Logan looked up the stairs to the cathedral and saw Lance, Cole, and Special Agent Krazinski bounding down the steps.
“It’s about time. Took you all long enough,” Logan said, even as he opened the front passenger seat door. “Lance, you’re up here with me. Cole, you and CAT K there—no offense, I don’t want to jack up your name—hop in the second Suburban.”
Special Agent Krazinski smiled and nodded. “None taken. You can call me Krazy. The rest of the team does.”
“Great,” Logan said. “Another lunatic operator—you’ll fit right in. They’re in three Pepco bucket trucks and have a good minute and a half head start. Maintain comms at all times. It’s a goddamn shell game. Three vehicles, one vice president. Let’s go.”
As soon as they’d loaded the vehicles, the convoy accelerated down and around the curve, gaining speed toward the sports complex.
Logan turned in the seat and faced Lance, who was reaching for the black handheld encrypted multiband Motorola radio the driver held out to him. “Please tell me the Black Hawk is up, and we have eyes on.”
Lance grabbed the radio, shook it slightly at Logan in emphasis, and spoke into the handset. “Raptor One, this is Raptor Actual, how copy? What’s your position?”
The sound of roaring engines in the background came through the speakers, followed by a clear voice. “Loud and clear, sir. We’re a quarter mile southeast of the cathedral. Be there in less than ten seconds. What’s the situation?”
“There are three Pepco bucket trucks that just left the premises southeast toward your location. We need eyes on all three. I say again. We need eyes on all three. The vice president is in one of them,” Lance said.
“Roger that, sir. Wait one,” the HRT pilot said.
The Suburbans passed the athletic fields on their left, approaching the intersection of Pilgrim and Garfield. The convoy stopped at the intersection, waiting for guidance from its eyes in the sky.
After an interminable silence, the radio erupted. “Sir, I’ve got them, but there’s a problem.”
“Here it comes,” Logan said under his breath, looking at Lance. “It’s never easy for us.”
“The trucks split up and are heading in different directions.”
“Awesome,” Logan said. What was already difficult—tracking three utility trucks through the claustrophobic and congested streets of northwest DC—had just become nearly impossible.
CHAPTER 41
“One truck is heading north on Thirty-Fourth,” the pilot reported. “Another is still on Garfield and traveling east, and the third is traveling in the opposite direction, west on Garfield. I can maneuver into a position and elevation where I can maintain visual contact, at least until one of them gets too far away on the horizon.”
“Roger. Do that. Keep reporting back, and stand by for further instructions,” Logan said.
Logan spoke again, this time to the trailing two Suburbans, even as he urged the HRT driver to turn left. “We’ve got the truck heading east. Cole, you and Krazy take the one heading north on Thirty-Fourth. Brock, you and your guys take the one heading west on Garfield,” Logan said to the senior HRT member in the third Suburban. “I think the package is in ours, but we won’t know for sure until we take down all three trucks. Try to gain on them without being spotted, but no matter what, do not lose your target vehicle.”
Logan heard two “Rogers,” put the radio back in its mount between the seats on the dashboard, and pulled his cell phone out of a nylon pocket that was Velcroed to the side of his Kevlar vest. “I’m calling Jake and asking him to put a BOLO out on all Pepco trucks. We need to stop those vehicles, no matter who does it.”
“Understood,” Lance said from the backseat. “We’ll get these guys. All they know is their leader—if that’s what he was—is gone, but they don’t know we’re in pursuit.”
Jake answered on the first ring, and Logan cut him off politely and provided the first SITREP to the FBI director since the team had arrived at the cathedral.
A moment later, Jake said, “Consider it done. In a couple of minutes, I’ll have every cop inside the district stopping every Pepco truck they see.”
What a goddamned mess, Logan thought, even though he knew this was their best—and only—option. “Let me know if anything happens. I’ll keep you posted. Back to the slow-speed pursuit. Out here.”
“Be safe, and try not to destroy too much of the capitol,” Jake said, and disconnected the call.
