Authors: Stephen England
It was a lot of territory, Marika thought. And they had scarcely a hundred agents. The reinforcements Buhler had sent from Denver had no sooner landed at McCarran than they had packed back up and headed for LA.
She got up from the conference table, passing the CIA agent on her way out the door. He had to have been in his late thirties, but he looked younger.
“Walk with me,” she said as she passed. It wasn’t a request.
A nod and he turned to follow her as they moved out into the corridor. “Who are you?”
A faint smile passed across the man’s boyish face and he unclipped his visitor badge, passing it to her without a word.
She snorted, glancing down at the name printed there.
“Right. You’re not an analyst—not the type of desk jockey Langley generally sends over. What are you in…the SAD?” Marika asked, referencing the Special Activities Division.
“No comment,” he replied with an easy shrug. “See no evil, speak no evil?”
“Not until this is over. Then there
will
be an investigation into who authorized an op on American soil.”
“I’m sure there will be,” came the even response. “In the mean time, we’re occupying Ground Zero…but you know that, don’t you?”
She nodded, glancing down the corridor. “I know it, you know it…I think even Powers can feel it. But until D.C. knows it—until they give the order to the other field offices, our hands are tied.”
4:01 P.M. Mountain Time
Billings Logan International Airport
Billings, Montana
“Delta Flight 94, this is Tower. You are cleared for departure on Runway 2.”
Captain Paula Gonzalez acknowledged the order, glancing over at her co-pilot as they began rolling down the runway, the huge Pratt & Whitney turbofans roaring into life on either side of the fuselage.
“Christmas Eve in Vegas? It could be worse—right?”
She laughed. “Right. Then back to see Andrew and Julie unwrap their presents. If Keith can keep them in bed that long.”
“Relax,” he replied as the Delta Airlines 757 rose into the sky, carrying two hundred and thirty-three souls.
“It’ll be a milk run.”
6:17 P.M. Eastern Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“The President will join you momentarily,” the Secret Service agent announced, ushering Kranemeyer into the Treaty Room.
The President
. Kranemeyer’s eyes flickered around the room, coming to rest on the old Theobald Chartran painting on the wall across from him, of the signing of peace protocols between the United States and Spain in 1898.
Men coming together for peace. Back in a day when wars had been fought between nation-states—and a treaty had meant something.
A simpler time.
Voices at the door, and the DCS turned as President Hancock entered the room, flanked by his detail.
“Thank you for coming, director,” Hancock said, his voice smooth as silk as he gripped Kranemeyer’s hand. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but this is our lot in life, isn’t it?”
Kranemeyer nodded his acknowledgment, Haskel’s face flickering across his mind’s eye. The way he had looked, groveling on the carpet. Dying.
“
Peace in our lifetimes. A permanent end to…the energy crisis for America. It was going to be real—all we had to do was stand back
.”
Politicians
, Kranemeyer thought, maintaining a studiously neutral expression.
“I’m due for some good news, director. I trust you’ve come to give it to me.” The President looked tired, fatigue betraying the smooth veneer.
“I’m afraid not.” Kranemeyer passed an open folder across the table to the President. “If anything, our assets on the West Coast are being spread thin, misdirected.”
His words seemed to rattle Hancock. “What are you saying?”
“Every piece of intel we’ve been able to gather indicates that the attack is against Las Vegas. The pictures we have are of both Abu Kareem al-Fileestini and Tarik Abdul Muhammad together in a Vegas strip club just a few days ago. There was nothing on LA until this morning, when Abu Kareem showed up there.” He was going out on a limb, trusting the intel Parker had provided him.
Trust your men
.
Could he still do that…after Hamid?
“But he
is
there,” Hancock responded, tapping the folder nervously. “And the FBI has him pinned down. They’re just waiting for the rest of the cell to show up.”
Kranemeyer inclined his head to one side. “And what if they don’t show up, Mr. President?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…what if our intelligence is, in fact, correct? What if Abu Kareem is a decoy?”
“But that would mean that we have
nothing
.” Hancock leaned forward. “And your intel could be wrong. I have to go with what we have, director. Terrorists have brought a weapon of mass destruction onto our soil…and I have to follow our best chance of stopping it. I can’t let a terrorist attack of this scale be the legacy of my presidency.”
“Then you won’t countermand the orders coming out of the Bureau’s regional field offices?”
Silence. Kranemeyer could see the indecision written on the President’s countenance. Torturous uncertainty.
