up. On it is a black-and-white image that looks like it’s being shot by a five-year-old. Nothing but black boots. Then the frame rises and focuses on the back of a black UPS-style truck. On the spare wheel housing, stenciled in gold, are six words that make it clear that this truck does not belong to a shipping company:
BAD COMPANY
ANY TIME, ANY PLACE
“Jesus,” mutters Baxter, but when he turns to Lenz he is smiling. “The Dallas FBI SWAT motto.”
The short ugly snout of a submachine gun passes into the frame, wiggles, and disappears.
“Cameraman’s carrying,” says a tech.
“Good for him,” says Baxter. “He’s probably seen those Civil War movies where the flag bearer charges with nothing but a flag. At least he learned something.”
The new video image suddenly begins to jerk. A flash of sidewalk, then I’m moving along it the way you do when you’re watching a horror film. The camera rises, showing us the back and shoulders of a man walking ahead of it. Then others in file ahead of him. Moving quickly now. They’re clad from boots to balaclava helmets in bulky black jumpsuits with ripstop nylon and Kevlar and guns strapped all over them. They look like paratroopers.
“Go, ninjas,” whispers someone near the video monitors.
The entire team suddenly appears on one of the static screens. They’re standing behind the wall of the apartment building nearest Strobekker’s, their backs to the camera. Over their shoulders, Strobekker’s front door is clearly visible. It looks no more than twenty feet away, but then I remember how camera angles can distort distance. It’s like watching a baseball pitcher from a camera placed behind the catcher; you think you could reach out and touch him, but he’s over sixty feet away.
“This is Bravo Leader,” says Payne. “Ten seconds.”
On the static view the Hostage Rescue Team lines up in a formation not unlike a football team. In front stand two men with black-painted sledgehammers in their hands.
“Five seconds,” says Payne.
“Rock and roll,” murmurs Baxter.
Payne’s barked command seems to propel the two point men across the open ground by volume alone. They move quickly, but anyone who has ever lifted a sledgehammer knows that a full-speed sprint while carrying one is out of the question.
When the lead agents reach Strobekker’s door, the mobile video camera begins to move. Everyone in the trailer is racing across the open space with the second element of the assault team. On the static image I see the apartment door go down like a piece of styrofoam.
“Jesus!” I grab Baxter’s coat. “They got him?”
“Shut up, Cole!”
“Camera’s in,” a tech says softly.
“Holy shit,” someone hisses.
The mobile camera shows an apartment as bare as a spinster’s cupboard. Men are still yelling “Federal agents!” but as the camera swings around the apartment I see no one but the commandos of the Hostage Rescue Team.
“Strobekker just went off-line!” shouts a voice from inside the trailer.
I hear a crash as the locked door goes down, but the camera does not follow.
I am stunned beyond words when Baxter turns and shoves Arthur Lenz out of range of the mike. Brahma’s fate is in the hands of soldiers now.
“Negative!” someone answers. “This is Dallas SWAT leader, no rabbits.”
“Closet’s empty!” screams a shaky young voice.
“Get the camera in there!” yells Baxter. “What’s going on, Joe?”
“Alpha, there’s nothing in this apartment but a computer and a phone. We’ve been had.”
“What?”
“There’s no monitor attached to the computer, but it appears to be powered up. No keyboard either.”
“Get the goddamn camera in there!”
Finally the mobile camera squeezes through the crowd of broad black shoulders and shows us the room. Payne is right. There is nothing inside but a harmless-looking white PC sitting on the floor beside a telephone.
“What good’s a computer without a monitor or keyboard?” he asks.
“Shit,” I say, not wanting to believe what I am seeing. But I am seeing it.
“What?” asks Baxter, turning to me.
“The drive light. The hard drive is active.”
“Goddamn it,” curses a tech. “The drive’s reformatting itself! Erasing itself!”
As I watch the tiny flashing dot of the drive light, I know that the tech is wrong. I don’t know why, but I know.
“Pull the plug!” shouts the tech.
“Wait!” I say, holding up my hands. “That’s-”
“Joe!” yells Baxter. “Pull the fucking plug!”
Baxter whirls on me with fury in his eyes. Then comprehension dawns. He opens his mouth and yells,
But he is too late. A black-clad figure has leaped at the electrical socket with his arm extended, reaching into a white flash that seems to sear the screen as it goes blank.
“Oh my God,” says a flat voice.
The two static cameras continue recording as yellow flame blasts out the windows on one side of Strobekker’s apartment building. The sound of the explosion is muted after being filtered through countless circuits to arrive here in Quantico, but its effect in the trailer could not be more profound.
Baxter gapes at the video bank while screams of anguish pour from the speakers. Disjointed voices from the Dallas command post shout at each other to call paramedics and the fire department. Other voices-almost unrecognizable from shock and panic-scream to get the wounded out of the smoke-filled building.
“What in God’s name just happened?” Baxter asks. Then he snaps out of whatever trance he was in and begins shouting questions and commands over the link to Dallas. The technicians behind him are conspicuously silent. “Was that Joe who reached for the plug?” he asks.
No one volunteers an answer.
On the two remaining live screens, wounded or dead men are being dragged from the smoking apartment. I know some are alive, because their agonized shrieks are being transmitted over the radio net.
“Dan?” croaks a voice. “This is Joe.”
Everyone in the trailer freezes. Near the apartment building, a black-suited agent has held up his right arm and waved broadly at one of the static cameras.
“Thank God,” mutters Baxter. “What’s your situation, Joe?”
“FUBAR. I just wanted to let you know I made it.” Payne rips off his balaclava and bends over to catch his breath. “I’m gonna be busy for a few minutes. I’ll get back to you when I can.”
“Do what you have to do, buddy.”
When Daniel Baxter turns around to face the technicians, his rage is fearsome to behold. “What the
