24 Hours: A Kirk McGarvey Novella

by David Hagberg

  “It’s being prepped.”

  “Light a fire under them,” McGarvey said. He pocketed the phone, and getting out of the car, he held the pistol low against his right side and went into the restaurant.

  A couple was eating their burgers at one of the tables, while a kid was at the counter placing his order. McGarvey went around the end of the counter, and the older Hispanic woman taking the kid’s order looked up in alarm.

  “You can’t back here.”

  “Tell everyone to get down on the floor. Right now.”

  He went through the kitchen and at the back door raised his pistol as he eased outside.

  Two Dumpsters were off to the right, and a dark blue Toyota SUV was parked on the side toward the motel where two windowless vans—one of them the white Ford Otto had tracked here—were pulled up at the rear exit.

  Two men in dark jackets and watch caps stood next to the SUV, looking up at the sky. One of them was talking into a cell phone.

  McGarvey waited for the man to put the phone down when the other one turned suddenly and began shouting something in Arabic.

  Hour 23

  McGarvey raced to the right while firing two snap shots, both of them hitting the man with the cell phone.

  The second one dropped to a knee and began firing measured shots, all of them missing until Mac was behind the Dumpster, the last two rounds pinging off the metal.

  Six rounds, at least, if his count was right.

  He took a quick look around the edge of the Dumpster and got off two shots, but the terrorist fired four more times as he sprinted for the safety of one of the vans.

  The man with the cell phone was down, and the second guy had already fired ten shots out of twelve or even fifteen if his pistol was equipped with an extended-capacity magazine.

  Mac chanced a second look. The guy was behind the van but not firing. Reloading.

  The distance was less than twenty feet.

  Everyone inside the hotel had heard the gunfire and would be prepared to fight their way out. But almost certainly someone in the McDonald’s had heard it too and was calling the cops.

  McGarvey came around the Dumpster and headed in a dead run directly toward the nearest van, firing twice.

  The terrorist was bringing his pistol up when McGarvey batted his gun away, sending it bouncing off the van, and he slammed into the man’s chest, knocking him back.

  “How many people in the motel with the president’s daughter?”

  The man had a four- or five-day growth of whiskers on his long, narrow face. His eyes were wide, but he didn’t seem frightened, only determined.

  McGarvey jammed the butt of his now-empty pistol into the man’s cheek. “I don’t have time to fuck with you. How many men inside?”

  The guy shook his head. “I can count too,” he said, and he dropped to his knees and scrambled for his pistol on the pavement.

  McGarvey stuck his pistol in his belt and reached the guy in two steps. Grabbing the man’s head in both hands, he jammed a knee into the small of the bastard’s back and pulled back and to the left, breaking the terrorist’s neck.

  McGarvey took a quick look around the edge of the van toward the rear door of the motel as he ejected the spent magazine from the Walther, seated his only spare into the handle, and recharged the gun.

  Nothing moved, and there was enough light spilling across the parking lot from the Shell station for him to see that the rear door was not open. He sprinted to the downed terrorist with the cell phone, which he pocketed, and then took the dead man’s pistol, which was a 9mm Beretta 92F still used by a lot of American military personnel.

  Glancing up to make sure no one was coming from the motel, Mac ejected the fifteen-round magazine. It was full, as was the spare in the man’s left jacket pocket. He looked over his shoulder as the woman from behind the counter came out of the McDonald’s, and he waved her back. In the very far distance, he thought he could hear a siren. Possibly more than one. A couple of miles away at least.

  “Shit,” he swore under his breath. What he didn’t need now was for the cops to show up. Dorothy’s kidnappers wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they thought they were surrounded, and there was no way out for them. At least no way out on their terms. They wanted to turn killing her into a statement for everyone to see. Just like bringing down the buildings on 9/11. Here would be too private.

  The gunfight had lasted less than fifteen seconds, but it was plenty of time for someone to come to one of the windows in the motel and take a bead on him. But he couldn’t think like that. He didn’t have the luxury of time.

  He eased around the van and held up at the rear door for a second. He tried the handle. It was not locked. The two guys at the vans were lookouts, while however many reinforcements who’d shown up went inside. He had no idea how many he’d be facing or what condition the president’s daughter was in.

  He slipped inside. The only light came from the main corridor that led to the lobby in front. An elevator was to the left, and two bodies were lying on the floor just outside the stairwell door.

  Mac went to them, all his senses hyperalert now for any noise, any smell, anything out of place. An anomaly. But the motel was silent.

  One of them was a woman, the other a young man, neither of them much older than their teens. They had been shot in the head at close range.

  But to the left, well away from their bodies, was another patch of what looked like blood on the worn carpet.

  He dipped a finger into the patch. It was partially congealed and still slightly warm. Whatever happened here had happened an hour ago, maybe a little longer.

  Opening the stairwell door, he was in time to hear a woman shout something. In English, maybe. Someone came to the head of the stairs and said something definitely in Arabic. At least one person, possibly more, started down the stairs, when the phone McGarvey had taken from the dead lookout suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He stepped back out of the stairwell and eased the door closed, trying to make as little noise as possible.

