by Jack Mars
But if all went according to plan, she didn’t actually have to leave her room.
As her feet left the ground, the shower rings bent slightly—but they held. If she’d only used a few of them, they might have broken. But all twelve together held her slight frame.
Perfect.
The metal pole in the closet was a tension rod, so pulling it loose didn’t require any tools. Sara pushed the ends together, freed the rod with the rings and curtain still attached, and closed the closet door.
She quickly set about bunching up sheets and pillows beneath the blanket in a form that she hoped looked like a sleeping sixteen-year-old girl. She made sure she had her phone, her charger, and her backpack of clothes and the meager personal items she’d brought along.
Then she went to the window.
Sara’s room was on the second floor, a straight-down drop onto grass that she figured to be about eighteen to twenty feet high. She was five-two. The shower curtain was six feet long. That left a nine-foot drop onto grass—a cinch. Or so she hoped. She had spent a long time looking out the window earlier, trying to spot any cameras and seeing none. The spotlights that lit the back lawn had clicked off on an automatic timer around one a.m.
No one would see her. She was sure of it.
But now came the hard part. She opened the window about two feet and positioned the closet rod lengthwise across it, parallel to the window so that the wood of the frame held it in place, keeping tension on it so it wouldn’t clatter to the floor. She trailed the shower curtain out the window. It fluttered slightly in a soft breeze.
Sara looked down. Suddenly eighteen feet looked a lot longer than she thought. But she couldn’t back out now. She couldn’t just give up and go to bed, pretend it never crossed her mind.
You’re so close.
A tingle went up her spine in anticipation of her goal.
Just a little further.
Sara held the bunched-up shower curtain in one fist, keeping tension on the closet rod against the inside of the window frame as she carefully swung one leg out. She ducked low to maneuver herself out of the opening. This was the moment of truth. With one leg out the window and against the façade of the building, she held her breath and slowly brought her other leg off the floor.
The shower rings held. The closet rod held.
Then she was out the window, feet against the side of the building, praying a thousand times per second that the shower curtain didn’t tear, that the rings held. She lowered herself inch by inch, trying hard not to audibly grunt with the effort for fear that someone might hear her. It was harder than she thought, climbing down the length of curtain; after only seconds her hands ached, and the darkness below still looked dangerously far.
After a few minutes she was nearly at the end of the shower curtain. Now would come the hardest part of all. There was a window ledge a couple feet to her right; she reached for it to steady herself, taking a deep breath.
She pushed off from the side of the building and made a whipping motion with her arm, shaking the shower curtain in the hopes that the closet rod, braced against the window frame, would come free. For a moment it seemed like she would fall, but then the rod slammed against the frame again. Her grip nearly slipped, but she held on tightly, gasping for breath with the thrill of nearly falling.
Sara set her teeth and tried again. This time she moved her arm up quickly, giving the closet rod some slack, letting it fall away from the window frame, and then whipped the shower curtain out.
Then she was falling. Some part of her brain remembered what her dad had taught her, and as her feet hit solid ground she let her knees bend so that they would only absorb some of the shock as she fell backward.
Still, pain jolted up her ankle as she landed. She half-rolled backward, onto her butt and back. The curtain and the closet rod came tumbling down beside her as she lay there, hissing breaths through her teeth, fearing the worst. If the ankle was broken, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.
After a few moments she dared to stand. It hurt, but it didn’t feel broken. She tested her weight on it. Pain shot up her leg—but she could put weight on it. Not broken. Just sprained. She rolled her eyes at her failure to execute a decent landing.
But still, she was free. She wasn’t expected to be anywhere until nine o’clock the next morning. And even then some employee of the rehab facility might come to her door, check on her, and see what she hoped looked like her sleeping form. The window would be slightly open, but there would be no other evidence of escape. Maybe they would decide to let her sleep a little longer. Maybe they would try to wake her and discover the ruse. It hardly mattered. The shower curtain and closet rod would be deposited in the nearest dumpster, and she would have hours before anyone would even come looking. By then she could be far away.
Sara hobbled across the dark lawn, doing her best to ignore the pain in her ankle. She headed toward the beach. Toward freedom.
Toward just one last fix.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Zero felt as if he was running on fumes.
He hadn’t slept a wink in New York. The edge of the horizon turned purple with the first hint of dawn as the jet swooped down rapidly into Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Zero had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight, though the physical, mental, and emotional turmoil he’d endured in that time made it feel more like forty-eight. The escapade in Vegas felt like it had been a week ago and not yesterday. But there would be no sleep. Not yet.
“Hey.” Across the aisle of the jet, Strickland held something out. A small blister pack containing a pair of white pills. “A little pick-me-up. Just caffeine pills, nothing serious. Better than coffee.”
Apparently I look just as bad as I feel. Still Zero took them appreciatively. “Thanks.” He popped them from the pack and downed them with half a bottle of water.
