14th Street near Constitution Avenue…
"Negative! Do NOT engage, repeat do not engage!"
The authoritative voice on Booth's radio continued, "Follow protocol and wait for the DC Office regional SWAT due in five minutes to set up a perimeter. The terrorists already inside surely have hostages by now. Let the situation stabilize while we wait for their demands, talk the talk, and properly prep an assault by HRT for when the time is right. They're boarding choppers at Quantico shortly. Do NOT escalate! Stick to protocol. Acknowledge!"
Same old shit… cordon off the area, watch and wait for negotiations, be methodical, take no risks, don't move until everything is perfect as can be… in other words protect the cops, make every effort to spare the shooter, but in doing so risk forgetting about the victims… ok for cornered bank robbers or distraught ex-husbands but hopelessly wrong for those who had killed already and wanted to die.
He couldn't fucking believe his ears, and his anger showed in his voice. "Disagree! Once they get set up inside any rescue's going to be a slaughter! Please let me engage!" He was losing his temper waiting for an answer. The channel was silent but for static.
He still couldn't place the voice and impatience got the better of him…
"Cullen, talk some sense into this idiot! We've got a chance to prevent a Beslan, and he wants to fuck it up like Columbine!" At that school several students had died because SWAT didn't know when to throw out the playbook and were too cautious.
The backpack-wearing shooter stopped near the sniper and they talked for a moment.
The strange voice over the radio replied, equally furious, "This is Deputy Director Gregory, your boss for today, Agent Booth. Observe and report only!"
Fuck. Gregory was the head of the Critical Incident Response Group, the man in the chain of command over the head of HRT. Burned that fucking bridge. Worse, he'd never been an operator himself, just an ordinary agent then a ladder climbing bureaucrat with a rep as a pig-headed SOB. And Booth had already pissed him off. What little SWAT related experience he had was on the ordinary law enforcement side and not counter-terror. Gregory was an administrator who had no business in the hotseat. And, worse, Cullen, DD over Criminal Investigations, had no authority whatsoever over him. The two were peers.
But he had to try one more time -- he couldn't let them piss away this once in a lifetime chance to nip this shit in the bud from his front row seat. If he just got the go order it would be a fucking shooting gallery…
"Where's Assistant Director Fleming? Get him on the line." The head of HRT was a former operator. He was supposed to be in the hotseat in a crisis, not this fucking chair warmer who was in over his head.
Booth was struggling with figuring out just how to convince the man and simultaneously trying to control his rising agitation which was now verging on panic as he eyed the backpacker just yards from the entrance, when Gregory answered icily.
"Fleming is on a commercial flight en route to Japan. He's somewhere over the Pacific. He's still out of the loop until the FAA can get a message routed to the pilot. I have assumed command."
Shit. Of course he would never consider allowing command to devolve to a lower rung where someone knew what the hell was going on and just being satisfied with oversight.
Gregory continued, this time a little more coolly.
"Director Cullen has persuaded me to take your suggestion under advisement. I'll consult with SAC Pulaski when he has comms again once the HRT choppers are in the air… that should be in just a few more minutes. Again take NO action. Acknowledge."
Booth was incredulous. The man wanted to wait to have a fucking committee meeting? The Special Agent in Charge who was one of the HRT team field commanders had his head screwed on straight, but Booth's window for action was rapidly closing. There's no more goddamned time!
He was at a loss for words when he watched helplessly as the backpacker suddenly left the sniper and darted into the building. Then he wasn't…
This time it was out loud… "FUCK!"
Worse, down by the van two more looked like they were loaded up and about to move out. It was the last straw.
They weren't going to get past him, not again, not this time. No way. No fucking way… The people inside were counting on him… and he owed them. He remembered Bones' "I hope it never goes up, unless it needs to." Damn but if his body count wasn't going to keep rising today.
There wasn't any more time to argue. He made his decision and keyed the radio…
"Negative. As agent on scene I perceive an imminent danger. I am engaging the targets."
"What the hell do you mean 'negative'? Agent Booth, stand down, goddammit! You are ORDERED..."
