End of Days (Pike Logan #16)(107)

He stood up, looked around in a 360-degree circle, and said, “I guess there won’t be any snipers. This is the highest point around.”

The agent scoffed and said, “You Americans. Always with the conspiracy theories. Do you think this is the first speech the prime minister has given? We protect him each time.”

“What about a rocket attack? This is sort of open ground, and it’s an easy location to find even if you’re just using Google Earth.”

“We have the Iron Dome. It’s ninety percent effective against missiles from Gaza or Lebanon—and those missiles aren’t even accurate enough to hit this place. More than likely, if they tried, and the Iron Dome didn’t kill the missiles outright, they’d land ten kilometers away.”

They started walking back down the stairs, Garrett saying, “But all it would take is one lucky shot.”

“Yes, if either Hamas or Hezbollah were dumb enough to try. If that happened, they would be wiped from the earth.”

Garrett thought, One can hope.

Reaching the visitors’ center, Garrett shook the agent’s hand, saying, “Thank you for your patience.”

The agent said, “Enjoy the show,” then walked away.

Garrett chuckled, realizing he had no idea how true his words would be.

He went back to the SUV and called Raphael on the sat phone. When he answered, Garrett said, “I have the grid. Prepare to copy.”

He relayed it, then said, “We’re within the hour. Are you ready?”

“Yes. We’ve done one test. We’re ready.”

“Okay. Stand by. I’ll call when the audience enters the stands. Is the weapon set with a proximity fuse?”

“Yes. It’ll close in to about twenty meters of the grid then explode, throwing out ball bearings as it continues forward. The death radius should be thirty meters or greater.”

“Perfect. I’ll need to contact you before he takes the stage because of the flight time. I have no idea how long his speech is going to be. Stand by.”

He disconnected and saw a caravan of cars enter the parking lot, the middle one flying the flags of Israel on the bumpers. He knew who it was, and felt his adrenaline rise.

They parked, the security men spilling out, searching for a threat, and then the primary phalanx of men entered the museum/visitors’ center. He followed behind, entering the building to find a buffet of food and all present enraptured by the presence of the prime minister of Israel.

He sought out the Grand Master and said, “I’ve checked the area, and it’s secure. I’m going to hang back at the SUV, letting the Shin Bet handle the security.”

Chaucer said, “Thank you. I think that would be best. Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to talk to the prime minister.”

Garrett went back to the SUV, hoping the grin and grip wouldn’t take too long. He opened the door, sat behind the wheel, and turned on the ignition, engaging the air-conditioning, waiting. Eventually, he saw the mass of people exit the visitors’ center and head up the same stairs he had earlier. He waited until they were at the top, lost from view, and pulled out the Thuraya, dialing Raphael.

The phone connected, and he said, “Forty-minute flight? Is that right?”

“Yes. From our calculations, that’s how long it’s going to take to reach your location. We had to program some waypoints in to fly around the Golan Heights. It’ll be coming in from the West Bank.”

“Launch it now. Call me as soon as it’s in the air.”

He hung up, then played with the radio, trying to find a station that actually spoke English, but failed. He waited seven minutes, growing more concerned with each passing second. He looked at his phone, willing it to ring. He didn’t want to initiate a call and possibly interrupt the launch. Maybe they just had a small problem and were working to resolve it. He knew from his past Special Forces experience that a headquarters interrupting a mission because of a simple lack of contact was the last thing he should do.

Trust the man on the ground.

He waited another five minutes, and couldn’t contain himself. He dialed the phone. He heard, “Hello?”

“Raphael? What’s the holdup? Is it on the way?”

“This isn’t Raphael. He can’t talk right now because he took a bullet through the head. Who’s this?”

Garrett disconnected the phone, incredulous. He sat for eight minutes, contemplating his options, somewhat in shock. The voice on the phone was distinctly American. Somehow, the United States had managed to locate his men inside Syria. It was unfathomable. He’d conducted plenty of counterterrorist operations in U.S. Special Forces, and they were lucky to find the man they were looking for one out of ten times, with the entire intelligence apparatus of the United States on their side. And these men had found his like a laser beam.

How? How had they done that?

Breathing heavily, his anger building, he glanced out the window to a car approaching the security checkpoint. It prevented the vehicle from entering, and a man leaned out, clearly arguing with the uniformed officer. The passenger door opened and a woman stood on the footwell, shouting over the cab of the vehicle.

And he recognized who they were. The predators from Rome. They’d found him here, in Israel.

He snarled, put the SUV in gear, and began racing across the parking lot.