Great. Not again.
Unfortunately, John wasn’t carrying his KA-BAR this time. He’d left it in his pack in the FBI office since he hadn’t expected another close-quarters encounter like last night’s.
Guess that was a bad call.
All John saw was a brief smile; the Rangers cap and sunglasses—somehow still on his face—concealed everything else.
“You want me to take him down?” John heard Agent Price shout from somewhere close by.
Thank God he’s okay.
Agent Price had picked himself up from the rooftop and had made his way toward the two men locked in combat. He was thirty feet away on the other side of the HVAC unit.
John’s eyes never left his opponent. “No,” he yelled back, “I got him.”
“Do you now?” the man said in an amused way.
“Indeed I do, asshole.”
John reached for the 1911 from the small of his back and gripped the barrel of the weapon, the pistol grip facing outward.
The man issued a laugh, his head bobbing up and down, a moving and fluid target. He moved toward John, the sun glinting off the short blade in his right hand.
John remained exactly where he was and allowed him to come closer.
The sniper moved quickly and threw a left-hand punch toward John’s stomach. John deflected the blow with the pistol. As his mind registered how easy it was, he realized his mistake.
The man raised his right arm and brought the knife down in a quick arc. The blade cut a deep gash into the back of John’s forearm, the shock of the wound reflexively forcing him to drop the 1911.
The pain was surprisingly sharp and intense, as well as familiar. He’d been cut before.
I must be getting old, he thought, as blood dripped to the surface of the roof.
John, though wounded and bleeding, still retained his warrior’s focus. Rather than allow the bastard to gain more confidence—which was often the deciding factor in a hand-to-hand confrontation—he delivered a back fist that struck the man squarely on the jaw.
He reeled backward from the force of the blow, shocked at the power behind it.
John pressed forward and ignored the pain in his right arm. He stepped toward the shooter and delivered a left punch to the man’s ribs. He was rewarded with a loud gasp as he found the mark.
The mercenary stumbled backward, but remained on his feet. John grabbed his right wrist with his right hand and the back of his right shoulder with his left. He pulled down with as much strength as he could muster and delivered a powerful knee to his torso that shattered four ribs.
The man roared in pain and sprawled backward, the knife clattering to the rooftop.
That should do it.
John walked toward the fallen man, but then he realized something wasn’t right. He looked around. The end of the fight had carried them back toward the big HVAC unit in the middle of the roof.
John’s eyes darted over the rooftop, looking for it, but not seeing it.
No Glock.
He knew with a sense of dread what was about to happen. The man had fallen near his pistol.
As the man moved, John dove away toward the area where he’d dropped his 1911.
This is going to be close.
The shooter pointed the Glock toward John. In fact, he’d landed directly on it and had grasped it with his hand beneath his body.
John tried to locate his own weapon. He frantically searched but couldn’t find it.
Where the hell is it?
His mind processed the fact this killer had him dead to rights. He was likely going to die in the next few seconds. He closed his eyes, his back to his executioner. He just hoped it would be quick—no pun intended, one last joke. He smiled briefly and waited for the end to come.
As he resigned himself to his fate, two loud reports came from his left. The first bullet struck the shooter in the left temple. The second bullet smashed into the top of his head and ripped away his skull and the Rangers cap, splattering blood and skull fragments across the running HVAC unit. The Glock fell from his limp hand, and his body collapsed to the black surface.
John looked away from the man’s death throes to see Agent Price not ten feet away in a traditional Weaver stance, the barrel of his own Glock aimed at the shooter.
John said, “Thanks, Agent Price. Nice shots.” He looked back at the shooter’s body, now still.
What a mess.
“You better call this in,” John said.
He stood back up and looked down at the gash on his right forearm. He’d had worse. He looked around to see his 1911 only two feet behind him.
How did I miss it? Almost had him . . . Mike’s not going to be happy.
He bent down and retrieved his weapon.
Way too close . . .
* * *
Mike turned to Agent Parker as the exchange of gunfire in front of them continued. They were waiting. When the two shooters stopped to reload, Mike would make the first move of his plan—or what he remotely considered a plan.
This is crazy. I’m going to get myself killed.
Then he looked again at the motionless bodies of the three civilians caught in the cross fire, and all his doubt was wiped away. He knew he’d only get this one chance.
I’m going to make them pay.
Agent Parker was ready, his weapon pointed down the street. The suspect in the red top and khakis who’d fled the Alamo when the first shots rang out slowly crept toward his mercenaries near the sidewalk. Fortunately, his attention remained focused up the street on the FBI agents. He hadn’t noticed either Mike or Agent Parker—yet.
Houston Street was now deserted of all civilians. They’d either fled back inside the safety of the Alamo—once again a refuge—or down side streets to escape the gun battle.
Both shooters emptied their last rounds into the taxi providing cover to his agents. As the first man pressed the magazine release and dropped the clip to the ground, Mike bolted from cover—Agent Parker on his heels—toward the middle of the street. He sprinted straight toward the front of the Toyota, completely exposed.
