Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (36 page)

He rolled and aimed at the doorway from a position several feet inside the room, but the area was clear. He pulled another fragmentation grenade out of the pouch and edged toward the hallway doorframe, noticing an opening in the wall directly behind him. The opening led to what looked like a bedroom and would normally be concealed behind a massive dark wooden china cabinet, which was swung aside on hinges. He wondered who else might emerge from this hidden entry. As he reached the hallway door, deafening shotgun fire erupted, punctuated by submachine gun fire. The area around the door splintered from the impact of several shotgun shells and 9mm bullets, forcing Daniel back into the room.

He couldn't believe the woman with the shotgun was still fighting. He had definitely hit her from the top of the stairs, and she was still working the shotgun like a professional. He couldn't advance with that kind of accurate firepower bearing down on him, and he'd already been in the house for more than a minute. His earpiece remained silent, which was a good sign, but he couldn't imagine the good fortune lasting much longer. He pulled the pin on his last frag and tossed it toward the end of the hallway, where it detonated amidst a bloodcurdling scream. Satisfied that the threat was neutralized, he emerged from the room into the dimly lit, smoke-filled hallway, aiming right down the wall toward the nearest doorframe. He could see something moving in there, and if it moved another inch into the hallway, he'd be in business.

A sudden movement toward the back of the hallway caught his attention, and the words "cover me!" reached his ears. He pulled the MP-9 far enough away from the nearby doorframe to fire at the target sprinting across the obscured passage. He saw the person tumble into an open doorway on the other side of the hallway, not sure if his bullets struck home. He shifted his submachine gun back to the opening less than ten feet away just in time to see the front sight of an MP-5 emerge, rapidly spitting bullets in this direction.

Daniel pressed himself against the burning wall and fired a poorly aimed burst at the barely visible target in front of him. He considered moving forward, but the MP-5 continued to rattle, forcing him back into the conference room. He knew the shooter didn't want to expose his head far enough to take an accurate shot, but he couldn't risk the chance that this might change. A few seconds later, the shotgun rejoined the fight, pounding the conference room doorway with "double ought" buckshot, and Daniel lost all hope for advancing down the hallway. One of the other agents had taken over the shotgun, and time was running short. He glanced at the opening in the wall and wondered exactly who had run through there to join the fight. Whoever it was deserved a medal. Posthumously awarded, he hoped.

His earpiece crackled, and he heard Parker's voice.

"Status report."

"Send updated timeline," Petrovich replied.

"Thirty seconds. Police en route. Can you still accomplish the mission?"

Daniel processed all of his options within the span of a millisecond and realized that he needed more time, unless…he was willing to endure a shower of white phosphorous. He could probably land one of the grenades in the closer opening and send the submachine gunner running, followed by another grenade toward the shooter at the end of the hallway. When they scrambled to shield themselves, he would have to charge forward and take his chances with the firestorm of burning fragments. His other option was to abandon the mission and retreat through the passage in the conference room wall. He could be out on the street in less than fifteen seconds. If he could make it to the staircase, he would be out of the house even faster.

The concept of retreat didn't sit well with Petrovich. He had to put an end to this tonight. Jessica was waiting and had already endured enough over the last twenty-four hours. They desperately needed a fresh start, and failing one of Sanderson's missions wouldn't help. Apparently, everyone had succeeded in their role over the past few days, except for him.

"Affirmative," he said and pulled one of the "special" grenades from his bag.

He had just placed his index finger through the firing pin, when Parker's voice broke through his focus again.

"Change of plans. The general wants you to throw one of the agents your cell phone. Immediately."

"What?"

"Just do it. We're out of time."

"Understood."

He took his cellphone out of a pouch on his nylon vest, edged his head out of the conference room doorway, and examined the scene. The upstairs hallway had taken on a surreal hellish look, with several dozen small fires burning on every surface, including the ceiling. The fires burned a dark orange color through the smoke and drywall dust, illuminating the darkened area with dancing, flickering light. He found it strangely beautiful, but didn't linger to admire it. He tossed the cellphone right into the kitchen doorway opening, hearing it clatter on the floor, followed by the sound of furniture crashing, as Berg scrambled in fear. Strangely, the shotgun did not erupt. Instead, his cellphone rang, and Daniel yelled into the haze.

