Chapter 2: Shadows in the Capital
The stairwell was a vertical tunnel of concrete and steel, echoing with the rapid, heavy footsteps of Halloway’s fleeing men. Logan moved up the steps like a phantom, silent and measured, his eyes tracking every blind corner and landing.
He didn’t rush. He knew Halloway. The man was a coward when stripped of his titles and bodyguards, but he was a cornered rat now, and cornered rats always laid traps.
At the 12th-floor landing, Logan stopped. A faint metallic click rang out from above.
Logan flattened his back against the cold concrete wall a second before a spray of automatic gunfire chewed through the door frame, sending concrete dust and sharp splinters floating through the fluorescent air.
“I know you’re down there, Cross!” a voice yelled down the stairwell. It was Marcus Vance, Vanguard’s Chief of Security and Halloway’s personal hitman—a former Delta Force operator who had gone rogue for defense contractor millions. “You should have stayed dead in Peshawar, Logan! You’re fighting a multi-billion-dollar machine! You think a little audio file changes anything? Money wins! It always wins!”
Logan reached into his dress blue jacket. He didn’t pull out a grenade; he pulled out a small, military-grade flashbang canister he had taken off one of the dead contractors in the ballroom.
“Money can’t buy back the dead, Vance,” Logan called up, his voice chillingly calm.
He pulled the pin, cooked the lever for one second, and banked the canister off the concrete wall above him.
It bounced up the steps and landed right at Vance’s feet.
BANG-FLASH!
A blinding white light and a 170-decibel shockwave violently detonated through the narrow stairwell. Vance and his two men shrieked, instantly disoriented, their balance wrecked by the sudden disruption to their inner ears.
Logan moved.
He cleared the steps in three massive bounds. He rounded the landing, raising his suppressed handgun. Three rapid shots echoed through the smoky stairwell. Vance’s two men dropped instantly, their weapons clattering down the concrete steps.
Vance, blinded and bleeding from his ears, blindly swung his rifle. Logan ducked under the barrel, stepped inside Vance’s guard, and slammed a brutal palm-heel strike into Vance’s nose, driving the cartilage upward. Vance stumbled back, gasping for air, his rifle slipping from his grip.
Logan grabbed Vance by the tactical vest, slammed him against the heavy steel door of the roof access, and pressed the hot barrel of the P320 directly against Vance’s throat.
“Where is he going?” Logan asked quietly.
Vance coughed up blood, a manic, desperate smile stretching across his face. “You’re… you’re too late, Cross. The server banks… the drone clearance… it’s all automated now. Once Halloway gets to the bird, he initiates the Pentagon upload. Vanguard gets the ten billion… and you become a wanted terrorist who shot up a hotel.”
“Where is the helicopter going, Vance?” Logan repeated, his thumb pulling back the hammer of the pistol.
“The Pentagon annex… Skyport Alpha,” Vance choked out. “He’s meeting Secretary Sterling… they’re signing the executive override tonight… you can’t stop it…”
“Watch me,” Logan said.
He drove a short, sharp left hook into Vance’s temple, knocking the man cold, and let his body collapse onto the stairs.
Logan pushed open the heavy roof door and stepped out into the pouring Washington rain.
The roof of the Willard Hotel was whipped by cold winds. Fifty yards away, a sleek, black Sikorsky S-76 helicopter was waiting, its rotor blades spinning in a blur of grey light, kicking up a blinding mist.
Through the rain-streaked cabin window, Logan saw Thomas Halloway. The former general was strapped into a leather seat, a ruggedized military laptop open on his knees, furiously typing commands while frantically gesturing for the pilot to lift off.
Logan raised his pistol, taking aim at the rear rotor blade to ground the aircraft.
CLACK.
The slide locked back. Empty.
The helicopter’s skids lifted off the wet helipad. Halloway looked down through the glass window, catching sight of Logan standing alone in the rain in his ruined dress uniform. Halloway raised a glass of scotch from the onboard bar, his face twisting into a mocking, triumphant sneer, and offered a silent toast.
The Sikorsky banked sharply into the storm, its red nav lights disappearing into the low-hanging clouds over the Potomac River.
Logan dropped the empty magazine into the puddle at his feet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his satellite phone. He dialed a twelve-digit encrypted number that hadn’t been activated in four long years.
The line clicked.
“Cross?” a raspy female voice answered on the third ring. “We saw the news. The ballroom went dark. Is it done?”
“No, Maya,” Logan said, his eyes tracking the disappearing sound of the helicopter blades. “Halloway escaped to Skyport Alpha. He’s going to hardwire the drone override directly into the Defense Network. Gather the rest of the survivors. It’s time to crash the party.”
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