Powers snorted. “So it’s true what they say about you boys at the Agency, after all? James freakin’ Bond…”
He shook his head in disgust, the look on his face belying his earlier words. Anger.
“You’ll stay on the perimeter,” he added, pushing open the door of the SUV. “I don’t need you on the entry team. We breach in five.”
It was going down, Marika thought, eyeing her wristwatch. 7:38. All the anxiety she had felt for Nasir was gone, replaced by a cold fury.
Powers’ teams were marked on the computer display in front of her, each position marked out. She could see his men from where she sat, staging for entry on the side door. Thermal wasn’t giving them anything—if there was anyone inside, they were deep within the building.
Ninety seconds…
The passenger door of her Suburban opened and the CIA man hoisted himself up into the seat. “Ready?”
She nodded. They’d had to make a choice—go in with NBC gear to protect against the possibility of the nerve agent being released and sacrifice situational awareness and speed of movement in the enveloping suits. Or take their chances and go in unprotected.
Powers had chosen the latter option. It made sound tactical sense…she could only pray that he was right.
She saw the lead man move back, his rifle covering the door as his partner knelt down to mirror the door, checking for any wires that would indicate a booby-trap.
Hand signals flashing between the men as the battering ram slammed into the side door of the convention center with a mighty thud, the hinges ripping away as the door fell into the corridor beyond.
Inside.
7:40 P.M. Pacific Time
Canoga Park, California
He could hear them coming—American boots on the stairs outside. Abu Kareem closed his eyes, whispering the shahada beneath his breath. The creed of his life.
Living among these people. That had always been his jihad, to subvert from within even as others struck from without.
There was something soul-cleansing about this final act of sacrifice, the imam thought, his hand closing around the detonator of his suicide vest. As if it wiped away all the lies.
He glanced over to where the Pakistani fighter sat at the other side of the room, his jacket gaping open to reveal a similar vest. The man’s lips were moving, as if in a final prayer—his eyes fixed on the small cylinder sitting in the center of the room, maybe twice the size of an ordinary aerosol can. Jamal’s creation, from back in the lab in Dearborn. Filled with the nerve agent.
The door came flying open as if hit by a ram, the clang of metal on concrete as a stun grenade was hurled in.
A shockwave of noise hammered Abu Kareem’s ears, a blinding light filling the room.
And he pressed the button…
10:41 P.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room of the White House
Washington, D.C.
“Why can’t we hear anything?” Hancock exclaimed, his fraying patience showing through.
Ian Cahill looked away from the real-time satellite imagery up on the massive screens of the Situation Room, back to where the President sat. “They’re jamming all transmissions in and out of the target locations. That includes their own. We’ll receive a transmission when they’ve secured the sites and the nerve agent.”
“If they secure the nerve agent,” Hancock murmured, daubing his face with a handkerchief. “I wish Haskel could be on this one.”
“They will, Mr. President,” Cahill responded, using his title in the presence of the personnel manning the Situation Room. “The FBI has their best people on this, and they will—”
He stopped as the blood suddenly seemed to drain from the President’s face, his eyes staring toward the screens as if transfixed.
Cahill turned on heel, his own mouth falling open. A fiery bloom of flames and debris had burst from the target building, seeming to spread outward for a split-second before it was sucked back into the maw of the explosion.
“Dear God…”
7:42 P.M. Pacific Time
The convention center
Las Vegas, Nevada
Thomas heard the warning come over the team radio, but there was no time to respond, no time even to react as the explosion followed a fraction of a second later.
The fireball seemed to expand out the upper windows of the convention center, angry flames licking at the supporting beams. Debris rained down on the street separating them from the target building, a half-broken concrete block smashing into the hood of a parked car.”
He looked over into Marika’s face, seeing his shock mirrored in her eyes.
It only seemed to last for a moment before she shoved open the driver’s side door, her gun hand coming out with a Glock. “Powers?” she demanded, speaking into her radio. “Carlson? Rodriguez? Boehm?”
Static.
Thomas stepped out onto the asphalt, slipping his Beretta from underneath his jacket, gazing across the debris-strewn pavement to the flaming shell of the building the FBI tactical teams had entered only minutes before.
They’d been led into a trap.
Marika’s radio crackled as she came around the front of the Suburban. “…don’t. It’s not—”
She stopped stock-still. “Did not copy your last—we’re coming for you. Just hold on.”
More white noise and then the voice was back. Loud enough for Thomas to hear him. “—no.” The agent on the other end coughed loudly, a rough, hacking sound. “…the nerve gas…released.”
7:44 P.M.
Delta Flight 94
“Flight 94, please continue in holding pattern at 9,000 MSL.”
The lights of the Vegas Strip shone thousands of feet below as Pamela Gonzalez acknowledged the order, guiding the massive Boeing into the inbound leg of the pattern.
“If they’d known we were going to run into this delay, they’d have held us back at SLC,” her flight officer observed, referencing their layover in Salt Lake City.
He was right. It was standard operating procedure—even with their airspeed held down to just over two hundred knots, every moment in air cost Delta big-time in fuel.
“We’ll be down in a few minutes,” she responded. “Plans?”
