“What do you want?” Hayden asked.
“There will be negotiation.”
She studied him, looking intently into the face of the new world enemy. These people didn’t want anything in return, they wouldn’t negotiate and they believed death was but a step up to some kind of Heaven. Where does that leave us?
Where indeed? She felt for her weapon. “A man who wants nothing other than to commit mass murder is easily dealt with,” she said. “With a bullet to the head.”
Ramses pressed his face to the bars. “Then go ahead, western bitch.”
Hayden didn’t need to be an expert to read the madness and zeal shining from those soul-dead eyes. Without a word she changed tack and exited the room, locking the outer door carefully behind her.
Never too careful.
The next room along housed the cell of Robert Price. She had gained permission to keep the Secretary here because of the imminent threat and his potential part in it. As she and Kinimaka walked into the room, Price turned a supercilious expression upon her.
“What do you know about the bomb?” she said. “And why were you in the Amazon, attending a terrorist bazaar?”
Price sank down into his bunk. “I want a lawyer. And what do you mean? A bomb?”
“Nuclear bomb,” Hayden said. “Here in New York. Help yourself, you piece of shit. Help yourself right now by telling us what you know.”
“Seriously.” Price stared. “I know nothing.”
“You committed treason,” Kinimaka said, moving his bulk close to the cell. “Is that how you want to be remembered? An epitaph for your grandkids. Or would you rather be known as the repentant who helped save New York?”
“As lovely as you make that sound,” Price’s voice rattled like a coiled snake. “I wasn’t involved in any ‘bomb’ negotiations and know nothing. Now, please, my lawyer.”
“I’ll give you a little while,” Hayden said. “Then I’m gonna put Ramses and you together, in the same cell. You can fight it out. We’ll see who talks first. He would rather die, not live, and he wants to take every living soul with him. You? Just make sure you don’t commit suicide.”
Price looked flustered at at-least some of her words. “No lawyer?”
Hayden turned around. “Fuck you.”
The Secretary watched her go. Hayden locked him inside and then turned to Mano. “Any ideas?”
“I’m wondering if Webb is involved in this. He’s been the figurehead all along.”
“Not this time, Mano. Webb isn’t even stalking us anymore. This is all Ramses and Marsh, I’m sure.”
“So what’s next?”
“I don’t know how else we can help Drake and the guys,” Hayden said. “The team is already at the very core of this. Homeland have everything else managed, from cops kicking in doors to spies pulling their hard-earned covers, to army build-up and the arrival of NEST, the Nuclear Emergency Support Team. FDNY are everywhere, with all they’ve got. The bomb squad is at the highest alert. We have to find a way to break Ramses.”
“You saw him. How do you break a man who doesn’t care if he lives or dies?”
Hayden stopped angrily. “We have to try. Or would you rather just give up? Everyone has a trigger. That worm cares for something. His fortune, his lifestyle, a concealed family? There has to be something we can do to help.”
Kinimaka wished they could call on Karin Blake’s computer expertise, but the woman was still embroiled in her Fort Bragg regime. “Let’s go find a workstation.”
“And pray we have time.”
“They’re waiting for Ramses’ go ahead. We have some time.”
“You heard him as well as I, Mano. Sooner or later, they’re gonna kill Marsh and detonate.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dahl listened to the conflicting comms reports as Smyth guided their vehicle through the congested streets of Manhattan. Luckily, they didn’t have far to go and not every concrete artery was fully clogged. The entire cast of informers had been dragged out for this one, it seemed, from the lowliest gutter snitch to the richest, dishonest billionaire and everything in between. This made for a clutter of conflicting reports, but Homeland were doing their very best to sort the reliable from the polluted.
“Two of the known cells have strong links to a nearby mosque,” Moore was telling Dahl over the earpiece. He reeled off an address. “We have an undercover there, though he’s pretty new. Says the place has been on lockdown all day.”
Dahl was never a man to assume anything. “What does that actually mean in mosque terminology?”
