Chasing zero, p.13
Chasing Zero, page 13
part #9 of Agent Zero Spy Thriller Series
You’ve met Dawoud before, he realized. Years earlier, long before Ashraf Dawoud was president, when he was a representative in the Palestinian Legislative Council. Zero had been the CIA contact involved in a multinational covert operation to find and eliminate a Hamas-affiliated bomber, and Dawoud had been his parliamentary liaison.
He had met Dawoud before—had stood in front of him, had shaken his hand.
Zero watched as the two presidents shook hands now, on the dais, and he honed in on it. He recalled, as if it had only just happened, that Dawoud had a unique handshake. It was the only time in Zero’s life (that he could recall) that a man had folded in his pinky finger. He remembered the odd feeling of a knuckle against his palm, and had restrained himself from showing any reaction.
Here, now, on the dais, Dawoud shook Rutledge’s hand firmly, pumping it twice, all five of his fingers clasping the US president’s.
What does it mean?
Nothing. He knew that. It was a tiny, meaningless idiosyncrasy from years prior. An unfolded pinky meant nothing.
At least that’s what his brain told him. That damned logical wad of fat and tissue in his skull sending electrical impulses down his spine even while actively trying to kill him. It had, for the most part, served him well over a lifetime of parenting, teaching, and surviving.
But so had his heart, and it was pumping double-time.
What does it mean?
Dawoud smiled and spoke a few words at the podium, but they were lost on Zero as he inched closer. It meant something. His heart told him so.
There were too many people. He took the slightest of steps forward, shouldering into a man with a camera and eliciting a sharp scowl.
“Zero,” Maria said in a hissing whisper behind him.
On the dais, Rutledge spoke again into the microphone. “Please join me in welcoming the Prime Minister of Israel, Jacob Nitzani.”
More applause. Another ruffle of the curtain. Zero moved, or tried to. Too many people. He didn’t take his eyes off the dais and bumped into someone. An object clattered to the floor. A woman swore at him under her breath. He crept closer. He heard his name hissed again behind him.
Nitzani was a slender man, wearing a brown suit and the owlish glasses that had become as much of a trademark of his appearance as the thin mustache he’d maintained throughout his political career. He flashed a gentle wave to the crowd of attendees before turning to Rutledge. He shook the president’s hand and gave Rutledge’s shoulder a squeeze with his left in a subtle gesture of appreciation.
Zero shoved forward. This was wrong, he felt it. He pushed between two reporters and both cried out. Eyes were directed his way, the type of attention he didn’t want. Presidential Guard members. Two Secret Service agents scowled.
Secret Service…
Nitzani turned and shook Dawoud’s hand.
The two men exchanged a few words between them. Smiles on their faces. Hope for the future.
The pinky did not fold.
Zero pushed again. A Secret Service agent positioned in front of the dais locked eyes with him and stepped forward, one hand reaching for the hidden holster beneath his jacket.
He had no choice.
“Rhubarb!” he shouted. It sounded utterly ridiculous. But he had no choice. “Rhubarb!”
The agent paused a moment, a quizzical expression on his face. Clearly he’d been briefed on the codeword, but when it came time for action he froze.
But what did I expect? That he would throw me a gun?
On the dais, Dawoud released Nitzani’s hand. The smile never left his face as the Palestinian president’s right hand reached for the inside of his suit jacket.
“Rhubarb!” he shouted once more.
“Zero!” Maria shouted behind him.
“Stop there!” the Secret Service agent bellowed at him.
Rutledge looked down. His gaze met Zero’s, and an instant of confusion became panic. He could see it, that something was wrong. Nitzani looked too at the sudden outburst from below them.
President Dawoud, however, never took his eyes off of the Israeli prime minister. The hand came out of the jacket again gripping a small, silver pistol. He held it to Nitzani’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Prime Minister Nitzani’s body crumpled instantly. He was dead before he hit the ground. The gunshot did not get a single echo in the chamber before the screams began. Bodies surged suddenly against Zero, a sea of them, limbs in his face and shrieks in his ears.
