William Tyree - Line of Succession

Just three feet from him, a dismembered, claw-like hand twitched. Abrams considered playing dead and then surprising his attackers as they rose to count their kills. But these were Green Berets he was up against. They were too smart for that. Unless Abrams’ crew started firing back, and with a vengeance, the Green Berets would only keep lobbing grenades into the debris until there was nothing left of it.

Abrams removed the pin from one of his own grenades and flung it in a high arc to the other side of the room. It never made it that far. Abrams heard the sound of metal-on-metal as his grenade lodged into a piece of fallen ceiling. It hung there for three seconds until it exploded, bringing more chunks of the second floor raining down on them.

*

Elvir was baffled by the echo of explosions and gunfire downstairs. He had half-expected the government to come looking for Angie Jackson, but she was here before him. The two remaining members of his crew woke not ten feet from him. So who was fighting whom?

He flung open the bathroom door to check on Angie. He found her in the bathtub, wielding the shower curtain rod like some medieval jousting lance. “Easy, woman,” he yelled. “Remember for a second who saved you!”

His eyes searched the room and eventually came to rest on the magazine on the floor. He kicked it aside. He recognized the optic probe immediately.

He put his foot over the probe’s lens and looked at Angie. “Who’s watching us?” he demanded. Angie did not know the answer. She had thought the camera was Elvir’s.

An M4 salvo ripped through the floorboards. A round passed straight through the sole of Elvir’s boot and came to rest within the ball of his foot. Angie released the shower curtain rod and cowered in the tub just as another burst of automatic gunfire came from the apartment below. Elvir collapsed to his knees, bleeding from his groin.

Through the open bathroom door, Angie watched as Elvir’s cohorts rose from bed and got to their feet. But gunfire sliced through the carpet and cut them down before they could escape.

*

Carver stood looking through a series of holes in the ceiling that he had made with his own gunfire. A familiar face from Apartment 309 stared back at him. And he knew without a doubt she was the SECDEF’s wife.

“We’re pinned down,” came the frantic voice over his radio. “Two down in the lobby.”

Carver turned and barked at the two Green Berets. “Go up to 309 and get that hostage safe. Use the fire escape. I’m headed to the lobby.”

He was down the stairwell in thirty seconds. The door separating the stairwell from the lobby was blown clear off, and Carver was stunned to see that some of the second floor had caved in. The room was a haze of dust and smoke, but he spotted two surviving Green Berets, both half-buried in collapsed drywall. At the opposite end of the lobby, three guns returned fire near the main entrance. Carver shot from the third stair step and was sure he saw a spray of blood as the muzzle flash went dark.

Through the murkiness, Carver saw a uniformed figure sidewinding across the entrance. He readied his rifle to fire on the rushing attacker, and then saw a flash of an Army airborne uniform. It occurred to Carver that this could be some horrible friendly fire catastrophe — two units sent after the same target, cutting each other to bits because there was no central command authority. Carver realized he would only have himself to blame. This was the very definition of a skunk works operation.

He lost the figure in the smoky air for a moment. Then Carver saw a knife blade, its shank glimmering in the reflection of a half-destroyed chandelier that sagged low to the ground. The enemy gun went silent.

The other gun went silent around the same time, but it was difficult to see what was happening from Carver’s vantage point. Finally someone called out. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The voice was one he hadn’t expected to hear again. It was Sergeant Hundley.

Viper Squad’s returning fire slowly petered out. “Sarge?” someone said.

Hundley stood up straight. “Damn straight.”

Carver came down the stairs. He and the Sergeant locked gazes.

Hundley held a bloody 10-inch buck knife. The Sergeant stooped down and picked a rifle from one of the dead Ulysses soldiers. He held it in the ready position, with his finger on the trigger. The Sergeant’s huge deltoids twitched underneath his shirt. It occurred to Carver that Hundley could take his revenge now if he wanted to, and he was in no position to stop him.

“So you made it,” Carver said.

“I still run a four-four,” Sergeant Hundley replied.

“Lucky for us.”

“Agent Carver, tell you what. I’m prepared to forget about that incident on the street if you are.”

The idea of making a deal with a loose cannon like Hundley didn’t sit well. On the other hand, if Carver were to refuse, Hundley would shoot him on the spot, and the other Green Berets would undoubtedly cover for him. And there was the little matter of the national emergency to tend to.

“I don’t say this to be vain,” Carver said, “but you’re looking at the only person in America who can catch the assassins.”

Hundley grinned. “You’re an even bigger egomaniac than I am. So are we good?”

“No,” Carver said. “Seriously, Sergeant, I can’t pretend you didn’t shoot that looter. Twenty other people saw you gun that guy down. But I can tell the Army about the other things you did here today. Maybe they’ll go easy on you.”

Hundley lowered the rifle. “I can deal with that.”

Carver climbed over the debris. “So who were we fighting?”

“Ulysses,” Hundley said. He kicked one of the dead Ulysses soldiers in the ribs. Carver looked over the bodies. He picked up a Ulysses ID on the floor and regarded the photo of Chris Abrams’ chiseled head. He turned over the four bodies one by one.

Their faces were intact, but none matched the man on the ID.

8th Precinct, Baltimore

The police station was oddly quiet as O’Keefe ushered Nico to reception. The Desk Sergeant, a rail of a man with bushy, graying eyebrows, was the only person in sight. “Morning,” he said. “What’s a nice couple like you doing in a dive like this?”

O’Keefe’s left wrist was cuffed to Nico’s right. She jerked them to eye-level for the Desk Sergeant’s benefit.

“My mistake,” the Desk Sergeant said. “You looked like a couple lovebirds holding hands.”

O’Keefe flashed her old NSA badge, having learned the hard way over the past several weeks that it carried far more weight than the generic-looking credentials issued from Speers’ office. “Where is everybody?” she said as she peered around the near-empty station.

“Sleepin’ it off,” the Sergeant said. “We’re not staffed to enforce martial law, but we were doin’ just that until the Ulysses boys showed up a few hours ago.”

“Everyone okay?”

“One of our guys fell asleep behind the wheel, smashed into a daycare. Thank God no kids were there at the time. Chief had seventy cots set up downstairs an’ they’re all full up. But now we got scattered reports of looting coming in, and I’m thinkin’ naptime’s over. Know what I mean?”

“Sorry to trouble you,” O’Keefe said, “but I need a secure Internet connection.”

“What, NSA don’t have wireless?”

“She said secure, genius,” Nico quipped. “That means a land line.”

“Pardon my colleague,” O’Keefe said. “Now can you help us?”

“Third office down the hall, right side. Knock yourself out.”

Just as the Sergeant said, they found a small meeting room with an outdated public-use computer. Nico stood before the ancient machine, nervously chewing the nails on his free hand as he gazed at his EVA tattoos.