Screams filled his ears as his peripheral vision monitored the hundreds of people around him scrambling to get out of the area. A quick glance at the twelve men had them turning toward him, but not drawing weapons, the security checkpoints before getting on the ferry preventing them from bringing any firearms.
He had to stop the boats. They were obviously bringing the weapons for the group. A crackle of gunfire from the second boat sent him ducking as the seawall took several hits from the return fire. He popped up but another burst of gunfire kept him pinned.
Where the hell is the backup?
He heard someone screaming in what he assumed was Arabic, it familiar enough to his ears from the newscasts and movies. He leaned out and saw two of the men from the ferry charging his position. He took aim and squeezed twice. The first man dropped, two rounds in his chest, the other jumping over his fallen comrade’s corpse, screaming “Allahu Akbar” at the top of his lungs, his right fist raised in the air, his eyes burning embers of hate.
Randy squeezed off two more rounds, ending the charge.
He reloaded, and peered back over the edge. Ladders from both boats were against the walls, and gear was being tossed in what looked like backpacks from the boats to the top of the wall. He opened fire again, this time taking out the pilot in the first boat who had been yelling “Yalla! Yalla! Yalla!”
Randy was rewarded with another hail of gunfire that sustained itself until he heard several single shots from further down the path. The weapon assaulting his position didn’t stop, but did change direction. He popped his head up and saw the light blue uniform of one of his fellow guards drop behind the seawall as bullets tore into the stone.
Carrie!
He recognized her blonde hair immediately. He switched his radio back on and heard the chatter as his report was finally being taken seriously. He reloaded and peered over the edge. It looked like they were finished transferring their equipment as the men from the boats began to climb the ladders. He looked at the group that had already been on the island and they were pulling weapons from the backpacks, then racing for the base of the massive statue.
And with a sickening feeling in his stomach, he knew what they were trying to do.
He activated his mike.
“They’re going to blow up the statue!”
“Who is that? Is that you Randy? Are you okay?”
It was Yakovski, his voice actually one of believable concern.
Maybe he’s not such an asshole after all?
He pressed the button. “I’m okay. Carrie is taking fire opposite my position, two hundred yards east of me. Two boats have off-loaded a bunch of equipment. Weapons confirmed, perhaps explosives. They’re already heading for the base of the monument. I’ve taken out two of the original twelve, one of the eight new arrivals. We need the Marine Patrol Unit for the boats and SWAT now! Over!”
He squeezed off several more rounds, taking out one of the climbers, then shifted slightly and took out the gunman raining bullets on Carrie. She immediately responded by jumping up and emptying her clip at those climbing the ladder closest to her. One went down, but a burst of gunfire from the pathway was met with a cry from her and she fell out of sight.
“Carrie!” cried Randy, his chest gripping his heart tight as the young woman, full of so much promise, went down. He grabbed his mike. “Carrie’s been hit! I repeat, officer down, over!”
“Is your position secure, over?”
Randy took a look. Now that the boats were empty and the equipment transferred, he seemed to have been forgotten, all the terrorists, for that’s what they were, racial profiling be damned, were either at the star shaped base of the monument, or running toward it. He loaded his last clip and emptied it at the men, taking three down permanently, wounding two who continued toward the wall, one limping, the other gripping his shoulder. He ejected the clip and sat down, the little alcove he was hidden in the only thing between him and certain death as bullets tore at the stone pathway, ricochets coming uncomfortably close.
“I’m out of ammo!” he yelled into his mike. “I’ve taken out three more hostiles, wounded two. By my count that’s nine down, eleven still a threat. My position is secure unless they decide to rush it. I need ammo! Over!”
“Help is on its way. Sit tight! Over and out.”
Randy peered around the corner and saw the last man clearing the top of the ladder, the two he had wounded lying on the ground, their weapons swinging back and forth as they looked for threats.
“Randy!”
Randy looked over to where the voice had come from, and saw three of his comrades on their bellies, lying on the pathway leading to the entrance to the statue.
“Ammo!” he yelled.
Dick Vance, an old timer like him from the force, waved then tossed a clip that clattered toward him, but was ten feet short. He tossed another one, harder, and this one landed within two feet of him. He reached out and grabbed the clip as bullets tore through the pathway, a shard of stone slicing through the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger.
He loaded the clip then looked at the three men across from him.
“Ready?”
Vance gave him the thumbs up.
“On three!” Randy flipped himself over on his knees then pushed himself to one, his kneecap protesting. “One, two, three!” He leaned out as the others jumped up, and began squeezing off rounds at the two men guarding the ladders. Within seconds it was over, the four weapons against two weakened men no match.
Randy ran toward the ladders as Vance and the other two youngsters as he liked to call them ran to join him. Screams from above told them all they needed to know as the cracks of small arms fire was met with the heavy bursts of fully automatic weapons.
Randy looked at Vance.
“Status?”
Vance handed him several clips.
“Harbor Patrol is on the way, the ferry has been recalled, and we’re setting up evac points at the dock and on the north side of the island. Tourists are being moved from the monument now, but we haven’t had time to get them out. That jackass Yakovski wasted several minutes ranting about you. The damned stairwell is still full, all the way to the torch.”
