After struggling to right himself, he knelt on his left knee. “I’m worth more to you alive,” he said through a clenched jaw.
“I didn’t think you’d say you’re worth more dead.” Larchmont removed his fedora and held it in both hands in front of his body. “We’ll talk about your fate in a moment. First, you’re going to do some talking. Based on what you say, we’ll evaluate your future usefulness.”
“I’m not in the mood to talk.”
Larchmont looked at the bearded gunman and chinned a nod in Uzi’s direction. The man shoved the point of his Mini into Uzi’s temple. “Maybe this will help.”
Uzi’s heart rate jumped. He struggled to control it, knowing he needed to keep his wits, to remain composed and be ready to strike at a moment’s notice, when an opportunity presented itself. Assuming one did.
But it was hard to slow your pulse and keep focused when a man was shoving the cold metal barrel of a submachine gun against your skull.
An image of his little girl floated through his mind. Maya. Tears instantly filled his eyes, but he quickly compartmentalized the thought. He couldn’t crumble, not now. Maybe DeSantos would answer one of the voicemails he had left for him. The ring of the phone might distract them long enough for him to make a move. At this point, making an attempt was better than taking a bullet without putting up a fight.
“Does Lewiston Grant know your operation is in danger of collapsing?” Uzi asked, hoping to get something incriminating on tape; the recorder in his pocket was hopefully still running. “I think Lewis old boy would want you to hear me out and cut the deal I’m offering. Everyone wins.”
But Larchmont wasn’t taking the bait.
“Who else knows about my private cell phone?”
Uzi bit his lip. If he told Larchmont there were others who have this information, the next question would invariably be, “Who?” Those people would then be at risk—after they disposed of Uzi. If he told Larchmont no one else knew, he would be killed for sure.
He answered obliquely. “I’ve got a recording of our phone conversation. If we can’t reach an agreement, the whole world will know.”
Larchmont took a step forward. “Where is it?”
Uzi sensed a window of opportunity opening. “It’s on an SD card. If I give it to you, will you let me go?” An absurd question—but Larchmont didn’t know Uzi well, and perhaps his pompous ego would allow him to think Uzi was just stupid enough to consider the notion that trading the recording for his life was a request worthy of consideration.
“It’d go a long way toward convincing me to make a deal,” Larchmont said, apparently buying the stupid agent routine.
“It’s hidden on my motorcycle.”
Larchmont’s lips got thin with the suggestion of a smile.
“But you won’t find it. It’s a micro-SD card, smaller than the nail on my pinky,” Uzi said. “Uncuff me and I’ll get it for you.”
The politician’s smirk blossomed into a grin. “I think we can manage.” Larchmont motioned to Benedict, who slung the Mini over his shoulder and pushed through the doors.
His odds having suddenly improved, all Uzi had to do was find a way of disabling the man holding the Mini against his head. While still handcuffed.
“Can I have something to drink?” Uzi cleared his throat, dipped his chin, and coughed. “My mouth is dry as hell. Please...”
“Are there any other copies of the recording?” Larchmont asked.
Uzi coughed again. “I just recorded it.” He coughed harder. “When could I have made a copy?” He bent his head down, and launched into a spasmodic coughing fit. Then he felt it. The machine gun barrel left his temple.
It was only a second, but it was long enough. In one swift movement, Uzi pushed up with his right leg while twisting his torso left. His head knocked the gun barrel aside at the same moment his right shoulder slammed into the man’s stomach. The guard flew back, his weapon tilting away and unleashing an impotent volley of nine-millimeter rounds into the cement floor and wall.
The momentum carried Uzi into a shoulder roll. He slid his cuffed wrists beneath his buttocks and under his feet, bringing his hands to the front of his body. He lunged for the Mini and wrestled the tip into the dazed guard’s chin, then squeezed the trigger. The man’s beard blossomed with blood. Uzi yanked away the weapon and wildly sprayed the area with lead.
Larchmont was hugging the ground and had escaped the lethal volley. But Benedict, clearly having heard the suppressed rounds ricocheting off the floors and metal racks, ran back into the warehouse and caught a shower of bullets in the face.
