Abby fired two quick shots into the bridge of his nose, then a female shriek rose above the pandemonium outside the museum. A young girl with jet-black hair had been kneeling in front of him, hidden from view by pallets of drywall, and her petrified pale eyes were silently pleading for her life.
“Turn around! Hands on your head,” Abby shouted, moving down the remaining steps to the open doorway.
What the hell am I gonna do?
The woman had seen her face, and there weren’t many blonde females capable of making a mile-plus shot.
It won’t take long for them to identify me, she thought. Damn it ...
It’s my life or hers ... but I can’t shoot an unarmed civilian.
“Please da-da-don’t,” the girl sobbed, her body shivering.
Abby ordered her to start counting to a thousand and she immediately complied.
“Wa-wa-one. Ta-ta-ta-two ...”
A pair of fangs pierced Abby’s back.
A breath-stealing ache zipped through her body, thousands of volts of electricity, surging through nerve endings, overwhelming muscles. The Norinco tumbled from her hand. She couldn’t move, couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain.
A hand pressed against the side of her neck.
Peripherally, she saw a syringe; felt the needle penetrate.
Abby became instantly drowsy.
“Ta-ta-ta-twelve. Thir-te-te-teen ...”
After a ten-second eternity, the crackling noise subsided along with the pain. Abby’s legs melted beneath her, and her attacker eased her face-first onto the floor.
Will I ever wake up again?
Abby’s thoughts reverted to Bradley. My sudden death will be more merciful than a drawn-out trial and execution, she decided. I hope he knows how much I love him.
A hand gripped her jeans at the small of her back; another, the scruff of her neck; then the ground began flying beneath her. Abby’s arms hung limp, the toes of her sneakers dragged like anchors.
Then exhausted and beaten, she succumbed to the injection.
184
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY SQUATTED beside Gary, eyes filming with grief. The bullet’s entrance wound was small, just below the sternum, and blood was spouting like water from a drinking fountain.
Kyle plugged the wound with his handkerchief and searched for a way off the roof. Agitated columns of smoke jetted from every window below him, as effective as steel prison bars.
“Ma ... ria,” Gary said, his voice barely audible above the roar of the fire. “Lett ... er ... pock ... et.”
With his left hand, Kyle removed a folded sheet of paper. “I’ll make sure your wife gets this. I promise, Gary.”
The sheriff’s body went limp, and sorrow shuddered through Kyle.
Will I be able to keep that promise?
The access hatch was burning. He had no ladder, no rope.
Vision blurred and hands quivering, Kyle emptied his rifle’s magazine and cleared the chamber. He wedged Gary’s note into the magazine, slapped it into position, and pitched the rifle off the roof.
The letter won’t burn, he told himself. Someone will find it.
Kyle staggered to the front corner of the building. Flames were licking upward with a rumble so loud, he could feel the sound waves passing through his body. Intense heat was searing his nasal passages.
He gazed into the smoky haze that obscured the ground two stories below. Directly beneath him, there was a square industrial downspout anchored by straps at six-foot intervals. Although he doubted it could support his weight, a fall seemed preferable to smoke inhalation or burning alive.
Kyle offered a quick prayer and swung his legs over the decorative façade that girdled the roof. His knees and feet clamped onto the metal downspout. Coughing on sooty particles, he lowered himself, fully extended his arms, and let go.
He began to slide. His fingers clawed the hot metal.
A bolt securing the upper strap snapped under his weight. The downspout pulled away from the building, and Kyle ensnared it with arms and legs, clinging like a frightened toddler to a parent’s leg.
A second bolt broke free. The downspout plunged, crashing against a four-foot courtyard wall. Momentum overpowered the strength of Kyle’s limbs, and his back slammed against an azalea bush. Pain blitzed his nervous system; air was driven from his lungs; and he lay there, eyes and teeth clenched.
“Governor? Can you hear me ... ?”
He stared at Sergeant Fowler until the TEradS team leader came into focus.
