Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  Garcia’s Russian father had blessed her with broad shoulders and a strong jaw, but in a roundabout way, he’d also given her the reason she needed to consistently hit the gym. Peter Dombrovski had been attracted to women he described with the Yiddish word zaftig. While Veronica was by no means fat, her Cuban mother had been a round woman, passing on her own ample hips. They were perfectly suited for birthing babies but gave her a tendency toward what Ronnie’s ex-husband referred to as “ghetto booty.” To spite the jerk, she ran twenty miles a week and did a kick-butt kettle-bell workout on the days she didn’t run.

  Garcia blotted at her hair with a second towel and looked down past the hard-earned collection of tomboy scars on bronze knees. She considered her somewhat stubby toes against the puddle of water and shook her head, sighing softly to herself. As a member of the CIA’s uniformed Security Protective Service, she hardly had time for shaving her legs, let alone the niceties of painting her toenails. Her dark complexion made much makeup unnecessary and her busty figure put her at constant risk of not being taken seriously in the law enforcement world.

  Jane Clayton, a svelte marathon runner from Human Resources, stood ten feet away at a bank of stainless-steel sinks. She fluffed her mousy pageboy hairdo with a blow dryer, wearing only a sensible gray skirt and white sports bra. The lunchtime workout crowd had all gone and she was the only other person in the locker room. The two women were acquainted, but not well, and in a place where trust was a seldom-traded commodity, not knowing someone well was tantamount to being total strangers.

  They’d finished their workouts at roughly the same time, but Clayton didn’t have to bother with all the weapons and gear Ronnie was faced with. She finished dressing and stepped into a pair of shiny black Danskos while Ronnie still wrestled to mash her boobs—which were proportionally in perfect harmony with her hips—into the impossible space provided by her female-cut ballistic vest.

  “Time for a coffee?” Ronnie asked, securing the wide straps of her vest under her armpits.

  “Gotta have my double almond latte.” Clayton shrugged smallish shoulders. Her eyes darted to the locker room door, as if she’d said too much already. Overly talkative people didn’t do well at the CIA.

  “Maybe I’ll see you there then.” Ronnie smiled.

  “Maybe.” Clayton picked up her gym bag. She tipped her head toward the pile of gear arranged on the bench next to Ronnie. “My boss needs a staffing report, like, ten minutes ago. You still have a half an hour worth of crap to put on... .”

  “I suppose so.” Ronnie’s heart sank as she watched Clayton scuttle out the door. She looked down at the bench in front of her. Just putting on her patrol boots would take a couple of minutes. There was a wide gun belt, the heavy leather retention holster for her Glock forty-caliber pistol, two extra magazines of ammunition, handcuffs, a wad of keys, pepper spray, a brick-sized radio, a flashlight, and an X26 Taser. It was no wonder her lower back ached. Even with her tendency toward a ghetto booty, there was hardly enough room around her waist.

  Garcia had set a goal to make at least one friend outside her law enforcement circle. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to share a coffee with Jane Clayton.

  Eight minutes later Ronnie walked quickly past the Manchu Wok and the Sbarro Pizza, weaving in and out of scattered tables of late-lunch diners. Tables of “heritage speakers”—second-generation citizens, each having passed the stringent background requirements of the CIA—sat in small, ethnocentric groups scattered throughout the food court. Ronnie said hello in Spanish to three dark-skinned girls she knew from the Cuban Desk and smiled at a round table of Sudanese women chattering in Arabic under black hijab headscarves. She kept an eye open for Jane Clayton and thought idly about how young everyone was at the CIA. It reminded her more of a college campus than a hard-nosed intelligence agency.

  With no sign of Clayton in the crowd, Ronnie gave up and stopped at the Starbucks to order a tall Americano. When she’d first joined the uniformed ranks of the Agency, it had come as a surprise that Starbucks had found its way into the nation’s clandestine stronghold.

  She smiled at Martha Newman, who worked alone behind the counter.

