“He’s got a knife!” the young photographer screamed, even as the man spun to face Cole, a black curved blade with a serrated edge in his right hand.
Cole reacted quickly, seizing the initiative before his opponent attacked. He snatched a light-stand tripod, spinning in a blur of speed, converting the stand into an awkward staff and swinging horizontally as the Frenchman lunged forward. His timing was flawless, and the heavy bulb shattered against the man’s hand and knife.
Crash!
Glass embedded itself in the man’s wrist and hand, and the Frenchman let out a true cry of pain and horror. Blood splattered the floor of the museum as several deep gashes opened. The knife fell to the ground and bounced away.
Cole reversed his hands and stepped forward, the tripod bottom now aimed at the man’s chest. A series of flashes lit up the impromptu battleground as Cole drove the tripod into the man’s chest and knocked him backward, propelling him directly into the giant green screen. His arms flailed and blood sprayed across the fabric as if he were some modern action painter, the French reincarnation of Jackson Pollock.
The bloody screen finally collapsed around the man, and it looked to Cole as if the man were being swallowed by a swirling green black hole, disappearing completely as he fell to the ground in a mixture of blood and cloth.
Cole never hesitated. He walked over to where the wounded Frenchman was struggling to free himself and launched a well-aimed kick.
Smack!
His boot landed on the side of the Frenchman’s head, and the man finally went limp.
Hope he doesn’t bleed out, but oh well if he does, Cole thought as blood poured out of the unconscious man’s wrist. Damnit. He’s pulling a Gerry Cooney on me, he thought, recalling the boxer’s bloody loss to Larry Holmes.
He bent over, grabbed the man’s dark polo, now darkened even more with blood, and tore several strips from it.
“Is he dead?” the young photographer asked.
“Not yet,” Cole said. “And I’m trying to keep it that way.”
Cole wrapped several swaths around the man’s wounded wrist until he was satisfied with his impromptu battle dressing. Should keep him alive, at least until a paramedic gets here.
He looked up at the young man, who glanced around at what had once been his livelihood. “Hey, thanks for the heads up on the knife,” Cole said. “I need this bastard alive, and that gave me the half second I needed to act.”
“No problem, sir,” the photographer said politely, though he was obviously still processing the events.
“And don’t worry about this mess,” Cole said. “Come find me before this day is over, and I’ll make sure it’s all replaced, brand-new.”
The man nodded as Cole spotted an armed security guard moving in their direction from the main hangar. He waved him over hurriedly.
Good. He can keep an eye on this guy while I go see if anyone else needs help.
Cole stood up, stepped over to the photographer, and offered his hand, which the young man accepted. “Like I said, come find me, and I’ll take care of you. You earned it. Now I gotta go.”
He turned and ran to meet the security guard, leaving the young photographer to stare after him before sitting down, the surge of adrenaline finally dissipating in the aftermath of the fight.
* * *
Amira knew there was only one exit—the large, corkscrew ramp that wound its way to the first floor—at the far end of the suspended walkway. In the midst of the chaos, she’d sprinted, appearing to be just another panicked bystander, gaining ground on the shooter in the white polo.
By the time she was within forty feet of the corkscrew, she spotted her next obstacle—the bottleneck at the top of the ramp. It was now packed with a mass of civilians who’d also decided to use that way as their escape route.
Amira spotted the shooter, his black sling bag weaving in and out of the crowd until he disappeared down the ramp.
Damnit. Crowd’s too thick. Think-think-think.
She looked around for options, even as she moved forward, closing in on the bottleneck of human flesh blocking the fifteen feet to the ramp.
She smiled inwardly. Too bad John’s not here to see this one; he’d think what I’m about to do is crazy-awesome. And then her professional killer’s mind added, Focus, Amira. Tell him about it after the fact. Time to work.
Amira sprinted to the edge of the walkway and leapt upward as if flinging herself over the side of the three-story drop. She landed gracefully, balancing on the two railings—the outer one higher than the inner by six inches—that ran the length of the walkway and allowed for various placards to be placed in front of the suspended exhibits. She concentrated on her next movement, and the sounds of chaos and fear fell away. Here goes everything.
She took two carefully placed steps and launched off the railing, soaring through the air three stories above the main floor like a trapeze artist with a death wish in a purple hoodie and black yoga pants. Her jump carried her forward, and she started to drop. Please let this be right.
Smack! Her hands caught the right front wheel of an enormous bi-wing glider suspended slightly above the walkway. The glider shifted and swung with the sudden weight of a new passenger, but the cables held, creaking loudly with the strain.
Amira reached forward and moved to the left wheel, swinging her legs front and back like a circus performer, keeping her eyes on the next obstacle, which she knew was the most dangerous part of her aerial course. Now.
Reaching maximum momentum, she kicked out with both legs and released her grip on the wheel, flinging herself forward, her body starting its new course parallel to the ground and providing her with a temporary view of the ceiling. But then her legs and gravity carried her forward, pulling her torso upward, allowing her to see her final destination, and she knew she’d calculated her leap of faith correctly. Thank God.
