Marc Cameron - National Security

He made it around just in time to see the mounted officer tumble from his horse. A gunshot cracked above the din of traffic as a second uniformed D.C. officer approached Kalil on foot. The other officer went down as well, grabbing an injured thigh with one hand while he clawed for his weapon with the other.

“Where the hell are those shots coming from?” Thibodaux screamed into his mike.

“Kalil has backup,” Quinn snapped. He scanned the flowing melee of commuters and tourists among the road construction barriers. Most of them hadn’t heard the shots or even noticed the downed officers. Mahoney, to the credit of her scientific brain, looked high. She was the first to see the shooter.

“There,” she said. “Behind some scaffolding to the right, above the construction at two o’clock. There’s a man with a rifle.”

Quinn maneuvered his BMW around a parked taxi to stop behind the relative cover of the engine block. “I see him,” he said. “Jacques, we got a gunman on a cherry picker about a half a block in front of the Securities and Exchange Commission…”

Kalil’s head snapped up. He spun on his new tennis shoes and sprinted toward the row of shadowed pillars at the entrance of Union Station. If he made it inside, he could disappear-or worse, deploy the virus in the crowded terminal.

Thibodaux roared past, heading for the rifleman. “I got the shooter,” he said. “You bag Kalil.”

“Careful,” Quinn warned. “See one, think two.”

“Always, beb.” Thibodaux hopped the curb to ride a wheelie across the open pavilion under the row of American flags. Bullets thwacked off a full-size replica of the Liberty Bell as he tore by, picking up speed to make for a poorer target.

“Go!” Mahoney yelled, smacking Quinn on the thigh to get his attention. She’d vaulted off the back of the bike and now stood beside him, helmet in her hands. “Get him. I’ll be right behind you.”

Quinn gave her a quick thumbs-up and goosed the engine to speed across the pavilion toward the open doors, standing on the pegs as he hopped the opposite curb.

Evening commuters in D.C. were used to a certain amount of chaos and were only just beginning to understand they were in danger. Some, having lived through the 2002 sniper attacks, zigzagged across the open ground, seeking shelter behind whatever they could find. Others stared up blankly with open mouths, like sheep.

Kalil pumped his arms, running like he was on fire as the big BMW closed the gap behind him. Quinn was able to squeeze his bike through the south doors seconds before they shut, just feet behind his target.

Once inside the cavernous station, Kalil ducked to the left, sprinting with all his might past a long set of low tablelike benches under the vaulted archways and toward the Main Hall. With his speed up to get through the doors, Jericho overshot the turn.

The BMW’s back tire spun on the slick marble, throwing up a thick plume of white smoke. Quinn slammed his foot on the ground, pivoting the bike, making him thankful for his heavy boots.

Kalil tore through the arched portal at the end of the marble corridor, running as if pursued by the devil himself. Sliding on the slick floor, he darted right, entering the Main Hall, shoving startled tourists and commuters as he vanished around the corner.

Jericho gassed the throttle, shifting into third gear by the time he reached the opening and leaned into his turn. His heart sank as he rounded the huge ionic columns to find a man in blue overalls mopping the glistening wet marble. Kalil had slipped as he ran past and knocked over the mop bucket. He was up again and moving fast.

Already leaning well into his turn, Jericho felt the bike begin to slide. He straightened her as best he could, and cranked the handlebars hard right, laying on the power to drift the rear tire sideways at high speed and stay in his turn without spilling. He needed the tire spinning fast when he cleared the water. The roar of the BMW’s boxer twin echoed in the vaulted chamber as Jericho slid around the corner like a flat-track racer. The bike squealed and smoke poured from the rear tire when they hit dry marble, leaving a line of black rubber twenty feet long. Jericho straightened the front wheel, eased off the gas a hair, and took his first breath in five seconds.

Out of nowhere, a burly D.C. Metro cop with a snarling German shepherd trotted directly for him. Weapon drawn, the officer shouted unintelligible orders. The dog barked like it hadn’t been fed in days. Evidently these two hadn’t gotten the order to disregard marauding BMW riders inside the Capitol Beltway.

Ahead, Kalil cut left, sprinting, dwarfed by the towering architecture of Union Station’s Main Hall. He leapt up the wooden stairs of the cozy Center Cafe, an ornate island some twenty feet high in the middle of the teaming station.

Quinn ignored the shouting cop and shot past him, popping the clutch. He gained speed as he approached the staircase, close enough he could almost reach out and touch Kalil. Gassing the bike, he yanked up on the handlebars enough to bring the front tire into a high wheelie as he hit the stairs. It was a rough ride, but he let the BMW have her way and she rumbled up the steps like a willing horse up a rocky slope.

At the top, Kalil shoved aside startled diners, tripping to splay across the first table. He crashed to the floor in pile of minestrone soup and halibut fettuccini. Momentarily stunned, the Arab clamored to his feet, intent on going down the staircase on the opposite side to shake his tail. Jericho shoved a vacant table aside with his knee as he brought the motorcycle to a skidding halt in the middle of the dining area. Crystal glasses and china plates shattered against the plush carpet. Silverware clattered to the floor. Kalil had to weave in and out of a dozen such tables, giving Quinn time to do his job.

Still straddling the GS, Quinn planted both feet, drew the Kimber from the holster under his jacket, and shot Kalil twice in the back of the head.

Startled diners looked up, some with forks suspended before gaping mouths. The terrorist sprawled headlong over a table, splashing a bright swath of blood across the white linen cloth. What was left of his face was planted squarely in a plate of linguini and clam sauce.

Jericho watched in horror as the tiny glass vial left the dead man’s fist intact, but rolled toward the edge of the restaurant floor to fall over the edge.

“Don’t move!” Mahoney screamed.

The Metro cop stood on the floor of the Main Hall, his barking shepherd straining at the leash in one hand while the other held a glass tube of liquid. He’d seen the vial fall and reached instinctively to catch it.

Megan stood like a statue at the bottom of the stairs. Both hands were raised, palms open and unthreatening toward the big policeman. Her smile was ashen, her voice halting.

“Officer…” She willed a calm tone into her shaky words. “Listen to me very carefully. If you drop that vial, we all die…”

The deafening roar of fighter jets overhead rattled the building, drowning out all conversation.

Quinn dialed the phone to Palmer before he’d even holstered his pistol. The DNI put him on hold and made a quick call. Outside, the fighter jets pulled away, thundering back toward Langley.

Once Mahoney told everyone within earshot that the vial held sarin gas, it was a fairly simple matter to keep people away. The Metro cop handed the clear vial over without a fuss. Megan slipped it inside a padded, hard-shell plastic tube she’d brought just for that purpose. She slumped, relieved, but shaking with the knowledge of how close they’d come.

Thibodaux’s voice brought her out of her stupor.

“You okay, Doc?”