Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)

by Patrick Adams

  11:40 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Sumner, VA

  Considering that he was Jackson's rescuer, Mike was in rough shape.

  Although he had the strength initially to help Jackson stand up from the chair where he had been bound, he was doubled over in pain now, and Jackson was halfway carrying the burly retired Chief.

  Mike clutched his chest as his broken ribs screamed in pain.

  Jackson was quiet as the two men stepped over Assad's body. They tracked through a pool of blood as they turned to the right in the small basement hallway. Jackson pointed towards a door at the end of the hall.

  "Is that the way you came?" Jackson asked.

  Mike nodded. "It leads to a set of stairs and to the river. I had to blow the door."

  "Can you swim?" asked Jackson, looking over his injured Team member.

  Mike's tone carried a hint of offense at Jackson's implication that he wouldn't be capable of making the other bank.

  "I'd have to be dead to not be able to swim the 100 yards across this creek."

  Jackson smiled. He was the same stubborn old bastard. "Alright Mike. I'll take it from here. You get to a hospital."

  Mike looked at Jackson, determination in his eyes. "I'm not leaving you alone."

  "Yeah, Mike. You are. These people killed my family, not yours."

  Mike shook his head again defiantly. Jackson continued. "I'm a wanted murderer, who you have been helping for the last day. You aren't going down for aiding and abetting on my account."

  This time Mike nodded. Jackson shook his head. "And you're hurt. You'll only slow me down."

  Mike nodded again. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Jackson was right on all counts.

  "Stay safe, Jackson." He said as he handed Jackson the Ka-Bar knife he had used to cut him free and ambled off towards the red steel door that led to the docks above.

  "Thank you." Jackson whispered under his breath as he turned to his left and followed the wail of the police sirens.

  He was crouched low to the concrete floor clutching Assad's Beretta 9mm handgun in his calloused hand as he approached the concrete staircase at the end of the hall. He was sure he had walked down this staircase after the sandbag had been pulled over his head.

  He counted his steps. Forty-three steps. This was definitely the staircase.

  Jackson placed a rough and calloused hand on the rusting metal of the hand rail as he crept soundlessly one step at a time up the stairs. Eighteen steps.

  As he approached the first landing of the staircase Jackson paused, his breath catching in his throat as he listened to the voices echoing through the stairwell from above.

  A voice rang out clearer than the rest, shouting commands.

  "You two," it said with authority. "Go out into the courtyard and retrieve the telephone that the police just threw over the fence."

  There was an exasperated pause as the man glanced towards the stairwell.

  "Where is Assad?" Jackson could hear the man's voice getting louder as he began to walk towards the stairwell.

  Jackson descended two steps further down the stairs, out of sight from the hallway. He would likely have just one opportunity.

  The man took one step into the stairwell and Jackson drew the black Ka-Bar knife from the sheath at his waist and waited.

  The dark haired man was rapidly descending the stairs now. As the unsuspecting terrorist stepped heavily down the concrete stairs, Jackson held the knife by the blade, feeling for its balance.

  As soon as the man turned the corner of the concrete landing, Jackson heaved the knife full force through the man's throat.

  The dark haired man fell immediately, his hands going to his throat as he fell down the remaining nine steps and lie in a puddle of rapidly pooling blood. Jackson stepped over to the man, his face a mask of death as he drew the knife from the man's jugular.

  "Assad is dead." He said as he wiped the blade of the weapon on the man's black shirt and looked back up the stairwell.

  The bustle of the hallway above was a constant din of men and weapons as the eight remaining men armed themselves in preparation for the police assault.

  Jackson could hear them speaking in hushed tones. He couldn't make out the dialect, but it sounded vaguely like Farsi.

  He shook his head.

  He wished he'd paid more attention in language school. His specialty in the teams had been Urdu, the dialect of Arabic spoken in Pakistan. Though there were commonalities between the two, he couldn't make out much if any of the men's hushed and furtive plotting.

