The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (2 page)

But
somehow the United States Park Police had hired him at arguably one of the most
significant national monuments in the country. And he had worked his way up to
shift supervisor.

His
shift.

“What is
it this time, somebody littering, over?”

Randy
felt his blood boil as his face and ears burned red. He sucked in a deep
breath, all the way to the bottom of his stomach, then slowly exhaled.

“I have
twelve, say again, twelve, Middle Eastern men acting in a suspicious manner,
over.”

There
was a pause, and Yakovski’s voice seemed a little more muted. In fact, if Randy
didn’t know any better, he’d say the bastard was scared.

“How are
they acting suspiciously, over.”

“They
didn’t arrive together, but are now all congregated in the same spot. Those
that did arrive together are pretending to not know each other, and none of
them are looking at the statue, they’re all looking out at the bay, over.”

“Are you
kidding me? A group of tourists decide to look at the city instead of the
statue for a few minutes, and you want us to arrest them? Get back to your
post, you’re wasting my time, out.”

The mike
went silent and Randy pressed it to his mouth. “Fuck you, you arrogant,
ignorant asshole, I’m still on my lunch break.”

But he
hadn’t pressed the button, instead remaining content to know Yakovski was an
asshole, and always would be, and that unlike Yakovski, Randy could quit at any
time, this merely a hobby job.

So
fuck orders.

He
hooked his radio on his belt, took a sip of his Diet Coke, then continued his
observation of the twelve men, who he was now close enough to see were anywhere
from late teens to late thirties. All in good shape.

If
something does go down, you don’t stand a chance.

His finger
absentmindedly flicked open the snap securing the holster of his Heckler &
Koch P7M13 pistol as he drained the last of his drink, nothing left but ice in
the bottom of his cup. He tossed it into a nearby garbage bin, then took
position up the branch in the path leading to the northern entrance of the
monument, about two hundred feet from where the first man stood. Tucked nearly
out of sight, and in the shade of a large little-leaf linden tree, he waited,
for what he did not know, but with the pace his heart was pumping at, he knew
his subconscious was telling him it couldn’t be anything good.

And
finally it began.

One of
the men suddenly stood erect, then another, both looking at a specific point in
the bay. Their counterparts joined them, and Randy looked to see if he could
spot what they were looking at. And a good chunk of bravery was cleaved from
his stomach, a pit forming that he had felt innumerous times when things were
about to go down.

And he
fought through it, as he did every time.

Use
the fear. Let the adrenaline flow.

He knew
it would heighten his senses, make him more alert, if he could only control the
fuel surging through his body. He immediately began his tactical breathing
techniques, sucking the air in through his nose, forcing it into his stomach,
then slowly exhaling through the mouth, and repeating this several times until
he had his heart rate down to near normal.

Shakey
hands can’t shoot straight.

He flipped
the buckle to his holster aside, lifting his weapon slightly as the sight before
him unfolded.

Two
boats, their sleek white hulls skipping above the waves, any safety measures
useless, were racing toward the seawall that stood not fifty feet from where he
was. All twelve men were standing tall now, staring at the boats as they rapidly
closed the gap.

Randy
activated his mike.

“This is
Douglas, I’ve got two high speed boats heading toward the island, directly
toward my twelve suspects. Something’s going down, we need to sound the alert,
now! Over!”

“This is
Yakovski. I thought I told you to return to—”

“Listen
you ignorant bastard, I’m telling you a terrorist attack is about to go down.
Now get your thumb out of your ass, and sound the alarm!”

The
screaming engines of the boats began to ease as they powered down for the
approach. Randy knew if they made the island, they wouldn’t stand a chance at
stopping any attack.

So he
made the decision that cops, soldiers, and everyday heroes do.

He ran
toward the danger.

Rushing
from his position, he raced to the seawall, drawing his weapon. He hit the
guardrail and saw the two boats cutting in opposite directions, as they slid
toward the wall. Each held four men, one at the helm, the rest already lifting
what looked like ladders, assembling them into lengths that would easily reach
the top of the fifteen foot seawall.

