Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  Trevor shifted the cell phone and almost lost his grip on it. “When we get to Dogwood Beach, we’ll be looking for a community center, or some sort of community swimming area. An indoor or outdoor pool.”

  “Why set a bomb in a pool?” Heather’s fingers clenched around the phone. “Or inside the pool supply building, maybe. They’re clearly piggybacking on the urban legend that the US military stores chemical weapons under the pool house. Still have a hard time understanding why civilians buy that rubbish, but there you go.”

  “What does that get them?” asked Shelby. “I mean, if the attack isn’t against the parade ground where the president is speaking?”

  “Once the SCUD was destroyed, they implemented their Plan B.”

  “Which is to fake a biochemical leak in the pool house,” Trevor said. “Which will then ‘accidentally’ mix with the chlorine already there.”

  Heather flashed hot, then cold. “The base police got dispatched because of a dispute between a delivery company and the facilities manager, over a too-­large delivery of chlorine cakes. The company delivered hundred-­pound buckets instead of the twenty-­five-­pound buckets he ordered. Ten of them. I . . . I didn’t realize . . .” Her voice wobbled.

  Trevor swore sharply. “A thousand pounds of chlorine, mixed with God knows how much phosgene and an explosion . . . it will rip the pool house apart. The ones who don’t die from the explosion will die from the poisonous gas. The gas will be spread across an exponentially larger area and could reach the parade grounds. They’re only, what, a mile or two from here? Shelby, you’ve got to call the police. The Secret Ser­vice. Everyone. Get those ­people out of there. We’ll evacuate this lot.”

  Heather’s heart sank. “There will be a lot of panic.”

  Trevor furrowed his brow. “Yes. But why bother to make it look like an accident?”

  “Think about it,” Shelby cut in. “Our treaty with Azakistan specifically precludes nuclear-­biological-­chemical weapons on their sovereign soil. The discharge of phosgene would cause a serious rift between Azakistan and the United States. The prime minister can’t control his own foreign partners? Americans trampling all over their sovereign rights? It gives a huge boost to the ultraconservative right. Look what the evil West is doing. Plus, how many of our other allies suddenly want to rewrite their treaties? You see?”

  Heather glanced over at Trevor but addressed her question to Shelby. “So, you think the prime minister’s opposition party leader sponsored this whole scenario? He’s responsible for the Kongra-­Gel and the SCUD?”

  “I believe so, yes,” said Shelby. “Where are you?”

  “We’re following a small oil truck . . . look! There it is!” Heather’s voice sharpened.

  Trevor raised the cell phone to his mouth, but then let his forehead drop forward and rest on it instead. “We found it. Look, I just wanted to tell you . . . in the event that . . .” The car hit a bump, and he grunted, lips whitening.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said. “It’s nothing. I . . . just wanted to say there’s nothing between Christina and myself. There never was. We’re friends, nothing more. She just needed my help the other day, is all. One professional to another.”

  “It’s turning,” reported Heather, speeding up. Trevor gritted his teeth and held on.

  “Okay,” said Shelby slowly, drawing out the syllables. “I hear you. And I heard Heather, too. You’re going to try to stop the gas truck by yourself, aren’t you? You’re saying goodbye to me?”

  Trevor cursed. “Look, I need you to call Mike Boston and pass this information to the Secret Ser­vice. They have to get the president out of there. There is danger to him, and to all the ­people in the area. And here. We’re in the community pool area, and it’s packed.”

  Heather slowed the car, then pulled off to the side of the road, turning into the parking lot of a building that blocked their view of the tanker. Of course, it also blocked the tanker’s view of them.

  “They’re pulling around to the back of the community buildings,” she said, pushing the car door open and alighting. One hand rested on the top of the door, while the other shaded her eyes. The community recreation area consisted of a large outdoor pool, surrounded on three sides by concrete areas full of lounge chairs . . . full, period, with screaming, running children, strollers, parents, teens. The pool was packed, residents enjoying the coolness of the water in contrast to the heat of the day.

