Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  “Got it. Just out of curiosity, who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Kyle Swanson, and I’m a retired marine. I think I have this third level almost under control, so I’m going down to hunt on the second floor. Good luck.” Then he was out the door. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone.

  Harrison thought: Kyle Swanson. Why is that name familiar? He could not recall. He crawled back to the clutch of wounded, pulling the clerk behind him.

  * * *

  THE BEST WAY TO save ammo was to use somebody else’s bullets. Using a collapsed aisle for concealment, Swanson found still another shooter on the top level. It was an older guy who walked casually beside the railing, as if strolling in the park, taking single potshots down with an AK. White bandanna.

  Swanson put his trust in the flimsy camouflage of his own white bandanna and in the fact that the enemy was not expecting opposition. He stepped out into the open and walked toward the shooter, closing the gap between them with every step. The man glanced over and recognized the white ID cloth. Although the grim eyes were afire, his rifle was still pointed down at the helpless targets. Kyle gave a quick acknowledging wave with his empty left hand to divert the man’s attention even more. The puny deception could not last, so he locked into a standing firing position at point-blank range and saw the terrorist flinch upon realizing what was about to happen. Nine shots, and all struck the target: eight torso hits and one in the gun arm. Kyle ran forward, ripped away the AK-47, and snatched up an extra magazine of ammo before firing a make-sure death round into the man’s temple.

  Swanson slung his M-16 across his back and ejected the magazine of the AK-47 to snap in the fresh one. He would use that weapon until it was dry and then drop it and take another one.

  Shoot. Move. Communicate. He had four kills on the top floor and not a shot had come back his way in return. Kyle was in his comfort zone, an elite killing machine, working with precision against an unsuspecting enemy.

  * * *

  LUCKY SHARIF AND JANNA Ecklund found mayhem and chaos when they arrived in the sprawling Mall USA parking lot. The bedlam that had surrounded the suicide bomb at the Target Center had spread to the mall, tripled in size, and was still growing. Hundreds of people were trying to escape, and the two FBI agents could hear gunfire ripping inside the shopping center. Moans of despair, sharp curses, low prayers, and keening shrieks rose from the clusters of civilians who scrambled toward the safety of flashing emergency-vehicle lights. Anyone who fell was trampled underfoot.

  Janna snaked their car into the tangle and parked against the bumper of a police car to help create a barricade. Another car pulled in immediately behind, and civilians flopped down behind the makeshift barrier, gasping for breath, crying, many of them bleeding.

  The spilling tide also pushed against anyone trying to get inside, thwarting cops and first responders. There were too many people in the way, too many people hurting, and the officers and medics and firefighters were unable to get a grip on the scene. Rescuers and victims alike were locked in stalemate, with bullets pecking at those still inside.

  Lucky’s personal telephone buzzed, and he heard the bop-bop-bop-bop of automatic gunfire before Swanson said a word. Then the sniper quickly painted a horrific picture of the shopping center being a free-fire zone, with gunmen on all three levels. The exact size of the attack force was unknown. Kyle estimated at least two hundred civilians were dead, probably many more, and an untold number were wounded. “They aren’t taking hostages or negotiating,” Swanson said. “They are just trying to kill as many as possible.”

  The terrorists wore white bandannas as identification, but otherwise looked like ordinary employees and came in all sizes, ages, and colors. Kyle speculated the guns and grenades had been smuggled in over the past months and had been hidden in the walls of the service corridors and other out-of-the-way caches.

  “When are the cops coming in?” Swanson asked.

  Lucky worked his way forward. “I can’t give you a time, Kyle. The first people here were traffic cops, and they have had their hands full at the exits. They won’t go inside unprotected. One guy tried to and was ordered to stand down, and he threw his badge in the snow. I see a SWAT team that looks about ready to go.”

  “Okay. Okay. Tell them to put on the night-vision goggles, then shut off the interior lights. I don’t think the bad guys have NVGs. Also, the volume of gunfire seems to be slackening, so it looks like the mass-slaughter phase is done and the terrorists are shifting to find individuals and groups that are hiding. Darkness will help the victims hide.”

