The older woman shook her head. “No way to tell—but in a couple minutes we’re gonna be blind.”
9:00 P.M.
West Virginia
Korsakov found himself holding his breath as Viktor continued to type commands into the Toshiba. The kid upturned his can of Coca-cola, wiping the brown liquid away from his lips. Like most of his generation, he seemed to do his best work while in that caffeine-induced high.
At length, he looked up, a broad smile creeping across his face. “It’s done. They are—how they say, blind as bats? As long as the worm remains active and I maintain control of the feed, I can guide you right in.”
The assassin slapped him on the back. “Well done, Viktor. Spasiba.” Thank you.
With a shove, Korsakov forced open the back doors of the Suburban, leaping out onto the snowy mountain road. Despite the cold, he could feel adrenaline flowing like fire through his veins. It was time to make their move.
9:34 P.M.
The CHRYSALIS cabin
Things had gotten quiet after the hostage negotiator had disappeared back into the darkness. The wind howling around the western end of the cabin was the only thing they could hear.
“What are they doing?” Carol asked at length.
Harry looked back at her, to where she sat on the floor. “Staging for an early morning assault, most likely. Sometime between zero one and zero three hundred—that’s when the human body goes through its deepest REM cycles. It’s the way I’d do it.”
Han cleared his throat. “You going through with this, Harry?”
It was a good question. That didn’t change the answer one bit. “Of course. There aren’t many other options, are there?”
The SEAL shook his head. “You’re talkin’ about killing federal agents, Harry. For the love of God, these are our people.”
The worst of it was, he was right. “If you want to go out and give yourself up, I won’t hold it against you,” Harry replied, watching his friend’s eyes closely. “You’ve not broken any laws—feel free to say that I took you hostage as well.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Han retorted, anger creeping into his voice. Dangerous ground there. “I’m talking about you—running E&E from the feds is one thing. Trading shots with the HRT is a whole new ballgame. We need to get the two of you out of here.”
Harry gave him a tight smile. “There’s only one way out of here—and that’s with that old surplus helo of yours. Listen to the wind, to the snow. The best pilot in the world couldn’t exfil from this mountain tonight.”
Han seemed to consider his words for a long moment, then he slung the SCAR over his shoulder and turned toward the corridor leading to the bunker.
“Where are you going?”
“Won’t hurt to have it fueled up.”
9:47 P.M.
There they were—the FBI’s sniper team. Directly ahead of him, maybe eight, nine meters. Dressed in winter ghillie suits, he never would have seen them if he’d hadn’t known where to look, the satellite feed on his phone guiding him in.
Yuri left the AK-47 on his back and bent down, removing his suppressed Beretta 92 from its ankle holster. Just a matter of waiting.
He glanced at the screen of his phone, watching on the satellite as the rest of the Spetsnaz moved into position. The man from Leningrad smiled in the darkness. This was going to be good.
11:59 P.M. Local Time
Air Force One
Over the Atlantic
He was going to miss this, Roger Hancock thought, glancing around at the opulence of the Presidential bedroom. It might have been 35,000 feet in the air, but you would never have known it from looking at the furnishings.
Yes, he was going to miss this, whether he won his bid for reelection or not. At some point, it all had to end. America’s living, breathing Constitution still didn’t leave enough leeway for him to remain in office indefinitely. A shame, really. Four years, or even eight, just wasn’t enough for a man to fulfill his dreams.
A knock came at the door and Hancock levered himself up to a sitting position in bed, adjusting the sheet so that it covered the sleeping form of the intern who lay beside him.
She wasn’t as much fun as Mary had been before her overdose, but it had still been an eventful night.
“Come in!” Curt Hawkins, the agent-in-charge of Hancock’s detail, pushed the door open and entered without further ceremony.
“We’ll be landing within an hour and a half, Mr. President.” The Secret Service agent was a heavyset man of medium height, his suits expertly tailored to conceal the Sig-Sauer P229 he carried underneath his jacket. He still spoke with the slow drawl of his native Mississippi. “Directors Haskel and Shapiro are meeting you at Andrews, as you requested.”
