by Dale Brown
An idea occurred to her.
“Does he still go to the Nationals baseball games?”
“Yes, ma’am. As a matter of fact, he’s planning on going this evening, I happen to know.”
Todd winked at Bozzone. “Ask if he’d like a better seat.”
Chapter 10
Room 4
With the team back safely, MY-PID went to work filling in the background and details. It examined the data gathered during the raid, including the cell and satellite phones that had been collected. The computer attempted to find and connect information relating to the phones — where they’d been bought, how they were paid for, etc. — with a vast data bank. The first wave of queries established that the phones were all somewhat ordinary, purchased in Europe at various times. The second found a number of other phones that were undoubtedly purchased at the same time — their sim cards were part of a series that would have been included in a large batch of purchases. The next round of queries and links discovered that, for the most part, the phones had been used in Africa and the Middle East— Egypt especially.
The computer traced the line of money that paid for the phones back to al Qaeda. It was a thin, tenuous line, but a line nonetheless.
There was an incredible amount of data, most of which seemed trivial and only distantly related. The only thing that really stood out was the fact that a cell phone purchased by the same credit card that had bought a number of others at the camp had been used the night before in Washington, D.C.
“That’s more than a little interesting,” said Breanna.
“Hmmm,” said Reid, looking over the results.
* * *
An hour later Reid and Breanna sat together in the back of a Chevy Impala. Up front, the head of the FBI task force on domestic terrorism waited with them as a Bureau emergency response team and officers from the Washington, D.C., SWAT unit prepared to go into a house near where the call had been made. The decision to ask for a search warrant had come after the discovery of the cell phone led to a scouring of phone records that discovered a link between the number that had been called and a landline in one of the apartments on the street itself.
The link was tenuous — the number the cell phone had called had been used several months before to call a number in Pakistan used by a known Muslim radical; that radical, in turn, had called another number, which had called the D.C. apartment. But that information led to data about the man who had rented the apartment, a supposedly Egyptian student who, it turned out, was not registered as a student in American immigration records.
This did not make him a member of al Qaeda. Nor could it be assumed that the man had failed to register as the law required: Mistakes in the records were very common, as the FBI supervisor explained.
But it did have to be checked out.
They weren’t taking it lightly. The SWAT team alone had two dozen men on the scene. And that didn’t count the ordinary policemen blocking the street and helping cover the rear alleyway.
The FBI supervisor, Bob Randolph, was an affable Boston area native who’d relocated to D.C. some years before. Breanna had met him once or twice at government conferences, but had never had more than a brief conversation with him.
“Lovely area,” he said, glancing at the graffiti scrawled on the wall of the garage across from them. Next to the building, several garbage cans overflowed with refuse.
“It’ll be quiet tonight,” said Reid dryly.
Randolph gave a polite little laugh. Then he put his hand to his ear.
“Here we go. They’re going in,” he said.
Breanna folded her arms against her chest, waiting. She thought of her fight with Zen — not a fight so much as a disagreement, and not so much a disagreement exactly as just uncomfortableness. She’d been forced into a role she didn’t want to be in, opposing him.
He always seemed to take it all in stride. Why couldn’t she?
“They’re inside,” said Randolph. He leaned toward the driver. “Let’s move up.”
Breanna jerked her head as a bomb squad truck raced past them to the front of the building.
“Are there explosives?” she asked.
“Just a precaution,” said Randolph. “They’re just securing the place now. We have to, you know, anticipate.”
They pulled up at the end of the block. The adjoining houses had been evacuated; Breanna could see small knots of people on the other side herded behind a pair of police sawhorses, one of which was just now being put in place.
“News media will get a hold of it soon,” said Randolph. “Hold on.”
He pressed his hand to his ear.
“We have a dead body inside,” he said. “And traces of explosives in the basement.”
“If nothing else,” said Reid, “it would appear we’ve got a story for the press.”
Chapter 11
Washington, D.C.
Ken glanced to his left and right as he opened the car trunk. He’d found it necessary to steal the car to get here easily; the trade-off was paranoia that someone would spot it and know it was stolen. As highly unlikely as that might be, he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.
The trunk smelled of fuel. No wonder: the can he’d packed had tipped over while he drove, sending the liquid all over. But no harm done: There was still plenty left.
He took the small robot airplane from the rear of the trunk. Cradling the two wings under his right hand and holding the body in his left, he managed to push the trunk lid back down. Then he walked up the short flight of steps from the schoolyard to the back of the building.
