“Room clear,” Tex announced from his right, moving up the stairs barely a half-step behind him.
Han heard Tex’s voice, struggling to control his breathing against the onset of panic as he swept his weapon across the left side of the theatre. The gunshots, the sound of a sniper’s rifle—bringing all the memories flooding back.
And then it was over, just like that, leaving him trembling. “Room clear.”
Harry lowered his weapon, stepping across the body of a dead terrorist to where the congresswoman lay, leaning back against one of the seats. He bent down, his face only inches from hers, his hand reaching down to touch her arm. She met his gaze, eyes that had stared into the face of death now staring into his. Still unbowed.
“You’re safe now, ma’am. We’ve come to take you home.”
He hadn’t envisioned his own death like this…slowly bleeding to death on the carpet, his destroyed vocal chords making it impossible for him to even call for help. Failure.
“Stay calm,” he could hear one of the Americans announce. “We’re going to get all of you out of here, soon enough.”
There was no glory in having failed, in having fallen so short of the will of God. It seemed impossible, even yet…but he could feel himself growing weaker.
Jamal closed his eyes, fighting against the pain, the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He reached out, numb fingers groping for the detonator in the pocket of his jacket.
There was still a chance. He could still see the eyes of the shaikh, hear his words replaying themselves through his mind. “And where is Paradise to be found, my brothers?”
His own once-confident reply, chanting the takbir. “Neath the shade of swords.”
Yet it seemed death was all that was to be found. The death he had dealt to his brother. He could taste his own blood on his lips as his fingers touched the detonator, struggling to wrap themselves around it.
It felt as if his fingers were made of wood, clumsy—no longer responding to the dictates of his brain. The detonator fell from his pocket, rolling to the carpet.
Almost out of reach, the former college student thought, clawing desperately at the wire that connected it to his suicide vest.
Without warning, a heavy foot descended on his wrist, pinning it to the floor. He glanced up into cold eyes the color of gunmetal, a pistol extending from the American’s hand.
The eyes of an angel of death. The avenger of blood.
It entered his mind to beg for mercy, here at the end of his life, but there was no time. And no mercy to be found.
The gun came up, a long suppressor extending from its muzzle—the man’s finger tightening around the trigger.
The pistol coughed, a strange deathly sound. And Jamal’s world went dark.
Forever…
Harry bent down, his fingers closing around the edge of the terrorist’s blood-drenched balaclava—pulling it upward with a quick, forceful motion.
The lifeless eyes of a young man stared back at him, matted hair clinging to his forehead. But it wasn’t Tarik Abdul Muhammad.
His eyes darted around the stage, at the unmasked bodies of the other terrorists. Nowhere.
Something was wrong. He pulled the sealed pouch containing his earbud radio out of his water-logged trousers, inserting it into his ear and tuning it to the Bureau channel.
“Altmann, do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, EAGLE SIX,” the FBI agent replied. “My screens are showing you in the room with the hostages—sitrep?”
Harry glanced toward Samuel Han, kneeling over a young woman in the front row off the platform. “We have casualties, but yes…the hostages are secured. We’ll evacuate as soon as possible—there’s something else. Tarik Abdul Muhammad is MIA. The man on camera…wasn’t him.”
When she responded, he could hear the hesitation in her voice. “I know—Fort Meade’s voiceprint analysis confirmed that moments before you went in. Nichols…there’s something else you should be aware of.”
“Yes?”
“You were right about Guantanamo…the Antonov was on a suicide mission. Its crew deliberately overshot the Leeward Point Airfield and flew it into the top floor of the naval hospital across the bay.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the anger burn within him. The indescribable sense of guilt. You were right. But not soon enough.
Cassandra on the walls of Priam’s Troy.
“Casualties?” he asked, scarcely daring to hear the answer.
“At least thirty dead, scores of injured. We’re just getting the reports.”
1:09 A.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“We’re getting scattered reports out of Vegas, Mr. President,” Cahill announced, entering the small conference room. “It’s being said that the FBI assault team went ahead and stormed the theatre.”
Hancock seemed stunned as he gazed at the images onscreen, video of the burning hospital in Guantanamo. Wounded men staggering out of the carnage. He seemed to process his chief of staff’s words slowly, almost as if in numbed disbelief.
“And?”
“No one knows—yet. There is a report that says the hostages have been secured, but it is unsubtantiated.”
“Dear God,” the President whispered, shaking his head. “Is there any chance…that they caused this?”
He gestured toward the chaos at the hospital.
“What do you mean, Mr. President?”
“If the FBI defied my orders…if they broke the terms of our negotiation, then the strike against Guantanamo could have been retaliation.” Hancock paused, his voice trembling. “Inform me the moment they’re out of the theatre—the moment you’ve confirmed that Representative Gilpin is safe…I want to know who ordered this assault. I want their resignation on my desk by the time the sun comes up.”
10:11 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
He was dying, Harry could see that—and there was no help for it—his body riddled with bullets.
“Should have waited,” he whispered, bending down on knee beside the Israeli.
