He was near enough so that Ward could see his face.
It was one of the Muslims from the van.
This wasn’t how they planned it, Ward thought. They had been expecting to do a repetition of the previous week: get everyone out of the terminal after the blast in the baggage claim area. Ireland’s lockdown of the SPHR instead of evacuation had screwed them up. Carnage was Plan B.
Crockett swiveled on his bleeding legs. He had landed on his holstered Smith and Wesson and managed to draw the M&P 40 unseen. The major didn’t get to fire. His movement drew the attention of the shooter. The AK-47 spat a short volley and the officer’s forearm flopped back, nearly severed in a thick ribbon of blood. The major turned to grab the gun before realizing that his hand was useless.
“Lie still!” Ward ordered Ireland.
Even before the handgun had finished spinning across the floor, the detective was after it. He elbow-crawled behind the major which afforded him a moment’s protection. The gunman might have thought he was merely trying to escape. The Muslim was in no hurry as he swung the assault rifle toward him, chewing up the tiles as it stitched a line toward him. Ward reached the weapon but did not pick it up: he flopped his chest on it as he continued forward, toward a green metal trash can. The clanging of the bullets against the iron was painfully loud and Ward screamed as though he’d been hit. The cry was purely reflexive, angry, but the gunman seemed to think he had struck him. The killer turned his fire toward Crockett and Ireland. Ward snaked around the far side of the trash can and shot the man in the belly. The AK-47 spit for a moment longer and then went silent.
Ward jumped to his feet, ran over and yanked the guns from the Muslim’s hands. The kid was biting his lower lip, trying not to cry out. His knees were stacked on their sides, curled toward the wound which was just above his belt line. Ward did not consider helping him.
Unless putting a bullet in his black damn heart is considered help, he thought as he ran back to Crockett. Ward lay the guns down and, grabbing the front of the officer’s shirt, dragged him behind the trash can. He unhooked the major’s radio. He made sure it had a loudspeaker function then slung it around his neck. As he went back to get the guns, he motioned Ireland over. She hurried there on hands and knees.
“Do what you can to stop the bleeding,” Ward told the woman.
“What are you going to do?”
“Stop them,” he said. He checked the clip and set one of the guns beside her. “When you’re finished, I need you to do something.”
“All right,” she said, though it was as much a question as a statement.
As Ireland used her kerchief and belt to try and stop the arterial bleeding, Ward told her what he wanted her to do. She expressed some reservation about her ability to carry it out. He told her that this was a battle in a war and that we mustn’t lose it. She said she’d do what he asked.
The drone of gunfire was converging ahead of him. The Muslims obviously wanted to get someone out of the secure zone. Someone who ordinarily would have been evacuated because of the grenade but wasn’t. Someone who obviously was carrying something they didn’t want to have checked by customs.
“State patrol, this is Detective John Ward,” he said into the radio. “Major Crockett is down. I’m armed and headed toward Gate A.” He added, “Don’t shoot me.”
Ward tucked the handgun in his waistband and raised the AK-47. He walked forward briskly, watching the corridor through the gun sight. His knees were slightly bent, lowering his center of gravity, leaving him ready to absorb the recoil of the gun or move to one side or the other as needed.
There was no one about. He reasoned that anyone who was leaving the area had already done so or had been cut down in the attempt. As he passed a fast food restaurant he found the bodies of two custodians, shot in the chest, lying with their heads toward the gate. A single set of bloody footprints lead from the corpses. They had been shot by someone who came through the main entrance, moving in the direction Ward was moving. That meant the shooter’s back would be facing him. Ward had never shot anyone who hadn’t threatened him, who wasn’t facing him. But the two poor souls bleeding out on the tile had been gunned down for a sick religious dogma, not necessity. The detective would have no trouble executing their killer from any direction that worked.
There was motion ahead and the sound of single shots being fired. A figure was crouched behind an overturned desk just inside the security area. A dead Muslim lay facedown on the other side of the table. He had bloody soles.
Ward got on the radio. “Officer at the security table, I’m coming in from behind.”
The man did not turn but raised a hand. Ward crouched and ran through the scanner, setting off the alarm. For some reason he hadn’t expected a pair of guns to generate the same sound as loose change. Bullets chewed away pieces of the table as Ward slid beside the officer.
“You doing okay, Officer Wister?” he asked, noting the man’s name tag.
The young man nodded.
“How many are there?” Ward asked.
“Five gunmen,” he said.
That we know of, Ward thought. If the goal was to get someone out of there they probably had someone in reserve. He wouldn’t join the shootout unless it was absolutely necessary. Ward glanced at the belt of the dead Muslim. Like the one before him, he had no additional ordnance. Chances were good that if there was a hidden gunman he was the one who had the grenades. They would almost certainly be used to cover the terrorist retreat.
“Where are the rest of our men?” Ward asked.
“At the gate,” Wister told him between shots. “If that’s their target, we’re not letting them in.”
“Good man,” Ward said proudly. “What about the passengers?”
“The staff has them contained,” Wister said. He fired, went on. “We believe the area is bulletproof.”