The athletic field was empty. It was starting to get dark. He was two hours behind schedule; he’d planned to launch much closer to five but had last minute problems loading the program into the plane. He was sure it was going to work — sure that the guidance system knew it was supposed to target Christine Mary Todd, the Satans’ President, and knew that her primary location was the White House, which was just over the next hill about three-quarters of a mile away. He’d entered the information about the President — in fact, nearly everything he could find on the Internet about her personal habits, her vehicles, her aides, the Secret Service — everything. He’d found several human interest stories and entered them as well. The program interface had taken it eagerly.
Whether it would actually work—whether his guesses about the software program were correct — that was impossible to tell.
The bomb he had embedded in the fuselage of the aircraft would definitely go off, of that he was certain.
He assembled the wings. The UAV was a simple and ingenious aircraft, a perfect weapon. Anyone who saw it in the air would believe it was a police monitoring device. The camera was still attached, in fact — it had to be, as it helped guide the aircraft.
Wings attached, Ken stood back and pressed the ignition on the controller to start the plane.
The engine started right up. He turned, wondering if he heard someone coming up behind him.
There was no one there. By the time he turned back around, the aircraft was racing across the field, bouncing as it became airborne.
It seemed to have a mind of its own, as if anxious to complete its mission.
Go! he thought. Go!
It did — for about sixty seconds. Then suddenly it veered to the right, zooming high into the clouds.
Ken stared in disbelief. Not only was it going off course, but it was flying away from the city.
He was a failure.
Angrily, he slammed the knapsack that contained the laptop to the ground and kicked it several times, even jumping on it in his anger. Finally he got control of himself. He had to dispose of the thing; it was evidence.
He’d find another way to strike. For now, he had to follow through on his plan to escape.
Ten minutes later, crossing the bridge on Route 1, the smell of the fuel in the trunk gave him an idea: he should stop and throw the car into reverse, cause an explosion that would at least kill someone.<
br />
But he wasn’t a martyr at heart. His death had to mean something. And it wouldn’t. Not yet.
He crossed the bridge and found a place to park. Then he walked back down to the river and with a heave tossed the knapsack and laptop into the water.
When he was sure it had sank, he turned and began walking in the direction of the Pentagon Metro stop. Before the night was through, he’d be on an Amtrak heading for Florida.
After that, who knew?
Chapter 12
Nationals Park
“Radio says you created quite a traffic jam on the way over,” said Zen, wheeling past the Secret Service agent to greet the President as she arrived at the game.
“Getting through Washington by street is always fun,” she told him, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “If it wouldn’t have caused such a fuss, I would have come by helicopter.”
“Given the pitchers tonight, you may want to leave by one,” said Zen. “And soon.”
“Oh come on.”
Zen nodded at the President’s husband, who, though not as hardy a fan of the Nationals as Zen had become, was nonetheless a fellow sufferer.
“Who are your friends?” asked the President, gesturing to the small entourage Zen had left back by the entrance to the President’s suite.
“A very good friend of mine, Mark Stoner,” Zen told her. “He was a CIA officer—”
“Oh, that’s the man who tried to kill you,” said Todd. “And you saved his life.”
“He was sick.”
“I know the history well,” said Todd. She had sent Zen to the meeting where he had inadvertently become Stoner’s target. “Is he OK?”
“He’s still recovering. He has a long way to go. He’s with one of his doctors, and my bodyguard. Baseball seems to be helping bring him back.”
“I’d like to meet him.” The President glanced at the head of her security detail. “OK?”
“I think it would be fine,” said Zen.
The Secret Service agents were wary, but the head of the detail nodded. Zen wheeled back a bit.
“Hey Mark, Doc, come on. Simeon — you too.”
The men, along with two more Secret Service escorts, came into the suite box. Just then, the National Anthem began.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” said the President. “I always sing with the anthem. I hope my voice won’t offend you.”
* * *
Stoner gazed around the box, taking it all in. The President and her entourage were behind a thick plate of bulletproof glass, looking out at the stadium. There were two rows of seats in front of the box; these belonged to the suite and were unoccupied, except for two Secret Service agents who surveyed the crowd. Zen had hinted they might be able to sit there during the game; the view was actually not as good as from his seats, he claimed, but there would be free waiter service.
Stoner’s gaze moved out beyond the windows. There was another police UAV above the stadium, flying over the area where the parking garage was. It circled the stadium, its wing dipping erratically.