“No. I can’t.”
4:49 P.M. Pacific Time
FBI Field Office
Las Vegas, Nevada
The moment Agent Chase reentered the conference room, Marika knew something was wrong.
The younger woman’s face was pale, the pasty look of someone who had just vomited. “There’s something I need to show you,” she stammered, glancing from Marika to the S-A-C. “It was forwarded to us from Fort Meade—they picked it up less than fifteen minutes ago as it was being uploaded.”
“Throw it up on the plasma.”
She hesitated at Powers’ instruction. “It’s graphic.”
And Marika knew. She heard the S-A-C repeat his order as if in a haze, then turned toward the screen as a video began to play.
It was low-resolution, not much better than webcam quality. But she knew the face.
Nasir abu Rashid
. Or al-Khalidi—or whatever his name had been, really.
Her
CI. Kneeling in what appeared to be a large, darkened room…facing the camera.
The wall behind him was covered with the flag of jihad, bearing the
shahada
in flowing Arabic, white script on a hell-black background.
There is no god but God—and Muhammad is his Prophet.
She watched as the man standing at his side began speaking in rapid-fire, nervous Arabic, his face shrouded by a black balaclava, clearly pronouncing a death sentence.
Nasir’s lips were moving, but the microphone couldn’t pick up his final plea for mercy.
Don’t worry, Nasir. I’m coming for you.
A promise she hadn’t kept, Marika thought…watching as the executioner took a step back, drawing a glistening steel katana from its sheath.
You’ll be safe
.
She remained watching, stone-faced as the sword fell with a cry of
“Allahu akbar
!”
Blood sprayed into the air, a strangled scream reaching the microphone—a wet blade pulled back to strike again and again until the head fell to the floor, completely severed. The decapitated torso remained kneeling for another half-second before it toppled to one side.
Marika looked over to see Agent Chase covering her eyes. “Look!” she hissed from between clenched teeth, seizing the younger woman by the wrist. “
We
sent him out there, we failed him—we let him get killed getting intel we needed…don’t you
dare
hide your eyes.”
She rose from the table, her body trembling with anger. “Take that video apart—I want to see every frame over and over until we find out where it was filmed. Let’s
get
them.”
5:23 P.M.
Canoga Park, California
“Still out there?” Abu Kareem asked in Arabic as the Pakistani fighter re-entered the room.
The man nodded, responding in the same language. “Two snipers that I can see out the front.”
It didn’t matter, he thought, his fingertips lightly caressing the butt of the Sig-Sauer P226 holstered under his light windbreaker…just beneath the edge of the explosive vest he was wearing. They had no intentions of leaving here alive.
The imam ran a hand over his beard, glancing at the bare white interior walls of the shop. This wasn’t the way he had envisioned himself dying, but that was not for a man to choose. It was enough for his life to be given in a holy cause.
He glanced at his watch, smiling as the hands moved on inexorably toward their destination. Two and a half hours…
5:38 P.M.
FBI Field Office
Las Vegas, Nevada
“By judging the light—the shadows, we can get approximate dimensions for the room.” Agent Chase brushed her hair back from her eyes, attracting Thomas’ attention. “I’d say we’re looking at a room maybe
20’ x 23’…maybe a little larger. We’ve also run the audio—we’re not getting the type of feedback that you would expect if the walls were solid.”
“What then?” he asked, moving closer to where she sat. Chase glanced between him and Powers.
“I’d say we’re looking at glass walls on at least three sides…taken together with the room dimension, perhaps a conference room?”
It was such a narrow thread. He walked over to the plasma as the tape began to roll again, advancing forward frame-by-frame. There was something…ninety seconds in he held up a hand. “Roll that back.”
And there it was again. He pointed toward an edge of the jihadists’ banner—something on the wall just behind it, barely revealed by a fold of the cloth. Letters, and something else. “Can we enhance the image?”
She made a face. “We’re dealing with poor source-quality…I can try.”
“Do it.” Thomas looked back at the sound of Agent Altmann’s voice. The look of cold resolution on her face hadn’t wavered since the video first played.
“It will be up in a few seconds.”
And there it was, on the big screen. Barely visible—the logo probably wasn’t more than six inches. Five black letters, surmounted by a swirl of red.
H-I-L-D-R
.
“It’s a company logo,” Marika announced from his elbow, startling him. He hadn’t heard her approach.
