State of Siege o-6 Read online

  No one was waiting there. Annabelle let the door shut and started across the concrete landing. There were five floors to the cellar; Hood or one of his men could still be waiting for her down there. She didn’t think the police would be there. NYPD policy was to throw a tight net. They would have come up to the fourth floor to shut her in, not give her an opportunity to get away.

  She started down the steps. And then the lights went off. Even the security spots went down, which could only be controlled from the utility room. The young woman thought angrily, Right next to the men’s room. Goddam whichever of those bastards thought of that. She was angrier at herself for not having checked the room.

  Annabelle considered going back, but she didn’t want to waste the time or risk a showdown with whoever had cut the lights. Switching the gun to her left hand, she grabbed the handrail with her right hand and made her way down slowly. She reached the landing, turned the corner, and started down the second half of the stairs. She was pleased with the progress she was making.

  Until a bright light snapped on in front of her and then a sharp, crippling pain struck her left thigh.

  She fell over, unable to breathe and losing the gun as pain rocked her entire left side.

  “Put ’em back on!” someone shouted.

  The stairwell lights snapped back, and Annabelle looked up. She saw a beefy, black-haired man looming over her. He was dressed in a white shirt and wearing navy blue trousers. In his thick hands were a radio and a black police-style baton. He was State Department Security. The name tag on his shirt said Deputy Chief Bill Mohalley.

  Mohalley picked up her gun and tucked it in his waistband. Annabelle tried to get up but couldn’t. She could barely breathe. As she lay there, she heard the door open on the fourth-floor landing.

  While the State Department officer radioed for the rest of his team to come to the third floor, Hood ran down the stairs. He must have been the one who turned off the lights. Hood stopped on the landing and looked down at the young woman. His expression seemed sad.

  “I thought — we had a deal,” she gasped.

  “So did I,” Hood replied. “But I know what you did. I heard.”

  “You’re lying,” she said. “I — saw you — in the camera.”

  Hood just shook his head. Mohalley stepped over as his team ran up the stairs.

  “My team will take it from here,” Mohalley said to Hood. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Thanks for having given me your card,” Hood said. “Have you heard anything about the wounded girl?”

  Mohalley nodded. “Barbara Mathis is on the operating table. She’s lost a lot of blood, and the bullet’s still in her. They’re doing everything they can, but it doesn’t look good.” He looked down at Annabelle. “She’s just fourteen years old.”

  “I didn’t want — any of the children hurt,” Annabelle said.

  Hood stepped back. Shaking his head again, he turned and ran down the stairs.

  Annabelle lay back as other State Department security personnel arrived. Her thigh was throbbing painfully, and her back hurt where it had hit the stairs. But at least she was able to breathe again.

  What Annabelle had said to Mohalley was true. She felt sorry that one of the young musicians might die. That wasn’t supposed to happen. If the secretary-general had cooperated, if she had done the right thing, none of the girls would have been hurt.

  Without quite being able to wrap her brain around the idea, Annabelle knew that she was probably going to spend the rest of her life in prison. As disturbing as that was, however, what bothered her most was the fact that Paul Hood had outsmarted her.

  That once again, a man had come between her and her goal.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:08 A.M.

  The wooden door of the Security Council opened outward. Colonel August stood in the doorway, simultaneously looking for the killer and making himself the target. He was wearing his bulletproof vest and was willing to trade hits if it would save a hostage’s life. The terrorist couldn’t shoot a hostage if he was shooting at August.

  The first person August saw was a slender, teenage girl. She was on her knees less than five yards away. She was whimpering and shaking. August wasn’t sure who the girl was. The terrorist was standing very close behind her. Using peripheral vision, August noted the location of the other two terrorists. One of them was standing in the front of the Security Countil chamber, behind the semicircular desk. The other terrorist was standing right beside the door that led to the adjoining Trusteeship Council.

  The terrorists were all dressed in black and wearing ski masks. The one nearest him was holding the girl’s long blonde hair by the roots, close to her forehead, so that her face was staring straight up. He had a gun pointed directly ahead, at the top of her skull.

  August had the middle of the man’s mask in his gun sight, but he didn’t want to fire first. If he hit the terrorist, the man’s finger might tighten around the trigger and take the top of the girl’s head off. August knew that was wrong; if he had the shot, he should take it. The thought that this could be Paul Hood’s daughter stopped him.

  The terrorist hesitated and then he did something that surprised August. He dropped directly behind the kneeling girl and then threw himself to his right, into the row of seats. Still holding the girl’s hair, he pulled her with him. Obviously, he did not want to trade gunfire. And now he had a shield.

  You should have taken the damn shot, August reprimanded himself. Instead of having one less terrorist to deal with, everyone was at risk.

  The terrorist and the girl were four rows down the sloping gallery. August pocketed the Beretta that was in his right hand, turned to his left, and jogged a few feet along the back of the gallery. Silent in his bare feet, he put his free hand on the railing that ran along the seat backs of the last row. He leaped the green-velvet seats and immediately jumped the next row. He was now two rows from the terrorist and the girl.

