Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  “You agree with that plan?” Hansen asked his tactical lead.

  “Better than getting carved to shit rushing the front door,” said the former SEAL, “but I’ll reassess at the target before deploying our teams.”

  As the Yukon angled down into the First Avenue Tunnel, Dempsey caught a glimpse of smoke rising above the UN complex and people running away. With sirens blaring, they flew through the tunnel. To Dempsey’s surprise, traffic parted like a zipper in front of them. Even the normally belligerent, unyielding NYC cab drivers moved out of their way. Smith handed out weapons, and by the time Dempsey was holding his Sig516, they were flying out of the tunnel like a shell fired from a cannon.

  Dempsey glanced at Jarvis, who had been oddly silent during the drive from Newark.

  “Sure you don’t want to kit up and come with us?” Dempsey asked.

  “I’m saving myself for the next one,” Jarvis said with a smirk. “Besides, somebody needs to keep Hansen company when the snipers turn this Yukon into a block of Swiss cheese.”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “Provided we don’t get shot to hell, Hansen and I will try to make it back to the mobile TOC,” Jarvis said, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, John. Go take care of business.”

  Hansen hit the U-turn so hard the SUV rolled up onto two tires for half a second. They rocketed south—driving the wrong way against the northbound traffic on First Avenue. Through the windshield, Dempsey could see the flashing lights of multiple NYPD cruisers setting up a roadblock to the south, presumably at Forty-Second Street. Out the left-side passenger window, the iconic parade of flags—the colors of the world—zipped past in a blur.

  “Passing Forty-Sixth,” Grimes yelled from the back. “The gates are on your left in a hundred meters.”

  “I see them,” Hansen yelled. “Everybody hang on.”

  Hansen braked, swerved, and piloted the Yukon onto a collision vector with the ten-foot-tall black iron doors set into the perimeter fence. The big SUV hopped the curb with a double thud and careened onto the sidewalk. The snout of the Yukon smashed into the fence with a sickening crunch, and the gates crashed open, swinging wildly on their hinges. A half second later, they hit the concrete steps. The big SUV bottomed out and shuddered, but the XL wheelbase and twenty-inch wheels devoured the ramping staircase with the ease of driving up a loading dock. The next thing Dempsey knew, they were skidding to a stop five meters from a gaping hole in the side of the General Assembly building.

  “Left side exit. Stay low and behind the vehicle,” Dempsey yelled, as the first sniper round hit the right-side B-pillar with a resounding thud.

  Everyone crawled out the left-rear passenger door, except for Jarvis and Hansen.

  Three more sniper rounds smashed into the armored SUV in rapid succession.

  The other two black SUVs, loaded with the men of the FBI’s elite HRT, arrived a split second later. A swarm of FBI operators—in their green flight suits and matching green kit clad—formed up behind the column of SUVs. The modified Yukons’ armored skin and ballistic windows served as their shield.

  Dempsey grabbed the closest two HRT operators and pulled them into a huddle with his Ember teammates. “This is Team One. We INFIL through the breach, then work our way to the General Assembly Hall. Radios on TAC One. Expect anything from a hostage standoff to suicide bombers. Drop anyone with a weapon. Ready—on my lead.”

  “Hey, wait a goddamn minute,” the HRT leader hollered.

  “Sorry, boss,” Dempsey said, without a hint of apology. “We need to move. If you could use the number-three Yukon to distract those snipers for a few seconds, I’d be most grateful.”

  The scowling HRT leader gave Dempsey a grudging nod.

  Dempsey crabbed forward until he was squatting beside the lead Yukon’s front left tire. He spied an eight-by-eight-foot smoking hole fifteen feet away, with a geyser of water spraying upward that suggested the breach was through a wet wall—most likely a restroom. The two HRT organic team members hesitated at first, but fell in next to Grimes, Smith, and Mendez.

  Thirty seconds later, he heard tires squealing behind him.

  “Now,” Dempsey yelled, and ran in a tactical crouch toward the jagged void. A bullet whizzed over his head just as he slipped through the breach into the building. He cleared the opening and took a knee inside what remained of a men’s bathroom. Grimes arrived next, followed by an HRT operator, and then Mendez. Dempsey heard a dull shout outside. He peered through the breach and saw one of the HRT operators fall. Smith, who was bringing up the rear, slowed. Another burst of fire spit up turf harmlessly only two feet in front of him. A still target would be dead in seconds—long before the HRT shooters outside could ID the point of fire.

