Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  Fortunately, there was no more need for gunplay. The tricorne hat that General Ward clutched in his left hand had done the job for them. The top of the hat that protruded from an angle out of the general’s bent arm had pierced the cab of the truck and crushed the top of the passenger’s head. Blood dripped from the pale-green statue, as if it had been dipped in dark-red ink. The body lay across the bench seat of the truck.

  Cole reached in and felt the side of the man’s neck, just to be certain, avoiding the matted black hair glistening with blood. There was no pulse. Not coming back from that one.

  Other than the dead passenger, the cab was empty. Dry hole. We took down one of the diversions. At least these bastards are off the streets.

  “It’s empty. No VP. Let’s update the rest of the team and stand by for the DC PD,” Cole said. “Sounds like they’re almost here.”

  The two men walked back to the Suburban, where Special Agent O’Bannon, who stood next to the driver’s seat, was ready to jump back in at a moment’s notice.

  “Nice shooting, Krazy. Any double-tap in the exact spot is noteworthy,” Cole said. “If you ever get bored with CAT, let me know. I might have something for you someday.”

  “I’m pretty happy where I am, sir,” Krazy said. “But I do appreciate the offer, and I will remember it. You never know when that rainy day might happen.”

  “You are absolutely right,” Cole said. “But today is definitely not that day.”

  “I’ll second that, sir,” Krazy said, and put his weapon back on safe.

  CHAPTER 43

  The bullets bounced off the armored vehicle, and the echo of gunshots roared across the bridge and canyon of Rock Creek Park below. The only good thing about their position was that even though they were pinned down with literally nowhere to go, the Suburban was armored and could sustain the damage it was taking from the two automatic assault rifles. If we time it right, we can all exit the vehicle at the same time. They can’t keep us pinned down with only two of them, Logan thought.

  “Fuck these guys,” Logan said. “On my count, we all open the doors. Lance, you think you can toss a few flashbangs at these assholes? Simmons and I can use the diversion, exit, and drop ’em.”

  “Absolutely, brother,” Lance said, reaching for the rear door handle with his left hand, his right hand on an M84 stun grenade on his chest rig.

  “Three. Two. One. Go!” Logan said, and three doors on the disabled Suburban opened in unison.

  A sudden tidal wave of sound and disintegrating pavement raced toward them like a man-made force of nature. Logan glanced right and saw the barrage of minigun fire from the FBI Black Hawk moving like a screeching, solid finger yearning to destructively touch something with its fiery lead. A second later, it did.

  The 7.62mm rounds reached the two garbage truck gunmen and turned them from gun-toting attackers into bullet-riddled corpses in an instant. Both men appeared to collapse inward, bone structure and flesh disintegrating under the withering fire. Logan couldn’t help but stare with awe at the pure power and terror of the minigun. Split seconds later, the minigun stopped its screeching death cry, breaking Logan’s daze.

  The three men leapt out of the Suburban, looking away from the piles of human debris toward the Black Hawk.

  “The truck!” Special Agent Simmons said, reflexively pointing at the escaping Pepco bucket truck as it started to accelerate across the bridge.

  “On it,” Logan said, and started sprinting toward the fleeing vehicle.

  What the hell is he doing? Lance thought, and then he realized what Logan had already discerned: the Pepco truck wasn’t going to make it, thanks to the brazen FBI pilot of the Black Hawk.

  The HRT helicopter descended directly into the path of the hybrid bucket truck, and another tongue of gunfire lanced out from the middle of the helicopter, strafing from left to right the pavement directly in front of the accelerating truck. Chunks of roadway exploded in the path of the truck, puncturing the radiator grill and peppering the windshield.

  Logan watched the confrontation in fascination, even as he tried to keep his breathing steady and heart rate under control. The M4 rattled in his right hand as he sprinted, the sling slapping against the underside of the pistol foregrip and magazine. He was still fifty yards away. The lethal game of chicken, helicopter versus truck, would be over by the time he reached it, but he ran anyway.

