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No answer, but as their gunshots thump out—there is no such thing as a true silencer in the world—he hears glass crashing and shouts.
He and Boyd hammer through the door with their shoulders. A man only wearing dungarees is in front of them, and he and Boyd cut him down with two shots apiece. Another man is on the ground, Ferris standing over him, bits of broken glass sticking to his clothes.
From the other corner of the apartment, behind an overturned couch, gunfire wildly erupts, the bullets whizzing overhead. He and Boyd take quick cover behind kitchen chairs and tables, and with Ferris firing from near the broken window, their pistol fire erupts in hard fashion for less than a minute.
Liam gets up, the smoky apartment lit only by a lightbulb dangling by a cord, and he says, “Finish it, and let’s go. Mike, this is Liam, we’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Roger that, Liam,” Mike says through his earpiece.
No prisoners, no captives, nobody left alive, and six shots later—two bullets in each terrorist’s head—they go through the apartment door, passing the moaning jihadist on the floor, and take the steps down two at a time. The two guards they had earlier encountered are still writhing on the ground, rubbing at their faces, moaning in pain.
Outside, now.
Speed, surprise, and violence of action.
A battered black van comes to a halt. Doors fly open and Tommy gets out from a doorway, jumps in. Down the street two cars are merrily burning along. Ferris goes in, then Boyd, and Liam brings up the rear as gunfire breaks out behind them. Liam whirls and one of the two jihadists is weaving on his feet, shooting randomly out into the street. Liam takes him down with two shots to the chest.
He pushes Boyd into the van and the door slides shut. Liam says, “Mike, haul ass.”
Mike puts the van into Drive, they take a right, speed by two burning cars with a crowd of young men around it, dancing, laughing, and Tommy says, “No worries, Liam. I wrote down the license plates. We can compensate them later.”
Ferris laughs, and so does Mike, their driver, as does Liam. Then he says, “Boyd?”
Boyd doesn’t say anything.
Liam gets his mini light, turns it on.
Boyd is smiling, but his eyes look confused.
Liam says, “Boyd?”
Boyd opens his mouth and a spray of blood comes out.
Liam and others frantically go to work.
He’s dead by the time they pass the next intersection.
CHAPTER 37
IN A 7-ELEVEN parking lot north of Charlottesville, Virginia, Noa Himel is in a white van bearing the logo of a floral delivery service from nearby Shadwell. Driving this day is one of her team members, Aldo Sloan, a thick, big man who reminds her of the Thing from the Fantastic Four comics, except his complexion is smooth and pale, with a lot of muscle underneath. An ex-FBI agent, Aldo once told her he came to “the other side”—to the Agency—because it had a better dental plan.
Each of them fitted with radio earpieces, pistols hidden in plastic shopping bags on their laps. Two other vehicles belonging to Noa’s team are out there in this area of Charlottesville. Nearby is the hum of the Seminole Trail, also known as Route 28.
The 7-Eleven is busy, with lots of vehicles coming and going, most drivers picking up coffee, snacks, and other handheld meals as they head south to Charlottesville.
Noa says, “Aldo, I need a favor.”
“Go for it.”
“You were assigned last year to the Agency’s Counterintelligence Division, to give a seminar on surveillance techniques.”
“Yeah.”
“You still got friends there?”
“Of a sort.”
“What do you mean, of a sort? I need to know, can you go to them, looking for information, and they’ll be okay with it? Not complain to any higher-ups?”
