“All the security guards on your floor have been dismissed or erased, Commander. Right now, a man who goes by the code name Kilo is on your floor. He’s been assigned the task of eliminating the survivors taken off Hartford, along with you and Lieutenant Connelly, if it becomes necessary.”
Both McCann and Amy had mentioned the name Kilo in referring to the one who was doing the ‘clean-up’ on Hartford. Apparently, he wasn’t done. But how would Barnhardt know any of this?
“Captain Barnhart—”
“Get out now.” The phone went dead.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
“We’re part of what’s left to be cleaned up. Get McCann and Amy. We have to get them out of here. I’ll get Brody.”
Neither he nor Sarah were carrying guns.
Bruce spotted the fire alarm across the hall.
He went immediately to it and pulled the lever.
The hospital wing filled with the blaring buzz of the alarm.
Chapter 63
Lee Brody never had a chance.
He died in his sleep with a single bullet to the brain. As far as Kilo was concerned, he was on borrowed time anyway. The instructions to Rivera and Dunbar this morning had been to put the kid out of commission. Leave it to them to figure a bang on the head was good enough. Of course, the instructions Kilo received with regard to the hijacking were very different from theirs. They thought it was all a big exercise. A drill.
And they didn’t know that before it was over, they’d all be eliminated. It was no drill.
Kilo looked around the hospital room one last time before reaching for the door. The suddenness of the fire alarm made him stop.
Between the regular blasts of the alarm, he heard the sound of running feet coming his way. He moved behind the door, his weapon drawn. The door opened with one sharp kick, and only Kilo’s boot stopped it from smashing against his face. He had no target. He couldn’t see anyone through the slit at the edge of the door.
“Christ!” a voice muttered from the outside of the room.
The lights from the hall illuminated the room. The dead man’s face was turned toward the door. The bullet hole visible even from a distance.
He saw a figure move outside the door. He fired, and the door slammed into him again, harder this time. He’d missed. He shoved the door back with his shoulder. He didn’t think they’d be armed, but he couldn’t be sure.
His ear piece buzzed. He ignored the voices and jerked the door open. A fire extinguisher smashed into his chest, knocking him off balance. Kilo never lost his grip on the gun, and he fired again as he stumbled backward.
Someone was running down the hall. He rushed out in time to see the emergency fire exit doors swinging shut.
“They’re heading down the stairs,” he said into the microphone. “Pick them up.”
Chapter 64
“The news of the plane crash and the explosion is all over the networks,” Bob Fortier said to the president, flipping through the channels on the muted television. “What they don’t know yet is that there were no survivors.”
William Hawkins filled his glass with more scotch and drank it down. The liquor produced the same warm feeling in his throat as the last three glasses. He and Bob were alone in the sitting room on the residential side of the White House.
“How are they going to make the connection with Hartford?” the President asked.
“Give our boys a little more credit. There’ll be so many clues that the investigators have to be blind to not stumble over them.”
“How soon?” Hawkins asked, starting to pace the room. “We can’t have people going to the polls tomorrow morning without knowing these results. We have to get some factual stuff to the press before the eleven o’clock news.”
“Relax, Mr. President. Everything is moving just like clockwork,” Fortier assured him.
Hawkins didn’t like clockwork. Clocks were too damn complicated. He liked things simple. He poured himself another scotch and downed half of the glass in one swallow. He’d been against this plot from the moment he heard about it, but Fortier had assured him that he had the right people lined up. The entire operation would be completed in less than twenty-four hours, and campaign soft money would finance the deal. Fatalities would be minimal. His campaign manager had argued that it’d be hell of a lot cheaper and easier to do this than invade some little piss-pot country.
He should have put his foot down and refused. Penn was too smart to let anything slide by. For the past year, the pompous ass jumped at every opportunity to get his face on television, always accusing Hawkins of lying or exaggerating the facts. The simplest plan for this election would have been to send a single person to take Penn out. It’d been done before. It could have been done this time, too. Penn’s running mate, Peter Gresham, was a nothing. He was no threat.
But what was happening now was a threat. To William Hawkins.
“What about the three they took to the hospital? Is there any reason to go after them?”
“We already talked about that, Mr. President. Everything is being taken care of,” Fortier said.
Hawkins found his tone condescending. He wanted specifics. He wanted an end to this. Pre-election jitters were bad enough. This was too much.
The phone rang and Hawkins almost dropped his drink. It was his private line.
Fortier reached for the phone, but Hawkins snapped it up. He was tired of hearing everything second- and third-hand. Fortier was starting to tell him only the short versions. Only what he wanted the president to know.
“Mr. President,” someone from the other end said.
Hawkins looked at Bob Fortier. He was picking up the other phone in the room without asking his permission.
“Speaking.”
“Mako here,” the voice said.
He and Fortier looked at each other. Barnhardt and the rest of his crew were supposed to be dead. He should have been in that airplane. Hawkins knew that much.
“Are you there, Mr. President?”
“I’m here.”
“I thought we had a deal.”
Fortier motioned to him to stretch the conversation as he pulled out his cell to dial another number. Hawkins watched him talk into it quietly.
“Of course we did. We do. What’s wrong, Ramsey?” Hawkins asked, hoping the use of the man’s first name would breed confidence.
“I’m done playing games, sir. You gave us specific instructions to do a job. My crew and I accomplished that goal. Now, instead of transferring the funds to my account as we agreed in your office, you blew up the plane that was taking us home. Does that sound like someone operating in good faith to you, Mr. President? Does that sound like an appropriate reward for loyalty, sir?”
“That was an accident. You can’t think that we’re responsible for that. I truly appreciate your loyalty, Ramsey, your personal loyalty to me and to your country. I cannot believe that—”
“A very convenient accident,” Barnhardt said sarcastically. “But I have no time to listen to any excuses or lies, so here’s the deal. You’ll triple the amount of the payment and the transfer has to take place by—”
“Now wait a minute, Ramsey,” Hawkins blasted, standing up. Fortier started motioning something, but Hawkins turned his back on the campaign manager. “I don’t see why I have to pay for your mistakes. Your job was to hijack and sink Hartford, making everyone think it was the work of foreign terrorists. Instead, you left a huge mess behind that we’re still trying to clean up. If anything, we should be cutting—”