Code 13 (49 page)

But he was no fool.

He knew they had placed NCIS around her and that, in light of his first failed attempt, they would tighten the security noose. He could deal with NCIS, if need be. But they were more formidable than local law enforcement, and no point in getting too messy if it wasn't necessary to make a mess.

Of course, the fact that they would offer at least a semblance of protection energized him like electricity surging through a power grid.

Like a hunter chasing deer through the woods, killing was always amplified by the excitement of a challenge—and even more so by the excitement of danger—which would be posed by the FBI wannabe agents of the NCIS.

A professional always operated using the element of surprise.

The element of surprise ensured victory 99 percent of the time.

He was a professional. And they would be looking for him.

He would not make the same mistakes he had made last time.

He would not be spotted.

How foolish of the Navy to continue pressing this issue.

He may have missed the last time, but he would not miss this time.

He crept into the dark living room, pushed the curtains aside, and looked out the window. Across the street and five doors down, the light burned on the front stoop of Caroline McCormick's townhouse.

When news of the assassination hit the media later in the day, some would call it a “drive-by shooting.” But in reality, this would be a planned execution.

This time his handiwork would result in a cold-blooded kill.

And the Navy would cooperate, or every officer who touched this project would meet a similar fate.

They had been warned, but they failed to realize who they were playing with.

Soon they would face, once again, the bloody consequences of their defiance.

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE

WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

6:37 A.M.

The sun had risen forty minutes ago, and the bustle and activity of an early-morning commute began stirring this middle-class Fairfax County community just ten miles from the Pentagon.

Victoria stepped in front of the mirror in Caroline's living room for a final inspection of her summer dress white uniform.

The uniform looked sharp, so sharp, in fact, that she felt a wave of guilt for thinking that P.J. would have liked it. She adjusted the green-and-white Navy Commendation medal that she received in Norfolk and reminded herself that P.J. was never hers and that, despite their rather electric rendezvous at the Grape + Bean, P.J. had always been Caroline's.

Enough thinking about P.J.

Her father had gone to West Point, and though he feigned disappointment when she chose the Navy over the Army, he had reminded her on the day of her commission of the same creed that he had reminded her of a thousand times as a little girl.

“Duty. Honor. Country.”

Now, for the first time, in the midst of so much death, turmoil, and uncertainty, she had finally come to the sudden, unexpected understanding of what her father, Colonel Stephen Fladager, had meant in the thousand times he had uttered those three words.

And now, duty called.

She checked the gold belt buckle of the white twill belt that held up her white skirt.

The sharp attractiveness of the white uniform had led her to the Navy over the Army.
“That's a silly reason to pick one branch over the other,”
her father had chided her.

He was right. He was always right.
But you're your own woman
, he also said. And he was right about that too.

Here, in this surrealistic moment, she had now become her own woman, having made a life-or-death decision that most women and most men would never have to make, and wishing that it were winter so she could wear her service dress blue winter uniform. The blue uniform, it occurred to her, wouldn't show her blood so badly as the white. And if she were going to take a bullet to stop this animal, she didn't want to give the animal the satisfaction of so easily seeing the blood that she was about to spill on behalf of her country.

She turned away from the mirror and picked up the earpiece communications device that Mark had given her.

“We'll be able to communicate with you when we see this guy,” Mark had told her. “It'll help us keep you safe.”

“The best-laid plans of mice and men,” she mumbled aloud. She slid the two white earbuds in her ears, draped the small white cord down to a white communications box about the size of a man's wallet, and clipped it to her white belt.

“The white color will camouflage the communications device
so the shooter won't be able to see that you're wired,” Mark had assured her.

She reached down and pressed the Talk button. “Testing. Testing. This is Lieutenant Fladager. Does anyone copy?”

Static buzzed in her ears.

Then, “Lieutenant, Drone Control at Pax River. Copy loud and clear. We've got a drone circling at one thousand feet over the townhouse. So far the coast is clear. Looks safe from here.”

“Victoria, this is Mark. We've got four NCIS units in the area. The coast is clear, whenever you want to come out.”

“Okay, that's good to know.” A sick feeling weighed on her stomach. “I'm about to open the front door now.”

“Roger that. We're watching for you.”

“Okay. I'm opening the door.”

She unlocked the deadbolt, then turned the knob and stepped out into the morning sunlight onto the front stoop. Why had their assurances that the coast was clear not soothed her stomach?

She put on her sunglasses and looked overhead to see if she could spot the drone.

Nothing there.

She reached for the keys Captain Kriete had given her for Caroline's townhouse. She fiddled with them, inserting the front door key into the lock.

UNIDENTIFIED TOWNHOUSE

NEAR LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE

WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

6:38 A.M.

Peering through the garage door window, the shooter felt his heart racing faster than a lightning bolt exploding from a raging thundercloud.

With a jolt of adrenaline seizing his body, he punched the garage door opener, and as it raised the door, he worked the action on his
9-millimeter pistol, jumped into the driver's side of the Mercedes, and cranked the engine.

OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND

U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”

LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND

6:38 A.M.

“Sir, we've got a red Mercedes pulling out of a townhouse down the street!”

“What the—” Commander John Jefferies looked at the screen. “All units! Red Mercedes approaching at point-blank range! Repeat! Red Mercedes approaching at point-blank range! Victoria! Hit the deck!”

SPECIAL AGENT MARK ROMANOV'S CAR

NEAR LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE

NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS

OXFORD HUNT

6:38 A.M.

“What the heck!” Mark watched the Mercedes drive by his car just as Drone Command announced it. He cranked his car and hit the accelerator.

Just ahead, a hand and gun emerged from the Mercedes, taking aim at Victoria.

“Shots fired! Victoria's down!” Mark yelled, then cursed. He pulled out his 9-millimeter and fired at the taillights of the Mercedes.

Like a fighter pilot hitting the afterburners, the driver of the red Mercedes gunned his accelerator, opening the distance between the Mercedes and Mark's car.

“I'm in pursuit. All units follow that Mercedes. Drone Control! Call an ambulance for Victoria!”

“Drone Control. Roger that.”

Mark ramped up his speed. “I've lost him! Where'd he go?”

“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. He's turned northwest onto Sydenstricker, sir.”

“Roger that. I'm turning onto Sydenstricker in pursuit. What's going on with Lieutenant Fladager?”

“Task Force Leader. We've lost communication with Lieutenant Fladager. Her transmitter is off. Do you want me to break the drone off the target vehicle and circle the drone back around to check on her?”

Mark slammed his fist against the center console and swung the Taurus onto Sydenstricker Road. “That's a negative. Stay on that Mercedes. But call an ambulance for the lieutenant.”

“Roger that. Already done. We'll keep the bird over the Mercedes. Be careful down there, Agent Romanov.” Static. “Okay, update. The Mercedes is turning right on Huntsman.”

“Copy that. Turning right on Huntsman,” Mark said. “All units, report.”

“Task Force One. Copy, sir. I'm just ahead of you. Turning right on Huntsman.”

“Task Force Two. Following One onto Huntsman.”

“Task Force Three. Right behind you, sir.”

“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. He's turning right onto Old Keene Mill Road.”

Mark cursed again. “Probably headed to 95.”

“Task Force One. I'm on him, boss. Turning onto Old Keene Mill.”

“Stay on his tail. I'm right behind you.”