The Night of the Cobra

22 THE MALL

By lunchtime, the city was smothered with cops. It had been staggered by the terrorist attacks and the invasion of the Cedar-Riverside area by the armored vehicles and soldierlike cops, but, although the streets had simmered, there had been no riot. Television reports still carried the taste of a battlefield documentary, and some Somali residents said they actually had feared for their lives, and they hurled accusations that the authorities had overreacted just because they were blacks and Muslim.

How could the Cobra not be happy on such a fine morning? Those shocking reports were the propaganda equivalent of still another attack, for those frightened citizens and the militarized law enforcement reactions would be seen by millions of people all over the world. And all it had cost him was a single telephone call of warning to a television station news department.

Considering the chaos and distrust that he sowed, Omar Jama felt as if he were the captain of a large ship, looking back over its turbulent wake. His daily drumbeat of attacks was wearing down the resolve of the Americans by showing their weaknesses. Everyone out there had but two thoughts: Is it over? What next?

It was the weekend. He was not yet done with his attacks on America. Tomorrow, on Sunday, he would show them what was next and unsheathe the sword! Meanwhile, he had enough spare time to continue his parallel campaign against his other three targets, the first being Deqo Sharif. Omar had laughed aloud when he saw the TV pictures of her wrecked home. That was just the first footfall of an approaching hungry bear, but she did not know that. By tonight, she would be trembling.

He waited in the huge mansion; there were three men watching the luxury hotel where she had taken refuge, but she had to surface sometime. As a bonus, they had identified the suite as being in the name of Kyle Swanson — the Swanson Marine! A pleasant and unexpected bonus.

He intended to make himself personally known to them today and let them recognize him for a brief moment, so they could then live in fear, knowing he was coming to collect them. That meant he would have to go out in the daylight today, so the Cobra assumed the image of a businessman in a dark suit with a blue shirt and subtle tie. The collar of his overcoat would be worn up. A snap-brim hat tilted over his forehead and the eye patch would shield the scars.

The call came in at eleven o’clock. “They’re moving.”

“Follow them. Stay in contact.” He thought perhaps he could just shadow their car for a while, race up alongside and roll down the tinted window and show his face long enough to be recognized, and then escape. Maybe taunt them. Or perhaps have another car hit them. He would just have to wait and see and strike when the opportunity was right, but at least things were moving.

The Cobra watched troubled Minneapolis from the passenger’s seat of the stylish BMW X5, escorted by the same quiet and neat youths who had rescued him from the storefront apartment and ferried him to the place on Lowry Hill. Pierre drove, and Clinton was in the rear. Both were polite and neatly dressed and were members of a gang called the Somali Outlaws. He enjoyed their company.

“Do you boys know my name?” he finally asked when they were under way.

“No, sir,” answered the driver. “Only that you are important and we are to protect you.”

“That is probably best,” the Cobra said.

Pierre briefly blinked his eyes from the road and looked over. “Where are we going?”

“Just drive around. I would like to see the area where the trouble took place yesterday.”

“Cedar-Riverside?”

“Yes. We can start there.”

The new SUV containing the three black males was not pulled over. The plates were traced by several officers, and the police computer spat back that the owners were the famous music star and businessman E-X and his wife, Fatima, two of the wealthiest celebrities in the Twin Cities. That was enough to maintain a bubble of protection and respect around the opulent vehicle.

A video screen on the center console live-streamed the broadcast of a news channel. The Cobra watched, as did Clinton.

“Do you have something to do with that, sir?”

Omar Jama gave an oblique answer. “I work for the glory of the Islam.”

“Cool,” said Clinton. They rode in silence for a while through the streets of the nervous city, then Clinton asked, “Sir, do you need more people to help? We’ve got plenty of street boys.”

Cobra turned, nodded. “I will keep that in mind, Clinton, and I thank you for the offer. My business is on schedule, and I have manpower equal to the task. Do you follow our Prophet, whose name be praised?”

“You mean are we good Muslims?”

“Exactly.”

“No, sir. We are not religious at all. In fact, being a Muslim is an easy way to have the FBI all over you. We are just businessmen, interested only in profits.”

