“Mike, he somehow recognized me. God damn it!” Logan shouted.
Logan broke into a sprint ahead of Mike and the other agents, cutting across the grass to intercept the man.
The man turned back toward the exit and started to run, reaching into his waistband with his right hand as he moved.
Logan held his Kimber .45 in his right hand, angled down and pointed to the ground. He heard Mike shout at the man to freeze, identifying himself as an FBI agent. The sudden commotion caused several bystanders to stop and stare, not fully aware of the danger in their midst.
The man ran, ignoring Mike’s shout. Instead, he brought his right arm up across his chest to fire the .40-caliber Glock pistol in his right hand.
Logan sensed the move before it occurred and dropped down to one knee. He took aim at the man, slowly—at least in his mind; to the observer, the motion as he brought the Kimber pistol up to fire was lightning quick.
Crack! The loud snap of a rifle shot from a nearby building shattered the morning tranquillity at the Alamo, events no longer escalating but instead violently exploding out of control.
CHAPTER 23
Thwack!
Mike Benson heard the sniper’s bullet strike the FBI agent standing behind him. The powerful 7.62mm round drove downward at an angle and punched an exit wound just below his sternum on the right side. The bullet tore through the agent’s left lung and struck the bottom of his heart as it exited his chest. He was dead as soon as he hit the oversized stone walkway.
Panic flew through the crowd like wildfire as visitors realized what had happened. A woman screamed, and Mike heard a man yell, “Sniper! Get down!” He realized it was Logan doing the shouting, now prone on his belly after diving to the ground at the sound of the shot.
The blond man took full advantage of the diversion and ran toward the exit at a full-out sprint.
Mike watched Logan scramble to his feet to pursue him. He radioed for police and medical support for his downed agent, knowing it was already too late as he knelt next to the fallen man.
He heard one of the other agents shout, “Sir, second suspect at two o’clock!”
Mike looked up from the dead agent and saw a dark-skinned man in a red top and khakis moving quickly toward the Houston Street exit.
“Agent Reynolds, second suspect moving in your direction. Suspect wearing khakis and a dark-red top. Assume he’s armed. I say again. Assume he’s armed!”
A second shot rang out. Crack! Mike saw the bullet ricochet off the walkway near Logan, who was already on his feet and running after the first suspect.
He heard John Quick over the radio say, “Shooter is on the roof of the apartment building across the street to the south! I’m going after him!”
Mike looked at the gigantic, city block–sized apartment complex across Crockett Street, but he couldn’t see the shooter on the rooftop. He was about to respond when a series of gunshots, followed by automatic weapons fire, erupted outside on Bonham Street.
From the sound of it, he realized his agents must’ve encountered a heavily armed backup team. They were likely outgunned and in the most need of his assistance. He knew Logan and John could handle themselves.
This is turning into a goddamn nightmare.
Mike screamed at Logan across the grass and into his radio to ensure John heard it as well. “I’m heading outside through the security building up to Houston Street to assist! John—Logan—good luck! The shooter killed Agent Stansfield.”
There was a pause as he controlled the rage starting to affect his voice. “Catch these motherfuckers but try to take at least one of them alive, if possible!”
He turned and looked at the two young agents still with him. He pointed at the older of the two, hoping he had enough experience for what he was about to ask. “Parker, you’re with me. Turner, stay with Agent Stansfield’s body until the police arrive. We’re going to go help Reynolds. Radio me if anything else happens.”
Without another word, he and Agent Parker ran toward the security building behind them that led to the Houston Street exit beyond.
Jesus Christ. This is happening too fast.
* * *
Edward Rodriguez had watched the drop from the apartment building across the street. From his vantage point next to a rooftop entrance in the middle of the building, he’d covered Carlos since his boss had entered the plaza. He’d hoped this would be an uneventful exchange, especially after last night’s turn of events.
The former Army Ranger sniper appreciated smooth operations, and this one had been anything but, so far. The money was more than enough motivation for him to do whatever was needed to make this morning’s exchange a success, but he still preferred for things to go the easy way. A smooth operation ensured both his safety and financial well-being, which were the most important things to him.
Edward had watched Carlos sit down on the bench, enter the church, exit, and link up with the man at the memorial, all without the slightest hiccup. Once Carlos handed over the flag, Edward had figured the deal was concluded, and he was beginning to disassemble his Remington M24 sniper rifle to return down the stairwell to the street below.
His balloon of optimism had been deflated when he saw the small group of what were clearly government agents enter the plaza from the security building.
He’d waited, silently hoping that they hadn’t seen either Carlos or the blond man walk away from each other. Then something had happened—Edward couldn’t hear or see what it was from this distance—but it had caused the blond man to run and the agents to pursue him.
He remembered the guidance Carlos had given him: No matter what happens, this drop has to occur. The success of this entire operation rests on it. Do anything—absolutely anything—to ensure it does. Understand?
Carlos’s words echoed in his head as he drew a bead on one of the agents, exhaled, and slowly pulled the trigger, turning the quiet San Antonio morning into a modern-day O.K. Corral.
