by John Cutter
“Which is what?”
“There’s plan A and plan B. Plan A, I would need you to fly the heli. That’s probably what would work best. But it’d ruin your career — more than this bullshit smear going on right now. So I guess Plan B… I show up on foot and do what I can. Maybe you and Richie can help me on the ground.”
Deirdre crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. “I’m going to stop Gustafson no matter what it takes. Career or not.”
“How’s the pain in your shoulders?”
“Hurts. There’s some swelling. But the ibuprofen helped. I’ve made up my mind I’m going to fly that heli…”
The phone in Vince’s pack rang. The small pack was on the seat beside him, and he opened it, putting the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
He half expected to hear a threat from Gustafson. But it was Shaun Adler’s voice, whispering, “Can you hear me okay? I can’t raise my voice…”
“I can hear you. You at Wolf Base?”
“No. West Virginia. Place called Ostrovsky House, big stone place right at the end of Greenville Road, a little south of a town called Wersted in the Adirondacks. They’re holding me here, Vince — they’re making me put on a suicide vest.”
Vince felt a sick chill go through him. He had bad memories of suicide bombers. And forced suicide bombers were something he’d seen too; a monstrous terrorist practice carried out more than once by ISIS.
“Do you know where they’re going to deploy you?”
“Police precinct. Third district, and I heard the number three-oh-five. But I’m not sure. Maybe a cop shop, man. I just know it’s happening not long before the attack, around nine and — shit!”
“Shaun?”
Vince heard Mac Colls’ voice then, in the background. “Who are you talking to, Adler? What are you doing with that phone?”
“It’s my dad, I just wanted him to know I’m okay—”
Then the connection cut off.
Vince slapped the phone down on the table. “That was Shaun Adler. I am very much afraid I’m not going to be able to help him…”
“Anything about the Brethren’s plan?”
“There was one thing — third district, three-oh-five… You know what, I need you to call Agent Chang…”
*
The Uber driver had been surprised when they asked him to let them off at the edge of the old airport. But he didn’t seem to have reported it to anyone, because Vince and Deirdre Corlin had been here for hours.
Deirdre was stretched out on the deck of the helicopter, dozing with her head on her arms; Vince was in the co-pilot’s chair. The horizon to the east, between buildings, was glowing gray-red in pre-dawn. He glanced back at Deirdre; saw she was in a fitful sleep, her eyes opening then fluttering shut.
He had thought about flying to West Virginia. Thinking if he could capture Gustafson, he could force him to stop the attack. And rescue Shaun at the same time.
But he suspected the whole thing was autonomous by now. The attack would go ahead. And Gustafson might well not surrender peacefully, anyway.
Right now, Vince was considering calling an old friend who worked at the Pentagon. Major Gus Gresley. Gus was now the Delta Force officer at the Pentagon, with an office in the DIA. There was some risk in a call like that. Maybe Gresley had heard that Vince had “gone rogue”. With Dawson in the Justice Department, and connections between Dawson and Gustafson, there was a good chance of it. Question was, would Gresley believe Vince — or the rumors?
Vince shrugged. Worth a try. He got out his phone. He remembered numbers, always had. And he remembered Gresley’s home phone number.
After four rings, Gresley answered, his voice thick. “Who the hell?”
“It’s Vince Bellator, is who the hell. Sorry to wake you, Gus, but I ran into some guys who plan to attack the Joint Chiefs tomorrow. They want to kill them all. There’s a meeting with the generals and the DIA — that right?”
“How’d you know about the meeting?”
“A certain Professor Gustafson. Who has friends on the inside at the Justice Department and the Pentagon. He’s a Nazi asshole, Gus. It’s the Germanic Brethren. They’re planning a group of attacks, including the Joint Chiefs. Tomorrow, sometime before nine…”
“A group of attacks?”
“Yeah. Me and… my associate here… we’ve tried to tell the Bureau and the D.C. police but we’re getting no headway. Same with Homeland Security. They told us to call the FBI who told us to call Homeland Security… The Attorney General has poisoned the waters. My understanding is, the main attack is at nine-thirty at the Lincoln Memorial — a hundred twenty domestic terrorists in six trucks.”