Uzi’s heart was pumping much too fast. Adrenaline had prepared him for war—but though the battle was over, he still felt crazed, out of control. He pointed the gun at Larchmont, who was on his stomach and clutching his head. Uzi walked over to him and with his knee in the small of the man’s back, fumbled around the politician’s jacket pocket for the handcuff key. He finally found it, and after struggling to insert it into the lock, removed his restraints.
Uzi took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then backed away. “Get up.”
Larchmont slowly picked himself up off the concrete floor.
“Hands behind your back.”
Uzi drove the Suburban and sedan inside and removed several fuses from both vehicles. He unlocked Larchmont, moved him to the SUV’s driver’s seat, and then recuffed his wrists to the steering wheel.
“Mind if I borrow this?” Uzi asked as he pulled Larchmont’s suit handkerchief from the breast pocket. He stuffed it between Larchmont’s lips, and fastened the politician’s red paisley necktie around his mouth to hold the gag in place. An unusual use for such luxurious imported silk—and a damn fine embroidered design at that—but effective nonetheless.
Uzi stood outside the car for a moment and checked off his list. With the Suburban’s fuses removed, Larchmont could lean on the horn all he wanted to. It would remain silent.
Almost done.
After dragging the three bloody bodies out of the alley, he went about gathering his things: ski mask and helmet, his knives, and the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson he had tossed aside earlier. He cranked the warehouse door shut, then got on his bike and fled the scene.
12:49 PM
1 hour 11 minutes remaining
Alpha Zulu knelt beside Leila al-Far. Zulu, dressed in repairman gray coveralls, dug through a metal toolbox, looking for a part to complete the electronic device he had been busy assembling.
Gripped in Leila’s right hand was a Taser-type stun wand, and slung across her back was an AKS-74U shorty assault rifle, fitted with a PBS silent fire suppressor. “Well?” she asked Zulu.
“Another ten, then it’ll be ready.” He really would have liked to set the timer and leave, but his cohort had other plans. Though she insisted on taking this more obtuse route, he wasn’t concerned about the overall success of their plan. They would do what they needed to do and get out. Whatever happened after that was merely above and beyond, as far as he was concerned.
After several minutes had ticked by, Zulu gave the nod and Leila approached their hostage, Leonard Rudnick, who was securely fastened to a wood chair. Squaring herself in front of the doctor, Leila cradled the stun wand in both hands, displaying it as if Rudnick were a jeweler preparing to appraise a ring. “This is one of my favorite tools, Doctor. It sends three hundred thousand volts through your body. Do you know how it works?”
The muscles of his jaw tightened but he gave no nod, made no attempt to speak.
“I’d think you’d be familiar with it because you’ve studied the mind, you know how the brain works. Its physiology. Right? This little device scrambles the nervous system, leaves you dazed and confused.” She tilted her head, assessing whether she had his attention. “Oh—I almost forgot. The pain. It lights up your nerve endings like an arcade. Pain beyond your wildest fears.” Failing to elicit a reaction, she held the wand in front of his face. “You’ve got one last chance to cooperate.”
Rudnick closed his eyes and turned away. Had the doctor indicated a willingness to talk, Zulu would’ve removed the gag. But he couldn’t risk the man screaming unless they were sure he was going to tell them what they wanted to know. A screwup now would be disastrous.
Leila shoved the tip of the stun wand into Rudnick’s abdomen and gave him a short burst. He screamed a muffled cry and jerked forward, but the bindings kept him erect. A longer jolt would’ve altered their plan, as there wouldn’t be enough time for him to regain his wits.
A tear escaped Rudnick’s right eye and streamed down his face. Zulu looked on, knowing firsthand the intense pain induced by a stun gun shock to the stomach. This man was a tough bird, that much was evident. But as a health care practitioner, someone who had devoted his entire life to helping people with their own personal hells, the doctor would respond to the one last trick Zulu had in his playbook. In this case, he had no doubt whatsoever it would work.
