Final Vector (19 page)

The odds that Nick had seen them coming and had been able to avoid being captured or killed were pretty frigging slim.

Larry could almost hear the inexorable
tick-tick-ticking
of the invisible clock in his head. He wasn't sure precisely what these people were planning, but they had gone to a whole lot of trouble and had risked their lives to storm a secure federal government facility protected 24/7 by armed guards, so it was obviously something major. He wondered whether he would still be alive when the sun rose. He felt queasy and washed-out.

The invisible clock in his head continued to tick.

Brian paced back and forth inside the large conference room adjacent to the foyer just inside the main entrance to the BCT building. The side of the room that fronted the foyer was constructed of six huge glass panels, each three feet wide and six feet high, making it the perfect location to maintain surveillance on the main entrance, which was now the only way into or out of the facility since they had gone around the perimeter and disabled all the other exterior doors.

Brian wasn't clear on exactly why the entrance needed to be watched. The security guards were both dead, and Jackie was sitting in the guard shack at the front gate looking ridiculous in the uniform he had taken off one of the dead guards, waiting to ambush the FBI agent who would arrive soon to monitor the BCT.

The only people inside the building were either being held in the Operations Room at gunpoint or were already dead.

So the idea of cooling his heels in this conference room, guard-ing the entrance to the facility and waiting for--what, exactly?--

seemed more than a little unnecessary to Brian. But this was his assignment from Tony, and one thing Brian had learned early in this little adventure was that you did not deviate from the plan if it had been developed by Tony. The guy seemed perfectly calm and rational, if a little intense for Brian's taste, but behind that calm rationality was a calculating coldness that did not suffer disloyalty well. Or at all. Ever.

Brian thought about how Tony had dealt with the thugs that had tried to disrupt their operation when they had been getting set up in D.C. and shuddered. Tony had matter-of-factly gutted several dangerous men, leaving them for dead, just to send a message.

That message had been received loud and clear, and the remaining thugs had steered clear of Tony and his men ever since. Brian had decided right then and there that he would not allow himself to become Tony's message to anyone else if he could help it.

Besides, there were worse things than hanging out in this cozy little conference room; that was for sure. A long, polished conference table ran virtually the entire length of the room, with comfortable leather business chairs orbiting it like satellites. A retract-able white screen hanging from the ceiling filled one of the smaller walls of the rectangular room.

If the conference room had contained a television, he would have been perfectly satisfied to stay here the rest of the night, but unfortunately for him, that particular amenity had not been supplied. Brian sighed deeply. Nobody said this job would be easy.

In a little while, Jackie would be trudging through the front door, holding at gunpoint whatever unfortunate agent the FBI had sent over to spend the day monitoring the activities of the air traffic controllers who would be working Air Force One into and out of Logan Airport.

Brian had no doubt that Jackie would get the jump on the FBI guy. Jackie was pretty good with weapons, and the agent would likely be a rookie. The FBI wouldn't bother wasting an experienced field agent on a secure federal facility located nearly forty miles from Boston, where the president's plane was going to be landing and where Cartwright would be spending the day.

Brian didn't trust Jackie any farther than he could throw him.

Under normal circumstances, he doubted whether Jackie would even bother keeping the agent alive. But Tony had said that the feeb would be coordinating with the rest of the law enforcement monkeys down in Boston after his arrival at the BCT, so killing him would put the whole operation in jeopardy. Brian knew Jackie was just as intimidated by Tony as everyone else on the team was, so he would damn well keep the agent alive. Fear could be a powerful motivator.

But the arrival of the anonymous and doomed FBI agent would not occur for a little while yet, which was why Brian paced restlessly across the soft pile carpeting of the conference room. He was keyed up and had no way of dissipating all his nervous energy. He wished he had something to eat as he stopped and peered through the plate glass of the conference room and out the glass double doors of the front entrance.

He didn't expect to see anything moving, and he didn't. He stared out the door for a moment and then continued his relentless pacing.

Nick burst into the hallway at almost a dead run. After seeing what had been done to Harry, his only thought was to
do
something. He needed to get to the exterior door and go for help.

Nick cringed as a barely perceptible snick indicated that the door had closed behind him. The noise was almost nothing. Normally he would never even have noticed it, but tonight, with three murderous thugs roaming the halls of the BCT, it sounded like the beeping of an air horn or a thunderbolt crashing over his head.

Sighing softly, he turned and peered down the long hallway as he moved toward the exterior door, half expecting to be greeted by the grinning visage of one of the lunatics training a deadly weapon between his eyes. To his relief, Nick discovered that the hallway was empty in that direction, the entire fifty feet or so to the corner, where it curved sharply left and out of sight.

Nick tried to calm his nerves but abandoned the effort after achieving no discernible reduction in the trembling of his hands.

His plan, if you could call it that, was simple. Sneak the few feet to the exterior door, preferably without getting shot in the back, open the door as quietly as possible, and continue on into the night, where he would then stick to the shadows and exit the BCT

grounds and go for help.

He hadn't yet decided whether he dared jump in his car, which would be sitting in the parking lot a couple of hundred feet from the door, or if it would be smarter to try to get away on foot. The obvious dilemma was that if he started his car and the terrorists had someone stationed in the guard shack, he would never make it off the property.

On the other hand, if he was able to get off the property on foot, it was a long hike to any location where he could even access a telephone.

He thought about it quickly and supposed he would have to take his chances on foot. His car was equipped with daytime running lights, which would blaze on as soon as the transmission was shifted into Drive, so he couldn't sneak past the guard shack with no headlights on.

First things first, though. Nick had to make it out of the building alive. He took a deep breath and slipped quietly down the rest of the corridor to the exterior door, moving with his back to the wall as he had done before. His haste of a few seconds ago was gone, replaced by a desire for stealth.

