Michael Walsh Bundle (13 page)

The door opened so fast she almost fell over.

Hope cursed herself for a fool who thought she could somehow make a difference. She should have listened to her inner voices of reason, the ones who were always telling her that violence never solved anything, that all we had to do to get along was to just give up. It was that simple.

Instead, she had listened to just one inner voice. The voice of Emma and Rory's mother. The voice that understood innately that, no, it was not just that simple.

“It's okay,” she said. “I'm a teacher.”

“So am I,” a man said. The voice wasn't familiar. She peered through the darkness, but couldn't make out his features. Then it hit her—it was the man she'd seen that morning. The “substitute.”

“Oh, thank God,” she started to say and then his hand was over her mouth and he was lifting her up as if she were made of balsa wood.

“They're my children,” she said.

“I know they are,” he said.

“What about Emma?”

“She'll be just fine, I promise.”

That was when she noticed that he had a gun.

Hope supposed—but not being a firearms expert, didn't really know—that she'd catch the flash of the bullet's charge a nanosecond before it blew through her skull. She wondered whether her last vision would be of her life, or of her children's unlived lives. And suddenly, passionately, she wanted to
know
. Whatever was going to happen, she wanted to witness it. Life or death, win or lose, she wanted to be there, with her children, when it happened.

He pushed her back toward the gym, whose doors she could discern ahead of her in the dim illumination of the emergency lights. From the gym doors, it was a straight shot to the front doors of the building, the doors she had seen this morning and eons ago close behind her two children.

The gym doors opening…the noise.

It took her several seconds before she realized it was herself making all the noise. Screaming.

A blow at the back of her head sent her sprawling toward the center of the gym floor. She skidded across something wet and sticky, then realized it was blood. Still viscous and nasty, it clung to her hands and, when she involuntarily wiped her face, to her cheeks. She felt a trickle of something liquid at the base of her skull and didn't have to touch it to know what it was.

She rolled over on her back, uncaring about the blood that was mingling with whatever was on the floor. Almost immediately, her maternal radar located her son. Rory was bound, eyes wide in horror.

“Charles,” he shouted, “that's my mom.”

“I know,” said Milverton. Then he turned to the staggering man, the one Hope had seen coming out of the closet. “It's showtime.”

E
DWARDSVILLE

Up on the roof of the Community Christian Church, Devlin assembled the gift that Bartlett had planted for him. It was a bolt-action, single shot Barrett Model 99, chambering a round that flew from the aluminum alloy barrel at 3,250 feet per second. If your enemy was nicely lined up in a row, you could put a single round through twenty skulls seriatim, which is what Devlin called firing for effect.

You could take out a given target from the distance of more than a mile, and put the bullet right on his nose. Even at that distance, the target's head would atomize, which was exactly the point. Better yet, it could punch through a concrete wall three feet thick and kill whoever or whatever was on the other side.

Something was happening at the school. Movement at the front doors. In their heedless lust to cover the story, no matter the consequences, the news crews jostled forward, lights blazing. What did they care if their pressure resulted in more deaths? It all made great video. At least for once they were making themselves useful, because with that much light between him and his targets, there was zero chance he'd be spotted.

Bartlett's men, he knew, would be disguised among them at this point, fanning out, surrounding the building, applying their explosives. As the Israelis had learned at Entebbe and the Germans at Mogadishu, surprise was the attacker's best friend, which meant that in less than ten seconds they would have to blow out the walls and lay down a withering enfilade as the other Xe ops came in with concussion grenades and small arms. Sure, some kids' ear drums would pop, but if all else went well that would be the extent of the injuries. Because, by now, using wall-penetrating radar and the real-time imaging from NSA overflights at 40,000 feet, they would know where every terrorist was.

The bombs didn't worry him much. The Russians had made the mistake of panicking, then charging, giving the Chechens plenty of warning. With nothing to lose, they had popped the bombs and shot the children as they tried to flee. It was a clusterfuck that didn't have to happen; you could take the Russian Federation out of the Soviet Union, but you couldn't take the Soviet mind-set out of the Russian. What had worked for Zhukov in Berlin—raw, brutal power—didn't work in asymmetric warfare.

It was funny, he mused as he took up his firing position: two hundred-plus years after the American Revolution, we were back to square one as far as tactics were concerned. True, the Redcoats didn't come marching down the middle of the field in serried ranks any more, but in many ways the terrorists were their functional equivalent; what they considered hostages, Devlin and his men thought of as anchors that destroyed their mobility and distracted their attention. You couldn't shoot a hostage and defend yourself at the same time, assuming you even had the time to choose.

