The Blood of Patriots (29 page)

Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots

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There was motion ahead and the sound of single shots being fired. A figure was crouched behind an overturned desk just inside the security area. A dead Muslim lay facedown on the other side of the table. He had bloody soles.

Ward got on the radio. “Officer at the security table, I'm coming in from behind.”

The man did not turn but raised a hand. Ward crouched and ran through the scanner, setting off the alarm. For some reason he hadn't expected a pair of guns to generate the same sound as loose change. Bullets chewed away pieces of the table as Ward slid beside the officer.

“You doing okay, Officer Wister?” he asked, noting the man's name tag.

The young man nodded.

“How many are there?” Ward asked.

“Five gunmen,” he said.

That we know of
, Ward thought. If the goal was to get someone out of there they probably had someone in reserve. He wouldn't join the shootout unless it was absolutely necessary. Ward glanced at the belt of the dead Muslim. Like the one before him, he had no additional ordnance. Chances were good that if there was a hidden gunman he was the one who had the grenades. They would almost certainly be used to cover the terrorist retreat.

“Where are the rest of our men?” Ward asked.

“At the gate,” Wister told him between shots. “If that's their target, we're not letting them in.”

“Good man,” Ward said proudly. “What about the passengers?”

“The staff has them contained,” Wister said. He fired, went on. “We believe the area is bulletproof.”

“The enemy is probably prepared for that,” Ward said. “I assume those are your guys at the far end?”

“Yeah.” The three other state police officers were at counters and benches farther away, obviously having been patrolling nearby when the gunfire erupted. “We've called for backup.”

“These guys have to know the cavalry is on the way,” Ward said. “Stop shooting for a minute.”

The officer obeyed.

“I want them to lay off us,” Ward said. “When they do. I'm going to that kiosk.” Ward pointed to a coffee stand nearly halfway between the security position and the first gate. Because Wister had a clear line of fire, none of the Muslims were holed up there. Ward handed Wister the AK-47 he'd appropriated. “When I go out, cover me. Let me have your handgun.”

Wister handed it over, butt first. The detective made sure both his guns were fully loaded then crouched by the right side of the table and watched the gate to pinpoint every enemy position. When there was a lull in gunfire directed at the tableâas expected, the terrorists were concentrating on the three police officersâWard charged across the open area, maneuvering to the left to keep the kiosk between himself and the gunman who had been shooting at the table. As soon as the Muslim poked his gun from behind the ticket counter, Wister pummeled it with fire from the assault rifle. As expected, the drumming fire got the Muslim's attention. He shouted in Arabic as the side of his ticket booth vanished in a tornado of splinters.

Ward changed his mind. When the ticket booth gunman fell back the detective made that his destination. He didn't dare turn his back so he ran backwards, firing toward the four other gunmen who were behind benches and poles, leapfrogging their way slowly from one to the other.

The bastards' cave training had paid off. One moved, the others covered with crossfire, and progress was being made toward the SPHR. The drawback for them was that, with the exception of the spotter behind the ticket counter, all the Muslims were in the same general area.

Ward fired his handgun left to right then back while Wister, who figured out what he was doing and adjusted, kept firing at the ticket counter. He stopped just before Ward reached it. The detective turned to face the counter just as the Muslim emerged. The detective put a single shot in his forehead as it appeared around the shattered side. The man dropped on his left cheek, his dead eyes shut. Ward heard more shouts in Arabic behind him, heard Wister fire in that direction, and jumped hurdle-like behind a row of benches as gunfire pinged off the tiles and counter. One of them slashed through his jeans, cutting his leg. He dropped as he landed, ignoring the searing pain as he scrabbled forward behind the counter. He set down the handguns and grabbed the Muslim's assault rifle. He reached for the radio he'd taken from Crockett, didn't feel it, and realized he'd lost it as he jumped the benches.

He needed to let the passengers in the secure area know what he needed them to do, and his voice alone wasn't enough to carry over the gunfire. And there was no time to waste: he had to get to the secure room before the Muslims did. It wasn't only a matter of finding out who was in there. Ward knew there could well be another danger.

