American Operator, page 32
part #4 of Tier One Series
Exhale . . .
Squeeze.
Through the scope, she saw a puff of orange around the man’s head. Then his body fell away from the rifle and was still.
“Eagle, this is God. Sniper’s down,” she reported.
“Roger, God,” came Baldwin’s reply. “Nice shooting.”
She shifted her sight back to the street below and the chaos unfolding around the presidential convoy. A woman stepped off the curb, dressed all in black, moving deliberately toward the vehicles. Her hand rose. A pistol perhaps?
She wasn’t taking any chances.
Exhale—squeeze.
The woman collapsed onto the pavement before inflicting harm, but how many more terrorists were out there? Grimes scanned the crowd around the presidential security detail.
Why is this taking so long? Just get in the fucking car!
She didn’t know who she more desperately wanted to be safe, the President of the United States or the DNI, but all she could do now was pray that the answer to this question would not be written in blood . . .
CHAPTER 45
In the Crowd
The South Side of the Şehzadebaşi Cadessi
From his vantage point in the crowd, Valerian watched Mutla collapse. The US security sniper’s headshot had been perfectly timed, dropping Mutla before she could fire a round. To make matters worse, his sniper was not responding . . . probably having been dispatched by the US sniper as well. That meant his four-person PKK team was down—the two suicide bombers had done their work well, but the primary and secondary shooters had failed.
That meant he was the mission now . . .
He scanned the high ground and quickly identified the most likely location for the enemy sniper. Once he fired, his position would be revealed and the sniper would probably take him out with a headshot, but he could not let the objective go unmet. Arkady’s orders had been to kill the DNI, so that was what he was going to do. Arkady hadn’t shared with him the rationale of the operation or how the death of the US Director of National Intelligence would benefit Russia, but Valerian didn’t care.
He was Zeta Prime.
His job was to execute orders, not contemplate them.
He scanned the bodies littering the street until he spied a dead female civilian on the pavement a few meters from the convoy. His only chance for success now was to capitalize on the chaos and innate human empathy. A good acting job would hide him in plain sight, allow him to close range to the target, and buy him the few precious seconds he needed to pull his weapon and take the shot. Decision made, he transformed from a cold, calculating killer into a frantic, grieving husband and set off running toward his murdered “wife,” who lay not fifteen feet from the American DNI.
CHAPTER 46
Jarvis scanned the chaos over the barrel of the HK MP5 9 mm submachine gun—people were running, screaming, and crying everywhere around them. The wedge formation of the two limousines had accomplished his goal. Like a boulder in a raging river, it broke the flow of the stampeding crowd and offered a sheltered safe haven between the vehicles. The Secret Service detail, with President Warner and the Turkish President bundled roughly between them, had managed to shoot the gap and pile into the back of Jarvis’s limo. Two Secret Service agents, however, had taken enemy sniper fire. One from the President’s detail was down and, from his pallor and glassy eyes, looked unlikely to survive. The other, Agent Perez, was slumped against the right rear tire of the limousine.
“Get in the car, Tony,” Jarvis commanded.
“The President?” the wounded man gasped, bloody bubbles forming on his lips.
“He’s already in. Your turn now.”
Jarvis watched Perez pull himself weakly into the car, leaving a trail of blood on the pavement. Then, something in Jarvis’s peripheral vision activated an alert in his brain. He turned at the same time as Petra, his machine gun coming up as her pistol did the same. A man who had been wailing and crouched over a fallen body had abruptly pivoted toward them. He was kneeling in a firing stance, pistol pointed directly at Jarvis. Before Jarvis could bring his MP5 to bear, he saw the muzzle flash.
Time stopped . . .
Jarvis locked eyes with the shooter—meeting a severe glacier-blue gaze intent on his murder.
Then something blocked his view.
Petra’s body stretched out in front of him like a diving soccer goalie, but instead of catching a ball, she was trying to catch a bullet . . . the bullet intended for him. She collided with his chest, and they both fell to the ground.
He heard her cry out.
