Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  Dempsey surveyed the SUV; it looked eerily similar to his own—black paint, tinted windows, and a strained suspension thanks to the bulletproof glass, armored doors, and undercarriage shielding. Three identical GMCs were lined up behind it, idling and ready to go. Dempsey studied the lone operator standing by the front bumper of the lead vehicle. With his green flight suit, body armor, and SOPMOD M4s slung combat-style across his chest, this guy had to belong to the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Besides Ember, HRT was the only nonmilitary unit he could imagine being a part of. HRT recruited heavily from the pool of military operators; Dempsey knew several Tier One SEALs who’d joined HRT after retiring from the teams.

  Hansen made a circle in the air with his index finger and yelled, “Let’s roll.”

  Thirty seconds later, they were packed into the seven-passenger beast, with Hansen behind the wheel, screaming toward Manhattan at eighty-five miles an hour.

  “Thanks for meeting us at the plane,” Jarvis said from the second-row, right bucket seat. Dempsey had the left bucket seat, while Smith, Grimes, and Mendez were crammed in the third-row bench seat. A stoic HRT operator occupied the front passenger seat.

  “I go where I’m told—especially when the call is from the DNI,” Hansen said, making no effort to conceal his irritation.

  Dempsey eyed Jarvis, but the seasoned Skipper shrugged off Hansen’s undertone. They were all big boys here, and Jarvis was the type of leader who found pissing contests utterly unproductive.

  “This is John, Shane, Sal, and Beth,” Jarvis said, motioning to Dempsey and the team. If Hansen found it strange to be introduced to the team using only first names, he showed no sign of it.

  “You’re the ones I’m supposed to embed on the HRT?” Hansen asked, eyeing them skeptically from the rearview mirror. Dempsey noticed the Special Agent’s gaze settle on Grimes, who was wedged between Smith and Mendez. She responded by resurrecting her trademark glower, a look Dempsey realized he hadn’t seen once in at least twenty-four hours.

  “Thanks for having us, sir,” Dempsey said diplomatically. “In my former life, I sometimes had strangers forced on my team—so I know how much this situation chafes. But we’ve got one hell of a clusterfuck brewing at the UN, and we appreciate your help more than you know. We won’t be a drag on your tactical operation.”

  “It’s not me you need to worry about,” Hansen said, and tilted his head toward the front-seat passenger. “That’s my tactical squadron leader riding shotgun. He’s a former SEAL, and someone you do not want to fuck with.”

  Dempsey contained his grin.

  Hansen glanced at Jarvis in the rearview mirror. “Captain Jarvis, will you be going in?”

  “No,” Jarvis said. “I assume you have a mobile TOC of some sort?”

  “I deployed it an hour ago. It’s parked at the end of East Forty-Third Street, overlooking United Nations Plaza.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll be,” said Jarvis.

  “Very well,” Hansen said. With a jerk of his thumb toward the caravan of SUVs trailing behind them, he said, “The rest of you will be teamed with two of my guys, making a six-man team. You’re Team One, and there will be three others. We’re gonna stage at Ralph Bunche Park, which is directly across the street from the Secretariat building. You guys look like you kitted up on the plane, but I’ll ask the question anyway—do you need any gear?”

  “Just encrypted radios set to your preferred freqs,” Smith said from the back.

  Hansen nodded. “No problem.”

  “Has Ambassador Modiri passed security at the UN yet?” Grimes asked, but made a point of looking at Jarvis instead of Hansen.

  Dempsey saw Hansen’s mouth twist with annoyance in the mirror, but the lead agent called in the question over his radio.

  The call came back loud enough for all to hear. “Yes, sir. Five minutes ago. Processed Modiri through the South Screening Building with all the other ambassadors and staff. He was clean. But whoa, mama, you should see the SSB—talk about a bunch of pissed-off diplomats.”

  “What was your screening protocol for Modiri?” Hansen asked, all business.

  “Walked him through the whole-body scanner, ran residue swipes, and x-rayed his gear. Why?”

  “Just making sure he got the full treatment.”