  He tucked the Ka-Bar knife back into its sheath at his hip and stepped tentatively up the stairs, his breath calm as his heart pounded in his chest.

  Jackson was calm despite the awareness that this would likely be his last worldly act.

  These men were clamoring above him were well trained and heavily armed.

  Jackson reached the top of the stairs and paused for a second on the landing while he closed his eyes. He pictured Leigh and Clementine in his mind.

  In his final moments, Jackson would picture happier times.

  His breathing was even and controlled as he stepped into the shadowy light of the long cement corridor that led past the makeshift barracks. The long dark hallway led to the parking lot where a fleet of yellow Penske trucks stood in the silence of the cool night, prepared to do their purpose and kill innocent civilians.

  At the end of the hallway, the SSG personnel stood huddled together, four on each side of the red steel door that led to the parking lot. The first man on the right held the door open, peering into the shadows of the lot.

  He spoke in English now. "Two of you need to go and retrieve that communication device." He said loudly, pointing at two of the younger looking men to his left.

  The two men nodded and slung their assault rifles over their shoulders as they stepped through the red door and into the parking lot. This left six men standing in the hallway.

  Jackson smiled as he raised his sidearm. He'd only get one chance.

  He didn't even feel his finger squeeze the trigger.

  The action just came naturally to the former SEAL.

  The first man fell to one well aimed shot through the side of his head as the others spun around.

  Time was moving slowly to Jackson as the men turned, their faces masks of shock.

  The next two men nearest Jackson's first target fell in quick succession as bullets pierced their skulls and splattered thick red blood and brain across the cold concrete of the hallway wall.

  Jackson felt his finger move again as his world darkened.

  Chaos surrounded him as he felt a searing hot bullet tear through the skin of his bare chest. He slumped back, the hard concrete floor impacting his side as he fell to the cold ground, his eyesight fading as the last two men turned back down the hallway.

  It would seem that his last shot had hit something after all.

  Jackson was pleased. Four was a good result.

  As his world darkened, Jackson felt the warm pool of his own blood stretching out beneath him, soaking the bare skin of his upper body. He allowed his head to rest on the rough concrete of the facility as he watched the crimson pool of fluid stretch out before him and begin to drip down the stairs.

  He closed his eyes as images of his family danced once more into his living memory.

  I'll see you soon, girls, he thought as he finally lost consciousness in the cool darkness of the blood splattered hallway.

  Chapter 41:

  11:50 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Sumner, VA

  There hadn't been time to think.

  When gunfire had erupted from the darkened hallway of the shipping facility, Jimmy Howe and the others had returned fire.

  The two terrorists who had been creeping through the shadowy parking lot and meandering through the stolid yellow forms of the Penske trucks to retrieve the police phone had immediately fallen to the ground and begun to lay down precision cover fire when the
y'd heard the sound of gunfire.

  All the two knew was that for some reason, their colleagues inside were firing weapons at the police who formed a red and blue flashing cordon in the street.

  The SWAT snipers had seen the two advancing from the moment they stepped from the abandoned facility. When the two men who had been sent from within to retrieve the telephone had opened fire, they had signed their own death warrants.

  The precision fire fifty caliber sniper rifles and infrared scopes never wandered from center mass of the two men as the snipers each squeezed the trigger of their heavy black weapons closed.

  The two terrorists fell, their weapons tumbling to the crumbling concrete of the parking lot as the two men who remained alive indoors stepped through the blood red door and into the courtyard.

  They too, soon fell to two perfectly aimed shots from the SWAT snipers.

  When the courtyard had been neutralized, the SWAT team was sent to investigate the building. They entered through the same red side door via the docks as had Mike Jones.

  Inside of the building they found a blood bath.

  "The courtyard is clear," the radio reported in its odd melancholy tone as the police stepped from behind the makeshift cover of their vehicles and towards the courtyard of the facility.

