All out war, p.32
All Out War, page 32
Zakayev.
Steele stumbled back to the pillars and found the Glock 19 where it had been knocked from his hand. He scooped the pistol from the ground and dropped the magazine. It was empty.
He eased the slide to the rear and saw the shiny brass of the hollow point in the chamber.
“One shot, awesome,” he said, following the footprints up the stairs.
The prints led up the stone steps and down a tight corridor. At the end there was a metal gate and a dead Israeli soldier, eyes frozen in surprise.
He pushed past him and stepped out.
The courtyard outside the tunnel was wide open, the temple’s ancient stone walls rising up to the east. The area to Steele’s front was a mass of soldiers, state officials, and security agents all converging on the street.
Steele held the pistol at his side and trotted toward the chaos. He expected someone to see the Glock, knowing the moment it happened he was dead. Unlike in the movies, in situations like this people tended to shoot first and ask questions later.
Where the hell is he? Steele thought, eyes searching for Zakayev.
He slipped through a break in the IDF perimeter, knowing that time was running out. Steele thought he heard Meg’s voice. “It’s Zakayev,” she screamed.
But where?
Steele felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see an IDF soldier standing beside him. He shucked free of the man’s grasp and cut through the crowd, angling toward the edge of the perimeter. Steele kept his head down and knew he was close when he could smell the smoldering rubber of the limo.
Oh my God, Rockford.
He shouldered his way forward and then found himself in an open area.
The presidential limo sat off to his right, the ass end standing up at an angle, the hood buried in the crater blown out of the roadway. To Steele’s left, the three security teams had merged into one.
All three teams were trying to keep their unit integrity, but with the crowd flowing around them it was impossible, and they were starting to merge.
“Get him to the truck,” a voice yelled in English.
Steele ignored the sounds, focusing instead on the faces.
Where the hell is Zakayev?
Steele was getting frantic when he saw him.
The Chechen knifed into the perimeter, his stolen IDF uniform still dripping wet. The sudden movement caught the eye of a Secret Service agent and he turned, muzzle coming up.
But Zakayev already had the OTs pointed at the agent’s head.
Steele didn’t hear the pistol go off but saw the agent go down, giving Zakayev a clear shot at Rockford.
Steele raised the Glock, knowing that this was the most important shot of his life. He blocked everything else out and focused on the front sight. Steele was aware of the IDF soldier screaming a warning to his comrades. He felt them turn toward him, knowing that any second someone was going to open fire.
Take the shot, Steele thought.
Zakayev was within three feet of Rockford when one of the Secret Service agents saw him coming. The man opened his mouth, but before he could shout a warning, Zakayev dropped him with a shot to the forehead.
He was now a foot away from Rockford.
Steele gently took the slack out of the trigger, waiting for the pause in his breathing.
Zakayev centered his muzzle on the back of Rockford’s head and was curling his finger around the trigger when Steele fired.
The Glock boomed, but before he could see if he had hit his target, Steele was tackled to the ground. Rough hands ripped the Glock from his grip and one of the soldiers shoved a barrel against the back of his head.
His arms were yanked behind his back, the movement sending a scream of pain from the knife wound as they cuffed him. Steele tried to get his head up. Tried to see around the legs and arms obscuring his view, but the soldier shoved his face into the stones.
“He is with us,” Meg yelled, “back off.”
“Ma’am, step back,” one of the soldiers yelled.
The soldiers jerked him to his feet and were turning him when Steele saw Lansky striding toward them.
“Stand down,” he barked.
Behind Lansky Prime Minister Bitton had already been loaded up, and Steele saw the crown prince ducking into an SUV, blood staining his stark white keffiyeh. In the next instant a group of CAT agents, rifles up, ready to engage if the Israeli soldiers tried to take Steele, blocked his view.
“Let him go,” Lansky said. “He just saved the prime minister’s life.”
The IDF soldiers took off the cuffs and Steele rubbed his wrists as the CAT team formed up around them. They took a few steps forward, when Steele stopped and scooped something from the ground. He stood upright, saw Zakayev’s body lying facedown on the ground. A bullet hole behind his right ear.
It’s done.
“That was a hell of a shot,” Lansky said as the CAT team led them toward the last three trucks.
Steele was too exhausted to reply. His legs buckled and Meg ducked under his arm, wedging her shoulders against him so that she was supporting his weight.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” she said.
“I can walk,” Steele said.
“I know you can,” Meg said, meeting his gaze. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
Rockford stood next to the middle Suburban. The door was open, and he leaned in, gently setting the First Lady inside. When he turned, Steele saw the pain on his face and knew something was wrong.
“What is wrong with Lisa?” he asked Meg.
“She was in the limo when the bomb went off,” she answered, looking away.
“Well, is she hurt?” Steele asked.
“Minor bruises, but . . .”
“But what?” Steele asked.
“She’s pregnant, Eric.”
