Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  He was desperate to get to her, but at the same time, part of him wanted to sit in traffic forever. He was terrified that he’d get to the warehouse to find she was already dead, that he had failed her just like he’d failed Katie. Her words of the previous night were banging around in his head, but now they seemed taunting rather than reassuring. You’ve never let me down, and I know you never will. I trust you completely. He shook his head unconsciously, trying to free himself of the burden, knowing it was pointless to even try. If he proved her wrong—if she died because he couldn’t get there in time—he knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

  Finally, the traffic broke, and they reached the exit for the Midtown Tunnel. He shot a look over his shoulder, then swerved into the next lane without indicating, punching the accelerator. The Accord shot forward on the service road. A few seconds later, the tires squealed in protest as Kealey swung a hard right onto East Thirty-seventh Street.

  As he shifted into third gear, Samantha pulled out her Glock 29. He glanced over and saw her pull back the slide to check for a round in the chamber. She rested the gun on her lap and said, “How many people are we looking at here? I mean, it is just the two of us.”

  It was the first time she had spoken since they’d left Vyse Avenue, and the question caught him off-guard. “Vanderveen, Foster, and this guy Nazeri. No more than that,” Kealey replied at length. “But they’ll all be there. I don’t think they’ll have moved the bomb yet. At least, I hope to God they haven’t.”

  “How big a bomb are we talking about?”

  “Fifteen thousand pounds.”

  He didn’t look over, but he felt her staring at him. “Are you serious?” she finally asked.

  He glared at her, and she was instantly repentant. “Never mind,” she mumbled. “Dumb question.”

  Kealey shot a look at the speedometer: with Third Avenue looming, he was ahead of the traffic and building speed. As he watched, the light ahead turned yellow. People were lined up on either side of the street, waiting to cross, and he was still about 300 feet away from the intersection.

  He punched the pedal and hit the horn as the speedometer continued to climb.

  Naomi, still slumped against the front of the lathe, didn’t look up until she was sure she was alone in the warehouse. As she got to her feet unsteadily, she could hear the three men through the open glass doors. Suddenly, the truck started up and pulled away. She froze, wondering if that was it, if they were too late to stop the bomb, but the noise didn’t travel far. She realized that the Isuzu was still in the parking area, probably sitting in front of the roll-down vehicular door. It might not be gone, but it would be leaving soon, and as soon as it did, Vanderveen would be back to finish the job.

  The thought filled her with a fresh, crippling wave of terror, but she pushed it down, knowing she had to act immediately. She took a deep, shaky breath and tried to focus, looking down at her cuffed hands. She didn’t recognize the machine she was cuffed to, though she noticed it seemed out of place in the building, which was otherwise filled with wooden pallets loaded with bottled water and soft drinks. Her eyes followed the length of the bar that secured her to the main unit. Gripping it with her hands, she shook it as hard as she could, but it didn’t give an inch. She went to the left side of the machine and leaned close, examining where the bar joined the larger part of the metal structure. It seemed to be pushed into a well of some kind, but it was machined with precision, and the fit was perfect. There was no room for give.

  Breathing deeply again to steady her nerves, she made her way back to the other end of the lathe. When she checked the right side of the structure, she immediately felt her spirits lift; the bar was secured by what looked like simple screws. Instantly, her eyes moved down to the toolbox, which was within reach of her foot. Moving to the middle of the bar, she stretched out her left foot as far as she could, the cuffs tight against her raw wrists, her arms stretched so far it felt like they would pull out of their sockets. Her wounded left shoulder was screaming for her to stop, but she ignored it and kept going. Finally, her foot brushed against the box, then caught the lip. She pulled it back inch by inch until she could move it easier. Then she pulled it directly under her body.

  There. A screwdriver right on top. Shifting her body, she examined the screws again. She swore under her breath. She knew there were different types of screwdrivers, but she didn’t have a choice; as far as she could see, the box only held one kind of screwdriver, and she couldn’t see the tip.

