Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  Mike felt a mounting sense of persistent concern in the back of his mind. It wasn’t panic yet, more akin to a dog scratching at the back door to be let in from the cold.

  “Copy all, Danny. Let forensics do their thing. Tell Special Agent Hunt we just arrived at the facility—literally, we’re at the guardhouse—and we’ll check in after we get a look around. Again, great job. Next round’s on me. Out here,” Lance said, and hung up the phone and waited for Mike to finish with the guard before providing his update.

  “Eugene, can you point us in the direction of the power plant, although I’m guessing it’s the one in the middle with the four tall stacks?” Mike said, pointing through the windshield and down the road.

  Eugene nodded.

  “You have an extra Motorola handheld we can borrow? I need you to stay here and man the gate, but I need to be able to reach you.”

  “Yes, sir. Give me one sec,” Eugene said, and disappeared from the window.

  Mike turned around to meet the smiling face of Lance Foster. Thank God. It must be good news, he thought.

  “Tell me,” he said, hoping his assumption was correct.

  “It’s over,” Lance said. “Danny and his team took out all the bad guys, all four—dead—without any more civilian or friendly casualties. Forensics just arrived and is processing the scene. The civilians wounded in the initial assault are being transferred to Valley Medical and University hospitals.”

  “How?” Past experience had taught Mike the harsh realities of hostage rescue operations, especially when the hostiles weren’t interested in negotiating, which had been the case with these terrorists.

  “The bad guys secured the entrances and backstage exits to the theater. But this theater is enormous, seats hundreds, and has a gigantic stage they can manipulate and change during each show. In addition to the stage, there’s a catwalk architecture that’s used during shows for aerial acrobatics. Danny and his team realized one of the catwalks was right below a major heating and cooling air duct. They inserted four shooters without being detected. He said it was shockingly easy because they never looked up once. Guess they hadn’t seen the shows. Too bad for them. The hostages made more than enough noise to conceal any sounds from our guys. Plus, they were almost seventy feet up and in the dark, above the lights. The fuckers never had a chance. Danny gave the order as soon as they were in place, and they took ’em all out at once—clean head shots,” Lance said proudly.

  “That’s fantastic. The best news I’ve heard since this whole affair started,” Mike said, a tsunami of relief washing over him.

  “No kidding,” Lance said, sharing the brief moment of victory. And then he laughed. “It initially traumatized the civilians, seeing the terrorists drop dead from bullet wounds to the head, Danny said. But they were able to breach the entrances immediately and evacuate them. By the time it was over, they were just grateful to be alive.”

  “I’m sure,” Mike said. “Do they have any idea who the bastards were?”

  “Negative, but they definitely were not Islamic terrorists,” Lance said. “Once they cleared the theater of civilians, they removed the dead guys’ masks. Danny said they looked more Asian than Middle Eastern. They’ll be running their prints and DNA through every international database as soon as they can.”

  “Let’s hope this goes as smoothly,” Mike said as Eugene approached the vehicle, a black radio in hand.

  “Sir, here you go,” the guard said, and handed the radio to Special Agent Marcus. “I’ve set it on channel three, and it’s good to go.”

  Mike’s ears perked up. “What did you say, Eugene?”

  “I said you’re good to go, sir,” Eugene answered cautiously.

  “Which branch of the service, although I think I can guess?” Mike said, his eyes raised in amusement.

  “The only one that matters, sir. The Marine Corps, of course,” the guard said proudly, grinning for the first time.

  “What the fuck did he just say?” one of the two HRT operators in the third row shouted in mock outrage.

  Eugene’s grin faltered, and Mike laughed. “Son, I’ve got a former SEAL and a Delta boy back there. I think you hurt their feelings.”

  Eugene’s eyes widened, but he stood his ground. “Those are some tough bastards. I did a tour in Afghanistan and crossed paths with the SEALs a time or two. Didn’t see much of Delta, but we heard about their exploits.”

  He stuck his head partially through the window—making Special Agent Marcus slightly uncomfortable from the close proximity of his grinning face—and said, “No offense intended. I just love the Marine Corps.”

