by Matthew Dunn
She was forty yards away from the nearest cops. Though they weren’t looking in her direction, they’d easily hear her if she shouted.
The sensible path to take was to do precisely that, and then duck for cover.
Trouble was, the man who’d been so grateful to her for use of her travel pillow never once looked or sounded like he was a threat. He seemed like a good person, someone she’d felt totally comfortable around while she closed her eyes.
To hell with alerting the cops.
She’d never been one to do the sensible thing.
She jogged as fast as her heavy pack would let her until she was side by side with the FBI’s Most Wanted. “Mr. Jones,” she said, breathless and smiling, “I’ve got a favor to ask—you mind carrying my damn bag? It’s killing my back.”
Will looked at her. His face looked focused and serious. “I’m—”
“Only need you to hold it until we’re outside. Maybe payment in kind for the pillow?”
Will hesitated. “Sure.” He took the backpack and slung it over one shoulder.
As they walked closer to the first pair of cops, Emma said, “Got another favor to ask: Do you mind holding my hand? Ever since I was a kid and got in a bit of trouble, cops freak me out.”
“Your hand?”
Emma grabbed his hand impatiently. “Yes. It would reassure me.”
Will was frowning, trying to figure her out.
But she pulled him closer. “I’m just a scared girl, okay?”
As they walked nearer to the cops, looking every bit a couple who were visiting or returning to D.C., Will whispered, “You know who I am.”
Emma’s heart was now racing, though externally she hoped she looked calm. “Some stuff I read. But I also know you like fruit, dream in another accent, and don’t have anyone to look after you anymore. That’s more interesting to me.”
The first two policemen were now looking at Will. “I can’t let you do this. It’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t think you’re a danger to me.” She pulled him even closer and put on a fake smile. “Just act like you love me.”
Urgently, Will replied, “I’m no danger to you, but what could happen next may well be.”
Keeping her grin fixed on her face, she muttered, “Use your U.S. accent. Your face looks a bit thinner than in the photo the press is showing, and the clothes help make you look different. We’re visiting my folks. You’re my new boyfriend and I’m showing you off for the first time. I’m a charity worker, based in NYC. Surname Jones. We met two weeks ago at Huckleberry Bar in Brooklyn. Still getting to know each other. I haven’t been to your home yet, because I’m a Bible Belt gal who ain’t hopping into bed for any guy until he pops the question. What do you do for a living?”
As they got closer to the police, Will felt respect for Emma’s quick thinking, courage, and commitment, but was increasingly worried for her at the same time. “Therapist with my own practice in New York. I counsel trauma victims, particularly war veterans.”
“Clever. Cops will like that.”
Barely moving his lips, Will responded, “Clever things don’t always work out in real life. If anything bad happens, fall to the ground, lie flat with your hands over your head, and after I’m dead tell them that I had a gun pointed at your gut.” The police were now staring directly at them. “Why are you doing this?”
Emma squeezed his hand. “Seems to me, someone’s got to look after you.”
Will used his eye contact in the way he’d been trained to do when operating in hostile environments without wishing to be conspicuous—never keep your head down to avoid looking at anyone, because it looks odd, or fix your gaze on someone, because it may unsettle them and cause a confrontation. Instead, act normal by briefly glancing at people before respectfully looking away. That’s what he did with the cops as he and Emma walked past them.
The police, by contrast, made no attempt to hide the fact they were scrutinizing everyone, while their hands rested over their sidearm holsters. They continued staring at the couple as they moved farther along the concourse toward the other two cops who were forty yards ahead.
The first group of police said nothing to Will and Emma, and they were now behind them.
Emma was mightily relieved.
Will wasn’t, because he’d known they wouldn’t be challenged by the first group of officers; they were the spotters, in place to signal to the second group if they had a possible sighting. And between the two sets of cops was the takedown zone.
Or kill zone.
One of the cops ahead was looking at him; no, looking just slightly to his left, at the officers behind him. Was he receiving a silent signal from one of his colleagues, saying that the man walking between the two sets of cops was Will Cochrane?
He kept walking, and Emma maintained pace and retained her smile.
The two men ahead changed position, not much but enough so that they had good angles of fire should they need them.
Coincidence?
Will breathed in deeply while unslinging the backpack and rubbing his shoulder as if it were aching from the straps. “Emma.”
“Yeah.”
“You really a Bible Belt girl?”
“Perhaps you’d like to find out.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’m truly sorry that I’ll never get the chance to find out, and I’m sorry if I accidentally hurt you.”
“Hurt me?”
“Yes.”
Will slammed the backpack on the floor so that it acted as a cushion, pushed Emma over it, pulled out his handgun and fired two shots in under one second, saw both cops in front of him drop to the floor as his bullets struck their Kevlar jackets, then spun around and fired again so that the two cops behind him were writhing on the concourse as if they’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. He bolted while men and women around him screamed at the sight of a psychopath who’d gunned down four law enforcement officers with brutal precision and speed.
But Will wasn’t a psychopath. He’d aimed at the cops’ body armor, knowing his pistol rounds would not reach the officers’ bodies, but nevertheless would incapacitate them for a vital few seconds.
