Red Chaos, page 38
Reilly kept the BMW in sight, intentionally holding back. Heath had gotten to Metro Police, and if their quickly devised plan worked, Bullitt would be cut off. He’d find out in a few more miles.
The assassin swerved onto George Washington Parkway. He slowed at the crest to get a sense of the slope downward. It was dark. No cars ahead in his lane or oncoming. Odd, he thought. He’d been passing vehicles all along. And now no one. Then he saw why. Out of the pitch black came a bright light that panned across the road and found him. Not just bright—blazingly bright. Sunlight bright that cut through the dark. Millions of candlepower focused on him.
Since light travels faster than sound, it took a moment before he heard the rotating blades of the helicopter shining the high-intensity beam. It was rising up the grade toward him. Behind the airship, a line of police cars.
Frederickson came to a sudden stop. His black helmet visor helped defuse the light. Not knowing the terrain to his left or right, and reasoning that reverse would be blocked by now, he opted for going straight. It would be the least obvious route. The stupidest. But they lit the way.
He gunned the throttle and let loose down the incline. His first move was to slip under the helicopter that had to keep adjusting its position and rate of climb. The second maneuver, which he did alternating between speeding and braking, was finding a path through six squad cars. Had they had their doors open wide, it would have been harder. As it was, his decision to barrel ahead was unexpected, and the Virginia State Police were not prepared. Nor were they for the Mercedes that followed.
The helicopter arced upward and around. The pilot aimed his 500-watt xenon lamp across the road. He saw the car, but the motorcycle was gone. He flew on.
The third thing Frederickson did was turn off his lights, pull off the highway, and ditch the bike. The police didn’t see it, but Reilly did. He swung right before the police had made their three-point turns, sideswiped the downed motorcycle, flew up and over a mound and landed hard below eye level from the oncoming squad cars. The airbag inflated on impact, pinning Reilly to his seat until he punched through it. Dazed, he opened the door, dropped to the ground, and listened. Reilly cocked his ear toward the woods. He heard rustling.
Reilly patted his jacket pocket for his phone. It wasn’t there. The car! He reached back in and fumbled more than felt around on the seat, the floor, the space between the driver’s seat and the console. No more time. Bullitt was getting away. He presumed Heath was in the helicopter or nearby. He’d have to figure it out on his own.
The gun was still in his belt. Good. He breathed a sigh of relief that he had the forethought to engage the safety. Otherwise he might be bleeding out with a shot to his leg. He figured that Bullitt had heard his car crash, so surprise was out of the question. Keeping up and finding an opportunity were his only options. Most of all, he needed the package.
Some fifty yards into the woods, the trees opened up to a field. If there was moonlight, Reilly might have seen him. But it was dark. The dark also helped mask him. He ran realizing he was coming up on the Potomac. He heard a boat. A coincidence or a rendezvous? Bullitt had accomplices in the Kensington. They could be out here as well. Reilly ran faster.
At the river’s edge he saw Bullitt in silhouette against the boat’s oncoming light. He waved a laser pin light on the boat. Rendezvous. Coordinated via cell phone. And this would likely be one of many transfers Bullitt would make to disappear.
In a movie, he would have yelled a command to stop. That’d be followed by a fast turn and possibly a well-placed volley into Bullitt’s center mass. But this was no movie. Bullitt was running, and Reilly decided to take him down without warning.
He pulled the Beretta, clicked off the safety. A gunshot screamed across the expanse, but it wasn’t from his pistol. He hadn’t squeezed the trigger yet. The boat had a sniper, likely wearing night vision goggles.
The shot hit in the dirt just short of Reilly. He dropped. Bullitt spun around. More shots from the boat. High, wide, and too close. Reilly rolled five times to his right and crawled forward through the tall grass. A moment later, a bright light exposed the boat in the river. Not prepared for a battle with a helicopter that seemed to come out of nowhere, it swung around and sped away. The copter began the chase, then returned to the riverbank, hovered, and illuminated the assassin who blindly fired a shot skyward. Reilly rose to a low crouch and charged. He hit the assassin below the knees. The force knocked the man’s gun out of his hand and into the river. The laser fell onto the ground. Reilly still had his Beretta. He backed up on his butt, ready to make the kill, but not far enough to avoid Bullitt’s foot. It slammed his hand. Now his gun flew into the grass, the gun he counted on to end the fight.
