“Yes, sir,” Egan replied.
Lights flashed. A Cal State University Police car sped around the corner from West Campus Drive and braked to a hard stop in front of Egan. The officer stepped out of the vehicle, removed his baton, and opened the back door of the cruiser.
The cop walked up to Egan. He was solid, all muscle, and towered over him. He pressed the tip of the club against the soldier’s chest. “Get in,” he said.
Egan looked down at the weapon then up at the officer. He shook his head. “Trust me, Kong,” he said. “You really don’t want to do this.”
“This is going to go down one of two ways,” the cop said. “Either you get your ass into the back seat willingly or I’ll cuff you and shove you in there myself. Your choice.”
Egan looked up at the cop and smiled. “I’ll bet you say the same thing to your wife. What do you call that in your house… foreplay?”
“I won’t ask a third time.”
“You won’t have to,” Egan said. “I’ll give you five seconds.”
“For what?”
“To get out of my way.”
The officer pushed the baton harder into his Egan’s solar plexus. “That’s it,” he said. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
“Three seconds, Kong,” Egan said. “Tick-tock.”
“Screw you.”
Egan grabbed the shaft of the baton and held it tight. Shocked at Egan’s strength, the officer struggled to pull the weapon free from his grasp, couldn’t. The band around Egan’s wrist began to glow.
“What the hell…” the officer said.
“What is it with you guys?” Egan said, “You never learn.” A pulse of blue light shot along the shaft of the baton, straight into the cop. The officer dropped to his knees, then fell against the crash bumper of his patrol car. He lay on the ground, semi-conscious, dazed. Egan threw the baton aside.
A group of students had gathered at the intersection and watched the campus police attempt to arrest the strangers to no avail. Concerned for the welfare of the injured officers, four young men threw down their backpacks, walked across the street, and confronted Egan. Their girlfriends recorded the event on their cell phones.
“Hey, asshole,” one of the kids yelled out. “They told you to leave.”
Another student stepped forward. “Yeah,” he said. “Get the fuck out of here!”
The fallen officer warned the students. “Get back!” He yelled into his microphone. “Front gates. Officer down. I repeat, officer down!”
The students heeded the cops warning and stepped back. Egan walked past the police car and headed down the road in the direction of East Campus Drive.
Three additional police cars screamed to the scene, lights flashing, sirens blaring, taking up tactical positions on the road. The officers emerged from their vehicles, weapons drawn.
The sudden realization that gunfire might erupt at any second charged the already panicked crowd. The young men ran back to their girlfriends and snatched their backpacks up off the ground. Together they ran out of the University grounds and past the Visitors Information Centre, waving frantically at the passing traffic. An LAPD squad car took notice of the commotion, turned on its service lights, executed a U-turn, and accelerated back toward the students.
One of the officers screamed at Egan: “On the ground! Do it now!”
Egan looked at the police, then at Merrick. “Your orders, sir?”
“It’s time,” Merrick said. “Light it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
The men activated their devices. The bands around their wrists glowed bright red.
Egan raised his hand and directed Channeler’s powerful energy at the police. Their squad cars began to shudder and shake. Tires hissed, blew out. The smell of burning rubber mixed with the putrid odor of scorched metal, melting vinyl and polystyrene as the cars burst into flames. Windshields shattered. Headlights popped. Police and onlookers watched in awe as Egan raised the burned-out shells off the ground, higher and higher into the air, lifting them by an unseen force, until they stopped and hovered in midair. With a swipe of his hand Egan caused the vehicles to take flight. Hurtling through the air, they crashed with tremendous force into the front entrance of the Nursing building.
Merrick pointed his fist in the direction of the parking garage and engaged Channeler. From inside the structure came a series of massive explosions – boom! boom! boom! He had caused the vehicles inside the structure to burst into flame. The intensity of the heat within the confine of the structure continued to build until it reached its flashpoint. The building started to rumble, then shake. Thick black smoke climbed over the waist-high walls of the parking levels and billowed skyward. Students staggered out of the building and collapsed to their knees, coughing, vomiting, trying desperately to suck life-giving oxygen back into their seared lungs.
The thunderous explosions brought students and faculty out of every building. The University’s Emergency Warning System siren activated and blared a rising wail across the campus. Terrified students crashed out of the exit doors of the buildings and ran for cover, their screams barely audible above the deafening wail of the EWS.
Merrick turned his attention to the lecture halls, dining area and administrative facilities. The buildings began to tremble as though the Long Beach campus sat atop a treacherous geological fault line which was about to be ripped apart by the mother of all earthquakes. Glass exploded out of window frames, impaling the fleeing students with white hot shards. No longer able to withstand the violent assault the buildings creaked, moaned, sighed and fell. From within the cloud of dust and debris could be heard pleas for help. While the injured begged for help the dying fell silent.
Hell had found the University.
On the streets, in buildings, even on rooftops, students and faculty sought refuge from the attack.
Merrick could feel the presence of Ilya Puzanova. Channeler confirmed it.
He set out in search of his target.