Mike’s shoes made little noise as he gained ground on the shooters. More return fire from the FBI agents kept the men’s attention fixed away from him.
I hope I don’t get shot by my own guys.
Both men completed their reloads and fired once again toward the taxi. The suspect was fifteen feet away, almost to the safety of the SUV. Once he reached his men, he’d be gone.
Agent Parker stopped in the middle of the street—weapon aimed toward the SUV—to provide cover should either man turn toward Mike as he approached. Neither did.
Mike skidded to a halt twenty-five feet from the shooters, far enough in front of the vehicle to provide a clear line of sight to both men. He raised his weapon and steadied his aim amid his rapid breathing. An old marksmanship adage popped into his head as he sighted on the man on the left.
Slow is smooth; smooth is fast.
He centered the Glock’s sights on the back of the first shooter’s head, exhaled smoothly, and pulled the trigger.
Mike was a former marksman instructor at Quantico, and at such short range, it was almost impossible for him to miss. He didn’t.
The round struck the back of the man’s head above the base of his neck, severing his spinal cord instantly. The round exited his mouth, shattering his teeth along its fatal path. His limp body pitched forward, all muscle control gone. He slumped against the open passenger’s door before hitting the ground, his assault rifle clattering to the street.
As the first man fell, Mike switched targets to the second shooter, who now, seeing his partner fall and blood spatter on the driver’s door window, realized that the shot had come from behind.
He turned to his right, the barrel of his assault rifle swinging down and backward as he pivoted to face the new threat.
Agents Mathews and Reynolds, having seen Mike ambush the two shooters from in front of the Toyota, broke cover toward the init
ial suspect who was only feet away from the SUV.
Agent Mathews was closer, and Mike heard him scream, “Freeze! FBI! Drop your weapon now!”
Mike didn’t have time to see the suspect’s reaction, since his eyes were locked on the second shooter.
Mike acquired center mass on the man, choosing to take the easier shot since the man was turned sideways and his profile provided less of a target. He prepared to pull the trigger when a sudden salvo of bullets impacted the ground around him, kicking up splinters of concrete that pierced his pants but miraculously missed him.
What the hell?
Somehow he’d missed a third gunman on the north side of the street.
His focus remained on his target.
I’m taking you first before your friend gets me, asshole.
He prayed Agent Parker might help with the third shooter before he, Mike, was killed, but it didn’t matter. He pulled the trigger as his target turned toward him, his weapon rising toward Mike. It was too late.
Mike’s first shot struck him in the right side of his chest and shattered a rib as it laterally tore through his right lung and lodged in his back.
Mike fired again, even as the man recoiled from the first shot. The second round struck him in the left side of his chest, punching a hole through his other lung and exiting his torso.
As the second man fell backward, Mike heard a pistol firing somewhere behind him.
Thank you, Agent Parker.
Mike watched as his target landed on his back and sprawled out on the concrete. He gasped for breath as his mortally wounded body shut down from lack of oxygen.
I hope it hurts. You deserve it.
When the man lay still, dead, Mike looked over to the sidewalk where the suspect had been trying to make his escape. He saw Agent Mathews with a knee in the middle of the man’s back as he handcuffed him and Agent Reynolds provided cover.
It’s over. Thank God.
He turned and looked back up the street, where a third shooter lay on his right side, his legs twisted underneath him.
He glanced at Agent Parker to thank him. He was parallel with the dead third shooter, but he pointed farther up the street from where they’d come.
What the hell’s he pointing at?
And then Mike saw the object of Agent Parker’s gesture: a security guard stood in a front stance on the sidewalk on the same side of the street as the third shooter.
You’ve got to be kidding me. And I thought he ran away.
The security guard he’d thought a coward had just saved his life.
Mike could see the shock on the man’s face. He’d just killed another human being, albeit an evil one. The guard finally lowered his weapon.
Mike walked toward the man. As he passed Agent Parker, who was moving toward the SUV to check the dead men, Parker said, “I never saw the shooter, Mike . . . Never fucking saw him.”
Mike nodded and said, “He got the drop on both of us. Forget it. That man just saved my life. Hell, both our lives. Check on those assholes and please make sure they’re dead.”
“You got it.”
He approached the security guard, who sat down on the curb, visibly shaken from the rush of adrenaline and the events that had just transpired.
The sound of sirens grew louder as police from several downtown precincts finally arrived at the multiple crime scenes.
The guard stood to meet Mike as he approached. He’d regained some of his composure. Mike reached out his hand, and the security guard responded by gripping it. “What’s your name?”
“Dale,” the older guard said.
Mike nodded. “Mike. Mike Benson.” He paused. “Well, Dale, thank you. You just saved my life. Not only do I owe you that, but I also owe you an apology. I thought you bailed on us. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
He pumped the man’s hand up and down and locked eyes with him to ensure Dale understood his sincerity. Dale smiled and acknowledged the bond that had just been forged between them, a bond men who survived combat understood but rarely talked about. Then the moment passed, and Mike lowered his hand.