It looked like the one from the night before. And yet, as he studied it, he noticed several differences. Its nose was bigger than the other one. It was flying differently — the other had orbited endlessly; this one weaved, as if looking for something specific.
Stoner took a step forward, then another.
The aircraft turned. It was coming for them.
No…
Yes.
He leapt forward. One of the Secret Service agents put a hand up to stop him. Stoner tossed him aside, then jumped up and grabbed his fingers into the wooden panel of the ceiling, using them to swing his feet up against the glass. It broke with a splatter and he sailed into the seats overlooking the ball field. He tried to roll onto his side as he flew but couldn’t quite make it; his elbow smacked hard against one of the seat backs.
It hurt. That was a new sensation.
Stoner rose, saw the aircraft, and leapt straight out at it, his bionically enhanced legs giving him the leverage of an Olympic pole vaulter.
He caught the wing of the aircraft with his right hand, pushing it as violently as he could before falling straight down into a black, black hole.
Chapter 13
Nationals Park
Zen gasped as the air in front of the suite erupted in fire. Something burst in his face. He and his wheelchair flew backward against the wall. The next thing he knew he was on the ground in the dark. Something was on top of him. It was a piece of the ceiling. He pushed it off, then levered himself upright in time to see two Secret Service agents with drawn Uzis pulling the President from the suite.
“What the hell!” yelled Zen.
Someone grabbed him and jerked him up.
“What the hell is going on!” he yelled, taking a swing with his elbow.
He and the man who had picked him up fell down.
“Sir, we’re with the President,” yelled another man. “We’re taking you to safety. Just come!”
Someone else was yelling, “Go, go, go!”
Zen was picked up again. This time he didn’t fight.
Two and a half minutes later he was deposited in the back of a black SUV. President Todd was next to him.
“Are you OK, Jeff?” she asked.
“I–I guess so.”
“There was a bomb in a plane,” Todd told him. “They’re just getting the details now. I have to go back to the White House.”
“My friends—”
“They’re upstairs.”
“I want to stay with them.”
“Jeff, this is very serious.”
“I have to stay with them,” insisted Zen.
Todd rapped on the window separating her from the front.
“Let the senator out. He wants to be with his friends.”
“Ma’am—”
“Considering that one of them just saved my life,” she said, “it’s the least we can do.”
* * *
By the time Zen reached Stoner, he had been loaded onto a stretcher and was being taken out onto the field where a medevac helicopter was waiting. One of the attendants who had worked on him after he fell into the crowd looked at Zen and shook his head.
“Is he dead?” Zen asked.
“Which one?”
“The guy who fell from the box up there,” said Zen, pointing.
“No, sir. But I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
Zen turned his head as the helicopter lifted off with Stoner inside.
“He will,” Zen said. “I’ve seen him die before.”
Chapter 14
Washington, D.C. suburbs
Breanna ran to the door as Zen’s van pulled up. She hesitated, unsuccessfully trying to stop her tears before opening the door.
“Hey,” he said as he wheeled toward her. “What’s up?”
“Oh my God, Zen, how can you be so goddamn cool?” She ran out and threw her arms around his chest. Her sobs erupted into a body-shaking tremor.
“Hey, I’m OK,” he protested. “Hardly even a scratch. I was more worried about my wheelchair.”
“Jeff, Jeff,” she said, over and over again. “God. My God.”
“Hey guys!” Zen waved.
Breanna turned around to see Teri and Caroline in the doorway. Two local policemen and the department chief loomed behind them; the chief had taken it upon himself to come over to protect them.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is,” he said as the girls ran to him. “But I’m not proud — I’ll take kisses.”
When she managed to calm down, Breanna asked what had happened.
“I’ll give you a rundown as I change,” Zen told her, glancing at Teri — an indication he didn’t want her to hear all of the details. “But I gotta go over to the hospital. Mark’s there.”
“Mark?”
“Stoner. He saved the President’s life.”
None of that had been in the media reports.
“Is
he OK?” Breanna asked.
Zen glanced at Teri again.
“I gotta go. Help me change, OK?”
Breanna suppressed a shudder, then followed her husband into the house.
About Dale Brown
DALE BROWN, a former U.S. Air Force captain, was born in Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Nevada. He graduated from Penn State University with a degree in Western European history and received a U.S. Air Force commission in 1978. He was still serving in the Air Force when he wrote his highly acclaimed first novel, Flight of the Old Dog. Since then he has written a string of New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Shadow Command, Rogue Forces, Executive Intent, and A Time for Patriots.
For more information, visit Dale Brown at www.dalebrown.info.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
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