“No. Don’t take my word for it. Order the strike. We have three teams of four on site now. Tell them to only follow Nick Hall if they’re absolutely convinced of his abilities. They’ll all report exactly what I’m telling you. Because a man who can effortlessly read your every thought can demonstrate this in seconds.”
The president rubbed his chin in thought. “Okay,” he said decisively after only a brief pause. “I’m formally ordering this operation to go forward, with the conditions just discussed. Let’s set some speed records, people. I need Hall to convince the team of his abilities and for them to be ready to breach in ten minutes. Or less. I’ll place a brief call to them while they’re en route.”
“To give them the final order personally?” said Girdler.
President Timothy Cochran shook his head grimly, the weight of the world on his shoulders. “No,” he replied softly. “To wish them all Godspeed.”
11
Captain Floyd Briarwood had been trained to react on the fly. To assimilate new information, no matter how emotionally charged, without missing a beat. To expect the unexpected.
But nothing in all of human experience could have possibly prepared him for this.
The past few hours had begun strangely, and had so rapidly spun out of control into the realm of Alice in Wonderland, he couldn’t help but think he would awaken at any moment. If only he was reacting to something more mundane, like seeing a UFO, or a bunch of pigs flying, he almost could have believed it.
This had begun when he and three other members of his twelve-man A-team had been scrambled for an urgent babysitting mission. Tasked with flying a prisoner into the middle of the desert to be interrogated by someone they had assumed was a torture specialist.
Strange duty, but not beyond the realm of imagination.
When this specialist had emerged from the interrogation room after less than a minute, and had ordered them to fly to LA, this was a bit more surprising, and odder still.
But this was still only the appetizer. They had no idea they were about to be hit with a machine-gun barrage of bizarre and surreal. Learning of the attack on the Oscars. Getting briefed for one of the most consequential missions ever attempted while being whisked to a warehouse about a mile away from the Cosmopolitan Theater, where two other four-man teams had already prepared weapons and other gear they would need.
And then learning that the famous Nick Hall was alive and well. And not only able to surf the Web with his thoughts, but to read minds as well. His demonstration to the team was as rapid as it was dazzling, showing he could not only instantly recite any number they thought of, but tell them what girl they liked in fifth grade, the name of their pet hamster, or where they had hidden the spare key.
And now this. The briefest of calls piped into each of their earpieces from President Timothy Cochran himself. Holy shit! It was ten lifetimes of improbability crammed into a few short hours.
And it was only just beginning.
They were all piled into—of all things—a mini church bus, several blocks away from the warehouse, and continued gearing up for their mission while Nick Hall gave them an overview of how he expected the op to go down. The petite young woman Hall had brought along, whom he introduced as Megan, sat quietly as far out of the way as she could manage, but looked as if she might vomit at any moment. Hall had asked them not to reveal that Megan had been with him under any circumstances, and they had agreed.
When Hall had finished the overview, he added, “You men are far more capable in an assault situation than I am. I know that. Under normal conditions, I would never think of issuing orders.” He forced a smile. “And I know you would never think of taking them. But I’ve proven what I can do. An ability that represents our only chance. So I need you to trust me a thousand percent and do exactly what I tell you to do. Without hesitation or question. If I tell you to quack like a duck, I need to hear quacking immediately. Don’t pause to wonder why. Maybe I’ve read that one of the terrorists has a lifelong fear of ducks. Maybe I’m creating a diversion. Is everyone with me on this?”
“Yes, sir,” rang out Briarwood and eleven others in chorus.
Briarwood knew that this speech was unnecessary. He and his comrades didn’t need a diagram to understand the tactical advantage Hall’s ability gave them. Hall had made them believers, and they knew there was only one way of getting out of this alive. One way to save thousands.
Nick Hall’s way.
Although, at the moment, the mind reader in question was wincing in pain, as though being jabbed with an ice pick from the inside of his head, unable to completely hide the immense hell that proximity to the highly charged thoughts of thousands was forcing him to endure.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” said Hall, managing to push back the pain once again, “and live to deny we had any knowledge of the operation,” he added with a thin smile.
He pulled a black ski mask over his head, and all twelve men followed suit. It was vital that they all remain anonymous.
Hall surveyed the group he was now commanding. With the knit mask covering his face, and still in civilian clothing, he looked more like a ski instructor than a commando. “Captain Briarwood, Lieutenant Austin, you’re with me,” he said.
Briarwood joined Austin, and they both followed Nick Hall from the bus. And so did the woman Hall had brought. When they reached the pavement she hugged Hall and then backed away, tears now streaming down her face. While neither said a word, there was something about their body language that made Briarwood think they were communicating even so.
While Hall’s expression was impossible to read behind the tightly-knitted mask, Briarwood didn’t need to be a mind reader to see the love and concern pouring out of this Megan, along with her tears. She gave Hall one last look and then quickly retreated back into the bus.
Hall shook his head to clear it and turned away from the vehicle and the other ten commandos. He had already explained that he wanted to secure the warehouse with a small team before bringing in the rest. Apparently, there were two terrorists inside the warehouse who were not only watching the Academy Awards, but also monitoring all approaches to the warehouse through closed-circuit cameras. So the smaller Hall’s assault force, the better.
