“Only thing I could make out was the name Pre-Owned on the stern,” Three answered.
“What’s he doing now?”
“One, he’s raising what looks like an RPG. Holy shit, he’s aiming right at you!”
In the second it took to focus on the boat, Drake recognized the flash and the whitish blue-gray smoke of a shoulder-fired grenade launcher. He dove to the ground next to the wall of the terrace, and hoped Mike had done the same.
The grenade warhead exploded through the door the State Trooper had just closed minutes before. It formed an aerosol cloud in the Senator’s house that ignited in a powerful fireball. The fuel-air explosive, or thermobaric weapon, consumed all the oxygen inside, and the lack of oxygen, in turn, created an enormous overpressure, or shock wave. The combination acted like a small, tactical nuclear weapon, without the residual radiation.
In microseconds, the pressure of the explosion flattened the first floor of the Senator’s home, collapsing the structure above it, traveling outwards to sheer off the trees near the house.
Drake was stunned and covered with debris-the force of the explosion had vectored outward over his head. He twisted to look at the burning structure behind him, and prayed that everyone inside was protected in the basement safe room.
“Mike, you all right?” he shouted.
After a long moment, Drake heard a shaken answer.
“Think so. Hit the deck when I heard RPG. May have a concussion. Don’t know about the rest of the guys.”
“Mike, I’ve got to see if they’re safe inside. You okay to check on the team?” he asked, knocking pieces of debris from his shoulders and head.
“I think so. Go.”
Drake ran to the east side of the burning rubble that had been a home until minutes ago. He tore his way through fallen and burning flooring to the door into the basement, and kicked away blast debris that had fallen against it. The explosion had collapsed most of the flooring above the stairs leading down to the basement, but the reinforced walls and ceiling of the basement itself hadn’t buckled.
Drake ran down the stairs to the door of the safe room and pounded on it three times.
“Senator, it’s Adam. Are you all right?”
“This is Agent Miller, Secret Service. Tell me something about the Senator tonight that he can verify before I open this door.”
“Well, I had a glass of Ken Wright pinot noir with dinner.”
The door opened, and the State Trooper asked, “What the hell happened?”
“They hit us with a thermobaric grenade. Is everyone safe?”
Drake could see the Senator and his mother-in-law were pale and shaken. The Secretary was standing beside them with a grim look on his face. The country had been lucky since 9/11, due to a lot of hard work and dedication, but the look on the Secretary’s face acknowledged things had just taken a turn for the worse.
“We’re fine,” the State Trooper said. “Is it safe to come out?”
“What’s left of the house is burning above, but you might be able to bring them out through the basement and up those stairs over there to the garage. If it’s blocked, keep them here and get someone to come down the way I did to help you.”
Drake ran upstairs and outside to find Mike’s team gathered around him. State Troopers were on their radios, calling for assistance.
“Mike, put somebody in charge and, if you’re okay, come with me. Defer all questions to the Senator until we get back. I know where Kaamil’s headed.”
Chapter 56
Drake knew the boat. It belonged to Ron Peterson, the used-car dealer who lived around the point on the lake. Peterson liked to take a couple of laps around the lake each year in his classic old runabout when he’d be noticed, like on the Fourth of July and Labor Day.
Peterson’s home was a just a couple of minutes around the point by car. If they hurried, they could be there by the time Kaamil arrived.
“You sure you’re okay?” Drake asked as they ran to his Porsche and jumped in. “I can take care of Kaamil, but if there are others waiting there, you’ll need to deal with them.”
“I’ve flown missions in worse shape. I’m okay,” Mike said as they roared away from the Senator’s burning home.
The road to the Peterson estate curved around the lake. It was lined with residences, making it hard to drive as fast as Drake wanted while watching for kids playing outside in the early summer night. He still got them there in less than five minutes.
“I’m pretty sure Peterson lives here. I’ve seen the place from the water,” he said, sliding to a stop at the end of Peterson’s driveway. “I’ll go down to the boathouse. You block his way out up here. If he gets by me, make sure he knows we’re buddies when you kill him.”
The lights were on in the house, and a catering van was parked near the front door.
“That’s the way they got in,” Mike offered, “posing as a catering service. I’ll make sure the van’s not going anywhere and check out the house.”
Drake sprinted across the lawn leading down to the Peterson’s boathouse. When he got there, he flattened himself against a cedar-shingled wall around the corner from the door. He listened for sounds from inside, and then heard the rumble of an inboard engine approaching on idle.
Edging his head around the corner of the boathouse, he saw red and green running lights headed his way. Kaamil was drifting slowly toward the back of the boathouse. Drake slipped around the corner and inside.
The lights were off, but there was enough light for him to see storage lockers on the opposite side of the slip. The shadows at the far end near the boathouse rear door, however, provided some cover, and his best chance to surprise Kaamil. Drake ran there, just as the automatic opener cranked up the overhead door and the old runabout nosed into its berth.
One man sat on top of the driver’s seat and steered the boat, bumping off the cushioned railings. When the boathouse door closed, he was alone with the terrorist.
“You’re some leader, Kaamil. Sacrifice your men and run away,” Drake said, as the rumble of the boat echoed off the walls of the boathouse then died. “They’re cavorting with virgins, you’re still here with me. Pity, you must be envious.”
He watched as Kaamil straightened at the sound of his voice.
“Envious in a way you’ll never understand. They earned their reward, but their lack of skill condemns me to shame and death. Hardly fair, but you get used to that in this country.”
“Spare me the sad song, Kaamil. Raise your hands over your head and step out of the boat. Fairness is not at the top of my list right now.”
Kaamil stood, stretched his long arms straight out from his shoulders and stepped out of the boat. He turned to face Drake and the.45 pointed at his forehead.
“I am unarmed and unafraid,” he said, as he stood tall and seemed to accept whatever fate Allah had in store for him.
“You’re American, Kaamil. What the hell happened to you, trying to kill a Cabinet Secretary?”
Kaamil’s eyes blazed at the question. His MP5 lay on the seat of the boat, but there was little chance he’d get to it before Drake shot him.
“You think you’ve won because you’ve caught me. Cops thought they’d won when they busted me too, but sometimes that’s the price you pay to find the truth. You think you won when you bombed the hell out of Afghanistan and occupied Iraq. All you’ve done is convince us you want to destroy our religion.”
“I could care less about your religion,” Drake said. “I’ve fought beside Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and atheists. I don’t care about your religion. You tried to kill me and you’re attacking my country.”
“Yeah, the country that made slaves of my ancestors, that’s still keeping us down. That’s my country for sure,” Kaamil sneered. “You don’t get it, but you will. There’s nothing you can do to change the outcome. You’ve already lost. Your politicians are afraid to challenge us. Voters don’t have the stomach for war, and someday we’ll be the majority here and in Europe. We’re in the government, the military, we’re unchallenged in the universities, and the darling of the media. Who’s going to stop Islam?”