Authors: Stephen England
“Roger that,” Tarik Abdul Muhammad whispered over the radio headset, the butt of the Accuracy International AE MkIII sniper rifle cradled against his cheek as he lay there on the roof, aiming down and across the street at the north entrance of the Bellagio.
He had hardly expected them to succeed, but it still smote him to the heart to think of all his brethren dead, failed in their mission. As for himself…he had never intended to die this night,
Insh’allah
.
I take refuge with my Lord
, he thought, remembering the words of the Holy Qur’an,
from every proud one who does not
believe in theDay of Reckoning
.
Such a day had been brought to America this night—a day for the sins of men to be weighed in the balances. And many had been found wanting, as the police sergeant he had stabbed to death in the resort’s freight elevator.
The shaikh reached forward, pulling back the rifle’s bolt to chamber a .308 Winchester cartridge.
The final reckoning was yet to come…
10:19 P.M.
The Bellagio
Five minutes
. Half the time Harry had specified…elapsed. And still no one emerged from the theatre.
Carol stood at the edge of the casino floor, not far from a bullet riddled roulette wheel, glimpsing one of the sculptures of Richard McDonald as she gazed back toward the doors of the “O”.
Stretchers passed her by on their way out, the bloodied victims of the initial assault.
Marika emerged from the security elevator, spying the young woman standing there—as if waiting for something.
Someone
.
“Chambers,” she began, raising her voice slightly. “All of our people are already out, hardening the perimeter. Time to go.”
The young woman glanced back over her shoulder, meeting her eyes—and she could see the determination of youth.
“I’ll leave with them.”
“No purpose in it,” Marika replied, moving closer to her—brushing a strand of silver hair up under her FBI ball cap. “Nothing anyone can do at this point.”
Run
. It’s what she had done with Vic—left him lying there facedown in his own blood.
“Pray,” came the whisper, so soft that she almost missed it.
“There’s that.” The older woman shrugged. “God might be able to hear you better outside.”
“
No
,” Carol replied, shaking her head. The anguish was clearly visible in her eyes, resolution not unmixed with pain. “I’m staying. Right here.”
And she could see it.
“You love him, don’t you?” Marika asked, her characteristic bluntness coming to the fore. She’d seen the look before…even felt it herself once, in a long-ago time.
It seemed a long time before the young woman replied—and when she did, it was as a single defiant tear fell from her eye, rolling unheeded down her cheek. “Yes…”
“What are we looking at?” Harry asked, dropping down beside Richards at the entrance doors.
The big man shook his head, not even looking up. “Spent most of my time getting the trip wires clamped so I could cut them,” he responded, gesturing to the two long wires that had extended out from either side of the IED, spanning the breadth of the entrance. “Then had to get the cover of the housing off before I could even get at the mechanism.”
“Trembler switch?”
“None that I’ve
found
,” came the grim response, a small screwdriver clenched between the Texan’s teeth. “God knows he’s got everything else…a mercury tilt switch over here in this corner of the housing—and from the looks of these wires leading to the encased battery, he set up a collapsing circuit.”
Good times
, Harry thought. Cut just one wire—didn’t matter which one—and the whole thing exploded. Another thing Hollywood wasn’t too keen on telling people. “All that matters is getting it off the door—after that…they can throw it in Lake Mead for all I care. Focus on the tilt switch.”
“Already on it, boss,” Tex replied, taking the screwdriver out of his mouth.
Harry glanced down at the hostages in the seats below them, sensing the raw tension—nerves worn threadbare by the trauma of the night. The delay had them on the brink of panic. If they only knew the half of it…
“And hurry it up if you can. The natives are getting restless.”
1:21 A.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“We just received an update from Las Vegas, Mr. President.”
Hancock allowed himself a weary smile, glancing across at Cahill before turning his attention back to the aide. “And Congresswoman Gilpin is safe?”
The young man shook his head. “Not yet, sir. The hostages and the rescue team are still trapped inside the Bellagio’s theatre trying to disarm the explosives on the main door. Mr. President, the presence of the nerve agent has been confirmed. It’s contained in a pair of bombs within the theatre. They were set up for timed detonation.”
Hancock’s eyes widened, realizing the import of the words. “Then you mean…”
“The terrorists were on a suicide mission.” The aide paused, seeming to hesitate before going on. “All the negotiations…were a fraud,
just a ruse to receive access into our restricted airspace over Guantanamo.”
“Out,” the President whispered, anger and fear distorting his features. The look of a man who had been outplayed and knew it. “Just get
out
!”
10:21 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
“What’s he dealing with?” Han asked, glancing up as Harry walked back to him. The SEAL looked exhausted, his expression devoid of emotion.
Harry knelt down beside Gilpin’s wounded campaign manager, watching the young woman’s eyes. She was in shock, biting down on a pen to keep from screaming as the SEAL bandaged her shattered knee, preparing her to be moved.
“A mercury switch,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “If he moves the bomb or even jostles it—game over. He’s…making progress.”
Neither one of the men needed to look at their watches to know the truth. Time had almost run out.
Any moment now.
“Thank you.” Words seemed so…insufficient in this moment, and yet, to leave them unsaid?
