Day of Reckoning (65 page)

Slugs fanned the air past his ear and he glanced up to see one of the gunmen aiming a Kalashnikov down at him from among the seats, its barrel spurting flame.

Too close
. He threw himself to one side, rolling onto his back as he brought the UMP-45 up, his finger applying pressure to the trigger.

No
. A woman ran between him and his target in that moment, obscuring his sight picture. He didn’t have a clear shot as the terrorist grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her back against his body.

Human shield. He could see the terror in her eyes, the tears running down her face as he rose to his feet, the stock of the H&K extended against his bare shoulder.

“
Are you going to go find mommy?
”

It might have been her, might not. Might have been someone else’s mother.

Take the shot
, he thought, the vision of the child filling his mind. Innocence. Hope.
Trust
.

He heard gunshots exploding around him, dimly saw men fall. His vision narrowed, focusing on the woman—her captor. His finger flicked out, switching the selector to single-shot.

A singular eye near the woman’s ear, half of a masked head—nothing more. Time itself seemed to slow down.

His breathing became shallow, his left hand closing around the foreend of the H&K in a rock-solid grip. The red dot of the laser stopped dancing, centering on the terrorist’s forehead, just above and to the right of the eyehole in the mask.

The trigger broke under the gentle caress of his finger, a single .45-caliber slug exploding from the muzzle—striking the terrorist in the center of the forehead.

He saw the woman’s lips open in a silent scream as the gunman’s grip on her wrist was suddenly loosed, a fine mist of blood flecking her silk blouse. She fell to her knees, eyes wide with horror, her screams finally finding voice.

Target eliminated
.

He glanced across to see Han inserting a fresh magazine into the mag well of his MP-5, practiced hands moving over the action—pulling back the charging handle.

You never forget. No matter how hard you try
.

A pall of silence seemed to fall over the theatre as the three of them moved forward, muzzles sweeping over the seats—over the bodies of the slain. The terrorists.

The hostages they had arrived too late to save.

The sulphurous, hellish scent of gunpowder hung in the air, mingling with the smell of blood.
Death
.

No shots greeted them from the balconies overlooking the stage, no explosions as suicide vests were triggered in once last act of defiance.

He could feel the hostages shrink away from him as he approached, water dripping from his body onto the bloodstained carpet of the “O”. Just another man with a gun…that’s all he was to them in this moment.

“Room clear,” Tex announced from his right, moving up the stairs barely a half-step behind him.

Han heard Tex’s voice, struggling to control his breathing against the onset of panic as he swept his weapon across the left side of the theatre. The
gunshots
, the sound of a sniper’s rifle—bringing all the memories flooding back.

And then it was over, just like that, leaving him trembling. “Room clear.”

Harry lowered his weapon, stepping across the body of a dead terrorist to where the congresswoman lay, leaning back against one of the seats. He bent down, his face only inches from hers, his hand reaching down to touch her arm. She met his gaze, eyes that had stared into the face of death now staring into his. Still unbowed.

“You’re safe now, ma’am. We’ve come to take you home.”

He hadn’t envisioned his own death like this…slowly bleeding to death on the carpet, his destroyed vocal chords making it impossible for him to even call for help.
Failure
.

“Stay calm,” he could hear one of the Americans announce. “We’re going to get all of you out of here, soon enough.”

There was no glory in having failed, in having fallen so short of the will of God. It seemed impossible, even yet…but he could feel himself growing weaker.

Jamal closed his eyes, fighting against the pain, the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He reached out, numb fingers groping for the detonator in the pocket of his jacket.

There was still a chance. He could still see the eyes of the shaikh, hear his words replaying themselves through his mind.
“And where is Paradise to be found, my brothers?”

His own once-confident reply, chanting the
takbir
.
“Neath the shade of swords.”

Yet it seemed death was all that was to be found. The death he had dealt to his brother. He could taste his own blood on his lips as his fingers touched the detonator, struggling to wrap themselves around it.

It felt as if his fingers were made of wood, clumsy—no longer responding to the dictates of his brain. The detonator fell from his pocket, rolling to the carpet.

Almost out of reach
, the former college student thought, clawing desperately at the wire that connected it to his suicide vest.

Without warning, a heavy foot descended on his wrist, pinning it to the floor. He glanced up into cold eyes the color of gunmetal, a pistol extending from the American’s hand.

The eyes of an angel of death. The avenger of blood.

It entered his mind to beg for mercy, here at the end of his life, but there was no time. And no mercy to be found.

The gun came up, a long suppressor extending from its muzzle—the man’s finger tightening around the trigger.

The pistol coughed, a strange deathly sound. And Jamal’s world went dark.

Forever…

Harry bent down, his fingers closing around the edge of the terrorist’s blood-drenched balaclava—pulling it upward with a quick, forceful motion.

The lifeless eyes of a young man stared back at him, matted hair clinging to his forehead. But it wasn’t Tarik Abdul Muhammad.

His eyes darted around the stage, at the unmasked bodies of the other terrorists.
Nowhere
.

Something was wrong. He pulled the sealed pouch containing his earbud radio out of his water-logged trousers, inserting it into his ear and tuning it to the Bureau channel.

“Altmann, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, EAGLE SIX,” the FBI agent replied. “My screens are showing you in the room with the hostages—sitrep?”