Booth locked down the 'send' button, cutting him off, and thanked God he wasn't stuck with a slow bolt-action rifle…
…but he froze briefly, unable to decide whom to shoot first, the immediate threat of those closest to the entrance or the greater long term threat of the explosives? Shit, there's too many! But he took one deep breath and made himself suck it up – this was no time for buck fever. Sometimes being decisive was more important than being perfect… he decided to literally start at the top near the doors and work his way down to the sidewalk. One thing first… He removed the partially used mag and slapped in a full one, which gave him a total of twenty-one rounds including the one already auto-loaded into the chamber after his last shot at the guy in the window. Once he kicked over the ant hill with his first shot he didn't want to have to stop to reload.
He described his actions for the still transmitting radio, "…taking out the new sniper…"
The sniper, still on one knee, had backed further into the shadows of the big column which meant the dark crosshairs contrasted poorly with the target. With his left hand Booth flipped on the reticle illumination switch on the side of the big scope. Now the crosshairs glowed softly white, and he easily placed them right on the ear of the sniper who'd turned his head to the side as he spoke into his radio. Time for a cochlear implant, you piece of shit. After another quick glance at the positions of the other terrorists, Booth took a breath and let it part way out, then softly squeezed the trigger.
BLAM!
He ignored the new cries and shouts from the crowd up the street behind him, and he used up a precious fraction of a second to check his work as the echoes trailed away. Perfect.
"Runners," he reported for the benefit of the radio as he flicked the reticle illumination off and found his next targets about where he expected. The first two loaded down men had already started up the steps, and well away from any cover they had no choice but to run for the safety of the entrance under the portico. Now running as fast as they could burdened by backpacks, rifles and duffles, he was still going to fuck 'em -- hard.
With multiple targets moving there was no more time for tidy headshots that might miss anyway, no time for the finesse of 'one shot, one kill'. Speed over accuracy…
BLAM-BLAM!
He'd fired two rounds at the first runner's center-of-mass, leading only a little for his ascent. Two thirds of the way up the steps, they took him in the back just below the shoulder blades near the top of the pack. Booth didn't waste time watching as, pulled off balance by the heavy duffle, the man spun and fell, and rolled back down a few steps, arms flopping. Instead he immediately shifted to give the same treatment to the other runner just a few steps below and to the left, but he received a shock as he fired...
BLAM-BLA… BOOM!
The second runner exploded like a fucking video game. A hit from a round must've set off his explosives… unstable cheap shit… at least it hadn't set off whatever was in the duffle bags too.
"They may be using TATP," he radioed. The terrorists called it 'Mother of Satan' for being so treacherous. He shifted his aim down to the street level where the other targets still clustered near the rear of the van. Not knowing where the shots were coming from they'd instinctively hunkered down for a second just like he'd hoped, and then, closer as they were to the new blast, the unexpected explosive martyrdom of their comrade startled them further. It was the first real stroke of good luck for Booth, but fatal for them.
One was obviously wearing a bomb vest. Booth took the time for a headshot to avoid a repeat.
BLAM!
The bomber fell back across the assembled duffles.
…then fast center of mass double taps for the other two...
BLAM-BLAM! BLAM-BLAM!
"Van guys are down." They were in a heap around the pile of their gear.
Crack-Pow!
Booth instinctively ducked his head at the sound of the shockwave of a still supersonic round passing nearby followed by the muzzle blast which had to catch up. Some SOB was shooting back at him now, but he was certain the only one with a decent rifle was down. Then he had to ignore the incoming fire anway because when he looked back toward the van through the scope looking for the terrorist who'd been pulling security in front, he was not where Booth expected.
Booth's left eye, the one not peering through the scope, caught him, and he shifted his aim to the left to get him back in the scope's field of view. Apparently seeing his comrades getting whacked one after the other was too much for the man and he'd bolted. Instead of getting bogged down climbing the museum steps he chose to sprint eastward straight down the sidewalk, a better choice, but not by much.
Encumbered only by his rifle, the other man was pretty fast so Booth had to lead the target. He tracked his movement for a second then aimed at a point in space about a yard ahead of the running man's torso to account for the bullets' half second travel time.
BLAM-BLAM!
