Double Crossfire Page 14

  Cassie looked over her shoulder—still no car moving toward them—started the car, kept the lights off, slammed the gear into drive, and sped away. In the rearview mirror, she noticed the other car was now racing toward them. At the bend in the road where they had crossed, Cassie said, “Now!”

  Zara tossed the two smoke grenades out of the window. Gray smoke boiled and quickly created a thick curtain screening their movement west. The car, nonetheless, barreled through, smoke twirling in its wake like airplane contrails.

  But when it needed to turn about thirty degrees to the right, it continued straight. A wheel caught the edge of the drainage ditch and the car flipped toward the downhill side, rolling until it smashed into a tree.

  Cassie sped away toward Route 7, fire dancing in the rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER 11

  TROUGH THE SCOPE OF AN M24 BOLT-ACTION SNIPER RIFLE, MAHE gan watched a woman, who looked just like Cassie. The crosshairs were on her back as she flitted into the woods with an accomplice. Cassie had a long-legged gait and recognizable way she carried her arms when she ran, forearms almost parallel with the ground. Though, without direct communication, and no control over her role, he guessed that Cassie was part of the team that Syd Wise had mentioned having on the grounds? Or was it something else?

  “Not shooting?” Owens asked.

  Mahegan breathed out and tightened his finger on the trigger, moving the scope to the other woman.

  “Moving too fast,” Mahegan said.

  “Bullshit, boss,” Owens replied. After a pause, he said, “Always a chance she’d go native, you know.” Not a question, but a statement.

  Mahegan shrugged.

  “No chance Cassie goes native. Go check the back of the SCIF. It’s a blind spot. No cameras,” Mahegan said. “Take Sean with you.”

  “Roger,” Owens said. He moved out quickly from the kitchen window, where Mahegan was seated, sighting the rifle through an open window.

  Then into his portable earbud microphone, Mahegan said, “Hobart, VD, one of you meet me now in the kitchen. Keep eyes on the guard shack.”

  As he waited, Mahegan watched Owens and O’Malley jog to the rear of the SCIF about fifty meters to his ten o’clock. An automatic sensor light tripped and shone brightly, which had not happened when Cassie and her partner had infiltrated. Jamming, Mahegan thought. Both women had been carrying a rucksack, one of which probably contained a portable jamming system.

  Mahegan wondered about Cassie’s last several months. Wounded in Iran. Rescued. Patched up in Walter Reed Medical Center. Transferred to Valley Trauma Center. Escaped. Captured, or rescued again, allegedly by Senator Jamie Carter. And now on a mission in Northern Virginia. She was a busy woman.

  Too bad he loved her. She was now in the game, on the hunt, doing things she shouldn’t do. Mahegan’s sense of right and wrong always revolved around what was best for the country and his teammates. His Ranger tab tattoo on his left shoulder and teammates tattoo on his right bicep attested to his twin, sometimes competing, loyalties.

  Mission and men, to include women when they were part of the team.

  Cassie was on the team. Now she was executing a mission that appeared to be in direct contravention of Mahegan’s code and values. An Army Ranger, Cassie was tough, but Mahegan had seen others with more combat experience come home irretrievably broken. He believed that Cassie was not broken, but only she knew the depths she was plumbing. Not to mention that he had opened himself to her. For the first time in his life, he had viewed a woman through the lens of a potential long-term future.

  Would their relationship be able to survive this gambit? Would either of them survive, period?

  The nation was at a political crossroads: the divisions so deep and penetrating that the divide was wider than even the Grand Canyon. Evel Knievel wouldn’t have been able to jump this chasm with a rocket-fueled motorcycle. Mahegan had visions of the French Revolution, the chasseur des barrières en grande tenue standing in lockstep against the ragtag students waving the tricolor and shouting, “Liberté, egalité, fraternité!” Would there be barricades in Washington, DC, as the coup unfolded? Burning tires. Helicopters swooping low through the streets of Washington, DC, spitting machine-gun rounds at the Resistance as they assaulted the White House?