  “Trevor? Are you . . . still there?”

  They had to evacuate this area. If they tried to do that, though, Zaahir al-­Farouk would know his mission had been compromised and might start shooting into the crowd. Right now, he might believe he had escaped detection, that Trevor had not been able to call for reinforcements. Which he hadn’t. If not for Heather, he would still be lying by the side of the road.

  “I’m here.”

  Shelby’s voice was soft, hesitant. “You’re hurt, aren’t you. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I’m all right,” he said, tenderness creeping into his tone. “Don’t fret.” The call waiting beeped. “It’s Jace. I’ve got to go. Get the parade ground evacuated, all right?”

  “Trevor . . .”

  But he clicked over to the new call. “Go.”

  “Where are you?” asked Jace.

  Heather took the phone from Trevor. “The rec center is about a hundred yards away, over open ground with virtually no cover. There’s an indoor pool, and game rooms and meeting rooms. A snack area. It’s going to be as crowded inside as out. There are two outdoor pools just south of the rec center. Also basketball, tennis, volleyball courts. This complex is enormous, Jace. And very, very crowded. The truck pulled back behind it. I’ve never been back there. Probably maintenance areas. Supplies.”

  “I’m no more than five minutes behind you. Do not engage. Stay where you are. I’ll come to you, and we can figure out a plan.”

  Heather sighed. “Just get here as soon . . .”

  “Do not engage!” Jace roared. “Trevor, keep Heather away from those animals. Do you hear me?”

  Heather raised her face to the sun. A warm breeze wafted the scent of chlorine and sunblock across her nose. The sweet sound of children’s laughter brought a smile to her lips. Mothers and fathers. Newlyweds. Precious babies. A picture formed in her mind, of her sitting under one of those striped umbrellas, a chubby toddler with springy dark hair and laughing eyes in her lap. Jace handing her a bottle. Their fingers brushing and entwining. A heart so full of love she thought it might burst.

  A sharp pang of regret pierced her. The picture vanished with the reality of their situation. She would likely never experience those things. The only option remaining was to drive forward. To try, knowing her chance of success was slim.

  They could not wait. They might already be too late. “Just get here!” She disconnected, cutting Jace off in mid-­curse.

  She started the motor. “The parking lot is so crowded, we could drive right in and they would never see us. It’ll get us much closer.”

  Trevor climbed in, wincing. Heather glanced at him. “You could stay here,” she started, but he cut her off.

  “Drive.” His voice came out as more of a groan as he banged his broken wrist against the center console. “Shite.”

  Chapter Forty

  TO GET TO the parking lot on the west side of the rec center, Heather either had to drive all the way around the south side, past the outdoor pool, and back north, or she could drive past the back end and turn into the parking lot.

  “They don’t know this car,” Heather said. Trevor’s face was white as a sheet. Truth was, he barely looked conscious. “Are you up for this, soldier?”

  She couldn’t do it without him. She didn’t know anything about biochemical weapons. Neither did she know what to look for.

  “Yes.” He
took her phone, dialing with his good hand. “Colonel Granville? Major Carswell. I need you to listen closely and disseminate this as far as it needs to go.” He listened for a moment. “We’re at the community center. There’s both an indoor and outdoor pool.”

  Heather turned her head. “The indoor pool’s closed for maintenance. That’s a mercy, anyway. Fewer ­people.”

  For some reason, this news made Trevor close his eyes and thunk his head against the back of the seat. “We need to hurry. The oil truck may or may not be carrying explosives, but it is absolutely carrying phosgene gas. A great deal of it.”

  Heather turned the car toward the back end of the recreation center. With a little luck, she could just drive past as though she were any other resident and turn into the back lot. What they would do once there was beyond her. Neither of them had firearms, and Trevor was badly injured. Against how many men with weapons, what chance did they stand?

  She had to try.