“No more,” Han whispered, glancing down at the blood covering his hands, his face tightening into a grimace of pain. “After this, Harry, after all of this is done…I never want to see your face again. Where you go, Death follows—and I just can’t be a part of it any longer.”
Perhaps that was justice, even, Harry thought—unable to bring himself to answer the accusation. Knowing there was no defense.
He glanced over to where Laura Gilpin sat, bruised and battered. Her hand was clutching her side from the beating she had received, the faintest hint of fear showing in her eyes.
“Just a few minutes more,” he whispered, taking both of her hands in his. “And everyone will be safe. But I need your help.”
“Yes…of course,” the congresswoman replied, seeming to summon up whatever last reserves of strength she had within her.
“When those doors open, my partners will help your campaign manager and Mr. Winfield out—and I’ll be at your side. But we can’t have this turning into a stampede. If it does, more people are going to die. Your bravery’s kept these people alive so far this night. I need you to be their leader once more.”
She nodded her understanding. “Where’s Gilad?”
“Dead,” he responded, glancing up the aisle to where the bodyguard lay, the Sig-Sauer still resting beside his lifeless body. “He gave his life for yours—now let’s not have that be in vain.”
Harry looked up to see Tex standing there at the head of the steps. “The doors are clear.”
A nod and he reached down to help Gilpin up, wrapping an arm around her waist. She staggered against him, a moan of pain escaping her lips.
“Now hear this,” he called, his voice echoing off the distant wall of the theatre.
Knowing it was time for one final lie.
“The way out is clear—the danger is past. Let’s move out calmly, we all get to go home tonight.”
He saw several people glance at Gilpin, saw the look of reassurance she gave them.
“Go on,” she said, looking over the faces of her supporters. “I’ll be the last to leave.”
Trust
.
10:23 P.M.
She had never imagined that she could feel this way…but she found her breath caught in her throat as she scanned the crowd for his face, watching the people emerging in safety from the Bellagio’s theatre.
The people he had saved.
And then she saw him, his ballistic vest cinched over his bare chest, black jeans soaked from their immersion in the tank—supporting the congresswoman as they limped out of the theatre. The last to emerge.
“Thank God you’re safe,” Carol exclaimed, pushing her way through the crowd to him. It seemed like an eternity since he had disappeared into the darkness, preparing for the assault.
Harry looked up at the sound of her voice, his face changing suddenly. “Why—what are you doing still here? We’ve got still got two bombs, timed to go off any minute.”
He could feel the congresswoman stiffen beneath his arm, but he paid her no heed, staring into Carol’s eyes.
Feeling her father staring back.
“And you thought I was going to leave you?” she demanded, and despite himself, despite the horror of the night—he found himself smiling.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he whispered, gesturing for her to take Gilpin’s other arm.
They had made it five steps when the theatre behind them exploded, the air suddenly filled with flying debris, the glass doors around them shattering from the force of the shockwave.
Harry felt a shard of something—perhaps glass, stab into the back of his thigh, his knee buckling. He threw out a hand to stabilize himself, catching at the wall.
But he didn’t go down. People were running now, running once more in terror—screams filling the resort. And he could smell the faint scent of camphor in the air now surrounding them.
Soman
.
“Let’s go, let’s go!”
10:24 P.M.
The roof of Caesar’s Palace
He felt the roof shudder beneath him, the explosion more powerful than even he had expected.
Perhaps it had killed her, the shaikh thought. Perhaps she was lying dead in the ruins of the theatre, choking on the nerve gas.
Perhaps…
He adjusted his eyes again to the Accuracy International’s scope, focusing it on the crowd of people running from the resort. Adjusting the zoom until he could see their faces.
There
. Emerging from under the shadow of the carport—just within view of his perch. It seemed impossible that Gilpin could still be living, but there she was. He hugged the sniper rifle to his shoulder, centering the reticle on the congresswoman’s chest.
His finger curling around the match trigger, a gentle caress…
10:25 P.M.
The flashing lights of emergency vehicles lit up the night--red and blue light washing over them as they ran from the Bellagio, helping the congresswoman along. Harry could hear her cough, prayed that her exposure had not been severe.
“Altmann,” he demanded, keying his mike as they ran. “We’re going to need those injectors. Our principal was exposed to the nerve agent in the explosion.”
It was barely a moment before the FBI agent responded. “Roger that—where are you?”
“Near the ambulances at the south end of the resort. We—”
A supersonic
crack
split the air and he heard the congresswoman groan in sudden pain, felt her twist away from him as if struck by an invisible force.
The sound of a rifle shot smote his ears barely a half-second later—the bullet traveling faster than the speed of sound. And he saw the crimson stain begin to spread across Gilpin’s blouse. The stain of death.
And she was falling—still exposed to the marksman.
In his mind’s ear, he could hear a rifle bolt being snapped back, ejecting the shell casing—slammed forward, carrying another cartridge into the breech.
The work of a second.
He bent down, covering Gilpin with his own body as he tried to lift her—to carry her into the cover of a nearby ambulance.
“You never lose your principal—give your life for theirs, if it comes to that.”
Cohen’s words, ringing through his ears.
He could feel Carol at his side, her hands supporting the congresswoman’s head as they lifted, stumbling toward shelter. Gilpin was breathing heavily, her eyes flickering in and out of focus. Most likely shot through a lung.