Dean Smith, the on-duty shift lead, came over the radio. “Control to all security units, we are being attacked! This is not a drill. This is a Condition One threat, engage targets as you see them. This is not a drill.”
On the displays, Hayes watched in horror as another RPG streaked through the air and slammed into one of the two cargo entrances on the front of the building. The black rollup door all but disintegrated as the round exploded, tearing through metal and concrete. A moment later a second RPG hit the next door, turning it into so much twisted metal and rubble.
Holding his M4 in one hand, Hayes snatched the radio off the desk. “Alpha Gate to Control, we’re under attack!”
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Cross said, grabbing his M4 from the rack. “I can’t believe this. Someone call 911!”
Another bullet slammed into the window, and the crack lengthened. Several camera feeds began to blink out, either turning to static or just disappearing altogether.
“Control to Alpha Gate, what’s your status?” Smith asked.
“What the hell does he think our status is?” Cross asked, flinching as more bullets slammed into the outside of their small, detached building. He pulled a magazine from his tactical vest, hanging on a hook next to the desk, and fumbled with it, trying to force it into his rifle backwards.
Hayes took the magazine from his partner, turned it, and rammed it in, then grabbed one for himself and charged his weapon. “We’re receiving small-arms fire from the north,” he responded. “Two groups of hostiles are through the interior fence now at Section One.”
“Oh crap, they’re through,” Cross said, his voice cracking from panic. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“Shut up!” Hayes shouted. “Control, did you copy? They’ve made it through the interior fence.”
“Yes, I—oh, shit, Hayes, look out! Incoming!”
Hayes saw the smoke trail on the monitor a half second before the RPG slammed into the gatehouse. The blast threw them both back. Hayes fell into the weapons rack and dropped to the floor, ears ringing. Smoke filled the small space, and a high-pitched ringing reverberated in his ears, drowning out everything else.
He looked around for Cross, and spotted him face down on the floor. Forgetting everything else, Hayes rolled him onto his side. Blood streamed down Cross’s face from a gash on his forehead, but his eyes were open, and he was breathing.
Hayes pulled his partner to his feet, looking for his weapon at the same time. He didn’t hear the second RPG whistling through the air.
It sailed through the hole the first one created and exploded.
Chapter Forty-One
Connor leaned against the front of the Tahoe, watching the explosive ordnance disposal team as they wrapped up their examination of the truck. The area around the semi had been cleared for almost an entire block while the EOD team went through the painfully long process of clearing the trailer. Connor had worked with several of these explosives teams over the years, and they all had one thing in common: they were never in a hurry.
The stillness of the city around them made the scene that much more intense. It was like they’d become the stars of their own post-apocalyptic movie, where the entire world had gone dark and they were the only survivors. Connor kept expecting packs of wild zombies to come racing around the corner of the building, snarling and screaming.
“Told you they weren’t going to find anything,” Connor said to Thompson, who stood next to him, arms crossed, also watching.
“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry, right?” Thompson checked his phone again, then shook his head. “Can you believe this?” He held up the cell phone, pointing to the screen. “Still no signal.”
Connor couldn’t help but grin. “It’s truly the end of days.”
“You got that right.” Thompson looked back over his shoulder. “I do kind of feel bad for the guy. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time.”
A group of military investigators and FBI agents were still questioning the driver. They’d been grilling him for the better part of twenty minutes and had all gotten the same information as before. He was just a regular guy, trying to deliver his load without getting arrested for being slightly over the legal amount of hours he’s allowed to drive in a day.
“I don’t—” Connor started, then stopped short as a Black Hawk helicopter appeared over one of the short buildings, breaking the eerie silence. It rotated above the pavement and set down a hundred meters north of the truck, rocking slightly on its landing gear as the engines pitched down. The side cargo compartment doors slid back, and eight men in multicam fatigues climbed out. They were all armed with M4s, body armor, and helmets with radio headsets and throat mics. None of their uniforms had markings.
Two of the soldiers moved toward Thompson and Connor. Connor recognized the lead soldier as one of the men who’d helped him and Annie at the warehouse with Wagner. The other soldiers remained near the Black Hawk, obviously looking for threats.
“What’s happened?” Thompson asked.
The lead soldier scanned their surroundings, obviously ensuring no one else was within earshot, then leaned close and spoke in low tones. “Someone’s attacking the West Point Mint. Twenty heavily armed suspects, military types with RPGs and high-caliber automatic weaponry. It should be coming through the wire here pretty shortly.”
Thompson spared the group of FBI agents and military officers a quick glance, then nodded toward the Black Hawk. “Then we don’t have any time to waste. This place is locked down tighter than a drum. Let’s go.”
Connor pulled himself into the Black Hawk’s passenger compartment and found a seat near the center of the compartment. He secured his harness while the rest of the team filed in. The engines began spinning up before the last man was seated, and they were lifting off before they’d even completely closed the doors.
“What’s wrong?” Thompson asked, leaning forward in his seat across from Connor.
Connor’s jaw was clenched. “I hate flying in these things.”