  She didn’t intend to slow down, didn’t intend to look for the gas truck as she drove past. Certainly had not intended to meet the eyes of one of the men near the truck. Recognition flashed through the man’s eyes, then alarm. He grabbed for something near the back wheel of the truck, brought it up to his shoulder . . . the AK-­47 spat a stream of bullets, and Heather yanked the wheel, hard, in the opposite direction. Her foot slammed down on the accelerator. The car slewed around, fishtailed. Leaped forward. Plowed, nose first, into the ditch at the edge of the pavement.

  The airbag punched her hard. Dizzy, disoriented, Heather pushed at it, trying to get it to deflate. Trying to get it out of her face so she could see.

  “Trevor?”

  There was no answer. The bag finally flattened enough for her to look across to where Trevor slumped against the door. He had blood on his face. Heather fought her seat belt free, leaning across to see if she could find a pulse.

  Her door was yanked open. A hostile face filled her vision. Rough hands grabbed her, dragging her away from Trevor, who still had not moved. Oh, God, don’t let him be dead.

  “You stupid son of a camel!” roared a voice from far away. In Arabic. “Someone might have heard the shots. Do that again, and I’ll kill you myself.”

  It was the convoy all over again. Someone wrenched her out of her seat and shoved her to the pavement. The rough cement ground against her cheek as the terrorist searched her. Another went around to the other side of the car, listing sideways in the ditch. The door wouldn’t open. The man, dressed incongruously in jeans and a T-­shirt, pressed his face against the window and said, in Arabic, “He’s dead. Leave him.”

  A despairing cry ripped from Heather’s throat. “No!”

  She kicked and twisted as they yanked her arms up behind her and half dragged, half carried her over to the building, up the stairs, and through the open bay door. The sudden dimness had her blinking. It was clearly a shipment area. Trucks could simply back up to the concrete platform and offload their deliveries. A man waited just inside the door.

  Zaahir al-­Farouk.

  He held a wicked-­looking handgun. It was the very distinctive PHP VM-­17 pistol, a Croatian-­made firearm. As Heather was yanked to a stop in front of him, he raised the pistol, thumbed back the hammer, and pressed the barrel against her forehead.

  Chapter Forty-­One

  September 11. 3:25 P.M.

  Recreation Center, Dogwood Beach Housing Area

  JACE ARRIVED AT the recreation center just behind the military police. Two cars. Two cops. Jesus. Where was the cavalry? He sprinted across the parking lot to them.

  “Get these ­people out of here!” he shouted.

  As one, they took a step back from him, hands dropping to the butts of their weapons. Jace realized what he must look like to them, a madman running full tilt at the cops. He skidded to a stop, hands spread to show he had no weapon. No visible weapon, that is.

  “I’m Captain Reed,” he said, moving much more slowly but with no less purpose. “There’s a bomb on the premises, somewhere. I have to find it. You need to get these ­people evacuated.”

  The more senior of the two, a buck sergeant, dropped his hand away from his handgun and saluted, despite Jace not being in uniform. “Yes, sir. We spotted the gas tanker back behind this building. We were just heading . . .”

  Jace interrupted him. He had no time for this. “Do either of you have experience disarming bombs or handling biochemical weapons? No? Then the best way you can help is to get these ­people the hell away from here, without causing a panic.”

  “We’ll take care of it, sir.” The younger cop headed toward the crowded pool area. “But you need to be aware there’s a car back there, too, in the ditch. There’s an ambulance on its way.”

  Fuck and double fuck. Jace turned and sprinted for the rear of the building. Please let it not be Heather. Please let her be all right.

  Please let her be alive.

  There was no movement of any kind at the loading dock. Jace didn’t bother with stealth; he simply raced at top speed to the car. The driver’s side door was wide open. There was only one person inside. It was Trevor. Jace simply slid over the top of the hood to get to the other side. The door was jammed. Trevor slumped against it; but, as Jace yanked at the door handle, he began to stir.

  Jace went back around to the driver’s side and leaned in. “Trevor. Trev.” He shook the other man’s shoulder. Trevor groaned.

  Checking him for injuries, Jace found the splinted wrist and a gash on the man’s forehead. Trevor groaned again. His eyes fluttered and opened. Jace turned the man’s head toward him. His eyes glazed.

