Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(79)

“Any comms intercepts?”

“We’ve got no chatter. Nothing.”

Balls didn’t like that answer. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“No sir. This kind of Al Qaeda attack would need some kind of advanced coordination.”

“If it’s Al Qaeda.”

“Pretty much has to be. At least that’s the view here in the SCIF.”

“Who do you have on shift tonight?”

“Levi’s here with the regular night crew analysts and staff.”

Balls felt a wave of relief course through his brain. If Levi Elias was there, they’d get this figured out, hopefully in time to stop whoever had started all this from achieving their operational objectives.

“Anyone called the president yet?”

“We were trying to get you first.”

“Good plan. I’m on my way in. If I’m not there in five minutes, tell Levi to make the call.”

“Roger.”

Balls disconnected the call and set the satcom phone back in its cradle. As he stood in the darkness beside his bed, buck naked except for his dress shoes, blood oozing up between his toes, he listened to the warble of distant sirens, trying to wrap his brain around the problem.

Then three more explosions shook the building.

As the shock waves subsided, the urgency of getting back to NSA headquarters pounded the general’s head.

Glancing down, another thought struck Balls Wilson.

Maybe I ought to put on some pants.





“Heads up!” Heather’s voice whispered in his mind.

Detecting sudden movement from the corner of his eye, Mark hurled himself to his left, his legs driving him toward this new threat. The boom of the nine-millimeter pistol accompanied the hiss of a bullet that bounced off the wall behind him. An Arabic fighter wielded the Beretta in a double-handed crouch. As he tried to adjust his aim, Mark slid feet-first along the floor, his right leg pistoning up into the man’s crotch, launching him into the ceiling, four feet up.

Two other men rounded the corner in time to see their comrade’s limp body strike the floor behind the blur that was Mark Smythe. The taller of the two swung a nightstick that Mark deflected, twisting it free of the Arab’s hand as he reversed its course, striking his head with the sound of a baseball bat hitting a watermelon.

The second man dived for the Beretta and Mark jumped on top of him, his hands closing around the fellow’s wrists as he grabbed the gun handle. The Arab kicked and writhed in Mark’s grasp, tried to twist his gun hand free, then screamed as he felt both wrists snap in the crushing grip of the one who held him. The Beretta clattered to the concrete floor.

In desperation, the Arabic fighter sought to bring his knee up into Mark’s groin, but abandoned the attempt as Mark twisted the man’s broken left wrist, bringing forth another gargling scream. Grabbing the handgun, Mark brought it to the man’s head, a smooth trigger squeeze ending his struggles. The smell of gunpowder filled Mark’s nose, rapidly overridden by the stink of bile and loose bowels, the coppery taste of blood mist on his tongue. The cloying aftereffects of violent death. He’d experienced them before, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that it wouldn’t be too long until he bathed in them again.

Rapidly frisking the bodies, Mark found what he was hoping for, two spare nine-millimeter magazines. Ejecting the partially empty magazine, he compared its weight to that of the full ones. Three rounds left. Mark slapped one of the full mags into the weapon, ripped the shirt off one of the bodies, fashioned it into a crude shoulder pouch to hold the spare magazines, and moved on.

Jennifer sat in the corner of the last cell on the left, eyes rolled back in her head, a vapid smile painted on her face.

“Jen, snap out of it.” Mark’s words and gentle shake only caused her to push weakly at him, reminding him of how, as a child, she’d resisted their dad’s lifting her sleeping body from the car after a late-night family outing.

Glancing down at her left arm, Mark spotted the needle tracks. Not only had they addicted his sister to heroin, they’d made sure to mark her as an addict. A fresh red haze colored Mark’s vision as he lifted her gently in his arms.

“Don’t worry, Jen,” he breathed in her ear. “I’m going to get you out of here. And then I’m going to kill every one of those bastards.”





Heather felt the tremor from the first two explosions, making a quick approximation of their distance and direction as she pulled up a digital map of Fort Meade on the computer monitor. A slow smile spread across her face as she mentally pinned the locations on the map.

Jack.

As she’d anticipated, he was out there, had probably been preparing and waiting for days, if not weeks. Now he’d detected the emergency situation at the NSA prison and had initiated his own supporting attack, an attack designed to disrupt and confuse the government response.

Returning her attention to the task at hand, she saw Mark walk out of Jennifer’s cell, his sister’s limp body cradled in his arms. A rapid scan of the other monitors showed the assault team on the fourth sublevel fighting for survival. They’d lost three team members and the remaining two were pinned down in the disabled elevator.

Heather shifted focus to the ground floor. Team Two had just finished placing a small explosive charge on the stairwell door and had backed off in preparation to blow the bolt.