by James Hunt
Dylan poked his head up and looked through the back of the busted window of the cop car. The officers had done little to penetrate the wall of terrorists in front of them. Then, through the shattered glass, one of the terrorists locked eyes with him. Dylan quickly ducked, and the series of shouts and gunshots that followed were all aimed toward the small squad car they were sitting behind.
What little glass was left exploded from the window casings and clinked against the trunk, hood, asphalt, and the tops of Dylan, Cooper, and Diaz’s heads. The tires blew out on the driver side of the vehicle, and Dylan dropped his head lower to remain concealed behind the cover of the car. Holes from the bullets entering the hood and roof started to combine to completely tear away any shielding of metal. Dylan kept his hands covering the top of his head, feeling the vibrations from each shot and wondering if the next one would kill him.
Finally, the gunshots ended, and before Dylan had time to react, both Cooper and Diaz returned fire, taking turns shooting and ducking as they reloaded. Most of the other officers were dead, and those that were left looked as though they were running out of ammo and stamina to stay in the fight.
“We need to head back to the station!” Cooper said, screaming between the gunshots coming from Diaz.
The three of them huddled in a corner at the back bumper and looked to the station’s entrance, and the daunting sixty feet that separated them. Diaz grabbed Cooper and Dylan by the collar. “You two make for the door. I’ll cover you.”
Cooper shook her head. “It’s too risky. We need to thin out the herd.” Automatic machine-gun fire peppered the squad car to further her point.
Dylan glanced around frantically. If they stayed there much longer, there wouldn’t be a car left to hide behind. Another officer tried to make a run for it and was immediately gunned down. Six bullets left red patches in his back as the body lost control of its function and smacked to the ground, where he joined his fallen brothers. Dylan leaned back and rested his head on the license plate of the cruiser and closed his eyes. He couldn’t die here.
A light breeze brought with it a waft of smoke, and Dylan choked from the virulent fumes. When he opened his eyes, the squad cars that had been set ablaze continued to keep a light smolder. Dylan cocked his head to the side then immediately checked his pockets. “I need a knife.”
“What?” Diaz asked. “I already let you out of your cuffs. I’m not going to give you a weapon.”
“I can get us out of here!” Dylan said, the hesitation and fear that had consumed him boldly turning to anger in the moment. “Just trust me.”
Cooper rolled up her left pant leg and pulled a blade from the side of her boots. She extended it to Dylan, and when he grabbed it, she kept hold as he tried to tug it away. Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t make me regret this, Captain.” She released her grip on the blade, and Dylan flattened himself on the ground and pulled himself under the car.
“Just don’t let them shoot me,” Dylan said. With the tires blown out on the driver side, he had to keep to the passenger side on his crawl. His stomach, legs, and arms scraped against the grainy, dirty asphalt, black grime smearing against his skin and clothes. He kept his head ducked low, and he could only turn it slightly sideways before his face smacked into the vehicle’s undercarriage, banging the corner of his forehead hard on the greasy underbelly.
Dylan opened the blade then reached for the fuel line and sliced it in half. Gasoline splashed onto the ground, and the harsh scent stung Dylan’s nostrils as he did his best to quickly scoot backward. The echo of the gunfire that vibrated through the car was dulled while he was underneath, but the moment his head was out from under the bumper, the roar of the gunfire was in full effect.
The moment Cooper and Diaz got a whiff of the gas that had leaked onto Dylan’s arm, Cooper flashed a grin and tossed him the lighter. “Just don’t catch yourself on fire.”
“I’ll do my best.” Dylan thumbed the striker and brought the flame down to the gasoline that had followed his escape. The asphalt caught fire in a haze of waving blues and oranges. The fire followed the trail of fuel underneath the car, and smoke billowed up and around the sides. Dylan, Cooper, and Diaz covered their mouths and noses with the front collars of their shirts. Once the car was set ablaze, they used the cover of smoke and fire to run to the station.
