Abuse of Power (43 page)

He turned from her, returning his gaze to the road below, using a pair of field glasses to look toward the north side of the bridge now, waiting for his signal that the time was near. That the moment was upon them.

And then he saw it, little more than a crawling bug in the distance.

The tanker truck was rolling onto the bridge.

*   *   *

Jack’s gut was on fire.

He needed to get to Sara. If they were all going to die, he wanted to die
with
her.

Emergency personnel were swarming onto the bridge behind them—a lot of sound and fury but not much else at this point. What
could
they do?

Jack turned to Forsyth. “We’ve gotta get up there.”

“And do what? We go rushing up there, he’ll pull the trigger and you can kiss this bridge and everything on it good-bye.”

“He’s gonna pull that trigger anyway,” Jack told him. “And if that tanker truck I told you about is anywhere in the vicinity, it’ll be a lot more than this bridge that goes up. If it ignites, the smoke and ash will carry lethal doses of radiation across Northern California.”

“The bridge authority is moving to close it down as we speak. As soon as the southbound traffic has cleared, it’ll be deserted.”

“Great. That’s a terrific plan. We’ve still got a madman up there with a nuke.”

“We don’t
know
that it’s a PTND,” Forsyth said.

Jack shook his head ruefully. A Portable Tactical Nuclear Device. The FBI made everything seem so sterile—manageable because it had a classification.

“Look, I’m sorry about before,” Forsyth said, “and I understand you’re upset about the girl. But we’ve got to wait for the negotiating team. If we can try to reason with the guy—”

“
Reason
with him!” Jack shouted. “Do you know who this man is? The only way to reason with him is to put a bullet in his head.”

“If it comes to that we will. We’ve got a chopper headed this way with a sniper on board.”

They’re doing it by the book,
Jack thought.
That’s all these people know—and one day it would be their downfall.

Probably today, in fact.

But Jack wasn’t part of their team and he’d make his own rules, as he’d done since this damn thing started.

What was it the Reb always said about Israeli negotiating tactics?
“Every Jew a twenty-two—”

Jack gestured to Forsyth. “Give me your gun.”

“What?”

Jack moved toward him.
“Give me your damn gun!”

“Back off, Hatfield, that’s not gonna—”

Jack lunged, thrusting his hand inside Forsyth’s jacket and ripping the Glock from his holster. Forsyth grabbed him but Jack wrenched free with a furious tug and ran, heading across three lanes of highway toward the pedestrian walkway.

“Stop him!” Forsyth shouted as he took off after him, several of the others joining in the chase.

“Shoot?” someone called back.

“Negative!” Forsyth said with something that sounded like regret. “Just freakin’
stop
him!” He started running, joined by four other agents.

Jack leaped over the rail and hit the sidewalk, running for all he was worth, heading for the right flank of the tower. He heard shouts behind him but ignored them as he covered the last several yards to the base of the spire. Few people knew that there was a door built into the design, but Jack was one of those few and he reached for the handle, finding it locked.

His pursuers were closing in fast.

Stepping back, he raised the Glock and fired, shattering the latch and nearly clipping himself with the ricochet. He wrenched the door open and went inside.

The interior of the tower reminded Jack of an old World War II submarine. A short, narrow corridor led to a small, rickety elevator with steel-mesh sides, looking like something you’d find in a mine shaft.

Voices and footsteps were closing in from behind. Jack quickly shut himself inside the elevator as Forsyth reached the doorway. Jack looked back, saw a face full of desperation and fury.

“Hatfield! You’re gonna
blow
this!”

Maybe—but he hadn’t so far.

He jammed the elevator into motion and the car began to rise, rattling its way toward the top of the tower.

No, Jack and his team had carried the ball farther than he could have hoped, could ever have imagined. God—his God, a just God—wouldn’t let him fail. Not now.

Jack refused to think about it. All he
could
think about was getting to Sara.

The elevator came to a stop at the lower part of the tower beam. Jack threw the door open and stepped into a small vestibule, then over to a worn steel ladder that led up through a narrow hatch.