  Probably not. The peaceful protests, so far, had been interrupted only by a smattering of singleton violent attacks. A shooting here, a stabbing there. Nothing that would ring the alarm bell that a coup was imminent, but perhaps that was the idea. Just as Osama bin Laden had gone silent months before the 9/11 attacks, the Resistance could have been training their assassins, such as the women focused on the CIA Director. What was at play? They had some limited intelligence, but it was weak and difficult to cross-verify with a second source.

  “Here’s the deal, boss,” Owens reported in, over the radio.

  Owens talked and Mahegan listened. He thought about it and then gave his two men the instructions. They had ten minutes until the helicopters came. They had to move quickly, which they did.

  Hobart knelt next to Mahegan, who gave Hobart instructions. When he was done, Mahegan said, “Got it?”

  Hobart nodded and said, “No problem.” He stood, spun, and jogged to get Van Dreeves. The side door to the garage opened and shut. Mahegan stood and walked to the window, saw Hobart and Van Dreeves snaking along the high shrub line down to the guard shack. They had to move quickly.

  If they were wrong, they would all be shot for treason.

  He walked into the study, where Biagatti was reviewing some paperwork. He turned her monitor toward him and studied the multiple camera feeds.

  “Where’s the guard shack?”

  “That black one, right in the middle,” she said, tapping her finger on the monitor, as if trying to make it work.

  “You know these guys?” Mahegan asked, eyeing her.

  “The guards? Enough to know they are not new,” she said.

  Moving back to the window, Mahegan watched his two men close on the small building. They stacked against the back.

  Suddenly the MH-47 helicopter was shaking the windows of the safe house. Vice President Grainger’s car was snaking along Harmony Church Road, approaching the guard shack.

  “Status,” Mahegan said.

  “No change,” Owens reported.

  The soft pop of distant gunfire sounded about the time the two-car convoy turned onto the driveway. Hobart stepped from the guard shack, like he had been there all night. He lowered the tire shredder for the vice president’s car, but raised it as the chase car followed.

  “Sean, I need you or Patch on the front lawn,” Mahegan said.

  “Heading that way,” O’Malley said.

  “Roger.” Then to Hobart, “What’s happening with the chase car?”

  “Stand by,” Hobart replied.

  The chase car, a Dodge Charger, stopped at the bared teeth of the tire shredder. Two men stepped out with pistols up. Van Dreeves fired two shots from the guardhouse window. He was using a twelve-gauge Beretta shotgun and beanbag rounds. Both shots caught the chase car detail in their heads, knocking them to the ground. Hobart was quickly on top of them, most likely flex-cuffing them. Mahegan nodded and thought, Okay, this is a gamble, but everything’s in place.

  Owens and O’Malley met him halfway between the helicopter, which was landing, and the house. The president and his security man walked down the back ramp toward them. The vice president stepped out of his car and walked with his security guy toward Mahegan.

  Mahegan nodded at O’Malley and said, “Follow me.” Biagatti stood from her chair and came to the front door and walked onto the lawn.

  “Was that gunfire?” Biagatti asked Mahegan as they waited for the MH-47 to land. Its thunderous rotors washed over the house, scattering anything that wasn’t tied down. It hovered briefly, then landed about fifty meters from the front porch. The ramp lowered as a crew chief was standing at the back with his flight helmet and Nomex suit on.

  �
�Probably a deer hunter,” Mahegan said.

  What he was knew, though, was that he and his team were in zero-defects execute mode and they couldn’t take the risk that the two secret service men would potentially disrupt The Plan.

  “Two RPGs in the guard shack,” Hobart radioed.

  Mahegan stepped away, letting Biagatti speak privately with the vice president. Replying to Hobart, he said, “Roger. Charlie Mike.”

  “Just saying. You were right. There’s a threat,” Hobart said. “And now we have options with the two shack guys.”

  “Safer inside right now,” Mahegan countered. Mahegan knew his options were to keep the president on the aircraft and have the trustworthy TF-160 pilots take him back to Camp David or to the White House or to gather them inside the compound. His gut told him he needed to play this out to shake out some of the moles. He wouldn’t get all of them, but the only way to catch the big fish was to use big bait. They didn’t come any bigger than the president and vice president.

