The director’s detail concentrated their fire on the far side of the room, striking the glass behind the shooters and a rolling drink tray they used for cover. Bullets bounced off the tray, and Logan realized they’d added some kind of bulletproofing to it under the white cloth that covered it. Smart bastards.
He was halfway across the room, and most of the crowd had reached the back half of the ballroom like an amoeba moving across a petri dish. In a few more seconds, he’d lose his concealment, and he prepared to take his shots the second he was exposed.
A few more feet, and the last attendees cleared the area around him like a living fog dissipating. Logan stopped, raised the Kimber, and placed the front sight on the torso of the man on the right. At forty feet, the Kimber Tactical II was accurate, but it was still a precision shot. He slowly squeezed the trigger, and the .45-caliber roared in his hand, the heavy barrel recoiling. He didn’t wait to see the impact of his round, and he squeezed the trigger two more times until he saw one of the bullets strike the man in the upper chest just below his neck. The shooter reflexively dropped his pistol and clutched at the hole in his upper torso as blood flowed over his fingers. He stood for a moment and looked around as if hoping someone might come to his aid, and then he fell forward on top of the cart.
Logan ignored the dramatic display and adjusted the Kimber to the second shooter, who began to turn in his direction.
An explosion of pain struck his right side as if he’d been hit with a baseball bat, and he collapsed to his knees on the carpet, his Kimber still in his right hand. He struggled for breath, the pain excruciating, and he knew he’d been hit. Should’ve assumed they had a back-up team. He turned his head to the right and saw three men – a white, middle-aged man with black hair; a lanky black man who looked like he was from the same country in Africa as the woman in the hotel room; and a third white male dressed like the hotel staff – pointing weapons at him, although their line of sight had mercifully been obstructed once again by the last few attendees trying to escape.
Logan tried to raise his Kimber, but like a boxer temporarily incapacitated from a punch to his liver, his arm wouldn’t function, and he fell to his left side, facing his soon-to-be executioners. This should not be how this ends, he thought. He closed his eyes, pictured his wife and daughter, holding them both in the rocking chair in Sophia’s room, and waited for the end to come.
A barrage of gunfire erupted, and Logan reflexively imagined the bullets striking his body, sending him into the next world. But all he felt was his body begin to respond to his commands to recover from the blow to the Kevlar vest, and he opened his eyes.
The middle-aged man and lanky African had turned to flee, and the third shooter lay face down on the carpet, his head turned with vacant eyes looking at Logan. A neat hole had appeared in the middle of his forehead, and blood oozed from it. Logan smiled at the revelation he was still among the living, and he realized what had happened – Charlie Jenkins and the remainder of the protective agents had opened fire on Logan’s attackers. Thank God.
Bullets struck the door frame and walls as the two men fled. Logan glanced back at his original target and saw that the second shooter he’d failed to take down had been killed by the protective detail.
He tried to rise to pursue the two men, but he collapsed back to his knees, not yet in full control of his body. His last image was of both the older shooter and thin African turning right. Bastards are going to get away. Goddamnit.
He concentrated on his breathing and wondered if he’d sustained one or more cracked ribs, but then he thought of his former close friend and brother-in-arms, Mike Benson, who’d died in a gunfight at a rare earth elements production facility outside of Las Vegas. The bullet had struck him just over the Kevlar vest under his arm, and he had died within minutes, although not before saving the facility and leaving Logan a voicemail that still filled him with love every time he listened to it. It’s not my day to die.
Several seconds later, he felt a presence behind him and heard Charlie Jenkins’ voice. “Your part of this fight is over. Just take it easy.”
Logan sat on his haunches, furious that he’d been taken out of the fight. He looked up as Charlie knelt in front of him. “I’m just glad I could help, even a little.”
“Logan, killing three bad guys and saving our ass is more than just a ‘little.’ How’s the side? Thank God you wore that thing.”