Reilly had not been in a hand-to-hand fight for years. That was going to be his next training at the FBI’s Hogan Alley. He was limber and fit, yet hardly the equal of Bullitt.
Reilly mistakenly looked to his left for the weapon. Bullitt grabbed his leg, twisted hard and slammed his elbow on his thigh. The blow would have been crippling had Reilly not twisted his whole body. The momentum, coupled with Bullitt’s need to get to his feet, gave him a second’s reprieve.
The helicopter light shone on the two men who now faced one another. Reilly wanted them to take the shot, but their position was too high, and they jockeyed too much for position.
Bullitt took two steps forward and spun with a high right kick to the head. Reilly threw up his hands in a reflexive defensive move, but Bullitt followed up with a second kick to the stomach. Reilly grabbed his gut; a useless, time-wasting reaction. Bullitt grabbed Reilly’s neck, moved behind him and put him in a life-ending choke hold.
Reilly tried to force his right hand under the killer’s. No room. Too tight. What his hand couldn’t do, his leg could. He stepped forward far enough to make room for a kick backwards. His right foot slammed Bullitt’s most vulnerable regions. He released Reilly, doubled-over and swearing. “Faen dag!” Reilly had a good ear for languages. It sounded Scandinavian.
Reilly delivered a strong right hook to Bullitt’s head. Now he was suffering in two places. Reilly went for a third; a roundhouse kick to the stomach. This one missed and Reilly was thrown off balance.
Bullitt straightened and wound up with his own right hook to Reilly’s chin, followed by a second with his left and a third with his right. Reilly stumbled back. A kick knocked him down. Bullitt stood over him, raised his leg over Reilly’s neck, ready to smash his windpipe. Reilly grabbed his foot inches before it connected. He pushed up and twisted hard. Now Bullitt was thrown off his game. Reilly vaulted up in a way he hadn’t done since Army basic training and came on hard. A quick punch to the face, a knee to the crotch, an elbow to the nose.
Bullitt slowed, backed away, and stumbled. All Reilly had to do now was keep hitting. Bullitt was on the ground. He reached around to steady himself. That’s when his finger touched something metal. He smiled.
Reilly saw the glint of the barrel from the helicopter’s light. He dove headfirst. Bullitt turned sideways deflecting most of the blow but catching the shoulder. Both men were back down. Reilly grabbed Bullitt’s leg just as the killer was bringing up the gun. Reilly tightened his knuckles and jabbed Bullitt’s throat—hurtful, causing him to cough, but not a deadly blow. Just the opposite. It invigorated him. The killer drew on adrenaline. He swung his gun hand around. Reilly swept his leg across his calf. Bullitt fired. The shot missed, but the gun was still in his hand. Reilly only had a few feet to maneuver and no time left to do it. The assassin smiled again.
Reilly was going to die.
All the ambient sounds seemed to fade away. The whooping of the helicopter. The boat’s engine that was going to take Bullitt away. Even the light from above was gone. No, Reilly thought, it wasn’t gone. It was coming from the side.
Still, Bullitt’s smile was going to be the last thing he saw. Then came the last thing he would ever hear—the gun shot.
Only feet apart, eye-to-eye, the two men faced one another. Blood rolled down Reilly’s face. He instinctively wiped it away. He felt no pain. Is that how it is? No pain at the end. The thought of a dead man.
In what seemed like slow motion, Reilly watched the killer’s smile turn to dismay and then sheer disbelief as he looked down.
“Nei,” he said, seeing his own blood spurting from his chest. His strength was leaving him, but with one last effort, he brought up his gun to kill the American.
