by Dalton Fury
“We’re coming to back you up. Secure the area but do not engage.” He turned to Slapshot, but the other man had read his mind and was already starting the truck. “Digger, get to Kearney now. Tell him we’ve located the sniper threat.”
“On it, boss.”
Slapshot put the truck in gear and took off, navigating the narrow side streets of the neighborhood, reaching the junction with the main highway in less than a minute. Rockville Pike, also known as Maryland Route 355 and, within the limits of Bethesda proper, Wisconsin Avenue, would take them directly to Shiner’s doorstep.
Slapshot ran the stop sign, laying on the horn as he turned right, drifting the truck across all three lanes of traffic. Raynor heard agitated honking and the shriek of tires skidding on the road as panicked drivers unnecessarily slammed on their brakes. There was little chance of a collision. The pickup was already at highway speed and Slap had more hours of tactical driving under his belt than almost anyone else in the Unit, but the other drivers didn’t know that. Kolt felt a mild bump as the truck’s tires hit the low median—little more than a curb dividing north- and southbound lanes—but Slapshot maintained control and never slowed. When he had the pickup straightened out, he put the pedal to the floor.
Digger’s voice sounded in Raynor’s ear. “Message delivered, boss.”
“Tell them they need to wave Marine One off until the threat is neutralized.”
“Already did that, but I don’t think they’re going to deviate from the plan. Simmons thinks they can cover Champ better on the ground. Oh, BTW, he’s not too happy about us being in the neighborhood.”
“Fuck him,” Slapshot muttered.
Kolt was in complete agreement, but he had promised Pete Grauer that they were going to play by the rules, and as much as he wanted to send Rasim Miric to hell, he wasn’t going to let his friends throw their military careers away if he could help it. “How far out is the helo?” he asked.
Digger repeated the question, presumably asking Special Agent Kearney, then echoed the answer. “Five mikes, give or take.”
“Figure another five to lock down the bird and unload. Is Simmons going to send agents to Miric’s location?”
“Don’t know. He’s not telling me anything.”
“Sounds like ‘no’ to me,” Slapshot put in.
“We’ll go with that,” Raynor said.
The pickup crested the hill and started down. A line of trees on the roadside blocked Raynor’s view of the medical complex, but jutting up above them was the distinctive tower at the hospital’s front entrance.
“Shit,” Slapshot shouted, suddenly braking hard. “Damn big-city traffic.”
Raynor brought his eyes back to the road and saw the line of brake lights ahead. The three southbound lanes looked like a parking lot, and as he looked farther along, he saw why. Four black Maryland state police cars, their light bars flashing, were parked in a herringbone formation across the highway, blocking all access to the military base. Traffic was still moving, but at a crawl as drivers made the hard right turn onto West Cedar Lane.
Raynor checked Google Earth, plotting the most expedient course back to their destination. “Take the right,” he told Slapshot. “We’ll hit Old Georgetown Road in about a quarter of a mile. From there, it’s a straight shot south.”
“Great. What’s an extra fifteen minutes?”
Raynor shared the big man’s frustration. Although the detour would add only about a mile to the trip, the distance wasn’t as much the problem as traffic congestion. They had moved exactly three car lengths since braking. At their present rate of movement, it would be at least a minute or two before they could even make the turn.
Raynor checked his watch, then did a visual sweep of the sky to the east until he saw what he was looking for—half a dozen black specks that looked like a small formation of migrating birds. The shapes weren’t birds, but helicopters from the USMC presidential transportation fleet.
“Fuck this,” Slapshot roared, and cranked the wheel hard to the left and hit the gas again. The pickup bounced onto the divider and shot forward along the median, passing the unmoving vehicles in the inside lane.
Raynor bit back a protest. They were committed now, and under the circumstances there probably wasn’t a better option. The move did not go unnoticed by the state police officers manning the roadblock ahead. As the truck drew close, the cops drew their weapons and took defensive positions behind their vehicles, which would have been a fatal mistake if Slapshot crashed the barricades and kept going.