The two rounds missed. Shit. He'd hoped squeezing off two would bracket him. Although the fleeing terrorist flinched, his legs and arms kept furiously pumping without missing a beat. Although he was heading away from the museum, armed as he was, Booth couldn't risk him reaching the unprotected evacuees outside or the adjacent buildings.
Booth tracked him another second and found the imaginary point in space out front where he believed the locations of flesh and full metal jacketed lead would coincide…
BLAM-BLAM!
This time both rounds impacted the rib cage just below the armpit as the left arm had swung forward and cleared. Heart and lungs destroyed, he spun sideways as he fell but his forward momentum still made him hit the pavement face first at full speed. That's gotta hurt.
Finally, Booth acquired the one man in view still on his feet, the other security gunner who'd been farther out to the right of the van, now at thirty yards. This one was made of sterner stuff. So he was the shooter. He was down on one knee and had his AK carefully braced, still firing at Booth.
THUNK!
That round struck the fender of Booth's SUV.
The next round ricocheted off the pavement a few yards away from the vehicle. However it was too little, too late. It was actually pretty good shooting given the distance, much better than the usual 'spray and pray' which usually passed for Third World marksmanship. But, this terrorist was a dead man and just didn't know it yet – he was well beyond his weapon's effective range. Booth didn't even budge when another round went snapping by as he aimed…
BLAM!
The other man simply collapsed sideways, the right half of his head gone.
No one was left standing.
A later review would determine that only seventeen seconds had elapsed since his first shot took out the sniper on the steps.
"All targets are down."
- - - - - - - -
Jeffersonian IMAX Theater Exit …
Brennan shook off Emily's arm. She'd finally caught her breath and could support herself now, more or less. The bleeding of the aggravated shrapnel wound on her calf seemed to have slowed down a bit as well.
"Please help your mother, Emily. Thanks."
The girl nodded and helped her mother take charge of the school kids now that Mister Reynolds was dead. Janice had picked up the granddaughter and was trying to comfort her and hush her crying.
Brennan looked down at the terrorist. He was totally motionless and cyanotic, his bloody foam flecked lips turning bluish purple with the lack of oxygen. His eyes were open in an unblinking stare, pupils dilated. He would be dead any second if he wasn't already.
She didn't bother to check his pulse.
With a hand on the wall for support, Brennan limped to the corner of the short stub of hallway and carefully peeked out. Further off to the right there was still a knot of people funneling into the IMAX entrance but no terrorists were in direct view from her vantage e point, but she could still hear some threats and orders shouted in what sounded like English although she couldn't quite make them out.
She then looked to the left where the Gallery curved around to meet the west wing. The exit was far around she could almost see through the opening to the other opening between the wing and the Rotunda. Another terrorist, this one wearing a bandolier of grenades instead of a bomb vest, was firing a few shots into the wreckage of the Security office. She couldn't quite see, but she was afraid he must be finishing off wounded guards. After the last shot he looked around briefly then turned his back to them again. Apparently there was enough noise none of the terrorists had yet realized anything was amiss at the theater exit.
This might be their one shot at getting out.
She turned back and motioned Angela over as she returned to the fallen terrorist.
"What do you need?" Angela sensibly kept her voice low.
"Just keep me from falling over and help me back up."
It would have been easier to just ask Angela to do it, but her friend had much less experience with fresh bodies and she knew what she was looking for anyway. That wasn't to say she didn't prefer nice clean dry skeletons herself.
As she held on to Angela with one arm and carefully bent down, favoring her leg, to fish in the pouches of the man's vest. Ignore the eyes. At the same time she tried to remember exactly what she'd paid one of the camp guards in Guatemala to show her once. Her fingers felt metal. Got it.
"Help me up." Angela pulled her up and Brennan got the hurt leg back beneath her.
The children were almost quiet now, whether all cried out or in shock she didn't care at the moment. She noticed Emily opening one of the doors back into the theater. The girl called to someone inside, "It's ok, come on!" and beckoned with a wave.
Wisely, no one else had followed them out when they had heard the shots and cries.
"Hold this." Brennan gave her prize to Angela then clutched her friend's arm for support as she moved a step then carefully bent down again and stretched out her arm to reach for the dropped assault rifle a couple feet from the body.
She should have anticipated what happened next, but she didn't.