  The phone in his pocket buzzed again.

  He figured that they were leaving the motel now, and his only chance to avoid a disaster was to separate the president’s daughter from her captors and get her out of the line of fire before they could kill her.

  * * *

  Fathi held up a hand for silence. He stood at the head of the rear stairwell, Riham, Asil, and Yaman right behind him, and the four soldiers who’d shown up a little while ago with the president’s daughter in the corridor.

  Someone had been in the stairwell below and had closed the door, trying to make no noise, but the sound of the latch had magnified off the bare concrete walls and floor. The person was gone now, waiting in the corridor. It was why the men standing guard outside had not answered the phone.

  He turned and motioned for one of the soldiers, who came to him.

  “We have company," he whispered in Arabic. “Downstairs in the corridor.”

  “How many?” the man asked. He had come in from Syria with the others several months ago as part of a refugee resettlement project. But he’d cleaned up, as had the others, so that he looked like any other American, except for his English, which still held a strong accent.

  “One for sure, but probably more, Take one of your people down the east stairwell and out to the vans. We’ll catch him in a cross fire. But make absolutely no noise.”

  “Help!” Dot screamed at the top of her lungs.

  One of the other soldiers clamped a hand on her mouth.

  * * *

  It was the president’s daughter. There was no doubt of it in McGarvey’s mind. Her kidnappers knew that someone was here.

  He sprinted down the corridor and out the back door, where he held up for just a moment. No doubt someone would be coming out of the motel from the east side, hoping to catch him between two lines of fire. But if he could even the odds and they realized that they were in trouble, they might kill the girl and make their stand here. The sirens
were already getting too close.

  One hour. They were running out of time. He figured he had only one chance left to save her. And it was a long shot.

  He sprinted back to the McDonald’s as he got on his phone to Otto, who answered on the first ring.

  “The drone is fifteen minutes out.”

  “Send it to Saint John’s Church, across from the White House. And call off the cops heading this way.”

  “Then what?”

  “Call the media. Tell them that the president’s daughter will be showing up at the fence on Lafayette Square.”

  Two people came around from the east side of the motel. From where McGarvey stood behind the Dumpster, he could see that they were armed. They checked the inside of the vans and the two downed men, then one of them went to the rear exit while the other looked in McGarvey’s direction.

  Moments later, four people emerged from the motel, one of them the president’s daughter, and even from here, Mac could see that she was wearing a bulky vest. They were getting into the white Ford van as Mac went back through the restaurant to his car and peeled out.

  Hour 24

  McGarvey crossed the river on the Roosevelt Bridge, his speed topping one hundred miles per hour at times. What he had in mind would not work unless he got to the White House fence first.

  Otto called. “The drone’s tracking them. Two vans, including the white Ford plus a Toyota SUV about a mile from the turn south in Rosslyn. Five or six minutes behind you, tops. Besides the three drivers, I’m counting the heat signatures of at least five other people.”

  “One of them is the president’s daughter,” McGarvey said. “And she’s wearing what I’m taking to be an explosive vest.”

  “They wouldn’t have put it on a timer, nor would they expect the girl to trigger it herself, so they’ve rigged an electronic trigger. I’m betting from the same cell phone they’ve used all along.”

  “Can you jam it?”

  “It’ll be encrypted, and my darlings are still working on it.”

  “Light another fire.”

  “I’ll link to our mainframe. It’ll shut down the watch and just about everything else on campus, including security, but I should have it soon.”

  McGarvey raced down Constitution Avenue, traffic very light at this hour, and slowed down only to make the turn on Seventeenth Street NW before speeding up.

  * * *

  Riham and two of the men were riding in back of the Ford van with Dorothy. Fathi joined them as they crossed the river.

  “You want to go home to see your father?” he said. “You’re going to get your wish.”

  “I don’t think you want to know what my wish is, you son of a bitch,” Dot said. They had taped her hands together behind her back. Her fingers were numb, and she didn’t think that she’d ever felt worse in her life.

  “You’re not going to make an exchange for her,” Riham said. “Once they get the girl, we wouldn’t get ten meters.”

  Fathi smiled. “You’ll see,” he said.

  * * *

  A CNBC remote van was already parked in front of the fence when McGarvey showed up and parked behind it. The side door was open, and a cameraman was setting up, focusing on the White House as a pretty blond woman was getting out of the front seat of the van. Two other remote units came around the corner at high speed. Sharpshooters appeared in silhouette on the White House roof.

  Otto called as McGarvey got out of his car. “They’re across the Roosevelt Bridge. You only have two or three minutes to set up.”

  “Have you got the algorithm?”

  “Close.”

  “There’re marksmen on the White House roof. Call Bernstein and have them stand down.”

  “I’m on it. In the meantime, you have at least four other TV vans heading your way, plus at least a half dozen what I’m taking to be print media staff cars. You’re going to be in the middle of a three-ring circus.”

  “I’m counting on it,” McGarvey said, reaching the blonde. He showed his CIA ID. “I only have a couple of minutes to explain, but I’m going to be your cameraman.”