“There’s a big Democratic Party event happening there… though Lincoln was a Republican… but then the Republican Party was more like…”
“You still half asleep, Gus?”
“Yeah, and confused. I took a sleeping pill. And how am I supposed to act on this? You’re classed as a criminal; they’ve got you pegged as a lone nut killer or something. That’s what I hear. Something about a lot of dead guys in Georgia.”
“They were Germanic Brethren and they were trying to kill me. Anyway, you don’t have to give me as the source. Maybe the city cops will take the intel seriously if it comes from you. They need to cancel that event. And you need to cancel the other one. The Joint Chiefs. Be ready to take down a lone gunman coming to the site of the meeting…”
“We’ve been getting warnings about attacks all day. One was going to be on the Capitol Building, one was on the White House, one was at Georgetown U. Just a lot of crazy contradictory stuff. I don’t think anyone’s going to listen to you or me.”
“Me, no. Your credibility is still good, though, Gus.”
“Not in a way that gets fast action. This big Democratic Party event at the Lincoln Memorial has been planned for a long time, and the theory is, far-right-nutters are trying to get them to cancel it with a hoax about an attack. No one’s inclined to listen.”
“Did I not once save your life?”
“Yes.”
“Have I always been a guy you could trust, or not?”
“You have been. I believe you, Vince. But—”
“Do what you can. And better drink some coffee. You don’t want to go back to sleep tonight, Gus.”
Vince hung up, and wondered if he should call Homeland Security again…
But it didn’t seem like anyone was going to listen to him. Which left just one option.
*
Dawn in West Virginia. “Will he get there on time?” Buster asked.
Mac nodded. “Oh yeah. If they leave now.”
They were in the garage of the Ostrovsky house, loading weapons into the trunk of Mac’s old Buick LeSabre.
Buster tucked the Uzi, in its canvas bag, in a corner by the AR-15 and the cooler with the food and coffee for the trip. “Adler going to have that vest on when he’s in the car with us?”
“You think I’m crazy? No. It’s in the trunk of the car that dumbass Flesky is driving all by his lonesome. So if it goes off…” He shook his head. “Not with me in the car! I want to die fighting for the cause, not because of some stupid fucking mistake.”
“Flesky on his way there?” Buster asked.
“Yeah, he left an hour ago. He’ll be waiting near the building where they’re having the meeting. We’ll get the vest on the kid, and Flesky will drive him to the precinct. You follow in this car, while I take care of the Joint Chiefs. Then you head to the memorial.”
“Sounds good.” Buster closed the trunk. “You’ve got some balls, taking that Joint Chiefs mission, Mac.”
“Got to. Fucking Bellator was a big disappointment, a fraud just like I said. I warned the General…”
“Bellator lied about everything, yeah. But he’s pretty fucking effective. Killed a lot of good Brethren.”
“He’ll suffer for what he did. We’ll find whoever he cares about and make them all suffer for it. Now let’s get the kid. It�
��s dawn. We’ve got to hit the road. Three hours to get to D.C.”
“Traffic should be light from here,” Buster said, following Mac out of the garage.
They went through the kitchen to the hall, up the stairs, down another hall to the room where Shaun Adler waited. Mac unlocked the door — and found Shaun standing at the window, staring out. Like he was thinking about getting away, Mac thought.
“Forget it, Adler,” Mac said. “You’re all done deserting. Come on — we’re hitting the road!”
He hooked a thumb toward the door and stepped out of the way. Looking pale and scared, Shaun Adler walked past him and Buster to the hallway. “Go left and down the stairs. We’re going to the garage.”
“Can I talk to the General, first?” Shaun asked at the top of the stairs.
“Nope. No one trusts you after you made that hinky phone call. You just do what you’re told and it’ll all be alright.”
Shaun nodded — then he rushed down the stairs and turned toward the front door.
