“Do you have eyes on the shooters?” he asked.
“One our eleven o’clock, behind a black SUV, no shot anymore, two at our twelve o’clock, running toward SUV, still firing—scratch that, reloading.” Sherrie’s window dropped and she squeezed off two rounds that sent their targets diving for cover. Kane spun the steering wheel and they careened onto the road. Shoving it in Drive, he floored it, aiming the vehicle toward Langley. A quick look in his rearview mirror showed the other SUV pulling out in pursuit.
“Chris, you okay back there?”
Chris began to sit up when Sherrie shoved him back down. “Stay down!”
Kane couldn’t see Chris, so reached back and grabbed what he thought was his friend’s arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I think I pissed my pants though.”
Kane laughed. “Do you have a phone on you?”
“Yeah.”
“Call the Director. Tell him we’re coming in hot.”
Kane heard something that made his skin crawl. He put his window down and poked his head out, looking up. He didn’t see it at first, but after a few seconds of searching, found it.
A black helicopter, directly overhead.
“And tell him we’ve got a helicopter, presumed armed, and an SUV with two shooters in pursuit.”
“A helicopter?” exclaimed Chris.
“Stay down!”
Kane presumed Chris must have tried to sit up to look for the chopper. He glanced out the window again and saw muzzle flashes erupt from the side door of the chopper. Kane swerved to the left and into the light oncoming traffic as bullets tore open the pavement to their right, tracer fire leaving a clear trail back to their source.
Sherrie rolled down her window and pushed the upper half of her body up and out. Kane heard several shots fired and saw the helicopter swerve away.
That’s the problem with tracer fire. It works both ways.
Their rear window shattered as their pursuers on the ground caught up on the other side. Kane reached over and pulled Sherrie in before she could become a target, then opened the sunroof.
“Shoot through that if you can.”
Kane cranked the wheel and jumped the median, bouncing back into the proper lanes and smacking the driver side door of their pursuers, causing them to swerve into a parked car. Kane, still in complete control of his vehicle, spun the wheel to the left, and gunned it forward, leaving their pursuer behind. He looked in the rearview mirror and unfortunately saw the vehicle reverse, and return to the chase.
“Did you reach him yet?”
Kane hadn’t heard anything from the backseat, and wasn’t sure if Chris had even made the call.
“I’m being connected now!”
Kane pressed the accelerator as hard as he could, the SUV’s speedometer creeping up far slower than he would like, their pursuer seeming to be closing the distance, their vehicle obviously having a far better engine than his base model rental.
“Tell him we’re three minutes out and to have the south-east gate open!”
Tracer fire ripped across the pavement in front of them and Kane jerked the wheel to the right, sideswiping some poor bastard probably out on some errand he could have done the next day or should have done earlier.
“And tell him to take out that goddamned chopper!”
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Director Morrison sprinted down the hall, his phone still in hand, the call from Chris Leroux having just ended. He was already dialing the Ops Center as he crashed into a mail cart, sending it and its contents spilling onto the floor.
“Make a hole, goddammit!” he yelled as he held the phone up to his ear, climbing over the cart.
“Ops, Carter speaking.”
“This is Director Morrison. I’ve got agents being pursued by hostiles approaching the south-east gate. ETA two minutes. I need them let through, then the second vehicle taken out if it crosses the line. Also, there’s a chopper in pursuit. Take it out.”
He heard some shouting of orders on the other end as he spun down another flight of stairs, finally bursting out onto the floor housing the massive Domestic Protection Division Operations Center used to monitor operations across the country, but also for managing the security of this very facility. Two agents flanked the doors at the end of the hall.
“Open the door!” yelled Morrison, winded, he having not run this hard this long in far too long. One of the men slid his card through a reader, then they stepped aside, opening the doors.
Morrison charged into the room and skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.
“Status!” he managed to yell.
“We’ve got a chopper inbound, but we can’t be sure it’s not civilian. We’re trying to hail it now,” replied Rick Messina, a man Morrison knew well and had faith in. Rick won’t bother with jurisdiction or authorization bullshit, he’ll get the job done, then worry about the rest later.
“This is ATC to unidentified helicopter. You are approaching restricted airspace. Change your course immediately, or we will be forced to open fire, acknowledge.”
Morrison descended a metal staircase into the pit. Messina pointed to a bank of monitors showing various camera angles. Traffic cameras were cycling, showing two SUVs speeding through the streets of McLean, streets he recognized well.
“Are those—”
“Muzzle flashes? Yes, sir. Both vehicles appear to be exchanging gunfire. Local authorities have been notified, and have been instructed to try and clear the streets and stay out of the way.”
“South-east gate?”
“Ready, sir,” said somebody sitting at one of the terminals. The man pressed his finger on his monitor and flicked his finger up. A live feed from the gate suddenly appeared on a large screen. “They have orders to drop the security barriers as soon as the lead SUV is in sight, then do an emergency lock down the moment they cross.”
