Back Blast (17 page)

Babbitt’s wife screamed in the house, her cry loud enough to be heard easily here forty yards away, and certainly loud enough to alert the security officers.

Fuck,
Gentry thought, and then he climbed the fence, careful to avoid using his injured right arm for weight-bearing duty.

Z
ack Hightower took his eye out of the scope the instant he saw his target drop. He knew Babbitt wouldn’t be getting back up after taking a 168 grain, .308 caliber high performance boat tail round to his center mass, so Zack began his exfiltration process immediately after confirmation of his kill.

He had no need to scan around the property or to look for more targets. This wasn’t combat. This was a sanctioned termination.

His target was down, and it was time to go.

He unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of his Remington Defense CSR concealable sniper rifle, then he unscrewed the carbon fiber–wrapped barrel from the receiver and slipped it into the oversize gym bag next to him. He collapsed the stock against the receiver, placed the gun and the silencer in the bag and zipped it up, and then moved in a low run back to the staircase. Thirty seconds later he exited the fire escape door of the three-story office building, and he stepped out onto a dark street in an industrial park that had long since emptied out for the night.

Zack was proud of his shot, though he acknowledged to himself 435 yards into a man-sized target was nothing for a man of his skill set to write home about, really. Still, he’d removed a bad actor off the stage, an enemy of U.S. intelligence and a threat to his brothers and sisters in the Agency.

He knew this to be true because his leaders told him it was true. He did not question; he did not second-guess. He did not hesitate.

That
was not Zack Hightower’s way.

As he began walking to the north he was surprised to hear gunfire behind him. But not surprised enough to go back and take a look. He assumed Babbitt’s men had discovered the body, they’d freaked out, and then they’d found something or someone in the neighborhood to shoot at.

Good,
thought Zack. Nothing like a little fog of war back at the scene to help him get clear of the area.

—

C
ourt knew he’d been spotted running across the first fairway of the golf course because he’d been shot at already; a short burst from an MP5 had blown lily pads out of a water hazard to his left, and a longer burst kicked up fescue that ran alongside a bunker on his right. He continued running off the turf and up into the natural area that divided the first green from the eighteenth green.

His short-term goal was putting distance between himself and the shooters, because he knew the shortcomings of their weapons. The MP5 was an excellent submachine gun at submachine gun range. Certainly at targets under fifty yards it was first rate, and with careful, judicious marksmanship it was accurate enough at a distance more than four times that. But the Townsend men’s weapons had no advanced sights, and they were firing the HKs in automatic bursts while pursuing their target, and this reduced their accuracy and enhanced Court’s chances for survival, as long as he could keep those chattering guns far back behind him.

He caught a brief respite from the incoming fire when he entered the trees and the darkness there, but he didn’t slow, because he looked back over his shoulder and saw the headlights of the Lincoln Navigator bouncing onto the golf course just to the north of Babbitt’s home. The SUV charged onto the first fairway at high speed, just one hundred yards from Court’s position.

Court’s old Ford Escort was parked in a lot two miles to the north, but he turned to the south, because he knew there was no way he’d make it to safety before the SUV caught up with him. No, his only hope now was to run, to evade the Navigator by moving into and out of the natural obstacles here in the dark golf course, and to find his way back to his car at some point much later in the evening.

Court decided he’d do his best to stay in the dark and get out of the golf course onto one of the main streets, to try and steal a car or find some sort of in extremis hide site.

He rounded a large pond, his tactical brain still acutely aware of the location of the black Lincoln Navigator, which now barreled through the
tree line and spun onto the eighteenth fairway, behind him on his right. Court dropped to his knees below the lip of a rise, hoping the vehicle would pass him by and continue to the south. But just as he lay on his stomach, a burst of fire came from the center of the first fairway on his left, and it sent supersonic rounds zinging over his head.

The Navigator must have dropped off at least one man there before racing ahead.

Court had Babbitt’s street and at least one shooter to his left, a vehicle with an unknown number of shooters twenty-five yards to his right and passing to the south, and the one place Court could not go was back to the north, because his car was parked there and he could not lead his opposition in that direction.

Court drew his pistol, leapt to his feet, and ran to his right.