  Newman was a kindly granny of a woman with a blue-gray sweater to match her hair and a face that held a map of lines as enigmatic as the Kryptos sculpture outside CIA Headquarters. According to Agency legend, Ms. Martha had ridden a motorcycle through South America with her arms wrapped around Che Guevara and had, on more than one occasion, shared a bed with Fidel Castro. When asked, Martha would only smile and utter a few romantic Spanish phrases about her heart.

  Martha spoke to her patrons in any of several languages. She seemed to particularly enjoy speaking thick, guttural Russian to Ronnie, who was obviously Hispanic.

  “Dobry den, Veronica,” she said, ringing up the coffee.

  “And a good afternoon to you, Ms. Martha.” Ronnie pushed aside the radio on her belt to fish a ten out of her hip pocket.

  “Got a date tonight?” Martha asked, counting out Ronnie’s change.

  “You never forget anything, do you?” Ronnie grinned. She picked up her cup and focused on the old woman’s sparkling eyes. “They should have kept you in the Clandestine Service.”

  “That’s the truth.” The old woman narrowed steely eyes. “If I had ever been—”

  A sharp crack, like a backfiring car, echoed around the corner column where the food court made an L turn beyond the sandwich shop next to Starbucks.

  A gunshot.

  Ronnie crouched instinctively at the sound. Her hand dropped to the butt of her Glock.

  Martha Newman’s long face tensed in the hypersensitive way of someone who’d experienced violence firsthand. “Browning Hi Power,” she whispered.

  A series of five more pops came in quick succession followed by a pitiful mix of bewildered shouts and terrified screams.

  “Yep, Hi Power,” Martha muttered grimly, confirming her first assessment. “I count two shooters,” she said. “One at the other exit off the main dining area with some kind of forty-five. The closer one has the Browning.” Her head snapped around to stare at Ronnie. “Go on, girl. Call yourself some backup.”

  Glock in hand, Ronnie moved in a half crouch toward the staccato crack of gunfire. Going toward the danger area was standard procedure with an active shooter. She kept her eyes on the corner support column, listening to the shots and a rising tide of frantic wails. Weapon tight against her side, she reached with her left hand to key the radio mike clipped to her shoulder.

  “Thirty-six to dispatch,” she whispered, certain the shooters could hear her pounding heart.

  “Thirty-six.”

  Ronnie willed her breath to slow. “I have at least two active shooters in the food court. Number One—somewhere near the south east exit, Number Two—about twenty yards east of Starbucks. Request Emergency Response team ASAP.”

  “Ten-four, thirty-six.” The dispatcher’s voice came across louder than Ronnie would have liked. She held her hand across the speaker to muffle the noise.

  “I’m closing on Number Two shooter now. They are active ... repeat, they are active. Request medical be put on standby.”

  Four well-spaced shots cracked around the corner—echoing in the open court. Fitful silence followed, then another shot. A gurgling whimper, as if someone was being strangled, rose amid mournful screams.

  Two women wearing white hijabs and indigo dresses ran past, half stumbling, bent at the waist to avoid being shot. Neither was armed and the abject terror on their faces made Ronnie shoo them on, toward Ms. Martha and safety.

  Ronnie counted twenty-seven pops before the shooting slowed. She did the math. The Browning had a thirteen-round magazine. Most forty-fives held seven or eight.

  “Maldita Sea!” she spat, slipping into her native Spanish. She gathered herself to make a move.

  Both shooters were reloading at the same time.

  Seth—Tum-afik Pedram—Timmons pressed the release on the side of his
Browning. The empty magazine clattered to the floor as he fished a fresh one from the waistband of his blood-spattered slacks. The world around him seemed a whirling image of pink gore and the whites of wide, pleading eyes.

  His first targets had smiled like fools when they’d seen him approach. Don, a bald man with a graying goatee and the stomach of a fat toad, hoisted his paper cup as if to offer a toast. Seth pressed the gun to his face and pulled the trigger. There’d been no reason to single out the soft-spoken Don. Meeting Timmons’s gaze had been enough to get his brains blown all over the slender woman sitting alone at a table behind him. Seth ran with her sometimes at lunch. Her name was Jane Clayton. She flinched at the shot, put a hand to her cheek in dismay, wiping off bits of Don. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she tried to make some sense of what had just happened.