Amira Cerone crashed onto the plastic cover of the Double Eagle II suspended gondola located directly adjacent to the second level of the corkscrew. Grabbing one of the wires with her left hand to control her landing, she bent her knees to absorb the shock and, just as quickly, sprang forward, appearing to the onlookers who’d spotted her to bounce off the gondola.
She cocked her right arm up in front of her midflight, soaring over the railing of the corkscrew just in time to see her target turn and look at her. Too late for you, sweetie. His bright-blue eyes went wide—which was all she had time to see—as she crashed into his upper body, striking him on the side of his head with her forearm. Their momentum carried them into several civilians, who were knocked down like human bowling pins and sent tumbling down the ramp into other bystanders.
Amira was a former member of the CIA’s LEGION program, which deployed trained assassins to various stations across the globe. That had been her profession until she’d met John Quick and Logan West in Sudan six months ago. She’d been good, extremely good, as in one of the best in the world, at that profession, with blinding hand-to-hand skills that were second to none, as she’d proven time and time again. And now is one more of those times.
Amira was already on her feet as the shooter began to stand, and she delivered a fast, low roundhouse kick that connected with his jaw, knocking him back down to his knees. She moved in and brought both hands up, her fingers interlocked, intent on ending the confrontation quickly. She started to drop her weight and bring her arms down, but she was jostled to the side by a panicked man trying to escape the new threat.
The shooter took advantage of the brief respite, reached under his polo, and withdrew the compact CZ 75 pistol he’d used earlier.
Damnit, Amira thought, and changed tactics instantly, refusing to allow the shooter to risk the lives of the civilians around them. In an effortless motion, a black stiletto appeared in her right hand from under her purple hoodie.
Even as the man—who moved quickly—brought the pistol up toward her, Amira stepped inside the arc of the gun, grabbed his arm with her left hand, and plunge
d the stiletto into his side repeatedly with violent precision.
The man’s blue eyes—now locked with Amira’s own pale-blue gunslinger gaze—widened, this time as brilliant, hot pain lanced through his body. Should have dropped the gun. Bad call.
Rather than wait for him to bleed out, Amira withdrew the stiletto and switched grips in a blur of speed. She slid her left hand to the pistol as with her right she pierced his wrist at the base of his hand.
He screamed at the new pain, but his fingers opened reflexively, and she pulled the gun away from his bloody grip. He stumbled forward two steps but somehow remained standing, and Amira stepped aside, morbidly curious as to how soon he’d collapse and die. Unfortunately for him, it was too long.
A young man with long hair ran down the ramp from above them and crashed into the dying shooter. The impact drove the shooter forward into and over the railing, and Amira watched silently as he disappeared from sight.
A moment later, she heard the distinct thud—even above the noise—as he hit the museum floor two stories below. A new shriek—this time of horror—rose from the ground.
Someone always screams, Amira thought as she calmly wiped the blood off the stiletto, slid it back into its sheath under her hoodie, and joined the rest of the descending throng.
What none of them realized was that the second team that Lau Han had activated was continuing to follow its instructions: three Spanish killers and former Spanish Special Forces Command green berets blended in with the civilians and slipped out the numerous exits now secured by the federal police.
CHAPTER 12
1600 EST
It took several hours to sort through the chaos in the aftermath of the museum confrontation. The security guards attempted to corral the visitors—whose number measured in the high hundreds—outside the museum, but many fled to their vehicles as soon as they hit the parking lot, even before the local first responders arrived.
One of the security guards provided emergency medical treatment for the bleeding-but-alive Frenchman, cleaning the gash and staunching the heavy loss of blood. The sole survivor now rested on a cot in the medical section of the security operations center, waiting for a transfer to the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center, which held a contract to detain federal prisoners on an “as-needed” basis.
Logan had called Jake immediately and explained how the situation had been an ambush orchestrated out of revenge by Lau Gang’s father. They’d managed to take one of the French team alive, but he refused to speak, requesting diplomatic immunity and a phone call to the French embassy, both requests that Logan initially shrugged off.
They’d had multiple conversations throughout the afternoon after Jake Benson—in his director of the FBI hat—had dispatched Assistant Director William Burgess in charge of the Washington DC Field Office to personally oversee the investigation at the museum. Assistant Director Burgess had not been read in to Task Force Ares, but Jake had ordered him to provide “any and all assistance” to Logan and his team.
The assistant director was a career agent who’d seen all aspects of both covert and clandestine operations, and he was smart enough to know when not to ask questions, even at the current apex of his career. He was a true professional, and Logan and John both appreciated that immensely, going to great lengths to show that appreciation through the respect they showed him.
Logan looked down at his watch, which displayed 1601 in dark-gray digital numbers. Jake was still at the Rowley training center in the wake of the ambush of the director of the NSA and had no idea when he’d be leaving. The plan was to link up at Ares headquarters the next morning, and Jake hoped to have more information on the perpetrators of both ambushes, since multiple FBI forensic teams were processing the crime scenes.
Logan, John, Amira, and Cole—the last three who jokingly referred to themselves as Team West, a moniker they loved in direct proportion to how uncomfortable it made Logan—sat in the security operations center, combing through multiple videos from multiple camera angles, searching for additional shooters they might have missed.
