STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books (34 page)
Authors: JT Brannan
Cole noticed the impressive neo-classical façade of the White House lit up before them, from the warmth of the Snow Cat as it laboured through the snow and finally came to a stop on the South Lawn, a Marine security detail lined up to meet them and escort them inside.
After receiving a change of clothes – basic Marine combat fatigues – he was bundled out of the Snow Cat and marched across the Rose Garden to the first floor entrance to the West Wing underneath the West Colonnade.
He was grabbed and then manhandled along the corridor, around the corner to the left and then pushed and pulled down the stairs to the basement. At the bottom, the door to the left of the stairs was already opening, and Cole was pushed unceremoniously inside, where more men from the ERT grabbed him, pulling him onto a hardback chair in the corner of the room.
From his rapid journey through the West Wing, Cole knew he must be in the basement’s Secret Service room, directly below the Cabinet Room and Oval Office above.
He looked around the room, and saw banks of computers, weapons racks, equipment stores, as well as the ubiquitous kettle and microwave. But apart from the ERT guys who now held him, the room was empty of personnel.
Cole watched as the men listened to their ear mikes, and then as one of the men came forward, undid Cole’s handcuffs, pulled his arms tightly back around the chair, and then re-secured them.
Cole wasn’t panicking yet – David Grayson, the Director of the Secret Service, wasn’t on the list of JMIC alumni, and so Cole had to assume that the agents were just doing their job, securing the unknown threat until they received further orders.
The door opened then, and a woman walked in, her features stern, hard and decidedly unfriendly. Two suited agents followed her.
‘Go back to your posts,’ she ordered the ERT men, ‘Barnes and Davis will guard the prisoner.’
The assault team left the room without a word, and Cole realized he had been wrong to be unconcerned.
Because even though David Grayson wasn’t a member of the Alumni, the Secret Service was under the direct control of the Department of Homeland Security.
And the Secretary of State for that particular department was Elizabeth Harden, graduate of the Joint Military Intelligence College, year 2000.
‘Vice Admiral Hansard sends his congratulations to you on your unbelievable success so far,’ Harden began, her face still emotionless, almost machine-like. ‘But, like all good things, it too must come to an end.’
She smiled then, for the first time. ‘Like your family,’ she said cruelly, watching as Cole twitched involuntarily in response. ‘Yes,’ she said happily, ‘it turns out you really can’t trust anyone, can you? Stefan Steinmeier contacted us last night, telling us all about his visitors.’
Cole tried to disguise the fear, the rage, the uncertainty, the anger, but failed; Harden saw it all. ‘Don’t judge him too harshly,’ she continued. ‘A ten million dollar reward is too much to pass up for anyone. Offered by Hansard to old allies of yours all over Europe. Agent Albright is on his way there now to take care of your family personally.’
She gestured behind her, and Barnes and Davis drew their Sig Sauer pistols. ‘You escaped, tried to kill me, and were put down by these two fine Secret Service agents,’ Harden explained. ‘An assassin sent by Russia and China, just to add a little more fuel to the fire.
‘And it really doesn’t matter what you know or don’t know,’ she continued. ‘Abrams is upstairs right now, in the stairwell behind the podium with Mancini, getting ready to address the world in’ – she checked her watch – ‘just under three minutes.’
Cole smiled up at her. ‘Well, that should just give me enough time.’
Whilst Harden had been talking, Cole had been slipping his wrists free from the cuffs. When they had been re-secured, Cole had slipped his wrists down fractionally so they had gone round a thicker portion of his lower forearm, tensing the muscles to make them even bigger. The result was that when he relaxed the muscles and the cuffs slid down to his wrists, there was just enough space within the cuffs to squeeze his hands through.
He had paused halfway through at the mention of his family. Was it true? Could it possibly be true? She knew Steinmeier’s name, anyway, and that was more than enough to concern him.
But he couldn’t do anybody any good stuck to the chair awaiting execution – not his family, not the President, and not the citizens of the United States who stood to have their lives irrevocably altered.
And so Cole wasted no more time in freeing himself, hurling himself off the chair towards Harden, grabbing her and turning her towards the shooter on the left even as he slammed the callused edge of his hand across the bridge of the other man’s nose; blood flicked out from the corner of the agent’s eyes and he fell dead to the floor.
The second agent hesitated for vital moments as his target was obscured by Harden’s writhing body, and Cole took the opportunity to thrust the web of his hand, between his index finger and thumb, straight into the agent’s throat, the impact crushing the windpipe and killing him instantly.