“... We need to get you to the hospital.”
Kyle thought of Gary’s wife, Maria, who worked in the emergency room, and anguish displaced his physical pain. The letter. He had to retrieve it. “Sergeant, I need my rifle—”
“No, you don’t. We’ve secured the area.”
Irritated, Kyle wrestled himself into a seated position. “Then I’ll get it my damn self!”
Fowler posted a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Somebody find the governor’s rifle!”
Within a minute, Harvey Rigby presented his M4, its barrel bent from the impact with the sidewalk.
“Thanks for coming to the rescue, Harvey.” Kyle paused to brush away Fowler’s hand, then he climbed to his feet. “But how did you know we were in trouble?”
“It was that wife of yours and that kid who stole my Chevy. They had a bullhorn and sounded the alarm all over the district.”
185
High Earth Orbit
TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND miles above sea level, a chunk of tungsten and iron ore circled the earth’s equator at 28,000 miles per hour. A hundred and sixty-five feet in diameter, the asteroid’s surface had been coated with a molecular skin that converted the sun’s radiation into electricity and absorbed radar waves, rendering the colossal space rock invisible.
At precisely 11:11 Eastern Daylight Time, a computer attached to the surface whirred awake from its long hibernation. The guidance systems remained functional, shielded from the electromagnetic pulse by the planet’s shadow and protected by its orbit hundreds of miles above the supersonic shooting gallery of shredded satellite debris.
The computer issued an electronic command, and a dozen plasma-propulsion engines blinked on, altering the rock’s trajectory.
The weapon was an effort to harness nature’s most destructive fury and skirt the Outer Space Treaty. All remains of the computer and classified engines would be vaporized upon impact, along with its target, affording an unprecedented level of deniability. A twist of fate. An act of God. It truly was the Ultimate Protocol.
186
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY’S TEETH GROUND together as the C-130 lumbered down the runway. Despite noise-cancelling headphones, it was still loud, and the vibrations made his head feel like a maraca. Beyond his physical discomfort, an uneasy feeling thrummed, vague in meaning, vivid in intensity.
He reached into his rucksack, removed the disheveled braid of Abby’s blonde hair, and gently flaked away the residue of dried blood. He combed it with his fingers, enjoying the sensation of silk against his skin. Noticing Franny’s curious stare, he re-wove the braid, replaced the rubber band he’d used as a slingshot, and crammed the lock of hair into his front pocket.
None of this made sense. Why wasn’t the fourth target—a high-ranking government official—in Washington, D.C.? And why so much reconnaissance when District Two had minimal security relative to the nation’s capital? Is the target ex-military? A former SEAL? Delta?
Bradley let his head rock back, closed his eyes, and yielded to exhaustion—until the Pilot’s static-smothered voice blared over the headphones.
“We’ve uh, just picked up an emergency radio broadcast. We’re gonna go ahead and patch it through.”
“... It is with deep regret that I must inform the American people that at 1109 hours today, Vice President Aaron Burr ... acting President of the United States ... was felled by an assassin’s bullet on t
he steps of the U.S. Capitol ...”
Bradley’s heart leapt into his throat. He replayed Arnold’s words, desperately trying to persuade himself that Russian Spetsnaz had carried out the assassination; but the truth was a coil of barbed wire churning deep in his gut.
Abby wasn’t scouting a target in District Two.
There was no team mission.
Franny had duped him into boarding the aircraft.
“... This cowardly female mercenary has been taken into custody and will face justice.”
Bradley ripped off his headset and plodded toward the rear of the C-130. He felt dazed, light-headed.
Then knees folding, he sank down onto the floor, simultaneously holding back tears, planning a rescue mission, and fantasizing about breaking Ryan’s neck.
187
Beijing, China
LI JINSHING, PRESIDENT of the People’s Republic of China, gazed through the window of his penthouse, into the hazy, smog-choked city of Beijing. The pollution was like peering through wax paper, veiling modern skyscrapers and dimming their lights.
