The memorized code processed silently for several seconds, then the screen flashed all green. Their endeavor obviously had Allah’s blessing as the steel gates unlocked and began sliding back on their tracks, granting them access to the storage facilities.

  Yasim and his men rolled into the compound in the unmarked van and used the same code to gain entry into the designated warehouse. Everything was laid out perfectly. In Yasim’s opinion, the reason that so many so-called terrorist operations failed was lack of operational planning. Sayf had spent several years planning for this night, and his patience and trust in Yasim was paying off. Law enforcement, both local and federal, was distracted—busy following emergencies or false trails. Every step had been planned, with contingencies for the unexpected. The sunrise would see them almost finished with the weapon, and on this day they would succeed where so many others had failed.

  The men quickly loaded three of the detonators—one for the actual weapon, and two for backup. As they prepared to leave, Yasim saw the tell-tale flicker of a flashlight moving toward them—one of the security guards on foot patrol. Undoubtedly, their presence would raise questions and they wouldn’t be able to leave before the guard reached them.

  Yasim hissed an order and waved his men into the van, then slid back into the shadows of the building. The security guard’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw the van, and his hands were shaking as he slowly removed his gun from its holster and pointed it at the driver’s-side window. “What are you doing here this late?” the man asked.

  Yasim’s men cooperated, smiling and talking to the guard to keep his attention focused on the van. Tucking in behind him, the man known as the Mummy slipped a thin, long blade from his sleeve. The razor-sharp blade offered a touch like a delicate pair of lips—so soft that in the first millisecond the guard may have thought he’d experienced a sense memory or perhaps a very faint breath of wind. His carotid artery fountained with the beats of his heart and he turned his stunned gaze to his attacker.

  “Shh,” Yasim said, glorying in the kill, even as he jabbed forward once more, this time puncturing the guard’s larynx and preventing him from crying out.

  The guard slumped to the ground, unconscious in seconds, and when he was dead, Yasim dragged the body into the storage unit. Perhaps the other security people would think he’d left or quit. It might be several days before the body was found, and by then it wouldn’t matter in the least.

  Wiping the blade clean, Yasim returned it to the hidden sheath in his sleeve, then closed the doors and locked them. Returning to the driver’s seat of the van, he smiled. His work here was done and Sayf would be very pleased.

  15

  “You know this isn’t right.”

  Bolan caught Seles’s gaze in the mirror from the backseat of the black SUV. There was nothing more infuriating than being detained in the middle of a mission, but leaving Seles in the middle would only make things worse and Bolan was beginning to savor the idea of meeting Walker in person. Seles had insisted on making it look the way Walker would expect—and the Executioner was playing along. Seles had asked Bolan to turn over his gun and his phone, but he hadn’t gone so far as handcuffing him.

  “Denny, I need to make a call before we get to the EOC.”

  “To whom?” Seles asked.

  Bolan considered the question and how best to answer, then said, “For the sake of this mission, we’ll say my boss. The relationship is a little more complicated than that, but let’s keep it simple.”

  “Fine,” he said, passing Bolan’s phone over the seat. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

  Bolan laughed grimly and shook his head. “You won’t, but Walker probably will,” he said, punching in the code that would dial Brognola’s secure line.

  The man answered on the second ring, skipping the preamble. “I sincerely hope you’re calling with good news, Striker. I’ve got a bunch of antsy people breathing down my neck.”

  “I wish that were the case, Hal. Instead of chasing down the bad guys, I’ve been arrested.”

  “What!” Brognola wasn’t the kind of man to raise his voice, but this news caught him off guard. “On what charge?” he demanded.

  “Apparently, espionage,” Bolan said. “Washington sent out some NSA guy, Deputy Director Vincent Walker, to take over the operation. He thinks I’m playing for the other team for some reason and has had Denny Seles arrest me. He’s taken a bad situation and made it into a farcical mess.”

  Brognola mumbled something under his breath, and Bolan said, “Pardon me?”

  “I said ‘power-hungry little prick,’” he replied, enunciating each word carefully. “This is ridiculous! I’ll make a call and have this taken care of by the time you get there. The White House orders—and I’m looking at a copy—specified non-interference with both active and undercover field personnel. I’m sorry about this, Striker. I don’t think the White House knows what he’s up to out there, but I’ll involve the President personally.”

  “Thanks, Hal. Oh, one more thing, do some digging on the name Malick Yasim. It was the name I got before my informant was allowed to escape.”

  “What do you mean allowed?” Hal asked, his voice dropping into a lower register that to anyone who knew him would be a loudly ringing alarm bell.

  “I mean I was questioning him when Seles showed up to arrest me. While the suspect was receiving medical treatment he pulled a gun, shot two people and escaped. He was gone before I was even in the room with him again.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brognola said. “I’ll have this Walker’s ass before the day’s even started. Hang tight and I’ll get back to you with an update and whatever we’ve got on that name.” The line went dead and Bolan reclined back into the plush leather of the seat and closed his eyes.