“Then we need to find the company,” Thomas announced, turning back toward the table. “You find the company—you find their properties or the last time they
rented
property in the region. Narrow it down to buildings that are no longer occupied. We work from there.”
6:03 P.M.
The Bellagio Hotel & Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
“…and it is with pleasure that I welcome Congresswoman Laura Gilpin to the Bellagio tonight.”
Steve Winfield moved back from the microphone, extending a hand as Gilpin mounted the stage. “Thank you, Steve,” she whispered, squeezing his arm. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Applause erupted from the room as she came to the podium, looking out over the bunting-bedecked tables, the faces looking back at her through the darkness.
All of the years. All of the fighting. To get here. Politics was intoxicating in these moments, she thought—these rare moments of adulation. It was these moments that people inside the Beltway
lived
all their lives for, every waking moment. This feeling of power.
“I’d like to thank my dear friend Steve Winfield and the staff of the Bellagio for their hospitality tonight. And my aide Brooke Morgan for managing the logistics of the evening—making it all come together. And to all of you for your support through a long and tiring campaign. After all the hours of campaigning, after all the shoe leather worn bare, after all the phone calls we placed together…this is
your
night. We work hard, and we
play
hard. This, my friends,” she finished with a smile, “is your night to play.”
9:31 P.M. Eastern Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“We’ve caught a break,” Ian Cahill announced, sweeping back into the Oval Office. “The Bureau’s field office in Las Vegas believes that they have a location on the rest of the terror cell.”
“Where?” Relief broke across Hancock’s features, the look of a man
just released from prison.
“An abandoned convention center on the outskirts of Vegas. It has lain empty for two years, but someone purchased it nine months ago. The Bureau is still following the money trail, but it looks like the fingerprints of the House of Saud are all over this one. Perhaps it goes no farther than financing…but they’re involved.”
Hancock looked down at his hands. “What is the plan, exactly?”
“They’re going to take down both locations simultaneously, the one in Vegas and the building in Canoga Park.” Cahill paused. “If you want, you can monitor everything in real-time from the Situation Room.”
The President hesitated for only a moment before rising from his seat. “Let’s go.”
7:29 P.M. Pacific Time
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Stay out of sight until I give the go-order—then close with the target,” the S-A-C announced, speaking into his headset, as he looked out the tinted windows of the unmarked SUV at the target building.. “We’ll breach the building from three sides, with another tac team covering the rear.”
“Copy that.”
He glanced over at Thomas. “We’ve jammed all communications coming in and out of the building to prevent the terrorists from using a remote detonator, leaving only a single frequency open for our use. But no cellphones are going to work, nothing else.”
A grim smile. “The moment of truth.”
“Yeah,” Powers replied, suddenly seeming distant. He listened to the chatter on the team radio for a long moment. “I need to know…was it you?”
Startled by the question, Thomas managed a blank look. “What are you talking about?”
The FBI agent shook his head, his lips pursed into a thin line. “I know my wife cheated on me those years ago—I’ve known it for a long time, and it really…doesn’t matter. I love her, and I love the child she carries. But I saw the way she looked at you in our kitchen last night. And I want the truth—did you sleep with her?”
“Yes,” Thomas replied, an unaccustomed feeling rolling over him…was it shame? “It was late—we both were drunk. Too drunk to think things through.”
Powers snorted. “So it’s true what they say about you boys at the Agency, after all? James freakin’ Bond…”
He shook his head in disgust, the look on his face belying his earlier words.
Anger
.
“You’ll stay on the perimeter,” he added, pushing open the door of the SUV. “I don’t need
you
on the entry team. We breach in five.”
It was going down, Marika thought, eyeing her wristwatch.
7:38
. All the anxiety she had felt for Nasir was gone, replaced by a cold fury.
Powers’ teams were marked on the computer display in front of her, each position marked out. She could see his men from where she sat, staging for entry on the side door. Thermal wasn’t giving them anything—if there was anyone inside, they were deep within the building.
Ninety seconds…
The passenger door of her Suburban opened and the CIA man hoisted himself up into the seat. “Ready?”
She nodded. They’d had to make a choice—go in with NBC gear to protect against the possibility of the nerve agent being released and sacrifice situational awareness and speed of movement in the enveloping suits. Or take their chances and go in unprotected.
Powers had chosen the latter option. It made sound tactical sense…she could only pray that he was right.
She saw the lead man move back, his rifle covering the door as his partner knelt down to mirror the door, checking for any wires that would indicate a booby-trap.
