“Crazy bastards,” Connor muttered, sitting back.
Behind the wheel, Thompson laughed. “Aren’t they all?”
They were waiting in a line of traffic, two car lengths back from the checkpoint laid across the road ahead. Two up-armored Humvees flanked the road, each armed with an M240b machine gun operated by an extremely nervous-looking soldier. Connor could only imagine what was going through the young men’s minds. He knew how most soldiers he’d deployed with felt about this kind of duty. In the Sandbox, you looked at everything as a potential threat. Everyone over there wanted to kill you. Here at home though, it was a completely different scenario. He wondered how much that was messing with their psyches.
He had to give it to the military on this one, though—they’d deployed fast. He’d never seen anything like it. Hundreds of checkpoints had been set up around the city, restricting access to and from Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs. General Adams had deployed two full divisions throughout the city, effectively sealing off the island. Of course, the citizens, not to mention the mayor and city council members, weren’t happy with the situation, but they hadn’t reached the point of condemning the military just yet. How bad would it be for election if they came out and ridiculed the military for obstructing their way of life, only to have a nuclear bomb wipe out everything and everyone?
It wouldn’t be good, Connor thought.
“Look at this,” he said, motioning to the checkpoint ahead. The soldier standing at the front of the left Humvee waved the driver through and put a hand up to inspect the contents of the next car. “Even if this were going to be a heist, there’s absolutely no way anyone is going to steal anything of consequence anywhere in the city right now. With all the air coverage and roadblocks, you’d have to be stupid or insane to try.”
“I caught some traffic this morning about looters going through some of the closed stores,” Thompson said.
“That’s completely different. Most of those people will get citations after this is all said and done. It’s like everything that happened in Ferguson after the riots. The cops were able to identify most of the people involved in those incidents and get them charged. Now, whether or not they actually got convicted is a whole other thing.”
The soldier waved the next car through and Thompson pulled forward.
“Identification and destination, please.”
Connor handed his National Security credentials to Thompson, who handed both IDs to the soldier.
“The JTTF,” Thompson said. “Thompson and Connor, NSA.”
“How you all holding up?” Connor asked, leaning across the center console.
The soldier leaned over slightly, inspecting the ID cards and giving Connor an uninterested, suspicious look. “Things are fantastic, sir.” He considered the cards again for a long moment, then handed them back. “Please drive safe, sir.”
Thompson nodded and pulled slowly through the checkpoint. “Not very talkative, are they?”
“Can you blame them? They pulled one of the crappiest duty assignments you can get. And not only that, they’re doing it on their own soil, not overseas. There’s kind of a different vibe to the work when you’re pointing your weapon at your own people.”
“Can’t argue with you th—Oh, shit!”
Thompson jerked the wheel to the right, narrowly missing the car that had stopped suddenly ahead of them and driving up onto the curb. A block up, two of the Humvees were pulling away from their positions. They disappeared around the corner, red and blue lights flashing. The distant wail of a siren echoed back through the buildings.
Connor opened the door, looking up to the soldier manning the turret of the Humvee next to him. “What the hell was that?”
The kid, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen, shook his head. “Some asshole in a semi just blew through one of the roadblocks on Second Avenue. He’s—”
Connor didn’t wait for him to finish. “Go!” he said to Thompson, slamming the door shut and pointing. “Follow them!”
Thompson punched the gas, sending the Tahoe onto the sidewalk, metal screeching as he scraped past the car to their left. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. He flipped a switch on the dash, activating the vehicle’s emergency lights and siren. “You think it’s him?”
Connor unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed to the back. “A semi blowing through a roadblock in downtown Manhattan during a military-enforced curfew? What else could it be?”
“And what are you going to do if it is him?” Thompson asked. “Hold on!”
The tires squealed as he took a turn, throwing Connor to the driver’s side of the back seat. Then Thompson straightened and punched the gas again.
Connor scrambled to get the clamps open on the Pelican case, then pulled the silenced M4 free from its cut-out. He slapped a magazine into the weapon and grabbed two extra mags before closing the lid again.
As he dropped back into the passenger seat, Thompson swerved around another corner, finally coming within sight of the camouflaged Humvees, their red and blue bubble lights flashing. For the most part the street was empty, thanks to the curfew and travel restrictions. The Humvees swerved through the light traffic, and Thompson stayed close on their tails.
Connor craned his neck to see around the Humvees. A red semi was making a hard left turn two blocks ahead. “There!”
In the turret of one of the Humvees, the gunner pulled the charging handle back on his M240 machine gun and pressed his shoulder into the stock. He spun around, leveling his weapon at the semi, then suddenly pitched forward, almost flipping completely out. Smoke rolled up from the tires as the vehicle screeched to a halt.
“Shit!” Thompson shouted, slamming on the brakes.
The semi had stopped in the middle of the road, blocked by an Apache attack helicopter hovering twenty feet above the ground, its rotors kicking up a torrent of dust and debris.