A second shot rang out. Bullitt collapsed to his knees and fell onto his face. Bob Heath stood ten yards directly behind him, backlit by the helicopter’s powerful xenon lamp. He lowered his rifle.
“You okay, buddy?” the CIA operative called out.
“Been better,” Reilly said. “Could use another shirt, though.”
“Let’s get you out of here.”
“Not yet!” Reilly walked to the dead man. He unzipped his leather jacket. “Christ!” he exclaimed running his fingers underneath. He rolled the man he dubbed Bullitt over and fumbled under his shirt, then down his pants. “It’s not here!”
“What’s not?” Heath replied.
“The file! Papers.”
Reilly dropped to his knees and began feeling around the grass. Nothing! “Fuck!” He ran back to where the motorcycle was ditched. Nothing there either.
“Reilly, slow down. What the hell are you looking for?”
“A package. An envelope. I’ve got to find it. He had it. Damn, Bob, did you have to kill him?”
“As a matter of fact, yes!”
Reilly nodded. “I’m sorry. I owe you my thanks.”
“You owe me your life.”
“That, too.”
Reilly stood over the bike and played the last hour back in his mind. The race down the stairs, through the lobby, the kitchen. He could have passed it off there. But no, Bullitt carried it right to the van. He pictured the chase, through the streets of Washington. He could have tossed it to a contact along the way, especially on the blocks that he’d lost him. No, he thought. Where else?
“Jesus, the garage.”
“What garage?” Heath asked.
“The one he drove into on New Hampshire and switched to this.” Reilly rested his foot on the downed motorcycle. “It was a dead drop.”
“I don’t even know who he is.”
“The man you killed has been very busy recently, and his death is going to make someone very upset.”
“Who?”
“Nicolai Gorshkov.”
“Jesus. I have to lock down the area.”
“Roger that.”
Reilly looked at the helicopter in the open field near the Potomac. “Is that gassed up enough to get me back into town?”
“In and back.”
“Good. I’m borrowing it.”
“Not without telling me more.”
“I’ve been on a wild goose chase and wasting time. The van may still be there and the package with it. I’ve got to go back.”
“That important?”
“Yes, that important.”
“What was the address on New Hampshire?”
“Don’t know exactly, but between M and L. West side of the street.”
Heath began dialing his cell. “I’ll get it for you.”
“No. Secure it, but no one enters or leaves. I’ll explain on the way.”
78
A STRUCTURE ACROSS THE STREET from the New Hampshire Avenue building had a helicopter pad. The pilot set down, and Reilly and Heath exited quickly. They ran down the stairs and cut across the street. Metro Police, acting on Heath’s request, and confirmed by the department’s liaison with the CIA, set up a cordon in front of the building. Nobody in or out. A crowd gathered. Gawkers shot video on cell phones and posted them to Citizen, Facebook, and other portals. No one knew what was happening, including the police officers on duty.
“You can’t go in,” Metro Lieutenant John McNamara stated, stepping in front of the two approaching men.
Heath produced his identification, low and not to be seen by civilians.
“This is your game? Mind sharing what’s going on? Got a lot of upset occupants.”
“We’ll know in a few minutes. In the meantime, tell people we’re investigating a …” Heath thought for a second, “carjacking. Now let’s go in.”
“Be my guest.” McNamara lifted the police tape. Heath ducked under it. Reilly followed.
Their entrance triggered a commotion across the street.
“I have to get in!” a middle-aged man in a business suit demanded through a thick accent. A cop holding the line nodded a definitive no.
“My medicine! It’s in my car. I left it by mistake. If I don’t—” He began wheezing.
“All right, all right,” the uniformed office said. “Just wait.”
“I can’t! I need it now! Please!” he pleaded.
“Wait!”
The Metro policeman went to McNamara, exchanged a few words, then waved an okay. The man came forward.
“Okay, come with me. Stick close.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What level?”
“Two down.”
“In and out fast,” the officer said. “Let’s go.”