“What does it mean? It means get the hell in there and flush out at least one of Ramses’ cells.”
“Civilian activity?”
“Nothing much to speak of. But whoever is in there ain’t likely saying prayers. Search all the back rooms and underground chambers. And gear up. My guy’s not often wrong, and I trust his gut on this one.”
Dahl relayed the information and punched the coordinates into the GPS. As luck had it they were almost on top of the mosque and Smyth wrenched the wheel towards the curb.
“Providence,” Lauren said.
“The name I gave my old katana.” Kenzie sighed in memory.
Dahl tightened the buckles of his vest. “We ready? Same formation. We hit hard and fast, people. No quarter.”
Smyth switched the engine off. “No problem with me.”
Morning still greeted them as they climbed out and studied the mosque across the road. A red and white vent stood nearby, billowing steam. Situated at a junction, the building ran along the sides of both streets, its colorful windows and extended frontage a part of the community. Atop the building sat a small minaret, odd and almost flashy against the surrounding concrete facades. The off-street entry was through a pair of glass doors.
“We walk in,” Dahl said. “Now move.”
They headed across the road with hard purpose, stopping traffic with outstretched hands. A pause now could cost them everything.
“Big place,” Smyth commented. “Hard to find a determined group inside there.”
Dahl contacted Moore. “We’re on site. Do you have anything else for us?”
“Yeah. My man assures me the cell meets underground. He’s close to being accepted, but not close enough to help us today.”
Dahl relayed the news as they crossed the other sidewalk and pushed on the front doors of the mosque. With senses hyper-aware they inched inside, eyes adjusting to the slightly dimmer light. White walls and ceiling glared back, along with gold light fittings and a red and gold carpet, decorated with patterns. This all nestled beyond a reception area, where a man eyed them with open suspicion.
“Can I help you?”
Dahl produced his SPEAR ID. “Yes, my man, you can. You can lead us to your secret underground entrance.”
The receptionist appeared nonplussed. “Is this a joke?”
“Move aside,” Dahl held out a hand.
“Hey, I can’t let you—”
Dahl picked the man up by the front of his shirt and set him on top of the counter. “I believe I said—move aside.”
The team hurried past and into the main body of the mosque. The area was empty and the doors at the back locked. Dahl waited for cover from Smyth and Kenzie and then kicked them twice. Wood splintered and panels fell to the floor. At that moment there came noises and the sounds of scuffling from the foyer behind. The team fell into position, covering the area. Three seconds passed and then the face and helmet of a SWAT commander popped around the sidewall.
“You Dahl?”
The Swede grunted. “Yes?”
“Moore sent us. SWAT. We’re here to back your play.”
“Our play?”
“Yeah. New Intel. You’re in the wrong friggin’ mosque, and they’re dug in pretty deep. It’s gonna take a frontal assault to swill ’em out. And we’re aiming for legs.”
Dahl didn’t like it, but understood the procedure, the etiquettes of operating here. And it d
idn’t hurt that SWAT already had a better location.
“Lead the way,” Dahl said.
“We are. The correct mosque is across the street.”
“Across the . . .” Dahl cursed. “Bloody GPS bollocks.”
“They’re quite close together.” The officer shrugged. “And that English cursing is heartwarming, but shall we get our friggin’ asses moving?”
Minutes ticked by as the teams mingled and formed a raiding party as they re-crossed the road. Once assembled not another moment was wasted. A full-scale assault began. Men attacked the front of the building, battering the doors and spilling into the foyer. A second wave passed through them, fanning out and searching for reference points they had been told of. Once a blue door was found, a man positioned an explosive charge against it and detonated. An explosion radiated out, the blast much wider than Dahl expected, but of a radius SWAT had clearly planned for.
“Booby trapped,” the leader told him. “There will be more.”
