Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

a serious, no-nonsense frown. “No. That will not be necessary. I’ll go to Baltimore. I’ll watch them load the goddamn olive oil.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the woman said. “Now, enough whores. Get focused. This operation is the most important mission you’ve ever had in your life. In all our lives. Don’t screw it up. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Wagner nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.”

The call ended, and Annie’s computer began processing the conversation, extracting keywords and possible code phrases, analyzing and comparing the data to previous recordings and conversations stored somewhere up in the cloud.

The main server told Annie the woman’s voice had not been previously recorded and there was no information on who she was. It did, however, trace the originating phone call back to… no, that made no sense. Somewhere in the vicinity of Mount Tyree in Antarctica? The trace had to be wrong.

“Not helpful,” Annie said, taking another bite of her sandwich. She glared at the man on her screen. “Let’s just hope you spring for a better hotel in Baltimore.”

Chapter Nine

Connor didn’t even want to imagine the devastation that would occur if this device reached New York City, DC, or any other city. The bomb was relatively small, but even a one-megaton explosion would flatten everything within 2.5 miles of ground zero, killing hundreds of thousands, maybe even over a million, depending on where it went off. It was a nightmare scenario.

And the fact that he couldn’t get ahold of Pennington only enraged Connor further. Every time he tried, he went straight to the director’s voicemail.

“Where the hell is he?” Connor growled, jamming his finger down on the END button. The act didn’t have the same relieving effect as slamming a handset down on its cradle.

He took a deep breath and called Christina.

She answered after two rings. Her voice was low, groggy from sleep. “Hello?”

Connor stood, knocking the hotel menu off the bed and pacing. “Christina, it’s me, Connor. Wake up.”

“What… I… What’s wrong?”

“You need to wake up. Hakimi’s got a nuke.”

“Hold on.”

Connor heard the sound of rustling sheets on the other end of the line. “Come on.”

Christina cleared her throat and sniffed. When she spoke again there was still a fair amount of grogginess in her voice, but she at least sounded coherent. “Connor, it’s two o’clock in the morning. What the hell is going on?”

“Did you not hear what I said? Hakimi has a nuclear bomb. It’s in play right now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen pictures. The captain of the salvage ship pulled a plane out of the water and had pictures on his phone. The B43 was right there, still mounted on the bomb rack. That was days ago, Chris. Who knows where it is by now. It could be halfway across the Pacific. We need to send out a National Emergency Flash Alert.”

“B43? I don’t understand—”

“You’re cc’d, it’s in your e-mail. Utah managed to connect the dots. That salvage operation Hakimi was doing, it was to uncover a lost nuke from the sixties. The guy’s got a nuke!”

“Son of a bitch,” Christina whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of Pennington for the last twenty minutes, but he’s not answering his phone.”

“Oh, he’s pissed at you.”

“What the hell is he pissed at me for?”

“Are you kidding? Taking vacation to follow up on an unauthorized investigation, involving unapproved agency assets. Jackson was able to keep him from cutting you off completely, but I have a feeling it’s going to be bad when you get back. I mean, if you have any ass at all when he’s done with you, I’d be surprised.”

“It’s not my ass I’m worried about,” Connor said. “It’s the millions of people endangered right now because of this asshole. That’s the only thing that matters.”

“Connor, I get it, but how many threats do we get on a daily basis? Hundreds? Thousands? You know they’ll only look at this as another one of a zillion bogus threats they get every week.”

“That’s exactly why I came out here in the first place—to prove that it wasn’t bogus. To prove that this is the real thing. We can’t afford to let ourselves be caught up in the bureaucratic red tape on this, Chris. We can’t.”

A knock sounded on Connor’s hotel room door. “Hold on,” he said. “Food’s here.”

He set the phone down on the dresser and snatched up a pile of Japanese yen. Looking through the peephole, he saw a young Japanese man in a white service jacket, a covered tray in one hand, balanced carefully over one shoulder. Connor’s stomach growled as he opened the door and smelled the fresh-grilled teriyaki chicken.

The server smiled. “You order teriyaki chicken?”

“Thanks, I—”

The man’s free hand came up, and Connor caught a glimpse of matte-black steel. A Glock. He ducked sideways as the gun leveled and fired, the silencer on the end reducing the blast to a pop like a balloon. Connor felt the concussion of the shot against his face and heard the bullet slice through the air a fraction of an inch from his ear. The wall behind him exploded, spraying plaster and wood.

Connor straightened up, backhanding the gun away, but the server—letting the food tray, plate, and utensils clatter to the floor—lashed out with his other hand, punching Connor square in the nose. Stars danced in Connor’s vision as he retreated into the room.

Connor brought his boot up and launched a front kick into his attacker’s pelvis. The man used both forearms to knock the kick away and spin Connor around, off balance. He fell back into the wall, cracking the plaster.

Again the gun came up, the silencer enormous in Connor’s face. He brought both arms together, forming an ‘X’, and caught the attack in the top cross-section, shoving the man’s gun hand up and to the side. The man squeezed off three more shots as Connor twisted to the right, wrapping his arms around the man’s wrists and pinning them together. Plumes of dust and plaster erupted