The three shooters holstered their weapons under their yellow shirts and vests and moved toward the open window.
“Now, sir, are you really ready?” Sebastian asked, studying the vice president’s expression in the wake of the sudden violence.
“I am,” Joshua—who no longer thought of himself as the vice president the moment his detail had been murdered—said. “Saying good-bye to my son and leading my men to their slaughter was the hard part. Let’s get on with it.”
“Very well,” Sebastian said. “Then please step over to the window and get ready for a ride.”
CHAPTER 39
If it hadn’t been for Director Mullins of the Secret Service, the four CAT members in black BDUs armed with Kings Armament Company SR-16 E3 CQB Mod 2 5.56mm assault rifles would have riddled with bullets the black Suburbans that screeched up the curved driveway to the front of the National Cathedral. They wouldn’t have damaged the armored SUVs, but it would have turned the front of the house of worship into a temporary war zone, which was not what the Episcopalian founders had intended.
The four men—all prior enlisted operators from various Special Operations units—stood behind their black SUV, weapons at the ready and tracking the vehicles. Normally, CAT remained out of sight, but the call from the Joint Operations Center to the communications vehicle had forced them into a defensive posture. Even though they’d been told that three Suburbans with the head of the FBI’s HRT, two other unknown task force members, and an eight-man HRT were en route on orders of the president, they took no chances.
The other Secret Service agents who manned the ambulance and communications vehicles had also assumed defensive positions behind their vehicles, which formed a line in front of the main entrance.
The first Suburban slammed to a halt next to the CAT vehicle, and Special Agent Lance Foster opened the door, his FBI credentials in his hand. “Who’s in charge here?”
“That would be me, sir,” the CAT leader, a thirty-eight-year-old former SEAL Team 5 member, said. “Are you Special Agent Foster?”
“The one and only,” Special Agent Foster said, walking toward the CAT member, his FBI credentials held out in his left hand. He reached the back end of the black Suburban, noticing the weapons of the other CAT members trailing him, although not pointed directly at him. “Here you go,” he said, and handed the credentials over.
The CAT member looked them over, glanced up at Special Agent Foster, nodded, and handed the badge back to its owner. “Good to go, sir. What can we do?”
Special Agent Foster turned back to his vehicles, raised his right arm to shoulder height, and made a small circling gesture, as if calling the forces of nature to him.
All the doors on the vehicles opened simultaneously, and out stepped one of the most lethal units in US law enforcement, Kevlar helmets on and modified M4 assault rifles in hand.
Logan and Cole joined the CAT leader and Special Agent Foster. Logan carried his personal M4—a holdover from his Marine Force Reconnaissance days—and Cole wielded a modified HK416 with a red-dot reflex scope and pistol foregrip.
“Where is the vice president at this moment?” Logan asked. There was no doubt to the CAT leader that the fearsome man with the unnerving green eyes, blue polo, khaki cargo pants, and physical presence was in charge.
“He’s inside. This is the only way in or out. All other exits are secured. His son’s choir practice should have just ended,” the CAT leader said.
“Can you please radio his detail, tell them there’s a situation and that they need to get out here as soon as possible?” Logan asked urgently.
The CAT leader pressed a button on a wire that dangled from the headset and boom microphone he wore over a plain black baseball cap with a dark-red Punisher emblem. “Trailblazer Actual,” the CAT leader said, referring to the vice president’s code name, “this is Reaper Actual. What’s your position?”
Silence.
“I say again, Trailblazer Actual. This is Reaper Actual. What’s your position?”
More silence.
“Goddamnit, it’s already started,” Logan said. “We’re going inside. Lance, you and Cole are with me. Have one of your teams secure the entrance from inside and the other spread out and search the main cathedral. I haven’t been here in years, but if I recall correctly, there are two or three chapels in the basement, as well as several levels above and tons of places to hide.”
Logan looked at the CAT leader, and said, “Secure this entrance. Weapons hot. If anyone comes out other than us, you either light them up or figure out who the hell they are. If the vice president comes out, treat him and his detail as hostile. I say again—hostile.”
The CAT leader stared at the man, stunned. A warrior and operator who had seen and done more than most, he was rarely nonplussed, but the man’s words had nearly stopped him midthought. “Are you serious, sir?”
“Absolutely. I can guarantee you one thing: if the vice president and his detail come out this entrance, it’s going to be guns blazing, and they will put you down if you try to stop them. So don’t fucking let them.
“One more thing,” Logan said. “Please give us one of your men so he can communicate with you out here.”
Without hesitation, the CAT leader looked at a thin, lean team member with short black hair. “Krazinski’s my best shooter,” the CAT leader said. The man’s mouth turned up slightly in recognition. “Keep me posted.”
“Roger that, boss,” Special Agent Krazinski said.
“Thanks. Talk to you as soon as we have something,” Logan said, and turned away, not waiting for a response. There was no need; he’d made his point. “Let’s get in there and hope that God is on our side,” he said, and dashed up the stairs, leaving the CAT leader to issue orders to the rest of the agents who remained outside with him.
