Flight Risk (An Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Book 7)

by Eva Hudson

  “Go ahead.” McWhorter’s voice.

  “I just found a hijab and a black jacket in the ladies’ room off the marble hallway.”

  There was a pause. “Shit.”

  “You need to check the CCTV from outside the restroom. We need to know what Hatoum looks like now and you have to circulate her current description.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ingrid? Can you hear me?” Jen’s voice.

  “Loud and clear, Jen. What have you got?”

  “The gift? The white box?”

  Ingrid slowed a little. “Yep.”

  “It was brought in by Marcus Williams.”

  It took a second for the impact to hit her. She stopped running. Fuck. Was Marcus Williams even subject to security checks? This was his London home, after all. That meant anything could have been in the box. “Do you know where Williams is?”

  “Not currently,” McWhorter said.

  “Send out the order to apprehend him on sight.”

  “Roger that.”

  Williams might still be in the room where she’d left him. Ingrid found a staircase at the far end of the corridor and took the steps three at a time, her knee complaining with each footfall. She sprinted down the hallway as fast as her injury would let her and flung the door open. The room was empty.

  “Damn.”

  It was time to evacuate. They had no idea what the threat was, and that meant they had no option but to get everyone to safety. Ingrid lifted the radio just as Jen’s voice crackled through.

  “Ingrid? You there?”

  “What is it?”

  “I have a description of Hatoum.” She sounded serious. Scared, even.

  “Go ahead.”

  “White shirt, open at the collar, black slacks, hair tied back in a ponytail.” She paused. “Ingrid?”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s wearing an earpiece and what looks like a fake Secret Service ID.”

  The floor beneath Ingrid seemed to wobble. The walls appeared to move. She knew what was coming.

  “Ingrid, I think she’s the Secret Service agent we saw escorting the First Lady.”

  39

  “Where was she taking her?” Ingrid headed for the stairs.

  “They were stepping into an elevator.”

  “Which one?”

  “Like… I don’t know.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Um, it’s in a long marble corridor. There are circular paintings on the wall.”

  “I know it. Can you see on the footage which floor she took her to?”

  “How would I tell that?”

  “Is there a display above the door? Can you watch and see where it stops?”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Ingrid hit the stairs and started heading up. She lifted the radio to instruct McWhorter to get on with the evacuation. She was about to press transmit and take another flight of stairs when she looked again. That wasn’t a pile of laundry, was it?

  Ingrid sprinted down the corridor. The pain meant she limped a little. The laundry was a body in a white uniform. It was a Marine.

  Her jaw swung low and her breaths became shallow. There was a bullet hole in the back of his head and a patch of carpet glistened darkly beneath him. Ingrid crouched down. By his feet was a discarded white plastic rectangular object. She knew immediately what it was. A 3-D printed gun. She pressed the transmit button.

  “Man down, second-floor corridor.”

  The static on the radio seemed endless. It felt like it was coming from inside her ears.

  “Skyberg. McWhorter here. You need medical assistance?”

  She reached down and turned him over.

  “Too late, you need to start an evacuation.” She swallowed, attempting to lubricate her dry throat. “McWhorter. I’m real sorry, but it’s one of yours. He’s been shot.”

  Ingrid looked down at his still-pristine uniform and read his name badge. Lieutenant Preston.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It’s Preston.”

  “Oh man.” His voice was suddenly weak. “Shit. This is what we train for, right?”

  “You have to start the evacuation.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He inhaled deeply. “Is his weapon still on him?”

  His holster was empty. “Negative. We must assume we have an armed hostile.”

  Ingrid got to her feet and ran back toward the stairs. Up ahead, a man bowled out of the stairwell and into the corridor. He ran toward her, his navy blue jacket flapping like a cape. He wasn’t slowing down.

