Jasper heard the gunshot. It was a dull, muffled sound through the concrete walls of the computer lab, but his time on the range in Fort Benning in Infantry training and then all the hours of shooting he’d done at Ranger School told him what it was: a high-caliber sniper’s rifle. The thing he didn’t know was, who was shooting at whom? Was someone here to liberate him, and were they under attack? Or was it the armed guys here, defending the position? Either way, it wasn’t good—not now, not like this.
I need more time.
And help.
He entered the final commands for the next attack and set the RATs to work. Networks that he had infiltrated weeks ago were now doing his bidding.
One more attack remained. The power grid. And he couldn’t do it, not alone. His palms were sweaty. He stood and paced then went to the stack of snacks, popped an energy drink and it fizzed and spat at him. He wiped the sticky red liquid from his hands to the front of his jeans. He looked across at the orange jumpsuit lying over the back of another chair, thought about how he would have to put it on one more time and sit in front of the camera.
In the meantime, chaos would reign. And the President just might buckle under the pressure.
•
Walker was forced to his knees next to Harrington, beside the van, and his hood was pulled off. Then Harrington’s ski mask. The guy had a shock of red hair, a mess of it, and a beard to match. This black-bag outfit was clearly not like other Army units, Delta notwithstanding. They were designed to be able to operate outside regular Army units. Probably specialists in assassinating High Value Targets. If this guy Harrington was sitting next to you in a cafe, you wouldn’t notice him as a potential threat until he’d stuck a knife between your ribs.
Two operators, clad in black and ski masks, were standing over them. They were identical to Harrington’s team but for the weaponry. These guys were eclectic. They had the best of the US arsenal, plus the more exotic. Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles, as used by Delta and SEALs. One had a battle-scarred AK74 carbine strapped to his thigh, the other a long curved kukri-style knife. The type of stuff they would have acquired from the field while on operational deployment. Trophy hunters.
“This is Walker,” one of the guys said. “Where are Paul Conway and Monica Brokaw?”
Harrington was silent.
Good. Buy time. Walker calculated the distances between the two men standing over them. The closest, the speaker, the one who had unmasked them both, who had stripped Harrington of his weapons, was a pace away, directly in front of Walker. The other stood sentry four paces back, his primary weapon, the HK416 assault rifle, action-ready in his grip. Walker knew he could snap out of the cable ties, but making the distance and disarming and subduing the man before his partner acted was near to impossible.
The guy crouched down and pulled up his ski mask. He was a hardened nut. Burn scars marked his face and neck, probably from an IED blast a decade back.
Harrington said, “Why are you doing this, Jones?”
“Where are they, Harrington?” Jones said. “Where are your team?”
“My team’s gone,” Harrington said. He gave a nod to Walker. “Thanks to him.”
Jones’s eyes darted to Walker. “That right?”
“They started it,” Walker said. “Some big bald oaf, on a bridge. Who knew trolls walked on bridges?”
“Well, you always were the B-Team,” Jones said, looking back to Harrington. “You guys never deserved to be part of this outfit. You’re far too soft. And unless you cooperate, right now, you’re going to die here, tonight, by my hand. So, I’ll ask this just one more time. Where’s Conway? The computer guy?”
The computer guy . . . Walker watched him closely. And he’s dropped any concern over Monica’s location. Why?
“Why’d you sell out like this?” Harrington asked him. “What did the General promise you? How’d she sell it, to attack your own country like this?”
Jones was silent. Then, he looked at Harrington, drew the sixteen-inch kukri blade, which glinted under an Ames Base streetlight above, and held it toward Harrington. “This is the last time I ask, while you’re still in one piece. Where are Conway and the woman?”
Walker heard a noise. A faint buzzing.
The drone.
Walker could tell that the EMP had just been deployed, because Jones’s expression changed.
“Idiot,” Jones said, pulling out his earpiece. “You think cutting our comms is going to save you?”
Then there was another noise. This one was closer, and louder. A wet splat, or clap, like someone dropping a watermelon off a roof and onto the ground at your feet. Just behind Jones. His reaction was priceless.
“No,” Harrington said, “but that might.”
Jones had heard the noise at the same time he heard Harrington speak—and he knew what that noise was, and that his fate was sealed as soon as he looked around, but he couldn’t help it—human instinct. Just a second, not even, but he had to glance back to see how his squad mate had died.
Harrington used both hands to grab his knife hand and he pushed up from his knees, driving the long blade up through the bottom of Jones’s chin and out the top of his head.
The next sounds were the lights shattering above them, again from Harrington’s sniper, then—
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!