“The enemy is probably prepared for that,” Ward said. “I assume those are your guys at the far end?”
“Yeah.” The three other state police officers were at counters and benches farther away, obviously having been patrolling nearby when the gunfire erupted. “We’ve called for backup.”
“These guys have to know the cavalry is on the way,” Ward said. “Stop shooting for a minute.”
The officer obeyed.
“I want them to lay off us,” Ward said. “When they do. I’m going to that kiosk.” Ward pointed to a coffee stand nearly halfway between the security position and the first gate. Because Wister had a clear line of fire, none of the Muslims were holed up there. Ward handed Wister the AK-47 he’d appropriated. “When I go out, cover me. Let me have your handgun.”
Wister handed it over, butt first. The detective made sure both his guns were fully loaded then crouched by the right side of the table and watched the gate to pinpoint every enemy position. When there was a lull in gunfire directed at the table—as expected, the terrorists were concentrating on the three police officers—Ward charged across the open area, maneuvering to the left to keep the kiosk between himself and the gunman who had been shooting at the table. As soon as the Muslim poked his gun from behind the ticket counter, Wister pummeled it with fire from the assault rifle. As expected, the drumming fire got the Muslim’s attention. He shouted in Arabic as the side of his ticket booth vanished in a tornado of splinters.
Ward changed his mind. When the ticket booth gunman fell back the detective made that his destination. He didn’t dare turn his back so he ran backwards, firing toward the four other gunmen who were behind benches and poles, leapfrogging their way slowly from one to the other.
The bastards’ cave training had paid off. One moved, the others covered with crossfire, and progress was being made toward the SPHR. The drawback for them was that, with the exception of the spotter behind the ticket counter, all the Muslims were in the same general area.
Ward fired his handgun left to right then back while Wister, who figured out what he was doing and adjusted, kept firing at the ticket c
ounter. He stopped just before Ward reached it. The detective turned to face the counter just as the Muslim emerged. The detective put a single shot in his forehead as it appeared around the shattered side. The man dropped on his left cheek, his dead eyes shut. Ward heard more shouts in Arabic behind him, heard Wister fire in that direction, and jumped hurdle-like behind a row of benches as gunfire pinged off the tiles and counter. One of them slashed through his jeans, cutting his leg. He dropped as he landed, ignoring the searing pain as he scrabbled forward behind the counter. He set down the handguns and grabbed the Muslim’s assault rifle. He reached for the radio he’d taken from Crockett, didn’t feel it, and realized he’d lost it as he jumped the benches.
He needed to let the passengers in the secure area know what he needed them to do, and his voice alone wasn’t enough to carry over the gunfire. And there was no time to waste: he had to get to the secure room before the Muslims did. It wasn’t only a matter of finding out who was in there. Ward knew there could well be another danger.
There was a lull in the gunfire. A moment later there were cries in Arabic.
They were answered by a shout from the SPHR, also in Arabic.
That’s not good, Ward thought. He got on his knees. His leg burned where it had been hit by the ricochet but he didn’t have time to worry about the damage. He had to get a message inside the SPHR, so he grabbed the microphone on the counter and switched it on.
“This is the police!” he shouted. “Everyone in the secure area get down now!”
His warning came an instant before someone inside began shooting. Screams were barely audible beneath the loud drumming of an automatic strafing the door and the area around it. Ward imagined that was to take out the security personnel, who were probably armed. Their next move would be to the exit.
Then the terrorists out here will do whatever is necessary to get them outside, to hook up with their hole card. Plan B was solid, Ward thought bitterly. Especially because the terrorists were obviously willing to die to carry it out.
Ward had to find that hidden Muslim and take him out.
Going back to the way he had come was too risky, especially if the SPHR gunman suddenly emerged and added more firepower to the assault. Instead, he turned and fired a burst at the plate glass window behind him. It fell in big icelike chunks, crashing inside and outside the single-story terminal. Ducking low, Ward ran down an aisle. The pain in his leg actually helped, burning and sharpening his focus. He reached the window, jumped over a clear section of frame, and landed on the tarmac. He ran back toward the main terminal.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
An assault rifle slung over his shoulder, Hassan Shatri marched boldly through the terminal. He pulled the pin of the hand grenade as he headed toward the security checkpoint. He reached a concrete planter, ducked behind it, and rolled the explosive forward. It hit the tile with the sound of a bowling ball. Wister heard it coming and tried to scurry behind to the other side of the checkpoint. Gunfire from the terrorists cut him down even as the metallic bang of the grenade sent a pale gray cloud of shrapnel in all directions.
Shatri emerged from hiding and followed the sound of gunfire through the tester of acrid smoke. He walked through the dissipating cloud toward the twisted frame of the security gate. Before the state police could fire he had pulled a second grenade from the weapons belt he was wearing. His repeated cries of “Allah Akbar” filled the air as he lobbed it, hugging the luggage conveyor for protection. The second grenade exploded and the gunfire ceased. Shatri rose cautiously, swinging the AK-47 ahead. Officer Wister was on his back on the other side of the secure room. He could see Shatri coming and squeezed off several rounds in his direction. They punctured the ceiling without injuring the Muslim, who lay gunfire across the officer’s kneecaps, then back across the underside of his throat.