  “Watch your six with the Secret Service guys coming off the aircraft,” Hobart said.

  “Understand,” Mahegan said. His mind raced with the endless possibilities that could evolve from this moment. By sending Van Dreeves and Hobart to the guardhouse, he quite possibly averted the shoot-down of the MH-47, saving the lives of the precious cargo and the six-soldier crew. Now he had to factor the president, vice president, two bodyguards, and the director of the CIA. Chances were, at least one of them was a member of the Resistance. His mind calculated the myriad scenarios and he settled on two or three that he thought might occur. Given the known infiltration of Cassie and what looked like Zara Perro, coupled with the two men at the guard shack, the Resistance plan was most likely to use the SCIF as the decisive point. The RPGs were probably a backup plan, in case whatever was supposed to happen at the SCIF didn’t occur exactly as planned. A gas attack in the SCIF would be much more efficient than a fireball in the sky that could be seen for miles. It gave the Resistance all kinds of options of how to dispose of the bodies, change the story of what happened, create a false narrative, and certainly find a way to place the blame on the president himself.

  Mahegan walked up the ramp and greeted the president, who was standing just inside the cargo bay next to a large African-American man, Secret Service Agent Tyrus Vance. Behind him was a tall white man, holding a duffel bag. The doctor. They were all dressed in casual attire. The president was wearing khaki slacks, a white leisure shirt, and a brown bomber jacket. The doctor had on the same attire, except for a blue Windbreaker instead of the bomber jacket. Vance was dressed in a dark blue shirt, which seemed to barely fit his massive frame.

  “Sir, welcome. I’d appreciate it if just you and Vance came in initially. We’re trying to keep access to the compound to a minimum.”

  “Where’s the vice president?” President Smart asked.

  “He’s arrived and is with Director Biagatti. Perfect timing.”

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” Smart said. They walked down the ramp, Mahegan leading. At the same time, the vice president and his bodyguard, a woman whom Mahegan didn’t know, walked toward him up the sidewalk from a forty-five-degree angle.

  Mahegan looked at the vice president and his bodyguard. Next to them was Biagatti, who clenched her fist and pumped her arm, the universal symbol for move quickly. Mahegan took long strides. Vance touched the president’s elbow, urging him forward, and they moved quickly toward the porch. As they arrived, Biagatti said, “Welcome, Mr. President. We need to move inside now.”

  He led them into the house, through the kitchen, and down some steps that led to a long hallway, which connected to the SCIF. Biagatti stopped them and said, “Good evening, Mr. President and Vice President.”

  “Carmen. This better be good,” the president said. “We’re violating all kinds of protocols here.”

  “Being unpredictable right now is a good thing, Mr. President.”

  “Okay, we managed that. What’s next?”

  Biagatti had moved to the front of the column, but Mahegan crowded her away from the SCIF door. There was a little gaggle outside of the door, because everyone thought that Mahegan was going to lead them into the room immediately. Instead, he paused outside and said, “Let’s take a moment.”

  “What is this, church? C’mon, Mahegan, let’s go,” Biagatti said.

  Mahegan’s hand rested on the door handle to the SCIF, then said, “No. But everyone needs to be aware of what’s happening locally, tactically, right here, right now.”

  “Okay, explain,” President Smart said.

  “Director Biagatti led us here to the SCIF, but I think we can talk downstairs in the basement. It’s probably just as secure.”

  “What we need to discuss can only be done in the SCIF,” Biagatti said. “This house wasn’t built for classified conversations, and it’s not used enough to be a thousand percent certain that someone hasn’t . . . tampered and emplaced listening devices.”

  The SCIF’s closed door was metallic and looked like the opening to a walk-in freezer. A twenty-meter enclosed connecting walkway from the house kitchen led to this cube of a room. As Biagatti had said, it was never intended for presidential visits, but still, as a CIA safe house, it was intended for protection and security from those that wanted to find and kill them.

  In Mahegan’s ear, Hobart said, “I’m listening to this. This is an ambush. Execute conplan ASAP.”

  “Roger. Just a sec,” Mahegan said. Hobart was recommending executing the contingency plan that they had only briefly discussed. It was complex and required precision.