The Cobra stiffened, then relaxed. He wasn’t here to proselytize. Still, if the faithful were losing the religious grip on the young people, they eventually would drift away. “I know. Well, you shall discover your own path, but please consider resuming your study of the Book. It is part of the culture of our people.”

“Okay. Can I ask, not being too personal if you don’t want to say, but…”

“My face? The scars?” Cobra smiled, glad to move the subject away from religion.

“Yes, sir. I have seen beat-up dudes before, but, damn, it looks like you got run over by a train or something.”

Omar Jama trailed his fingers along the misshapen flesh and the patch. “I sustained these a long time ago, in the early days of the war in Mogadishu. War is very dangerous.”

“Could plastic surgery fix your face up better?”

“Doubtful. There were no plastic surgeons in the African prisons in which I spent ten long years. I was fortunate to survive at all. Now, I keep my scars as personal reminders of how much I hate this country. America did much worse to thousands of other Somalis. Babies were killed, women were raped, men had their genitals cut off, and whole villages were starved and crushed by the American marines.”

Pierre joined the conversation. “I saw that war movie about Mogadishu, but it didn’t have anything about the marines. So you come over here for some payback, sir … after twenty years?”

“My war will never stop, young man. It knows no boundaries.”

In the backseat, Clinton sat in total admiration.

The Cobra’s telephone buzzed, and he answered. The driver of the faded red Volvo reported he had followed the man and the woman from the hotel, and they were now eastbound on I-494. He closed the call. Maybe this would be a chance to pull alongside them for the unveiling of his presence. “Get on Interstate 494 and head east, please. Hurry.”

“Yes, sir. Going to the mall?” Pierre knew an interstate entrance was two blocks over and hurried onto the ramp, then gunned the engine and sped into traffic.

“I just want to find a certain car.”

“If they are on I-494, the chances are that they are going to Mall USA over in Bloomington.” Clinton crossed his arms. “It’s the only thing out there.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

This tilted his plan, and he said a quiet prayer of thankfulness for Allah’s presenting still another wonderful opportunity. He had known that fact, but had not made the correlation between what was happening at present and what he planned for tomorrow.

The Mall USA was the second-largest shopping mall in North America, and was his target for the final attack. On Sunday, he would dial a single number that would simultaneously burst the attack code word—“sword”—to eighteen separate telephones, and history would be made. But although he planned to destroy the mall, he had never actually set foot in the huge complex. Today he could track Sharif and Swanson out there and simultaneously do some quiet final surveillance. Perhaps there would be a chance to do even more.

The sleek SUV rode quietly along Interstate 494, and the Cobra noticed the flow of traffic appeared normal. The drivers and passengers apparently believed that bad things only happened to other people. They had not been at the coffee shop in Wisconsin or on the roads around Albert Lea and had not gone to the basketball game, so they were sleepwalking through what could be the most dangerous time of their lives, depending on overwhelmed and ineffective police to protect them from him, an impossibility.

“Do you have weapons?” he asked.

“No, sir. Too dangerous to carry with all those cops running around today.”

“No matter. I know where we might find some.”

The begrimed red Volvo followed Swanson and Deqo all the way to the mall and parked one row back and five slots down, and its occupants watched the man and woman walk from the parking lot to the east entrance of the mall before checking in with the Cobra. “We’re almost there,” said Omar Jama. “You go inside but stay near the entrance. The man with her would spot a tail. He is dangerous.”

Hugh Brooks, the FBI SAC, looked up as Lucky and Janna entered his office at Brooklyn Center. He brought them up to date. “The forensics and search teams have proven that little apartment behind Hassan Investments was occupied, but by someone other than Mr. Hassan Abdi. It looks like they all disappeared. There’s a BOLO out now, but Hassan smells real gone.”

Lucky plopped into a chair. “They had an escape plan because they knew they were going to have to run eventually. Both Hassan and whoever lived behind the shop.”

“Just so,” Brooks said, wishing he still smoked cigarettes. He could use one right now. “Maybe something will turn up from Interpol. How’re things over in Cedar-Riverside, and with your grandmother?”