  She used her left shin to push off the shoe on her right foot, silently thanking God she had worn flats. When her foot was exposed, she pinched the metal part of the screwdriver between her toes, then lifted it carefully. A sudden noise outside the warehouse made her jump, and she nearly dropped it. She kept going, knowing that what she had heard was the back of the truck being pulled down. The fear started to rise again, and she felt her limbs turn to water; she was out of time. The voices outside were so distinct, they had to be getting closer. She steeled herself immediately, trying to force breath in and out of her constricted lungs. It took everything she had, but finally, the screwdriver was in her hand. From there it was shockingly easy; she had the three screws out in no time at all, and the bar came free.

  She looked at her hands, slightly amazed at what she had managed to do. She was still handcuffed, but at least she could move. She immediately started toward the office, intent on getting to a phone. It was the only option left to her, as she didn’t have a weapon. But then, just as she put her hand on the door, she heard exactly what she’d feared most: nothing at all. The truck was gone, and that could only mean one thing. Vanderveen was coming back to kill her. She turned back to the building’s entrance, seeing nothing at first, but then a shadow loomed on the concrete, drawing closer.

  She looked around frantically, but she was boxed in. Her heart hammering, she pushed open the door to the office and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 53

  NEW YORK CITY

  After pulling the Isuzu up to the gate, which was still lowered, Vanderveen climbed out without shutting off the engine. He walked to the back, where Foster and Nazeri were waiting. Leaning in, he stared at the bomb one last time, aware that he would never again see it intact. The thought was strangely uplifting, but he couldn’t ignore the irony: in ceasing to exist, this device would create a whole new world of fear and terror.

  For the most part, it still resembled the Parker boiler, with one exception: the panel on the left side had been removed, exposing the curvature of the BLU-82. The bomb itself was strapped to a custom-designed metal pallet and surrounded by an elaborate wooden framework. Wedged inside this framework, tight against the metal shell of the bomb, was 2½ pounds of Semtex high explosive. The Semtex, in turn, was molded around a single nonelectric blasting cap, which fed 12 feet of military det cord through predrilled holes in the box and cab. The M60 fuse igniter was taped to the vinyl side of the driver’s seat; to set off the Semtex and the BLU-82, all Nazeri had to do was reach down, rip off the M60, push, turn, and pull. It was an extremely simple, efficient design. As far as Nazeri knew, he would then have approximately five minutes to get to safety before the bomb went off. In this belief, he was fatally mistaken.

  Vanderveen had spent the last hour preparing the BLU-82, and in the process, he had replaced the time fuse he’d demonstrated earlier with standard det cord. It had not been difficult to distract Nazeri long enough to make the switch. The time fuse used by the U.S. military was extremely simple: black powder wound in yarn and sealed with bitumen, all of which was wrapped in plastic tubing. The powder was distributed in such a way as to ensure a slow burn. Det cord, on the other hand, was plastic tubing filled with thousands of grains of PETN, which burned at a rate of 8,400 meters per second. From the outside, time fuse and det cord looked remarkably similar, but the difference could hardly be greater. The instant Nazeri pulled the ring on the M60, he would cease to exist, along with the core leadership of the United
Iraqi Alliance.

  Vanderveen put a foot on the back bumper, reached up, and pulled down the rolling door. Once he’d secured it, he clamped on an ABUS Granit core-hardened padlock, the best that money could buy. Without the key, it would take a very long time to get through this simple piece of security.

  And with that, it was done. He turned to Nazeri.

  “It’s time.”

  Nazeri nodded, his forehead bathed in a light sheen of sweat. Vanderveen almost reached out to put a hand on the man’s shoulder, but decided it wouldn’t be welcome. For the moment, it was just the two of them. Foster was standing a few feet away, but he was not a part of what they had started so many months ago, and he seemed to know it. He stayed silent and looked back to the warehouse, clearly uneasy.

  In Farsi, Vanderveen said, “I know you’ve started to question whether you’re doing the right thing, Amir. I don’t question your love for your cousin, but I do wonder if you’re prepared to see this through. Why, when we’ve come this far, are you hesitating now?”