She had just touched the smooth wood of the stock when the pent up crowd surged through the inner exit doors. Angela yanked her up and away in time to keep her from getting bowled over, but she also lost her grip on the AK. As more people jammed into the passageway and forced them back by sheer mass, the rifle disappeared from view underfoot. In spite of her shouts Brennan could not make any headway. Without the rifle, the full magazine she'd retrieved was useless. But then a different problem arose…
Dammit. She tried, she really did, but without two sturdy legs under her Brennan was unable to withstand the tide, and they were pushed back further, past the corner of the short hallway...
…out into the open Gallery where they were now totally exposed.
She turned around and her heart was in her throat…
The gunman whom she'd just spied upon did see them this time, and he began trotting in their direction shouting something in what she assumed was Arabic. Then in heavily accented English, "Back inside! Now!"
A young man charged out of the passage past Brennan only to be shot down not thirty feet in front of them. Angela tried to pull her back into the cover of the exit, but the tightly packed people who had followed them out formed an impassable barrier, blocked themselves by those who were still exiting the theater proper behind them.
"Let us in!" Angela cried out and tried to push her way in but failed. They turned around again in fear as the shooter approached. He paused and fired a couple of shots at the wall just a few feet from their heads as a signal to go back inside, which needed no translation. But it was no use -- they couldn't move. Brennan tried to steel herself, expecting the next rounds would be aimed at them, but she was more horrified to instead see the man stop and grin as he snatched a grenade from the bandolier across his chest. She froze, unable to tear her eyes away as he grabbed the ring with his other hand to pull out the pin to arm the grenade which he was clearly about to throw in their midst…
BLAM!
The terrorist staggered and began hemorrhaging from his right shoulder, a look of stunned surprise on his face. His grip loosened, and he dropped the grenade at his feet.
…minus the pin which dangled from the fingers of his left hand.
BLAM! …another gunshot and a red crater appeared where his left eye had been.
He fell forward to the floor next to the grenade, the smaller entry wound in the back of his skull invisible from this distance.
"Get down!" a male voice shouted, and Brennan let her legs collapse, pulling Angela down with her. She swore she could hear the grenade's fuze sizzling.
BANG!
She could feel the overpressure of the blast on her face and heard whistling shrapnel hitting the walls followed by a female sounding scream from behind them as someone in the passageway was hit.
Brennan made herself ignore the injured woman as Angela pulled her back up. Mercifully none of their group was hurt. Instead she looked back out into the Gallery. About forty feet away the body of the terrorist had been ripped apart like a particularly large and gory roadkill.
Doubly stunned by their unexpected reprieve, Brennan looked away from the corpse to see their savior. It was one of the newer security guards who'd been on duty in the Lab this morning, holding his Glock in both hands. She tried to remember his name. Donald? no… Substantially stouter than most of the guards, he was panting, red-faced and sweaty – he must have run all the way from the annex housing their lab.
He beckoned to them from just inside the end of the Gallery, "Come on! Hurry!"
Brennan and Angela immediately began moving, and Janice and Emily followed their lead with the school kids, but some of the people behind them must have hesitated.
He waved again and shouted, "MOVE IT! This…"
BR-R-R-RAP!
Multiple splotches of crimson blossomed across the stark white of his uniform shirt, and he dropped backwards, dead without ever having a chance to react.
They were several yards away from the safety of the exit, their former brief refuge, well out into the middle of the Gallery with absolutely no cover when the guard's killer came into view. He'd apparently crossed into the Gallery from the Rotunda via the west wing and had blindsided him.
He ran forward and kicked the guard's body over with his foot to make sure he was dead, then he grimaced when he looked over to see the terrorist who'd been shot down and blown up by his own grenade. Only then did he look up and see the ragtag group emerging from the theater.
Brennan had another shock as it seemed he was looking directly at her, his dark eyes cold and lifeless. Then she noticed he was wearing a backpack. This man was not one of the original terrorists who'd entered the Rotunda behind her, but apparently part of a second wave. She was ready to give into despair when another large explosion went off, one that sounded different somehow, followed by a popping sound. The man gave a start, his eyes widening in alarm. She had another surprise when he shouted a loud curse, "FUCK!" – in apparently unaccented English – and then, without a backwards glance, turned around and ran back out of sight in the direction from which he had appeared.
