Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (40 page)

The man crossed his arms and took a menacing step closer to Terri. His voice was practically a hiss, “Did he say anything about who the assassins were?”

Strain wrinkled Terri’s brow as she desperately tried to remember
the president’s words. “Yes, as a matter of fact he did say something right before he was shot … I’m trying to remember his exact phrasing . . . but. . . .”

The man sprung, unleashing a violent shove that slammed Terri against the wall. He was on her before she could even protest the attack, drawing back his hand and slapping her face.

“This is important! Stop delaying!” he screamed.

The impact against the wall had pushed the air out of Terri’s lungs. She couldn’t have answered to save her life. Again and again and
again, the man slapped her, the blows stinging unlike anything she had ever felt before. She tried to move away, but he had her pinned. The open-handed strikes stopped for a moment, and she thought the attack was over. The next impact wasn’t a slap. A tight-fisted full punch jarred Terri’s head, her vision darkening to blackness, and sounds of bells rung in the recesses of her mind.

The interrogator stepped away, watching Terri slide down the wall,
her body crumpling on the floor. The woman’s face was bright red and blood dribbled from her nose and lip.

Straightening his jacket, the man looked at the nearest guard and ordered, “Come get me after she wakes up,” and then promptly left the room.

After he was gone, the guard looked at his two comrades and whispered, “What the hell is this all about? This is off-the-fucking scale insane, man. This woman isn’t any threat to anybody. What are we doing here?”

One of his peers agreed. “I’m with him, Deke
. . . this isn’t what I signed up for. Who tortures a pregnant woman who hasn’t done shit? I was told this whole setup was a matter of national security. This woman is as much a threat to national security as my 90-year-old Aunt Helen. Why is he asking her about all this crap? Who gives a rat’s ass what the dead prez said?”

Both men looked at Deke, who was clearly as confused as they were. “I don’t know either, guys. Let’s get her a blanket and do what we’re told until I can figure this all out.”

The sound of pounding boots, warming turbines, and shouted orders filled the tarmac at Briggs Field. Agent Powell watched the Army troopers board the three Blackhawk helicopters, the scene reminding him of a similar event just a few days prior—that episode in preparation to rescue a missing president.

Powell turned to Moreland, yelling over the rising cascade of men and machines preparing to launch. “Sir, again, I must protest you
r coming along. You are the next President of the United States and far too valuable to our country to risk going on a mission like this.”

Moreland smiled at his protector, “I’m going
, Special Agent Powell. That is my best friend and most loyal supporter who has gone missing under some very dubious circumstances. I’m going to see with my own eyes exactly what’s going on. I don’t think the nation would be in the same place right now, if more of my predecessors had gotten their hands dirty. Besides, there seems to be more than enough men to protect me on this little jaunt.”

Powell gave up the argument, mumbling to himself that the man was stubborn and secretly praying he wouldn’t be so rash once he was sworn in.

Looking around at the men comprising his security detail, Powell did have to agree that Moreland would be well protected. In addition to the Army assault teams, he had five fully fortified agents to keep the next president safe.

The co-pilot waved through the bubble shaped glass, indicating their aircraft was ready to be designated Army One, pro
tem. Patting Moreland on the shoulder and motioning toward the bird, the executive detail all ducked their heads and jogged toward the aircraft.

Two minutes later all four Blackhawks lifted off, the formation heading east into the
bright sun.

Bishop’s radio crackled before he heard the distant hum of car engines. “Bishop, we’re here.”

Keying the push-to-talk button, Bishop acknowledged he was listening.

“I’ve got over 20 men with me, and we are about 10 minutes out. Everything still status quo?”

“No, two SUVs
, full of armed men, arrived a few hours ago. Since then, everything’s been quiet. There are at least 10 shooters inside that building now.”

Nick seemed unconcerned, “We’ll be there shortly.”

Just as the engine noise reached Bishop’s ear, it stopped. Fifteen minutes later, he could observe the large group of rescuers gathering at the base of the knoll.

Bishop joined Nick’s posse and found a flat area of soft sand. Using his finger, Bishop drew a map in the earth while
onlookers gathered around.

“We’ll split into four teams. Nick will take out the sentry
. . . here. Once he does that, I’ll approach from here and disable the two SUVs. After that, each team will take a corner of the building and form a skirmish line behind the best cover available. I want our numbers to be visible, but not easy targets. I don’t think they’ll shoot, but I can’t be 100% certain. Once all four sides of the building are covered, I’ll approach and call them out.”