Randy
grabbed his mike that Yakovski had been screaming threats over and pressed the
button. “Two boats are now at the seawall. Eight men are assembling ladders to
come ashore. I am engaging, whether your cowardly ass sends me backup or not.
Over and out.”

He
switched off the radio, flicked off his safety, and took aim at the closest
boat. He sucked in a deep breath, and eased it out as he squeezed the trigger.
The report was loud, and the ricochet off the hull told him he had found his
target. He rapidly began to squeeze off rounds at the first boat, sending the
tourists in the vicinity into a panic.

Screams
filled his ears as his peripheral vision monitored the hundreds of people
around him scrambling to get out of the area. A quick glance at the twelve men
had them turning toward him, but not drawing weapons, the security checkpoints
before getting on the ferry preventing them from bringing any firearms.

He had
to stop the boats. They were obviously bringing the weapons for the group. A
crackle of gunfire from the second boat sent him ducking as the seawall took
several hits from the return fire. He popped up but another burst of gunfire
kept him pinned.

Where
the hell is the backup?

He heard
someone screaming in what he assumed was Arabic, it familiar enough to his ears
from the newscasts and movies. He leaned out and saw two of the men from the
ferry charging his position. He took aim and squeezed twice. The first man
dropped, two rounds in his chest, the other jumping over his fallen comrade’s
corpse, screaming “Allahu Akbar” at the top of his lungs, his right fist raised
in the air, his eyes burning embers of hate.

Randy
squeezed off two more rounds, ending the charge.

He
reloaded, and peered back over the edge. Ladders from both boats were against
the walls, and gear was being tossed in what looked like backpacks from the
boats to the top of the wall. He opened fire again, this time taking out the
pilot in the first boat who had been yelling “Yalla! Yalla! Yalla!”

Randy
was rewarded with another hail of gunfire that sustained itself until he heard
several single shots from further down the path. The weapon assaulting his
position didn’t stop, but did change direction. He popped his head up and saw
the light blue uniform of one of his fellow guards drop behind the seawall as
bullets tore into the stone.

Carrie!

He
recognized her blonde hair immediately. He switched his radio back on and heard
the chatter as his report was finally being taken seriously. He reloaded and
peered over the edge. It looked like they were finished transferring their
equipment as the men from the boats began to climb the ladders. He looked at
the group that had already been on the island and they were pulling weapons
from the backpacks, then racing for the base of the massive statue.

And with
a sickening feeling in his stomach, he knew what they were trying to do.

He
activated his mike.

“They’re
going to blow up the statue!”

“Who is
that? Is that you Randy? Are you okay?”

It was
Yakovski, his voice actually one of believable concern.

Maybe
he’s not such an asshole after all?

He
pressed the button. “I’m okay. Carrie is taking fire opposite my position, two
hundred yards east of me. Two boats have off-loaded a bunch of equipment.
Weapons confirmed, perhaps explosives. They’re already heading for the base of
the monument. I’ve taken out two of the original twelve, one of the eight new
arrivals. We need the Marine Patrol Unit for the boats and SWAT now! Over!”

He
squeezed off several more rounds, taking out one of the climbers, then shifted
slightly and took out the gunman raining bullets on Carrie. She immediately
responded by jumping up and emptying her clip at those climbing the ladder
closest to her. One went down, but a burst of gunfire from the pathway was met
with a cry from her and she fell out of sight.

“Carrie!”
cried Randy, his chest gripping his heart tight as the young woman, full of so
much promise, went down. He grabbed his mike. “Carrie’s been hit! I repeat,
officer down, over!”

“Is your
position secure, over?”