CHAPTER 40
Logan crept up the limestone stairwell, placing each padded Oakley boot softly on the step above it. He breathed deeply as he focused on the narrow passageway upward. If they hear you, you’re all dead men, he thought, with Cole, Lance, and the CAT team member named Krazinski right behind him. The two four-man HRT teams had remained in the main cathedral. Just us four amigos against God knows what.
A docent in the south transept had informed them that the vice president had decided to see the rooftop accessible from the south overcroft. They’d only gone up two to three minutes before Logan and his assault force had entered the building.
Counting each step, Logan proceeded with the utmost caution once he hit step two hundred and ten, knowing the stairwell contained two hundred and twenty steps, as the docent had informed them when he’d asked.
He thought he heard movement above, and he paused, raising his right hand. The four men stopped, modern knights in a medieval castle, and waited. Logan listened. A small bang, as if a door closing, carried to them in muffled echoes. A whizzing sound followed. What the hell? Keep going. There’s no time.
The four apex predators, led by the most dangerous one of all, continued on. Logan realized he was near the top of the stairwell when he was struck by a wash of light. Steadying himself, he thought, You can’t die in glory if you don’t try, and rushed quickly up the remaining steps, the red dot of his reflex scope tracking in line with his right eye.
He rounded the last curve, reached the floor of the overcroft, and processed instantly the scene before him. The vice president’s detail was dead, the vice president was gone, and a member of the Organization team responsible was disappearing through the open window, khaki cargo pants still visible inside.
Had he appeared a few seconds earlier, the disappearing man would have seen them and likely opened fire. Logan realized his good fortune and timing, and rushed forward, releasing the M4, which fell across his chest and Kevlar vest, the assault rifle dangling across his upper body.
He reached the window as the man’s tan boots disappeared outside. Acting rather than thinking, he shot his hands out into the sun and grabbed both of t
he man’s ankles. In addition to catching his prey, he was rewarded with enlightenment, although not the kind he would have liked. The vice president is gone. They zip-lined him down to the street. Smart motherfuckers.
A taut wire connected the skeletal scaffolding around the cathedral to the statue of George Washington on horseback several hundred feet below at the base of a long staircase that led from the street next to the cathedral farther down to a side road for St. Albans School. A metal pulley with handles hung from the wire, and a nylon harness was connected to the bottom of the entire mechanism.
Logan heard the man speaking quickly, but his words were lost in the wind and external noise. Even as Logan wrestled with the man, who was sprawled out on a wooden plank, he saw three Pepco trucks below and a man in a dark suit being pushed into the middle one. Bingo.
“The VP’s gone!” Logan screamed, hoping Cole and Lance heard him as he was yanked halfway out the window. Warm air and wind assaulted him as he was dragged along the wooden plank that had been laid across the skeletal scaffolding to create a platform. “They’re using Pepco vehicles to disguise their getaway. Get CAT down to the south side of the cathedral on the street below! And get the Black Hawk in the air! We need to track those vehicles!”
As if sensing his intent, the three vehicles pulled away from the base of the statue, accelerating down the winding road toward the multiple soccer fields and park.
As Logan finished his ad-hoc SITREP, the Pepco impersonator reached the zip line, grabbed the handles, and disengaged the brake. The trolley shot down the wire, sending its operator and the dangling figure of Logan West into open air more than one hundred and twenty feet above the concrete pavement below.
* * *
Cole and Lance watched as the two men shot down the sharp incline toward the statue more than two hundred and fifty feet away. Hang on, Logan, whatever you do.
Cole turned to Special Agent Krazinski—as Lance was issuing orders over his own HF radio net for the Black Hawk to launch—and said, “Get the vehicles back here as fast as you can. Let’s go.”
The three men raced back into the dark stairwell, leaving the dead Secret Service agents alone in the dimly lit space.
* * *
This wasn’t the smartest plan, Logan thought as the trolley screamed down the wire toward the George Washington statue on Pilgrim. Between the weight of the Kevlar vest and the M4 still slung across his chest, he held himself up awkwardly, his arms wrapped around the man’s ankles, which left his head exposed and adjacent to the man’s knees.
He looked up and saw the man staring at him—almost too casually, Logan thought—even as the pulley reached the halfway point and gained speed and momentum. The only good thing was that he knew the man would not release his grip with one hand to draw a weapon and shoot Logan off of him. If he did that, he wouldn’t be able to hold both himself and Logan up, and they’d both plummet to their deaths.
Logan glanced down as the three Pepco trucks sped away around a curve in the direction of the sports complex, which held a soccer field—that also was measured for football—a baseball diamond, and seven tennis courts. He prayed the CAT vehicles would be here soon. If they lost those trucks, the likelihood of the vice president escaping increased exponentially in the urban maze of northwest DC.
The statue loomed closer, and Logan braced himself for impact, praying his head didn’t hit stone. The pulley reached maximum velocity with only forty feet to go. This is going to hurt . . . a lot.
Screeeeeeech!
The pulley dramatically and violently slowed, and Logan realized his rider’s intent—to cut the speed quickly and fling his freeloader off into the statue. Unfortunately for Logan, it was a sound tactic.
