man was unconscious, a pinkish froth dripping from his wide-open mouth to his chin. If he’d coughed that up from his lungs—and Kealey had seen pulmonary bleeding often enough to recognize its signs—then it was a safe bet that he wouldn’t last much longer.
Kealey lowered the Sig, pulled aside the bandanna, and studied his face. It had no distinctive characteristics. A light-skinned, brown-haired Caucasian, he could have come from anywhere on the planet. A Bluetooth headset on his right ear did, however, catch Kealey’s attention. He removed the headset and, checking it for any obvious tracking signals, saw none and dropped it in his jacket pocket.
Searching him quickly, Kealey found a cheap prepaid cell phone in his trousers and pocketed it alongside the headset. Besides the weapon and a six-magazine ammunition pack over each shoulder, that was it, all he was carrying. The man had no wallet, no documents, no identification of any type.
Kealey slipped the 9mm packs over his shoulders and hurried back to the other shooter. He took the MP5K from his unresisting fingers, shucked the unfired round from its chamber, removed the partly spent magazine, and put it in a separate pocket from the headset and phone, tossing aside the gun. Then, curious, he pulled off the man’s mask, tugging a little to get the edge of the fabric out of the wound. It came free with a spray of blood that splattered Kealey’s shirt and jacket.
The dead man had black hair, olive skin, and a long, narrow face. His features might have been Middle Eastern, but they also could have been Spanish, Greek, Indian, southern Italian, or something else altogether. If the gunmen had the same ethnicity, or seemed to, it might be a clue to their origins and motives. As it was, Kealey could glean nothing from his appearance.
Tellingly, neither man carried hand or finger restraints of any kind. That proved his earlier assumption, when he saw the dead rent-a-cops: these guys were here to kill people, not take prisoners.
The Bluetooth receiver was identical to the other man’s. Kealey stashed the headset with the other one, then turned and gestured at Allison. Already on her feet, she ran and joined him in the entry to the walkway. Her face pale and distraught, she was holding her phone in her hand.
Kealey looked at her. ”What is it?”
“They have hostages,” she said. “He’s with them.”
“Does he know what they’re demanding?”
Allison stared at him, her lips working in mute silence, as if they could not quite fit around the words she wanted to speak.
Instead, she simply showed him the post.
We r on 3 flr. Many wounded in exhbt hall. Men w/guns killing ppl no reason, don’t know when I can post agn, they say will kill all of us i f—
CHAPTER 6
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“J on, I’m so sorry,” said President David Brenneman as he strode into the small breakout room off the Situation Room—officially, the Executive Conference Room—and shut the door. “I’m not sure if it’s any comfort to you at all, but I have some idea what you’re going through.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And we don’t know anything yet,” Brenneman added. “We’ve been there before.”
Sadly, that was true. And anguished as he felt, Harper knew that the president was sincere. But it was still ironic hearing the president of the United States speak those words under these circumstances.
The ECR was part of the five-thousand-square-foot White House Situation Room complex occupying half the basement level of the West Wing. Set up by President John F. Kennedy following his dismal strategic attempt to overthrow Castro’s Cuban government, the complex continued to function as a command center for the president and his council of advisors, and as of the 2007 revamp, it was operated by the National Security Council, whose nearly two dozen military and intelligence watch teams perpetually supervised and identified domestic and global emergencies. Each
Kealey lowered the Sig, pulled aside the bandanna, and studied his face. It had no distinctive characteristics. A light-skinned, brown-haired Caucasian, he could have come from anywhere on the planet. A Bluetooth headset on his right ear did, however, catch Kealey’s attention. He removed the headset and, checking it for any obvious tracking signals, saw none and dropped it in his jacket pocket.
Searching him quickly, Kealey found a cheap prepaid cell phone in his trousers and pocketed it alongside the headset. Besides the weapon and a six-magazine ammunition pack over each shoulder, that was it, all he was carrying. The man had no wallet, no documents, no identification of any type.
Kealey slipped the 9mm packs over his shoulders and hurried back to the other shooter. He took the MP5K from his unresisting fingers, shucked the unfired round from its chamber, removed the partly spent magazine, and put it in a separate pocket from the headset and phone, tossing aside the gun. Then, curious, he pulled off the man’s mask, tugging a little to get the edge of the fabric out of the wound. It came free with a spray of blood that splattered Kealey’s shirt and jacket.
The dead man had black hair, olive skin, and a long, narrow face. His features might have been Middle Eastern, but they also could have been Spanish, Greek, Indian, southern Italian, or something else altogether. If the gunmen had the same ethnicity, or seemed to, it might be a clue to their origins and motives. As it was, Kealey could glean nothing from his appearance.
Tellingly, neither man carried hand or finger restraints of any kind. That proved his earlier assumption, when he saw the dead rent-a-cops: these guys were here to kill people, not take prisoners.
The Bluetooth receiver was identical to the other man’s. Kealey stashed the headset with the other one, then turned and gestured at Allison. Already on her feet, she ran and joined him in the entry to the walkway. Her face pale and distraught, she was holding her phone in her hand.
Kealey looked at her. ”What is it?”
“They have hostages,” she said. “He’s with them.”
“Does he know what they’re demanding?”
Allison stared at him, her lips working in mute silence, as if they could not quite fit around the words she wanted to speak.
Instead, she simply showed him the post.
We r on 3 flr. Many wounded in exhbt hall. Men w/guns killing ppl no reason, don’t know when I can post agn, they say will kill all of us i f—
CHAPTER 6
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“J on, I’m so sorry,” said President David Brenneman as he strode into the small breakout room off the Situation Room—officially, the Executive Conference Room—and shut the door. “I’m not sure if it’s any comfort to you at all, but I have some idea what you’re going through.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And we don’t know anything yet,” Brenneman added. “We’ve been there before.”
Sadly, that was true. And anguished as he felt, Harper knew that the president was sincere. But it was still ironic hearing the president of the United States speak those words under these circumstances.
The ECR was part of the five-thousand-square-foot White House Situation Room complex occupying half the basement level of the West Wing. Set up by President John F. Kennedy following his dismal strategic attempt to overthrow Castro’s Cuban government, the complex continued to function as a command center for the president and his council of advisors, and as of the 2007 revamp, it was operated by the National Security Council, whose nearly two dozen military and intelligence watch teams perpetually supervised and identified domestic and global emergencies. Each
Similar Books