  Jason Champion and Tommy Chaney exchanged a glance. Jason, the older of the two veterans, said, “None taken. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who served in the mountains.” He nodded and touched an invisible cap.

  Eugene nodded in return and stepped away from the vehicle.

  “Now that the lovefest is over, one last question.” Mike said. “Eugene, did your laundry trucks arrive today?”

  “Yes. About thirty minutes ago. Both of them. Why?” Eugene asked, thinking the question odd.

  “You notice anything strange about them? Different drivers, perhaps?”

  “As a matter of fact, both drivers were new. I asked them about it, and they said there’d been an illness at the Laundromat,” Eugene said.

  “Did they have anyone else with them?” Mike asked.

  “Negative, sir. Not that I could see, but then again, I didn’t check the backs of the trucks. We’ve been using the same place since we began construction a few years back.”

  “Thanks, Eugene. And stay available. Let us know if you get comms up,” Mike said and turned to Special Agent Marcus. “We need to go. Now.”

  CHAPTER 44

  “In front or around back, sir?” Special Agent Marcus asked as she directed the Suburban toward the power plant.

  Mike quickly studied the building and turned to Lance in the backseat. “My guess is there’s a loading dock out back. If these guys are here, we want to surprise ’em. I say we split up. Who’s your best shooter?”

  “Chaney,” Lance said without hesitation. “Sorry, Champion. It’s true, but only slightly.”

  “No worries, boss,” Special Agent Champion said, “but I got him on the demolitions.”

  Mike nodded. “Special Agent Marcus, Chaney, and I are going in the front. You and Champion take the back.” He looked at Lance directly and said, “As good as they are, I know you’re better. This balances the teams out.”

  “You always were a smart bastard,” Lance said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe I just fooled ’em all into making me deputy director,” Mike said, smiling subtly.

  “Uh-huh,” Lance responded as the vehicle stopped in front of the enormous building.

  It was several hundred feet long, four stories tall, and had no windows that Mike could see. A lone set of solid metal double doors stood sentry at this end. It’s just a giant rectangular box with aluminum siding, Mike thought.

  They exited and rallied at the back of the large SUV, weapons drawn. All wore bulletproof vests that announced FBI in large yellow letters.

  “Here’s the deal. Unless there’s some other laundry service we don’t know about, whoever stole those vehicles is already inside. We have to assume we have at least two—maybe four—bad guys, possibly with bombs. Treat them as hostile. Take no chances,” Mike said, looking at each member of his ad hoc assault team.

  The relief at the resolution of the hostage situation at the MGM Grand Casino had dissipated. Even the young Special Agent Marcus looked fiercely determined. She’s going to be one to reckon with as her career progresses, Mike thought.

  “Good. Let’s do this. Radio silent. We link up inside.” He didn’t need to warn them to watch for friendly fire—their level of training would prevent it.

  As the team split up, Lance smiled and said, “See you on the back side, brother.”

  “Not if I see you first, hombre. No
w go,” Mike shot back as Special Agent Lance Foster and Special Agent Jason Champion disappeared around the southeast corner of the building.

  ———

  This is going to be a lot harder than I thought, Mike realized as soon as they passed through the double doors.

  The inside of the facility was cavernous, at least the size of a football field. To complicate matters, the power and heating plant was crammed with enormous equipment chained together as part of the power and steam production process. A mechanical amalgamation, it rose toward the ceiling like a group of fettered animals trying to break free through the roof above.

  Directly in front of them were two gigantic rectangular machines that obstructed their view of the rest of the plant. At least thirty feet above them, four large cylindrical exhaust stacks pierced the ceiling.

  His Glock raised, Mike turned to his team. “Chaney, take point with the M4. Let’s work our way along the exterior wall and avoid this mechanical mess. Use hand signals if you spot anything. Marcus, cover our six.”

  “On it, sir,” Special Agent Chaney said, and quickly assumed the lead position.

