Movement behind him, searing pain as a curved janbiya stabbed into his side, just below the edge of his tactical vest. A hand clamping down over his mouth.
He tried to scream, tried to turn—his hand clawing at the butt of his Smith & Wesson 659, but the retention holster held it in place, even as the dagger plunged into his body again and again.
Darkness…
9:14 P.M.
The Bellagio
It was the same for all of them—going to their deaths, begging for mercy. As had his brother.
Jamal walked along the platform, his fingers slick against the hard plastic grip of the Kalashnikov, watching as their leader pulled another hostage from the crowd…a young woman this time, early twenties, no older. She reminded him of a blonde girl in his class at University of Michigan, a fellow chemistry major. Her smile. Her laugh—the way she dressed on a spring morning. Seductive.
He had nearly slipped once, he thought, anger building within him at the memory of his weakness.
Allah had kept his feet from falling, but the woman had never paid the price of her indiscretions. He saw her in the girl on her knees before their leader, the fear in her eyes.
Motivated by a sudden impulse, he moved closer to their leader—extending his hand for the Glock. “Let me.”
A moment of hesitation…and the pistol was placed in his outstretched hand, butt-first, the polymer cool beneath his fingers.
The girl’s slender body shook with sobs, tears streaking down her face as his fingers curled around the Glock’s grip—his breath coming faster at the power of it.
A heady feeling. Life and death…in his hands. “Who is your Lord?” he murmured, beginning to circle the girl as he recited the words of the Questioners. “Who is His Prophet?”
9:17 P.M.
“We can use the service door there—work our way down the hallway backstage and out…here, onto the balcony.”
Tex shook his head at Thomas, drawing a thick finger across the floor plans. “No go, I mirrored the door. They’ve got it rigged with grenades. Even assuming we could detonate them remotely with a breaching charge of our own, there’s too much ground to cover—at least fifty feet before you’d have a clear shot. No time to set up, your aim would be off from the run.”
He was right, Harry realized, looking back at the images taken from their covert camera. “Most of them would be dead before we arrived.”
Another shot rang out from the theatre, this time accompanied by a muffled scream. Harry’s hand stole toward the Colt on his hip…but there was nothing after it. Just silence. The knowledge of death.
He could see it in the eyes of his men.
Reaching out, Han tapped one of the images with his index finger. “They’re still wearing their coats…do these guys have s-vests?”
Harry nodded. “We’ll have to operate on that assumption, unless one of the people who escaped the theatre might have seen.”
He looked toward the door to see Altmann standing there. She nodded. “I’ll pass the word to the officers debriefing them.”
The female agent tossed a folder onto the table in front of Harry. “The guest list.”
He flipped it open, shaking his head as he scanned down the list of names. “This is like a who’s who of the Republican Party…do the networks have this?”
“Not yet.” The emphasis was clear in her voice. “The cellphone network just came back up five minutes ago.”
“And now all hell’s gonna break loose in the media.”
12:29 A.M. Eastern Time, December 25th
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“Mr. President,” General Nealen began, sweeping back into the Situation Room, “we have another option on the table.”
Hancock looked back from the scattered sheets of paper in front of him, glaring across at his speechwriter. “This doesn’t even sound like me, Joyce,” he exclaimed, cursing in exasperation. “I need you on your game tonight of all nights.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” the young woman replied, seemingly cowed by his show of temper.
“Give us the room,” Hancock ordered, turning toward the Marine commandant as his speechwriter gathered up her papers and tablet computer. “I’m listening.”
“I just got off the phone with CINCLANTFLT, sir. Admiral Price informs me that the USS Harry S. Truman is on its way back from deployment in the Med, passing tonight within three hundred miles of Cuba.”
“So?” the President demanded, ignoring a warning glance from Cahill.
“You spoke of following through on Tarik Abdul Muhammad’s demands, Mr. President. I’m offering a way to do that without the risk of letting one of the most notorious terrorists on earth go free.”
“Go on,” Hancock replied, waving his hand when Nealen paused.
“We have thirty minutes before the plane touches down at Gitmo—the Truman’s CO can have a pair of F-18s on the cats ready to launch the moment it takes off with KSM aboard.”
“And?”
“Once the hostages in Vegas are safe, the Truman’s fighters intercept and either force the plane to return to Gitmo…or blow it out of the sky with a Sidewinder.”
The President considered the proposal for a long moment, glancing over at his chief of staff. “Ian?”
“It’s your call, Mr. President. It’s a better alternative than anything we had thirty minutes ago.”
Hancock looked down at his hands, realizing that they were trembling. Nothing in the prior four years had prepared him for this moment. “Get Vegas on the phone.”
9:32 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
The face of an angel, flaxen hair splayed out against a rude pillow made of a jacket. The eyes of a child staring up at him, eyes that never should have seen what they had witnessed this night.
“They told me your name was Ashlynn,” Harry whispered, stroking a lock of hair back from her cheek. She couldn’t have been more than nine. The daughter he’d never had.
