A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3)

by Simon Gervais

  The unmistakable sound of a boot kicking in a door, followed by a single gunshot, resonated in the staircase. Mike risked another peek at the terrorists but quickly ducked back when two rounds whizzed over his head.

  Shit!

  They were effectively pinned down. They had no room to maneuver forward. More gunshots rang across the floor, chipping the wall behind them.

  “Whoever is in the server room is getting slaughtered,” Mike said, as more rounds ricocheted above.

  They didn’t need to say it. Anna was in danger, if not already dead.

  Sanchez climbed up a few steps and fired only one shot before he had to scurry back.

  Mike’s mind was racing. It was surreal that they were being attacked right here in Brooklyn. He had never thought this would happen. The IMSI was piggybacking on many of the country’s intelligence services. This was why the organization could quickly become a political hot potato if discovered. A private corporation with this kind of access—this was bad enough; but if the terrorists gained access to the mainframe, it could cripple the country.

  “We need to get to Anna, Jonathan,” Mike said.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Forty seconds. In forty seconds, I’ll pop him from behind. Make sure to keep his head down starting at second thirty-five.”

  “Got it.”

  Mike synchronized his watch with Sanchez’s, and then he was off.

  ........

  Sanchez inserted a fresh magazine into his pistol and then glanced at his watch.

  Ten, nine, eight . . .

  He pictured Mike running up the stairs on the opposite side and knew his friend would be mowed down if he didn’t provide cover fire at the right time.

  Four, three, two . . .

  Sanchez got up and started firing down the hall where he had last seen the Iranian soldier. To his surprise, the soldier had moved to the other side of the corridor and Sanchez lost a quarter of a second adjusting his aim. The Iranian, though, already had his sights on him and opened up with a three-round burst. The bullets whizzed to his left, one of them grazing his left cheek, and forced Sanchez to jerk the trigger before his sights were perfectly aligned. Sanchez missed but the Iranian didn’t. His second three-round burst smashed into the marble floor just in front of Sanchez and ricocheted up. One of the bullets cut into his right shoulder, while another entered his body below his right nipple. They might have been ricochets, but the force of the impacts sent Sanchez tumbling down the stairs. He knocked his head against the wall. He could hear the firefight raging one flight above him. Mike was counting on him. Sanchez tried to move but it was as if shards of glass had shot through his entire body. The blistering pain stopped him cold. The staircase around him turned fuzzy. His shirt was damp with blood. He felt as though someone had shoved a burning sword into his lungs. He tried to breathe but couldn’t find any air. Nothing came in, and nothing came out. Black and red dots slid across his vision and, despite the searing pain wracking his body, he clung desperately to consciousness, knowing that if he let go, he’d never wake up.

  ........

  Mike hurried down the steps and sprinted the entire length of the ground floor. He had to slow down to check his watch.

  Twenty seconds left. He picked up speed again but couldn’t stop thinking about Anna Caprini. Not only was she the best analyst the IMSI had, she was a friend. He rushed up the stairs and heard Sanchez fire his first shot followed by the Iranian’s riposte. Mike had to time this perfectly. He reached the second-floor hallway right after Sanchez had fired his third shot.

  For reasons he didn’t yet understand, instead of returning fire at Sanchez as Mike had expected, the Iranian soldier did a shoulder check. By the time Mike pulled the trigger, the Iranian was already facing him. Mike prayed his aim was true. His first shot ricocheted off the Iranian’s weapon, sending sparks flying. In the background, Mike heard a weapon go off on full automatic.

  It came from within the server room. Mike continued closing the gap. The Iranian didn’t waver either; he kept his eyes fixed on Mike in a perfect firing position. He transitioned to the pistol he kept in a holster in the small of his back. Mike fired a second round and a third. The Iranian fell to his knees and then to his side, clutching his stomach and spitting blood. Mike took an extra second to aim his next shot and sent his round into the Iranian’s head.

  Mike waited for Sanchez to join him but his friend didn’t come. Had he been hit?

  Damn it! This was why the Iranian had done a shoulder check. He had seen his round hit its intended target and thought he was no longer a threat.

  As much as Mike wanted to rush back to help Sanchez, he needed to secure the server room first. He’d love to have Lisa by his side, but there was no time to lose. He’d have to do this one solo.

  CHAPTER 97

  IMSI Headquarters, New York

  The explosion startled Davari. He knew what it was and what it meant for him and his men the moment he heard it. A quick look in their direction told him they knew it too.

  Since there was only one big empty space outside the locker room, they cleared the third floor in no time. There were two staircases, one at each extremity of the building. They came across a set of elevators but kept walking until they reached the staircase at the end of the hallway. They reached the second floor and faced a long, white marble corridor with half a dozen doors on the left side but only two on the right. Not a single living soul was in sight, but there was a subtle hum emanating from the entire right side of the corridor. There were no knobs on any of the doors, only black keypads. Davari tried the first door to his left but it refused to move. They continued down the hallway, scanning for threats, but the whole floor was like a ghost town.

