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Mitch looked up with tear-filled eyes. “I’m fucking falling apart. I never felt more helpless in my life.”
“I don’t know…you were in pretty rough shape after Maureen died.” Steven was referring to his brother’s girlfriend who had been aboard the Pan Am flight that had been blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland.
“That was nothing compared to this. I was a kid back then. I didn’t know what real love was.”
“That’s a lie,” Steven said a bit forcefully. “You and Maureen were in love, and that’s not taking anything away from Anna. It’s simply the truth. You survived her death, and you’ll survive Anna’s. It’s not going to be easy, but you owe it to her.” Irene had explained to Steven that his brother was nearly catatonic over his wife’s death. One of the doctors had recommended putting him under suicide watch. Steven had never hidden a thing from his big brother and he wasn’t about to start now. “The last thing she’d want is for you to take your own life over this.”
Mitch made a face that suggested his brother’s concern was an insult. “Steven, I would never kill myself. That’s not my problem. It’s what I’m going to do when I get out of here.”
“How do you mean?”
r /> Mitch didn’t get to answer the question. There was a noise from outside that caught his attention. His face turned to the ceiling, his ears focusing intently on the slightest sound. The solid construction gave the house great insulation, but even so, Mitch had spent so much time on gun ranges, indoors and out, that there was no mistaking what came next. The muffled crack of a rifle.
“Irene!” Mitch screamed at the top of his lungs. There were several more shots and he sprang to his feet. “Where are your bodyguards?”
Mitch grabbed Steven by the arm and yanked him out of the chair. More muffled shots rang out. They moved quickly from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.
Kennedy was at the kitchen sink, Tommy at her side. She had a dish-towel in her hand and a confused look on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Gunfire outside!”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Trust me. Where are your bodyguards?”
“They’re outside.”
“Shit!”
Mitch grabbed mother and son by the arms and moved them quickly across the kitchen. Kennedy had the presence of mind to grab her purse from the counter.
“Get to the tunnel and head over to the interrogation facility.” Rapp opened the door to the basement and started moving the Kennedys and his brother down the stairs. “When you get over there lock yourselves in one of the cells. Go!” Mitch yelled.
“But what are you—” Kennedy started to ask.
There was an explosion outside that shook the house. “Go, dammit!” Rapp screamed. He slammed the door shut and raced across the kitchen for the back stairs. He bounded up the first two steps, ignored the instant pain from his thigh injury, and continued up the steps two at a time, grabbing the handrail as he went. At the small landing there was another explosion. As Rapp reached the second floor he heard machine-gun fire from the rear of the house and wondered if he’d made the wrong decision to stay behind.
56
C astillo rode in the first Suburban. A mile short of the house he told the men in his vehicle to get ready. A short while later the gate came into view, and Castillo hit the switch for the emergency lights. The driver crossed over into the oncoming lane, down onto the shoulder, and then jerked the vehicle to the right and skidded to a stop directly across from the tall black gate. The second Suburban pulled up alongside the first, and the third one continued just past the entrance, came to a sudden stop, and then backed up. Two men in blue coveralls and FBI baseball caps jumped out and wrapped a heavy chain around the center of the gate. They hooked the other end to the trailer hitch on the truck and scrambled out of the way. The vehicle lurched forward in four-wheel drive, slowed for a second as the gate resisted, and then there was a loud screeching noise as the metal began to twist. One after another, the anchor bolts that held the gate to the stone columns popped free and the gate came crashing down. The truck dragged the twisted black bars out of the way and the two waiting Suburbans raced up the long driveway.
They were going close to 60 mph by the time the house came into full view—their engines roaring and the red, white, and blue emergency lights flashing their official warning. A man in a suit was waiting for them at the edge of the circular drive. He had a radio in one hand and his other hand rested on the butt of his still-holstered gun.
Castillo smiled and told his driver, “Run him over.”
The heavy Suburban took the turn, its wheels squealing and emergency lights flashing. The man in the suit was still under the illusion that he was about to have a confrontation with a fellow federal employee. He’d been told by Kennedy that Director Ross wanted to put Rapp under protective custody. At the last second the driver jerked the wheel to the right, blew through a three-foot hedge, and hit the guard with the Suburban’s front right fender. The passenger-side rear wheel came to a stop on the man’s chest. Every door on the Suburban flew open except the driver’s. Five men, all dressed in matching coveralls and baseball caps, jumped out. Castillo was barely out the door when a second guard came around the corner of the house. This man had his gun drawn. Castillo raised his Uzi submachine gun with one arm and pulled the trigger.
Castillo wasn’t the only man who had seen the guard. Within two seconds the man was hammered to the ground by no fewer than ten bullets. A third guard was dispatched in roughly the same manner as he came around the other side of the house. One of Castillo’s men dropped to a knee to line up the first RPG shot on the house. Castillo banged his fist on the hood of the Suburban and yelled at the driver to move the vehicle farther away. Two seconds later the truck was clear and the first RPG was fired.
Four men, three of them with machine guns and one of them with an RPG, were headed around to the back of the house. Castillo surveyed the scene. So far everything was going according to plan. The debris from the first RPG was beginning to settle and the third vehicle had just arrived after getting rid of the gate. Castillo looked at the door. As far as he could tell, it was still intact. “Hit it again!” he yelled.
A second round was loaded. Castillo checked the area behind the man to make sure no one was standing in the back blast zone, which was a good way to get killed or severely burned. “Shoot!” he screamed.
The round hit the door squarely and a large section of the portico’s ceiling broke free and crashed to the ground. Castillo ran along the sidewalk and up the three steps. He covered his mouth against the cloud of dust and gave the door a solid kick. He might as well have been kicking the side of a mountain. The door didn’t budge an inch. As more of the dust settled Castillo bent over to examine the damage done by the RPGs. There were two holes in the door not quite big enough for him to fit his fist through. The wood was splintered away but beneath it, he could see the rough edges of bent steel. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed.
The Salvadoran ran his hand along the door and gave the handle a twist. This was when he noticed that the door opened out, not in. Aware that he didn’t have all the time in the world, Castillo ran back to the driveway and grabbed the RPG from his man. “Give me that damn thing!” He loaded another round, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. There was yet another explosion, and more of the porch ceiling came crashing down. Castillo’s men were now firing at the windows and fanning out around the house. When enough of the dust had settled, Castillo was happy to see that there was a hole where the door handle used to be. He barked at one of the drivers, “Grab a crowbar and go open that thing.”
Castillo realized his ears were ringing and he worked his jaw from one side to the other to see if it would help eliminate the harsh noise. It was then that he noticed the pock marks the bullets were making on the windows. “Why am I fucking around with this door?” he asked himself. “Here,” he handed the RPG to the man standing next to him, “reload this thing.”
