Aim And Fire r5-3

by Cliff Ryder

  He was about to to start recording when there was a knock on the small studio’s door. Sepehr glanced up at the interruption, his angry expression turning more so when he saw Joseph Allen standing outside, worry etched on his face. Rising, he stood and walked to the door. He wanted to be alone when he made his message to the world, but it seemed creating his victory message would have to wait.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but we may have a problem.”

  “Yes?”

  “One of my people got a call from the infidels that were part of the group that were supposed to bring our men and their cargo into the States. They say that they’ve received word there was a survivor from among the illegal immigrants in the desert. Apparently she’s being kept at Providence Hospital, in room 305, under guard.”

  Sepehr remained quiet, digesting the information. “We are approximately two hours from launch, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What possible threat could this person be to us? They know nothing of our plan, and they cannot possibly know where we are. The chances that they could impart some bit of information about us are infinitesimal. Bring Rais and Antarah to me immediately.”

  The two men who had served as part of the three-man team charged with escorting the bomb arrived at the door in less than a minute. By that time, Sepehr had made his decision.

  “There is one task that remains to insure that our strike against this nation of infidels will be successful. One of the infidels that you were supposed to have killed is still alive, and is at this address.” He handed them a slip of paper. “Take an unmarked car and finish what you started. If you are caught or trapped, you know what to do. May Allah watch over you both and reward your efforts this day. Now go.”

  The two men nodded and headed for the main doors.

  Joseph’s brow furrowed as he waited to speak until the men left. “I don’t mean to question your decision, but are you sure you’re not overreacting to this? You said yourself that there was no possible way they could know about our mission or where we are. How can we be sure it is not a trap by the American authorities?”

  Sepehr shook his head. “If the Americans knew where we were, they wouldn’t hesitate to beat down our doors at this very moment. If they are fishing, our men will either kill them or die in the process, and either way, that trail will be closed. It was a seemingly insignificant thing—like what we have just learned—that brought down my previous operation against the United States, and forced me into hiding. Even as close as we are to success, I will not take that chance again.”

  “Of course. Just the same, I will notify all of our guards to be extra alert and to report anything suspicious, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Do you think there is any cause to issue anything larger than the pistols the guards are currently carrying?”

  Sepehr clucked his tongue. “Now who is being para-noid? As I expect you have done already, just make sure that the heavier weapons are available to the men. Although wise men do not go looking for trouble, they would be fools indeed not to expect it.”

  Joseph turned to go, but stopped at the door when he heard Sepehr’s voice.

  “Joseph—if something were to happen, and we needed to launch sooner than the countdown allowed for, could we?”

  “The countdown is for optimal safety, to make sure that all parts of the rocket are in working order, but we have run the tests on all systems several times, so if we need to go to ignition for launch ahead of schedule, we could do so within two minutes of receiving the order.”

  “Very good. Please carry on.” After Joseph had left, Sepehr turned to the camera and sat in front of it again. He closed his eyes and calmed himself, wanting to appear as the epitome of a man in control, then hit the remote, waited for the green light to come on at the top of the camera, and began speaking the words he had waited to say for many, many years.

  “People of the world, my name is Sepehr al-Kharzi, and in the name of Allah and his people, I am sending this message to claim responsibility for the attack that has crippled the nation of infidels, the United States of America….”

  What the hell have I gotten myself into? Tracy wondered for about the hundredth time as she lay under a light blue sheet on a hospital bed in Providence Memorial Hospital, her head covered in a hastily wrapped bandage. Although she appeared to be dressed in the regulation hospital gown, underneath she was fully clothed, including a Level II ballistic vest. Her pistol was tucked under her right leg, and Sharon had hooked her left finger up to a simple heart monitor, which displayed her heart rate and pulse readout.