“Tell me about it,” Logan said, grimacing as a new jolt of pain raced up his ribs. “How’s Tooney? What the hell happened before I joined the fun?”
“I received a call from the agency about the threat thirty seconds before they opened fire. We were moving to the stage to get him when Tom Carmen spotted the first shooter and jumped in front of the director. He took the first several bullets and died doing his job, God rest his soul,” Charlie said as a sudden wave of grief flashed across his face at the loss of a fellow agent and close friend. He composed himself and continued. “The director’s fine, although he might’ve broken his left wrist when we threw him to the floor behind the stage.”
Logan nodded. “He’s a lucky man. And by the way, nice shooting. I owe you one.”
“It was the least we could do, considering what you’d just done to get us out of this mess. I have to be honest, I don’t know the details, as the director would never tell me, but he considers you almost an equal. I assume you know what this is all about.”
The noise had died down substantially, and Logan realized that they were alone with the dead attackers inside the enormous ballroom. He knew the aftermath would be coming soon, with paramedics and law enforcement arriving on the scene within minutes.
“Almost?” Logan replied with a subtle smirk.
“Well, he is the director of one of the world’s most powerful spy agencies.”
“This…is true,” Logan said. “And about all of this, that’s for him to tell you. What I’ll say is that it goes back to something that should’ve been dead a long time ago, but unfortunately, some things never die.”
“Truer words, my friend. Truer words,” Charlie said, as the two men waited in the aftermath of combat for the next phase of chaos to begin.
Chapter 22
John and Amira exited the atrium as the sounds of the battle inside the Ballroom reached them. To their left lay the convention center complex; directly ahead was a grass courtyard with a sidewalk on each side that sloped down to a fountain and the Potomac River; and to the right, the Riverview Ballroom beckoned, a few hundred feet away. The doors facing them bounced repeatedly open like a playing card on a bicycle spokes as people fled the venue.
The gunfire suddenly stopped, and Amira looked at John.
“I just hope Logan got there in time,” Amira said.
“It’s Logan. He always does. Probably didn’t leave any bad guys for us,” John replied.
As if in response, Trevor Emerson and Samuel emerged from the building, still holding their pistols. Trevor turned right and fled down the curved sidewalk that ran along the west side of the ballroom to the river. Samuel turned left and ran away from them towards the shopping and dining district.
“You had to open your mouth, didn’t you?” Amira said.
“My bad. Which one’s yours?” John said.
“I’ve got the one running towards the river. That’s Trevor Emerson, the man who recruited me into the agency and my one-time mentor.”
“Roger. I’ll take the other guy. Good luck, and be careful, babe.” He leaned in, kissed her on the lips, and said, “Happy hunting.” He turned and fled down the sidewalk, and she spared two seconds to watch him leave. God, I love that man.
A moment later, she broke into a sprint down the left sidewalk that ran to the water, her eyes on Trevor, who’d reached the river view sidewalk. It stretched along the Potomac to the left away from the Gaylord and to the right all the way down to the shops, restaurants, pier, and beyond. He turned left and ran. He’s fast for his age, Amira thought, relieved h
e hadn’t seen her in pursuit of him.
Bystanders who’d been standing still listening to the gunfire from the Riverview Ballroom and unsure how to react stepped out of his way the moment they saw his gun.
Amira wondered what his destination was, as the river walk ended several hundred yards away before turning back up from the Potomac. The only thing there is… And then she knew what his plan was, and she ran harder, trying to close the gap between them.
She reached the river walk moments later and dashed around the corner, barely slowing like a NASCAR driver coming out of a straight-away into a turn. There were still several people between them, but he’d already cleared the last of them and ran harder along the gradual curve to the right where the land jutted out into the Potomac a few hundred yards ahead.
He’s going to get there before you. Run FASTER, she heard her father scream inside her head. His voice was a constant in her stream of consciousness since he’d died in her arms, a personification of her moral compass that propelled her. She ran on and focused on her breathing and footing as she pursued the man who’d caused her so much pain.