The Swede breathed a little easier, already knowing the value of undercover agents and now remembering to pay tribute to them. Undercover was among the most treacherous and life-changing of all police methods. It was a rare and valuable asset who could infiltrate the enemy and thus save lives.
SWAT eased inside a mostly destroyed room, then angled toward a far door. This stood open and covered what was clearly the entrance to a cellar. As the first man approached gunfire sounded from below and a bullet ricocheted through the room.
Dahl glanced at Kenzie. “Any ideas?”
“You’re asking me? Why?”
“Maybe because I picture you having a room like this of your own.”
“Don’t beat around the fucking bush, Dahl, will you? I am not your pet smuggler. I am here only because . . . because—”
“Yes, why are you here?”
“I really wish I knew. Maybe I should go . . .” She hesitated, then sighed. “Look, maybe there’s another way inside. A clever criminal wouldn’t go down there without a solid escape route. But with actual terrorist cells? Who knows with such suicidal bastards?”
“We don’t have dithering time,” the SWAT leader said, crouching nearby. “It’s rollerball for these guys.”
Dahl watched the team take out stun grenades even as he considered Kenzie’s words. Purposely harsh, he believed they hid a caring heart, or at least the shattered vestiges of one. Kenzie needed something to help piece those parts back together—but how long could she search without losing all hope? That ship might already be wrecked.
SWAT signaled they were ready and then unleashed a crazy form of hell by way of the wooden stairwell. As the grenades bounced down and then burst the teams stepped forward, Dahl jostling the commander for pole position.
Smyth squeezed past. “Move your asses.”
Running downwards they were instantly met with gunfire. Dahl caught a glimpse of a dirt floor, table legs and crates of weapons before he deliberately slithered down four risers in a row, gun out, returning fire. Smyth twisted before him, rolling to the bottom and crawling to the side. The SWAT team pounded behind, crouching and unflinching in the line of fire. Bullets were returned shot for shot, deadly salvos lacing the basement and taking chunks out of the thick walls. When Dahl hit the dirt at the bottom he immediately evaluated the scenario.
Four cell members were down here, which gelled with what they had seen of the previous cell. Three were on their knees, ears bleeding, hands held to their foreheads, whilst the fourth appeared unaffected and fired hard at his attackers. Perhaps the other three had shielded him, but Dahl instantly picked out a way of gaining a live captive and sighted on the shooter.
“Oh no!” The SWAT leader inexplicably burst past him.
“Hey!” Dahl called. “What—”
In the midst of the worst kind of hell only those who have experienced it before can act without pause. The SWAT leader had clearly spotted a sign, something recognizable to him, and considered only the lives of his colleagues. As Dahl squeezed his own trigger he saw the terrorist drop a primed grenade from one hand and throw down his weapon with the other.
“For Ramses!” he cried.
The cellar was a death-trap, a small room to where these creatures had lured their prey. Other traps lay about the room, traps that would be triggered by a shrapnel explosion. Dahl shot the terrorist between the eyes even as he knew the gesture was merely academic—it would not save them.
Not inside this tiny brick-walled room, crowded together, as the last seconds ticked away before the grenade exploded.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dahl saw the world go dark. He saw time slow to crawling pace, the beat of every living heart measured in endless moments. When the grenade bounced, displacing dust and dirt from the floor in a tiny mushroom cloud, his bullet entered the terrorist’s skull, clattering around before it burst out of the back and struck the wall amidst a wide fountain of blood. The body slackened, the life already departed. The grenade came down for its second bounce and Dahl started to let the gun fall away from his face.
Precious seconds remained.
Three terrorists were still on their knees, groaning and defeated, and they did not see what was coming. SWAT guys were trying to arrest their momentum or scramble back up the steps.
Smyth was turning his gaze up at Dahl, the last vision of his life.
Dahl knew that Kenzie and Lauren and Yorgi were at the top of the stairs and had half a moment of hope they were far enough away from the epicenter.
And still, this is all for my children . . .
