Code 13 (51 page)

“Unit one. Acknowledge instructions, sir.”

“Unit two. Acknowledge instructions.”

“Unit three. Roger that.”

Paul executed a U-turn and headed back toward the warehouse just as the first government Ford Taurus pulled up on the curb in front of the warehouse. A second later, as two other Tauruses rounded the corner from Potomac to First, Mark Romanov jumped out of his car and pulled out his pistol, then ran over and knelt down on one knee, pointing his pistol straight across the hood of his car toward the warehouse.

With a bullhorn attached to his belt on his left hip, Romanov had stashed another gun, a silver revolver stuck in the back of his pants.

Paul pulled the Suburban up across the street from the warehouse and stopped. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the 9-millimeter.

Three more NCIS agents pulled up in their cars, got out, pointed their guns toward the warehouse, and crouched down low behind their cars. Guns still pointed, they mimicked the posture of Mark Romanov.

Paul recognized two of the men as Special Agents Carraway and Frymier, the two agents who were in the Pentagon parking lot the same morning the animal inside the warehouse shot Caroline.

He didn't recognize the third agent.

He decided at that moment, with Nationals Park behind him, that he would play the role of the center fielder in this operation, hanging back with his gun, and would intervene if the red Mercedes or its driver emerged from that warehouse.

Still crouched down, Romanov moved forward, away from his car, into the side driveway, and motioned the other agents to follow.

They disappeared behind the corner, and suddenly Paul remained out front alone.

He picked up the gun, worked the action, and waited.

WAREHOUSE

1448 FIRST STREET SE

WASHINGTON, DC (NEAR NATIONALS STADIUM)

7:45 A.M.

They moved single-file up the driveway beside the warehouse, hugging the brick wall to his left. Mark took the point, followed by Special Agents Carraway, Frymier, and Naylor.

His heart pounding in the morning sun, with the breeze from the river in his face, Mark felt electricity flowing in his arms and legs.

Moments like this separated the men from the boys. Great lawmen like Jelly Bryce lived for these moments.

He had entered that zone. At a time when he and his men were on the blood trail, closing in on a cold-blooded killer, knowing their lives were on the line, Mark was stone-cold fearless.

What he felt, instead, was a killer instinct. In fact, this killer instinct saturated him. Nothing compared to it. Not drugs. Not sex. When the instinct kicked in, only killing could saturate it.

He knew his destiny was greatness. For only a rare man could stare death in the face without blinking. Jelly Bryce was such a rare man, and Mark Romanov would follow in Bryce's footsteps.

In his gut, he hoped the animal would not surrender, that this would end in a gunfight.

Mark wanted to kill this guy—and to kill whatever other vermin were in the rat's nest. Not only for trying to kill Caroline, but also for embarrassing him personally by slipping by the NCIS detail.

Nobody would embarrass him like that and get away with it. And if he got even a sliver of opportunity, that's exactly what he would do to them—put an end to this once and for all.

Now was the time for leadership. And leadership he would show.

Motioning his three subordinate agents to stay down and behind him in single file, Romanov crouched to the corner edge of the brick wall.

Staying low, his head just a few inches off the concrete, he peered around the edge of the building, looking to his left. The red Mercedes
sported a New York license plate and was parked between three black Mercedes, all with District of Columbia plates.

A cloud blocked the sun, and a shadow, along with a gust of wind, swept across the back parking area. The empty loading dock showed no signs of life. But a large open bay led into the back of the warehouse.

The assassin obviously had huddled inside the warehouse.

Now was the time to execute.

Mark unholstered his megaphone and held it up to his lips.

“Attention inside the warehouse. You are surrounded by federal agents. Come out of the warehouse with your hands up, and you will not be harmed.”

No response.

Mark motioned Agents Carraway and Naylor to fan out along the driveway, in a position out parallel to him but still not in open view of the back of the warehouse.

He again brought the megaphone to his lips. “You! Inside the warehouse! Federal agents! We know you're in there! I'm giving you one more chance! Now come out with your hands up! This is your final warning!”

Mark checked his watch. He would wait thirty seconds, and that would be it. Fifteen seconds passed.

Twenty seconds.

Now twenty-five.

That was it.

“Okay! Move out!” Mark turned and pointed at Carraway, crouched off to his right about thirty feet. “Carraway, establish position behind that Mercedes.”

Carraway responded with a thumbs-up
,
then took off running at a diagonal angle, across the parking area, toward the black Mercedes.

The sharp, single shot rang across the concrete, the sound filling the air.

His heart racing, Paul thought about jumping out and running up the driveway to provide additional cover for the NCIS agents. But that
wasn't the smart approach, he decided. The one shot could have been fired by Mark Romanov or one of the NCIS agents.