Chapter 78
Three Days Later
Green Bank Facility, West Virginia
Eric Steele sat in the back of the MH-60M Black Hawk, watching the endless green of the Allegheny Mountains passing below. The pilot banked south and Steele caught a glimpse of Snowshoe Mountain, its usually white peaks brown and gray in the summer heat.
“Starting our approach now, sir,” the pilot called over the internal net.
Steele leaned forward and saw the town of Green Bank fill the windscreen. The pilot flared the Black Hawk into a hover over the roof of the Green Bank Facility, and settled the bird onto the helipad with a gentle touch.
Steele grabbed the leather courier bag and hopped off. He ducked beneath the blades and jogged toward the door, where Dr. Thompson was waiting.
Behind him, the pilot pushed the throttle forward and then the helo leaped skyward.
“Morning, doc,” Steele said, extending his hand.
“What happened this time?” Thompson asked, pointing to the blue cast covering his left arm.
“Wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Steele replied, stepping into the stairwell. “How is my mom doing?”
“Remarkable recovery.”
“What about Lisa Rockford?” Steele asked, knowing she’d been checked into the Green Bank.
Thompson shook his head. “She is fine, but the baby . . . there was nothing I could do.”
“How is Rockford handling it?”
“I’ve never seen the man so angry. It’s . . .”
“It’s heartbreaking,” Steele said.
“Exactly.”
They walked down the stairs in silence, each man grieving for the Rockfords’ loss.
“Here we are,” Dr. Thompson said as he pushed through the metal door and onto the recovery room floor. He stopped at the charge desk in the center of the hall.
“She is in room three,” he said. “I am sure you guys have some catching up to do.”
“Thank you, doc,” Steele said, extending his hand.
“For what?” Thompson asked.
“Keeping her alive.”
Steele stopped outside of her room. He could hear the television playing and could tell by the whistling intro that she was watching Andy Griffith. It was her favorite show. He took a plastic container from the courier bag and opened the top. Inside was a bouquet of wildflowers that he’d bought when they stopped in Ireland for fuel.
His mother was sitting up in bed. The machines and the tubes were gone, and other than a cast on her wrist and some residual bruising, Susan Steele looked great. Eric felt a wave of relief wash over him and blinked away the tears of happiness that burned his eyes. He stepped into the room.
“Looking good, Mom,” he said.
“Eric,” she said, a massive smile spreading across her face. “Are those for me?”
He walked over to her bed and handed his mother the flowers.
“They were out of lilies,” he said.
“What happened to your arm?”
“I hurt it at—” he began.
“Eric, the import-export business is getting too dangerous,” she said. “I think it’s time for you to find another job.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry . . . ,” he began.
His mother opened her arms, and Steele ducked into the hug.
“I . . . I never meant for any of this to happen,” he said, unable to hold the tears back any longer. “If I’d known that something like this . . .”
“Eric, stop,” she said, patting his head. “You are a protector, it’s in your blood.”
Her words were comforting but didn’t ease his guilt.
“You did what you were born to do,” she continued, holding him at arm’s length and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “You are your father’s son and I am proud of you.”
“You’re amazing,” Steele said. “I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you.”
“I can think of a way you can start.” His mother grinned.
“Oh yeah, and what is that?”
“There is a folder on the table that Dr. Thompson got for me. Would you mind bringing it over?” she asked, pointing at the table.
Steele got to his feet and walked over to the table.
“I don’t see it,” he said.
“It is under the newspaper.”
He lifted the West Virginia Daily and saw a black folder lying underneath. His eyes locked on the emblem embossed on the bottom and he shook his head.
“Dr. Thompson’s wife has one and he said that according to Car and Driver, the Mercedes G Wagon is the safest SUV on the road.”
“What a helpful guy,” Steele muttered, looking at the price tag.
“What was that?” his mother asked innocently.
“Just saying how helpful Dr. Thompson is.”
“He really is a dear. In fact, he has already called the dealership and they have a black one in stock.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Steele smiled. “Is there anything else?”
His mother scooted over and patted beside her on the bed. “You can come sit with me,” she said.
Steele settled himself beside her, enjoying the moment, seeing her recovery, just being here with her.
“I love you, Mom,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“You ready?” Steele asked, buttoning the suit coat before stepping into the hall.
“Almost, can you help me with this?” Meg asked.
Steele found her in the bathroom wearing a simple black dress with the zipper open in the back. He stepped behind her, taking in the fresh smell of her hair.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he answered, carefully zipping up the back of her dress. “You look good.”
Meg smiled and lifted a string of pearls from the box on the counter, her eyes seeking his in the mirror.
“Mom’s?” Steele asked.
“Yes, she told me to wear them today, is that okay?”
Steele was touched by the gesture and didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.
“Let me fix your tie,” Meg said, turning.
They walked out the door and found a black Lincoln with tinted windows waiting at the curb. The driver hopped out and opened the door.
“I wanted to offer my condolences for Demo,” he said before Steele got in.
