“I suppose that’s why he was good at gaining favor with Marcus. You believe everything he’s saying?”
“Honestly? It’s too far-fetched for him to have made it up.”
King nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing. “You know we will never find that third nuke, right?”
“Not by ourselves, no.”
King had been tossing around the same thought about going after Marcus instead of the nuke itself, but he wasn’t sure the best way forward. “Any ideas on how to find him?”
“My guess is once the nukes are in place, he’ll be in the air. While Marcus may be dedicated to taking his leftover teenage angst out on the United States government and its citizens, he doesn’t strike me as the kamikaze type. Hence the bomb at Reagan Airport to help cover his tracks.”
“I agree. But where will he go? It will be near impossible to leave the country unless he flies below twenty-five hundred feet the entire way. And even then, we can alert towers to keep an eye out for aircrafts at that height or below that have their transponders turned off.”
“This is why I love you. You know shit you shouldn’t know. And it always helps.”
Sam took King by the hand. “I can tell you’re really worried about this one.”
King took a moment. “It just hits close to home. Lexington is only a couple hundred miles from where this fault, or whatever the hell it’s called, is. This could affect my sister and my niece. If ever there was a reason to get this one right, I have it.”
Sam squeezed his hand. “I knew that was swimming in your head.”
She didn’t say anything else. She just let go of his hand and gave it a pat. Then she picked up her phone and got to work. They didn’t have any sort of groundbreaking conversation, but King still felt like he could conquer the world when he turned away from her. He felt even better when he answered his ringing phone.
“X, holy hell, what a shitstorm!” Kyle said.
“You’ve got that right. You two okay there in London?”
“No! I wish I was there with you.”
“No you don’t. But thank you.”
“Listen, I just talked to Juice. He’s already touched down at whatever podunk airport you’re flying toward. He said no one was around, and they didn’t have a vehicle, so he went to all the nearby houses while he waited on you. One old man said he saw a small jet fly in just a half hour ago. He used to be a pilot, so he always watches when a ‘bird flies in.’ Said it was a small passenger plane, most likely a Citation II, though he couldn’t see it clearly. Juice said a Citation was the only plane at the airport. It’s Marcus, X. I can feel it.”
“That’s great, Kyle, but anything else?”
“Yeah. The old man lives alone, so he walked outside just to watch. Said it’s rare a plane comes in to that airport at all. Much less at four in the morning. Even more rare that someone comes to pick them up. They were in a dark-colored Ford SUV. Juice said the man was adamant about it being a Ford because he hates Chevys. I have Dbie trying to run it down, but cameras aren’t as prevalent in rural areas.”
Only one name came to King’s mind: James Carter. “Check all the surrounding airports for someone coming in a couple of hours earlier. James Carter left in a helicopter from Mexico City, but he had to have transferred to a plane somewhere. Find out and get back to me ASAP. This may make the difference for millions of lives.”
“No pressure.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” King said. “Doing all we can.”
“So you’re telling me the nukes were really onboard with James? He really did smuggle them in through Juice?”
“Afraid so.”
“That’s going to devastate Juice.”
“Well,” King said, “frankly, I don’t give a shit about Juice’s feelings. He got himself into this mess. And all of us too.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, X. You know that.”
“Yeah? Maybe. So call him and tell him to make it right.”
“I’m on it.”
“We’re getting ready to land.”
“We’ll do our best to give you some place to go.”
“I know you will, Kyle. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
33
King’s jet touched down at 4:10 a.m. at the New Madrid County Airport. There was one lone light shining from the corner of one of two hangars. King could see four SUVs parked there. Director Lucas had tasked the local FBI with getting King’s team some vehicles. And King told Lucas to task the same FBI and the police department with tracking down a dark-colored Ford SUV. So far, no luck.
Bob taxied the plane toward the vehicles, and the closer they got, King could see there was some sort of problem.
“Looks like that Juice guy and his men came back,” Omari said.
The closer they moved toward the vehicles, the more King could see that some people were being held at gunpoint. Off to the right King could see the small cargo plane Juice had flown in on as well as the Citation II the old man said he saw come in. Marcus was definitely there.
King hopped out of his seat and had the door opening before Bob could come to a full stop. “It’s all right!” he shouted to the agents as the stairs lowered. He started down. The humid summer air swirled in around him. “They’re with us.”
The four agents lowered their weapons, and one of them walked over to King. “Mr. King, I’m Special Agent Ron Mitchell.”
“Hello, Ron. What’s the status of the Ford SUV?”
King’s phone began vibrating in his pocket. He held up a finger and turned his back to the agent as he answered. “What do you got—”
“X, something weird is going on!” Kyle interrupted.
“Okay, what—”
“Four planes flew into Penman Airport about fifteen minutes to your southwest almost two hours ago.”
“I’m assuming that’s unusual?”
“They don’t get four a day, X. All four came in at the same time. A local police officer went to check it out when no one was answering the phones. X, the girl working the airport was found dead. Shot twice in the chest. Whatever Marcus and James are doing, it’s already done. You’ve got to get out of there.”
“You’re saying James Carter flew four planes here? How did that not get pinged by anyone working towers from here to Mexico?”