Trevor had reached a wide, concrete turn-off several hundred feet ahead of her, and he ran up it away from the river.
Just as I predicted, Amira thought, when the sounds of a helicopter reached her ears, an ominous foreboding of things to come. Bastard always has a plan for every contingency. You know that. But you can still stop him.
As she gained ground with no more civilians in her way, Trevor reached a chain link fence, pushed open one of the wide fence gates, and ran up the hill. A blue and white civilian helicopter appeared on the horizon and descended towards the area that was Trevor’s objective – the full-size Boeing 747 that had been transformed into the Air Force One Experience, a sixty-minute self-guided tour through a replica of the President’s official airplane.
This is going to be close, she thought, as she reached the wide concrete turn-off and ran up the hill.
Chapter 23
John ran through the crowd that had formed on the sidewalk outside the Riverview Ballroom as attendees milled about once the gun battle had ended. People parted for him when they saw the Colt 1911 in his right hand, some shouting in fear that he was one of the shooters fleeing the scene. No time for explanations. Sorry.
The man Amira had called Samuel was less than a hundred feet away, and he’d reached Waterfront Street, which ran along the side of the Gaylord and its parking lot lobby entrance and sloped down a hill and curved right into the heart of the restaurants and shops.
John ran harder, using his lean form as efficiently as possible, his eyes locked on Samuel. You’ll catch him in ten seconds or less at this pace.
The man dashed into the street and dodged a red SUV coming up the curve. The driver slammed on the brakes and blew the horn, and John wished he’d struck Samuel and ended the chase. No such luck.
Seconds later, a Prince Georges County Police Department blue and silver SUV skidded to a halt in the left lane at the bottom of the hill forty feet in front of the fleeing terrorist. A tall African American officer stepped out, his weapon drawn and tracking Samuel, who kept running.
Samuel never broke stride and veered off towards the door of a restaurant on the right side of the corner. He switched the Glock in his right hand to his left and opened fire blindly to pin the officer down. A stray, lucky round caught the officer flush in the right side of his face, killing him instantly. Samuel never even saw the officer fall, as he burst through the door to Grace’s Mandarin Chinese restaurant.
Motherfucker, John thought as he sprinted to where the fallen officer lay, blood trickling from his cheek, his eyes vacant. A chill ran up his spine as he recalled the attack on Amira’s father, which included two Calvert County deputies ambushed with non-life-threatening gunshot wounds. I’m getting tired of law enforcement getting caught in the crossfire of our battles, he thought disgustedly as he yanked the officer’s push-to-talk microphone off his left shoulder. “Officer down outside Grace’s Mandarin restaurant at National Harbor. I say again, ‘Officer down on Waterfront Street outside Grace’s Mandarin. This is John Quick. I’m with the FBI and in pursuit of the subject, a tall, skinny African American dressed in a light grey suit, white shirt, armed. Send additional units immediately. Out.”
He dropped the microphone and dashed across the street, ignoring the pedestrians that had scattered away from the gunshots. Task Force Ares technically wasn’t part of any agency, but he did have FBI credentials and the blessing of the FBI Director and the president, which was good enough for government work.
John reached the door to Grace’s Mandarin and entered in a crouch, moving left inside the foyer into the restaurant. The establishment was a two-story venue whose main dining area was on the second floor with a sweeping view of the Potomac River that curved in alignment with the street. Decorated with traditional Chinese red and gold architecture and statues – complete with upscale cuisine – it was a National Harbor hotspot.
He passed the hostess station as he heard shouts from the second floor, whose balcony overlooked the Koi pond at the bottom of the indoor recirculating waterfall that fell from the second floor along a black granite wall. John dashed to the steps next to the waterfall and crept up them one at a time, his weapon ready and pointed up in case Samuel peeked over the railing of the balcony.
