by Ethan Cross
“Actually, that’s the good news.”
“We could use some of that.”
“These SUAVs aren’t fully functional. From what I can see, it looks like they were just using the basic design to test the dispersal mechanism. They’re not even equipped with the typical camera and computer based controls. It just has a rudimentary joystick system.”
“Okay, what does that tell us?”
“It means that they’ll have to control the drone with actual visual contact. Like you would a remote control plane.”
Munroe considered this and said, “You’re saying that they’ll need to be close. They can’t be on the actual mall. Security will be too tight. So they’ll have to be somewhere high up. A vantage point tall enough to visually control the UAV as it sweeps over the crowd.”
“Exactly, but most of the buildings around there are government facilities or museums. They’re not very tall and access would be tricky.”
“It would have to be somewhere public,” Munroe agreed. “Somewhere full of people where they could blend in and sneak around or even pose as police or maintenance and access a rooftop.”
The line went quiet as they both searched desperately for possibilities.
Think, dammit. Think.
Then Joey said, “What about the Old Post Office Pavilion? It’s a shopping center now, and its old clock tower is used as a public viewing platform.”
Munroe analyzed the facility as if he were planning such an attack. Lots of people to blend with, but not overcrowded. Low security. Easy access to the roof, upper floors, and a high vantage point. Connected to a Metro station for a quick escape. It was the perfect location.
He said, “I think you may be right, Joey. Get in touch with Black and Katherine. Tell them to meet me on the roof of the Old Post Office immediately.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m less than a block away from that place right now. I’m going to check it out.”
“By yourself?”
“I think I know where I might be able to find some help. Just get in touch with Black.”
Munroe hung up the phone and then stepped into the center of the FBI lobby. He heard the sound of footsteps and the low chatter of people on their way to their offices. “Excuse me!” he shouted. “Is anyone here a field agent?”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
When the Senator’s train stopped, five armed guards greeted Jonas Black. He held up his hands and said, “Take it easy boys. We’re all on the same team.” He showed his ID, but they didn’t seem convinced. A concrete walkway followed the train tracks back to the Senate offices that allowed staff members to walk the distance to the Capitol if they wished. Katherine sprinted down the tunnel, forced to take the long way. When she arrived, she helped assuage the fears of the guards and convince them of the true threat.
The situation defused, Black retrieved his gun from the floor of the train car. He hadn’t even caught his breath when Katherine said, “I just got a call from your friend, Joey. He said they’re going to hit the event on the National Mall. Munroe needs us at the Old Post Office.”
Black ejected the magazine on his PT845 pistol, checked the remaining ammo, and inserted a fresh mag. He said, “What’s the quickest way to get there?”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
With the help of two FBI special agents who he had recruited as they were walking through the lobby, Munroe made his way to the Old Post Office Pavilion, which sat just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Under his direction, the agents guided Munroe to the elevator leading up to building’s top floor and the public viewing area inside the old clock tower. He remembered that a man behind glass who took the money for tickets also controlled the elevator. To the ticket taker, he said, “Have you seen anyone come through here carrying a large case?”
“Yeah, a couple of maintenance guys. They headed up to nine. Said they needed to fix one of the air conditioning units on the roof.”
“Activate the elevator and get us up there now.”
“What’s this about?”
“Now!”
Before the elevator arrived, one of the agents said, “Please wait here, Agent Munroe. We’ll check it out.”
The elevator dinged open, and Munroe stepped forward in the direction of the sound. When the shape of the sounds changed, he knew that he was inside the elevator. He felt the eyes of the agents upon him. “I’m not sitting on the sidelines this time.”
Neither man protested. They simply pressed the button to go to the top of the building. When they arrived, they helped Munroe down the corridor to the roof access.
He felt the change in pressure and sound as they stepped into open air. The cool breeze swept over him, and the light warmed his face. The hot sun caused the roof to smell of oil and asphalt. The space hummed with the industrial sounds of air conditioners and other exhaust vents and spinning fans.
The agents led him forward, but then his helper pushed him down next to the metal surface of one of the air conditioners. “Stay here and be quiet. I think there’s someone up ahead. We’re going to take a look.”
Munroe’s heart pounded, and he suddenly felt weak and exposed. The unfamiliar surroundings, vibrant smells, and loud droning sounds overwhelmed him.
He listened carefully as the agents left him and moved across the roof. He strained to hear, but the hum was so powerful that it blocked out all the other sounds. Or maybe the agents just weren’t making any noise. Then, in the distance, he heard one of them shout, “Don’t move! Put your hands behind your heads!”
Munroe released a deep, calming breath. He didn’t hear any gunshots, just the agents shouting more orders. They seemed to have the situation under control. Castillo’s plot had been thwarted.
Then a voice said, “Hello, Munroe. Wait here. I need to take care of something, and then I’ll be back to deal with you.”
