Gideon's War/Hard Target (44 page)

“One more pass,” Tillman said as Verhoven slowed the car. He was stalling for time.

“Why?”

“This is a normal-looking neighborhood, but the house has four pan-and-scan video surveillance cameras on the eaves. My guess is they’re mounted on motion-activated servos. Whoever lives here is not some normal suburban Joe.”

“That’s immaterial to your role here.”

“Dammit,” Tillman said. “You’re a drug dealer who runs around in the woods with a bunch of dumb kids playing war. I’m a professional. This is what I do. Looking at this place, I can tell you that if we mess up on one single aspect of the op, we will be royally and irrevocably fucked.”

“This is a need-to-know—”

“I’m very familiar with what need-to-know means, Jim.” Tillman was hauling out his most intimidating Special Forces NCO demeanor. “And right now I need to know what we’re doing here. No offense, but you’re in over your head.”

“Oh, I am?” Verhoven glared icily at him.

Tillman met Verhoven’s gaze and glared right back at him. After a moment Verhoven looked away.

“One more drive-by,” Tillman said, “and this time you tell me every goddamn thing you know. Or I’m getting out of this car and hiking off into the wild blue yonder.”

The car was quiet.

Lorene was lying prone in the backseat, and she propped herself up. “We need him,” she said softly.

Verhoven grimaced, then continued around the block and said, “Look, I don’t know any specifics about the individual who owns this home. All I know is that there is a state-of-the-art security system, top-notch surveillance, the windows and doors are bullet resistant, and there’s a safe room on the upper floor.”

“Are we here to kill these people?”

“No,” Verhoven said. “Our mission is to capture the occupants and keep them alive. There are three people in the house—an adult male and two children, ages four and six. We are to capture and control these three individuals, hold the premises, and await further instructions.”

“From who?”

“I’ve told you all you need to know,” Verhoven said. “And more than I should have.”

“Is there a wife? Girlfriend?”

“Wife. But she’s not home.”

“So what are the Barrett and the incendiary rounds for?”

“In case they make it to the safe room.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Tillman said. “You’ll burn down the house and everyone inside. Those .50s could blast through the rest of the house like tissue paper and burn down the next three houses on the block.”

“I don’t anticipate letting them reach the safe room.” Verhoven stopped the car and stared stiffly straight ahead. Tillman heard the irritation in his voice.

“And the security system. A place like this, they’ll have outcall through a buried cable and possibly even a radio backup.”

“That’s all been taken care of.” He pointed to the side of the house. “The cable box there is a dummy. We’ve already planted a device that will cut the signal to the cable.”

He reached into the pocket of a nylon gym bag sitting on the center console, pulled out a small black box with a button on the side. He pressed the button. “There. Done.”

“What about cell phones?”

“It’s all in the bag. There’s a cell phone jam se inmer. Now stop worrying and follow me,” Verhoven said, pushing out of the car. Tillman had no choice except to follow him.

Tillman was prepared to abort the mission the moment it meant killing innocent civilians, even though he knew it would trash his ability to find out what was going on. Although he still felt okay about taking this operation to the next level, he suspected his brother might not be as willing to take that chance. He glanced around, half-expecting Gideon to pull up at any moment.

Verhoven walked up to the front door and pressed the doorbell on an industrial quality intercom system with a built-in keypad.

After a moment a sleepy and anxious-sounding man said, “Yes?”

Tillman knew that the man who answered was looking at them through a camera. What he saw was a man wearing black tactical clothing and body armor. His first instinct would not be to open the door.

“Good morning, sir,” Verhoven said, holding up to the camera some fake identification. Verhoven was banking on the camera’s resolution to be insufficient for the man to make out anything other than an official-looking piece of plastic. “Greg Gillis, PW Emergency Services. I’m sure you heard the commotion. A chemical truck has overturned one block away. We need everyone to evacuate the area immediately.”

“Uh . . . I need to confirm this with somebody.”

“Sir, I am your confirmation. You need to exit this house now. There’s no time to waste.”

From the man’s silence, it was clear that he had some kind of security protocol that he wanted to go through. Most likely he wanted to call the police department and verify that Verhoven was who he claimed to be.

