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Chapter Thirteen
Wilmington, Delaware
Saturday, August 28, 9:09 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 98 hours, 51 minutes
It was a routine pickup, a classic no-shots-fired thing where the afteraction report would be short and boring. Only it wasn’t.
First Sgt. Bradley Sims-Top to everyone who knew him, and second in command of Joe Ledger’s Echo Team-was on point at the door knock. Like his two fellow agents he was dressed in a nondescript navy blue government-issue suit, white shirt, and red tie. Flag pin on his lapel, a wire, and sunglasses. The motel hallway was badly lighted, so he removed his shades and dropped them into his coat pocket. He might have been NSA, FBI, or an agent of any of the DOJ’s domestic law enforcement agencies, maybe a middle-grade agent in charge of a low-risk field mission. He dressed for the part. He had FBI credentials in his pocket, though he’d never so much as set foot in Quantico. He also had badges for the ATF and DEA in the car.
The Department of Military Sciences did not operate under the umbrella of the Department of Justice, nor did it fall into the growing network of agencies under the Homeland charter. The DMS was a solo act, answerable to the President of the United States. They didn’t have their own badges. They weren’t cops. The credentials Top Sims carried, however, were completely authentic.
He knocked on the door. “FBI!” he a
Out of habit he stepped to one side so that the reinforced frame rather than the door was between him and whoever might be inside. Cops did that; so did soldiers. Top had been a soldier since he enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, and that was twenty-two years ago and change.
Both of the agents flanking him were bigger and younger than Top. They looked like a pair of giants. To his left was Big Bob Faraday, a former ATF field man who stood six-five and had massive biceps that strained the fabric of the off-the-rack blazer. To Top’s right was Bu
There was no answer at the door.
“Maybe he ain’t home,” suggested Bu
“It’s Saturday morning,” said Big Bob. “Guy’s got no job, no friends. He’s here or he’s at Starbucks.”
“Maybe I’ll just knock louder,” said Top.
He did. No answer.
“Let’s kick it,” Top decided.
“I got it,” said Big Bob, moving past Top to front the door. Big Bob had thighs like bridge supports and could bury the whole rack on the Nautilus leg press. Twice now he’d kicked doors completely off their hinges. He wanted a hat trick.
Top shrugged and stepped aside. “Entertain yourself.”
Top and Bu
Top drew the pickup detail and tagged the first two members of Echo Team to report that morning to go with him. Gilpin had no police record apart from parking tickets; he had never served in the military, never belonged to a gun club or registered a firearm, and didn’t even go to a gym. Sending Top, Bu
“Kick it,” said Top.
Big Bob raised his leg and cocked his foot, but just as he was about to kick, Bu
“Wait!” he started to say, and then the door seemed to explode as heavy-caliber bullets ripped through wood and plaster and slammed into Big Bob Faraday.
The big man screamed as two bullets tore into his leg; one smashed his shin and the other struck the underside of his kneecap and then ripped a tu
Kevlar is not designed to stop steel-core Teflon-coated rounds. Street thugs and gangbangers call them cop killers for a reason.
The bullets chopped through Big Bob Faraday like he’d been bare chested. The combined impact slammed him backward with such force that he hit the door of the motel room opposite and tore it out of the frame so that he fell halfway into the room.
All of this happened in a second.
In the next second Top and Bu
Top flattened on the floor and reached his arm out to point his gun into the room. He opened fire, knowing he had little chance of hitting anything, but return fire can disrupt an attack and he needed to buy time.
A voice yelled, “Perekroi dver!” And though Top didn’t understand the words, he could recognize the language. Russian. It made no sense.
He unloaded his full magazine and there was a sudden shrill scream from inside. He’d gotten a lucky hit.
“Bozhe moi!”
Top saw that Bu
As Top dropped his mag and slapped in another, Bu
Top signaled to Bu