  “Trevor,” he tried again. The SAS major’s gaze began to focus. Jace knew the exact instant clarity returned; Trevor jerked and looked around. “Where’s Heather?”

  “Shite. I don’t know. She was driving. Someone started shooting at us, and next thing I knew, we ended up in the trench.” He touched his head gingerly. “I must’ve bounced off the window.”

  Jace tried to calm his racing heart. Despite his overwhelming need to find her, she wasn’t his primary concern. She couldn’t be.

  He had to trust she could take care of herself.

  Groaning, Jace thunked his head against the steering wheel, then pushed himself out of the car. “She wouldn’t have run off and left you unless she had no choice.”

  “No,” Trevor agreed. “We have to presume she is in the hands of the imbeciles shooting at us.”

  “Yeah.” He helped Trevor over the center console and out of the car. “Stay here and wait for the medics.”

  Trevor looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “Like hell. You need me to disarm the bomb.”

  Jace glanced pointedly at Trevor’s ribs, which the other man clutched. “I can take care of the bomb.”

  “And the chemical weapon? Are you equipped to handle that as well?” The SAS major knew the answer because he moved, albeit shakily, toward the loading dock. “We need to stop them from mixing the phosgene and the chlorine, at all costs.”

  Jace didn’t waste any more time arguing. Drawing his Sig Sauer, he sprinted to the loading dock and up the stairs. Trevor was right behind him, which jacked his respect for the man into high gear. Broken ribs hurt like a bitch and a half; the man must be in agony. But there was nothing on his face except grim determination.

  Jace risked a quick look into the bay itself.

  It was fifty feet across, double that in length. Support girders crisscrossed the ceilings. Pipes ran down the length of the building at the fifteen-­foot mark. The faintly purplish epoxy floor was stained from years of dirt and spills. Two blue doors stood across from him.

  The bay was empty.

  “I’m figuring the left door will lead to the pool area,” said Trevor. “That’s where we need to get to.”

  Sweeping his head from side to side, Jace ran in a half crouch acro
ss the floor to the first blue door. Flattening himself against the wall to the left of the door, he nodded to Trevor, who had done the same thing to the right. Trevor reached out and gingerly turned the knob. The door was unlocked, which was a mercy, since he didn’t have his tools with him. Trevor held up three fingers, lowering them one at a time.

  Three. Two. One.

  Trevor pushed the door open, and Jace darted inside, weapon out and searching for targets. Left, right, in quick succession.

  The hallway was empty.

  It was a repeat of the bay—­epoxy floor, cinder block walls, and a ceiling crisscrossed with pipes and support beams. A fire extinguisher was strapped to the wall just to the left of the door. Jace handed his weapon to Trevor and unfastened the extinguisher, hefting it like the weapon it could be.

  They turned left and crept in tandem past the door to the electrical room, past light switches and electrical outlets. At each switch, Jace flipped the lights off until the hallway was dark. They passed under a large, empty doorframe and followed the hallway as it turned sharply right. An arrow on the wall pointed the way to the pool.

  Halfway down the long hallway were two more doors, one on each side of the hall. The helpful arrow told Jace they wanted the door to their right. As they reached it, Trevor and Jace deployed themselves on either side of the door as though they’d done it a million times. Again, Trevor counted down. This time, Trevor eased the door open a few millimeters at a time.

  The room beyond was a twenty-­by-­thirty storage area. Crates and pallets lines the walls. Several boxes had been pulled out into the middle of the floor. Two men dressed in jeans and T-­shirts, the ones Jace recognized as Rami and Aa’idah’s brother Shukri, struggled to haul huge buckets across the floor. Jace and Trevor looked at one another, completely in sync. As one, they burst through the door, throwing themselves onto the men.

  Trevor barreled into Shukri, catching him by surprise. The man smashed into a crate and bounced, already swinging as he launched himself back at Trevor. A quick fist to the ribs and an elbow to the back of his head, and the terrorist went down.