  “You need to turn back,” she said, her pace slowing. She put out her arms to create a barrier. “Sir, you need to—”

  In his hand was a compact semi-automatic. He took another step before raising his arm. Ingrid ran at him hard and reached up to grab his wrist before he could make the shot. She smashed his hand into the wall, forcing the gun from his grasp. He grabbed her throat, rotated her, and pushed her against the wall. His meaty fingers pressed down against her trachea. She couldn’t breathe.

  He didn’t fit the Red Box mold. He was fatter, scruffier, darker skinned. He was Jihari. Ingrid brought up her knee and felt his flesh compress as she made contact with his groin.

  “You prissy bitch.”

  Prissy? Again?

  His grip relaxed fractionally and Ingrid twisted free. She bent down for the weapon, a Beretta M9. His knee cracked into her forehead, blinding her before sending her reeling backwards to the floor. She blinked at the paneled ceiling as the pain radiated across her skull. She heard the gunshot but did not feel it.

  Then another gunshot.

  She looked up at him. His eyes were wide, his mouth was twisted. The two holes in his white shirt were ringed with red. She rolled onto all fours and saw Estevez at the end of the corridor, his Beretta steady in both hands. Her attacker sank to his knees, landing hard before slumping sideways, streaking blood down the gold embossed wallpaper. He stretched out a hand for the M9, but Ingrid kicked it away.

  “Who sent you?” Ingrid demanded.

  Estevez kept his aim on her assailant and approached.

  “Why are you after me?”

  The man’s eyes were blank, but his chest still heaved.

  “Why?” Her jaw trembled with anger. “Tell me!”

  He moved his lips, but no words came. He tried to spit at Ingrid, but his saliva dribbled down his chin. His breathing stopped.

  “He’s with Hatoum,” Estevez said, holstering his Beretta. “There are at least three more of them.”

  Ingrid stood up. Bright lights spiraled across her vision from the kick in the head. She gestured at the broken 3-D printed gun.

  “They’re only ever good enough for one bullet,” Estevez said.

  “They only needed one bullet,” she said, looking at Preston’s body. “Then they took his weapon.”

  Ingrid crouched down and swiped up the Beretta.

  “Preston’s not the only casualty,” Estevez said. “That M9 belongs to Private Sorensen. I found him on the terrace. One bullet in the back of his skull. There was a 3-D printed gun next to his body too.”

  She swallowed.

  “Not sure how they got the bullets past us.”

  “My guess would be the little white box on the gift table,” Ingrid said while checking to see if the Beretta was loaded. “Any other casualties?”

  “Four operatives not responding,” Estevez said. “Preston and Sorensen are accounted for. The other two are Secret Service.”

  Ingrid stared down at the dead man. Something he had said was bugging her. What was it? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t let it distract her right now. “The civilian security radios aren’t working. Are the Secret Service on their own wave band?”

  “Don’t know. But it might explain why the evacuation hasn’t started.”

  They ran toward the staircase.

  “But McWhorter’s on it?” Ingrid asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Then
let’s get Hatoum.”

  They reached the top floor and Estevez held out a hand. He signaled she would go right and he would go left. She nodded that she understood and inhaled hard. This was really happening. Estevez counted them down on his fingers. Middle. Index. Thumb. They stepped up and turned into the hallway.

  “Clear,” Estevez said.

  “Clear.”

  They were in a door-lined corridor that stretched right and left. It was less grand than the one below, and at either end, the passageway turned away from the front of the residence. They stopped and listened. The sound of the party and the piano wafted up from below. Keeping the M9 steady, Ingrid reached for the radio with her left hand. “Jen? You hear me?” She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them. “Where has Hatoum taken the First Lady?”

  “Skyberg. This is McWhorter.”

  “Yes?”

  They stood still.

  “We have a visual on the First Lady. Mrs Brady is on the roof. Repeat, the First Lady is on the roof. Hatoum is with her. We do not know where her Secret Service detail is.”

  Estevez and Ingrid both looked at the ceiling. The First Lady was above their head somewhere.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ingrid said.