  “If it’s dark, you won’t be able to see either.”

  There was a snort that sounded like a laugh. “Don’t worry about that, Lucky. They don’t know that I’m here. I already bagged four of them, and they still don’t know I’m here. Anyway, I like fighting in the dark. I gotta go.”

  “Kyle, I’m coming in to help.”

  “Let the SWATs do it, Lucky. We’ll force these rats into a kill pocket or help them die in place. You coordinate this mess, and I don’t have to explain to Deqo how you got shot right before her birthday. Check with you later.” The call ended.

  Immediately, Lucky’s handheld radio came to life with his SAC, Hugh Brooks, wanting an update. “Imagine trying to evacuate a town of about ten thousand people through a couple of doors. That’s about where we are,” Sharif answered. “There are about a half-dozen first priorities, and the weather is totally brutal.”

  “Are the terrorists firing outside the building?”

  “Not that we can see. I just got a call from Swanson, who is up on the third floor.”

  “Tell him to stay out of sight and keep reporting.”

  Lucky smiled. “Too late for that, Hugh. He has already killed four of the terrorists.”

  There was a pause on the other end as Brooks made notes. “Order Swanson to stay out of the way. Just report. Washington is flipping out about this,” the SAC said.

  “They should be concerned,” Lucky responded. “It’s bad. Kyle estimates minimum of two hundred dead.”

  Brooks wrapped it up. “The governor has called out the Minnesota National Guard, so you can expect a lot more manpower and good vehicles soon. Homeland Security is gearing up and has dispatched helicopters. Our own Hostage Rescue Team is five minutes away, and every hospital in the region is preparing for the onslaught of wounded.”

  Lucky said, “I’m leaving Janna in the command center with the radio. The bad guys knocked out the surveillance cameras, and Kyle is our only set of eyes in there. We need more. I’m going in.”

  “Permission absolutely denied, Special Agent Sharif. You be clear on that! You stay right where you are and keep things organized. Plenty of guns are coming. I want you and Janna out of the way. Let the locals handle the entry and the fight. We are there to support them.”

  “Roger that, boss,” Lucky said, and signed off.

  He gave the operational radio to Janna, who was examining a diagram alongside a state trooper. “Brooks wants me to go in with the SWATs and link up with Kyle. You handle the liaison until I get back.”

  She flared. “That’s bullshit, Lucky. You go, I go.”

  “Sorry, Janna. SAC’s orders.” He headed for the SWAT van to join the assault force.

  26

  THE HUNTED

  FRANJO BOBAN DID NOT mind this kind of work. The big Serbian had done it before. Back in 1993, when he was a Scorpion with the army of Republika Srpska, the Serbians exterminated thousands of Bosnian Muslims in a valley near the village of Srebrenica. His gun ran hot back in those days, just as his Kalashnikov was steaming after an hour of steady shooting in the mall. He did not know how many men and boys he had murdered back in the valley, and he did not know the score today, either, only that it would be high.

  When his side had lost that war, Franjo changed shirts and loyalties, and became a mercenary who specialized in the lucrative trade of helping various African warlords. His real name was on
a list of vicious Serbs that the world wanted to arrest and put on trial for being war criminals, so he had purchased a new one. A few years ago, he had been recruited in Libya by a scarred black fellow called the Cobra, who had paid in one-ounce gold coins.

  The big man had been working for seven months as a forklift operator at the loading docks of the Mall USA when the “sword” command—the signal to attack—had arrived. Boban drove his forklift to the service area, where it usually was parked, and removed a fake service panel in the rear wall. Inside the wall was the weapon he had hidden there, along with a half-dozen banana-shaped ammo magazines, all of which were wrapped in protective layers of heavy plastic. Also in the plastic roll was a white sweatband that he stretched around his forehead and a canvas bag that he looped around his belt. He ran up to the second floor and came out shooting. This was easier than in Srebrenica, and he was able to take brief breaks in his rampage, for his murders were merely a pathway to theft.

