Our Sacred Honor. Джек Марс

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СКАЧАТЬ was no time to speak, no time to give Daria a command.

      Gunfire came from both sides now. Machine gun fire raked his door. DUNK-DUNK-DUNK-DUNK-DUNK. His window shattered, spraying glass in on him. At least one of the bullets had pierced the armor. He was hit. He looked down at his side – there was a darkness, growing and spreading. He was bleeding. He could barely feel it – it seemed like a bee sting.

      He grunted. Men were running in the darkness.

      Instantly, before he knew it, his gun was in his hand. He aimed out the missing window.

      BLAM!

      The noise was deafening to his ears.

      He had hit one. He had hit one. The man had gone down.

      He sighted on another one.

      Steady…

      Something happened. His whole body bucked wildly in his seat. He had dropped his gun. A shot, something heavy, had gone right through him. It had come from behind him and punched through the dashboard. A gunshot, or a small rocket of some kind. Gingerly, numb with terror, he reached to his chest and touched the area below his throat.

      It was… gone.

      There was a massive hole in his chest. How was he even still alive?

      The answer came instantly: he soon wouldn’t be.

      He didn’t even feel it. A sense of warmth spread out through his body. He looked at Daria again. It was too bad. He was going to convince her… of something. Now that would never happen.

      She stared at him. Her eyes were round, like saucers. Her mouth was open in a giant O of horror. He felt the urge to comfort her, even now.

      “It’s okay,” he wanted to tell her. “It doesn’t hurt.”

      But he could not speak.

      Men appeared at the window behind her. With their rifle butts, they smashed away the remaining shards of glass. Hands reached in, trying to pull her out the window, but she fought them. She tore at them with her bare hands.

      The door opened. Three men now, dragging her, pulling at her.

      Then she was gone, and he was alone.

      Avraham stared at the vehicle burning in the darkness in front of him. It occurred to him that he had no idea what had happened to the lead vehicle. He supposed it didn’t matter now.

      He thought briefly of his parents and his sister. He loved them all, simply and without regret.

      He thought of his grandparents, perhaps standing ready to receive him.

      He could no longer make out the burning vehicle. It was just bright red, yellow, and orange, flickering against a black background. He watched as the colors became smaller and dimmer, the darkness spreading and growing even darker. The inferno of the exploded car now seemed like the guttering of a spent candle.

      He watched until the last of the color went out.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      4:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

      Headquarters of the Special Response Team

      McLean, Virginia

      “Well, I guess the band is officially back together,” Susan Hopkins said.

      Luke smiled at the thought.

      It was the Special Response Team’s first day in their brand new digs. The new headquarters were their old headquarters from years before, but newly renovated. The squat, three-story, glass and concrete building was in the wealthy suburb of McLean, only a few miles from the CIA. It had a helipad with a brand new black Bell 430 hunched on the tarmac like a dragonfly, gleaming white SRT logo on its side.

      There were four black agency SUVs parked in the lot. The building had offices on the first and second floor, and a state-of-the-art conference room that was nearly a match for the Situation Room at the White House. It had every technological bell and whistle that Mark Swann’s fevered imagination could conjure. The workout center (complete with cardio equipment, weight machines, and a heavily padded sparring room) and the cafeteria were on the third floor. The soundproof gun range was in the basement.

      The new agency had twenty employees, the perfect size to respond to unfolding events fast, light, and with total flexibility. Spun off from the FBI and now organized as a sub-agency of the Secret Service, the arrangement limited Luke’s interactions with the federal bureaucracy. He reported directly to the President of the United States.

      The small campus was surrounded by security fencing, topped with razor wire. But right now the gates were thrown wide open. They were having an Open House today. And Luke was happy to be here.

      He strode the halls with Susan, eager to show the President of the United States all the things she already knew about. He felt like a five-year-old. He glanced at her from time to time, soaked in her beauty, but did not stare. He stifled the urge to hold hands, which she apparently felt as well, because her hand brushed his hand, his arm, his shoulder, almost constantly.

      She needed to save all that touching for later.

      Luke turned his attention to the building. The place had come together exactly as he had hoped, and so had the SRT. His people had agreed to join him. This was no small matter – with all the strife they had endured, and Luke’s extended absence, it was a gift that everyone was willing to trust him again.

      He and Susan entered the cafeteria and waded through the crowd, trailed by two Secret Service agents. About a dozen people snaked in a line around the food serving bar. Over by the window, Luke spotted the person he was looking for, standing between Ed Newsam and Mark Swann, dwarfed by the rippling muscle of Ed and the beanpole height of Swann. It was his son, Gunner.

      “Come on, Susan, there’s someone over here I want you to meet.”

      Suddenly, she looked stricken. “Wait, Luke! This isn’t the right…”

      He shook his head, and this time he did grab her – by the wrist. “It’ll be fine. Just tell him you’re my boss. Lie to him.”

      They emerged from the crowd and appeared next to Gunner, Ed, and Swann. Swann wore his hair in a ponytail, wraparound glasses on his face. His long body was draped in a black RAMONES T-shirt, faded blue jeans, with yellow-and-black checkerboard Chuck Taylor sneakers on his big feet.

      Ed looked huge in a black turtleneck, beige dress pants, and black leather shoes. There was a gold Rolex watch around his wrist. His hair and beard were jet black, closely cropped, and meticulous, like hedges cared for by a master gardener.

      Swann was information systems – one of the best hackers Luke had ever worked with. Ed was weapons and tactics – he had come through Delta Force after Luke. He was absolutely devastating in the use of force. Ed had a glass of wine – it looked tiny in his giant hand. Swann held a black can of beer with a pirate logo on it in one hand, a plate with several large sandwich slices in the other.

      “Guys, you both know Susan Hopkins, don’t you?” Luke said.

      Ed and Swann shook her hand in turn.

      “Madam СКАЧАТЬ