“Now, sir!”

“Give me a second.”

A few moments later an apprehensive-looking man, hair sticking up in all directions, opened the door about three inches. The door was still held in place by a security bar like the ones used in hotel rooms. Only this one looked much bigger and stronger.

“Please let me see your ID again, officer,” the man said.

Knowing full well that his ID wouldn’t pass scrutiny at this distance, Verhoven raised his shotgun. The man’s eyes widened, but before he could slam the door closed or Verhoven could shoot, Tillman inserted the toe of his boot into the door. The man slammed his weight frantically against the door. Realizing that he was wasting his time battling over the door, the man retreated. Tillman could hear his footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Tillman hesitated for a fraction of a second. This was it: go or no-go. Point of no return.

He raised his boot and kicked the door just below the dead bolt, splintering the doorjamb as the steel security bar tore through the reinforced wood frame.

36

WASHINGTON, DC

The front desk woke Wilmot at five o’clock. Collier was already busy at his compu thhhhhhhhize="ter.

Wilmot made himself some coffee, then sat down next to Collier and watched as he keyed in a series of commands.

“How long before the heat shuts down?” he asked.

“I was just about to do it,” Collier said. “Do you want to hit the button?”

He knew Collier was trying to win him over after being snubbed last night. Wilmot leaned over and asked, “What do I do?”

Collier pointed at the keyboard and said, “Just hit enter.”

Wilmot studied the screen. NATIONAL HEAT & AIR REMOTE DIAGNOSTIC SYSTEM appeared at the top of the screen. There was a bunch of gibberish code that meant nothing to him. Collier had explained that by remotely uploading a bug script into the air handler’s controller, the fans would fail to come on when the gas next cycled on. With no air moving, the thermocouple in the temp sensor would eventually overheat, shutting off the gas. Then the whole system would shut down, and the Capitol would get very cold.

“All right then,” said Wilmot. “Let’s see if it works.”

“It’ll work,” Collier said. “Trust me.”

Wilmot stabbed the key. Nothing dramatic happened, but he imagined the signals sending their disruptive messages to the main circuit panel, finally putting in motion the plan they had spent so long preparing.

“I’m taking a shower,” Wilmot said and walked toward the bathroom.

He came back out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, combing his wet hair, wearing white coveralls with a yellow patch on the left side of his chest that read DALE. A large printed logo on the back read: NATIONAL HEAT & AIR. WARMING HEARTS AND HEARTHS SINCE 1947. Below that, in tiny letters: A DIVISION OF WILMOT INDUSTRIES.

He sat down on the couch and put his feet up. Collier wore an identical pair of coveralls, with a patch on the chest that said JOHN.

Collier closed the computer and said, “Okay, then. Now we wait for them to call us.”

At 5:33 AM, the phone connected through Collier’s computer rang.

Collier let it ring once, twice, answering on the third ring. “Good morning, National Heat and Air, this is Ralph speaking. How may I help you?”

A voice on the other end said, “Hey, ah, yeah, this is Alfred Teasely, federal facilities manager at the Capitol. We’ve got a problem with the heating system at the Capitol.”

National Heat & Air had bid for and won the contract to service the Capitol. And since Wilmot owned National Heat & Air, it had not been much of a problem for Collier to reroute their emergency phone system so that any calls coming in to the dispatch line from the 202 area code were automatically shunted to his computer.

“Do you have a contract number, sir?” Collier said.

“I’m at the United States Capitol. How many United States Capitols are there?”

“Yes, sir. I just need a contract number so that I can access your account.”

The man groaned. “Hold on.” There was some brief scrabbling around. “Okay. Eight oh one one five dash three.”

“One moment, sir.” Collier clattered randomly on the keys of the computer. “I show that that is a level-three secure facility. May I have your security code?”

“Nine six four dash Alpha Charlie Seven.”

“Excellent. What seems to be the problem, sir?”

“Well, the whole damn HVAC system just locked up. It’s shut down, and we can’t access the controller. I’m just getting a blue screen.”

