Inside Threat (24 page)

Khadi looked down the row to her partner.
I wonder if there might be a place for J.D. at CTD. He deserves better than a life protecting Mr. Opportunity and others like him. I'll ask Scott.

The hymn finished, and everyone sat down. Khadi was surprised to see how many people had shown up. There had to be nearly four hundred people in the vast sanctuary. She couldn't tell for sure without turning around again, because Senator Andrews had jockeyed for a place in the second row just behind the family.

Seated to her left was Kirstin Evert, wife of the Senate minority leader, Bill Evert, who was sitting on the other side of his bride. And next to him was the controversial Speaker of the House, Cristy Johnston, along with her husband, Lance.

On Khadi's right sat Tyson Bryson, causing her to cheat herself as far to the left side of her chair as propriety would allow. He had asked her again this morning whether she had thought about his proposal. Her response would have made her mother blush.

Charlotte Andrews sat on the other side of Bryson. Next to her was the senator, and finally, J.D., who was on the inside aisle.
Funny how it is so much more important to Andrews to show that he needs personal bodyguards that he gave up the visibility of the aisle seat. Who could ever hope to understand these guys?

Up front on the beautiful wooden platform, standing behind an even more beautifully carved wooden pulpit, Brian Musman, son of the deceased chaplain, began reading the obituary and memorial. Although looking and sounding like he might lose it at any moment, he was doing a good job. Khadi found herself rooting for him to make it through.

The clutch purse on her lap began vibrating. There were only two things in that purse: a cell phone and a Smith & Wesson Model 66 .357 Magnum Snub. She opened it and reached for the phone.

Scott's number was on the caller ID.
Probably forgot where I was,
she thought as she hit End and slid the phone back into her purse. Thirty seconds later, she felt another single vibration.
Good, he left me a message.

Bryson turned to her, pointed to the purse, and whispered, “This is a funeral!”

“Ah, well that explains why I haven't seen any clowns yet,” she whispered back, causing him to redden and turn back to the front.

Her purse vibrated again, making enough noise for Mrs. Evert to turn to her.

“I'm sorry,” Khadi said reaching for the phone. “It's official business.”

Evert nodded like a woman to whom the words
official business
had been used over her lifetime to justify any and every questionable activity under the sun, save those that actually might be considered by the everyday voting taxpayer as
official business
. Khadi fought the urge to say, “No, really,” and instead just looked at her phone.

This time it was a text from Scott:
Call me NOW!!

At funeral. Call in hour,
she typed back. Embarrassed, she slipped the phone into her purse.

Brian Musman had finished his memorial in one piece. Now a little girl, presumably one of the granddaughters, was walking up, carrying a piece of paper. She couldn't have been more than seven. She was wearing a pretty little black dress that flared out with ruffles at the bottom. Khadi felt her throat begin to constrict and her eyes begin to moisten.

Now it's your turn to keep it together,
she chastised herself.

Turns out that the paper she was carrying was a letter to her grandpa.

“Dear Poppy,” she read.

Khadi's purse vibrated again. This time she got glares from up and down her row and from a lady in front of her who might have been one of the chaplain's sisters.

She opened the text message from Scott and read,
NO!! DANGER!! CALL ME NOW!!!
Immediately, Khadi's heart began racing. She looked to her right and saw that J.D. was watching her. She pointed to her phone and cut her hand quickly across the air indicating that it was something serious. J.D. pointed for her to go.

“Are the angels beautiful, Poppy?” Khadi heard as she began excusing herself across the laps of the most powerful people in the Senate and the House of Representatives. She heard gasps and whispers from behind her, but she kept pushing on. Once she made it to the outside aisle, she headed toward the back of the sanctuary. Every click of her heels seemed to echo through the high vaults of the Gothic cathedral. After passing several rows, she reached down, slipped off her shoes, and jogged the rest of the way barefoot.

When she finally made it to the rear, she dialed Scott.

“Just listen,” he said, answering on the first ring. “We've got reason to think that there may be a terrorist attack aimed at the cathedral. Look around and tell me what you see.”

Instantly, all her anger at Scott vanished and she was in protect mode. She scanned her surroundings, taking special note of the people in the congregation. “I don't see anything out of the ordinary. What am I looking for?”

“Don't know. There have been ten terrorist attacks across the country in the last thirty minutes.”

Khadi felt the air leave her lungs, and her knees felt weak.

Scott continued. “They were all homegrown perps. We're thinking you may have been right about your distraction theory. DC was the focus of one of the outside threads. And you are right in the middle of the only event of significance taking place in this city today.”

Khadi realized Scott was only playing a hunch. But the hunches that came out of the RoU more often than not turned into reality. She looked to the ceiling—nothing. She looked for explosives up the enormous pillars—nothing. She looked for nervous shifting or excessive sweating among the attendees—nothing.

“I've got nothing, Scott,” she finally said, hoping beyond hope that this would be one hunch that didn't pay off. She shivered, not knowing if it was nerves or the cold seeping from the tiles into her bare feet.

“Good!” Scott said, a little relief coming into his voice. “I need you to keep your eyes open, though. And didn't you say there was a reception afterward? That's probably an even more dangerous setting than you have now.”

“Got it. Does this mean I'm officially on payroll?” she asked feebly, trying to lighten the tension.

“Just keep your eyes open,” Scott said, uncharacteristically letting her joke fall to the ground.