  “What did your boss say?” Seles asked. “And for that matter, who is your boss?”

  Choosing to ignore the second question, Bolan asked one of his own. “What would you say if one of your agents was arrested in the middle of an interrogation, then the suspect he was questioning shoots two officers and escapes, while the leads are getting cold as he’s being transported in for a ‘debriefing’?”

  The hint of glee in Seles’s voice was unmistakable. “Someone is getting hell.”

  “Bingo.”

  * * *

  THE MINUTE WALKER’S SHOES hit the floor of the main auditorium inside the EOC, the area quieted. He felt a surge of personal satisfaction as the ants scurried to do his bidding, while keeping their heads down. Since taking command, he’d required each department lead to give an update every thirty minutes—or less, if information was urgent. His smartphone buzzed with an incoming text message and if anyone was watching when he read it they’d have seen an expression of what could only be described as terrifying joy cross his features. The message was from Seles: Cooper in custody. ETA to EOC 10 minutes. Pleased, Walker turned his attention to the running man approaching him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, there’s a priority call from the White House. It’s on a secure line in the Comm Room.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Walker said, privately perplexed. Why would anyone in the White House call him on a secure line that had to be routed into the Comm Room instead of just contacting him directly? It must be a highly sensitive matter, he thought, to require that level of privacy. He worked his way through the various groups of people in the auditorium, reaching the frosted-glass walls of the room. He stepped inside to find Hart waiting for him with the phone in her hand.

  Angered, he stared at her, but found her gaze to be unblinking. “What the hell are you doing answering my call from the White House, Ms. Hart?”

  “They asked to speak to me first,” she said.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he said, holding out his hand for the handset, wondering what trouble she’d managed to cause.

  “Mr. Walker, would you like to explain to me what in the blue hell you’re doing down there?” the President of the United States snarled into the line.

  Stunned, Walker stammered before saying, “Sir, I don’t know what Ms. Hart has told you, but...everything, sir, everything here is well in hand.”

  “Ms. Hart didn’t call me, I called her when I heard that instead of tracking down the terrorists, you’re using Denny Seles and his field team to arrest an agent I personally assigned to this operation.” The President was very angry—and that said something since he was generally a very patient man, given more to thoughtfulness and consideration than emotional displays. This wasn’t good at all.

  That son of a bitch Cooper, Walker thought. How was it possible that some field agent who didn’t even have a visible file had access to the President? “I’m not sure I understand, sir. Agent Cooper—”

  “Is acting under direct orders from me,” the President interrupted with a low growl.

  “I didn’t...I didn’t know that, sir. I was going over personnel files, and when I checked his, there were some things that didn’t add up. I’ve never even seen a clearance like the one he has! If I could just speak with his supervisor...”

  “You’re speaking with his supervisor! He has my clearance. What do you think the PEO line is for? It’s Presidential Eyes Only. Do you have any further questions about his authority or qualifications?”

  “No, sir,” Walker said, inwardly seething. He didn’t understand how one field agent could have that much power.

  “Then I can expect that he will be released and you will restrain yourself to the letter of your orders?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Of course, sir. I was only trying to...”

  “And let me be clear with you, Walker. If Agent Cooper yells ‘frog,’ you’ll ribbit and jump, is that clear?”

  This was as humiliating as anything he’d ever experienced—and as far as Walker was concerned, it was all Cooper’s fault. “Yes, sir,” he said, the words somehow getting past his clenched teeth.

  “Get back to it,” the President said, before slamming down the phone and severing the connection. Walker stared blankly at the phone in his hand, trying to collect himself. He glared again at Hart who looked at him with a composed expression, but she couldn’t hide what was in her eyes. She was enjoying his humiliation. It didn’t matter, he thought. When his approach got results and the terrorists were caught, this little slip would be forgotten in the bigger picture...and Matt Cooper would be nothing more than a bug on his windshield.

  He put the phone back in the cradle. “When Seles and Cooper get here I want to see them both immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice was chipper. “Do you want me to call in advance and let them know that Cooper is to be released?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Hart. I’ll handle it when they arrive.” Spinning on his heels, Walker stalked out into the hallway toward the break room. He’d have a cup of coffee and wait for Seles and Cooper to arrive and clear everything up to the President’s satisfaction.

  Walker twisted the pen in his hand until it cracked from the tension. He shoved past several people until the hallway began parting like the Red Sea. Just ahead of him and down one level in the terraced auditorium, he saw two people enter the room. The first man was one of the uniformed security guards; the second was a rather nondescript-looking man wearing a trench coat.

  The security guard’s hands were raised and his face was a pasty-white color with the exception of his cheeks, which showed two hectic spots of red so bright that they looked like clown makeup. Time slowed down and Walker instantly knew they were in trouble. His feelings of shame at the President’s call dropped away and his vision narrowed to the two men slowly moving into the auditorium. Perhaps he could stop whatever was about to happen.

  He moved down to intercept them, then held out a hand. “Stop!” he said. “Don’t move!”