Reilly led. They walked the 10,000 square feet of the first parking level. The Ryder rental van wasn’t there. Reilly picked up his pace as they circled down the ramp to parking level two. There were some hundred cars, including one white van, but nothing with Ryder logos. One more level to cover.
“You sure you have the right lot?” Bob Heath asked after they completed their sweep of the bottom floor.
“Yes!” Reilly answered. He slammed his fist on the roof of a Prius.
At that moment he heard footsteps. More than one person.
“We’ve got company. Thought no one was allowed in,” Reilly said.
“No one was supposed to be.”
Reilly pointed to the up ramp. A moment later he heard two quick pops, distinctive to the trained ear. Heath heard them too and recognized the sound that comes from a suppressed gun, which is never completely silent.
They began running and heard another sound—a car being unlocked remotely. Less than a minute later, back on the second level, they saw a police officer lying lifeless against the back of a van; a white van dripping red. The CIA operative signaled Reilly to go low to the passenger side. Heath, flush with the car, peered around the corner. The driver side door was open.
“Toss your gun out now!” Heath demanded. “Show me your hands!”
No response.
“Now!”
Reilly came up slowly alongside the van with his gun drawn. Feet at first, then inches. Silently. Heath shouted the order again. Reilly made his move, stepping back, taking the firing stance, and sweeping his Beretta up.
“Not here!” Reilly said.
“Shit!”
Under Heath’s exclamation Reilly heard running.
“Come on. He’s got the envelope.”
Heath stepped out into the open. The assailant fired. It caught Heath in his left shoulder. He went down. “Fucker. Get him! Go!”
Reilly scooted around the van. He saw the man running across the lot toward the stairwell. Not more fucking stairs!
“Stop!” Reilly yelled.
Reilly assumed a sideway stance showing less of a target. Two shots, one from each gun. The man missed, but his bullet hit a car and set off the alarm. Through the noise he fired again.
The gunman squeezed the trigger a third time. His aim was off. He didn’t understand why considering his sharpshooter ranking. He fired again, but he still couldn’t draw an accurate bead on his target. Then he looked down and saw blood soaking his shirt and jacket. He hadn’t been aware of the shot that Reilly had taken. And then he was.
First, he dropped his Sig Sauer pistol. Next, the envelope he was clutching in his left hand. He stood for another five seconds, feeling what the end of life was like and not having the ability to explain it.
Metro Police rushed in, surveyed the crime scene, and ordered Reilly to the ground. He was immediately cuffed. It was only when Heath hobbled over and talked to Lieutenant McNamara that he was released. Reilly was allowed to approach the dead man. He picked up the bloodstained brown envelope.
“Sir, step away and leave it where you found it,” McNamara declared.
“I can’t.”
“This is an active crime scene.”
Heath, needing medical care, stepped in. “Actually, Lieutenant, this is going to end up way above your pay grade and mine. A team will be here in five minutes to clean up. This would be a good time for you and your men to clear out.”
“On whose authority? You have no legal right to operate here.”
“Lieutenant McNamara, this is a matter of national security.”
“As I said, you have no legal right to operate here.”
The argument was ended with the arrival of both Reese McCafferty and Gerald Watts—the Directors of the FBI and the CIA.
Heath smiled, then collapsed.
Heath lay in the ambulance on the way to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. Through groggy eyes, an IV dripping a sedative, he put the shape of Reilly’s face together.
“You got your damned envelope.”
“Got it. Thank you, brother.”
“Now, care to tell me what’s so important?”
‘If I tell you, you won’t remember.”
“There is that,” Heath said. “What the hell. At least we’re even on the night.”
79
APPROACHING BOSTON HARBOR
Twelve miles out of Boston, less than a mile to The Northeast Gateway deepwater terminal, a drone picked up one of the two remaining torpedoes. It dropped its ATT CRAW from 1,500 feet. The fish hit the water. Its active sonar listened, acquired the target, and accomplished its mission.
Five down, one to go.
The last torpedo was on course to the Chelsea Terminal. It had passed all the outward mines and evaded overhead drones. There were no defenses left.