Thompson maneuvered the Tahoe to the right of the Humvees, stopping just behind a row of parked cars on the side of the street. Connor pushed open the door and slipped out and around the back of a gray BMW. Keeping low, his M4 tucked into his shoulder, he advanced down the row of cars.
“Step out of the truck!” a voice said over a loudspeaker attached to one of the Humvees.
Connor paused between a BMW and a Honda, waiting to see if there was any movement from the semi. The soldier issued a second challenge, which also went unheeded, and Connor wondered if the driver could even hear him over the thundering chopper blades.
Thompson came up behind him, pistol in hand. “You’re not worried about it being a trick to bring us in closer?”
“If he’s got a one-megaton nuke in there, we became too close about seven miles ago.”
Connor pressed forward, bringing the M4 up, training the sights on the truck’s passenger door. He glanced to the soldiers to his left, now standing behind their open, armored doors, and said to them, “See if you can get him to come out the passenger side.”
The soldiers gave him a look Connor took to mean, “Are you kidding me?” But one of them clicked the mic. “Driver, this is the US Army. You are ordered to get out of your vehicle now or you will be fired upon. Deadly force has been authorized. Exit the vehicle with your hands up. Do it now!”
Connor blew out a long breath, settling in behind his sights. He tried to not think about the possibility of being blown to his component atoms in a matter of seconds if Hakimi decided to trigger the bomb. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now; even if he got back into the Tahoe and floored it, he wouldn’t make it out of the hot zone in time. He was committed. They were all committed.
More vehicles screeched to a stop behind them, unloading more soldiers and SWAT operators dressed in navy-blue BDUs, tactical vests, and helmets. As they approached, Thompson flashed them their credentials.
“Stay down,” the first SWAT officer said, taking a knee next to Connor. “Have they said anything?”
Connor shook his head. “Nothing. Just be
en sitting there.”
The officer put a hand to his throat mic and said, “Nine-Oh-Six to Nine-Twelve, can you get a shot from your angle?” Connor couldn’t hear the response, but the officer nodded. “Copy that. One suspect, driver’s side, just sitting there.”
“Does he look Arab?”
The officer gave him a confused look. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Just ask.”
The officer relayed the question to whoever had him in their sights, then shook his head. “Can’t tell.”
The soldier’s commands to exit echoed down the street once more.
“We need to get that chopper out of here,” Connor said, nodding toward the bird.
“I don’t have access to their communications channel,” the officer said.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Thompson. “I’ll take care of it.” He started back along the line of cars toward the soldiers coming up the street.
“Suspect’s moving,” the officer said. “He’s sliding across the seat to the passenger door. All units, hold your fire. Be advised, the suspect may be exiting the passenger door. Heads up.”
“Exit the vehicle with your hands up!” The soldier’s voice boomed.
“At the door,” the officer said.
Connor tensed, sliding his finger from the frame to the trigger. Standoffs like this one weren’t a new thing for him, but he couldn’t say he’d ever been in one with a maniac whose finger was on the trigger of a nuclear bomb.
As the passenger door opened, the whine of the Apache’s engines pitched up, and the helicopter lifted away.
“He’s coming out,” the officer said.
The driver pushed the door all the way open and climbed out, his hands as high as he could get them. Following the soldier’s commands, the man turned, and Connor blew out a relieved breath.
“What is it?” the officer asked.
“It’s not Hakimi.”
“Who?”
A group of soldiers moved in to arrest the middle-aged Hispanic man wearing jeans and a red flannel shirt. Tears streamed down the man’s face, and he apologized repeatedly as he was hauled back to the Humvees. Another squad moved up and cleared the cab.
“Clear!” a sergeant called, stepping away from the truck.
Connor stood, letting his M4 hang from its strap across his chest.
The squad moved down the truck, opening the side panels, revealing cases and cases of beer.
“What in the hell?” Connor muttered. He turned back to the Humvees and saw Thompson walking toward him, shaking his head and smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
Thompson jerked a thumb behind him. “Bastard thought it was a DUI checkpoint and was over on his driving hours. Didn’t want to lose his license.”
Connor scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Has he ever seen a DUI checkpoint with machine guns?”
“You got me, brother.”
Connor blew out a long breath. It was only going to get worse as time went on, and eventually someone was going to make a mistake. It had only been half a day and already people were being stupid.
He was about to say as much when the traffic signals, crosswalk signs, and building lights all blinked off at the same time. The entire block went quiet. A second later, the next block went down, then the next and the next.
“Holy crap. They actually did it,” Connor said. “Whose bright idea is this?”
“I figured it was only a matter of time," Thompson said.
“Whatever happened to not negotiating with terrorists?” Connor felt heat rise up into his neck and face. “I thought that was a hard and fast rule no matter what.”
“Come on, man, you know better than that. Nothing is ever hard and fast in this line of work, especially when politics are involved.”
“This is exactly what Hakimi wants, and we bend over!” Connor yelled, losing his patience. “Whoever made this political move may have signed a bunch of people’s death warrants.”
Chapter Forty
“Can you believe this?” Alex Hayes said, sitting on the edge of the desk and pointing to the news broadcast with his paper coffee cup.