"Answer the phone! I have enough C-4 here to take out this entire floor. Do it now!"

He heard some shuffling from the kitchen, and the doorway exploded from the force of several shotgun blasts. He pulled out the last "special" grenade and prepared to execute his final, desperate plan. His watch showed the total elapsed time in the house to be one minute and fifty-two seconds.

**

Berg shifted the submachine gun into his left hand and kept it trained on the smoking inferno past the open doorway. With his right arm extended, he snatched the ringing phone from the floor, half expecting to be shot through the wall. Retreating into the relative safety of the kitchen, he placed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he said, fully prepared for the possibility that the call was a distraction.

A female voice answered. "Karl? Is that you?"

"Who is this?" Berg said, the voice triggering hazy memories.

"Karl, this is Seraph. I need you to listen closely."

"Nicole? How is this…"

"I don't have time to explain, but right now you must listen. I have General Sanderson on the line, and he has a proposition for you."

"I don't need a deal to save my life."

"Yes, you do. Daniel Petrovich, my husband, is in your safe house."

"What? Oh no, Nicole. What did you do?"

"I'll explain later. The general has a mutual proposition. There's very little time."

"Put him on," Berg said and listened to the general's proposal.

Fifteen seconds later, Berg disconnected the call and called out to Keller, "Keller! Hold your fire!" He received no response.

He really hoped Keller was already dead.

**

Petrovich heard Berg order Keller to stop firing, followed by Parker in his headset.

"Withdraw from the house immediately. The agents are no longer a threat. Move fast. Police units are ten seconds out."

"Understood. On my way," he said and dashed through the conflagration in the hallway.

He nearly took the entire staircase in a single leap that sent a shockwave of pain up his leg from the damaged knee and caused one of his fractured ribs to fully break. For a brief moment, he thought he might have been shot leaving the room. Farrington burst into the house from his position in the shattered vestibule and pulled him to his feet.

"We need to get the fuck off this street," he said, yanking Daniel through the door and into the fresh air.

Just as they cleared the vestibule, police cars screeched to a halt on 34th Street, blocking their exit from O Street on that side.

"Coming up on 33rd Street intersection. Police units just passed N Street on 34th. You need to be there now. I see police lights," Parker said.

**

Special Agent O'Reilly's small caravan of agents drove down 33rd Street, passing Prospect and approaching N Street. Sharpe had given her the suspected address on O Street, and they were to approach cautiously, verify the location, and set up car surveillance to confirm Keller's presence. Sharpe had confided in O'Reilly. He didn't put the CIA past being involved in today's fiasco and found it oddly suspicious that Keller had fled the Pentagon to hide in some undisclosed location hidden deep in the heart of Georgetown. To him, it didn't add up to anything but trouble for the FBI, and Sharpe wasn't taking any chances. Tomorrow, he would have to explain a lot of things to his superiors, and he might need to draw a little attention away from the task force. A possible CIA mole in his group was a great distraction.

As her car passed N Street, she noticed several things out of place at once. First, she saw a dark SUV stopped in the middle of the next intersection, and then police lights suddenly appeared in her rearview mirror, but no sirens sounded. Strangely, she also saw police lights dancing on the sides of some of the structures deeper into O Street, which couldn't be cast by the cars behind her. As her car approached the SUV, more of O Street came into focus, and she grabbed her car's radio to contact task force headquarters. She dropped the radio when she saw two masked men running toward the black SUV. One of them was limping, and they were both carrying military-style weapons.

"Stop the car!" she screamed, and the tires immediately screeched to a halt.

She bailed out of the car and ran toward the vehicles behind her, holding her FBI badge extended in one hand and her pistol in the other. Police cars skidded and stopped, as confused officers jumped out.

"FBI! Take cover!"