CHAPTER 24
As Logan scrambled up from the ground, he watched the blond man disappear through the pedestrian entrance to Bonham Street.
Little fucker’s fast . . .
Logan sprinted to the entrance, trying to avoid the pedestrians scattering off the sidewalk as he approached. They shied away in fear, uncertain of his intent.
Logan empathized with them and realized that in the midst of the chaos, they probably thought he was the shooter, since he was carrying a gun and dressed in civilian clothes. He knew he definitely didn’t resemble typical San Antonio law enforcement, especially since he hadn’t shaved in four days and was operating on little sleep.
He reached the entrance, leaned against the left side of the wall, and peered around the corner onto the street. He was surprised to find that just outside the wall of the Alamo, the morning’s activities appeared to be unaffected by the rapidly unfolding violence.
No one out here’s realized the sounds were gunshots. Probably thought it was construction or other sounds of the city . . .
Suddenly he heard the distinct blasts of automatic weapons fire originating from the other side of the Alamo. He knew the FBI agents on Houston Street must be engaged with more suspects.
This just gets better and better.
People on the sidewalk, moving casually moments before, stopped, confused by the sound of combat and unsure what to do next. He heard voices raised in concern, one man within earshot of Logan telling his wife, “Maybe I should call nine-one-one?”
Logan looked left and saw nothing out of the ordinary in the slowly changing scenery on Bonham Street. He turned right toward a big, stone corner building across from the Alamo. It was an old, historic hotel and, based on the activity in front of it, a busy one.
The main entrance was just north of the intersection of Crockett and Bonham. Multiple guests waited to check in, their vehicles lined up on the street, facing his direction. Logan’s eyes were drawn to one of the valets, an overweight man in his late fifties, pointing furi
ously toward the corner of the building as he spoke to a member of the hotel staff.
The man appeared to be flustered, as if he weren’t really sure what to do. The hotel staffer held up his hands, trying to reassure the valet driver.
Bingo, Logan thought and sprinted across the street.
As Logan ran in between the cars on the street, the hotel staffer noticed him and shouted at him as he ran past, “Hey! He’s got a gun!”
As the words echoed across the entrance crowded with hotel guests checking in and out, Logan heard several exclamations of surprise. A few women let out small screams.
Thanks, buddy. Way to add to the situation.
Logan screamed in his command voice—the one he’d used for insurgents and other situations that required an authoritative tone—“Get back inside! Now! It’s not safe out here!”
He rounded the corner of the building, leaving the hotel guests—including the valet driver and staff member—to scramble for the glass doors to the hotel and the safety inside.
As he turned onto Crockett Street, his blood turned to ice, and time seemed to slow down as he saw the trap his quarry had set for him.
Fast, and smart . . .
Across the street, a black Range Rover with tinted windows was idling in the eastbound lane, the rear of the SUV facing Logan. Both driver’s side doors were open. Standing next to each door was a mercenary dressed in dark clothes holding a compact submachine gun—HKs, Logan thought—aimed in his direction.
As Logan sprinted around the corner into view, both men raised their weapons and opened fire from a distance of less than fifty yards.
Even as the men pulled the triggers, Logan, having quickly registered the danger, launched himself into the air and dove toward the front bumper of a taxicab parked along the curb on his side of the street.
Speed and momentum were the only things that saved his life. As the rounds from the submachine guns tore into the body of the vehicle shielding him, he realized that if he’d turned the corner cautiously, the men would’ve easily had the drop on him. Instead, the speed of his arrival had surprised them just enough to cause a momentary pause before they opened fire.
Logan crouched near the front right tire as bullets shattered all the windows of the taxi. He heard a pop! pop! as both tires on the driver’s side of the cab were punctured by incoming rounds.
After ten seconds of fire, there was a sudden silence as both men reloaded their weapons.
Logan heard loud screams from around the corner, the nearby gunfire finally motivating the passersby to seek cover.
Told you it wasn’t safe.
Logan rolled from behind the taxi to his right as he heard the men’s magazines clatter to the street. He transitioned into a prone position, his arms up in front of him and elevated off the street.
He knew that neither man was Blondie, the one he needed to capture alive. He aimed at the man standing next to the rear door and fired three shots from the Kimber. All three rounds struck the man in the chest, and he fell backward into the backseat of the Range Rover, slumping onto the floorboards, his weapon and a fresh magazine falling from his hands.
The man near the front door reacted with the calmness of a well-trained killer. Even as Logan’s bullets struck his partner, his eyes never left Logan. In the time that it took Logan to fire his first three shots and adjust his aim, the man completed his reload, raised the weapon in Logan’s direction, and fired a short burst.
Unfortunately, his aim wasn’t as honed as his composure, and Logan fired twice as the man’s rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the pavement around him. This time he aimed for the head.
The first round struck the man in the right shoulder—Logan credited the inaccuracy to the incoming fire—but the second round was a direct hit. It shattered the bridge of the man’s nose, producing a blast of red mist in front of the man’s face before boring a hole through his skull, killing him instantly.
As the man’s body crumpled to the street, he heard a man scream from inside the Range Rover, “Go! Go! Go! I need thirty more seconds!”