“There’s nothing on any of the surveillance feeds,” Amira said. “I’ve looked.”
“Then we’ve missed something,” Logan said in exasperation, more at himself than at the situation.
“I know my trade, and I’m telling you—either this was Lau’s only team, or the other one is so good at their job that we’ll never be able to pick them out,” Amira said.
“Goddamnit,” Logan said. “There has to be something.” He still hadn’t had a chance to tell them about the phone call that had warned him of the impending ambush. They’d been surrounded by police officers, security guards, and paramedics since the last shot had been fired.
“If there is, you know the forensics guys will find it,” Cole added.
“I know,” Logan replied. I have to tell them. John won’t believe it.
“Brother, we need to talk,” John suddenly injected into the conversation. His tone indicated to all four of them that this talk needed to be private.
Logan nodded. “I know, but not about what you think.” Logan turned to Assistant Director Burgess and Lieutenant Christenson, who were huddled around a conference room table near the monitors and control panels. They were discussing when and on what to brief the press, who’d been herded into the main foyer near the ticket booths and were harassing the FBI for a statement.
“Gentlemen, excuse me,” Logan said, and the conversation stopped. Both men looked up, waiting for Logan to continue. “Can we get the room for a few minutes? I need to discuss a sensitive matter with my team. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I hate kicking you out of your own operations center, Lieutenant, but there’s something that can’t wait, and trust me when I tell you it’s something you don’t want to know about,” Logan finished.
“You got it,” Assistant Director Burgess said, and turned to the head of the museum’s security. “Come on, Lieutenant. I need some coffee, and my wife keeps telling me to try one of those McLattes or whatever the hell they’re called. I’m buying.”
“You know, as a former Ranger, I can’t drink anything other than black coffee, sir. It’s forbidden,” Lieutenant Christenson said, and then grinned. “But since you’re buying, I may just try one and have them put four or five extra shots of espresso in it.”
“Jesus Christ. You trying to give yourself a heart attack?” Assistant Director Burgess said as they walked out the door.
“After today’s excitement, sir, that’s the least of my concerns. If a bullet didn’t get me, sure as shit a McDonald’s latte won’t either.” And then the door closed, leaving Team West alone for the first time that day.
“I like that guy,” John said. “He’s one of us in every sense of the word,” he added, and grinned.
“I’m glad you’ve got your sense of humor back, because you’re going to need it after I tell you who called right before the fighting began.” Logan said seriously. “Everyone grab a seat at the table.”
“You’re such a killjoy,” Cole said. “Thanks to your impatience, this turned into a great field trip. Look. I even got a souvenir!” he said in mock excitement, holding up for the umpteenth time the picture the young photographer had delivered to the security operations center more than an hour ago in an attempt to assist the investigation.
The ten-by-twelve-inch glossy photo showed a background on the surface of the moon, complete with the command module from the Apollo 11 mission. Digitally imposed were the two figures of Cole Matthews and the French shooter, locked in battle and appearing to defy gravity. “No matter what, I’ll always have this. In fact, it’s going on the wall back at our little clubhouse.”
“Are you done?” Logan asked.
“For now. Feel free to carry on, Mr. West,” Cole said, and proudly put the photograph back on the table.
“Thanks. But before I get to it, I need to say something,” Logan said.
“Here it comes,” John whispered to Amira, even though
the other three could hear him. “It’s the ‘You-were-right-John-I-shouldhave-listened-to-you’ part of the presentation.”
“Would you shut it for just one second?” Amira said, chastising him.
“No. He’s right,” Logan said as sincerely as he could. “I let my emotions get the better of me. As a recovering alcoholic, I’m more self-aware than I used to be. I know you’ve all seen it, the way I’ve been suppressing my anger at Mike’s death. It’s like I’m living in a perpetual state of outrage, and I’m trying to manage it. But it’s hard, really hard.”
There was a moment of silence, and then John broke it. “We know, brother. You’d have to be an idiot—which you’re not, most of the time—to not know that we’ve been watching you closely. We’ve got your back, but we also don’t want you making rash decisions that could get you killed.” He paused to let the weight of his words sink in, and then continued. “Christ, Logan, could you imagine what Sarah would do to me if I let you die?” John said, and grinned.
“She is fierce,” Logan acknowledged, smiling.
“You just need to figure out how to deal with it, and you need to let us know how we can help,” Amira said. “We’re all in this together.”
There it is, Logan thought, feeling the gravity of his responsibility and the terror at letting them down. They were more than a team. For better or worse, they were now family, brothers—and one sister—in arms.
“Thank you,” Logan said quietly, and took a deep breath to regain his composure. “Okay. I’ve said my piece and exceeded my daily quota for admitting I made a mistake. Bottom line—I won’t do something that stupid again, and I’m sorry for putting all of you at risk. Don’t hesitate to put me back in the box if I start to wander.”
“Consider it done,” Cole said. “Now get to the good stuff. Who the hell called you right before the fun started?”
Field of Valor Page 9