  Nazeri lowered his head. Vanderveen knew exactly what he was thinking: that his hesitation reflected the limits of his grief; that in pausing to think things through, he had somehow marginalized his cousin’s death. “When I do this, many people will die. Many people who were not involved in her murder.”

  “And who was responsible? In your eyes, who should pay?”

  Nazeri looked up, his eyes burning. “The government. But we’re not attacking the government.”

  “And yet you haven’t questioned the target. Why?”

  “Because I know why you picked it,” Nazeri said slowly. “It’s a symbol of the city, known the world over. It’s a public—”

  “No,” Vanderveen said. He shook his head and reached under his coat, withdrawing a single sheet of paper. “This is why.”

  Nazeri accepted the document. He was confused at first, but he read it quickly, and when he was done, his eyes seemed clearer, sharper, and his body was unnaturally still. “Is this true?”

  “Amir, I’ve never lied to you. I made it clear from the start that I had my own agenda, but I gave you the opportunity to take part because I knew your cousin, and I knew what she was trying to do. She was gunned down in Washington when she could have been taken alive, and her death was covered up so the government could save face.”

  Vanderveen paused and waited until their eyes met. “The director of the FBI is here, my friend. Here in New York, at the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square. He came to oversee security for the meeting at the UN, and in doing so, he’s given you the opportunity of a lifetime. Raseen has already verified his location. He’s there as we speak.” Along with thirty-five members of the UIA, Vanderveen thought.

  Nazeri looked at Foster, who was obviously unaware of what they were talking about. “Does he know about this?”

  “Yes,” Vanderveen replied. It was true; Foster had forged the memorandum himself. “But he can’t tell you anything I haven’t already, and we don’t have time to discuss this further. The man ultimately responsible for your cousin’s murder is within arm’s reach. Now, are you prepared to take the final step, or have you changed your mind?”

  Nazeri looked at the paper in his hand, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. It was a strange gesture, and Vanderveen wasn’t sure what to make of it. He waited, and in time Nazeri seemed to come back to himself.

  “No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

  Vanderveen nodded slowly. Leaving this responsibility in Nazeri’s hands was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew it had to happen this way. In theory, he could have used a regular time fuse and set off the device himself, but Nazeri had wanted the responsibility, and Vanderveen had needed his preferred status with customs to get the daisy cutter inside the country to begin with. If he had denied the Iranian the chance to carry out the act itself, Nazeri might not have assisted him at all. Still, the other man’s firm expression—as well as Raseen’s earlier words—worked to alleviate most of Vanderveen’s lingering concerns.

  “Then go. And good luck, my friend. This is the last time we will meet.”

  Nazeri nodded and moved to the cab. As he climbed up and shut the door, Vanderveen started toward the chain that raised and lowered the roll-down vehicular door. With one hand on the chain, he glanced at his watch and turned to Foster. “Go and take care of the woman. Kealey will be here in a few minutes.”

  The FBI agent nodded and started back toward the warehouse. As the door cleared the top of the truck, the Isuzu rolled out onto West Thirty-seventh, then turned right, the transmission whining as Nazeri shifted gears, the engine struggling with the weight in the box. Vanderveen lowered the door and looked back as Foster disappeared from view. He hesitated, then turned and walked quickly to the pedestrian gate. As he unlocked it and stepped into the street, he thought he heard Foster shouting something from inside the warehouse, but he ignored it and shut the gate behind him. He thought about locking it, but decided against it.

  Directly across the street was a small parking lot. Vehicles in long-term storage were stacked on metal racks, while others were arranged in tight, neat lines on the cement. One of those cars was a red Mercury Sable. Aware of horns blasting to his left, Vanderveen turned to see what was happening. A car was approaching rapidly from the east. He turned to his right and saw that the Isuzu had already vanished into traffic. Nazeri would reach his target in a matter of minutes.

