London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)

There wasn’t too much small talk in the cramped, hot room, but for the next half hour I got to watch the targeted building through a sniper scope from a backup rifle. My heart was starting to race pretty good now. I was searching for Shafer in the scope. What if I saw him? How could I stay up there?

The seconds were ticking away and I could just about measure them with my own heartbeats. The assault team was the “eyes and ears” for Command, and all we could do was wait for our official orders to come down.

Go.

No go.

I finally broke the silence in the small room. “I’m going down on the street. I need to be down there for this.”

Chapter 49

THIS WAS MORE LIKE IT.

I set up with an HRT assault team just around the corner from the terrorist hideout. Technically I wasn’t supposed to be there—so officially I wasn’t—but I’d called Ned Mahoney and he smoothed the way for me.

Three o’clock in the A.M. The minutes passed very slowly, without more news or clarification from Command in New York or FBI headquarters in the Hoover Building in Washington. What were they thinking? How could anybody make an impossible decision like this one?

Go?

No go?

Obey the Wolf?

Disobey and take the consequences?

Three-thirty came and went. Then four o’clock. Still no word from the higher-ups back at headquarters.

I got strapped up in a black flight suit with full armor and was given an MP-5. The HRT guys all knew about Shafer and my personal stake in this.

The senior agent in charge sat down beside me on the ground. “You okay? Everything all right?”

“I was D.C. Homicide. I’ve gone into a lot of places, lot of hot spots.”

“I know you have. If Shafer’s in there, we’ll get him. Maybe you’ll get him.” Yeah, maybe I’ll blow that creep away after all.

And then, amazingly, we got the order to go. Green light! Five minutes of panic and thrill.

First thing, I heard the snipers breaking windows across the street.

Then we were running toward the hideout building. Everybody was strapped up for war, all in black flight suits and armed to the teeth.

Two eight-passenger Bell helicopters suddenly appeared and veered in toward the roof of the brick building. They hovered and assault specialists began to “fast-rope” down.

One team of four was climbing up the side of the building, an amazing sight in itself.

Another of HRT’s “go to war” slogans flashed through my head—speed, suspense, and violence of action. It was happening just like that.

I heard explosive entry charges blasting out doors, three or four different blasts within seconds. There would be no negotiating as part of this assault.

We were in. This was good—I was in.

Gunshots echoed through the dark halls of the building. Then machine-gun bursts came from somewhere above me.

I made it up to the second floor. A male with wild, bushy hair came out of a doorway. He had a rifle.

“Hands in the air!” I yelled at him. “In the air. High.”

He understood English—he put his hands up and let the rifle drop.