“Other traffic?”
“All departing personnel are being redirected to alternate gates, and incoming are being redirected.”
“SAM batteries?”
“Active and tracking. They’ll fire on your order,” said Messina.
“ETA sixty seconds,” echoed an eerie, almost mechanical voice.
“Show me the vehicles.”
He saw a wrist flick from one of the terminals, and the requested view popped on the large screen. Kane’s SUV careened around the corner, and began the final stretch toward the south-east gate. The pursuing SUV was less than twenty yards behind and gaining.
“Come on, come on, come on!” Morrison heard one of the techs urge, he himself echoing the words in his head. Flashes streaked across the image, followed by small flashes on the pavement in front of the SUV.
“What the hell is that?”
“Tracer fire from the helicopter.”
He heard one of the techs repeating his hail of the chopper to no avail.
“Take it out,” ordered Morrison.
“Yes, sir!”
There’s going to be a shitload of paperwork tomorrow.
Approaching South East Gate, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
“Almost there!” yelled Kane as he swerved to avoid the gunfire streaming down almost unopposed from the chopper. Sherrie was squeezing off rounds at it as she could, but it was almost useless. He was having to bob and weave so much, getting a good shot was nearly impossible.
He saw the gates fly open ahead of them, the way cleared, and he took a bead on the far side of the security barricades and pushed as hard as he could on the accelerator.
“Hang on! This is gonna get ugly!”
Sherrie spun around in her seat, yanking her seatbelt on and snapping it into place. Kane saw her turn around to check on Chris who hadn’t said a word since getting through to the Director. Kane prayed he hadn’t taken a hit, as this all would have been for not, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. They blasted past the raised yellow gates marking the first security measure, then passin
g the turn that led to visitor parking, he swerved around the barriers that alternately blocked the left and right lanes, their placement having their desired effect of slowing down any approaching vehicle. Fortunately for Kane, his driving skills didn’t take too much off his speed, but a quick glance in the rearview mirror showed their pursuers appeared equally adept at navigating the barriers, still only yards behind.
Clearing the final yellow barrier, they hurtled toward the massive concrete gate that housed the guard house and pre-screening facility. The barriers were up, the guards flanking either side waving them through.
Kane gunned it, trying to regain some of the lost speed, when they were rammed from behind. The jolt caused the vehicle to fishtail, and Kane desperately tried to maintain control as he raced at over sixty miles per hour toward a narrow gate with speed bumps randomly placed causing them to gain air every dozen or so feet as he battled an uncooperative back end.
He knew he just needed to thread the needle, to make it through the narrow opening, and they’d be fine. He hit the brakes, killing their speed. The pursuing SUV slammed into the rear, then Kane hit the gas and urged the vehicle the last few yards, the rear end now under control. They whipped past the guards and Kane slammed on the brakes, cranking the wheel to the right, aiming toward a small parking lot. They skidded to a halt, perpendicular to the gate as the emergency lockdown was activated just as their pursuing vehicle crossed the hidden barrier.
Recessed reinforced steel bollards shot up from the pavement, directly under the SUV, firing it into the air as if it had hit a ramp. The vehicle arced, almost gracefully, then slammed into the pavement on its roof, a half dozen guards swarming around it. The scream of a rocket caught Kane’s attention and he shoved his head up and through the sunroof to see a surface to air missile roar by, their pursuing helicopter banking away to no avail.
The missile slammed into the tail, shearing it completely off, the explosion from the missile and jet fuel was enormous, spitting shrapnel over the entire area causing everyone to duck. Somebody pulled him inside as the flames swept over their vehicle, and he could have sworn he felt the rotors spinning overhead as the heat filled the cabin, then just as quickly dissipated.
Kane turned to Sherrie.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded.
He reached around and grabbed Chris.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” moaned his friend.
“You’re not hit?”
“No, but I think I’ve bruised every damned part of my body.”
Kane laughed then popped open his door.
“Good luck!”
And without waiting for a reply, he sprinted toward the gate, past all the confusion, and away from Langley, where he was still a wanted man.
Peterson “Residence”, North Korea
Four Days after the Kidnappings
Jason Peterson sat on the toilet, shower running, taps running, door locked, with orders whispered to Maggie that he wasn’t to be disturbed for fifteen minutes. Once locked inside the small bathroom, he had taken a seat, then tried, as casually as possible, to examine every nook and cranny of the bathroom for any place where a camera or microphone might be hidden.
But it was no use.
There were any number of places. The central air vent, the ceiling fan, behind the mirror, in the tile pattern, in the shower head. There were just too many possibilities. So it was time to damn the torpedoes, and do it. He had rehearsed the conversation a thousand times in his head, but he had no idea what questions his mother might actually ask. And he had figured out what he had hoped would be a great closing line, that would let those at the other end know they needed help, but those at this end that might be listening, a plausible alternative meaning.