  After they had dropped Lopez off on the outskirts of town, Nate had cut through the heart of El Paso to get back to Providence Memorial as fast as he could. When they arrived, he flashed his badge at the night-shift supervisor and let him know they had reason to believe that the immigrant they had brought in earlier could be in danger from local gang members. He said they wanted to isolate her and set up a sting operation to catch anyone who might try to hurt her. The supervisor, a kid who barely looked thirty, was overwhelmed by Nate’s no-nonsense demeanor and authority, and quickly agreed to let them set up in the Mexican illegal’s former room, 305. He’d also offered the loan of their security officers. Nate politely declined, saying that too many visible guards might scare the suspects away. He left instructions that the men should be directed to the proper room, and they would take care of the rest.

  Now Tracy found herself lying on the hospital bed in near darkness, waiting for two or three potential assassins to come through the door. They had set up Sharon as the night nurse on duty in the quiet hall, and Nate was poised and ready in the bathroom, with the outer door open just enough for him to see the rest of the room. All they could do was wait. Nate had given Sharon explicit instructions to let any visitors through, even though normal visiting hours wouldn’t start for another two hours.

  Tracy stared at the ceiling and tried to stay calm, aware that her every heartbeat was actually visible on the monitor.

  It was tough to do—her nerves were already jangled from the night’s events, and every noise in the hospital seemed amplified. Every squeal of a wheel on a cart as it came down the hall and every rubber-soled footstep could herald the approach of men who were coming to cut her down.

  She had been lying there for about forty-five minutes, but it had seemed like forty-five hours.

  The squeak of shoes on the linoleum made Tracy grip the butt of her pistol tighter. She moved her head on the pillow so she could see the door, which was half-open. A white-uniformed nurse appeared, framed in the light of the doorway, and Tracy, letting out a sigh of relief, recognized Sharon.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Nate snarled from the bathroom, raising his pistol from where he had almost taken aim at her.

  “Sorry, Nate, but Tracy’s phone keeps vibrating, and I thought it might be important. No one’s come by in the past fifteen minutes, so I thought I’d bring it in on my rounds.”

  The nurse held out the phone that Stephanie Cassell had given the DHS agent. Tracy had left it with Sharon, not wanting it to distract her at a crucial moment or to startle whoever came to call.

  “If the FBI keeps calling, maybe they’ve found something. Let me see.” Tracy flipped the phone open, but no one was one the other end. Instead a text message appeared.

  Tracy,

  Contact me ASAP. Have a lead on group that may be involved in plot. Check out a local company called Spaceworks—

  As Tracy read, she heard the chime of the arriving elevator. Sharon looked out in the hall. “A Middle Eastern-looking man just came out. He’s wearing a doctor’s coat.

  Let me see what’s going on.”

  “All right, but be careful. This might be them. Tracy, wrap it up.” Nate shrank back into the bathroom.

  Tracy flipped the phone shut, shoved it in her pocket, then leaned back and feigned sleep again, slipping her right hand back under the sheet
. She heard the mutter of voices at the nurses’ station, then the soft pad of footsteps.

  Sharon’s instructions had been to direct the men to the room, then to leave the station immediately. Dread gripped Tracy’s stomach as she realized they might kill the nurse outright to eliminate witnesses.

  The footsteps stopped outside the room, and Tracy heard an indistinct noise that might have been a whisper or two, then the gasp of someone drawing a startled breath.

  What’s going on out there? she wondered.

  Another shadow appeared in the doorway, but something was wrong. Through her slitted eyes, Tracy saw that the shape was too big to be one person. She grasped the butt of her pistol and inched it up to the top of her leg.

  Sharon edged into the room bit by bit, forced inside by the man standing behind her, his white-clad arm wrapped around her throat. Tracy couldn’t see a weapon, but assumed that he had one. She kept perfectly still, waiting for the right moment.

  “See, I told you there are no guards in here.” Sharon’s voice quavered, but she remained calm as she stood stock-still in his grasp. “They were called out about a half-hour ago—”

  “Shut up, bitch!” The man’s voice was low and guttural, definitely accented. “If you remain still and do as I say, you might live to see the morning.” The man, who was barely taller than Sharon, remained in the doorway, peering into the darkness.