“I always visit the Venetian—always lose. We’ll see if tonight I can break even.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
He grinned. “That too.”
The radio came alive again. “Flight 94, this is Tower. You are cleared to land, runway three.”
7:45 P.M.
Omar rose from his kneeling position on the flat, gravel-covered roof, staring up into the night sky. “There is no god but God,” he whispered, stilling his trembling hands.
He could hear the whine of jet turbines coming toward him as he raised the SA-24 to his shoulder, gripping the missile firmly with both hands. His fingers closed around the pistol grip, flicking the selector into automatic mode.
And there it was, descending toward him—a winged beast out of the night. It must have still been a mile off, but the jet loomed large in the Igla’s night-vision scope. And Muhammad is His Prophet…
His finger curled around the trigger, pulling back firmly as the Boeing 757 filled his sight picture.
The Igla recoiled in his hands, an intensely physical release—all of the tension leaving his body in that moment, as the missile’s flaming backblast curled into the night behind him.
Screaming into the sky, the SA-24 Igla flew toward Delta Airlines Flight 94, closing the distance at nearly six hundred meters a second, homing in on the heat signature of the Boeing’s engines.
Moments later, it impacted just inches from the 757’s starboard engine, igniting the fuel stored there in the wing.
Captain Gonzalez felt the aircraft shudder beneath her as if it had run into an invisible wall. The Boeing pitched right, veering off the approach to McCarran.
Altitude: 6,000 MSL and falling fast. Too fast now, a sick feeling of dropping from th
e sky.
She reached forward, taking the yoke in her own hands as she switched off the autopilot.
“We just lost the starboard engine,” her flight officer announced, an edge of panic to his voice.
Fighting back her own fear, Pamela glanced out the cockpit—only to see the starboard engine engulfed in flames, tongues of firing licking up and down the entire surface of the wing.
There was no time to react…nothing that could have been done in any case. The next moment, Delta Flight 94 exploded, disintegrating in mid-air, fiery debris raining down upon Las Vegas.
Omar shielded his eyes from the explosion, realizing only then, as a ball of fire lit up the sky, that he’d been holding his breath ever since the missile left his shoulder.
It seemed surreal, as if a dream. He screamed, barely even recognizing his own voice in the heat of the moment. “Allahu akbar!”
To strike a blow for God.
7:48 P.M.
The motel
Henderson, Nevada
“Harry, you need to see this.” There was an unmistakable note of urgency in Carol’s voice.
He crossed the room to stand at her side. “What is it?”
“I know why Tarik Abdul Muhammad is in Vegas. Look at this.”
She scrolled across the local news station’s webpage, double-clicking on a woman’s picture. “Congresswoman Laura Gilpin. I didn’t see this till just now.”
“So? How does she fit into this picture?”
“She spearheaded the Congressional effort to block his release from Gitmo. Nearly succeeded too, only needed ten more votes.” She glanced up into his eyes. “She’s here in Vegas tonight, giving a dinner at the Bellagio for the supporters of her successful reelection bid. She’s the target.”
And it all became clear. “Wait…you said the dinner is tonight?”
“Yes.”
Without another word, Harry walked to the door of the adjoining motel room, throwing it open without knocking. “Boots and saddles, people—it’s going down now. We’ve been played.”
He shot a finger toward Carol. “Get everything packed up. I’ll get Thomas on the phone, he can alert the Bureau.”
As if on cue, the phone in his hand vibrated with an incoming call. Thomas.
“Yes?”
“It’s already begun…”
7:50 P.M.
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
There was no spectacle on earth like the Cirque. No place to experience it like the “O”.
A smile crossed Laura Gilpin’s lips as she glanced over at Steve Winfield’s face in the half-darkness of the theatre. They’d known each other since college, and he was in his element on a night like tonight. Surrounded by his friends and playing host.
Heralded by swelling music, a steel-framed ship flew out over the flooded stage, its crew of acrobats swinging from one end of the ship to the other.
The Bateau, she thought, remembering a previous performance as she spotted the muscular Barrel Organ Grinder near the prow. It was magnificent.
She heard voices behind her and looked back to see the Bellagio’s head of security leaning over Steve’s shoulder, whispering something. “…we have a situation…a plane just blew up on approach to McCarran.”
The casino owner’s response was unintelligible, but she reached over to grasp his hand as the Israeli walked away. “What’s going on, Steve?”
There was a look she had never seen before in his eyes as he responded, “I don’t know.”
The SUVs pulled into the north valet entrance, one right behind the other. Pulling the black balaclava mask over his face, Jamal looked out the tinted windows of the Suburban to see the Bellagio crest over the ornate entrance.
This was the moment. All of the months, waiting for this…
The Pakistani beside him threw open the door, his Kalashnikov leading the way as he jumped out on the pavement.
Jamal heard a shout of surprise, followed almost instantly by a burst of rifle fire.
He saw a uniformed guard fall back into the shattered glass doors of the Bellagio, staining the stone with his blood as the mujahideen fanned out from the vehicles.
It took the sound of yet another full-automatic burst to break Jamal’s focus on the body of fallen guard, reminding him of the job he had been chosen to do.