“Enough,” Zulu said. He stepped forward and brushed Leila back with his left forearm. He held out the compact black box he had been assembling. At present, its red LED screen displayed “00:00,” but soon it would be programmed with numerals. And then the fun would begin.
Alpha Zulu grinned at Rudnick out of one side of his mouth. “This, Doctor, is a powerful explosive that’ll destroy a good portion of this building. Now, your offices have been here for several years, and you know many of the hundreds of people who live and work here. I’m told there are about five hundred here right this very minute. What do you think?”
Rudnick’s eyebrows pointed inward in defiance.
“Maybe you doubt our convictions.” He held up the bomb and poked numbers into its keypad. “But that would be foolish.” He tilted his head. “I know what kind of man you are. You’d rather die yourself than cause others harm. Very noble. But your life isn’t what’s at stake here, Doctor. You hold hundreds of other lives in your hands. Make the wrong decision and they all die. Innocent women. Young children. Their blood on your hands.” Zulu paused.
“My sources tell me you have experience watching people die. Lots of people. Burned in ovens, gassed in chambers. Shot and dumped in pits. But—you’ve got a chance to prevent that type of mass murder from happening again.” He allowed Rudnick to mull the magnitude of his decision. And the guilt.
“So this is what it comes down to,” Zulu continued. “You’re going to make a phone call. Do it well, everything will turn out okay. If you don’t...” Zulu shrugged and bobbed his head. A malevolent smile pursed his lips. “Well, I’m afraid that’s something you won’t be able to live with.”
UZI DIALED SHEPARD as he headed back to Leila’s house. This time he wouldn’t be skulking around in the dark. There was no time for that. He wasn’t sure where to go, who to talk to, whose help to enlist. But he was certain of one thing: whatever was going down, it was going to happen in less than an hour. And he couldn’t shake the sense that Leila sat at the heart of whatever was to come.
Uzi’s call to Shepard was short and to the point: he needed his ASAC to coordinate with Knox and Yates, Homeland Security, his own JTTF, M2TF, and Director Tasset. It was hitting the fan, and until they could put it all together to figure out what it meant, they had to be ready for anything.
First priority was the International Conference on Global Terrorism, due to begin within the hour. A close second was the peace talks, but he left Whitehall to shore up those preparations. Whatever agencies the president wanted to enlist, and when, was not Uzi’s call. Uzi’s involvement in that particular state of affairs ended with his rendering a definitive answer as to whether or not a Palestinian group was involved in the VP’s assassination attempt.
Shepard assured Uzi the conference was well covered and highly secure. But he would alert all the involved parties. Uzi gave Shepard’s secretary his cell number, then hung a left onto New Hampshire Avenue. As he pulled up in front of Hamilton House, workers were using a bulldozer and dump truck to cart away the shattered chunks of pavement left behind by the explosion of Uzi’s Tahoe.
As Uzi removed his helmet, his cell phone began ringing. It was DeSantos.
“Could’ve used your help,” Uzi said. “Big shit’s gone down.”
“Sorry, boychick, I didn’t know this was your number. I ignored the calls. I’ve been coordinating stuff with Knox. You put the scare into Whitehall—”
“Then he told you about Larchmont?”
“About your suspicions.”
“Yeah, well, they’re not suspicions anymore. He and his thugs just tried to kill me. We need to meet. Where are you?”
“Headed to the Hay-Adams. Me and my colleagues are there as support. Just in case.”
Uzi knew that meant his OPSIG buddies. Made sense.
“Just so you know, Phish and Mason got something on Danny Carlson,” DeSantos said. “A voicemail on your cell, left a little before he died. A warning about Leila and that you were in danger. He also said he’s onto something big. He mentioned a DLB ‘where the tracks meet.’ I know the drop, I used it with him a couple of times. I sent Phish over to grab the package.”
“Not looking much like a suicide now, is it?”
“If it ever did. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
The moment Uzi hit End, the phone rang again.
“Agent Uziel, this is Dr. Rudnick.”
“Doc? How’d you get this number?”