The Palestinian president had just murdered the Israeli prime minister in front of the entire world. Right in front of…
Rutledge.
Get to Rutledge.
In movies there was what was commonly referred to as a “reaction shot,” a moment after a big event that seems to freeze in time to give actors the chance to emote, to show their terror or shock or resolve. In reality, that moment rarely existed. Terror fueled adrenaline, and few things provoked genuine, knee-quaking terror like the impossibly loud sounds of a gun fired in close quarters. Like watching a man die in front of you.
The crowd surged against him, everyone trying to scramble backward, to the exits, as Zero struggled forward. A quick glance over his shoulder told him his team was following suit and having just as much trouble. Foxworth was knocked down. The people on the elevated rows were pushing, shoving each other out of the way, falling off the edges, undoubtedly being trampled under feet.
Get to Rutledge. That was all that mattered.
A burst of automatic gunfire tore the air. More screams followed it. Zero ducked and covered his head. He tried to look behind him, to find Maria or Strickland or Alan, but couldn’t see anyone else. Only surging bodies.
When he dared to look up again, the Secret Service agent at the front of the dais was clutching his own chest as blood sprouted against his white shirt from several places.
Another burst of fire. The Presidential Guard members closed in around the dais, the automatic pistols in hand. They boxed in the Secret Service agents and executed them in seconds.
Zero shoved a man out of his way and caught a glimpse of Rutledge. His face was white as a sheet, his arms struggling against Dawoud, who held him from behind with one arm around the president’s neck and the gun pressed to his temple.
No…
But he didn’t shoot. Instead he pulled Rutledge backward, in small steps… toward the curtain. Toward the door through which they had emerged.
A black uniform suddenly blocked his view as a member of the Presidential Guard leveled his weapon directly at the media crowd.
“Down!” he shouted, to no one and everyone, as he crouched and covered his head.
Bullets tore through those around him. Bodies fell. More gunshots, this time from the back of the room. The security out in the atrium, trying to return fire. But Zero knew they would hit just as many innocents as insurgents.
He saw a path. The Presidential Guardsman popped the clip on the automatic pistol and reached for another. To him, Zero was the press. Not a threat.
He brought his left heel up and punched it. In two long strides he was there, close enough to kick up. The toe of the boot caught the man in the abdomen, just below the belly button. Five inches of steel tore into him as Zero wrenched the gun from his hands.
He spun, crouching as he did, and fired. Bullets tore through two more black-clad Palestinians. If they were even Palestinians.
Shots rang out behind him as the most severe pressure broke across his back. The shock of it forced him to the ground, forced the air from his lungs. It felt like he’d been shot—he had been shot—but the graphene held. He gritted his teeth against the pain and rolled over in time to see Alan grappling with the man, forcing the gun upward and kicking out a knee.
Another came from the left, raising a pistol. Zero kicked off the boot in one fluid motion, spun it in his hand, and hammer-fisted down on the sole.
The blade shot out and glanced off the man’s neck. Blood erupted from the cut and his hands flew to the wound immediately. Zero punched the heel again and a new blade sprang out. he rolled, covering the distance between them rapidly, and punched the blade once into the guard’s heart.
Alan looked down at him, breathing hard. The other man’s neck was broken and his pistol was in Reidigger’s hand. Zero’s own hands had blood on them, and a boot with a knife protruding from the front.
“There were more,” Alan panted. “Where’d they go?”
Zero’s head whipped around. He saw Maria, helping injured press members up and out of the auditorium, ushering them toward the exits. Strickland hauled Chip to his feet. The former pilot had blood on his forehead.
There were more.
Alan was right; earlier he had counted at least eight Presidential Guardsmen in the room. Five of them lay dead. He and Alan had taken out three. Had the Secret Service gotten off a few shots? It hadn’t seemed like they’d had time in the melee. Friendly fire, perhaps? Or…
Or they weren’t actually Presidential Guardsmen.
