Chapter Thirty-nine

 

 

Golden Gate Bridge Toll Plaza

San Francisco, California, United States of America

December 5, 7:30 p.m.

 

Drew slowed down as the Suburban reached the Toll Plaza. An array of police and emergency vehicles were parked in front of the beige two-story building of the Golden Gate Bridge, Highway, and Transportation District. Two police sedans had formed a roadblock and four police officers were directing the flow of vehicles into the parking lots and the road shoulders, away from the bridge. A few people were braving the rain and had lined up on the sidewalks, throwing curious glares at the spectacle of flashing lights and the commotion. Two news vans were parked on the grass across from the parking lot.

Carrie jumped out of the car as soon as Drew parked at the curb by the District building. She scanned the area, shook her head, then climbed up the stairs leading to the main entrance of the building. A man in a gray striped power suit, in his late fifties or early sixties, with a bald, bullet-shaped head, seemed to be giving orders, as a group of five men and two women—some in police uniform and some in civilian clothes—had formed a semi-circle around him right outside the main entrance doors.

“You’re the one in charge here?” Carrie asked in a loud voice so the man could hear her over the chatter and the background hum of idling vehicles.

A couple of the men in uniform turned their heads toward Carrie. The man in the suit measured her up with a curious look, then said, “Yes, I’m Captain Fraser, Richmond Station. And you are . . . Oh, yes, you’re with the CIA.” He looked beyond Carrie’s shoulders.

“No, she’s not with us,” said Fox as he climbed up the stairs behind Carrie.

“I’m with the CIS, Canadian Intel Service. There’s quite a carnival here, Captain.” Carrie gestured with her hand. “Discretion was not the first thing on your mind.”

Captain Fraser’s gray eyes fixed Carrie with a harsh gaze. “It was not. The first thing on my mind was the safety of the people of my city. It’s standard procedure to involve all emergency units available in preparing for a—”

A powerful explosion broke off his words. A fireball shot up through the fog. It came from the bridge.

“That’s standard too?” Carrie pointed to the fireball. “Don’t think so.”

She rushed down the stairs, then called to one of the traffic police officers talking to a man in civilian clothes a few feet away, “Hey, throw me the keys.” She pointed at the officer’s Harley Davidson motorcycle parked by the streetlight.

The officer hesitated for a moment and looked up at Captain Fraser for orders. Carrie did not turn her head, but the captain must have nodded or made a gesture of approval, because the officer fished out the keys and tossed them to Carrie. She caught them in the air and said, “Thanks.”

She straddled the Harley, plugged in the key, and turned it. The engine rumbled with a menacing thunder. She brushed the kickstand with the heel of her boot and turned the throttle.

Fox had already gotten inside the Suburban. Carrie gestured at him to go ahead as she snaked behind the Suburban and made a sharp left-hand turn.

She went through the closest toll lane and a few seconds later entered the bridge. She knew so much about the famous landmark of the City by the Bay and had always wanted to visit it and enjoy the views of the city and the water, but not in this weather and in such circumstances. Carrie had read about the magnificent architecture and the excellent workmanship of the bridge, but hardly had time to glance at the tower and the suspension cables as she rocketed underneath them.

The police roadblock had worked well at clearing this entrance section to the bridge. All three northbound lanes were empty and Carrie sped up, reaching seventy. Traffic was still zooming from the opposite direction, and Carrie hoped the officers had closed off the other side of the bridge and no more cars were pouring in.

She blinked to clear the rain from her eyes and moved a few hair strands that had escaped from her ponytail. Then she checked the side mirrors and saw the headlights of the Suburban and a number of police cruisers following behind her.

Gunshots rang out up ahead and Carrie turned the throttle. The Harley roared and slid over the slick asphalt, lifting water sprays on both sides. Carrie squinted as she was enveloped by the dense fog. The streetlights flooding the lanes were barely sufficient to light up her path. She slowed down and followed the Harley’s headlight beam, which blazed her path for a few dozen yards before being absorbed by the eerie gray darkness.

More gunshots echoed but Carrie resisted her urge to pick up speed. That decision probably saved her life. A moment later, a yellow Jeep dashed out of the haze, barreling down her lane toward her motorbike. Carrie threw her body to the right. Her Harley almost lost traction as she inched dangerously close to the railing separating her lane from the pedestrian walkway. Carrie brought the bike back to perpendicular, slowed even more, and switched to the middle lane.

A silver van whooshed past her in the other lane, sending a shower of splatters in her direction. Carrie swung her head to the other side at the right moment. The splash spared her eyes but soaked her hair and the back of her head.

She cursed, then looked up ahead. Two barrier boards painted orange and white reflected her headlight. A large section near the mid-span area was cordoned off with traffic pylons. A blue truck was parked next to a silver SUV and a gray cement truck. A few more vehicles in traffic were shrouded in the veil of haze further to the front.