Logan smirked at the last comment. Jake had a point. When it came to the Organization, nothing went as planned, as the events of the last two and a half years—and days—had proven.
Logan watched the streets and rows of homes flash by. The local shops, restaurants, and even the sidewalks were packed with people eager to be outside in the warm summer sun. The high risk of collateral damage concerned him. The more violent and aggressive we are, the quicker we can end this, though, which he knew lessened the threat to innocent lives.
The HRT operator drove aggressively, but even as he weaved in and out of the slow traffic, Logan knew he blended in with the free-for-all that was DC driving. “What a nightmare. DC midafternoon in the summer—the only good thing is there won’t be school traffic.”
He grabbed the radio once more. “How far are we?” Logan asked the pilot.
“You’re about a quarter mile away and gaining. He just passed Washington Marriott Wardman Park. Also, it’s now Woodley Road you’re on. Garfield turns into it.”
“Roger. Stand by,” Logan said, looking at the bend to the right in the road. “He’s got to be just past the bend. Speed up.”
“On it,” the HRT driver said, and slowly depressed the accelerator, increasing the speed of the Suburban. Seconds later, the SUV shot through the curve and into the straightaway of Woodley Road. Logan squinted through the two lanes of traffic. Bingo. “He’s dead ahead, two hundred yards. Catch up. We need to end this.”
The driver responded, and the Suburban accelerated, maneuvering recklessly between vehicles. The Suburban swerved behind a pickup back into the left lane. What the hell? Where’d he go?
“The target just turned south on Connecticut,” the pilot said.
“Floor it!” Logan shouted. “Use the other lanes. Just get to Connecticut!”
The Suburban roared through the traffic, swerving in front of oncoming vehicles as necessary and working its way east.
“Great. You’re going to get us killed before we even get into a gunfight,” Lance said.
“I’ve got this, sir,” the driver, HRT operator Special Agent Simmons, said.
“I know you do, Simmons. Just keep your eyes on the road. It’s not you. It’s Logan. He has a tendency to make things go boom.”
“Hey, that’s not completely accurate,” Logan said in his defense.
“When have we ever been together when something didn’t explode or someone didn’t die?” Lance asked.
Logan considered for a moment, just as the Suburban finally reached Connecticut Avenue, and said, “Good point.”
The Suburban slowed down dramatically and cut across the front of the right two lanes of traffic, turning south. Logan looked at the driver of a white Lexus SUV and waved, receiving the middle finger in return. DC . . . what did you expect?
“Nice job, Simmons,” Logan said. The Pepco truck was less than fifty yards ahead and moving slowly. “Get as close to him as you can.”
Once again moving at an acceptable speed—by DC standards—the Suburban closed in on the Pepco truck, which had its left blinker on to turn onto Calvert Street. Perfect. We’ll have him blocked off at both ends.
Logan grabbed the Motorola. “Raptor One, as soon as he’s on the bridge, I need you to descend and block him. We’re going to trap the sonofabitch on the bridge,” Logan finished, referring to the Duke Ellington Memorial Bridge that crossed over Rock Creek more than one hundred and fifty feet below.
“Roger. Descending into position now,” the pilot said.
The light turned green, and the line of vehicles began to move forward. The Pepco truck turned left, and two vehicles behind it, the Suburban followed. Seconds later, the Pepco truck drove across the beginning of the bridge.
The Suburban passed an Afghan restaurant on the left, accelerating to move around the maroon Toyota sedan between it and the truck.
“Do it now—” was all Logan had spoken into the Motorola when an enormous garbage truck shot out of a side street next to an apartment building that overlooked Rock Creek Park.
Logan’s last thought was, It was a trap, and nothing else, as the dark-blue garbage truck slammed into both doors on the driver’s side, lifting the Suburban up onto its right two wheels.
There was a horrendous screech as the Suburban was pushed violently across the pavement, sparks flickering from the junction of concrete and steel. The blue monster’s engine screamed with the effort, and the Suburban was shoved over the sidewalk and against the limestone railing and column that marked the beginning of the bridge.
