The Operative (16 page)

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Authors: Andrew Britton

BOOK: The Operative
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“You think I fear you?” the gunman yelled.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kealey said. “It’s over.”
They looked at each other, Colin between them. Kealey kept his eyes steady, appearing to stare at the man while again letting his gaze travel past him to the window. Outside, the spotlight from the helicopter seemed to coat the church towers with molten gold as it washed over their high, curved roofs before splashing brightly up against the smooth glass wall of the convention center. But it was no longer shining on the window behind the gunman. And there was a good reason for that.
Recon was over.
Suddenly, the gunman’s patience appeared to run out. The man jerked the arm he’d clamped around Colin’s neck up with a sudden violent motion that audibly stopped his breath. The hostage taker began moving forward with the young man, who was gagging as he tried to walk on his toes.
Kealey felt his stomach constrict. He wished to hell
he
knew what was going on outside this room. Because the only option he seemed to have left was to take a shot at the man, drawing his fire and hoping he could kill the son of a bitch before he himself went down.
 
Chandra knelt on the wooden boards of the bell platform, the barrel of a Heckler & Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle cradled in his left hand, his right wrapped lightly around its grip, his elbows carefully balanced on the sill beneath the tower’s window arch. Inhaling, exhaling, getting into the right breathing tempo, he peered through the weapon’s powerful 6x42 telescopic sight, studying his target through the third-floor window of the convention center across the street.
There were good shooters, and there were snipers. There were methods and formations that could make ordinary shooters better—by making a “figure eight” rotation with the barrel and firing at the peak of the second circle, or by firing in between breaths, but not actually
holding
your breath—but just how fast and how accurate a shooter was at making the calls and the shots, estimating a long-range target’s distance, adjusting for conditions, stalking the prey to the point of invisibility, learning to live with discomfort in even the most serene terrains, and disguising himself to adapt to the most hell-sucking surroundings, anywhere and nowhere, and all while never existing in the enemy’s eye, that was what demarcated a sniper. A sniper was as stealthy as his rifle was deadly.
Chandra was a city boy, recognized by his comrades more for his precision than his trail-hunting abilities; country boys were better known for tracking. But in either battlefield setting, it was imperative that scopes and muzzles remained invisible. If they couldn’t see you, they couldn’t hit you. Luckily for Chandra, urban environments were filled with glinting metal structures and flickering lights and windows.
Perfect cover for a sniper rifle.
Beside him, in a nearly identical firing position, Alterman held a rifle of the same make and model, which gave them almost thirty thousand dollars’ worth of precision ordnance to match the twenty years of training and experience between them here in the church tower. Both agents, in addition, wore tactical vests and black unis with the circular black and silver patch of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team sewn onto their shoulders, though only Alterman, the pair’s senior member, had on amber shooter’s glasses.
In his flippant moments—and this was anything but one—the Indonesian-born Darma Chandra joked that the glasses were a sign of the other man’s advancing decrepitude, Alterman being forty-three years old in comparison to his thirty. But Chandra knew his partner was the most capable and seasoned marksman in the unit, having been certified at the U.S. Marines Corps’ 4th MEB antiterrorism school at Camp Lejeune, having done advanced recon in northern Afghanistan, then having been selected for diplomatic and embassy security in Kabul back in the days when Taliban assassins were a common roadside presence in and around the city.
Chandra didn’t have quite as colorful a background, having spent his entire career stateside since joining the FBI fresh out of college—and with new citizenship. And while his top gun rating in the SWAT and sniper courses gave him cred among his peers, he willingly bowed to Alterman’s expertise. After the president’s executive ARI order had been received—All Resources In, overriding the allocation of sectors and jurisdictional red tape, and triggering the FBI-led assault—there had been not a word of discussion about who would execute the takeout. Alterman was boss all the way.
The BPD chopper had lighted the target before withdrawing, allowing their helmet cameras to grab an image for reference. The radio-linked gun laser locked on the target selected by the heads-up displays in the sharpshooters’ glasses. The laser did not determine the actual trajectory; that was in the hands of the marksman. It simply created a circle, about the size of a wedding band, for aiming. The target discs were far more diffuse than the old single-point laser beams. It was unlikely that anyone inside the kill zone would see the circle unless they were looking.
Chandra’s job would be to fire a heartbeat before Alterman, aiming slightly away from the target, breaking the window to leave a clear path for Alterman’s bullet. Although with Chandra shooting through glass—the convention center architects had used a fairly standard glazed laminate for their floor-to-ceiling windows—it was always possible that his round would be sufficiently deflected to hit the mark.
But that wasn’t something they expected. Made for precision shooting, their NATO Ball Special 7.62mm loads weren’t especially frangible. They would not break up or lose their shape on impact with the layered glass. The church steeple itself was a good hide, offering them shade and concealment, and the torpid weather conditions eliminated wind as a variable in the bullets’ trajectories. All factors considered, both snipers wouldn’t need spotters. Second shots here were not an option. And both men knew it.
His cheek against the HK’s black synthetic stock, Chandra saw the gunman continue to press his weapon into the hostage’s throat while facing the Company guy, or whatever he was, who had come running into the conference room and had taken down one of the hostage takers in a slick, nasty bit of business. It did not look to Chandra like he was making any progress in getting the mark to surrender. Just moments before the Company guy had raised his assault rifle. Classic standoff. But with a weapon to the throat of a hostage and the SWAT teams already closing in, time was not on the snipers’ side.
“Ready to do this?” Alterman said, as if reading his thoughts. They had been given full discretion on proceeding with the drop, and the senior agent was clearly in sync with him on the pointlessness of waiting.
“Yeah.”
“On my count,” Alterman said.
Chandra resumed his rhythmic breathing, centering the target in his crosshairs and then tilting the gun up by a tiny degree.
“Standby,” Alterman said. “Four, three, two, one ...”
Chandra exhaled on the
one,
aimed in the center of his own faint red circle and, at Alterman’s fire command, gave the trigger of his rifle a smooth pull.
His full metal jacket NATO slug broke the conference room’s sheet-glass window with a crack and drilled harmlessly into the wall above their mark’s head. An imperceptible moment later, Alterman’s full metal jacket round entered the room, twinkling as it passed through the down-turned chopper beacon.
 
