Extraordinary Retribution (35 page)

He reached down and heaved up the missile launcher. He had two more missiles, both blast-fragmentation warheads, and turned toward the house. As if on cue, there was movement at the windows and front door of the residence, and he began to take fire from the few agents remaining—likely the staff assigned to protect the building proper.
The last line of defense.
Several were stationing themselves near the entrance and surrounding windows, and some on the second floor. Rounds clanked around him, one even striking his chest causing intense pain, but the body armor prevented major damage. The fire was coming from the second floor; that shooter had the best angle on him. He aimed the Predator upward and fired. The missile rushed forward, and an entire side of the house exploded. It was as if a propane tank had blown up inside the home. Wood paneling, drywall, and glass showered downward with smoke and flames. All firing from the house ceased, the agents below likely frozen in shock from what had happened.

Time for the awe.
He mounted the last missile, aimed the weapon toward the front door, and launched. The explosion blew the porch apart, white colonial support columns flying outward, the second floor partially collapsing above the entrance. Dust and small debris rained down even as far as his Humvee. There was no further gunfire from within.

He lowered himself into the truck, strapped himself into the seat, and gunned the vehicle forward. It rode up the blasted stairs and porch, where the devastated timbers of the house were no match for the weight and momentum of the truck. Anything in his way shattered and splintered. He crashed through the hole in the house, smashing into the lobby and living room, and brought the vehicle to a stop.

Quickly he exited, grabbing a portable grenade launcher, a shotgun, and a small submachine gun. Into the slots of a back holster he placed the shotgun and grenade launcher. He strapped several bars of Semtex plastic explosive around his waist, along with a timer and fuses. Opening his smartphone, he called up the schematics of the house he had obtained from CIA computers and verified the location of the bunker. It was directly below him, the walls hardened and reinforced with steel and concrete, a circular hub of an enclosed living space with its own power system, battery banks, water wells, air filtration systems, sewage disposal, security system, and medical supplies. An OCD paranoid’s fantasy panic room.

The easiest entry would be above the air ventilation system, the weakest point in the structure. From the walls that remained standing, the wraith measured off several intersecting lines. Wreckage and bodies were strewn across the floor of the entrance and rooms, making his efforts problematic, but he calibrated everything carefully with a phone app that combined GPS location and distance measurements. With chalk, he marked off the locations of the ventilation ducts based on the blueprints he had obtained. He then placed several small explosive charges around these points, attached fuses and timers, and removed himself to the other side of the Humvee for shielding. Using a remote control, he detonated the charges.

The explosions were loud but minimal. He returned to the area, saw that the charges had opened gaping holes in the concrete of the bunker below but had not come close to penetrating it. He then placed several large blocks of Semtex into the holes and repeated the procedure, this time driving the Humvee out of the house and back onto the driveway. Crouching on the side of the vehicle away from the house, he activated the explosives.

These explosions were enormous, and for a moment, he feared he had miscalculated the safe distance and might be injured by the blast. Large chunks of the house fell around him, but he remained unscathed. He leapt up and ran into the decimated living space, the center without roof or walls, having become an open observatory of the blank heavens. The smoke and dust were thick, but he saw what he needed to see: light radiating upward from the enormous hole in the middle of the floor. He had blasted through. Shouts sounded from below.

He ran back out and drove the Humvee up close to the hole and set the brake. Tying a rope around the grilling in the front of the car, he then approached the edge of the hole cautiously. He reached over his shoulder, unslung the grenade launcher, and pumped five into the bunker below. He stepped backward out of the possible blast radius and waited. Seconds later the explosions erupted, along with the sounds of shattering glass and other materials below. The alarmed shouts from before turned to screams.

He grabbed the submachine gun in one hand, the rope in the other, and pushed off from the edge of the blast hole, rapidly rappelling downward.

