The Identity Mine (Warner & Lopez Book 3)

by Dean Crawford

  Hannah looked back down at Lopez, her face pained.

  ‘Where’s Ethan?!’ she demanded.

  Lopez realized that Ethan had not shown up at the scene and that he had his cell phone on him. She swallowed the blood in her mouth and managed to speak a final sentence.

  ‘Ethan might be implanted,’ she gasped. ‘He didn’t show.’

  Lopez’s head sank back wearily onto the grass. Amid the chaos and the shouting, Lopez lay in a vacuum of tranquility and stared up at the serene sky above her as she heard Kiera Lomas’s final words.

  ‘If America is truly to become great again we must become a nation of the people, for the people. Are you all going to live your lives knowing that corporations control our country’s government, its capital city, even its presidents? Will you continue to let your children die from gunshot wounds in your schools just because a Constitutional right written two hundred years ago is held up by the NRO as a reason to continue making profits? Or will you take back control of your own country and demand the right to be heard, the right to true governance by democratically elected leaders who are not in the thrall of big business? Who will have to die before the people will wake up to the fact that the right to bear arms, and the right of corporations to control government, is killing us all day by day?’

  Lopez smiled as she realized that Kiera Lomas had not made an attempt on the lives of either of the two Presidents standing beside her on the south lawn. She felt herself relax, felt relief wash over her.

  For a moment Lopez was reminded of the skies of her native Guanajuato, of the mountains and of how far she had come in the years since, and then the sky fell into darkness and all was lost to her.

  ***

  XLV

  Ethan hauled the Harley Davidson onto 17th Street as a crowd of people gathered around something in the street, and in the distance a blue van with a smashed windscreen accelerated toward him.

  Ethan wound the Harley’s throttle open even as the blue van flashed by on his left as he hit the brakes and counter–steered the big Harley into a slide, the fat rear tire squealing and blue smoke spiraling onto the hot air as he turned the bike around and accelerated back up the street in pursuit of the vehicle. It weaved left and right, fighting its way past slower moving vehicles as Ethan tried to pick a moment to use the motorbike’s superior power and acceleration to slip past.

  The rear–view mirror showed the face of the driver, watching Ethan intently as he swerved hard right and broadsided a blue Prius that careered to the left and smashed into the side of a tree on the sidewalk with a crash of rending metal and shattering glass. Ethan jerked the Harley to the left and just missed the rear of the Prius as it skittered to a halt, its front wheel warped and buckled and the tire flat as it rubbed along the sidewalk.

  Ethan could see a major intersection ahead that joined K Street, a through fare running east – west through the city on the edge of downtown. If the van got out there it would have more room for manoeuver and Ethan did not have the time for a protracted pursuit.

  A smaller intersection appeared and Ethan closed up on the rear of the van. As they rocketed across the intersection, Ethan kicked the Harley down a gear and twisted the throttle wide open as he swerved first right and then left to fool the driver. The van jerked about in an attempt to block Ethan and then the Harley roared past, the engine loud in Ethan’s ear as it was amplified between the passing buildings and the side of the van. Ethan passed alongside the van and the saw an articulated truck looming dead ahead.

  The truck’s horn blared and Ethan’s heart skipped a beat as he leaned the Harley over and flashed through the rapidly closing gap. The truck swerved right to avoid him as Ethan shot by and out in front of the van and immediately kicked his heel down on the rear brake.

  The Harley’s rear tire locked up in a cloud of blue smoke as Ethan twisted the handlebars against the bike’s slide. The heavy motorbike shuddered as it slowed and then its tires regained their grip. The Harley flipped upright as Ethan deliberately released the handlebars and launched himself out of the saddle.

  The Harley high–sided and slammed down on its right side on the asphalt in a billowing cloud of sparks as chrome bodywork and metal scraped along the road. Ethan hit the ground and rolled over, coming up onto his feet as he looked back and saw the van hit the brakes, its tires squealing.

