“In here,” Cohen hissed, taking her by the shoulder and thrusting her into a darkened room backstage. She caught a glimpse of the pistol in his hand just before he closed the door upon them.
“Where’s Steve?” she asked, her breath coming in quick, short gasps as she leaned back against a nearby table.
“I don’t know,” came the Israeli’s voice in the half-darkness. “Two of my men were with him—you were my responsibility.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “We’d received a flash from Metro just before the assault—an airliner was shot down over the city.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. She could still remember the morning of 9/11, watching the smoke rise into the autumn sky from a wounded Pentagon. And she’d known that day that it would happen again. Only a matter of time.
“There were at least a dozen gunmen,” the bodyguard continued. “Armed with Kalashnikovs—fully-automatic too. God only knows where they got them.”
Cohen caught himself. “But you don’t need to think about all that. You’ll be safe here.”
“Those are my people,” she retorted, anger flaring within her. She put a hand back on the table, realizing suddenly that she was touching a costume-bedecked mannequin. “I can’t stay here and let them die.”
“My orders are to ensure your safety.” The Israeli put a hand on her shoulder, a firm grasp that brooked no disagreement. “You won’t do them any good dead.”
10:08 P.M. Central Time
Fargo, North Dakota
“…we’re on the phone with our affiliate, KSNV MyNews 3, in Las Vegas, Nevada, where things are in chaos and it appears that a terrorist attack has taken place. What can you tell us, Jason?”
Alicia Workman watched in disbelief, raw cellphone footage playing onscreen as the disembodied voice of the reporter began to speak. A fireball fading away into the night sky over the city.
“…an air traffic controller at McCarran, speaking off-the-record, has said that the downed flight was Southwest Flight 295 out of St. Louis, Missouri, but we have been unable to confirm that information. We honestly haven’t been able to confirm anything, Vai. There are reports of automatic weapons fire from north of the Strip and the cellphone network here in Las Vegas just went down moments ago—no one seems to know whether that is also part of the attack, or whether it was simply overloaded with calls.”
The female anchor looked up into the camera, visibly shaken. “And I’d like to thank Jason Cameron for updating us, live from a city under siege. Stay safe, Jason.”
It seemed impossible, she thought, clutching her arms to herself as she sat there on the sofa. But it wasn’t. It was happening again. America was being attacked…
8:13 P.M. Pacific Time
Las Vegas, Nevada
Driving in Vegas could be challenging at the best of times, but it was pandemonium on this night. There’d already been accidents, causing traffic heading out of the city to bottleneck,
“I’m not reaching Thomas,” she heard Han announce from the front seat of the sedan. Another moment and he added, “No signal.”
Harry nodded. “Goin’ in blind. Good times.”
He was the professional once again, all business. As if a switch had been flipped, somewhere within him.
She could still taste his kiss on her lips, feel the fire of his touch. “Promise me.”
There had been no artifice in that moment, she thought, replaying the moment through her mind. No lies.
No walls—armor cast aside to reveal the man beneath, his vulnerability. His humanity.
A man who had cast everything aside to protect her. A man she had begun to love.
She looked out the window at the city moving past, wrestling with the emotions within her. Whatever came of the next few hours, they would see it through. Whatever came…
8:15 P.M.
The Bellagio
Footsteps outside, a door opening somewhere down the corridor. It might have been a fellow fugitive, but the steps were too measured, too purposeful.
A searcher.
“Get down,” Cohen whispered, pushing her down behind one of the tables. She could sense him moving toward the door, his form barely lit in the red glow of the EXIT sign.
Toward the danger.
And the footsteps returned, closer now, a hand testing the door. Gilpin found herself holding her breath, fear and anger roiling within her as the door came open, light spilling into the room from the corridor without.
Another step, and a figure entered the room, preceded by a rifle barrel. Where was Cohen?
