“I caught some traffic this morning about looters going through some of the closed stores,” Thompson said.
“That’s completely different. Most of those people will get citations after this is all said and done. It’s like everything that happened in Ferguson after the riots. The cops were able to identify most of the people involved in those incidents and get them charged. Now, whether or not they actually got convicted is a whole other thing.”
The soldier waved the next car through and Thompson pulled forward.
“Identification and destination, please.”
Connor handed his National Security credentials to Thompson, who handed both IDs to the soldier.
“The JTTF,” Thompson said. “Thompson and Connor, NSA.”
“How you all holding up?” Connor asked, leaning across the center console.
The soldier leaned over slightly, inspecting the ID cards and giving Connor an uninterested, suspicious look. “Things are fantastic, sir.” He considered the cards again for a long moment, then handed them back. “Please drive safe, sir.”
Thompson nodded and pulled slowly through the checkpoint. “Not very talkative, are they?”
“Can you blame them? They pulled one of the crappiest duty assignments you can get. And not only that, they’re doing it on their own soil, not overseas. There’s kind of a different vibe to the work when you’re pointing your weapon at your own people.”
“Can’t argue with you th—Oh, shit!”
Thompson jerked the wheel to the right, narrowly missing the car that had stopped suddenly ahead of them and driving up onto the curb. A block up, two of the Humvees were pulling away from their positions. They disappeared around the corner, red and blue lights flashing. The distant wail of a siren echoed back through the buildings.
Connor opened the door, looking up to the soldier manning the turret of the Humvee next to him. “What the hell was that?”
The kid, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen, shook his head. “Some asshole in a semi just blew through one of the roadblocks on Second Avenue. He’s—”
Connor didn’t wait for him to finish. “Go!” he said to Thompson, slamming the door shut and pointing. “Follow them!”
Thompson punched the gas, sending the Tahoe onto the sidewalk, metal screeching as he scraped past the car to their left. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. He flipped a switch on the dash, activating the vehicle’s emergency lights and siren. “You think it’s him?”
Connor unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed to the back. “A semi blowing through a roadblock in downtown Manhattan during a military-enforced curfew? What else could it be?”
“And what are you going to do if it is him?” Thompson asked. “Hold on!”
The tires squealed as he took a turn, throwing Connor to the driver’s side of the back seat. Then Thompson straightened and punched the gas again.
Connor scrambled to get the clamps open on the Pelican case, then pulled the silenced M4 free from its cut-out. He slapped a magazine into the weapon and grabbed two extra mags before closing the lid again.
As he dropped back into the passenger seat, Thompson swerved around another corner, finally coming within sight of the camouflaged Humvees, their red and blue bubble lights flashing. For the most part the street was empty, thanks to the curfew and travel restrictions. The Humvees swerved through the light traffic, and Thompson stayed close on their tails.
Connor craned his neck to see around the Humvees. A red semi was making a hard left turn two blocks ahead. “There!”
In the turret of one of the Humvees, the gunner pulled the charging handle back on his M240 machine gun and pressed his shoulder into the stock. He spun around, leveling his weapon at the semi, then suddenly pitched forward, almost flipping completely out. Smoke rolled up from the tires as the vehicle screeched to a halt.
“Shit!” Thompson shouted, slamming on the brakes.
The semi had stopped in the middle of the road, blocked by an Apache attack helicopter hovering twenty feet above the ground, its rotors kicking up a torrent of dust and debris.
Thompson maneuvered the Tahoe to the right of the Humvees, stopping just behind a row of parked cars on the side of the street. Connor pushed open the door and slipped out and around the back of a gray BMW. Keeping low, his M4 tucked into his shoulder, he advanced down the row of cars.
“Step out of the truck!” a voice said over a loudspeaker attached to one of the Humvees.
Connor paused between a BMW and a Honda, waiting to see if there was any movement from the semi. The soldier issued a second challenge, which also went unheeded, and Connor wondered if the driver could even hear him over the thundering chopper blades.
Thompson came up behind him, pistol in hand. “You’re not worried about it being a trick to bring us in closer?”
“If he’s got a one-megaton nuke in there, we became too close about seven miles ago.”
Connor pressed forward, bringing the M4 up, training the sights on the truck’s passenger door. He glanced to the soldiers to his left, now standing behind their open, armored doors, and said to them, “See if you can get him to come out the passenger side.”
The soldiers gave him a look Connor took to mean, “Are you kidding me?” But one of them clicked the mic. “Driver, this is the US Army. You are ordered to get out of your vehicle now or you will be fired upon. Deadly force has been authorized. Exit the vehicle with your hands up. Do it now!”
Connor blew out a long breath, settling in behind his sights. He tried to not think about the possibility of being blown to his component atoms in a matter of seconds if Hakimi decided
