12
They were flying as fast as the Air Force helicopters out of Ellsworth, South Dakota could muster toward Kansas City, Missouri. Wexler’s revelation that his stepbrother, Joel Kohring, had a backup team and plan for Arrowhead Stadium was the final piece of the puzzle they hadn’t known was missing. While today was Saturday and there was no pro football game scheduled, it was law enforcement, EMS, fire department, and military appreciation day at the stadium. The SLPD and SLFD football teams had combined to play against the visiting NYPD and FDNY united team. The event was a fundraiser to benefit the families of the cops, firemen, and EMTs killed during 9/11. The stadium wouldn’t be completely filled, but thousands had been pouring into the parking lots since dawn for one huge tailgate party. Almost 10,000 tickets had been sold. Sounding an alarm to evacuate would only push Kohring to hit the remote control for the bombs earlier than planned.
Jackson tapped the microphone on his headset and spoke to the pilot. “Captain? Patch me through to Ian Sawyer on the other bird and Alan Frankfort back at the compound.”
“The Director of Homeland Security?”
“You know of any other Alan Frankfort I’d want to fucking talk to at a time like this?”
“Roger that.” Seconds passed followed by buzzing static and then a beep. “You’re on.”
“And you’re off,” Jackson ordered then waited as the pilot flipped a switch so he couldn’t hear the ensuing conversation. “Sawyer?”
“Here.”
“Director Frankfort? I’m on the line with Sawyer, Carter, and my team.”
The director’s voice came through loud and clear despite the roar of the choppers as they sped toward their destination. “What do you need?”
Jackson nodded to Carter who answered, “Sir, we’ll need a SWAT team to take out the tangos assigned to blow up the communications tower closest to the stadium. I don’t have an exact location, but it’s probably within a two-mile radius of Arrowhead. Send someone to meet us at the landing zone with vehicles and about three dozen football jerseys—2X and 3X—so we’ll blend in with the tailgaters. Oh, and one medium.” He winked at Mic. “We’ll need a second SWAT team to meet us at a secure location near the stadium, and we’ll coordinate when we get there. Tell them nothing goes over the airwaves; we have no idea who’s monitoring them.”
“Consider it done,” Frankfort declared. “Anything else?”
Carter glanced at the others who shook their heads. “Sawyer, anything?”
“Just a few prayers, sir,” was Ian’s response.
Carter agreed completely. “Amen.”
A click came over the air as the director disconnected. Ian was still on the line. “Egghead’s busy on his computer working with the feds. We’ll have a picture of Wexler’s stepbrother and his known associates by the time we land.”
Even though they were in some of the fastest military helicopters, their estimated flight time was an hour and forty-five minutes. Plenty of time for Kohring’s men to get everything set—or for something to go horribly wrong. Carter’s gut clenched and it had nothing to do with the turbulence they just hit. He ran different scenarios through his head, planning for every contingency, but would it be enough?
He felt Mic’s gaze on him. “What, sweetheart?” Her eyes narrowed at the endearment he’d gotten so used to calling her. While it hadn’t been an issue undercover, they were now surrounded by men she demanded respect from. “Sorry, Mic. Habit.”
Her shoulders relaxed a tad. “Did you believe Wexler when he said he didn’t know where his brother was setting up his control center?”
“No. But it’s got to be nearby for the types of remote detonators they’re using.” He pulled out his cell and sent Brody a message. “He could be in the stadium, but my bet is right outside the perimeter somewhere. It’s going to be like a needle in the proverbial haystack. I’m having Egghead widen the search area radius by one mile.”
Mic nodded. They were all thinking the same thing—failure was not an option. If they did, they might just be among the dead when the smoke cleared. Or wish they were. Living with a catastrophic failure this mission had the potential for being would be impossible.