Movement from the shadows as the Israeli attacked, his elbow lashing out, connecting with the terrorist’s throat. The man reeled, Cohen following him back. She could see the blur of his hands , closing around his target’s neck.
The room erupted suddenly in gunfire, the muzzle flash of an AK-47 lighting up the darkness. The mannequin on the table beside her seemed to dissolve, styrofoam showering her face as bullets whined through the air over head, the reports sounding like cannon fire in the small room…
Over twenty minutes, and their primary target was still missing. They were falling behind schedule.
Gunshots. His head came up, glancing first up toward where the college student and one of his Pakistanis were mounting explosive charges on the main doors of the theatre, then toward the hostages, separated into two groups of thirty there above the first tier of seats.
Backstage. An eerie silence followed the gunfire, an oath escaping his lips. “Status report?” he demanded in Arabic, speaking into his radio headset.
One by one the four men he had dispatched to search for Congresswoman Gilpin checked in.
And then another voice came on the network, a man’s voice growling a foul Arab obscenity. It had to be a bodyguard—to have been able to kill his man. The leader swore, his face flushing with anger. Time to end this.
He advanced on the nearest group of hostages, feeling them shrink away from him as he approached. Power.
Roving across the group, his eyes fell on a young woman in the front row, a brunette—not more than thirty, the hem of her dress riding just above her knees as she knelt there. She reminded him of someone…perhaps one of the American girls that he had known back in those early years when he had first come to this land. Before he had rediscovered his faith.
Without warning, he reached down, grabbing a fistful of her long, dark hair. She pitched forward, screaming as he dragged her out into the open on the bloodstained blue carpet of the theatre, throwing her down on her back.
“What is your name?” He bent forward, his knee pressing into her chest, the muzzle of his Glock only inches away from her frightened eyes. She seemed unable to speak and he was forced to repeat the question, louder this time—his eyes boring into hers.
“B-Brooke,” she stammered, wincing in pain. “Please…”
“I know you can hear me, Congresswoman Gilpin,” he announced, toggling his radio mike. “I want you to know this. I will see you here before me in five minutes. When the time is up, I will put a bullet through Brooke’s right kneecap and let you hear her screams. Ten minutes, the left kneecap. And I will work my way upward…it will take her a long time to die.”
“Think carefully.” Cohen listened, his face impassive, as the terrorist finished speaking. It was nothing new to the Israeli. A decade of violence in his own country…he’d seen all the barbarism mankind had to offer.
He looked over into the congresswoman’s pale face, seeing the fear, the determination written in her eyes. “I have to go out there.”
“He’ll kill her anyway,” he replied bluntly. Diplomacy was of no use to them now.
She didn’t flinch, surprising him with her mettle. “I know…but I can’t hide here while it happens.”
He glanced from the Kalashnikov in his hands down to the dead body before him, the terrorist’s neck skewed sideways at an obscene angle. Once she’s made up her mind, all hell co
uldn’t stop her, he thought, recalling one of Winfield’s comments the previous day. All that was left was to protect her as best as he could.
Without another word, he dropped the rifle onto the corpse, beckoning for her to follow him out into the corridor.
They had made it halfway back to the theatre when the first shot rang out…
8:23 P.M.
Red. White. Blue. Harry glanced toward the Bellagio as the lights of surrounding police cars continued to wash across his face. Christmas trees filled the gardens of the resort, bedecked with the glories of the season and twinkling brightly in the darkness. A strange counterpoint to the death and destruction within.
The perimeter was loose, disordered—chaotic, to be perfectly blunt. If Tarik Abdul Muhammad had a martyr on the outside waiting to perform a double-tap on the first responders, they were all dead. The Metro cop who had met him at the Do Not Cross tape had only glanced briefly at his government ID before hurrying off to find Parker at his request.
“Thomas!” he called out, watching his friend come toward him. Harry ducked under the tape, grasping Thomas’s hand. “We couldn’t reach you on your cell—what’s our sitrep?”
