Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (17 page)

Every top-level government official was in attendance, and the president himself was on the video screen along with the joint chiefs. Ever since the attacks, the president had gone mobile on Air Force One, operating the entire country from the plane. “Gentlemen, we’ve received intelligence that the terrorists have information regarding some of our nuclear components. We’ll be relocating those resources we have to a remote facility in the Midwest. We’ll need the coordinated efforts of all your departments to ensure that everything runs smoothly.”

The director of the FBI, sitting at the front of the table by the screens, swiveled around to address the rest of the group once the president was finished. “With local law enforcement so backed up handling the chaos in the cities, we’ll only be using federal employees and military troops. Deputy Director Perry, can you bring us up to speed on the transportation?”

Perry buttoned his jacket and cleared his throat, rising to address the others. “We’ll have six armed escorts, as well as a chopper crew in the sky above. The route itself isn’t challenging, but the distance is. At over six hundred miles, there will be plenty of opportunities for the terrorist group to try and pin us down, but the CIA has helped us fortify those locations with undercover agents, scoping the area to make sure it’s clear. If any of those points become compromised, we’ll use one of our alternative routes, which are listed in the dossier.”

Perry seated and waited for the others to go over their assignments. He resigned himself for the rest of the meeting, making sure to nod on the proper cues, comment when needed. He’d made a career of blending in, molding himself into the masses, while gaining the trust of those around him.
Fools.
He would have pitied them if he didn’t enjoy pulling their strings so much. He had to make a concentrated effort not to look as though he was reveling in his own pleasures, watching those around him squirm and fidget. They were bugs, waiting to be squashed under the pressure of his boot.

Chapter 4

Mark’s snoring had been relentless for the past several hours, keeping Dylan awake on the couch in the living room. Not that the snoring contributed to Dylan’s insomnia; the fact that it was still blazing hot even in the night, along with his restless mind, didn’t make for the best sleeping conditions. He’d lain there staring at the ceiling since he’d set down for bed and hadn’t received a wink of sleep.

Dylan pushed himself from the couch, the springs squeaking but not enough to cut through the logs being sawed in the bedroom. He stepped out onto the front porch and pressed his palms into the peeling paint of the rail that flaked off from his touch.

It had to have been close to three o’clock in the morning. The moans and cries that had plagued the cities and towns during the day seemed to stop only for these few hours. He supposed that even grief and pain needed to rest.

Growing up, his family had never been religious. The only times he’d ever been to church were on holidays, and even then it seemed it was only to save face in the neighborhood. One of those “everyone else goes so I guess we will too” families. But with his son somewhere out there in the night, he’d found himself praying a lot. It felt more like he was just talking out loud, but it seemed to help. There were moments when he felt he was crazy, especially when he desperately wanted to hear something back.

On those sporadic occasions when Dylan actually went to church, he’d heard the priests speak of miracles, of men who faced dire odds and circumstances but still managed to make it through alive and even stronger. It sounded like the work of fairy tales, but never in his life had he wanted those tales to be true as much as he did right now.

The phone in his pocket buzzed. Dylan flipped it open. Another time and location for tomorrow. He snapped it shut and clutched it in his hand, his knuckles turning white. They weren’t going to give him his son no matter how many missions the terrorists gave him. If Dylan was going to do something, it needed to happen soon.

***

The parking garage was empty on the fourth floor, and with the power out, the security cameras were no longer operational. Cooper waited in her car, the engine shut off and her driver-side window rolled down. She checked her watch. Diaz was supposed to have arrived eight minutes ago. It wasn’t like him to be late, and the fact that she couldn’t call him made the waiting even worse.

Finally, the screech of tires sounded as Diaz’s car pulled up then into the spot next to hers. The two got out, and Diaz wrapped her up in a hug. “How are you holding up, partner?”

“I’ve been all right,” Cooper answered. She leaned back onto the car and folded her arms. “What have they got you working on?”

