The Hammer of God

“We show two down by gunshot on the bed and one down by the door. Total three down by gunshot. No others in sight but we can’t see into the bathroom. Advise.”

The commander looked at Wallace. “Three’s all there was. I got it all on tape — video and audio. I think it’s safe for them to enter, Sir.”

“Green team, proceed with caution and secure that bathroom.”

The men kicked in the door.

Within ten seconds, the commander’s radio crackled.

“Secured.”

He turned to the private dick. “Video and audio you say?”

On cue, a Chevy Suburban with flashing red, blue, and white strobes lurched to a halt near the command van. Wallace thought it was going to be more SWAT guys. He was shocked when a blonde woman in black blazer and pants emerged from the passenger side. She walked up to the Commander and spoke in the manner of a superior officer.

“What do we got, Commander?”

“All bad guys engaged in the firefight down or secured. Possible secondary, unrelated, triple shooting next door. Unknown number of perpetrators on the run.”

“I can help with that,” Wallace said.

“Who are you? How can you help?” the no bullshit woman asked, ordered, and demanded in one smooth command voice.

“I am NYPD retired; I was on a P.I. when this all went down. I have video of every guy who escaped and surveillance inside the adjoining room killings.”

The woman turned to the Commander. “You know this man?”

“He gave us correct intel on the second room.”

“Retired at what grade?”

“Detective 2nd grade after fifteen years in patrol.”

“That’s doing it the hard way detective.” She extended her hand, “FBI Special Agent Brooke Burell, Lead Liaison Officer, Joint Terrorist Task Force. We need to see that tape five minutes ago, Detective.”

Fifteen seconds later, they were all huddled around the little screen of his HD camera as he fast-forwarded and rewound the tape so Brooke could take a head count.

“I make it twenty-one through the door, which was the only way out, plus the three in the room. Means we started with twenty-four. Port Authority killed two, we got twelve piled up here, plus three in the bus. That leaves nine at large. Ben, APB all units. Seven suspects in motel shooting still at large, AED.”

Ben ran off to the communications van, while Wallace figured out AED must be fed speak for, “armed and extremely dangerous.”

An agent ran up. “Boss, the motel manager says these guys were having a meeting here. Twenty-four rooms booked in advance, cash. We’re finding plane tickets, cash, prayer rugs, and Korans.”

“Someone else look at the tape and check the numbers,” Brooke said. She turned to Wallace. “Thank you. We’ll get you a receipt for that tape.”

She turned and was heading off to the van when Wallace called out, “You know what? Now it makes sense!”

Brooke turned in her tracks. “What does?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Live From New York, It’s…

Saturday night used to be date night. Now, the only date the Hiccocks looked forward to on a Saturday night was a date with the pillow after the week’s 7:30 a.m. staff meetings. So when his secure phone rang at 10:30, Bill’s sleepy voice answered.

Homeland Security was on the other end. “Mr. Hiccock, I have a high priority message for you from the Secretary.”

“Go ahead.”

Bill heard clicking sounds and then the connection hit.

“Bill, Brad Grayson, Deputy Secretary DHS. We have a situation in New York that could be — repeat could be — a bio-terrorism event. You are directed to monitor the situation through your White House SOP. Sir, do you concur that you have been duly notified?”

“Yes, but one question — who is running the operation on the ground in New York?”

“That would be S. A. Brooke Burell, JTTF.”

“I know her, she’s good.”

“Sir, if there are no other questions, do you concur that you have been duly notified?”

“Yes, William Hiccock has been duly notified.”

“Thank you and good night, sir.” The operator then switched off his recorder and dialed the next person on his Status 2 Alert List.

Bill redialed.

“Good Evening, White House Switchboard.”

“Good Evening, I am Bill Hiccock; please authenticate my identity.” A tone sounded and Bill repeated his name into the voice print recognition system. Then an automated voice said, “Acquired and authenticated, William Hiccock Science Advisor to the President.”

“Yes, Mr. Hiccock?”

“Switch me to signals.”

“Signals, what can we do for you, Sir?”

“I need to patch into the New York JTTF commander on the scene.”

“Roger, standby,” said the army master sergeant who ran the signals department at the White House, the super-interconnect of the U.S. government. A President could talk to a soldier in the foxhole with this network.

?§?

Special Agent in Charge Brooke Burrell was dealing with the ever-changing facts in the crime/terrorism/bio-terrorism/fugitive drama into which she had been catapulted. Her secure agency cell phone rang.

“Burell, go.”

“White House Signals Branch. I have…”

“I don’t have time to talk to the White House right now…”

“Brooke, it’s Bill Hiccock on the line.”

“Okay, White House, I got the call.”