  Tracy’s gaze flicked over at the bathroom door, which was still ajar. Nate hadn’t moved, but that made sense, since he couldn’t see his target yet. She couldn’t risk taking a shot, since the man was standing behind Sharon, with only his head and arm visible.

  “Take two steps forward and stop,” the man said.

  Sharon grunted as the man pushed her forward, but she stepped far enough inside so that she was even with the bathroom door. Tracy thought she heard the thick door squeak just a bit, but didn’t see it move. She returned her attention to the assassin and his hostage.

  “Walk to the foot of the bed.” The man punctuated his command with the thrust of the pistol that Tracy now saw was jammed into Sharon’s lower back. But then the killer moved around her so that he was protected again.

  My only chance is to fire when he raises the pistol to shoot me, she thought, hoping he would aim for her chest.

  But she’d have to throw back the sheet; otherwise, there was too much risk she’d hit Sharon. Jesus, what would Nate do in this situation? she wondered.

  The answer came a split second later. The assassin, still keeping his arm clamped around Sharon, raised his pistol to aim at Tracy’s cloth-covered form. The moment the barrel wasn’t pointed at either woman, the bathroom door burst open as Nate lunged for the man. Startled by the sudden movement, the lab-coated killer instinctively swung his gun toward his attacker, but Nate grabbed his wrist and wrenched it up before the intruder could draw a bead. The sound-suppressed semiautomatic pistol coughed once, and Tracy heard a bullet smack plaster as it burrowed into the wall.

  The assassin shoved Sharon toward the bed and used his suddenly free hand to try to force the gun back down toward Nate. The two men struggled for an advantage, while Tracy kicked off the sheet and leveled her pistol, shouting, “Homeland Security, don’t move!”

  The gunman’s only response was to twist around, putting Nate directly into Tracy’s line of fire. She raised her weapon and started to climb out of the bed to assist, but Nate apparently had other ideas. With a growl, he shoved the smaller man back toward the doorway, building up steam as he did so. The shorter man tried to resist, but the tall, rangy Texan’s leverage made it impossible for him to keep his position. With his shoes slipping on the waxed floor, the intruder was forced back toward the hallway.

  “Antarah!” The strange call was punctuated by the man suddenly reversing direction and falling, taking a surprised Nate with him. As soon as the two men fell into the hallway, a burst of gunfire echoed through the hall.

  “Nate!” Tracy scrambled off the bed and rushed to the doorway, just ahead of Sharon. She put her arms out to block the other woman from rushing out. “Hold up!”

  Grabbing her arm, she yanked the nurse out of the doorway just as three shots whizzed past, shattering the window on the far wall. They were followed by a metallic ping, then something small, round and smoking rolled into the room to stop under the bed.

  Grenade! Tracy’s thought hadn’t even fully formed before she pulled Sharon into the bathroom and slammed the heavy door closed. “Cover your ears!” she said, dropping her pistol to do the same and closing her eyes.

  “What’s happening—?” Sharon had just clapped her hands to her head when a deafening explosion erupted in the outer room. The fire alarm and the sprinkler system went off. The cool water soothed the pounding ache in Tracy’s head, and she grabbed her gun, pulled open the smoking door and stepped out, leading with the pistol.

  The room was a shambles. The bed had taken the brunt of the blast, and now lay on its side in a tangle of steel frame and smoldering mattress. Pieces of it had been blown around the room, with several rods embedded in the walls. The rest of the broken window had been obliterated by the explosion, and every wall and the ceiling was scorched and blackened. Water poured down from the sprinklers, soaking everything.

  “Nate?” Tracy shouted over the earsplitting din of the fire alarm. When she didn’t hear a reply, she scrambled out to the hallway and came upon the sodden body of the imposter doctor. Large red splotches covered his upper chest. The hallway was wet from the sprinklers, and Tracy looked around for Nate through the downpour, her hair plastered to her face and the dripping hospital gown molding itself to her body until she peeled it off and tossed it aside. Noticing a strange bulge in the gunman’s left coat pocket, she patted it down and came up with another grenade. She stuffed in her pocket.

