The FBI clerk ran along the labyrinth of corridors in the Bureau’s Washington, D.C., headquarters and entered the large ops room. Breathless, he scoured the room. It was bathed in electric blue light from spot lamps in the ceiling that sent laserlike beams to the floor and looked like they could cut a man in half if he walked through them. Two men were sitting at desks in the center of the room, playing chess; a woman was by the wall to their left, working at her station.
She had to be who he was looking for.
The clerk jogged while calling out, “Agent Gage?”
Marsha looked up. “Yeah, that’s me.”
The clerk walked up to her and thrust a computer memory stick onto her desk. “Maine State Police have just e-mailed our liaison department a CCTV file and told us that they need your opinion ASAP. We copied the file.”
Marsha picked up the stick while frowning. “CCTV? Of what?”
“Eight security cameras at the International Avenue border crossing between New Brunswick and Maine. A guy took on four cops and escaped into the U.S. Maine needs to know if he’s the man you’re looking for.”
Though her heart was pounding, Marsha responded to the clerk in a calm and authoritative tone. “Thanks. Leave the room. I’ll take it from here.”
After he’d left, she slotted the stick into her computer and summoned Alistair and Patrick. When she clicked on the file, her computer showed eight symmetrical squares, within which were black-and-white images of the buildings, roads, and traffic at the International Avenue crossing.
For six seconds, everything seemed like a normal day at the border control.
Then, everything wasn’t normal.
Two minutes later, Marsha replayed most of the images before pausing the file. One of the squares showed a close-up image of the gunman who’d engaged with the cops before escaping into the United States. The man had a short beard; his face was otherwise clearly visible. She turned to Alistair and Patrick.
Both were frowning.
Patrick spoke. “That’s him.”
Alistair said with resignation, “My boy, Will Cochrane.”
Marsha got out of her chair and leaned right up to the screen. “What on earth are you doing, Cochrane?”
Alistair didn’t understand Marsha’s question. “It’s as we suspected — he’s coming to the States to get answers.”
Marsha turned to face them and leaned against her desk. “Maine police and the Canadian Mounties both told me the same thing: it’s easy for a man to cross the border between New Brunswick and Maine without being detected because it’s got big spaces of deserted countryside between each security control. All he needs to do is get wet in the St. Croix River. Why take the risk of crossing at International Avenue? Seems a stupid thing to do.”
Alistair and Patrick looked at each other. Each knew what the other was thinking, but neither of them voiced their thoughts.
Patrick moved back to his desk while calling out, “Don’t feel like doing it, but I gotta notify the Agency that Cochrane’s on U.S. soil, and that means calling that ass Sheridan.”
Alistair asked Marsha, “What next?”
Marsha sprung to her feet. “I’ll alert the media that Cochrane’s on U.S. soil. And starting tonight, I need to fill this room with extra Bureau bodies — detectives, analysts, surveillance specialists.” She reached for her phone. “Then we need our best shooters.”
The MD 530 Little Bird helicopter banked left and flew fast toward the building on the Quantico Marine Corps base, Virginia. Two operatives sat on foldout external benches on either side of the bird — team leader Pete Duggan and one of his men. The other six members of Duggan’s unit were now visible on the ground. All eight specialists were members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team, America’s premier law enforcement special operations unit that was trained to the standard of Special Forces; indeed, most members of HRT were ex-SF, and Duggan was no exception. He’d spent twelve years in SEAL Team 6 before his wife had successfully convinced him to swap a globetrotting covert life for one that kept him home a bit more.
Like six of his men, he had a .45 pistol and stun grenades strapped to his body and was carrying an MP5/10A3 submachine gun; the seventh man was equipped with a Remington 870 shotgun, and the man speaking on the radio was lying prone four hundred yards from the building while looking through the sight of an M40A1 sniper rifle. All of them were wearing OD green Nomex assault suits, combat boots, gloves, and Kevlar helmets with radio mics hardwired into them.
Inside the building were life-sized wooden cutouts of men holding guns, some of them static, others on electric-powered pulleys that could make them move. And in one of the rooms, sitting at a desk, was a real person — Jack O’Connor, head of the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group, to whom all members of the HRT reported. It was the fifteenth time this week that the HRT had practiced the assault. Today it was O’Connor’s turn to play hostage and hopefully not be killed as the team attempted to rescue him while using live ammunition. Aside from not accidentally shooting his boss, Duggan’s objective was to shave ten seconds off previous assault times.
These drills kept him and his men sharp.
And staved off boredom.
But God, Duggan was hoping for some real action soon, because it had been three months since he’d fired a weapon at genuine bad guys.
The Little Bird hovered over the flat roof. It was the signal to assault, and Duggan and his colleague wasted no time, both tossing ropes down so that they were hanging over the building’s flat roof.
Five members of the team entered the house at ground level.
Duggan and his number two fast-roped down.
Boots on the roof.
Sectors clear.
Heel through the window skylight.
Flash bang dropped through there.
Abseil gear secure on extractor vents.
Both men flew down the side of the building, rope in one hand, MP5 in the other.
Sound of more flash bangs and machine gun fire inside the building.
Doorframe charges blew open a reinforced fire exit.
Boom.
Enter.
Duggan first. Number two second.
Inside the room.
Two hostiles.
Down. Down.
Move on.
To the corridor.
Target running away.
Short burst in his back; stand over his body; another three rounds in the back of his head.
Second room.
Empty.
Last room on second floor.
Four targets, one live hostage.
Take two on the left.
Fire.
Shit! Weapon malfunction.
Drop to knee, .45 out, fire. Fire.
Wingman takes other two out.
Targets dead.
Hostage alive.
Second floor clear.
Radio mic says first floor also clear.
House is secure.
Jack O’Connor checked his watch. “That’s your fastest by seventeen seconds. Excellent work, considering you had a gun malfunction.”
Duggan removed his helmet and one glove, smoothed fingers through his matted blond hair, and walked through smoke to examine the targets. All shots had been precise. “Next time I want us to do a fast rope while the Little Bird’s still moving. We’ll run it again this afternoon.”
O’Connor shook his head. “No you won’t. While you were in the air, I had a call from HQ. I want you and your team in D.C. in three hours.”