The Edge of Armageddon (12 page)

Dahl threw himself into the passenger seat and let Smyth drive; Kenzie, Lauren and Yorgi again in back. Even as they threaded their way back towards the precinct, reports of Drake hitting Grand Central were coming in, but he heard nothing beyond that. Moore had just called in one more tip from an informant—the fourth terrorist cell was operating out of an upscale apartment building near Central Park, and now that Dahl thought about it, it stood to reason that some of these cells would be funded differently to others—it helped them blend in—but Dahl wondered how a bunch of people could exist inside a specific society so easily without remembering their brainwashing indoctrinations. Brainwashing was a particular art and he doubted your typical terrorist had mastered it just yet.

Don’t be so naive.

Moore’s infiltrators were risking more than just exposure to get these tips out. The repercussions of this day would reverberate indefinitely, and he hoped Homeland had a handle on where it would all wash out. If an undercover got himself burned today his problems were just beginning.

Traffic cops, always prevalent around intersections, were trying their best to filter the traffic, facing enormous and probably insurmountable problems, but aware emergency vehicles had to be given priority. Dahl saw several little viewing platforms – almost like mini cherry pickers – where cops directed their colleagues from their higher vantage point, and he nodded his thanks as they were waved through.

Dahl checked the car’s GPS. “Eight minutes,” he said. “We ready?”

“Ready,” the whole team returned.

“Lauren, Yorgi stay with the car this time. We can’t risk you anymore.”

“I’m coming,” Lauren said. “You need the backup.”

Dahl forced down images of the basement and the SWAT leader’s death. “We can’t risk unnecessary lives. Lauren, Yorgi you have your value in different areas. Just watch the exterior. We need eyes there too.”

“You might need my skills,” Yorgi said.

“I doubt we’ll be hopping across balconies, Yorgi. Or using drainpipes. Just . . .” He sighed. “Please do as I ask and watch the bloody exterior. Don’t force me to make it an order.”

An uneasy silence fell. Each team member processed the events from the previous assault entirely differently, but since it had all happened only a half hour ago most were still in the shock stage. The observations were endless—how close they had come to being blown up. How a man had so selflessly sacrificed himself to save their lives. How cheaply these terrorists regarded all forms of life.

Dahl found his mind returning to that old saw—how could an adult imbue such hateful traits into the youngest child? The most innocent mind? How could a grown up, responsible person believe it was right to warp such fragile minds, alter the course of a promising life forever? To replace it with . . . what? . . . hatred, inflexibility, fanaticism.

However we look at it, whatever our views on religion,
Dahl thought,
the Devil truly does walk among us.

Smyth hauled on the brakes as they approached a high-rise. Prepping and exiting the car took seconds, and left all of them exposed on the sidewalk. Dahl felt uneasy, knowing the fourth cell were almost certainly inside and how competent they appeared to be. His eyes fell upon Lauren and Yorgi.

“What the hell are you doing? Get back in the car.”

They drew near the doorman, showed their IDs and asked about two apartments on the fourth floor. Both belonged to a young couple who kept themselves to themselves and were always polite. The doorman had never even seen both couples together, but yes one of the apartments did receive regular visitors. He thought it was some kind of social night, but then he wasn’t exactly paid to be over inquisitive.

Dahl moved him gently aside and headed for the stairs. The doorman asked if they needed a key.

Dahl smiled softly. “That won’t be necessary.”

Four floors were dealt with easily and then the three soldiers paced carefully down the corridor. It was as Dahl saw the correct apartment number come into view that his cell started to vibrate.

“What?” Smyth and Kenzie waited, covering their periphery.

Moore’s tired voice filled Dahl’s head. “The tip is false. Some informant fingering the wrong people for a bit of revenge. Sorry, I just found out.”

“False,” Dahl breathed. “Are you kidding me? We’re stood outside their fucking door with HKs.”