“The policeman said the planes have some soccer club’s logo painted all over them.”
“You’re shitting me . . . I’ll be damned.”
King’s mind immediately shifted to the thought that Marcus had a lot more help than just James Carter. But before he could think through anything, gunfire erupted from the edge of the tarmac, and it was a lot more than just one gun.
It was an ambush.
One of the agents standing at the back of his SUV shouted, “We’re surrounded! Take cover!”
The last of the word cover ended with a gurgle as the agent took a bullet to the throat. King turned and watched as Sam dove behind the front bumper of one of the SUVs. He then twisted to try to find Omari, and just as his head turned to the door of the plane, Omari had already airmailed one of the M4s. King was barely able to get his hands up to catch it, but when he did, he racked the charging handle and stared down the sights toward the thick trees surrounding the small airport.
King moved to his left as he fired at the first man he saw. The man was at least a hundred yards away, but the red dot sights the M4 had been fitted with helped him connect even though he was in motion. When he reached Sam, he handed her the M4 and pulled his Glock. Suddenly gunfire came from behind them. Omari and Thomas dove in between the SUVs, and as Omari got up, King shuffled Sam over to him. Omari had another M4 strapped around his neck. He removed it and handed it to King. Agent Mitchell, the agent who’d greeted King, moved in behind them and fired defensively into the night. Unfortunately, when King looked back to the plane, the agent who had explained the SNM detector to King fell lifeless out the door and down the steps. The on
ly other agent with them almost stepped out, but Thomas called to him to stay put until it was clear. King turned to Omari.
“O, how many’d you see?” King said with a breathy tone. His adrenaline was spiking.
“At least a dozen.” Omari was out of breath as well. They needed to get it together.
All three of them turned their heads to the opposite side of the parked SUVs when they heard gunfire rattling close to them. King looked around the back side and watched as a massive man followed by two others was firing into the trees. It was Juice and his men. Though King wasn’t happy about Juice getting them into the mess they were in, he was damn sure happy to see him right then. King watched as Juice stopped firing and picked up one of the FBI agents by the back of his belt and carried him between the SUVs like he was a duffel bag.
Illuminated from behind by one of only two lights at the airport, Juice looked like a Caucasian version of The Rock with his massive arms glistening with sweat from the heat. King recognized the logo on the hat he had on backward: it was Special Forces, a dagger pointing up, with crossing arrows going through it. And the words “De Oppresso Liber” inside a circling scroll that translated as “To Free the Oppressed.” King couldn’t help but hope Juice was here to help do just that.
“Juice, I presume?” King said.
Juice dropped the FBI agent, pivoted to make sure his men were behind him, then turned back to King. “That’s me. Xander King?”
“Yeah,” King said as he took a spare mag from Omari and stuffed it in his pocket. “You got a plan to get us out of this mess you got us all in?”
“No, but I assure you I’ll die trying.”
“Good enough for me.”
Then some lights caught King’s attention up and to his left in the dark morning sky. It was the second plane full of agents, the two other bomb experts, and the other SNM detector.
“We can’t let them land,” King said.
Gunfire was still pelting the sides of the SUVs. Juice’s men were laying cover fire on one end, and Omari and Sam had begun covering the other side.
“Doesn’t look like we have a choice!” Omari shouted back.
King turned to look at the other side of the tarmac. Whoever was shooting was still staying back. There was no way to tell where or how many there were. Then the only other light surrounding them caught his eye. It was standing tall and shining down over a chain-link fence that was protecting the fuel tanks from being tampered with. King needed a higher vantage point, and he needed to let the plane know not to land. The fuel tanks could get him the chance at both.
“Juice, see the fuel tanks under the light?”
Juice followed King’s eyes. “Yep.”
“Can you hit them?”
“Yep.”
“Blow the fuel tanks and have your men cover me. I’m going for the roof.”
Juice reached into his pocket. “Take these with you.” He handed King two grenades. “There’s plenty more on the plane, but don’t blow that until you’re ready for the finale!”
King looked out to the side of the tarmac opposite from the fuel tanks. There sat the Citation and Juice’s light cargo plane. King made a note of it and pulled Sam toward him by tugging at the back of her tank top. He nodded for Omari, and Sam pulled him in.
“You two get Bob and John out of that cockpit and out here safely.”
“Where are you going?” Sam said.
“Juice is going to blow the fuel tanks to give you guys a distraction, and for me to get up on the roof.” King nodded toward the hangar behind him.
“Be careful,” Sam said. “There’s probably more gunmen at the back of the hangar.”
King nodded. “Get back here safe, and get the pilots in one of these SUVs. I’ll open the hangar, and hopefully we can take cover and fight our way out from there. At least our backs will be covered, and they’ll have to come to us.”
“Who the hell are they anyway?”
King looked back to the sky; the plane was almost too close to keep them from landing.
“I don’t know who they are, but the only name we haven’t reconciled with all of this is Raúl Ortega.”