The limo was backing up now, the President safely inside and everyone else secondary to that mission. With every ounce of strength he possessed, Jarvis shoved Petra up and through the open rear door of the limousine. Then, channeling the young badass SEAL he had once been, he dove through the door and onto the floor of the moving car.
The door slammed shut behind him as the limo accelerated.
Instantly, Jarvis was on his knees beside Petra. Her jaw was set with pain, but her eyes were clear.
“Oh, son of a bitch that hurts,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he said, shifting his gaze to her torso. “Where were you hit?”
Petra pulled her hands away from her ribs, just below her right breast. Her palms and the starched white shirt beneath were wet with dark blood.
“Someone get me a med kit,” Jarvis demanded. He looked around the once cavernous limousine, now crammed with bodies, including Presidents Warner and Erodan.
“I think I’m okay,” Petra said, but her eyes betrayed her worry. “It’s tight when I breathe, but I feel better than you’d think for getting shot.”
“Sir, I think you’re hit,” a Secret Service agent said, pointing at Jarvis’s chest.
Jarvis looked down and saw blood on his shirt just beneath his left collar bone.
“That’s Petra’s blood, I think.” But as he spoke the words, he realized that his chest was burning.
Damn. I am fucking shot.
In confirmation, a bloody bubble formed over the hole through his blood-soaked shirt as he let out a long breath.
“You okay, Kelso?” Petra asked.
He looked down at her and realized—strangely, in that moment—she’d never called him anything but “sir” since she’d come aboard as his Chief of Staff.
“I’m good, Commander Felsk,” he said, smiling. “But a little piece of advice for the next time you try to catch a bullet for your boss—don’t forget to put on your vest first.”
She gave him a weak thumbs-up at this, but her cheeks were beginning to blanch.
“Time to the airport?” he asked, urgency in his voice.
“The highway has been closed to all traffic but us. We’ll be there in less than ten minutes,” one of the agents said. “The President’s surgical team is standing by.”
“We’ve got docs waiting for you, Petra, on Air Force One,” he said, taking her hand. “Just hang in there; once they get a chest tube in, you’ll feel better.”
She gave him a wordless nod.
A beat later, his own breathing began to feel a little tight.
Well, shit, he thought, settling in beside her, looks like I might need a chest tube of my own.
CHAPTER 47
Dempsey got to his feet, and he was pissed. This was the third time in as many days that he’d almost been blown up. As the stars faded from his vision, he did a quick check of all his pieces and parts, and finding himself without any new unwanted orifices, he looked for Munn. He found the doc pressing up from a knee and shaking his head.
“You okay there, lumberjack?” he said.
“I’m intact,” Munn groaned. “How ’bout you, old man?”
A single gunshot rang out behind Dempsey before he could answer, and he whirled to face the presidential convoy. The shooter took off sprinting into the crowd as one of the two limousines roared to life and laid rubber.
“The DNI is hit. He’s egressing with Sandman in vehicle two,” said Grimes’s voice in his ear. “God has no shot on the shooter. He’s moving east in the crowd—there’s too many fucking people.”
“I see him,” Dempsey said and took off in pursuit.
“He’s headed east on Şehzadebaşi,” Grimes said in his ear. “I just lost him at the corner.”
“Eagle has good eyes,” Baldwin said in his ear. “Secure, overwatch.”
“Roger, Eagle,” Grimes said.
Munn was beside Dempsey now, sprinting stride for stride as they chased the DNI’s shooter. Dempsey shed his black jacket and dropped it as he ran. “How’s the DNI?” he demanded.
“No word yet,” Smith said in his ear. “Focus on the target.”
Legs churning, pistol in hand, Dempsey chased the assassin through a crush of people, cars, and minibuses down Şehzadebaşi Boulevard. Colorful restaurant awnings, vibrant storefront signage, and a row of alternating palm and deciduous trees lined the bustling promenade. As he ran, a single word flashed into his head: collaterals.
There’s no way we’re getting through this without more collaterals.
If Dempsey were to imagine the worst possible place on earth to execute a capture/kill pursuit, the Fatih district of Istanbul was it. Tourists, locals, merchants, students, children—people of every race, age, and culture—milled about like a swarm of ants in this architectural imbroglio that was historic Constantinople.