“Then leave. The informant loves one of the women. Whatever, just get back on the road, Dahl. This next tip’s red hot.”

The Swede cursed and pulled his team back, concealed their weapons and then hurried past the surprised doorman. Dahl had actually considered asking the doorman to conduct a quiet evacuation before they ascended to the fourth floor—knowing what might happen up there—and now wondered how the residents might have reacted to find out his tip was fraudulent.

An interesting social question. What type of person would complain at being thrown out of their homes whilst police searched for terrorists . . . if that search proved ultimately based on a lie?

Dahl shrugged it off. Moore wasn’t exactly on his shit list yet, but the man was teetering on stony ground. “This next lead’s going to pan out, yes?” He spoke into the still-open line.

“It should. Same guy who fingered the third cell. Just get to Times Square and fast.”

“There’s a threat against Times Square? Which security forces are in place already?”

“All of them.”

“All right, we’re ten minutes out.”

“Make it five.”

Smyth drove like a demon, cutting corners and squeezing, even scraping, between badly parked cars. They abandoned the vehicle at 50
th
and ran, now against the crowd as it swept away from Times Square, the cheerful façades of M&M’s World, Hershey’s Chocolate World and even a street-corner Starbucks now undermined by the overhanging threat. Enormous billboards shone thousands of multi-colored images back and forth above head-height across the street, each vying for attention and engaged in a lively, vibrant battle. The team threaded a forest of scaffold poles as almost every other shop seemed to be undergoing some kind of renovation. Dahl tried to figure out a way to keep Lauren and Yorgi safe, but the drive and the run made it nigh on impossible. Like it or not, they were all soldiers now, the team strengthened by their presence.

Ahead cops were stringing a cordon around the square. New Yorkers looked on with bewilderment and visitors were told to return to their hotels.

“It’s just a precaution, ma’am,” Dahl heard one of the uniforms saying.

And then the world went to hell again. Four tourists, perusing the windows around Levis and Bubba Gump, dropped their backpacks, rooted around inside and came up with automatic weapons. Dahl ducked behind a street kiosk as he unstrapped his own weapon.

Gunfire echoed around Times Square. Windows smashed and billboards were peppered, destroyed because the majority were screens now, the largest in the world, and the epitome of capitalism. Mortar rained down upon the sidewalk. Those who remained and the security services scrambled for cover. Dahl poked his head out and returned a salvo, his shots untargeted but causing the terrorists to curse loudly and look for cover of their own.

On to you straight away this time,
Dahl thought with grim satisfaction.
No hope for you
.

Dahl saw the cell duck behind a parked cab and noted the bus abandoned alongside. He had never visited Times Square before, and only seen it briefly on the TV, but to see such a clearly pedestrian-friendly area so empty was unnerving. More shots rang out as cell members no doubt saw people moving inside the shops and office buildings. Dahl moved quietly into the street.

Beyond the bus and alongside the far sidewalk other security forces were getting into place. More SWAT, black-suited agents and NYPD cops were maneuvering around to some quiet, choreographed beat. Dahl signaled them to get into line. What passed for signage here clearly didn’t translate because nobody took a moment’s notice of the mad Swede.

“We waiting for those three-and-four-letter pussies, or are we gonna make these fuckers burn?” Kenzie grated at his side.

Dahl turned away from the American agents. “I do enjoy your bright terminology,” he said, creeping in the shadow of the bus. “But sparingly.”

“So you want to keep me around now. I get it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Smyth lay flat on the ground peering under vehicles. “I see legs.”

“Can you be sure they’re terrorist legs?” Dahl asked.

“I think so but, hell, it’s not as if they’re labelled.”

“They will be soon,” Kenzie hefted her rifle as if it were the sword she so craved and paused behind one of the bus’s giant wheels. The team took one communal breath.

Dahl peeked out. “I do believe it’s that time again.”