  The Chief was clearly in the lead, stepping forward.

  "I want teams of two to sweep every square inch of this facility. Let's find this hostage."

  Jimmy Howe was close on the Chief's heels as the two men stepped towards the hulking concrete structure. Their steps were unhurried and they were still flanked closely by the two SWAT members who had executed the telephone drop.

  They reached the pedestrian gate of the facility and stepped through.

  The Chief stopped seconds after passing through the twelve foot chain link gate.

  "We only engaged four men."

  Jimmy was certain. "That's correct, sir." He said.

  The Chief turned to face the three men who followed closely in tow. "There are six dead bodies in this parking lot."

  He looked to the right at the bodies of the two men that Mike Jones had killed who now lay growing cold in the cool September evening. A small lake of blood was congealing beneath them and staining the cracked concrete.

  "Those men," the Chief said, "were dead before we got here."

  As if on cue, the SWAT Team that had entered from the river side of the facility and swept through the building made the all clear call over the police encrypted radio.

  It was only then that the EMTs went to work, running towards the men who lay dead in the parking lot of the vast shipping facility.

  The SWAT Team leader inside the facility crackled over the radio.

  "It's a bloodbath in here. At least six dead, and one survivor. Request medical support on the first floor of the facility, near the staircase. Male, approximately age 30, gunshot wound to the chest, breathing irregular."

  The EMT team that was closest to the door sprinted to the location as the SWAT team continued its report.

  "We're going to need to get the FBI down here, sir. The basement has been converted into some kind of film studio, like something you'd see from a terrorist responsibility video."

  The radio was silent now, as the EMT teams swept through the parking lot. They seemed to only verify that the men who lay prostrate on the cold concrete were indeed dead.

  These men didn't need medical care, they needed a coroner's truck.

  Jimmy Howe whistled, surveying the scene. Whoever had survived the firefight inside was sure to be one tough motherfucker.

  As the EMTs scurried about, Jimmy Howe and the Chief seemed not to notice their efforts. Both men were more interested in the twelve identical Penske trucks that stood stoically in the cool darkness of the September Virginia night.

  "Jimmy," he said as he stepped towards the closest yellow truck, his steps purposeful in the thick atmosphere of the post shootout air. "What do you suppose they were protecting?"

  Jimmy was close at hand, and followed the Chief to the nearest truck. "I don't know, sir. But I'd say they gave us adequate reasonable cause to take a look."

  The Chief smiled. It was a tragic smile, the kind that one only sees from combat veterans and men who've seen the worst of bloody and tragic situations. It was the smile of mirth in darkness, of resignation to the brutality of the world.

  The Chief's smile faded as the men stood before the rear of the first truck.

  "Open it," said the Chief to no one in particular.

  Jimmy was the closest. His thick hands grasped the release bar for the rolling gate and heaved it upwards, feeling the strong metal clasp release and the door spring upwards as he let go of the handle and pulled a flashlight from his law enforcement belt.

  It was as if the Chief, Jimmy, and the two SWAT officers simultaneously paused, their breath frozen as the light from Jimmy's flashlight swept over the contents of the truck. As the bright white beam swept over the deadly explosives and chemicals in the truck, the men stepped back as a single unit.

  The Chief spoke softly.

  "Get me the bomb squad, the FBI, and the ATF. And get my people out of this facility."

  Chapter 42:

  12:10 AM- Sunday, September 10th

  Sumner, VA

  Jackson could remember the feel of the rough and cool facility floor. He recalled the tiny pieces of broken concrete that had dug into his face as he lay in the disconcerting warmth of a slowly spreading pool of his own blood.

  Now, as his eyes opened and closed of their own accord, he found himself staring into a flickering fluorescent light. He could feel his vision constricting from the periphery.