The terrorists fired blindly behind them as they skidded, coughed, hacked, and then collapsed behind the clustered cover of desks. Dylan rolled to his side, his lungs tight and his throat on fire, his brain still woozy from the inhalation of the gas and smoke. He rested his forehead against the tile while on all fours.
Diaz and Cooper checked their weapons. “I’ve only got one magazine left,” Diaz said, sliding it into his 9mm.
“Me too,” Cooper answered. “We need to head out the back before those assholes come in after us.”
“There’s no transportation back there.”
“Then we’ll have to hoof it on foot. Let’s move.”
All three of them checked their six as they moved back through the station. Dylan bumped into chairs and stepped over and on desk trinkets that had been upturned in the chaos. A fine layer of dust coated everything in the precinct like white chalk.
When Dylan placed his hand on the door handle, Cooper stopped him before he could exit. “Better let me check it out first. I wouldn’t want my one good suspect to get gunned down after all this.” Cooper cracked the door open slowly then rushed out, using the sights on her pistol to scan the area, and once it was cleared, she motioned for Diaz and Dylan to join her. “Let’s go.”
Dylan had one foot out the door when gunfire sounded behind them. The terrorists had pushed their way inside and were advancing on their position. Diaz fired back, and as Dylan rushed out, he pulled the agent with him. Before the door closed behind them, Diaz collapsed to the ground, and Dylan along with him.
“Shit!” Diaz rolled on the ground, clutching his left shoulder, blood oozing out from between his fingers. Cooper rushed to his side, helping him up, while Dylan pulled a dumpster over to block the door. When Dylan offered a hand, Diaz slapped it away.
“We need to get him to a hospital,” Dylan said.
“We don’t know if the power’s out to the whole city or not,” Cooper replied. “And the first thing we need to do is find a car.”
Dylan scoured the yard, checking door handles and windows, anything and everything, but the amount of cars in the back was slim. “I can’t—” He turned in circles, looking for an escape, looking for the right words to finish. “There isn’t anything here!”
Cooper and Diaz hobbled together in a stumble, with Cooper trying to keep pressure on the back of Diaz’s shoulder. The door pounded against the dumpster, quickly followed by bullets, as the terrorists tried to push their way through. Cooper reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring. She tossed it to Dylan. “Slam that against the window. It’ll shatter like ice.”
Dylan placed it on his finger and gave the driver-side window of a beige Buick a forceful tap. The car window shattered just like she said, and Dylan quickly unlocked the other doors. Cooper helped Diaz into the backseat then jumped in the passenger seat while Dylan cracked open the panel underneath the car and fiddled with the wires.
“Done this before, have we?” Cooper asked. “You really are just the shining example of an upstanding citizen, aren’t you?”
A spark flickered as Dylan combined two exposed wires, and the engine turned over. More gunfire blasts peppered the door, and the dumpster almost shook free. “C’mon, c’mon.” The engine finally cranked to life, and Dylan slammed the shifter into drive. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and turned the steering wheel sharply, tires spinning and screeching against the pavement as the dumpster broke free and the terrorists poured out of the back of the station.
The rear window shattered, and all three of them felt the vibrations from the thud of each bullet that impacted the Buick’s trunk. When Dylan made an immediate le
ft, the firing finally stopped, and all of them raised their heads, looking back, waiting to see if anyone would follow them.
“Everyone all right?” Dylan asked.
Cooper checked herself then nodded and examined Diaz lying flat on his back, still clutching his shoulder. Diaz had broken out in a cold sweat and was shaking. When Cooper felt his forehead, she quickly checked the glove compartment and side pockets on the doors. “He’s burning up. We need to get him to a hospital. Now.” She found a half-drunk bottle of water and climbed back between the seats. She lifted Diaz’s head up and then rested it on her lap, feeding him the water to help rehydrate.