Kenzie went first, racing around the back of the bus and charging the yellow cab. Automatic gunfire rang out, but it was directed at windows and bus stops and anywhere else the terrorists figured defenseless people might be taking cover. Dahl thanked their lucky stars that no lookout had been posted, knowing speed was their ally here in taking down the cell, which had to be done before they switched to grenades or worse. Kenzie and he rounded the cab, eyeballing the four men who reacted surprisingly quickly. Instead of swinging their weapons around they just charged, slamming into Dahl and Kenzie and knocking them off their feet. Bodies sprawled across the road. Dahl caught a descending fist and deflected it away, hearing the knuckles impact hard against tarmac. Still, the second arm came down, this one with the rifle butt upended. Dahl couldn’t trap this one, nor glance it away, so reverted to the only action open to him.

He lowered his forehead and took the blow upon his skull.

Blackness writhed before his eyes, pain ricocheted from nerve to nerve, but the Swede didn’t allow any of that to interfere with his job. The weapon struck and then came away, vulnerable. Dahl grabbed it and wrenched against the man who held it. Blood trickled down both sides of his face. The man brought a fist down again, this time a bit more timidly, and Dahl caught it in his own fist and began to squeeze.

With every fiber in his being, every sinew of every knuckle stretched taut.

Bones broke like twigs snapping. The terrorist screamed and tried to pull his hand away but Dahl would have none of it. They needed this cell taken out of commission. Fast. Gripping down even harder he made sure the man’s attention was completely encompassed by the overpowering pain in his fist and yanked free his Glock.

One down.

The gun discharged three bullets before the terrorist’s eyes glazed over. Dahl heaved him away and then rose up like the avenging angel, blood spilling from his skull and a snarl of intent warping his features.

Kenzie fought a large man, their guns trapped between their bodies, and faces almost mashed together. Smyth pounded on the third, driving the guy to his knees as he struck with almost perfect, precise fury. The final terrorist had gotten the better of Lauren, throwing her to the ground, and was trying to line up a shot when Yorgi flung himself in front of the barrel.

Dahl caught his breath.

The gun went off. Yorgi collapsed, struck in the vest. Dahl then saw that the situation was slightly different to how he had first read it. Yorgi hadn’t jumped athletically in front of a bullet, he had rammed the terrorist’s shooting arm with his whole body.

Different, but still effective.

Dahl leapt to the Russian’s aid, striking the gunman under the left arm and taking his feet off the ground. The Swede built up momentum and speed, bunching his muscles, carrying his load with a ferocity born of displeasure. Three feet and then six and the terrorist was being propelled fast when he finally impacted head-first with the menu board of the Hard Rock Café. The plastic split, drenched with blood, as Dahl’s crazy momentum cracked his opponent’s skull and tore at flesh. Kinimaka might not have liked it, but the Swede had used an American icon to neutralize a terrorist.

Karma.

Dahl whirled again, now dripping blood from his ears and chin. Kenzie and her opponent were still locked in mortal contest, but Smyth’s had managed to open a gap between the soldier and himself by rolling several times. On the final revolution he fought to wrestle his weapon around, got lucky, and ended up with the pointy end aimed straight at Smyth.

Dahl roared, bounding in, but there was nothing he could do about the shot. In the blink of an eye the terrorist fired and the onrushing Smyth took a bullet that stopped him dead, sending him to his knees.

Bringing his forehead in line for the next shot.

The terrorist squeezed the trigger, but at that instant Dahl arrived—a seething, mobile mountain—and smashed the terrorist between himself and a wall. Bones broke and grated together, blood gouted, and the rifle clattered away. When Dahl started, stricken, toward Smyth he saw and heard the angry soldier swearing loudly.

He’s okay then.

Saved by the Kevlar vest, Smyth had still taken a short-range bullet and would have a bruise almost to die for, but their new avant-garde body armor had taken the sting out of it. Dahl wiped his face, now registering the approach of a SWAT team.