The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Nelson, Reading, the ARU members and the Triarii were now directing heavy fire toward the stairwell the attackers were holding. Reading grabbed Rodney by the shoulder to get his attention.

  “Is there any way to outflank them?”

  “That’s the only way in, sir!” Rodney responded, then began firing again.

  “What about the other stairwell?”

  Rodney thought for a moment while he was firing. “That’s right, sir! You can go through that stairwell then up one flight of stairs. At the end of the hallway is the stairwell they’re in!”

  Reading turned to Nelson. “You stay here, I’m going with the armed unit to that stairwell!”

  “Yes, sir!” yelled Nelson.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” yelled Reading, hitting the ARU members on their backs. The entire group, still behind shielding, backed toward the other stairwell entrance. Once there they went through the door and proceeded up the stairs.

  Reading opened the door slowly and peered down the hallway. He could see one man at the end of the hallway guarding the entrance to the other stairwell. He appeared distracted by the gunfire below, and kept looking down the stairwell while holding the door open.

  Reading turned back to the ARU team. “Who’s the best shot?”

  “Clayton is, sir,” said one of the men.

  “Okay, Clayton, get up here. There’s a target at the end of the hallway that I need you to take out.” Clayton, who was taking up the rear, maneuvered himself up the stairwell around the ARU team’s body shields. When he arrived at the top of the stairs his expression was all business. Reading was shocked at how young he was until he thought back at his own life. I was probably his age when I was in the Falklands.

  “Okay, Clayton, at the end of this hallway is one of the hostiles. I need you to take him out fast and quiet. I don’t want him getting a shot off to warn his mates down below.”

  “No problem, sir,” Clayton said, then pulled his sniper rifle out of its case and set it up. Less than sixty seconds later he was ready and lying prone on the floor of the stairwell landing.

  He peered down the scope of the rifle and nodded to Reading. Reading slowly opened the door a couple of inches so Clayton could acquire his target. As the door swung out of the way Clayton saw it exit his field of vision then suddenly he was looking at the end of the hallway’s ceiling. He raised the butt of the rifle a little higher and the angle came down, revealing his target, who had just spotted him. The target was reaching for his radio when Clayton put a bullet in his head, sending him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  Reading stuck his head out the door and gave a pleased grunt. “Good work, Clayton,” he said, slapping him on his back as Clayton got up off the floor. He turned to the other ARU members. “Let’s go!”

  They immediately exited the stairwell, rushing down the corridor.

  “Stage Two Evacuation Complete, Proceed with Stage Three Evacuation, I repeat, Proceed with Stage Three Evacuation.”

  Acton, Laura and Chaney had just reached the final evacuation staging area when the announcement came over the PA system. There was a loud cheer from the dozens of people left who then jumped into assorted vehicles and raced down various long tunnels that, judging by the materials used to construct them, had probably been there for hundreds of years.

  “Where do these tunnels lead?” asked Acton.

  Chaney herded them toward an idling SUV. “Each will come out at a different part of the city,” explained Chaney as he opened the passenger side door for the professors. “Multiple points of egress mean a greater chance of at least some members escaping.”

  Acton climbed in the back seat and Chaney ran around the vehicle to the driver’s side door.

  Dawson had just finished eliminating the last target when the announcement was made over the PA system. He charged down the hallway toward the only corridor being protected. His men followed. As they rounded the corner, they saw several guards as they headed out a door at the end of the corridor.

  The Bravo team sprinted down the hallway toward the door. Dawson opened it as Spock and Niner took a knee and set up opposing fields of fire. They could see the evacuation area and dozens of people getting into vehicles as some already loaded vehicles left at high speed down various tunnels.

  Dawson entered and saw one of the policemen from the Scotland Yard raid about to get into a nearby SUV. He raised his weapon and fired.

  Reading heard the announcement as they reached the body of the lookout. They entered the stairwell, careful not to alert their enemy below. Reading looked down and saw three men taking turns firing through the doorway. They were not looking up.