Harden, who had now dropped to her knees, looked up at Cole with pleading eyes. ‘Please,’ she offered, real emotion now evident in her voice, ‘I can make you rich. I can – ’
Cole cut her off with two quick nerve strikes, rendering her unconscious. He wanted desperately to kill her, but the fact was that she was living proof of Hansard’s plans, and a ‘strategic interview’ with the woman would corroborate what Cole would tell the President – if he got there in time to save her.
Standing on the stairs from the old swimming pool to the Press Briefing Room above, President Ellen Abrams took several long, slow and deep breaths.
‘Okay, Stevie,’ she said to her bodyguard, loyally by her side. ‘It’s showtime.’
Together, they ascended the steps to the first floor. Abrams would emerge from behind the curtain to take her place behind the podium whilst Mancini would subtly move to one side, unseen.
He smiled at the President and nodded his head. ‘Yes, ma’am. Showtime.’
Cole had quickly stripped the Secret Service agent closest to his own size and weight, and had exchanged clothes.
He now wore the man’s dark blue suit and tie, Sig Sauer handgun on a tactical holster on his belt, radio earpiece in and operational.
‘Eagle Eye moving to podium,’ Cole heard over the radio, and he knew it must be Mancini reporting on the President’s movements.
He opened the door of the Secret Service room and strolled out confidently, just as an agent would who had every right to be where he was, going where he was going.
He turned immediately right at the stairs and ascended them quickly. He had less than a minute.
Ellen Abrams emerged to the podium to the blinding flash of lights from the gathered cameras, and it took her eyes a few seconds to focus.
The small room was full to capacity, each chair in the theatre-style bank occupied, as well as all standing room behind and to the sides. Even after its refurbishment, the Press Briefing Room was something of a fire hazard. The main door to the room was blocked by reporters, all eyes intently on her, waiting for her statement so that they could report it to the world.
She glanced to her left and saw Mancini waiting there in the shadows behind her.
Reassured by his presence, she began.
Cole’s trip through the house was almost as rapid as when he had been manhandled inside earlier in the evening, and it had been plain sailing until he was outside the press room.
At the top of the stairs he had turned right, and then just before the entrance to the West Colonnade, he turned left into the outer press offices.
The people there had made way for him, and he had listened intently to the radio as Mancini announced Abrams was at the podium.
And then Cole had been at the door to the Press Room, shoulder to shoulder with reporters and press agents who hadn’t made it inside.
Two Secret Service agents blocked the door. As he approached, he saw their faces change from welcome of a fellow agent, to concern, to suspicion. ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked the one on the left, six feet four and two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle.
Both men’s hands were already going to their guns, but Cole was faster, catching a point behind the big man’s ear, moving to his right even as the first man dropped unconscious to the floor, trapping the second agent’s gun arm and punching him in the side of the neck, disrupting the blood flow and knocking him out cold.
Cole saw agents further down at the far end of the corridor reacting, but paid them no attention as he burst through the door into the Press Briefing Room.
As President Abrams made her introductory statement to the press, and to the millions of Americans watching at home, Mancini was no longer listening to the words.
He merely scanned the room to make sure that all cameras were on, focussed, and concentrated on the stage.
It was beautiful, it was all so beautiful; he could see Abrams’ head just in front of him, the years of pent-up frustration and rage just seconds away from being being opened up in a maelstrom of violence. That pretty little head would soon be exploding into a million little pieces, televised across the globe.
Beautiful
.
He took a deep breath.
And then in one fluid, practised motion, he drew his pistol.
Eyes turned on Cole as he shouldered his way through the door, the heavy mahogany smashing into the reporters pushed up against it.
Cole looked at the podium, Ellen Abrams resplendent in front of the Stars and Stripes hanging in front of the thick blue curtains, and then to her left.
A man in the shadows, hand going to his belt, a flash of metal as his handgun raised up towards Abrams.
There were too many people in the way, blocking Cole’s line of sight.
Ignoring the screams and the chaos resulting from his entry, he moved before the rest of the Presidential security detail ensconced within the Press Room had time to react, pulling one reporter down to the floor and using him as a steeping stone, placing one foot on his prone form and pushing off, jumping clear over the first line of reporters even as his own gun came clear from his unbuttoned jacket, his arm pointing straight as his body sailed through the air, finger squeezing the trigger.
A single shot echoed out, and the whole room watched as the 10mm round whipped past the President, entering the right eyeball of the man in the shadows behind her, exiting via the rear of the skull along with three pounds of bone and brain matter, blown across the painted blue wall.