I’ll bet that’s Blondie.
Logan leapt to his feet. He saw an arm emerge from the front of the vehicle, grab the handle of the door—now covered in blood—and slam it shut. The Range Rover lurched forward as the driver put the vehicle into gear. The rear tires spun momentarily, then gripped the surface, and the Range Rover shot down the street.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Logan pivoted and ran back to the hotel entrance. As he entered the valet area, he realized he was in luck, since most of the guests had now fled inside the hotel. As he scanned the cars for the right one—There! Perfect!—he heard a man behind him say, “Are you okay?”
Logan whirled on the man, the Kimber in his hands. It was the valet driver, a terrified look in his eyes.
Logan heard the trepidation in the man’s voice and replied calmly, “I’m fine. When the FBI get here—and they will—tell Agent Benson that Logan West—that’s me—is in pursuit of a black Range Rover with the blond suspect in it. Got it?”
The valet nodded vigorously and repeated, “For Agent Benson, Logan West in pursuit of black Range Rover with a blond man in it.”
Logan nodded and said, “Thanks. Now I’m going to borrow this guest’s vehicle.” And before the valet could object, Logan jumped into the open door of a metallic silver 2009 Audi A6, complete with the optional sport package and nineteen-inch tires.
He slammed the door shut, pressed the start engine button—the digital key was still in the ignition—and shifted the car into drive. Even though it was an automatic, the 350hp V8 engine propelled the sedan out of the valet area like a rocket, leaving the attendant to stare after Logan in bewilderment.
As Logan reached sixty miles per hour in less than six seconds, he prayed the Range Rover hadn’t made it far enough to escape his reach. He wasn’t finished with Blondie—not by a long shot.
* * *
As soon as John Quick had informed Mike and Logan he was pursuing the sniper, he’d sprinted down the cobblestones on Alamo Plaza Street toward the shooter’s hide site on top of the apartment building. Agent Price—a man in his late forties and starting to show it—ran behind him, trying to keep pace.
It had only been twenty seconds since the last rifle shot had echoed through the Alamo Plaza, but John knew if the shooter were in the process of disassembling his rifle, he’d be off the rooftop at any moment. He’d succeeded in creating a diversion for whatever transaction had occurred just prior to their arrival.
Someone probably got my flag. That’s what happened.
John reached the corner, where the ground turned from rough stone to smooth pavement. He crossed East Crockett Street in a direct line toward the double-door entrance in the center of the apartment building, avoiding the slowly moving traffic as the drivers reacted to the unfolding chaos.
When he reached the sidewalk, he turned back and saw Agent Price approximately thirty feet behind him.
Come on. Come on. Move!
After what seemed like an eternity, Agent Price reached him and leaned over, gasping for breath.
John turned and entered the front door, his .45 in front of him and Agent Price close behind.
The two men stood inside a foyer thirty feet long and thirty feet wide divided by two sets of marble columns. On their left, a doorman in his sixties gawked at them, his cap slightly askew as he stared at the armed men in silence.
Agent Price spoke first.
“Sir, FBI. There’s a shooter on the roof. How many stairwells are there?”
The doorman gathered his composure and responded, “There’s three here—one dead ahead past the elevators and one at each end of the corridor that runs through the front part of the building. The corridor itself is over a hundred feet long.”
“Shit!” John heard Agent Price say, but he was already thinking.
Three stairwells. One near the street—that’s no good, get cornered. The middle’s too obvious—
“Agent Price, take the middle stairwell. I’ll take the one at the left end of the corridor. The one to the right will leave him with no exit, but these two—especially the left one—will give him additional access to other parts of the building if he’s cornered. It’s what I’d do.”
Agent Price nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
He turned to the doorman and said, “Sir, get behind that desk and call nine-one-one and tell them to get police to surround this complex. Tell them Agent Price with the FBI asked you to call. Stay down until either the police arrive or you hear us coming. If you hear anyone else, don’t move. The man on the roof already shot one FBI agent this morning.”
The doorman’s face grew pale and then he crouched behind his desk, his words echoing their sentiments precisely. “Oh, God . . .”
John and Agent Price raced down the hallway and reached the center stairwell. Agent Price opened the door and looked at John, ready to speak, when John interrupted him.
“You keep the radio. Watch your ass up there. These fuckers are professionals and nasty. Trust me. Also, make some noise as you go up the stairwell so that he gets distracted and thinks it’s the only approach we’re using. And then just flush him my way. As soon as you think it’s clear for me, fire off three quick shots and get him to move toward me. Hopefully I’ll be able to flank him. Good luck.”
John nodded, turned, and sprinted down the corridor to the other end of the building, hoping they weren’t too late. The hunter in him smiled as he reached the stairwell door, pressed the bar handle in, and stepped into the shadows. He eased the door closed behind him and began to silently climb the steps, landing softly on his forefoot with each step.
I’m coming.
* * *
Mike tried to request both local and federal backup on his radio as he and Agent Parker ran into the security building through which they’d earlier entered the eastern side of the Alamo.
Overwatch: A Thriller Page 13
