Lady Death by Brian Drake (good e books to read .TXT) 📕

“Let me through, sir.”

Raven stood up as one of the CIA shooters with a medical kit took his place. Two other CIA medics tended to the other wounded shooters. Hayden had moved to the landing between the first and second floors. He held his phone to his ear but wasn’t talking.

Raven went over to Horn’s prostrate form. He’d fired the rounds into Horn’s back, and the little holes had opened up big holes in his front. The carpet beneath him was drenched in blood. And his eyes remained opened.

Whatever he knew had died with him.

Raven turned as the commotion continued. The remaining CIA crew from outside began carrying the wounded down. Hayden stood to the side to let them pass, then ran to Raven. Color had drained from his face. Raven knew the next words he spoke would contain bad news.

“Just talked to Wilson,” Haydon said. “We were too late, Sam.”

Too late.

The echo of the words in Raven’s mind drowned out any other commotion.

Every news network had cameras at each disaster scene.

Deputy Director of CIA Operations Christopher Fisher sat in his office. His number two, Layla McCarthy, sat in front of the desk. He felt numb all over, and Layla sat forward in her chair with her eyes locked on the television screens.

Fisher had three wide screens mounted on the wall to the left of his desk. They were always muted, each screen showing a different news network. Fisher often forgot they were there until a disaster happened.

Like today.

The attacks had occurred within minutes of each other. As anchors reported the first, the second took place, and the third. Reporters, stunned at the incoming information, struggled to keep up.

In Los Angeles, a truck bomb detonated outside a local television station. The explosion vaporized a chunk of the building, exposing every floor bottom to top. Debris and bodies covered the street and sidewalk as emergency crews arrived.

And then the ambush began.

Three gunmen emerged from hiding and opened fire with automatic weapons. They cut down the cops and firemen and any straggling civilians nearby.

In New York City, a subway car exploded as it pulled into Bay Parkway station. As steel and glass debris mixed with fire and flame, gunmen opened fire on anybody still on the platform.

In Chicago, the terrorists hit the Cloud Gate structure. The bomb blast lifted the silver ball off its base, cracked it in half, and opened a crater in the plaza in which it sat. Another mass shooting followed the blast.

Fisher watched as the news cut back and forth between each city. He didn’t have the sound on. He didn’t need to hear the large volume of conflicting information. His job wasn’t to explain what happened. His task was to stop the attacks. Since he’d failed, his job was now to find those responsible.

He exchanged a look with Layla. Her usual pale features were more so now.

He wasn’t sure what to do but wait for Sam Raven’s report.

A knock on the office door stirred him from his stupor.

He called out, “Yes?”

His secretary opened the door and leaned in. “Clark Wilson to see you.”

“Yes, please, hurry.”

The secretary stepped back and Clark Wilson entered. A flush of red filled his face and sweat dotted his forehead. He carried a notepad.

“Tell me you have something, Clark.”

Wilson stopped before the desk. He took a moment to catch his breath and consulted his notes. “Horn is dead.”

Fisher cursed. Layla rested an elbow on the edge of Fisher’s desk and covered her forehead.

“Any good news?” Fisher said.

“Our second strike team captured John Yarvis alive.”

“Which one was he?”

“Horn’s number two, sir,” Wilson said. “He gave us data we can use.”

“What is it?”

“Longitude and latitude coordinates,” Wilson said. “Heinrich and I checked them out. They point to an island in the North Atlantic, south of the Azores.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Our satellite scan shows somebody who built up a fortress and has plenty of troops.”

“Tanya is there?”

“Her father owns the island,” Wilson said. “He bought it fifteen years ago. Yarvis says if she vanished after we lost her in Paris, she’s probably there. It’s where the rehearsals for Operation Triangle took place.”

“What does Raven want to do?”

Wilson shrugged. “Go there. Him and Hayden.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Fisher said.

Layla looked up. She said, “Can we talk the president into sending bombers? A two-man crew isn’t going to do the job.”

“You read my mind,” Fisher said. “But I’m thinking of a carrier strike group out of the Med.” He picked up the phone to call the Director of Central Intelligence. They had to move fast.

14

Tanya Jafari stood on the beach, hands in her coat pockets. Waves crashed on the shore with more ferocity than daytime. Their thunderous soundtrack calmed her racing mind. Cold wind whipped at her face, but her heavy coat kept her warm.

Operation Triangle was a success. Hundreds of dead civilians and America terrified and confused. She could not have imagined a better outcome. The plan had carried with it a lot of risk. Her father’s connections with Ben Doyle, Stavros Stathoti, and Dante Horn made it possible. And the Americans kept looking in all the wrong places for clues. Icing on the cake.

But it wasn’t a victory. The United States would be out for blood. Her blood. And the blood of anybody associated with the Islamic Union. Wiping out the CIA agents in Damascus had sent a message, but others would soon take their place. The new crew, motivated by vengeance, would hunt her people to the ends of the earth. Somebody would talk about the island. Tanya Jafari figured she could count the number of days left to her on both hands. The island sanctuary, set up by her father decades ago, wasn’t going to remain so very long. They’d find her. Only a matter of time.

The success of Operation Triangle didn’t bring back her father. The death toll wouldn’t change Hannah’s mind either.

No plan survives the first five seconds of its implementation. Operation Triangle had