  “Downer, he’s coming for you!” one of the terrorists shouted. He had a French accent. “Behind you—”

  “Get out or I’ll kill her!” shouted Downer, the pinned terrorist. “I’ll blow her goddam brains out!”

  August was still two rows away. The man with the French accent started running toward him. He would be on the stairs in two or three seconds. The third man was covering the hostages.

  “Barone, the gas!” the Frenchman said.

  The third terrorist, Barone, ran toward a duffel bag that sat open in the front of the chamber, near the northside window. August finished hopping over the third row. He could now see Downer and the girl. They were on the floor of the next row. The terrorist was on his back with the girl faceup on top of him. But August had a problem.

  The bottleneck had required preventing the girl’s death, disabling the nearest of the three terrorists, and establishing a beachhead in the back of the chamber before General Rodgers got here. That hadn’t happened. Unfortunately, not only was the bottleneck dead, but the colonel had to reorder his priorities. He had to deal with the gas.

  Barone was on the opposite side of the semicircular table, protected by the table and by the hostages. He had already removed his ski mask and had pulled three gas masks from the duffel bag. The terrorist slipped one of the masks on as he handed the others out. The other men didn’t put them on yet because the goggles impaired their peripheral vision. Then Barone returned to the bag and removed a black canister.

  August turned and ran toward the north side of the chamber. The French terrorist had reached the stairs on the south side of the Security Council and was running up. August didn’t want to stop and shoot it out with him. Even if the Frenchman tagged him, August would be in a better position to kill Barone if he were on the same side of the chamber.

  The table and the tightly huddled hostages were still in August’s way.

  “No one move!” August shouted. Running, they might get between him and Barone.


  No one moved at all.

  August reached the stairwell and started down. He kept his right arm across his chest. Cocked at his side, the arm would be more vulnerable. The Frenchman was directly across the room. The terrorist suddenly stopped and fired several rounds. Two of the four shots hit August in the waist and ribs. The impact threw him against the wall, though the bulletproof vest stopped the slugs.

  “You’re down, you bastard!” the Frenchman cried triumphantly. “Downer, cover me!” he yelled as he cut through one of the middle rows of the gallery, heading toward the north side.

  The Australian threw the girl aside and stood. He screamed in raw, frustrated rage.

  Pulling himself off the wall, August continued crawling down the steps. He ignored the sharp pain in his side. Where he was, behind the seats, the Frenchman did not have a shot at him. And Barone was almost in view.

  Just then, a loud crack broke from the back of the room. From the corner of his eye, August saw the Frenchman fall forward between the rows. Downer ducked fast as Lieutenant Mailman crouched behind his gun in the open door.

  “Keep going, sir!” Mailman shouted.

  Good man, August thought. Mailman had shot at the Frenchman, though August couldn’t tell whether or not the terrorist had been hit.

  August reached the bottom step as Barone carefully peeled a red plastic strip from the mouth of the canister. He threw the tape aside and began unscrewing the cap. August fired twice. Both bullets punched holes in the side of Barone’s head, spilling him toward the front of the chamber. The canister fell to the carpet, a thin wisp of green vapor slipping around the neck of the container.

  August swore. He got to his feet and ran toward the door that adjoined the Trusteeship Council. He had it in mind to get to the canister and shut it. If he couldn’t do that, then maybe he could cover the hostages as they ran out through that door.

  He never made it.

  The Frenchman emerged on the north side of the gallery. He was unhurt and opened fire. This time he aimed at August’s legs.

  August felt two sharp bites, one in his left thigh and one in his right shin. He went down, the wounds burning fiercely. August ground his teeth together and crawled forward. Pain management training had taught him to set small, attainable goals. That was how soldiers stayed conscious and functioning in the field. He concentrated on where he needed to be.

  Behind him, Downer fired at Mailman, driving him back outside the door. Meanwhile, the Frenchman crept down several steps.

  The canister was just a few feet away. The cap was still on, but the gas was beginning to spread. August needed to screw it back on. He didn’t have time to turn and fire.

  Suddenly, there was a massive pop about ten feet in front of August. The great brown drapes on the northernmost window blew open and bulletproof glass flew straight across the front of the Security Council. Almost simultaneously, there was a terrific crash as the upper part of the towering window came crashing down.

  A moment later, right on schedule, Mike Rodgers stepped into the room.

  FORTY-NINE

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:11 A.M.

  This is not a bottleneck operation, Mike Rodgers thought gravely as he looked across the Security Council chamber. This was proof of the Striker axiom that nothing was guaranteed.

  Rodgers had crossed the rose garden the same way August had. By the time he’d reached the courtyard, however, the gun battle had begun, and most of the police who were outside the lobby had gone inside. He was able to reach the hedges on the east side of the courtyard unseen. Creeping ahead to the north-side window of the Security Council chamber, he immediately placed and detonated the C-4. He only used a small amount in order to keep the flying glass to a minimum. He suspected that once the bottom of the window was blown in, the rest of the pane would collapse. He was right.

  Entering the chamber, Rodgers saw Colonel August roughly four yards in front of him. The colonel was on his knees and bleeding from both legs. Between them was a dead terrorist and a container leaking gas. Rodgers also saw the armed terrorist in the northside gallery stairwell. Obviously, something had gone terribly wrong.

