“They’ve got bombs on the entrances,” he reminded her.
“Those bombs can only go off once.”
“Detonate them on purpose, you mean, and then go in with SWAT teams right afterward?”
“Or Special Forces. I think this has gone beyond SWAT teams.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that,” he admitted, “but you’re talkin’ about deliberately causing the deaths of several dozen hostages.”
“Several dozen casualties is better than a thousand. Besides, the way they’ve been shooting in there, we already have multiple casualties.”
“You’re probably right about that, too.” He considered what she had said. “Going in would make you look tougher, all right. You could probably use a dose of that in the polls. If they’ve got a pocket nuke in there, though, an attack will just force them to set it off.”
“If they’ve got a pocket nuke, they’re planning to set it off anyway,” she said. “It’s just a matter of time. Maybe if we can get some men in there, they can stop the terrorists from setting off the bomb.”
He shook his head slowly. “That’s a mighty big gamble you’d be takin’.”
“Somebody has to.”
“Maybe you ought to run it by those folks down in the Oval Office—”
“Why? I’m smarter than all of them put together.” Now that her mind was made up, she didn’t see any point in wasting time. Ignoring his dubious, worried look, she picked up the phone on the bedside table and said, “Get me that FBI agent who’s in charge at the scene.”
She didn’t have to say what scene she was talking about.
Today there was only one that mattered.
“There’s something new going on in there, sir!” one of the technicians in the command center told Walt Graham in an excited voice.
Graham leaned over the man’s shoulder and asked, “What is it, son?”
“A noise of some sort.” The tech took his headset off and held it out to Graham. “Take a listen, sir.”
Graham did, fitting the buds into his ears. He immediately heard a high-pitched wailing. The noise wasn’t very loud because the walls of the store muffled it, but it was very familiar. After a second Graham was able to recognize it.
He turned to Bastrop in surprise and said, “The fire alarm’s going off in there.”
Bastrop snapped at the technicians operating the high-powered surveillance cameras, “Look for any sign of smoke.”
Graham handed the headset back to the first tech. “Keep listening and let me know if there’s any change.”
Then he and Bastrop waited tensely to see if the store was really on fire.
After a couple of minutes, the techs at the monitors handling the feeds from the various cameras all reported no signs of smoke coming from the building.
“That doesn’t mean the place isn’t on fire,” Bastrop said. “It could be that the smoke just hasn’t found a way out yet.”
Graham nodded and was about to say something when his cell phone rang again. He answered it, halfway expecting the voice that he heard on the other end.
“That’s right, Madame President,” he told her. “There were more gunshots about ten minutes ago. We haven’t been able to figure out what happened yet…Ma’am?” As he listened, he looked at Bastrop and shook his head. “With all due respect, ma’am, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. There are bombs planted at the entrances…I know you’re aware of that, ma’am, but the hostages…I see.”
He covered the bottom half of the cell phone with a big hand and told Bastrop in a whisper, “She’s trying to yank us out and send in the army! My God, this is gonna be worse than Waco!”
Then he returned his attention to the person on the other end of the phone and said, “Ma’am, there are things going on that you don’t know about yet, things that have just happened. The fire alarms inside the store have just started going off…No, ma’am, we don’t know what that means. It doesn’t appear that the store is actually on fire, but it could be…We don’t know how the terrorists are going to react to this…Ma’am, I know you want to send in the Special Forces, but you don’t have to.” Graham was grasping at straws now, trying to find some way to keep this…this politician from acting too hastily and ruining everything. “The Special Forces are already in there…Well, one man anyway, but I’m told he’s one of the best…Ma’am?…His call sign is Jackknife…”
CHAPTER 56
Water poured in high-powered streams from the sprinkler heads on the ceiling, instantly drenching the men as McCabe waved them forward. They dashed behind the counter and began grabbing guns from the broken cabinets.
McCabe went for the ammunition, yanking open the big drawer that held boxes of it. The lock on the drawer was broken. It had been pried open with a screwdriver during the first attempt by the hostages to get their hands on some weapons.
The men who had accomplished that now lay dead on the floor at the feet of McCabe and his companions. There was no time now to honor their sacrifice, but with any luck there would be later.
McCabe pressed boxes of ammo into the hands of his men and told them in a low, urgent voice, “Find a hole somewhere and load your weapons, then lie low. The terrorists are going to be looking for us, so let them come to us.” He was changing the plan on the fly, but sometimes that was what you had to do.
The men nodded in understanding and hurried off, splitting up and heading for different areas of the store. This standoff was about to turn into a guerrilla war, a deadly game of cat and mouse.
McCabe was the last one to leave the sporting-goods area. He still had one of the machine pistols tucked behind his belt, but he carried a fully loaded deer rifle with him now, preferring its precision to the automatic weapon. He didn’t want to go spraying any more bullets around than he had to. Stray bullets had a habit of hitting the wrong people.
Staying close to the wall, he circled toward the front of the store. That was probably where the leader of these terrorists was, where he could keep an eye on the Americans who no doubt had the place surrounded by now. McCabe had a feeling that if there was a big bomb, it would be with the leader. It had to be neutralized before anybody could get out of here safely.
