by Tom Barber
They’d chosen Archer’s detective partner’s son as a third victim for Ledger, knowing the emotional response it would provoke, not only in Archer but also in the nation, two black kids and a Latina woman killed by a cop. After smuggling all the weapons they’d need across the border, including the grenade launchers, drone and Kinetic Fireballs, they’d driven up the US East Coast on the I-95, aka the ‘Iron Pipeline’, the highway most commonly used by gun-runners on that side of the United States to smuggle and transport weapons.
They’d switched out Ledger’s Oxy for a 160mg batch laced with just the right amount of toxic chemicals, which they knew would initially knock him out but also make him vomit. They’d left the rifle in his apartment, knowing it’d be the first thing he’d see when he woke up, and also left part of a receipt from a CVS in Adams Morgan beside it, almost as a direct invitation for Ledger to go to D.C.
Then they’d waited.
Ledger had duly obliged, thinking he was tracking down whoever had framed him but in reality doing exactly what the Peleteros wanted, two of the gun-runners staying on Ledger as he fled south to D.C. Distraught at the death of his partner’s son, Archer had also reacted just as the Peleteros had hoped, seemingly determined to track down Ledger.
Following him to Penn Station, they’d seen him board a train for D.C., Alva and Sanchez getting on further along, the rest of their guys already in D.C., ready to start the operation. They were concerned when Archer had got into an altercation on the train with some drunk asshole twice his size, hoping he wouldn’t end up being arrested, trashing their plans before he even got there.
Once they arrived at the Station, there’d been a worrying moment when Archer had been hauled off in handcuffs, so Alva had hung around as Sanchez went across town to join the others at their safe-house apartment in Adams Morgan, changing into police uniforms, three fake squad cars already parked and ready, each loaded with Rozio weaponry, everything from their 9mm pistols to the Kinetic Balls, the YM26 grenade launcher and the ARDS portable drone.
Relieved to see Archer released not long afterwards, Alva had followed the NYPD detective to a house, then shopping mall, then to Buena Vista in Southeast, where the FBI was currently focusing their search. Having changed into his police uniform, Alva had loaded a Rozio pistol and moved around to the front of the house Archer had just entered at the back. The rioting had been a wonderful bonus from the three sniper hits the team had executed, the violence keeping the police occupied and allowing the Peleteros to work.
All they had to do now was engage the pair with their weapons.
They’d managed to bait them into running but things hadn’t entirely gone to plan when Jeremy Somers’ friend had unexpectedly turned up at the house. If it hadn’t been for Archer’s interference, Alva would have shot the kid. Things hadn’t gone to plan either when Marcia Barrera’s journalist sister suddenly arrived at the intersection, getting involved with the group. The teenager’s sudden presence had worried Alva, but Burnett had checked Somers’ emails and texts, assuring Alva that there was no evidence Jesse Mayer had any idea what Somers had discovered before he ran into that school.
The Peleteros had gone to war with the two men who’d reacted just as they hoped, although proving much more of a challenge than they’d expected. Though they’d lost the two men several times, Alva and his team had managed to relocate them and unloaded with everything they had, pistols, small arms, even a drone and the bunker-clearing Kinetic Fireballs.
Driving through the city, Alva looked in the mirror at the real Thorne in the back of the car. The men had some bumps and bruises from being knocked around, but that wouldn’t be considered unusual bearing in mind what they were supposed to have been doing tonight; a forensics investigator wouldn’t find them out of place. They’d been fed and given water earlier in the day, so their stomachs were full. Their binds had been wrapped with cloth to prevent ligature marks. The Peleteros were pros; they’d even killed Sam Archer in a way that would seem more NSA than cartel, drowning him. Their way would have been much more brutal.
They’d taken pads of all four NSA agents’ fingerprints and attached them to their own hands, making sure they left them on the arsenal of weapons at their disposal, Burnett killing any cameras in the areas they’d been tonight, avoiding any visual evidence that it was actually four Mexican gun-runners trying to kill Archer, Ledger and the others and not the NSA field agents. Even though the contract between NSA and Rozio had been terminated, Alva knew from Burnett that NSA operatives were still using the remainder of the Rozio weapons they had in stock, so the use of such weaponry tonight wouldn’t be suspicious. There would just be millions of sets of eyes on them.
Once the FBI pulled the prints, they’d assume the four agents had been responsible, apparently working for Veach. With the female FBI agent Font keeping them up to date on the FBI’s thinking and steering the investigation towards the NSA as subtly as she could, it all looked like the work of a perverted old NSA section chief and a team of flipped operatives trying to cover up for their boss.
Giving people three or four days to stew over the public shooting and for the media to start reporting potential new gun restrictions as they always did, Rozio weapons sales would soar, some people buying for their own protection, others wanting to get their hands on their weapon of choice in case it was banned, the market taking off. Overseas sales would take off too with the successful and dramatic demonstrations of the effect of the larger weapons. The rioting in the Districts wouldn’t hurt either; the more insecure people felt, the more likely they were to go out and buy weapons and the Rozio name would be everywhere after tonight.