That was another thing he was going to miss, Hancock mused, a shadow passing across his face. A presidential “request” carried the weight of an order.
And if those two directors didn’t have the answers he was looking for, there’d be the devil to pay…
10:03 P.M. Eastern Time
The CHRYSALIS cabin
West Virginia
The snow seemed to be letting up, Harry thought, staring out the open window through his night-vision goggles.
He had no illusions about how this was going to end. The HRT was good. Even if he succeeded…he’d be killing his own people.
Blue on blue.
Dear Lord, don’t let it come to that, he whispered, murmuring a brief prayer. He knew too many of the FBI agents. Knew their families.
Despite the legendary rivalry between Langley and the Bureau, they all played for the same team in the end.
His only hope was to hold off the HRT until the storm passed, until they could make their escape from the mountain. And that was a long shot.
A figure materialized out of the wind-blown snow and Harry brought his rifle to bear before recognizing the hostage negotiator. It had been twenty minutes since last contact—with no phones in the cabin, the negotiation was taking on a highly unorthodox form.
“Do you remember Islamabad, Harry?” Russell asked, moving closer to the cabin. “Do you remember those three months we worked together?”
No answer. “You’ve had a fine career, fifteen years in the service of your country. Neither one of us wants to see it end here.”
A short laugh from the cabin. Nichols’ voice. “You and I both know that it’s already ended, Russ. It was over the moment my face was splashed across national TV. I’ve been burned—there’s no going back.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, not if we can end this now. Nobody’s gotten hurt up to this point, and I want to thank you for that. You’ve shown control. That’s going to count for a lot, but you’re going to need to meet us halfway by putting down your weapon and coming out.”
“He’s right, you know,” Carol announced from her seat in the corner.
Harry shook his head, forcing himself to remain focused on the world outside. “How so?”
“You kill one of those agents, you won’t be able to live with yourself. I know you’re just trying to protect me, to follow the orders my father gave you, but I can’t let you do it.”
“You’re not letting me—” There was something in her voice, an unusual intensity. He turned. She wasn’t sitting any longer—she was standing five feet from the front door, the subcompact Kahr leveled in her hands. Pointed at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going out there, to talk to the negotiator, to resolve this.”
She meant to do it, Harry realized, reading the determination in her eyes. As impossible as it was, she really meant to do it.
“They’re not going to believe you,” he replied, casting a sidelong glance toward the corridor. If only he could stall her for long enough. Come on, Sammy.
“Russ is trained in dealing with Stockholm. They’ll just bundle you back to the TOC and resume their demands for our surrender.”
She shook her h
ead. “I’m not going to have good men kill each other for my sake. That’s something I’ll have to risk. Don’t try to stop me.”
10:25 P.M.
The TOC
“How much longer?” Marika Altmann demanded, leaning over the shoulder of the young computer tech. What was he—seventeen, eighteen? She could’ve had grandchildren his age, had any of her marriages lasted long enough for kids.
He jumped as her hand descended on his shoulder—probably the closest contact he’d ever had with a woman, she thought. “Uh—five, maybe ten minutes. Maybe less—it’s hard to tell. I’ve got to clear out the infected packets and restore the firewall before we can safely reconnect with the Key Hole sat.”
“Tick-tock, Bishop,” she replied, turning away. “The sat moves out of range in thirty. Get it done.”
10:29 P.M.
Icy beads of sweat clung to Viktor’s forearms as he typed in another series of commands into the Toshiba. Nothing happened. He was losing control.
He threw his arm up over the rear seat of the Suburban, fighting off the panic attack, the urge to curl up in a ball as he had done in those years at the brothel. As the whip had descended upon his naked body.
