As soon as the copter exploded, Bridgestone dropped the weapon and put his hands on his head. Hiccock was now physically holding off cops.
“Is Hiccock still there?” Only static filled the room. “Is Hiccock still in one piece?”
The line cleared temporarily and the President thought he heard the human sounds of people, of Hiccock, dying. His mind raced to the thought of the two men in the street being immolated by radiation and not burning up, but burning out — outwards from within. Turning to ash as they screamed in agony. But the noise started clearing up and became easily discernable as laughter…and relief. Then a voice, Hiccock’s, broke through.
“Sir, the bomb did not detonate; it did not fission. We’re okay. Everyone is okay! Kronos, Peter, you guys hit it right on the numbers.”
“Natra-friggin-lutley….. “
Bill turned to Bridgestone, “Natra-friggin-lutley, Bridge!”
“Roger friggin’ that, Bill,” he said as he kept his hands on his head hoping the cops heard that it was over.
“Bill, this is the President. Get out of that area. They are telling me the radiation is rising.”
“We can help with the evac, sir.”
“God damn it, Bill, we got people to handle that. Besides, there is something else. I’m sorry to tell you that Janice is being held hostage at a theater on 47th Street. We don’t know any details yet, but we are assuming her detail is dead. It’s a real shit-sandwich to hand to someone who just saved eight million people, but I’m sorry… truly I am, Bill… Bill?”
The rear view mirror sheared off at 45 m.p.h. as Bridgestone squeezed the squad car between a delivery truck and the wall of an office building as the siren wailed and the lights flashed on their way up to the theater.
“Why would they take a theater? And why now?”
The Chechins took a theater in Moscow. They’ve got a knack for it. They must have figured it was a strong diversion… or, maybe…
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe they were after you. You’ve ruined a couple of their last soirees.”
“If they touch Janice, I am going to kill them. I will fly to wherever their families are and kill every one of them!”
“Whoa… where did that come from?”
“Burke Avenue. You got a problem with that?”
“No, but listen — when we get there, leave the ball-busting to me. You find and secure your wife.”
“My mom and dad are with her.”
“Shit. We’ll just have to get all of them out.”
“How we going to do this?”
“First, we’ll have to get through our own guys.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The squad car careened around 47th and Fifth and into a wall of emergency vehicles.
Bill flashed his White House I.D. and they let the car through. Then they hit the FBI ring. An agent stopped them cold at 47th and 7th.
“Sir, you can’t go further.”
Hiccock fumbled trying to find his FBI I.D. but gave up. “Agent I am … fuck that, who’s in charge?”
Special Agent Burrell, sir.”
“Get her on your radio. Tell her Quarterback is here.”
A moment later, the agent returned. “I am to send you on up, sir.”
“Bridge, tell him what we need.”
Hiccock made his way to the front line established by the police across from the theater. Brooke Burrell was there and she filled him in.
“Brooke, this is …. What’s your first name, Bridge?”
“That’s classified, sir,”
“No shit! Well then, Brooke this is Bridgestone. I want him to have full tactical control. He’s my man and the President’s.”
“Full what? With all due respect, Hiccock, I’ll have a HRT team inbound in seven minutes.”
“My wife Janice is in there. She and the others may not have that long and Bridge can do things your guys can’t.”
“Is he Superman?”
“No, but he holds a higher form of Presidential Immunity than I got for you. But you’ll have to forget that part. Besides, as the head of this joint operation,” Bill pulled out his F.B.I. card, “my deputy director status outranks you. And thank you for getting the info from that dirtbag.”
“That was you? Nice!” Bridgestone tipped his imaginary hat.
“Thanks. Okay, deputy director, what’s the plan?”
“Whatever he says it is.” Hiccock threw his thumb towards Bridgestone.
“Subway runs under here, so I need shaped charges and access to the adjacent basement. I’ll need tac radios and weapons, stun grenades and five knives.”
“Well, Rambo, I can do everything but the shaped charges, ‘cause they’re not here yet.”
Bridge glanced away and saw the N.Y.F.D. Rescue One truck. An officer was unloading an acetylene tank in preparation for cutting through some metal gates.
Bill followed his stare. “I’m on it,” Bill said, running over.
“Captain, I need…
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, I need an acetylene tank. Right this second.”
“You look familiar.”
“The tank!”
The lieutenant ran to the rig and pulled an extra bottle of the gas. It weighed about 40 pounds and stood about two-and-a-half feet high. When he handed the tank to Bill, he snapped his fingers.
“I got it. You were the guy at the train station in Westchester when that building blew up… that woman under the rubble…then you got famous, all over TV and the maga…”
“If I get out of this alive, drinks are on me and we can reminisce. Gotta go.”
Sardi’s restaurant was famous but its basement was a mess. Bill, Bridge, and five SWAT guys put the green metal cylinder up against the wall between the restaurant and the theater. They listened, waiting for a train to pass under the building.
As the subway rumble approached, they took cover behind the tables and rolling bars that littered the basement. Bridge shot the acetylene bottle from across the room; the bullet hit dead center and dented the metal bottle; he then drew a bead and hit it in the exact same weakened spot and it exploded at the height of the rumbling sound.
In the theater, it was just heard as a slightly larger subway rumble, which, for the sake of the performances, the theater was built to filter out. The terrorists didn’t suspect a thing.
The jagged hole in the wall opened to the back storage area behind the theater. There were many old props, sandbags, and lights stowed there. Bridge took the point and found the under-stage. He flipped down his night vision goggles. The trap doors and markings were all in phosphorescent paint and they glowed like neon.
He caught sight of a figure by the stairway holding a gun. The knife flew from his right hand and landed in the throat of the man, silencing him with a muffed gurgle. Bill saw the SWAT guys look at each other. This was not their way of engaging. They would be reviewed harshly for taking the life. But there would be no review for Bridgestone. He waved on the team and started up the stairs. They led to the wings of the theater’s back stage. Bridge motioned for two of the SWAT cops to take position up on the catwalks above the stage. They silently found the ladders and scaled them in seconds. When they reached their perches, they drew a bead on the audience area and used their night vision sniper scopes to identify good guys from bad. They also radioed back to Bridge that the doors were chained and locked and that charges were wired across the span of the audience on makeshift cables attached to the balcony boxes at either side of the stage.
Bill went up the stairs and joined Bridge. In a soft whisper, Bridge said, “Is that your wife?” He pulled his head away from the sniper scope on his rifle and allowed Bill to peer through.