Hall would read the terrorists’ minds and know when they were looking away from the monitors so the three of them could advance.
“Stay tight on my heels,” said the voice of Nick Hall, although he had never actually spoken these words. He had explained that he could use the remarkable technology in his skull like a cell phone, one that could turn his thoughts into words they could hear in their earpieces. This allowed Hall to issue clear and complex orders without making a sound, another clear advantage.
Hall led them behind a small building adjacent to the light-blue corrugated steel warehouse that was their target, a two-story rectangular structure that was as boring and unaesthetic as it was functional.
“When I say move, follow me to a position behind that dumpster,” he instructed, pointing to the large steel container, painted green, about half the distance to their goal, where they could not be seen by any cameras.
Precious minutes ticked by, during which Briarwood tensed every muscle in his body.
“Go!” commanded Hall, taking off in a sprint toward the hulking green surveillance haven fifteen yards away. Briarwood and Austin followed instantly, being careful not to overtake the mind-reading civilian. The dumpster stank like rotting fish, but this was the least of their concerns.
Briarwood wondered what Hall had seen in the terrorists’ minds. Were they now chatting with each other? In the toilet? Only Hall knew for certain, but they had obviously taken their eyes off the monitors for the necessary few seconds.
After another delay, followed by another well-timed sprint, the three men found themselves flush against the warehouse wall, unobserved. The steel felt smooth to the touch, and the entrance door was thick and locked tight, well beyond their ability to gain entry without alert
ing the men inside, who would then signal Hakim to blow the theater, just before they blew themselves up in the warehouse.
The only way they were going to get in was if the door was opened from the inside. Which is where Hall came in. Without him, they would never have known about the warehouse and tunnel in the first place, and would have had no chance at success, even had they known.
“Okay, gentlemen,” said Hall non-vocally into their earpieces. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to send an e-mail message to Basir, the terrorist closest to the outer door. I’ll pretend it’s from Abdul Hakim. I’ve fished out the proper authentication codes needed before and after the message, so Basir will be absolutely convinced the message is legitimate.”
Briarwood shook his head. Authentication codes? These animals didn’t miss a trick. It was alarming how smart and sophisticated they were becoming.
In Arabic, right? mouthed Austin frantically beside him, after getting Hall’s attention.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” replied Hall into both of their earpieces, his lips never moving. “But thanks for making sure I don’t do something catastrophically stupid. I’ve already sent the completed message to Secretary Snyder’s best Arabic expert to ensure it’s phrased perfectly. And the tech wizards will make it appear to have been sent from Hakim’s tablet. The contents are as follows:
“Basir, one of our brothers who has infiltrated the infidels . . .” Hall stopped. “Just so you know, I’ve read Hakim’s mind, and this is really how he would phrase this,” he reassured them. “One of our brothers who has infiltrated the infidels,” he repeated, “believes the US military may be staging a possible attack near your location. On Acorn Drive. If your monitors show no one outside, get to Acorn and tell me what you see. Quickly. Respond only when you’re ready to report.”
Nice, thought Briarwood. This Hall was one crafty bastard.
“Captain Briarwood,” added Hall. “I need you to wait behind this door. I’ve read in your mind that you have the most experience with a knife, and that even a silenced bullet would make too much noise. You’ll need to put this Basir down before he can make the slightest sound. Like you did during Operation Asylum in Tikrit.”
Briarwood’s eyes widened. In Tikrit, he had waited outside a door like this for five hours, and had still remained alert enough that when the man he was waiting to ambush finally emerged, he had dispatched him so quietly a dog couldn’t have heard. Briarwood realized Hall hadn’t chosen him by accident. His past was not only an open book to this man, but an open book that was instantly searchable.
Only seconds after Hall’s faked message from Hakim had been sent, Briarwood could hear locks being disengaged inside. Basir was a good soldier and was responding to Hakim’s order immediately.
Briarwood removed his seven-inch Ka-Bar combat knife from its sheath and balanced it in his hand, gripping it firmly but lightly. The Ka-Bar had been used by the Marines during World War II, and eight decades later was still widely popular.
Briarwood held his breath as Basir emerged. The terrorist stared straight ahead, convinced that the coast was entirely clear since he and his partner had not seen anyone in the monitors for some time.
Briarwood threw his left arm around Basir’s head from behind, clamping his hand over the terrorist’s mouth and yanking his head back, exposing his carotid artery. In perfect synchronicity of movement, he drew the knife across Basir’s throat, and then twisted the terrorist, and the gusher of blood emerging from the man’s neck, away from himself and to the ground, placing Basir’s limp body there as gently as he would a newborn baby.
One down, one to go.
Hall wore a sick, horrified expression, but it melted away immediately as he barked additional orders into their earpieces. He didn’t have the luxury of being squeamish. “Enter quietly and take up firing positions facing the office at the back of the warehouse. Full automatic.”