  Seth walked up and shot her in the neck, watched her topple like a bowling pin, and then moved on to shoot another victim.

  He didn’t look up from his work, but could hear the flat crack of Gerard’s pistol. They stuck to a well-rehearsed plan: stay on opposite sides of the food court to make themselves harder targets, shooting one or two on each side of a larger group, then picking off the ones in the middle as they milled around like frightened deer.

  Some, like Marcia Dubois, mouthed Seth’s name in quiet shock. Her cubicle was across from his, covered with photographs of her three teenage daughters. She cowered, turning her head to one side, begging for mercy.

  Timmons showed none.

  Firing with one hand, he reached into the messenger bag at his side and brought out an olive-green object the size of a baseball. Before he could move, a tall African American woman held her plastic tray in front of her like a shield and rushed at him with a desperate scream.

  Caught by surprise, Timmons shot from the hip, wasting three rushed rounds before he finally stopped her attack. The woman’s bravery incensed him and he shot her twice more in the chest just to watch her body jerk.

  Gritting his teeth, he pulled the cotter pin from the grenade and lobbed it into a knot of people huddled in the center of the food court. The flat metal spoon flew away from the device and fell against a dining table with a metallic, bell-like tinkle... .

  Ronnie watched the M67 grenade sail toward the cowering group. She surely knew some of them, but had no time to process their faces before she dropped to the floor, plugging her ears as best she could against one shoulder and the heel of her left, non-gun hand.

  The detonation flung tables, food, and chairs skyward, kicking the air out of her lungs. Showers of white dust rained from the high ceiling like fissures of venting steam. Smoldering napkins fluttered amid smoky silence. Charred bits of noodle and French fries stuck to walls and columns.

  Ronnie wiggled her jaw, trying to clear the jumbled mess of thoughts in her head. Even absent shrapnel wounds, the sharp concussion from such an explosion had a powerfully stunning effect on the body’s soft tissues.

  The blast left an eerie void, punctuated by whooshing stabs of pain in Ronnie’s ears. She pushed up slowly from the floor, staggering to her feet.

  The greasy smell of gun smoke and blood stuck to the roof of her mouth. She shook off the urge to vomit, took a deep breath, and moved to the corner that loomed in front of her. One more step would bring the shooters into her view—and put her in theirs.

  Ronnie Garcia wasn’t the best shot on the force, but she was consistent, even under the pressure of a screaming, spit-launching line coach.

  Ninety seconds after the killing began, she stepped back from the corner and brought her Glock up to eye level in both hands. With slow deliberation, she began to sidestep, inch by slow inch—cutting the pie, they called it. Her heart beat like a kettledrum as the first assailant came into the picture formed by the glowing tritium sights of her Glock.

  She struggled to control her breathing and mouthed the words her instructor had drilled into them on the range: “ ‘The key to life is front sight and trigger control. ’ Focus on the front sight... . Press the trigger, front sight... . Press ... front sight ...”

  A young, redheaded analyst she recognized from the Central Asia Desk pushed his way through overturned plastic chairs toward a group of three women huddled under the edge of a round table. Even at twenty yards, the bloodlust was palpable in the kid’s wild eyes. He flung a chair out of the way and loomed over his cowering victims, grinning maniacally.

  Front sight ... press—

  Ronnie shot him twice, center mass. She prayed he didn’t have on a vest.

  Watching him crumple, she took another half-step to reveal not one, but two shooters working their way between the long tables less than ten yards away. She took the one in the lead first, a tall, quiet man with a bobbing goiter—Timmons was his name. She’d always liked him... .

  She rushed her first shot. It went low, slamming into the man’s groin. He staggered back, eyes thrown wide in surprise, struggling to keep the gun in his hand. Her second round caught him square in the chest. The Browning slipped away. A wan smile crossed his face as his body toppled across the screaming woman he’d been about to kill.

  Ronnie processed the identity of the third shooter a split second later. Her breath caught hard and painful in her throat.