  Reading turned to one of the ARU members. “Two flash-bangs, down there,” he whispered. The man nodded and motioned to his partner. They both removed a grenade from their belts and pulled the pins at the same time. They mouthed silently “One, two, three,” then tossed the grenades down the stairwell. Everyone turned, covering their ears and closing their eyes.

  The explosion was deafening and immediately incapacitated the men below. One fell forward out of the doorway and was immediately shot by the Triarii guards below. The other two fell backward into the stairwell. Reading and his team rushed down the stairs to apprehend them before they had a chance to recover.

  As they approached, one of the wounded attackers raised his weapon. Reading put two bullets in his chest as another, now on his knees, spun around. On the landing above, Clayton fired, taking the man out with a shot between the eyes.

  Reading slowly opened the stairwell door to let the Triarii guards know everything was now secure. “It’s the police, we’ve secured the door!” he bellowed. There was no response. He peered out the door and saw why. The Triarii were gone. Nelson stood in the middle of the lobby, looked at Reading and shrugged his shoulders.

  “As soon as the tossers heard Stage Three they legged it out the blasted door!”

  Chaney fell into the driver’s seat face down. Neither Laura nor Acton knew what had happened, but Chaney was gasping for breath. Acton noticed the hole in Chaney’s vest and blood slowly seeping out.

  “Leave me,” Chaney wheezed.

  “To hell with that!” said Acton as he reached forward and hauled Chaney into the back seat. As soon as Chaney’s feet were clear Laura jumped into the driver’s seat and put the idling vehicle into gear. As she reached out to close the door beside her someone grabbed her arm. She screamed as she looked at the figure of a tall man, dressed in black with body armor, guns, grenades, knives, a face mask, and some type of goggles on his forehead.

  “Not so fast, Professor,” he said. Laura tried to wrench her arm away from him but couldn’t. In her panic she popped the clutch and the car lurched forward. The door swung inward and hit the man squarely on the back, knocking the wind out of him. His grasp momentarily loosened, Laura gave one final tug of her arm then hit the gas. The SUV launched itself toward one of the tunnel exits under a hail of gunfire. The armor plating and bullet resistant glass took a beating, but held until Laura was able to guide the SUV into the tunnel.

  “Is he okay?” she asked, looking in the rearview mirror at Chaney.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Acton. “We better get him to a hospital!”

  The tunnel wasn’t long, maybe a quarter mile. At the end it ramped up and garage doors automatically opened as they approached. They emerged in an alleyway and were soon on a street. Laura turned right and blended in with the thin nighttime traffic while she got her bearings.

  “We’ll be at the hospital in less than five minutes.”

  Dawson picked himself up off the ground, cursing. He couldn’t believe he had failed twice in a row, both times with his target literally in his grasp. He looked around and saw several empty vehicles. By now the rest of the complex was empty and these were waiting for people he and his team had already killed.

  He and his two remaining men climbed into a nearby van. “Bravo One to Bravo Two,” he said over his radio. Th
ere was no answer. Could be the tunnels.

  His radio crackled and a voice came through he didn’t recognize. “This is DCI Reading. Your men are dead or captured. I suggest you give yourselves up before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Dawson clenched his teeth. The balls on these Brit cops. He gunned the engine and followed the same tunnel his target had used.

 

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “Sir, are you okay?” asked the surprised guard. “Do you need medical attention?”

  Wheeler had let them bandage up his arm at the scene, but had refused to go to the hospital. He had taken one of the other detective’s cars and driven directly to the White House, consumed with thoughts of his partner, blown to shreds quite possibly by an order given from this very building. Although it was now very late, he was betting Darbinger was still there. He imagined he presented quite the dilemma to security with his blackened face and clothes, and bandaged and bleeding arm revealed by the shirtsleeve cut open by the paramedics.

