Too Secret Service: Part Two Page 7

  “I remember.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Where are the cops? There’s a patrol car fifteen feet away, what are they—”

  Wayne was cut off by an explosion that sent tremors throughout the house.

  So much for the cops, Richard Coffey thought as the patrol car went up in a mushroom of flame. Coffey slid the tiny microphone out of his sleeve and into his hand. The wire ran from the inside of his sleeve and down to a radio set on his belt. Another wire ran from the radio up his jacket and into his earpiece.

  “Take the house.”

  * * * *

  Lieutenant Jason Coleridge of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service practically lived in his helicopter, affectionately named after the latest US military liaison: Grendel One. After all, most of the SAS thought of Captain Williams as a monster of one variety or another. He was bullying, yet friendly, with the personally switches of a manic-depressive.

  Jason felt the urge to just start up the rotor blades and just fly right out of the hanger. His ice-blue eyes swept over the controls, wondering if he could.

  Naaah, he thought, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. Only in Russia could you get away with flying a gun ship out of a hanger in one piece without fear of being frightfully splattered over the landscape.

  Then the alarms sounded.

  * * * *

  Billy Brokavich led the first team up the front stairs. He curled his right leg to kick the door in. The last thing he ever noticed was the peephole blasting out at him. Billy’s head kicked back as the .45-caliber round went through his mind—literally. The heavily armored corpse fell back on top of his second-in-command, Roger Callis. Callis caught his fallen commander’s body and tottered under the impact. Roger then tossed him aside and fired through the front door as he charged back up the stairs. He broke the door in with his shoulder and ran through the narrow hallway into the living room. At the end of the hall, he turned sharply to his left, spraying lead into the couches.

  “Hey, asshole,” a voice cried out from the darkness, “I liked that couch!”

  Billy fired as a brilliance from the overhead lights blasted directly into his eyes.

  Wayne’s ears pricked up at the sound of gunfire seconds after the explosion. He exchanged glances with Catherine.

  “They’re in, but what the hell are they firing at?” she asked.

  His eyes widened with realization. “Dad!”

  Wayne leapt over the guardrail, landing on the top step. He raced down the staircase toward the darkened living room. He leapt over the last four steps and landed in a crouch on the carpet. He scanned the room with his better than average night vision. The track lights had been shot to pieces and stuffing spilled out of the couches.

  “Dad!” Wayne called out.

  A flare of a gun barrel answered him from the doorway. He rolled behind the nearest couch and returned fire.

  Then he was pinned to the floor.

  * * * *

  “Let me try to understand you,” ITF Agent Lansing said, trying to wrap his mind around Daniel Clark’s words. “You’re telling me your old computer expert, this Sarah Durkin, is now sleeping with CIA’s Deputy Director for Intelligence?”

  “No. I’m telling you she’s been sleeping with him for several years now. She’s even transferred to the Agency to work closer to him.”

  “Are you sure he’s trustworthy?” Jennifer asked. “For all we know, the damn CIA could be in on it.”

  Clark laughed. “Jennifer, you’ve been reading far too many novels. The DDI and I are old friends. Don’t worry about him. Worry about what we find by the end of this, because I can guarantee you that it won’t be pretty.”

  * * * *

  Wayne wound up for a right cross when his assailant’s hand grabbed his wrist with a speed surpassing even his own.

  “Damn it, Wayne!” his father said. “How many times have I told you to keep your fucking head down?”

  “My head was down, until you knocked the rest of me down with it. Get off before the next few bozos come in.”

  Captain Williams backed off, gun at the ready. “You got the last one, I think. There could be more, but the cops are already on their way—another advantage of living on Downing Street.”

  What sounded like a silenced pistol fired off into the living room, followed by a trail of white smoke and the whip-crack of a rifle bullet breaking the speed of sound.

  “Tear gas bullets,” Wayne muttered. “Just great.”

  “They can’t come in, so they’re trying to drive us out.”