Perhaps they had already nabbed the assassin.

Or maybe the shot had been fired against the good guys.

Either way, no one was escaping. Not on his watch.

He cranked the Suburban and pulled forward, parking it in front of the driveway, blocking any car that might try to escape from around the corner.

If someone charged out the driveway, the driver's seat would be the most vulnerable and dangerous position to be in, in the line of fire of any gunshots. He got out of the Suburban, gun in hand, and crouched behind the vehicle, his pistol aimed across the hood and at the warehouse.

Special Agent Carraway lay in the middle of the parking area, his face kissing the concrete, his stomach bleeding in a puddle. He squirmed in pain, moaning in agony.

Mark held the wrist-radio transmitter to his mouth.

“Gentlemen, I'm going after Carraway. I'm going to open fire into the warehouse as I approach him. I need you to move out and pour fire inside as I make my move. Got it?”

“Got it, sir.”

“Roger that.”

Mark put down the bullhorn and, with his gun aimed in front of him, cut diagonally in front of the open bay door, firing multiple shots into the warehouse as he approached Carraway.

Naylor and Frymier stepped out into the open, unloading seven shots into the warehouse as Mark grabbed Carraway under the arms and started dragging him back to the side of the warehouse.

Return fire from the warehouse!

The first bullet whizzed by Mark's head, which made him want to drop Carraway and kill the sucker who fired it.

A second shot rang out.

“Aaah!” Naylor yelled out. “It's okay. My upper arm. I'm okay.”

Mark dragged Carraway over to the side of the building, out of the direct line of fire.

Carraway was conscious, but the bleeding had increased. He needed an ambulance, and fast.

Therein lay the predicament.

Calling an ambulance would mean the DC police would soon show up. Once that happened, they would want to take control. He would resist relinquishing control, and a jurisdictional tug-of-war would follow over who was in charge of this operation. It would be the same thing the Alexandria cops tried after the Ross Simmons shooting.

NCIS arrived on the scene first, investigating the shooting of a U.S. Naval officer, and then the local-yokel cops would show up like they owned the place.

The inevitable “Who's in charge here?” argument would compromise the mission and undermine everything Mark was trying to accomplish.

Of course, because some of the thugs inside weren't using silencers, the DC police would soon be responding to calls about the sound of gunfire anyway.

He needed to act fast, to finish this job while he still had total control.

“How can I help?”

Mark looked up. Captain Paul Kriete, wearing his summer white U.S. Navy uniform, stood there holding a pistol.

“Captain! What are you doing here?”

“Couldn't resist. How can I help?”

“Pull this man down toward the street and call an ambulance.”

“Will do,” Paul said.

“I've got to get back in the fight,” Mark said.

“Roger that.”

How to get these clowns out?

An idea struck him. He held up his wrist and again spoke into it. “Naylor. Frymier. Any sign of movement?”

“Negative.”

“That's a negative, sir. It's dark in that warehouse.”

“Okay, I'm going to get something out of the car. If you see any signs of movement coming out of there, take 'em out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark sprinted down the driveway to the Taurus and popped open the trunk, barely noticing Paul Kriete kneeling over Agent Carraway at the end of the driveway.

He picked up a tear-gas canister and a gas mask, then sprinted back up the driveway and spoke into his wrist transmitter.

“Okay, guys. I'm gonna drop a gas canister in there. That should stir things up. Shoot if you get resistance. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledge, boss. Roger that.”

“Okay. Here we go. Three . . . two . . . one.” Mark pulled the pin on the gas canister and reached around and tossed it into the open bay area. A shot ricocheted near his hand.

He held the wrist transmitter to his mouth. “Stand by, gentlemen. Stay covered.”

“Hey, boss. We got somebody coming out with his hands up.”

Mark looked up to see a white male, perhaps in his late fifties, stagger out of a cloud of smoke. He was coughing and holding his hands over his head.

“Don't shoot!” the man pleaded.

“You!” Mark screamed, pointing his gun at the man's head. “Over here. Facedown on the concrete! Now!”

Still coughing, the man stumbled toward Mark.

“On your knees, now, or I'll blow out your brains!”

“I'm not armed!” The man dropped to his knees.

“Naylor!” Mark screamed, his gun barrel jammed into the man's forehead. “Get over here! Secure this scumbag!”

“Yes, sir.”

Naylor, who had been ducked down behind one of the black Mercedes alongside Frymier, made a low dash back across the concrete, exposing himself to potential gunfire. He arrived and stood beside Mark, looking at the pathetic man kneeling on the concrete.

“Cuff his hands and tie his feet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Romanov! Heads-up!”

Shots rang out.

Another man sprinted out of the warehouse, running down the driveway toward Captain Kriete, guns blazing, firing in every direction as he ran.