There was a lull in the gunfire. A moment later there were cries in Arabic.

They were answered by a shout from the SPHR, also in Arabic.

That's not good
, Ward thought. He got on his knees. His leg burned where it had been hit by the ricochet but he didn't have time to worry about the damage. He had to get a message inside the SPHR, so he grabbed the microphone on the counter and switched it on.

“This is the police!” he shouted. “Everyone in the secure area get down
now
!”

His warning came an instant before someone inside began shooting. Screams were barely audible beneath the loud drumming of an automatic strafing the door and the area around it. Ward imagined that was to take out the security personnel, who were probably armed. Their next move would be to the exit.

Then the terrorists out here will do whatever is necessary to get them outside
,
to hook up with their hole card
. Plan B was solid, Ward thought bitterly. Especially because the terrorists were obviously willing to die to carry it out.

Ward had to find that hidden Muslim and take him out.

Going back to the way he had come was too risky, especially if the SPHR gunman suddenly emerged and added more firepower to the assault. Instead, he turned and fired a burst at the plate glass window behind him. It fell in big icelike chunks, crashing inside and outside the single-story terminal. Ducking low, Ward ran down an aisle. The pain in his leg actually helped, burning and sharpening his focus. He reached the window, jumped over a clear section of frame, and landed on the tarmac. He ran back toward the main terminal.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-ONE

An assault rifle slung over his shoulder, Hassan Shatri marched boldly through the terminal. He pulled the pin of the hand grenade as he headed toward the security checkpoint. He reached a concrete planter, ducked behind it, and rolled the explosive forward. It hit the tile with the sound of a bowling ball. Wister heard it coming and tried to scurry behind to the other side of the checkpoint. Gunfire from the terrorists cut him down even as the metallic bang of the grenade sent a pale gray cloud of shrapnel in all directions.

Shatri emerged from hiding and followed the sound of gunfire through the tester of acrid smoke. He walked through the dissipating cloud toward the twisted frame of the security gate. Before the state police could fire he had pulled a second grenade from the weapons belt he was wearing. His repeated cries of “
Allah Akbar”
filled the air as he lobbed it, hugging the luggage conveyor for protection. The second grenade exploded and the gunfire ceased. Shatri rose cautiously, swinging the AK-47 ahead. Officer Wister was on his back on the other side of the secure room. He could see Shatri coming and squeezed off several rounds in his direction. They punctured the ceiling without injuring the Muslim, who lay gunfire across the officer's kneecaps, then back across the underside of his throat.

The young Muslim stopped and surveyed the waiting area. He saw a shadow on the floor. It was coming from behind one of the columns near a window. Shatri threw a grenade to the right of it. The man behind the column moved to the left and the Muslim shot him. Shatri had not pulled the pin on the grenade; he recovered it then faced the gate area from the opposite direction. He saw his dead comrades, felt pride for their sacrifice. Soon, if Allah willed, he would be joining them. He looked down at the officers as he walked toward the SPHR, making sure they were dead.

“Bagher?” he called out.

A voice replied from inside the secure area. “I am here.”

“It is safe. We must hurry.”

The door opened inward. The key the passenger used was still attached, by a long wire line, to the belt of the security officer. The young woman was lying facedown in a wide, crimson pool. The passenger gingerly made his way around it. She looked to Shatri like a fish on a line. Her weight kept the door from closing. Shatri could see passengers lying on the floor, he could hear them sobbing. If he didn't need the two hand grenades he had left, he would use them here. He hated these people, these cowards ... these infidels.

A young Muslim emerged carrying a Russian MP-446 pistol. He was wearing a white
dish-dash-ah
, a traditional long-sleeved dress, beneath a checkered
shumag
head scarf which was held in place with a thick black band. There were flecks of blood on the hem of the dress. It had been the imam's idea to hide in plain sight, discouraging profiling by appearing to be exactly what police should be looking for. Also, as he had gone through Orly Airport to his private plane, the looks Bagher al-Sanea's wardrobe received distracted onlookers from paying much attention to the thick-ribbed silver suitcase he carried.

