The Osprey was barely five miles away. He could call it in if he needed to.
And what then? He’d have to hit Li Han right away, then go for the Russian.
He didn’t have all his gear yet, and their presence would be obvious. But better to blow their cover and accomplish the mission than keep their cover and fail.
The road bucked with a pair of fresh explosions. The mortar shells were coming closer.
“There’s your turn,” said Boston, pointing ahead.
Danny started to slow.
“Duck!” yelled Boston.
The roof of the Mercedes seemed to explode. Someone was firing at them from the hut near the intersection.
“Shit on this,” said Boston, leaning out the window and returning fire.
Danny swerved hard, fishtailing onto the new road in a hail of gunfire. The car lurched to the right as he pushed hard against the wheel, trying to keep moving in a straight line.
“Our tires are shot out,” he yelled. “Hang on!”
Melissa struggled to keep the pregnant woman moving. The mortar shells were landing harmlessly in a wide, rocky ravine no closer than a hundred yards away. But she knew that at any moment the men firing them would adjust their aim.
Bloom and the woman she was helping caught up.
“There’s another farm there — see the building?” said Bloom, nodding ahead. The building was up a gentle slope about two hundred yards away.
“OK,” said Melissa. It was a destination, at least. She glanced to her right, making sure the woman with the child was coming.
A few seconds later she saw something moving through the field on the left. She thought at first it was an animal, a horse or even a zebra. Then she realized it was men — three of them, rushing down in the direction of the clinic.
Bloom started to yell and wave her hand.
“No, no,” hissed Melissa. “We can’t trust them.”
“They’re with Gerard,” said Bloom. “They’ll help.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“You don’t know!”
Melissa grabbed her as she started to wave. But whoever they were, or whatever side they were on, the men didn’t stop, or even seem to notice; they kept running in the direction of the building. The mortars had ceased firing, but there was another ominous sound in the distance — the trucks were returning.
Suddenly, the woman Melissa was helping screamed in agony and stopped moving. She bent her head and shoulders down, caught in the midst of a convulsive contraction.
Melissa dropped to her knee and looked at her face. The woman gasped for air, closed her eyes, then moaned with a fresh contraction.
Less than thirty seconds had passed between them.
“Marie! Marie!” yelled Melissa. “She’s having the baby now! Right here! Help!”
Chapter 11
D.C. traffic was surprisingly light, and Zen managed to make it to the Intelligence Committee meeting a few minutes early. He quickly wished he hadn’t: Senator Uriah Ernst hailed him in the hallway outside the room and immediately began haranguing him.
“What exactly is the administration up to, Zen?” said Ernst. “What the hell is your President doing?”
“Probably nothing good,” laughed Zen.
“Don’t try and snow me. I know you’re on her side these days.”
“I don’t really know what we’re talking about,” said Zen.
“I’ll bet. You’ve never heard of Raven?”
Zen shook his head.
“It’s an assassination program — or so I understand.”
“New one on me.”
“I’m getting to the bottom of this,” said Ernst. He shook his head and went into the hearing room.
Ned Barrington, the committee chairman, met Zen just inside the door. “Got a moment?”
Zen nodded and wheeled himself over to the corner.
“Ernst says the CIA is running an assassination program outside of the oversight procedure,” said Barrington. “He thinks the President set it up to circumvent us and the law.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Zen. “This isn’t one of the 6–9 programs?”
“No. Not at all. Supposedly, anyway. I don’t even know if it exists,” admitted Barrington. “I wouldn’t believe anything based on Ernst’s rantings.”
The 6–9 programs were targeted “actions”—the word assassination was carefully avoided — directed at terrorists who were deemed a threat to the U.S. Similar to other programs conducted by earlier administrations, 6–9 was tightly controlled, with targets approved according to a strict set of standards. As it happened, Zen had argued that the standards were too restrictive; they required two different sets of legal review, and many inside the CIA, which administered the program, felt they were too time-consuming.
“Your wife’s not involved in any of this, is she?” Barrington asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” said Zen truthfully.
“I hope not, for her sake.”
A few minutes later Zen found himself trying to clamp his mouth shut as the meeting began with a blistering diatribe from Ernst. He claimed that the President had circumvented the constitution by authorizing assassinations of “who knows who.”
“She’s leading us into World War Three. That’s where we’re going,” declared Ernst.
“With all due respect, Senator,” said Zen finally, “how exactly do you see this leading to World War Three?”
“The government cannot have a policy of exterminating its enemies. Especially when they are heads of state.”
“This program is directed at heads of state?” said Zen.
“That’s what I’ve heard. Raven is a sign of an Agency and an administration run amok.”
Barrington tapped his gavel. Zen suspected that Ernst was simply ramping up the charges so the committee would vote to investigate. For all Ernst knew, there might not even be a Raven program — or a rumor. He’d used the tactic before.
Unfortunately, he was a senior member of the Senate, an important fund-raiser for the other side, and a frequent talk show guest. He couldn’t simply be ignored.
“The senator from Tennessee has a point,” said one of Ernst’s fellow party members, Ted Green. “We should get Edmund up here and find out what the hell is going on.”
“And the National Security director,” said Ernst.
“Why not ask the President herself?” said Zen sarcastically.
“If she’d take my phone calls, I would.”
“All right, all right,” said Barrington. “We’ll have Edmund come in.”
Chapter 12
Danny managed to keep the car on the road as both tires on the passenger side blew out. He rode the rims for a few hundred yards, wrangling it more or less into a straight line, before the back of the vehicle lifted with an explosion. Someone in the shacks behind them had fired a rocket-propelled grenade; fortunately, it hit the road far enough behind them that most of the blast and shrapnel scattered harmlessly. But the shock threw the car out of Danny’s control, pushing it into a ditch.
“Everybody out!” he yelled.
They flew through the doors a few seconds ahead of the next grenade, which turned the Mercedes into a fireball. Danny could feel the heat as he scrambled through the field, trying to find cover. Nuri was on his left, Boston and Flash somewhere behind them.
It took him a few moments to orient himself. He checked his rifle — locked and loaded — then reached for his ear set, which had fallen a few feet away.
Boston and Flash were calling for him.
“I’m here,” he told them. “Forty yards south of the car. Nuri’s near me,” he added. Nuri was hunched over the control unit for the MY-PID a few yards away.