The others were simply gone. The curtain still ruffled slightly.
The door. Dawoud was gone. Rutledge was gone. They’d vanished behind the curtain.
Zero vaulted to his feet and beelined for it. “Let’s go—”
“Freeze!” a voice boomed.
He turned. Most of the attendees had fled, or at least made it to the back of the auditorium, while the Israeli cops and Secret Service agents in the atrium had made their way in. Guns were drawn—and directed at them.
Zero raised his hands. The bloody ones, still holding the boot and knife.
“CIA!” Zero shouted back.
“Drop your weapons!” the lead agent commanded.
Maria stepped forward and spoke quickly, despite being out of breath. “Executive Operations Team. You were given a codeword. ‘Rhubarb.’ We have to go after the president, he was taken hostage and—”
Suddenly the power went out. All at once, every light in the place flickered out, throwing them into near-total darkness. Guns fired, muzzle flashes lighting up the room for fractions of seconds at a time, like an intermittent strobe light.
Zero dropped the boot and hit the deck, leaping onto his stomach in case anyone was firing in his direction. He didn’t know if it was the Israelis, or the Secret Service, or both, but he didn’t want to be the victim of a friendly-fire incident.
He got to his hands and knees and crawled forward, toward the best approximation of where he had just seen Maria. It was the only thing that made sense in the moment, to find some sort of oasis amid all this chaos. Someone in the darkness yelped; a gun went off again and he winced.
His hand reached forward for the floor and instead landed on something soft and yielding. He yanked it back. The body was still warm but did not react to his touch.
How many died today? And why?
There was a shuffling to his right. Zero froze, and a moment later a man grunted as he ran right into him. It wasn’t one of his teammates, he was sure of that much. The invisible man hit Zero’s shoulder and arm at his own knees and stumbled forward, tripping, falling.
Zero reached in the darkness for the fallen man, grasping, and found an upper arm. Arms ended in hands, hands held guns, and guns could kill the wrong person in a moment like this one. He slid his own hand down the length of the arm until it found a fist closed around a pistol, and he forced it upward.
The agent fired two shots, the sound of it breathtakingly loud and the muzzle flashes leaving spots in Zero’s vision. But still he held onto that fist, as he twisted his body around and brought the agent’s hand to his own opposite hip in a throw. Once he heard the dull thud and the whoosh of breath leaving the lungs, he wrenched the gun from the man’s hand and stood.
The lights blazed back on just as suddenly as they’d gone out. Zero winced… and then realized how this looked. He was standing, armed, pointing the gun at the ground. But on the floor before him was a Secret Service agent, unarmed and on his back, hands in front of his face as if that could stop a bullet.
Zero quickly dropped the gun and put his hands up. There were four guns trained on him from various angles. And others on his teammates.
“CIA!” Maria said again. “Executive Operations Team! Stand down!”
“ID?” the lead agent demanded.
“We’re undercover,” she explained quickly. “You’ve been briefed on a codeword, right? Rhubarb. The president chose it himself. He was taken that way, behind the curtain, by Dawoud…”
“And some of the Presidential Guard,” Alan added. He was bleeding from one nostril from a scrap in the darkness, but the agent nearest to him was unconscious on the floor.
“We have to go after him,” Zero added.
The lead agent held up a hand and scowled. “You five are going to stay right here, you understand me? We have protocols. Every exit of this building is being guarded by half a dozen men and we’ve got choppers in the air. There are armed men holding the president hostage somewhere in this building, and if we go running after them like some kind of derring-do we may give them cause to do something we’ll all very much regret later.”
“Derring-do?” Chip Foxworth scoffed.
Zero held back a far stronger rebuke. His instinct was to chase them down, kill every one of them, and get Rutledge to safety. But the agent was right. A single bullet could end Rutledge’s life, and he had last seen the president with a gun held to his head by another president.