“The cellphone network is down.”
“Overload or part of the attack?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Thomas replied, waving the rest of Harry’s team in from the darkness. “No one knows anything for sure. There’s been more gunfire from inside the theatre within the last ten minutes. What’s left of the Bellagio’s security team is evacuating the rest of the casino—providing cover for the paramedics.”
“Who’s heading up the team?”
“Their chief of security’s a retired Israeli paratrooper—named Gilad Cohen, but he went into the theatre and they haven’t been able to raise him on their comms since.”
“Any demands?”
“Not yet.”
That wasn’t a good thing. Harry’s eyes swept the ground ahead of them, between the road and the entrance of the Bellagio, taking in the uniforms clustered here and there. “What’s the ETA on the SWAT teams?”
It was a moment before Thomas responded, a strange look passing across his face. “There isn’t one, Harry. Metro’s Zebra units responded to the reported launch position of the missile that took down Delta 94. A full roll-out, everyone that was on duty. They were ambushed turning off 589 into Winchester, a car bomb taking out part of their convoy before they were hit from both sides with RPGs and automatic weapons.”
He could hear Han behind him, cursing under his breath. “So, who is taking point on the hostage rescue?”
“You are.”
8:25 P.M.
St. Joan of Arc Catholic Church
North Las Vegas
A police car passed him as he crossed the street, running behind schedule. In the chaos that they had created, it had taken fifteen minutes longer to reach his destination than he had planned. Precious time.
Even as Omar’s footsteps carried him across the road, he could hear the sound of gunfire from the south, borne on the wind.
It felt like an act of cowardice not to rush to the aid of his brothers, but they all had their own parts to play. As Allah had ordained.
He glanced up at the church in the darkness, a mural of Isa nailed to the cross covering the space over the door, the dying eyes of the prophet staring down upon him.
The door was unexpectedly locked, refusing to move under his grasp, and he lifted his hand to knock. “Please…I beg of you, let me in.”
A moment passed, sirens wailing in the distance of the night. Then he heard the sound of a bolt being slid back, a face peering out at him. “I need shelter.”
The priest hesitated only for a moment before opening the door wide enough for him to step through. “Come in—quickly, my friend. There is evil out there tonight, attacking our city.”
Omar followed him into the sanctuary, gazing around at the worshipers, no doubt gathered for the Christmas Eve mass.
“My brother-in-law is a lieutenant in the Metro police,” the priest continued, clearly nervous. “I called him from the landline in the office—asked his advice. He suggested that we all stay here until they can get the situation under control.”
Civilians, Omar thought, barely hearing the priest’s words as he looked about him. And the Qur’an forbad their murder.
Innocents…or were they? He closed his eyes, remembering those months following his conversion in prison, the teachings of Abu Kareem. They vote…
“Won’t you join us?” the priest asked. “As we pray for our city, we remember that on this night God sent forth His Son.”
Omar’s face tightened, his eyes darting around the sanctuary, up at the stained glass windows—saints keeping watch. Idolatry. Much as it had been in Mecca in the days of the Prophet.
His hand came out of the pocket of his jacket in one final moment of decision, detonator clenched between his fingers.
“God has no son…”
8:27 P.M.
The theatre
“Lie still,” Gilpin whispered, cradling her aide’s head in her lap. She looked down into the wounded eyes of the young woman, thinking of all the times they had spent together in the course of the campaign. Of the two little children awaiting her at home.
Steve Winfield lay a few feet away, apparently unconscious, bleeding from a gash across his forehead.
“You’re going to make it through this, you hear me,” she continued, struggling to force a smile to her face as her gaze flickered across Brooke’s shattered knee, blood seeping out from underneath a rude tourniquet fashioned from her jacket. “Rachel and Danny…you’re going to see them tomorrow. God will protect us.”
She looked up into the eyes of the terrorists’ leader, inhuman eyes shining out from beneath the balaclava.
