by Jack Mars
Besides, he wanted answers. He wanted this man alive. He wanted to know everything about the Brotherhood’s plan, who had told them about the congressional delegation in Iraq, where they had met the Libyan arms dealer. Why the Midtown Tunnel was their target.
He let go of the gun. There had to be another way to stop the speeding boat. Maybe I could shoot the motor out. Or use the rope to jam up the propeller. Or…
As his hand snaked out of his soaked jacket again, he felt something else there, something hard and round in his breast pocket. If he hadn’t been careening alongside a speedboat at nearly sixty miles an hour, on his back in the water with a terrorist at the helm, he might have laughed. He had nearly forgotten about it, but there it was, safely in his pocket despite everything he had been through.
He just had to hope that it still worked.
Reid pulled out the poker chip-sized EMP grenade that Bixby had given him in the lab. Twist the two halves, the engineer had told him. Then you’ve got five seconds before it shuts down anything in a twenty-five-foot radius of it.
With his left hand bound up in the rope, Reid held the grenade in his right and gripped half of it in his teeth. He twisted it, feeling it click in his jaw.
He waited three seconds.
Then he tossed it into the boat.
There was no sound to indicate that an electromagnetic pulse had just emitted from the tiny device; in fact, it was just the opposite. The high-pitched whine of the boat’s motor slowed to a dull roar as it powered down. The speedboat slowed drastically, its bow dipping.
No longer being pulled by the boat’s momentum, Reid found his body sinking to his shoulders as he kicked his legs to tread water in the frigid river. He quickly unwound the rope from his left hand. His right reached up and grabbed onto the silver railing. Then the other—
Something metal glinted in the air overhead for a brief instant. Before he could realize what it was, the boat’s heavy anchor crashed down onto his right hand. Reid screamed in pain as several bones in his hand shattered. His fingers instinctively let go and sought the cold water for some sort of relief, but there was none to be had.
His hand was crushed under twenty-five pounds of metal.
He held fast to the railing with his left hand, hissing short breaths as pain scorched through his shaking fingers, his palm; he didn’t dare look at it. Instead he looked up.
The insurgent had hold of a thick rope, the other end affixed to the anchor like a flail. But the heavy hooked anchor had caught in the railing and he was struggling to pull it free.
Reid clenched his jaw tightly, working through the pain, using it to fuel his anger as he pulled himself up by one hand. He grunted as he swung one leg upward, catching the railing, and rolled himself into the boat.
The insurgent looked up in surprise as Reid flopped mere feet from him in the speedboat. He abandoned the anchor, dropped the rope, and put his fists up. Reid scrambled to his feet and bladed himself, kicking back his right leg to protect his injured hand and make himself a smaller target.
The terrorist swung a wide haymaker that Reid blocked easily. He swung again, and again; his blows were powerful but sloppy. Reid had no room to maneuver and only one good hand, but no one had taught the younger man how to fight properly, and he didn’t know how to use his legs.
Reid went entirely on the defensive, blocking and ducking the blows as best he could, waiting for an opening. Then it came—a poor attempt at a jab with a left that Reid took on the shoulder. At the same time he brought up one leg and kicked at the back of the man’s thigh. His knee folded and the man stumbled. Reid brought up his right leg in an arc. His foot connected brutally to the side of the insurgent’s head. He grunted and fell to the floor of the boat.
Reid hooked his left thumb into the shoulder holster on the same side and, with some difficulty, managed to free the Glock hanging there.
The insurgent froze with the gun trained on him, but he did not show fear. His eyes narrowed angrily as one hand came up slowly to wipe blood from his lips.
“You,” said Reid, panting not with exertion but from the pain in his hand. “You’re him, aren’t you?” He spoke in Arabic for the insurgent’s benefit. “You’re Awad bin Saddam.”
The young Iraqi stared back. An almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips. “You know my name,” he said quietly.