Randy
took a look. Now that the boats were empty and the equipment transferred, he
seemed to have been forgotten, all the terrorists, for that’s what they were,
racial profiling be damned, were either at the star shaped base of the
monument, or running toward it. He loaded his last clip and emptied it at the
men, taking three down permanently, wounding two who continued toward the wall,
one limping, the other gripping his shoulder. He ejected the clip and sat down,
the little alcove he was hidden in the only thing between him and certain death
as bullets tore at the stone pathway, ricochets coming uncomfortably close.

“I’m out
of ammo!” he yelled into his mike. “I’ve taken out three more hostiles, wounded
two. By my count that’s nine down, eleven still a threat. My position is secure
unless they decide to rush it. I need ammo! Over!”

“Help is
on its way. Sit tight! Over and out.”

Randy
peered around the corner and saw the last man clearing the top of the ladder,
the two he had wounded lying on the ground, their weapons swinging back and
forth as they looked for threats.

“Randy!”

Randy
looked over to where the voice had come from, and saw three of his comrades on
their bellies, lying on the pathway leading to the entrance to the statue.

“Ammo!”
he yelled.

Dick
Vance, an old timer like him from the force, waved then tossed a clip that
clattered toward him, but was ten feet short. He tossed another one, harder,
and this one landed within two feet of him. He reached out and grabbed the clip
as bullets tore through the pathway, a shard of stone slicing through the
fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger.

He
loaded the clip then looked at the three men across from him.

“Ready?”

Vance
gave him the thumbs up.

“On
three!” Randy flipped himself over on his knees then pushed himself to one, his
kneecap protesting. “One, two, three!” He leaned out as the others jumped up,
and began squeezing off rounds at the two men guarding the ladders. Within
seconds it was over, the four weapons against two weakened men no match.

Randy
ran toward the ladders as Vance and the other two youngsters as he liked to
call them ran to join him. Screams from above told them all they needed to know
as the cracks of small arms fire was met with the heavy bursts of fully automatic
weapons.

Randy
looked at Vance.

“Status?”

Vance
handed him several clips.

“Harbor
Patrol is on the way, the ferry has been recalled, and we’re setting up evac
points at the dock and on the north side of the island. Tourists are being
moved from the monument now, but we haven’t had time to get them out. That
jackass Yakovski wasted several minutes ranting about you. The damned stairwell
is still full, all the way to the torch.”

“We may
only have minutes.” Randy pointed at the two young men who had accompanied
Vance. “Jones? Ferrero?” The men nodded. “You two ready to be heroes?”

Jones
grinned. “Absofuckinlutely.”

“Then
get up those ladders and shoot anything that has a gun and isn’t wearing a
uniform. We’ll be right behind you.”

The two
men charged up the ladders, their weapons slung across their backs, as Randy
and Vance followed. Shots rang out in their direction, and Randy heard one of
the young men cry out, as the other returned fire. Jones fell past them and
Randy reached out, grabbing him and swinging him into the ladder. The young kid
grabbed on as Randy’s shoulder screamed for relief.

“You
alright, kid?”

“I’ve
got it,” he winced as he grabbed the rungs. Randy let go and resumed his climb,
Vance already over the top. Randy reached the lip of the base and looked over.
Ferrero was on his belly, firing at a group near the temporary construction stairs
leading to the third level, the rest already either up the stairs or just about
to be. Vance was squeezing off rounds from his pistol when Randy dropped beside
him, opening fire. A burst shattered the stone in front of them, and Vance
cried out, rolling over, his face bloodied where the shards had torn open the
skin.

“Fuck
this!” cursed Ferrero as he jumped up and ran toward the position, but to the
left, pouring bullets on the two terrorists, and drawing their gunfire. Randy
got to his knees and took careful aim, squeezing the trigger and taking out one
of the men. Lining up for his second shot, he heard Ferrero cry out, and from
the corner of his eye saw him stumble and fall.

He
squeezed.

The
final target was down.

He
grabbed his mike and pressed the switch.

“I’ve
got three men down, two on the second level, south side, one at the bottom of
the base, south side. Four more terrorists are dead, but the remaining have
made it to the third level. You need to empty the monument, now!”