  The truck barreled forward, cutting the distance to the hovering Black Hawk in half.

  This is going to be bad, Logan thought.

  A third barrage of gunfire, expertly directed by the brash operator, ripped across the top of the hood, pulverizing the engine compartment.

  The driver panicked with less than fifteen feet of space between the Pepco truck and the Black Hawk, and he yanked the wheel to the left. The vehicle shot into the oncoming lane—traffic had blessedly stopped at the sight of the descending helicopter—jumped the curb, and slammed into an iron lamppost, which crashed down on top of the forty-two-foot bucket and bounced off, rolling across the bridge. The vehicle fishtailed across the wide sidewalk as the driver fought the momentum.

  A loud pop highlighted the exploding right front tire, and the vehicle lurched to the right. The driver, in full panic mode, overcompensated, yanking the steering wheel hard and to the left. The remaining tire gripped the surface of the bridge and pulled the truck sideways, allowing speed and friction to complete the destruction.

  The truck flipped onto its right side, facing northwest, and slid across the sidewalk. The top of the cab and ruined engine compartment punched a hole through the pale-green iron fence. Chunks of fence fell away to the road and woods below. The truck stopped, its cab dangling over the edge of the bridge.

  Jesus Christ, Logan thought. All he could see was the ruined undercarriage of the truck as he approached at a flat-out sprint. You’d better not be dead, Mr. Vice President, because I’m going to kill you myself.

  CHAPTER 44

  Logan approached the Pepco truck, his M4 out in front of him once again, moving to his left to get a better vantage point of the cab of the truck, which lay next to the edge of the bridge.

  The Black Hawk hovered over the bridge with nowhere to land owing to the stopped traffic, and its rotors drowned out all other sounds. Logan glanced up at the bird, catching a glimpse of the pilot, who was beckoning down below the truck.

  What the hell is he pointing at? Logan raised his left arm in the universal “What?” gesture, his right hand holding the pistol grip of the M4. The pilot put his left hand back on the collective pitch control, and the hovering helicopter slid sideways in the air and away from the bridge. The pilot once again pointed down, and Logan realized in frustration what the pilot was signaling.

  You sonofabitch. Oh no you don’t. Logan placed the M4 on safe and slung the weapon over his back. He drew the Kimber Tactical II from his thigh rig and dashed around the rear of the vehicle, approaching the cab from behind.

  What the pilot had been beckoning toward had been blocked by the angle of the cab. The bucket truck’s aerial device in the middle of the back of the truck was extended and dropped down out of sight over the edge of the bridge. You’ve got to be kidding me, Logan thought, hoping for just one break.

  He reached the extended arm, the Kimber held down and in front of him. Taking a breath to steady his pounding heart after the sprint across the bridge, he exhaled and popped his head out over the edge.

  The arm dangled down more than forty feet toward a sloping hill that dipped into Rock Creek Park and connected to the road that ran under the middle of the bridge. At the end of the arm and attached to the bucket, a white rope had been tied, dropping another sixty feet to the grassy slope mostly covered by trees. One figure in a Pepco uniform was still on the hydraulic arm, shimmying toward the bucket, but the other two occupants of the truck, including a man with grayish-black hair wearing a dark suit, were already rappelling down the rope.

  Realizing the three men had a head start, Log
an pulled out a pair of black Oakley SI assault gloves from his left cargo pants pocket. He’d never adapted to shooting with gloves the way many other operators had—he preferred the feel to the protection—but he always had them with him. He slid them on, secured them at the wrist with the Velcro strap, and holstered the Kimber pistol. Semper paratus, Logan thought. The Boy Scouts would be proud.

  He stepped out over the edge of the bridge and broken railing and mounted the hydraulic arm with his textured gloves and tactical boots firmly gripping the metal. He glanced down, found his target, and eased the tension in his hands and feet, loosening his grip.

  As he’d predicted, gravity accelerated his slide, and he rocketed down the first half of the hydraulic arm in less than two seconds. He risked another look down and smiled inwardly. I wish I could watch this rather than be doing it.