A wry smile crossed the bodyguard’s face, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. “All part of the…job. You never lose your principal—give your life for theirs, if it comes to that.”
“And it hasn’t,” Harry lied, reaching out to examine his wounds. “We’re going to get the EMTs in here to help you…just as soon as it is safe.”
“Don’t bother,” Cohen whispered, suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing. “There’s others that need you more—I’m done.”
He closed his eyes, leaning awkwardly back against one of the seats. As if going to sleep.
Harry could feel someone move up behind him, and he looked back to see Tex standing there.
“We’ve got a problem,” the big man announced, lowering his voice as if to ensure that those nearby wouldn’t hear what he was about to say. “The bombs on the platform with the nerve gas …they weren’t set up for command detonation.”
“Timed?”
A nod. The look on Richards’ face told Harry the answer to his second question: no visible timer.
That was Hollywood—not the real world. No bombmaker worth his salt made it that easy. The explosion would vaporize the soman, spreading the nerve gas throughout every corner of the theatre. And even outside.
“Can you disarm them?” he asked, rising to walk back toward the platform.
“One, maybe…it’d take probably half an hour—maybe more. Whoever built them was a real pro, I’d spend half my time figuring out which of the wires were real and which were decoys.”
Too many maybes.
“One bomb disarmed and the other one goes…” Harry breathed, squatting down next to the nearest IED. “Still enough soman to kill every last one of us. And we don’t have thirty minutes.”
The Texan looked over at him. “Based on what?”
“Think abo
ut it. Even if they expected us to hold off until the Antonov was supposed to land…they had to know that the moment they flew it into the naval hospital, all bets were off. Which means they would have set this up to go off shortly thereafter.”
Tex seemed to consider his words for a moment. “Ten minutes?”
“Tops.”
Their options were limited, and they both knew it. The way they had come…there was no possibility of evacuating the injured that way. Too slow—too many people would die. Math. “Focus on disarming the IEDs on the main doors,” Harry responded. “That’s our only way out of this.”
He stepped away from Richards, away from the people they had rescued, keying his mike.
“What’s our status on the auto-injectors from Nellis?”
“Only came up with about twenty of them—my agent is on his way back now. Metro finally has Winchester under control, with all the gunmen either dead or in custody.” Marika’s voice. “Why?”
“The nerve agent is rigged to blow and the doors of the theatre are still sealed with explosives.”
“Dear God…” she whispered. “What can I do from here?”
“Start evacuating the resort. All your people, all the first responders—everyone in the triage.”
“Understood.”
“That means you too, Thomas,” Harry added for Parker’s benefit. “Get outta here. And know this…if Tarik is still out there, this could be another piece of his plan. He’s been one step ahead of us thus far.”
“Everyone is on the highest alert. I’ll pass the word to the Metro snipers, have them provide cover for the evacuation.”
“Do it, and do it quickly. We’re livin’ on borrowed time.”
10:15 P.M.
The roof of Caesar’s Palace
“Metro, be advised, we may still have an active subject. Snipers, be prepared to provide cover for the evacuation of the Bellagio. Copy?”
“Roger that,” Tarik Abdul Muhammad whispered over the radio headset, the butt of the Accuracy International AE MkIII sniper rifle cradled against his cheek as he lay there on the roof, aiming down and across the street at the north entrance of the Bellagio.
He had hardly expected them to succeed, but it still smote him to the heart to think of all his brethren dead, failed in their mission. As for himself…he had never intended to die this night, Insh’allah.
I take refuge with my Lord, he thought, remembering the words of the Holy Qur’an, from every proud one who does not believe in theDay of Reckoning.
Such a day had been brought to America this night—a day for the sins of men to be weighed in the balances. And many had been found wanting, as the police sergeant he had stabbed to death in the resort’s freight elevator.
The shaikh reached forward, pulling back the rifle’s bolt to chamber a .308 Winchester cartridge.
The final reckoning was yet to come…
10:19 P.M.
The Bellagio
Five minutes. Half the time Harry had specified…elapsed. And still no one emerged from the theatre.
Carol stood at the edge of the casino floor, not far from a bullet riddled roulette wheel, glimpsing one of the sculptures of Richard McDonald as she gazed back toward the doors of the “O”.
Stretchers passed her by on their way out, the bloodied victims of the initial assault.
Marika emerged from the security elevator, spying the young woman standing there—as if waiting for something. Someone.
“Chambers,” she began, raising her voice slightly. “All of our people are already out, hardening the perimeter. Time to go.”
The young woman glanced back over her shoulder, meeting her eyes—and she could see the determination of youth.
“I’ll leave with them.”
“No purpose in it,” Marika replied, moving closer to her—brushing a strand of silver hair up under her FBI ball cap. “Nothing anyone can do at this point.”
Run. It’s what she had done with Vic—left him lying there facedown in his own blood.
“Pray,” came the whisper, so soft that she almost missed it.
“There’s that.” The older woman shrugged. “God might be able to hear you better outside.”