“Dude, he’s getting away,” Munn huffed, sprinting at Dempsey’s side.
“I know.”
“Then fucking shoot him.”
Dempsey gritted his teeth. The comment didn’t even warrant a response, but Dempsey understood the genesis. Just like Munn, he felt the frustration, the aggravation, and the creeping unarticulated sense that the sonuvabitch who’d just shot Jarvis was going to slip away and they’d be left empty-handed. But enough innocents had already been slaughtered today; no one was going to lose their life to one of his bullets.
He picked up his pace. The thrill of combat was rising inside him—not bloodlust, but a primal drive that fueled and propelled him. His pulse was a war drum pounding in his temples, the burn in his muscles a fire blazing. And as he flew through the crowd, people stopped and stared at the human missile screaming past.
“Shit, tango is stealing a scooter,” Munn barked, lagging behind Dempsey.
“For your information, it’s a Piaggio BV350,” Baldwin commented in Dempsey’s ear.
“And your point?” Dempsey said, scanning for a vehicle of his own to steal.
“My point, Falcon One, is simply that you shouldn’t confuse it for a thirty-year-old Vespa. According to the company specifications, the Piaggio’s maximum speed is eighty-five miles per hour.”
“Then we’ll need motorcycles to catch this guy . . . but all I see are fucking minibuses,” Dempsey growled. “Find me a bike, Eagle.”
“Roger that . . . searching . . . found one, thirty-five meters at your ten o’clock. Heading northwest on Şehzadebaşi Drive, on the other side of the median.”
Dempsey glanced at the shooter, who was sitting on the motor scooter and aiming a pistol at them. With two decades’ experience facing enemy fire, his mind automatically calculated the firing trajectory.
“Look out,” he shouted at Munn and made a leaping tackle as a gunshot rang out and a bullet zipped past overhead. Dempsey rolled off Munn and brought his own pistol up. He sighted, and somewhere behind him, a woman cried out in pain as the round intended for Munn had found a target of opportunity instead.
“Shit, too many fucking people,” he barked as civilians young and old scrambled in and out of his line of sight, fleeing in terror at the sound of gunfire.
“Thanks, bro,” Munn said and scrambled to a crouch beside Dempsey.
In his peripheral vision, Dempsey could see Munn looking over his shoulder, presumably at the woman who’d just been shot.
“We have to leave her,” Dempsey said, knowing exactly what was going through Munn’s head. “There’s no time, bro,” Dempsey added, driving the point home. “Local EMS will be here soon.”
“I know,” Munn answered, frustration in his voice as he returned his attention to the assassin, who was pulling away.
“Hurry, Falcon One,” Baldwin’s voice said. “You’re going to miss the motorcycle.”
Dempsey snapped his attention to the line of oncoming traffic on the far side of the median and spotted a black motorcycle with a black-clad rider. He popped to his feet and charged toward the bike, dodging southbound traffic. When he reached the median, he cleared a low decorative iron fence and a row of shrub roses in a hurdle that would have made an Olympic triple jumper envious. For a split second, he considered tackling the motorcyclist but settled for stepping into traffic and acquiring the asset at gunpoint. Tires squealed and horns blazed as traffic skidded to an abrupt halt behind the BMW motorcycle.
“Get off,” he shouted, training his Sig Sauer at the rider, who he realized was a woman. The helmeted, black-clad figure hesitated a moment, then engaged the kickstand and climbed off the bike. A beat later, Munn was at his side.
“You know how to drive one of these things?” the doc asked.
“Uh, not really,” Dempsey said, and it was unfortunately the truth. He’d ridden a motorcycle only once, and that had been over two decades ago when he was in high school. In the Teams, he had mastered tactical three-wheelers, which couldn’t be that different. He could probably figure out the clutch and gears, but by the time he became marginally proficient, the shooter would be gone.
“The target is escaping,” Baldwin said calmly in Dempsey’s ear.
Dempsey looked at Munn, his expression a question.
