Page 29 of Cross Down
Time to get the hell out and regroup.
The lead man looks around, wonders why the room is so crowded. The four of them are nearly elbow to elbow.
Wait.
Four?
He brings up his MP5, but he’s not quick enough.
Chapter
32
Before I setup my bedding in the rear seat of the Cherokee, I placed a small motion-detection night-vision camera in the grille, pointed right at the door of my motel room. A cable threaded through the Cherokee led to a small laptop that would chime if something stopped in front of my motel-room door.
There.
When the chime sounds, I roll over, look at the laptop’s screen.
Three armed men, ready to break into my room.
I watch their well-planned action, and when the door to my room drops, I put on my night-vision goggles and push open the rear door of the Cherokee. I slip out of my car, Glock 17 in my right hand, my bare feet on the cold pavement. Even shoes designed for my huge feet squeak as I walk because of my weight and size, which is why I’m shoeless now.
I hear thethud-thud-thudof suppressed gunfire and see the flicker-flicker-flicker of the muzzle flashes, and I move into the room right behind the three attackers. If we were in DC and these three were standard street thugs, I’d have to follow a host of procedures and regulations. But not in this place.
The only rule now is they go down and I stay standing.
I go into the room, dodging the fallen door, see the three clustered around my so-called bed. The one to the left seems to notice me and moves and—
Two shots to him.
He falls.
Whip-quick, I put two shots in his companion and two more into the third one.
They fall in a jumble.
All of them are wearing body armor. But that won’t keep them safe. Shots to the head for all three of them.
Not much time now. With the night-vision goggles on, I collect their weapons and toss them into the bathroom, my breathing heavy but measured, my heart racing.
I go back to the three dead attackers. Like the ones who went after Alex and me yesterday, they’re well armed. I have no doubt they carry no identification and that their MP5s have no serial numbers.
There’s a cough.
I freeze, then look at the first man I shot. I reach down, tug away the night-vision goggles on his bloody head.
My first shot went a bit too high, hitting his goggles, grazing his forehead, and it looks like my second shot took out a chunk of his neck.
His right hand is pressed tight against the bloody wound. His eyes roll and then focus on me. “Good shooting,” he murmurs. “Well done.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Keep holding pressure on that.”
I get towels from the bathroom and come back. I think,If I can save this guy, I can contact Ned Mahoney, have the FBI take over. At last we’ll have a live connection to the terror attacks.I kneel down next to him. “Give me a sec, guy. Keep that pressure on.”
“Sorry, not going to happen.” He smiles and takes his hand off his neck wound; arterial blood sprays out, keeps on spraying. I do my best to hold pressure on the wound but the thin towels are quickly soaked through, and my first-aid kit is back in my Cherokee.
Damn it.