However, Los Peleteros weren’t done yet. Despite all they’d achieved tonight, what had happened wouldn’t stir up the sufficiently strong enough emotional response they were looking for. Add to that everyone who’d been in contact with Ledger tonight was dead save one man, and that left them with one last obvious target, one last event, something people here would never forget.
A school shooting.
And Jeremy Somers wasn’t going to rob them of that.
FIFTY FOUR
Outside Reagan Junior High, the two Peleteros members posing as Metro police officers heard the order come through their earpieces, the hallway behind them clear now the audience had settled for the second half of the play.
‘Estas en,’ Alva told them in Spanish.
You’re on.
Without a word, the two men strode away from the building towards their stolen cop car, retrieving two holdalls full of equipment from the back seat. The two genuine officers were both secured inside the van behind them, the two Peleteros having ambushed them a couple of blocks from the school.
Alva had called in earlier instructing them to wait at Sam Archer’s nieces’ school in case Archer, his sister or his brother-in-law showed up. It turned out the only one of the three to turn up so far had been Jack Hardy, who was currently inside watching the show. With the phone signal disabled, he wouldn’t have been able to speak to anyone even if he’d wanted to.
Each carrying a holdall, the pair of Mexican ex-Special Forces soldiers dressed in their borrowed police uniforms, walked back up to the school entrance. Locking the door behind them, one of the men swung the holdall from his shoulder and opened it, withdrawing a ring of explosives which he looped through the door handles, securing it and then arming the device just in case anyone tried to leave early. They’d already jammed the fire escapes inside the auditorium shut from the outside as well as blocking the phone signal, their radio comms unaffected so they could talk with Alva, Burnett and also assure Metro everything here was OK, Dispatch with no idea they weren’t talking to the genuine officers.
Then one of the men moved down the corridor and ran up the stairs, reappearing thirty seconds later.
‘Adjusted the jammer,’ he said in Spanish. ‘Radio signal’s blocked from now on too.’
With gloves already on, the men opened up the second bag and too
k out two suppressed Rozio assault rifles, locking and loading them then putting spare clips in their pockets. The prints of the real NSA operatives Thorne and Deerman were all over the weapons, having been pressed into their hands back at the safe-house in Adams Morgan earlier tonight.
In the last five years, there’d been over fifteen high-casualty active shooter events in the United States, most of which had occurred in locations where the shooter had faced no risk of opposition. Soft targets, like the school tonight.
Loading his assault rifle, one of the two fake cops checked his watch.
With the phone signal jammed and silenced weapons ready, neither Metro or the FBI would know what was happening here until it was too late.
They loaded rounds and started walking down the hallway.
Commandeering a car from a shocked driver who’d only slowed down to check out the reason for the fire trucks, Archer flashed his NYPD badge, asking the man to hand over the vehicle. Understandably he’d started to object, but with no time to spare, Archer pulled his gun and the man had been persuaded to get out.
As Jesse jumped into the passenger seat, Archer slammed the gear into Drive but before he could move off his vision suddenly started to blur as a wave of weakness washed over him.
He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision and hearing the paramedic’s voice echo in his mind.
You’re at risk from secondary drowning. Water fills pores in the lungs, which means your body can’t oxygenate your blood like it should.
Your heartbeat starts to slow down.
Then you fall asleep and don’t ever wake up.
‘Hurry Archer!’ Jesse said.
Taking in air through his nose to try and get more oxygen into his blood, moments later he regained most of his vision, feeling his body kick back into gear.
A second later he floored it, the tyres squealing as the car took off down the street.
‘We need to get to Reagan Junior High. You know where it is?’
‘Yeah, I’ve played them at football!’ Jesse said. ‘It’s close!’
Sitting in the auditorium at the school, Jack was watching the second half of the performance. He knew he needed to stay in the building but the urge to get out of the theatre was overwhelming; the events of the day, worry for Sarah and the crowd packed into the auditorium were making him feel claustrophobic. He needed air.
Apologising, he eased his way past the people in his row and walked out through one of the doors; now alone, he looked up and down the empty hallway. He wanted to call Archer to find out how he, Jesse and particularly Sarah were doing but knew he couldn’t.
As he moved further away from the auditorium, the sound of singing followed him down the corridor.
Turning the corner, he stopped dead as he saw the two police officers who’d let him in earlier now walking towards him.
They were holding suppressed rifles in their hands.
Seeing Jack, they raised the weapons simultaneously, aiming them straight at him.
And in that split-second, he realised he was about to die.
FIFTY FIVE
Adrenaline is an innate physical response to danger. As well as temporarily increasing strength and numbing pain, every sense is heightened and the person experiencing the rush gets a sudden boost of energy. Peripheral vision is lost and the brain filters out any sound not directly involved with the immediate threat. Adrenaline is nature’s way of trying to save your life.
But when the threat is so overwhelming, adrenaline can actually work against you, interfering with your ability to see and hear, causing you to freeze. Regular exposure to adrenaline gives a person situational awareness, enabling them to react despite intense fear and the instinct to become inert.
Standing there frozen in the middle of Reagan Junior High’s ground floor corridor, staring at the two Metro officers holding the suppressed assault rifles, Jack wasn’t one of those people.