“I do. I’m the one that raided your compound. I captured some of your friends. I killed others. The Brotherhood is finished, Awad. Your plan failed. Look around you. You’re done.”
Bin Saddam glanced left and right quickly. The freighter was about a quarter mile away, chugging slowly in their direction. To the south, from the bay, Reid could just barely make out the flashing lights of a Coast Guard ship hurtling towards them.
“No,” said Awad. “Not done yet.” He slowly rose to his feet.
“Don’t…” Reid warned, tightening his grip on the gun.
“I cannot allow you to take me alive.” He took a step forward.
“You won’t have a choice.” Reid pointed the Glock downward, at bin Saddam’s thigh, and pulled the trigger.
Or, he tried to.
Nothing happened. There was not even a click; the trigger stayed rigidly in place.
The biometrics. The trigger lock was electronic. By using the EMP grenade, Reid had disabled his own gun. And he had no other weapons.
Awad bin Saddam grinned maliciously, understanding at least that the weapon had failed. He let loose a primal cry as he surged forward and tackled Reid around the waist. Both men tumbled backwards, smacking into the steering column of the speedboat. Reid’s right hand pinned between his body and the wheel; he screamed out again in agony as the strength left his body.
Bin Saddam struck out with his right, landing a solid blow to Reid’s orbital bone. Stars swam in his vision as fingers clenched around his throat. Bin Saddam’s angry scowl was all he could see as the younger man cut off his airway, squeezing tighter.
With the use of both hands, it wouldn’t have been difficult for Reid to get out from beneath the insurgent, but the crushing, debilitating pain drained his good upper limb of strength.
Instead he brought up a knee, landing it squarely in the terrorist’s groin. Bin Saddam grunted and winced, his grip loosening. Reid struck again and the man cried out, his hands falling away from Reid’s throat. He shoved Awad backwards away from him as he panted for breath.
“This is the United States Coast Guard!” a voice boomed through a bullhorn as the white and orange boat drew near. Reid squinted against the bright hull and saw four uniformed men on the deck, three armed with rifles and the fourth at the helm, speaking into the radio. “Drop any weapons and put your hands on your head.”
From somewhere nearby Reid heard the whop-whop of a helicopter’s rotors. The cavalry was coming, all for one unarmed man who had tried to kill several thousand.
Awad bin Saddam saw them too. He heard the helicopter. He noticed the guns. He noticed the other gun as well—Reid’s Glock 17 was at his feet.
They both knew it didn’t work.
Awad grinned.
“Don’t,” Reid warned.
“It is like I said.” The young insurgent stooped to pick up the pistol. “I am not done yet.”
Reid leapt forward, but not fast enough. He slid on his stomach towards the pistol, his hand outstretched, but Awad snatched it up before he could reach it and held it high above his head for all to see.
“Death to the infidels!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Allahu Akbar!” He leveled the pistol downward at Reid’s forehead. “Praise be unto Him.”
“Don’t shoot!” Reid shouted.
His voice was drowned out by a barrage of gunfire from the Coast Guard ship. Reid covered his head as dozens of bullets tore into Awad.
The Glock fell with a clatter beside Reid.
When he dared to look up again, Awad bin Saddam was looking skyward. The sun was on his face.
Then the insurgent
fell, toppling over the railing and plunging into the East River.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
Reid looked at his hand.
He couldn’t actually see it, wrapped as it was in layers of gauze and tape, beneath which were metal braces to hold three of his fingers still while they healed. Of the twenty-seven bones in his right hand, nine of them were broken. He had already had one surgery to set the bones and the braces, and he would likely yet need another to ensure the bones were fusing properly. The doctors had warned him that there would be some long-term nerve damage, and that while function would return, the hand might not ever be the same.
He had grimly joked that he could shoot just fine with his left.
“So,” said Strickland, breaking the silence of the car. “What are we going to say?”
