First Strike (27 page)

“Is that a bomb?” asked one of the students, panic in her voice.

“Yes,” said Tariq, double-checking the fuse and battery. Satisfied, he turned to leave. “If anyone attempts to come in through the door, you all die.”

*   *   *

As gunfire echoed up from the street below, Andy and Charlotte ran toward Daisy. Andy had a look of panic on her face. Her eyes met Daisy's, then moved to the window. She gasped as she registered the corpses sprawled along the street and sidewalks below.

She turned and looked at Daisy. “What's happening?”

Daisy struggled to maintain her composure and hold back her emotions. She put her hand out and took Andy's hand.

“It's going to be all right,” she said.

“Should we run?”

Daisy fumbled as she tried to dial her cell phone, tremors overtaking the movement of her fingers. She found the “1” and held it down.

As she waited for the phone to ring, her eyes went back to the street. Suddenly, one of the gunmen fired. The gunfire was loud and jarring. Daisy's eyes shot right. A young woman, a red patch spreading over her back where the bullet had entered, tried to limp away. The gunman fired again, hitting the back of her head.

“I need to call you back,” said Daisy's father.

“Dad,” she went to say, but the only sound was a hoarse whisper. “
Dad!
”

“I can't hear you, honey. I'll call you—”

“
Dad!
” she screamed, finally finding her voice. “
Whatever you do, do not hang up!
”

Calibrisi's voice went sharp. “Honey? Are you okay? What the hell is going on?”

“Terrorists. At Columbia. They're taking over the dorm. Andy's dorm…”

There was a long pause.

“Daisy, if this is some sort of…”

“
Daddy,
” Daisy whispered, suddenly bursting out in sobs. “Oh, Daddy. I'm so scared. I love you. Tell Mom I love her.”

 

35

OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Calibrisi stood in front of one of the large French doors leading to the Rose Garden as he clutched the cell phone. He shut his eyes, trying to calm his frenzied breathing. A whirlwind flashed through his mind—

Run, sweetheart, run! Run to a low floor and jump!… It's ISIS …

He turned and looked at the president as his cell dropped from his hand. His face was creased with emotion. A severe pain abruptly struck his left leg, like electricity. The pain shot up to his neck and ricocheted like a spiderweb down his left arm.

He knew what was happening.

Dear God, not now …

He tried to wave his hand and get someone's attention. He was able to move it halfway around. President Dellenbaugh was listening to Kratovil, who was hypothesizing on what Nazir's ominous threats really meant.

Calibrisi's lips moved, but no sound came out.

Dellenbaugh looked at him. “Hector?”

Dellenbaugh stood up from his desk. A look of shock was on his face.

“
Are you okay?
”

Calibrisi reached for the door handle to prevent himself from falling. He registered the president's words in the same moment he felt a sudden stab in his arm, then a shot of warmth emanating from his chest, like a fever. A terrible, turbulent sensation followed as his heart started to spasm, beating a dozen times a second. Before he could say anything, the havoc that gripped his heart enveloped his whole body. Blackness followed …

“
Get Terry!
” yelled Dellenbaugh, referring to Terry O'Brien, the White House physician.

Dellenbaugh threw aside his chair and rushed around his desk. He charged toward Calibrisi, arms extended …

Calibrisi could see nothing. He could do nothing. He heard the voice again.

“
Daddy, I'm so scared.
”

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he heard Dellenbaugh's loud yell. He sensed the president's arrival in the light, the way it modulated, as he charged toward him. For a few moments, he regained his ability to see. Dellenbaugh was blurry, until his face came closer. A look of horror was on his face. His lips were moving as he reached for Calibrisi. Like being underwater, the words were faint, slow, rubbery.

Calibrisi tried to take a step, but it was like stepping into water. His ankle bent and his leg fell away. He stumbled and collapsed to the floor, landing with a reverberating crash on his side, then rolling onto his back. His eyes wavered inside their sockets as he searched the ceiling, trying to focus on something—a lightbulb, the president's face, a crack in the plaster, anything that might keep him in this moment, this room …

This world.

