First Strike (8 page)

The sound of the single shot echoed round the room. Plaster fell from the ceiling where the bullet impacted.

Chuck White was already moving. As soon as the President appeared, he hurled himself towards the door with a shout of warning. His cry was lost in the noise and confusion.

The members of the orchestra were taking up position around the room, aiming their peculiar, but obviously deadly, handguns. Secret Service agents were drawing their own guns, but they were caught unawares, and there were too few of them in the room.

Rich saw Steve—the agent with the metal briefcase chained to his wrist—in the corridor behind the President. With his free hand he was drawing his gun. The
first shot caught him in the shoulder and spun him round. A second slammed him to the ground.

The agent standing with the President reacted immediately. He grabbed the President's shoulders and dragged him back and down, pushing him out of the room. He turned so that his own body shielded his President. Chuck White was there too, dragging them both clear.

They almost made it.

Then two shots tore into the agent's back and he crashed to the floor. But the President was still moving. Chuck White dragged him out into the corridor. Two more agents appeared from the crowd of guests, shielding the President's escape and returning fire.

Rich felt himself grabbed from behind. He gave a yell of surprise, then realised it was Dex Halford. Dex gathered Jade with his other arm, and the three of them ran.

There was noise and confusion. Gunshots and shouts. A bullet kicked up close to Rich's foot as he reached the door.

Out into the corridor, the President, Chuck, and the other two agents were just in front of them. They were heading for the Oval Office on the other side of the wide corridor.

The Oval Office door was suddenly peppered with gunshots. Chuck dragged the President the other way.

A large man with a dark beard was charging down the corridor, firing as he came.

“He's got one of our guns,” one of the agents yelled as they all backed away. A moment later, he was knocked sideways as a bullet caught him in the leg and he fell heavily against the wall.

Halford dragged Rich and Jade to the floor. Rich landed beside Steve—the man's eyes were closed, his face slack. The metal briefcase was inches from Rich's face, but still cuffed to Steve's wrist.

The attacker ducked into a doorway as Chuck returned fire.

“Get the cell phone!” Chuck was yelling. “Get Steve's cell phone.”

“The phones aren't working,” Rich yelled back.

“Just get it!”

He could see the agent's cell phone poking out of his inside jacket pocket. It was big—a combined phone and Personal Digital Assistant like a Blackberry or an iPhone—and it caught in the lining as he tried to grab it.

Jade and Halford ran to join Chuck, the President and the other surviving agent. Rich was still tugging at the
phone. It was seriously bulky with a full QWERTY keyboard and LCD display. Finally, it came free and Rich was up and running after Jade and the others.

But the gunman was firing after them again. Another man from the orchestra had reached the doorway to the Roosevelt Room and was also firing.

“Get the President!” someone was shouting. “We need the President. And the codes!”

Jade disappeared round the corner of the corridor. She turned, staring back at Rich.

“Go!” he yelled.

A bullet tore into the wall close to his head. He dived sideways through the nearest doorway—a waiting room with sofa and armchairs. He slipped, fell, rolled across the floor and managed to crawl behind a sofa.

A split second later, the man with the dark beard appeared in the doorway. He glanced round the apparently empty room. “I know you're in here,” he growled. “And there's no other way out.”

The gunman saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and fired instinctively at the shape emerging from behind the sofa. His aim was deadly accurate.

Jefferson Kent swept plates and cutlery from the side table. One of the gunmen dragged Steve's body into the room and dumped him in a chair beside the table. The metal briefcase, still attached to Steve's wrist, was placed carefully on the table. “Wish we'd waited till he woke up,” the gunman grumbled.

“Hey,” another told him, “you're lucky he's not dead. He took a couple of the trank darts meant for the President. He'll be out for quite a while.”

“We have the two Chinese delegates and some other impressive VIPs. Now we just need the man himself,” said Kent.

“Tom's on it.”

Kent turned to Kate Hunter, standing beside him. “I didn't see you shoot anyone.”

“I thought the idea was to take hostages, not kill people,” she told him.