“Boston General is just a few blocks away,” Dylan replied. “If it’s still there,” he muttered under his breath. The explosions had caused a few of the store owners, up early to begin their day for the weekend crowd, to come out onto the streets, but other than that and a few delivery trucks, the rest of the city was still sleeping, although he didn’t think it would be for long, considering the loud disruptions that no doubt rocked the rest of the city.
The speedometer on the Buick tipped seventy, and Dylan barely stopped to check the streets at stop signs and lights, blowing past them in a blur. Cooper kicked the back of his seat. “Hey, the hospital won’t do us any good if you kill us before we get there.”
Dylan glanced down at his speed. He hadn’t realized how fast he was going. “Sorry.” He eased off the accelerator. He found that his heart was still racing, but it felt less intense. Either he was calming down, or he was getting used to the fact of being shot at. He hoped it was the former. “Listen. My kids. I still need to—”
The truck peeled around the corner without even stopping, colliding into the passenger-side front corner of the Buick’s hood. The force of the collision crumpled the car’s frame like tin foil. Dylan’s head cracked into the driver-side window and shattered the glass, along with his left shoulder. Cooper was thrown into the front seat with him as the car spun away from the point of the collision.
The Buick’s horn blew in a constant, long, drawn-out honk that filled Dylan’s ears along with the pounding on the left side of his head. He gingerly brought his fingers to the wound on his head and winced when he touched it. He looked down at his fingertips and saw blood.
Cooper’s body lay on the dash, and Diaz’s body was on the floor of the backseat. Neither moved. Dylan reached for the door handle and pulled. He collapsed onto the pavement, the light clink of glass bits falling with him. The floor felt as though it moved in waves, and it knocked Dylan back to the ground with each attempt to try and move forward. His arms gave out on him less than a foot away from the cruiser, and he rolled to his back.
The morning sky above was suddenly blocked by two men in masks, aiming their rifles at him. They spoke to each other quickly then reached down to grab him. But before they could, Dylan watched both of their faces receive a thick piece of lead to their cheeks and foreheads, sprays of blood staining his shirt as they collapsed to the ground.
Dylan quickly scooted backward, pushing the two dead men off him, and when he turned around, he saw Cooper’s smoking gun, still raised and slightly shaking in her hands. She rested her head back down on the dash, the burst of energy that she felt dissipated. She went limp like a wet noodle.
“Cooper,” Dylan said, shaking her arm and trying to glance at the truck that hit them to see if there were any more bad guys heading their way. “Hey, we have to get out of here. Others might be showing up any minute.” The pounding in his head only intensified as Cooper refused to move. He placed his finger on her neck, checking her pulse, and she knocked it away.
“Check on Diaz,” Cooper said, her body struggling for breath.
Dylan checked the backseat, and Diaz was on his stomach on the floorboard, but he was moving. Dylan reached down to help him flip over, and he cried out in pain when he managed to move to his side. “What’s wrong?”
“My ribs,” Diaz said, his body shaking worse than before. “I can’t”—he gulped for air—“breathe.” His breaths came out in wheezed gasps, short, sporadic, each one triggering a grimace on his face that seemed worse than the one before.
Cooper managed to finally push herself up, groaning from the effort, and Dylan took a few stumbling steps outside the car. Smoke and steam rose from both engines, and the shop owners watched from their windows, no doubt staying inside due to the gunshots. Dylan tripped over one of the terrorists’ hands then opened the back driver-side door.
Diaz managed to push himself to a sitting position, and Dylan reached inside and dragged Diaz from the vehicle, cursing and grimacing the entire way until he managed to put Diaz upright against the car to lean on. Cooper popped out and checked the two dead terrorists on the pavement, patting them down.
“Cooper, we have to get out of here,” Dylan said, an edge in his voice. The long hours had eroded away what was left of his patience. Anger rolled through him now, slowly replacing fear, doubt, and the nervous anxiousness that clouded his actions from before. “Cooper!”
“Got it.” Cooper pulled a small notepad from the pocket of the second terrorist, and she tucked it inside her blouse. Both she and Dylan helped Diaz to the side of the road, where they traveled down back alleyways to the hospital.
