Homeland Terror. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Flames still licked at the charred shell, sending thick clouds of smoke up into the night. An eerie haze filled the street, almost like a fog, mingling with the light snowfall. Bolan knew the driver could not have survived the explosion.
As the Executioner turned to make his way back to Kissinger, another vehicle slowly rolled into view through the haze, passing the ruined semi. Bolan raised his pistol but held his fire. It was Grimaldi in the panel truck.
Bolan slowly slid his gun back into his web holster and waved to get Grimaldi’s attention. The panel truck picked up speed, then slowed to a stop alongside him.
“The grenade launcher’s still in back here,” the Stony Man pilot called out to Bolan as he leaned across the front seat and threw open the passenger door. “How the hell did you turn that truck into toast?”
“I had their help,” Bolan conceded. He had to raise his voice, as the night had come alive with the screaming of sirens. He got in the truck and explained what had happened, then told Grimaldi, “Let’s get back to the hall. Cowboy’s down.”
Once they were within view of the fallen sign, Grimaldi pulled to a stop in front of the stalled semi. He and Bolan scrambled to the planter and carefully lifted the toppled marquee, then shoved it to one side so they could get to Kissinger. The armorer wasn’t moving, but he had a pulse and was breathing, however faintly. Bolan and Grimaldi both saw a thin crimson rivulet seeping from the corner of the man’s mouth.
“Internal bleeding,” Grimaldi murmured.
Bolan nodded. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the flashing rooflights of several approaching vehicles.
“Let’s hope one of those is an ambulance,” he said, turning his attention back to Kissinger. “He’s hanging on by a thread.”
3
McLean, Virginia
Three hundred yards from the lean-to rooftop where Edgar Byrnes lay peering through the night-vision scope of his M-136 AT-4 rocket launcher, Roberta Williamson was finishing another routine workday on the sixth floor of CIA headquarters. Yes, she’d put in overtime, but that was the norm for her these days. She’d only been at the Langley facility ten months, and she still felt the need to do extra work to prove herself worthy of the promotion she’d received after five years of field work with the Agency’s Paris bureau. She was now an intercept analyst for the Company’s counterterrorism division, part of a thirteen-person team charged with ferreting out communication links between al Qaeda sleeper cells in the States and their overseas contacts. It was demanding work, but Williamson loved the challenge.
For Williamson, the biggest downside to her job was its sedentary nature. She’d put on twelve pounds since reporting to Langley, and long hours at the desk had given her lower-back problems, as well. She knew more exercise would help on both fronts and she tried, whenever possible, to leave time at the end of the day to do some stretches and then jog around some portion of the facility’s 130-acre grounds. This night it was snowing outside, so Williamson figured she had an easy excuse to skip the workout. When her phone rang, however, she suspected her boss had other ideas. She smiled ruefully as she picked up the receiver. “Williamson here.”
“Hey, Robbi. It’s your conscience.”
“I figured as much,” Williamson replied.
“So, whaddya say? Up for a jog?”
She chuckled, “Do I have a choice?”
“Be right there.”
“Bastard,” Williamson teased before hanging up the phone. She was still smiling as she pushed away from her desk and kicked off her pumps.
Her “conscience” was former Army Colonel Felix Garber, the fifty-seven-year-old California native who’d recommended her for the job with counterterrorism and had served as her mentor these past ten months. Before joining the Company, Garber had put in twenty years with the XVIII Airborne Corps, concluding his service as the officer in charge of demolition operations in Khamisiyah following the Gulf War. He was now deputy director of the CIA’s counterterrorism division, and Williamson suspected it was only a matter of time before he took over the top position. She and Garber had worked alongside each other several times when the colonel had come to Paris on assignment, and they’d struck up a friendship based on their mutual passion for country music, haute cuisine and the Los Angeles Lakers. Working in adjacent offices now, they’d drawn even closer the past few months, and another incentive Williamson had for losing weight was her anticipation of the day when their relationship led to the bedroom and Garber would have his first look at her without her clothes on.
She had changed into her jogging sweats and was tying her running shoes when Garber appeared in her doorway, wearing rubberized biker shorts and a sleeveless ski vest. He was in good shape and had a better physique than most men half his age.
“You want to go running dressed like that?” Williamson said. “You’ll freeze!”
“Wimp,” Garber said with a grin. “It’s not cold out—it’s brisk.”
“Yeah, right.” She laughed.
As they left the office and headed down the hall, Garber floated the idea of having dinner together after their run. He mentioned a new sports bar that had just opened up across the river in D.C. They’d have the Lakers game on, he told her, and their crab cakes had just gotten a good write-up in the Post.
“Can’t say no to a good crab cake,” Williamson said.
They were waiting for the elevator when Garber snapped his fingers.
“Damn!” he groaned. “I forgot to update Tangiers on that cable intercept we just cracked.”
“Go ahead and fax them,” Williamson told him. “I’ll hold the elevator and get in a few stretches.”
“Be right back,” Garber said.
Williamson watched Garber head back down the hallway, admiring his legs. And that ass, she thought to herself, smiling.
The colonel had unlocked his office door and was heading into his office when a sudden explosion shook the building. The floor beneath Williamson’s feet shuddered with so much force she lost her balance and bounced off the elevator doors, then fell as if struck by an invisible force. By the time she’d landed, the floor had stabilized, but a deafening alarm had gone off in the hallway and the ceiling-mounted safety sprinklers had been activated. Water showered down on Williamson as she slowly sat up, mind racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Like Garber, Williamson was a California native and her first thought was that there’d been an earthquake. But then she smelled smoke and heard the unmistakable crackling sound of racing flames. Alarmed, she glanced down the hallway leading back to her office.
“No!” she gasped.
The inner walls of her office, as well as Garber’s and the office next to hers, had all but disintegrated, and a portion of the ceiling had collapsed into the flames engulfing the corridor. A woman’s body hung eerily out over the edge of the overhead cavity, then tumbled down to the hallway floor, joining three other corpses strewed about like discarded dolls. The fire had begun to devour the victims, and Williamson’s stomach clenched at her first whiff of burning flesh.
“Felix!” she called out, staggering to her feet.
She cried out Garber’s name again as she tore off her sweatshirt and soaked it beneath the ceiling sprinklers. Pressing the makeshift mask to her face, she headed down the hall. Smoke stung her eyes as she leaned over the first body she came to—Roger Olsen, a colleague she’d shared coffee with in the cafeteria just a few hours ago. The man’s clothes were torn, and he was bleeding from deep cuts sustained when he’d crashed through the office wall that now lay smoldering in broken chunks on the floor around him. His jaw had been dislocated and his mouth hung open, slack and off-center. His eyes were open but there was no life in them.
“No,”