First Strike

by Ben Coes

  11, 61, 102, 112, 121.

  Dewey pulled on his optics and left them on top of his head. He reached into the weapons ruck and removed a silenced M4, then strapped it to his back. He popped the mag from the Colt pistol and slammed in a new one. He grabbed an extra mag for the carbine.

  The others performed a similar ritual, all in silence.

  Dewey climbed up through the roof. He pulled the optics down over his eyes and flipped the switch. The lower level of the elevator shaft came into view in shades of fluorescent orange. It was vast, dark, and eerily quiet. The elevator car was like a square block of steel dangling from thick steel cables. Looking over the side of the car, he could see the ground two stories below.

  Dewey stared up into the shaft. The only lights were small tendrils of yellow cutting through seams at the doors to each floor.

  Dewey turned to Smith, Katie, and Tacoma.

  “Igor, any movement?”

  “No.”

  Dewey felt each of the steel cables. One was loose enough to use a modified “break-and-squat” climbing method, which he’d mastered in Rangers. He jumped, grabbed the cable, and let it lie to the outside of his right leg. He stepped on the cable with his right foot and brought his left beneath the cable and pulled up. The combination of the cable across the top of his left foot and stepping on it with his right locked the cable in place.

  He looked down at Smith, even releasing his hands from the cable for a moment to demonstrate the strength of the lock he’d made with his feet.

  Smith grinned.

  “Break and squat?”

  Smith grabbed the cable on the third car, jumped up, pulled his legs up, locked, then reached up again.

  Tacoma, meanwhile, was already halfway up to the sixth floor. There was no climbing science to his ascension, just brute force. He pulled himself up with his hands, barely using his legs. Katie was below him, but was quickly at his heels.

  * * *

  Daisy opened her eyes. For a moment or two, she couldn’t remember anything. All she saw was Andy’s adorable face.

  “Are you ready to go over the calculus again?” she asked groggily.

  Andy started laughing. “Sure.”

  Then the pain hit her. “What happened?”

  “Sssshhhh,” said Andy, forcing Daisy’s head back to her lap.

  Charlotte walked quietly from the bathroom and handed Andy another damp towel. When she saw Daisy, she smiled.

  “He hit you with his gun,” Andy explained.

  “Who?”

  “The terrorist.”

  Daisy looked crestfallen. She closed her eyes again as Andy dabbed the contusion on her cheek.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, yeah.”

  * * *

  As Katie clung to the tiny precipice with her left hand, she reached to her belt and removed a combat blade. She inserted it into the crack between the two elevator doors.

  “Igor, is there anyone on the other side of the door?” she asked.

  “All clear. Open it, then move left. He’s in the second to last room, near the window. He’s a lookout. He has a sniper rifle. He hasn’t moved in several minutes.”

  Katie looked up at Tacoma, who was holding steady outside the elevator doors on seven, waiting for her to go in. He smiled at her.

  Katie stuck out her tongue, then pushed the blade between the doors and slowly twisted, creating a crack. She stuck her other hand in, and as she held herself steady, she put the blade between her teeth and moved her other hand to the opening. She moved the elevator doors apart. A series of mechanical clicks followed, loud enough for them all to hear. It was now halfway open; she stepped forward, blocking the two doors that wanted to close.

  “He’s moving,” said Igor. “Could be nothing.”

  She paused, resheathing the knife, then removed her silenced pistol: SIG Sauer P226 with an Osprey suppressor screwed to the muzzle.

  “Katie, he heard you.”

  “Do I have time—”

  “No! He’s almost to the hallway. He’s coming to the elevators! Close the doors!”

  Katie felt with her left hand for something to hold. She found a piece of the door mechanism.

  “He’s in the hallway. He’s running! Close them!”

  Holding the piece of thin steel, she removed her foot from between the doors, which slid shut, though not before she inserted the suppressor of her gun, chest level, inching it back so that the tip aligned with the plane of the doors.

  “Is he searching rooms?” she asked.

  “No. He heard the elevator. He’s two rooms away. He’s moving.”