The Navigator passed him on the fairway. Court charged behind it as it roared by, hoping like hell they didn’t see him running out of the rough in his dark clothing. He sprinted deeper into the golf course, racing for the tree line that separated the next fairway from this one, but he heard the SUV on his left slam on its brakes, tearing up the pristine wet turf as it slid to a stop.

He’d been spotted.

Court ran on, across a wide green, towards a thicker grove of pines, and just when he thought he’d make it to the trees without being shot at, the barking fire of two MP5s behind told him men had dismounted from the Lincoln and were well aware of his location.

As he entered the trees, thousands of needles exploded off branches. Bullets ripped through the thick grove, the pounding sound of metal striking wood and the smell of fresh pine prevalent in the cool night air.

A round whined by within a foot of Court’s right ear and he dove forward and rolled at speed down a hill out of the copse of pines, end over end, tumbling down until he landed flat on his face in a sand trap, moist and sticky with nighttime dew.

Z
ack Hightower could no longer hear the gunfire. He sat behind the wheel of his F-150 pickup, heading north through Bethesda, listening to an overnight a.m. talk radio station. A man had called in to tell the host about his recent alien abduction, and Zack was already absorbed in the story.

His cell phone rang and he snatched it out of the center console and held it to his ear while he drove.

“Yeah?”

Mayes said, “You need to get out of there!”

Hightower made a face at the phone. “What are you talking about? I’m clear.”

“Traffic on the Townsend inter-team radios claims they are converging on a fleeing subject through the golf course.”

“It’s not me, boss. I’m golden.”

Mayes was confused. “I’ll call you back.”

“Roger that,” Zack said, and he hung up the phone and turned up the radio.

—

D
enny Carmichael had decided to spend another night in his office. He’d already changed into his nightclothes, but he’d remained at his desk, waiting to hear confirmation of Babbitt’s death. He had Mayes listening in on the Townsend frequency in his office, and he had confirmed the kill just two minutes earlier.

Carmichael turned off his computer and stood up from his desk now, getting ready to lie down on the couch and turn off the lights, but his phone rang again, surprising him. He snatched it with irritation. “What is it?”

Mayes spoke in his clipped tone. “Townsend is chasing a man who was on the property at the time of Babbitt’s shooting.” He paused an instant. “I spoke with Hightower. He’s clear.”

Carmichael understood almost instantly. “Gentry.”

“Who else could it be? I’ll deploy JSOC.”

“Do it. The local police will get there first, but if Gentry squirts out of the police cordon maybe they can get a shot at him.”

Carmichael hung up and immediately picked his secure mobile off his desk. He sent a brief text to Kaz.

Violator spotted in Chevy Chase. Under pursuit by private security. Vector to police traffic in area.

It took less than a minute for the text reply.

Understood.

—

I
n Arlington, Virginia, three Washington, D.C., police interceptors raced out of a parking lot and headed north, taking similar but separate routes. At this time of the evening it would take them less than twenty minutes to arrive at the destination, not that they knew exactly where they were going at this point. They would listen to police bands during the ride up, however, so they hoped to have a good idea of the location of their quarry by the time they got close.

—

C
ourt Gentry crawled back up to his feet in the bunker alongside the twelfth green, spit out a mouthful of sand, and looked around. He saw the far edge of the golf course and a low wall there, and beyond that the streetlights of a busy intersection. There were several closed businesses up and down the street, but on the corner he saw the bright lights of two that appeared to be open.

He told himself he had to make it to the street to have any chance of getting away from his pursuers.

He raised his little pistol and fired two rounds into the air as he ran for the wall and the street, hoping any dismounts behind him and in close pursuit would hear the gunfire and worry they were being targeted. It was a weak move, a Hail Mary that, at best, could buy him five seconds as the
attackers dropped to the ground or ducked behind a tree, but until he got to the cover of the buildings on the other side of the street ahead he saw no other option.

He made it across the last fairway without getting shot at again, though he heard shouts far behind him. He ran onto the ninth green, close to the clubhouse, and sprinted down a gentle hill towards the intersection.

Another cycle of automatic fire erupted from back at the pine trees, bullets impacted the tall windows of the clubhouse restaurant a dozen yards from Court, and the glass of the massive wall of windows cracked and shattered.

He thought about seeking cover inside the dark building, but he knew the men behind would see him enter, and although he could probably hold them back a minute or two with his pistol, he certainly couldn’t wait them out, because the police would just surround the building and fill it with tear gas and tactical officers.