“I guess it was. Let's get these hostages split up a bit. Lorraine will have us sealed in nice as pie, and it won't be long before the predictable General Wilson sends in the cavalry.”

“You won't get away with this,” shouted a Secret Service agent being held at gunpoint.

“Shut him up,” said Kent, without turning.

The nearest gunman thumped the man viciously in the stomach. He doubled over, retching.

“Next time, it will be a bullet,” Kent told him.

One of the gunmen handed Kent a handgun taken from a dead agent. Kent weighed it in his hand for a moment. Then he tossed away his own gun—a strange thing made from the pieces of a trumpet. It landed in a large bowl of fruit punch, splashing viscous liquid across the table.

“She doesn't get one,” said Kent, waving his new handgun at Kate Hunter. “Not sure I trust you yet, new girl. You got to prove yourself.”

“Let me have a gun, and I will.”

Kent smiled. His hoarse whispering voice was the only sound in the room. “That's what worries me. Maybe that kid did recognise you. Maybe we'll keep an eye on you for a while, new girl.” He turned away. “Now where the hell is the President?”

Halford grabbed Jade as she tried to run back.

“But—Rich!”

“Leave him. He'll have to look after himself.”

Halford pulled Jade after him—following the President, Chuck and the other agent. Chuck led them
through a conference room and out into an adjoining office. A Secret Service agent lay dead on the floor. His holster was empty.

“Where are we going?” the President demanded. “Who are these people? We have to make a stand.”

“Too dangerous, Mr President,” Chuck told him. “Believe me, these people mean business. We can't get to the Oval Office, so we're taking you to the Secure Area by the Chief of Staff's office. Then we can sit this out.”

“Sit it out?” the President echoed in disbelief. “We need to take the fight to the enemy, Agent White. That's your job.”

“My job is to keep you safe at all costs, Mr President. We can discuss what else is possible once we have reached the Secure Area.”

The President nodded. “Very well.”

“Dex—you and Jade stick with the President. I'll take the lead; Agent Harris will guard the rear. Any questions?”

As soon as he threw the cushion, Rich was up and running.

He had grabbed the cushion off the sofa as he crawled behind it. He hurled it along the back of the sofa, so it appeared at the far end. As Rich had hoped, the gunman
turned and fired at the sudden movement.

Rich hurled himself forward from the other end of the sofa. He was across the small room before the gunman could turn. His shoulder collided with the man's arm, making his second shot go wide. A mirror on the wall exploded, as the gunman overbalanced and fell. Rich kicked out as hard as he could. He felt his foot connect with the man's wrist. The gun skidded away.

But Rich had no time to grab it. He wasn't sure he'd know what to do with it anyway—even if he could bring himself to shoot someone. He leaped over the fallen gunman and slammed the door closed behind him. There was no key or bolt, but at least the gunman couldn't see which way he went. In fact, he darted into a room on the opposite side of the corridor. Leaving the door open, he pressed himself back against the wall, out of sight.

Moments later, Rich heard the door opposite open. He guessed the gunman was trying to work out where Rich had gone, and whether it was worth trying to find him. After a few seconds hesitation, he heard heavy footsteps and a shadow passed across the doorway. Rich waited a full minute, then peered cautiously out into the corridor. It was empty.

He had no idea where Jade and the others were headed.
The only place that Rich could think of where he'd get help was the Situation Room in the basement. There had been agents there—surveillance screens too. They must have seen everything and would be preparing to counter attack. That had to be where Chuck White was taking the President.

Rich headed quickly and quietly in the direction he guessed—and hoped—would take him back to the stairs down to the basement.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear gunfire. He passed the body of a Secret Service woman lying face down. Her gun was gone. He crept past open doorways, alert and scared. Finally, he found the stairs where he and Jade and the others had come up from the basement. It seemed like days since he had been here, not just a couple of hours.

The basement was quiet and seemed deserted as he walked cautiously down the stairs. At the bottom, the door to the Secret Service offices was standing open. It had been ripped apart by gunfire. Rich glanced inside, then quickly looked away. There was no help to be had there.