It was hard to hear much over the screeching of the fire alarm and the pounding of the water from the sprinklers, but the sound of gunshots from another part of the store suddenly penetrated the racket. The sharp whip-crack of rifle fire was interspersed with the chatter of a machine pistol.
The first confrontation between the terrorists and one of McCabe’s men was taking place, and he wished he could be there to help.
He kept moving, though. He had his own job to do, and if he failed, there was a good chance that everyone in here would die.
Terry realized how close she had come to dying before the fire alarm going off and the sprinkler system kicking in distracted Hamed. She knew that as soon as he recovered from his shock he would still try to kill her.
She was damned if she was going to die without putting up a fight.
Before she could move, though, she was just as surprised as Hamed must have been, only in her case the cause of her shock was the sight of Ellis Burke leaping up from the floor and lunging at the terrorist.
Burke moved faster than Terry would have thought possible, probably fueled by desperation and sheer terror. One of the machine pistols started to stutter just as the lawyer crashed into Hamed. The terrorist went over backward. One of his pistols slipped out of his hand and flew into the air.
Since Terry was already on her feet, she was able to throw herself forward and make a grab for the gun. She got her hands on it, drew it in, stumbled forward trying to catch her balance as she fumbled with the weapon. After what seemed like forever, her hand went around the grip and her index finger found the trigger.
She turned and saw Burke and Hamed struggling on the floor. Burke had hold of the wrist of Hamed’s gun hand with both of his hands and was pounding it against the tiles, trying to knock the
second gun free from the terrorist’s grip. At the same time, Hamed clenched his other hand into a fist and slammed it into the side of Burke’s head. Burke managed to shrug off the punishment somehow and maintain his grip on Hamed’s wrist.
Meanwhile, the other hostages were panicking. They screamed and scrambled to their feet and ran while they had the chance. Hamed squeezed the trigger of his remaining machine pistol and flame spurted from the muzzle. Several of the fleeing hostages cried out in pain and went down as bullets tore through their legs.
Terry lifted the pistol she had plucked from the air, but she couldn’t get a clear shot at Hamed. She turned then to look for her daughter, and saw to her horror that Ronnie was running toward Hamed and Burke, instead of away from them. Allison Sawyer was with her.
“Ronnie, no!” Terry called. “Get away, get away!”
Ronnie ignored her. While Allison threw herself on Hamed’s left arm and hand so that he couldn’t keep using them to hit Burke, Ronnie kicked at the gun in the terrorist’s other hand. She had the athleticism of youth and she had played soccer for quite a few years as a child.
She kicked the machine pistol right out of Hamed’s hand. It flew through the air for a few feet, hit the floor, and then skidded even farther.
Disarmed, Hamed gave a cry of incoherent rage and bucked up from the floor, throwing Burke off and shaking himself loose from Allison. He twisted and kicked at Burke, driving the heel of his shoe into the lawyer’s jaw. Burke rolled away.
“Ronnie! Allison! Move!” Terry screamed.
The two young women leaped out of the line of fire. As soon as they were clear, Terry pressed the trigger of the machine pistol. She had a firm grip on the weapon with both hands, so she was able to keep the recoil from making it ride up as she fired a short burst at Hamed.
The terrorist was already moving, though. The bullets chewed up the floor where he had been sprawled a second earlier, but now he was on hands and knees, scrambling away and powering himself up into a run. He disappeared into the shoe department as another burst from the gun in Terry’s hands ripped a display of women’s shoes to shreds.
Terry heard footsteps slapping the floor behind her and whirled around to see one of the other terrorists running toward her. She didn’t stop to think about what she was doing. She just pressed the trigger again and blew the son of a bitch away. The slugs punched bloody holes through his body and flung him backward like a giant hand.
“Mom!”
The sound of her daughter’s voice made Terry turn again. She saw Ronnie and Allison trying to help Ellis Burke to his feet. The lawyer’s shirt was bloody under his coat, and Terry knew he’d been hit by those shots Hamed had managed to get off.
“Mom, Mr. Burke’s hurt!”
“I can see that,” Terry said as she hurried over to them and added her strength to Ronnie’s and Allison’s. Together, they got Burke onto his feet. “Can you walk?” Terry asked him.
He nodded his head weakly. “I…I think so.”
They were all soaked now, and the floor was slippery with water. Being under the sprinklers was like being caught in a heavy rainstorm. Terry had no idea how long the sprinklers would run before they shut off.
“Let’s head for the front of the store and see if we can get out of here,” she decided.
Gunshots were coming from all over the store now, along with shouts and screams and the continuing ear-numbing wail of the fire alarm. Terry knew they might have to fight their way out, but she didn’t want to just stay put and wait for the terrorists to come and kill them. She remembered one of the things Jack had told her about dealing with trouble.
Once you have to move, keep moving until you’re clear.
That was what Terry intended to do. She took the point, walking in front of Ronnie and Allison as they helped Burke limp along between them. Both of Terry’s hands were wrapped tightly around the machine pistol, ready to fire it at a heartbeat’s notice if they ran into more trouble.
