He scrolled through another set of photos, then glanced back at his watch. He had less than two minutes until they reached the next station. More e-mails. More photos. Santini’s pulse was racing. Sweat was dripping down his back.
And then his heart stopped. That was him. That was Backpack.
Santini saved the image, then speed-dialed the FBI Operations Center.
“This is Special Agent Marcus Santini,” he whispered, his voice quaking slightly as he gave his authorization code. “I’m on the Metro. Red Line. Heading west. I have a positive ID on one Alonzo Cabresi. High-priority target. Suicide profile. Bulletin says consider armed and extremely dangerous. Requesting backup at—”
But Santini’s phone died before he could give his location.
“What did he just say?”
For a moment, the watch commander in the FBI Op Center couldn’t believe what she’d just heard and made her colleague who had fielded the call repeat himself, just to be sure. A priority-one target in D.C.? On a Metro train, no less?
It wasn’t possible. They’d had no warnings. No chatter. Nothing that would indicate an attack, imminent or otherwise. Just the opposite. After all that had happened in Russia, Iran, and the Middle East recently, the world had gone quiet. The last three months had been the quietest of her entire ten-year career.
“Trace the call,” she ordered.
“I’m doing it now, ma’am.”
“Let’s go, let’s go.”
“I’m going as fast as I can, ma’am.”
“How much longer?”
“At least another minute or two.”
“We might not have that long.”
She grabbed the red phone on the console in front of her and speed-dialed the Secret Service command post.
“Sir, this is Agent Andrews at the FBI Op Center. We are going to threat level delta. Secure POTUS and crash the White House.”
“Next stop Metro Center. Please watch your step.”
Santini raced through his options. But there weren’t any. He was out of time. He would have to do this alone, he realized, and his hands began to tremble. At least he still had the element of surprise.
Then Santini looked up and saw Cabresi staring back at him from the adjoining train car. The man had a look of both shock and horror on his face. He’d been made, and he knew it. His hand moved to the backpack.
Instinctively, Santini drew his weapon. Cabresi ducked behind the teenage girls and moved to the exit. The doors opened. Cabresi made a mad dash for the escalators.
Santini moved to the door, but the woman in front of him did as well. He almost knocked her over trying to get out and in the process lost his footing and precious seconds. By the time he got back on his feet and onto the platform, Cabresi was nearly to the top of the stairs. Santini raised his sidearm and shouted, “Stop, FBI.”
But it was too late. Cabresi had disappeared.
He answered on the first ring.
“Secretary James?”
“Speaking.”
“Sir, this is the FBI Op Center. You have an urgent call from Director Harris.”
“Put him through.”
Homeland Security Secretary Lee James was headed to Baltimore to give a speech to a conference of mayors when the FBI director gave him the news. Now he ordered his protective detail to turn around and get him back to Washington as quickly as possible. His driver instantly slammed on the brakes and spun the heavily armored Chevy Suburban into a lane of oncoming traffic, followed by the rest of their security convoy.
“Where’s your man now?” James asked.
“We lost contact,” said Harris. “But his last signal put him near Metro Center.”
James froze. That was just a block from the White House. It wasn’t possible. Not with all the safeguards they’d put in place. And what if Cabresi wasn’t alone? What if this was a coordinated attack? Worse, what if Cabresi wasn’t simply carrying conventional explosives, but a dirty bomb or a suitcase nuke? Even a small nuclear device detonated in the heart of Washington could kill fifty thousand people almost instantly. It could leave another quarter of a million dead within the next few days and weeks.
“Scott, tell me the president has already left for Camp David.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Harris. “Not until three. He’s giving a speech right now.”
“Where?” James pressed.
“The JW Marriott.”
James’ stomach tightened. The terrorist was heading right for the president.
“Get him out, now.”
That was all U.S. Secret Service Agent Jackie Sanchez heard in her earpiece. She didn’t hear why. She didn’t take time to ask. She simply moved like she’d been trained, like she had practiced a thousand times before.
President James “Mac” MacPherson was addressing the National Association of Manufacturers when Sanchez and two fellow agents grabbed him by his arms and jacket and escorted him quickly offstage. They were immediately surrounded by another dozen agents who created a security cordon around the president, while still other agents blocked the auditorium’s exits and calmly ordered the confused audience members to sit down and stay put.
The next sound Santini heard was a gunshot — and then screams.
He bounded up the escalator steps two at a time, weaving his way through a small crowd of terrified Japanese tourists as he did. Breathless, he finally reached the top, only to find Cabresi in the street — gun drawn — forcing a mother and her two young children out of a green Dodge Caravan.
The mother was hysterical. She was trying to get her youngest out of a car seat, but the child’s leg was stuck. Cabresi now shoved the gun in the woman’s face and yelled at her to move faster.
Santini raced for the cover of a mail truck parked along the street and carefully moved himself into position. He raised his gun again and aimed for Cabresi’s head. He wanted to take the shot but he couldn’t. Not without the risk of hitting the mother or her kids.
The child’s leg was now free, and Cabresi forced the woman and the kids to lie on the sidewalk, facedown. Santini feared he was about to kill them all, execution style.
He moved to the other side of the mail truck, inched his way forward, and calculated the distance to the minivan. It wasn’t more than twenty-five or thirty yards. If he sprinted, he could be there in a matter of seconds. There was still the risk that Cabresi would kill the family. But he might kill them anyway, and many more.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”
Agent Sanchez and her team raced the president down a labyrinth of hallways, through the kitchen, out the service entrance, and down the loading dock. There Sanchez shoved him into the back of his armor-plated limousine, slammed the doors shut, and ordered the motorcade back to the White House.
Santini heard sirens in the distance.
They were coming from every direction. Cabresi heard them too. Panicked, he climbed inside the open driver’s-side door and started the engine.
It was now or never.
As Cabresi peeled away — heading west down Pennsylvania Avenue — Santini bolted from the safety of the mail truck. He aimed his weapon and fired. He fired every round he had. The back windows of the Caravan exploded. The vehicle almost veered out of control, smashing through a trash can and a fire hydrant before turning a corner and vanishing from Santini’s sight.