O'Reilly didn't want to take a bullet from a Washington, D.C., police weapon, so she held the badge high with her left hand. Instead, she caught a 5.56mm round from Farrington's rifle, which tore through her forearm muscle and skipped off the bone, passing straight through her raised arm. She stood there in shock, with the arm still raised, as her badge toppled down the length of her arm, and twenty-nine more 5.56mm bullets poured over the vehicles, miraculously failing to hit any of the agents or police officers. O'Reilly, still on her feet, whirled around with her Glock and fired on the men nearing the SUV. A few of the agents' service pistols joined her own weapon, and she saw the effects of their bullets shatter the back window of the 4Runner before a D.C. police officer tackled her to the ground.

Another burst of automatic weapons fire tore into their cars, shattering windows, puncturing metal and connecting with flesh. Screams punctuated the echoes of gunfire, and O'Reilly leaned her head back to see one of her agents sitting with his back against the side of a car holding his right shoulder. Blood spurted through his fingers onto his bulletproof vest. Under the car, she saw another agent hit the street pavement with a sick thud. A police officer dashed past her and started to pull the bleeding agent back when the next fusillade erupted.

**

Parker yelled at them through the open driver's side door, but Daniel couldn't hear over the gunfire. Farrington's first warning burst at the nearby police cars stirred up a hornet's nest of return fire, and bullets continued to crack past Petrovich, as he limped toward the SUV. From a position along the rear driver's side of the 4Runner, Farrington calmly fired a second, well-aimed burst of fire into the gaggle of police vehicles bottlenecked on 33rd Street. His second, shorter burst connected with at least two of the officers and dropped them to the pavement.

As the truck window next to him shattered, Farrington shifted his rifle toward the police officers advancing through the O Street neighborhood and emptied the rest of his magazine in controlled bursts, concentrating on the lead officers. Empty shells from Farrington's rifle pelted Daniel as he reached the SUV, causing him to stop and fire his freshly reloaded MP-9 in the direction of the officers on 33rd, who appeared to be regrouping in the absence of Farrington's automatic fusillade. Aiming high above their heads, Daniel fired with the hope of discouraging any further bravery and avoiding police casualties.

The volume of fire from police officers on 33rd Street nearly stopped altogether, and Petrovich jumped into the back seat of the car, moving to the far side of the rear bench seat. Farrington followed, reloading his weapon and immediately began firing out of the missing rear window. Parker accelerated the SUV down 33rd, and Petrovich jammed his way into the front passenger seat to provide firepower forward of the vehicle if necessary. Pain fired through his entire chest when he climbed over the seat and jammed the headrest into his ribs. He settled into the seat, taking a few seconds to recover from the blinding agony that brought him close to a blackout. He reloaded the MP-9 with a new magazine from his vest and lowered his window. They drove in silence for several seconds, surprised to meet no resistance as they approached Wisconsin Avenue.

"Fuck!" Parker yelled, as the intersection of Q Street and 33rd filled with police cars and flashing blue lights.

Parker didn't have much time to react, and most drivers would instinctively slam on the brakes, effectively disabling their own vehicle for the police. To Daniel's surprise, Parker yanked the car left without slowing and somehow squeezed it between a signal light post and a small tree. Daniel was showered with small pieces of plastic and glass when the passenger side mirror disintegrated upon impact with the signal post. Parker's side of the vehicle slid along a red brick property wall, exploding the side mirror and catching the rear bumper of the SUV.

The 4Runner was thrown out into the street, sideswiping the rearmost police car and knocking the cruiser into a parked car on the other side of Q Street, where it blocked the cramped Georgetown street. Daniel heard several gunshots as Parker steadied the SUV, which accelerated down Q Street, structurally undamaged after miraculously sailing through a cramped city corner at over 50 miles per hour. Farrington fired three extended bursts with his assault rifle down the street at the maneuvering police cars, showering the SUV's cab with spent brass.

Petrovich had been tossed around the front seat like a rag doll, but beyond a few additional bruises and the growing pain around his lower ribcage, he was fine. He turned in his seat immediately, aiming his gun toward the rapidly shrinking police cars at the intersection. He knew it would take them time to bypass the disabled police vehicle blocking the road. Farrington remained braced against the center of the second row bench seat, his assault rifle steadied against the middle headrest, aiming back toward the receding blue lights.