Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (16 page)

11:23 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Jimmy Howe had just closed his eyes when the call came in.

A man had been kidnapped on the east side of Sumner.
Numerous armed men were suspected to be holed up at a facility near the Sumner
River. All available officers were directed to report to the location.

Jimmy had kissed his wife's forehead before stepping from
bed. He had thrown on his uniform and vest and walked to his patrol car. That
had been 15 minutes ago.

Now, as he turned off of the exit from Interstate 664 and
towards the almost deserted road that led to the former Carmike Industries
shipping and receiving dock he stepped lightly on the brakes.

He wasn't the first one here. In fact, the dispatcher had
called out the entire force.

The road was blocked. A tall, square SWAT van stood to the
side of the myriad of patrol vehicles, the SWAT team members dressing out in
their black riot gear and loading their weapons, preparing for a raid on the
facility.

According to reports, there was at least one hostage.

Jimmy parked his car on the grass beside the road and
unlocked his shotgun from the pedestal between the driver and passenger seat of
the patrol car. He checked the weapon and racked the wooden stock, ensuring
there was a round in the chamber before stepping from the vehicle.

His shiny shoes were now becoming stained with mud as he
walked towards the mobile command trailer which was being backed into place
near the SWAT van in the center of the dark two lane road.

"Howe." He heard his name called from somewhere
behind him, and turned.

It was the Sumner Police Chief. He was sweating profusely
despite the cool temperatures of the mid-September evening.

"Jimmy, I need your help," said Chief Lyons as his
muscular form rapidly covered the last few steps between
he
and the heavyset Howe.

"Yes, sir."
Howe replied
without hesitation. "What do you need?"

"You used to be a negotiator with the Metropolitan P.D.
in Washington, D.C." It was a statement, not a question.

"I need you to contact the kidnappers," he
continued, "get them talking while the SWAT team enters via the rear of
the facility."

Jimmy nodded.

It had been years since he had served as a hostage
negotiator at the Metropolitan P.D. But he still maintained the qualification,
although since he'd moved to Sumner, he thankfully hadn't needed to use it;
until tonight.

"What sort of communications have we established?"
Jimmy asked as he peered around at the other officers, all of whom stood
awaiting further instructions.

"None yet," said the Chief.

"I'll send you with two members of SWAT. We will need
to do a phone drop and establish two way communications that way. It doesn't
look like that building is going to have a working telephone."

Jimmy nodded and stepped towards the Chief's unmarked black
cruiser. Two men, even thicker than Jimmy
himself
followed closely behind.

The men climbed into the Chief’s car. The SWAT members took
the back seats. They were packed into the seats, their hulking forms with
weapons and body armor filling the entire back of the patrol vehicle as the
Chief drove up the street to the first cordon of police cars which stood near
the entrance of the facility.

The unmarked cruiser bumped down the pot hole pitted road
that led to the former shipping and receiving facility. About a half mile down
the road, Jimmy could see the popping and flashing of patrol cars' lights that
created a cordon around the facility.

It was all standard procedure.

Jimmy sighed loudly in the silence of the car. The two SWAT
members in the back seat were noisily checking their weapons as the vehicle
slowed and neared the marked cruisers and armed uniformed officers that formed
the first line of defense near the facility.

As the vehicle shuddered to a stop on the rough road, the
men opened their doors and stepped from the vehicle, seeking cover behind the
wall of solid steel police cars that separated the officers from the tall chain
link fence marking the facility's perimeter.

The Chief waved to the two members of SWAT, whose hulking
figures cast a heavy shadow even in the dark of the night. He handed the first
a small box containing the portable telephone that the officers hoped to use
for communication with the men inside the facility.

The Chief's face was serious as he looked at the taller of
the two members, who held the phone in his steady and capable hands.

"Get this phone into that complex, but stay down."

Both men nodded and crouched low against the closest
cruiser. They spoke in low tones to one another, before nodding and breaking
into a crouching run towards the gate. They reached the gate quickly, shrouded
in the oppressive darkness.

The taller man heaved the phone over the fence while the
other covered him, holding a M4 assault rifle and sweeping the horizon for
hostiles until both could run back to the relative safety of the shield of
police vehicles.

They made it and seconds later the Chief turned to Jimmy
Howe.

"Now," he said with gravity in his voice;
"it's on you."

11:40 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Considering that he was Jackson's rescuer, Mike was in rough
shape.

Although he had the strength initially to help Jackson stand
up from the chair where he had been bound, he was doubled over in pain now, and
Jackson was halfway carrying the burly retired Chief.

Mike clutched his chest as his broken ribs screamed in pain.

Jackson was quiet as the two men stepped over Assad's body.
They tracked through a pool of blood as they turned to the right in the small
basement hallway. Jackson pointed towards a door at the end of the hall.

"Is that the way you came?" Jackson asked.

Mike nodded. "It leads to a set of stairs and to the
river. I had to blow the door."

"Can you swim?" asked Jackson, looking over his
injured Team member.

Mike's tone carried a hint of offense at Jackson's
implication that he wouldn't be capable of making the other bank.

"I'd have to be dead to not be able to swim the 100
yards across this creek."