“Looks like I’m driving,” Munn said and climbed onto the bike. “You can ride bitch. Let’s go.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Dempsey whipped his leg over the back of the bike and settled onto the pillion. Then, wrapping his left arm around Munn’s chest, he said, “Don’t fucking kill us.”
Munn retracted the kickstand, twisted the throttle, and whipped a U-turn. The BMW sport bike screamed to life and accelerated with rip-your-face-off speed into oncoming traffic.
“Dan?” Dempsey said.
“Yeah?” the doc called back.
“Were my instructions not clear?”
“No—crystal clear, bro.”
“Then your execution sucks.”
Blaring horns and screeching tires drowned out the sound of Munn’s laughter, but Dempsey could feel it in his friend’s chest as they rocketed along a gap between a row of parked cars and the counterflowing traffic.
“I don’t see him. Where did he go?” Munn asked Baldwin.
“Not to worry, I have him,” Baldwin said. “He’s on Vezneciler sweeping right, out of your line of sight. Be advised, Falcon Two, the divided roadway ends in one hundred feet. You will have an opportunity to cross at the intersection ahead and get back into the southbound traffic scheme.”
“Roger, I see it,” Munn said, accelerating rather than decelerating into the maneuver.
Dempsey wrapped his right arm, pistol clutched in his hand, around Munn’s chest, too, and held on tight. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.
“There is a gap in traffic behind that tour bus you’re passing. You can cross the intersection in three . . . two . . . one . . . Mark the turn.”
As they cleared the rear bumper of the tour bus, Munn leaned right into the turn and swerved the motorcycle around behind the bus, shooting the gap between the back of the bus and an oncoming Fiat. Dempsey let his body fall in sync with Munn’s, imagining he was clearing corners as one of a tandem pair instead of riding bitch without a helmet on this motorcycle ride from hell. No sooner had they cleared the Fiat than Munn braked and pulled the bike into a left-hand turn, effectively executing an S-maneuver through traffic.
A woman on the sidewalk beside them screamed.
A horn blared.
Dempsey looked up and saw the left rear corner of a minibus turning onto the road directly in front of them.
“Watch out for the minibus,” Baldwin said, and then Dempsey was pretty sure he could hear Baldwin take a slurping sip of hot beverage—a theater patron watching the show from his balcony box.
Munn juked the BMW left just in time to avoid a fatal collision, but not quite far enough to prevent the side of Dempsey’s right knee from clipping the corner of the bumper.
“Shit, that hurt,” Dempsey barked.
“Sorry, dude,” Munn said, twisting the throttle and spinning up the motorcycle’s engine to resume the pursuit, passing three more minibuses caravanning in a line.
How many fucking minibuses can one city have? Dempsey thought as they zoomed past the moving traffic like it was standing still.
“Talk to me, Eagle,” Munn said.
“The target, whom Chip and Dale have dubbed Rook, is now one hundred yards ahead of you. He just made the dogleg turn onto Darülfünun,” Baldwin said. “And, Falcon, be advised, there appears to be a tunnel.”
“Roger that.”
“And, Falcon?”
“What, Eagle?” Munn said, exasperated.
“There appears to be an accident on the ramp leading out of the tunnel on the other side, which none of the eastbound traffic appears to realize yet. It must have just happened.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that by the time you get there, it is possible that our friend will be boxed inside the tunnel.”
Dempsey considered this. If I were the shooter, I would turn this into an opportunity—by finding a concealed position among the stopped traffic to ambush and kill my pursuers.
“Watch the exit carefully, Eagle,” Dempsey said. “Rook may exit on foot or on the bike. He may hijack a vehicle. If it were me, I might just lay low and wait.”
“The target has entered the tunnel.”
The motorcycle screamed east on Darülfünun, and a minute later, the mouth of the tunnel came into view. Just as Baldwin had predicted, eastbound traffic heading into the tunnel was beginning to slow. The line of westbound traffic, vehicles leaving the tunnel, snaked away beside them as no new cars were exiting the void—the accident apparently blocking the westbound lane, too.