  Franjo Boban alternated shooting with plundering cash registers and jewelry stores, where he would stuff money, precious stones, and gold into a simple canvas laundry bag with a tie top. Even the vaults at the high-end jewelry stores yielded to a burst of automatic fire, and then the good stuff was open to him. He planned to hide the loaded carryall in the same place that he had kept his AK, park the big forklift in front of it, and call it a day. Dump the gun and the sweatband, do some small cuts on the face and arms for blood authenticity, and then work his way outside with the crowd seeking protection and help, mingling with the actual victims so he would appear to be just another unfortunate person who had been caught in hell.

  Franjo withdrew to one of the broad staircases, for the biggest prize in this section was up on the third floor, an elite shop that specialized in high-end jewelry, loose diamonds, and very expensive wristwatches, from Rolex and Omega to Patek Philippe and Vacheron. He loved merchandise that was easy to carry and even easier to sell at top dollar in Europe. The vaults were waiting for him.

  He was starting up the staircase when the lights went out, and he stubbed the steel toe of his work boot. His rifle was over his shoulder, and the bag was in his right hand, with plenty of room still inside. He caught his balance and came to a stop to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, recalling the path he had so often traveled around the Mall USA. After seven months of running around the place, he knew every possible route from any point A to any point B. His vision improved in the ambient light, and he began to make out some details. There was something at the top of the stairs. A person?

  * * *

  KYLE SWANSON HAD KEPT his eyes closed while anticipating the darkness, and he actually felt a physical change when the lights went out. When he opened them again, he was able to see enough to navigate and instantly made out the shape of a large guy stumbling around on the stairs. The guy had a sack in his hand, a rifle hanging from a strap, and a white sweatband that seemed to glow as he looked up, puzzled. Swanson shouldered his AK-47, clicked the selector lever with his thumb, and, when the off-balance man recovered his footing, opened up on full automatic. He fought down the recoil and didn’t bother to count the rounds he fired, because he just kept it up until the magazine was empty. When Kyle padded down the steps, he stepped on paper and objects that had spewed from the bullet-ripped shoulder bag. Money and jewels surrounded the ruthless dead man. All of this murder and a burglar to boot, Kyle thought. He tossed his empty AK and took the one that had been carried by Franjo Boban.

  * * *

  SECURITY GUARD PAVEL KADYROV had locked the door of the main office after his initial killings, then pushed some desks together for a barricade, unlocking it again and taking a seat in a comfortable rolling chair. Kadyrov laid a pistol on the next desk, where it would be at hand if necessary, and then rested the Winchester 870P shotgun across a stack of telephone books. A white bandanna circled his forehead.

  Ten more former friends and coworkers came through the portal one by one, like turkeys to the slaughter. Usually they threw open the door and rushed in to reach some safety and get a weapon and instructions from Major Abramson and Lieutenant Parker. None of the guards had deserted when the melee erupted, but they had no idea how to handle such a situation, and all they carried were cans of pepper spray and radios that no longer worked. When they entered the office and recognized an ambush, it was too late. Pavel blasted each in turn, then closed the door again, shoved the latest body out of the way, and got back into his position to prepare for the next victim. When the lights went out, he knew the easy part was over.

  “FBI! Coming in!” A man’s deep voice shouted the alert, and there was a loud pounding on the door, but it was not opened. Kadyrov responded with a Winchester blast that tore a huge hole through it. This was the first visitor since the lights had gone out—no less than the friggin’ FBI!—and someone smart enough not to charge through an unsecured door. The terrorist decided to leave. There was another door in the major’s office, so Kadyrov surged to his feet and reached for the pistol on the desk.

  Lucky Sharif had donned a set of night-vision goggles before entering the mall, and had dashed straight for the security office on the lower floor to try to get those cameras back online. Then he wanted to organize the uniformed officers, who probably were trapped inside, and turn the office into a solid defensive block so the SWAT teams could leapfrog into action elsewhere.