Hand signals flashing between the men as the battering ram slammed into the side door of the convention center with a mighty thud, the hinges ripping away as the door fell into the corridor beyond.
Inside
.
7:40 P.M. Pacific Time
Canoga Park, California
He could hear them coming—American boots on the stairs outside. Abu Kareem closed his eyes, whispering the
shahada
beneath his breath. The creed of his life.
Living among these people.
That
had always been his jihad, to subvert from within even as others struck from without.
There was something soul-cleansing about this final act of sacrifice, the imam thought, his hand closing around the detonator of his suicide vest. As if it wiped away all the lies.
He glanced over to where the Pakistani fighter sat at the other side of the room, his jacket gaping open to reveal a similar vest. The man’s lips were moving, as if in a final prayer—his eyes fixed on the small cylinder sitting in the center of the room, maybe twice the size of an ordinary aerosol can. Jamal’s creation, from back in the lab in Dearborn. Filled with the nerve agent.
The door came flying open as if hit by a ram, the clang of metal on concrete as a stun grenade was hurled in.
A shockwave of noise hammered Abu Kareem’s ears, a blinding light filling the room.
And he pressed the button…
10:41 P.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room of the White House
Washington, D.C.
“Why can’t we hear anything?” Hancock exclaimed, his fraying patience showing through.
Ian Cahill looked away from the real-time satellite imagery up on the massive screens of the Situation Room, back to where the President sat. “They’re jamming all transmissions in and out of the target locations. That includes their own. We’ll receive a transmission when they’ve secured the sites and the nerve agent.”
“
If
they secure the nerve agent,” Hancock murmured, daubing his face with a handkerchief. “I wish Haskel could be on this one.”
“They will, Mr. President,” Cahill responded, using his title in the presence of the personnel manning the Situation Room. “The FBI has their best people on this, and they will—”
He stopped as the blood suddenly seemed to drain from the President’s face, his eyes staring toward the screens as if transfixed.
Cahill turned on heel, his own mouth falling open. A fiery bloom of flames and debris had burst from the target building, seeming to spread outward for a split-second before it was sucked back into the maw of the explosion.
“Dear God…”
7:42 P.M. Pacific Time
The convention center
Las Vegas, Nevada
Thomas heard the warning come over the team radio, but there was no time to respond, no time even to react as the explosion followed a fraction of a second later.
The fireball seemed to expand out the upper windows of the convention center, angry flames licking at the supporting beams. Debris rained down on the street separating them from the target building, a half-broken concrete block smashing into the hood of a parked car.”
He looked over into Marika’s face, seeing his shock mirrored in her eyes.
It only seemed to last for a moment before she shoved open the driver’s side door, her gun hand coming out with a Glock. “Powers?” she demanded, speaking into her radio. “Carlson? Rodriguez? Boehm?”
Static
.
Thomas stepped out onto the asphalt, slipping his Beretta from underneath his jacket, gazing across the debris-strewn pavement to the flaming shell of the building the FBI tactical teams had entered only minutes before.
They’d been led into a trap
.
Marika’s radio crackled as she came around the front of the Suburban. “…don’t. It’s not—”
She stopped stock-still. “Did not copy your last—we’re coming for you. Just hold on.”
More white noise and then the voice was back. Loud enough for Thomas to hear him. “—no.” The agent on the other end coughed loudly, a rough, hacking sound. “…the nerve gas…released.”
7:44 P.M.
Delta Flight 94
“Flight 94, please continue in holding pattern at 9,000 MSL.”
The lights of the Vegas Strip shone thousands of feet below as Pamela Gonzalez acknowledged the order, guiding the massive Boeing into the inbound leg of the pattern.
“If they’d known we were going to run into this delay, they’d have held us back at SLC,” her flight officer observed, referencing their lay-over in Salt Lake City.
He was right. It was standard operating procedure—even with their airspeed held down to just over two hundred knots, every moment in air cost Delta big-time in fuel.
“We’ll be down in a few minutes,” she responded. “Plans?”
“I always visit the Venetian—always lose. We’ll see if tonight I can break even.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
He grinned. “That too.”
The radio came alive again. “Flight 94, this is Tower. You are cleared to land, runway three.”
7:45 P.M.
Omar rose from his kneeling position on the flat, gravel-covered roof, staring up into the night sky. “There is no god but God,” he whispered, stilling his trembling hands.