The four of them were seated in a black town car—Watson behind the wheel, Reid beside him, Maria and Strickland in the back seat. They tailed a black SUV full of Secret Service agents on their way to yet another clandestine meeting. This time, Strickland was getting his former wish. They would be convening with President Pierson at the White House.
But the young agent didn’t want that anymore.
None of them did.
“We don’t say anything,” Reid told him. “We can’t.”
Three days had passed since Awad bin Saddam committed suicide by Coast Guard. After the incident, Reid was immediately taken to the hospital, where emergency room doctors deemed surgery on his hand necessary. Maria stayed with him that night, and the next morning he was released. Before leaving, he checked in on Talia Mendel; besides the broken arm and a concussion, she was relatively fine and pleased that the Brotherhood was finished. They had left things off with a friendly goodbye and the promise to keep in touch, especially if Reid found himself on her side of the country again.
Then he and Maria went home.
He had expected repercussions, yet was not at all surprised when there were none. The city of New York was still reeling in the wake of the attempted bombing. Hundreds had been pronounced dead in the collapse of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. When combined with those still missing, it accounted for approximately thirty percent of the people that were trapped down in the congested tubes. The tunnel was substantially damaged; repairs were scheduled to begin the following week, after a thorough sweep for further bodies. Legislators were already discussing ways in which to fortify the tunnels and contingencies against future attacks.
The media was still in a frenzy with the reports. The world at large was aware that a radical Islamic faction had attempted to bomb the Midtown Tunnel. They were aware of their use of submersible drones carrying heavy payloads. They knew—or believed—that the plan was largely thwarted through the cooperation of the CIA, FBI, NYPD, and MTA. Hundreds had died, yes, but it could have been thousands. That’s what he was told, again and again. It could have been worse.
You can’t save everyone.
Of course, as was the nature of the position, the public did not know the name Agent Zero, Kent Steele, or Reid Lawson. They did not know that the submarines’ remote guidance systems could not have been supplied by anyone but the Central Intelligence Agency. And they did not know that the attack was manipulated, coaxed by their own government.
The higher-ups handled it stunningly. There were no punitive measures against Reid and his team; in fact, they were lauded as heroes. To the media, Director Mullen issued statements that took nearly full credit for stopping the Brotherhood.
Yes, they were aware of a potential terrorist plot in New York City.
Yes, they were the ones that alerted the NYPD and other organizations to the threat.
Yes, they sent a small team of their best agents into the fray, who ascertained the correct target just in the nick of time.
No, they cannot release the names of the agents who stopped the attack.
No, they cannot give any further details at this time.
The agency, or at least its leaders, was daring him to contradict them. He didn’t. And he wouldn’t.
Upon his return, Reid had been to Langley only once, for a two-hour debrief of the events that unfolded, which was handled by a member of the National Resources Division that Reid hadn’t met before.
He had not seen or spoken to Mullen, Riker, or Cartwright since the incident.
Reid said very little during the debrief, other than the technical aspects of the operation. He did not implicate Bixby. He did not mention the Division. He left out the knowledge about the remote guidance systems, the Libyan arms dealer, and anything that might give credence to the plot he knew so little about.
Then he had been sent on his way, granted four weeks of medical leave for his injured hand. Until that morning, when Maria called to tell him that the four of them had been invited to the White House.
“With everything we know,” Strickland argued in the back seat of the town car, “with everything we’ve seen, we’re just supposed to stay quiet?” He scoffed. Back in New York, he had stayed behind with the four members of the Division sent to apprehend them. As expected, the police had arrived shortly thereafter to the report of shots fired and four of them were taken into custody. Fitzpatrick was taken to the hospital. Reid knew he was still alive, but had no idea what the mercenary’s condition was like.
Strickland was released a few hours later at the behest of the CIA. Just like Reid, he was debriefed, commended, and granted a period of leave. And leave he did—but not before visiting Bixby in the lab to locate and remove the tracking device that had been implanted in his arm.