She managed a timid nod, seeming to shrink away from his touch. Still in shock from the bullet that had pierced her arm as terrorists stormed the theatre. “It’s a pretty name,” he continued. “My name is Harry.”
The girl seemed to brighten for a moment. “My little brother’s name is Harry. He stayed home.”
He smiled, squeezing her small hand gently in his. “We’re going to get you home to see him, sweetheart. Soon.”
“And mommy too?” she asked, transfixing him with trusting, guileless eyes.
He nodded slowly, knowing it was a promise not his to make—holding onto her hand as if his very soul might be lost if he let go. “Yes, of course…mommy too.”
And he prayed that it wasn’t a lie. “Tell me what you told the lady who was just here…what did you see underneath the jacket of the man who shot you?”
Her face scrunched up as if trying to remember. “It was black…I think. Like that,” she said, pointing at his borrowed FBI tactical vest. “Black, with all sorts of wires hanging out. Like Harry’s truck when he tore out the battery.”
Harry smiled at her analogy, struggling to conceal the fear within him. “Take it easy, sweetheart,” he whispered, gripping her hand one final time before rising to his feet.
“Are you going to go find mommy?” That look of trust—it had been so long since he had seen it.
“Yes,” he replied, knowing that he was saying what she needed to hear. Dear Lord, let this be true. Show me the way.
He waited until he was out of range of her ears before keying his mike. “All teams, we have confirmation. The gunmen are wearing suicide vests. The bombs at the center of the platform may be loaded with soman, but at this point, that’s extraneous. Let just one of those guys get the split-second needed to trigger his vest…ruins our whole day.”
There had been something there, Harry thought, hurrying back across the casino floor toward the makeshift command post they had set up near the
north entrance of the Bellagio. It wasn’t as good as the security center, but it was closer.
Something in the floor plans. Backstage. A way in?
He was halfway back when he saw a TV screen lit up, a CNN reporter silhouetted against a flaming building.
“…one of the oldest churches of the Diocese of Las Vegas was the target of a bombing tonight as terror continues to seize hold of the city. Initial reports indicate over twenty people dead, with dozens more injured. Father Ralph Mulholland, the rector of Joan of Arc’s, has been confirmed to be among the dead.”
Another bombing. He felt like he had been punched in the groin, anger surging through his body. So many already dead…and all because of his intel. He saw tears in the eyes of more than one LEO standing nearby. The knowledge of personal loss.
Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried…your best wasn’t good enough. And innocents paid the price of your sins.
“Are you going to go find mommy?”
He walked into the room they had cleared for their own use, finding his team watching the same news reports.
“They’re dead,” he announced flatly, shuffling through the blueprints spread out on the table. He could feel their eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. “Nothing we can do about it. All that is left to us…is to save every last person that we can inside that theatre. That’s all that matters now—that’s where I want everyone’s focus.”
There. What he’d been looking for. In plain sight. He glanced up, his eyes glinting. Blued steel. “Read me?”
“Loud and clear, boss,” Thomas replied. Tex merely nodded his assent, leaving Han standing there looking at him.
“Here’s how we get in,” Harry announced, drawing his finger across the blueprints. “From underwater, with the rebreathers used by the cast of the ‘O’ and stored backstage. We traverse across the catwalk here, thirty feet above the backstage and fast-rope down—”
He looked up to see Marika Altmann standing in the doorway. “I need a word.”
“Can it wait?”
No. The look on her face gave him his answer and he gestured for his team to give them the room. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve been given the order to stand down. The assault has been called off.”
For a moment, he couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Why?”
“Orders from D.C, direct from the POTUS. He’s giving them Khaled Sheikh Mohammed in exchange for the hostages. Once the hostages are safe, a pair of Hornets will intercept and force the plane back down.”
It didn’t make any sense. He looked outside, to where his team awaited. Together they had pursued terrorists around the world…only to find their own nation under attack. This might be the end for him—for all of them. But not like this.
“All the hostages will be murdered the moment Tarik thinks KSM is safe. Every last one of them.”
“I know that,” Altmann said, setting her thermos of coffee down on the table. “You know that. The politicians don’t know that. So here we wait.”
Harry reached across the blueprints for his H&K, adjusting the submachine gun’s sling around his shoulders.
“No…we don’t. Not a chance.”
12:42 A.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“Mr. President, Guantanamo’s radar is reporting a four-engine turboprop just appeared on their screens. Bearing from the southeast, still over a hundred and seventy kilometers out.”
“Our plane?” Cahill asked.
“No way of knowing for sure,” the aide replied, seeming nervous in the presence of the President. “If it stays on its current heading and speed, it will be over Guantanamo in twenty minutes.”
“Right on schedule.” General Nealen tapped his finger against the table. “Do you wish me to alert the Truman’s captain, sir? Have him move the F-18s onto the catapults?”
Cahill leaned forward until both his elbows were resting upon the wood of the conference table—his pale eyes fixed on Hancock’s face. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Mr. President?”