  “Sure did. Everything but a body-cavity search,” the voice on the other end said with a laugh.

  “Thanks,” said Hansen. “Keep me posted if you pop any red flags.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Hansen turned and looked at Grimes. “There’s your answer. That is what you were hoping to hear—right?”

  “Yes,” she answered while inserting her wireless earbud in her right ear canal. “But unfortunately, I don’t think you fully appreciate what these assholes are capable of.”

  CHAPTER 36

  General Assembly Hall

  UN Headquarters Complex

  May 22, 1330 EDT

  The best lie is one so exquisite and so tempting that both the deceiver and the listener yearn for it to be true. The lie that Masoud Modiri told US Ambassador Felicity Long and British Ambassador David Cochran was such a lie.

  As he spoke, Modiri felt the spirit of the Mahdi flowing within—energizing his body, enlightening his mind, and guiding his tongue. Every word, every beat, every inflection, was perfectly timed and executed, erasing any hint of pretense, insincerity, or deception from his message. His offer to share military intelligence and begin a new era of cooperation with the West to combat terrorism enraptured his enemies so completely that fifteen minutes passed in the blink of an eye. When the South Screening Building exploded—obliterated by the first Al Qaeda suicide bomber—Modiri was so deeply engaged in the discourse that the detonation actually took him by surprise.

  His immediate reaction matched that of his contemporaries—shock and wide-eyed disorientation.

  A hush fell over the General Assembly Hall.

  Someone’s mobile phone rang, piercing the silence.

  Then another.

  Then many mobile phones began to ring, and the grand hall erupted like a symphony of nightmares.

  That his own mobile phone was not ringing was the trigger that reminded Modiri he had forgotten to detonate his charge. He retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket and pressed the “Redial” button. The call rang once, twice, and then connected. He immediately began rambling in Farsi, pretending to be talking to his security detail.

  The next blast was loud—much louder than he expected. The percussive wave rattled the hall, momentarily silencing the frenzy, before it erupted again with twice the cacophonic intensity.

  Everyone began screaming.

  Running and shoving.

  Alarms blared.

  Pandemonium.

  Modiri felt someone grab his upper arm. He whirled, hot with anger, and locked eyes with his senior staffer.

  “Sir, we have to get you out of here,” said the young man.

  “Where am I supposed to go?” he yelled. “Where is the next bomb going to explode? Which exit is safe?”

  This comment seemed to grab the attention of everyone in a ten-foot radius, including Ambassadors Long and Cochran.

  “He’s right,” said Ambassador Long. “We need to follow the emergency-evacuation protocol. UN security personnel will escort us to the basement, and from there we’ll take the tunnels to safety.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Automatic weapon fire cracked in the hall, reverberating in triplicate in the great dome over the rostrum.

  Modiri ducked, squatting in the aisle between two rows of delegate desks. He grabbed Felicity Long by the wrist and pulled. “Get down,” he barked.

  She hesitated a half second before cowering next to him. Modiri looked up at the wide-eyed British ambassador and tugged on his pant leg. The man looked down and then dropped to his knees beside them as well.

  He was amazed at how quickly the Al Qaeda assault team reached the hall after his breacher charge blew.
r />   More gunfire and screaming echoed in the hall.

  “Where is US Ambassador Long?” a stern male voice shouted in heavily accented English. Modiri recognized the voice—Rostami.

  The American ambassador gripped Modiri’s hand. He met her gaze and saw that she was paralyzed with fear.

  “Get ready,” he said.

  “For what?” she choked.

  “To have courage,” he said. “He’s going to threaten to kill hostages until you identify yourself. If you don’t, he will kill many of us. If you do, lives may be spared.”

  “Where is US Ambassador Felicity Long?” the terrorist yelled again; this time his voice was closer.

  “He’s going to kill me . . . isn’t he?” she said, her voice wavering.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He squeezed her hand. “I will stand with you. We do it together.”

  “No,” said Ambassador Cochran, grabbing his arm. “Stay down. We must be quiet.”

  Modiri shook off the man’s hand in disgust. He was weeping like a woman.