“Homeland pretty much pulled everything we had on the Dylan Turk case. The higher-ups were pissed about it, but with all the shit that’s going down, they’ve got other problems to worry about. A lot of the cartels are using the opportunity to sell product wholesale within the borders.” Diaz shook his head and mirrored Cooper’s stance. “Whatever you have, I hope it’s good.”

“You’ve got to speak with the director. There is a mole helping the terrorists, feeding them info. It has to be a high-level official with either Homeland or CIA. They’re the only ones who could pull off a move and stay hidden for this long.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that, Coop. The boys upstairs are still reeling about what happened with the harbor.”

“Remember how there was no record of Dylan Turk in the harbor logs the day he was boarded by the terrorists? I went to speak with the harbormaster who was on duty that night, and he said some guy called him and offered him cash to keep the trip off the books. I went to the drop site, and a homeless man who’d been living in the area described two men. One of them was Dayton Clowdy, the harbormaster, and I think the other was Homeland Deputy Director Richard Perry.”

Diaz shook his head. “If all you got is some homeless guy’s word, that won’t be enough to stir up the pot. If Perry really is the mole, then don’t you think he has a backup plan? The man is involved with the highest security clearance in the nation. He has access to anything he wants, Coop! If I go to Moringer with this, he’ll put me on leave with you!”

“Just tell them it was me, okay?” Cooper walked over to Diaz and shoved her finger into his chest. “You tell them that it all falls on me. If I’m right, we take the bastard down; if I’m wrong, the DEA has a scapegoat to pin their follies on. Winner’s choice.”

“All right, Coop.” The two shook hands, and Diaz opened his driver-side door. “Anything particular they should be looking for if they even go for it?”

“Check for any movement of high-security items. If the president wants to move any of them to a secure area, then you can bet Perry most likely had a hand in the decision-making process, and that’ll allow him to manipulate what he wants done. You can bet Perry is moving them for a reason.”

Diaz nodded then drove away. Cooper lingered in the parking garage for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city outside. They were agonizing cries, and they only seemed to grow as the days passed. If this continued for much longer, she knew the authorities wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure. The whole country, especially the cities, were holding on by a thread. Any more weight, and the thin strand would snap.

***

It took Dylan twice as long to get anywhere now, and with the coordinates he’d received last night taking him into the city, he knew he’d have to leave early, and he was glad he did. Road closures, fires, small riots, and police blockades had choked out the city’s traffic flow. He parked the car in the river harbor’s lot and looked around for Kasaika, but the place was a ghost town.

Fifteen minutes passed before a van pulled in, black with no windows except the front windshield, which was tinted dark. Three men piled out of the back, one of them carrying a box and all of them heading for Dylan. The man shoved the box into Dylan’s chest. “Change. Now.”

A grey jumpsuit was inside, along with identification tags and a key ring with three keys on it. He changed, pocketed the keys, and clipped the ID onto the front of the shirt. The lack of details on his job wasn’t anything new. He was just given a boat and coordinates and was charged with getting to their destination as quickly as possible.

One of the terrorists pointed down to the docks, where the boat was tied off. Dylan made his way down and started getting the ship ready. He noticed the boat was decked out with the same radar-jamming gear as usual and a larger cargo hold than normal.

Dylan took some time getting familiar with the controls when he heard the roar of a truck engine, the screeching of tires, and then the thick-accented screams of the terrorists. He stood on the port-side railing to get a better look and saw a semi-truck riddled with bullet holes and the engine smoking. The terrorists scrambled around to the back of the semi, unloading large metal crates and rushing them down the dock, screaming back and forth at each other in the thick, hurried tongue of their country.

A few of the terrorists pulled out bodies and attached rocks to them then flung them into the river to sink. Kasaika shoved Dylan on his way past him. “Start the engines. Now!”

Dylan rushed to the wheel, putting the engines through their startup sequences. The water near the stern bubbled as the engines revved, and the terrorists loaded the last of the gear below deck. He rushed over to the cleats and was pulling the corded rope off when another caravan of military Humvees and trucks sped into the small river harbor parking lot.