“Listen, Dale. The cops are going to want a statement from you, and I’m going to be tied up. This whole thing is part of something much bigger and more dangerous, and we don’t have the full picture yet.”
Dale said, “Good Lord. This was bad enough.”
“I know. This whole thing is crazy.” Mike paused as both men surveyed the carnage on Houston Street. He continued. “When this is over, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to take you out for a beer and a Texas steak. Deal?”
Dale laughed. “Since I’m fairly certain you’re not from around here, I’ll pick the place.”
Mike nodded. “Sounds good. Just wait here for an officer. I’m going to go check on my agents.”
Dale sat back down on the curb, his weapon now holstered.
Mike walked away, his mind already focused on the logistical nightmare ahead of him, but suddenly he stopped and said, “Dale, I almost forgot. How the hell did you see him? Neither of us did.”
Dale shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I was behind you as you ran out of the building, but as I came down the steps, I somehow lost my balance and fell. I dropped my damn gun, which bounced down the steps and away from me. By the time I got my sorry ass back up, you two were already at the corner. When I finally got to my gun, I bent down to pick it up, and as I stood back up, I caught a flash of movement across the street. I moved closer for a better view and I realized it was another man with a rifle. He was closer to us, for some reason, and was working his way back up the street, I guess using the parked cars for cover. Either way, I realized he’d see you two pretty soon. So I made my way over to his side of the street, somehow without him seeing me. When you made your move, he saw you like I thought he would. I got as close as I could, and as he opened fire, I fired at him.”
Dale let out a breath and looked at the dead shooter. He looked back at Mike. “I guess there are some things you never forget. I spent four years in the infantry in the Marine Corps in my early twenties. Used to shoot all the time, but never like this. But all that kept running through my head was a voice from long ago saying, ‘Lance Corporal Dawson, make every shot count.’ Crazy, huh?”
Mike recalled his own thoughts minutes ago as he shot the two suspects. “Dale, not crazy at all, my friend. Not one bit.” And then he added, “Amen for the Marine Corps, Dale. Amen.”
As he walked away, he heard Dale quietly say, “Semper Fi.”
That about sums it up, Dale, because without a little faith, something awful is going to happen—and soon.
CHAPTER 26
It was past two o’clock. Both local and federal law enforcement continued to process the crime scenes, and back at the FBI offices inside the San Antonio Post Office building, Logan, John, and Mike were huddled around the same conference room table where they’d been before the shooting and dying had started.
“Jesus Christ. What a mess,” Mike said.
Logan and John were physically exhausted after the morning’s activities. They stared into oblivion, the last twenty-four hours finally taking their merciless toll on them. Fatigue had set in, and Mike’s words barely registered.
The San Antonio Division special agent in charge had recalled all FBI personnel from the University Heights office, and downtown San Antonio now swarmed with local, state, and federal law enforcement. Multiple FBI forensics teams were in route from Quantico, but even with a private government charter, they wouldn’t arrive until early evening. Until then, the best local teams available were processing the scattered scenes and combing the fiery wreck of the black Range Rover for any shred of evidence.
When the shooting had finally stopped, there were eight dead gunmen and three dead civilians, the latter all caught in the cross fire on Houston Street. Miraculously, no civilians had died in the massive crash on Interstate 37. The suspect from the gun battle on Houston Street had been placed in custody. He was undergoing inter
rogation as they waited.
Mike continued. “My uncle just got off the phone with the director, who has to brief the president at the White House in the next thirty minutes. I told him everything we know, which right now is jack shit. The Range Rover that you obliterated and the Toyota I shot up were legally registered—you’ll love this—to names and addresses that don’t exist. The local police went to the addresses. The streets are real, but there are no houses or buildings with those numbers. Same thing for their identities. Somehow, these guys were able to register vehicles and obtain legitimate license plates with false identities and—here’s the best part—it didn’t raise any red flags at the DMV.”
“I’m not surprised,” Logan said, drinking a Gatorade one of the agents had provided. He was still trying to rehydrate from his recent binge. “These guys are heavy hitters with serious resources and professional training. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they were all former military or Special Forces.” He shook his head in disbelief, green eyes flashing. The slash on his cheek had scabbed over, darkening the ugly wound. “And we’re not any closer to figuring out what this is all about. Unbelievable . . .”
John spoke up. “Well, the one thing we do know is that whatever was on that flag was worth killing for. Obviously, it wasn’t just a flag. I’ve been trying to rack my brain as to what it could be, and stop me if you think I’m crazy. Remember”—he chuckled before continuing—“I was blown up and knocked unconscious last night. The only thing I can come up with is that it was either an invisible map or it contained directions to someplace or something vitally important to these guys.” He paused as he looked from Mike to Logan. Neither laughed. He continued.
“If it were a geographical map, you’d think we would’ve recognized it. I’m betting it contained encrypted directions or a code to something. But what? That’s the real sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Unfortunately, sounds like the flag burned up with that blond-haired sonofabitch.”
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