“Thank you.”
Thirty minutes later the driver pulled up to the Washington National Cathedral and opened the door.
Steele led Meg around the back to a small entrance hidden between a row of shrubs. Mike Pitts was waiting for them in the center of the room, and behind him, two men silently guarded a mahogany door.
“Heard the good news about your mom,” Pitts said.
“She is a tough lady.”
“I’ll be right here waiting for you when you are done,” Meg said, standing on her tiptoes and giving Eric a kiss.
“Thank you,” he said.
Steele stepped through the door and down a stone staircase that led into the crypt of the cathedral. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took a breath before pushing open the door.
Here we go.
Steele stepped through the door and into the subterranean chapel, his eyes locked on the flag-draped casket sitting before the altar. He started down the aisle, lined with Alphas and their keepers, while two men in dark suits folded the flag back and opened the head of the casket.
He wished Meg was here to witness this, but Steele knew that not even the president of the United States had the power to bend the rules when it came to an Alpha funeral.
Steele stopped in front of the casket, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, but looking down at Demo’s face, the words seemed meaningless.
He reached into his pocket, hand closing around the expended brass he had taken from the Temple Mount.
“We got him, mano,” he said, placing the brass on his keeper’s chest.
A tear traced its way down his cheek and landed on the coffin, shining like a puddle of mercury in the candlelight.
He took a deep breath, fighting the emotion that rolled over him. “You were the best of all of us . . . ,” Steele said, wiping the back of his hand across his face.
Steele stepped back from the coffin, snapped to attention, and raised his right hand to his forehead. “Until Valhalla, mano,” he said, saluting his best friend. “You will be missed.”
Epilogue
Dubai
The Burj Khalifa Hotel catered to the world’s elites, men and women who expected the best. Everything about the hotel had been designed to impress. The building itself was an architectural marvel, a 2,700-foot jewel of glass and steel that towered above the desert floor like a gigantic tear.
The up-armored Mercedes SUV arrived at 11:30 p.m. The driver bypassed the main lobby and looped around the side to a second door guarded by two heavily armed men.
Gabriel grabbed the attaché case from the floorboard.
Prince Badr sat in the backseat, glowering like a child who knew that he was going to bed without dessert.
“I will call when it is time to bring him in,” Gabriel said to the prince’s bodyguard.
He stepped out and handed one of the guards a silver card embossed with a palm tree and two diamonds.
The card marked him as one of fifty members of the most exclusive club in the world: the Diamond Palms.
“This way, sir,” the man said, opening the door.
Gabriel’s shoes squeaked on the gleaming white marble floor, and after he cleared the biometric reader and walked through the Analogic Computed Tomography 3D scanner, a pair of armed guards allowed him to approach the check-in desk.
“Good evening sir,” the concierge said. “How may I assist you?”
“My employer has a reservation,” Gabriel said, handing him a card.
“Of course, sir,” the concierge said, running the card through the scanner.
“Two guests for Penthouse Number Two.”
Gabriel nodded, even though the prince was the only one who was actually going to be sleeping in the room. He and Badr’s bodyguards had other duties. Mainly to keep Badr alive.
Penthouses One and Two were the most expensive rooms in the hotel. Rooms that made the high-roller suites of most hotels look like dumps. They cost eighty-three thousand dollars a night. But Badr wasn’t there for the opulence. The prince was there because he didn’t want to die.
“And how will you be paying?” the concierge asked.
Gabriel placed the attaché case on the counter, thumbed in the combination, and popped the locks.
“Cash,” he said, turning the case around.
He was exhausted. Worn out from the scramble of getting clear of the Americans. But his fate was better than Zakayev’s and Hassan’s, who were both dead.
The operation in Israel had failed, and the crown prince was still in power.
Praise be to Allah that the American killed Zakayev before he could start a war.
He watched the concierge walk the case to the night manager’s glass-fronted office and hand it off.
The thought of what could have happened sent a shiver up his spine. It was the only spot of light in an otherwise dismal failure.
“Can I offer you some champagne while you wait?” the concierge asked when he returned.
“No,” Gabriel said.
The night manager closed the novel he was reading and opened the case. He emptied its contents efficiently, stacking banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills on the table next to the counter.
Gabriel knew how much was in the case because he’d put the money in there. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—enough for three nights at the Burj Khalifa. To stay any longer would be a fatal mistake.
The night manager cut the bands with a letter opener and started feeding them into the counting machine. When he was finished, he notated the amount in the computer and went back to his book.
“The funds have been placed in your account,” the concierge advised.
Gabriel called the bodyguard’s number and when he answered said, “Bring him in.”
Prince Badr and his bodyguard walked through the door and fell in behind the armed escort who led them to the elevator.
They all boarded the elevator that took them to the room 1,918 feet above the lobby. When the doors dinged open a steward was waiting in the hall. He opened the door to the room and ushered the prince inside.