Munroe’s hope faded as he recognized the gravelly South American accent of Antonio de Almeida.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX
Suspecting the terrible attack that was Ramon Castillo’s true goal, Almeida had slipped a tracker into Miguel’s pocket and followed him to his rendezvous with Castillo himself. The two men had changed into the blue jumpsuits of maintenance workers and carried the black case into the Old Post Office Pavilion. Almeida didn’t follow them to the rooftop immediately as he debated on how to proceed. He stood near the railing overlooking the mall’s food court and watched the laughing families and smiling children. Castillo had saved him from the streets and the terrible suffering that accompanied that life. Vaquero raised him up to a position of respect and became his mentor and adopted father. He couldn’t betray that trust, that love. But how could God ever forgive him for letting such a terrible atrocity take place?
When he saw Deacon Munroe enter with two black-suited men, his decision was made for him. Somehow Munroe had deduced the truth and the location of the attack. The agents would likely surprise Miguel and Castillo and put an end to the attack, but Almeida could never allow his adopted father to be captured. His intense love and loyalty for Vaquero drove him to act.
He followed the three Americans to the rooftop and watched as the two agents left Munroe and took Castillo and Miguel into custody.
The glass of a massive skylight filled the vast majority of the roof, but oily rock and large metal extrusions covered the rest of the roof’s surface. He navigated around the obstructions, and after greeting Munroe—whom he had come to respect as an adversary—he silently glided up behind the FBI agents and shot them both in the head.
Castillo’s eyes went wide with shock at the sight of him. “Antonio, what are you doing here?”
Gesturing toward the dead men, Almeida said, “I thought you may need some help. It looks like I was correct.”
“But you should be at the Capitol.”
“I sent Pike. He’s a capable and resourceful man. You lied to me, Vaquero. Your goal was never to stop the passage of the bill or to make the American politicians pay for interfering in our business and waging war against us.”
Castillo turned to Miguel. “Continue the preparations.” Then looking toward the National Mall, the cartel boss stroked his beard and said, “You’re right. This was always my plan, Antonio. I admire you. Your innocence. But the time for restraint and mercy is over. I had hoped to discuss all this with you once the wheels of progress were already set in motion, but here we are. This is just the beginning. We already have forces stationed in every corner of this country. The men who sell our drugs and control our business interests on this side of the border. We’ll provide those assets with this new weapon, which they’ll release at strategic targets in every city across the nation.”
“But that’s not what we had discussed. You agreed that there was no reason for innocent people to suffer. That the politicians were responsible and would be the ones to pay. Killing women and children will not bring back your family.”
Castillo backhanded Almeida across the face. “Don’t speak to me like I’m some common fool. Trust of their government in America is at an all time low. We will supply the drug, Focus, to America’s enemies, and at the same time, we will cause the nation’s people to doubt that their government can protect them. The sharks of this world will smell blood in the water, and they will come. What we set in motion here today will lead to the downfall of the United States. They may not crumble completely, but they will never be the same. They will be weak and more easily controlled. Don’t you see, Antonio? If we kill their leaders, the people will mourn them. But six months from now, other tyrants will have replaced the current regime, and the cycle will repeat. But they’ll remember when I burn this city to the ground. We won’t let them forget because another will follow. And another. And another.”
Castillo grasped Almeida’s shoulder and leaned in close. “You’ve been like a son to me, and I have no other sons left. They’ve stolen them from me. I need you. You’re my General. I need you by my side.”
Tears formed in Almeida’s eyes, but he held them back. Swallowing down the last doubts of what he must do, he said, “I’ll always be by your side, Vaquero. Tell me what to do. If this is the start of the war, I want to fire the first shot. I want to initiate the attack.”
Castillo beamed with pride as he squeezed Almeida’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring shake. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” He reached into the black case and handed Almeida a small but sophisticated control device. “Take this up to the clock tower. We’ll launch the drone from here, and then it will be up to you to guide it over the National Mall and drop the payload.” He indicated a switch covered with a red safety cap. “Just flip this switch, and the world will never be the same.”
Almeida nodded and then headed back across the roof. He reached the spot where he had left Munroe, but the blind man was gone. Almeida followed the path inside and saw Munroe feeling his way across the railing back toward the elevators. The entire center of the building was open air, and Almeida could see the mall and the food court far below. The echoes of the people blended together into an indecipherable buzz of humanity.
Hand over hand, Munroe pulled himself forward, still refusing to give up. Such strength and perseverance. Such determination in the face of adversity. Unfortunately, Almeida knew that these qualities made Munroe too much of a threat to be left alive.
Almeida hated himself for it, but he raised his Glock pistol and fired two shots into Munroe’s back. The blind man’s body arched with the impacts, and he fell forward onto the carpeted walkway.
People inside the shopping center and ahead in the museum section of the Old Post Office screamed at the sound of gunfire and scattered like sheep.