If it hadn’t been for Ronnie’s presence, Terry realized, she would have almost wished that she would run into some more of the terrorists. She had endured what seemed like an eternity of paralyzing fear—even though it was probably only a couple of hours—and she didn’t like it. Somebody was going to pay for putting her and her daughter and everybody else in here through that hell.
The old saying had it right.
Payback was a bitch.
And this bitch has a gun, she thought with a savage grimace that might have almost been a smile.
CHAPTER 57
Hiram Stackhouse pounded his thigh, chortled with glee, and said over the blaring fire alarm, “Pardon my French, missy, but it sounds like my boys’re openin’ a real can o’ whoop-ass on your friends out there.”
The female terrorist just glared at him, her eyes blazing with hatred over her flaring nostrils and the gag in her mouth.
“I wish I was out there with ’em,” Stackhouse went on. “I was right in the middle o’ that little dustup out in Arizona a while back, when that Mexican gang tried to take over an American town, and I never had so much fun in all my life. Makes a man feel mighty good knowin’ that he’s fightin’ for what’s right. Course you wouldn’t know anything about that, seein’ as you ain’t a man, and any fightin’ you’ve done has been on the side o’ evil. You and yours made a big mistake when you came over here and tried to take us on, missy. You look at those damned politicians in Washington and you think that Americans’ve gone all soft an’ mushy. And you’re right about too blasted many of ’em. But there are still plenty o’ folks in this country who’ve got steel at their core, little lady. They may not show it…hell, they may not even know it…but back ’em into a corner and you’ll sure as shootin’ find out mighty quick what they’re made of.”
Stackhouse rubbed a hand over his jaw and then went on. “You see, this is a good country, full o’good people. We don’t like to fight. We’d rather live in peace, even with folks like you who hate us. That’s why we bend over backwards tryin’ to work things out, then bend over some more if that don’t work. But you can only bend so far ’fore you have to snap back, and different folks got different snappin’ points. You get what I’m sayin’, ma’am? We’ll put up with you pokin’ us with a stick…for a while…but sooner or later we’re gonna take that stick away from you and use it to paddle you good an’ proper. Even the folks in Washington you think you’ve got buffaloed…well, I’ve got a hunch that if you push even them far enough, they’ll fight back.
“Ah, well, I’m done with the speech-makin’. Wish I could get out there and help my boys.”
He was looking toward the swinging doors that led into the store when the woman lowered her head and charged him, ramming him in the stomach with her head as hard as she could. Stackhouse doubled up and went over backward, his revolver flying from his hand.
The woman rolled over and lurched to her feet, then started hobbling toward the doors. She couldn’t move very fast because her wrists were still tied to her ankles. But she had made a surprising amount of progress before Stackhouse got back the wind she had knocked out of him and struggled to his feet. He looked around for his gun but didn’t see it.
Then he caught a glimpse of the revolver in the woman’s hands as she shouldered through the swinging doors and disappeared. Stackhouse started after her, but then stopped and winced. He lifted a hand and pressed it against his side where pain throbbed.
It felt like she had busted a rib when she butted him like a crazy bull. He sank back against some crates and tried to catch his breath without inhaling too deeply and causing that pain to shoot through him again.
He wanted to go after her. McCabe had trusted him to keep an eye on her, after all.
But even though she had his gun, she was still tied up, and she was a woman to boot!
Just how much trouble could she cause anyway?
Hamed was filled with fury the likes of which he had never known. That fury warred with the shame he felt at be
ing overpowered and disarmed by infidels. Where had the strength of the warrior that had filled him earlier gone? Had Allah deserted him?
He was instantly sorry for thinking that. He told himself he would make amends by finding Sheikh al-Mukhari and fighting at the holy man’s side against the godless Americans. Perhaps the sheikh would even let him press the button that would detonate the nuclear device and bring this sacred quest to an end. He didn’t deserve such a chance at glory, he knew, but he prayed that Allah would give it to him anyway.
It would have been even more satisfying to kill the lawyer and the blond woman with his bare hands, but evidently that was not to be. Surely by now they had fled—although they would find that there was really nowhere for them to run. They were still trapped in the UltraMegaMart.
Still doomed to die.
Hamed stumbled through the downpour from the sprinklers and emerged from the shoe department. As he did, a pair of swinging doors in the wall to his left burst open. He whirled in that direction, prepared to take on one or more of the infidels in hand-to-hand combat, but to his shock he saw Shalla Sahi stumbling toward him in an awkward, bent-over position because her wrists and ankles were lashed together with a belt. A gag was tied in place in her mouth.
But she was free other than that, and she had a gun clutched in her hands.
Hamed sprang to her side, realizing as he did so that the Americans must have captured her somehow and held her prisoner back in the vast stockroom at the rear of the store. But she had gotten away from them, and now Allah had brought the two of them together again. Hamed knew there had to be a purpose behind that.
She sagged against him as she recognized who he was. He took the gun from her, set it aside on a shelf for a moment, and untied her. As she flexed her fingers to get full feeling back into them, he worked the gag loose.
“Hamed!” she gasped. “The Americans—”
Jackknife Page 24