  “Right through the front door,” Wayne replied.

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Yeah. Shut up for a second and hold your breath.”

  Tear gas billowed out from the Williams residence. Richard Coffey observed with some satisfaction anyone inside would be coming out quite soon. His remaining six men would easily wipe the floor with two senior citizens and a couple of super-spooks. Their little diversion for Scotland Yard would provide all the time they needed. But, in all honesty, he’d rather they had imported a LAWS rocket so they could take out the entire house in one simple shot.

  Coffey looked at his watch once more. Still nothing. What the hell was going on here? They’d fired enough tear gas–filled bullets to make a statue teary-eyed. They were still in there after nearly two minutes.

  How long can they possibly hold out?

  * * * *

  Catherine Miller pulled herself two feet closer to the roof. The frigid night air chilled her as she dangled from the rappelling cord outside the guest room window. The moment she caught the scent of tear gas, she knew the only reasonably safe way out was up. Her canvas bag was over her shoulder, and she climbed with unbelievable ease.

  She felt a slight jerk on the cord beneath her. Strongbow glanced down at the form of Angela Williams climbing up behind her—with Wayne looking up and out the window at her. He held the rifle in his arms. He caught her stare and tossed her a cockeyed grin. She smiled and shook her head, resisting the urge to laugh. If they came up with the same idea one more time, she would seriously consider having genetic testing done to make sure they hadn’t been twins separated at birth… But that would lead to all sorts of issues she didn’t want to get into.

  Catherine’s smile fell away. Something about the air had changed. It was warmer, somehow, and it blew from the wrong direction.

  She glanced over her left shoulder, and her jaw dropped.

  Coffey smiled, proud of himself. He had felt the shock wave tremor through the ground as the first round of explosives went off. One of the best things about the British had always been that they were at least consistent, if not simply predictable. Everything, down to the very route the SWAT team traveled, had been planned out for years in the event of an emergency. The next wave of government attack would be the SAS, possibly. With the artillery his men possessed, they would be as easy to stop as planting the explosives for Scotland Yard had been.

  The fireball lit up London—and Catherine.

  One of the gunmen below caught the partial reflection of the massive blaze in one of the windows. He glanced up and saw Catherine and Angela hanging by a cable. He dropped to a crouch and turned on the zoom lens on his telescopic sight. He had a bead on the CIA assassin, locking on with an accuracy he could never get from a sniper rifle.

  He started shooting as a blaze of automatic fire rained from above, blasting the gunman’s weapon apart. His short-lived burst cut above Catherine’s head. The next burst blasted him off his knees, ripping the car’s roof like a spider web. Wayne swiveled the stolen weapon from side-to-side, raking across parked cars and buildings.

  The next man to return fire was smart enough to use the technology to his own advantage. Coffey crouched down behind the car and turned on the targeting watch, which took images from the gun’s camera and displayed them here. Coffey studied the screen as he targeted his weapon on the avenging Williams. He could barely believe he was pinned down by a man in a suit.

  No matter, he
thought, lining the sight against his target’s chest, I won’t be for long.

  Chapter 29

  Patrick Cochran opened one deep hazel eye at the ringing in his ears. He watched the black telephone in front of him vibrate slightly at the intensity of the volume. This would be the last time he slept next to Sarah’s phone. He reached out with an elongated arm to wrench the phone from its cradle. He leaned back to glance at Sarah. She actually slept through that fire alarm of a ringer.

  Patrick sighed and put the receiver to his ear, ready to tell whomever it was to shove off at this hour. It was about six at night, so it had to be a telemarketer.

  “Hello?” His voice was slightly tinted with a mix of Boston and English accents, a result of being a Rhodes scholar after Harvard. His R’s never sounded quite right.

  “Pat?

  Cochran was wide awake now, filled with memories of a few years ago, when he had first been privileged to meet Special Agent Daniel Clark over a particularly nasty hostage situation.

  “What is it, Daniel?” he asked.