Briarwood and Austin didn’t hesitate, pushing open the door and following Hall’s instructions. The civilian was right on their heels as they entered. “He’s in the far right corner of the office. Spray it at chest height now!”
Both men shot multiple bursts from their assault rifles into the right side of the office, twenty feet away, until Hall screamed into their earpieces that the second terrorist was down. Not surprising, since a fly couldn’t have survived the barrage they had just unleashed. Sawdust and debris hovered in a cloud near the office wall, which had been pulverized.
Hall wasted no time waiting to regain his hearing or congratulating himself. “Warehouse is secure!” he broadcast to the ten other members of their assault force, waiting impatiently in the small church bus for the word to move out. “Join us as fast as possible! They’ve chosen their first victim, Scarlett Johansson, and they’ll be bringing her up on stage soon. Let’s move like we’ve got a purpose!”
12
Nick Hall had kept his six-foot frame in excellent shape, something of which he had always been quite proud, but he was a sloth compared to the elite troops he was commanding now, even when they were burdened down with heavy gear, ready for every contingency.
Given he could enter the minds of the men he commanded and see from their eyes, he could direct the team without necessarily having to be right next to them, so he sent all twelve men ahead of him through the tunnel. They could traverse the cramped seven blocks much faster than he could, especially while he continued to be battered by a sea of visceral thoughts and was monitoring a feed of the Oscars playing in the corner of his visual field. He could only juggle so many things at once, and watching a television feed, mining minds for information, and determining an optimal strategy would overload any man, no matter how gifted, leaving little room to focus on rapid movement.
And every second counted now. It was going to be close. Too close.
Scarlett Johansson had just been brought to the stage and was on her knees, the bottom of her long, gold, off-the-shoulder gown bunched up on the stage behind her. Hakim held a gun to her head and taunted her, a large predatory cat playing with its meal before the kill.
While not as stoic as many of the characters she had played, Johansson didn’t give the terrorists the satisfaction of pleading for her life or reacting to the taunts, but a steady stream of tears were running down her distinctive face, matched by many hundreds of teary-eyed, horrified faces in the audience. Little could possibly be more incongruous than the sight of a terrorist in a tuxedo preparing to execute a star in a designer gown, who was known by billions, on the grandest stage in the world.
Hall had read the initial list of victims from Hakim’s mind, and like everything else about the operation, it was brilliantly conceived. If the siege went on long enough, they would eventually get to male stars, but the first group were all female, to provoke the most emotional reaction possible from those witnessing these atrocities.
Hakim had searched the Web for lists of the most beloved female stars; for worldwide popularity. Scarlett Johansson would be followed by Sandra Bullock, Jennifer Anniston, Zoe Saldana, Jennifer Garner, Amy Adams, Angelina Jolie, and Ann Hathaway, an all-star cast of victims whose brutal murders would leave the world utterly devastated.
Hall saw in his mind’s eye that his team was emerging from the tunnel and into the director’s office backstage. He sent them directions to the three doors between the back and front stage, and sent the technology specialist on the team, Engineering Sergeant Mike Doherty, the codes and frequencies required to re-open the sealed doors remotely, which he had read from Hakim.
The team was waiting at these doors, four men behind each, when Hall finally emerged from the tunnel minutes later. He composed a brief message as he closed the trap door behind him. Marshal Chavez, he texted through his implants, please confirm you’re getting this communication and have been properly briefed by your superiors.
Ronaldo Chavez was the marshal closest to the ringer Islamic Jihad had planted in the auditorium. Hakim had lied when he claimed there were three ringers, but
even so, without Hall, even one unknown plant would have served as an absolute deterrent to a counterattack.
Message received, came the immediate texted reply from Chavez. I’ve been told you have special abilities and to follow your every command, no matter how unusual.
Good. Word has it that you’re a great shot. How great?
Expert level, sir, came the quick texted response.
Almost before it had fully registered on Hall that he wasn’t certain what this meant, his implants had taken the cue, had searched the web, and had delivered the requisite information, which floated before him. Expert was the army’s highest level of achievement, ahead of Marksman and even Sharpshooter.
Perfect, texted Hall. I want you to bring up a mental picture of the man you’ll be targeting. Don’t ask why, just do it, he finished, wanting to be sure Chavez had the right man in his sites. He could have entered the marshal’s mind and searched through it to get this information, but he was taxed to his limits already.
Chavez did as Hall asked, and sure enough, he was targeting the sleeper.
How certain are you that you can take him out? asked Hall.
Positive, texted Chavez. The shot isn’t difficult, but it is obstructed.
Obstructed how?
By a tall bald guy sitting one row behind the target.
Shit! thought Hall, finally joining his team, still waiting at the three doors between the backstage and the wings of the main stage for further instructions. He should have known a shot would be obstructed. Even standing, a shooter couldn’t get enough of a downward angle to clear a guest seated just behind the target.
This complicated the situation even further. Hall was being forced to play three-dimensional chess while someone was jackhammering his brain, and he knew he was on his last legs.
He took a deep breath and willed himself to focus for just a little longer. He could collapse afterward.
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