When they finally landed at a small, municipal airport in a suburb of Kansas City, everyone was beyond anxious to get this over with. FBI agents met them with transportation and as they were driven to the off-site command center, they changed into a variety of football jerseys over their bulletproof vests. Brody sent Kohring’s picture to everyone’s cell phones and tablets along with his known associates. According to Wexler, Kohring was going to be the one pushing the detonator button for the bombs so he was their main focus.
The command center was set up in the parking lot of the University of Kansas Hospital Training Complex less than a mile away from the stadium. There were agents from the FBI and ATF as well as KCPD Chief of Police, Mark Howard, and his subordinates. Some were in uniform or suits, while others had donned jerseys to blend in with the crowd.
Jackson then Carter and the Trident and Steel teams shook hands with Howard, SAC’s from both federal agencies, and the head of the stadium’s security team, Wayne Alexander. Everyone then stepped over to a table under a tent where maps of the surrounding area and floor plans for the stadium lay.
“I’ve got a lot of my men and women, and their families, over there,” Howard said. “Tell me what we need to do to make sure I don’t lose a single one of them.”
Jackson began going through a list that he, Carter, Ian, and Mic had come up with during the flight. “We need at least two helicopters hovering overhead with laser heat seekers. With the crowds, we need pinpoint accuracy.” His gaze sought and found Devon’s. “You and DeAngelis are in the air. Aim the lasers at every truck, van, and building within the search zone—let the ground teams know if they have to take a better look at something. Chief, how many snipers do you have available?”
“With long range capabilities? Seven.”
“Make that nine. Donovan here and another man on our team will be joining them.” Jackson eyed the head of stadium security. “Alexander, how do the snipers get to the top of the stadium facing the parking lots without anyone seeing them? We have no idea what jobs have been infiltrated.”
The man pulled the map with the floor plans from under another map and set it on top. He pointed to a section on the north end of the stadium. “This is the stairwell for the count room, where all the money goes before it’s picked up by the armored trucks. The room remains locked during the game and the money bags are dropped into a deposit box. No one will be going up there until one hour before the game so that gives us a little over an hour. The snipers can access the top from three flights above that. I’ll give them a passkey. The only problem is the security cameras—they’re being monitored in the main control room.”
Brody stepped forward with his laptop. “I’ll hack in from here and make them dark until the snipers are through.”
Nodding, Jackson continued. “Good. The rest of the teams that are going into the stadium and lots will need to check every inch of it. I assume we have bomb dogs available?”
“Affirmative,” Howard responded. “They’re already on scene. Since the Oklahoma City bombing and 9/11, they’re standard for every event. We already have them doing a routine patrol of the stadium. They’ve been advised to call here if they spot anything, but not sound any alarms, as you requested.”
“According to our source, this shit is supposed to go down at halftime.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “Any sign of an evacuation will lead to an immediate detonation. That’s why we didn’t want you passing the info on to your off-duty people on scene. We’re in a catch-22 here.”
“Understood. We’ve located the communications tower. The SWAT team is ready to take out the two suspects there on your go.”
“Have them hold off for now,” Carter instructed. “If Kohring tries to communicate with them and they don’t answer, his trigger finger might get i
tchy. We have about two and a half hours until we get down to the wire. Alexander, delay the gates opening as long as possible but don’t make it out of the ordinary. Chief, what do you have for communications?”
Howard signaled to a man dressed in black tactical gear who stepped forward with a box, setting it down on top of the maps. “Hand these out to your team. They’re set for random frequencies. It’s almost impossible for anyone without a specific receiver to intercept the comms transmissions.”
Taking a combination earpiece and microphone from the box, Mic began handing them out to the team. “Anything else, or are we ready to go ice this fucker?”
Several men seemed startled at her question or at least the venom in her voice and Carter chuckled. “We don’t let her out much. But Mic is right, let’s do this. One of our team members will be assigned to each group of federal and local searchers. Anyone comes in contact with a suspect or bomb, they do nothing until Jackson or I are contacted. Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were blending in with the tailgaters. Carter caught Mic’s glance at a group of kids throwing a football back and forth. Her worry mirrored his own. Thousands of men, women, and children were in imminent danger and the teams couldn’t warn them. “We’ve got this,” he told her.