  Katie pulled herself closer to the inch-wide gap in the doors and reached down with her off hand, finding a different piece of the door to hold onto, this one at waist level.

  “He’s nearly there,” whispered Igor.

  Katie knelt, sliding the gun down, the suppressor dropping to knee level. She tilted it up, then leaned forward, breathing quickly, until her forehead was pressed against the door. She looked with her right eye.

  “He’s there.”

  The light in the hallway flickered with shadow as the gunman paced in front of the bank of elevators. Then she saw him, his legs first, running shoes, black pants, black T-shirt. He was inspecting the first door.

  He was tall, with a bushy mustache and beard, olive skin, clutching a submachine gun. He studied the door at eye level, realizing something was amiss: a slight seam. He looked up; his eyes seemed to say, Why?

  He pulled the gun to his right, reaching out with his left and stepping forward.

  Katie didn’t move. Except her index finger, which she pressed to the trigger, tightened. She had no ability to move the gun to the left or right. He stepped closer, arm out. Then she fired. A dull thud echoed from the suppressed round. The bullet smashed into the center of the terrorist’s chest, a pained groan, and he stumbled back.

  But as the bullet ripped out of the gun, the small kick pushed the suppressor from between the elevator doors. Now the pistol was the only thing she held. When it moved back, she felt her body being pulled by down gravity. She reached for the side of the elevator as the sound of automatic weapon fire erupted from the terrorist.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, suddenly helpless to prevent the fall that was about to come.

  Katie fell backward, trying to grab the steel cable and slow her descent through the dark shaft, but she was moving too quickly.

  “Katie!” yelled Tacoma, looking in horror from the seventh-floor ledge.

  And then she remembered her father’s words: Cover your head. Advice at the summit of Cannon Mountain in New Hampshire before every race.

  “If you fall, cover your head. The rest of you can be fixed. Your brain can’t.”

  She threw her hands behind her head and twisted just as she slammed onto the roof of the elevator car. The point of impact was her left hip, left leg, and ribs, all of which shattered in an excruciating moment. The pain was blinding, worse than anything she’d ever experienced. Her optics, earbud, and most of what she’d been carrying was tossed upon impact and she lay in the dark, unable to move.

  “Katie!” said Igor.

  Tacoma looked over at Dewey, but he was gone.

  * * *

  As much as Dewey cared about Katie, he knew he didn’t have time to think about her. If the man on six alerted the others, all would be lost. Including a very badly injured Katie.

  He jammed his knife blade in the elevator doors the moment he heard her cry, “Oh, God.”

  He pulled the elevator doors open and charged down the hallway toward the stairs.

  Dewey’s mind was in chaos. He didn’t ask Igor which stairwell the gunman was headed for. He should’ve, but he didn’t think of it, and by the time he reached the stairs, he knew he’d gone to the wrong one. There was no one there. He was on the other side of the building.

  Then he heard him. He was below, running down the stairs.

  The terrorist wasn’t trying to alert the others
. He was running for the bombs!

  “He’s going downstairs,” said Igor, suddenly realizing what Dewey had done. “He’s going for the bomb!”

  Dewey pulled the carbine from over his head and charged down the stairs. He wasn’t there. The concrete landing was drenched in blood; the terrorist was bleeding out but still moving. Dewey moved to the railing and looked down. To the right, he saw the terrorist’s gun lying on the stairs. He’d abandoned it! He had but one purpose now. Dewey heard labored breathing, but he was out of view.

  “He’s below you! Against the wall! He’s halfway down! You can’t reach him! Get out of there! Run!”

  Dewey leaned over the banister, putting his finger to the trigger of his carbine.

  Below, diagonally to the right, he could see the IED nestled on top of the spiderweb of wires. But his view of the top part of the stairwell was blocked by the ceiling. The terrorist would be able to reach the top of the wires before Dewey could even see him. He’d be able to set off the IED and not only kill him but also set off a chain reaction, as the other bombs would fall and explode, a domino effect that likely would take down most of the building.

  He didn’t have time to descend. It was too late.

  “Five steps! Four! Dewey, get out of there!”

