Forsyth’s expression went cold as he leaned forward in his chair. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“A group called the Hand of Allah is smuggling a bomb into the building. It may already be here. I think they’re planning to set it off in the middle of the President’s speech.”
“In here. With all the security.”
“The security’s been compromised. You can thank Senator Wickham for that.”
Forsyth sat back as he considered what Jack had told him.
“You know,” the agent said thoughtfully, “I was right about you. You are crazy.”
Doc, Goldman, and Abernathy worked their way through the dark tunnel with quiet deliberation, staying low to the ground, using their flashlight beams sparingly.
Doc continued on point and allowed his memory to guide them. It had killed him to leave that woman lying naked in the bunk room, but there was no helping her now. He had vowed to her that he would return, and he would. Right now, they had other business to take care of.
Moving close to the wall, Doc remembered a right turn up ahead. He flashed his Mini Maglite, indicating the turn, then led the team around the corner.
The floor began to slant upward, getting steeper with every step. As they crested the rise, they saw faint light spilling out from another bunk room up ahead, voices echoing faintly — Arab voices.
Doc motioned the others to stop then listened carefully. No question about it.
The sound of the language wrapped itself around Doc’s chest and squeezed, heat and anger boiling up inside as he thought again about that poor woman.
None of the three men spoke. They seemed to be working together telepathically as they each did a quick weapons check in the dark.
Tension crept into Doc’s shoulders and he did a couple neck rolls to try to loosen it. Judging by the voices, the three of them were outnumbered. All they had was surprise.
They’d have to do this kamikaze style and hope for the best.
Bracing himself, he turned slightly and whispered, “On three,” then quietly counted off.
They made the turn into the room running, not waiting for a reaction before they opened fire.
The room erupted in shouts and cries. There were at least seven of the bastards, all young and very, very quick as they jumped for cover and came up again with weapons in hand, the room exploding in gunfire.
Doc hammered one between the eyes and he flew back against the wall, dead before he hit it. But then one of his buddies swung toward him with an automatic rifle and opened fire.
Doc dropped and rolled back toward the bend in the tunnel to regroup. He felt pain sting his right calf and then another shot hit his arm and his Beretta went spinning.
The shouts and ugly flashes of gunfire continued, steady and deafening. He had no idea where Abernathy and Goldman were, but after several seconds of complete chaos, the tunnel suddenly went silent.
The only sounds were muffled, ragged breaths. A quiet moan.
Doc hugged the darkness, dread washing through him as he heard the Arab voices pick up again, sounding as stunned as he felt.
At least three of them were left.
Mustering his strength, he crawled back toward the room, peering into it from the darkness. He saw Goldman crumpled in a corner and Abernathy on his back, blood seeping from a wound in his neck.
He would mourn his brave friends later. There was still a mission to complete.
The three remaining Arabs hurriedly checked the others. They obviously hadn’t seen how many men rushed them, didn’t look to see if there were any more. They were young and inexperienced, but Doc guessed they were also on a timetable. This firefight had set them behind.
They chattered shakily as they quickly slipped into white coats-servant’s coats. One of them was strapped with enough C4 to take out a city block. There was blood on his chest, just below the right shoulder, but Doc couldn’t tell if he’d been hit or if it was someone else’s. The little rat didn’t seem to be affected by it. He was a slender man-a boy really-and when he buttoned the coat over the vest only a seasoned eye would know there was anything off about it.
The three men moved together to a narrow shaft in the corner of the room, glancing briefly at the carnage behind and using fingers to try and unclog their firefight-clouded ears before climbing the rebar ladder and disappearing into the darkness above.
Doc pulled himself upright, wincing against the pain in his arm and calf. He didn’t have time to check on his friends, to see if they were dead or alive. Not now. Retrieving Abernathy’s SIG 9 mil and his own Beretta, he tried activating his com unit again. All he got was static.
He didn’t know how he’d manage it, but he knew he had to get up that ladder and send out a warning call before it was too late.
Jack glanced at the security monitors and saw that the President was being introduced by the museum curator.
“Look,” he said, his desperation growing, “I’m telling you the truth. If we don’t act now, we’re gonna have one helluva disaster on our hands. Not that any of us will be alive to see it.”
But Forsyth wasn’t buying it.
“That’s a nice story, Jack, but you want to tell me how anyone could get a bomb into this place? We’re isolated. This museum has been sniffed fifty ways to Sunday. You’d be lucky to get nail clippers past that security-”
“Through the tunnels,” Jack told him.
Forsyth studied him a moment and sighed. “The tunnels? You’re talking about the old Second World War bunkers?”
“They lead straight to the basement.”
“We’re aware of that. That’s why we put a security man down there. But those things were locked down years ago, and even if someone managed to get inside, there’s no possible way-”
Jack’s earpiece suddenly came alive. “Jack? Max? Does anyone read me?”
It was Doc Matson.
Jack immediately responded. “Here, Doc. What’s going on?”
Forsyth and his two companions all jerked back. They gave Jack a quizzical look.
“The hatch is open and Tony’s down,” Doc said. “They got through, three of them in white coats. All Arab. They’re posing as servants and one of them is strapped to explode.”
Jack felt the bottom drop from his stomach. “Is Tony alive?”
“Yeah, he’s coming around.”
Forsyth frowned. “Hatfield?”
“Doc, get him into that tunnel and get the hell away from here,” Jack said. “Max, Karras? You two get out of here as-”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Forsyth demanded.
One of the other agents saw the small device in Jack’s ear. He pointed it out to Forsyth.
“Are you completely out of your mind?” Forsyth demanded.
Jack got to his feet. “I told you, we don’t have time to argue about this! The bombers are here. They’re posing as-”
“Sit down, goddamn it! This interview isn’t over until I say it’s-”
“We don’t have time!” Jack shouted, then suddenly swung his arm straight out. He clotheslined one of the special agents as he ran forward, then flipped the other as he tried to grab Jack from behind. The agent went over his wounded shoulder, but that only pissed Jack off. He was out the door and running before Forsyth could reach his shoulder holster, headed through the foyer toward the courtyard. He came to a stop at the museum entrance and stared out at the crowd.
The place was packed. The glitterati had gathered around the podium and were still applauding as the President put his hands up to silence them. Jack scanned the courtyard desperately, looking for white jackets, but