“Things did not go as planned?” al-Sanea remarked, anger creasing his round face.

“They were not ideal,” Shatri admitted.

An alarm sounded nearby and the newcomer started. He looked around, his eyes settling high on the wooden structural arches. “There are security cameras.”

“It doesn't matter,” Shatri replied, his own eyes moving from side to side. “Only the package is important.”

“There will be more policeâ”

“And blocked roads, I know. I set a fire earlier so I could steal the keys to a security car parked nearby. It has not been moved. If we approach with the siren on, we will not be stopped. We drew them out last week duringâ”

A voice from the left said, “That was last week, jerkoff.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-TWO

Shatri and his companion shot a look in the direction from which the voice had come.

John Ward was standing inside the exit that led from the tarmac. The alarm overhead was still blaring from having kicked the handle off the keypad-operated door. Air swirled through the door, clearing the smoke of the firefight. Ward stood inside the red metal frame, still as a statue, eyeing the targets through his gun sight. The Muslims were about twenty yards distant. Neither of them moved.

Shatri smirked. “Another game of Chicken?”

“So you're the gang's point man,” Ward said. “I figured it was the guy I left lying in his own blood back at the training camp. Saeed. More guts than brains.”

Shatri's smirk wavered and he took a step forward. Ward slammed a short burst at the floor and was ready to fire another if need be. The Muslim stopped. The detective knew he wouldn't risk using a grenade for fear of killing his companion. But the terrorist
would
use his body to shield the other man, who would return fire. It was all about advancing the man with the suitcase.

“Here's the deal,” Ward said. “You put the case down, I'll argue that you get life in prison instead of the death penalty. The advantage for you is you get to spout your crap for another seventy years or so. The disadvantage is you won't get to kill anyone else.”

“Here is my counterproposal,” Shatri said. “You go back out the door and you will survive to see your daughter again.”

Ward remained where he was, watching the men through the sight of the assault rifle.

“This need not end with your death,” Shatri said.

“Shut up. I know your game.”

“What game is that?” Shatri asked.

The terrorist's eyes moved along the wide corridor and he shifted slightly from foot to foot. Ward could see that he was starting to get restless, to consider the best worst-case scenario.

“You've got no intention of hurting anyone in Basalt,” Ward said. “You're after a bigger targetâDenver or your old hood, Chicago. You haven't got a bomb because those are tough to build and smuggle. You've got a radiological container in thereâcesium-137 from old Soviet stockpiles, I'm guessing.”

The man with the suitcase had started slightly when Ward mentioned the element. The detective had been watching for any kind of reaction to confirm. Cesium was one of the few elements known to be on the loose, ever since the Chechen separatists tried to dirty-bomb Moscow in 1995. The NYPD had gotten word about five months before that several containers were MPSâMissing, Presumed Sold. The Muslims had set up the cash drop here not just to finance operations but to fine-tune a system of getting contraband into the country. The only impasse was the radiation detectors in the secure area. The evacuation scenario was their way around that. When that failed, they had to disable the device ... make it
seem
like a mere distraction.

The alarm finally shut off. Even with their ears ringing, the men could hear the distinctive police and fire sirens growing louder. Bordering on anxious now, Shatri made his move. As Ward had expected, he stepped in front of the other man, firing the AK-47. Ward rolled outside the door for protection, but only for a moment; the gunfire stopped as quickly as it had started.

Someone had fired from within the terminal. Ward poked his head in.

Pilar Ireland.

The woman was standing just inside the door of a restroom on Ward's side of the corridor. She had gone there, as instructed, and waited for the passenger Ward suspected was coming.

Ward jumped back inside the terminal. Shatri was on the ground, gripping his side, just below the waist. The assault rifle lay several feet away. The man with the briefcase was still standing. He had turned in the direction from which the shots had come. He didn't raise the handgun.

Ward could pretty much figure out why. The Muslim was planning on getting
something
out of this missionâeither killing the woman or trying to open the container, poison the terminal, kill Americans.