  They moved silently along the wall, working their way toward the rear of the facility. Since the plant wasn’t fully functional, the heavy machinery was operating at a lower capacity, although the hum of turbines still drowned out their every step.

  Halfway to the rear of the facility and next to two gigantic flat, cylindrical shapes that looked like enormous, thick flat circles standing on their rims, Special Agent Chaney suddenly stopped and raised his fist in the universal freeze gesture. Mike and Special Agent Marcus halted behind him.

  Chaney’s gaze was directed inward and toward the back of the building. With the M4 locked in his shoulder, his eyes forward, and his right hand on the pistol grip, he used his left hand to beckon Mike to him.

  The tension escalating, Mike shuffled quietly until he was within breathing space of Special Agent Chaney, who pointed with his free hand.

  “Jackpot,” he said quietly.

  Mike looked in the direction he indicated, but initially, all he saw was more ductwork and equipment. What the hell does he see?

  As if reading his mind, Chaney said in a hushed voice, “Look through it all, about eighty feet away. You’ll see them.”

  Mike squinted his eyes, and after a few moments, spotted it. Like a painted optical illusion revealing its hidden picture, the scene materialized before him, the gravity of the situation growing by the second.

  Through the tangled metal mess of coils and oddly shaped equipment, two figures in white overalls stood behind two laundry trucks speaking so quietly that their words faded into the machines’ constant hum. The rear doors of one of the trucks were open, and Mike glimpsed several large oil drums—both blue and yellow—packed into the back of the truck. Oh no. It’s Oklahoma City all over again. Probably some kind of fertilizer/fuel combination That’ll take this whole place down.

  As if that weren’t horrifying enough, he spotted a pair of legs attached to a prostrate body, facedown on the industrial floor. Motherfuckers, Mike thought. That has to be Matt Stillman.

  The sense of purposeful righteousness that had fueled his career coursed through his veins, and in a split second, his decision-making process switched. As much as he wanted to take one of these bastards alive for information—and he still would if they surrendered—what he wanted even more was justice, swift and violent, for the unforgivable act these men had committed. It was simple—they didn’t deserve to live. They’d forfeited their rights to life the second they’d taken Matt Stillman’s.

  Mike looked at Tommy Chaney and saw the same fury he felt displayed on the former SEAL’s face. There was only one possible course of action that would satisfy them both.

  “Okay, then. We take ’em out. No warnings. I’ll let Marcus know,” Mike said.

  “Good,” was all Chaney said.

  Mike turned around to tell Special Agent Marcus the plan, only to discover a Chinese man in white overalls twenty feet away pointing a black pistol at the back of her head. He realized his fatal oversight. There were more than two of them, and they sent at least one to maintain security. Fucker must’ve been hiding in all the machinery, and we walked right past him. Mike’s mind raced, and he reacted in the next split second, pulling Special Agent Marcus down and to the left as he tried to raise his Glock. As good as Mike was, he wasn’t fast enough.

  Bam!

  The echoing shot shattered the silence, accelerating events into overdrive.

  The bullet missed Special Agent Marcus as she tumbled to the floor, but Mike felt a searing pain under his right arm as he pulled the trigger on his own weapon.

  Bam! Bam!

  Special Agent Marcus spun on the floor into a sitting position, her Glock locking on to her would-be killer as she fired.

  Red blossoms from both FBI agents’ bullets appeared on the man’s overalls, and he dropped to his knees, the black pistol clattering to the floor.

  The look of contempt on the operative’s face was replaced by one of surprised amusement, as if the reality that he’d been shot was somehow funny.

  Behind Mike, Special Agent Chaney whirled and his M4 added to the drumbeat of gunfire.

  Bam-bam-bam!

  Three well-placed bullets took the Chinese shooter’s life—as well as his nose and the back of his head. He fell forward with a sickening wet smack.

  “Go!” Mike tried to yell, but he dropped to a knee, the pain in his right side nearly paralyzing him. He felt under his arm with his left hand and discovered the bullet had torn the top edge of the bulletproof vest before entering his body. An inch lower, and I’d have been okay.