CHAPTER 43
FBI ASSISTANT DIRECTOR Ann Ridgeway’s incoming text from Special Agent Cobb simply read, “911.” She called him immediately.
“We have a situation underway in Long Beach,” Cobb said. “Numerous reports of massive explosions at Cal State University. LAPD’s getting hammered with calls from students, faculty and residents, all reporting what they believe to be bomb explosions.”
“Have we liaised with LAPD?”
“They’re en route as we speak. Could be a terrorist attack.”
“I’m on my way. Forward all intelligence updates to me the second they come in.”
“Yes ma’am,” Cobb said.
Ridgeway scrolled through her phone contacts, found “HRT,” and pressed the call button.
“HRT. This is Chainer.”
“David, it’s Ann. Bring me up to speed on Long Beach.”
The intensity of the conversation caught Hallier’s attention. He walked over to the Assistant Director. Ridgeway opened the speaker on her phone.
“Hostage Rescue Team One is on the way. Team Two’s gearing up. Two unfriendlies reported so far, could be more. Multiple casualties.”
“Means and motive?”
“Unknown at this time.”
Hallier motioned to speak to the Assistant Director privately. “Hang on Sergeant.” Ridgeway muted the call.
“What’s going on?” Hallier asked.
“California State University at Long Beach is under attack. Two men on campus. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Merrick and Egan.”
Ridgeway nodded.
“Put your man back on.”
Ridgeway took Chainer off hold.
“Sergeant, you’re on speaker with Colonel Quentin Hallier, United States Army, Department of Defense, DARPA.”
“Colonel,” Sergeant Chainer said.
“Sergeant,” Hallier said, “I’m sending a tactical team to Cal State. Your men will liaise with mine. Tell your tea
ms not to engage until we arrive. Set up a staging area outside the university. We’ll work out an infiltration plan when I get there. Until then you and your men need to stand down.”
“With all due respect, Colonel,” Chainer replied, “We’re not about to stand around and wait for the body count to rise. We need boots on the ground now.”
“I understand,” Hallier said. “Just get your men ready. I’ll explain more when I get there. Do not engage with these men. Air support will be there within minutes.”
“My guys are already in the air.”
“That’s fine. Just give us room to land.”
“Copy that, Colonel. Ma’am?”
Ridgeway replied. “Go ahead, Sergeant.”
“Word just came in. LAPD SWAT has been deployed.”
Hallier shook his head. “They need to be recalled, Ann. They’re walking into a death trap. Merrick and Egan will rip them apart.”
Ridgeway nodded. “Sergeant, call SWAT. Tell them we have reliable intelligence that confirms this could be a military assault, not a terrorist attack. They’re not trained for an engagement like this.”
Hallier jumped in. “Sergeant, you need to make their Commander understand that unless he wants to see every one of his men wearing toe-tags within the hour they need to stand down and wait for DARPA commandos to arrive. We’re equipped to deal with this. SWAT isn’t. We’re taking point on this operation.”
Sergeant Chainer replied. “Copy that. I’ll make the call.” He hung up.
ADC Ridgeway turned to Hallier. “This just got real serious, real fast.”
“You have no idea how serious,” Hallier said. He placed a call.
“Joint Forces Training Base Los Alamitos. Commander Aikens.”
“It’s Hallier. Tell Tactical they’re green to go. Get them in the air now. Infiltration point is Cal State University at Long Beach. LAPD SWAT is on the scene. FBI Hostage Rescue Teams are en route.”
“Copy that, sir.”
“And advise them to expect to be met with advanced weaponry.”
“Sir?”
“You heard what I said; advanced weaponry. They’re clear to engage using any means necessary to minimize further casualties.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Make sure you do, Commander. I want these bastards wiped off the planet. Tell your team to make that happen.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Ridgeway and Hallier rallied with Jordan and Chris. “It’s going down now,” the Assistant Director told her agents.
“Where,” Chris asked.
“Long Beach.”
CHAPTER 44
THE CAB ride to Caridad’s provided Taras Verenich with time to think.
Badly in need of a drink, he brushed past the maître d’ and walked straight into the bar lounge. Ashley Granger would be arriving for their meeting at any moment.
The barkeep invited Taras to sit. “What can I get you?”
“Glenfiddich 18. Make it a double,” Taras replied.
“Coming up.”
He checked his watch. 6:01 P.M. Granger was already one minute late. Taras had absolutely no tolerance for tardiness, if even for sixty seconds. His time was too valuable to be violated. Had it been anyone else he would have tossed back the drink, thrown a twenty on the bar and walked out. But this meeting was important. The circumstances surrounding it called for a reluctant extension of his patience.
The barkeep placed a coaster under his drink. “Cheers,” he said.
Where the hell was Granger?
A commotion outside the lounge caught Tara's attention. The head chef, a no-nonsense Jamaican named Henry Hutchinson, was shouting loudly and calling for the staff to join him in the kitchen. Henry’s mother, Caridad, the restaurants namesake, as well as several of the wait staff, hurried through the steel doors. Taras soon heard crying, unintelligible murmurs, gasps of disbelief and muted conversation coming from the room. The steel doors crashed open. A young waitress walked out, blotting tears from her eyes. She walked into the lounge, sat in a corner booth and played with the tissue she held in her hands.