Fortunately for them, that was not his intent. As soon as he reached the front of the line, Slap made the hard right turn onto Cedar Lane. The side road was similarly clogged with traffic coming and going, and for a few frantic seconds, Kolt was certain that a collision was unavoidable, but somehow Slapshot managed to thread the needle, reaching the empty turn lane running down the middle of the road.
Kolt let out the breath he had been holding. “Shit, Slap.”
“Fortune favors the bold,” the other man said, not taking his eyes off the road. “It’s a rental. You got insurance, right?”
Before Raynor could reply, Digger broke in. “Helo touched down.”
“What happened to five mikes?”
“Sorry, boss. Plus or minus thirty seconds, right?”
Raynor shook his head in disgust. “Fortune just fucked us, Slap. We’re not going to make it. Shaft, you have execute authority. Now.”
“No shit?” Shaft replied. “From who?”
Raynor picked up Slapshot’s questioning tilt of his head, took a deep breath. “From me, Shaft, Noble Zero-One.”
“Dang, boss, okay,” Shaft said. “I have control.”
* * *
Although it was technically a single building, there were actually two structures at 7501 Wisconsin Avenue—two identical fifteen-story towers joined together at the base by a long two-story interior gallery.
Shaft had easily recognized it in the feed from the UAV. It was one of the most distinctive buildings in downtown Bethesda, and the tallest—just fourteen feet shorter than the tower at the medical center. The building had topped his initial list of likely locations for Shiner to operate from. It was almost exactly a mile from the hospital, which he now knew was within the sniper’s comfort zone. If anything, it had seemed a little too obvious, which was why, after scouting the building’s entrance and egress points, he had kept going, heading north to investigate other possibilities, eventually rendezvousing with Joker and Venti at a small park a few blocks to the north, at what he believed would be a central location.
Now he was regretting having second-guessed himself.
As soon as Shaft sent the location, and even before Raynor told them to get in position, he and the other two operators were up and moving, but even at a near run, it took them a couple minutes to reach their goal. They charged up to the southwest entrance at almost exactly the same moment that Marine One settled onto the helipad a mile away.
There was no point in updating Raynor on the fact that he and his team weren’t even in the building, much less in position to execute the hit. It wasn’t like they had the option of handing the ball to someone else.
“We’re in the building,” he said, acknowledging the go order as he headed inside and went directly to the elevator lobby.
The indicator above one of the doors displayed a downward-pointing arrow and was counting down from five, changing every few seconds.
“Come on.” Shaft tapped his foot as he watched the number anxiously. “Four. Three. Two.”
He tensed, ready to charge into the car as soon as the door opened, but realized that the indicator had frozen on the number “2.”
“Who takes the elevator one floor?” Joker muttered.
Venti glanced around the lobby for a moment, then pointed. “Stairs?”
Shaft would have preferred taking the stairs for tactical reasons; there was no telling who or what might be waiting on the other side of an elev
ator door. But despite the seeming delay, he knew the elevator would still get them to the top a lot faster and with considerably less physical effort. The last thing they needed was to be sucking wind as they charged into a possible firefight.
The number finally changed and a bell tone sounded, announcing the arrival of the car. The three Delta assaulters stood aside waiting for the elevator’s lone occupant—a middle-aged man whose attention was thoroughly consumed with whatever was happening on the screen of his mobile phone—to saunter off. As soon as he was clear, they moved inside like it was an objective they were intent on clearing. Shaft hit the button for the topmost floor and Venti stood ready to discourage anyone else from getting on with them.
As soon as the doors were closed, Shaft drew his Glock 23 from its concealed crotch holster, then took out the SureFire suppressor that had been rolling around in the pocket of his BulletBlocker duck jacket. Despite the heat outside, all of the assaulters wore some kind of overcoat to either hide lightweight body armor or, as in Shaft’s case, actually provide ballistic protection. The jacket’s inner liner was made of Kevlar, NIJ type III-A, rated to stop most pistol rounds, including .44 Magnum—or so the manufacturer claimed. It was standard kit, but whether to wear it or not was an operator’s personal choice.
