“Go!” August shouted even before the echo of the blast had died.
Without hesitation Private Sondra DeVonne bolted up the stairs, followed in a tight line by the rest.
THIRTY-FIVE
There is no way in hell that I’ll allow this to happen, thought Darrell McCaskey.
McCaskey had one thing in common with Paul Hood. The two men were among the very few Op-Center executive officers who had never served in the military.
No one held that against McCaskey. He’d joined the New York City Police Academy straight out of high school and spent five years in Midtown South. During that time he did whatever was necessary to protect the citizens of the city he served. Sometimes that meant repeat felons would “trip” down the concrete steps of the precinct house when they were being booked. Other times it meant working with “old school” mobsters to help keep the rough new gangs from Vietnam and Armenia out of Times Square.
McCaskey received several commendations for bravery during his tenure and was noticed by an FBI recruiter based in Manhattan. He joined the agency and after spending four years in New York was moved to FBI headquarters in Washington. His specialty was foreign gangs and terrorists. He spent a great deal of time overseas, making friends in foreign law enforcement agencies and contacts in the underbellies of other nations.
He met María Corneja on a trip to Spain and fell in love with her before the week was out. She was smart and independent, attractive and poised, desirable and hungry. After so many years undercover — pretending to be hookers and school teachers and countless flower delivery women — and even more years competing with men on the police force, she welcomed McCaskey’s genuine interest in her thoughts and feelings. Through Luis, she arranged to come to the U.S. to study FBI investigative techniques. She had a hotel room in Washington for three days before she moved in with McCaskey.
McCaskey hadn’t wanted the relationship to end. God, how he had not. But McCaskey made the rules in the relationship, just as he did in the street. And he tried to enforce them. Like his street rules, they were designed to be beneficial. But whether he was trying to get María to stop smoking or to accept less dangerous assignments, he stifled the character, the recklessness that helped make her so extraordinary. Only when she left him and returned to Spain did he see the things she’d added to his life.
Darrell McCaskey had lost María once. He had no intention of losing her again. There was no way in hell that he was going to sit at Interpol headquarters, safe and comfortable, while General Amadori had her executed.
As soon as he’d finished talking with Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers on the secure line in Luis’s office, McCaskey turned to the Interpol director. Luis was sitting at the radio waiting to hear from Striker. His father was seated beside him. McCaskey informed Luis that he wanted the Interpol chopper.
“For what?” Luis asked. “A rescue attempt?”
“We have to try,” McCaskey said as he rose. “Tell me you disagree.”
Luis’s expression indicated that he didn’t — though he didn’t appear comfortable with the prospect.
“Give me a pilot and a marksman,” McCaskey said. “I take full responsibility.”
Luis hesitated.
“Luis, please,” McCaskey implored. “We owe this to María and there isn’t time to debate it.”
Luis turned to his father and spoke briefly in Spanish. When he was finished, he buzzed his assistant and gave him an order. Then he turned back to McCaskey.
“My father will be the liaison with Striker,” Luis said, “and I told Jaime to have the helicopter ready to go in five minutes. Only you won’t need a marksman and you won’t take responsibility. Those jobs, my friend, are mine.”
McCaskey thanked him. Luis left to oversee the preparations while McCaskey lingered in the room for two minutes. That was how long it took for him to make preparations of his own. Then he ran up the stairwell to the rooftop. Luis met him a minute later.
The small, five-person Bell JetRanger rose into the clear late morning sky from the roof of the ten-story building. The Royal Palace was just under two minutes away. The pilot, Pedro, was ordered to fly directly to it. He was patched in to the spotters, who told him exactly where María was. The spotters also informed him that it looked as if a five-man firing squad was being marched in her direction. The pilot passed the information on to McCaskey and Luis.
“We’re not going to be able to talk them out of this,” Luis said.
“I know,” McCaskey replied. “And I don’t care. The woman has guts. She deserves our best effort.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” Luis said. A small gun rack in the rear held four weapons. Luis eyed them unhappily. “If we shoot only to chase them off, they’ll return fire. They could bring us down.”
“Not if we do it right,” McCaskey said. Off in the distance the high, white engirdling balustrade of the palace, with its statues of Spanish kings, appeared over the surrounding treetops. “We go in as quickly as we can. I don’t think they’ll shoot at us until we’re down. They won’t want to bring a chopper down on their heads. When we touch down, you fire to clear the field. The soldiers will run for cover. When they do, I go and get María before they can regroup.”
“Just like that,” Luis said doubtfully.
“Just like that,” McCaskey nodded. “The simplest plans always work best. If you cover me and keep the soldiers ducking, I should be able to get in and out in about thirty seconds. The courtyard’s not that big. If I can’t get back to the chopper, you abort and I’ll try to get her out some other way.” McCaskey sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Look, I know this is dangerous, Luis. But what else can we do? I’d want to do this if any of our people were in trouble. I have to do it because it’s María.”
Luis took a deep breath, nodded once, then turned to the gun rack. He selected a NATO L96A1 sniper rifle with an integral silencer and a Schmidt & Bender telescope. He handed McCaskey a Star 30M Parabellum pistol, the standard issue of the Guardia Civil.
“I’ll have Pedro swing over the palace and then come straight down in the courtyard,” Luis said. “As soon as we touch down I’ll try to drive the firing squad back. Maybe I can hold them back without having to kill anyone.” Luis’s face fell slightly. “That’s maybe, Darrell.”
“I know,” McCaskey said.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to shoot a Spanish soldier, Darrell,” Luis admitted. “I honestly don’t know.”
“They don’t seem to have a problem with that,” McCaskey pointed out.
“I’m not them,” Luis replied.
“No, you’re not,” McCaskey said apologetically. “For what it’s worth, I’m not sure I could shoot one of my own people either.”
Luis shook his head. “How did it ever come to this?”
McCaskey checked the clip and sat back. He thought bitterly, It came to this the way it always does. Through the fierce hate harbored by a few and the complacency displayed by the rest. There were signs of that in the United States. McCaskey knew that if Striker succeeded the real work was just beginning — here and elsewhere. People like General Amadori had to be stopped before they got this far. McCaskey wasn’t as versed in aphorisms as Mike Rodgers, but he did remember hearing someone say once that all it took for evil to flourish was for men of conscience to do nothing. If he survived this, Darrell McCaskey vowed that he would not be one of those who did nothing.