Tucking the Glock in his waistband, he grabbed hold of a rung and started up, not quite sure what he’d do once he reached the top. He had no plan here. Was running purely on blind instinct, but if he didn’t do
something,
he knew that this bridge—and Sara—were doomed.

He stopped as he reached the hatch door. Sucking in a breath, he pushed a hand against it and lifted it only a crack, peering out at the catwalk that stretched across the bridge.

It was several feet long and slightly over three feet wide, guarded by a rail on either side. Sara and Haddad stood at the far end, against a rail, Sara’s hands bound in front of her. Haddad had her by the arm and was looking down toward the road with a pair of field glasses, probably waiting for the tanker to arrive. And if it was already on the bridge, Jack knew he had only minutes to spare before Haddad set off the bomb that was strapped to Sara’s back.

Except for the wind, it was so quiet up here it felt surreal.

Jack knew he might be able to use the Glock and take Haddad down from this distance but decided against it. He was no sharpshooter, like the guy who took the kid down near the podium. Besides, the bastard had Sara as a shield. And if he happened to hit the backpack, God knows what would happen to the bomb.

He couldn’t take those risks, any of them.

He had to assume that Haddad’s mind would be in a thousand different places right now, concentrating on the tanker, thinking about his fate. So Jack made a choice. The tower was lit but, hoping there was enough darkness for cover, he carefully raised the hatch door and pulled himself through.

He tried not to look at the view below, at the moonlit waters of the bay, the lights of the city—they were a haunting, dizzying distraction. Instead, he took the Glock from his waistband and concentrated on his target, slowly inching down a short set of stairs. He stepped onto the catwalk and moved toward Haddad and Sara.

Haddad was looking toward the north, through his field glasses, and it was Sara who saw him first. Her eyes widened slightly as she realized who it was. She seemed to be warning him off with her gaze but he shook his head once, slowly, and kept creeping forward, trying to close the gap between them.

Then suddenly Haddad lowered the binoculars and turned, following Sara’s gaze and looking at Jack without surprise.

“Please stop where you are,” he said with the calmness of a man who had accepted his fate. Dropping the field glasses against his chest, he reached into his pocket and held up a small cell phone, his thumb hovering over the keypad.

A remote detonator.

“Another step and I’ll hit speed dial. I’m sure you can imagine what will happen then.”

Eerily, the winds died just then. Jack stopped where he was and looked past Haddad.

“Are you all right, Sara?”

“My hands are tied and I have a nuke strapped to my back. Other than that—”

“I should never have left you on that island,” he said mournfully.

Smart girl, letting him know she was tied up. The way she was standing, he couldn’t be sure.

Haddad frowned, studying Jack carefully. “You must be the man Swain told me about. The Jew. It’s very resourceful of you to show up here. I was expecting the FBI.”

“They’re waiting on the negotiators. They have this crazy idea that they can reason with you.”

Haddad smiled, gesturing to the Glock. “I see you don’t share that belief.”

“Not for a minute,” Jack said.

“Still, I’d advise you to put the weapon down or I’ll be forced to make my call prematurely.”

“Or I could just shoot you.”

Haddad’s smile widened. “You’d have to be a very precise shot to keep me from pressing this key.”

“Worth a try,” Jack said, starting to raise it.

Haddad’s smile vanished and he raised his arm menacingly.

“Moments are like a lifetime as death nears. You still have a little time to spend with each other as long as you put the weapon down and kick it to me.”

Jack hesitated, looked at that long, cruel thumb poised over the keypad, then slowly crouched. He laid the Glock on the catwalk floor and kicked it toward Haddad.

“Thank you,” Haddad said.

At least he was a polite lunatic.

Jack shot a glance at Sara and noticed at once that she had her game face on. She obviously had a plan of some kind, something that had occurred to her while he and Haddad were talking.

That meant, keep Haddad talking.

“So what’s the plan?” Jack asked. “You do realize they’re closing the bridge. So if you’re waiting on that tanker—”

“It’s already here, and right on schedule,” Haddad said. “They won’t turn any cars
back
. They’ll have to wait until they’ve cleared the bridge before they can seal it off.”

