Coftey’s residence
Vienna, Virginia
This is war. Coftey rolled over onto his back, his massive frame shifting restlessly against the pillows. Gazing up through the darkness of the bedroom at the ceiling, Kranemeyer’s words from hours before still playing through his mind.
There has to be a way. Find it. There had been a frightening intensity in the man’s voice, haunting echoes of the last time they had found themselves in this place—trying to protect their country from those who sought to undermine its security, to betray those who defended it.
The lengths to which they had both been forced to go. Coftey’s face twisted into a grimace, still remembering their meeting in Foxstone Park that cold December night, the look on Kranemeyer’s face sending a chill through his body. A look he hadn’t seen in a man’s eyes since Vietnam. A look he had prayed he would never see again.
“Shapiro and Haskel are dead.”
They couldn’t go down that road, he thought, shuddering despite himself. Not again.
“You’re still awake,” he heard Melody whisper, her voice suddenly breaking the stillness of the night. A statement, not a question. She knew him well.
“I’m sorry,” the senator responded, glancing over at her in the darkness. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” She raised herself up on one elbow, her form silhouetted against the dim light coming in through the window. “Is there something bothering you?”
Leave the politics on the Hill. That’s what he’d told her on their first date, taking in the symphony at the Strathmore.
Their relationship, a sanctuary from the strains and pressures that politics inflicted on everyone who chose to engage in it. They didn’t bring it home—didn’t bring it to bed. Yet all the same…
She was the only one he could trust.
“The NSA bill,” Coftey responded finally, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he leaned back into the pillows. “It has to be stopped. Somehow.”
He ran a hand across his chin, his mind still churning. “But the leadership, they’re tying my hands. The meeting with Fuentes—she made their position clear. If I obstruct the bill, I’m gone. The chairmanship, everything.”
Everything I’ve spent three decades achieving. Three decades, clawing through the muck of the D.C. swamp. Surviving. Accumulating power. Gone. But what was any of it worth, if he couldn’t stop this? “And yet, I can’t just stand aside.”
It was a moment before she replied as she rolled over onto her side, her warm body pressed against his in the darkness—her hand gently caressing his arm. “Why does it have to be you?”
“Because there’s no one else,” he responded, his face grim. The same reason he had gone to Vietnam. The same answer as it always was. Age-old and unchanging. “But even so, I can’t see a means of doing so. The Republicans may not have a majority in the Senate, but with Fuentes and the leadership determined to give them this…seems like the only way out would be to convince the Republicans that they don’t want it. But how?”
“You should try to get some sleep.”
He shook his head, scarce hearing her—still lost in his own thoughts. “There are security hawks in the GOP, even in their leadership. But you’d have to have something they wanted bad enough to go up against their own POTUS, as improbable as that…wait.”
Her hand stopped. “What?”
“What did I say?” he asked, the realization flooding over him like a tidal wave as he sat up in bed, reaching over to turn on the lamp. “What did I just say?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“The Republicans tried to take a majority in the Senate last November,” Coftey replied—his words coming quickly, his face animated as he looked at her—her blonde hair still tousled from sleep, her eyes betraying confusion. “They failed, they fell short. But by how much?”
“A single seat, of course. What are you saying?”
“That’s right,” he said as he pushed aside the covers, rising to his feet. A smile creasing his face as he looked down on her. “That’s exactly right. A single seat.”
She laid there until she heard the bathroom door close behind him, heard the water come on in the shower. Her mind racing through what he had just told her. The implications.
And he would do it, of that much she was certain. She might not have loved him, but after six months of sharing his bed, she knew Roy Coftey in more ways than one. Well enough to know that he wasn’t the kind of man who was going to back down.
Melody pushed away the covers, brushing her hair back from her eyes as she reached out to where her phone lay charging on the nightstand.
Her fingers quickly swiping across the unlock screen, chewing her lip slowly as she tapped in a number from memory, beginning to compose a text.
We need to meet. As soon as possible.
6:47 A.M.
The council estate
Seacroft, West Yorkshire
Thirteen minutes. Harry tucked the half-eaten bar of chocolate back into the pocket of his shirt, gazing out over the council estate into the morning sun, its rays striking him full in the face. He’d known so many mornings just like this over the years…full of peace and stillness. Waiting for a rifle shot to split the dawn.
Thirteen minutes and then this would all be over. Over and done with. Behind him.
It didn’t feel like he had imagined. No anticipation. No joy. No anger.
Just nothing. Emptiness, a void rising within him. Ismail Besimi’s words circling around and around in his head. “Those who seek to take that which belongs to the Lord of worlds…do so at their peril.”
But this was justice.
He lifted the heavy sniper rifle in both hands, once more unfolding each leg of the bipod so that it rested upon the parapet of the tower block—its long black barrel aiming down into the street below.
The stock of the rifle came up, nestled against his cheek as he reached forward, the fingers of his right hand finding the bolt—working it back and then forward again, bringing a round into the breach.
Ten minutes.
6:54 A.M.