Ward was betting he'd opt for the cesium-137. Unlike the Israeli Mossad, terrorists didn't take revenge against people. They lashed out blindly at crowds. To them, it was a numbers game.

The man said something in Arabic. It sounded conciliatory. Maybe he didn't understand English. Maybe he was trying to bargain, buy time. It didn't matter. The assault rifle was the modern Esperanto: everyone understood it. Ward approached, the barrel aimed at the Muslim.

“Drop the gun and put the case
down
!” he said.

The Muslim nodded, dropped the gun. He knelt slowly and lay the case before him, as if he were surrendering.

Suddenly, the terrorist's spindly fingers shot out and popped the latches.

Ward fired.

The man died with
Allah Akbar
on his lips and his heart exploding through his back. He slumped sideways, twitching.

“I got screwed by one Muslim with a briefcase,” Ward said. “Never again.”

The detective continued toward Shatri. The man was lying between the case and his gun.

Ward kicked the gun away and moved the case several feet away with a toe. Ireland ran to Ward's side.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

The woman nodded once. Ward noticed her pale face and drooping mouth. She was anything but fine. He was guessing she'd never had to shoot anyone before, had probably put in the job-minimum requirement on the firing range.

“You did good,” he assured her.

She nodded again.

“Thing's got a surprising kick, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice trembling. “Yeah, it does.”

He took the weapon from her and smiled. “Raise your hands and go to the front door,” he said. “We don't want anyone shooting you by mistake. Tell the state patrol where we are, that we have wounded and a sealed radiological device, and that the situation has been contained.”

She nodded once more, then turned, lifted her hands shoulder high, and set off. Her arms were shaking. Ward watched for a moment to make sure she didn't fall over, but he never let the Muslim out of his peripheral vision. When he was sure Ireland was all right, the detective turned back to the wounded man.

“See her?
That's
what you're facing, little man,” Ward said. “Not pretend Americans like you but real ones. Americans who will do whatever it takes to preserve the Republic, even if it's personally distasteful.”

“We will ... overwhelm ... you ...” the wounded man said through his teeth.

Ward sneered. “Punk, build all the mosques you want. Truth is, you haven't got a prayer.”

Ward heard the clap of footsteps running toward them from the main terminal. He lowered his weapon and lifted his hands as a phalanx of state police surrounded them. Chief Brennan was among them. She smiled broadly when she saw Ward.

“I had a feeling you wouldn't need the cavalry,” she said, motioning the police to move on, that he was all right. The state commander acknowledged then indicated how the men were to disperse as they approached the gate.

“The radiological material's in that case,” Ward told the officer before he had moved on.

The lieutenant reported the information into his radio as he moved in with his men, after taking a moment to fire a salute at Ward.

“There were other passengers on the private jet,” Ward told Brennan. “Better question them.”

“They should be okay. We checked them out with the jet lessee. They were all businessmen, legitimate ones as far as we can tell.” She indicated the dead man. “This guy was the only one attached to the Chicago crowd.”

“I was right,” Ward said. “That was the target.”

“Appears so,” Brennan said. She looked down at Shatri, who was curled like a fetus and moaning. “The EMTs are looking after our people. They'll get to you eventually.”

“You're all ... going ... to die.”

“We can finally agree on something,” she replied. “But it won't be now and not by your hand.”

More police arrived along with EMTs. Shatri was cuffed and a trooper stood over him with a gun pointed at his head before the medics were allowed to approach.

“Hey, this man needs attention,” Brennan said, noticing Ward's leg.

“It'll keep,” he assured her. “I don't want this guy bleeding to death until we can talk to him.” Ward took one last look at Shatri's pained but unrepentant face. “Lord God, I hope I'm in on the interrogation.”

“I don't think that'll be happening,” Brennan said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I meanâsomeone's been looking for you.”

He looked at her. “Who?”

“Guys from New York,” she replied. “Your phone's probably dead. They said they left messages, then tracked you to me through your ex-wife.”

“Did they say what they wanted?”

She smiled. “Yes. And I have a feeling you're about to break this police chief's heart.”