It took her a second to shrug off the repeated shocks and realize that the explosion must have been outside. She shut off her curiosity – their escape required her full attention.
Any second the backpacker might return …or the terrorists at the other end of the Gallery overseeing the larger crowd still being funneled into the theater might notice them. The fact they were still occasionally firing into the air was probably all that had let them get this far undetected.
She turned around to the people who had come up short behind them again, and pointed back toward the west wing...
"This is our only chance! RUN!"
They didn't need to hear it a second time. They ran and scattered.
But Brennan took a deep breath and went the opposite direction…
- - - - - - - -
14th Street near Constitution Avenue…
Booth made a follow up pass with the scope to assess the damage he'd done to the earlier targets.
The sniper in the shade of the column was very, very definitely dead.
The first runner lay motionless, his blood already forming a small pool.
Of the second runner nothing remained but his feet and a scorch mark on the steps.
At the back of the van two of the men appeared to be down for the count – he had a pretty clear view of their wounds.One was the bomber he'd headshot.But as Booth gave the second one a closer look he detected movement out of the corner of his eye.
The third man, mostly hidden by a large duffle, was lying with his head down and eyes closed and was stealthily rummaging through the opening of the bag with his right arm. He was clearly wounded and might be reaching for a bandage.
Or a radio.
Or he might be hunting for a detonator.
God dammit.
Booth couldn't wait to see whether or not he set off the explosives surrounding him, which looked like enough shit to severely damage the front of the building and hurt even more people inside.
God, forgive me…
Booth put the cross hairs on the man's head and squeezed off a round.
BLAM!
The man was no longer a threat, if the large, pink, concave chunk of skull dangling by a flap of scalp and the exposed void were any indication.
Booth lifted his head away from the rifle scope. Oh God… With the naked eye he'd detected some more movement. He bent his head back down to the scope and reacquired the first runner near the top of the steps amidst the bodies of two innocents taken out by the original bomber. Stay down motherfucker, don't make me… Determined, the wounded terrorist had somehow staggered to his feet, his blood soaked right arm and shoulder dangling uselessly, and he started to continue slowly upward. Booth carefully lined up the crosshairs on the base of his skull. He carefully timed its relative bobbing motion as the other man struggled up the steps...
BLAM!
The man, essentially headless, pitched forward up the slope of the steps and fell for the last time.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
That horrible job taken care of, he counted bodies. Briefly distracted by the roar of a TV news chopper passing relatively low overhead before resuming his task, he missed the police cruiser that pulled up beside his SUV.
All accounted for. But Booth eyed the windowless van…
Between all the bad guys headed for room temperature and their gear out on the sidewalk Booth was fairly certain that the van itself was not rigged as one giant bomb… there just couldn't have been any more space inside. But there might have been space for one more man to help unload. It was a damned shame he didn't have x-ray vision…
He swapped out the nearly empty magazine for another full one and immediately fired four rounds into the driver compartment, which he couldn't quite fully see into because of his reverse angle. Then he methodically walked more rounds into the thin-skinned van in a zigzag pattern beginning jut behind the driver door and moving to the rear – just above floor level and at three feet up. He was careful to stay above the gas tank. When he reached the back doors he was rewarded with an arm flopping down out the rear of the van. Gotcha.
"Got another one hiding in the van," he reported.
But the opened door blocked any better view. On second thought… the terrorist could be completely unwounded, or only lightly wounded, and just playing possum before causing more mischief. Again there was no good way to know. He grimaced. There was no point in half measures now; he couldn't risk leaving anyone behind him who was a threat. The stakes were simply too damned high.
He aimed at the rear quarter panel of the van just above floor level and a foot back from the doors, where the torso should be. God fucking dammit. He shook his head. It was an execution pure and simple.He paused and collected himself. Four rounds spread over a foot or so should be enough … fuck, fuck, fuck… he put his finger on the trigger but he was still torn…
"You the FBI guy? Whatcha need me to do?"
Booth moved his finger out of the trigger guard and looked back down to his right at the source of the interrupting voice. Somehow he'd missed the arrival of a DC PD Crown Vic patrol car.
