“This whole time,” Drake said. “He’s wanted to stay alive. He even deactivated the New York device early. Why would he accept death now?”
“Because this is the plan,” Coburn said. “All of this, every minute, has been about this second, this moment. As he kept saying—he’s right where he wants to be.”
“And removing you, sir, would also terminate the roles of the Strike Force teams,” Hayden said. “They were my idea with your approval. Not everyone wanted them.”
“Something else he’s been reminding us of all bloody day,” Drake said. “The bastard’s been hinting at this all along.”
Shaw was staring past the President, right at Kovalenko. “Couldn’t we just put a knife through his heart?”
“Four minutes!” Kovalenko cried out in a shrill, excited voice.
“I like the idea,” Dahl said. “But Kovalenko has to call off the detonations. After he shoots the President. Sorry, sir.”
Coburn waved his hand. “There are no good choices, and no good words here. What else do you have?”
“Is it a two-way video feed?” Kinimaka asked. “If not, we could copy Kovalenko’s voice. Tell him the job’s done.”
Drake turned the laptop toward him. Exercising caution, they had already muted the feed so that they couldn’t be heard. Now, Drake and Kinimaka scrutinized every monitor that sat before the man, checking every feed.
Seconds later, Drake saw it. A small laptop sitting in the corner, and filled with the Yorkshireman’s face.
“Yeah,” he said. “The feed’s two-way. The guy can see us. Which means we can’t fake Kovalenko in any way.”
The team slumped. Kovalenko called out a three-minute warning. The clouds hung black and pendulous above them, filled with rain, mirroring the mood of those soldiers and Secret Service agents standing below. Drake was out of ideas and, standing there, in the street with the President at his side, had never felt so helpless. He was a soldier. He helped to the best of his ability. He solved issues and cleared obstacles.
But there was no way out of this dilemma.
“What do we do?” Hayden asked.
On the screen, the faceless man placed his finger over the red button.
“Two minutes,” Dahl whispered.
Coburn fished his phone out of his pocket. “I will call my wife,” he said.
“No,” Hayden snapped. “That’s out of the question. Sir, I mean. That’s not gonna happen today.”
“I can’t call my wife?” Coburn cracked the joke with a small smile. “Look, we all know where this is going. We can’t let that madman detonate forty explosives or a nuke in Washington DC.”
“But you can’t . . .” Kinimaka couldn’t finish.
“What? Let that idiot shoot me? Then give me another choice.”
Drake stared at Hayden, whose eyes were filling. It was that sight as much as anything happening around him, that drove an iron spike of terror through his heart and soul.
There really is no way around this.
The Blood King had manipulated them at every turn, ever since Madison Square Garden. The only person that hadn’t been taken in by him was Grigori, and the ironic truth was that Drake and his team had continuously saved Kovalenko’s life today.
Where do we go from here?
“We’re soldiers,” he said. “But how do we fight this?”
He heard Coburn conversing quietly with his wife. They had less than a minute left. Drake felt helpless. He carried a gun, a knife, grenades. Even his arms were lethal weapons. He could battle his way out of anything. He had body armor. He had an implacable will. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met an obstacle he couldn’t overcome.
It was Dahl that snapped first. With forty seconds left, the big Swede whirled and ran at Kovalenko, drawing his weapon. The Secret Service agents didn’t know what to do, but they weren’t about to get between Dahl and the Blood King. As they ducked out of the way, Dahl smashed the Russian off his feet, knocking him onto his back.
“Call it off. Call it off now.”
Dahl spat his words into the Blood King’s face, following them with a headbutt. When Kovalenko didn’t react, Dahl drew his gun and smashing the butt repeatedly in his face.
“You piece of shit. Call it off if you want me to stop. I’m gonna see your fucking skull, Kovalenko.”