Juice rushed over. “I have to blow these tanks now, but I heard what you said and you’re right, it has to be Ortega. James told me earlier that Raúl Ortega was dead, but he meant Juan Ortega, Raúl’s brother. I did some homework on the way here. Juan Ortega got caught at the border trafficking kids a couple of weeks ago. Border Patrol shot and killed him. Maybe it’s why he teamed with Marcus?”
“Doesn’t matter right now,” King said. “Just blow the tanks!”
Juice raised up, put the butt of his M4 to his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger until the explosion plumed toward the sky. After a reflexive jerk backward from hearing the blast, King shoved Sam and Omari in the direction of his plane, and he weaved around Juice’s men, patting them on the back to remind them he needed cover. Then he raced ahead for the darkness that awaited at the left side of the hangar.
34
King stopped before turning the corner of the hangar. There were no lights on this end of the tarmac. Before peaking around the wall, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting them get used to the dark. The flames were still crackling from the exploded fuel tanks, and the gunfire continued. He wanted to look back to check on Sam, but he had to focus. He turned away from the explosion and poked his head around the corner.
His eyes were still adjusting as he peered into the surrounding trees. The sound of the plane coming down for a landing drew his attention, and he gave it a glance.
“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Pull up.”
Not much more than fifty feet from the ground, the nose of the plane finally lifted upward, and the rest of it followed away from the runway. He knew they’d just made a tough call by not landing, but it was the right one. Him setting off the explosion had forced them to land elsewhere. Objective number one had been reached. Now he had to get to higher ground, and he wanted to do it quickly so he could use the light from the burning fuel to see into the trees.
King raised his M4 to his shoulder and flipped the switch on the scope to night vision. From his right eye everything glowed an emerald green. He kept the scope to his eye as he ran in a crouch toward the back of the hangar. Nothing had caught his eye yet. He assumed the massive explosion most likely moved the gunmen in that direction. But he couldn’t be careless.
King sidled up to the wall and peeked around the corner. It was even darker at the back. There was maybe twenty feet of blacktop, and then it gave way to trees. The parking lot for cars on the other side of the building was small. He could see it in the distance when he raised the scope to his eye. Still no sign of human movement. He moved the gun’s sight line up and down the back wall of the hangar until he noticed the metal ladder attached to that wall. The moment he moved toward it, someone came running out in front of him with a rifle extended.
King’s finger tapped the trigger, but he held back. He didn’t want to draw attention if he didn’t have to. But he had to. The gunman suddenly swung the barrel of his rifle in King’s direction, but King was ready. He gave the trigger a squeeze, and a burst of three bullets found their way to the gunman’s body. His green silhouette teetered and fell backward. King surged forward.
On the way to the ladder he stepped left and grabbed the gunman’s abandoned rifle and the fallen handheld radio beside it. He put it in his pocket, wrapped the gun’s strap around his neck, but before he ran up the ladder, he poked around the other wall, and he was glad he did. He flicked off his night vision as the massive flame was making it impossible to see. Then he just had to move his red dot an inch to the left and fire to take down a man who was trying to advance on the SUVs at the front of the hangar.
After a quick search of the area, only seeing blasts of gunfire from the trees, he tested the back door of the hangar. The knob was locked, and when he squinted, he saw that it was fitted with a keypad lock. He leaned back, brought his
right knee to his chest, then kicked forward, sending the door crashing inward. He felt the inside wall with his left hand and found a set of switches. He hit them all. Florescent lights sparked overhead, and they buzzed as they began warming up to full brightness.
The hangar was empty except for a small pushback tug, and an old, bright yellow Beechcraft Staggerwing biplane. Beyond it there was another door that he’d passed outside earlier, and beside it was the lever to raise the hangar door. King sprinted past the Staggerwing and rammed his thumb into the up button. The massive rollup canvas door began moving. King cursed it because he had to hold the button—it wasn’t automatic. But once it got to three feet high, he figured that was enough if his team needed cover. And from the rise in gunfire, it sounded like they did.
King raced back across the poured concrete floor, his sneakers squeaking all the way, but just before he jumped out the door to get up the ladder, he ran headfirst into the barrel of a rifle. He’d hit the man so hard that the rifle flew upward, the spent rounds echoing through the open space as they sank into the ceiling. King’s ears rang as he fell on top of the man. The two of them rolled twice, then King managed to stop the momentum when he was on top, and as he straddled the man, he pinned him down at the neck with his left forearm.
The man was clearly Mexican, which didn’t surprise King because he’d assumed the planes had flown in from Mexico City. What did catch him off guard was the black teardrop tattoo beneath the man’s eye and the man’s gold teeth. This man wasn’t military. King could tell he’d had no close combat training by the way he had no idea how to fight from his back. King reached back and pulled his sidearm. His M4 was pinned between him and the man. King forced the man to look into his eyes by leaning forward and staying in front of his glare.
“Who brought you here?”
The man squirmed beneath King but had zero sense of how to throw King off balance enough so he could move King off himself. All King had to do was continue downward pressure with his hips and his forearm. He was pressing hard. The man was beginning to have trouble breathing. He was searching for air as he seethed saliva from his gritted teeth. King used his position to turn the man so he could interact with him and at the same time see the door that was now in front of him.
Power Move (Alexander King Book 4) Page 14