  His eyes closed momentarily before reopening and gazing upward at the EMT crouched above him as he struggled to breath. The ambulance that carried him bumped down the pitted road towards the hospital, each bump of the road causing misery to the wounded Jackson as the ambulance made its best speed.

  Strong hands and soft caring eyes looked down at Jackson's face through the clear oxygen mask that helped him breath.

  "Hang in there, buddy." The EMT's voice was soft but authoritative.

  As Jackson lay motionless being jostled about by the condition of the road, he drifted in and out of consciousness.

  As he flitted back and forth between his conscious mind and his subconscious desires, he was carried alternately from a world of searing chest pain and EMTs to a world where his ex wife and daughter leaned over him, forgiving him for his indiscretions and for his failures.

  Somewhere between these two worlds, Jackson died.

  Jackson knew death. He had seen and visited death upon others countless times.

  He could hear the single tone of his heart rate monitor flat line.

  The tone continued as Jackson greeted death.

  He didn't even feel the electricity of the paddles surge through his body. All Jackson knew was that suddenly his world exploded with light and pain, and his eyes jerked open.

  He became vaguely familiar of the kind eyes of the EMT once more. This time they were more panicked and fearful than the last.

  Jackson could feel himself becoming more aware of his surroundings as the air brakes of the ambulance sounded and the vehicle screamed to a halt. He lay still as the ambulance driver and EMT stepped purposefully down from the vehicle flung open the ambulance doors and wheeled his gurney at a high rate of speed into the bright lights of the emergency room.

  The voices that echoed off the sterile hallway of the corridor cascaded through Jackson's mind as he closed his eyes once more. He could sense the medical professionals who surrounded his gurney, and could hear their frantic orders as the din blended together into a simultaneous cacophony.

  The ER physician's voice carried over the rest. "Get me a pint of O negative, stat."

  Those were the last words Jackson would hear before his world darkened.

  Jackson found himself suspended between worlds once more as he drifted from consciousn
ess.

  He was greeted by a bright white light, a force that seemed to envelop the unconscious Jackson, his eyes greeting the brightness without being blinded by it.

  "Jackson." The voice was quiet and recognizable.

  "Leigh?" Jackson turned around in his fantasy, rubbing his eyes. There, standing before him suspended in the light was his ex-wife. She held Clementine in her arms and smiled sadly.

  Jackson tried to run to her, but the light held him still. "I'm so sorry." He cast his eyes downward.

  Leigh smiled knowingly. "It wasn't your fault, Jackson. You did everything you could."

  Jackson felt the bitter warmth of a tear begin to roll down his face as his guilt wracked him.

  Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He stared at Leigh and Clementine, slowly sobbing, tears flowing liberally down his face.

  He paused to take a deep breath. "Will I be able to stay with you?"

  Leigh smiled sadly. "No, Jackson. Not yet. It's not your time. Your mission isn't complete yet."

  Jackson squeezed his eyes shut and the bright white light illuminated the red capillaries in his eyelids as he absorbed Leigh's words.

  When he opened his eyes once more, Clementine was waving, her tiny fingers bidding a final farewell as she spoke for the first time. "Goodbye daddy."

  "Goodbye sweetheart," Jackson replied, sobbing as the two disappeared from sight.

  The light began to fade as Jackson turned around, voices seeming to surround him.

  "He's waking up," said one of the voices as Jackson found himself facing a bright surgical light, his arms and legs held in restraints. He could feel salty tears streaming from his eyes and rolling down his face as the image of his family was burned into his recent memory, even in the waking world.

  Jackson struggled as best he could as a medical professional placed a clear mask over his nose and mouth. He was greeted by darkness moments later.

  It was darkness both pleasant and familiar, the darkness of dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 43:

  02:43 AM- Sunday, September 10th

  Sumner, VA

  There really is nothing like waiting for the bomb squad to clear a device, or in this case twelve devices, thought Jimmy Howe. He frowned, biting his lower lip while they waited for the all clear from the bomb squad.