Lucky adjusted his lanky body in the seat. He was still agitated by the screwup the night before. “Deqo is okay, and the scene is settling down. A tactical team went into her house without a warrant, scared her half to death, broke almost everything, and in the process almost started a riot.”

“God almighty. I hear that the mayor got a quasi-impolite call from the governor, wondering if Minneapolis was in need of the National Guard. Apparently the governor had received a similar call from the White House.” The strain was telling on the veteran agent. “By raiding Deqo’s home, those cops inadvertently got you involved on a personal level.”

“They stepped way over the line, Boss, and they knew it while they were doing it. Somebody should lose their badge.” Sharif was outwardly at ease, but Brooks saw through the act.

The SAC poured a cup of stamina, returned to his chair, and sipped at the strong, hot, fresh brew. “Nevertheless, your effectiveness with the locals has been impaired until this is all cleared up.”

Janna had both hands wrapped around her own mug of coffee. “Pull Lucky off, and we lose our best contact within the Somali community,” she said.

“I’m not taking either of you off of the case, Janna, but we do not want Lucky to end up in a confrontation that could get public and nasty and damage the progress he has made over the past few years. The chief promised me a thorough internal investigation.”

Sharif kept his face blank. “I won’t let it blow up. I came up through the MPD, and I know a lot of them. They’re good people. They know a fuckup when they see one and want to clear it as fast as possible.” Sharif stopped talking, stretched out his long legs, and crossed his ankles. “On the case, I keep coming back to something Kyle said, that this all has been too much to be accidental. Someone mapped out these moves carefully to sow distrust and get us going after each other. That sidetracks the overall investigation and keeps us from concentrating on who is behind the attacks.”

“The guy in the back room.”

“Yes. Him.”

“Any idea who that might be?”

“No. We went through it all over and over during the interviews. It had to be personal, against Deqo, but she doesn’t have enemies like that. Even the gangsters respect her because she knew them as kids.”

“Keep thinking about it. Speaking of Swanson, where is he?”

“Taking Deqo over to the Mall USA,” said Janna. “Good place for him to cool down, too. He really was ready to shoot a cop at that roadblock. I saw it in his eyes. He didn’t give a damn. That is one dangerous guy.”

“Well. Whatever. I’m glad you rolled up when you did, Ecklund. You kept a bad situation from getting a lot worse, and this can go back to being handled as a problem for the local police. They get our total support, but it is their ground. You done good.”

The gigantic mall reminded Kyle Swanson of Arlo Guthrie’s old folk song about a down-home restaurant run by a woman named Alice. You really could get anything that you want here. It measured almost three million square feet and was a commercial city enclosed within the surrounding city of Bloomington.

Kyle smiled as the irrepressible Deqo shed her worries as they mingled through the centerpiece-attraction theme park made for children, who, hollering, loaded onto roller-coasters and thrill rides that dashed amid an actual forest that was rich with trees and bushes. Multiplex movie theaters were open for afternoon shows, and upscale shops were having sales. Sharks and stingrays shared a deep-water aquarium with thousands of other salty sea creatures. Restaurants and food carts were thronged, and the smaller shops on the multiple floors all had plenty of customers. All television sets had been turned off, keeping the news coverage about the terrorist mayhem at bay.

It was life in slow motion, a place where visitors checked their worries at the door, content that they were safe inside, for the mall’s twelve thousand workers and a sizable private security force was supported by the Bloomington Police Department. It made Swanson nervous, for that was not the truth in his world. Most of the security personnel were easily identifiable in sharply creased white shirts, dark trousers, and dark hats, with radio mikes on their chests and pepper spray on their belts. They were meant to be obvious. Traditional Minnesota politeness was the rule. He had a tingling feeling that someone other than a security camera was watching him.

He and Deqo followed a map’s directions up to the middle level of the three-story mall, where they found a beauty salon that was shoehorned between a jewelry store and a travel agency. Kyle had reserved an appointment for Deqo, and she was immediately taken beneath the wings of a pair of pretty young Korean women. “You are the birthday girl!” one squealed. “We will have some fun today, and make you even prettier than you already are!”