Maria jabbed at her tablet in the seat in front of him. Ever since seeing the announcement about the special session of Congress, they hadn’t spoken any further about what happened in the hotel. Despite his exhaustion, Zero did feel better—only by virtue of forcibly pushing the newly discovered memories, or perhaps delusions, out of his head.
As long as I don’t remember those, or forget anything else, I’ll be fine. He almost laughed at himself for such a ridiculous thought.
“Twelve minutes,” the pilot announced.
“Here’s what we’re looking at,” Maria told them as she held the tablet aloft for him and Strickland to see. On its screen was a map; in its center was a long gray rectangle that Zero figured must be the Capitol Building. A circle of roads enclosed it, with Constitution Avenue running parallel across the top of the map, nearly tangential to the arcing Northwest Drive.
With two fingers, Maria zoomed out of the map. A red square demarcated an area approximately three blocks in every direction, equidistant from the US Capitol. “Using Bixby’s specs and what we’ve seen the sonic weapon do, this is the best approximation for maximum damage,” she explained. “The weapon fires in a conical formation. Any further out and they’d risk diminishing the effects. So this square represents our best guess for the weapon’s greatest potential. We start there and create a perimeter. Remember that this thing can fire through stone, wood, and glass. It’s not only possible, but likely that they’re hidden indoors somewhere.”
“Possibly even a vehicle,” Strickland added, “like the box truck in Kansas.”
“Right,” Maria agreed. “We’ve got just under two hours before the session is scheduled to begin. Not enough time to sweep every building. But we’ll have help—a handful of FBI agents in plainclothes. We’ll divvy into three teams with one of us on each. We want to keep this discreet. We don’t want this group catching wind and running away. We want that weapon, and we want these perpetrators alive.”
She turned to Zero. “You’ll have the sonic detection meter. If we get close to time and haven’t found anything, I want you on the ground. Earplugs in and meter in ha
nd.”
He nodded once. She didn’t have to elaborate on what that might mean. If they failed to locate the weapon before the session was set to begin, they might find themselves at ground zero of an ultrasonic attack—which would then become their best bet of finding it.
It also meant they would have to do so fast enough that casualties and damage were kept to an absolute minimum. It was a horrible thought, knowing that the best way of finding the weapon was if the weapon was used.
How did the saying go? You can’t make an omelet…
At the very thought of it, the Bosnian boy swirled through his mind again.
No. Not now. Focus.
“A few of our FBI friends should already be posted to street corners as we speak, keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity,” Maria said. Then she added in a stage murmur, “With any luck, we’re going to nail that Russian bitch today.”
There would, of course, be no special session of Congress that morning. As soon as they’d boarded the jet, Maria had made a phone call—only one, but the only call that mattered. She had contacted CIA Director Shaw and told him their working theory about an attack on Congress. Shaw ordered them to get to Washington ASAP, and promised he would take care of the rest.
Zero was at least vaguely aware of what “the rest” meant. The session would be secretly cancelled. Every member of Congress would already know not to arrive at the US Capitol that morning. The CIA, perhaps with help from the Feds, would make sure that cars still came in and out of the circular Capitol property, to stage the appearance of the session still occurring. But anyone of import—politicians, visiting dignitaries, foreign leaders—would be spirited away to a secure location outside of DC. The president was most likely on a plane or helicopter, heading either to Camp David or to a secret bunker somewhere, depending on the Secret Service’s determination of the situation’s severity.
But there would be no public announcement. No media. No warning to the people. They needed this group to believe that the session was still going to happen, which meant that outside of those deemed important or a potential target, no one would be aware. And that was what made that horrible thought all the more horrible—in order to find the people responsible, they might have no other choice than to let a few eggs crack.
*
As soon as the plane rolled to a stop, the three of them leapt out and rushed to a waiting black Crown Vic, the engine running. Behind the wheel was a stoic man in a dark suit and sunglasses. Whether he was CIA or FBI or Secret Service didn’t matter and he didn’t offer. The driver knew their destination, and as soon as all arms and legs were inside the vehicle they were off like a shot.
Ronald Reagan Airport, Zero knew, was only a fifteen-minute ride from the Capitol Building, twenty with light traffic. But he also knew that there were restricted-access roads available for just such an occasion, and the driver was equally aware. He weaved in and out of lanes expertly, occasionally flicking on a siren just long enough to let out a jarring whoop-whoop, alerting a stubborn driver to an emergency vehicle. Then they turned onto a restricted road that would take circumvent 395. There were no gates or guards at its mouth; only several posted signs that threatened drone surveillance and prosecution to the fullest extent of the law.
But the laws don’t apply to us, Zero thought bitterly as they roared along the empty access road. The memory came again, as swift and unstoppable as a gust of wind: the businessman in Dubai, spotted through crosshairs. Bang—his brain scattered across a hotel lobby.
He breathed a soft but ragged sigh. Maria glanced over her left shoulder at him from the passenger seat, just for a moment, but with obvious concern.
Zero resisted the urge to tell her that he was okay, because that might signal to the others in the car that at some point he had not been. As far as he knew, Strickland was not privy to the events that had transpired in the hotel only a few hours earlier. The young former Ranger might not be as understanding as Maria was to know that his teammate was potentially compromised.