His partner for the morning, Dave Cross, leaned back in the cheap metal office chair that groaned with every movement. He folded his arms across his chest. “Crazy terrorist assholes. And why does everyone always have to attack New York? It’s never any other place, always New York.”
Hayes laughed. “Like anyone is going to give a crap about someone burning down some hole-in-the-wall place in Kansas. It’s got to be New York, otherwise no one would pay attention.”
“Pay attention?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said. “That’s ninety percent of the reason why these guys blow stuff up. Attention.”
“Farmers might care.”
Hayes almost spit out his coffee. “Farmers? Why the hell would anyone care what farmers think? Those hicks have absolutely no idea how the real world works.”
“What are you talking about, man? They cook all our food.”
“No, they grow all our food. Jesus, man, are you serious?”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Are you really as dense as you look?” Hayes asked. He moved across the guard shack and set his coffee cup down on the weapons rack in the corner where their rifles were secured. He gave the bank of security monitors in front of Cross a final look, ensuring everything was clear, then headed to the back. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Yeah, well make sure it’s a piss this time,” Cross said without looking away from the displays. “Last time you crapped in there this place smelled like a latrine for a week.”
“That wasn’t me.”
Cross laughed. “Oh, right, it was the other jackwagon I work with every Thursday.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking—” Hayes stopped short when he saw a semi-truck and trailer pull up outside the exclusion gate. “Oh, what the hell is this?”
Cross leaned forward, snatched the clipboard off the desk, and ran a finger down the list. He shook his head. “Nothing on the list for this morning.”
“Probably just got turned around,” Hayes said.
Thirteen security cameras and screens showed the truck and trailer from every conceivable angle, all in high-definition. Two of the cameras zoomed in on the truck’s cab, focusing on the driver, taking multiple images that were stitched together for the facial recognition program, which ran automatically, checking against the log of registered drivers. Another program ran the license plate through NCIC; within seconds it would display company information, origination, and current insurance.
Cross leaned forward and tapped the intercom. “Sir, this is a restricted area. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The driver, a middle-aged white man with close-cropped brown hair, leaned out his window. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m here to make a withdrawal.”
Cross and Hayes frowned at each other.
“Damn joker,” Hayes said. He bent toward the mic. “We’re closed, buddy. Take a hike.”
The driver smiled, then pulled out a pistol and shot the camera box. The feed went dark.
“What the hell?” Hayes moved to the window slit and looked out at the exclusion zone, not believing what had just happened.
“Did he just shoot our camera?” Cross said, flipping through the other camera feeds. “Holy crap, he did.”
As Hayes was reaching for the radio on the desk, two pickup trucks came around the lodge building to the south. They skidded to a stop on the wet grass, and two groups of masked figures, dressed in a mixture of black and multicam fatigues, jumped from the beds and rushed forward to the exterior fence.
“What the hell?” Hayes said again, his eyes seeing what was happening but his mind frozen with inaction. It was impossible.
Two of the figures stopped just in front of the first pickup, one helping the other with something on his shoulder.
Hayes had served in the US Air Forc
e for six years before getting out and bouncing around security jobs—banks, armored car services, personal security. His time in Security Forces, the Air Force’s military police, had been spent at FE Warren AFB, working security at the nuclear missile sites in Colorado, Wyoming, and Nebraska. In other words, he’d never actually been deployed. Never actually seen combat.
But he sure as hell knew what a shoulder-fired RPG looked like.
When the second figure patted the first’s shoulder and moved away, giving him room to fire, Hayes finally shook off his paralysis and punched the alarm. The klaxon sounded just as the RPG fired, the blast rocking the man back. It cut through the exterior fence and drew a line of white smoke across the short expanse before tearing through the interior fence.
“No!” Hayes screamed.
The RPG round slammed into the north guard station, a round protrusion from the corner of the main building next to the entrance. The explosion sent concrete flying, and dust and smoke filled the air. A moment later a second RPG round tore through the hole made by the first. Its explosion sent flame and more concrete spraying out.
Cross jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. “We’re under attack!”
Tiny pops sounded outside. Hayes eyed the security feeds as he pulled his M4 free. Three men in black BDUs were pressing what looked like a sticky rope along the exterior fence. It took only seconds for the entire length to be applied, then they retreated to the far side of their pickups.
The fence exploded, the sticky rope cutting through the wire as if it hadn’t even been there. An entire section of the barrier was launched forward, and landed in the parking lot several feet away.
A group of men from the second truck advanced through the hole, pressed a similar charge on the interior gate, and blew it as well. One of them jumped into the back of the pickup and pulled the bag off a machine gun. He pulled back the charging handle and swung the machine gun toward the gate.
“Oh, shit!” Hayes shouted.
He couldn’t hear the reports of the automatic weapon, but the whacks against the outside of the gatehouse were plenty audible. He knew the reinforced walls could probably take the abuse, but he flinched anyway. And when a round smacked into one of the small vertical windows, it cracked it.
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