The stairs double backed, and seconds later, his head reached the level of the second floor. A large crash as dishes broke and a cart fell over ahead of him turned his attention to the right along the glass wall and the adjoining tables. Through the legs of tables and chairs, he saw Samuel sprawled on the ground on his stomach, scampering forward as he tried to get up. His hands were empty, which was a relief to John. Don’t need a gunfight in here.
He holstered the Colt 1911 and moved quickly, recognizing the momentary advantage. John dashed up the last few steps, weaved in between two tables of patrons, and launched himself at Samuel just as the man stood and partially turned. His intent was to incapacitate Samuel without gunfire, as the restaurant was already half full from day shoppers and tourists.
The sidekick he delivered landed squarely on Samuel’s ribs, and the skinny man flew sideways into another table, sprawling face-forward onto the assembled meal of the family who sat there, stunned in shock at the sudden confrontation. John moved to incapacitate him when Samuel spun, an empty skewer in his right hand.
John couldn’t help himself and stepped back, beckoning with his hands. He was furious that Samuel had just murdered a police officer. I won’t kill him. Just make him hurt. A lot. “Well, come on then. Let’s see what you got, asshole.”
Samuel moved as if he’d been electrified, and he jumped forward, the skewer in his right hand and a steak knife appearing in his left. He grinned wickedly, his angular face heightening the expression.
As Samuel closed the distance and lunged in with the knife, John grabbed a heavy rectangular silver serving tray from an empty table and batted the blade away to his left. Acutely aware of the skewer’s location, he adjusted his hands and slammed the edge of the tray down on Samuel’s left forearm just above the wrist.
The edge struck several nerves, and although not hard enough to break his arm, his hand reflexively opened, and he dropped the steak knife.
Instead of reacting in pain, Samuel twisted his hips and drove the skewer towards John’s stomach.
John twisted back to the left, deflecting the attack with the tray. He placed his right foot behind Samuel’s and swept it forward to knock the man off-balance, but Samuel was quick, and he lifted his foot up. With nothing to impede his foot, John struck thin air and lurched forward into Samuel as he lost his balance.
Inadvertently having closed the distance, he pressed his shoulder into Samuel’s side and drove the man into another table, the tray still a barrier to the skewer.
Fuck this, John thought, and brought his right elbow up and into the side of Samuel’s head. The man staggered, and John s
lammed the edge of the tray into his chest, releasing it after the impact. He reached forward with both hands and grabbed Samuel’s right wrist, intent on smashing his arm against a table.
Samuel recognized his intent, and he did the only thing he could think to prevent it – he drove his legs forward, pushing the two men towards the railing fifteen feet away.
“Mother…fucker,” John said with anger. He was in a pure battle rage and desperately wanted to defeat the evil man in his grasp. “You want to go for a ride? Fine. Let’s go.”
John started running with Samuel, accelerating their approach towards the red decorated railing.
Samuel glanced at his pursuer’s face and saw only resolve and fury, and he realized he’d started something he couldn’t stop. This man is going to kill me.
The rage at the officer’s murder on the street fueled John, and he drove his legs harder, the two men gaining speed. Less than two feet from the railing, John released Samuel’s wrist with his right hand and grabbed him at the right armpit. He twisted to the left and braced his legs for the impact. Their momentum carried him forward, but John pulled upward with all his strength as the two collided with the railing. His lower body slammed into the thick, metal panel, and he prayed it held as he yanked and pushed Samuel over the top.
Samuel disappeared, and John dropped down further, trying to lower his center of gravity. He felt the panel railing sway but hold.
He heard a splash below, and thought, Hope that hurt like hell, wondering which part of the Koi pond he’d hit.
There was a second splash, and John felt a moment of panic. No way. He stood up and glanced over the railing just in time to see Samuel dash out the door, the skewer sticking out of his upper left shoulder.
Good God, John thought as he moved towards the steps to continue the pursuit. This guy won’t quit.
AMIRA Page 10