Jackson smiled. He was the same stubborn old bastard.
"Alright Mike. I'll take it from here. You get to a hospital."

Mike looked at Jackson, determination in his eyes. "I'm
not leaving you alone."

"Yeah, Mike. You are. These people killed my family,
not yours."

Mike shook his head again defiantly. Jackson continued. "I'm
a wanted murderer, who you have been helping for the last day. You aren't going
down for aiding and abetting on my account."

This time Mike nodded. Jackson shook his head. "And
you're hurt. You'll only slow me down."

Mike nodded again. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew
Jackson was right on all counts.

"Stay safe, Jackson." He said as he handed Jackson
the Ka-Bar knife he had used to cut him free and ambled off towards the red
steel door that led to the docks above.

"Thank you." Jackson whispered under his breath as
he turned to his left and followed the wail of the police sirens.

He was crouched low to the concrete floor clutching Assad's
Beretta 9mm handgun in his calloused hand as he approached the concrete
staircase at the end of the hall. He was sure he had walked down this staircase
after the sandbag had been pulled over his head.

He counted his steps.
Forty-three steps.
This was definitely the staircase.

Jackson placed a rough and calloused hand on the rusting
metal of the hand rail as he
crept
soundlessly one
step at a time up the stairs. Eighteen steps.

As he approached the first landing of the staircase Jackson
paused, his breath catching in his throat as he listened to the voices echoing
through the stairwell from above.

A voice rang out clearer than the rest, shouting commands.

"You two," it said with authority. "Go out
into the courtyard and retrieve the telephone that the police just threw over
the fence."

There was an exasperated pause as the man glanced towards
the stairwell.

"Where is Assad?" Jackson could hear the man's
voice getting louder as he began to walk towards the stairwell.

Jackson descended two steps further down the stairs, out of
sight from the hallway. He would likely have just one opportunity.

The man took one step into the stairwell and Jackson drew
the black Ka-Bar knife from the sheath at his waist and waited.

The dark haired man was rapidly descending the stairs now.
As the unsuspecting terrorist stepped heavily down the concrete stairs, Jackson
held the knife by the blade, feeling for its balance.

As soon as the man turned the corner of the concrete
landing, Jackson heaved the knife full force through the man's throat.

The dark haired man fell immediately, his hands going to his
throat as he fell down the remaining nine steps and lie in a puddle of rapidly
pooling blood. Jackson stepped over to the man, his face a mask of death as he
drew the knife from the man's jugular.

"Assad is dead." He said as he wiped the blade of
the weapon on the man's black shirt and looked back up the stairwell.

The bustle of the hallway above was a constant din of men
and weapons as the eight remaining men armed themselves in preparation for the
police assault.

Jackson could hear them speaking in hushed tones. He
couldn't make out the dialect, but it sounded vaguely like Farsi.

He shook his head.

He wished he'd paid more attention in language school. His
specialty in the teams had been Urdu, the dialect of Arabic spoken in Pakistan.
Though there were commonalities between the two, he couldn't make out much if
any of the men's hushed and furtive plotting.

He tucked the Ka-Bar knife back into its sheath at his hip
and stepped tentatively up the stairs, his breath calm as his heart pounded in
his chest.

Jackson was calm despite the awareness that this would
likely be his last worldly act.

These men were clamoring above him were well trained and
heavily armed.

Jackson reached the top of the stairs and paused for a
second on the landing while he closed his eyes. He pictured Leigh and
Clementine in his mind.

In his final moments, Jackson would picture happier times.

His breathing was even and controlled as he stepped into the
shadowy light of the long cement corridor that led past the makeshift barracks.
The long dark hallway led to the parking lot where a fleet of yellow Penske
trucks stood in the silence of the cool night, prepared to do their purpose and
kill innocent civilians.

At the end of the hallway, the SSG personnel stood huddled
together, four on each side of the red steel door that led to the parking lot.
The first man on the right held the door open, peering into the shadows of the
lot.

He spoke in English now. "Two of you need to go and
retrieve that communication device." He said loudly, pointing at two of
the younger looking men to his left.

The two men nodded and slung their assault rifles over their
shoulders as they stepped through the red door and into the parking lot. This
left six men standing in the hallway.

Jackson smiled as he raised his sidearm. He'd only get one
chance.

He didn't even feel his finger squeeze the trigger.

The action just came naturally to the former SEAL.

The first man fell to one well aimed shot through the side
of his head as the others spun around.

Time was moving slowly to Jackson as the men
turned,
their faces masks of shock.

The next two men nearest Jackson's first target fell in
quick succession as bullets pierced their skulls and splattered thick red blood
and brain across the cold concrete of the hallway wall.

Jackson felt his finger move again as his world darkened.

Chaos surrounded him as he felt a searing hot bullet tear
through the skin of his bare chest. He slumped back, the hard concrete floor
impacting his side as he fell to the cold ground, his eyesight fading as the
last two men turned back down the hallway.

It would seem that his last shot had hit something after
all.

Jackson was pleased. Four was a good result.