  His momentum increased, and the beam suddenly narrowed as he passed the joint where the hydraulic arm bent. He squeezed his feet together, soles threatening to lift away from the steel beam. Another second. Don’t lose your grip, or you lose your life.

  He bent his head forward and looked down between his chest and the rushing beam. Bingo.

  His boots crashed into the shoulder blades of the Pepco gunman who was still on the beam, working his way to the bucket only a few feet away. The hovering helicopter had masked Logan’s precipitous descent, and the man never had a chance.

  Logan felt the man’s grip on the beam let go, even as Logan’s own momentum was dramatically decreased by the human obstruction in his path. He heard a scream as he gripped the beam with all of his strength.

  The man fell the remaining distance, and his back slammed into the large metal bucket. He bounced forward off the bucket and tumbled into thin air as Logan’s feet slammed into the metal with a jarring impact that sent pain up his legs and back.

  He looked down in time to see the man disappear headfirst into the top of a tree. Logan thought he heard—or at least imagined—a faint crack of a large branch over the rotors, but he didn’t have time to contemplate it.

  He scrambled onto the bucket, exhaled, and looked over the side. Thank God.

  The remaining Pepco impersonator and the vice president hadn’t reached the ground. There’s still time.

  Logan scampered across the bucket and reached the white rope. He let his legs dangle over the edge, remembering the last time he’d fast-roped, out of a Spanish helicopter in the Alboran Sea to the deck of a North Korean cargo ship. He prayed this time went better.

  He secured the rope in a J-hook between his feet, wrapped his left arm around the rope, and unholstered the Kimber .45. He’d need the weapon for the next phase of his reckless assault.

  Once again turning his gaze earthward, he loosened his grip and separated his boots, allowing the rope to slide between his feet as he descended.

  Damnit. Logan felt the rope sway, and he saw the vice president sprinting toward the road that passed under the center of the bridge. Moves fast for an old politician. At least he’s out of the way.

  Logan aimed the Kimber at the remaining Pepco gunman, who had nearly reached the ground. He looked back up the rope, and Logan realized his target had the same idea when a pistol appeared in the man’s right hand.

  Logan didn’t hesitate, opening fire under the Duke Ellington Bridge.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  At least two of the rounds struck the man in the upper chest, and he lost his grip on the rope. The man fell to the earth, looking up at the looming figure of Logan West descending toward him like a mythological god of death and destruction.

  Logan saw the man crash to the ground on his back, the pistol still in his hand, but he didn’t move.

  Logan increased his speed, racing the last twenty feet to the ground. His legs slammed into the grass, he bent his knees, and he executed a combat roll across his right shoulder, keeping the Kimber aimed away from his face as he tumbled. The slope carried him forward into a second somersault, and he transitioned onto his feet.

  He looked toward the road and saw the vice president fifty yards away, moving quickly. Great. I get to chase the fittest politician in DC. Go figure.

  A grunt startled him, and he looked back up the hill ten feet away at the man he’d shot. Not dead yet. Too bad. No second chances today. The man still had the pistol in his right hand, and he struggled to sit up, two gunshot wounds to the chest or not.

  Logan aimed back up the hill and fired one shot into the top of his head, killing him instantly and ending his futile sit-up.

  Logan turned back toward the fleeing figure of the vice president, noting the second broken body, that of the man he’d knocked off the hydraulic arm, and began to run. I’m getting tired of all this running, he thought, and sprinted after the vice president.

  Vice President Baker had already reached the upward slope on the other side of the road, but Logan ran hard, concentrating on his breath as he’d done many times before.

  He reached the bottom of the hill at a full-out sprint, calculating his path across the two lanes of moving traffic, which hadn’t stopped at the sight of the battle up the hill. He dashed into the southbound lane behind a dark-green SUV, crossed into the northbound lane as a white Mercedes sedan sped past, and reached the other side without losing a step.