Calibrisi clutched his throat, attempting to stop what was coming, but it was pointless, which, on some level, he already knew …

 

36

ALEPPO HOSPITAL

SYRIA

Dewey awoke to a scream coming from somewhere down the hall. How long he'd been out, he didn't know, but it couldn't have been more than five or ten minutes. He smelled foul body odor; the doctor was next to the table, wiping blood from his forehead and neck, getting him cleaned up for his execution.

Dewey looked around the operating room. The cameraman had arrived. He looked like the others, except for a white T-shirt. He was standing next to the camera, adjusting it.

The gunman remained at the door. The rifle was in his right hand, its strap on his shoulder. In his left hand was a cell phone, which he was typing into.

A dull, throbbing ache came from Dewey's stomach.

Another scream echoed down the hallway.

Dewey stared at the cameraman, who was watching Dewey from behind the camera and making last-minute adjustments. The klieg lights remained off.

The doctor removed a small glass vial and a syringe from a cabinet. He stuck the needle into the bottle and pulled back on the plunger, loading the syringe. When he finished, he stepped toward Dewey.

“Painkiller,” he whispered in broken English. “It will make the pain less.”

“Cut the rope,” whispered Dewey, extending his hands.

The doctor shook his head ever so slightly.

“They kill me,” he whispered back. “I have daughter and son. They're babies. My wife, she is dead. I'm all they have.”

The doctor leaned toward Dewey, the needle out. He grabbed Dewey's arm and moved the needle closer.

Behind the doctor, Dewey watched the cameraman. He had the cord to the lights and was looking for an outlet.

The doctor placed the tip of the needle to Dewey's arm.

The cameraman found one and pulled the end of the cord toward it.

Near the door, the gunman put his arm in front of his face as he prepared for the lights to come on.

“Behind you,” said Dewey as the cameraman jammed the plug into the wall.

The doctor turned just as the klieg lights flashed on, like two bright balls of halogen sunlight, bursting inside the room. He was blinded.

Dewey grabbed the doctor's wrist with his hands, still bound. He stabbed the syringe into the doctor's neck, then sat up quickly and leapt from the table. He grabbed the doctor's neck and charged toward the door, pushing the frightened man in the direction of the gunman.

The gunman heard the doctor's muffled yelp and opened his eyes. He panicked at the sight of the doctor's back moving quickly toward him. The weapon was at his side and he reached for it. He swept it up and across the air as Dewey, clutching the doctor, barreled across the room directly at him. The gunman fired at the same moment Dewey reached him. The doctor's helpless body slammed into the gunman and pushed into the muzzle of the rifle just as the first shot was fired. The bullet struck him in the right side, blowing off a piece of his torso, barely missing Dewey. Dewey slammed the doctor, now screaming in pain, into the weapon with all his strength. The rifle was pushed to the side under the force of the doctor's frame. The gunman was knocked backward against the door, but he held on to the rifle and fought to free it.

Dewey let go of the doctor and pivoted, ducking just as the cameraman swung a knife across the air at him. As the blade whooshed inches above Dewey's head, Dewey kicked out with his foot, hitting the cameraman with a brutal strike to the side of his knee. The cameraman crashed awkwardly to the floor.

Dewey lurched toward the barrel of the rifle with his two bound hands, gripping it tightly just as the gunman kicked him in the leg. Dewey absorbed the kick. He leapt at the gunman with his shoulder, still clutching the barrel of the rifle, and slammed hard into the gunman's head, crushing him against the wall. Dewey kept the man pressed into the wall, backing into him and launching again, slamming him hard, preventing him from doing anything except struggle against Dewey's powerful frame. But the gunman still held onto the barrel of the rifle. It was at Dewey's side and the terrorist was trying desperately to aim it at the only part of Dewey he could, his feet. The gunman fired. The unmuted staccato of the bullets hammered into the floor a few inches from Dewey's right foot. Dewey slammed his elbow behind him. It hit the terrorist directly on the nose, crushing it. The gunman yelped in pain.

Dewey's bound hands tried to keep hold of the barrel of the rifle as he continued to grind the large man into the wall and prevent him from getting any room to move. The gunman, who held the gun in his right hand, finger on the trigger, yanked at the rifle, trying to free the barrel from Dewey's clutch and push Dewey far enough away so that he could shoot him.