Court ran on for the wall at the edge of the country club. When he arrived at the wall, he climbed over and dropped down on the other side.

He still wore his gaiter high on his face and his cap low, so he imagined he must have been an intimidating sight for the cars passing him on Wisconsin Avenue, even though he’d stowed his handgun before vaulting the wall. Looking to the left, he thought he might be able to find a vehicle moving slow enough towards the intersection on his right so he could stop them at gunpoint, but all the traffic he saw moving through the intersection was heading east to west at speed, and he was in the northbound lane.

Shouts behind him at the wall of the golf course told him the dismounted Townsend men were close, but he’d lost the Navigator somewhere back on the other side of the copse of pines.

He raced across Wisconsin Avenue, towards the lights of the open businesses, a McDonald’s and a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Bursting armed into an occupied commercial space was not his first choice, but to break into a closed building involved slowing to pick a lock, or stopping to find something to smash a window with, and considering the armed security men so close on his heels he knew he didn’t have the time he needed for either.

As he entered the parking lot of the McDonald’s he noticed a dark alley behind the restaurant, and beyond the alley was an eight-foot-high chain-link fence with a thick hedge on the other side. Court’s spirits rose quickly
when he saw this; he felt sure he could enter the restaurant to misdirect the men chasing him and then immediately exit at the rear of the restaurant. Once he did this he could climb the fence, push through the foliage, and find himself in a new neighborhood, where he had a chance to get away.

For the first time he heard the sound of approaching sirens. They weren’t right on him, but they were close enough to where he knew this entire section of the city would be locked down tight within minutes.

Just before he put his hand on the door of the McDonald’s he looked back into the intersection behind him. The black Navigator was there, approaching in his direction and slowing next to two armed Townsend men in the middle of the street, who kept running towards him as they pointed his way.

So much for ordering a chocolate shake and waiting this out,
Court thought to himself. He heaved the door open and ran inside.

C
ourt drew the Ruger from his front pocket as he entered the restaurant. There were only a half dozen or so tables occupied, and everyone looked up as the man clad head to toe in black raised a small pistol over his head.

He shouted in his most commanding voice. “Everybody out!” and for additional emphasis he fired one round into the ceiling.

Screams and squeals erupted from both the dining room and the three employees behind the counter. The customers all jumped up from their tables and raced to the back door of the dining room, pushing one another to get out the door. Some ran straight to their cars, others to the safety of the all-night pharmacy next door.

Court rushed to the counter now, yelling at the employees, ordering them to leave. A panicked young man in a mustard-colored uniform held one hand up in surrender and, with the other, pushed a button on his register, opening the till, just as Court stepped behind the counter.

Gentry slammed the drawer closed and grabbed the young man. “I said
go
, kid!” He shoved him towards the exit.

The teen followed his coworkers to the front door.

Court raced into the kitchen now, just as he saw the last cook run through the back door of the building and out onto the raised concrete loading dock in the back alley. Court charged to the back door himself, ready to make for the back fence.

He managed two steps out the rear door before the Navigator screeched into the alley on his left. Its headlights illuminated everything, and there was no way in hell Court would make it over the fence and into the cover of the neighborhood on the other side without being seen and engaged.

The cooks ran around the corner in the direction of the front parking
lot, but the driver of the Navigator obviously saw Court, because he slammed on his brakes in the center of the alley.

Court stopped, turned around, and retreated back into the McDonald’s, but as he passed through the door he fired a round into the exterior light over the door, blowing it out with a shower of sparks.

A man in the front passenger’s seat of the SUV reached out with a handgun and raised it at Gentry, only twenty-five feet away.

Court dove for the hard floor of the kitchen as the pistol cracked loud in the alleyway behind him. The round hit the door three feet above his back.

He kicked the door shut, then looked around the kitchen, weighing his options. He knew going back out front wouldn’t work; there would be at least two men there armed with submachine guns, possibly already inside the restaurant.

Court thought it possible the Townsend men would just cordon him off here and wait for the cops to arrive, but he also knew they would all be ex-military and sure of their martial skills. They would take it personally that, in their understanding of events anyway, the man in the McDonald’s kitchen just murdered their employer on their watch, and that would piss them off to no end.

