Authors: Stephen England
Nothing
. Relief washed over him, followed by guilt at the very thought of it. Another of the hostages was dead…but only one.
It was math, he told himself—just that simple. That clear-cut. That
cold
.
Don’t think of the lives, just the numbers.
Keep it all locked away
.
“EAGLE SIX, we have a problem.” Harry turned back from the ladder at the sound of Tex’s voice, keying his mike.
“Go for it. What are we looking at?” He’d dispatched the former Marine explosives expert to the main entrance of the theatre, along with Han—scoping out their tactical options.
“The doors are wired to blow,” came the reply. “Same deal with the balcony entrance, up the escalator.”
That effectively ruled out a frontal assault. “Any way to disarm the bombs?”
“No.” He’d known the answer, but he had to hear it. “What’s thermal giving you?” The LVMPD had managed to scrounge up more than a bit of gear for them. And ammunition.
“No one close to the main entrance doors,” Han’s voice interjected. “Judging from the blurred image I’m getting, I’d say they’re grouped together well inside.”
That wasn’t going to be enough. “We’re going to need those blueprints,” Harry said. Agent Altmann was supposed to be getting them. The main door backstage was no doubt guarded as well by now, but there had to be dozens of access points for maintenance. It was just finding the right one—getting inside without being observed.
“Eyes up, EAGLE SIX.” He glanced down at the screen in his hand, the picture swaying slightly as Thomas fixed the cam more securely in position.
Tapping in a command on the small keypad, he watched as the wireless camera panned right, swinging across the seats of the theatre until the first group of hostages…and their guards.
It wasn’t a perfect image, but it gave them something to work with. Enough to pick out faces. “Come on back—we’ve got a twenty on the subjects. Looks like Cohen is still alive.”
A look at his watch reminded him of the grim reality.
Sixteen minutes
—another would die.
It wasn’t going to be enough.
“Altmann,” he barked into his radio, “are the Metro snipers in position yet?”
9:06 P.M.
Caesar’s Palace
“The service elevator will take you directly to the top floor of the Augustus Tower, sergeant,” the concierge said, leading the way down a back hallway. “The roof access is behind the door with the
Employees Only
sign.”
“Locked?” Sergeant Wayne Zimmerman asked, extending his left hand to the concierge.
A nod as the man reached into his pocket. “Keycard. Here, take it. And, sergeant…”
Zimmerman paused at the door of the elevator, the hard polymer case containing his sniper rifle clutched in his right hand.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
The sergeant acknowledged the thanks with a silent nod, turning into the elevator. Building materials were piled on top of a stack of pallets in one corner of the service elevator, detritus from one of the Palace’s renovation projects. He remembered seeing an article about it in the
Review-Journal
, two weeks before.
It had only been scant hours ago that he’d left home, heading out for another day at the “office”. Seemed like a lifetime.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” he’d told his wife with a laugh, as they had moved the stash of presents for a fifth(and final) time. And then he had gone out the door.
The LVMPD trained for terrorism. But this…he felt the rage build within him. Too many of his brothers in the Zebra units were already dead—fourteen at the last report coming from Winchester. As many incapacitated.
It felt surreal, almost numbing.
Zimmerman looked up, only then noticing that the wire running from the security camera in one corner of the elevator had been torn away from the wall.
Movement behind him, searing pain as a curved
janbiya
stabbed into his side, just below the edge of his tactical vest. A hand clamping down over his mouth.
He tried to scream, tried to turn—his hand clawing at the butt of his Smith & Wesson 659, but the retention holster held it in place, even as the dagger plunged into his body again and again.
Darkness
…
9:14 P.M.
The Bellagio
It was the same for all of them—going to their deaths, begging for mercy. As had his brother.
Jamal walked along the platform, his fingers slick against the hard plastic grip of the Kalashnikov, watching as their leader pulled another hostage from the crowd…a young woman this time, early twenties, no older. She reminded him of a blonde girl in his class at University of Michigan, a fellow chemistry major. Her smile. Her laugh—the way she dressed on a spring morning.
Seductive
.
He had nearly slipped once, he thought, anger building within him at the memory of his weakness.
Allah had kept his feet from falling, but the woman had never paid the price of her indiscretions. He saw her in the girl on her knees before their leader, the fear in her eyes.
Motivated by a sudden impulse, he moved closer to their leader—extending his hand for the Glock. “Let me.”
A moment of hesitation…and the pistol was placed in his outstretched hand, butt-first, the polymer cool beneath his fingers.
The girl’s slender body shook with sobs, tears streaking down her face as his fingers curled around the Glock’s grip—his breath coming faster at the power of it.
A heady feeling. Life and death…in
his
hands. “Who is your Lord?” he murmured, beginning to circle the girl as he recited the words of the Questioners. “Who is His Prophet?”
9:17 P.M.
“We can use the service door there—work our way down the hallway backstage and out…here, onto the balcony.”
Tex shook his head at Thomas, drawing a thick finger across the floor plans. “No go, I mirrored the door. They’ve got it rigged with grenades. Even assuming we could detonate them remotely with a breaching charge of our own, there’s too much ground to cover—at least fifty feet before you’d have a clear shot. No time to set up, your aim would be off from the run.”
He was right, Harry realized, looking back at the images taken from their covert camera. “Most of them would be dead before we arrived.”