“No,” Carol replied, shaking her head. The anguish was clearly visible in her eyes, resolution not unmixed with pain. “I’m staying. Right here.”
And she could see it.
“You love him, don’t you?” Marika asked, her characteristic bluntness coming to the fore. She’d seen the look before…even felt it herself once, in a long-ago time.
It seemed a long time before the young woman replied—and when she did, it was as a single defiant tear fell from her eye, rolling unheeded down her cheek. “Yes…”
“What are we looking at?” Harry asked, dropping down beside Richards at the entrance doors.
The big man shook his head, not even looking up. “Spent most of my time getting the trip wires clamped so I could cut them,” he responded, gesturing to the two long wires that had extended out from either side of the IED, spanning the breadth of the entrance. “Then had to get the cover of the housing off before I could even get at the mechanism.”
“Trembler switch?”
“None that I’ve found,” came the grim response, a small screwdriver clenched between the Texan’s teeth. “God knows he’s got everything else…a mercury tilt switch over here in this corner of the housing—and from the looks of these wires leading to the encased battery, he set up a collapsing circuit.”
Good times, Harry thought. Cut just one wire—didn’t matter which one—and the whole thing exploded. Another thing Hollywood wasn’t too keen on telling people. “All that matters is getting it off the door—after that…they can throw it in Lake Mead for all I care. Focus on the tilt switch.”
“Already on it, boss,” Tex replied, taking the screwdriver out of his mouth.
Harry glanced down at the hostages in the seats below them, sensing the raw tension—nerves worn threadbare by the trauma of the night. The delay had them on the brink of panic. If they only knew the half of it…
“And hurry it up if you can. The natives are getting restless.”
1:21 A.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“We just received an update from Las Vegas, Mr. President.”
Hancock allowed himself a weary smile, glancing across at Cahill before turning his attention back to the aide. “And Congresswoman Gilpin is safe?”
The young man shook his head. “Not yet, sir. The hostages and the rescue team are still trapped inside the Bellagio’s theatre trying to disarm the explosives on the main door. Mr. President, the presence of the nerve agent has been confirmed. It’s contained in a pair of bombs within the theatre. They were set up for timed detonation.”
Hancock’s eyes widened, realizing the import of the words. “Then you mean…”
“The terrorists were on a suicide mission.” The aide paused, seeming to hesitate before going on. “All the negotiations…were a fraud, just a ruse to receive access into our restricted airspace over Guantanamo.”
“Out,” the President whispered, anger and fear distorting his features. The look of a man who had been outplayed and knew it. “Just get out!”
10:21 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
“What’s he dealing with?” Han asked, glancing up as Harry walked back to him. The SEAL looked exhausted, his expression devoid of emotion.
Harry knelt down beside Gilpin’s wounded campaign manager, watching the young woman’s eyes. She was in shock, biting down on a pen to keep from screaming as the SEAL bandaged her shattered knee, preparing her to be moved.
“A mercury switch,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “If he moves the bomb or even jostles it—game over. He’s…making progress.”
Neither one of the men needed to look at their watches to know the truth. Time had almost run out.
&nb
sp; Any moment now.
“Thank you.” Words seemed so…insufficient in this moment, and yet, to leave them unsaid?
“No more,” Han whispered, glancing down at the blood covering his hands, his face tightening into a grimace of pain. “After this, Harry, after all of this is done…I never want to see your face again. Where you go, Death follows—and I just can’t be a part of it any longer.”
Perhaps that was justice, even, Harry thought—unable to bring himself to answer the accusation. Knowing there was no defense.
He glanced over to where Laura Gilpin sat, bruised and battered. Her hand was clutching her side from the beating she had received, the faintest hint of fear showing in her eyes.
“Just a few minutes more,” he whispered, taking both of her hands in his. “And everyone will be safe. But I need your help.”
“Yes…of course,” the congresswoman replied, seeming to summon up whatever last reserves of strength she had within her.
“When those doors open, my partners will help your campaign manager and Mr. Winfield out—and I’ll be at your side. But we can’t have this turning into a stampede. If it does, more people are going to die. Your bravery’s kept these people alive so far this night. I need you to be their leader once more.”
She nodded her understanding. “Where’s Gilad?”
“Dead,” he responded, glancing up the aisle to where the bodyguard lay, the Sig-Sauer still resting beside his lifeless body. “He gave his life for yours—now let’s not have that be in vain.”
Harry looked up to see Tex standing there at the head of the steps. “The doors are clear.”
A nod and he reached down to help Gilpin up, wrapping an arm around her waist. She staggered against him, a moan of pain escaping her lips.
“Now hear this,” he called, his voice echoing off the distant wall of the theatre.
Knowing it was time for one final lie.
“The way out is clear—the danger is past. Let’s move out calmly, we all get to go home tonight.”
He saw several people glance at Gilpin, saw the look of reassurance she gave them.
“Go on,” she said, looking over the faces of her supporters. “I’ll be the last to leave.”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 56
