

  “What is it?” Janson asked, coming to a stop beside him.”

  “Something’s not right.” He studied the chaos for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. Men, women, and children were running in panic along every street and sidewalk available. But further down Wall Street, in the direction he had come, the crowd seemed to churn and boil.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Dammit. I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Pick me up. I need to see what’s happening over there.”

  Despite the noise and violence, Janson grinned. She holstered her weapon and said, “Sure thing, kiddo.” Gripping him by the waist, she tossed him into the air, then caught the bottoms of his shoes.

  He swayed for a moment, then regained his balance. He felt like a cheerleader at a high-school football game, and his face reddened with embarrassment. But the new vantage point proved vital. People were fleeing inward, toward the Federal Hall, then colliding together. The terrorists were herding them like sheep.

  His stomach twisted into knots as he found what he’d been dreading—a man standing still in the middle of the crowd, his eyes closed and his mouth moving. He wore a puffy coat that didn’t match the comfortable weather, and something solid pressed into the fabric of his shirt at the collarbone.

  Eugene raised his pistol, then hesitated. People were swirling around the suicide bomber. If he took the shot, he would almost certainly wound an innocent bystander. But if he didn’t, hundreds of people might die. As he struggled to line up the shot, he said, “Ford, there’s a suicide bomber at the intersection of Wall Street and Nassau. Can you take him out?”

  “On it.”

  The man in the thick coat raised his arms above his head and raised his head toward heaven. Eug
ene held his breath. The front sight post on his pistol bobbed left and right, refusing to settle on his target. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Please…no.”

  The helicopter banked, dipping between the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan. Ford hunched in his harness, which was tethered to a gyroscopic stabilizer, just inside the bird’s sliding door. His rifle protruded into the windstream, aiming toward the ground below. He scanned the swirling mass of colors, searching for muzzle flashes. He found one, adjacent to a police cruiser, then followed it across the street. Four men were huddled behind a green SUV, firing at the lone policeman.

  The rifle bucked against Ford’s shoulder. Rather than wait to see if he’d hit his target, he moved the reticle to the next gunman and squeezed the trigger again. As the fourth round left the barrel, Eugene’s strained voice came through his headset. “Ford, there’s a suicide bomber at the intersection of Wall Street and Nassau. Can you take him out?”

  The helicopter lurched sideways before Ford could respond. He shifted his hips to pivot his harness and said, “On it.”

  Hundreds of people were slamming into each other on the street below. Ford zoomed his scope out and clenched his jaw. The intersection of Wall Street and Nassau, he thought, real specific, asshole.

  Obviously, Eugene wasn’t used to working with snipers of Ford’s skill level. Ford was used to specific target descriptions, like “A man with short brown hair and a mole on his chin in the third window up from the left side of the door. Please hit him in the right eye.”

  Despite Eugene’s lack of precision, Ford located his target. The man was almost directly below the helicopter, bouncing left and right as people bumped into him. Ford set his crosshairs on the top of the man’s head and squeezed the trigger.

  Blood, bone, and eviscerated flesh rose into the air. Eugene blinked in shock, then lowered his pistol. After a moment of silence, he said, “You can put me down now.”