A black Chevrolet Suburban, similar to the one behind her but with FBI stenciled on the side, was parked on the furthermost southbound lane across from the construction area. A man’s head popped up from behind the hood. Carrie assumed he was an FBI agent. He fired three or four quick rounds from a small pistol at the blue truck. One broke a side window.

Two gunmen appeared in front of the cement truck. They opened up a long barrage against the FBI Suburban using automatic rifles. One of them noticed Carrie and turned his rifle in her direction.

Carrie jumped off the bike and rolled on the blacktop as bullets bounced all around her. She scraped her arms and her knees, but was able to make it to the railing and out of the way of an incoming BMW sedan.

A second later, a cube truck passed between her and the shooters. Carrie used the cover to jump over the railing. She flattened herself behind the steel plates at the railing’s base as more bullets thumped against the metal, inches above her head.

A few more cars zipped past her. Carrie pulled out her AK from her knapsack, along with her MP-443 pistol. She readied the rifle and crawled about five or six yards, toward the FBI Suburban.

Rapid bursts came from that direction. The FBI agent Carrie had seen shooting earlier fired again. Other shots came from the other side. They sounded calculated and well thought out. That’s probably Fox.

There was a pause in the gunfire and Carrie seized it. “Friendly coming from your right, at three o’clock,” she shouted at the FBI agent. Then she stole a glance over the steel plate.

Two bodies were lying on the ground by the blue truck. A gunman appeared next to the back of the silver SUV. Carrie fired her AK twice and planted two bullets in the man’s chest.

The cement truck grumbled as it began to slowly move forward, away from the silver SUV and the blue truck. Then the driver turned the steering wheel and the blinding headlights of the beast fell on the FBI Suburban. The cement truck picked up speed.

“Get out of there,” Carrie shouted and blasted away with her AK, spraying the windshield of the cement truck.

It did not stop the beast. Its front smashed into the Suburban, which folded in half as if made of tinfoil. It bent back the railings and the Suburban almost rolled over onto the pedestrian walkway.

The impact threw the FBI agent against the bridge railings. He hit his head and fell on his back.

Carrie fired at the cement truck’s tires as its driver gunned the engine. She shredded them pretty good, but the truck still came at the FBI Suburban for a second time, tossing it around as if it were a toy car. Then the driver put the truck in reverse, but lost its momentum, and without tires, it was stuck in place.

Carrie fired a couple of rounds at the cracked windshield and side window. They had been reinforced with bulletproof glass, and her rounds could not penetrate them. She fired lower at the door, hoping to find a weaker point.

Sustained gunfire erupted all around her. Carrie fell back behind the crumpled FBI Suburban and slammed a fresh magazine into her AK. She threw a glance at the FBI agent and noticed his shallow breathing. At least he’s still alive.

She came up at the back of the FBI Suburban. The cement truck driver opened the passenger door of the cabin and jumped out. Carrie dropped him with a shot to the back of his head.

She turned her attention to the blue truck. It had just started to move away from the construction area going toward the north, toward a couple of police cruisers, their flashing, rotating lights piercing through the haze.

Carrie leveled her AK and fired a long burst.

The truck exploded in a large yellow fireball.

The blast wave lifted her off her feet and slammed her against the FBI Suburban. Carrie’s back took the brunt of the crash. She gasped for air as she fell on the road. Carrie lay on the wet asphalt of the bridge. Her eyes followed her target, which had turned into a fiery hulk billowing black and gray smoke. Huge flames leaped at the truck’s frame.

Carrie tried to lift her right arm, but a stabbing pain stopped her. A fractured bone, she guessed. She reached for her pistol with her left hand and tightened her fingers around the grip.

Loud, heavy footsteps rushed behind her. She rolled onto her stomach and pointed her pistol at the incoming target. It was a tall silhouette against a Suburban’s bright headlights.

“It’s me: Fox,” the silhouette shouted. “Don’t shoot.”

Carrie sighed and brought down her weapon.

He leaned over her. “How are you, Carrie?”

“Oh . . . I’m okay.”

Fox looked around.

No gunshots came from anywhere, but shouting, loud sirens, and blazing lights did. People were running in both directions.

“It’s done, Carrie, it’s over,” Fox said. “You’re wounded?”

“The explosion tossed me around like a rag doll and I’ve hurt my back. I don’t think I’ve broken any bones, but I’m not sure. My right arm is pretty much useless.” Carrie nodded toward her arm then glanced at her feet. She moved them slowly and felt no pain. “Help me up.”

Fox shook his head. “No, stay put.”

An ambulance stopped next to them with a loud squeal of brakes. One paramedic dashed toward Carrie with a first aid kit in his hand. Another paramedic rolled out a gurney from the back of the ambulance.

“They’ve got you, Carrie,” Fox said. “You’re in good hands.”

Carrie nodded. “Make sure we get them all.”

“We already have. You just rest now, okay?”

Carrie placed her pistol on the asphalt. I’m glad you’re still standing, she thought of the bridge. Then she smiled at the handsome paramedic checking her condition. And I hope I’ll be standing soon as well.