The other girl put her in the chair and wrapped a slick apron around her neck and got ready to wash her hair while the partner wheeled up a tray of instruments to work on the manicure. Within thirty seconds, they were all chattering away like old pals. It was the same at the other three chairs in the shop. Swanson felt totally out of place.

“I’m going to walk around the mall, Deqo. Call my cell if you need me, but I’ll be close and back here in thirty minutes. Then we can have lunch.” He wanted her to feel comfortable and safe.

“Go ride the roller-coaster, Kyle,” she urged with a big grin. “Play some golf on the computer course.”

“When is your birthday, Mother?” asked the beautician working at the sink.

“Tomorrow. I will be seventy-five years old on Sunday.” Her response was proud.

“You lie!” the girl laughed. “I would have guessed early sixties.”

Swanson had been totally dismissed from their girl world. He would go for a walk, but was too keyed up to be out of sight of the beauty salon, and would not venture to any other level. He was just another weary man waiting for a woman. There were a lot of those in the mall.

Clinton strolled into the mall with a confident stride. His tweed jacket and wool trousers blended with the crowd. When he saw no threat, he called back to the car, and a few minutes later the Cobra entered, with Pierre fifteen seconds behind him.

Omar was pleased to see that hundreds of black, white, brown, and yellow people were in the crowd so the three of them were not the only Somalis around. He breathed in the atmosphere of the big place. He had never seen anything like this. Allah had indeed blessed him with a perfect target.

At the rich Westgate Shopping Mall in Nairobi, Kenya, al Shabaab had killed 67 people and injured another 175 over three days in September in 2013, and television carried the shocking images worldwide. Westgate would soon be considered child’s play compared with the Cobra’s “sword” plan. After tomorrow, Mall USA would be remembered in the history books.

He saw Clinton about twenty-five meters ahead, keeping watch all around, and Pierre meandered about the same distance behind him, leaving the Cobra to move on his own. The Volvo driver stayed near the door. They did not stare at the security cameras or at the roving security officers, and were careful to do nothing to attract any attention, although there was nothing he could do about his scars. If people wanted to stare, so be it, but he would not be here very long.

He had operatives among the mall’s employees, and they had furnished precise floor plans and other vital data for the Cobra when he was planning the attack. As he walked along, he knew the layout so well that the mall felt like familiar territory. Weapons and ammo were secreted in the storerooms of busy shops and in nooks in the construction and safely stashed in the back corridors used by workers and service personnel. At least a dozen packets of explosives had been prepositioned.

That was for tomorrow. Now, where were the Sharif woman and the Swanson Marine? They had to be here somewhere. He would find them.

He folded his topcoat over an arm, strolled past the aquarium, and paused to watch fish from tropical waters swimming comfortably in a tank that had been built in the middle of a frozen land. His targets were not children, so he could bypass the attractions. They were here for a purpose, which meant the shops because it was a bit too early for the sit-down restaurants. Turning away, he passed in and around some ground-floor stores, then stepped onto an escalator and ascended to the second floor. His protecting angels arranged themselves to accompany him at a distance. The view from higher above the main floor was magnificent, for the mall was a kingdom for the imagination, and he could see more from up there.

The shoppers and tourists seemed untouched by the recent wave of pain. They were not scared. Omar Jama bought a sugary cinnamon bun and nibbled it as he casually walked along a wide aisle that was lined on one side by stores and on the other by a clear protective railing. The place was laid out like a race-course oval, with a middle space that let shoppers on the upper floors see all the way down to the centerpiece attractions on the ground. He moved to the rail to get out of the pedestrian flow and leaned on it with his elbows. It was all quite a sight. Straight across the open space was a parallel corridor where even more stores were open and serving customers. He chewed the sweet bun and looked down on the heads of the crowd below. A weekend crowd of Americans, old and new, were going about their lives. He would change that tomorrow.

He raised his eyes. On the far side was a jewelry store that had gems and polished metal glittering brightly in the artificial bright light and a sign that said the store would buy gold for the highest prices in the mall. A travel agency showed bright posters featuring beaches and bikinis and palm trees: warm locales. Getting on a plane at the nearby Minneapolis — St. Paul International Airport and being in Bermuda or Cancun within a few hours had undeniable allure.