  “I need to ask you about a man named Michael DeValera. Ever hear of him?”

  Patrick sat up with a jolt. “Please God, Daniel, tell me this is curiosity. Even if it isn’t, lie to me.”

  “Pat?” Clark asked, concerned. “What’s the matter?”

  Daniel Clark gently placed the phone back in its cradle. He turned back to Jennifer and Blaine, white as a KKK sheet. His blue eyes were wide with shock.

  “Blaine, are you certain that you know nothing about this man?”

  “Nothing I can remember. Why?”

  “Because it seems that your Michael DeValera is a far more dangerous person than you might think.”

  “Why?” Jennifer asked. “What is he?”

  * * * *

  Maybe I’m having far too much fun, Wayne thought as he brought his weapon around for another pass. He pulled the trigger, and the hammer came down on an empty chamber.

  “Crud,” Williams muttered. He stepped toward the fallen bodies on the rug— when a stream of bullets flew through the very spot where his chest had been the second before. He dove to the floor faster than he knew he could move. He crawled across the floor toward the gunman he’d clobbered and reached into his combat belt for extra ammo.

  With a sudden motion, the gunman came alive, grabbing Wayne’s wrist and nearly ripping it from his arm in one sharp twist. Williams pulled back harder, jerking him toward the marine. Then Williams lashed out with a vicious jab to the throat, crushing it.

  Wayne ripped off the combat belt and slipped two mags into his left hand. He rolled onto his back and jammed one of them into the gun belt, then loaded the chamber. Williams bounced to his feet and made his way over to the windowsill, waiting for the shooter to reload.

  The barrage stopped, only to have the others to continue. Wayne rolled under the bed seconds before more bullets struck.

  Maybe it’s time to change my position.

  Phoenix raced out of the guest room, leaping over the prone bodies on the floor.

  I’ll have to remember to question that goon later, Wayne thought as he flew down the stairs.

  * * * *

  Catherine swung her other leg over the side of the roof. She gave a cursory glance of the rappelling setup and pulled out her Glock. She peered over the ledge to see Wayne’s position under fire. Enclosing her gun hand with her left, she took aim, drawing a narrow bead on a shooter’s forehead. She fired once. The shot blasted off the concrete. Twice. Off the car’s hood. Thrice. Into the skull.

  The platoon leader redirected his fire toward the roof and almost pulled the trigger when his gun was wrenched violently up and over the hood of the car—and him with it.

  The first and last thing he saw next were the gleaming white teeth of Captain Wayne Williams.

  In one fluid move, Captain Williams pulled Richard Coffey over the hood of the Mercedes and broke his neck before the gunman hit the tarmac. He whipped the rifle out of Coffey’s hand and onto his shoulder. The retired Ranger dropped to one knee and fired off a quick burst at the nearest gunman.

  One down, five to go.

  Jeffery Ashby, second-in-command, saw his leader killed in one simple move. He leveled his weapon on the intruder in time to see his friend Arthur Powler blown away by this old man.

  Catherine Miller took it upon herself to put a bullet in his skull.

  “Quite a lovely shot,” Angela Williams noted.

  Phoenix rushed out of the front door, spraying lead over the cars. The explosive bullets didn’t get a chance to work their worst. Wayne ran toward one of the cover cars, and, on the last step, pushed off, jumping over the car. He twisted in midair as though he were a figure skater. When he touched down between two gunmen, he completed spinning the gun stock into the back of one man’s skull, and kicked back with his foot into the other’s temple. He finished the job in another sharp pivot, rapping the gun against the second man’s head.

  Wayne brought the stock to his shoulder and took aim at one of the last two gunmen. He pulled the trigger just as his father rolled out from between two cars, stopping in a crouch just under Wayne’s line of fire. Captain Williams fired at the same gunman, and he was kicked back into his partner, knocking them both to the cement.