The driver eased down on the accelerator, inching the speedometer up past ninety. There was no one else on the restricted road, likely wouldn’t be between there and the Hill.
“Two minutes,” the driver muttered. It was the first words he’d said since they climbed in, and the only words they’d hear him say.
Zero secured his gear bag on his shoulder and checked the Ruger. He knew it was loaded; he hadn’t touched it since holding it to his own head, other than to holster it. He was mostly just ensuring that he hadn’t suddenly forgotten how to use it. But it was all there, in his head. The familiar sensation and the knowledge of what it could do.
“Sending the maps to your phones,” Maria told them from the front seat, tablet in hand. “Strickland, your team will start at the northeast corner. Zero, you’ll take three guys and sweep the buildings to the…” She trailed off, leaning forward slightly and staring straight ahead through the windshield. The Crown Vic slowed, and Zero craned his neck to see around the driver’s head.
“What the hell…” Maria murmured.
He saw what she saw. The gray, almost white dome of the United States Capitol loomed ahead, the height of it cut off by the windshield. Access to the semicircular Southwest Drive was blocked by no fewer than eight police cruisers, parked at odd angles with the red-and-blues flashing. Accompanying them was a cavalcade of black SUVs, a few unmarked white interceptors, and a scattering of other emergency vehicles.
Uniformed officers scurried about, setting up sawhorse barricades and stretching caution tape and hastily escorting people in suits away from the scene.
They were evacuating the Capitol Building.
Men in blue jackets and matching baseball caps directed foot traffic and squawked into radios, their features indistinguishable from the next. The bright yellow letters on the jackets’ backs told Zero precisely who he was looking at: FBI.
“That’s not good,” Strickland muttered.
Maria had the passenger door flung open before the car could skid to a stop. An FBI agent turned at their arrival, taking off his hat and impassively running a hand over his dark hair as she strode quickly up to him, practically shoving her credentials in his face.
“Deputy Director Johansson, CIA,” she rattled off quickly. “What the hell is going on here?”
“CIA?” The agent’s brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I… what am I doing?” Maria’s cheeks flushed with anger. “This is my operation!”
The man shook his head. “We weren’t made aware of any CIA involvement. There was a threat made on the Capitol, and we don’t take that lightly. I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to step back behind the barricades…”
Maria threw her hands up in frustration. “This is beyond bullshit,” she said through gritted teeth as she pulled out her phone. “Our plan is completely blown. I’m getting to the bottom of this.” She put the phone to her ear. “Director Shaw, please.” Her lip curled in a snarl directed at the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line. “Then put me through to his personal cell!” she snapped.
Zero and Strickland exchanged a glance. Neither had to say anything; they knew what this meant. Very few people were even aware that the president had authorized a small, covert CIA team to locate the sonic weapon.
Rutledge, it seemed, had lost the faith.
A three-person team of FBI agents strode quickly by them, two men and a brunette woman—chattering about a sweep and gesturing to a device in her hands. Zero frowned.
The device was familiar. He had one exactly like it in his gear bag. It was a sonic detection meter, and if he had to guess, it was similarly capable of picking up ultra-low frequencies.
The picture formed in his mind. Director Shaw had promised to take care of things. And he had—by providing Bixby’s CIA tech to the FBI. Undoubtedly an effort to save face in light of his team’s failure.
“Yes, sir,” Maria muttered behind him. �
�I understand, sir.” As she spoke on the phone, her voice sounded defeated, but her nostrils flared angrily. Zero couldn’t imagine all the things she wished she could say at the moment.
She ended the call and her arm fell slack at her side. “We’re off it,” she told them without looking at either Zero or Strickland. “We’re done here.”
Zero shook his head. The police and FBI presence was probably noticeable from a quarter mile away. It was still long before the appointed time for the special session to begin. If the ultrasonic weapon had been here, it was long gone by now. If they hadn’t arrived yet, they wouldn’t dare to even get close.
And that was assuming it was ever going to be there at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Maria sat heavily on a bench across the street from the Capitol Building. She watched as scores of officers and agents went about their business like ants swarming over a dropped crust, carrying the sonic detection meters that Shaw had so generously provided for them.
An olive branch, as it was, for her failure.
But they wouldn’t find anything. Of that much she was certain. The weapon was nowhere near here. About twenty yards to her right, a news van was double-parked, reporting on the possible threat to the Capitol from a distance that was either safe or the ideal shot or both. To her left, Kent and Strickland stood with their arms folded as the talked quietly between themselves. She wondered if they were still planning, despite the news that they’d been pulled.
They had nowhere to go but home.
She had been pulled from ops before, but it didn’t lessen the sting. They had failed. She had failed. They failed in Illinois, and in New York, and now in DC.
Her phone rang.
It was an undisclosed number. Someone important, no doubt. Someone else to remind her of what she already knew.
“Johansson.”
“Deputy Director,” said a male voice that she had trouble placing at first.