In between those shops was a beauty salon in which women were being pampered. The Cobra froze. In the middle chair was an elderly black lady who was being propped into an upright position after having her hair washed. One attendant was vigorously toweling the wet hair while another picked at the fingernails. It was her. He tossed the rest of the cinnamon bun into a nearby trash receptacle and looked around. The Swanson Marine was not in sight, so he locked his eyes on the woman.

Deqo Sharif had almost fallen asleep in the chair while her hair was shampooed, and she was jarred awake when the chair moved to sit her up straight and a fluffy towel was wrapped around her head. The girls were still chattering around her. Deqo looked straight over the shining black hair of the manicurist and out through the window facing the outer corridor. Across the empty space, staring directly back at her, was the ugly, scarred face of a big man she instantly recognized. The man was smiling, and he slowly raised a hand and pointed his finger at her. Deqo slapped both hands to her chest and screamed, a terrible sound that froze everyone in place for a long moment, then called out in panic: “KYLE! KYLE! IT’S HIM! IT’S THE COBRA!”

23 THE WARNING

A covey of pretty young girls engrossed in texting was strutting past the bench on which Kyle Swanson was resting comfortably with legs crossed and his right arm along the backrest. When he heard the shattering scream from Deqo, he was immediately on his feet, the girls forgotten as he broke into a run. He was about a hundred meters away from the beauty shop and on the same side of the second-floor hallway, and his rubber-soled boots had a tight grip on the nonslip surface floor. Did she say the Cobra? His right hand went to the butt of the pistol in the belt holster as he dodged through clusters of startled shoppers and slammed toward the little shop. She stood in the open doorway, a green towel draped over her head and wearing a cream-colored waterproof apron, still calling for him and pointing across the walkway.

“He’s over there!” She shook her finger, jabbing across the empty space. “It is Omar Jama! Look right over there! See him? Over there, in the dark suit!”

He followed her gesture while simultaneously grabbing her and pushing her to the floor of the shop, sprawling over her on his hands and knees and pulling the weapon free. The other customers and employees were breaking from their startled silence and were about to erupt.

He saw a husky black man pushing into an overcoat and staring at him. Two young black men closed up on the man’s flanks and they all moved away, gaining speed as they disappeared behind a fence of shoppers.

The crowd around the beauty salon came out of its dazed state and milled about like cows in a feed lot, anxious, unsure where to go or what to do. A man with a gun was crouching over a woman on the floor, and she had been screaming and now was crying softly. A woman security officer was fast approaching, radioing the disturbance report to the central security office downstairs, asking for backup and warily watching the position of the pistol. It was pointed up with no finger on the trigger, so she did not break stride. Swanson found his badge and held it toward her.

The Cobra looked back over his shoulder one final time. Allah be blessed for delivering my enemies unto my hand! Clinton and Pierre were near, getting him toward the doorway while Omar Jama ran the possibilities in his mind. He had found them, and they knew he was back, something they never dreamed would happen. Why wait until tomorrow? Why not do it now and roll them both into the inevitable catastrophe?

The thought arrived with startling clarity. Everything started to make sense. Swanson knew in his bones that this sparkling mall was about to become the target for a major terrorist attack. What other reason could there be for that bastard murderer to be at the Mall USA when he should have been dead many years ago? The Cobra, his old nemesis from Somalia, the killer of Molly Egan and Lon Sharif, had survived and had come to America to orchestrate a tsunami of terrorism. He was the mastermind. It had been him who gave the tip that spawned the police action at Deqo’s home, and now he had tracked them to the mall. He wanted to kill them, too. It had been the Cobra all along. To Swanson, the entire mall scenario now was not a matter of if but when.

But his impulse for a chase was trumped by more urgent needs. He had to protect Deqo. Then he had to alert the mall cops to shut the whole place down to avoid certain disaster.

“What seems to be the trouble here, sir?” The question came from the neat security guard, who held a canister of pepper spray at her side and was watching the pistol. “Is this lady okay? Should I call for medical assistance?”

“She’s fine. Get your boss, Officer,” Kyle snapped as he held CIA credentials closer for her to read. “It’s urgent.”