Terrorists never really changed their methods. By keeping their hostages down, immobilized, they thought they could prevent communication and mutiny. What they were really doing, however, was protecting their captives, keeping them alive during the only moments that mattered, the moments of rescue and revenge.

It was all about the OODA Loop. Observe. Orient. Decide. Act. Rinse, and repeat, until the other guy was dead. About getting inside your opponent's decision loop, staying at least one beat ahead of him, as if you were inside his head. Which is where one or more of Devlin's bullets soon would be. The Barrett fired both the .416 and the .50-caliber round, but he preferred the 400-grain .416 round; wherever he put his shot, the man was going to be very, spectacularly dead.

He checked the computer, streaming the coverage. With GPS coordinates superimposed over the grid, he hardly needed a scope, since he could train on what he was seeing on the screen and calibrate accordingly. But even at this distance, it was more sporting to shoot a man while looking at him.

Via the infrared scans and rad sensors, he'd also located the bomb control—a laptop computer that would sequence the bomb explosions. Like a cell phone, a computer announces its presence through mild radiation and wireless signaling. Taking it out would be a tougher shot, because his second round would have to follow the first by less than a second and he had to hope like hell nobody would touch the machine in the meantime. But, if everything went right, from the same angle he could take out Drusovic and then punch a round through the computer before the terrorists could react. And by then, they'd all be dead.

What about the Gardner woman? He'd almost forgotten about her.

Suddenly the news crews' lights grew brighter. Devlin glanced down at the screen. Someone was coming out, Drusovic probably, to make another statement. Terrorists loved a stage. No time to worry about the woman now.

There were dozens of reporters on the scene. Their trucks kept their distance, but the standup artists were primping and the print johnnies were inching forward, notepads in hand. As he watched, a taxi pulled up on the perimeter, and a man got out. Another civilian, most likely a parent. Just what he needed, another wild card. He lost sight of the man as he was swallowed up by the crowd of cops, firemen, EMS workers, and FBI agents.

Devlin's videophone leapt to life. His heart sank. He was inside the Oval Office, looking at Army Seelye and Secretary Rubin. This was such a breach of security protocol that he wanted to shoot Army on the spot. “Listen up,” said his boss. “The president's about to make a statement.”

Tyler was sitting behind his desk. “I speak now to Suleyman Drusovic. Yes, we know who you are. And know this as well—we will not let you harm our children.”

Devlin closed his eyes so as to skip the look of satisfaction he knew would be on the president's face. He opened them again as Tyler continued. “In our pluralistic society, there is room for all religions—and, indeed, for no religion at all. Therefore, in the name of Allah, the most compassionate, the most merciful—”

Devlin couldn't believe his ears. Couldn't believe the president was actually mouthing these words. Couldn't believe that Seelye and Rubin would stand there, letting him say the Muslim incantation.

“Let it be known that, as president of the United States, I would welcome the visit of an Imam of your choice, here, in Washington, to discuss our differences and hopefully find a way to bridge them. But you must release the innocent hostages at Jefferson School immediately, board your helicopter, and be on your way. You have five minutes.”

That's really telling him, thought Devlin. He put down the videophone, picked up the rifle, and looked through the sight.

Drusovic was emerging from the school, with a smirk of triumph on his face. He had heard, and he knew what he had heard: the president of the United States starting to heed the call to Islam. The Infidel-in-Chief of the Great Satan.

Drusovic surveyed the assembled media horde, his satisfaction obvious. Then he clapped his hands. The school doors opened and there was Hope Gardner, a bomb strapped to her body. Drusovic was holding the detonator in the firing position; if he took him out now, the bomb would explode the instant it slipped from his dead hand.

“In the name of Allah and the Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, I welcome the president's statement. Nevertheless, this unclean woman is an intolerable provocation.”

Hope stood there, blinking in the lights. She knew what was happening, and had lost all fear for her own life. But what she had witnessed in the gym cried out to be made public. She could not speak, and she could not move, but she knew inside that she had to warn the president, the country, the world, before anything else happened.

“This spy”—Drusovic shook Hope roughly—“is a pawn in the service of the United States government. She cannot be acting alone. Therefore, she will meet the fate of all spies under international law and the Geneva Convention. She will be executed.”

With a single squeeze of his right index finger, Devlin could blow the man's head off. But Hope had injected a note of instability into his perfect closed system; rather than being inside the terrorists' OODA loop, she had forced him out of his.

And where the hell was Milverton?

Bartlett's voice was soft in his earpiece: “You got him?”