The terrorists blasted gunfire into the approaching caravan, and Dylan slammed the throttles down, jolting the boat forward as the military returned fire. Fifty-caliber machine guns boomed, tearing into the boat and the men on board.

Dylan felt the vibrations from each bullet penetrate the hull as he sped down the river. The channel was a thousand feet across, and Dylan aimed for the middle, trying to avoid the gunfire echoing over the water. Kasaika joined him at the wheel. The wind howled, and Dylan had to shout in order to be heard. “What the hell happened?”

“They knew we were coming. There was a team. They killed a lot of our men.” Kasaika glanced to the riverbank, where their pursuers still followed by road. The numbers were growing on either side, along with the guns aimed at them.

“There are two bridges we have to pass,” Dylan said. “You can bet your ass they’ll have air support here and men on the bridges looking to take us out. It’s half a mile to the Atlantic. We won’t make it, even at this speed.”

“Drive the boat. We’ll take care of the rest.” Kasaika headed back down to the deck, stepping over bullet holes and bloodstains from the wounded. Dylan glanced down at the crimson stains against the bleached-white bottom as they slowly trickled to the back of the hull, where they collected against the wall.

The first bridge was just ahead, and Dylan already saw the military vehicles turning onto it. More gunfire blasted and hit the wake on the starboard side. Kasaika and two men rushed to the boat’s bow, wielding two rocket launchers, which rocked back and forth as the boat bounced along the choppy river waters. Kasaika turned back to him and screamed, “Keep it steady!”

Dylan gripped the wheel, doing his best to keep the vessel calm. He checked the fuel gauge along with the GPS, searching for any alternative path on their way to the drop-off, if they even made it that far.

The rockets launched from the bow, a twisting tail of smoke and fire trailing them as they headed for the bridge. The first rocket blasted into the pillars on the left side of the bridge, crumbling the road above it into the river, while the second detonated to the right, bringing down a Humvee and the men inside to the waters below.

Smoke and fire smoldered as the bridge was now blocked from crossing on either side. Dylan lined up the ship to pass beneath the middle of the bridge, where the path was still clear. The closer the ship moved, the more gunfire ripped through the air. Dylan ducked below the windows as the bullets pierced the side of the wheelhouse. Bits of fiberglass and wood rained over the back of his head. He jumped back up to make sure they were still on target, and he watched Kasaika shoot one of the rockets toward the riverbank, turning a unit of soldiers to dust.

Once they cleared the bridge, their pursuers kept pace on both sides of the river, while Dylan kept as close to the middle of the river as he could. The search for some alcove along the map to their destination, some place they could run, had turned fruitless. But even if they made it out of the river and into the Atlantic, he knew there would be Navy and Coast Guard boats waiting for them.

The second bridge came into view, and the military escorts on either side of them quickly sped up, racing to the bridge before the terrorists could dismantle it. Gunfire continued to Ping-Pong back and forth along the river, but the river had widened enough to put some distance between them.

Kasaika loaded another rocket into the launcher and aimed for the second bridge. The rocket jettisoned, white smoke twisting and curling through the air behind it, and connected to the concrete pillar on the far left of the riverbank. Concrete and steel erupted into the air in mangled chunks and then splashed into the river below. But the bridge ahead was larger than the one before. While the pillar crumbled, its neighbors held the rest of the bridge intact.

The military caravan drew closer to the bridge’s entrance, now at least sixty yards ahead of the ship. The Humvees swerved onto the bridge, using the position to blanket fire across the entire river. The heavy pieces of lead crippled the ship’s hull.

Dylan dropped to the deck, covering the back of his head and burying his face into the floor. The engine continued to whine, and the boat lurched its way forward as bits of fiberglass, plastic, and metals blanketed his back, legs, and head. His ears thundered with the explosions tearing through the boat, and Dylan waited for the hot singe of metal that would eventually maim or kill him.