The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  None of that. It was Gianna holding the .32 Derringer that took Saeed’s life.

  No one, especially Saeed Mansouri, saw that coming.

  CHAPTER 82

  Day 7: May 21, 0515 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Ellie’s Wood Development, McLean, Virginia

  CHAOS WASN’T NEW to me. Of course, often, I cause it.

  Nothing came close to the eruption around us when Saeed hit the ground. One of his men turned an AK-74 toward Gianna for the kill. At that instant, his head exploded and he death-spiraled to the ground. Another Pāsdār got off a couple rounds at me before the same fate was exacted—one headshot from somewhere out in the dawn light. Saeed’s remaining crew scattered for cover and delivered a barrage of AK-74 fire blindly in every direction, reverberating the air with deafening chatter.

  Salvation approached with the thump-thump-thump-thump of helicopter rotors. They grew louder as two choppers swooped over the ridge behind us. One dropped down outside the culde-sac. The other circled overhead, turning its flank for a door gunner’s field of fire. The Pāsdārān gunfire shifted toward the hovering chopper a second too late as the mechanical growl of a 7.62 millimeter mini-gun roared. The gunner raked the ground and silenced the attack.

  More shouts. More panic. More gunfire.

  A loudspeaker commanded, “Aslahato bendaz. Tasleem!” Orders to lay down their guns and surrender.

  The rifle fire stopped. The shouting silenced. Only the rotorthumps overhead continued its search for Pāsdārān resistance.

  Two of Saeed’s men barricaded themselves behind a pallet of red bricks beside the house on my left. They reloaded their AKs and readied for the first chopper’s eventual ground assault. Their faces blanched as they babbled in rambling, excited tones. One glanced over at Gianna and their chatter hardened.

  A hostage play.

  I grabbed Gianna, spun her around, and shoved her toward the rear of another house. “Go!”

  I looked for Noor.

  Artie had her on the bus behind the steering wheel now. He stood behind her with his Sig plainly visible and jammed into her head. He intentionally left the bus door open so there would be no doubt he could kill her in an instant.

  Gianna began to move but stopped and pointed into the darkness. “Hunter, he is coming.”

  I turned.

  Caine walked casually out of the house at the center of the cul-de-sac. He looked around and closed the distance to me, a silenced semiautomatic at his side. As he did, the two Pāsdārān behind the brick pile made a dash for Gianna.

  Again, the world turned upside down.

  Without breaking stride, Caine ended both men, each with a single shot.

  “Stand down, Hunter.” He moved toward the bus and fired two rounds into the window near Artie’s head. Both missed. “It’s over, Polo. Next one’s in your head.”

  Artie wasn’t so sure.

  The bus started, lurched forward, and accelerated down the driveway.

  From behind me, Victoria got to her feet and staggered forward. She grabbed her Sig from the ground and half-jogged, halflimped into the path of the bus. She fell more than jumped into the open bifold doors as it careened past.

  A shot cracked from inside Bus 219. Another.

  Victoria spasmed in the doorway, slumped, and crumbled onto the bus stairs. Her legs dragged on the ground as the bus smashed past the cargo van and tore the bus’s mirrors and side fender off. The jolt shook her lifeless body loose and it skidded across the ground.

  “No!” I yelled.

  The bus, and Victoria, were gone.

  Bile made me look away.

  “Stand down,” a loudspeaker commanded. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” The command was repeated, first in Arabic, then in Persian. Finally, in English.

  I turned to Caine. “Who are you?”

  He dumped the magazine from his pistol and reloaded a fresh one. “I’m you, Hunter.”

  “What?”

  A train of feet shuffled toward us with clatter of battle gear. A cluster of shadows formed halfway across the street.

  “Hold!” a voice commanded. “Hold your fire.”

  Ten commandos clad in black body armor and wielding submachine guns snaked around the stacks of brick and machinery. They formed a defensive perimeter around us and faced out. One by one they chanted their mantra, “Clear!”

  “Secure the area,” the voice commanded, and the commandos sprinted in all directions. A second team emerged from behind us and retook their positions on guard. “For Christ’s sake, Hunter, what a mess.”