Harry glanced toward Samuel Han, kneeling over a young woman in the front row off the platform. “We have casualties, but yes…the hostages are secured. We’ll evacuate as soon as possible—there’s something else. Tarik Abdul Muhammad is MIA. The man on camera…wasn’t him.”

When she responded, he could hear the hesitation in her voice. “I know—Fort Meade’s voiceprint analysis confirmed that moments before you went in. Nichols…there’s something else you should be aware of.”

“Yes?”

“You were right about Guantanamo…the Antonov was on a suicide mission. Its crew deliberately overshot the Leeward Point Airfield and flew it into the top floor of the naval hospital across the bay.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the anger burn within him. The indescribable sense of guilt.
You were right
. But not soon enough.

Cassandra on the walls of Priam’s Troy.

“Casualties?” he asked, scarcely daring to hear the answer.

“At least thirty dead, scores of injured. We’re just getting the reports.”

1:09 A.M. Eastern Time

The Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

“We’re getting scattered reports out of Vegas, Mr. President,” Cahill announced, entering the small conference room. “It’s being said that the FBI assault team went ahead and stormed the theatre.”

Hancock seemed stunned as he gazed at the images on-screen, video of the burning hospital in Guantanamo. Wounded men staggering out of the carnage. He seemed to process his chief of staff’s words slowly, almost as if in numbed disbelief.

“And?”

“No one knows—yet. There is a report that says the hostages have been secured, but it is unsubtantiated.”

“Dear God,” the President whispered, shaking his head. “Is there any chance…that they caused
this
?”

He gestured toward the chaos at the hospital.

“What do you mean, Mr. President?”

“If the FBI defied my orders…if they broke the terms of our negotiation, then the strike against Guantanamo could have been retaliation.” Hancock paused, his voice trembling. “Inform me the moment they’re out of the theatre—the moment you’ve confirmed that Representative Gilpin is safe…I want to know who ordered this assault. I want their
resignation
on my desk by the time the sun comes up.”

10:11 P.M. Pacific Time

The Bellagio

Las Vegas, Nevada

He was dying, Harry could see that—and there was no help for it—his body riddled with bullets.

“Should have waited,” he whispered, bending down on knee beside the Israeli.

A wry smile crossed the bodyguard’s face, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. “All part of the…job. You never lose your principal—give your life for theirs, if it comes to that.”

“And it hasn’t,” Harry lied, reaching out to examine his wounds. “We’re going to get the EMTs in here to help you…just as soon as it is safe.”

“Don’t bother,” Cohen whispered, suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing. “There’s others that need you more—I’m done.”

He closed his eyes, leaning awkwardly back against one of the seats. As if going to sleep.

Harry could feel someone move up behind him, and he looked back to see Tex standing there.

“We’ve got a problem,” the big man announced, lowering his voice as if to ensure that those nearby wouldn’t hear what he was about to say. “The bombs on the platform with the nerve gas …they weren’t set up for command detonation.”

“Timed?”

A nod. The look on Richards’ face told Harry the answer to his second question: no visible timer.

That was Hollywood—not the real world. No bombmaker worth his salt made it that easy. The explosion would vaporize the soman, spreading the nerve gas throughout every corner of the theatre. And even outside.

“Can you disarm them?” he asked,
rising to walk back toward the platform.

“One, maybe…it’d take probably half an hour—maybe more. Whoever built them was a real pro, I’d spend half my time figuring out which of the wires were real and which were decoys.”

Too many
maybe
s.

“One bomb disarmed and the other one goes…” Harry breathed, squatting down next to the nearest IED. “Still enough soman to kill every last one of us. And we don’t have thirty minutes.”

The Texan looked over at him. “Based on what?”

“Think about it. Even if they expected us to hold off until the Antonov was supposed to land…they had to know that the moment they flew it into the naval hospital, all bets were off. Which means they would have set this up to go off shortly thereafter.”

Tex seemed to consider his words for a moment. “Ten minutes?”

“Tops.”

Their options were limited, and they both knew it. The way they had come…there was no possibility of evacuating the injured that way. Too slow—too many people would die.
Math
.
“Focus on disarming the IEDs on the main doors,” Harry responded. “That’s our only way out of this.”

He stepped away from Richards, away from the people they had rescued, keying his mike.

“What’s our status on the auto-injectors from Nellis?”

“Only came up with about twenty of them—my agent is on his way back now. Metro finally has Winchester under control, with all the gunmen either dead or in custody.” Marika’s voice. “Why?”

“The nerve agent is rigged to blow and the doors of the theatre are still sealed with explosives.”

“Dear God…” she whispered. “What can I do from here?”

“Start evacuating the resort. All your people, all the first responders—everyone in the triage.”

“Understood.”

“That means you too, Thomas,” Harry added for Parker’s benefit. “Get outta here. And know this…if Tarik is still out there, this could be another piece of his plan. He’s been one step ahead of us thus far.”

“Everyone is on the highest alert. I’ll pass the word to the Metro snipers, have them provide cover for the evacuation.”

“Do it, and do it quickly. We’re livin’ on borrowed time.”

10:15 P.M.

The roof of Caesar’s Palace

“Metro, be advised, we may still have an active subject. Snipers, be prepared to provide cover for the evacuation of the Bellagio. Copy?”