  “No,” replied Wheeler curtly, trying to reign in his temper. If the guard thought he was a danger he would never let him in. “I need to see Lesley Darbinger.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” replied Wheeler. “I don’t need one.” He pulled out his badge and showed him. “Mr. Darbinger is assisting us in an investigation and I need to speak to him immediately.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” replied the guard as he picked up the phone.

  Darbinger hung up the phone as one of his aides poked his head into his office. “Did you hear? There’s been a bombing at former Speaker Guthrie’s house. Wasn’t that Billy’s dad?”

  “What? Was anyone hurt?” Darbinger reached for his remote control and turned on the television mounted to his wall. CNN came on, about the only channel he ever watched these days. It showed an aerial view of a large house with the smoking ruins of a car in front.

  “A cop was killed. Do you think that’s why Billy was killed? Maybe they’re after Speaker Guthrie?”

  Darbinger shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

  As he sat watching the limited coverage, another aide entered. “Sir, a Detective Wheeler is at the front gate demanding to see you.”

  Darbinger sank back in his chair as a close-up of a gurney with a body bag being loaded into an emergency vehicle played on the screen. This has gone too far. He rose from his desk and headed out the door. “Have Mr. Wheeler meet me here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He headed toward his old friend’s office.

  He was announced then shown inside the Oval Office, finding Jackson sitting with his elbows on his desk and his hands clasped over his head, pulling at his thinning hair. Darbinger sat on one of the leather chairs facing the desk, watching his old friend trying to figure a way out of the mess they were in.

  “I can’t believe the most highly trained special operations unit we have failed to capture a civilian professor female twice in a row!”

  “Neither can I, Mr. President,” said Darbinger. “The police seemed to know what we were after. They didn’t all fall for the diversion. And we knew the Triarii headquarters would be extremely well defended. We lost a couple of men but managed to eliminate several dozen members.”

  “There are thousands of members!” cried Jackson. He lifted his head from his desk. “From all accounts not one of the council was eliminated, and all we have is one of the skulls we didn’t already have before.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” agreed Darbinger. “The Triarii enacted The Protocol before we could reach them. We have the skull from the British Museum and, as far as we know, the newly discovered skull is still at large. If we just wait a few years for things to cool off, maybe the Triarii will let down their guard and we can find a third skull then?”

  “The Triarii will never let their guard down, not so long as there is a skull missing. I’m going to end this now.”

  “But, Stewart—!”

  “Now!” roared Jackson.

  London, England

  Reading and Nelson surveyed what remained of the lobby as backup arrived.

  “Just after the nick of time, lads,” said Nelson, holding up his ID to the armed officers.

  “Sweep the building, top to bottom, there may be more,” said Reading. “Take these two for interrogation and the injured one to the hospital. Put a guard on him.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the PC who hustled the surviving men out of the building. The new arrivals fanned out for the search. Those who had been involved in the earlier action sat on bullet-ridden leather couches in a corner, relaxing.

  Reading pulled out his cellphone and called Chaney’s number.

  “Hello?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

  “Who is this?” asked Reading.

  “Umm, who is this?” asked the voice.

  “This is Detective Chief Inspector Reading of Scotland Yard,” said Reading in his most commanding voice. “And you are?”

  “Sorry, Chief, this is Professor Acton.”

  “What are you doing with Chaney’s mobile?”

  “We’re at the hospital, he’s been shot.”

  “Tell me where you are,” said Reading as he strode toward the door. He commandeered a vehicle and minutes later he burst through the doors of the waiting room and saw the two professors sitting nearby. He walked briskly toward them as they rose from their chairs.

  “Hello, Chief,” said Acton. “He’s been in surgery for about half an hour, no word yet.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “He was shot in the back trying to save us,” said Laura.

  “It hit his vest,” explained Acton, “but went right through. Some type of armored piercing round. I pulled him into the vehicle and Laura drove us here.”

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “He lost a lot of blood, but was conscious when we arrived,” said Acton. Reading finally noticed that Acton was covered in blood.