Thompson waved a dismissive hand at him. “It’ll be fine. These guys are pros.”
Thompson grabbed a headset hanging from a clip above him and slipped it on, then motioned for Connor to do the same. The headphones muffled the roar of the engines and rotor blades, and when Thompson spoke, his voice came through with a slightly mechanical tone. “How far till we get signal?”
“About ten miles,” the pilot responded. “Damn power outage hit all of Manhattan and most of the surrounding boroughs. Cell towers are down on the island.”
“I’m going to want a connection to the Bunker as soon as we’re clear.”
“Copy that.”
Thompson gave Connor a wave, then jabbed a thumb at the lead soldier who’d brought them aboard. “Connor Sloane, this is Chris Jenkins. He runs one of our tac teams. Connor is a former SF turned spook turned greenhorn for us.”
Jenkins extended his hand. “You’re the missing nuke guy, eh?”
Connor grinned, shaking the offered hand. “That’s the rumor.”
“I hear you handle yourself fairly well.”
Connor wondered who would have described him that way. The only person that had seen him truly operate had been Annie. “Eight years, First Battalion, Third Special Forces. I hope ‘fairly well’ is a compliment.”
Jenkins nodded. “Ten years, Third Battalion of the Tenth. When Annie says something positive about a person’s operational skills, they’re significantly above par. Just don’t tell her I said anything. Trust me, if there’s anything you don’t want to see, it’s a pissed-off Black Widow. She’s the type to leave scorpions in your bedsheets.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Connor said, turning to Thompson. “Why do you call her the Black Widow?”
Thompson chuckled. “Because she’s known for killing everyone she comes in contact with.”
“Didn’t you guys train her to do precisely that?”
Thompson shook
his head. “She earned that nickname long before she joined our team. And Jenkins is right, you don’t want to cross her. She takes things personal… a personality flaw that is just part of her DNA.”
The pilot’s voice came over the comms. “We’re through to the Bunker, boss. Patching the signal to you now.”
A second later Brice’s voice came through. “I hear you guys stopped a highly suspicious truck driver. Did you give him a strip search as well?”
“Not now, Martin,” Thompson said. “What’s going on at West Point?”
“Whoever they are, they’re highly organized. They took out the two main security stations within the first two minutes and were inside the main building within five. Local police are responding, but they don’t have the firepower to take on these guys. These guys just landed a chopper and have one hovering, taking shots at any law enforcement vehicle that shows up.”
“How many other teams are you moving to assist?”
“That’s what I needed to talk to you about. I was about to send all of them, but then we got a report from the Virginia State Police. A semi just busted through one of their toll plazas heading toward DC. One of the security cameras grabbed an image of the driver.”
“And?”
A chill raced up Connor’s spine. He already knew the answer.
“It’s Hakimi,” Brice said, confirming Connor’s worst fears.
“He was never going to nuke New York,” Connor said. “He’s going to flatten Washington, DC.”
“Where’s Annie?” Thompson asked.
“Where do you think?”
Chapter Forty-Two
Annie twisted the throttle back, rocketing the motorcycle forward, splitting traffic. Horns blared at her as she passed, but she ignored them. If Annie had been driving, she might have flipped them off. She didn’t have the time or energy for that kind of nonsense.
“Where is he now?” she asked, zipping around another truck, changing lanes. She’d turned off the navigation feature on her glasses. At these speeds she didn’t need any visual distractions.
“Take a right and go west on Highway 50,” Brice answered. “You’ll hit 66 in another two miles. After that—”
“One at a time,” Annie said. Too many directions at one time quickly became confusing, if not downright distracting. “How far am I?”
“Ten miles back, but you’re gaining ground. You’ll catch him, as long as…” Brice trailed off.
“As long as what?”
Brice hesitated.
“Spill it!”
“Well, as long as… you don’t die from driving too recklessly.”
Out of everyone at the Outfit, Brice had always been the most outspoken about Annie’s safety. None of the others ever seemed to want to approach that particular subject with her. She understood why: they didn’t want to get on her bad side. She’d spent her life proving she could handle any situation, and when she felt someone was treating her like a woman—that is, as somehow fragile or needing protection—she immediately lashed out. Even when that someone was on her side.
Brice was the exception. For some reason, it didn’t piss her off when he showed he cared for her safety. The pudgy middle-aged white guy had gotten through a chink in her armor. She knew he was sweet on her; that didn’t bother her either. And if it ever came to it, she probably wouldn’t even want to kill him after a late-night romp.
Probably.
“Well, if I do die, then you better tell them to hurry the hell up,” she said. “This asshole’s not going to stop for flashing red-and-blue lights.”
“I’d really prefer we just avoid that outcome. You’re riding like a bat out of hell. Anyway, the choppers are inbound, and they’re going to pick you up just past the I-66 changeover.”
Annie grinned as she swerved around another car, veered around a minivan, hugged the shoulder, then merged back. Highway 50 stretched out straight in front of her, three lanes of traffic, not quite bumper-to-bumper, but close. This was the only time in her life she’d ever been thankful for rush hour. On her motorcycle, she could weave through the stalled traffic with relative ease, yet Hakimi wouldn’t be able to do the same, not with his big semi.