Reaching the door in less than two seconds, he pushed hard against the bar running the entire width of it at waist height. Silence now was an impossibility; this door would make noise as it opened no matter how careful Nick was, so he hit it at a fast walk, hoping that if the door made enough clatter to raise the suspicions of the wrong person, he would be long gone by the time that person came to investigate.

The bar didn't move at all, and Nick smashed into the door with a loud thud. He smacked his forehead and twisted his wrist.

"Shit," he muttered.

He looked down at the silver bar and was dismayed to see that the right side was completely destroyed, twisted metal puckering around a jagged hole where a bullet had quite clearly been fired into it. The mechanism had been jammed with the obvious intention of preventing anyone from leaving or entering. If Nick hadn't been so preoccupied, he would have seen the damage as soon as he had burst out of the equipment room; it was that obvious.

He cursed bitterly. He should have expected this. It was a stark testament to how rattled he had been by tripping over Harry's lifeless body that he thought he was just going to waltz out the door and into the safety of the black night. Of course the terrorists disabled the door; otherwise Harry would have run right out of it when he had spotted them. He must have run into the disabled door like Nick had done. He had then turned and tried to escape his pursuers through the equipment room. And he hadn't been quick enough.

He trotted right down the center of the hallway, too rattled to slink along the side wall, and disappeared back into the equipment room. Nick tried not to look at Harry's body as he racked his brains in an attempt to figure out what the hell to do next.

He had no luck accomplishing either objective.

The Ops Room felt incredibly quiet to Larry, although in reality the sounds from the scopes, the air-conditioning, and other equipment created a constant low hum--a white noise that was not really noticeable until it wasn't there anymore.

The terrorist with the gun constantly pointed in Larry's direction continued lounging next to him, a situation Larry had come to accept was not going to change until this whole thing was over, and he was beginning to suspect that would be soon. Air Force One would have to depart Andrews Air Force Base for Boston within the next few minutes, Larry guessed, if the president was going to arrive at Logan in time to make his scheduled sunrise service.

The terrorist seemed to have no problem with the silence in the room, although it was driving Larry nuts. When Larry had gotten the man talking, it was much easier to pretend the guy was just a visitor, maybe a pilot or someone else with an interest in aviation, rather than a terrorist. But when they sat side by side without talking, Larry could feel panic building inside him, threatening to overwhelm him and make him do something foolish, like bolt for the door or try to attack the man and get control of his gun.

Doing either of those things would be a guaranteed ticket to an early grave. There was no way he could outrun a bullet to the door, and he knew the man sprawled so casually on the controller chair was paying much more attention to his every move than it appeared. If he took any action that the man interpreted in any way as a threat, Larry had no doubt the guy would simply shoot him right between the eyes.

Finally he could stand the screaming silence no longer; he had to try again. He cleared his throat. "May I ask you a question?" He felt ridiculous speaking so formally to this cold-blooded terrorist, but he didn't want to appear overly aggressive and get his head blown off as a result.

The man studied him for a moment before answering. Larry was certain he was going to tell him to shut up, so he was surprised when he said, "Of course." The gun never wavered.

"Are you here because of a certain VIP arrival at Logan later this morning?"

The man continued staring at him as a smile spread slowly across his face. He might as well have leapt up and shouted, "Yes, yes, death to the president!"

He pondered how to frame his next question. The faint smell of stale sweat drifted up to his nose, and Larry knew it was coming from him. He wondered for just a moment whether the terrorist could smell it.

Finally Larry spoke again. "You do understand, I assume, that at no time is the VIP's flight ever going to come within thirty miles of this building, right?"

The man laughed boisterously and continued to aim his gun at Larry. It was amazing he could laugh that hard and hold his hand as still as he did. "We both know we are discussing President Cartwright. Why do you refer to him as VIP?"

Larry felt a flash of irritation. "Okay, then, fine. President Cartwright. But my question remains the same--do you realize Air Force One is not going to fly anywhere near this building?"

The terrorist laughed again, but this time it came out short and bitter, almost a cough of disdain. "Oh yes, I do realize that. But thank you so much for your concern."

Larry waited for him to expand on his answer, and when it became clear he wasn't going to, he pushed on. "If you've researched aviation as extensively as you told me earlier, then you know that with modern advances in safety equipment such as TCAS, the Traffic Alert and Collision Avoidance System, which all modern airliners are equipped with, it would be virtually impossible for me to direct the president's plane to crash into another airplane or into the side of a mountain, if that's your intention. Even if you forced me to do that, the equipment in the airplane would tell the pilot that something was not right, and he would have ample time to escape the imminent danger."

The terrorist's feet landed on the floor with a thud. He stood and faced Larry, his eyes black and angry and devoid of any trace of his previous apparent good humor. "Do not presume to understand what is going on here. I do not need or want your advice.

Keep your mouth shut and your comments to yourself, and do not make the mistake of assuming that I will not kill you just for the fun of it. I have devoted my entire life to accomplishing what we are going to achieve here soon, so do not treat me like an idiot."

The man sat heavily back down in the controller chair. His hooded eyes regarded Larry steadily. He seemed to have regained control of his emotions, and it suddenly occurred to Larry that this man was feeling the pressure of the situation nearly as much as he was, regardless of how cool and collected he appeared to be. It was not a comforting feeling, considering the other guy was the one holding the lethal weapon, and he had nothing.

Larry swallowed hard and felt the click of his dry throat. He returned his attention to the radar scope, which was still devoid of traffic. The situation was hopeless.

With the construction of the BCT in 2004, the Operations Room had been placed on the second floor, in an area that was so high above the ground floor that it might as well have been a third story.