Along the corridor, Rich moved past another dead body—a woman lying face down close to the side of the
stairs. The back of her blouse was stained red. Rich swallowed and moved on quickly. He turned the corner to the Situation Room. At last, Rich could hear voices. There was someone still alive. He could practically taste the relief in his dry mouth.

Then he caught a glimpse of red hair. He recognised the profile of one of the women from the orchestra. She was standing in the doorway of the Situation Room, talking to a man. Beyond them, Rich could see the flat-screen monitors showing views of the outside of the White House and several corridors and rooms inside the building. On one screen, guests from the reception party were being led into a room, hands on their heads, by two gunmen.

There were several bodies, slumped in chairs and lying across the table.

Rich backed slowly away.

“Tell Kent we've initiated a complete lock-down,” the woman was saying. “This place is so secure it makes Fort Knox look like open house on a cattle ranch. All the entrances, exits, windows and doors are sealed and they can only be unlocked from here. No one's coming in, and no one's getting out. Not even the President of the United States of America.”

They both laughed.

Rich didn't think it was at all funny. He was trapped in the West Wing of the White House with a group of homicidal gunmen, alone and with nowhere to hide.

Rich watched from the corridor as the attackers in the Situation Room finished their conversation. The man strode from the room—on his way to report to Kent, as the woman had asked.

Rich was backing away, but now he had to hurry if he was going to avoid being seen. He turned and ran, desperately trying to keep quiet while moving as fast as he could.

He made it to the turn in the corridor; but behind him Rich could hear the man's heavy footsteps. The next section of corridor was longer. Could he get into one of the offices without making any noise? Would he be quick enough?

Ahead of him, Rich caught another glimpse of the
carnage in the Secret Service offices. No way was he hiding in there…

He glanced at the body of the woman. She was face down, one hand reaching out. Her legs were bent as if she had been running. But that couldn't be right, because she must have had her back to the side of the staircase. There was nowhere she could have been running
from
.

Then a shadow appeared at the top of the stairway, and Rich realised that someone was coming down. He was trapped between the man following him down the corridor, and the person coming down the stairs—killers in dinner suits with guns looted from dead agents.

His only chance was to get back down the stairs and into the Secret Service office after all. Except that now the approaching gunman would see Rich framed in the doorway as he went in. He'd be trapped in there.

Then Rich remembered the former barber's shop. But he could never get the door open and closed again in time. There was something else though—Chuck had joked about a cupboard under the stairs…

There was no obvious door, and Rich pressed his hands against the wooden panelling at the side of the staircase. The sound of the man descending the stairs got louder
every second. The footsteps approaching along the corridor hesitated.

“That you, Kent?”

“You'd better hope so, Tom,” the man on the stairs called back.

Rich pushed again at the panelling, harder this time.

And felt it give.

Just a little. Just enough for him to be sure—to
know
—why the woman was facing away, why she looked like she'd been running when she was shot. The woman had been running from the cupboard behind the door, which must have closed behind her. Then someone in the corridor had shot her from in front.

The footsteps started again. Rich scrabbled desperately at the panelling—pushing, prodding, probing, feeling for any way in.

A shadow fell across the bottom of the stairs. The man started to turn.

Suddenly Rich was falling through the panel. He had no idea how he'd managed it, but the relief that he was through the door—and that the opening panel made no sound as it opened or as he pushed it gently closed behind him—almost overwhelmed him.

The cupboard under the stairs was bigger than he had
imagined. There were several steps down, and the room continued under the stairway and round a corner, making an L-shaped room.

Rich just stood and stared. “Oh my God,” he breathed.

The sound of gunfire had subsided. There were occasional isolated shots, but they were increasingly rare. Chuck led the way along narrow corridors and small offices as he took a convoluted back route to the Chief of Staff's office on the opposite side of the building from the Oval Office.

“Wouldn't the Situation Room be a better option?” Halford asked.

“Compromised,” Chuck told him. “If there was anyone friendly down there, they'd have sorted this out by now. Or at least cleared the airwaves.” He tapped his earpiece. “Still no signal. And the hostage takers have initiated a lock-down.”

