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Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (72 page)

BOOK: Brown, Dale - Independent 04
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“What
are you doing, Colonel?” Cazaux radioed. “Are you enjoying the view? I am.”

           
“The view I’m enjoying is the one
with you crashing into the ground and dying once and for
all.”       .

 
          
“I
don’t think so, Colonel,” Cazaux radioed back. “Unfortunately for you, I am not
on board the 747. But thank you for thinking of me.”

 
          
Vincenti’s
color drained.
Cazaux isn’t on the 747?
He hissed, “Cazaux, you’re a dead man, you don’t know it yet, but you’re
dead.

 
          
“While
you waste your breath on threats, flyboy, I shall . stroll down The Mall, watch
my 747 crash into the
Capitol
Building
, and then see what other havoc I can raise
in the ensuing panic,” Cazaux said. “Perhaps I’ll take my remaining soldiers
and visit the White House.
Ciao,
Colonel.” -

 
          
“Fuck
you, Cazaux!” Vincenti raged on the radio. He shoved his throttle to full
afterburner power to try to catch up with the 747—but as he did, the
warn
symbol appeared in the heads-up
display almost immediately afterward, and a large red
engine
warning light illuminated on the eyebrow panel. He was out
of fuel and the F-16’s engine had flamed out.

 

 
          
Near the
Washington
Monument That Same Time

 

           
Just then, a man appeared from
behind the
Washington
Monument
, about a hundred yards away—they could see
his outline against the floodlight surrounding the monument. Harley immediately
slid her car right, with the left side of the car facing the man, when suddenly
a burst of machine-gun fire sent a swarm of bullets in their direction.

 
          
Hardcastle
had swung open his door as soon as he saw the mem, and he threw himself out of
the car even before Harley completely stopped it. He felt a hand on his leg as
he was leaping out, and he thought Deborah was right behind him. Hardcastle
took cover behind the right front wheel, leveled the Steyr, flicked the safety
to the upper five-dot full-auto position, and fired a full one-second burst in
the terrorist’s general direction. “Deborah!” he yelled behind him. He could no
longer see the terrorist—either he was on the run or was on the ground.
“Deborah, you all right?”

 
          
“Shit,
no!” Harley yelled. Hardcastle leaned his Steyr against the car beside him
where he could get to it easily and crawled around to the passenger-side door.
Deborah Harley was lying on the car seat, the left side of her face and left
arm bloody. Her left arm looked like it was hit just below the bulletproof
vest, but it appeared to be only flying glass that caused the facial injuries.
“When you’re getting out, Admiral,” Harley said in a remarkably clear voice,
still with a trace of humor despite her injuries, “don’t waste time. I’ll have
to crawl over you next time.”

 
          
“You
do that,” Hardcastle said. “You got a first aid kit anywhere in—”

 
          
“Forget
about me. I’m all right,” Harley said. “Where’s that gunman who fired?”

 
          
Hardcastle
heard sounds of running. He reached for his rifle—only to face a tall,
fearsome-looking warrior dressed in black, wearing a balaclava facemask, a web
harness filled with grenades and weapons, standing less than fifteen feet away.
The man was carrying a small submachine gun with a long suppressor. The warrior
raised his SMG, aimed . ..

 
          
...
then stopped, lowered it, and said in a definite French accent, “Admiral
Hardcastle, I presume?” Hardcastle made a move for his rifle, but the gunman
fired a short burst into the ground beside him. Hardcastle heard only faint
cracks when the gun fired, but he could feel the impact of the bul- * lets
along the ground. The gunman then ran over, grabbed the Steyr, tossed it aside,
then stood over Hardcastle, just a few feet away. He was tall and
powerful-looking, with an athletic body that could not be hidden even by all
the combat hardware on his combat harness.

           
“This officer is hurt,” Hardcastle
tried. “Who the hell are you?”

 
          
The
gunman pulled off his balaclava hood, revealing a narrow face and close-cropped
hair. “I am your old friend Henri, Admiral... Henri Cazaux.”

 
          
Hardcastle’s
face registered shock, then pure white-hot anger. He tried to jump to his feet
and tackle Cazaux. The- terrorist merely kicked Hardcastle aside with a sharp
snapping kick to the head, accomplishing the move quite easily.

 
          
“This
is perfect, Admiral, just perfect,” Cazaux said. He' peered into the car door,
checking Harley and taking away her rifle. He quickly checked the glove
compartment, removing a .380 automatic backup pistol. “She looks beautir ful
even with her wounds,” Cazaux said. He turned back to Hardcastle and said,
“First I encounter my old friend and your colleague Colonel Vincenti, and now
you.”

 
          
“Vincenti?”

 
          
“He
is out there,” Cazaux said, waving toward the Lin- coin Memorial and the Iwo
Jima Memorial to the west, “trying to stop my 747 from crashing into the
Capitol. He—”

 
          
“What?”

           
“Oh, yes, Admiral,” Cazaux crooned.
“You and the young lady have wonderful seats for my final spectacle. You will
witness the destruction of the Capitol as my 747 crashes into it, and then
witness the destruction of the White House when my fuel-air explosives destroy
it. Of course, I think we might be a bit too close to the explosion at the
White House—they assure me everything within a half-mile will be damaged or
destroyed by the explosion. If the Fates let you live, then you probably
deserve it. Unfortunately, I won’t have the opportunity to see any of this—it
is a poor soldier who stops to admire the destruction he causes.
Au revoir,
Admiral. I hope to—”

 
          

Freeze!
FBI!” a voice behind them
shouted. “Drop your weapon!” Cazaux let the submachine gun clatter to the
ground. “Now raise your—”

           
Cazaux didn’t hesitate—he ducked
down behind the car, drew a sidearm, and dragged Hardcastle to his feet,
holding the pistol to his head. It was Judge Lani Wilkes, drawing down on
Cazaux from about twenty yards away. “Drop the gun,
now! ”
she shouted.