  Oscar LaRue made his entrance dressed casually in a lightcolored windbreaker, tan slacks, and a golf shirt. He carried a radio and barked instructions as he approached me. He stopped at Saeed’s body, and for an instant, regarded the dead IRGC commander. Then he looked back at Victoria lying twisted and dead fifty yards away. Finally, he walked to Caine and me.

  “The President’s trip to the Inner Harbor has been canceled. He’s staying in DC. The Israeli delegation will convene with him there.”

  “How about the rest of the Inner Harbor?”

  “We’re already there and ready.” He looked solemnly at me. “Teams are positioned on the Beltway to stop them before Baltimore in a safe ambush zone. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  “Before what, Oscar?” I said, but his face explained everything.

  He turned to Caine. “Do what is necessary.”

  CHAPTER 83

  Day 7: May 21, 0540 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Ellie’s Wood Development, McLean, Virginia

  CAINE WAS ALREADY moving. He grabbed my .45 from the drive and tossed it to me. “On me.”

  On him? Oh, okay. I followed at a run.

  He reached the motorcycles and jumped on Kevin’s custom three-wheel trike. He thumbed the engine alive. “We’re not taking Polo alive. No trials.”

  “I’m not big on courtrooms.” I climbed on the trike behind him. “Artie will understand.”

  “Good.” He toed the trike into gear and shot forward. “That bus doesn’t reach Baltimore, Hunter. No matter what.”

  Noor.

  “I’m sorry.” Caine revved the throttle and we rocketed out of the cul-de-sac. He yelled, “We need a plan.”

  “Get close to the bus. I’ll figure it out then.”

  “That’s your plan?”

  * * *

  By the time we sighted Bus 219, it was on I-495. It should have continued north toward Baltimore, but it did a curious thing—it veered right onto the ramp for the George Washington Memorial Parkway ramp—a key route into DC. From there the DC Streets were less than ten miles.

  Jesus. Allah. It wasn’t Baltimore.

  Maya was set for DC.

  CHAPTER 84

  Day 7: May 21, 0550 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Ellie’s Wood Development, McLean, Virginia

  “CAINE, THEY’RE HEADED for DC, not Baltimore,” I yelled. “Polo played us.”

  He touched a radio bud in his left ear. “I’ll warn LaRue, but it’ll take time to shift his people. It’s on us for now.”

  It was nearing six a.m. and traffic on the Parkway was already building. Traffic might stop him ahead of us and cause more danger. In doing so, unsuspecting commuters would be in harm’s way.

  Fewer dead. An option?

  Sirens wailed in all directions. Oscar had the police responding and they raced to establish roadblocks. They would stop Artie no matter what. Perhaps killing Noor in the process. Perhaps killing everyone within miles. Perhaps saving DC.

  Fewer dead. LaRue’s plan.

  The bus was more than a mile ahead of us and Caine scared me to death closing the distance. Three times I almost flew off the bike. As we made a turn around a bend, traffic was heavy and lumbering along southward. I regained my balance.

  Beyond the bend, Bus 219 was only twenty cars ahead and speeding south.

  Seven miles to DC.

  There was carnage in Artie’s wake. S
everal cars had been knocked off the road with the motorists still at the wheel. Artie had forced Noor’s hand and used the bus as a battering ram to bully his way south.

  “Got a better plan yet?” I yelled.

  Caine shook his head and thumbed the air.

  One of LaRue’s helicopters flew just above the trees. It swooped past the bus and dropped into its path a quarter mile ahead. A black-clad sniper hung out the door, strapped in and rifle ready. The bus’s brake lights flashed for a second, but it swerved and kept going. Another swerve—left, right—before it slammed into a taxi on its left and rear-ended a minivan to clear a path forward. The chopper bobbed and weaved but was forced to pull up before a collision. Another mile and the game of chicken repeated. The results were the same. The bus knocked cars off the road as it weaved and smashed its way southward. The chopper tried and failed to slow it.

  Five miles to DC.

  The bus swerved violently side-to-side, nearly ran off the road, straightened at the last minute, and braked hard before continuing.

