True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(62)



Healy took out his phone and called Cotter, the leader of his four-man personal protection unit, which was waiting outside with his bulletproof SUV.

“Has the White House counsel left?” Healy asked.

“Yes, sir,” Cotter said. “Her car is leaving now. In fact, judging by how fast she’s going, she’s in a big hurry to get somewhere.”

“As soon as she’s out of sight, secure the building. Do not allow anyone to leave. Use deadly force if necessary,” Healy said. “A containment squad will be here shortly to relieve you.”

Healy disconnected and called the CIA situation room. Norman Kelton answered on the first ring.

“Yes, sir?” Kelton said, not waiting for introductions. The blue phone that he’d answered was for the exclusive use of the director of the CIA.

“We need to lock down Blackthorn’s headquarters in Bethesda immediately. Take everything and everyone and then scrub the place afterward. The employees are to be held and treated as enemy agents until proven otherwise. Bring in our best interrogators. I will brief them shortly.”

Kelton didn’t question the commands. Healy wouldn’t order the deployment of an armed force to Blackthorn, the seizure of all their equipment and files, the apprehension and interrogation of their personnel, and a forensic cleansing of the scene unless a serious security breach had occurred and someone had been killed. This sort of mission was often done overseas, particularly when invading an enemy’s headquarters. The fact that he’d ordered it on US soil, where the CIA was not authorized to operate, only underscored the severity of the situation and the danger to national security.

“The containment squad will be there in ten minutes,” Kelton said.

Healy disconnected. His men would arrive in a fleet of vehicles from a fictitious emergency fire-and-water-damage cleanup company. It was an appropriate cover.

He opened the door just wide enough to allow him to step out of the office and came face-to-face with an Asian woman who’d been on her way in, startling them both. It was clear from her expression that she recognized him. She would suck at her job if she didn’t. She took a step back and he pulled the door fully closed behind him.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “I was on my way in to see Mr. Cross.”

“He’s busy on an urgent national security matter,” Healy said. “And you are?”

“Victoria Takahara,” she said. “Vice president of global operations, sir.”

He nodded. “Ms. Takahara, I have to ask you and your colleagues to remain in the building until you can be briefed on this rapidly unfolding, highly classified situation. In the meantime, I need you to tell your colleagues not to communicate with anyone outside of this building by any means. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll let the others know.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”



Victoria continued down the hall and went to her office. She hadn’t seen inside Cross’ office but there was no mistaking the smell of warm brain matter. It was an unforgettable scent. Given the events of the last hour, and the CIA lockdown of the building, she had a pretty clear idea of what was about to unfold and what she had to do before the containment team got here.

She went to her desk, took out her Glock and two extra, loaded magazines, and stuck the gun in her pants and covered it with her jacket. She put the magazines in her pocket, grabbed a letter opener off her desk, stuck it in her pants, too, and walked out again.

Victoria returned to the situation room, closed the door behind her, and locked it. The thirty operatives in the room were still captivated by the catastrophe in Los Angeles that was unfolding on the media wall.

Seth turned to her. “What did Cross say?”

She looked past him and shouted to the room: “Attention, everyone. Code Red. I repeat, Code Red.”

Victoria didn’t have to say more. This was a carefully rehearsed disaster protocol and everyone knew what they had to do. Frenzy swept the room as operatives frantically typed commands to erase their computers and, as their electronic files were being deleted, began brushing the papers off their desks into burn bags.

An operative hurried through the room, collecting the burn bags and taking them to a large metal bin that Seth wheeled out of a utility closet. The bags each contained a small amount of thermite, a powdered mixture of aluminum and iron oxide that created molten metal when ignited, to guarantee a hot burn. Once all the bags were in the bin, Seth used a gun-shaped butane barbecue lighter to set the bags on fire. The flames erupted almost instantly, startling Seth and nearly scorching him.

The media wall went dark, deprived of the data that kept it alive and so did every computer screen. The whole operation to scrub the room, and effectively Blackthorn itself on a global level, from incriminating data took three minutes.

That’s when Victoria, from her high position in the back of the room, began calmly firing her Glock. She shot Seth first, hitting him between the eyes. He slumped over the edge of the bin and immediately caught on fire. She methodically picked off one person after another. Some people got head shots, others she shot in the knees just to take them down. It was easy pickings. They were all unarmed and had no place to hide.

But a few of them were trained soldiers. When she ejected her first empty magazine, one man tried to charge her but she stabbed him in the throat with the letter opener, jammed a fresh magazine in her Glock, and kept firing until she was certain that everyone was either dead or too badly wounded to get out alive.

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