Critical Error (23 page)

With her mind racing as to what to do, the Humvees emptied and Rebecca could instantly see the eight men were in no way friendly towards the house opposite nor the Secretary of Defense.

“Shit,” she muttered as she hit the speed dial button for Ben.

The first bullets struck as Ben answered.

“What is the priority, saving the Secretary of Defense James Murphy or killing the Senator?”

“Sorry?” replied Ben, somewhat caught off-guard by the question.

“Ben, you have seconds to decide, Secretary or Senator?”

Being asked to decide an eventuality that you did not conceive possible, in a fraction of a second, was not something a normal individual copes with well. Ben Meir was as long in the tooth as they came and normal was never a word that could be used to describe any part of him.

“Secretary,” he answered. His mind had calculated the pros and cons in an instant. The Secretary of Defense was one of two men in the US who had helped drive Project Ararat. The Senator needed to be dealt with but that could wait. There would be no waiting if the Secretary was dead.

“OK.” Rebecca killed the call and in a swift motion swapped her phone for her silenced pistol. She moved away from the door and walked towards the action.

Although it was one against eight, Rebecca had one major advantage. The men believed themselves to be the hunters and only had eyes for the house ahead of them. They obviously did not consider for a second that they would become the hunted. Rebecca could tell the men were well trained. Their movement was excellent, two forward, two covering, two forward, two covering but that meant there were two behind all the time and as Rebecca reached the side of the Humvee, she took aim and eight became six, four rounds double tap to each of the two men. The Sig had been chosen for one reason, not because it was Rebecca’s favorite or it was the best tool for the job. It had simply been chosen because most federal agencies used it and as such would help Rebecca with her cover. However, as the two men dropped before her, she had to admit, it was a rather nice handgun.

Sam managed to drag the Secretary to the top of the stairs and had unceremoniously dumped him while he retrieved his weapons from the holdall. He grabbed a Heckler and Koch MP5 and tossed it to Clark. She obviously knew her stuff. She caught the weapon, flicked off the safety and immediately made for the window in an attempt to knock out at least some of the competition. Sam grabbed the AA-12 automatic shotgun. If the guys came through the door down below, it would be like the hotel corridor all over again. Only this time, Sam’s shoulder was in much better shape. He stuffed two grenades onto his belt and his Wilson Combat Supergrade .45 handgun into the back of his trousers - it was a present from the Senator many years earlier.

With the Secretary and the Senator secured in the kitchen area, Sam made for the top of the stairs. A hail of bullets removed the lounge window and pinned Clark down. They were coming. Sam looked away from the door below him and covered his ears. If these guys were who he thought they were, he’d use it to his advantage. Almost like clockwork, the flashbang flew through the small window next to the door. Sam, despite not having witnessed one for some time, managed to maintain his wits and counting to two after the bang, swung the AA-12 barrel to his right and fired five of his explosive rounds into the space below. The screams told him all he needed to know.

“Got one!” screamed Clark from behind him.

A quick look confirmed he had killed the first two through the door. There had eight, minus Clark’s, that made five.

“Three down, five to go!” he shouted across to Clark.

“Five down three to go!” replied Clark.

“Good girl,” he shouted back.

“Six down, two to go” she replied quickly.

Sam was feeling the effects of the flashbang but not so much that he’d miss the sound of the MP5 firing ten yards away. OK it was quiet but he heard it.

“We’ve got some help and she certainly knows what she’s doing!”

Sam bounded down the stairs. There was no way the men would come through the door now.

Rebecca had watched as the six men had prepared to attack. The hail of bullets had taken out a side window and one of the men was preparing to toss in a flashbang. Rebecca was over forty yards away and with no cover between her and the house, any move now would be suicidal, whether they were expecting her or not. All she could do was wait for the charge and rush in behind them, hopefully in time to save the Secretary.

She turned her head as the flashbang exploded and then watched as the six men charged in, rather amateurishly she thought. Her assumption was correct and as the first rounds exploded into the charging men, those at the rear did, as one faced with overwhelming firepower would do. They ran for cover. Unfortunately, the only cover meant Rebecca could take out another one. Another double tap ensured the fastest runner would not be running anywhere. The woman in the window nailed another who was just behind her one. Which left two. They now knew they were surrounded and could do nothing but crouch either side of the doorframe. Out of range for Rebecca and out of sight for those inside.

Unless they were suicidal, their best option was to rush Rebecca. She could see it in their faces and she knew that’s exactly what she would do. They also had XM8 machine guns, grenades and pistols against her Sig automatic handgun. It looked like the tables had turned and the hunted were once again the hunters. She watched helplessly as they nodded to each other and as one raised his XM8 and began to fire towards her, they didn’t care if they hit her, they just wanted to pin her down so they could get to a car. Once they were nearer, then they would kill her. Rebecca had no option but to duck down behind the wheel and wait for the rounds to stop hitting.

Sam reached the bottom of the stairs just as the two made their move. He dumped the AA-12 and pulled the Wilson Combat Supergrade from his pants. This was going to be up-close and personal. The shotgun was too cumbersome. The guy covering was more interested in keeping the woman’s head down and so was easy work for the supergrade. Sam walked through the door and nonchalantly raised the handgun and put a round through the man’s head. The .45 round almost removed the top of his head. Sam’s hand didn’t even stop moving. The same motion swung the gun up and as he continued through the door, he waited for the running man to realize his cover was no more. It took him longer than Sam thought. He must have covered twenty yards before his stride began to falter. At twenty yards, most handguns were still effective but the Wilson Combat Supergrade was still lethal. Unfortunately for the man, now caught in the middle, he was also within Rebecca’s range. Although the Sig was nowhere near as accurate as the Wilson, it came down to the user and Rebecca was an expert shot. The twenty yards from the house also meant Clark had a shot from the window above and the MP5 was certainly more than comfortable with a range five times further.