“He’s trying to rabbit!” Buster said.
“No shit,” Mac muttered, hurrying down the stairs.
He caught up with Shaun at the front door where he was just turning the knob. Mac grabbed him by the belt and the neck, wrenched him away from the door, and slammed him into the wall. The blow smacked Shaun’s forehead into the dark wooden panel — and he went limp, slipping down to sag onto his knees.
Mac examined Shaun as Buster caught up, puffing. “He dead?”
“No, out cold. He’ll be alright. Let’s carry him out to the Buick. When he comes to, you keep your gun on him. Keep it down below the windows, but make sure he doesn’t try to get away again… The General has every element in place and this little fuck is not going to ruin it for us. Our destiny is to see this all the way through.”
Buster nodded. “This is our Schicksal.”
*
Vince was peering at the GPS on his phone, examining, for the tenth time, the terrain and streets around the Lincoln Memorial.
He went over it again in his mind and just didn’t see any other way. Not with so many trucks coming at the Brethren’s target — and coming from six places.
He heard Deirdre moaning in her sleep, and he swiveled the seat to see her twitching, her fingers clenching.
She gasped and sat bolt upright, staring wildly around. Her hair was mussed, and she was panting softly. “Oh Jesus. I thought I was…”
“You were back in that cell?” Vince asked softly.
“Yes.” She brushed hair out of her eyes. “Fuck this. There any more coffee?”
“In the fridge.”
She got up, wincing at the pain in her shoulders and back, and went stiffly to the minifridge, getting herself a bottle of cold coffee.
“I was captured, in Syria,” he said. “They tortured me. Mostly with electricity. Car batteries. Beatings. They treated me to a waterboarding, too, because, they said, the CIA was doing it.”
“It was.” She opened the coffee and drank a little. “I saw in your file you were captured and tortured. Command advised you not to go back in-country for at least three months. Maybe transfer to the states, work as a trainer. You talked them into letting you stay on the job.”
“I had to wait till I could get a mission in that town. Where I could slip off, after, and take care of those assholes. That way…”
“Catharsis.”
He nodded. “Pretty much.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Helped a little.”
“How’d you get away? It didn’t say. Just that you escaped.”
“Someone was careless. They tied my hands in front of me and turned their back.” He shrugged. “I killed him and four others and headed out.”
“When you went back…”
“Only three of them left from… before. But I took care of them. Just — cut their throats.”
“You didn’t torture them.”
“No one should torture anyone. Not them, not us.”
“I agree.”
“Did it take a long time to get past it?”
“I… would like to tell you I got completely past it. That’s not true though. I can say it got better. But I still have the nightmares sometimes. I’m sorry it happened to you.”
“Yeah, well, me too. But — half the refugees to the USA have been tortured. It’s not like I’m alone. Thanks to you, it was over faster for me than a lot of others. That’s twice I have something to thank you for, Vince.”
“You’d do the same for me,” he said. “For anyone.”
She nodded. “I would.”
“You ready for today?”
“No. But I’ll be there. In that seat, piloting this heli.”
“It probably will be a bridge too far in your career, Deirdre.”
“I know.” She looked around. “Is that a head?”
“Yep. There’s a restroom in this thing. Big ol’ luxury choppers, what can you say.”
“Cool.”
She went to the door of the little toilet and sink booth, like something in a 747, and he looked again at the GPS screen…
*
Shortly before nine that overcast morning, Mac Colls pulled the big dark-blue Buick up in the alley, parking next to a dumpster, behind Flesky’s green Chevy Malibu. Flesky popped the trunk.
“We’re running a little late,” Mac said, turning off the engine and getting out. The alley smelled of last night’s Chinese food leavings. “Come on, let’s do this. Get the kid out and ready.”
They were in an alley a block from Central Police Station 305, in the Third District of Washington D.C. There was room here to operate — it had all been scouted out. The spot was a wide place in the alley behind a Chinese restaurant and a small weight-lifting gym. The alley ran between two side streets.
“Get out, kid, and stay close,” Buster said.