  The security guard’s eyes widened in an odd combination of desperation and hope, yet he was shaking his head back and forth so rapidly that his ears could’ve passed for a hummingbird’s wings. “Bomb...bomb...bomb...” he stuttered.

  Walker turned his gaze on the man behind the security guard. He was sweating profusely, but he didn’t look like a terrorist. He had blond hair and blue eyes—he couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, Walker thought. He looked like any other kid on the street, maybe just going to community college or working a job and figuring out his life. American kids weren’t terrorists.

  Walker held up his hands again. “Just stop, okay? Let’s talk about this.”

  The kid pulled open his trench coat, letting it drop to the floor, as he muttered incoherently to himself. Beneath the coat, he wore a sweat-soaked white prayer shirt Walker recognized as a kurta. Over that, a heavy black vest was encircled by a ring of C-4.

  The sight of the bomb stole Walker’s tongue and with his hands still raised, he began to back away slowly. The kid moved toward him and his words began to come more clearly. “Masha’Allah.” It meant praise, but the literal translation was “Whatever Allah wills.”

  People in the EOC had begun to notice what was happening. Time slowed even further. A woman screamed, and the wild thought passed through Walker’s mind that it was Hart. He continued to back away, but now the kid was coming closer, moving faster.

  “Masha’Allah! Masha’Allah! Masha’Allah!”

  Running backward, unable to tear his eyes away from his assailant, Walker wondered how this could have happened. How could this kid, this American kid, be in his EOC with a bomb vest? How did he get inside?

  Tripping, Walker fell just as the madman reached him, his words a strong, rhythmic chant. “Masha’Allah!” he finished, pushing the button in his clenched fist.

  The moment stretched out like salt-water taffy, and Walker realized that the room was perfectly silent. Then the bomb exploded, the world went red, then white and, finally, dark.

  16

  “Good God!” Seles yelled, slamming on the brakes. Just as they’d pulled into the parking lot of the EOC the building had exploded. Portions of it were in the parking spaces, while most of the structure looked as if it had collapsed in on itself.

  “Back up, Denny,” Bolan snapped from the backseat. When he hesitated, the Executioner leaned over the seat, grabbed the transmission lever and shoved it into Reverse. “Back up!”

  Seles hit the gas and the tires squealed on the damp pavement as the big SUV lurched backward. Debris from the building rained down into the lot. Wood, metal and—Bolan noted with a clinical eye—body parts. Once they were in the clear, Seles stopped the SUV once more and both men jumped out.

  “Let’s go,” Bolan said, setting off across the street at a jog.

  Fire trucks began to roll onto the scene, which wasn’t surprising considering that the station was only half a block away—and everyone was on duty. Bolan maneuvered around them and made his way into what was left of the building. Running to the raggedy edge of the wreckage, both men began helping people who were making their way out of the rubble. Paramedics and firefighters worked to get them into the parking lot where emergency workers were doing triage and shipping the most seriously injured off to hospitals. When the mass exodus ended, Bolan and Seles looked at each other.

  Their faces were black with soot, and their clothing spattered with wet ash. The fire from the explosion hadn’t taken long to put out, but there was still plenty of evidence floating in the cold air. As the sun cleared the horizon, a silent communication passed between the two men. It was time to go in.

  “Hey, you can’t go in there! The whole building could come down!” the Fire Chief yelled as they started to work their way forward.

  “Shut up, Chief,” Seles snapped, “and get some men over here to help us start looking for people.”

  Bolan and Seles began to search for survivors. The building that had once been a model of efficient operations, with a multilevel auditorium, glass-walled offices and an information flow designed to handle everything from fires to snowstorms to major law-enforcement situations, now resembled a doughnut with a bite taken out of it. The explosion had funneled down the main hallway, blowing out the doors and collapsing the auditorium into piles of rubble. Small spaces made crawling through the debris a challenge, especially as live wires that had been embedded in the walls and the ceiling were sparking on the floor. Bolan reached one of the fire boxes on the wall and pulled the ax free, while Seles used his radio to tell the Fire Chief to have the power company shut down the entire grid for this block.

  Using the ax to shove the worst of the debris out of the way, they worked forward, the point of a human chain of firefighters and paramedics, looking for survivors in the early light of the day. Sadly, they were finding more bodies than living people, and Bolan kept a running count in his head. So far, he’d counted twenty-eight dead, but he suspected the toll was far worse than that. According to Seles, there had been at least two hundred people in the building when the explosion occurred.

  They reached the auditorium area, and early morning sky was visible through the smoke curling above them. A large pile of debris, mostly drywall covered by girders, blocked their path.

  “This will be the worst of it,” Seles said. “Everyone worked in here.”

  Bolan kept his silence, his anger at the situation turning inward and growing more and more focused.

  “Help! Is someone there? Help me!” a weak voice called from the pile of debris. Bolan moved forward, and together with Seles, started carefully moving the rubble that blocked their way into the auditorium.

 

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