“Lock it down,” the lead agent told his black-suited team. “No one gets in or out. And call it in: POTUS is a hostage of the Palestinian president.”
“Not the Palestinian president,” Zero muttered. He’d been thinking it ever since the handshake with the unfolded pinky. There were only two possible solutions: either President Ashraf Dawoud had gone completely insane, or whoever that was on the dais, whoever had killed the Israeli prime minister, was not President Ashraf Dawoud.
And while the former might have been more plausible to most, plausibility had never been a terribly strong concern in his line of work.
“You five,” the lead agent barked. “Stay put. Consider yourselves locked down as well. You do not leave this room. Am I clear?”
“Clear,” Maria told him, though her teeth were gritted.
“I want a thorough sweep of every floor,” the lead agent commanded his team. “Starting at the top floor and working our way down. Do not engage.” He led his fellow agents to the curtain, which they pushed aside to reveal a dark-stained wooden door that led to who-knew-what other part of the Generali Building. “Henderson, contact the embassy in Jerusalem for anyone they can spare. Then contact Air Force One and have the president’s medical team on standby…” His voice trailed as they headed carefully through the door.
Zero kicked at a microphone near his foot. It rolled away until it came to rest against the body of the female reporter who had sworn at him in the crowd. He shook his head. At least a dozen civilians were dead, maybe more, and not counting the Secret Service who had been inside at the time, and the Presidential Guardsmen that he and Alan had taken out—if they were really Presidential Guardsmen at all. Two Israeli officers took the tablecloth from the dais and carefully laid it over the body of Prime Minister Nitzani.
And here Zero was, with his team, stymied by protocol. Made impotent by hierarchy. He retrieved the boot he had dropped and pulled it on. The blade was still extended; he stomped down on the heel and it ejected, clearing the room and bouncing off the far wall of the auditorium.
“Just a boot, huh?” Maria said behind him.
“Just a failsafe,” he said.
A failsafe. Right—he had deployed the drone as Penny had asked. He quickly pulled the satellite phone from his pocket and saw that he already had a message from her.
Initiated, was all it said. Good; at least they had eyes in the air.
“Everyone all right?” Maria asked the team.
“No,” Strickland answered candidly. The young agent couldn’t seem to take his gaze from the covered body of the prime minister. “We should be going after him.”
“It’s literally their job,” Maria reminded him. “Not ours.”
“We’re his team,” Strickland argued.
“For matters of executive orders,” said Maria firmly. “Not to be his personal security detail—”
“That’s why we were here,” Foxworth interjected, joining the fray.
“They’re right,” Zero added.
Maria shot him a stern look. “Taking their side on this?”
“Not taking any side. Just saying—they’re right. We’re his team.” But he’s not the only one we answer to. Zero made a call and put the satellite phone to his ear.
“Zero!” Penny practically shouted at him through the phone. “My god, I saw the whole thing… what’s going on right now?”
“I think you’d know more than I do,” he replied. “What’s the word?”
“Chaos is the word,” Penny said flatly. “I’ve got the drone in the air. The Generali Building has been evacuated and locked down. General belief is that the president is being held hostage inside—”
“Yeah, we’re still inside,” Zero told her. “What else?”
“Jerusalem is being locked down as we speak. All exits, roadways, airports are being shut down temporarily and blocked. Police are establishing a two-block perimeter from your location and trying to empty it.” She paused for a moment. “Jesus, the Palestinian president actually did it himself. Zero, that was awful—”
“Penny,” he interrupted, “I need you to put me through to DNI Barren.”
She heaved a short sigh. “I’m doubtful he’s available at the moment.”
“Make him available. I know you can.”
She was silent for a moment. “You’re asking me to hack the Director of National Intelligence’s cell phone?”
Zero glanced up at Maria. “It’s either that or I have his daughter call him, and I have the feeling your way will be faster.”