  He lifted the butt of the gun to his shoulder. He trained it at the banister that ran along the half flight of stairs just above the wires, the flight where the terrorist now skulked like a wounded rat, clinging to life long enough so that he could kill himself and take everyone else with him.

  The handrail was thick steel, round, atop thin rungs. His only hope was a ricochet. He fired once, the bullet clanging. He fired again. He moved the fire selector to full-auto and pulled the trigger. A furious din of clanging steel filled the air until he heard the mag click. It was empty.

  Dewey dropped the gun and charged down. Dark, wet blood streaked the wall and stairs where the terrorist had been crawling. He took the first flight in two enormous leaps. He stopped at the top of the third flight. The wires were visible below. The terrorist lay on the stairs, arms outstretched toward the wires. One of the slugs had hit him. A trail of blood covered the concrete behind him. He was inches from the first wire, lying motionless.

  And yet, Dewey continued his descent, pulling his knife from his belt. He came alongside the terrorist, who appeared to be dead. His eyes were closed, he didn’t move. Dewey knelt and reached out his left hand, putting it just above the man’s arm, waiting. He didn’t touch the terrorist, but he waited. In his right hand was the blade, a fearsome-looking object with a black blade, double-serrated, well-worn.

  A second became two, then five. Then the man’s arm shot out toward the wire. Dewey grabbed it, twisted it back behind him, and yanked up, snapping it. The man grunted in pain. His eyes opened, black and bloodshot, filled with hatred and defiance.

  Dewey ripped the blade across the terrorist’s throat, nearly severing his head, then plunged it into his chest, once, twice, then once more.

  “Igor,” said Dewey, slowly standing up.

  “What?”

  “Tell McNaughton to get some medics in.” He started sprinting up the stairs. “Damon, Rob, meet me on nine.”

  * * *

  Tacoma and Smith were standing in the empty ninth-floor hallway when Dewey got there, drenched in perspiration.

  “We should save her first, then go back,” Tacoma said.

  “No,” said Dewey. “We don’t have time. I love her too, but her best chance of surviving is us killing those fuckers. It needs to end right now.”

  “Medics are moving,” said Igor.

  “Dewey,” said Tacoma.

  Dewey paused. His eyes met Tacoma’s. He looked at the floor, then to Smith.

  Dewey tapped his ear.

  “How are they positioned on ten and eleven?”

  “They’re at opposite ends of the floor,” said Igor.

  He looked at Smith. “How’s your marksmanship?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Can you take two guys on the same floor? One point-blank, the other three hundred feet or so away, under three seconds?”

  “I’m a good shot, Dewey,” said Smith. “I’m a better climber.”

  “All right, you go take care of Katie.”

  Dewey signaled to Tacoma.

  “You have ten. I’ll take eleven. On my go. When you hear screaming, move.”

  “What about twelve?” asked Tacoma.

  “We’re going to have to run fast.”

  “What if he runs for the roof?” asked Tacoma.

  Dewey nodded.

  “Igor, patch in McNaughton real quick.”

  A few seconds later, McNaughton came on.

  “Hey, guys.”

  “Dave, we’re almost done, but we have a guy on twelve. He might run for the roof and attempt to detonate the bombs.”

  “I’ll bring a chopper in tight.”

  “Bring in a couple,” said Dewey. “They need to expect the man on twelve to run for the bombs on the roof. They can’t miss.”

  “Got it,” said McNaughton. “Hold on.”

  Dewey moved to the west stairs as Tacoma sprinted down the hallway to the east stairwell.

  “What’s the setup on each floor?” asked Dewey, climbing in silence, just behind Smith.

  “The last two bedrooms on each side are empty. They’re using them as lookouts. They’re pacing back and forth between the rooms. They look out the window for a few seconds on one side, then walk back across the hall. The students are packed into the rooms in the middle of the floor, hallways too.”

  “Are they coordinating movements?” asked Dewey.

  “It doesn’t appear so.”

  Dewey reached the tenth-floor landing and kept climbing.

  Tacoma stopped at ten and held up next to the door.