Devlin's reply was a purr. “She's wired. He'll blow her away.”

A puzzled pause. “So what? We're good to go.”

“Hold off a sec'. Something's happening.”

The doors were opening again. At first no one appeared, and then a boy was thrust forward so hard he went sprawling, picked himself up and rushed toward the woman. It was Rory.

Hope turned, instinctively. Rory tried to throw his arms around his mother, but Drusovic shoved him roughly away.

“Come on, Tom.” Bartlett's voice.

“She'll take the kid with her.”

“But the rest live. I make that trade any day.”

The memories were raging in his head. Of a little boy having to watch his mother die. “Let's hope you never have to.”

Drusovic was in the middle of a rant now, working himself up into a photogenic lather. “For too long we have watched our brothers die under the yoke of the Zionist entity. For too long, we have tolerated the intolerable. Let the world know henceforth our tolerance of tolerance is at an end.”

“Hurry the fuck up…”

“Wait—” said Devlin. Little Rory, dusting himself off, was doing something remarkable.

He was attacking the terrorist.

Rory hit Drusovic from behind, punching, scratching, clawing, and kicking. With the detonator in one hand and Rhonda Gaines-Solomon's mic in the other, Drusovic tried to kick Rory away, but the little kid wouldn't stop even when one of the kicks landed square in his belly.

“Son of a bitch,” whispered Eddie. “That kid's got balls.”

Devlin saw his play. “Sure your guys can take 'em all?”

“Locked on with penetrating radar. They'll be dead before they can fart.”

“How close can you get to Drusovic?”

“Up his ass close enough?”

“It'll have to do. Stand by.”

Devlin tapped some coded instructions into the laptop. If NSA was on the ball, and it had better be, in less than ten seconds the news crews' audio would go dead. And then the rest would unfold just like they'd drawn it up on the blackboard.

Another kick from Drusovic and Rory went down hard. Giving Hope an opening. She snatched the mic away—

“It's a trap!” she cried.

Time to act. “I am the Angel of Death,” he muttered, and fired.

A .416 round moving at 3,250 feet per second can travel a mile in less than a second and a half. Devlin was nowhere near a mile away.

Drusovic's head evaporated, live, on international television.

As it did, the nearest newsman grabbed the standing corpse's right hand and kept its finger clamped on the trigger. At the same instant, the man drew a Kukri knife and severed Drusovic's right forearm, hand still on the detonator. Hope caught a glimpse of a tattoo, winged centaur holding a sword, and the name DANNY BOY on her savior's arm as he sprinted away, still clutching the severed arm by its hand.

“Good job, Eddie,” Devlin thought to himself.

The round, meanwhile, continued on its path of retributive destruction, killing two men standing behind Drusovic.

It was immediately followed by Devlin's second shot, which bisected the terrorist at the computer in the gym, obliterated the machine, punched through the rear wall of the school, demolished the windshield of a parked car, ricocheted, and killed a cow a half-mile away.

Then the gym walls exploded, punched out with Semtex A and RPGs. The terrorists tried to react, but the firing lines coordinated into a killing zone from which no target could escape. Firing on fully automatic, the AA-12 shotguns armed with Frag-12 armor-piercing rounds hit the terrorists at the rate of 120 per minute, and cut them down like God's own scythes.

From the time Devlin squeezed the trigger to the extinction of the terrorists, less than ten seconds had elapsed.

Devlin had no time to celebrate. The instant he fired his second shot, he set the charge on the computer and grabbed the Barrett and took aim at the helicopter.

So he missed Rory, rushing back into the school to find his sister.

The chopper was rising, its rope ladder dangling. Devlin knew he had to take it down before Milverton could clamber aboard. He took aim—

Fire from an AK-47 kicked up all around him. Instinctively, Devlin dropped. He felt like Cary Grant in
North by Northwest
: a sitting duck, except not quite so good looking.

He rolled, trying to regain the initiative. But the Barrett was a big gun and not easily swung; by the time he got it righted, the helicopter had gained altitude, still spitting fire at him. The rope ladder was no longer dangling. Damn!

Devlin came out of his roll prone, both elbows on the ground. He elevated the barrel. The helicopter was fast but the Barrett was faster.

His third round missed. His fourth penetrated the skin of the Sikorsky and smashed into the engine block. The bird sputtered, then went into a dive.

Devlin was on his feet now, running. His plan had been to leave the Barrett behind, to let Eddie's crew clean it but that was impossible now. He stripped it as he ran down the stairs, jamming pieces into his clothing.