  They were halfway down the corridor when, to his immediate right, a slight vacuum-sucking swoosh attracted his attention. Someone had cracked open a door.

  Davari didn’t hesitate. He pivoted on his right foot and kicked the door open with his left. Somebody stumbled back and Davari walked in with Mariwala squeezing past him and turning left to clear his corner. In front of Davari, a guard lay on his back, his face registering shock, and then fear. He moved his hand to his backup but Davari shot him in the face. Just behind the dead guard, an attractive black-haired woman in her mid-thirties stared at him. She showed no fear. In fact, a defiant smirk came to her lips.

  “Contact rear!” Mondegari yelled from the hallway as he opened up with his MP5K. For a fraction of a second, Davari had allowed himself to be distracted. The woman pounced on him. Caught off guard, he didn’t move fast enough, and she slammed into him, knocking him off balance. Her forward momentum thrust him against the wall, his MP5K pinned between them. She kneed him in the balls with such force, his eyes watered and his knees weakened. She took a step back and, to his surprise, a gun appeared in her hand.

  Where did it come from? His hand moved to his holster.

  Empty.

  The realization of what had just happened sent him into a fit of rage. The pistol belonged to him. He tried to deflect it, but she was out of reach. In slow motion, he saw her pull the trigger, and he wondered if he would feel anything. He closed his eyes.

  The gunshot rang out, its earsplitting retort louder than usual. He felt a warm spray of blood mist across his face, but no pain. He opened his eyes. The woman in front of him had dropped the gun. Her two hands were now on her neck, blood seeping through her fingers. She looked at him in disbelief.

  Mariwala was standing ten feet to his left, his MP5K raised, a wisp of white smoke escaping its barrel.

  Davari brought up his MP5K and emptied the rest of his magazine into her. He ejected the spent magazine and inserted a new one.

  “You’re good, Colonel?”

  Davari nodded and took in the rest of the room.

  Banks of computer servers and communication interfaces lined the r
oom on both sides. The room was kept chilly for optimum performance. In addition to all the fail-safe switches, there were also massive surge protectors in place to guard against power surges. In one corner was a backup generator to provide power in case of a major outage. This was the place they’d been looking for.

  Mariwala had probably reached the same conclusion as he was already removing the C-4 explosives from his backpack.

  “How long do you need?”

  “One minute, sir. I’m setting the timer for two minutes.”

  Davari thought about it. With the chopper gone, there was no chance for them to escape. The explosion would obliterate the room and there was a possibility the floor would cave in. If they wanted to survive this, they needed to find a way to—

  The distinctive sound of a grenade hitting and rolling on the floor interrupted his thought process. “Grenade!” Davari yelled, diving forward.

  CHAPTER 98

  IMSI headquarters, New York

  Mike flung the stun grenade into the server room and rolled away from the door until it detonated. Mike rushed into the room before the flash faded. The first thing he saw was the dead guard, and then the chewed-up body of Anna Caprini.

  No! I’m too late.

  The sight—one he would remember until his death—wrenched his heart out of his chest. A few feet further, two men were on their knees, struggling to bring their MP5Ks to bear. Mike wasn’t thinking straight. Instead of shooting center mass, he aimed to inflict maximum suffering. The first bullet hit the man on the left in the right bicep. He dropped his weapon and clutched his injured arm. His second, third and fourth shots all went to the other man. The first bullet broke his femur, the other two lodged themselves deep into his stomach. The man writhed in pain. Mike kicked both MP5Ks away.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Mike asked, pressing his foot against the man’s femur.

  The man yelled and shouted something in Farsi.

  “English.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  Mike shot him in the mouth.

  He turned his attention to the other man. He didn’t even have to ask a question.

  “My name’s Colonel Asad Davari. Quds Force. I surrender.”

  CHAPTER 99

  IMSI Headquarters, New York

  Lisa heard the faint sounds of gunfire through the ventilation system.

  “What’s going on?” Sassani asked.

  “We’re under attack,” Lisa admitted. “I’ll protect you.”

  A sudden and vicious episode of coughing took over Sassani. There wasn’t much Lisa could do to help her. Sassani managed to get her breathing under control.

  “You’re okay?”

  Sassani nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Talk now, Tracy. If you wanna help, you need to do it now.”

  Sassani’s head fell back on the pillow. She sighed. “Okay.”

  Lisa dialed Mapother’s number. She wanted to be sure he heard this live in case the intruders overran them.

  Mapother answered on the second ring. “Are you okay, Lisa?”

  “For now, Charles. We’re under—”

  “I know. I’m in constant communication with the control room. The NYPD and the FBI are already on their way. Hold tight.”

  “Charles, I’m with Sassani in the medical bay. I want you to listen to what she has to say.”

  “Wait a second, Lisa, I need to put you on hold.”

  Lisa couldn’t believe it. She was about to share with him intelligence vital to the national interest of the United States, and he was putting her on hold?

  What the hell?