But Harry Ledger was.
His body pumped with much needed strength due to an adrenaline rush, his experience and training kicking in despite two gunshot wounds, Ledger fired his handgun from behind Jack before he even tried to make it through the double doors, shattering the glass and hitting one of the two men in the chest, the impact knocking the guy back a step and to the floor.
Inside the auditorium, people flinched when they heard the sound of the gunshot, looking at each uncertainly.
The piano and singing cut off abruptly. As everyone looked at each other, a sudden unnatural silence fell in the theatre, the kids on stage standing still, confused.
Then more shots came and the place erupted into a mad scramble, parents rushing towards the stage and their children.
His vision shimmering, Ledger was running on empty, exhausted and almost at the end of his remaining strength. Being shot once was bad enough, but the round he’d taken from the FBI agent was bleeding badly, blood leaking out from the bound but unpadded wound.
The journey over here had been a blur, and he felt drunk, knowing it was from severe blood loss.
He was dying and he knew it.
He’d pulled up a way back from the school just as the two cops were withdrawing assault rifles with suppressors from the trunk of their car. These guys weren’t Metro cops. He’d watched as the two armed men headed back into the building before dragging himself out of the car, each movement an effort.
But he was here now. As the cop he’d hit went down, the other had only been clipped with his second shot and lifted his weapon to fire back, Ledger getting his third in first and hitting the man in the chest. The man reeled back and then fell, his vest protecting him but the impact still knocking the breath out of him.
His partner had already recovered enough to drag the other guy into a classroom beside them, out of the line of fire. Ledger cursed, knowing the men’s bulletproof vests had saved them; he’d aimed higher but his Sig Sauer felt like a dead weight in his hand, requiring all his strength to lift it. In his present state, he’d been lucky to hit them at all.
Suddenly, a group of three men and a woman with a child rushed out of a doorway from down the corridor, their eyes wide with panic which intensified when they saw Ledger standing beyond the smashed glass.
‘Get back!’ he shouted, knowing the two men could reappear at any moment.
They turned and ran, muffled screaming coming from somewhere. Seizing the brief advantage, Ledger limped towards the entrance and grabbed the door handle.
‘Wait!’ Jack shouted, having thrown himself down when the shooting started. ‘Don’t touch it. Look!’
Pausing, Ledger focused through the smashed glass of the top half of the door, and saw a ring of explosives looped through the handles on the other side, sealed with a lock.
One of the cops suddenly snapped out round the classroom door, his rifle up, but Ledger was ready and fired twice, forcing the man back out of sight. Using the moment, he motioned to Jack, who realised what was about to happen and crawled rapidly into an empty classroom to his right.
Stepping further back against the wall outside, Ledger could just make out the ring through the broken glass of the door and aimed his Sig Sauer directly at the explosives looped through the handles.
Wait, he told himself, his pistol feeling like it weighed fifty kilograms in his hand.
Wait.
He heard boots crunching on broken glass.
He fired at the ring.
Sliding to a halt in the parking lot, Archer and Jesse arrived just as an explosion blasted open the rear doors to the school.
‘Holy shit!’ Jesse said. ‘They started!’
Jumping out of the car, Archer sprinted towards the entrance, the fire from the blast burning the frame where the doors used to be, the fire alarm ringing. As he came closer and got some visibility through the smoke, he was astonished to see Ledger leaning against the wall ten metres from the burning doorway. He was clearly in trouble, a fresh wound to his thigh, his face white as a sheet.
‘Harry, w
hat the hell are you doing here?’ Archer asked, reaching his friend, seeing he’d been shot again.
‘Long…story. But they’re coming. They’re gonna…kill everyone here.’
‘I know.’ Edging forward to the burning gap where the doors used to be, Ledger close behind him, Archer snatched a glimpse into the corridor. He saw two cops lying fifteen feet back from the exit, both dead, assault rifles lying on the floor beside them.
Grabbing Ledger’s arm, wanting to get him behind cover, Archer looped it over his shoulder and helped him towards the entrance, Jesse following, looking around them fearfully.
As they moved inside, Jack suddenly peered out cautiously from a side classroom, staring in surprise and momentary relief when he saw his brother-in-law.
‘How many people are in here?’ Archer asked him quickly.
‘Over a hundred, at least. The theatre’s full!’ He held up his cell phone. ‘Tried to call the cops, but there’s no signal. I can’t raise anyone. Where’s Sarah?’
‘She’s safe!’ Archer said, checking over his shoulder then looking at the two dead men. ‘We need to get everyone out right now!’
‘This door was rigged with explosives,’ Jack said. ‘What if the others are?’
‘This one isn’t anymore,’ Archer said, turning to Jesse. ‘Bring them back through this door! Go!’
Without another word Jack turned and ran down the corridor towards the auditorium, Jesse following but stopping to pull a handgun from one of the two dead men’s holster.
‘What are you-’ Archer started, Jesse turning to look at him.
‘You can trust me.’
Not waiting for a reply, the boy took off.
Archer propped Ledger against the wall as he guarded their only sure exit but suddenly his legs started to give way again and he bent double, trying to get breath back into his lungs.
