Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Still alive.

Activating his com line, Tony said, “Jack, if you’re out there, we have a serious-”

Before he could finish, something solid hit him across the back of the head and he spiraled into darkness.

“We were warned you might show up here,” Forsyth said.

They had taken Jack through a hallway just off the museum foyer and sat him in a small square room with stiff-backed chairs and an interview table. One wall had a large window that looked into a room full of security monitors, two uniformed guards manning them. The two special agents hovered nearby, eyeballing Jack as Forsyth took a seat across the table from him.

“Warned by who?” Jack asked, although he had a pretty good idea.

“It was one of those trickle-down situations,” Forsyth said. “When I heard your name, I got very interested.

“We saw you arrive, watched you work your way from room to room, but the funny thing is, you seem more interested in casing the place than admiring any of the artwork.”

Jack didn’t explain. Not yet. “What’s the FBI doing here?” he asked.

“Everyone’s a little touchy after what happened downtown, Jack. You understand. And since the President refused to cancel this trip, the Secret Service asked us to lend a hand. So here we are.” He paused. “But the real question is, why are you here?”

Jack studied him carefully. He hadn’t liked Forsyth from the minute he met him at the bomb site nearly two weeks ago. He was an arrogant SOB, and after that press conference Jack knew the guy had participated in a cover-up. The question was, how deep did his involvement go?

Jack glanced at one of the security monitors and saw the President shaking hands with guests in the courtyard.

Time was running out.

“Nothing to tell me?” Forsyth asked.

“Not yet,” Jack said. He was still trying to decide if he could trust this man and, if so, what he should tell him. Tony and the others were still out there and he didn’t want to compromise what they were doing.

Forsyth shook his head. “I keep racking my brain, trying to figure you out. Considering your affection for Muslims, it makes some kind of crazy sense that you’re here to disrupt the evening’s proceedings. But I can’t imagine exactly what you were hoping to accomplish.”

“What do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know, Jack.”

Jack had been studying him closely. The man truly did seem confused. Jack decided to test him.

“You know why I’m here,” he said. “You know what’s going on. Hell, you’re part of it.”

Forsyth frowned. “Am I? That’s news to me. What am I a part of?”

“You’re working with Soren, Swain, and the others-”

The frown deepened. “What?”

Jack had one more stone to throw.

“And you’ve got Sara. What did you do with her?”

Now the frown turned into a look of complete incredulity. “Sara? Who the hell is Sara? You’re talking like a crazy man, Hatfield. Are you nuts? Has that been your problem from the get-go?”

Jack was beginning to think that maybe Forsyth was clean. Back at the press conference, he seemed to know-or at least, not want to know-that they were scapegoating the Constitutional Defense Brigade. He had to play along with that one, let the justice system work its magic.

But killing a President?

Jack glanced at the security monitors and saw that the President was moving toward a podium on a small stage as the guests applauded enthusiastically.

Returning his gaze to Forsyth, Jack studied him carefully, studied his eyes, then decided to take a leap of faith.

“All right,” Jack said, “listen to me very carefully. The President and everyone in this place is in danger.”

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.