  “Who are you talking to?” Biagatti asked.

  “My security team. We’re fine,” Mahegan said.

  Biagatti, President Smart, Vice President Grainger, and the bodyguards looked at him. The two leaders of the Free World were dressed in identical khaki slacks, blue shirts, and bomber jackets. Smart was a tall, thin man, with thick graying hair and an angular nose. Grainger looked a bit like Dick Cheney, with his crooked glasses and bald head. He was short and disheveled and had a hard time keeping eye contact. A slight bulge on the left side of his bomber jacket could be the pouch of chewing tobacco he typically carried with him, or it could be something else, entirely. Outside of their tight circle were two bodyguards. Mahegan knew only one of them, though only remotely. Both bodyguards had slightly puffed-out chests, as if they might be wearing body armor underneath their shirts and jackets.

  Tyrus Vance, the president’s man, was a tall, thick African American. He was a former collegiate defensive end at Michigan. Vance’s aura dominated a room, much the same as Mahegan’s did. Both men had presence and naturally the testosterone was at maximum wattage. Mahegan sensed the tension. The perennial question “Who’s in charge” was never really an issue for Mahegan. He took charge until someone else proved more capable or had a position of authority over him. Vance’s job was singular in purpose: keep the president alive. Mahegan’s mission was broader, but inclusive of Vance’s.

  Vance stared at Mahegan with suspicious eyes and stepped closer to his boss, who was opposite Mahegan. To Mahegan’s right was the door to the SCIF. To his left was Biagatti. Across from him were the president, vice president, Vance, and the vice president’s bodyguard, a woman named Twinkler, whose nickname was “Twinkie,” which Mahegan assumed she didn’t particularly care for. Twinkie was a stocky woman, perhaps a weight lifter, he didn’t know, but she looked the part.

  This is the moment of truth. Can everyone play their part? Mahegan steeled himself for the series of actions that were supposed to flow from this point when Biagatti interrupted his focus.

  “Why can’t we go in the SCIF, Jake?” Biagatti asked. Patience was never your strong suit, Mahegan thought.

  “There might be an issue,” Mahegan said.

  “What kind of an issue?” President Smart asked.

  “Shouldn’t it be enough that there’s an issue, sir? You pay us well to determine these things. It
’s best if you don’t go in the SCIF,” Mahegan said.

  “I pay Vance here. I barely know you,” the president said. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Vance, what’s your call?”

  “I don’t see a problem, sir. It’s a SCIF. Jake here’s a little jumpy after his girlfriend almost got killed in Iran. The advance team swept the place then relocated to the guard shack. They screened in the Vice President,” Vance said.

  The president shrugged. “See there, Mahegan. Vance says it’s okay. He’s my guy. You’re not my guy.”

  “Technically, we’re all your guys,” Mahegan said. “I get paid the same way Vance gets paid—by the U.S. Treasury. We all work for you.”

  “Do you? Vance here has been my guy for three years. He’s busted up more plots against me than you can imagine.”

  “Sometimes people get overconfident when they have so much success. Vance looks entirely competent, but then again, he could be off his game a bit.”

  “You hear that, Vance? Are you off your game, as Mahegan here suggests?” The president smiled.

  “Not a chance, sir. The SCIF is clean,” Vance said.

  “Vance says the SCIF is clean. I take him at his word. Let’s quit wasting time,” Smart said.

  “If Vance is so confident, I suggest we let him go first and sweep the SCIF while we stay out here and watch.”

  The skin under Vance’s right eye ticked briefly; then he smirked. He knew Mahegan was calling his bluff. Was he a member of the Resistance or not? Was he a mole in the best-possible place a mole could be?

  “No problem,” Vance said.

  “What about you, Twinkie? Going to leave your wingman in there?”

  “Twinkie stays with me,” Vice President Grainger said.

  Mahegan smiled. “You’re safe with us, sir. I think both security personnel should go in the SCIF. After all, isn’t Twinkie responsible for your safety? Are you willing to take Vance’s word, and only Vance’s word? If something were to happen, and the report that gets filed says that Twinkie didn’t do her job, is that a legacy you want her to have?”