Three highly trained gun operators, all expertly versed in how to take a man down and keep him down, trained their weapons as one. Time slowed as each of them went through a routine that was as natural as breathing. What felt like seconds to each of them could have been measured in milliseconds. The three shots from each of the weapons were almost indistinguishable, each having calculated, aimed and reacted in unison. The three bullets struck as one. The last man’s body danced to its death as each shooter automatically sent a second and third bullet towards their target. Everything had happened so quickly that it was only when they stopped shooting, they realized two others had shot also.

“Eight down,” shouted Sam to Clark as he looked towards the woman now standing behind the Humvee. A woman, who without a doubt, had helped save their lives.

“Hi, I’m Sam,” he offered his hand as he walked towards her.

“Rebecca,” she accepted his hand. “The Secretary?”

“He’s fine, upstairs in the kitchen having a coffee. Do you want one?” smiled Sam. He recognized her very slight accent as he had worked many times in the middle East. Deadly and beautiful with a middle-Eastern twang. She was Mossad, without a doubt. What next, he thought as he led her into the house.

First things first, they needed to get the hell out of Washington.

Saul Weisfeld had worked in the ports for over thirty years and had never seen anything like it. For the previous year, he had seen more ships dock than almost the previous thirty years put together. He checked the charts. Over 30 million tons of cargo in the last month, more than the whole of the previous year. He was working six and a half days a week and the port had employed an extra two hundred staff but were still struggling to cope. Only the previous day, the Port Director had told him that the navy was going to be sending over some help. The next few days were expected to be even busier!

Saul was worried. His wife had been moaning at him for weeks. The stores were empty and food was scarce. Electronics stores were closing due to lack of stock. Israel was struggling but the port was busier than ever. None of it made sense, except for one thing. Israel was preparing for war. With two sons and a daughter in the forces, Saul was very worried. His daughter would be fine, she was the brains and worked with the strategy department but his boys, his two beautiful boys, were both in the mechanized infantry, front line troops. The Port Director had told him not to be so daft but the lack of conviction and the worry etched on his face betrayed his lie. He too was worried. He too had children in the forces.

The phone buzzed on his desk. Another massive cargo ship had docked and needed to be unloaded and reloaded. The ships were stacking up. Capacity was being exceeded but he had to keep things moving. Saul called on his crane operator to get over to Quay Three and instructed the transport manager to get the trucks moving. He hauled himself out of his seat and looked out across the port. Every quay was filled, a sight he had rarely seen up until the previous few months. Not only that, a line of ships waited for their turn to dock. Each of the ships was piled high with containers, just as they all had been for the previous few months. But the shops were empty. It didn’t make sense but then for every container that came ashore, one went onboard. So maybe it did.

Saul watched a truck drive past, its belly low to the ground under the weight of the container it was carrying. Ten minutes later, the same truck came back with a different container on its back. Saul watched as it pulled away from the checker below him. Its engine strained far less than with its previous load. In fact, it was almost as though there was no weight in there at all.

Saul watched the next few trucks and began to notice a pattern. Whatever was leaving Israel was far heavier than what was coming in. His mind started to race again. None of it made sense.

“Zak?”

“Yes. Who is this?” replied the DIA agent.

“I thought you would have recognized my voice, I know it’s been a few years!”

Zak’s stomach had lurched on hearing his name and had just prayed it wasn’t who he feared it was. However, the more the voice spoke, the more Zak knew his worst fears were well founded. It was ‘The Sheikh’.

“I can’t talk just now.”

“Why ever not?” asked the Sheikh.

“I’m in the office, there are other agents around,” he whispered.

The Sheikh did not respond and the line went quiet. Zak visibly relaxed.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

“Sorry, I thought that was you,” said the man as Zak turned to face the owner of the hand.

Zak froze as he looked into the face of a man he had never seen before but a voice that chilled him to the core. The Sheikh had obviously followed him. Zak was not in the office but sitting in a booth of a small roadside diner.

Zak tried to explain why he was not the office as he had said but the Sheikh waved his hand as though it were irrelevant.

Zak looked at the man whom he knew adorned governments’ Most Wanted lists around the world. Although, of course, the lists showed a silhouette where a face should be. Nobody had ever even given a description, let alone a photo. Zak had expected a battle hardened, tough, bearded, Osama-like character but The Sheikh was none of these. In fact, the Sheikh would not have looked out of place adorning the front cover of GQ magazine. More Arab Prince than Arab terrorist.

“I need your help.”

“Of course,” replied Zak. It would not cross his mind to do anything but assist a request, particularly as he knew the request was serving his spiritual homeland.

“Come, I will explain as we drive.” The Sheikh looked down at Zak’s plate, his lunch was only half eaten.

Zak quickly threw his napkin across the unfinished meal but it was too late.

“I fear you have spent too much time with the Americans,” said the Sheikh, shaking his head in disappointment. “Bacon?” He looked Zak in the eye and led him towards the car park, his head still shaking.