Will was almost out of sight as the first cop managed to get to his feet, his face screwed up in agony from the impact to his upper body, which would remain bruised for weeks, his feet unsteady, his mind disoriented but praising the Lord and Kevlar for saving his life. He tried to move, but his legs nearly buckled. One by one, his colleagues got upright, three of them removing their bulletproof vests and examining the gunshot hole that was dead center in the jacket, the fourth speaking in a near hysterical voice on his radio mic that they needed assistance and mobile patrols to scour Union Station’s surroundings.
All around them was chaos, noise, panic, and the acrid smell of discharged rounds.
Emma’s ears were in pain from the sound of Will’s pistol; she’d never known gunshots were that loud in reality.
But, despite her body shaking from fear and adrenaline and the needlelike pain in her head, she kept her eyes on Will Cochrane until he disappeared from view.
She knew they wouldn’t get him.
Not today.
Anyone who could nonlethally immobilize four law enforcement officers in that fraction of time was too good to be caught fleeing this place.
Emma smiled as she imagined her mom inevitably asking her if she had a man in her life. This time she’d be able to respond with words that would finally stop her interference. Something like, “Yeah, lovely guy. I was hoping to introduce him to you, but turned out he was a spy, and we decided to end things after he shot four cops.”
Her smile faded when she realized she’d never see Will again.
Just her luck to finally meet a guy who she could sleep next to with a feeling of utter contentment and safety, only for that moment to be snatched away from her.
Still, it gave her some consolation to know that during her visit
to her parents he might be nearby this weekend.
In Washington, D.C.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Though she loved the city, there were two things that Marsha Gage didn’t like about Washington: it had far too many politicians for her liking, and early-morning traffic could be horrendous, particularly when rain was pouring out of the black clouds above the city. Thankfully, her car was tailgating Pete Duggan’s SUV as its siren and flashing lights forced a path toward Union Station. Duggan’s HRT colleagues weren’t in the vehicle because Marsha didn’t need them right now; instead she’d told Pete to come with her so that she could draw upon his expertise.
Twenty-three minutes earlier she’d received a call from Commander Bret Oppenheimer of the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia telling her what had happened at the station, that all police leave had been canceled, that he was increasing the police presence in D.C., and that Will Cochrane had vanished. And while she’d been grabbing her car keys and Pete Duggan, she’d gotten another call from the chief of Washington’s Metro Transit Police Department saying that this morning he’d be unofficially telling every cop who worked for his department that none of them would be reprimanded if they spotted Cochrane at another transportation hub and shot him dead without issuing a warning. The chief had sounded furious, and Marsha didn’t blame him because it was his men who’d been shot.
Duggan was driving fast down Massachusetts Avenue, and Marsha kept pace with him as they raced onto the ramp that took them to Union Station’s parking zone. Two minutes later they were walking fast across the concourse where the confrontation had taken place. Most of it was cordoned off with police tape; uniformed and plainclothes cops were everywhere, including the four officers who were shot. Though they were merely bruised, the casualties had blankets over their shoulders, were drinking coffee, and were being attended to by paramedics. Beyond the tape, civilians were standing in near silence as they stared at the crime scene.
Marsha and Duggan ducked under the tape, flashed their FBI credentials at two officers who challenged them, and walked to the center of the crime scene. As they did so, Marsha estimated there were approximately fifty police officers on the concourse—a mixture of Transit and Met cops.
“Who’s in charge here?” Marsha’s voice echoed in the station.
The officers stared at her.
A plainclothes female officer stopped talking to three of her colleagues and called out, “That would be me. Detective Brooks. Met Department.”
Marsha and Duggan walked up to her. “We’re FBI. My name’s Marsha Gage and this is Agent Pete Duggan from HRT. I’m in charge of the Bureau manhunt to catch Will Cochrane.” She looked around. “What procedures do you have in place right now?”
Brooks nodded toward the exit. “Detectives and uniform are doing door to door to see if we can pick up Cochrane’s trail. We’ve interviewed a woman who sat next to him on the bus he took from NYC and who was close to him when he opened fire here. She says he was holding a gun on her when they were walking across the concourse. I know she’s lying, but I also know she’s not an accomplice. At least, nothing more than trying to help a guy who she took a shine to. We know where she lives and who she’s visiting, so we let her go with the caveat that we might question her again if we need to.”
“You should have asked her about Cochrane’s physical and mental state, and anything about where he might be headed.”
“I did. He was pleasant, kind, and exhausted when on the coach. She reckoned cops would be able to knock him over with a feather duster, and was very surprised to see how he sprung into action. But he made no mention as to where he was headed. On that point, I know she’s telling the truth.”
“Have you done anything with the media?”
“No. I was told you were coming here, so knew you’d want to make a decision on how to handle this with the press.”
“Forensics?”