“I’m not a kid,” Shaun said, opening the door. Except for asking for a piss break, it was the first thing he’d said since the drive from Ostrovsky House. They got out, Buster leveling the gun at Shaun across the top of the car. “Get to the front of the car, slow,” Buster said. “Ain’t no one around to see me shoot you, so don’t make me do it.”
“This whole thing is a lie,” Shaun said, walking to the front of the car. “The vest is real and you guys aren’t. You’re just liars. You probably don’t even believe half of Gustafson’s bullshit. You just want to feel important.”
“You get that from Bobby Destry?” Mac said, chuckling, as Shaun came to the open trunk of the Chevy. “You know what happened to him? He’s dead. We executed him.”
“I don’t believe anything you say, except,” Shaun’s voice was flat, almost monotone, but he was breathing hard and his fists were clenched, “I do believe you’d shoot me.” He turned to look at Buster coming over with gun in hand. “Because you’re the kind of guys who shoot people in the back.”
“Okay, so you’re not only a deserter,” Buster said, “you’re a traitor. You talk like a traitor to your people. Infected by the lies of the Jew agents.”
Flesky, a gangly Russian with a bald head and a full blond beard, was taking the heavy explosive vest from the trunk. “Ve be so keer-ful vis zis.” He had an atrocious accent. Another fucking immigrant, white or not, in Mac’s view.
Then Buster said, “Who’s that?” He nodded toward the west end of the alley, where a black sedan, probably a Crown Victoria, was pulling up in the street, blocking the alley egress. “That our people?” he asked nervously.
The car sat there. A man in dark glasses watched them — then drove on.
Mac’s mouth had gone dry. “Nah, that’s not us. But — it’s nothing. Must’ve been sitting in traffic for a minute. Let’s get the vest on him.”
Buster was still looking toward the egress of the alley, frowning — and Shaun Adler saw his chance. He bolted toward the street, running past Mac — who stuck his boot out, catching Shaun’s back foot. The young man went sprawling, cursing to himself. Then he scrambled to his f
eet — but Mac grabbed him, spun him around, and punched him glancingly in the jaw.
“Ow — fuck!” Shaun blurted, staggering back against the grill of the Buick.
“Okay, do that again, I’ll shoot you in the nuts!” Buster snarled, pointing the gun at Shaun’s groin.
“You’re going to blow me the fuck up!” Shaun yelled, clutching his face. “What difference does it make!”
Mac pulled his Glock but he raised a hand, palm outward, and tried to talk in a calming voice. “Shaun, chill out, the vest isn’t real! It’s to keep them busy wondering, is all.”
“There’s that car again!” Buster said, pointing now at the east end of the alley.
Mac turned and saw the Crown Vic again, this time at the other end of the alley. He looked toward the east end. There was another black car there.
“Fuck! It’s the feds!”
Shaun bolted again, with remarkable speed, running toward the closer car to the east, where an Asian-looking guy in a suit got out, gun in one hand, waving a badge with the other. “Drop your weapons! FBI!”
Shaun waved his arms. “Don’t shoot me, I’m their prisoner, don’t shoot!”
“Get down!” yelled the fed.
Shaun threw himself flat.
Mac turned to look toward the other end of the alley — and saw a large black man, suit, sunglasses, with gun and badge, coming at them from the other car.
“Drop your weapons!” the black fed yelled.
“Fuck this!” Mac said, and fired at the black guy.
He missed and the black cop returned fire. A corner of Buster’s head exploded with a round and he fell as Flesky shrieked and ran, still mindlessly holding the explosive vest.
“No-no, nyet, don’t shoot, this will explode!” Flesky yelled, running toward the east end of the alley.
Mac jumped up and fired at the black guy, who was still running at them, his bullet cutting at the agent’s side. The fed grimaced but didn’t stop, and fired back — and Mac felt something slam into his chest just below his collar bone.
A flash of red consumed his vision and he was whirling, falling, squeezing off a shot that smacked off the Buick’s grill…