  “Tracy! Come on!” Nate had to shout at the top of his lungs to get her attention. He stood at the stairway, trying to hold the door against a sudden tide of people being evacuated from the floor.

  Tracy turned back to Sharon, who was standing, staring at the body, her face pale with the knowledge of how close she had come to death.

  “Sharon?” The nurse looked up at her. “The patients need you now. He doesn’t.”

  Sharon nodded and walked down the hall, calling for the patients to evacuate in an orderly fashion. Tracy followed in her wake until they reached the stairway, then Nate took the lead. Rushing past frightened gown-clad patients as they made their way down the steps, helping when they could but always moving toward the bottom level, they were aware their remaining suspect was closer to escape with each passing second.

  They reached the main floor just in time to hear screams and gunfire. Nate drew his pistol, eliciting gasps from several patients.

  “Department of Homeland Security, please clear the way and stay back!” he shouted. He jerked the door open and swept the outside corridor with his pistol, then glanced back at Tracy. “You ready?”

  She nodded, and Nate held the door open and covered the right side while she stepped out and used the door for cover to sweep and clear the left. They crouched to stay under the wire-mesh-covered glass window.

  Nate ran toward the main doors, and Tracy rose and followed. Along the way they saw several dozen patients crouched or huddled on the ground, apparently cowed by the fleeing terrorist. “I am a federal agent with the Department of Homeland Security! Everyone get up now and move in an orderly fashion toward the nearest exit! This is not a drill!” Nate’s voice shocked many out of their pa-ralysis, and they started streaming toward the doors. Two paramedics were working on a downed security guard, one pumping up and down on his chest, the other performing mouth-to-mouth. Tracy’s lips tightened as she watched them, knowing that she and Nate were responsible.

  A few steps before reaching the double doors, she stopped and stared in shock. In front of her was the Mexican woman she had saved at the farm the day before. She was sitting in a wheelchair, and her small daughter was trying to p
ush her toward the door. She looked around for an orderly or nurse, but they were all helping more critical patients.

  “Come on, Tracy, we’re gonna lose him!” Nate hadn’t broken stride.

  “Help me, just for a second.” Tracy swept Julia up in her arms while Nate ran back and grabbed the wheelchair’s handles, maneuvering it through the doors and off to one side. “Stay with your mama, little one,” Tracy said as she de-posited her by the chair. She ran after Nate, who was already in the staff parking lot, where he’d parked the Silverado.

  As he ran, a dark blue sedan roared straight toward him.

  Nate leveled his pistol, but ended up diving out of the way as the car flew past, the driver spraying bullets out of his side window as he tore out of the driveway. The car didn’t stop, but ran straight through a red light, clipping a sub-compact and sending it spinning across the road, where it stopped by slamming into a light post.

  “Jesus!” Rising from where she had ducked behind a car, Tracy looked back, checking for injuries. The gunman had been aiming high. Although the front of the building was pockmarked with bullet holes, and two more windows were broken, no one seemed to be hurt.

  “Let’s go!” Nate had backed the Silverado out of its place and gunned it right to her. Tracy leaped in, and barely had time to get her seat belt on before he laid rubber out of the parking lot. They both heard the distant whine of sirens as they hit Rim Road, then turned north on Oregon, following the trail of honking horns and stopped cars the terrorist was leaving in his wake.

  “Get on the phone to your FBI buddy and see if they can set up a roadblock in the next mile. I’m calling in reinforcements!” Nate snatched the radio mike from its stand as Tracy flipped open her phone.

  “Dammit, this shouldn’t be that difficult.” Kate paced back and forth in front of her screen, monitoring the chaos at the hospital, along with the status of the midnight team en route to Texas and their hackers’ attempts to break into the network for Spaceworks, Inc.