She nodded but didn’t verbally answer him.
As they checked every van or truck in their assigned section with three other agents and cops, the snipers checked in after arriving at their posts. Three explosive devices had been spotted so far in the stadium, but were ignored for now. It made everyone in the know even antsier, but it had to be done.
The two helicopters were hovering overhead, and Devon and Marco were giving coordinates to the teams below if they had something that needed a closer look. One minute turned into ten which then became thirty and still Kohring’s hiding spot was still unknown.
Transmitting from high above the ground, Devon’s voice came over the comms. “Carter? Mic?”
Pressing the transmit button, Mic answered for both of them. “Go, Devil Dog.”
“Is that you near Row 9 in the J lot?”
She glanced up at a sign on a light pole twenty feet away. “Affirm. What do you have?”
“Solo heat signature coming from what’s listed as a utility shack. Far end of row eleven, about two hundred yards west of the other side of I-70.”
“Copy that.”
Their five-person team started in that direction. As they approached the fence, Ian, Phillips, and two feds met them. They could just make out the green shack amid tall weeds and a few trees on the other side of the interstate. It looked like a double wide outhouse, but what caught their attention was the black van parked next to it.
Carter looked to his left and then right before spotting a chained gate in the fence. The group jogged toward it and he took out the lock pic set he still had in a pocket of his cargo pants. As he worked, Ian spoke over the comms. “Snipers, can anyone get eyes on this shack?”
“Got it,” Jake replied. “Not that it’s any help. No windows on this side.”
“Keep watch. Command center, this is Teams Four and Five, have another team approach from the west. We’re coming in from the east.”
“Command copies,” a female voice responded. “Mobile Team Eight, you’re closest. Approach from the west. Teams Four and Five are your leaders.”
“Mobile Team Eight copies.”
Once Carter had the lock open, the nine of them exited the perimeter and ran toward the interstate. Traffic was heavy, but slow enough that they were able to zigzag through the lanes of vehicles and get to the other side without getting hit.
“Why’d the chicken cross the road?” Mic asked with a smirk.
Ian laughed as they hurdled over the guardrail on the far side. “Because it fucking wanted to.”
A member of Mobile Team Eight rattled off the license plate of the van. Seconds later, a KCPD dispatcher responded, “The plate comes back to a 2009 Ford Econoline, black, registered to a Joel Kohring from Joplin, Missouri.”
“Bingo,” Phillips said, stating the obvious and earning an eye roll from Mic.
As they approached the shack, Ian asked, “Mobile Eight, any windows?”
“Negative. The one door is the only way in and out. No signs of cameras either.”
“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Use caution. Command, have the team at the tower take down their two suspects. Get ready to start a mass evacuation.”
“Copy that.”
Ten yards away from the shack Carter announced, “I’m first in.”
Mic’s gaze shot to his stoic face. “Why you?”
“You killed Strauss and Wexler. Phillips took out Harmon. I’ve been on this detail longer than everyone and haven’t killed anyone yet. I’m fucking due. If this piece of shit is going down hard, he’s mine. Deal with it.”
Ian, Phillips, and Mic all chuckled, but let him have the lead. There were more cops, agents, and operatives than needed for one man in a tiny shack so some stood back. Standing to the side of the door, weapon at the ready, Carter nodded at the cop holding a battering ram while waiting for the signal. The man swung the big, black door buster back and then forward with all his might, before getting out of the way. The door crashed open, and Kohring was caught off guard as Carter pivoted around the doorjamb. Leaping from the chair he’d been sitting in, Kohring lunged for a device sitting on a milk crate that’d been turned on its side. But he wasn’t fast enough. A .40 caliber bullet penetrated his skull and brain before exiting, splattering the wall behind him with blood and gray matter. He dropped like a rock.