The young Muslim stopped and surveyed the waiting area. He saw a shadow on the floor. It was coming from behind one of the columns near a window. Shatri threw a grenade to the right of it. The man behind the column moved to the left and the Muslim shot him. Shatri had not pulled the pin on the grenade; he recovered it then faced the gate area from the opposite direction. He saw his dead comrades, felt pride for their sacrifice. Soon, if Allah willed, he would be joining them. He looked down at the officers as he walked toward the SPHR, making sure they were dead.
“Bagher?” he called out.
A voice replied from inside the secure area. “I am here.”
“It is safe. We must hurry.”
The door opened inward. The key the passenger used was still attached, by a long wire line, to the belt of the security officer. The young woman was lying facedown in a wide, crimson pool. The passenger gingerly made his way around it. She looked to Shatri like a fish on a line. Her weight kept the door from closing. Shatri could see passengers lying on the floor, he could hear them sobbing. If he didn’t need the two hand grenades he had left, he would use them here. He hated these people, these cowards ... these infidels.
A young Muslim emerged carrying a Russian MP-446 pistol. He was wearing a white dish-dash-ah, a traditional long-sleeved dress, beneath a checkered shumag head scarf which was held in place with a thick black band. There were flecks of blood on the hem of the dress. It had been the imam’s idea to hide in plain sight, discouraging profiling by appearing to be exactly what police should be looking for. Also, as he had gone through Orly Airport to his private plane, the looks Bagher al-Sanea’s wardrobe received distracted onlookers from paying much attention to the thick-ribbed silver suitcase he carried.
“Things did not go as planned?” al-Sanea remarked, anger creasing his round face.
“They were not ideal,” Shatri admitted.
An alarm sounded nearby and the newcomer started. He looked around, his eyes settling high on the wooden structural arches. “There are security cameras.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Shatri replied, his own eyes moving from side to side. “Only the package is important.”
“There will be more police—”
“And blocked roads, I know. I set a fire earlier so I could steal the keys to a security car parked nearby. It has not been moved. If we approach with the siren on, we will not be stopped. We drew them out last week during—”
A voice from the left said, “That was last week, jerkoff.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Shatri and his companion shot a look in the direction from which the voice had come.
John Ward was standing inside the exit that led from the tarmac. The alarm overhead was still blaring from having kicked the handle off the keypad-operated door. Air swirled through the door, clearing the smoke of the firefight. Ward stood inside the red metal frame, still as a statue, eyeing the targets through his gun sight. The Muslims were about twenty yards distant. Neither of them moved.
Shatri smirked. “Another game of Chicken?”
“So you’re the gang’s point man,” Ward said. “I figured it was the guy I left lying in his own blood back at the training camp. Saeed. More guts than brains.”
Shatri’s smirk wavered and he took a step forward. Ward slammed a short burst at the floor and was ready to fire another if need be. The Muslim stopped. The detective knew he wouldn’t risk using a grenade for fear of killing his companion. But the terrorist would use his body to shield the other man, who would return fire. It was all about advancing the man with the suitcase.
“Here’s the deal,” Ward said. “You put the case down, I’ll argue that you get life in prison instead of the death penalty. The advantage for you is you get to spout your crap for another seventy years or so. The disadvantage is you won’t get to kill anyone else.”
“Here is my counterproposal,” Shatri said. “You go back out the door and you will survive to see your daughter again.”
Ward remained where he was, watching the men through the sight of the assault rifle.
“This need not end with your death,” Shatri said.
“Shut up. I kn
ow your game.”
“What game is that?” Shatri asked.
The terrorist’s eyes moved along the wide corridor and he shifted slightly from foot to foot. Ward could see that he was starting to get restless, to consider the best worst-case scenario.
“You’ve got no intention of hurting anyone in Basalt,” Ward said. “You’re after a bigger target—Denver or your old hood, Chicago. You haven’t got a bomb because those are tough to build and smuggle. You’ve got a radiological container in there—cesium-137 from old Soviet stockpiles, I’m guessing.”
The man with the suitcase had started slightly when Ward mentioned the element. The detective had been watching for any kind of reaction to confirm. Cesium was one of the few elements known to be on the loose, ever since the Chechen separatists tried to dirty-bomb Moscow in 1995. The NYPD had gotten word about five months before that several containers were MPS—Missing, Presumed Sold. The Muslims had set up the cash drop here not just to finance operations but to fine-tune a system of getting contraband into the country. The only impasse was the radiation detectors in the secure area. The evacuation scenario was their way around that. When that failed, they had to disable the device ... make it seem like a mere distraction.
The alarm finally shut off. Even with their ears ringing, the men could hear the distinctive police and fire sirens growing louder. Bordering on anxious now, Shatri made his move. As Ward had expected, he stepped in front of the other man, firing the AK-47. Ward rolled outside the door for protection, but only for a moment; the gunfire stopped as quickly as it had started.
The Blood of Patriots Page 27