Brooks pointed at the men and women who were dressed in all-in-one white overalls and were crouching over a part of the floor that had a small inner cordon and was off limits to everyone else. “That’s where he made the shots. Empty cartridges have already been sent off for ballistics analysis. Plus we’ve taken hair and other samples from a cushion the woman lent him on the coach and from her clothes. It’s a formality though—the woman has positively ID’d him as the man she read about in yesterday’s New York Times. Plus, she said he spoke in a British accent. We’re in no doubt he’s Will Cochrane.”
“Some of my agents are on their way here now to help with picking up his trail. You got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am. You have jurisdiction. And we need all the help we can get.”
Marsha smiled. “Detective Brooks, I can see this crime scene’s in capable hands.” She pointed at the four officers wearing blankets over their shoulders. “How are they holding up?”
“They’re in shock, and they feel like they’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
Marsha nodded. “They’ll be at least half as effective as they were before Cochrane opened fire on them.” She glanced at Duggan before returning her attention to Brooks. “Can we borrow them for a moment?”
“Sure.” Brooks raised a hand and called out, “Sergeant Kowalski, I need you and your men over here.”
The four officers walked over, their faces somber and sheepish.
Marsha said to Kowalski, “I want you all to stand in the exact same positions you were in when Cochrane pulled out his gun. Just before it happened, did you have your hands over your pistols?”
The sergeant nodded. “Our guns were holstered but unstrapped; we were ready to pull them out.”
“Okay. Time to stop feeling sorry for yourselves, get rid of the blankets and drinks, and move into position.”
The officers moved to the places where Cochrane had knocked them off their feet—two groups of two, spread apart from the area where the forensics team was working.
Marsha said to Duggan, “Stand next to the inner cordon. When I give the command, pull out your handgun and pretend like you’re firing on the two cops ahead of you, then the two cops behind. Say ‘Bang’ for every pretend shot.”
The former SEAL Team 6 member turned HRT commander nodded. “Got it.”
Marsha raised her voice so that she could be heard by the cops, who were now forty yards apart. “Kowalski—my colleague’s going to pretend to be Cochrane and reenact what happened. I want you to do the same, and that means unholstering your weapons if you get a chance.”
“We’re hardly in the best shape!”
“I know. And that’s important to me.” She smiled. “Just make sure your safety catches are on and no one accidentally discharges.”
She stared at Duggan, who was standing very close to where Cochrane had opened fire. Within the United States’ special operations community, no one was better placed to do this than Duggan. In person, she’d witnessed what he could do with a gun, and on one occasion she’d played hostage in the Quantico antiterrorism training house. It had been a terrifying experience seeing Duggan’s explosive precision and speed as he stormed into her room while firing live rounds inches from her face.
Duggan’s handgun was concealed under his jacket.
Marsha shouted, “Go!”
The HRT commander dropped low, pulled out his weapon, two “Bangs,” spun around, and stopped.
The other two injured cops had their pistols pointing at his chest.
Duggan got upright, put away his weapon, and walked back to Marsha and Brooks. “I’d have been incapacitated or dead before I could fire the third shot.”
Marsha nodded. “Killed by men who were half as good as they were earlier this morning.”
“Correct.”
Marsha’s heart beat fast as she looked at Brooks. “If they’re not doing so already, make sure every officer on door-to-door detail—detectives included—is wearing body armor.” She asked Duggan. “
Your assessment?”
The HRT commander looked at the four cops who were now moving back toward their hot drinks, blankets, and colleagues. “Getting up close and personal with Cochrane is a real problem. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d get beyond two shots. I’d say we put a net over D.C.—get helos in the air, each carrying one SWAT spotter and one sniper. And get every other sniper-trained SWAT operative on rooftops. The SWAT commander will know where to put them, since this is his turf.”
“Can we get extra men from HRT?”
Duggan shook his head. “You were lucky to get eight of us. Half of my colleagues are overseas, protecting U.S. sites from terrorism. The rest need to be on standby for homeland threats.”
Marsha silently cursed, wishing she’d been allowed to continue her pursuit of Cobalt so that she could stop his reign of carnage.
“Anyway, I can’t afford to put my team on static observation duty. SWAT’s perfectly capable for that detail. We need to be ready for a hot takedown once Cochrane’s pinned down to one location.”
Marsha agreed with Duggan’s proposed course of action. She said to Brooks, “Hotels, motels, anywhere that Cochrane can rent a room in D.C.—phone them all, in case he turns up at one of them.”
The detective replied, “I’ve already got officers doing precisely that.”
Marsha smiled. “Absolutely no doubt in my mind that you’re the right person for this job.” Her smile vanished as she looked around the Union Station concourse. “In a moment, I’m going to tell the media that Cochrane’s in D.C., that every transportation hub in the city has been bolstered with extra Transit officers who’ll be carrying submachine guns as well as their usual weapons, that the number of Met Department cops on the streets has been increased, that Secret Service is on high alert in case Cochrane’s going for high-value targets, that SWAT snipers will be looking over the city from on high, that routes in and out of the city will be heavily monitored, that citizens should go about their normal business but cooperate fully if we give the order for them to stay at home, and that starting right now the city of Washington, D.C., is a police state.”