Struggling to control his voice, he toggled his lip mike to contact the Spetsnaz. He was one of them. He was. He was…
From the moment Korsakov heard the boy’s voice over the radio, he knew something was wrong. “They’re rooting out the worm—don’t know how much longer I can stay in control of their sat.”
“Give me an estimate, tovarisch,” the assassin replied, controlling his tones. He’d always known the boy’s pysche was delicate. Getting angry with him would accomplish nothing.
“Da. Two or three minutes before they can see you.”
The realization struck Korsakov with the force of a bullet, and he had all he could do to refrain from swearing. His men were spread out—six with him and another six spread out across the mountain. There was no time to retreat. He turned to the men immediately flanking him, both of them armed with Soviet-era RPG-7s. “One rocket through the western wall of the cabin. One into the FBI trailer. Wait for my signal…”
10:34 P.M.
The TOC
“I’ve got it, Agent Altmann. We’re coming through with the satellite feed.”
About time. Klaus and Vic were already staging with the entry teams, preparing to launch their assault in the twenty-minute window they had left. “Put it up on the big screen,” was Marika’s peremptory command as she crossed the trailer to the computer tech’s side.
Another few keystrokes and it was there. A huge image of the entire mountain. It didn’t take the older woman but a moment to realize that something was wrong. There were too many thermal signatures on the mountain to be accounted for. Way too many.
A curse on her lips, Marika headed for the door of the trailer, toggling her headset as she did so.
“All teams. All teams…we have hostiles at our six. Prepare to engage.”
She hadn’t taken more than ten steps away from the trailer before a pair of rocket-propelled grenades flew from the treeline…
The CHRYSALIS cabin
“Don’t try to stop me, Harry.” Carol shook her head, taking another cautious step toward the front door of the cabin.
This wasn’t working. It crossed his mind that arguing with her was a lot like arguing with the DCIA. Didn’t get you anywhere.
It was at that moment that he heard it—the low, lethal whoosh he had heard so many times, so many places. Basra. Lahore. County Armagh.
There was no time to speak, no time to argue. Harry grabbed her by the shoulders, the Kahr falling from her hands as he shoved her down behind the table. A cry escaped her lips as he landed on top, covering her with his body.
The next moment the room exploded around them…
The blast took William Russell Cole off his feet, falling backward into a snowdrift as the western wall of the cabin vanished in a pall of smoke and fire. Moments later, the chatter of automatic weapons filled the air.
Leah Petersen and her partner died instantly, the FBI sniper team taken off-guard by the man from Leningrad. Across the perimeter, agents went down as Korsakov’s men moved in.
Her ears ringing from the explosion, Marika rolled onto her back in the snow, looking back at the TOC. Or rather, what was left of it.
The trailer was in flames, dark, oily tongues of fire licking out at the falling snow. The HRT’s nerve center was gone.
She closed her eyes, cursing bitterly. So many lives lost.
None of it made any sense. Where had their assailants come from?
Bullets whistled through the air above her head as Marika rolled to her feet, drawing her service Glock from its holster at her side. This wasn’t Hollywood—the pistol was near useless in the firefight that was unfolding, but she snapped off a couple shots at the camouflaged men emerging from the treeline.
Turning, she made a crouched run for Jicha’s truck, parked twenty feet beyond the flaming TOC. She put three bullets through the window of the Silverado, shattering the glass—the HRT leader had never invested in bulletresistant glass for his personal vehicle.
Her breathing was quick and shallow by the time she reached the truck, the mountain air stabbing at her lungs with icy daggers. Getting old was no fun. She reached through the broken glass of the window and swung the door open.
There was a rifle case behind the seat and Marika pulled it out, extracting his Colt M-4 and four loaded magazines of 5.56mm. One hundred and twenty rounds. Little enough.
Taking cover behind the engine block of the Silverado, she dug a satellite phone from her pocket. If they didn’t get backup, they were all going to die.
10:39 P.M.
The CHRYSALIS cabin
Smoke. Flames. Noise beating like hammers against his head. Harry reached out, feeling soft flesh beneath his hand, warm fluid trickling between his fingers.