Drake and Luther ran forward, stopping at Dahl’s side. They didn’t try to stop him. Dahl smashed and smashed. Kovalenko cried out in pain. Blood leapt into the air. Hayden and Kinimaka came up and then the rest of the team, staring dully down at the Blood King as Dahl rained blows at his face.
“You shut it down or we all die here,” Drake said.
“You have to stop,” a voice said from behind them. A familiar voice.
Drake turned to see President Coburn standing there, cellphone held loosely down at his side. The President looked scared, but his eyes brimmed with resolve.
“You have to stop,” he said. “Because there’s no other way.”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
The Blood King squirmed underneath Torsten Dahl. “Time . . . is . . . up,” he said. “If you don’t let me . . . speak . . . he will . . . detonate.”
Drake glanced from the Blood King to the laptop. The faceless man’s finger still hovered over the red button and Kovalenko was right about one thing—their time was most definitely up.
Gently but firmly, Drake hooked a hand under Dahl’s arm. Kinimaka did the same on the other side. Together, they pulled the Swede away from the Russian, leaving the Blood King spitting blood and teeth into the road. From one look, Drake judged that both his cheeks were broken and his nose mashed. One ear was puréed. An eye bulged but would probably heal in a few days.
Drake pulled Kovalenko into an upright position and shoved the laptop in his hands. “Tell your man to hold off.”
Kovalenko held a hand up; Hayden immediately filled it with a phone. He called a number. “It is me. Hold for three minutes. Code word is ‘bitten.’”
He handed the phone back. “Do not think about getting cute. There is a different code word for deactivation.”
Wincing, Kovalenko wiped blood from his face, spitting and flinching as he tried to finger the extent of the damage to his face. “You have three more minutes,” he said between gasps. “There will be no more.”
“We’re done here,” Coburn said. The President walked until he stood right in front of the Blood King, standing over him. “Get to your feet.”
Kovalenko looked up. “You can’t kill me.”
“Get up.”
Kovalenko struggled to his feet with no help. Blood leaked from several facial wounds. He was clearly finding it hard to focus on the man in front of him.
“Are you ready to die like your father, Luka? Are you ready to meet him in Hell?”
“That is the possibility. But are you ready to sacrifice thousands in a nuclear blast, or hundreds in forty explosions? Or none at all?”
“This is your last chance to call it all off. We’ll even let you go free. Walk away. Right now.”
Kovalenko appeared to hesitate, to consider freedom. Maybe he wanted to live to fight another day. But some terrible pride and stubbornness kept him rooted to the spot, his words still dripping venom and unyielding.
“I won’t die today. I have leverage.”
“By my hand or another. By fire. By destruction. You will die today.”
The President held out his hand, palm up. “Give me a fucking gun.”
Drake found himself in the quandary of his life. Could he really allow the President of the United States to execute a madman in front of the Pentagon? Could they risk so many lives? As far as he could tell, there was no way out of this.
When nobody moved, Coburn turned and gave Hayden a cold stare. “Hand me a gun, Jaye.”
Hayden flinched. “I . . . I can’t, sir. I just can’t. If you kill him thousands could die. I won’t be party to that.”
“Time’s running out,”
Kovalenko said. “Just so you know, this time my man will detonate bang on time without warning.”
Coburn switched his gaze to Kinimaka and Alicia. “A gun.”
They both looked down at the ground. Coburn swore loudly. “At this moment, you’re all disobeying me! I am the President of the United States. Now, a gun, a gun for my goddamned kingdom!”
Two of the three secret service agents ran forward, slapping two guns into his hand. Coburn let one fall to the ground but trained the other on Kovalenko.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said. “But you leave me no option.”
“You condemn thousands to death, Coburn.”
“Maybe. But hear me, Kovalenko. You haven’t won. You will never win. We will always outnumber you.”
Without hesitation, the President reversed the firearm in his hand and gave it to Kovalenko. The Blood King aimed and fired in an instant, giving nobody chance to react. The bullet flew true, impacting at the front of Coburn’s forehead and bursting out of the back.
The President fell dead to the ground.
