Cross down, p.11
Cross Down, page 11
But I’m not blinded.
I turn and drop to one knee, and Mel and I start firing on whoever is opening the door. We saw Ruiz’s severed head; this is not a time to ask, Hey, who’s there?
We know who’s there.
Mel and I shoot the door dead center and pump more rounds on either side. The cottage’s walls are thin wood and plaster, and a couple of Molotov cocktails would torch this indefensible place. No time to waste.
Mel yells, “Reloading!”
“Covered,” I yell back, and we both duck the return fire. I give Mel a heavy smack on his left shoulder and point to the lake side of the house; we flop on our bellies and fire front as we crawl toward the rear porch.
We get to the porch and in the moonlight see the lake and a dock with two moored kayaks. I send one last volley out to the front and another at a shadow moving across the yard. I see the shadow collapse.
Mel sets down suppressing fire too, and I follow, hitting the dirt, and we crawl, then leap across the road in front of the cottage and take cover in the woods.
We catch our breath and I’m tempted to open fire again, but I don’t know how many guys we’re up against, how well armed they are, or whether they have backup.
Mel says, “Look.”
As I burrow into the dirt and leaves around the base of a wide pine tree, I say, “What the hell am I looking at?”
“Lights,” Mel says, lifting his head a bit. “My neighbors tend to keep to themselves, but they won’t ignore the sound of a flash-bang or gunshots. We keep low, we can keep to the shoreline, and—”
A sharp snap and the top of Mel’s head is blown off.
Chapter
53
In one of the Pentagon’s conference rooms, the dreary status meeting is coming to an end, and General Wayne Grissom is struggling to keep a positive outlook. At least he and his assistant, Colonel Carla Kendricks, a rising star at the Pentagon, will have a short walk back to his office. Nearly two years ago, impressed by the colonel’s work ethic, Grissom chose her for a position usually staffed by a lieutenant general.
The short walk back is about all there is to be thankful for this evening. He takes one more look around the shiny table at the meeting’s attendees. With each successive meeting, there’ve been fewer and fewer leaders and more and more followers. Those in positions of power are sensing failure, and by not attending the meetings, they can claim they were out of the loop.
Sitting next to Grissom in a dark blue power suit and white blouse is the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet in representing the White House.
One Post columnist had referred to Helen Taft—who’s red-haired and red-faced, though the shades of red are different—as the most even-tempered person in Washington because she was constantly in a rage. But it’s not Taft whom Grissom feels has it in for him; it’s another woman.
Now the only person who’s made every meeting, the only one who hasn’t given up, catches Grissom’s eye and speaks. “Is that it, General?” asks Doris Landsdale, secretary of homeland security.
Grissom says, “Unless someone is holding something back, I suppose it is.”
She taps the fingers of her right hand on the table. “To repeat, then, our friends at the NSA and the CIA are still listening to the chatter, and so far there’s been no increase of encrypted messages at cell towers we’re surveilling. Meaning what? They’re waiting for further orders? Or they’ve decided to give up and go back to their moms’ basements?”
Grissom thinks with envy of his predecessors, especially the generals of World War II. Marshall, Eisenhower, Patton, Truscott, Bradley, Abrams—they all had one advantage that Grissom does not. Back then, the enemies were clear, well defined, out in the open. They didn’t hide in the shadows or at home like the people who’ve been killing Americans over the past several months.
To Secretary Landsdale, he says, “We don’t know what we don’t know. The moment we get clearer intelligence—perhaps a target—we’ll inform you. In the meantime, Secretary Landsdale, with all due respect, our terrorist opponents aren’t basement-dwellers. They show sophisticated planning and technical proficiency. Agent Mahoney? What do you have to say?”
Like most of the others at the table, the FBI man looks exhausted. “We’re still chasing down leads. We’re even bringing agents home from embassy assignments overseas. But as you noted, General, nothing concrete, nothing solid.”
Landsdale shakes her head. “Given the YouTube videos showing how to make IEDs, car bombs, and other types of weapons, I don’t think so.”
“Meaning what?” Grissom asks.
“I still don’t see the evidence of a large-scale operation that’ll result in us curbing civil liberties, putting troops and armored vehicles on the street, and trying to control news coverage. That kind of shit happens in Venezuela. Not here.”
Grissom says, “Then we’ll have to agree to disagree on this issue, Madam Secretary.”
She snaps, “Unless we do this the right way, this will be the new normal. Don’t you see it? Every time a bunch of knuckle-draggers get together on the dark web and start raising hell, we’ll overreact and go after them. More cops and police departments using tactical gear, using armored cars, tear gas, machine guns. It’s like using a sledgehammer to kill a mosquito.”
“Then what do you suggest, Madam Secretary?”
“Let local and state law enforcement take over,” she says. “They know their turf; they probably know the players. Give them support where asked. The federal government should be in an assisting role, General, not taking lead.”
The eyes of everyone at the table are going from Grissom to Landsdale and back. Mommy and Daddy are fighting.
Grissom looks for an ally, says, “Ms. Taft, do you have anything to add?”
Just a crisp shake of the head. Grissom thinks, No, she doesn’t want to get in the middle of this.