  Not waiting for him to get up, Phoenix ran almost entirely on his tiptoes as the last stranger struggled to push away his dead partner. By the time the final gunman got to his feet, Wayne was six feet away and took a flying leap through the air, his legs forming an arch beneath him. Wayne’s left foot landed on the outside of the shooter’s foot, the agent’s knee grazing the gunman’s. Williams let loose with a jackhammer blow that shook the killer’s tooth out. His head went straight into the sidewalk.

  * * * *

  Sean Hannah O’Brien strained to open his eyes. He would be satisfied to open one. He felt extremely grateful for his bulletproof vest after those two women had pumped him with about ten ounces of lead. His head felt like it had been bounced four times off of concrete instead of twice over carpet.

  He tightened his hand over his pistol grip. He still had that at least.

  Not to mention a chance at a little payback.

  Sean O’Brien let his momentum build as he launched himself into the frigid air of London’s night. He landed at the foot of the stoop in a crouch, targeting his sight on Wayne.

  A brilliant light illuminated the night sky as Lieutenant Jason Coleridge hit the spotlight directly into O’Brien’s vision.

  “This is the SAS,” Coleridge’s voice boomed out of the speakers. “You are ordered to put down your weapon and surrender yourself immediately. Noncompliance will result in the use of—”

  O’Brien blind-fired into the light, hoping to hit the helicopter pilot. One split-second burst from the gun ship’s powerful artillery killed him before his body hit the ground.

  “—lethal force,” Jason finished.

  * * * *

  Moniak watched the scenario unfold with appreciation. Phoenix was a fine specimen of a trained killer. He wondered if Williams would join them. It was an idea. After all, he was already worked well with one of them already.

  And if Wayne could work well with Catherine Miller, he could work well with any of them.

  Chapter 30

  Blaine Lansing sat on the couch, shocked by the news. The man he’d been shot over, the man Wayne had told him about, Michael DeValera, Blaine thought would turn out to be some simple mercenary for hire, but this… This was nuts!

  “Now what do we do?” he whispered softly.

  “Get out of the line of fire, for one thing,” Clark answered. “Personally, I’d want to go somewhere without government contacts.”

  “I’d want to make sure I hung around people with lots of unregistered guns,” Jennifer added, seemingly unfazed. “Maybe a personal army somewhere.”

  “Great,” Blaine said. “Anyone here have close personal ties to Castro?”

  Clark smiled, and was about to reply
, when Lansing continued. “Before we go into that, we need to tell Williams what we’ve found. He’s got to know what he’s up against before he winds up as dead as my bodyguard in the hospital.”

  As Daniel opened his mouth to make his suggestion, another thought intruded. “He may have already.”

  Both sets of heads snapped toward him. Clark, in reply, picked up the television remote and turned the TV onto CNN.

  The picture of a concrete bunker filled the screen. Wisps of smoke fumed from the window slits. The caption below read “Ulster-Dublin Border.”

  “I saw this earlier today,” Clark explained, hitting the mute button. “Apparently someone decided to use a decommissioned guard post as a sort of weapons depot. Grenades, Semtex, rifles, everything the modern-day terrorist could ask for. At the moment, current supposition is that some IRA group had been using it in case talks broke down again and, conveniently enough, a fire broke out. My guess is that no IRA group would be smart enough to try using a British Army post unless they were the Provisionals, and they’re the ones dedicating themselves to peace. So I suppose it’s reasonable that it was used by DeValera’s people. Could your Mister Williams be responsible?”

  “After his stunts in the J. Edgar building, I wouldn’t put it past him,” Lansing answered.

  “So let’s not put him at the top of our list of priorities, now, shall we? For the moment, our main concern is getting the two of you off somewhat uncertain ground. After which, you can make contact with him all you want. Unless you have the phone number with you—or memorized—then I suggest that you don’t try dialing him.”

  At that, Blaine smiled. “I decided that, while I was going to be paranoid, I’d go the distance and write Williams’ cell number on the inside of my belt…the one I have on, coincidentally.”