He nodded grimly to the DC cop who'd opening his trunk and was pulling out a weapon.
"Yeah." He ID'ed himself, "Special Agent Seeley Booth."
Looking further afield around the Mall Booth could see more police and emergency vehicles setting up an outer perimeter and starting to handle the refugees from the Jeffersonian. But still no sign of Bureau SWAT just yet, much less HRT who had to be much further out. The air was filled with sound of more than one chopper circling the area.
Booth glanced through his scope at the arm still dangling from the back of the van then back to the cop, a black kid who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was looking at Booth expectantly and held a scoped bolt action Remington 700 sniper rifle in his hands.
Thank God. "Just a second." Booth bent to the scope one last time.
For good measure he put three rounds through the fender into the engine compartment although the .308s would only do limited damage, and he shot out the two visible tires as well to disable the vehicle, although it almost seemed like overkill by that point.
He laid the rifle down as the last overlapping echoes faded away and surveyed the results of his handiwork on the front steps once more with the binoculars. He grimaced and put them down.
"The van is disabled," he announced for the benefit of the radio.
God help him, but he was totally committed now. And the job wasn't finished, not quite.
But there was no time for second guessing himself -- it looked like he had his relief in the form of the police sniper.
He pointed to the younger man's rifle. "You any good with that?"
The cop stuck out his chin defiantly, "Two tours in Afghanistan with the 10th Mountain Division." He said it as if that simple fact was enough. It was.
Booth nodded to himself. The kid would do. He pointed to the sidewalk in front of the museum…
"There's a pile of explosives behind the van that cannot be allowed to get inside that building. Or even set off where they are. Anyone so much as farts near it…" He made sure he caught the other man's eye, "…take 'em out." It was crystal clear from the context that 'take out' meant kill. The other man nodded.
He added, "There's one down in the rear of the van who could still cause trouble. Make sure you keep an eye on him. There are at least four terrorists already inside. If you have a target of opportunity, take it."
"Got it," the cop replied then rested his rifle across the hood of Booth's SUV and began watching through his scope.
Farther to the east on Jefferson, the street directly in front of the museums on the south side of the Mall, Booth could finally see the first big dark blue SWAT panel truck pulling up and stopping in front of the Smithsonian, the next museum down. 'Bout fucking time. He couldn't make out whether it was DC PD or FBI. Looking around more, flashing lights, both blue and red, showed that more police cars and emergency vehicles were working on the much all important outer perimeter. He even saw a couple of black SUVs that had that government-issue look, but none were near his position yet. For the moment he still appeared to be the closest to the Jeffersonian.
Booth eyed the front of the museum again. Between the downed terrorists, the doomed Good Samaritan, and victims of the original blast, some of whom just might still be alive, he counted fourteen bodies in view.
And only God knew how many more inside.
People whom he should have been able to protect.
He was the one who'd failed to stop the first group after the original bomber. And who'd let another one of the bastards in while dicking around with that idiot Gregory.
Now it was time to see it through to the end…
He laid the extra mags, binoculars, and the rifle near the edge of the roof and tucked the radio in a jacket pocket before swinging his legs over the side and dropping to the pavement. He turned around, grabbed the gear from the roof of the SUV, and went around back to the open liftgate where he set it inside.
He pulled the radio out of his pocket and set it on the bumper before removing his suit jacket which he balled up and threw forward over the back seat. The back of his white dress shirt was soaked. He unknotted and pulled the silk tie out of his shirt collar and dropped it. Surely it was ruined, soggy and wrinkled as it was.
He raised his arms, grasped the top of the opening, and leaned forward against the vehicle hanging his head down, allowing himself to enjoy the cooling effect of the slight breeze which had sprung up from the north.
…but only for a few seconds.
He looked down at the rest of his gear still in the big locker.
He was already in some kind of trouble…
At this point he didn't give much of a shit.
He let go of the edge of the roof, straightened up, and took off the shoulder holster which he set down inside.
Come hell or high water…
He grasped the mike of his still transmitting radio.
"I'm going in. Over."
He dropped the mike and picked up the black body armor.
A/N
As always, your reviews are greatly appreciated.