Dewey's eyes swept left, where the cameraman was now standing. With a maniacal look on his face, he pulled a combat blade from his belt and charged at Dewey, who was doing everything he could just to keep hold of the rifle. As the cameraman sprinted forward, Dewey felt a vicious kick from the gunman behind him, a steel-toed boot striking his ankle, nearly collapsing him. He let out a low, pained grunt.

The cameraman raised the six-inch blade above his head and swung down, taking a ferocious cut at Dewey. Dewey pitched left, taking the gunman behind him with him, barely evading the cameraman's savage slash. Another kick to his ankle made Dewey groan, but it also enraged him. He maneuvered the barrel of the rifle up toward the cameraman as, in the pandemonium, the gunman triggered the carbine again. Bullets ripped into the cameraman's face.

In one fluid motion, Dewey let go of the barrel of the gun and raised both arms over his head. He reached over his head and back, wrapping his bound hands over the gunman's head. He pulled his hands down so that the rope at his wrists was now around the back of his neck. The gunman let out a pained gasp as he tried with all his might to free himself from Dewey's hold, but it was no use. Dewey pulled forward, bringing the terrorist's head closer, yanking his skull and neck down against his right shoulder.

The gunman was powerful and he fought back, but Dewey was stronger and his arms were longer. Slowly, Dewey tightened the hold; the terrorist's neck was soon noosed against Dewey's shoulder in a viselike grip. The gunman struggled to breathe as Dewey pulled down on his neck with all his strength. The gunman tried to swing the rifle across Dewey's chest as Dewey choked him, but he couldn't get the muzzle close enough to have any chance of hitting Dewey. The gunman panted desperately as Dewey continued to strangle him.

Suddenly, the gunman's other hand reached over Dewey's other shoulder and fumbled for the barrel of the carbine. When he managed to grasp it, he now had hold of both ends of the rifle, in front of Dewey. He heaved backward, slamming the rifle against Dewey's neck as Dewey maintained his clamp on the terrorist's neck, sealing off air. Dewey felt sharp pain from the strike to his neck. The gunman repeated the move, trying to choke Dewey with the rifle before he himself ran out of air.

The room was filled with the animal sounds of the two men struggling for their lives.

Dewey writhed as he tried to breathe, but the gunman was strong. Dewey staggered forward, still holding the terrorist against his shoulder, knowing that if he allowed him to get any air, it would all be over. The pressure from the rifle against Dewey's neck slackened. He lurched to his right in the same instant he ripped his wrists down with every ounce of strength he had. The abrupt motion took both men sideways and down. As they tumbled to the floor, Dewey heard the dull, rubberlike
thud
of the terrorist's spine snapping. For several seconds, Dewey lay there, catching his breath, the terrorist's lifeless face just inches away. Slowly, he raised his bound wrists over the dead man's head and let go.

Looking around, Dewey saw the knife on the floor and awkwardly cut away the rope that bound his wrists.

How had no one heard? It didn't matter now. Maybe gunfire was so common they'd all learned to ignore it.

Dewey picked up the rifle. He popped out the magazine, found a full one in the gunman's weapons vest, and slammed it into the carbine. He was breathing heavily and soaked with perspiration. He hurt all over. Breathing was painful. But he pushed the discomfort from his mind. He didn't have time to feel pain right now—not if he wanted to live.

Dewey stepped to the window, pulling aside the curtains. Sunlight entered the room. He looked down. It took his eyes a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing. When he did, he recoiled.

A pile of corpses was stacked high atop a flatbed truck, waiting to be moved to some sort of mass grave. Most of the bodies were in hospital garb.

He had to get out of there. He had to move. Garotin would be back soon.

Dewey set the fire selector on the gun to manual, allowing him to fire one bullet at a time. He clutched the gun as he stepped to the door, listening carefully for noise.

He pulled the door slowly in, peeking his head out of the room. The corridor was bright in green-hued fluorescent. A nurse's desk down the corridor was manned by two men, who were seated, smoking and talking to each other. The hallway was long, door after door of rooms, most closed. Beyond the desk, a line of beds on wheels lay empty.