“Cans secure?” he asked, looking up.
“Roger,” Venti said, holding up his own similarly equipped weapon and giving the suppressor a final tug for good measure.
Joker did the same, and added, “Stealth mode engaged.”
“Digger, how we doing out there?”
Digger’s normally laconic surfer cool was gone, replaced by almost frantic urgency. “Champ is in the open. He’s making the walk.”
“You’re kidding.” He knew the assaulter was not. “What part of ‘sniper threat’ don’t they understand?”
“Whatever you’re gonna do, brother, it has to be now!”
“No shit.”
The elevator made it to the top floor without interruption, and as the doors slid open, the three operators exited the car tactically, weapons at the ready. Even so, Shaft was startled when he rounded a corner and almost crashed into a uniformed security guard coming from the opposite direction.
The guard’s eyes went wide as they locked onto the suppressed pistol in Shaft’s right hand. He made a grab for his own holstered sidearm.
“Stop!” Shaft said, aiming his Glock at the man to get his attention. He had absolutely no intention of pulling the trigger on a civilian. If a display of force didn’t get the rent-a-cop’s attention, there were other nonlethal options available. Just to be on the safe side, he added, “Secret Service, undercover. Move your hand away from your weapon.”
That did the trick. The guard immediately raised his hands in a show of compliance.
Racer’s voice crackled from the Bluetooth earpiece. “Shaft. What’s going on?”
“Security guard, boss,” Venti muttered over the open line.
Shaft lowered his own weapon but held the man’s stare. “We need to get to the roof. It’s urgent.”
The guard, still evidently dumbfounded by the near-death encounter, nodded and gestured for them to follow.
The roof access stairs were only a few steps away, and after opening the door for them, the guard stepped aside to let them proceed. Shaft started up the stairs, leading with his pistol. The door at the top opened inward and was slightly ajar. He paused there, waiting for his mates to catch up. Venti was right behind him and Joker was bringing up the rear, but Shaft was dismayed to see the security guard starting up the stairs.
He called down to the man in a stage whisper. “Stay there. Secure that door until our backup arrives.”
The guard nodded and took a backward step. There was no time to wait for him to get clear. Shaft grasped the door with his left hand, easing it open, ready to engage whatever threat lay beyond.
The noise filled the close confines of the stairwell, hitting him like a physical blow. The sound was unmistakable: an unsuppressed pistol. His ears ringing, Shaft whirled, surprise already giving way to dread. Venti, close behind him, was also turning toward the source of the noise, blocking Shaft’s view of what was happening below. Before he could complete the turn, there was a second report and something wet and warm splattered across Shaft’s face.
Venti lurched to the side then collapsed and went tumbling down the steps, removing the last obstacle between Shaft and the killer below.
“Fucking guard,” Shaft rasped, hoping that Racer would understand the warning. He brought his own pistol around, lining it up for a center-mass shot, even as the shooter corrected his aim.
Shaft broke the four-pound trigger at the same instant he saw the flash from the muzzle of the guard’s weapon.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Shaft!” Raynor shouted. There was no reply. “Shit!”
He hammered his fist against the dashboard in impotent rage. Beside him, Slapshot just kept staring straight ahead, intently focused on the road in front of them. Kolt fought the impulse to urge Slapshot to go faster; the big man was already pushing as hard as he dared.
They had picked up the pace a little after making the turn onto Old Georgetown Road; not because traffic was any lighter, but because the six-lane divided highway gave Slapshot a lot more room to maneuver around the slower-moving cars that impeded their forward progress. He slalomed the truck back and forth across the median, laying on the horn and flashing his headlights to clear a path, and blasting through intersections without slowing. Unfortunately, his aggressive driving had not gone unnoticed. One of the state police cruisers from the roadblock on Rockville Pike had nearly caught up to them, and Raynor knew the call for backup had almost certainly gone out.