  CHAPTER 100

  Oval Office, The White House, Washington, DC

  Charles Mapother put Lisa on hold and looked at DNI Richard Phillips.

  “I think President Muller will want to hear this, Richard,” Mapother said.

  “I’m sorry, Charles, I really am,” Phillips replied. “You know we won’t be able to sweep this under the rug, right?”

  Mapother was no fool; he knew this was the end of the International Market Stabilization Institute. How many heads would roll, nobody knew. And if Mapother was asked to stand up and face the music, he would, without a hint of hesitation. He was proud of what they had accomplished.

  “Frankly, Richard, this should be the last of our concerns right now. Protecting the lives of my employees and listening to what Sassani has to say should be our only priorities. Not politics.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’ll stand before a Senate committee if you want me too. Heck, before a grand jury if you prefer. But let’s get this information to the president.”

  The door to the Oval Office opened and one of the president’s aides invited them in. “President Muller will see you now, gentlemen,” she said.

  Mapother and Phillips got up. “Okay, Charles.”

  ........

  “You’re still there, Lisa?”

  “Goddamnit, Charles, what kind of game are you playing?” she replied, pissed off. “Someone could breach in here at any moment.”

  “Dr. Walton?”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “This is President Robert Muller.”

  Lisa’s jaw dropped. She looked over at Sassani. She had heard it too and wore a look of disbelief.

  “Are you still there, Dr. Walton?”

  Lisa overcame her initial shock. “Yes, sir, my apologies.”

  “You’re with NYPD Sergeant Sassani, correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, but she’s badly injured—”

  “I know. Her father shot her,” President Muller interrupted. “Can you hear me, Sergeant?”

  Lisa moved the phone closer to Sassani, who made an effort to sit, her face contorted in pain.

  “Yes, I can hear you, Mr. President.”

  “Good, that’s good. I . . . hum . . . I understand you had a change of heart, Sergeant?”

  “I guess you could say that. It kind of messes with your head when your father shoots you.”

  ........

  Mapother and Phillips were seated in front of President Muller. Mapother had placed his phone in the middle of the Resolute Desk.

  “Well, speak then, Sergeant. You have my undivided attention.”

  Sassani took a deep breath.

  “Let me first say that I understand the plight of the Iranian people,” Sassani started. “I’m not sure the economic sanctions are what’s best for the American people either.”

  Phillips gave Mapother a peeved, almost angry look.

  What the fuck, he mouthed to him.

  “I share your concerns, Sergeant, I do,” President Muller said. “And I hope to have a better working relationship with Iran very soon.”

  Mapother knew this was pure bullshit. Or was it? You could never be sure with politicians.

  “Thank you,” Sassani said, her voice cracking. The girl was clearly passionate about the country of her ancestors.

  “What can you tell us about the threat we’re facing?” Muller asked.

  “You’re about to be extorted, Mr. President, or you’re about to get hit.”

  “I know about the extortion, but what do you mean by a hit?”

  “Someone close to you might try to kill you, that’s what I mean.”

  Mapother glanced at Muller. The president wasn’t one to worry easily, but the assassination of the Canadian prime minister and the attack on Mayor Church had taken their toll on him.

  “This was the plan all along, sir,” Sassani continued. “They called it PERIWINKLE. They wanted you to fear that whatever happened to the Canadian prime minister, the mayor of New York City and to the New York State governor could also happen to you. They were going to leverage that fear for either financial support or foreign policy manipulation, and, if
that didn’t work, they’d kill you.”

  A stunned silence fell over the Oval Office as the impact of Sassani’s statement hit home.

  “How?”

  For the next couple of minutes, Sassani explained how eight Iranian SAVAK officers were sent to the United States and Canada to breed a new generation of sleeper agents. They were to be the scalpel able to carve inside the heart of the West, with the ultimate objective being to have at least one of them close to an American president or Canadian prime minister, and one politician close enough to exercise some degree of influence at the national level. Those who weren’t able to join the Secret Service, the RCMP or elected offices were to find jobs that could help sway American opinion to be friendly toward Iran.

  “Do you have the names of these individuals?” Muller asked.

  Sassani gave them the names.

  “Myself, Tracy Sassani, NYPD sergeant attached to the protective detail of Mayor Church; Michigan State senator Maxim Ghasemi, who’ll be running for governor next election; Khalid al-Fadhi, RCMP sergeant assigned to the protection detail of the Canadian prime minister; Savis Moria, senior editor at the Huffington Post; Radman Divecha, New York State Police sergeant assigned to the protection detail of the governor; Lara Firouzgari, trained assassin based in New York City; Nasrin Yazdanipour, reporter at CNN.”

  Mapother was floored. Savis Moria and Nasrin Yazdanipour were highly respected and well-known reporters. Both had millions of followers on social media and yielded considerable power.

  President Muller pressed the mute button. “I want these individuals—those still alive—dealt with,” he said, and then added as if it was an afterthought, “After a proper investigation, of course.”

  “That’s only seven names, Mr. President,” Mapother pointed out.