Out in the corridor, Allison heard what sounded like the sharp
tak
of a stone bouncing off the windshield of a car, a high-pitched whine, and then the screams. The first cry came from Colin. She had heard that whoop at enough U of V Cavaliers basketball games to be sure of it. The rest of the yells came from many different people, men and women. But there were no sounds of gunfire, not from within the room.
She went rushing into the conference room. As Allison moved clumsily on cramped legs, she became aware of the rumbling of automatic weapons fire in the distance. It sounded different than what she and Kealey had heard before. This was rhythmic, deeper, somehow
coordinated
.
It was instantly forgotten as she swung into the room. She nearly tripped over the throat-cut guard at the door, splatting through the pool of his blood as she swerved around him, her eyes seeking Colin. She saw the people who’d been crowded together at one end of the room rising slowly, like time-lapse plants, looking as stunned and overwhelmed as she was. Then she saw Kealey crouched beside her nephew, comforting him. Colin was squatting and was covered with blood. It looked like he had been the loser in a paintball competition, and her first thought was that they had failed Colin, failed him totally and horribly. He was covered with such a massive quantity of blood that her mind initially refused to accept what she was seeing. She was a doctor; she’d seen people bleed. She was very aware that the five and a half quarts in a human body Colin’s size was a
lot
of blood when you saw it draining out. But
this
much ... How was he even awake? As she scurried forward, dropping the gun, her eyes scanned for a wound. Perhaps in his back, his shoulder ...
“Colin!”
His eyes snapped toward her. He was sobbing openly, but not from pain. Something resembling a smile pulled at his mouth.
“He’s okay,” Kealey told her. His voice seemed far away, hollow, like he was in the bottom of a trash can.
Kealey helped Colin up by the arm.
And then, behind Colin, she saw the fallen gunman. He was lying facedown, splayed like a crime-scene chalk outline. The back of his head was gone, disintegrated, tiny bits of white showing around its gaping remnants like the pieces of a broken eggshell. There was the source of all the blood.
She was crying by the time she reached Colin. She threw her arms around him, felt his weight fall into them—but only for a moment, as he sought to stand on his own.
“I’m okay, Aunt Allison,” he said, sounding like the little boy she used to hug, when he let her, on birthdays and holidays.
“I love you,” she said. “I was so worried.”
“Me too,” he replied, weeping.
Her fingers feeling Colin’s scalp just to be sure, she turned to Kealey while she held him. “Thank you,” she sputtered.
“Wasn’t all me,” he said. Facing the exterior wall, he made a show of unshouldering his weapon and placing it on the floor before walking toward the shattered window. “We got some help. And I’m guessing there’s more on the way.”
“Those shots ... ?” Alison asked.
“From the church,” Kealey said as he reached the empty window frame and flashed a thumbs-up at the steeple. “It’s the only place that has a direct line of sight.”
Allison sought out the church, could barely see it in the dark. Then a helicopter moved in, throwing a bright white light across the steeple as it rotated toward the broken window. She looked away.
Kealey returned to her side a moment later. “I have to go,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
“I have to get upstairs to the ballroom. The one where Julie was supposed to give her speech.”
Allison released her nephew. “Dear God, forgive me!” she said. ”I forgot.”
“No need to apologize,” he said. He bent to retrieve the gun. “We’ve been thinking in little, bite-size pieces.”
“But we don’t even know if she’s—”
“There’s a lot we don’t know,” Kealey interrupted. “So let’s take things one at a time. How are you?”
“Don’t worry about me, Ryan.”
He regarded her closely. “You sure?”
She nodded.
He looked at her nephew. “Colin?”
“Same here,” Colin said, although his voice was tremulous. “Man, you did so good,” he said. “You saved me.”
“You got us here, and you stayed cool,” Kealey said. “It was a team effort. You saved all these people, too,” he added with a sweep of his arm behind him. “Your tweet said the hostages were in two groups. Where are the others?”
“They’re in a room across the hall.”
“How many altogether?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty people. They separated us down the middle.”
“The number of guards with them?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Your best guess,” Kealey said. ”It’s important.”
Colin looked thoughtful. “I think they split in half,” he said. “There was
him,
you know”—he glanced back at the dead gunman’s body—“and a second guy, who left the room when he heard the noise out there. The one you got with the knife. Then there was a third guy, who I’m guessing you shot at the door.”
“So you’re saying there were only a few in each room. That’s it?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Ryan, I heard gunfire downstairs,” Allison said.
“Those were point men for the hostage takers being picked off by SWAT personnel,” Kealey said. “I heard it, too. The enemy was patrolling in twos, and there were a dozen bursts from FBI Glock twenty-twos. Nothing since. Our boys are working their way up here methodically, standard operating procedure, and they may not be in time. Not if the guys in the other room figure out they’re licked.”

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