  He suddenly became aware of the sound of rotors, as the choppers swept closer to the building.

  Dewey took off his optics and left them on the floor. He stuck a fresh mag into the MP7. He unfolded the butt, then flipped up the weapon’s infrared scope. He moved the fire selector to semiauto and walked to the door, just out of the way of the narrow window.

  Sweat poured down every inch of his body. His mind raced with thoughts of Katie, of Daisy, of Hector. But he knew he needed to push them all aside now.

  “Igor, we need precise timing here,” said Dewey, removing the silenced Colt from his shoulder holster and holding it in his left hand as, with his right, he held the MP7. He put the butt of the handgun against the doorknob, grasping the knob with the tips of the same fingers that clutched the .45. “I need you to tell me when the gunman at the far end of eleven is moving from the window toward the hallway.”

  Quietly, he turned the knob but didn’t open the door yet.

  “He’s moving from the window, Dewey.”

  “Where’s the near guy?”

  “Directly in front of you, moving left. Get ready. Far gunman is almost there. He’s at the door in three, two, one…”

  “Rob, go when you hear screams. Your guys will probably flood into the area directly in front of you.”

  He turned the knob.

  “Now, Dewey!” said Igor.

  Dewey ripped open the door, swinging the pistol up in the air just as the terrorist heard the door open, turned, and leveled his Uzi, firing; the slugs from the terrorist were unmuted. The first screams pierced the quiet. A deadly slash of bullets ripped across the door and wall, closing in on Dewey. Dewey lurched right and down, then fired the Colt with his left hand. The first bullet nicked the terrorist in the cheek, and he stumbled. Dewey fired again, the slug hitting him dead center in the forehead, splattering brains and blood.

  As screams erupted, Dewey moved calmly—dropping the Colt, kneeling on his right knee, lifting the MP7 to his shoulder, aiming down the corridor, looking through the scope at the far end.

  “Everybody, get down now!” he barked to the fear-stricken students.

  The scr
eams turned desperate: pandemonium. But Dewey remained calm. Several people were standing, despite his order, but there was no time to warn them again. He looked through the powerful scope. Four or five people were running down the hallway, away from Dewey.

  Somewhere below, from the tenth floor, Dewey heard gunfire.

  Another terrorist came into view, a lone figure at the far end of the corridor. He screamed something in Arabic. Dewey studied him through the scope. He was bald, dressed in black, and he emerged from the bedroom on the left with his weapon raised, turning down the hallway. Dewey locked him in just as he raised his rifle. The sound of the gunman’s unmuted carbine echoed down the hall, and the muzzle flash made the scope momentarily light up. Pandemonium turned into terror.

  Dewey fired.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  Three dull metallic thuds which, though suppressed, seemed somehow to cut through the screams and the chaos and the terrorist’s unmuted rifle fire. Dewey watched through the scope as the wall behind the terrorist went abruptly red in the same instant the slug caught the man in the forehead, blowing off the top of his skull.

  “Twelve is moving,” said Igor.

  * * *

  Sullivan was seated in the hallway when he heard the noise. It was a loud thud followed by a female voice. She was crying.

  Had they thrown another?

  He went to the window and looked down. The sidewalk in front of Carman was covered in blood, but no bodies. The last student thrown had been removed. That was twenty minutes ago.

  He looked for the grandmother, finding her in a bedroom down the hall. She was hidden beneath an unmade bed. When he tried to ask her how she was doing, she said, “Sssshhhh,” and waved him away.

  Sullivan went through every room, searching for the source of the crying. She wasn’t anywhere on the floor. Rifle in hand, he went to the stairs. He made sure no one was there and moved quietly down to the second floor. He went through every room.

  He heard her again, more clearly this time.

  He walked to the elevators and stopped. He listened for at least a minute. Then he heard the woman’s soft cry once more.

  Sullivan put the gun against the wall. He scanned the floor for something to pry open the doors. He ran into the nearest bedroom and threw open a box. Inside were books, framed photographs, bedding. He found a small plastic case near the bottom and opened it. Inside was a glass pipe, several lighters, and a bottle opener.