“Can you call anyone for backup?” Dylan asked. There had to be someone that could help them, someone that could get to them even with all of this. He refused to believe that the people she worked for didn’t have resources that could.
“Cell towers are down,” Cooper answered. “I checked my phone the moment shit hit the fan back at the precinct. It must have been one of the terrorists’ targets. Bastards are smart.”
Smart. It wasn’t the word that Dylan would have used. Their footsteps echoed in the alleyway as they pushed toward the hospital, but through the pounding of his head, a thought surfaced in Dylan’s mind. “What did you mean earlier?”
“About what?” Cooper asked.
“You said I was connected. The questions about the harbormaster. Do you think they picked my vessel on purpose?”
Cooper tilted her head to the side. “It crossed my mind.”
A cold shiver worked its way up Dylan’s spine as they walked. How did these people target him? And why? He’d never even traveled across the Atlantic, at least not far enough to make it to where these people were from. He had never been in the military, never even showed the slightest interest in any political affairs. Why would these people target him over the thousands, millions, of others?
“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Cooper replied, catching the looks that his face was going through. “These people, they don’t have rhyme or reason. They probably just picked your boat because it happened to be in the area where they would be entering US waters. Nothing more than that.”
“Does this mean you’ve stopped thinking I was a part of this?”
“I never did. I just needed to make sure I looked at you from all angles. But even I have to admit, you picked to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. In the worst possible way.”
None of it was a comforting thought. A liquor store appeared when they exited the end of the alleyway, and Dylan caught the glowing neon in the window advertising beer and liquor, and he twitched his fingers.
The slow tick digging into the back of his skull was beginning to burrow its way inside. Begging him to go inside the building, grab a bottle, and get as far away from the place as he could. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to look away as they passed right in front of the store. He broke out in a cold sweat, and he felt the weight of his past dragging him down to his knees, telling him any and every excuse of why he needed to go inside that store. But before the voice in the back of his head could finish, they were already past and down another alleyway. Dylan shrugged his right shoulder to adjust for Diaz’s growing weight, and the three continued their march to the hospital.
Chapter 8 – Saturday 9:30 a.m.
Nurses, doctors, police officers, and hun
dreds of other people crowded inside the hospital’s main entrance. The cries of patients and their families consumed the ER, each individual convinced their problems were more important than anyone else’s.
Cooper managed to flag one of the doctors down, and he marked Diaz as a priority, since he had a gunshot wound. But the ER was filled with worse. Despite the early-morning hours, the bombs that had detonated in the city had caused severe casualties and injuries.
Exposed flesh, limbs barely hanging on to their hosts, blood, gore—it was like something out of a war book. In all her years in law enforcement, even in her undercover work, she’d never seen anything like this.
“Cooper,” Dylan said, bringing her attention away from a man clawing at the stump of what was left of his leg as a team of nurses and doctors wheeled him into a room for surgery. “My family.”
“Right.” Cooper pushed past the wailing mothers, fathers, children, and spouses and found a frantic nurse at the reception desk, trying to do seven things at once. “I need to use your phone.”
The nurse didn’t even bother looking up. “I’ll be with you in a second, ma’am.” She picked up a pile of folders and sprinted down the hallway, calling the name of some doctor.
Cooper spotted the phone next to a pile of papers and reached over the counter and snatched it. She prayed the landline still had a dial tone, and when she pressed it to her ear, she let out a sigh of relief. “Good to know some of the old stuff still works.” She immediately dialed her superior in DC.
After a few rings, a man answered the phone. “Director Moringer’s office, how may I help you?”
“Jimmy, it’s Cooper.”
The proper, formal tone dropped, and Jimmy hushed his voice. “Are you okay? The director’s been going insane since Boston went dark.”
“I’m fine. Diaz was hit, but he’ll live. I need to know what’s going on beyond the city. The cell towers are down here, and I’ve just spent half my morning fending off terrorists trying to kill me.”