She was in her midthirties and wore a wedding ring and an immaculate uniform with a single polished brass bar on the collar. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her brown eyes were cautious. Keep the subjects quiet until help can arrive. “I’m Lieutenant Parker, sir. Suppose you talk to me first, sir. Please put the weapon away.”

Kyle’s blood was growing hot. He holstered the pistol with practiced ease. “Lieutenant, a terrorist is trying to exit this mall right now. You need to lock it down and pour in the cops.”

“Really?” She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “A terrorist?”

Deqo had collected herself and shucked out of the apron and was mopping her hair while gathering her jacket and purse. “Believe us, miss. The man’s name is Omar Jama, and he kills without mercy. We have seen his evil work before. He was standing right over there two minutes ago.” She pointed to the vacant space on the next corridor.

Swanson had no time to argue. “The description would be for a black male about six feet tall and with a hideously scarred face. Perhaps accompanied by two bodyguards, all of them making for an exit even as we speak. You have to stop them at the doors.”

The security officer moved closer and put a gentle touch on Kyle’s elbow to steer them out of the doorway of the salon, away from where the curious crowd was gathering. “No offense intended, sir, but was the identification made by this elderly lady wearing thick eyeglasses? A man seen from, what, fifty feet away?”

Swanson was out of patience. “Stop debating and get moving, Lieutenant! Aren’t you even aware of the terrorist strikes over the last few days? Or have you just grown stupid in this enclosed little world?”

She remained blank, waiting for backup.

Swanson raised his voice and got in her face. “I AM WITH THE FUCKING CIA. I KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT. NOW GET YOUR FUCKING BOSS!”

Two more white shirts hustled up. “The identification is too sketchy,” she responded, backing away from his fury as the new guards, two large men, came closer.

Kyle glared at all three of them. “There is nothing wrong with this lady’s eyesight. Jesus H. Christ, people. She knows the face of the man who killed her husband right in front of her. She has seen it every night in her dreams for the last twenty years. And it’s not only her, because I know him, too, and I saw him! We’re the ones who gave him those scars!”

An overweight male officer stepped closer. “Lower your voice, sir. You are frightening people.”

“Good. They need to be frightened, and they need to get out of this place.”

“Please settle down, sir,” said Parker.

“There is no need to panic. We have protocols in place for this sort of thing,” said a moon-faced officer. “We get crank calls all the time.”

Swanson took Deqo by the arm. His next words were menacingly polite. “This discussion is over. Either you call the cops or you don’t, but we are out of here. I suggest one last time that you get everybody on full alert. You don’t have much time. You really don’t.”

“Thank you for your information, sir. We’ll take it from here, and I will personally brief the major.” Lieutenant Parker actually smiled. “I’ll see you to the door.”

Deqo turned and spoke in a sad but urgent voice to the two beauty salon employees who had been working on her. “You are good girls, and I don’t want anything to happen to you. This is real. Please close up right now and leave. You are all in grave danger. Please.” Her eyes rimmed with tears.

“Ma’am. That’s enough,” said Lieutenant Parker. “Come along.”

The patrons of the salon, all in different stages of their hair, skin, and nail treatments, looked beseechingly to the shop workers, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The chubby male officer winked. “All is well, ladies,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

“She’s seventy-five,” said the girl who had been doing Deqo’s nails, and she twirled a finger beside her head to indicate the disturbed customer was unbalanced. They could not afford to let a delusional old woman cost them a half day of business and tips.

Deqo moved slowly, her soul twisted by the impending danger. She spoke softly. “Kyle, we can’t just leave like this. The Cobra is going to slaughter these people!”

“There is nothing more we can do at the moment, Deqo, because they don’t believe us. When I get you clear and safe, I will call Lucky.” He looked at the escorting woman. “Tell your major that he will soon be fielding calls from the FBI, the police, Homeland Security, and the governor. Cops will be swarming in here within half an hour. Maybe you’ll believe them.”

“Yes, sir. I will relay your message.”

Kyle had been unable to dent her armor of self-confidence, and she had not changed her placid facial expression by the time they reached the mall’s east exit on Twenty-fourth Avenue. He said, “One last thing, Lieutenant Parker. Get a gun, and do it now. I think you’re out of time.”