  As he approached the security headquarters, he stopped. A dark stain of blood had pooled beneath the door, and the opposite wall was punctured with bullet holes. Sharif put his back against the wall beside the door, pounded twice on the upper part, and yelled “FBI! Coming in!” He dove flat just as a shotgun blast exploded through the thin door and tore it from the hinges.

  Lucky rolled to his stomach, pointed his Glock 22 into the room, and pulled the trigger as fast as he could. Three of the nine .40 caliber rounds caught Pavel Kadyrov in the side and back, and one severed his spine. The killer from Chechnya spun a little pirouette, his arms thrown wide and his feet tangled in the rolling chair. He was dead when he toppled to the floor.

  Sharif edged inside and saw the other bodies in the embarrassing postures of death, washed in blood. Lucky moved to the man he had shot and kicked the weapons away. There was no need to check for a pulse. The FBI agent took a quick tour, preaching to himself to ignore the corpses. The comms were shot to shit, the TV screens were shattered, and clumps of wiring had been uprooted by the handful.

  He took out his radio and reported back to the command center outside in a controlled whisper. “I am in the security office on the first floor. None of the officers are alive, and the surveillance equipment has been destroyed. I killed one terrorist, who was dressed as if he was one of the officers himself. He assassinated the others, about a dozen.”

  Janna Ecklund relayed the report to others. With the security office clear, the cops could establish a base of operations inside, Lucky suggested.

  “That may still be a little while, Lucky.” She hesitated to give him the situation. “We are still somewhat disorganized out here. Battlefield bureaucracy.”

  “Dammit, Janna. Tell them that civilians are dying every minute in this place. I still hear a lot of gunfire. They need to move!”

  “I’ll do what I can. You be careful in there. By the way, the SAC is furious with you.”

  Lucky closed off the call, then swapped to his personal cell and hit Kyle’s number on speed dial. “I’m in,” he said. “The tangos destroyed the security office, including all comms and surveillance.”

  Swanson was crouched in a doorway near a dancing pool of water on the second floor. “What about reinforcements?”

  “Still gathering outside and blocking off all entrances and exits; secure the area. You know the drill.”

  Kyle gave a snort. “We need more shooters, Lucky. I get the feeling this is coming to the end game. These terrorists will either go down in a blaze of glory or break off the action and try to escape.”

  “SWAT will be i
n soon,” Lucky said, hoping he was right. “Meanwhile, let’s you and I team up. I will hold my position at the main security office near the east entrance, in the first-floor service corridor. You come to me. We’ll make this a strongpoint.”

  “Don’t shoot me.”

  “I have night goggles.”

  “Okay. I will be down there in about ninety seconds.” Swanson put his phone away, stepped over the body at the bottom of the escalator, tore off the white bandanna, and unslung the M-16 to replace the Kalashnikov. The masquerade, no longer necessary, was too dangerous to continue using. Wearing a white rag on his head was just asking for bullets when the cavalry arrived. He loped over to the narrow steel steps of an escalator that was no longer moving, ran down, and went prone when he got to the first-floor landing.

  This was the area that had taken the brunt of the attack, and bodies lay all around. Not individuals, but stacks of helpless and unsuspecting people who had fallen during the opening minutes, when the fusillade fell on them from above. Swanson shut his mind away from the horror, still seeing it but having to continue the fight. Stay focused! He came to a knee beside a little motorized railroad engine that hauled shoppers around the mall in miniature boxcars. The half-dozen passengers were dead, as was the engineer. Kyle sprinted into a darkened bookstore and followed the muzzle of his rifle back through the storeroom.

  * * *

  THE DEAL THE MAN from al Shabaab had brokered with Hector Arrado while they drank strong coffee at a Havana sidewalk restaurant the previous year was for fifty thousand dollars, paid up front, for an hour’s worth of shooting in the Mall USA and another fifty when it was over. He would not be working alone but was told nothing more about the other raiders.