“You weren’t answering your phone, so I called your office.”
Uzi instantly realized he had missed his appointment. “Geez—I’m sorry, Doc, I totally spaced out my session. Things are coming to a head and I had to—”
“Uzi, listen to me. I need to see you, right away.”
Rudnick’s voice was unusually tense. Uzi got the sense the doctor was not simply admonishing him for missing his session. Someone’s there with him. Leila.
“You sure it’s gotta be now?”
There was a second’s pause, then a muffled noise as if the handset was being covered.
“Yes. Come now. There’s something I have to discuss with you, something we discussed during your last session. But we can’t do it over the phone. How soon can you get here?”
“Fifteen minutes. On my way.” He hung up the phone, shoved his helmet back on, started up the bike, and twisted the throttle.
In reality, Uzi was five minutes away—but in the likely event Leila or someone else was using Rudnick to lure him there, he didn’t want them expecting him when he was scheduled to arrive. He hung a right on M Street and twisted the throttle, accelerating hard toward Rudnick’s office.
Uzi arrived with the engine off, gliding to a stop on the slate tiles of the building’s exterior entryway. He pushed through the cherrywood-framed glass doors and nearly slipped on the slick marble of the lobby. He decided to forego the elevator—the logical place for him to emerge on Rudnick’s floor—in case his visitor was wise enough to know he had padded his ETA.
He took the steps two at a time. When he reached the fifth floor, he removed his helmet and set it down, withdrew the Puma with his left hand and the pilfered .40 caliber Smith & Wesson handgun with the right. He pushed up against the metal fire door and listened.
Nothing. Uzi opened it a crack and peered into the empty hallway. He moved out of the stairwell and stopped beside a fire alarm pull box. He threw his back against the wall and inched along the corridor, his eyes and ears tuned to any and all noises. He approached the taupe door—the “secret” confidential patient entrance—his best shot at a stealthy entry.
Slowly, he pulled it open. Again, all was quiet. He was now standing in the anteroom to Rudnick’s office. He stopped and listened, heart pounding, mouth desert dry—and made his way across the floor to the opposite door. It was ajar. He crouched low and pushed it open with a foot.
In one motion, he stepped inside and swept the room from left to right with the Smith & Wesson. All clear. Except that sitting in the center of the office was the doctor, bound and
gagged.
Uzi cleared the entire area, and, convinced there was no one else present, turned his attention to the bound psychologist.
“Doc, are you okay?” He slid his knife blade behind Rudnick’s head and sliced away the bandana. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to involve you.”
Rudnick spat out the gag, and then looked up at his patient with sad eyes. “I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t want to call you—”
“Who did this?”
“I believe it was Leila. And an associate.” He swallowed hard. “They wanted information on you. About the investigation. They thought I knew something.”
“What did you tell them?”
Rudnick lifted his head proudly. “Nothing.”
That was when Uzi noticed it. A large black resin box behind Rudnick’s chair that sprouted gray metal flex conduit which snaked to a flat device below the doctor’s right shoe.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Rudnick bowed his head. “I’m afraid so.”
Uzi grabbed the doctor’s phone on the desk—but there was no dial tone. He dug out his cell and called his office. “Hoshi—it’s me. Get EOD to 2311 M Street. Fast—we’ve got a hot one, and there isn’t much time!”
“I’ll try, but they’re on special assignment because of the conference—”
“I don’t care how you do it, just get them over here—now!”
He hung up, ran into the hallway, and pulled the fire alarm. At least there was a chance some of the building’s occupants would get out in time. He ran back to Rudnick, got down on all fours, and began studying the devices.
There was a red LED display that read 5:58. The seconds were ticking down. Shit! He had six minutes to get him out of the building. But his foot was on what appeared to be a pressure sensitive device. Lift the shoe, the bomb detonates.
He dialed Tim Meadows. “Tim, it’s Uzi.”
“Good timing. I was about to call you. I found something—”
“You know something about bombs, right?”
“That’s a bit of a sore subject, especially coming from you—”
Hard Target Page 43