Saying a quick prayer for the brave man to find peace in the next world, the gun in one hand and the control device in the other, Antonio de Almeida stepped over Munroe’s lifeless form and headed toward the clock tower.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN
The Old Post Office Pavilion reminded Jonas Black more of an old cathedral than it did an office building and mall with its Victorian architecture, dormer-covered roof, and massive clock tower. After dodging in and out of DC traffic and sometimes finding his way onto the sidewalks, he finally skidded the forcefully commandeered black Lexus to a stop in front of the historic landmark, earning a tirade of honks from the other drivers. Mall patrons flooded out beneath the colossal arches marking the building’s entrance.
Black and Katherine pushed their way through the panicked crowd to gain access to the structure. The nine-story interior atrium contained shops, offices, and a food court. All of it topped with decorative metal support struts and an enormous skylight. Black felt that the naturally-lit atrium resembled an old train station.
The shrieks of tourists echoed across the building’s black and white checkered floors, and the smell of grease and uneaten food wafted up from the food court on the structure’s lower level.
Once inside, they found the elevators and made their way up to the ninth floor, the uppermost level of the building’s main section. Joey had filled them in on the nature of the attack, and so Black said, “You check out the roof. I’ll head up to the clock tower.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
Annabelle woke up with a stabbing pain behind her eyes. Every muscle seemed to ache, and dried blood clogged her nostrils. Her eyes opened, but a veil of black cloth obstructed her vision. She tried to move her arms but found them secured behind her back.
She heard a harsh voice rasp, “I think the chica is awake.”
The light hurt her eyes as her captors pulled off the hood. They were in some type of machine shed. Tools and workbenches lined the room. Oil stained the floors, and the space smelled of diesel fuel and sawdust.
Corrigan occupied a chair to her left. Duct tape secured his hands to the arms of the chair. His breath came in labored gasps. Blood ran from his left hand and pooled on the floor. Bile rose in her throat as she realized that he was missing two fingers.
Two men stood near Corrigan. One was white with salt and pepper hair and the look of a mechanic. The other was handsome with dark skin and feral eyes like those of a hyena.
The hyena said, “It’s about time you joined the party. You’ve been out for a while. Your friend here is stubborn. He just keeps repeating his name and rank. But I think you and I will get along much better.”
He walked over and caressed a curly strand of her hair. She involuntarily cringed and turned her head from him. He stroked her cheek and licked his lips with a sickening hunger. He said, “Yes, you and I are going to be very friendly.”
The hyena cupped one of her breasts. She pulled back but could do little to halt his advances. The other man said, “Hey, we’re supposed to find out what she knows, not rape her.”
The hyena smiled. “I didn’t hear anyone say that we couldn’t have a little fun with her. Don’t worry, she’ll be ready to tell us everything soon. Won’t you, chica?”
“Almeida wouldn’t approve of this,” the mechanic said.
“Too bad that he’s not here. If you don’t have the cojones, you can step outside.”
The other man looked at her for a few seconds. She met his gaze and pleaded with her eyes. But then he lowered his head and moved to the door.
The hyena pulled out a switch blade knife and pressed it against her throat. He bent down close to her ear. She could feel his hot breath on her neck. He smelled of cigarettes and expensive cologne.
He whispered, “I hope you like it rough, chica.”
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was somewhere else. She mentally pictured herself running down a winding country road. Each footfall in her mind matched the pounding of her heart. The hyena kept talking, but she did her best t
o ignore him. In her mind, she kept running. If you run, they’ll never catch you.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE
Antonio de Almeida looked out through the safety wires atop the old clock tower. He had the entire viewing area to himself, since the tourists had scattered and evacuated at the sound of gunfire. It was quiet and calm. A comfortable breeze. A beautiful day.
Looking toward the National Mall, he watched Miguel’s small form as the man reared back and launched the drone plane. The control device was rudimentary with two joysticks that controlled the throttle of the drone and the small plane’s pitch and yaw. He easily took command of the SUAV and guided it toward the target.
He could imagine Castillo’s elation and excitement at being so close to his goal. Vaquero’s vengeance for his family would be complete within a matter of seconds.
Almeida, on the other hand, felt dead inside.
The prototype testing plane could not compete with its military counterparts in terms of speed and capabilities, but it was still swift and maneuverable. He expertly guided it over the red-roofed buildings of the EPA and the Andrew W. Mellon Auditorium. Then past the National Museum of American History.
He used the world’s tallest stone structure, the Washington Monument, as a guide. A sea of people surrounded the massive obelisk and stretched past the various war memorials, the Constitution Gardens, and the Reflecting Pool, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial in the far distance.
This was the kill zone, the area where the drone’s terrible payload would be unleashed upon the unsuspecting crowd.
Within a matter of minutes, they would turn upon one another, tearing each other apart in an orgy of unbridled fury and pain. A scene straight from the depths of Hell. The affected masses would then spill out into the rest of the city, elevating the death toll. Perhaps they would even storm the gates of White House nearby.