  “Move it, Smith. Into the breach,” Dempsey yelled.

  In midstride, Smith grabbed the fallen FBI agent by the vest straps and jerked him to his feet. The man grunted and hobbled with Smith toward the breach. They arrived at the wall, and Dempsey yanked Smith into the hole so hard that both Smith and the FBI operator fell down. Dempsey helped the injured man into a seated position, his back against the concrete wall.

  “One is clear,” Dempsey said into his mike.

  Smith: “Two.”

  Grimes: “Three.”

  Mendez: “Four.”

  There was a long pause, and then, “Guess I’m Five,” said the uninjured FBI agent, but he did not sound happy about it. “It’s so awesome to be on Team One with whoever the hell you crazy fuckers are.”

  “I’m Six,” came another strained voice. “And Six got fucking shot.”

  Mendez moved toward the downed agent, pulling a medical blowout kit from his left cargo-pants pocket. Dempsey had no idea what Mendez’s real combat time was, but as a MARSOC Marine with ten years’ tenure during the war on terror, he figured Mendez had done this more than once. Within seconds, Mendez had combat gauze pressed against the agent’s left thigh and groin.

  “Rear upper-thigh entry and exit just below the groin. Missed the femoral artery,” Mendez reported. “Move your foot,” he said to the man, and then, “No nerve injury, it appears.”

  Dempsey looked at the downed HRT man. “Keep pressure on that wound and you won’t bleed out. Help is coming.”

  Dempsey led the team across the remains of what was a restroom—the marble floor now cracked, the mirrors in pieces, and the toilet stalls a jumble of tile and steel. They waded through several inches of water to the door. Dempsey cracked the door open and peered. The hallway outside was deserted.

  He heard a burst of gunfire and screaming coming from the General Assembly Hall.

  Time to move.

  Dempsey led his team of five out of the bathroom. In the hallway outside, he spied a fire-escape placard on the wall. He ripped it off and studied the building diagram. They had entered on the ground level, but the building actually had four levels. Due to the stadium seating of the General Assembly Hall, the main entrance was located on Level Two. What appeared to be a ground-floor entrance to the General Assembly Hall meant that with any luck, they would surprise the terrorists inside.

  “Team Two is coming through the breach in the wall,” a voice said in his headset.

  Perfect, I’ll send them to the fourth-floor balcony press boxes. We’ll have these assholes high and low from multiple angles.

  “Team One standing by to storm GAH from west ground-level entrance,” he said into his boom mike. “Team Two proceed to Level Four and provide cover fire support from the balconies. Radio when you’re in position.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at his teammates. “We go on my mark. Shoot to kill.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Modiri ducked his head and hunched down as he stepped through the four-foot-tall entrance to the newest and most unpublicized modification to the UN complex—the series of emergency-evacuation tunnels. The Dag Hammarskjöld Library, the Secretariat, and Conference buildings were already connected via underground tunnels, but none of these tun
nels facilitated escape from the complex itself. This new tunnel connected the General Assembly building to the existing tunnels and included two new secret spurs—one giving access to the FDR Drive, which passed directly under the UN complex itself, and the other bisecting the Queens Midtown Tunnel south of Forty-Second Street. The tunnel entrance point for the General Assembly building was located in the basement and was camouflaged to look like a maintenance access panel rather than a doorway. Of course, the designers probably had not envisioned a scenario in which one of the terrorists was a permanent delegate to the UN—the very body of people the new tunnel system was meant to protect.

  Rostami’s Al Qaeda companion poked Modiri in the back with the muzzle of his automatic weapon. “Move,” the young jihadist barked. Modiri turned and eyed the Al Qaeda fighter. Minutes ago, inside the General Assembly Hall, the young jihadist’s eyes had been full of murder, and for a moment, Modiri had actually feared for his life. Now, the young man scowled convincingly enough, but Modiri saw a complicity in his eyes. Perhaps the plan would unfold exactly as Amir had envisioned. So far, everything had progressed without complication. He focused his mind on the task at hand: Stay calm, appear strong in front of the other ambassadors, and time my rebellion according to the plan. When Rostami scouted ahead—that would be the signal. He prayed silently for the strength and courage to carry out his orders. He thought of his wife, Fatemeh, and his only living son, Cyrus.