He stood up, flushed the toilet, forgetting that he had actually not put the lid up and was sitting on it with his pants on, then moved to the sink. He washed his hands and face, then threw a towel over his head as if to steam his pores open. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, cupping it in his palm as best he could, but this was no tiny cellphone, it was a satphone, which were always bigger. It only took a moment and it was under the towel. He reached with the other hand and turned off the taps.
He held in the power button, and a moment later the display activated. It cycled through its power up, then showed a connection to the satellite network. His heart was slamming against his chest as he dialed the long memorized number. He could barely hear over his own heartbeat as he placed the phone to his ear. It rang once, then twice. A third time and he began to fear nobody was home.
“Hello?”
The voice was tentative, broken. He almost burst into tears, a ball forming in his chest and pushing its way up his throat as he realized how worried she must be, thinking he was dead, or worse.
“Hi, Mom, it’s me.” His voice was cracking. He had to keep it together.
“Jason?” The excitement in her voice was heartbreaking. He knew this was a Hail Mary effort that would most likely get him killed, with almost no chance at success. He began to doubt the wisdom of having made the call.
“Yes.”
But the excitement in her voice began to remove the doubt. Just hearing his beloved mother’s voice, even if it was for the last time, made the risk worth it. His eyes filled with tears as she gushed in excitement.
“Oh my God, it’s so good to hear your voice. Where have you been, we’ve been so worried! I didn’t believe them for a second when they said you were dead!”
They said we were dead? Who said? He had a million questions, but none of it mattered. He had to finish this call as quickly as possible.
“I’m okay, Mom, don’t worry.”
“Are Maggie and the kids with you?”
His chest tightened at the horror of the answer, and he forced the lie out.
“Yes. Everyone’s okay.”
“Where are you? We’ve been worried sick.”
Jubilation in his head as she had asked the right question.
“I can’t say.”
“What do you mean you can’t say?”
It was time to end the conversation before she asked anything else. And it was time to deliver the closing lines, with their double meanings, the phone’s built-in GPS transmission feature doing the rest.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I have to go. Listen, I just wanted you to know we’re okay. Don’t worry about us.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t—“
“I’m sorry, Mom, I’ve got to go. Say hi to Dad. And Mom?”
“What?”
“Tell them not to look for us.”
He hit the button to end the call, turned off the phone, then lifted his head, letting the towel fall to cover his hand with the phone. He was about to turn off the shower when he heard a scream from the front of the house. He tossed the phone in the hamper, then the towel on top of it, and unlocked the bathroom door. He pulled it open as he heard his daughter cry out and Darius began to wail.
Jason rushed forward, down the hallway toward the kitchen, but before he could reach it, he saw the angry face of his handler burst into the hall, followed by two blue jumpsuits, armed. Jason skidded to a halt.
“Where is it?” screamed his handler.
Jason decided there was no point in playing dumb, but his brain hadn’t coordinated the thought with his mouth, and he blurted, “Where’s what?”
He was rewarded with a slap across his face that stung more than anything he could remember, the force sending him spinning to the floor. He was immediately grabbed by the jumpsuits and hauled toward the bathroom.
“Where is it?” demanded his handler again.
“In the hamper,” mumbled Jason, still recovering from the blow.
His handler, whose name he now realized he had never been given, motioned for one of the jumpsuits to look. A few moments later the man reappeared, handing over the satphone.
“Where did you get this?”
“From
the lab!”
“I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true! I swear! It was in the drawer of the lab. I thought since you left it there, it was okay to use.”
He was hauled to his feet and dragged back toward the kitchen. Shoved into a chair, he felt his hands tied around his back, then another blow was delivered across his face.
Three distinct screams caused him to look to the far corner, where Maggie cowered on the floor, holding their children, trying to cover their eyes as their father was assaulted.
“I don’t believe you. You are lying!”
Another smack, this time on the other side of the face, caused his head to spin away from his family, and their cries.
“Stop hurting my daddy!” he heard Darius wail as another blow landed.
Jason’s face lay on his shoulder, and he could barely see his family through the tears that filled his eyes.
“I just wanted to call my mother,” he mumbled. “To let her know we were okay, and to not look for us.”
Another blow.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Ayla, her sobs breaking his heart.
Yet another blow, this one sending him to the floor along with the chair he was sitting in. He thought for a moment the beating would end, or at least pause, but he felt a terrific impact to his stomach as someone kicked him, hard.
He gasped and cried out, then felt hands pulling him and his chair upright again. Another smack, leaving him no time to recover his breath, had him desperate for air. His head lolled to the side and he saw Darius jump up and rush toward their handler, wailing punches on the man. Maggie screamed for him to come back, but Darius, his little face red, streaked with tears, continued to punch as hard as his tiny body would allow. And with the sweep of the man’s hand, he shoved Jason’s pride and joy across the floor and into the refrigerator.
“No!” cried Jason. “You bastard!”
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 18