Tomorrow morning, he would attend a special meeting, one he had personally orchestrated. The gala event had been intended to celebrate the birth of the Chinese Century—the emergence of China as the world’s sole superpower. Two hundred and five of the highest-ranking members of the Communist Party would be gathered in anticipation, and Jinshing would have to deliver the disappointing news that Aaron Burr had been slain prior to the surrender, along with other critical American assets.
Yesterday, the Ministry of State Security had procured and decoded an intercept, revealing that Russian Spetsnaz assassination teams planned to thwart the surrender. General Sun had taken appropriate precautions, establishing checkpoints on roads and bridges, doubling the ground forces at the ceremony, and deploying counter-sniper teams; but he had neglected the cyber realm.
A bogus e-mail invitation had lured Aldrich Ames, Roberta Hanssen, and Ben Arnold to Forest Glen Metro Station; and the MSS traced the cyber bait back to a Russian source. Coupled with the dead Russian operatives at the subway station, the truth was evident. Russia had declared war on the People’s Republic of China at a most inopportune time.
Worse still, an unidentified nation-state had launched a cyber attack—incomparable in both scale and degree of viciousness—that paralyzed China’s energy, banking, transportation, and communication sectors. Pipelines were bursting, trains derailing, and refineries burning.
Jinshing squinted at a glowing streak in the sky that held him spellbound. He had assumed it was an American missile until a glittering tail came into view. It swelled and became more luminous, forcing him to shield his eyes.
Throughout history, ancient cultures had regarded such heavenly displays as harbingers of doom; and though Jinshing dismissed superstitions and religious beliefs as nonsense, he could not repel the notion that this was an ill omen.
188
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS WALKED through the gaping hole where his office door used to be. The dead bodies had been removed, the blood scrubbed away, leaving behind bullet holes and bad memories.
The TEradS Ops Center was still running from its temporary location, and he had left word for calls to be directed to his mobile phone. His impending confrontation with Bradley was bound to get ugly, and he didn’t want witnesses.
Just after 1500 hours, Franny entered the office, a beautiful sight despite the purple welt that marred her cheek. Ryan wrapped his arms around her; and wary of the fluorescent-red split in her lip, he gave her a slow, gentle kiss.
“Sybil, Izzy, and Gwen all came through surgery fine,” he whispered. “The capsules were removed. But as a precaution, they’ll need to remain in quarantine for the duration of the incubation period.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier and less risky to just immunize them against smallpox?”
Ryan let out a sigh and rested his forehead against hers. “The Chinese bioengineered this strain to defeat the existing vaccine. It could take years to find and test a new one.”
“How the hell are we gonna quarantine and perform surgery on hundreds of thousands of blue-serum recipients?”
“Grace Murray and Cyber Command are working on an alternative, a way of neutralizing the virus with some kind of energy wave.”
“You mean, like radiation?”
“I don’t know. General Quenten didn’t go into detail.”
“And that’s gonna be quicker than a new vaccine?”
“So they tell me.”
Franny’s brow furrowed, then she shrugged away her doubts. “Can I talk to Gwen and the kids?”
“Yeah. Go on over to the Med Center. I’ll meet you there after I deal with Bradley.”
A sheen of worry glazed Franny’s turquoise eyes. “Do you have some good news about Abby to calm the savage beast?”
Ryan gave a somber shake of his head; and after she passed through the doorway, Bradley stomped into the room and snapped to attention. Anger seemed to radiate from his battered face like wriggling waves of heat rising from asphalt.
“At ease, Sergeant. And before you say anything, understand that I did my job. I did what I believed was best for the country. For you. And for Abby.”
Bradley’s lips retracted into a wolflike snarl. “My beef is not with my commanding officer. It’s personal.”
Ryan turned the points of his shirt collar inward to conceal his Captain’s bars. “Go ahead. Air it out.”