  He crossed to the south side of the street, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. When he reached the Sable, he unlocked the door quickly and slipped into the driver’s seat. The car was Nazeri’s personal vehicle. He was barely inside when a silver Accord squealed to a halt in front of the warehouse, and two people got out. He didn’t know the woman, but he would have recognized Ryan Kealey anywhere. As he watched through the windshield, they approached the pedestrian gate with their weapons out, checked it, and found it unlocked. Then they passed through.

  As Naomi slipped into the office, her eyes were drawn first to the phone on the desk. She started toward it, aware of someone shouting in the warehouse. She realized it was Foster; she could hear him calling to Vanderveen, screaming that she had escaped. She looked around wildly, forgetting the phone. It wouldn’t take him more than a few seconds to figure out where she had gone, and when he did, he would throw open the door and kill her. She had no choice but to act first.

  She went to the desk and started pulling open drawers as fast as she could, spilling the drawers and their contents onto the floor. As the third crashed to the ground, she looked down and found what she needed: a Smith & Wesson Model 60 revolver. She didn’t believe it at first; it seemed too good to be true, an impossible stroke of luck, but she snatched it up without hesitation. There wasn’t time to see if it was loaded. She only had time to do two things: draw back the hammer and level the weapon in outstretched arms. Then the office door flew open, and Foster appeared before her. His eyes went wide at the sight of the gun. He started to bring his own to bear, but Naomi was faster.

  The first time, she barely had to touch the trigger. Foster jerked as the .38+P round tore into his chest, but he still managed to get off a shot as Naomi squeezed the trigger again. Foster’s single round burned past her ear, slamming into the brick wall behind her head. At the same time, her second round drilled into the right side of his chest. Amazingly, he managed to level the gun again, his face twisted in fury and pain.

  Naomi closed her eyes, held her breath, and pulled the trigger until all she heard was the sound of the hammer falling on empty chambers.

  Before the car came to a complete halt on West Thirty-seventh, Kealey was already pushing open his door, but Crane beat him to it. She approached the pedestrian gate, gun out, muzzle down, as Kealey came round the front of the car. He could smell burning rubber from the tires as Crane tried the gate and found it unlocked. She looked at him, nodded once, and pushed through. He followed instantly, less than 2 feet behind her.

  Th
e parking area was empty, except for some pallets stacked in the corner and a blue Crown Vic. “That’s from the motor pool at the FO,” Crane said in a low voice. “He’s here.”

  “But no truck,” Kealey pointed out. He felt suddenly numb; they were too late.

  As Crane approached the warehouse, he moved to the car, looking through the windows. On the passenger-side floor he saw something that chilled his blood: Naomi’s purse. She had to be inside the building.

  Involuntarily, his eyes moved to the glass doors of the warehouse, which were still propped open. He knew that as soon as he walked through those doors, there was a good chance he would find her body and nothing more. He found himself frozen, unwilling to take the next step, but then he heard a scream—a woman’s scream—followed immediately by shots. Crane, 10 feet from the door of the warehouse, seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then she dashed forward. At the same time, four more shots echoed within the building. Kealey sprinted forward, trying to catch up, shouting for Crane to wait, but she ignored him. She reached the doors and ran through, her 10mm up in a two-handed stance. Kealey heard two more shots as he covered the last 20 feet, heart pounding. He had no idea what he was heading into; all he knew was that he had to get through those doors.

  As Foster slumped to the ground, Naomi found herself reaching down to grab his weapon. The revolver was empty, useless, and only one of the three men was down. Her head was buzzing with fear and adrenaline. She couldn’t seem to hear anything, and her vision was blurred. Looking down, she could see that the FBI agent wasn’t quite dead, but it wouldn’t be long. His eyes were still moving, his mouth open, stains spreading wet on his chest. She could hear a strange rattling noise as he tried to breathe through the fluid collecting in his throat. It was the first time she had ever killed another human being, but even as that thought hit her, along with a storm of emotions, a noise cut through the shock. She heard a man shouting, the words indistinct, and knew at once that it had to be Vanderveen.