  “Okay, I’m going to go and see if I can find out what’s going on. And, professors,” Reading put a hand on each of their shoulders, “thank you.” He made eye contact with each of them for a moment then headed to the nurses’ station.

  Dawson turned the corner and pulled the SUV to the side where they could see the entrance of the Triarii headquarters. Ambulances and other emergency personnel were still arriving. He grabbed a scope off his vest and peered through it for a better view.

  “That’s Red!” said Spock, who was doing the same from the back. Two attendants carried a gurney down the front steps. Dawson watched as his friend, strapped down and cuffed, was pushed into the back of a waiting ambulance. Two more men were led out and loaded into the back of a squad car.

  Dawson radioed their chopper pilot, Wings, to see where he was. He had been ordered to insert the team on the roof of the Triarii HQ, then return with a vehicle for pickup. “Just approaching your position now, Bravo One. ETA thirty seconds.”

  “Roger that, Bravo One-Two.” Dawson watched his rearview mirror. A few seconds later a cube van turned the corner. “We’re in the black SUV, tinted windows, about one hundred yards in front of you. Come up beside me.”

  He watched as the van pulled up beside them, then looked back at Spock and Niner. “Spock, you go with Wings and take out that squad car. Niner and I will retrieve Red.”

  “Roger that,” said Spock as he jumped out of the SUV and into the van. It took off after the squad car as Dawson put the SUV into gear to follow the ambulance. He let it get far enough away from the scene so backup wouldn’t be too close, then gunned the engine to overtake it. Cutting in front of the ambulance, he slammed his brakes on, blocking its path. He and Niner jumped out. Niner yanked the driver out and coldcocked him before he could radio for help as Dawson ran to the back and pulled open the door. The cop and paramedic were both still picking themselves up off the floor when he stepped up into the vehicle. He pistol whipped the officer and pointed his gun at the paramedic.


  “What’s his status?” asked Dawson.

  “BP is one hundred over—”

  Dawson cut him off. “Is he going to die if I move him?”

  “N-no, it’s just a leg wound, he’ll be fine with proper treatment.” Dawson breathed a sigh of relief as he undid the straps holding his friend to the gurney. He searched the officer’s pockets, retrieved the cuff keys, and unlocked his friend.

  “’Bout time you showed up,” said Red, grimacing as he was helped out of the back of the ambulance.

  “Good to see you, too,” replied Dawson. Niner had already pulled their commandeered vehicle up to the door. Dawson helped Red into the back seat then climbed in with him. “Go! Go! Go!”

  Niner floored it and headed back to their secondary rendezvous point where they could switch vehicles without it being traced back to the base.

  Dawson turned to check on his friend’s wound. “Looks like a through-and-through. Bleeding’s under control.” He looked his friend in the eyes. “You’ll live.”

  “To fight another day.” Red started to laugh then stopped, his face contorting in pain. “I think I’ll just sit here and be quiet until you get me some drugs.” Dawson smiled then pressed his earpiece when a transmission came in from Spock.

  “Bravo One, Bravo Five. Engaging target now.” There was silence for about two minutes as Niner drove them through the relatively empty streets of nighttime London. The wait seemed interminable until finally a burst of static sounded in the earpiece followed by Spock’s voice, “Bravo One, Bravo Five. Two targets retrieved, heading to rendezvous point Alpha, out.”

  “They’re okay,” said Dawson to Red who had had his communications gear confiscated earlier. Red smiled and closed his eyes as Niner headed out of the city.

  RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing

  Dawson read the secure communiqué that had arrived for Red. Structural Amorphous Metals (SAM) project not capable of transparent structures. Hope that helps. He clenched his jaw. Control lied. What the hell is this thing all about?

  The communications gear beeped, demanding his attention. He put the headset on and entered a code to unscramble the transmission. It was Control. Dawson listened to the voice over his radio. “Bravo One, Control Actual. I want you to eliminate the two targets with extreme prejudice.”