  The van hit the Harley and the big motorbike wedged itself under the van’s front fender as a deafening crescendo of tortured metal screeched and echoed between the buildings lining either side of 17th Street. Ethan leaped out of the van’s way as it thundered past in a cloud of bright sparks that flared from the Harley’s engine block as it was forced on its side along the hot asphalt, the bike’s sheer size and weight bringing the van to a halt.

  Ethan turned and sprinted to the van’s side even as the driver opened his door and hurled himself out of the vehicle. He turned in time for Ethan to swing a punch that impacted the driver’s bearded jaw with a sharp crack and spun him backwards into the open door. Time seemed to slow down as Ethan looked into the eyes of a burly, bearded man of Middle Eastern origin, the assault rifle held in both of his hands swinging up to point at Ethan as from the other side of the van a second man turned to flee.

  The fleeing man was older, his hair and narrow beard gray, his eyes cold and cunning like those of a hawk and a smile that looked more like a sneer painted across his face as he looked back at Ethan.

  Ethan hurled himself out of the line of fire even as the assault rifle shook and a flare of flame burst from its barrel. Ethan rolled by the vehicle’s front fender as he heard screams from pedestrians as the gunshots rattled out through the streets, bullets smashing through the open passenger door where he had been standing moments before.

  Ethan pulled his pistol from its shoulder holster and rolled along the hot asphalt beside the ruined Harley Davidson as he took aim beneath the van. He could see the gunman’s booted feet as he hurried around the rear of the vehicle to catch Ethan as he appeared on the other side.

  Ethan did not wait for the gunman to appear as he took aim and fired beneath the van.

  The 9mm round smashed into the gunman’s ankle at a range of no more than ten feet and he heard a great roar of pain as the bullet shattered bone and the big man toppled down onto one knee at the rear of the van. The barrel of the emerged but moved no further as the crippled gunman growled in pain and began crawling the last few paces to bring the weapon to bear on where Ethan lay.

  Ethan was already up and running, and as the assault rifle appeared around the rear fender so he swung one boot and smashed it up under the barrel to send the rifle spinning up into the air as it was wrenched from the gunman’s grasp.

  Ethan turned around the corner of the wrecked van’s rear fender and saw the bearded gunman on his knees, his hands raised beside his head and a grim smile spreading on his face.

  ‘Alluhah Akbhar!’ he shouted.

  The sound of screaming sirens echoed across the streets as Ethan circled around the kneeling gunman and with one hand managed to unclip a set of handcuffs from his belt and secure one of the big man’s wrists.

  ‘Get up!’

  Ethan hauled the gunman to his feet, his pistol jabbed under the big man’s ribs as he hustled him to the driver’s door and then shoved him face first into the vehicle as he cuffed the man’s wrist to the steering wheel.

  Ethan turned and began running in pursuit of the old man, Tariq Adel. To his delight and amazement, drivers in cars trapped within the dense traffic shouted and pointed up the street where Tariq had fled. Ethan pumped his arms and sucked in deep breaths of air, running hard down the street as he saw pedestrians cowering in driveways and crouching behind walls, evidently having thrown themselves into cover as Tariq rushed past with his rifle.

  Ethan burst out onto the main intersection and heard screams ahead even as he heard rifle fire and saw Tariq standing on the sidewalk alongside Farragut Square, the rifle cradled in his grasp as he fired
at Ethan.

  Ethan hurled himself down on the ground as a shower of bullets smacked the sidewalk around him. Tariq was screaming obscenities as he fired at Ethan, the rifle’s recoil too strong for the old man to aim properly. Pedestrians screamed in their hundreds as they scattered away from the gunfire, and Ethan aimed his pistol and held his breath for a moment before he fired twice.

  The first bullet hit Tariq low in the belly, the second high in the chest and the old man staggered backwards on the sidewalk and tried to bring the rifle to bear on Ethan while seeking an escape route. Ethan, lying prone on the hot asphalt, fired again. The round smacked into Tariq’s shoulder and threw him onto his back as the rifle spun from his grasp and clattered down alongside him.