“My best friend,” Bradley shouted, lunging toward him, fist cocked, “lied to my fucking face!”
The punch caught Ryan’s left cheek, his teeth slashed his lower lip, and he blotted his bleeding mouth against the back of his hand before braving Bradley’s withering glare.
“I didn’t want you distracted! I’ve lost enough friends!” His left arm flailed toward the display of fallen heroes. “I didn’t want to add your face to that fucking wall! Now, can we move past this and focus on Abby?”
Bradley looked away, jaw pumping, nostrils flaring, then gave a curt nod. “Where is she?”
“Unclear.” Ryan yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, shook it open, and wiped the blood from his face.
“You have satellite imagery?”
“Negative. Quenten had Cyber Command delete all reconnaissance to protect her identity.”
“What about the peacekeepers’ broadcast footage?”
“Not helpful. Cameras were trained on protestors when the shot rang out.” Ryan opted not to mention the battalion of soldiers or the counter-sniper teams he’d noticed.
Hands interlocked behind his neck, Bradley began to pace. “Where would the peacekeepers interrogate her?”
“I’m not convinced they have her.” Ryan roused his laptop and rechecked the secret draft folder. “Two people were involved with her extraction, a chauffeur and a guardian. It was agreed they would only contact me if something went wrong. If Abby didn’t show up, they would’ve sent a message.”
“What makes you think the peacekeepers didn’t detain them when they took Abby into custody?”
Ryan’s phone chimed, rescuing him from a question he couldn’t answer. He grunted a terse greeting.
“Sir, this is Corporal Daley. There’s a Jessie Murphy at the east gate asking for you ...”
Shit! What do I say to her?
“... And you also have an incoming call from General Sun, commander of the United World relief effort.”
“Corporal, hold the visitor at the gate until further notice and patch the call through.”
After introducing himself, General Sun said, “We have apprehended Aaron Burr’s assassin, but identification has proven difficult because the woman sustained several gunshot wounds to the head during an escape attempt.”
An icy sensation bloomed at the base of Ryan’s spine, and he slumped down onto his chair. “And?”
Sun cleared his throat to telegraph his displeas
ure with the tone. “I understand you have a blonde, female Sniper under your command, Captain. Can you account for her whereabouts?”
Blonde?
Every muscle in Ryan’s body tensed. This was it, the moment he was supposed to declare Abby AWOL, cite a history of rash behavior, and disparage her mental stability. He opened his mouth to speak, and the words seemed to solidify in his throat, choking him.
“Captain, are you there?”
“Yes. And all my personnel are accounted for, General.”
Bradley halted, attention now riveted on Ryan’s conversation.
“I am pleased to hear that. Perhaps you would indulge my investigation and forward Abigail Webber’s fingerprints so that we may eliminate her as a suspect?”
“Sure. And I’ll send a set for Yuan too. The man you sent to abduct me this morning.”
A stunned pause gave way to a dismissive chuckle. “Russian forces have conducted multiple assassinations today, Captain. Perhaps you should send Yuan’s fingerprints to them.”
Sun abruptly hung up, and as Ryan dropped the phone onto his desk, Bradley stammered, “They tried to abduct you? Here? On base?”
He nodded, downplaying the incident. “Good news. They suspect the Russians of shooting Ames, Hanssen, and Arnold.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Bradley wiggled his backpack off his shoulders, plunged a hand inside, and placed a hard drive on Ryan’s desk. “Ames handed this off to a Russian named Dmitry. I had to dispatch him and his sidekick inside Forest Glen. And two more potential Spetsnaz outside Glenmont.” The Sniper’s expression hardened. “I need to be on the next flight to D.C.”
“Denied—”
“Damn it, Ryan! If the Chinese don’t have Abby, why would they announce that the assassin is female?”
189
Beijing, China
LI JINSHING HAD witnessed the brilliant flash to the south; and by 0500 hours local time, the first reports had begun to trickle in.
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