More vehicles screeched to a stop behind them, unloading more soldiers and SWAT operators dressed in navy-blue BDUs, tactical vests, and helmets. As they approached, Thompson flashed them their credentials.
“Stay down,” the first SWAT officer said, taking a knee next to Connor. “Have they said anything?”
Connor shook his head. “Nothing. Just been sitting there.”
The officer put a hand to his throat mic and said, “Nine-Oh-Six to Nine-Twelve, can you get a shot from your angle?” Connor couldn’t hear the response, but the officer nodded. “Copy that. One suspect, driver’s side, just sitting there.”
“Does he look Arab?”
The officer gave him a confused look. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Just ask.”
The officer relayed the question to whoever had him in their sights, then shook his head. “Can’t tell.”
The soldier’s commands to exit echoed down the street once more.
“We need to get that chopper out of here,” Connor said, nodding toward the bird.
“I don’t have access to their communications channel,” the officer said.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Thompson. “I’ll take care of it.” He started back along the line of cars toward the soldiers coming up the street.
“Suspect’s moving,” the officer said. “He’s sliding across the seat to the passenger door. All units, hold your fire. Be advised, the suspect may be exiting the passenger door. Heads up.”
“Exit the vehicle with your hands up!” The soldier’s voice boomed.
“At the door,” the officer said.
Connor tensed, sliding his finger from the frame to the trigger. Standoffs like this one weren’t a new thing for him, but he couldn’t say he’d ever been in one with a maniac whose finger was on the trigger of a nuclear bomb.
As the passenger door opened, the whine of the Apache’s engines pitched up, and the helicopter lifted away.
“He’s coming out,” the officer said.
The driver pushed the door all the way open and climbed out, his hands as high as he could get them. Following the soldier’s commands, the man turned, and Connor blew out a relieved breath.
“What is it?” the officer asked.
“It’s not Hakimi.”
“Who?”
A group of soldiers moved in to arrest the middle-aged Hispanic man wearing jeans and a red flannel shirt. Tears streamed down the man’s face, and he apologized repeatedly as he was hauled back to the Humvees. Another squad moved up and cleared the cab.
“Clear!” a sergeant called, stepping away from the truck.
Connor stood, letting his M4 hang from its strap across his chest.
The squad moved down the truck, opening the side panels, revealing cases and cases of beer.
“What in the hell?” Connor muttered. He turned back to the Humvees and saw Thompson walking toward him, shaking his head and smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
Thompson jerked a thumb behind him. “Bastard thought it was a DUI checkpoint and was over on his driving hours. Didn’t want to lose his license.”
Connor scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Has he ever seen a DUI checkpoint with machine guns?”
“You got me, brother.”
Connor blew out a long breath. It was only going to get worse as time went on, and eventually someone was going to make a mistake. It had only been half a day and already people were being stupid.
He was about to say as much when the traffic signals, crosswalk signs, and building lights all blinked off at the same time. The entire block went quiet. A second later, the next block went down, then the next and the next.
“Holy crap. They actually did it,” Connor said. “Whose bright idea is this?”
“I figured it was only a matter of time," Thompson said.
“Whatever happened to not negotiating with terrorists?” Connor felt heat rise up into his neck and face. “I thought that was a hard and fast rule no matter what.”
“Come on, man, you know better than that. Nothing is ever hard and fast in this line of work, especially when politics are involved.”
“This is exactly what Hakimi wants, and we bend over!” Connor yelled, losing his patience. “Whoever made this political move may have signed a bunch of people’s death warrants.”
Chapter Forty
“Can you believe this?” Alex Hayes said, sitting on the edge of the desk and pointing to the news broadcast with his paper coffee cup.
His partner for the morning, Dave Cross, leaned back in the cheap metal office chair that groaned with every movement. He folded his arms across his chest. “Crazy terrorist assholes. And why does everyone always have to attack New York? It’s never any other place, always New York.”
Hayes laughed. “Like anyone is going to give a crap about someone burning down some hole-in-the-wall place in Kansas. It’s got to be New York, otherwise no one would pay attention.”
“Pay attention?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said. “That’s ninety percent of the reason why these guys blow stuff up. Attention.”
“Farmers might care.”
Hayes almost spit out his coffee. “Farmers? Why the hell would anyone care what farmers think? Those hicks have absolutely no idea how the real world works.”
“What are you talking about, man? They cook all our food.”
“No, they grow all our food. Jesus, man, are you serious?”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Are you really as dense as you look?” Hayes asked. He moved across the guard shack and set his coffee cup down on the weapons rack in the corner where their rifles were secured. He gave the bank of security monitors in front of Cross a final look, ensuring everything was clear, then headed to the back. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Yeah, well make sure it’s a piss this time,” Cross said without looking away from the displays. “Last time you crapped in there this place smelled like a latrine for a week.”
“That wasn’t me.”
Cross laughed. “Oh, right, it was the other jackwagon I work with every Thursday.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking—” Hayes stopped short when he saw a semi-truck and trailer pull up outside
