the rear of the more distant one.
Swanson had started to run when the C-4 erupted a few blocks away. He froze in his tracks, turning in time to see the wall of the apartment house blow apart. He made an involuntary lurch toward the dying building because he knew his friend Jim Hall was trapped up there. Hall had trusted the Taliban once too often, and now he was dead. The options rolled through his mind in a few seconds. The CIA veteran, if he was somehow still alive, knew procedure; he knew the location of safe houses and where to get help. There was nothing Kyle could do to help Hall. Swanson’s own mission was done, and he had to get out before the security forces flooded the area.
He ran hard, his shoes grabbing traction, and leaped over a small railing that separated the two buildings.
THE BIG, BOXY LAND Rover jumped the sidewalk as it rounded the final corner and came to a screaming halt, one side crashing into a parked car. The entire palm-lined boulevard was sealed off, and cars of various security agencies were slashing in from all sides without regard for pedestrians or civilian motorists. Police in black armor and helmets were throwing a ring around the entire block and plunging into every building.
Travis Stone threw the Land Rover into reverse and flattened a parked motor scooter as he made a sharp three-point turn. Police were watching, and he jammed down the gas pedal and barreled away.
Darren Rawls called out to Swanson on the radio, ignoring routine procedures. “Get out of there, boss. Abandon the plan. Cops and soldiers all over the place down here. Streets are all blocked, and they are hitting every building. We can’t reach you.”
Kyle stopped loping across the final roof, edged to the side, and peered down. Vehicles were coming in for blocks all around. Men with guns were closing in. Flashlights were cutting lines of light through the gloom. He heard a yell behind him as a couple of policemen made it to the roof of his hide building and spotted him. “You guys egress,” he said. “I’m gone.”
“Roger that. We’ll hold the Taxi One Four at the assigned grid for as long as we can. Go, boss. Go.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MASTER GUNNY O. O. DAWKINS did the arithmetic in his head. Two minutes would be required from the time of the triggers being pulled to getting the shooters out of the buildings and into their cars. About another nineteen mikes to weave through the city streets and reach the countryside, then another five to the landing zone. That meant a total of twenty-six minutes just for them to reach the helicopter. The clock now read only zero-plus- five. There was no need to get nervous. Everything that could be done had been done. Now all they could do was wait and see.
The Task Force Trident office remained quiet except for the hum of the Lizard’s computers. Waiting for a team to come up on the net precluded idle banter. Like a baseball team remaining quiet if a pitcher has a chance for a no-hitter, there was a superstition among special operators that talking too much might jinx the mission.
The silence was broken when a telephone buzzed on the desk of Major General Brad Middleton and the caller identification showed it was the White House chief of staff. “Patterson,” the general grunted, “this is the second time you’ve called in the last five minutes. Quit bothering us. I will let you know when we hear anything. Do not call back.”
This new guy at the White House, Bobby Patterson, apparently thought that because he worked for the commander in chief, he was also an expert on war and covert operations. Asshole had never even been in the service. Fuck him.
SWANSON WAS TRAPPED LIKE a rat in a maze, as the actual terrain dictated his movement. There was only one way to go. The edges of the building corralled him right and left, and the cops were coming up the ladder. He pulled out his.45 ACP, fired a single shot for some harassing fire to make them take cover, and took off for the next roof.
This time he had to jump a narrow alley and took it in full stride, leaping into space and landing with a hard hit and shoulder roll. He noticed that despite his own shot, the cops were not firing back, although they were still chasing him. More of them had reached the roof. That meant their radios were working and they were calling up reinforcements to flood the area. He couldn’t stay on top, and there was no time for analysis or strategy or even fright; just a rush of instant decisions, each built flimsily on the previous one. He trusted his instincts and training, determined not to meekly hold up his hands and quit.
A rooftop entry cubicle loomed on his right, and he grabbed the handle and threw it wide. See a doorway, hit it. Empty. He started down the stairs but heard the shouts and the boot stomps of men entering the bottom of the stairwell. The door to the third floor was at hand, and he ducked through.
A carpeted hallway stretched the length of the expensive residential building. It was neat and wide, with only two facing doorways on either side of the single elevator in the middle to serve the apartments at each end. Fat potted palms huddled beneath framed artwork, the fanned fronts brushing the ceiling.
Kyle needed a diversion to confuse the men chasing him. Using the butt of his pistol as a hammer, he crushed the lights at his end of the hallway, and it fell into a gray dimness just as the soft chime of the elevator bell rang. Kyle kicked open a door, hard enough to break the lock, then ducked behind the nearest broad potted palm.
Two security men wearing black coveralls and body armor dashed out when the elevator doors parted, immediately breaking toward the dark area. When they saw the door sagging open, both of them rushed into the apartment with weapons drawn instead of one providing cover for the other.
Kyle came in right behind them, pulling the door closed as he passed it, and silently counting off the passing seconds in his head.
He did not want to shoot either man, and did not want them to have time to shoot at him. If they died, so be it, but he could not afford a single gunshot that could bring in the reinforcements. If that happened, Kyle wouldn’t stand a chance. He dropped the body of the man he had just killed and slammed into the second one with a rear choke hold. Right forearm around the throat, clasp left hand with the right, and lean back to trap his air.
He eased the body to the floor and plopped down between them and caught his own breath. Nineteen seconds from start to finish. He looked at the door, which had shut tight, and listened for noise in the hallway. Nothing was happening.
Swanson got back to work and quickly stripped both bodies and pulled on a black jumpsuit, a black vest, a black helmet over a black roll-down mask, an equipment belt, and a set of big goggles. Being of average size himself, the first man’s boots were a good fit. He dragged the bodies into the bedroom and stuffed them between the bed and the wall. With an AK-47 grasped in both hands, Kyle Swanson charged back into the hallway, then into the stairwell to merge with the throng of men who were hunting him.
SELIM WALEED WOULD WAIT no longer. Everything was in the timing tonight, and he had allowed two minutes for the capture of the Marine