  A burst of automatic weapon fire made them both flinch.

  There was a scream again and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor. Through the legs of the chairs, Modiri saw a woman facedown and motionless, several rows up from where they crouched. A pool of dark blood spread out from her head.

  “Oh my God,” Ambassador Long sobbed beside him. He looked over and saw her eyes riveted to the corpse. Modiri squeezed her hand tightly.

  “We will be strong together,” he promised. “I will stand with you and protect you.”

  “If the US ambassador does not show herself in five seconds,” Rostami bellowed, “I will continue executing delegates. Five . . . four . . .”

  Modiri stood up and pulled Ambassador Long to her feet beside him.

  “I’m here,” she said, her voice no louder than a squeak.

  “Three . . . two . . .”

  “Here,” Modiri called loud enough to be heard over the commotion. As he spoke, he stepped in front of Long, shielding her with his body. “Ambassador Long is here, with me.”

  The terrorist, Rostami, whirled 180 degrees and leveled the barrel of his submachine gun at them. Then, he tilted his head and squinted, as if to get a better view. “There you are, Ambassador Long. I almost didn’t see you,” he said mockingly. “Tell me, who is your brave and foolish friend?”

  “I am Ambassador Masoud Modiri of the Islamic Republic of Iran,” said Modiri, puffing out his chest. He reached down and pulled the British ambassador by the arm. The older and considerably frailer man rose beside him, shaking with fear. “This is Ambassador Cochran from the United Kingdom, and we stand with Ambassador Long.”

  The arrogant, amused look on the terrorist’s face morphed into a ghastly scowl. “Why would you—a Muslim of Persia—protect this daughter of the Great Satan? There is only one reason I can think of. You are a traitor and an infidel, Masoud Modiri. Which means that your fate is now tied to hers.”

  Modiri swallowed the urge to cringe at the words. This was acting, nothing more. He looked beyond Rostami at the massive, golden UN emblem set above the grand marble rostrum. The globe, as seen from the North Pole, cradled by two olive branches. It was an atypical cartographic perspective of the earth; it was the Creator’s perspective. “You bring shame to Islam with your bombs and your guns,” he said. “Islam is a religion of enlightenment and peace.”

  Rostami laughed. “You’re a fool, old man.” He gestured with the barrel of his automatic weapon for them to clear the aisle. A second terrorist, younger than Rostami, stepped into the aisle behind them, using a flanking position to herd them toward Rostami.

  “Move,” the boy said, jabbing the British ambassador in the back with the muzzle of his machine gun.

  The ambassador sandwich—Modiri in front, Long in the middle, and Cochran at the rear—shuffled reluctantly toward Rostami. When they reached the aisle, Rostami glared at them. “You will follow me to the tunnels. If any of you try to escape, Modiri, the traitor of his faith, dies first.”

  The look in Rostami’s eyes was so convincing, Modiri began to question whether the man was acting anymore. Perhaps it was his role that was the ruse. Perhaps they meant to martyr him for Iran. Would that not achieve the same political result? As Rostami led them toward the stairwell to the basement, he called to Mohamed Assaf, the ranking AQ operative for the mission. “Give us three minutes to get to the tunnels, then you can send them all to Hell.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Lead GMC Yukon

  First Avenue, Manhattan

  Dempsey wondered if they’d gotten it wrong.

  Was their perception of the threat skewed by Baldwin’s augmented lake-house transcript? The original transcript—the raw translated dialogue—had contained only isolated words and short fragments of the Iranians’ conversation. The persuasive parts had come from the chief analyst’s statistical algorithm, which in Dempsey’s mind was just a fancy term for computer guesswork.

  Dempsey had defaulted to trusting his gut, but was his method any more scientific?

  No, probably not.

  The tactical lead of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team updated everyone again that absolutely nothing suspicious was happening at the UN.

  Although it was tempting, Dempsey didn’t take the bait.

  After ten seconds of silence, the now chatty HRT man said, “Are you guys OGA or what?”