58

“F
red?
Jesus Christ,
we thought you were dead!” said Houston, relief evident in her wearied tone. Lopez motioned for her to plug the phone into the stolen car’s sophisticated dashboard system. She did so, the sounds from Simon’s end coming over an impressive speaker system, a microphone attached to each visor filtering background noise and conveying their words.

Simon spoke. “It’s been a hell of a time, Sara. There’s a lot to tell you.”

“Fred? This is Francisco Lopez. Please listen a moment—we don’t have much time. This is a matter of life and death for a prominent national figure.” They were near their turnoff, soon to be on the residential roads in a Maryland suburb. Luck had ridden with them. No construction detours, no police. He estimated ten minutes until they arrived at the home of the former vice president. “We’re in Maryland, chasing the wraith.”

“Wraith?” interrupted Simon.

“The killer of my brother and the other CIA agents. We’re coming from a farmhouse in Virginia where he killed several former high-ranking members of the CIA Renditions Branch, including James Farnell.”

“Farnell?
Dead
? What are you talking about? He’s the one who’s been trying to
kill me!
That’s why I couldn’t reach you. I’ve been on the run!”

Lopez looked over at Houston. “We didn’t know, Fred, but it makes sense. Listen to me, please! Farnell and his group are not the last target. The wraith is a former
rendered
suspect, a kid dragged into a net along with some dirty family members. He was tortured in Syria, had some kind of mental breakdown, and has plotted a vengeance like you’ve never seen before. We were also at the home of Agent Miller, who was tortured and killed. We found out there from his records that Farnell was using the Renditions Branch to do much more than illegally render Americans overseas. He was using it as his own assassination squad to silence anyone who threatened his program! Politicians, rights activists. There is a list of targets. You won’t believe it.”

“Dear God! No wonder this has become so insane. That’s why he wanted all of us dead. That crazy fuck!”

“Yes! We went to confront him, but the wraith arrived and slaughtered them all, leaving us alive.”

“Alive? Why?”

“I don’t know! But listen! His last target, we’ve sent the address to your email and as a text message. You need to get whatever assets you can there. Call the police, FBI. The damn National Guard!”

There was a silence on the other end. “Checking. Lopez, are you sure about this? The vice president? Sara, is this right?”

Houston had drifted off. “Fred, she’s wounded, hurt badly, lost a lot of blood. She insisted we go straight to stop this maniac, but she’s in trouble! Send medical help there, too! An ambulance. Please!”

Houston came back to consciousness and spoke weakly. “I’m still here, Fred. Just fading. Fading slowly.” She sounded drunk.

Lopez saw the turnoff ahead and slammed the brakes, squealing over to the right lane. The car scraped cacophonously against the left railing, and he swerved to gain control, sparks flying outside his window. He barely negotiated the ramp and centered the vehicle again. They were off the highway.

“Come again, Fred? I didn’t catch that. I’m playing Road Warrior out here right now!”

“I said, I’ll have everything out there that I can. I’ll mobilize every last damn favor in my account! But Sara’s right, Francisco. We can’t let anything happen to the vice president. All of this, it’s a mess that stinks to high heaven, but the only thing worse will be if this becomes a national and international incident. We’ve got to stop this attack! I’m closing. Get your ass over there, and I pray you can take over for Sara and play a trained operative. Good luck!”

The connection was broken.

Houston smiled and looked up at Lopez. “You’ll do fine. You kicked the shit out of that bastard in Alabama.” Her eyelids drooped. “Just never got you firearms training. Never enough time.”

“It’s OK, Sara. We will.”

“Promise?” she asked dreamily.

She’s dying
.
Her one wish? That I’ll shoot guns with her!
“Yes, Sara, I promise.”

Her breathing was soft. She did not respond.

59

H
e landed roughly in the bunker. Ruined remains of the ceiling and walls were scattered around his feet, mixed in with the blood and tattered flesh of four or five Secret Service agents who paid for their service to America with their lives. The former vice president was not among the bodies.