Satisfied the bastard wasn’t getting back up, Carter lowered his weapon. His ears were ringing from the gunfire, but he’d gladly take it. The alternative had been incomprehensible.
Standing behind him, Mic patted his shoulder. “Feel better, big guy?”
“Much.”
Ian was already on the comms giving the go ahead for a full-fledged evacuation. Stepping over to the control board, Carter noted twelve switches, each with a letter written with a black marker taped above it. A piece of paper sticking out from underneath it had the locations of the other nine explosive devices they hadn’t located yet. The bomb squads were going to be busy fuckers for the next few hours.
Teams started calling in the takedowns of several suspects who had been spotted as word of the evacuation order spread throughout the parking lots. Carter’s shoulders sagged with relief as his gaze met Mic’s—they’d done it. The good guys had won this battle in the war against terror. It felt like they were in a movie, where the hero stops the timer with one second left. Sometimes life really does imitate fiction.
Epilogue
Three chauffeured, blacked-out SUVs pulled up to one of the hangars at a private airport outside Washington D.C. and parked. Doors opened, and the occupants poured out. A bitter wind blew over them as they retrieved their bags from the back ends. A cold front had swooped in, putting the east coast into an early winter. Ian and the boys were anxious to get back to the warmer Floridian weather, and Carter couldn’t blame them.
It’d been a week since the team members from Trident Security, Steel Corps, Deimos, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security had stopped the worst domestic terrorist attack on U.S. soil since the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. With a huge international coordinated effort, the attacks in Britain, France, and Germany had also been prevented. The raids on the compounds in each country had resulted in all the major players being either killed or arrested. From what Carter knew, a few low-level scum had escaped in both Germany and France, but their identities were known and everyone in Europe was on the hunt for them.
With Wexler and Strauss dead, the rest of the U.S. infrastructure of the New Order had crumbled. Those arrested were all trying to cut deals to avoid life in prison. Carter, Mic, Jackson, and the rest of the main team had spent the last twelve days in debriefings with various agencies and committees, starting with the White House on down. T
hey were finally done and heading home.
There were a bunch of back slaps, fist bumps, good-natured ribbing, and goodbyes all around as the Trident team got their gear loaded onto their private jet. Ian pulled the only woman among them into a brotherly hug. “You did good, Mic. We’re damn proud of you. If you ever need us, we’ve got your six, no questions asked.”
“Thanks, Ian. Same goes for me. I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
A few more goodbyes from Brody, Devon, Marco, and Jake, and then the Trident jet was soon taxiing down the runway, leaving Carter, Mic, and Phillips on the tarmac as the government-issued SUVs pulled away. Jackson had to stick around for another day or two for meetings and briefings at the Pentagon, so his team was heading back north without him. At the moment, Steel Corps’s pilot was doing his final flight checklist, and then Mic and Phillips would be ready to go.
Carter had another plane waiting for him. The vile tattoo had been lasered off his upper arm a few days ago, and although there was no visible trace of the symbol of hate, as promised, it still bothered him that it had been there at all. From here, he was planning on going to his retreat—the one place he could be alone and decompress. Once he had a few days to himself, he’d head to one of the kink clubs he belonged to and get what he needed there—the trust and submission of a woman who would soothe his soul—before taking a new assignment. An image of Jordyn Alvarez flashed through his head, and he pushed it right back out. She was a complication his mind didn’t want to deal with at the moment, even if his body disagreed with that decision.
Turning to the big man next to him, Carter held out his hand. “Phillips, it was great working with you. Good luck with Steel. Jackson mentioned he’s got a few new team members reporting for duty next week.”
Phillips shook the proffered hand. “Yeah. They seem like a good group. I think he and Mic chose well. If you’re ever in Pennsylvania, stop by for a few beers.”
No Way in Hell: A Steel Corp/Trident Security Crossover Novel (Steel Corps/Trident Security Book 2) Page 11