Arctic Fire (47 page)

R
EGGIE
W
AYNE
had retired from the Washington, DC, Metro Police Department last month after twenty-three years on the force. During his time on the streets of the nation’s capital he’d seen it all—murders, rapes, robberies, riots, fires.

He’d even been on duty that clear, crisp September morning when the jet had slammed into the western side of the Pentagon, right across the Potomac River from Washington. As word of the awful explosion had spread, Reggie had watched congressmen and women race from the Capitol. And later he’d spoken to other cops on the force who’d seen the president run from the White House into a waiting limousine headed directly for a waiting Air Force One. Along with New York, it was the most pressure-packed city in the country for all levels of law enforcement.

During those twenty-three years, Reggie had experienced a thousand times more panic attacks and adrenaline rushes than
most people would in a lifetime. He’d even been shot once. And been told by the attending surgeon, as they were wheeling him into the operating room, that his chances of surviving the chest wound he’d suffered while breaking up a bank robbery were fifty-fifty at best.

So this security-guard gig at Tysons Corner was nice. The money wasn’t as good, but it was a hell of a lot safer here in northern Virginia where the well-to-do lived, shopped, and ate out at Morton’s, The Palm, and the Capital Grill. After his years on the force in DC, he felt like he’d dodged the ultimate bullet by getting out alive. He was proud of himself for that too. He hadn’t waited too long. And the pension he’d draw from the city in another couple of years would more than make up for the difference in pay.

Tysons Corner was located just outside the Capital Beltway fifteen miles west of the White House. And there were two massive shopping malls less than a mile away from each other. The first—Tysons One—was an upscale mall for the relatively wealthy, and the second—Tysons Two—was a super upscale mall for the super wealthy. A week before Christmas both of them were jam-packed with customers.

And shoplifters.

“Reggie, Reggie,” the voice blared through his walkie-talkie. “Pick up.”

He grabbed the device from his belt and pushed the red button. “Yeah?”

“We got a lifter at the L.L. Bean. He’s on the first floor. The store manager’s waiting for you at the mall entrance to point the guy out.”

“Got it. On my way.”

He shoved the walkie-talkie back into his belt and hustled through the crowded large corridor toward Bloomingdale’s, which was at the north end of the mall. He enjoyed these calls. It broke up the monotony of the day and kind of took him back to
his days on the street. It wasn’t like there was anything he could really do to a shoplifter. He smiled thinly—except scare the hell out of him. And he intended on doing just that.

But his smile faded as he neared the store. After twenty-three years on the Metro force, he recognized evil immediately. He’d developed that sixth sense about it, and the four grizzled-looking men walking toward him in long dark trench coats were definitely evil.
Pure
evil.

“
Oh, shit
,” he muttered to himself when he saw the working end of a sawed-off shotgun poke out from beneath one of the trench coats.

This was the mother of all mall nightmares, Reggie realized. These men intended to create hell on earth.

He wasn’t armed and he was outmanned, but his training took over. The men were fifty feet away, but he was still going to try to take them down. He might,
just might
, be able to surprise them, get one of the guns, and shoot the other three before anyone was killed.

Reggie inhaled deeply and then took off toward them. Forty feet, thirty, twenty. None of the men were even looking at him. He was going to make it. He was going to get one of their guns and save this mall.

But with only a few strides to go, one of the men lifted his shotgun smoothly from beneath his coat and hit Reggie with a deafening blast to the stomach. Reggie doubled over and tumbled to the corridor’s tile floor, screaming.

Then all four men turned their weapons on the crowd.

As Reggie clutched his bloody wound, he saw a young woman holding a baby crumple to the floor and then an older man shot directly in the face.

Tysons One was in chaos. The dead and dying lay everywhere as the fortunate fled in panic.

Reggie watched the mob run until his eyes slowly closed for the last time.

Within seconds of shooting Reggie, the four men had killed and wounded another seventeen people. At that point they raced back outside to a waiting van and took off.

They quickly changed vehicles in a remote area of the huge, crowded parking lot and then switched vehicles again two miles away in the parking lot of a strip mall. Before the first wave of police could respond, the assailants had disappeared.

An hour later they were back in their apartments in central Virginia watching television. Watching the results of what they and others around the country had just done.

The same scenario had played out in ten other major malls around the country at the same time, and Americans were suddenly barricading themselves inside their homes, terrified. Seventy-three people were dead and over two hundred had been wounded.

Two days later it happened again. This time the casualty list numbered over four hundred.

The United States was under siege…

To my daughters: Christina, Ashley and Gabriella.

To the people who made this book possible: Cynthia Manson, Andy Bartlett, Kevin Smith and Daphne Durham. I owe all four of you a deep debt of gratitude.

To those who have supported me for so long: Kevin and Nancy Erdman, Matt Malone, Pat Lynch, Jack Wallace, Barbara Fertig, Mike Pocalyko, Walter Frey, Andy and Chris Brusman, Bart Begley, Scott Andrews, Marvin Bush, Jim and Anmarie Galowski, Baron Stewart, Gerry Barton, Gordon Eadon, Jeanette Follo, Kurt Butler, Luke Sevenski, Lisa Sevenski, and Ray Murray.

Photo by Diana Frey, 2008

S
TEPHEN
F
REY
is a former investment banker and private equity specialist. He is bestselling author of sixteen novels, including
The Takeover
,
The Chairman
, and
Hell’s Gate
. An avid fly-fisherman and fan of college lacrosse, Frey lives in Chestertown, Maryland.