Radclyffe - Price of Honor

Now she would prove she wasn’t afraid to engage the enemy. Jane powered the remote, and the drone lifted off from the track and swept upward toward the train.

*

“I’ve got another communication,” said Cheryl Wilde, the com tech, an edge of excitement in her voice. The trim, thirty-year-old African American wore a navy USSS polo shirt and pressed khaki pants and looked like an all-American advertisement for a job in government service. She’d been the best hacker at MIT when they’d recruited her.

“A call?” Cam asked quickly.

Cheryl had already traced the number on the phone the UNSUB used to contact the president, but the UNSUB had been wise enough not to have used it before. They hadn’t been able to pull up any previous contact info, but Cheryl could monitor the number now and tell when it was in use. If the president was able to keep the UNSUB talking just a little longer the next time she called, they might be able to triangulate a location with enough accuracy to neutralize her with a missile strike. F-15 fighter planes were scrambled and waiting for the order. For now they were working blind, and if they couldn’t find a way to alleviate the threat to POTUS, they’d have to send a counterassault team out and hope their firepower would overwhelm the UNSUB before the team sustained significant casualties. They could not risk her triggering the drones out of retaliation or in an attempt to force the president to negotiate.

“Not a call,” Cheryl said with a note of frustration. “A data burst.”

“Can you read it?” Cam asked.

“Working on it.”

“What about the recipient,” Turner said. “Can you track that?”

“The burst is too short and gets lost in traffic. I was lucky to grab it at all.”

“That’s okay,” Cam said. “You’re doing great—we just need the text.”

“I know,” Cheryl said, fingers flying over the keyboard, sorting and downloading data packets. “It’s in here somewhere.”

Lines of scrolling text filled the screen. Cam, Tom, and Phil leaned forward together, shoulders touching. They were running out of time. The president, Lucinda, Blair—they were all in range of the drone if the UNSUB detonated it. Initially they’d waited to evacuate POTUS, judging the likelihood of the UNSUB triggering the drone while he negotiated with her to be less than the threat to him if they tried to pull him out of the car before she was neutralized. But they couldn’t wait any longer. They needed a weapon of their own. Cam needed the inside man.

Cheryl slammed back in her chair and pointed at the screen. “There!”

Where r u

15

Stay

“What?” Virtucci exploded. “What the fuck is that?”

“That,” Cam said grimly, “is from someone else on the train.”

“Son of a bitch,” Tom murmured.

Cam smiled. “Gotcha.”

*

Stark and a big dark-haired agent Viv didn’t know carried Dusty into the lounge. Atlas bounded in beside them, his eyes riveted on Dusty.

“Put her on the sofa,” Stark said.

“Who is it?” Blair asked.

“Dusty,” Viv said, “Dusty Nash.” She pressed forward, sickening fear twining through her. Dusty wasn’t moving. Her eyes were closed, her skin a waxy white. Her wet hair was plastered to her forehead. Viv didn’t see any blood. Was that good? She didn’t even know.

Dusty moaned and twitched. Atlas growled, his lips pulled back and two inches of gleaming canines directed at the agents.

“We need a dog handler up here,” Brock said, his eyes riveted on Atlas.

“No one is coming up here,” Stark said. “Just don’t make any sudden moves.”

“How about no moves at all,” Brock muttered from a spot near Dusty’s feet.

“He thinks you’re hurting her.” Viv inched over and slowly knelt at the side of the sofa by Dusty’s head. “Hey, Atlas. She’s going to be okay. You can stay right there and look after her.”

He glanced at her once quickly, and then back at Dusty. His hackles rose but the warning growls quieted.

“Go ahead,” Viv said. “He’s just protecting. Just try not to get between him and her.”

“Good dog,” Stark said. She unzipped Dusty’s camo jacket, pulled the Velcro flaps on the vest underneath, and eased off her body armor. “We’re going to fix her right up, fella.”

“Shot?” Viv’s voice sounded foreign to her ears, feathery and tight. She clenched her fists, willing herself to stay grounded, clearheaded. She had to help. Screaming was not an option.

“Can’t tell,” Stark ground out, swiftly opening the buttons on Dusty’s shirt. She parted it to reveal a tight green tank underneath.

Viv’s stomach tightened. A purple bruise extended from Dusty’s left shoulder down onto her chest, and a fiery lump as big as a softball rose from her collarbone. Viv caught her lower lip between her teeth, wanting to look away but needing to see. “Blood? Is there—”

“Don’t see any yet.” Stark cut the tank straps with a pocketknife and pulled the stretchy cotton down to the tops of Dusty’s breasts. “Looks like the vest caught the force of the round. I don’t see any penetration. Might have broken her collarbone, though, and there could be some internal bleeding.”

“Here…” Blair slipped up behind Viv and passed a towel-wrapped bundle to Stark. “Ice.”

Stark pressed it to Dusty’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Why isn’t she waking up?” Viv asked.

“Don’t know.” Stark slipped her hand behind Dusty’s head. A few seconds later she pulled her hand away, her fingers streaked with blood. “Got a scalp laceration. Must have hit her head.”

“I can hold the ice,” Viv said.

Stark narrowed her eyes, then must have decided Viv wasn’t going to fall apart, and nodded. “Good, thanks.”

Viv said, “Atlas, let me closer, boy.”

Atlas shifted a fraction of an inch, and Viv sat on the side of the sofa, holding the ice to Dusty’s chest with one hand and stroking the damp hair from her forehead with the other. Atlas rested his head on Dusty’s arm and watched her face with total concentration.

*

Cam gritted her teeth and listened as the president answered the ringing phone.

“I didn’t want to have to do that,” the woman said. “I asked you not to interfere with the drones. I’m trying to be reasonable here. I’m not interested in shooting anyone else, so don’t make me. Now you’ve got nine minutes to put Jennifer on the phone to me.”

“That’s not enough time,” the president said. “Holding this train hostage is not—”

“I’m not going to negotiate with you,” the woman said calmly. “I either hear from Jennifer or you’re going to have more than one dead Secret Service agent. Car eight is your command center, isn’t it? Don’t bother lying. There’s a drone on the roof.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Son of a bitch,” Virtucci echoed. “Do you think she’s bluffing?” He stared up at the ceiling of the command car as if he could see through it to the roof.

“I doubt it. We can’t take the chance. Game’s up.” Cam linked to Evyn Daniels, lead on the PPD in the president’s car. “Do you have eyes on the track ahead? Is the drone still there?”

“It just lifted up a couple of seconds ago,” Evyn said, her voice calm. “What’s the situation? Do we wait?”

“The bird is in the air, two minutes out, but the UNSUB’s got live ordnance on the roof. If she sees the bird coming in, she could detonate it.”

“Roger that. I’ve got Eagle armored up. We can get a hundred feet from the car in under a minute if you can lay down cover fire.”

“We’re trying to get a fix on the UNSUB’s position now, but until we can concentrate our firepower, it’s too risky trying to blanket the area. She claims she’s got a suicide switch.”