Andrew Britton: The Operative

As he kicked open the door, he raised the 20mm and fired. He was short, raised it, peppered the canvas roof of the runabout.

“One!”

Kealey continued firing at the covering, turning the ivory-colored surface black with holes and smoldering fringe. Flaps fell away as he emptied the clip. He saw a man in the cockpit move toward the back; Kealey cut him down. A woman in the front seat had dropped to her knees with her hands raised.

Kealey was out of ammunition.

“Take us down,” he said and drew his handgun.

Sagal was on the loudspeaker system. “NYPD antiterror action. Stand down!” His voice rang across the river, and he repeated the announcement several times. That was for any security forces who might not notice the big NYPD on the side of the chopper and opened fire. Hourly security was like that.

The chopper lowered itself directly above the runabout. Kealey leaned out. Hunt was lying facedown, a mass of red splotches. The other man was on his back, with blood running from the top of his head. Kealey climbed onto the landing strut. The woman was looking out. He motioned toward the shore with his handgun. She nodded and made for the shore with her hands raised.

The black and white security boat was racing over.

“Put down your weapon!” someone shouted.

Sagal said, “You gettin’ off?”

Kealey grinned back and nodded. He glanced back at Perlman. “We’re gonna need bomb guys from the National Guard station.”

“Already called it in.”

Sagal turned the chopper around so Kealey was over the shore. He jumped from the chopper and landed near the train tracks that ran between the river and the road. The woman was standing there with her hands up.

“I said drop your weapon!” the voice from the boat repeated.

“I’ve got this,” Sagal said into the mike. He moved the chopper sideways and dropped it between the security boat and the runabout, a few yards above the water. The black-and-white had to make a hard turn to avoid a collision. “I said stand down,” he repeated.

The security boat stayed where it was.

Kealey told the woman to lie facedown on the track bed. She listened. He knew Perlman would be watching her, and he went to the runabout.

Hunt was dead. So was the other man. The nuke was active, alive. He didn’t want to read too much into that, but that had been the state of the world since Hiroshima: the players changed, died, and were replaced. The threat remained the same.

He called the update in to Andrews as he walked back to the train tracks.

There were cries of relief on the other end.

Kealey said he’d call when he was en route. Then he phoned Bishop.

“Ryan…?”

“We got him,” Kealey said.

“Jesus Christ.”

“With time to spare. What’s going on there?”

“Bomb squad shut down the nuke. I’m giving them a report.”

“Well, smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

“Can’t,” Bishop said. “Made someone a promise.”

Kealey understood. Good man, he thought. “Can you meet me at the Thirtieth Street helipad in an hour?”

“Probably. What’s up?”

“I’m going to get these boys to give us a lift to LaGuardia.”

“Debrief hell,” Bishop said.

“Yeah, but not yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have a stop to make first,” Kealey said. “I’ll tell you about it en route.” He clicked off, walked over to the woman. “Who are you?” Kealey asked.

“I will not answer your questions.”

Kealey went to the runabout, found her shoulder bag, retrieved her wallet. She was Dr. Ayesha Gillani. Affiliated with universities, hospitals, high-powered organizations.

He threw it back in the bag and looked back at her. Behind him, local police choppers and maritime units were converging. The NYPD chopper found a spot to set down.

Kealey was going to sit this one out, let them work out all the who did what and why.

A psychiatrist. A medical doctor. Obviously, World War II didn’t teach some members of the profession a damn thing about morality. Or maybe it was just a percentage of the general population itself that had corrupted data files in their head-Hunt and his dead companions included. Fortunately, there’s more of us than them, he thought. Un fortunately, all it took was five or six of them to let loose the dogs of destruction.

Well, at least there were fewer. And soon-very soon-there would be fewer still.

“Mr. Trask,” said the voice from the intercom, “there are people to see you.”

He turned to the box mounted to the wall of the greenhouse. “Who are they?”

Before the voice could answer, the door behind him opened. Six FBI agents in SWAT gear entered, their weapons trained on the industrialist. The four agents on the outside held. 45-caliber Springfields; the agents on the inside were holding M4 carbines.

The two men who entered after them were not holding weapons, nor were they wearing SWAT black.

“Jacob Trask,” said Reed Bishop, unbuttoning his blazer, “you’re under arrest.”

Trask placed the shears in the box of soil. He turned to face the men, his hands on the planter. “The charge?”

Bishop continued to walk toward him alone. “Accessory to murder.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“The testimony of your chauffeur, Elisabeth Kent,” he said. “She went to the Atlanta PD when she learned that the woman you sent to New York, Agent Jessica Muloni, had been murdered.”

Trask smiled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Ms. Kent, the former sheriff, gave us security footage.” Bishop stopped less than a foot from Trask. There was a Glock tucked in the agent’s belt. “Ridiculous or not, the charges will give us the twenty-four hours we’ll need to get you on federal terrorism offenses.”

He held out his hands. “Your charges will have me back here, tending my tulips, before they require watering. As for the other-”

“You killed my daughter, you miserable man,” Bishop said. “You’re going to answer for that.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you or your daughter,” Trask said. There was no hostility in his voice, no emotion whatsoever. “But I do know that your accusation is harassment. That will get me back here even sooner.”

Bishop looked like a mannequin, his skin pale and blank. Kealey walked up behind him, pulled him back. “I’d like to be alone in here,” he told the team.

“We can’t do that, Mr. Kealey,” said one of the masked figures, the special agent in charge.

“You can search the premises. You have a warrant,” Kealey said. “Agent Bishop will take responsibility for the prisoner.”

The agent hesitated. Bishop looked back at him. The IA officer nodded once.

“All right,” the team leader said. “We will be back here for the prisoner in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” Kealey said. “Close the door behind you.”

The agent hesitated again, then complied. Trask regarded Kealey.

“Former CIA agent Ryan Kealey,” Trask said. “I’ve seen your name in DoD reports-”

“Don’t,” Kealey said.

“You need to hear this,” Trask went on. “ You understand what’s out there. You know how the enemy is inoculated, protected by political correctness, but free to portray us as racists, haters, Christian soldiers, imperialists. They run labels up the flagpole like amens at a prayer meeting. Their poison is to make us hate ourselves. It has to stop! ”

“What I need to do-what we need to do-is arrest you,” Kealey said. “And not just for a day. Agent Bishop and I were the ones who took down your nukes. Your team. And before you deny it, Minotaur phones were recovered from Hunt and the Texas Highway Patrol. The Bureau labs have them now. I’m betting they’re going to show that there were calls to-and from-your home phone.” Kealey moved closer now. “You see, Mr. Trask, the bad guys can be brought down legally.”