Blood. A hand descended on his shoulder and he rolled onto his back, pulling the 1911 halfway out of its holster.
Sammy. It was Sammy. He saw the SEAL’s lips move, but he couldn’t hear a thing, his ears still ringing from the force of the explosion.
Didn’t matter—he could guess. They didn’t have much time. He shook his head in an effort to clear it.
Where was Carol? He shouted her name and winced, the words echoing and reverberating within his skull.
Han pointed, and Harry followed the direction of his finger. She was right beside him, laying there facedown on the floor of the cabin. Flames licked at the roof above them, snow melting and dripping down on them in the inferno.
Blood trickled from the back of her right thigh, a thick five-inch wooden splinter protruding from the flesh. A deep wound. Ideally, they wouldn’t have moved her. There was nothing ideal about this situation.
“Take her,” he bellowed, watching Han’s face as he regained his feet. Her safety was all that mattered. Nothing else.
His rifle was gone—somewhere. No time to look for it. The SEAL caught Harry’s gestures and unslung his rifle, handing it over as he bent down to scoop Carol up in his arms.
Fighting retreat…
10:42 P.M.
Help was on the way. That was the Bureau’s assurance, but Marika knew exactly how empty that assurance was. By the time the Hoover Building could mobilize reinforcements, the issue would be decided.
They’d be there in time to fill the body bags.
She pulled back the charging handle on the carbine, hearing a click as the round slid into the chamber. It was only one gun.
Deep breath—she swung herself up, leaning across the Silverado’s hood as she steadied the rifle. Five targets, clustered near the cabin. Eighty, maybe a hundred meters out. A single man, gesturing to the others.
Her finger tightened around the trigger as she centered the red dot of the scope on the white balaclava of the leader. Slow, steady.
The first burst went wild and she swore. In all her years in the Bureau
, she’d never engaged targets at this range. Never done anything more than qualify. And now she was paying the price.
But it got their attention.
10:44 P.M.
The bullets fanning the air around his ears were Korsakov’s first indication that the FBI agents were starting to regroup, to rally from the ambush. He caught a glimpse of a lone figure firing over the hood of a truck down the slope as he threw himself into the snow.
Focus. Don’t let it distract from the mission. There was twenty-five million dollars—just on the other side of the cabin’s door. And vengeance for Pavel’s death.
It was only one agent. “Nyet,” he whispered impatiently, putting a restraining hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “Two of you stay here, provide covering fire—the rest of you come with me.”
Yuri glanced toward the cabin door, blown nearly off its hinges by the blast—toward the inferno consuming the roof. “Da. It’s now or never.”
It was all coming back—gunfire, explosions, the swirling snow. Azerbaijan.
Samuel Han laid Carol down in the passenger cabin of the helicopter, motioning for her to lie still. They would need to remove that splinter before it caused an infection.
Azerbaijan. Han took a step back, feeling the past roll over him like a torrent. He moved toward the helicopter’s door, feeling as if the earth itself had opened at his feet. Focus. He had to remain calm. Hold the memories in check.
Passing a hand over his forehead, the SEAL jumped down onto the concrete floor of the bunker’s hangar, moving toward the control panel mounted on the far wall.
Aged hydraulics, operating massive blast doors which opened out onto the helipad. The power from the generator was already engaged, running for the last hour.
There was only one question left in his mind: after all these years—would the doors still open? If they didn’t—then he’d led them into a death trap. Just like he had that winter so long ago.
He took a deep breath and pulled the lever…
10:47 P.M.
Korsakov wasn’t the first man through the door, into the cabin. Or the second. It was protocol—bad American action movies aside, a team leader never took point. It also saved his life.
The first room of the cabin was on fire and littered with debris—splintered wood and shards of glass thrown about as if by a giant’s hand. Among the chaos, the destruction, the tripwire stretching across the entrance to the corridor went unnoticed.
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 18