  Ethan jumped to his feet and sprinted across the road, weaving between vehicles as he rushed up to Tariq’s body, his pistol still aimed at the old man.

  Tariq was lying on his back, blood spilling onto his hands as he clutched the wound in his belly, his shirt a bloodied mess where Ethan’s bullet had entered his shoulder and then exited his neck. Bright blood pulsed from severed arteries and Ethan realized immediately that the third wound was fatal.

  Tariq seemed to know that he was doomed as he squinted up at Ethan, a slim, curved blade held tightly in one bloodied hand that he pointed at Ethan to prevent him from coming any closer.

  ‘It’s over, Tariq,’ Ethan insisted. ‘The President won’t be dying any time soon and it’s not worth you dying now. Let me help you.’

  Tariq smiled, his white teeth stained pink with blood.

  ‘It’s not over,’ he rasped, his chest surging as he fought for every last breath. ‘It’s only just begun.’

  ‘The Presidents of America and China are safe,’ Ethan snapped. ‘You failed, Tariq. It’s over.’

  ‘Is it?’ the old man asked. ‘Then where is Abrahem?’

  Ethan felt a sudden premonition of doom sweep over him. ‘You tell me, Tariq.’

  Tariq’s smile did not slip even as Ethan heard police sirens wailing ever closer, fighting their way through the dense traffic.

  ‘To fight is to be courageous,’ Tariq whispered, ‘but to deceive is to be wise.’

  ‘Where is Abrahem?!’ Ethan snapped.

  Tariq’s grip on his blade faltered and the weapon clattered to the sidewalk as his chest stopped moving and he gasped one final sentence.

  ‘Getting his revenge before he joins me in paradise.’

  Tariq’s smile remained in place even as the light of life faded from his eyes and his hands slumped from his wounds to slap down onto the sidewalk.

  Ethan stared at the old man for a long moment and then he heard the President’s voice on the screens erected in the park nearby, saw him addressing the crowds on the South Lawn of the White House. There, on the image, were satellite links to other dignitaries not present at the ceremony but watching from afar.

  And finally, Ethan understood what Tariq had meant. Deception.

  ‘Oh no.’

  Ethan whirled and sprinted across the park as he sought a means of transport. He knew that he had only minutes to act.

  ***

  XLVI

  Travilah,

  Maryland

  The sun was low in the sky, sheets of molten metal flaring behind the rows of trees lining the asphalt road that weaved between vast estates and ranches nestled within deep forests and rolling hills.

  Travilah was one of the United States’ most exclusive residences, a place where those with the means could retire to a life of leisure far from the turbulence of Washington DC but close enough to feel the distant pulse of the country’s beating political heart. Broad green fields, lush forests and tranquil lakes dotted the countryside in the late afternoon sunshine as Abrahem Nassir walked up the long drive of a massive colonially styled mansion.

  Abrahem did not know precisely what panic he had managed to cause in the capital city of America, although he did know that the city was gridlocked. The Presidential meeting on the South Lawn of the White House was captivating the world, and the traffic through the city was ensuring that nobody would be moving anywhere fast for a good few hours. The radio he had listened to on the drive out of the city had hinted at several police actions around the Capitol area, police chases and other events that suggested perhaps the capture of people who intended harm to the country. Abrahem smiled, for he knew that while the law enforcement agencies of the most powerful country on Earth were otherwise engaged, he would now play the ace in his sleeve that none of them had seen coming.

  America would now have its own moment of shock and awe.

  Abrahem could not help but compare his elegant surroundings with the killing fields of Iraq and the battered, sun scorched ruins of Basra where children ran in bare feet and ragged clothes, ever fearful of attack by Islamic militants and American air strikes alike; where water was a luxury, not a given; where life was short, cheap and often filled with suffering.

  But here in America was the paradise that so many of the militants spoke of, not as part of some supposed afterlife but in the here and now. A warm sun, a blue sky, rolling fields, water everywhere, luxury everywhere, nothing to fear.