  The reporter wanted to protest, but it was clear that she was impressed.

  “In about two minutes, the president’s daughter will show up here with her kidnappers. They’re making a deal with the president. Thing is, the girl is wearing an explosive vest, and we don’t know yet how or when it’ll be triggered. But I need to be close enough to disarm it.”

  The woman didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ll stick around,” the cameraman said. He was wearing jeans and a bright orange down jacket, a light gray knit watch cap on his head. “I have a three-year-old daughter at home. You can take the mic and Cindy can stand out of the way. You’ll be closer.”

  “I have to talk to my producer,” the reporter said.

  McGarvey took the microphone from her. “Get behind the van. Your cameraman and I will take it from here.”

  “Fred,” the cameraman said.

  “Mac.”

  The reporter went around the van as three of the remote units showed up and parked at an angle nearby. Their crews immediately leaped into action.

  “Do you have a gun?” Fred asked.

  “Yes,” McGarvey said, watching the Seventeenth Street corner.

  “Are you going to shoot somebody?”

  “If I have to.”

  * * *

  They pulled up at the corner. “We’re going to drive to the middle of the block, let Fox out, then drive away,” Fathi said.

  “She’ll run,” Riham said.

  “Let her.” Fathi telephoned the White House switchboard.

  It was answered on the first ring. “You have reached the White House—”

  “I have Fox. I need to speak with Falcon.”

  The president was on in a moment. “Yes.”

  “We’re here with your daughter.”

  “We see you.”

  “We’re going to drive up the street, let her out, and then leave. She is wearing an explosive vest that we will trigger if we are interfered with. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “We do not want your fake red mercury, but you will be receiving a text message in the next minute giving you the routing and account numbers of our bank. When the twenty million has been deposited, someone can go to your daughter and disarm the vest.”

  “How do I know that I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. But we’re not going to behead her for everyone in the world to see on TV. This is strictly a foreign trade agreement.”

  “Daddy!” Dot screamed, and Fathi hit End.

  * * *

  The Toyota SUV and one of the vans came around the corner, followed by the white Ford, and they slowly proceeded up the street.

  “None of this will be broadcast or recorded,” McGarvey said.

  “You have to be shitting me.”

  “We’re talking about the life of the president’s daughter. And no, I’m not shitting you.”

  The SUV and first van passed, the drivers looking straight ahead.

  The Ford pulled up, the side door opened, and Dorothy was handed out by a woman. McGarvey saw the driver and perhaps one or two other figures in the back of the van before it drove off.

  All the cameras were on the president’s daughter, who seemed to be on the verge of collapse. She was holding something in her left hand, and when she looked up, tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she didn’t move.

  “I’m here to help,” McGarvey told the girl. He took a step toward her.

  “No!” Dot cried. “This thing is going to explode.”

  Mac took a step closer, and the girl shrank back. “I can’t hold it much longer. Please, I don’t know what to do.”

  McGarvey called Otto. “She’s holding something in her left hand. The detonator?”

  “It’s a fail-safe, goddamnit!” Otto shouted. “I don’t have the algorithm yet. And if they don’t get the money, they’ll either push th
e button or let her do it herself. No-win here, Mac.”

  “Does your drone still have a lock on the Ford van?”

  “Yes!”

  “Is it armed?”

  “No, but I have two Predators incoming. They’ll be in firing range in twenty seconds.”

  “Splash the Ford.”

  “The detonator could be on a negative signal. The phone goes offline for whatever reason and the detonator lock is released. The vest blows.”

  Dot was looking at him. She was crying, her entire body shaking.

  “It’s our only option,” McGarvey said. “Do it!”

  Please help me!” Dot cried, and she sank to her knees.

  McGarvey went to her. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I promise.” He could see Liz’s tears at the hospital after she’d seen her husband’s body. He put his left hand over hers holding the detonator, and taking great care, he eased her fingers toward the top of the detonator handle.

  For just an instant, it seemed as if he was going to lose his grip, but when the girl’s hand was free and nothing happened, he allowed himself only a moment.

  Dot was looking up into his eyes, her eyes streaming, her nose running. “Are we okay?”

  “Almost,” McGarvey said. He began undoing the buckles holding the vest in place with his right hand. There were six of them, all the straps tight. The predator had to be less than ten seconds out.

  Dot, realizing what he was trying to do, started on the top buckles.

  “Don’t touch the wires,” McGarvey said.

  “I know,” she sobbed.

  They finished with the last two at the same time, and McGarvey eased the heavy vest off her shoulders and down off her arms, one at a time, and stood up.

  “Get down flat on your face,” he told her.

  She did it.

  He turned toward the iron fence, the only spot open in just about any direction. “Get down!” he shouted.

  An explosion came from somewhere back toward the river at the same time McGarvey tossed the vest as far as he could throw it. He swiveled on his heel and dropped to the pavement, shielding Dot’s body with his. “Not this time,” he muttered at the same moment the vest exploded with a tremendous flash-bang.