  Firing two shots to drive the terrorist gunman back between the seats, Rodgers turned and grabbed the drape. The blast had torn it in the middle and, yanking hard, he ripped the bottom half from the window. Many kinds of poison gas were lethal if they came into contact with flesh. He would rather try to contain the gas this way than close the canister.

  Rodgers pulled the heavy fabric over the container. He figured that should buy them about five minutes in here — enough time to get everyone out. He’d have them leave through the broken window; since it was behind him, it would be easier for him to cover.

  As Rodgers turned to the girls who were gathered around the table, August swung onto his back and sat up. He was facing the back of the chamber and still holding one of his Berettas.

  “All right!” Rodgers said, looking at their faces. “I want all of you to go out through the window, quickly!”

  Led by Ms. Dorn, the girls hurried toward the outside terrace and safety. As they did, Rodgers turned back to August.

  “Where’s the third terrorist?” he asked.

  “Fourth row from the top of the gallery,” August said. “He’s holding one of the girls.”

  Rodgers swore. He hadn’t seen Harleigh Hood among the girls down here. It had to be her.

  As August spoke, he had maneuvered onto his knees and crept back toward the stairwell. Raising himself up on the wooden banister, he started up the steps. Walking was obviously agony for the colonel, who put most of his weight on his left arm. He held his right arm out, Beretta pointed ahead. Rodgers didn’t have to ask him what he was doing; he was using himself as bait to draw the terrorist’s attention. He watched as the colonel made his way up the stairs.

  Rodgers stood between the hostages and the gallery. Several of the delegates also rose and scrambled to get out, pushing the girls aside as they ran. If it were up to Rodgers, he would have shot them. But he didn’t want to turn his back on the gallery. Not with one of the terrorists still up there.

  The chamber was emptying, and the thick drapery seemed to be holding down the gas for now. Rodgers wished he could move over to the north side of the chamber to cover August, but he knew he had to look out for the safety of the hostages. He watched as August limped higher.

  Rodgers turned for a moment to check on the girls. All of them had been evacuated, and the last of the delegates were heading toward the window. Then, as Rodgers turned back, he heard a shot from the gallery. He saw August’s arms fly back as the colonel lost his gun and he stumbled against the wall. A moment later, August went down back-first.

  Rodgers swore and ran toward the stairwell. The terrorist rose and fired at the general. Since Rodgers wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest, he had to drop to the floor in front of the gallery.

  “Don’t worry!” the terrorist shouted at Rodgers. “You’ll get your turn!”

  “Give it up!” Rodgers yelled back as he wriggled toward the stairwell on his belly.

  The terrorist didn’t answer. Not with words. The next thing Rodgers heard were two shots and then a cry.

  Rodgers swore. I’ll kill him, he thought bitterly as he rose quickly, hoping to nail the terrorist before he could turn and aim.

  But Rodgers was too late. He watched as the terrorist dropped his gun, twisted, and then slumped over the back of one of the seats. There were two large red exit wounds in his back. Stepping toward the stairway, Rodgers saw August still lying on his back. There was a bullet hole in his left pocket.

  “Son of a bitch should have paid closer attention,” August said as he removed the second gun from his pocket. The barrel of the gleaming Beretta was still smoking.

  Rodgers was relieved, though he was far from happy as he turned toward the steep gallery. There was still a third terrorist, the one who apparently was holding Harleigh Hood hostage. He had been ominou
sly silent throughout the exchange. A UN security officer was crouched in the doorway. Save for the muted hissing of the gas canister under the drapery, the chamber was quiet. And then they heard a voice from the aisle of the upper gallery.

  “You have not won,” said Reynold Downer. “All you have done is gotten more of the ransom for me.”

  FIFTY

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:15 A.M.

  “They’re out!” a young man yelled into the waiting room. “The kids are out, and they’re safe!”

  The parents responded with laughter and tears, all of them rising and hugging one another before making their way to the door. Official word came as they were filing into the hallway. A uniformed State Department security official met them. A middle-aged woman with short brown hair, big brown eyes, and a name tag that said Baroni told them that the children appeared to be well but were being taken to the NYU Medical Center as a precaution, and that a bus would be along to bring the parents downtown. The parents were all grateful and thanked the woman as though she had personally been responsible for the rescue.

  The DOS official made her way inside as she directed the parents toward an elevator at the end of the hall. She appeared to be looking for someone. When she saw Sharon Hood, she touched her forearm.

  “Mrs. Hood, my name is Lisa Baroni,” she said. “Can I have a few words with you?”

  The request brought an instant welling of nausea.

  “What’s wrong?” Sharon asked.

  Lisa gently maneuvered Sharon away from the last of the parents. The two women stood just inside the door, beside one of the couches.

  “What is it?” Sharon demanded.

  “Mrs. Hood,” she said, “I’m afraid your daughter is still inside.”

  The words sounded ridiculous. A moment ago, everyone was safe. She was happy. “What do you mean?” Sharon asked.