Eric Cantor, the barkeep, stepped out from behind his station and walked to her table.
“What’s wrong, Gabby?” Eric asked. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Did someone say something to upset you?”
Gabby shook her head. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
Taras nursed his scotch. He checked his watch. 6:15 P.M. Damn it, Granger!
“Cal State University,” Gabby said. “The Long Beach campus.”
“What about it?”
“Police have shut it down. Multiple explosions. They’re saying it’s a terrorist attack. No one knows for sure exactly what’s going on.”
“Anyone hurt?” Eric asked.
Gabby nodded. “Many. My nephew goes there. My sister can’t reach him on his cell. Neither can I. Brian’s only eighteen, Eric. That’s too young to die.” She began to weep.
The barkeep walked to the bar, snatched up the remote control and pointed it at the large screen television on the wall. TSN was broadcasting a basketball game. He switched to a local news channel.
“I was watching that, Taras snapped.
“One second,” Eric replied.
“You always change channels on your customer’s in the middle of the game?”
“This is important.”
“Nothing is more important than watching the Lakers kick the crap out of the Hawks, pal.”
The customer was beginning to test Eric’s patience. “Have you heard about what’s going down at Cal State?” the barkeep asked.
“Should I care?”
“Terrorists.”
Taras set his glass down. “What are you talking about?”
“Long Beach campus is under siege. It’s happening right now. Look.” He pointed at the screen.
The KTLA news report was being streamed live from behind the police barricade. In the corner of the screen, video footage shot earlier from KTLA’s Skywatch helicopter played in a continuous loop. The buildings closest to the entrance of the campus had been demolished, utterly decimated. Flames licked at the ground. The powerful upward thrust of the chopper’s blades drew plumes of smoke out from the rubble and churned them high into the air. On the ground men and women ran for their lives. Others lay still.
Granger was at the campus!
Ashley Granger was an asset Taras couldn’t afford to lose. She had been brought into The Company personally by Marina Puzanova. Friends since childhood, Marina would surely want to meet with her during her visit. Though Taras believed he had surpassed Granger in terms of his importance to the organization, the services she provided were irreplaceable. For years she had managed to keep her double-life as an ultra-high-priced call girl and madam a secret from the University. Through an excruciatingly careful selection process, she had introduced some of the women on campus to Company life with promises of student loans paid off in months rather than years. Over time, Grangers network had grown into the hundreds. She now supplied the largest number of recruits to The Company in the western United States. Most of the women had chosen to leave behind their educational pursuits in favor of traveling the world and servicing the needs of The Company’s most discerning clientele.
It suddenly occurred to Taras why the Long Beach mathematics professor was late for their meeting. Could she have been caught up in the terror attack happening at the University? Or worse, be among the dead?
Taras tried to reach Ashley Granger on her cell phone.
Voicemail.
Damn it!
“When did this start?” Taras asked the barkeep.
“Half an hour ago. The details are still sketchy.”
Taras shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool. The semi-automatic pistol in his waistband pressed into his back and served to remind him of the gravity of his situation.
Marina Puzanova was inbound from Russia and probably intended to kill him.
<
br /> The mysterious silver sedan that had been parked on the upper level of the parking garage across the street from his office had resumed its tail on the Ferrari as soon as Avel had driven it out of the building, confirming his suspicion that he was under surveillance. But by whom? He had assumed it was The Company. Could it have been the FBI? He remembered the earlier visit from the two agents who had tried to press him for details about his relationship with Rosenfeld. Were they building a case against him? Was it just a matter of time before they stormed his office and arrested him? Exactly how much did they know about his involvement in The Company and his relationship with Rosenfeld?
Taras suddenly felt like his entire world was in the midst of collapse. The panic attack he had experienced on the drive to the restaurant returned with a vengeance.
He made a decision. Leave now and stay ahead of them all; The Company, the FBI, Marina Puzanova.
Eric Cantor cleaned and polished the bar as he watched the news, then returned to Gabby’s table.
Taras slid off the stool, picked up his briefcase, fished a twenty out of his wallet and slipped it under his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”
The bartender just nodded.
Taras walked out of the bar and left the restaurant.
Screw Granger. Screw Puzanova. Screw them all. Let them fend for themselves.
A taxicab was parked in Caridad’s VIP parking area. Verenich opened the back door and jumped in.
“Take me to the private hangars at LAX,” he ordered the driver. “Elite Air.”
“That might take a while,” the cabbie answered. “Have you heard about…?”
“…the problem at the University,” Taras finished. “Who hasn’t?”
“It’s more than just a problem,” the cabbie said. “The whole place is…”
“Are we talking or driving?” Taras snapped.
The cabbie turned around. “Mister, as long as the meter keeps running I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I’m just telling you traffic’s a mess.”
Taras pressed two one-hundred-dollar bills against the Plexiglas security window. “Get me there in half an hour and the money’s yours.”
The Sin Keeper Page 18