Another shot rang out from the theatre, this time accompanied by a muffled scream. Harry’s hand stole toward the Colt on his hip…but there was nothing after it. Just silence. The knowledge of death.
He could see it in the eyes of his men.
Reaching out, Han tapped one of the images with his index finger. “They’re still wearing their coats…do these guys have s-vests?”
Harry nodded. “We’ll have to operate on that assumption, unless one of the people who escaped the theatre might have seen.”
He looked toward the door to see Altmann standing there. She nodded. “I’ll pass the word to the officers debriefing them.”
The female agent tossed a folder onto the table in front of Harry. “The guest list.”
He flipped it open, shaking his head as he scanned down the list of names. “This is like a who’s who of the Republican Party…do the networks have this?”
“Not yet.” The emphasis was clear in her voice. “The cellphone network just came back up five minutes ago.”
“And now all hell’s gonna break loose in the media.”
12:29 A.M. Eastern Time, December 25
th
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“Mr. President,” General Nealen began, sweeping back into the Situation Room, “we have another option on the table.”
Hancock looked back from the scattered sheets of paper in front of him, glaring across at his speechwriter. “This doesn’t even sound like
me
, Joyce,” he exclaimed, cursing in exasperation. “I need you on your game tonight of all nights.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” the young woman replied, seemingly cowed by his show of temper.
“Give us the room,” Hancock ordered, turning toward the Marine commandant as his speechwriter gathered up her papers and tablet computer. “I’m listening.”
“I just got off the phone with CINCLANTFLT, sir. Admiral Price informs me that the USS
Harry S. Truman
is on its way back from deployment in the Med, passing tonight within three hundred miles of Cuba.”
“So?” the President demanded, ignoring a warning glance from Cahill.
“You spoke of following through on Tarik Abdul Muhammad’s demands, Mr. President. I’m offering a way to do that without the risk of letting one of the most notorious terrorists on earth go free.”
“Go on,” Hancock replied, waving his hand when Nealen paused.
“We have thirty minutes before the plane touches down at Gitmo—the
Truman
’s CO can have a pair of F-18s on the cats ready to launch the moment it takes off with KSM aboard.”
“And?”
“Once the hostages in Vegas are safe, the
Truman
’s fighters intercept and either force the plane to return to Gitmo…or blow it out of the sky with a Sidewinder.”
The President considered the proposal for a long moment, glancing over at his chief of staff. “Ian?”
“It’s your call, Mr. President. It’s a better alternative than anything we had thirty minutes ago.”
Hancock looked down at his hands, realizing that they were trembling. Nothing in the prior four years had prepared him for this moment. “Get Vegas on the phone.”
9:32 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
The face of an angel, flaxen hair splayed out against a rude pillow made of a jacket. The eyes of a child staring up at him, eyes that never should have seen what they had witnessed this night.
“They told me your name was Ashlynn,” Harry whispered, stroking a lock of hair back from her cheek. She couldn’t have been more than nine. The daughter he’d never had.
She managed a timid nod, seeming to shrink away from his touch. Still in shock from the bullet that had pierced her arm as terrorists stormed the theatre. “It’s a pretty name,” he continued. “My name is Harry.”
The girl seemed to brighten for a moment. “My little brother’s name is Harry. He stayed home.”
He smiled, squeezing her small hand gently in his. “We’re going to get you home to see him, sweetheart. Soon.”
“And mommy too?” she asked, transfixing him with trusting, guileless eyes.
He nodded slowly, knowing it was a promise not his to make—holding onto her hand as if his very soul might be lost if he let go. “Yes, of course…mommy too.”
And he prayed that it wasn’t a lie. “Tell me what you told the lady who was just here…what did you see underneath the jacket of the man who shot you?”
Her face scrunched up as if trying to remember. “It was black…I think. Like that,” she said, pointing at his borrowed FBI tactical vest. “Black, with all sorts of wires hanging out. Like Harry’s truck when he tore out the battery.”
Harry smiled at her analogy, struggling to conceal the fear within him. “Take it easy, sweetheart,” he whispered, gripping her hand one final time before rising to his feet.
“Are you going to go find mommy?” That look of trust—it had been so long since he had seen it.
“Yes,” he replied, knowing that he was saying what she needed to hear.
Dear Lord, let this be true.
Show
me the way.
He waited until he was out of range of her ears before keying his mike. “All teams, we have confirmation. The gunmen
are
wearing suicide vests. The bombs at the center of the platform may be loaded with soman, but at this point, that’s extraneous. Let just one of those guys get the split-second needed to trigger his vest…ruins our whole day.”
There had been something there, Harry thought, hurrying back across the casino floor toward the makeshift command post they had set up near the north entrance of the Bellagio. It wasn’t as good as the security center, but it was closer.
Something in the floor plans.
Backstage
. A way in?
He was half-way back when he saw a TV screen lit up, a CNN reporter silhouetted against a flaming building.
“…one of the oldest churches of the Diocese of Las Vegas was the target of a bombing tonight as terror continues to seize hold of the city. Initial reports indicate over twenty people dead, with dozens more injured. Father Ralph Mulholland, the rector of Joan of Arc’s, has been confirmed to be among the dead.”
Another bombing
. He felt like he had been punched in the groin, anger surging through his body. So many already dead…and all because of
his
intel. He saw tears in the eyes of more than one LEO standing nearby. The knowledge of personal loss.