Bishop looked around the group, noting that all heads were nodding. Focusing back on the map, he continued. “The ATVs are most likely stored in this bay behind the closed overhead door. Some of them might make a run for it on those units. Job one
, and this is incredibly important, job one is to not allow anyone out of that building. If they try to use Terri as a shield, leave it up to me. I’m the one that has to live with the results—good or bad.”

No one had any questions
, and within a few minutes, Nick moved off into the desert, his critical phase of the plan dominating his thoughts.

Nick
’s mission required approaching the guard’s hide from the rear. Looping wide through the desert, he made good progress through the open terrain using distance rather than cover to conceal his approach. Bishop watched his friend from the hilltop using his rifle optic, and after 30 minutes he could see Nick was ready to spring on the guard’s hide.

Zooming his optic slightly, Bishop watched Nick stalk the hidden sentry, each step carefully placed and measured. When the big man was within a few feet of
the hide, he lunged. Bishop shivered—a passing sympathy for the poor soul who had just been surprised by the ex-Green Beret. Within seconds a single arm appeared out of the brush pile and waved toward the hill—the signal that Nick now held the sentry’s post.

Bishop was next, taking a route down the hillside he had studied during the wait for reinforcements. Taking his time to detect any tripwires, Bishop eventually ran across the open parking lot and to the first SUV. His thought on the hill had been to use his knife on the tires, but as he approached closer to the vehicles, he noted the front plates said “POTUS.”
Shit
, he thought.
These are Secret Service units. They’ll have run-flat tires.

Keeping an eye on the nearby door, Bishop made his way around to the driver’s side and check
ed the door. It was unlocked.
No
, he thought.
I wouldn’t be that lucky.
Reaching in, he found the keys still in the ignition. In a few moments, both sets of keys were in Bishop’s pocket.

“That’s two mistakes you’ve made,” he whispered. “Maybe you guys aren’t so hot after all.” Reaching up to touch his head wound reminded Bishop that he’d better not get cocky.

Staying low beside the SUVs, Bishop watched the four teams spreading out across the desert. Choosing to conceal the inside of the hideout had resulted in a double-edged sword for the kidnappers. While it was impossible to see inside the building, it was also impossible to see out. They had put all of their security eggs in the sentry basket, and Nick had taken care of that.

Fifteen minutes later, the radio sounded with two clicks, followed a few minutes later by two more. The teams were in position.

Bishop walked to the corner where he could see both the side entrance and the overhead garage door.

Terri’s face felt puffy and swollen, and it hurt to breathe through her nose. One of the armed guards had checked her pupils, looked at her face, and announced she would be fine in a few weeks.

More important was the damage done to her ego. She had never had anyone lay a hand on her before, at least not since childhood spankings that she couldn’t remember. While watching television shows and movies, Terri had always believed she would react with anger toward any attacker. She would observe the female actors cower after being struck; always thinking
I’d fight back like a lioness
if some jerk laid a hand on me. Kick him in the nuts!

Now, sitting alone and very uncertain about her future, she wasn’t feeling any aggression. It wasn’t the pain or any petty vanity about her bruised appearance
—that meant nothing right now. It was the terrible anguish of being helpless that dominated her thoughts. She had never experienced such a sensation. Having zero control of her well-being seemed to hollow out her soul and drain the energy from her body. Any will to fight had been literally beaten out of her.

When the interrogator
stepped back into the room, it felt like the walls moved several feet closer, and the air became difficult to breathe.

There weren’t any apologies, not that Terri expected any. “I need to know what
the president told you about his assassins, and I need to know now. Time is up—no more games.”

Terri had anticipated the question. Since the guards had helped her into her chair, she had been thinking of nothing but answering this lunatic and getting it over with.

“I asked him if he planned on escalating the war in Louisiana. He replied that he was going to pursue a peaceful solution. I then commented how that showed more forgiveness than I, personally, was capable of. I told him that he was doing the right thing, putting the country before any revenge against those that had tried to kill him.”

Her captor leaned forward, the corners of his mouth twisted in a grimace. “
And . . . and . . . did he say any more?”

Terri sighed, “He said
the Independents hadn’t tried to kill him. He said he knew who it was, that there was an . . . uhh . . . an ulterior motive.”

The man leaned back in the chair and
stared at the ceiling. Terri watched, fascinated, the transition in his demeanor unlike anything she’d ever witnessed. His reaction reminded her of someone who had just been told he carried some horrible, deadly disease, and had a short time to live.