Seacroft Bus Station
Seacroft, West Yorkshire
“Echo Lead, he’s getting off the bus. You should have eyes-on any moment.”
And sure enough, Thomas Parker thought, his eyes scanning the people emerging from the open door of the bus…there he was. “Solid copy, Zulu. I have a visual on CERBERUS, taking advance position.”
“Tailing” from in front was ever a challenging proposition, but he’d done it before. And with the benefit of modern technology…
His radio crackled with static once more, the British officer’s voice announcing, “Standing by to launch Raven-4.”
You’re welcome, he thought, smiling briefly to himself as he turned, walking on toward road leading into the council estate. The CIA team had brought the man-portable UAV with them from Grosvenor Square, one of several the Marines used for perimeter security at the Embassy.
He glanced back and over to the right, catching sight of another one of the British officers—a middle-aged woman who looked like a social worker. Maintaining a loose following position on the Shaikh.
Another few moments, and they were going to have eyes in the sky.
6:57 A.M.
It was a beautiful morning, the sun streaming through the clouds from the east to warm his face as he walked down the road curving into the council estate, moving past red-brick buildings worn by the years.
Tarik lifted a hand to stroke his beard and smiled. Even after a shower, the smell of her perfume was still on him. The feel of the whore’s body against his lingering in the forefront of his memory.
She had left after he’d paid her and he had watched her go—knowing that he would never see her again. Not after the destruction which was about to rain down on this country. The judgement of God.
Judgment that he had been chosen to deliver, back behind the chainlink and barbed wire of Camp X-Ray.<
br />
He lifted his face to the horizon, finding the pair of smaller tower blocks in the distance that served as his destination.
Where a pair of brave shahid prepared to meet their deaths.
6:58 A.M.
“He’s turned down Bailey’s Hill,” Darren announced, comparing the map overlay in the van to the live feed streaming in from the UAV, hovering at an altitude of nearly fifty meters over the council estate. A noiseless, almost ghostly presence. “Still moving west-southwest. Echo Lead, maintain your current heading. Victor One and Two, assume eyes on, take over pursuit.”
“And my men?” a voice asked from behind him, and Darren looked back to see the SO-15 commander standing there.
“All in due time, Inspector Howlett,” he responded icily. “This is still the Security Service’s operation. And will remain so until we have confirmed the location of the second cell.”
The police officer shook his head. “If my men are to play any role at all in this, they need to start moving into their positions now.”
“Look,” Darren replied, using his pen as a pointer as he gestured to the map overlay, pointing out the towering council blocks. “Here, here, here—and here. The Shaikh could have sympathizers, allies anywhere. If one of them is on one of these upper floors, they have command of the whole estate. They see Special Branch moving in, he’s going to rabbit before any of us can stop him.”
6:59 A.M.
There he is. Harry picked out the figure of Tarik Abdul Muhammad in the Accuracy International’s scope as he turned into the crossroad, occasionally disappearing between buildings. Two hundred meters.
The man was playing it cautious, working his way toward the tower blocks on an indirect route. The way he would have done it. Only a fool came straight in.
It was going to cost time, but none of it was going to make a difference in the end, Harry thought, spotting him again as he came out on the other side of the building—his form easily recognizable despite the rest of the foot traffic through the estate. A tall, almost regal figure.
About to be laid low. At last.
Was this the way it had felt to be up on the roof of the Caesar’s Palace that night in Vegas? Aiming down at the sea of first responders and survivors emerging from the entrance of the Bellagio. Picking out one.
Carol. He felt anger surge within his heart, seeing her face before him once more. She had stayed behind…trying to ensure that he got out before the bombs blew—the scent of camphor in the air as soman nerve gas began to fill the casino.
Her voice, desperately earnest. “And you thought I was going to leave you?”
If she only had, she’d have lived. Her life for his.
“You can’t bring her back to you, no matter what you do…no matter whom you kill.” The reproach in Ismail Besimi’s eyes as he’d spoken the words. And now he was dead too, cut down by his own compassion.
Mercy had no place in this world.
7:02 A.M.
There. Jawid rubbed sweaty palms against the legs of his uniform slacks, trying to calm his nerves. He’d had to take a break from it for an hour, but now he was cutting it close.
The plan was for both of them to strike at the crowded bistro where they worked as waiters. The height of lunch hour—his roommate detonating his vest in the middle of the restaurant—then he would hit the first responders as they arrived. Maximum carnage.
Double-tap.
“You about done with those, bruv?” his roommate asked, grunting as he rose from the grungy carpet where he had been doing sit-ups, his feet tucked under the sofa.
“Almost,” Jawid breathed, glancing nervously at the dimmed screen of the tablet, its battery now running low but still displaying the diagrams. All that remained was to connect the detonator switch.
If everything was wired properly, this should be easy. If he hadn’t—he dismissed that thought with a shudder. He had.
Insh’allah.
7:05 A.M.
“Come on in,” Harry whispered, the buttstock of the sniper rifle tight against his shoulder—the figure of Tarik Abdul Muhammad centered in the firing reticle, high on the chest. Nearly every hair of his beard revealed in the high magnification of the scope.