  Nothing but Abrahem.

  The security guards at the main entrance to the home had been easy to kill. Despite Abrahem’s obvious Middle Eastern origins, they had suspected no foul play when he had pulled in alongside their post to ask for directions. Both had been happy to assist him, both had scrutinized his map at his request and both had collapsed as 9mm slugs punctured their internal organs. Moments later, two more rounds had pierced their skulls.

  Abrahem had opened the main gates and then hauled the bodies into his vehicle’s trunk before driving slowly toward the house, the drive of which wound back and forth between ranks of tall, elegant aspen that were aesthetically pleasing and yet tactically disastrous for the occupants of the house beyond. Abrahem knew that they lived safe in the knowledge that despite their heinous crimes they would never be brought to justice for them, would never face a trial for the wars they had started, for the lives they had taken.

  Abrahem slowed his vehicle and watched the house for a moment, then he killed the engine and climbed out, closed his door quietly. He knew that most of the occupants of the house would be sitting in front of the television, watching intently and indeed be being watched by millions of Americans. Despite the confidence he had in his plan Abrahem was surprised to feel somewhat nervous as he approached the front door. Perhaps it was because he had waited so long, yearned so much for this moment? He pushed the emotion aside as he reached the front door of the house, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

  Abrahem tapped in a text message and pressed send. Then, he waited. In his vehicle was a transmitter, which was signalling an implant inside the home.

  Within two minutes the door to the massive house opened and a smartly dressed man confronted Abrahem. He was broad shouldered, with a thick neck and the closely cropped hair of a former military soldier. 1st Infantry Brigade Combat Team, to be precise, which had deployed to Baghdad, Iraq in 2008. Corporal James Larson, rifleman, twenty nine years of age, now a security specialist assigned to the permanent protection detail of a former President of the United States. He had been implanted after a minor bullet wound had required surgery in a field hospital near Basra.

  Abrahem moved quickly, quietly, the blade flashing across Larson’s neck. The soldier did not flinch, seemed almost asleep as the razor sharp blade opened his throat with a crisp sound, blood spilling in copious floods down his white shirt.

  Abrahem watched, fascinated, as the soldier’s legs slowly gave way and the light of life faded from his eyes. Like a giant statue he toppled slowly forward and Abrahem side–stepped Larson’s body as it plummeted down and smashed into the steps in front of the house.

  Abrahem grabbed hold of the former soldier’s ankles and hauled him inside, then closed the door once more.

  *

  Hannah Ford hur
ried inside the White House feeling as though she were dreaming, the colors around her more vivid than she recalled them ever being. Her fatigue suddenly vanished as she turned a corridor, two Secret Service agents escorting her as she laid eyes on FBI Director LeMay.

  The White House state dining room was filled with guests, the air humming with conversation beneath the ornate chandelier hanging over dining tables laid with Lenox gold charger plates and cutlery.

  ‘The threat has been successfully neutralized,’ came Secret Service Agent Hopkin’s voice over the radio. ‘Olympus is safe.’

  Hannah fumbled to get her microphone into place quickly enough to reply, her access to the White House cleared only minutes before by Jarvis via the President himself.

  ‘Negative,’ she snapped, ‘I say again, negative, the threat has not been neutralized. All stations, stay alert!’

  Her eyes sought out Director LeMay once more. The Director was talking to a pair of Chinese delegates, a flute of sparkling champagne in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Hannah began heading toward the Director, possessed of a determination that she had never felt before in all of her years. To her left she could see the President of the United States talking to the President of the People’s Republic of China, surrounded by a small army of delegates all keen to shake the hands of the most powerful man on earth.

  The state dining room was the largest in the White House, but less than fifty by forty feet overall. A bomb, detonated in or close to the room, would be devastating.

  Hannah started to move more quickly as her mind raced and everything went into slow–motion. She saw Director LeMay and nothing else in the room, as though the rest of the world were merely an irritating blur.

  Get him out of the room.