 
          
“My
luck is running true to form tonight,” Cazaux cackled. “It is none other than
the beautiful FBI Director, Lani Wilkes! I think you should drop
your
gun, Madame Director, or I’ll blow
the Admiral’s brains out right now. Don’t you move in that car either, Treasury
agent!” he shouted as he noticed movement inside the car.

 
          
“Bad
move, Henri,” Hardcastle said, his voice weakened by the steel-like arm across
his throat. “The lady would probably give you a citation if you pulled the
trigger. Judge, meet Henri Cazaux. Henri, FBI Director Wilkes.” He could see
Wilkes’ stunned expression even in the semidarkness of the lights surrounding
the
Washington
Monument
.

 
          
“My
extreme pleasure, madame,” Cazaux said gallantly. “Admiral, it was convenient
of you to wear a bulletproof vest tonight. Madame Director, I’ll make you a
sporting proposition. If you don’t lower your weapon, I’ll kill the Admiral and
I’ll still escape. Toss your weapons away, give me a head start, and the chase
starts anew, on equal terms. Agreed?”

 
          
“It’s
not going to happen, Cazaux,” Wilkes said, her voice faltering from the strain,
confusion, and outright surprise. “No one is going to give up their weapons.”

 
          
“Ah,
your voice says otherwise, Madame Director,” Cazaux said. “You have faith in your
agents, I assume. Surely they can capture me in the nation’s capital? Now drop
your gun. This is my final warning.”

 
          
To
Hardcastle’s surprise, Wilkes let her service revolver roll on her trigger
finger, barrel pointing upward. “Wilkes, don’t do it.” Hardcastle groaned.
“He’ll kill me anyway.”

 
          
“Freeze!
D.C. Police!” they heard.

 
          
The
plainclothes D.C. Police officer had chugged his way over to the monument,
drawing down on Cazaux. Cazaux instinctively raised his pistol toward him. . .
and Hardcastle reached up and grabbed his right wrist, shoving it upward. The
officer fired, but he was too far away and missed. Cazaux shrugged out of
Hardcastle’s grasp with ease and fired three shots at the officer, two rounds
hitting him in the chest. Wilkes dropped to one knee, swinging her service
revolver back up.

 
          
Cazaux
aimed ...

 
          
...
and they fired simultaneously.

 
          
Three
.45 caliber rounds hit Wilkes, one in the shoulder and two in the chest; two
.38 caliber rounds hit Cazaux in the stomach and left shoulder. Wilkes
collapsed onto'her back and was still. Cazaux stood there, a hand over the
stomach wound, but he was still standing. He swung his pistol down at
Hardcastle, but suddenly his knees gave way and he went down on one knee.
Realizing he was really hurt, Cazaux stood up shakily, ignoring Hardcastle, and
started running south toward the Sylvan Theater and the
Tidal
Basin
. He started to pick up amazing speed.
Before Hardcastle could react and reach for one of the Steyr rifles, Cazaux had
almost reached
Independence Avenue
and was lost in the darkness.

 
          
Hardcastle’s
first thought was to go after Cazaux, but not with three wounded officers
around him. The D.C. Police officer was dead. Lani Wilkes was alive but hurt
very badly. “I was on the way to the White House ... heard the radio call...
where ... where’s Cazaux?” she gasped.

 
          
“He
got away,” Hardcastle said. He tried to stuff a handkerchief into one of the
wounds and tried to compress the other with his bare hand—the bleeding was
serious.

 
          
“Don’t.
. . don’t let him get away, Hardcastle, damn you...”

 
          
“Lie
still, Judge. Help is on the way,” Hardcastle lied.

 
          
“Violence
... this violence is sickening,” Wilkes gasped. “When will it end? When will
it. . . ever ... end ... ?” And her voice trailed off into a whisper, then
nothing.

           
“Shit!” Hardcastle swore aloud. “You
bastard!” He turned to retrieve his Steyr bullpup rifle, and found Harley on
her feet, headed toward him. “Deborah, stay down.”

 
          
“Is
she dead?”

 
          
“She’s
hurt badly. The cop is dead,” Hardcastle said. “I’m going after Cazaux. Stay
here and see if you can help Wilkes.”

 
          
“No
way. Where did he go? I’ll call it in.”

 
          
“Call
it in, but you’re—” He turned and looked toward the Lincoln Memorial as the
loud scream of an airliner got closer and closer. “Oh, my God, there it is!”
Hardcastle Shouted, pointing toward the Iwo Jima Memorial. “It’s headed this .
. . Jesus, Deborah,
get down, get down!”
Harley
ran over, grabbed Wilkes by the arms, and dragged her behind the
Washington
Monument
to safety ...

 
          
...
just as all hell broke loose.

 

 
          
Near the
Iwo
Jima
Memorial That Same Moment

 

           
Just as the 747 was north of the Iwo
Jima Memorial and over the interstate, Vincenti closed his eyes and flew his F-
16 Fighting Falcon into the right rear portion of the fuselage, between the
wing trailing edge and the forward edge of the horizontal stabilizer.

BOOK: Brown, Dale - Independent 04
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