“Enough talking,” came the hiss from beneath the mask. Gilpin met his gaze with hers, a stare of unyielding defiance. These people had given so much of themselves for her…she had to be strong for all of them now.
The muscles around his eyes tensed, the only warning she would receive as he lashed out, backhanding her across the cheek.
She heard Brooke scream, caught herself from falling with an outstretched hand. Pain. Her cheek burned from the impact, taking her breath away.
Reeling, she brought her head up, her eyes locking once again with his, proud—unyielding. For a moment, she thought he might strike her again, but he turned away, barking an order to one of his men.
And then she saw the video camera…
8:30 P.M.
“No.” Marika shook her head, unable to believe that she was even entertaining the idea. “Do you have any ideas how many laws we would be breaking—an Agency team…conducting an operation on American soil?
She turned on heel, a long finger jabbing out toward Nichols. “Particularly one led by the target of a federal manhunt. I should put you in cuffs now.”
“If that’s your decision,” the tall man responded quietly, the lights of the computer screens in the back of the LVMPD command vehicle casting a glow across his face. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. If you have other options, I strongly suggest that you employ them.”
His tone made her think of Russ, now inside the Bellagio attempting to establish communications with the terrorists. Cool, dispassionate. Reasoned.
She shot a glare toward both of the CIA officers, focusing in on the one she knew as “Steven Todd.” The man Nichols had called “Thomas.”
More deception from the Agency, lies within lies. The fact that D.C. had validated his credentials barely mitigated her concerns.
“The FBI’s tactical teams were shredded in the explosion at the convention center,” Marika admitted bitterly. “Metro’s HAZMAT units are deployed to the scene, trying to contain the nerve gas. The city’s in chaos.”
“Have they identified the gas?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s soman. Dissipates more quickly than VX, but for th
e time being…a horrible way to die. We lost good people.”
“How about help from the outside?” Thomas asked.
“Nothing can get in by air, not after the shootdown of an airliner—we have no way of knowing what else is out there. LA is two hours out and dealing with their own release of the nerve agent from the Canoga Park site.”
“Denver?”
She shook her head in the negative. “With multiple attack scenarios already in progress, Buhler’s locking the city down. We’re on our own, at least for the next few hours.”
An eternity of time. Marika looked over to find Nichols glancing along the row of screens on one side of the vehicle, focused on a map of the LVMPD deployments.
“If you assemble a team that has no experience handling these situations,” he announced slowly. “It’s going to be a bloodbath. If the tangos are even halfway competent, you’ll lose every last hostage—probably your entry team as well.”
It was the truth, and she knew it. “But how can I trust you?”
Nichols straightened, looking her in the eye. “You can’t…and I wouldn’t.”
Vic had believed that he was innocent, she thought, calling to mind the image of her partner, lying in a pool of his own blood.
Before she could even reply, one of the LVMPD sergeants called to her from the far end of the vehicle. “This just hit the Internet, going out live.”
The image was shaking slightly, as if perhaps the video camera was hand-held. But it was clear enough, showing the red seats of the “O” theatre in the background. Congresswoman Laura Gilpin was on her knees in front of the camera, staring defiantly into the lens, seeming to disregard the Glock aimed at her head, the masked figure standing behind her.
“…speak to America, and the President of the United States. We have proved our ability to strike at the heart of your cities. To bring you down from the skies. Did you think that you could defy God for so long, that your sins would not reach even to Paradise?”
“What do you want?” Altmann murmured, as if expecting an answer from the screen.
“Within ninety minutes, a plane will touch down at the American military base in Guantanamo Bay, the prison where I was tortured for so many years. In return for the lives of Congresswoman Gilpin and the rest of the hostages, you will trade us Khaled Sheikh Mohammed, ending his unjust captivity by your imperialist forces. If he is not on the plane two hours from now, leaving freely—every hostage will pay the blood price.”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 52