  “One of these doors has got to lead to a hatch, right?”

  They walked slowly, Estevez aiming ahead, Ingrid covering the rear.

  “You have snipers out there?” Ingrid asked. “In the grounds?”

  “Two. If they’re still standing, that is.”

  “But none on the roof?”

  “Negative.”

  Ingrid and Estevez exchanged looks.

  “Don’t worry. We got this,” Estevez said. His smile almost convinced her.

  “Is that the US Marines’ new motto?”

  “In Latin, yep.”

  Ingrid slipped the radio back into her jacket pocket. “Why take her to the roof? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Estevez kept both hands on his Beretta. “Dunno.”

  Ingrid tried a door handle. Locked. “If they want her dead, Hatoum could have killed her already.”

  They took another step.

  “If they don’t want to kill her, what do they want?” She tried the next door. Also locked.

  Estevez did not answer. His arms moved in a narrow arc as he swept his weapon from left to right. Ingrid tried another door. It opened onto a small room that was empty apart from a bare bed. They carried on down the hallway. When they reached the end, they turned the corner together, weapons front and center.

  “Shit,” Ingrid said.

  The wall ahead was sprayed with blood. On the carpet in the middle of the corridor was a body wearing black. They approached the downed Secret Service agent slowly. Her body lay at the end of a long streak of blood. She had crawled for over thirty feet before she died. A Glock 19 was still in her hand. Estevez picked up the weapon and tossed it to Ingrid. “Back up.”

  She checked it was loaded and tucked it into her waistband.

  Further along the corridor was an open door. In front of it was what looked like a dark shadow. As they got closer, they saw the shadow was tinged with red. In the doorway was a body. He wore a black suit, fake ID, and earpiece. He had also crawled several yards. Both legs had entry wounds and the amount of blood indicated his femoral artery had been hit.

  “What do you reckon?” Ingrid asked.

  “Shoot out? Both got hit?” He glanced down the corridor at the Secret Service agent’s body. “He probably died first, then her radio wasn’t working, so she tried to get help.”

  “Has he got a weapon?” Ingrid asked.

  Estevez crouched down to retrieve it as their radios crackled with Jen’s voice. “Ingrid?”

  Ingrid reached into her pocket for the handset. “Go ahead.”

  “Does the name Abdul Miah ring any bells?”

  Really not the time for a quiz, Jen. “No.”

  “He’s the ISIL guy behind the attacks in Bombay, Tripoli, and Denpasar.”

  “Wasn’t he killed?” Ingrid was more breathless than she’d realized.

  “Apparently not. He’s been in Iraq.” She inhaled deeply. “The thing about those attacks Ingrid, is they were sequenced. Guns first, then a bomb, or the other way around, then another attack when the emergency services got there.”

  Ingrid did not like the sound of this. “Oh God, is he here?”

  Estevez shoved the dead man’s weapon into his waistband and got to his feet. He indicated they should move back into the corridor.

  “No,” Jen said. “But he’s Arwa Hatoum’s mentor. Her social media is full of him.”

  “Jesus, what are they planning?” Estevez said.

  “What about the evacuation, Jen?”

  “McWhorter’s working on it.”

  Ingrid ended the call and looked at Estevez.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We leave the evac to McWhorter and we damn well find a way of getting up on the roof.”

  They tried every door knob until they came to a set of double doors. They stood on either side. Estevez reached over to turn the handle. “One, two…” On the count of three he pushed and Ingrid swung in, both hands gripping the M9. Lights flickered on automatically.

  They had found the servants’ quarters. The carpet was threadbare, and the doors were smaller and closer together. They took a side each and tried every door in turn to reveal small bedrooms and storage areas.

  “Here!” Estevez shouted. “It’s here!”

  Ingrid spun around. An open door revealed a narrow wooden staircase that led up to the roof. Estevez’s feet crunched on glass. “I can’t find a light.”

  “Your eyes will adjust.”