  Caine tapped his earpiece again, listened, and then shouted, “Noor’s fighting Polo.”

  “Get closer.”

  The bus swerved and slowed, sped up, and swerved again.

  Caine maneuvered cautiously alongside. Should the bus swerve into us, we’d die. If they made it across the Teddy Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, they’d be in DC. Thousands would die. Before they made that bridge, the helicopter sniper would take his shot. If he did, we would die.

  The lives of the many outweigh the lives of the few.

  Caine and I were dead either way. Noor, too, and so many cops and firemen and commuters would fill the body count.

  The bus swerved again, braked, swerved and sped on southward. For more than a mile it repeated the dance. For an instant, it braked hard, and I thought Noor had won. She hadn’t. They accelerated and continued down the Parkway.

  Three miles to DC.

  Several shots cracked from the bus. Polo was shooting at the chopper.

  The helicopter pulled up and banked. Another gunshot sent it banking violently and climbing away over the Potomac.

  “Noor’s down.” Caine touched his ear again. “Polo’s at the wheel.”

  “Get me to the side emergency door!”

  “They won’t let you.” Caine slowed the trike. “We’re too close to DC. They’re taking the shot.”

  “If they kill Polo, the bus crashes. Those cylinders will break. We’ll all be dead. Let me try!”

  Caine shook his head but tapped the earpiece nonetheless. “One chance, Hunter. One.”

  Two miles to DC.

  Caine accelerated and swerved right around the rear of the bus. The side emergency door was halfway down the bus. Without mirrors, Artie was blind to our approach. But the moment I opened that door, the warning buzzer would sound and he’d know my plan. My only hope was he’d be too busy dodging sniper fire to worry about me.

  Caine touched his ear and threw a thumbs-up.

  “You ready?”

  I patted his shoulder. “Go!”

  Ahead, the helicopter hovered above the Memorial Bridge—the line in the sand. The sniper balanced on the helicopter’s skids. The bus would not cross. Beneath them was a line of police cars that blocked the bridge ramp. Pointless. At this speed, Artie could easily breach the barricade and continue on. The only thing that might stop him was the sniper’s bullet.

  Or me.

  CHAPTER 85

  Day 7: May 21, 0557 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Arlington, Virginia—Along the Potomac River

  A MILE AND a half to DC.

  Steady, Hunter. One, two, three.

  “Now!” I climbed to my feet on the rear seat and held Caine’s shoulder for balance. My wounded left arm screamed in pain. It was a struggle to stay below the bus windows so Artie couldn’t see us and I wouldn’t tumble to my death. Caine nosed the trike in close. A foot separated us from the emergency door. I teetered there, trying not to disturb the delicate equation of speed and balance. My left arm throbbed and warm ooze flowed down my arm, weakening my stability. If I unsettled the trike in any way, we were done. At this speed, death would be swift and violent.

  A mile to DC.

  Our front wheel passed the bus door and two shots shattered the window glass above my head.

  Artie knew.

  He fired again and jerked the bus to the right to kill us.

  The helicopter hovered ahead.

  The sniper readied.

  The bus accelerated.

  Caine tried twice more to position us at the bus door. Both times Artie countered and then swerved away. We closed on the bridge and in another few yards the sniper would end it—and us.

  Caine yelled, “They’ve waived us off. They’re taking him.”

  “No.” I swung the .45 up and fired two rounds into the doorway to distract Artie.

  The bus swerved left.

  Caine reached the side door.

  The sniper fired.

  Glass shattered. The bus lurched left. Lurched right. Lurched left again and veered out of control.

  Seconds to the police blockade.

  I balanced myself and grabbed the emergency door handle and pulled it open. Even above the road noise, the warning buzzer screamed my approach. Without a second to spare, I propelled myself into the open door. My right hand caught the side of the door. My left failed to find a handhold. My legs hung off the bus, feet dragging the asphalt.

  Caine hit the brakes and pulled back. The bus struck him. The trike twisted violently, churned, and shredded on the roadway behind me.

  No. Focus, Hunter. One, two, three!

  With every ounce of my strength, I hauled myself up. We lurched left and the movement propelled me farther aboard.