“We have no evidence,” Maria said from beside him. “We could tell whoever we want. We could tell the world. Who would believe us? The agency would disavow us in a heartbeat and eliminate any records that we ever worked for them. We’d look like a handful of conspiracy theorists and nothing more. We need something real. Something tangible.” On the East River, Maria had piloted the freighter to shore herself before joining Reid at the hospital. Try as she might to get her hands on one of the remote guidance systems in the cabin of the ship, the FBI had swarmed the vessel almost immediately and collected everything that might have been construed as evidence.
Yet there hadn’t been a single mention of it in the media or anywhere else.
It felt like an empty victory, and Reid knew he wasn’t the only one that felt that way. People had died. In the three days since the strike, there had been dozens of reports online from around the country about racial profiling against Muslims. The American people were angry. The attack may not have gone as planned, but Reid couldn’t help but wonder if it was still enough to be a catalyst, to declare a new War on Terror. To renew a conflict in the Middle East.
“One thing is for sure,” said Watson in a quiet, basso voice as he drove along behind the SUV. “There are four of us now. We know. And as long as we’re able to do something about it, we won’t stop trying.”
Reid nodded his agreement as he stared out the window. They travelled the rest of the short drive in silence.
Under normal circumstances, President Pierson would have greeted his guests on the front steps of the White House, but due to the confidential nature of the meeting the four agents were instead escorted inside by four Secret Service agents. They were ushered down a carpeted hall faced on both sides with portraits of past presidents.
A slight tingle went up the nape of Reid’s neck at the sight, the scent of the place, the feel of the plush carpet beneath his polished black shoes. He had been here before, he knew, more than once. He adjusted his open collar; he hadn’t bothered with a tie. It would have been nearly impossible to knot with only one good hand. Maya had to help him button his shirt as it was.
Two more Secret Service members were posted outside the Oval Office. As Reid and his cohorts drew near, the black-suited agents opened the doors for them and granted them access into the president’s inner sanctum.
President Pierson rose immediately from behind his desk as they entered. “And here the
y are,” he announced, a broad smile breaking upon his face. “The men—and woman—of the hour.”
Reid glanced around, surprised by the number of people present in the wide, round office. Standing to the left of Pierson’s desk was Vice President Cole, and beside him were the Secretaries of Defense, Homeland Security, and State. Opposite them was Christopher Poe, head of the FBI, Governor Thompson of New York, and Director of National Intelligence John Hillis.
Standing next to the DNI was a familiar yet undesirable face. Director Mullen clasped his hands in front of him, a thin, wry smile on his lips. Deputy Director Ashleigh Riker was beside him in her usual uniform of a charcoal gray pencil skirt and matching blazer.
Cartwright, Reid noted, was notably absent.
Pierson rounded his broad desk as the four agents stood shoulder to shoulder before it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed his small assembly of cabinet members and heads of state, “I’d like to introduce these fine Americans to those of you who haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting. Agent John Watson.” Pierson shook his hand enthusiastically. “Agent Todd Strickland,” he continued, moving down the line. “Agent Maria Johansson.”
The president paused in front of Reid with a smile that seemed genuinely appreciative. “And Agent Zero.” Pierson put out his hand, but Reid did not. His right hand was bandaged and splinted. “Oh. My apologies, Agent.” He awkwardly shook Reid’s left with his own.
“Ordinarily,” the president said, addressing the four of them, “I consider myself an apt orator. But I have to admit…” He chuckled softly. “For the first time in my political career, I find myself at a loss for words.” Pierson held out his hands in a melodramatic shrug. “What could I say that would possibly express the heroism and fortitude that the four of you have shown? What sentiments could come even close to articulating how indebted our nation is to your valor and strength?” He shook his head. “There are none. So instead of words, I have the distinct honor of conveying our gratitude with commendation. Director Mullen?”