  Estevez’s footsteps made the old stairs creak as he climbed up into the darkness. A flash of the face of the man he had shot surfaced. That look of bewilderment before he fell. And then it came to her. The thing that had bugged her about him.

  He had called her ‘prissy’, the exact same word Marcus Williams had used. Prissy. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called it, but the way her attacker had used it sounded like he was repeating it phonetically, without understanding it. He’d used it like a swear word.

  “Christ, no.”

  “What was that?” Estevez asked from inside the darkened stairwell.

  “Sorry,” Ingrid said. “Nothing.”

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. The Jiharis must have listened in. Either Marcus Williams had taken her to a room under surveillance or the Jiharis had had installed malware on Williams’s phone. They had been using it as a listening device. It would have been easy enough to do when they’d drugged him. She felt weak. They would have harvested his passwords, his emails, his contacts. If he’d used the WiFi in the embassy, there was no telling how deep the data breach might go.

  Ingrid needed to get the entire system shut down. Immediately. She needed to find Williams and destroy his phone. Every second she delayed, the State Department’s cyber infrastructure was compromised.

  But before she could do that, Ingrid needed to save the First Lady.

  40

  “Skyberg?” Estevez called down from the darkness above her head.

  “You see anything up there?”

  “I think I hear voices.”

  Ingrid stood still and listened. All she could make out was the wind and the hum of her radio. She stepped further inside the stairwell. Her shoes crunched on the broken glass. A light bulb. Hatoum hadn’t wanted to make it easy for anyone to follow her. Estevez’ white uniform was just about visible in the gloom above. Ingrid climbed onto the first step knowing her eyes would adapt.

  “Anything?”

  “Not sure. Not anymore.” Estevez was breathing hard.

  Ingrid took another step. Her eyes were starting to make things out. The walls and treads were made of rough-hewn timber. It was an access point for contractors.

  “What now?” Ingrid whispered.

  “I tried the door. I
think it opens, but the moment we make a noise—”

  “Will be the moment Hatoum kills the First Lady.”

  “It might also be booby-trapped.”

  “So, what, we wait for the snipers?”

  Estevez took a beat before answering. “If they could take the shot, they would have by now.”

  “Either they’re dead, or they can’t get a clean shot?” Ingrid said.

  “No one wants to be the guy who shot the First Lady.”

  “So, it’s down to us?” Ingrid said.

  Estevez didn’t respond.

  “Okay,” Ingrid said. “I’ll create the diversion. As soon as you hear a commotion, ram that door open and take Hatoum out.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Ingrid inhaled sharply. “I’ll think of something.”

  She dashed back into the hallway and tried all the door handles. The only open door she’d seen on the top floor had a body lying across the threshold. She ran back to it, the carpet oozing as her DM trod in the congealing blood. She stepped over the corpse and reached the window. Ingrid looked down to the forecourt below. The circular driveway, bounded by parked cars and motorbikes in front of the residence, enclosed a round pond with a fountain at its center. Beyond that, the gravel driveway retreated into the trees and the front gates beyond. Spotlights illuminated abstract sculptures on the lawn. She couldn’t see anything that might explain why Hatoum had taken the First Lady to the roof. Three black-clad Secret Service agents burst out of the front door and ran across the driveway, onto the wet grass and moved into positions behind the fountain and sculptures. McWhorter had finally organized the response. The evacuation was imminent.

  Ingrid tried the window. No lock. She lifted the sash and listened through the open window. A voice. An American voice. The First Lady’s.

  She would have had hostage training. Mrs Brady knew to keep her captor talking. Ingrid stepped back over the downed Jihari’s body and raced down the corridor. If the First Lady was audible at the front of the house, Ingrid needed to get to the rear. She sprinted down the hallway and traced a route that took her to the back of the building. She winced with the pain. Breathless, she tried a door. Locked. She tried the next one. Then the next. On the ninth attempt, a door opened. A small storage room stacked floor-to-ceiling with cardboard boxes.