  I was aboard.

  Keeping low, I crawled forward just as two shots whistled down the aisle at chest height. Artie was shooting blind, twisting his arm backward to shoot at me and navigate at the same time. Even shooting blind he was coming too close.

  Noor.

  She lay in the aisle a few feet ahead of me and I crawled to her. I knew what I had to do. It was dangerous. One mistake would release the sarin. The atropine and 2-PAM injectors were in my hand before I knew it. One after the other I thrust them into her, praying it wasn’t futile.

  Another shot whistled over my head, but as it did, the crack of the sniper’s high-powered rifle made the bus jerk violently.

  I got onto one knee as Artie’s form twisted in the driver’s seat. He raised his hand. His cell phone lit up. His thumb hovered over the keypad.

  He was going to blow the explosives and release the sarin.

  I jumped up and shot him. Once, twice. My first shot hit his arm and the cell phone clattered to the floor. My second struck squarely in the back of his head. A mass of bone and brain matter spackled the windshield. He slumped facedown across the wheel, unmoving, lifeless. He was gone.

  All my rage welled and I lunged forward. I shot him a third time in the head to remove the little that was left of his traitorous face. Then, I threw myself on him, grabbed the wheel, and fought for control.

  Three quarters of a mile to DC.

  I straightened the bus as we bore down on the barricade. He was seat-belted tight behind the wheel. Both of his feet were planted on the accelerator, wedged against the floorboard wall, jamming it firmly in place. Ahead, two dozen policemen braced themselves.

  So many would die.

  I tried but failed to kick Artie’s feet off the accelerator. I couldn’t loosen his death grip on the wheel or extract him from the seat. I straightened the wheel but had no control to stop us.

  The lives of the many … Sorry, Noor, in another life, perhaps you and me.

  Teeth clenched, I forced the gearshift into reverse, wrenched the wheel, and held tight.

  The transmission shrieked. Tires screamed. The world slid, tilted, and hurtled toward the stone median wall. Down. My feet left the floor and my hands lo
st the wheel. Everything churned. Metal and pain pummeled me with the crush of deceleration.

  Darkness.

  CHAPTER 86

  Day 7: May 21, 0845 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Arlington, Virginia—Along the Potomac River

  THE HISSING WOKE me.

  Light invaded my darkness and an awkward tightness held my face. I opened my eyes as someone leaned over me and pulled the oxygen mask free. A blinding light crisscrossed my eyes and words reached me that I didn’t quite hear. Hands flew over me. My body was freed of wires and tubes.

  “LaRue!”

  A medic tried first to stop me but then relented and helped me sit up over the edge of the gurney. A rush of nausea and vertigo slammed me backward. Twice more and I made it upright. Moments later, my senses settled and I looked around.

  “Easy, Mr. Hunter,” the medic said. “You’ve had it rough.”

  I was in the middle of the Parkway. A helicopter waited on the road nearby, and I was positioned to be loaded.

  Beside me, Noor laid on another gurney as a medic stitched the side of her head and another tended an IV.

  LaRue appeared from nowhere.

  “She’ll be okay,” the medic said. “A bunch of stitches. Broken arm, two broken ribs, and a concussion. Still, she’s going to be fine.”

  “Thank God.” To LaRue, now beside me, I asked, “Caine?”

  LaRue looked away. “There was no Caine.”

  The lie of lies. Plausible deniability.

  Not today. “Oscar, Caine?”

  He tried mind control but gave up after a few seconds. “Gone.”

  I swallowed hard. The last thing I remembered was the motorcycle ricocheting off the bus into a death roll down the highway.

  Damn. I watched the controlled chaos around me. A hazmat van spewed astronauts in their bubble suits and gear. A decontamination tent was up near the bridge ramp and the scene looked like a bad sci-fi movie. All around, armed operatives hustled and patrolled.

  “Oscar, did the sarin …”

  “No, my boy.” He touched my arm. “You did it. Perhaps with some supreme help, of course. You crashed through the stone divider and rolled off the Parkway toward the Potomac. None of the cylinders were compromised. A miracle. Thousands thank you. They just don’t know it.”