  Surrounded by a melee of screams and gunfire—and surely deafened by the grenade blast—the third man walked from table to table, finishing off the wounded with another Browning Hi Power. Up ’til now, he’d not even noticed Ronnie’s presence. It was a man she knew well, someone she’d called a friend. Her stomach lurched. She had to force herself to stay aimed in.

  Dressed in the maroon polo shirt of CIA Academy staff was a decorated veteran of the Clandestine Service—and the firearms instructor who’d supervised her and countless others at the range.

  Ronnie put her front sight over the chest of Marty—Mags—Magnuson, the newly appointed CIA deputy director for training. When he looked up from his bloody rampage, she demonstrated his old mantra with two center-mass shots. The key to life was indeed “front sight and trigger control.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The White House

  2025 hours Eastern Time

  “Please sit.” President Clark flicked a hand toward the green Queen Anne couches on either side of his larger, olive-colored chair. His back was to the fireplace, facing the Resolute Desk and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Rose Garden. The first lady had redecorated the Oval Office to be reminiscent of Theodore Roosevelt’s stint in the White House, with rich, dark evergreens and bright whites. The painting of the former president on horseback had been moved from the Roosevelt Room to a spot of honor to the right of his desk above the Remington roughrider bronze.

  Palmer sat to the right of the president in a matching chair. Apart from advising on matters of national security, his self-appointed secondary duty was to sit nearest the president when anyone else was in the Oval Office—including most members of the cabinet. The directors of the FBI and CIA sat across from one another, each on an opposing couch. DCIA Virginia Ross smoothed her dark skirt and sat to the president’s right. On the heavy side, she constantly tugged and adjusted her clothing.

  A Navy steward brought a silver tray of coffee and set it on the oval cherrywood table in the center of the furniture. The cups were already poured and made to the specifications of each guest.

  Clark took his mug—bone white with the presidential seal—and nodded toward the door that led to his secretary’s office. “Eric,” he said. “Please ask Mrs. Humphrey to show in our guest.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.” The steward shut the door on his way out.

  The president put the cup to his lips, then set it back on the table without drinking. A stab of dark emotion creased his normally smiling face.

  “I’m not sure who we can trust,” he said, glaring at both directors. “Frankly, I’m not at all certain I want to bring either of you in on this.”

  Both Bodington and Ross tugged at their collars.

&
nbsp; There was a confident knock at the door. The matronly Mrs. Humphrey entered, leading an attractive Hispanic woman with broad shoulders and the athletic, corn-fed look of a college softball player. Her dark hair was pulled up in a wooden comb, giving her a slightly disheveled look. She wore the navy-blue slacks of a CIA security officer and a pressed white polo shirt that highlighted her maple complexion. She wore no sidearm, but the outline of her Kevlar ballistic vest was visible under her polo shirt. Her arms swung slightly away from her body like someone who wore a gun belt for a living. Brown eyes, holding a glint of sparkle, even in abject fatigue, flicked around the room, taking it all in. The distinctive Green A identification badge of one who was allowed into the West Wing hung around her neck.

  Palmer caught a glimpse of movement outside the door—Secret Service personnel who’d moved even closer than normal to the president over the last eight hours. A trained observer in his own right, the new national security advisor noticed the distinct outline of submachine guns under the loose coats of agents who normally carried only a pistol. Interior White House posts, particularly those outside whatever door the president happened to be behind at the moment, had double the number of usual agents.

  Jack Blackmore, the agent in charge of the presidential detail, appeared at the threshold. He looked like a male model from a hunting magazine with his chiseled features and splash of gray at his temples.

  “We can be relatively certain about Ms. Garcia, Jack,” Clark said with a smiling nod.

  “Very well, Mr. President,” Blackmore said, shutting the door with what Palmer knew was the anxiety of one who safeguards the life of another.

  Clark stood, as did Palmer and Bodington. “Please have a seat, Ms. Garcia.”

  Palmer studied the young woman as she thanked the commander in chief politely, then perched herself at the edge of the couch, nearest Virginia Ross. Since the other woman was technically her boss, Garcia undoubtedly saw her as an ally. For the time being, Palmer was sure Ross cared little one way or the other about her valiant security officer.