The grenade exploded at the height of its second bounce, the sound momentarily the loudest thing the Swede had ever heard. Then all sound was suddenly smothered as thought fell away . . .
His eyes were fixed ahead, and couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
The SWAT leader had sprinted with everything he had, knowing what was coming and determined to save as many as he could, realizing instantly that he was the only person who could do so. His run took him above the grenade, enabling him to fall directly on top of it in the split-second before it erupted. Through Kevlar and flesh and bone it detonated, but did not touch those who stood transfixed about the room. The blast was muffled and then was gone.
Dahl cleared his throat, unable to believe his own eyes. The selflessness of his colleagues always humbled him, but this was on another level.
I didn’t . . . I didn’t even know his name.
And still, terrorists knelt before him.
Dahl raced down the last few steps, tears blinding his eyes even as he kicked the three men onto their backs. Smyth tore their jackets open. No explosive vests were apparent, but one man started to foam at the mouth even as Smyth knelt by his side. Another writhed in agony. The third was pinned down, immobile. Dahl met the man’s terrible, polar-cap gaze with a hatred of his own. Kenzie came up and caught the Swede’s attention, looking at Dahl, her ice-blue eyes so clear and cold and flooded with feeling they appeared to be a vast, thawing landscape, and mouthed the only words she could muster.
“He saved us by sacrificing himself. I . . . I feel so deficient, so deplorable, compared to him.”
Dahl, in all his days, had never found himself unable to comment. He did now.
Smyth frisked all three men, coming up with more grenades, bullets and small arms. Papers and notes were crumpled in pockets, so the assembled men started to rummage through them.
Others walked over to their fallen leader, heads bowed. One man knelt and reached out a hand to touch the officer’s back.
The third terrorist died, whatever poison he had consumed simply taking longer to act than his colleagues’. Dahl watched dispassionately. When his earpiece squawked and Moore’s voice filled his head he listened but could think of no answer.
“Five cells,” Moore told him. “Our sources have found that Ramses has five cells in total. You’ve encountered two, which leaves three remaining. Do you have any new information for me, Dahl? Hello?
You there? What the hell is happening?”
The mad Swede toggled a small button that would turn Moore mute. He wanted at least a few seconds to pay his respects in silence. Like all the men and women down there, he survived only because of one man’s enormous sacrifice. This man would never see the light of day again nor the setting sun, or feel a warm breeze play upon on his face. Dahl would experience that for him.
For as long as he lived.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Seventeen minutes.
Drake followed Beau’s lead, cutting left down 59th and heading straight into the chaos that was Columbus Circle. Flags fluttered from buildings to his left, a green swathe lay to his right, sprinkled with trees. A mostly glass apartment building sat up ahead, its windows glinting in welcome to the still rising sun. A yellow cab slowed at the curb, its driver expectant on seeing four heavily clothed sprinters hightailing it along the sidewalk, but Beau didn’t give the man a second glance. The circle was a wide, concrete expanse with waterfalls and statues and places to sit. Tourists wandered to and fro, repacking rucksacks and drinking water. Drake drilled through the middle of a group of sweating athletes, then ran under a stretch of trees that offered at least a little shadow.
Out of sight of prying eyes.
The contrast of the austere, hectic streets with their many extremes – the majestic, cluttered skyscrapers vying for space among traditional churches along a uniform grid system – and the utter peace and calm that inhabited the greenery off to his right filled Drake with a sense of unreality. How crazy was this place? How dreamlike? The distinctions were unimaginably extreme.
He wondered just how closely Marsh was watching them, but didn’t mind too much. It could be the undoing of the man. Homeland were even now trying to find the feed so they could trace it back to a source.
A flamboyant globe spun slowly to the left as the group sped on. Alicia and Mai ran close behind, keeping watch but unable to use their full abilities at this kind of pace. The enemy could be anywhere, anyone. A passing sedan with blacked out windows warranted a closer inspection, but vanished into the distance.
The Edge of Armageddon Page 7