“Have you installed the three-point-one-point-two update?” Collier was grinning at Wilmot. He loved all this techie mumbo jumbo.

“I’m checking the upgrade history now,” the facilities manager said. “I’m not seeing anything. I’ve got the damn State of the Union address in twelve hours.”

“Normally we update the software over the Internet. But it looks like . . . yes, sir . . . there seems to be something wrong with the broadband connection. What we’ll need to do is dispatch a team to update that software and get you back online.”

“I just need the damn thing to work.”

“Not a problem, sir. We have two technicians on standby. Let me check the schedule . . . Okay, here we go. I’ve got two of our top guys on call. They’ve been precleared. I’ll dispatch them right away.”

“How fast can they get here?”

“Less than thirty minutes.”

“Give me their names.”

“Right. John Collier and Dale Wilmot. You have a great day now.”

Three minutes later Collier and Wilmot were down in the lowest level parking deck, loading the steel cart containing two canisters of hydrogen cyanide into the back of a slightly battered white panel van that read NATIONAL HEAT & AIR on the side. He’d requisitioned it from the National Heat & Air motor pool, with legitimate plates, VIN number, and registration. Collier had seen to it all.

37

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

Gideon had lost them.

He didn’t have a tracking device, only the small earpiece that fed him the static-filled audio from the radio Tillman had pocketed.

He still didn’t know which house they were going to, or who was the target. He had followed Verhoven cautiously. Now it was five-thirty in the morning, and the greatest danger was that Verhoven would notice him following them. There were few other cars on the road in the suburban streets on which they were driving. By turning off his lights and trying to stay back at least a couple of city blo3emmmmmmmmdiv> cks, he seemed to have managed to escape detection. The price he’d paid was that at the last minute, he’d gotten separated. He knew that Verhoven had stopped, that the operation was a go, and that Tillman couldn’t be more than a few blocks away.

But the neighborhood was a maze of winding roads lined by nearly identical houses. Now he was blundering around, hoping to stumble on the battered old Honda. He knew that by process of elimination, he’d eventually locate the car. But if Tillman ran into trouble before then, there was no guarantee he’d be able to reach him in time to help.

It had been a clear night when the sun went down, but an hour before dawn the moon was covered by low heavy clouds. The temperature hovered around thirty-five, rain threatened, and outside of the few puddles of light beneath the occasional street lamp, the world was painted slightly different shades of black. Gideon’s mood, too, had gone dark. He hadn’t slept in a very long time. And it seemed like they’d gone deeper and deeper into this thing without really learning anything new.

He stopped at a stop sign and let his engine idle. Left or right? He looked in each direction. There were cars parked on the street both ways, none of them clear enough to identify by make and model. He waited for audio from Tillman, but all he could hear was quiet breathing. Dammit, Tillman, why didn’t you say what street you’d turned onto?

Gideon knew the answer, of course. Tillman had mentioned a few street names as they were driving. But he couldn’t exactly carry on a constant monologue of directions without tipping his hand to Verhoven.

Gideon turned left, driving slowly because his headlights were extinguished, and in the darkness he risked running into something. Eventually he hit a dead end without seeing the Honda. He turned around, drove back until he came to the same stop sign, drove down the next street, hit a dead end, no Honda, came back and stopped at the stop sign again.

As he was idling at the stop sign, trying to figure out where he was, he saw headlights tearing rapidly down the street behind him.

He edged forward and eased into a space next to the curb, then slumped down in the car. His heart rate picked up, and he could feel himself sweating, despite the cold. He put his hand on the butt of his Glock. He could see the headlights slowing. He didn’t move.

Suddenly blue lights began flashing.

He sat up and smoothed his coat, covering the pistol on his hip, and rolled down the window, only to see the car speed right past him.

This can’t be good.

He took off in pursuit.

“Tillman, you need to answer me.” He was practically shouting into the radio. “There’s a cop coming down the street, and he may be headed right for you.”

But the only response Gideon heard was static.

Tillman entered the house and sprinted for the stairs, bounding up them two at a time. Verhoven followed him inside, carrying the guns, while Lorene hobbled in and secured the door behind them.