“What's that mean?” Jade whispered.

“It means we're trapped in here,” the President told her. “Doors are all sealed. Windows are locked. The outer doors are all reinforced with armour plate, and all the glass is blast-proof.” He gave a grim smile. “There's no place like home.”

“Right,” said Chuck, “we're almost there. Just got to
get across the main corridor, then we'll be safe. I know it goes against the grain, Mr President, but then we can sit this out and wait for rescue.”

The President nodded. “Very well. But you're right—it sticks in the gut.”

“There is another consideration, sir,” Chuck added. “They have the Football. If they get you as well…”

“Then they get the authorisation for the launch codes. As you know, things are never quite as simple as they appear,” said the President, “but I do take your point, Agent White.”

Chuck signalled for them all to wait as he checked the corridor. He pointed to the door they were aiming for—on the other side of the corridor and a little way further along.

“Right—go!” he hissed, taking up position in the corridor, gun at the ready. Agent Harris was facing the other way along the corridor, also with his gun poised.

Jade reached the door first. She shoved it open and hurried inside. The sound of a gunshot made her turn in fear and surprise.

Agent Harris was falling to the floor, clutching his chest. Quick as lightning, Halford scooped up the agent's fallen gun and returned fire. Chuck grabbed the President
and shoved him after Jade, before diving through the door.

“Come on, Halford!” Chuck yelled.

But Halford slammed the door shut behind them. “I'll hold them off,” he yelled above the sound of more gunfire, muffled by the heavy door.

Then the gunfire stopped.

With the President's help, Chuck dragged a heavy desk across the room and rammed it up against the door. “We only need a minute,” he said.

“But what about Dex?”

Chuck looked pale and drained. “We've lost a lot of good people today. Good friends. I'm sorry.” He squeezed Jade's shoulder. Then abruptly he turned away. “Let's make sure it was worth the sacrifice. Mr President, I need your personal identity code.”

“I think you probably know what it is anyway,” said the President. He followed Chuck over to another door. There was a keypad beside it.

Chuck keyed in a number, and the door opened, revealing a small office the other side. The President keyed in his personal number, and another door opened. A hidden door, perfectly concealed in the wooden panelling of the wall.

“The Secure Area,” Chuck told Jade. “It'll be cosy, but I think we'll manage.”

There was a hammering sound from outside. Then a burst of gunfire. The heavy desk shifted back from the outer door by several centimetres.

Jade and the President didn't need any further encouragement. They hurried through the concealed door, and Chuck swung it shut behind them. It clicked back into place, and a light came on.

“I'm hoping they'll think we went through to the outer office,” said Chuck. “There's no way they know about this place.”

“We hope,” the President added.

Jade said nothing. She was looking around the small room. It might have been a comfortable sitting room in a tiny city apartment. A bench-sofa ran round two of the walls. There was an upright chair in front of a desk, equipped with a telephone and a laptop computer. A photograph of the White House hung on one of the panelled wood walls.

Jade sat down on the sofa and slipped off her shoes. She rubbed her aching feet. “I'm never wearing heels again,” she muttered.

Chuck immediately went to the telephone and lifted
the handset. “Dead as a doornail. Just like the comms and the cell phones.”

“Blocked from the Situation Room?” the President asked.

“Or jammed from outside. I think we must assume, Mr President, that we are staying here for the duration. May I suggest you activate the Dog Whistle?”

The President nodded solemnly and adjusted his wrist watch.

Jade tried to push all thoughts of what might have happened to Rich and Dex out of her mind. “So, we just have to sit here? And what's a dog whistle? I mean, I know what a dog whistle is, but I'm guessing that's not what you're talking about. Right?”

Chuck nodded. “Right. The President's watch is fitted with an ultra-high frequency transmitter. It should be far enough up the scale to avoid being jammed. It's like a distress call, a mayday signal and locator so the special forces can find us. We call it the Dog Whistle.”

“The problem with dog whistles,” Jade told him, “is that it's not only dogs that can hear them.”