Looking back at the homeland secretary, Grissom says, “If we don’t do this right, pretty soon we might not have a federal government. And then you’ll get what you want—the states will be on their own.”
Chapter
54
Overall, Maynard feels good about the operation, even with just a 50 percent success rate. He came in with three personnel and he’s leaving with three personnel. Cameron and Roccilli are bitching and moaning because they took rounds to their ballistic vests, but they’re alive, although they might have broken ribs.
Juarez got the worst of it, with a round taking off most of his left pinkie, but since he’s right-handed, a stump wrapped with a bandage won’t slow him down much. Juarez endures the pain in silence, and Maynard gives him props.
Maynard sustained a hit to his ballistic helmet. His head is throbbing, a reminder that if the bullet had been a few inches lower, this crew would be wondering what to do with his body.
Cameron comes back from the tree line. “Definitely Carr,” he says. “Face is fucked up, but yeah, it’s him.”
“Any blood trail leading out?” Maynard asks.
“Nope,” Cameron says. “Sampson got away. Probably heading down the shoreline.”
Maynard rubs his aching head. “Maybe. But the guy is good. The best I’ve ever come up against.”
Juarez asks, “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I wouldn’t be surprised if the slippery bastard is out there in the dark looking at us.”
Roccilli says, “Think we should try to track him?”
“You want to give him another chance to shoot you? When he and his bud were in the cabin, that was a good target. Going after him now won’t have a happy outcome. No, we’ve done what we can. We’re following him. We’ll get him tomorrow or the day after.”
“Why not stake out his vehicle?” Cameron asks.
“Sure, and explain that to the neighbors while we’re stumbling through their property.”
Juarez says, “We should burn this place down, then.”
“Why?” Maynard asks. “You pissed because you got an ouchie on your left finger? Really? Macho man like you? You want to burn down his place for revenge?”
Juarez and the two others are quiet. Maynard says, “You see the lights around the lake? That means neighbors. They hear gunshots, they figure, What the hell, maybe somebody’s drunk, shooting into the air. We burn down this cottage, the volunteer fire department will respond and they’ll see the spent brass and the guy in the woods with half a head. Then local law enforcement gets spun up. No, we get going now, regroup, and choose a time to hit him again.”
Nods from his crew and they start moving back to where their truck is hidden. Maynard can’t resist. He pauses, waves to the woods. “Later, John.”
Chapter
55
In my hiding spot, I grit my teeth in anger and to control the shivering that threatens to take over my body. I’m focusing on my own survival and getting what intelligence I can on the crew who ambushed us.
Mel is dead.
And it’s my fault.
I should have prepped the cottage better, should have set up better routes for bailing out when the shooting broke out, and we should have kept on moving once we got out of the cottage. Instead, we felt a bit safe outside of the kill zone and turned to gauge our enemy, and that’s when Mel got clipped.
I keep looking at the crew. There are four of them and they’re talking and pointing, and my pistol is firm in my cold hand. But I don’t have a good shot. I could get one, maybe two, but then I’d be a target for return fire and in an indefensible position, one Glock pistol against several automatic weapons. This isn’t a James Bond movie, where one guy can take out four men armed with high-powered machine guns in a lengthy shooting scene. In the real world, that one guy would be down in fifteen seconds.
I wait.
Continue to shiver.
I hear voices rise up and then they’re done. They grab their gear and start walking up the dirt road—luckily away from my vehicle—then the tail-end guy stops. He’s partially illuminated by this stretch’s lone streetlight. It feels like he’s staring right at me.
He raises his arm and calls out, “Later, John.”
Then he joins his three companions, and they fade into the darkness.
And with horror I think, I know that guy.
Chapter
56
Laurie Pierce is waiting outside George Washington University’s Aston residence hall—reserved for grad students like herself—looking for the Uber that’s bringing her boyfriend down New Hampshire Avenue. He’s going to pick her up for a late dinner and—hopefully—a status change for both of them.
Instead of boyfriend and girlfriend, they’ll be fiancé and fiancée.
It’s a warm pleasant night, lots of traffic zooming by, and she feels slightly embarrassed at what she knows. Because she shouldn’t know.
Her boyfriend, Arthur Foss, goes to GWU’s Graduate School of Political Management; she’s a grad student at GWU’s School of Media and Public Affairs. On their second date, Arthur said, “I can see a future when I’m a congressman from Connecticut, and you’re a reporter at the Post who’s coming at me.”
She smiled and said, “And if you do anything illegal, I’ll burn your ass and put it on the front page.”
With mock disappointment, Arthur said, “Even though I’m a fellow GWU grad?”
“Especially because you’re a fellow GWU grad.”
That led to lots more laughs, another bottle of wine, and an overnight in Georgetown at the condo his father owned. Arthur comes from a wealthy family in Greenwich, Connecticut; Laurie is from a small town in a depressed logging county in Oregon. She gets by on scholarships, grants, part-time work at Starbucks, and lots of ramen noodles.
There. That must be him.