In addition to the plastic explosives, the barrage of grenades had wreaked havoc, killing men and blasting walls and furniture. A thick dust hung in the air, and small fires burned sporadically throughout the underground structure. Gripping his machine gun tightly, he released the rope and scanned the area. He did not have an exact count, but there were likely a few agents still alive. But no more than a few. They were undoubtedly extremely cautious now, having barely escaped the carnage, desperate to come out of this invasion alive. They would be primed to kill him if he gave them the chance. He wouldn’t.

The bunker was a circular design, rooms like pie wedges, separated by thin interior walls and connected near the center by doors placed around a smaller, concentric circle. He stood in the center of the bunker, the walls and doorways partially to completely destroyed. Rubble was piled in haphazard ways, the dusty fog irritating his lungs. Even among the disorder, it was clear that the surroundings were designed with high-quality materials, the space and decor intended as a pleasing accommodation and not simply as a survival location. The vice president hunkered down in style.

He scanned in a circular motion. At the twelve o’clock position, spanning an angle from eleven o’clock to one o’clock, was a doorless opening toward stairs and a room to the left housing storage lockers. The stairs were the accessibility point for the bunker—unless one used the method of blowing a hole through the ceiling and rappelling down. The area seemed empty.

Leading with his gun in a crouched position, he turned to a closed door at the two o’clock position. Continuing his spin, next was an empty corridor, dim and backlit by reddish emergency lighting, extending for perhaps thirty feet. At five o’clock and seven o’clock positions in the circular wall, there were doors, both closed. Finally, at nine o’clock, a corridor parallel with the other, running radially outward. It, too, was empty.

Inside one of these three rooms.
He moved toward the closed door at five o’clock. Crouching low and along the wall, he tested the door handle. It was unlocked, and he turned the handle enough to disengage the mechanism, pushing the door very slightly open. Nothing happened. With a blinding spin, he rotated to face the door, maintaining a crouch on one foot and bringing his right leg like a battering ram against the wood and kicking the door open. His weapon was trained on the interior.

The room was empty of personnel. To his right and left, furniture: couches, chairs, and a table. Along the circumference of the wall radially out from him, a series of four doors, all open and revealing very small bedrooms, like one might expect on a submarine.
Crew’s quarters
. The VP wasn’t here.

He turned next to the closed door at the two o’clock position. He again made the same approach and tried the handle. This time it was locked, and he thought he picked up faint noises of motion within the room. He place the machine gun on the floor and unslung his shotgun. He loaded a special breaching round into the chamber, then stood far enough back to minimize pellet ricochet. He aimed at the top hinge, turned his face away from the door, and pulled the trigger.

The blast opened a large hole in the door, obliterating the hinge. He received several pellet fragments across his Kevlar armor, and a few nicked his neck. He felt blood trickle and the acidic pain from the wound, but he knew it was minor. Without pausing, he kicked the lower hinge of the door forcefully. It was enough. The door crashed inward from the damaged side.

Immediately he spun to the side, out of the way of the entrance, just as someone within the room repeatedly discharged a firearm. He removed a fragmentation grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and reached around the doorframe. He flung the grenade into the room inches above the floor, like a stone over a pond. The grenade skipped several times, struck the far wall, and exploded. There was a cry from inside, and the wraith spun into the doorway with his shotgun.

He saw a man stumbling toward the center of the room, shrapnel embedded in his face and arms, his clothes already a bloody mess. Still the agent tried to raise his weapon, tried to see through the blood pouring over his eyes from his head wound. The wraith unloaded two rounds from his shotgun into the chest and face of the man, blowing him to pieces.

He quickly scanned the room. Its purpose was mechanical: air filtration, water heaters, and banks of batteries. It was the heart and lungs of the underground bunker, impressive in its design and robustness. No one else was there. The vice president was behind the last door.

He walked up to the twitching body in front of him and searched it. From the man’s pocket, he removed an earpiece and transmitter. Fitting them on, he activated the device and pressed the button to call out. Several seconds later, a voice came through.