  What I do, I do for them. After all I have done already, this last mountain I can climb. But if I do fail, it will be my honor to die for my family, for Persia, and for Allah.

  He reached back, took Felicity Long’s hand, and helped her through the low entryway. Her delicate fingers trembled in his grip, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. Modiri steeled himself and showed her a brave and chivalrous face. He hoped that in the decadent West, women could still recognize such things. This thought made him wonder how Felicity Long felt about trying to live the life of a man now.

  Behind her, the elderly British ambassador, David Cochran, followed. Gripping the metal frame of the entryway, he tried to step over the four-inch-tall lip at the bottom, but the toe of his wingtips caught the edge, and he stumbled through the hole. His knee struck the ground on the other side, and he cried out in pain.

  “Silence,” Rostami hissed, and struck the man in the back of the neck with the butt of his AK-47. The British ambassador bit his lip, holding in another cry, as tears streamed down his cheeks. Normally, Modiri would have found the Brit’s display of weakness both feminine and disgusting, but given his own fear, a wave of empathy for his ambassador colleagues washed over him. Instead of rejecting the feeling, Modiri decided to harness it and use it to legitimize his performance.

  Rostami shoved Cochran forward.

  Modiri caught him by the shoulders, steadying the man and keeping him from another painful fall. “It will be all right,” Modiri whispered in the man’s ear.

  Cochran met Modiri’s gaze with grateful eyes.

  Rostami herded them deeper into the tunnel, which was tall enough for them to stand upright. Sterile, blue-light emergency beacons glowed at regularly spaced intervals, giving the corridor an unnerving alien atmosphere. The tunnel curved to the right. After thirty meters or so, they came to a junction—one corridor continuing straight, the other angling off to the right. The left tunnel was labeled FDR DRIVE/EAST RIVER ACCESS. The right tunnel was labeled UN CONSOLIDATION TOWER/MIDTOWN TUNNEL.

  “Go right,” Rostami said, shoving Modiri in the back.

  They walked for at least five minutes. When Modiri glanced over his shoulder, he could no longer see the entrance to the fork behind him.

  Suddenly, Rostami grabbed him roughly by the collar of his dress shirt and jerked him back. “Stop,” he commanded.

  Modiri stopped.

  Rostami walked around the group from the back to the front. “Against the wall, all of you,” he commanded.

  The three ambassadors complied. Modiri was delighted when Ambassador Long reached out and desperately gripped his arm. He patted her hand, but then softly released her grip. He would need to be unencumbered to accomplish his next task. Thirty seconds of violence and then it would be over. After that, he could again go back to using his intellect and gift of oral persuasion to serve Allah. During the ensuing period of captivity and hostage negotiation, he would be the strength for the group and become instrumental in convincing his captors to accept Tehran’s terms of release.

  “Watch them,” Rostami commanded his young accomplice. “I’m going to scout ahead.”

  That was the signal. As soon as Rostami disappeared from view, he would rush the young jihadist. He would wrestle away the AK-47 and shoot the martyr. It was an honor to die in the service of Allah. On hearing the gunshot, Rostami would return and disarm him. Modiri hoped the “disarming” would not be too painful. Amir had made Rostami promise to show restraint when inflicting violence on Modiri, but Modiri had never trusted the man.

  He would count to ten and then launch his assault.

  “Stay behind me,” he whispered to the US ambassador, and began his countdown.

  CHAPTER 40

  Dempsey clutched the door handle in his left hand and his Sig516 in his right.

  His radio crackled, and a voice in his ear said, “Team One, this is Team Two. In position and waiting for your signal.”

  “Copy. In three, two, one, go.”