Stumbling out of the vehicle, Jamal seized hold of the nearest luggage cart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the Pakistanis enter the casino, saw the muzzle flashes from within. Death.
His hands trembled as he manhandled the two bombs containing the nerve agent onto the luggage cart. Weighing nearly twenty pounds each, they contained the rest of the soman, far more than they had left at the convention center…or sent with Abu Kareem.
He found himself sweating, afraid to drop the bombs in his haste. Two minutes, he thought, recalling the words of the shaikh. “From the moment the first shot is fired…”
The Bellagio, like most of the resorts on the Strip, was a surveillance state in microcosm, with cameras covering every table, every dealer, every entrance.
And the men manning the resort’s security center watched in dumbfounded shock as the mujahideen swept from the atrium of the Bellagio into the casino itself, firing as they came.
One of them reached for the phone—the casino’s landline—dialing 911.
Busy…
Gilad Cohen had nearly reached the Bellagio’s poker room when he heard the shots, the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons fire drowning out the silken voice of Sinatra coming through the casino’s sound system.
Pulling his jacket open, he jerked his Jericho 941 from its shoulder holster, falling back toward the “O” theatre. The Israeli switched on his earbud mike, connecting him to the Bellagio’s security network. “This is Cohen, report in. What is our status?”
“At least a dozen shooters,” an anxious voice responded. “They’ll be on top of your position in thirty seconds. We’ve got dead and injured all over the place.”
“Roberts and the QRF?” Cohen demanded, raising the Jericho in both hands as one of the terrorists appeared from the poker room. He squeezed off two rounds, the 9mm slugs going wild among the machines.
“Two minutes.” The quick reaction force wasn’t going to be quick enough to save them, Cohen thought, collapsing behind a pillar as a hail of fire came his way. He saw one of the guards from the “O” doors fall, his body pierced by bullets.
“I’m going in—they’re going to be taken.” There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the radio as his man digested his words.
“What are you saying?”
“We’re going to need someone on the inside.”
7:57 P.M.
The motel
Henderson, Nevada
Had Andropov lied? Or had he himself been deceived? None of that really mattered now. Harry thrust aside the questions angrily, doing one last sweep through the motel room to ensure that they were leaving no trace of their presence behind.
The door to the outside opened, a cold rush of night air following Samuel Han into the room. “Got a flash from Thomas—the Bellagio was just stormed by masked gunmen.”
“They didn’t get the warning in time?” Harry glanced over at Carol as she asked the question, taking in the mixture of anger and grief on her face.
The response was a shake of the head.
Harry shrugged on his leather jacket over the holstered Colt on his hip. “Do they have a twenty on Congresswoman Gilpin?”
“No one has a twenty on anyone, Harry,” the former SEAL replied. “Vegas is in chaos and 911 is overwhelmed with calls. My guess is that we’re either looking at a hostage situation or she’s already dead.”
Harry closed his eyes, fighting against the anger that rose within him. The feeling of helplessness. “How long before the LVMPD SWAT has their teams on-scene?”
“Thomas didn’t know. No one seems to. But he’s en-route to the Bellagio, wants you to join him
and the remnants of the Bureau team there. Provide tactical support for a possible rescue.”
For a moment, Harry didn’t respond, emotions warring within him. He knew what he wanted to do, knew the right thing to do. “It won’t do anyone any good—I’ll be arrested the moment I set foot on the Strip.”
“He says he can get you in.”
Run, his mind warned him, screaming of danger. He had spent his career breaking the law, but this had been different. Prison was the best thing lying at the end of this road. Yet it wasn’t in him to turn away.
“Tell him we’ll be there,” he said, feeling as if the earth had opened at his feet, a yawning chasm threatening to engulf him whole.
The door closed behind Han, leaving the two of them alone once more. “You’re doing the right thing,” he heard her offer. Was it? He couldn’t bring himself to reply, unable to shake the feeling deep within him…that this was the end of it all.
There was so much he wanted to say in that moment, but honest words had never come easily to him.
She reached for the doorknob and Harry found himself putting out a hand to hold it closed. Now or never.
He leaned down, capturing her lips with his own, his hands around her waist as he drew her close, her back pressed against the door.
The salt of tears was on her lips as he kissed her fiercely, as if it was their last moment on earth. Her fingers came up to caress his cheek, running gently over the stubble of his beard, the warmth of her body pressing against him.
“You have to promise me,” he breathed, holding her close. “After all of this is over, after the last shots are fired…that this won’t be the end.”
He paused, almost afraid to go on. “That there will be a future—for us. Beyond all the fighting. All of the war.” The words slipped from his lips with painful uncertainty and he found himself incapable of looking into her eyes. “Promise me.”
It seemed an eternity before she responded, and when she did, it was in a voice filled with tears. “Yes.”
8:03 P.M.
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
It seemed a nightmare—blood and fire.
A scene from hell, the god of chaos unleashed. Laura could hear the screams ringing in her ears, still see the blood staining the waters of the “O”, dead bodies slumped over the crimson seats of the theatre.
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 51