Khadi ended the call, and it wasn't until a full thirty seconds had passed from the time she had rung off that she heard the bootsteps—and then the screams began.

Thursday, September 15, 10:25 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

If you have enough men and you move quickly enough, you can do just about anything you want,
Majid Alavi thought as he ran through the south entrance of the National Cathedral. Adrenaline-fueled sweat dripped down his face, and he could feel his heart racing. Behind him were twenty-two other jihadi warriors divided into three teams. Saifullah also ran as a
de facto
member of his team, and Alavi hoped the old man could keep up.

Two vans full of armed men dressed all in black had obviously attracted attention when they pulled up to the curb on South Road. But they moved so fast, there was no time for anyone to react until they were well past. By now, he was sure, scores of 911 calls were being made.
But they'll be too late. This place is ours.

A couple of rent-a-cops had stood on either side of the vaulted entrance. A silenced shot from his weapon had taken out the right-side security guard, and one from the second on his team, Hassan Fadil, had dropped the guard on the left. From there it was a quick sprint up the remainder of the Pilgrim Steps and through the doors to the south seating area.

Alavi burst into the sanctuary and was immediately taken with the massive size of the building.
Focus,
he commanded himself. Gasps sounded all around him as he ran to the stage—his hard boots joining forty-four others in creating an unholy clatter on the tile floor.

Spotting his target, he leaped onto the platform, took the pastor or priest or whatever he was by the head, and pressed his assault weapon to the man's temple.

“Nobody move!” he yelled, leaning into the lapel mic that the man was wearing. Black spread through the sanctuary like ink from a leaky pen as his men rushed down the aisles.

This is the critical time,
he thought.
If we can just get into position, we've got them. But if some hero fires on us, it's going to be a bloodbath.

“I swear, if I see one gun drawn, this one's getting a bullet in his head and the rest of these men are going to start firing!” His eyes scanned the audience down the long nave. Screaming had started, and people were beginning to panic.
Come on, just a few more seconds.

“Why are you doing this?” asked the pastor, whose breath reeked of coffee poorly disguised by mint.

Alavi answered by pushing the barrel of his rifle harder against the man's head, eliciting a strange half grunt, half squeak.

Three men from his team had run to the north seating and taken up position there. Two more stood just below him with their weapons trained on Senator Bill Evert and Speaker of the House Cristy Johnston. Next to him on his right was Fadil—his rifle searching the congregation. And two steps behind him, he hoped, was Saifullah, but he didn't want to turn around to check.

Ubaida Saliba's team was now in position. The nave was divided into four seating sections—two in the front and two in the rear. Each quarter had two warriors facing it, one on the inside aisle, one on the outside. All had their weapons tucked tight and ready to fire.

This place is huge,
Alavi thought, the first moments of doubt beginning to creep in. The schematics and pictures had shown the place to be big, but he was learning just how impossible it was to truly experience the vastness of the space without stepping into it.
There's no way we can control every eventuality within this scenario.

A movement by a man in the second row caught his attention. His right hand had shifted toward the inside of his jacket.

“Second row aisle!” he yelled to Fadil, but his team lieutenant was already on his way, apparently having seen the movement himself.

“You don't have to do this,” the pastor said.

“Shut up,” Alavi hissed, moving his hand from the man's forehead to the top of his head. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked back. The pastor's body stiffened.

“Give me your gun!” Fadil screamed, his rifle pointing at the man's face.

“What gun?” the man protested, raising his hands.

“Give me your gun, now!”

“What gun? I don't—”

The man's words were cut short by a round from Fadil's weapon. Blood and gore burst from the back of his head. A lady in the row behind also dropped from the bullet that had passed through and hit her in the chest. The bloodied gentleman sitting next to the dead man, whom Alavi recognized as Senator Clayson Andrews, jumped sideways onto his wife, who began screaming uncontrollably. More screams erupted all around, and Alavi could feel a shift in the tension.
Got to get control of this, or it's going to snap!

A quick look to his left showed him that most of Adnan Bazzi's team was in place. Each one of them had been carrying two large duffels that were now piled stage left. Four men were working with the bags, and two were controlling the south seating area. He had to trust that the other two were clearing out stray people from the choir area behind him.

“Got it!” Fadil called out, lifting the large-caliber pistol he had pulled from the dead man.

“Check his waist and ankles, too,” Alavi ordered, knowing that professional security, which that man clearly appeared to be, rarely carried only one weapon.

Dropping his own weapon to his side, he pulled out a combat knife. Panic sprang to the pastor's eyes, as Alavi spun him so that he could face him. He brought the knife down, slicing open the man's long, ornate robe. Sheathing his knife, he quickly saw what he wanted. He unclipped the lapel mic from the robe and pulled the transmitter box from the belt that was holding up the pastor's khaki shorts, then pushed the pastor off the stage.

The man stumbled down the three steps and fell headlong across the tiles. Regaining his feet, he hurried to the widow of the chaplain, who seemed to be having some sort of breathing fit and had slipped down onto the kneeling bench.

A scream louder than the others cut through the din. Looking up from the mic he was clipping onto himself, Alavi saw that another muffled shot had been fired halfway back on the right.

“Silence!” Alavi commanded. When the quiet was slow in coming, he fired three shots from his unsilenced pistol into the air. “Silence!” An uneasy hush quickly fell on the congregation.

He had a clear view of them now. Men and women, young and old. All dressed in their finest—some to show respect, others just so they could be seen looking good.