The road took a sharp bend to the left. Directly ahead, Raynor could see the high-rise buildings of the downtown commercial area. Traffic in the southbound lane was snarled almost to a standstill, but the northbound lanes were almost completely empty.
He checked Google Earth again. Less than a mile to go.
“Shaft!” he called out again. “Venti? Joker? Anyone?”
Still no answer. He refused to dwell on what that almost certainly meant.
“Digger, what’s the situation there?”
Hawk fielded the inquiry. “Digger is with Todd. Champ is still out in the open.”
“Tell him they have to keep POTUS moving,” Raynor said.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t just try, Hawk. Make it happen. Have a raving lunatic panic attack or something, but get POTUS under cover.”
“Boss!” Slapshot yelled. “Twelve o’clock!”
Raynor looked up and saw more flashing blue and red lights—a line of police cruisers blocking both lanes, about a hundred yards away.
“Next left!” Raynor shouted.
Slapshot cranked the wheel in that direction, skidding and fishtailing across the vacant northbound lanes. He steered out of the slide and slotted the truck down the narrow side street. The way ahead was clogged with slow traffic and pedestrians, but Raynor had expected that. “Bumper it. Foxtrot from here.”
Slapshot didn’t question the decision, but managed to get halfway up the street before he had to slam on the brakes. Raynor took one last look at the satellite map, plotting the shortest route to the Chevy Chase Trust Building that wouldn’t take them straight to the police roadblock, then threw his door open and took off running.
The street angled to the northeast before hitting a T-junction that led them back toward Wisconsin Avenue, where Kolt could finally see their destination just a couple hundred yards away. Instead of trying to dodge pedestrians, he veered out into the street, crossing the lanes of traffic as he ran, and sprinted the last hundred yards.
As he reached the northwest corner of the building, he heard Digger’s voice again in the Bluetooth. “Champ is under cover. I say again, Champ is under cover.”
Raynor kept going. The announcement took some of the pressure off, but only some.
He slowed to a jog and for the first time since leaving the truck, looked over his shoulder. Slapshot was right behind him, easily keeping pace, barely even breathing heavily.
“He’s gonna run, Slap. He missed his chance; he won’t hang around. I’m not losing him. Not again.”
“We can’t cover all the egress points, Kolt,” the big man said. “And we might have wounded eagles up there. But maybe Shaft and the guys are the reason he didn’t get to take the shot.”
“Fuck.” But Slapshot was right on all counts. “Digger, Hawk, you have to get Simmons to lock this place down. The building. The whole fucking city if he has to.”
“I’ll do what I can, boss. Right now, I think he’d rather arrest you,” Digger said.
Raynor ignored the comment and headed inside the building with Slapshot in tow. They bypassed the elevator foyer and headed for the fire stairs, prepping their weapons on the move, keeping them trained up the stairwell. Kolt’s legs and lungs were burning, but he pushed through the pain, stopping only when they reached the door to the top floor. They cleared the doorway and the hall beyond, then located the roof-access stairs from an emergency evacuation floor plan posted on the wall. Still moving tactically, they entered the stairwell to the roof, and found the bodies.
Raynor stepped over the first unmoving form—a man in a security guard’s uniform—and covered the stairs with his weapon while Slapshot checked the body. Two more lay at the base of the steps; Raynor recognized both of them.
Venti lay atop Joker, eyes fixed and staring into the void. A pool of blood spread out around both men.
“This guy’s dead,” Slapshot whispered, rising again.
“He shot them. Back of the head, as they were going up the steps.” Raynor was livid. Angry at the dead man for killing his mates, angry at the two assaulters for turning their back on someone they didn’t know, but angriest at himself for putting them in the situation in the first place.
“Wonder who he was,” Slapshot said.
Raynor had no idea other than that the man was working with Shiner. Maybe when the body was ID’d, it would give some clue as to whom the sniper was really working for.