Court darted back through the kitchen, in the direction of the front counter, and as he did so he noticed a metal ladder fixed to the wall on his right, just next to a walk-in freezer. Looking up, he saw the ladder led to a roof access hatch.

Court liked having the option of escape from the kitchen, even if he wasn’t quite sure what good this ladder would do him. If he made it onto the roof he’d be even more stuck than he was here, since at least here at ground level he had access to multiple exits.

Court stopped in the middle of the kitchen, trying to decide his next move. He had exactly five rounds of .380 ammo in his mouse gun. Whether it was the cops or the Townsend boys who eventually kicked in the doors of this Mickey D’s, Court knew he was in serious trouble.

He looked at the back door again just as it began to open. Court ran around a stainless steel prep table in the middle of the room and slid on his butt along the greasy tile floor next to a row of griddles and three large fry vats, then he crawled forward, out of the line of sight of anyone at the open back door, which was only ten feet from where he knelt. He looked between
a low open shelf of metal pots and pans below the prep table, and he saw one of the Townsend men enter, his submachine gun up at his shoulder, scanning for threats.

Court fired twice between the pots and pans, hitting the operator at the door once in each calf. The man dropped flat on his back, inside the door, screaming in agony.

Court fired three more times towards the dark opening of the back door, sure another man would be entering just behind his mate, because he couldn’t imagine any scenario that had one guy hitting the building on his own.

He heard his second shot clang off of metal, and he thought he might have hit the MP5 in the operator’s hand. He knew this would slow the man but not stop him, because the man would simply transition to his pistol and come through the door to the aid of his partner.

Court’s handgun was empty now.

Quickly he rolled up to his knees, reached over to the stainless steel counter next to him, grabbed a fist-sized aluminum can, and threw it out onto the darkened loading dock.

As he did so he shouted, “Frag out!”

The can banged against the doorjamb, then bounced onto the concrete dock and clanged against a metal garbage can there. If the Townsend operator had military experience, which Court suspected he did, then he would naturally think someone had just tossed a fragmentation grenade just feet away from where he stood.

Court heard the sound of a man covered in metal and other gear clambering over an iron railing, and then dropping onto the asphalt of the alleyway four feet below with a loud crash.

On his hands and knees Court crawled to the back door and kicked it shut again, then he crawled over to the injured operator on the floor. The man had rolled up onto his knees, and he reached out for his weapon on the tile, but he sensed movement and he turned, looked up, and saw a man in black flying through the air at him.

Court tackled the wounded man back to the ground.

Straddling the security officer now, Court held his empty little pistol against the man’s sweat-covered forehead, and the wounded man went still, his eyes crossed looking at the gun. Court didn’t say a word. Instead he just
pulled the Smith and Wesson pistol out of the man’s drop leg holster, flicked off the safety, and fired four rounds into the front wall of the kitchen, hoping to discourage anyone with ideas about rushing into the kitchen.

Now Court tossed his empty Ruger to the side and shoved the hot Smith into his waistband, along with another handgun magazine pulled from the Townsend man’s load bearing vest. He also removed the three long HK submachine gun magazines from the vest.

He waved the three mags back and forth over the face of the man lying on his back and bleeding from the calves.

Court said, “Listen up. I know you’re hurting, but if I were you . . . I’d figure out a way to move.”

Court stood, turned to his right, and tossed all three magazines, each loaded with thirty rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition, across the room.

All three plopped into one of the big vats of molten hot fry grease positioned against the wall.

“No!” the injured man shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief, and then he rolled over on his stomach and began crawling, using only his arms to drag himself across the floor towards the back door.

Court scrambled across the room to the walk-in freezer, entered, and yanked the door shut behind him.

—

I
t was silent in the kitchen, save for the grunting and groaning of the man on the floor, struggling to pull himself as fast as he could. He had just reached the back door, pulled it open with his arm, and rolled out onto the concrete loading dock when two Townsend operators, moving in a small tactical train, spun into the kitchen from the front counter area.

Both men covered a different section of the kitchen with their submachine guns. The man on the left traced the front sight of his weapon over the walk-in freezer, the cooler, and the dry storage pantry. The man on the right saw in his sector his wounded comrade rolling out the back door, the wash area for the mops by the door, and the main kitchen prep area with the stainless steel table, the grills, the ovens, and the three big fry vats.

Left called, “Clear!”

Right hesitated, then he shouted, “Get down!”