The Cobra, breathing hard, was astonished they were not being chased by the Swanson Marine or the police. They reached the parking lot without interference. Pierre had worked the electronic key fob of the SUV, and the engine and heater were on by the time they gratefully scrambled inside.

“What just happened?” Clinton asked from the backseat, panting only slightly from the run.

“Some people from Somalia recognized me.” Omar Jama rubbed his gloved hands together and buried his nose in them for extra warmth while his brain spun in overdrive. “Without a doubt, they are even now raising an alarm. We must leave immediately.”

“But no one followed us,” Clinton said, scanning around the vast parking lot that was outlined in snow drifts. “We’re clear!”

The Cobra was not looking for police or dwelling on the sighting of the Swanson Marine and old woman. Instead, he was checking the foul weather, which he had to factor in to his next decisions. A chopping cold wind was slashing down from Canada, and although it was not late in the day, a band of darkness seemed to anchor the northern edge of his universe. Low, pregnant gray clouds spat new snow from horizon to horizon. He decided once again that he hated Minnesota. The conditions would make flying dicey for police helicopters, but perhaps a full-throated jet plane could bore through it to the sunshine. Ice and snow would slow down vehicle traffic. He had planned out everything that was to happen tomorrow, but it had all changed with the sightings of his pair of enemies. If he launched now, the attack might not be perfect, but it had the attractive possibility of trapping them inside.

Once they identified him, the Cobra would be hunted by every policeman in the land. Without question, the time was at hand to terminate his visit to this frozen landscape. “Pierre, go ahead and drive us out of here. Be careful and obey all traffic rules. Mix in with other vehicles as soon as possible.”

“Back to the house?”

Omar Jama exhaled a long breath as he recalled the road map imprinted on his memory by years of study. “No. Things have changed too much in the past hours. Get on Interstate Thirty-five and head south, toward Des Moines.”

“Yes, sir. We are going to Iowa?”

The Cobra motioned for him to drive, and they eased from the parking lot.

Swanson paused at the airlock before leaving the big mall as Deqo wrapped up to encounter the cold. Kyle had his phone to his ear, calling Lucky. It buzzed once, twice, three times. Pick up, buddy! Answer!

Cawelle Sharif’s voice came on. “Yo, Kyle. How is the mani-pedi going?”

“Hell is about to break loose out here at Mall USA, Lucky. We just spotted none other than the Cobra in the mall.”

“Cobra? Him? You certain?” That was preposterous. The man was supposed to be either dead or locked in a dirt prison on the far side of the world.

“Hundred percent ID by both of us. He is probably the one behind the whole series of attacks, and I think he is getting ready to hit the mall. I have tried to alert security, but they ignored me; said they could handle it.”

“Mutha…”

“Yeah. I don’t know how much time we have now. This place is a sleeping giant of a target, Lucky. I know that after spotting us, he is already in the countdown.”

“Is Deqo safe?”

“We are already clear. Have a cop meet her at the hotel. You start moving, and get these security people to pull their heads out of their butts. The bus and the shootings were diversions to overwhelm the law enforcement system. The mall is what it’s all about: something of 9/11 significance.”

“Yeah. I buy it. I’m out.” Lucky Sharif ended the call and hollered for Janna to get them a car. He headed upstairs to the SAC’s office while working his speed-dial directory to begin the impossible task of stopping everything on a dime and then reorienting forces away from the Target Center disaster and the Cedar-Riverside scene and out to the Mall USA. A mall attack by terrorists was the nightmare scenario of law enforcement.

Swanson put away the telephone. “Lucky is in gear,” he told Deqo. “He will get the cops moving out here. Now let’s get you home.”

They were at the mall’s major ground-transportation hub, and a yellow cab was at the front of the taxi rank. The driver popped its rear door for them. Kyle helped her into the warm interior, then shoved a pair of one-hundred-dollar bills at the driver. “Take this lady to the Graves Hotel in Minneapolis and keep the change. Don’t try anything stupid or think you might take a shortcut on this job. Her son is a cop, and so am I. She is to arrive there safe and sound, and you turn her over to a police officer who will meet her there. Got it?”