“How’s I-66 look?” she asked. “It’s got to be packed.”
“It’s not that bad right now. Hakimi’s just now passing the Dulles Toll Road.”
She opened up the throttle.
Two minutes later she merged onto Interstate 66, crossed over to the inside lane, and accelerated hard. The bike’s front end lifted slightly at the sudden burst of speed. She pressed her knees into the gas tank, hugging the frame, and pushed the bike past a hundred.
The Outfit’s Black Hawk was already flaring for land half a mile ahead, gently encouraging traffic to stop as it lowered to the pavement.
“Someone’s definitely going to hear about this later,” Annie said. She pulled to a stop on the shoulder, kicked the stand down, and rushed to the waiting bird, crouching over against the rotor’s downdraft.
Sam Tripolski opened the door from the inside and hopped out. She pulled off her helmet and glared at him. “You get one scratch on that thing and I’m going to kick your ass.”
Tripolski looked hurt. “Hey, I’m an excellent driver.”
She tossed him the keys. “No fucking scratches, you hear me? I’ll know.”
He laughed. “I’ll try.”
She climbed in, and the pilot increased power and lifted off the street before she’d shut the door all the way. She pulled on one of the headsets. “You there, Brice?”
“He’s just passing Nutley. You should see him in another minute or so.”
The Black Hawk stayed low, not exactly following the road, but close. A hundred feet in the air sounded high when you were standing on the ground, but from the air, she felt like she could reach out and touch all the cars below. She even met the eyes of several passengers, looking up as they passed overhead. Low-flying helicopters weren’t outside the normal for this town, especially with all the VIPs coming and going on a daily basis, but one hugging the road at almost arm’s reach was uncommon. Especially a helicopter loaded up for war.
She caught her first glimpse of the truck just as they passed over 495. Its dirty gray trailer was plain and unmarked. “I got it. Center lane, about a mile ahead.”
“That’s it,” Brice said.
“I see it too,” the pilot confirmed.
“Now comes the hard part,” she muttered.
“What’s that?”
“How the hell do I stop him?”
“Can’t you just shoot him in the head?”
Annie laughed. “Yeah, I could do that, but what if he’s got a dead man’s switch connected to the bomb? Then we’re all screwed. It’s the same reason we can’t just have this hover bird just take out the cabin. No, I’m going to need to disarm it or disable it somehow. You got a How to Defuse a Nuclear Bomb for Dummies lying around somewhere?”
“Uhhh, no, I must have misplaced my copy. But if you can get me eyes on, I should be able to come up with something. I’ve studied the design of that bomb, but I assume they’ve put together a new assembly and triggering mechanism. So I’ll need to see what Hakimi’s guys did to it.”
“Get eyes on?” Annie asked. “It’s in the back of a damn tractor-trailer. I’ve got to get inside it first.”
“There’s a kit under your seat. You should be able to find everything you need in there.”
Annie pulled the case from under her and opened the lid. Inside was a rope, a tool kit, and a hand torch. “You think this little torch will be strong enough to cut through?” she asked.
“Trust me, it’ll work. And be sure to take the tool kit, too. We’ll need it.”
She tucked the kit and the torch inside her jacket, grabbed the coil of rope, and closed the case. “Where the hell is the rookie for all of this? It really should be him doing this crap.”
“He’s got his hands full at the moment.”
“Right.” She mov
ed to the door, pulling on gloves, then hesitated, her fingers around the handle, looking out at the closing semi. “This is a horrible idea.”
A torrent of wind blasted her as she pulled open the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” the pilot shouted, looking back over his shoulder.
She leaned out of the side of the chopper, the downdraft from the rotors roaring in her ears. “Get me lower. Right above the truck.”
“Are you crazy?”
I’m not, Annie thought as the trailer grew closer, but the Black Widow is.
She tied one end of the rope to the anchor mounted to the fuselage above the doorway, yanking hard to ensure it would hold. The semi was now only about twenty feet below them, and it felt like they were flying along at mach nine.
Annie put her legs over the side and scooted up to the edge, holding tightly to the rope. “This is so stupid.”
She shuffled forward out of the chopper and swung free, the rope whipping around below her. Her arms burned as she worked her way down the rope, not wanting to slide for fear of burning through her gloves and destroying her palms. She’d seen that happen before, and she was terrified of something damaging her hands. Her hands were her tools.
She swayed in the air, looking back at the traffic slowing down behind them. The chopper was hovering steadily, and the noise of the rotors wasn’t nearly as loud as she expected. Maybe some kind of stealth mode this Black Hawk employed she didn’t know anything about.
She tried to focus. She needed to get down quickly, before Hakimi realized what was happening. With her eyes locked on the trailer, she mentally calculated her sway, distance from the trailer, and rate of descent.
She swung out too far, then back again.
It wouldn’t do any good to yell at the pilot. He wouldn’t be able to hear her anyway.
She swung back again and descended hand over hand until she was about six feet off the trailer. Then she let go.
Patriot Page 23