Mancini was dead before Cole came crashing earthwards, landing on top of three reporters in the second row of theatre seats, who screamed, jumped up and pulled past him, joining the mass exodus for the main door.
Cole himself dropped the gun, spreading himself defencelessly over the back of one of the chairs in surrender.
The other agents in the room had reacted now, and whilst four of them bundled the President back down the stairs to the pool, still others helped the reporters exit the room, whilst four more surrounded Cole in and amongst the blue theatre chairs, guns drawn and trigger fingers itchy.
But he had done it.
The President was alive.
Hansard had watched the bank of television monitors in his office at the ODNI with anticipation bordering on excitement, a rare feeling indeed. Each monitor was tuned to a different news channel, all broadcasting live from inside the White House, and he had watched the events unfold from every angle – first the opening introduction of Abrams’ speech, then the chaos at the door even as Mancini was raising his gun, and then as Cole had leapt over the press corps and shot Hansard’s man straight through the eyeball.
Although many of the networks’ camera crews had fled the room, there were still live feeds coming through from three of the news channels – either because the cameras were being operated by remote, or by people with nerves of steel – and Hansard had kept watching, open mouthed, as President Abrams – still alive! – had been bundled away, members of the press had fled, and the Secret Service had arrested an unresisting Cole and led him away.
Hansard breathed deeply, trying to break it all down in his mind. He knocked the cap off the bottle of cognac and poured a triple measure into the glass on the mahogany desk, then drank it down in one and poured himself another.
Cole had done it; he had survived long enough to cause a problem.
But all he had done was to save the President – and her assassination was just going to be the icing on the cake, really. Even with Abrams still at the helm, she might be convinced to increase defence expenditure in light of the development of a combined Russian-Chinese opponent. The contracts might still be signed, and Hansard’s new Cold War might still be able to go ahead. Not in the exact way it had been planned, but it was still salvageable –
if
Cole never had the chance to give his information to the President.
Hansard considered the matter – Cole was an escaped prisoner who had broken through the White House protective detail and fired his gun towards the President. Surely it would appear that Cole was trying to kill her, and Mancini had been killed drawing his own gun as he tried to protect her? Cole’s efforts would be regarded as being an attempted Presidential assassination, and it was therefore unlikely that Cole would gain access to her, at least in the short term.
He picked up his phone and dialled Elizabeth Harden. She must not have found where they had taken Cole, not managed to use Barnes and Davis as per his earlier instructions. But she would have to find him now, silence him one way or another, no matter what it took.
As the phone rang and rang, Hansard watched the replays of the event on the television screens. The camera angles were now being examined back in the studios, and cross-cuts were being made between Mancini and Cole, until it was clear that it was the President’s own bodyguard who had tried to kill her, and it was Cole that had saved her.
Damn
.
The phone was answered then, a rough male voice on the other end of the line. ‘Who is this?’ the voice demanded.
‘This is Vice Admiral Charles Hansard, Director of National Intelligence. Who the hell is this? I’m trying to get through to Dr Harden, where is she?’
‘I’m sorry sir, Agent Johnson, Secret Service. We’ve found her unconscious. Two of our agents are down too.’
Hansard thought quickly. Two of their colleagues, maybe even two of their friends. ‘Agent Johnson, listen to me very carefully. The man who did this is extremely dangerous. We cannot afford for this to go to trial. I hereby authorize you to find him and ensure the matter is dealt with in a robust fashion. You get me?’
‘Yes sir,’ the man answered straight away, and Hansard was gratified to hear the positive response. The promise of revenge might be enough without having to offer a cash incentive. ‘That sounds like –’ Agent Johnson paused, and Hansard thought he could hear a disembodied electronic voice in the background, presumably the man’s radio. Ten seconds passed, then twenty as Johnson listened to his radio, before coming back to the phone.
‘Mr Hansard,’ he said in a more measured, controlled voice. ‘What is your current location?’
Hansard’s blood went cold, and he slammed the telephone handset back in its cradle.
They were already on to him. And if they were on to
him
, they would also be on to the rest of them.
He grabbed up his secure cell phone and keyed in a single line message – RED TWO FOUR – and then sent it to a special call group.
It was the emergency code for full mission abort, the order to drop everything and escape immediately; the whole plan was burned, and the Alumni might be burned along with it if they didn’t make a hasty exit.
Hansard put the phone in his pocket, downed the cognac in one smooth action, grabbed his coat, and followed his own advice.
He was going to get the hell out of there just as fast as he possibly could.
Damn that bastard. Damn him to hell!