The garbage truck lurched in reverse, the damage done, and began to back away from the vehicle it had destroyed. Free from its grasp, the Suburban suddenly fell back onto all four wheels, its dazed occupants struggling to react. Several bystanders, unaware of the confrontation, slowly approached the wreckage . . . at least until the two men in dark coveralls and black neoprene balaclavas stepped out of the garbage truck and opened fire with their fully automatic SIG516s, SIG SAUER’s version of the AR-15.
The gunfire energized Logan West in the front passenger seat as pockmarks appeared on the bulletproof side windows. “We need to move. Now!”
While gunfire was a common occurrence in certain parts of Washington DC, full combat was not, and the panic-stricken pedestrians and joggers fled in all directions as the first volleys of fire were exchanged.
CHAPTER 42
“Our tango is traveling northwest on Massachusetts Avenue,” Cole said into the multiband Motorola.
No response.
“I say again, our truck is heading northwest on Massachusetts Avenue.”
Silence. That’s not good.
“This is Raptor One. Raptor Actual is out of the chase. I say again, Raptor Actual has been hit by a garbage truck, and two hostiles are engaging their vehicle with automatic weapons fire. I’m moving into position to support. My guess is the VP is in this truck, based on their countermeasures.” Now speaking to both Cole and the third Suburban HRT team, the pilot continued. “Recommend both Reapers Two and Three take down your target vehicles. This is where the party is. Raptor One, out.”
“Jesus Christ. It never fails with this team. Just one of these goddamn times I’d like the bad guys to just come out with their hands up and say, ‘Okay. You got us. You win.’ But no, it turns into a fucking shootout every single motherfucking time.” Normally calm and collected in the thick of conflict, Cole felt his blood pressure rising, and for a moment he experienced the outrage that Logan felt on a daily basis directed toward the enemies of civilization. And it feels good.
Cole looked at Krazy and said, “I’m done playing with these bastards. We’re going hot.” To the driver, he said, “Pit maneuver his ass off the road. I don’t care what you have to do. Understand?”
“Absolutely,” the driver responded with enthusiasm, and floored the accelerator, shooting down the middle of Massachusetts Avenue.
In the backseat, Krazy pulled the charging handle back one last time on the SR-16 E3 CQB Mod 2 to ensure a round was chambered and flipped the selector switch upward to semiautomatic. And I thought we were bad motherfuckers, the CAT shooter thought. These guys are something else. Game time.
* * *
Special Agent Kyle Hood turned in the pilot seat and spoke to his copilot through his headset. “Get the minigun up and running. We’re putting a stop to this right now.”
“On it,” Special Agent Steven Brewer responded, unbuckling his harness and stepping into the middle compartment of the Black Hawk, even as the bird lowered itself gradually into the chaos below.
“Just don’t shoot any innocent bystanders,” Special Agent Hood said semiseriously.
“Come on, Kyle. You know me better than that. I’m just like Jesse the Body in Predator. I got this,” Special Agent Brewer said.
“Jesse actually died right before they leveled the jungle. Get your damn movie facts straight,” Special Agent Hood said.
“Damn,” Special Agent Brewer said. “You might be right. But either way, I’m still a goddamned sexual Tyrannosaurus,” he added, referencing another famous Predator line.
“You’re a goddamned idiot. Now get to work,” Special Agent Hood said, grinning as he turned the Black Hawk broadside. Here we go.
* * *
Special Agent Terry O’Bannon revved the engine, having maneuvered the Suburban directly behind the Pepco truck, whose driver had finally realized they were being pursued.
The bucket truck sped away, the International DuraStar maneuvering aggressively. Cole watched as the bucket truck slammed into the left side of a black Honda Pilot, sending it over the curb and into a large grassy area in front of several tall condominium buildings.
Cole realized the chase had taken them into the area of American University. Great. Students out and about, even in the summertime. But then he saw the traffic circle forty yards ahead and recognized the tactical opportunity that had presented itself.
“Do it now,” Cole said.
“Hold on,” Special Agent O’Bannon replied.