He was out in the open now, coming down the street at the foot of the hill as he came back in toward the tower blocks. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Just a few cars and the open street.
Trees beyond—out of reach. He could put three shots in him in the time it took a man to run that far. And it wasn’t going to take three shots.
“’Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ saith the Lord.” An admonition as old as time itself. Harry shook his head, calculating for the breeze—a gentle crosswind. The drop of the bullet, almost nonexistent at this short range.
“For the blood of man,” he breathed, nestling his cheek against the cool polymer of the stock, “shall man’s blood be shed.”
He took a deep breath and held it—his gloved finger curling gently around the rifle’s match trigger. A lover’s caress.
The explosion came without warning, ripping the morning air asunder, reverberating across the council estate. A fireball bursting from the fifth floor of the T-shaped tower block to the west. Blowing out the eastern wing of the “T” in a blossoming pall of debris and smoke.
Startled, Harry’s eyes came up, off the rifle, his finger jerking the trigger back in a rough, reflexive movement—the Accuracy International’s stock delivering a punishing blow as it recoiled into his shoulder.
The unmistakable supersonic crack of a rifle shot ringing out in the moment of deathly silence following the explosion.
A miss. He knew without even checking the scope. The sickening realization hitting him like a punch in the stomach. Not even close.
7:07 A.M.
Sniper. That was the first thought through Thomas’s mind, lying flat on the asphalt of the road running under the shadow of the tallest tower. There was no mistaking that sound for anything else in the world, even coming as it did in the wake of an explosion.
A burst of static came through his earpiece, along with Roth’s voice. Urgent, but even. Unflappably calm. “Echo Lead, Victor Element—we just lost the UAV—what in God’s name is happening out there?”
Nichols. That thought came following close on the heels of the first, as it had been ever-present in his mind ever since the attack on the MI-5 surveillance van. The inescapable belief that his former team lead was here, in this country—seeking vengeance for Carol Chambers’ death.
This had his name written all over it.
“It’s like a sodding bomb went off,” came the voice of the British officer known as “Victor Lead.” His tone that of a man stunned, well-nigh struck dumb. Would Harry have gone that far?
Thomas glimpsed the form of the Shaikh slipping behind a parked vehicle, debris from the explosion still raining down over the street—saw Victor Element closing in, the four British field officers taking cover themselves even as a second shot lashed the dawn. But where was it coming from?
The roof of the tower. His mind supplied the answer almost as quick as he asked it, rolling onto his back to stare up at the looming council block above him. It was the vantage point he would have chosen—the one Nichols would have gone for, almost certainly.
“We’ve got CERBERUS making a run for it,” he exclaimed, toggling his mike in response to Roth’s query. “And someone’s doing their best to kill him. Send in Special Branch—send in Special Branch right now!”
He didn’t wait for a response from the command van, grimacing as he thrust himself to his feet—deliberately muting his earpiece as he measured the distance between his position and the ground-floor entrance to the tower block.
Time to boogie.
7:08 A.M.
The Security Service. Harry hammered the palm of his hand against the concrete of the parapet, swearing at himself in frustration as he watched the officers take shelter. Sweeping the street with the scope, trying to find Tarik once m
ore. A fool’s errand.
He had known there would be a police response—had known he’d only have time to take the shot and move immediately to E&E. He hadn’t anticipated Five being right on the Shaikh’s heels. Shadowing him.
How could he have missed it? The signs, so painfully obvious, that his target was himself under surveillance.
Tunnel vision. His grief, his thirst for revenge blinding him to what was right before his eyes. Right there.
The Accuracy International swiveled on its bipod, its long muzzle traversing slowly as he endeavored to pick out his target amidst the smoke and debris from the tower block, trying to slow his breathing—to calm down—his hands sweating despite the chill of the morning air.
Go now, his mind screamed, every instinct that had kept him alive across fifteen years warning him to leave.
Before it was too late.
No. He had come so far, there was no going back now. He glimpsed a figure, movement in the haze near where Tarik had disappeared. Target.
He pulled the stock of the rifle snug against his shoulder, his finger slipping inside the trigger guard. Goodbye…
The next moment, the form of a middle-aged woman emerged from the smoke before his eyes, staggering—her clothing torn and bloodied.
His reticle centering on her face, almost perfectly between her eyes. My God.
He found his hands trembling suddenly as if seized with malaria, his face ashen as he realized what he had almost done.
The life he had so nearly taken. A nameless fear overwhelming him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed a Special Branch team moving in from the road to the northwest in full tactical gear, weapons shouldered.
He straightened, laying the rifle aside—taking one final long look down toward the burning building, the spot where Tarik Abdul Muhammad had disappeared.
Dark disappointment twisting inside him, along with a grim realization.
If he was going to get out at all, it would have to be now.
7:09 A.M.
The command van
“Echo Lead, what is your sitrep? I say again, what is your sitrep?” Nothing but static filled the comms net, the uncanny silence gnawing at Darren. The American had just completely fallen off the grid. Vanished.
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 50