  “Or what,” Dempsey said reflexively. Then, he remembered how much it had pissed him off when some civilian asshole showed up at the X barking orders and tossing around useless bits of cryptic intel like they were golden nuggets. Dempsey cleared his throat, and with as much sincerity as he could muster, said, “Sorry, sir, but I’m sure you get it.”

  The former SEAL in the front passenger seat grunted and then mumbled, “Fucking spooks. You guys better not fuck up my TAC team, is all.”

  “I’m a former team guy,” Dempsey said. “Don’t worry, sir. I know how to keep a team in line.”

  Dempsey knew he’d revealed too much, but he felt like the guy deserved to know he was a real shooter. If they found themselves in the suck, it was important for the head of the HRT unit to know the quality of his embedded assets. Fair was fair.

  The HRT operator swiveled in his seat and stared at him—undoubtedly trying to place Dempsey’s face.

  Dempsey smirked.

  Good luck, buddy. Only Kate would know me with this face . . .

  “We should probably—” Smith began, but stopped midsentence when Hansen held up a hand to silence him.

  “Say again?” Hansen said, his usual gruff intonation suddenly going strange. “Roger, execute protocol Echo Orange. HRT time to target, three mikes.” Hansen turned on the Yukon’s lights and sirens and punched the accelerator. The Yukon’s V-8 engine roared, and the chassis lurched as he piloted the oversize SUV like a Formula One race car toward the UN.

  “Everyone come up on TAC Two on your radios,” the HRT team leader barked.

  “What happened?” Jarvis yelled over the sirens.

  “A suicide bomber just blew up the SSB,” Hansen said. “The UN is under attack.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Nothing sobers like a bomb.

  Every petty thought, every carnal want, every physical distraction—these all vanish when something goes boom.

  Dempsey ceded control of his heart, his mind, and his body to the single-minded warfighter who, for the next hour, would simply be known by the radio call sign One. “How long until we’re on target?” he asked.

  “Less than a minute,” Hansen answered from the driver’s seat.

  “We’ve got sniper fire,” the HRT leader said, repeating the comms report on TAC Two for anyone in the SUV who had not tuned in yet. “Three confirmed shooters, firing from buildings on the west side of First Avenue.”

  Dempsey imagined an aerial view of the United Nations complex and surrounding streets, which occupied a sizable chunk of real estate on the east side of M
idtown Manhattan. “From that location, they can hit anyone going in and out of the General Assembly and the Secretariat buildings.”

  Hansen pressed his hand against his ear. “They just hit the General Assembly building . . . blew a hole clear through the north wall.”

  “Holy shit,” Mendez cried from the backseat. “How many assholes are we dealing with here?”

  “My spotters are reporting two separate terrorist assault teams converging on the General Assembly building—one from the south moving toward the lobby, and one from the north moving for the breach. The snipers are providing cover fire—hitting UN security forces inside the fence and an NYPD cruiser on First Avenue.”

  “We’re heading north on First Avenue, right?” Dempsey asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t there a traffic tunnel that goes under UN Plaza?”

  “Yeah. The First Avenue Tunnel. First Avenue goes bi-level at Forty-Second Street. Above ground it becomes United Nations Plaza; below ground it’s the First Avenue Tunnel.”

  “How many blocks long is that tunnel?” Dempsey asked.

  “Five, I think. Why?”

  “I want you to take it.”

  “What the hell for? You can’t access the UN from down there, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Hansen came back.

  “I realize that,” Dempsey said. “Let’s use the tunnel to duck under those snipers and then INFIL from the north.”

  “Through the same breach the terrorists used?”

  “Exactly.”

  Just then, Grimes passed him a tablet computer with a SAT image of the UN complex and surrounding streets that she had pulled up.

  “You read my mind,” Dempsey said, taking the tablet. The imagery matched what he remembered, but now he had all the details. “Hansen, when you come out of the tunnel at Forty-Ninth, make a U-turn to the east. Then come back south. There’s a set of gates between Forty-Fifth and Forty-Sixth Streets. You’re gonna hit those gates, drive this fucking Yukon up the steps, and drop us off as close as possible to the building.”