  No way you’re getting away. No . . . fucking . . . way. Logan closed the distance to twenty yards, gaining ground quickly.

  Intellectually, he understood he shouldn’t kill the vice president of the United States, but emotionally, the beast from his primordial psyche was in full control, and there was no putting it back in its cage until its thirst for vengeance had been quenched. But before he could exact justice, he had to catch the man.

  He worked his legs harder, increasing the tempo as he sprinted up the hill covered in trees. Gotcha, asshole.

  Logan West, a man of singular purpose and intent, reached his target and leapt off his feet, slamming his right shoulder into the vice president’s lower back with a tremendous thud. The two men sprawled into the grass face-first.

  Logan reached his feet as the vice president tried to get to his hands and knees. Allowing the fury that coursed through his body—thoughts of Mike Benson, dead; John Quick, possibly dying or already dead; and all the countless victims of this conspirator’s evil actions—he grabbed the vice president by the back of his suit coat collar and his belt and flung him forward.

  There was an exhalation of air as his chest hit the ground, but he managed to roll over, looking up at Logan West with a smile.

  For the first time that day, Logan West froze, the fury that he wielded like a physical weapon abated, and he stared at the man below him. No. It can’t be.

  CHAPTER 45

  Georgetown, Washington DC

  The silver Ford Explorer with Virginia plates and tinted windows crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge, leaving the bustling college enclave of Georgetown. The SUV blended in with the exodus of vehicles, obeying all traffic signals and maintaining a speed five miles per hour above the limit. The driver knew that to drive the actual speed limit in northern Virginia would draw more attention than slightly breaking the law.

  “I’m sorry about Sebastian,” Joshua Baker said to the other three passengers in the SUV.

  “As am I,” the serious-looking Hispanic man in casual clothes in the front seat said. “But he understood the risks involved in this operation, and he accepted them willingly. The most dangerous part is over. Believe it or not, you can breathe easy, Mr. Vice President.”

  “What about the other trucks?” Josh asked. The diversion had been brilliant. After riding down the zip line—which he’d actually enjoyed, even under the stressful circumstances—he’d entered the Pepco truck, which had sped away from the George Washington statue once Sebastian had given the order. He didn’t know what had happened, but the driver had obeyed, and the three-truck convoy had left their leader behind.

  Inside the vehicle, he’d been given a blue Under Armour hoodie, k
haki trousers, gray running shoes, a gray-and-white Under Armour hat, and Oakley sunglasses. He’d known the change of clothes was coming, and he’d managed to transform in the truck into a normal citizen in less than thirty seconds.

  As soon as the convoy of trucks was out of sight of the cathedral—still on St. Albans School property—and past the first curve, the truck had stopped momentarily, concealed on all sides by trees and the curve in the road. Josh and another man dressed in similar civilian attire had fled the vehicle directly into the woods, leaving two men in the truck, which had disappeared with the convoy less than two seconds later. The walk through the woods had been the most stressful part of the plan, but they’d emerged onto Garfield Street, walked west, and been picked up by the Ford Explorer on Massachusetts Avenue.

  To Josh’s surprise, no one had paid any attention to the two men walking along the street, nor looked twice as they’d disappeared into the SUV. It had almost been too easy. The pedestrians they’d passed had been staring at their smartphones, listening to music with over-the-ear headphones Josh still didn’t understand, or talking rapidly on the phone. It’s DC, Josh. No one cares about two middle-aged men. They’re all absorbed in their own lives. Most importantly, none of them will remember seeing you.

  “I have no idea. Their instructions were specific—no radio contact with each other, and they have no way of reaching us. It ensures there’s no digital trail that connects them to us or you, Mr. Vice President,” the man said.

  “Please call me Josh. As of twenty minutes ago, I’m fairly certain I’m no longer the vice president of the United States,” Josh said. “That life is gone.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” the man said. “But as you wish. It makes more sense to use your first name anyhow, considering the trip we have ahead of us.”

  “How so?” Josh asked. “I was assured the Organization had a guaranteed way out of the country.”