Hancock stared at the water bottle in front of him for a long moment, feeling his face flush with anger. It really wasn’t fair…after the last four years, after all that he had done, that this—this would be his legacy.
“No,” he snapped, wishing the bottle held something stronger than water. “Of course I’m not sure, Ian. How could I be? I’m going to take the fall for this no matter which way it goes.”
The aide came back in. “We’ve got an incoming call from FBI Las Vegas. Special Agent Altmann for you, Mr. President.”
“My last orders were clear. What does she want?”
“She didn’t say. Just requested that she be put through to you.”
9:46 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
It had seemed like an eternity as they waited for Hancock to come on the line. Time they didn’t have. Couldn’t afford to spend.
Tex would be reporting back from his reconnaissance of the catwalk within moments.
“Mr. President.” Altmann shot a look in his direction as she heard the President’s voice. “I have you on speaker…we’re here with the leader of our tactical team.”
“I’m assuming that there is a point to this call, Agent Altmann?” A cold voice, hundreds of miles away. The voice of the man who had signed David Lay’s death warrant, Harry thought.
A man who had betrayed his oath of office long before this day.
“There is, Mr. President. I called to ask for your authorization to proceed with the assault on the Bellagio’s theatre.”
Hesitation. “We can’t risk that, Special Agent, as I made perfectly clear in our last phone call. Not as long as we can still negotiate an end to this situation without even more lives being lost.”
“We have an assault plan, Mr. President,” she replied, giving Harry a look. “A way into the theatre without being observed by Tarik Abdul Muhammad. Once in place, we can take out he and the rest of the terrorists and free the hostages.”
“Look, this isn’t complex,” Hancock retorted, clearly nettled by her persistence. “We give them KSM, they give us the hostages. Once Congresswoman Gilpin and the rest are safe, we can dispatch the Truman’s pilots after the plane and either force it down or shoot it out of the sky. In this decision, I’m acting on the best counsel of my advisors, including General Nealen, here with me on this call now. I really don’t care which they have to do—but I will not risk a bloodbath storming into that theatre.”
“And a bloodbath is exactly what you’ll have,” Harry stated, leaning in toward the phone on the table. “All due respect to you and the general, Mr. President—but neither of you have ever actually fought this enemy. I have. And if I know nothing else…I know this. You can’t negotiate with those who only respect force.”
“It’s not your place to tell me what I can and can’t do.”
Something wasn’t adding up…all of this had been too well-planned. Harry took a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure. “Tarik wouldn’t ask for the release of KSM if he didn’t have an endgame in all of this. It’s too simple—there’s no way he’s gullible enough to believe that we’ll actually turn him over. I can tell you how this ends, Mr. President. It ends with Tarik and his men doing exactly what they came here to do…martyring themselves for their faith—taking as many kaffir with them as possible.”
There was doubt in the President’s voice when he responded, but not enough. “Having already considered all the options on the table, I’ve made my decision.”
So have I. The reply was on his lips, but he bit it back. Now was not the time for truth, for honesty. “Very well, Mr. President. My men and I will be standing by as the situation develops.”
Without another word, Harry reached across, tapping the phone’s END button, terminating the call.
He looked up into the eyes of Marika Altmann, standing there with her ar
ms folded across her chest. She looked tired, defeated almost. Not quite. “What now?”
“We proceed with the assault, of course,” he replied coolly, moving back to the blueprints of the Bellagio.
“But you just said—”
He shook his head. “I said what needed to be said.”
“You’re talking about deceiving the President of the United States,” Altmann hissed, leaning across the table toward him.
“Your point?” Harry asked. “I’ve deceived many a better man than Roger Hancock. There’s something at play here—something we haven’t yet grasped. Some reason Tarik Abdul Muhammad is playing the fool.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. It didn’t matter, not really. Defying a presidential order…he knew what lay at the end of that road.
What had he told Carol? “It’s just a matter of deciding which set of consequences you can live with. That’s all it is, in the end.”
The hard truth.
“EAGLE SIX to GUNHAND, give me a sitrep,” he demanded, keying his mike.
It was a moment before Tex came on the network. Harry could feel Altmann standing behind him, her eyes on the back of his head.
There might have even been a gun in her hand, for all he knew. He didn’t turn around. “We have a tango patrolling near the catwalk, EAGLE SIX. Not going to be able to go around him.”
“Then we go through him.”
There was a crackle of static and Carol’s voice came over his headset from the Bellagio’s security center. “It’s not going to be that simple, Harry. I was finally able to lock in on Tarik’s radio comms. He’s checking in with his sentries every three minutes.”
It wasn’t going to be enough time.
“What do you need?” he heard Altmann ask from the other side of the table.
Harry turned to face her. No gun. “We could use a miracle…what time does the next one leave?”
Time was running out for the hostages, grains of sand slipping away—there had to be an answer.
“There might be a way to do this,” Carol said slowly. He could hear her tapping on a keyboard. “I’ve been recording the audio of the transmissions…if I can get physical access to one of their radios, I can use the recording to ‘reply’ to Tarik.”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 54