“We may only have minutes.” Randy pointed at the two young men who had accompanied Vance. “Jones? Ferrero?” The men nodded. “You two ready to be heroes?”
Jones grinned. “Effin’ right we are.”
“Then get up those ladders and shoot anything that has a gun and isn’t wearing a uniform. We’ll be right behind you.”
The two men charged up the ladders, their weapons slung across their backs, as Randy and Vance followed. Shots rang out in their direction, and Randy heard one of the young men cry out, as the other returned fire. Jones fell past them and Randy reached out, grabbing him and swinging him into the ladder. The young kid grabbed on as Randy’s shoulder screamed for relief.
“You alright, kid?”
“I’ve got it,” he winced as he grabbed the rungs. Randy let go and resumed his climb, Vance already over the top. Randy reached the lip of the base and looked over. Ferrero was on his belly, firing at a group near the temporary construction stairs leading to the third level, the rest already either up the stairs or just about to be. Vance was squeezing off rounds from his pistol when Randy dropped beside him, opening fire. A burst shattered the stone in front of them, and Vance cried out, rolling over, his face bloodied where the shards had torn open the skin.
“Screw this!” cursed Ferrero as he jumped up and ran toward the position, but to the left, pouring bullets on the two terrorists, and drawing their gunfire. Randy got to his knees and took careful aim, squeezing the trigger and taking out one of the men. Lining up for his second shot, he heard Ferrero cry out, and from the corner of his eye saw him stumble and fall.
He squeezed.
The final target was down.
He grabbed his mike and pressed the switch.
“I’ve got three men down, two on th
e second level, south side, one at the bottom of the base, south side. Four more terrorists are dead, but the remaining have made it to the third level. You need to empty the monument, now!”
He grabbed Vance by the jacket. “Are you okay?”
The man nodded through the blood. “I think so, just hurts like a mother. How’s it look?”
“Could be an improvement. I’ve gotta check on Ferrero.”
“Forget it. I’ll do it. You go after those bastards.”
Randy grimaced, then nodded. He pulled two clips from Vance’s vest, then ran toward the steps as his friend, grunting behind him, rose to his feet. Randy reached the steps leading up the side of the monument to the next level, the shouts in Arabic distinct, the gunfire unfortunately stopped, indicating they were meeting no resistance.
And he knew his old legs weren’t going to get him up two levels of these steps in time. Sirens had his head spinning to his right and he could see several boats of the harbor patrol arriving at least giving Randy the satisfaction that these men weren’t going to get away with what they had planned. They’d be caught.
Unless.
The thought sickened him, but he knew he was right. They had no intention of getting away with it. They intended to die for their cause, martyr themselves for entry into a twisted sexual paradise designed to urge young horny males living in repressed societies to die young for their god so they could access some booty.
Where do the female martyrs go?
He pushed himself up the last few steps, but there was no one there to engage, the last man clearing the second level and disappearing from sight. Finally a burst of gunfire, but it was short-lived, and he had no doubt one of his comrades was now dead.
Randy gasped with each step he took toward the next set of steps, his thighs screaming in agony as he pushed himself to continue. He hit the first step, cursing his age, cursing the sedentary lifestyle he had pretty much adopted since retirement, and swore when he got home today, he would hug his wife, call his daughter as he did every Thursday night, then hit the treadmill.
He heard shouts behind him and a quick glance showed a SWAT team rushing down the path, too far behind to be of any help.
If only that asshole Yakovski had called it in.
As he pushed himself up the steps, one at a time, his hands on his legs, pushing with them, he took a glance up at the most gorgeous woman in his life, save his wife and daughter—Lady Liberty. She stood proudly, arm raised in the air proclaiming the ideals of her country. Made in France by French artisans over a nine year period, then transported in pieces across the ocean, it took two additional years to raise the money to build the base she now stood on, and once erected, she became the symbol, the beacon, that tugged on the heartstrings of every modern American, and drew every immigrant who graced her shores with dreams of those ideals.
Freedom and democracy for all. A place where dreams could come true with hard work, where no man could blame his country for his failures, only himself, a beacon to the world of what could be accomplished if men and women were given the freedom to do what they wanted, when the wanted, with whom they wanted.
And proof of this philosophy stood over his right shoulder, one of the richest, freest cities in the world, in a country that in just two centuries had surpassed all others despite many with histories in the thousands of years.
And this beacon that soared above him in her own adopted home, had inspired him every day of his life growing up and working in New York City, and there was no way in Hell he was going to let her fall.
He pushed the last few steps, and saw the entrance that stood at her south side, unguarded, the shouts inside echoing up and down her copper structure, the screams of trapped tourists inside heart wrenching as the high pitched cries of women and children sometimes drowned out the shouts in Arabic.
He nearly crawled toward the entrance, his legs flaming piles of meat that barely functioned, his hands barely off the ground as he gasped for breath, his weapon, still gripped tightly in his hand, dragging on the stone. Stumbling the last few feet, he willed himself upright, taking a deep breath and pushing the pain to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the job ahead.