As his world darkened, Jackson felt the warm pool of his own
blood stretching out beneath him, soaking the bare skin of his upper body. He
allowed his head to rest on the rough concrete of the facility as he watched
the crimson pool of fluid stretch out before him and begin to drip down the
stairs.

He closed his eyes as images of his family danced once more
into his living memory.

I'll see you soon, girls, he thought as he finally lost
consciousness in the cool darkness of the blood splattered hallway.

11:50 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

There hadn't been time to think.

When gunfire had erupted from the darkened hallway of the shipping
facility, Jimmy Howe and the others had returned fire.

The two terrorists who had been creeping through the shadowy
parking lot and meandering through the stolid yellow forms of the Penske trucks
to retrieve the police phone had immediately fallen to the ground and begun to
lay down precision cover fire when they'd heard the sound of gunfire.

All the two knew was that for some reason, their colleagues
inside were firing weapons at the police who formed a red and blue flashing
cordon in the street.

The SWAT snipers had seen the two advancing from the moment
they stepped from the abandoned facility. When the two men who had been sent
from within to retrieve the telephone had opened fire, they had signed their
own death warrants.

The precision fire fifty caliber sniper rifles and infrared
scopes never wandered from center mass of the two men as the snipers each
squeezed the trigger of their heavy black weapons closed.

The two terrorists fell, their weapons tumbling to the
crumbling concrete of the parking lot as the two men who remained alive indoors
stepped through the blood red door and into the courtyard.

They too, soon fell to two perfectly aimed shots from the
SWAT snipers.

When the courtyard had been neutralized, the SWAT team was
sent to investigate the building. They entered through the same red side door
via the docks as had Mike Jones.

Inside of the building they found a blood bath.

"The courtyard is clear," the radio reported in
its odd melancholy tone as the police stepped from behind the makeshift cover
of their vehicles and towards the courtyard of the facility.

The Chief was clearly in the lead, stepping forward.

"I want teams of two to sweep every square inch of this
facility. Let's find this hostage."

Jimmy Howe was close on the Chief's heels as the two men
stepped towards the hulking concrete structure. Their steps were unhurried and
they were still flanked closely by the two SWAT members who had executed the
telephone drop.

They reached the pedestrian gate of the facility and stepped
through.

The Chief stopped seconds after passing through the twelve
foot chain link gate.

"We only engaged four men."

Jimmy was certain. "That's correct, sir." He said.

The Chief turned to face the three men who followed closely
in tow. "There are six dead bodies in this parking lot."

He looked to the right at the bodies of the two men that
Mike Jones had killed who now lay growing cold in the cool September evening. A
small lake of blood was congealing beneath them and staining the cracked
concrete.

"Those men," the Chief said, "were dead
before we got here."

As if on cue, the SWAT Team that had entered from the river
side of the facility and swept through the building made the all clear call
over the police encrypted radio.

It was only then that the EMTs went to work, running towards
the men who lay dead in the parking lot of the vast shipping facility.

The SWAT Team leader inside the facility crackled over the
radio.

"It's a bloodbath in here. At least six
dead,
and one survivor.
Request medical
support on the first floor of the facility, near the staircase.
Male,
approximately age 30, gunshot wound to the chest, breathing irregular."

The EMT team that was closest to the door sprinted to the
location as the SWAT team continued its report.

"We're going to need to get the FBI down here, sir. The
basement has been converted into some kind of film studio, like something you'd
see from a terrorist responsibility video."

The radio was silent now, as the EMT teams swept through the
parking lot. They seemed to only verify that the men who lay prostrate on the
cold concrete were indeed dead.

These men didn't need medical
care,
they needed a coroner's truck.

Jimmy Howe whistled, surveying the scene. Whoever had
survived the firefight inside was sure to be one tough motherfucker.

As the EMTs scurried about, Jimmy Howe and the Chief seemed
not to notice their efforts. Both men were more interested in the twelve
identical Penske trucks that stood stoically in the cool darkness of the
September Virginia night.

"Jimmy," he said as he stepped towards the closest
yellow truck, his steps purposeful in the thick atmosphere of the post shootout
air. "What do you suppose they were protecting?"

Jimmy was close at hand, and followed the Chief to the
nearest truck. "I don't know, sir. But I'd say they gave us adequate
reasonable cause to take a look."

The Chief smiled. It was a tragic smile, the kind that one
only sees from combat veterans and men who've seen the worst of bloody and
tragic situations. It was the smile of mirth in darkness, of resignation to the
brutality of the world.

The Chief's smile faded as the men stood before the rear of
the first truck.

"Open it," said the Chief to no one in particular.

Jimmy was the closest. His thick hands grasped the release
bar for the rolling gate and heaved it upwards, feeling the strong metal clasp
release and the door spring upwards as he let go of the handle and pulled a
flashlight from his law enforcement belt.

It was as if the Chief, Jimmy, and the two SWAT officers
simultaneously paused, their breath frozen as the light from Jimmy's flashlight
swept over the contents of the truck. As the bright white beam swept over the
deadly explosives and chemicals in the truck, the men stepped back as a single
unit.

The Chief spoke softly.

"Get me the bomb squad, the FBI, and the ATF. And get
my people out of this facility."