  Dempsey pushed the door open to the General Assembly Hall. The first thing he noticed was the tripod set up in the center aisle of the hall, pointed at the rostrum, with its black-marble podium and towering, gilded rear wall. Twenty-five hundred square feet of hand-laid gold leaf was about to be ruined by automatic weapon fire. He didn’t care. Standing on the rostrum, front and center, were four terrorists—two on each side—flanking a dozen delegates kneeling beneath the Al Qaeda flag. The flag of murder and terror covered the iconic United Nations emblem symbolizing peace and unity. Behind the delegates, a man clad in a black robe and mask stood with his arms folded across his chest. A long, curved knife dangled from the black sash tied about his waist. Dempsey’s worst nightmare had come home to roost. Al Qaeda was about to broadcast the ritualized beheading of the world’s ambassadors of peace for the entire planet to see.

  Dempsey took all this and more in during the fraction of a second before he cleared his corners. As his teammates fanned out to his left and right, gunshots rang out in the massive eighteen-hundred-seat auditorium. Team Two’s HRT sharpshooters in the press balcony were going to work.

  Straight ahead, a jihadist brought his rifle up to his shoulder. Dempsey squeezed off two rounds, finding the terrorist’s neck and forehead. Blood, bone, and brains painted gruesome modern art on the wooden wall panel behind the man. He dropped to a combat crouch and scanned over his Sig516, one eye focusing through the EOTech Holosite. A man in a bulky vest screamed and ran toward a large cluster of delegates huddled together to Dempsey’s left. With a three-round burst, he removed the suicide bomber’s head from his body. The terrorist manning the video camera in the center aisle fumbled for his rifle, but there was a loud pop pop from Dempsey’s right, and the man’s head disappeared in a pink puff of bloody smoke. From the corner of his eye, he saw the jihadist in the black robe swinging his knife at the neck of a panicked delegate, but Grimes dropped him with a double tap to the chest.

  His team of five—four from Ember and the one HRT operator—moved forward, each engaging and firing at targets in their fields of fire. At the same time, the FBI Team Two shooters in the balcony provided cover fire and hit targets of their own. In less than ten seconds, it was over. The jihadists lay in crumpled heaps, while kneeling hostages and other delegates were frozen with shock.

  There was a moment of eerie silence as the five operators scanned the room thoroughly for other targets. Then a woman began to scream. Several of the people kneeling at the front of the hall collapsed forward, fainting.

  “Team One in the main ha
ll,” Dempsey announced into the radio. He swept a full arc, sighting through his Holosite, while the rest of the team did the same. “Main hall secure.”

  As they advanced toward the rostrum, Smith hollered, “We’re the FBI hostage rescue team. We’re here to help you. Please stay calm. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Several of the hostages looked up now for the first time, and from the front rows, dozens of people got up from their seats and began moving toward the center aisle. Dempsey knew that in a moment the room would be chaos.

  “Team Two entering the main hall,” called a voice from the main entrance. Dempsey looked over his shoulder and saw his new buddy, the HRT unit lead, walking down the steps. Someone nudged his left arm, and Dempsey turned around and found Smith standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside him.

  “I don’t see Felicity Long,” Smith said, holding a laminated photograph of the US ambassador in his hand.

  “Ambassador Masoud Modiri—Ambassador Felicity Long—Ambassador David Cochran—this is the FBI,” Dempsey shouted. “We are here to rescue you. Show yourselves.” He scanned the room but saw nothing except the panicked mob of people now moving up the center aisle toward them.

  “We’re about to get mobbed,” Smith said.

  “They took them,” said a tiny voice to Dempsey’s right. Standing in the row of seats next to him was a middle-aged woman of Asian descent—a tiny voice for a tiny woman. “The terrorists took Ms. Long and the others to the tunnels.”

  “Show me,” Dempsey said. She pointed at a blue light flashing over a set of double doors in the corner of the hall. “Thank you,” Dempsey said, moving into the row in front of her, sidestepping his way toward the far wall. “Team One on me,” he hollered over his shoulder.

  His team followed him into the delegate seating area, just as the surging crowd of hostages made it to where they had been. He looked back and saw Team Two’s green-suited FBI agents trying to pacify the swarming crowd.

  At the end of the row, Dempsey sprinted toward the blue flashing light. He skidded to a halt at the exit and cautiously opened the left side door. After a quick scan, he entered the hallway with his team in tow. At the end of the hallway, he saw a staircase leading down to the basement.