The two vehicles raced onward, leaving vehicular havoc in their wake. Cole heard several crashes to his right and behind them, but he didn’t have time to concern himself with the bystanders.
The Suburban had pulled alongside the left rear quarter panel of the truck. Cole stuck his HK416 out the window that he’d already lowered and opened fire. Rounds struck the body of the truck, punching small holes in the sheet metal. More importantly, several 5.56mm bullets tore into the left rear tire, which was not designed for combat, unlike the Suburban’s run-flat tires. The tire exploded into large chunks of rubber.
“Hit it now!” Cole screamed, and Special Agent O’Bannon responded immediately.
The front right of the Suburban slammed into the left rear wheel well as the two vehicles crossed into the traffic circle. The back of the Pepco truck was pushed sideways, even as the Suburban accelerated, propelling the vehicle through the traffic lanes.
The truck’s driver tried to adjust, turning into the skid, but he panicked as a large UPS truck approached him head-on from the left. The driver turned the wheel back to the right, and like a wounded animal dragging a damaged leg, it shot into the middle of the circle, the exposed left wheel leaving a deep furrow in the grass.
Special Agent O’Bannon slammed on his brakes as he realized what was about to happen, and the Suburban disengaged from the careening and out-of-control Pepco truck.
The Suburban slid to a halt, and Special Agent O’Bannon and Cole stared in amusement as the Pepco truck slammed into the base of the enormous statue of General Artemas Ward, for whom Ward Circle Park was named.
The truck’s rear lifted up into the air from the impact, but the damage to the statue was catastrophic, and the towering bronze figure—which had turned a pale green from age—fell forward, smashing down on top of the right half of the cab of the Pepco truck. Glass from the shattered windows exploded outward, and the roof crumpled inward from the pressure, dropping the height of the cab by several feet.
“Absolutely awesome,” Krazy said from the back of the Suburban.
“Let’s go. O’Bannon, update Raptor One. Krazy, with me,” Cole said, opening the door and emerging with his HK416 raised and locked on the right passenger door of the truck.
Krazy emerged from the rear driver’s side, his SR-16 steady as he combat-walked toward the demolished Pepco truck.
Ignoring the shouts of surprise at the appearance of armed gunmen by gawkers who had stopped to witness the aftermath
of the accident, Cole and Krazy moved methodically forward.
Creeeeaaak!
The driver’s door swung outward, and a figure tumbled out of the elevated cab onto the grass.
“Stay on the ground, hands where I can see them!” Krazy shouted in the commanding and authoritative voice all law enforcement officers were trained to use. The sudden verbal assault was usually shocking enough to intimidate and subdue the average criminal. Unfortunately, the Pepco impersonator hadn’t received those crime statistics.
He moved to his knees, his right hand slowly raising the black pistol as if he were performing a slow-motion parody.
“Drop it now!” Krazy screamed one last time, less than ten feet away from the suspect.
Either disoriented from the accident or suicidal—Krazy didn’t care which—the man raised his gun past the forty-five-degree angle mark, and Krazy fired.
The CAT shooter’s marksmanship was as excellent and lethal as advertised by his team leader. Both shots struck the man in the forehead, squarely between the eyes, in the same spot. The second round did the most structural damage, punching a hole through the back of his head and lodging in the pedestal of Major General Artemas Ward.
Screams from stopped drivers echoed across the traffic circle, and Cole heard the faintest of sirens. I’ll bet American University doesn’t have that on its curriculum. There’s some real-world education for you, Cole thought as he glimpsed a few college students to the left of the traffic circle, mouths open in shock and horror at the violence.
Krazy closed the distance on the dead driver and kicked the Glock away. What is it with bad guys and Glocks? They are pretty damn reliable, though. He looked into the cab, his weapon trained on the interior. “There’s no movement.”
“Roger,” Cole said from the other side of the truck. He heard no sounds from inside. “Opening the door on three, two, one. Now.” Please let this asshole be unconscious.
Cole yanked the door open with his left hand, his right hand never leaving the pistol grip of the HK416, his finger on the trigger.
Field of Valor Page 26