Secret Service agents attacked Kovalenko, wrenching the gun away from him and bearing him to the ground. Drake and Hayden couldn’t breathe, their eyes locked on the dead president’s body. Mai was in tears. Dahl sank to the ground. Alicia had her hands to her face.
“You have to let me up,” Kovalenko said. “I have to call off the attack.”
But Drake had no volition. There was no will. The shock was too great. Seeing their friend, their President, a father and a husband, a true patriot, world leader and fellow soldier gunned down had taken everything from him. His entire will had drained away. The ground caught him as his knees gave way.
“You people,” Kovalenko grated. “You have thirty seconds left.”
Drake didn’t even hear him. If an army had attacked at that moment, he’d have been helpless. If aliens had landed atop the Pentagon, he’d have missed it.
Around him, his entire team floundered in the same predicament.
Apart from two.
Cam and Shaw stepped up, dashing around the dead body of the President and hauling Kovalenko out from under the secret service agents. Cam had the laptop in his hands and shoved it under Kovalenko’s nose.
“Do it,” Shaw said, handing him a cellphone.
The Blood King called his man one more time and gave the final code word. “Jigsaw.”
Cam watched the faceless man in the featureless office press the green button. The countdown, of course, continued. Cam turned to face Shaw as the countdown in their heads reached zero. When nothing happened, they sighed at each other.
Kovalenko stared at Coburn’s dead body, spite and hate and revulsion in his face and eyes. “That is but a single act of vengeance,” he said, then turned to Drake and the rest of the Strike Force team.
“But know this,” he said. “All of yours are still to come.”
Drake was finally able to look up from the ground, to make out Luka Kovalenko through the copious amounts of rainwater that had collected in his eyes.
“I will bury you,” he said. “I will bury you and they will never find the body. Not just for my friends, but for all the people you’ve killed. You are a corruption of humanity who craves infamy. I will deny you more of that.”
“Then the battle lines are drawn.” Kovalenko coughed with difficulty. “And you must set me free.”
The man who’d killed the President stood arrogant and proud before them. Drake had no idea what to do.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
In the aftermath, the rains finally stopped.
Figures came. Figures from far and wide and near, all spouting rhetoric, all looking for answers or political leverage. The area was cordoned off; roads closed. Only authorized helicopters were allowed near the scene.
The death of President Coburn was kept very quiet.
Matt Drake, his team and the Secret Service agents were whisked away to some military depot, they knew not where. They were separated and grilled and then separated some more. They were accused; questioned; judged. They were leaned on heavily. No food or water was offered. They couldn’t tell whether it was night or day. All they knew was the interview room and the bunks where they rested, sitting in private cells.
Any other time, the person who had the power to release them from this mess was President Coburn. Previously, it had been the Secretary of Defense, but that responsibility had passed when Jonathan Gates died.
Drake guessed two days passed. He had no idea what was happening in the outside world. He didn’t know what had happened to Luka Kovalenko. He hadn’t seen the rest of his team for more than forty eight hours.
But finally, the treatment started to improve. Drake hadn’t minded the interrogations, the repeated questions, the disbelieving suggestions. He knew everyone had a job to do. He spent his time worrying for Alicia or, more accurately, for the man or woman assigned to interrogate Alicia. That wouldn’t go so well, Drake imagined. No doubt he’d hear all about it later.
Poor Cam and Shaw. They’d get the worst of it. Drake vouched heavily for them and knew Hayden and the others would do the same. The duo might not be a part of the Strike Force team, but they had proven their worth. In the end, only they had been coherent enough to step up and deactivate the bombs.
He mourned for Coburn. He ached for the man’s wife and children. His own difficulties were pale in comparison. Time and again he asked his interviewer for information but received only a stony glare in response.
But days later, they were together again.
Drake heard the door to his room opening. He’d already been awake, dozing mostly. He swung his legs off the rectangular foam mattress and jumped to the floor. The man in the doorway threw some nondescript clothes at him, waited for him to change, and then waved.
