Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

The double-tied rope that Jack had fixed to the undercarriage strained as the train lurched ahead. Ten feet later the rope was taut as a violin string. The train kept moving.

The big eyebolt on top of the electric motor began to bend, threatening to shear off as the motor mount bolts held fast to the concrete platform.

But the cheap Chinese iron bolts that held the motor to the platform gave way first, snapping like twigs.

The electric motor tipped over. The drive belt running from the motor to the HVAC unit inside slipped off its drive wheel. The train rolled on.

Thirty seconds later, the big electric motor crashed to the dirt, dragging down its thick power line along with the transformer it was connected to.

Jack had killed the HVAC compressor.

No more deep freeze.

—

Klaxons blared. Jack had definitely kicked the hornet’s nest with this one.

He turned around just as a pair of heavy boots clanged onto the steel deck of the cabin behind him. The uniformed guard was breathing heavily from his sprint to catch the slow-moving train, and the scramble up its eight-foot ladder to engineering. He saw Jack’s pistol in his hand and reached for his own.

A 147-grain nine-millimeter bullet from Jack’s Glock 43 plowed into the man’s forehead. Brain tissue and bone fragments splattered the fire extinguisher on the wall behind him. The guard dropped to the floor.

Bullets suddenly spanged inside the train cab, fired from outside through the window facing the warehouse. A few bullets ricocheted inside.

Like hornets.

The engineer screamed and grabbed his wounded arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack said, grabbing the man by the shoulder. “We’re done here.”

Jack dragged the engineer out of his seat. When the engineer’s hand left the “dead man’s handle,” the train’s brakes engaged. Steel wheels screeched. Jack and the engineer stumbled as Jack hauled him by the shoulders toward the door.

Another guard was climbing up the ladder. Jack kicked him just beneath his nose with the toe of his boot. Even through the heavy leather, Jack could feel the crunch of snapping bone and cartilage. The man flew backward, hitting the ground like a rag doll, his unconscious mind unable to brace his body for the fall.

Jack dragged the engineer forward but the older man jerked away, still clutching his wounded arm. “Shoot me here or leave me alone.”

“I can help you.”

“Go to hell. You’ve helped enough. I can take care of myself.”

“Suit yourself. Thanks for the ride, old-timer.”

“Shove it, asshole.”

Jack slid down the ladder, stopping himself at the last rung, then jumped off. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Bullets kicked up the dirt near his face.

He was a dead man.

—

Jack rolled hard away and down the embankment, bullets marking the spot he just vacated.

He reached the bottom and rose to his knees, pointing his pistol up where he knew his attackers would appear.

A quick glance showed him the Wrangler was a good three hundred feet away. If only he could get to it.

The first guard appeared at the top of the embankment, an MP5 in his hands. He raised it to fire—

His head exploded.

An FBI sniper had found his mark.

69

CROATIA

Parsons’s new identity, complete with her new Montenegrin passport and biometric data to match, had gotten her all the way to Dubrovnik, where she boarded a private helicopter.

She’d been a nervous wreck until she’d cleared Italian airspace and crossed the Adriatic. She monitored the news but nothing was mentioned about TRIBULATION. Neither a global financial crash nor a shooting war had occurred nor seemed imminent.

No matter. That was all Logan’s affair. She had achieved her dream. Everything else was in the past.

She’d covered her tracks and made her arrangements. Her spirits rose with the Eurocopter as it lifted into the sweet golden light of a glorious sunset. In less than half an hour, she’d arrive at her final destination, a small town of twenty thousand on the crystal blue Adriatic coast, surrounded by Venetian walls and filled with Mediterranean charm. Peace, quiet, beauty, and no extradition treaty were just a few of the benefits she intended to enjoy in her early retirement.

The only luggage she brought with her was a small, inexpensive carry-on with just enough personal items and protein bars to make the twenty-four-hour trek. She left her electronics and her worries behind.

The handsome, blue-eyed pilot had greeted her in the small but efficient office of the FBO where he operated. She was warmed in all the right places by his charming smile and runner’s physique, but she knew this wasn’t the time to break character. She did, however, accept his offer of a gin and tonic before boarding. Her favorite.

Now some five hundred feet above the white-capped water, she felt utterly safe. The adrenaline surge of the last twenty-four hours finally caught up with her. She felt herself suddenly tired sitting in her seat, the rhythmic pulse of the beating rotors lulling her to sleep. It had been a long journey, but now she was free. She blinked heavily. The blue-eyed pilot was in the left seat navigating. He turned around and smiled at her again.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Terribly.”

“Just close your eyes. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

But she was already asleep.

—

The blue-eyed pilot whispered a command into his headset to the other pilot, a woman. She nosed the EC145 into a gentle dive, dropping altitude to just fifty feet off the deck. She stopped in midair, hovering.

The blue-eyed pilot unbuckled himself and climbed back to the passenger compartment. He felt for a pulse. She was still alive, her breathing long and deep. She wouldn’t wake for hours.

In fact, she wouldn’t wake at all.

He reached behind her seat and pulled out a heavy duffel. He secured a thirty-kilo dumbbell to her right wrist with a pair of handcuffs, unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the sliding door, and shoved her out.

The dumbbell hit first, dragging Parsons by the right arm into the bright blue water, her body following like an arrow shot into the sea.

He closed the door, climbed back into his seat, and buckled in for the short flight back home.

DAYS LATER

70

CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

Jack Junior and his dad stood at the number one position on the skeet range, just beneath the high house.

The range officer, Mike Cravy—a three-time NSSA national champion shooter—pointed at both men. “Ready?”

Jack and his dad both nodded back. “Ready.”

“You won the toss,” Ryan said.

Jack took his stance and raised his shotgun, a Benelli SuperSport Performance Shop semiauto. He smashed the oversized red release button and the bolt slammed home with a satisfying thunk .

“Pull!”

The first bird flew out of the high house behind him. Jack fired, smashing the bird, just as the second bird darted from the low house. He shattered that one, too.

“Nice job, son.”

“The first station’s easy.”

“No, I mean everything else.” He looked his son in the eyes.

“Thanks to what you and Gavin did, we avoided a global economic apocalypse, recovered the five trillion, and stopped a potential holocaust.”

Jack shrugged. “That was more Gavin than me. You’re up.”

Ryan took his position, a case-hardened Caesar Guerini Summit Limited over and under in his hands. A real beauty, a recent anniversary gift from his wife. Another classic beauty.

The President laughed. “That train thing you did was pretty slick.”

Jack grinned. “I always said it’s better to be lucky than good.”