The shouts behind him told him the young legs of the SWAT team were closing in quickly, but they were still too far behind. He was the only one here, the only one who could stop what was about to happen. He stepped into the doorway, and he heard the most chilling two words he would ever hear in person shouted by one, then echoed by many.
“Allahu Akbar!”
God is great!
Randy felt his chest tighten as a rumbling sound rolled from the structure, his feet beginning to shake as the entire edifice began to vibrate, then a screeching sound, like a beast from the seventh level of Hell had escaped its confines, tore open his ears as at least a dozen deafening blasts followed each other in rapid succession, and as Randy continued into the entrance, he saw a wall of dust and fire rush toward him. He squeezed his eyes shut, raising his hands to protect himself, and began to turn.
But it was futile.
The blast wave, augmented by the confined space, shoved him off his feet, sending his body soaring through the air, the feeling oddly curious. He should be terrified, he should be in pain, but he felt nothing, his vision filled with the rapidly shrinking monument, her torch held high, her face looking down at him with an expression of pride in what he had tried to do for her, and sympathy for what was to become of him.
Tears filled his eyes as he saw the dust and debris from the blast exploding from every opening in the base and the old lady herself. He hit the water hard, his breath knocked from him. Quickly he began to sink and it took him a few moments to realize what was happening. Kicking with his legs, he slowly worked his way to the surface, but something was wrong. He was reaching up with his arms to help, but he wasn’t seeing his right hand. Looking over at his shoulder, he gasped. His right arm was gone, nothing but a bloody stump remained. He shouted in panic, expending his air, then stopped, kicking even harder, his still exhausted legs working on the last bit of adrenaline his body could muster.
He broke the surface and sucked in a deep breath, trying to stabilize himself as he strained to reacquire Lady Liberty in his sights. He turned around and saw her, still standing, hand defiantly in the air, and he smiled.
Then frowned.
Something was wrong. She didn’t look like she should, she didn’t look like she had for the fifty plus years he had been looking at her from every angle imaginable.
She was leaning to the left. His left, her right. And she continued to lean. He gasped as the elaborate stone pedestal she stood on crumbled on its western side, and she tumbled over, the cries of the metal and stonework painstakingly constructed by stonemasons and metalworkers over a century ago failing under the awesome power of modern explosives, carried by fanatics hell bent on destroying the very way of life she represented.
And they had succeeded in their mission.
To destroy the symbol that most truly represented America.
He sobbed as the mighty lady crashed into the ground in a pile of dust, her defiant torch, held to light the way of millions who had come to our shores, disappearing as Randy sank beneath the waves, his attempt to save her a failure, and his will to live, gone.
Alexandria, Egypt
11 August, 30 BC
She gripped her pillow tightly, sobbing as she had never sobbed before, the heartache she felt all-consuming, the thought of going on without her beloved Antony unimaginable. She knew now how he had felt when she had lied, sending word to him that she had died. It had been a desperate act, one born from fear after their forces had deserted them and joined Octavian’s forces against her darling Antony, fear that her beloved would think that she, Cleopatra, had betrayed him, and would have her killed.
What a fool she had been.
Her dear Antony, upon hearing the lie repeated by her messenger, overcome by grief, stabbed himself in the stomach with his own
sword. And if her messenger was to be believed, he lay on his couch, crying out her name, praying to the gods to deliver him from this wretched place and back into her loving arms in the afterlife. And when his prayers went unanswered, and he continued to slowly bleed out, death escaping him still, he begged his servants and friends to finish him off, but none had the courage nor the will.
Her messenger had fled, bringing her word of his actions, and she had immediately returned him with orders to bring her dying Antony to her sanctuary. She smiled at the remembrance recounted to her by her messenger, of how Antony had apparently reacted to the news she was alive. Smiles and laughter, thanks to the gods, then demands he be taken to her immediately.
But with Octavian’s treacherous forces so close, she hadn’t trusted the party that had arrived, and rather than welcome him with open arms, ordered her handmaidens to lower ropes to him through the window of her bedchamber so that if it were a ruse, the ropes could be cut, and the perpetrator’s skull cracked open upon the rocks below. The act of being hauled up the side of the building had nearly killed her love, but her warrior had hung on, long enough for them to kiss once again, and as she saw how horribly mutilated he was, she had torn her clothes off, covering his shivering body, then tore at her own in anger, for she knew she was the one to blame.
“Stop, my love,” he had said.
“But why? It is my fault you have done this to yourself. It was my lie, from my lips, repeated by my messenger, that caused you the grief you suffered. The grief that caused you to do this!” she cried, pointing at his wound.
“But it is my grief no longer. To know you are alive, to know you will survive, is all this man’s heart needs to go on. I may die here today, but our love is eternal, a flame never to be snuffed by the treacheries of others, a bond that will continue after our deaths and into the afterlife, forever at each other’s side, forever as one, I Caesar, you my Queen, for eternity.”
The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 2