  “Oh shit!” Chaney said as he realized Mike had been hit. He scrambled over, looking for the wound. “How bad is it?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mike said, gritting the words out through the pain, although he wasn’t so sure. His side was wet and warm with blood. “He got me in the side, above the vest, right as I aimed. Dumb fucking luck.”

  Shouts in Chinese erupted from the direction of their objective.

  “Go now, because I guarantee all hell’s about to break loose,” Mike said. As if on cue, gunfire erupted from the rear of the power plant.

  “Special Agent Marcus will help me, and we’ll be right behind you. Now go!”

  CHAPTER 45

  Special agents Lance Foster and Jason Champion had infiltrated the far side of the power plant without incident. A large loading area that could accommodate several tractor-trailers sloped up to the back of the building. The dock was so wide that three rectangular corrugated doors guarded the entrance; two were lowered shut, but the middle one was raised and provided a glimpse into the darkness.

  Rather than risk exposure, they’d found an unlocked corner door and used it to enter the power plant. They paused in the shadows next to a large cylindrical piece of equipment at least thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide.

  From their vantage point, they’d seen the two laundry trucks and heard hushed voices behind them. The plan had been simple—quietly gain a better line of sight and determine the level of the threat before neutralizing it as quickly as possible. But then the shooting had started in the middle of the building, and like any good plan, it hadn’t survived first contact.

  Using the commotion to react quickly, Lance weaved his way along the perimeter of the power plant, looking for an opening to provide a direct pathway to the back of the trucks. He suddenly spotted a gap in the machinery. He stepped into it and scanned the cramped space with his M4.

  Bingo.

  Thirty feet in front of him stood two Chinese men in white overalls. He wondered whom they were shouting to, and then the realization hit him—they have more men in here with us.

  Lance turned around to warn Special Agent Champion, who stood crouched just outside the gap. He didn’t get the chance.

  Two shots rang out—bam! bam!—and Lance watched as a hole suddenly appeared in Champion’s upp
er left leg. The wounded HRT shooter fell to the floor in pain and tried to aim his assault rifle toward the source of the gunfire.

  Lance dropped to his knee and spotted movement through his red dot reflex scope fifteen feet away on the other side of several large pipes and tubes. He opened fire and hoped several of the bullets would find their way through the metal maze.

  He thought he saw the shadowy figure fall, but he wasn’t sure until Jason said, “You got the sonofabitch, boss, but I think my leg’s fucked.”

  Lance stepped toward his wounded operator when a loud slam echoed throughout the surrounding equipment. He wheeled around and saw that the doors had been closed on the rear of the truck closest to him—that can’t be good—and both men had disappeared. That’s definitely not good.

  Goddamnit! He had a horrible choice to make, but fortunately, Special Agent Champion made it easy for him.

  “Go get those fuckers,” Special Agent Champion urged him. “I’ll keep pressure on my leg until you get back.”

  “Shoot anyone who doesn’t look like us,” Lance said.

  “You mean FBI and pissed off?” Special Agent Champion tried to joke through the pain.

  “Exactly,” Lance said, and turned around, sprinting away through the opening toward the trucks.

  ———

  Mike held his Glock in his left hand, his right arm slung across the shoulders of Special Agent Marcus, who used all the strength she could muster to keep him standing as they shuffled quickly toward the trucks.

  Mike heard a small, faraway voice, and he realized it emanated from the handheld Motorola Eugene had given him earlier. Yes, Eugene. That’s gunfire you’re hearing. I’ll be with you shortly.

  Special Agent Chaney led the way, clearing every nook and dark cranny as he scouted ahead toward the trucks. He reached the last piece of machinery when a loud engine roared to life.

  “Oh shit!” Mike said through gritted teeth. “Stop them if you can!”

  Special Agent Chaney rounded the corner of the enormous piece of equipment as Lance Foster emerged from a small space thirty feet to his right. The two HRT operators momentarily locked eyes before opening fire.