A dark blue Honda with an Uber sticker in the window passes the nearby Yours Truly DC, a four-star hotel. He’s right on time, and someday soon, Laurie knows there’ll be no more ramen noodles for her, because dear Arthur made a mistake last night. He has a habit of e-mailing funny cartoons and memes to their parents and his two sisters, and last night, he sent out an e-mail that mistakenly included Laurie in the address field.
The message said: Tomorrow night I give this! Wish me luck! Attached was a photo of a blue box from Tiffany, open and displaying a diamond ring in a gold setting.
So she knows, and she smiles when the Uber stops and Arthur steps out and holds the door open for her.
She gives him a quick kiss, climbs in, and fastens the seat belt. Arthur, always well dressed and well groomed, looking more like a successful trial attorney than a grad student, sits beside Laurie and grabs her hand as the car starts moving.
“Hon,” he says, “tonight…it’s going to be special.”
“Special how?” she asks as the Uber comes to a halt at the intersection with L Street.
He pauses, smiling, his brown eyes dancing with laughter, then says, “Oh, I can’t wait. Hold on.”
He reaches into a side pocket of his dark blue suit coat. Laurie hears a noise and looks up, and it seems like the sun is glaring right next to them.
Chapter
57
Even from two blocks away, Ned Mahoney can smell what’s ahead for him at the latest bombing site: gasoline, burned rubber, charred vehicle upholstery, and the sickly sweet scent of seared flesh from the most recent victims to die on the streets of the nation’s capital.
His ID gets him through the police perimeter on L Street, and he parks his FBI-issue black Impala as close as he can to where the car bomb went off. The street is crowded with police cruisers, fire department vehicles, and even trucks from the local utility, Washington Gas, there to switch off gas mains in case something else blows up. High-intensity floodlights shine down from tall metal stands, and the roar of the generators sets his teeth on edge.
He walks up to a stretch of yellow tape, flashes his FBI ID one more time, and makes the latest in a series of sad, tired walks, surveying the scene.
The car exploded at the intersection of L Street and New Hampshire Avenue NW. Windows in the surrounding businesses were shattered. One overhead traffic light is dangling from wires. A fire truck is still hosing down the suspected car bomb, which is now just a twisted frame and four shredded and melted tires.
A DC ambulance roars out, and Mahoney steps closer, notes five shapes under five yellow blankets on the street.
At least five dead, then.
Damn it.
Cars are strewn around as if they were toys grabbed and tossed by some angry child. The most heavily damaged vehicle appears to be a Honda. It’s a charred mess, its roof peeled off.
Three yellow blankets are inside, one over the driver’s seat, two in the rear.
Okay. At least eight dead, then.
A young man in a dark suit wearing his FBI shield around his neck comes over and says, “Agent Burt Nansen.”
Ned identifies himself and says, “What do we have here?”
“Apparent car bomb,” Nansen says, notebook and pen in his smooth hands. “Parked in an illegal spot over there. Most of the damage was to storefronts and pedestrians. This Honda over here”—he points to it with his pen—“took the brunt of the explosion. There were three people in there, an Uber driver and two passengers.”
Firefighters carrying tools and a large yellow sheet approach the charred Honda.
Agent Nansen says, “Found the ID of one of the two victims in the rear of the Honda. The woman was a student at a place called George Washington. Is that near here?”
Mahoney stares at the young agent in disbelief. “You don’t know where George Washington University is?”
“Sorry, sir, I’m from the Augusta, Maine, field office,” he says. “I was temporarily transferred to DC to help shore up the staffing. My apologies.”
Mahoney shakes his head. “None needed. Sorry.”
“Yes, sir,” the young agent says, and he spends the next few minutes telling Mahoney the familiar story of how the investigation will proceed: interviewing witnesses, tracking down any surveillance-camera footage along L Street and New Hampshire Avenue, and looking into the origin of the car that held the bomb. Was it stolen? Purchased? Borrowed from some innocent?
All of which will probably turn up nothing of use. It hasn’t for the previous car bombings in the District.
Mahoney hands his business card to the young agent as a dark blue stretch van bearing the insignia of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner and the flag of the District arrives. Men and women, their dark blue windbreakers marked ATF in large yellow letters, are examining the bombed vehicle. “It looks like you’ve got a good handle on the scene, Agent Nansen. Call me if anything of interest comes up.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, and Mahoney looks over at the destroyed Honda with the three victims. Two DC firefighters have unfolded the large yellow sheet, blocking bystanders’ view of the delicate yet ugly work happening on the other side: removing burned bodies that have partially fused with the burned upholstery of the car.
Mahoney breathes deeply through his mouth, walks a few steps, takes out his phone, and hits a number on speed-dial.
It rings twice and then John Sampson’s recorded voice says, “You know the drill.”
After a sharp beep, Mahoney says, “John, you okay? Give me a ring ASAP. Things here are…they’re getting worse. Hope you and your army buddy have found something out. We…” He pauses, then says, “We have nothing. Not a damn thing. We’re depending on you, John.”
Mahoney ends the call and walks away from the scene. Now he’ll head to the trauma ICU at GWU Hospital to see how Alex is doing.
But his thoughts go back to John.
This is the third time he’s tried to call him.