As the brake bit into the taut wire, the pulley’s speed decreased and suddenly stopped. A moment later, Logan found himself perpendicular even as he fought to hold on, but to no avail. He was flung forward and found himself holding thin air, face down. The ground rushed by below him and suddenly lurched up as gravity propelled him downward. Here it comes. He curled his head and neck forward, trying to protect them both.
He landed at an angle on his left forearm, side, and leg, but then momentum flipped him backward as the ground gripped his body. He rolled several times to his right, attempting to keep himself rigid and minimize the chance of injury. His boots slammed into concrete, and he realized he’d hit the statue. He turned once more and stopped, eyes staring into the patch of dirt and grass at the base of the statue.
Thump.
Oh no, Logan thought, as he realized the Pepco man had dropped to the cobblestone walkway. One thought roared in his mind. Move!
He scrambled forward, his Oakley boots gaining traction on the dirt and grass, the M4 swinging wildly on his chest. On all fours, he lunged toward the only sanctuary he had—the backside of George Washington.
Small explosions of rock sent stone shrapnel in his direction, and he heard more suppressed gunshots. He dove forward and out of the line of fire, landing on his stomach and the M4, the impact softened by the Kevlar vest. Within seconds, he had unslung the M4 and had his back to the statue. Jesus, that was close.
At least out of the frying pan, he’d bought himself a few precious moments to make the most basic and critical of decisions—left or right. It was a no-kidding coin toss—his pursuer might choose to wait, but more than likely, he’d come for him in order to end the confrontation and hasten his escape.
But then another thought occurred, and a malevolent smile spread across his face as he recognized his third option. Come and get it, Pepco man.
* * *
Sebastian held the Glock 17 in front of him, contemplating his choice the way Logan West had—right or left. It seemed such a mundane decision on which his life now rested, but he knew he had to make it, and he had to do it quickly.
Having ordered the Pepco trucks to leave him behind—the mission came first, even at the cost of his own life—he intended to escape on foot and blend into the urban environment. But in order to do that, he had to deal with the threat that now lay just beyond the figure of George Washington. He didn’t know who the man was, and he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that in order for him to escape, this man had to die. Some things in life are just that simple. Right or left.
The fact that the statue stood in a clearing that was carved out of a wall of woods complicated his tactical decision. Had it been in the open, he’d have backed off and slowly moved around the statue, maintaining a clear line of sight on every square foot that revealed itself. Unfortunately, he was bound by the woods on both sides, which closed in less than fifteen feet from the statue.
For no other reason than that he was left-handed—even though he shot right-handed, a contradiction not even he could explain but which came naturally to him—Sebastian Bautista chose left.
Let’s get this over with. I need to get the hell out of here.
He started to circle the statue to the left, quietly shuffling his feet sideways, his eyes looking beyond the sights on his Glock, searching for a target. He maintained his focus as close to the statue as possible, knowing his prey had to be using it for cover. The only thing that mattered was which direction the target was facing—away from him, and Sebastian had him dead to rights; toward him, and Sebastian was just dead.
He exhaled as he realized the moment was at hand. It’s now or never.
He quickly took three steps to the left, lunging into the space behind the statue, his finger on the trigger, waiting to either shoot or get shot.
What the hell? The space behind the statue was empty. Where did he go? And then he heard a small crack from the woods on his left, and he realized his fatal mistake. Damnit, Sebastian, you weren’t thinking outside the box.
Knowing these were his last moments on earth, he said a prayer and turned to face his fate.
* * *
Logan waited quietly on his belly just inside the woods. Realizing the only vantage point that gave him a tacti
cal advantage was one as far away from the statue as possible, he’d moved carefully backward to the edge of the woods and then slid into a prone position, careful not to rustle the underbrush. He knew from this angle that he’d spot the Pepco man before he was seen, and he had no doubt that he’d have time to adjust the M4 and engage.
He’d guessed his attacker would come from the right, and he’d been correct. As soon as his opponent rounded the corner of the statue, Logan placed the red dot of the reflex sight directly in the middle of his head, tracking him with the scope.
He saw the man’s surprise that Logan had vanished. That’s right, motherfucker. No one’s home.
Logan exhaled in preparation, and his chest compressed a small twig underneath him, splitting it in half.
Snap.
The man stiffened at the sound, paused, and then straightened, realizing he’d been outmaneuvered.
Time to face the music, Logan thought, his finger on the trigger of the M4.
Even though he knew it was pointless, Sebastian Bautista spun to the left one last time, searching for his executioner.
Logan West slowly squeezed the trigger.
Crack!
The sound of the shot bounced off the George Washington statue, echoed up the wide staircase to the cathedral, and reverberated across the campus as if signifying to the holy site that another soul was up for the taking. The bullet itself tore into the Pepco man’s left cheek at an upward angle and ripped into his brain, killing him instantly. He crumpled to the ground, and blood leaking out of the wound onto the grass.
Logan stood and emerged from the wood line, looking at the dead man. Should’ve stayed on the other side of George.
The sound of roaring engines grew louder, and Logan left the dead man in the quiet shade, stepping to the curb of Pilgrim Road as the three FBI Suburbans screeched to a halt.
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