“Follow me.”
He was taken in a different direction than normal and deposited in a cafeteria. Plastic chairs and tables filled the room, along with a food counter at the far end. But, best of all, his teammates were already there.
Alicia came straight up to him and planted a deep, long kiss on his lips. Drake held her tightly. “Thanks. That’s nice.”
“Don’t worry. I did the same to everyone.”
He grinned. The world was right again. One by one, the others greeted him warmly, even Dahl. Drake sought Cam and Shaw, and saw them seated in a far corner with Hayden and Kinimaka.
“Ey up,” he said by way of greeting when he reached them. “Did they treat you okay?”
Cam nodded. Shawnasee waggled her hand. “I guess.”
“We were just discussing what comes next,” Hayden said.
“Great. Maybe you could enlighten me.”
“You don’t know? Then it seems it’s just me and Alicia they told.”
“You and . . .” Drake growled, swiveling to glare at the Englishwoman as if it was her fault. “Bollocks.”
“Dahl said pretty much the same thing. But, Matt, they haven’t been keeping us isolated just to grill us. They needed blackout coverage where Coburn was concerned. And they needed clarity on where the seven Strike Force teams stand now that he’s dead.” Hayden swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry . . . I still can’t believe it.”
Kinimaka laid a hand on her arm. “The world’s been fed a lie,” he said. “The President died in a freak car accident. The Vice President is in charge now.”
Drake absorbed that in silence.
“And Strike Force . . . it’s been dissolved.”
Drake frowned and then focused on Mano’s face. “Say that again.”
“The initiative is done. The scheme, the program, whatever you want to call it. Strike Force is over.”
Drake slumped back in his chair, shocked to the core. He took a long look around the room, looking at his friends, studying their faces as if committing them to long-term memory.
“And that means . . .”
“When a team breaks up or is dissolved,” Hayden said. “Each person tends
to revert back to their original unit. But I can’t return to the CIA, not now. And what were you doing before Team SPEAR?”
Drake made a face. “Photographing models,” he said and grunted. “That just sounds weird now.”
“It is for a Yorkshire idiot,” Dahl said, pulling up a chair to their table and joining them. “I was Swedish Special Forces. Now, that’s a proper job.”
“Compared to what?” Drake asked. “Dog walking?”
Hayden shook her head and spoke to Cam and Shaw. “Sorry in advance. These two are like an old married couple.”
“It’s okay.” Shaw laughed. “Kinda reminds me of my family.”
“We’re out on a limb,” Dahl said. “Homeless. Swinging in the wind. Dangling like—”
“I get it,” Drake said. “But surely they’ll find us a position. The catastrophes we’ve averted during the last five years makes us a necessity.”
“You’d be surprised how many people didn’t want Strike Force,” Hayden said. “We were American agents helping out around the world . . . writing our own ticket . . . accepting jobs at will . . . answerable to no one. That didn’t sit well with certain powerful individuals and politicians.”
“Who are now all tying their nooses,” Alicia said, joining them. “Above our heads.”
Drake didn’t like the analogy and ignored it. “You’re saying the country is ruled by those more focused on their own personal circumstances rather than the people that voted for them?”
“The fact is . . .” Dahl said. “The Strike Force initiative has seven days left to run, which will bring all current operating teams in safely, and then it’s done.”
Drake was silent for several moments, thinking. But what could he say? Their jobs, their resources, their missions came from the same people that wanted to close them down. “Let’s not dwell on that for now,” he said. “I feel like we’re doing a disservice to Coburn.”
It quieted them. Coburn had made the ultimate sacrifice for his people, for his family. Most would never know. Coburn had been a true soldier.
The team gathered, talked and ate food. They took their time staring out of grimy windows covered by cages because this was the first time they’d seen sunlight in days. They waited for somebody to come and tell them where to go.
The Blood King Takedown Page 21