“Oh?” Jack said, looking over the rail toward the road below. “Because it looks to me like they’re already escorting the tanker back the way it came.”

Haddad frowned and swiveled his head, looking at the road. It took him a moment to realize his mistake, but by then it was too late. Sara made her move, swinging her bound hands at his face, knocking him sideways.

He fumbled the cell phone and it landed at his feet. But Jack was already in motion, leaping across the catwalk, grabbing for it. He felt it brush his fingers as his momentum knocked it spinning toward the rail.

Haddad lunged for it, but Sara threw her hands over his head and, with a grunt, yanked him toward her using her bonds as a garrote. His expression ferocious, Haddad snapped his head back, butting her face. Sara stumbled back, dazed, and he slipped from her grasp. He reached for the cell phone again but Jack was on his feet. He kicked it, sent it spinning to the opposite side of the catwalk. Haddad raced forward as it clattered against the steps.

Roaring, Haddad set out after it. Jack looked frantically for the Glock, couldn’t see it in the dark, and lunged after Haddad. He hit shoulder first. Jack had forgotten about his wound; the impact was a forceful reminder as his nerve endings exploded, sending pain down his arm and torso.

Jack couldn’t let that stop him. He dug in and continued to press the man forward, slamming Haddad into the rail. But Haddad was not an amateur. He turned as he went back, facing Jack, and brought a knee into his groin. Jack stumbled backward toward the opposite rail. The tower was slick with mist and he lost his footing. Sara screamed as Jack fell against the rail, hitting his head. Her cry kept him from losing consciousness.

Sara needed him.

But his body had had enough. It didn’t want to move.

Now Haddad was on his feet and moving toward him with feral eyes. Before he could reach Jack, Sara blindsided him, shoving him to the floor. The backpack and her bonds made it difficult for her to move and Haddad threw her off effortlessly. Then he was on his feet again, kicking her mercilessly in the head and stomach.

“Jack…”

Sara needs me.

Marshaling every scrap of his strength, Jack used the rail to pull himself up and he ran at Haddad.

Blinded by fury, by pain, Jack hit the man like a linebacker. They both went down. Climbing to his knees, Jack punched down, blow after blow, driving the man’s head against the metal of the bridge. Haddad’s hands came up defensively but Jack yelled and swatted them aside, continuing to slam his fists at that evil face, fueled by hatred for everything the man had done, everything he stood for. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Jack thought only about Sara and Copeland and Drabinsky and Jamal, thought about the havoc people like this brought to the world, used his fists to turn thought into action.

And then Haddad stopped struggling, his breath coming in bloody gurgles, his face raw and torn. But if he somehow expected Jack to be merciful, he’d picked the wrong night. Without a second thought, Jack grabbed hold of the man’s shirt and dragged him back against the rail, flopped him against it, stared at the pulped flesh and bloody wisp of a beard.

“Enjoy the virgins, asshole.”

Jack slammed his open hands hard against Haddad’s chest, the terrorist’s battered eyelids going wide with horror as he sailed over the side of the tower to the pavement five hundred feet below, his terrified screams rising into the night sky.

The fall took just three seconds. It ended with ugly abruptness.

A moment later, the wind kicked up again.

Once more, the city could breathe.

Jack staggered, dropping to one knee, and grabbed the rail for support. He heard Sara moan, and crawled over to her. Using what little energy he had left, he ripped the bonds from her wrists and unstrapped the backpack, laid it aside. He noted the location of the cell phone.

He’d get it later. Or someone would.

Right now, all he wanted to do was pull Sara into his arms and hold her as if he’d never let her go.

41

In the months that followed, the world did not miraculously change.

The good guys had won, but that didn’t necessarily mean the bad guys would be punished. Not in the way that Jack would have liked, with handcuffs and trials and lifetime-without-parole.

Instead, the rich and powerful managed to prevail, as they often do.

Despite Jack’s statements to the FBI and Homeland Security and the twenty other law enforcement agencies that seemed to be involved in the investigation, there was no hard proof to put Lawrence Soren and his cronies behind bars. And no real proof that MI6 or the British Home Office had ever been involved.