“Consider her there, buddy,” said the cabbie, pocketing the money.

“No, Kyle,” Deqo cried. “You have to come, too!”

Swanson looked into the worried face. “I can’t do that, Deqo. I have to wait here and work with Lucky. Then we will both be over. It’s going to be okay. Love you.” Before she could protest further, he closed the door and slapped the top of the cab, calling out to the cab driver, “Go.”

The yellow cab moved out, and Kyle jogged to the government sedan he had borrowed back in Minneapolis. The frigid air bit his lungs as he raced through the falling snow, dodging patches of ice, and popped the trunk. FBI cars packed a lot of equipment the normal motorist would never need. He shucked off his heavy jacket and lashed into a bulletproof vest, then lifted out an M-16. The jacket went back on, and he stuffed extra magazines into each pocket.

The Cobra received a brief call from the Volvo tracker, who said the old woman had departed in a taxi but the man was out of sight in the parking lot. Omar Jama thanked the operative and told him to leave the mall. The job was done, and the final payment would be wired to his bank on Monday.

From his overcoat, the Cobra withdrew a pair of prepaid and preprogrammed cellular telephones, and thumbed the SEND key.

The call bounced along one satellite and two cell towers to activate another telephone hidden in a sealed box of pans behind the gas main of a large stove in a food court restaurant. The signal snapped close the connection on a powerful improvised bomb that had been made from a block of C-4. The device sparked and erupted perfectly to set off a massive gas explosion that created a rolling tower of force and flames. It gobbled up the kitchen, then blew out the thin walls and raked the seating area and swept outward, reaching for the shoppers.

While that explosion was still resounding, the Cobra dialed the second phone, which transmitted a text message simultaneously to a group of eighteen numbers and kept repeating it: SWORD … SWORD … SWORD.

Two of the numbers came up dry, but Cobra had expected a few failures. The sixteen who did receive the message were expecting it, having just been alerted by the initial explosion and the immediate screech of fire alarms. It was a day early, but that did not matter. They all dropped whatever they were doing and rushed to the hiding places in which they had stockpiled guns, grenades, and rocket-propelled grenades so carefully over the past months.

“So it begins,” Cobra said. His face eased into a dreamy look of pleasure. “Now, drive on, Pierre. This is done.”

24 THE BATTLE

Mall USA had a security staff of about one hundred officers, although the number on duty at any given moment was much less. Security had to be spread over three shifts a day, seven days a week, plus vacation and sick fill-ins, special details, maternity and paternity leave, and personal requests for time off. The guards covered a massive complex, both inside and out, even in the coldest weather, and scheduling was an ongoing chore for Major Kent Abramson, the security chief. There just was not enough staff to keep the place absolutely tight, and the television monitors were primarily to alert the dispatcher after something had already happened.

He was in his comfortable private office, listening to Lieutenant Fran Parker explain the incident at the beauty salon, where an alleged CIA guy had made wild claims about a terrorist attack. Both of them knew that the last emergency drill at the mall had been turned into a joke.

The merchants hated losing precious store time, so a drill had been scheduled at five minutes before closing time on a specific date, and had been announced well in advance. Even so, it had failed because the storekeepers would not take it seriously. Suddenly a guy flashing CIA credentials was claiming to have personally spotted an infamous terrorist up on the second floor, and his claim was backed up by an excited elderly woman with thick glasses.

The unusual pair had been escorted out of the mall to prevent them from instigating panic, but now Major Abramson and Lieutenant Parker were on the spot. They could do nothing and hope the guy was jumping at shadows to placate the old woman’s fear, although, to Parker, he did not seem to be the jittery kind. The badge and cred pack looked real, although neither of them had ever seen CIA credentials. Even if legitimate, the man might be buckling with post-traumatic stress disorder, probably so marinated in terrorism that he saw threats everywhere he looked.

True or false? Mall USA had not been shut down in its seven years of existence. As they weighed what to do, the immense building gave a sudden lurch. The framed grip-and-grin photographs and certificates of accomplishment rattled on the major’s walls, and then they heard the muffled whumph of the initial explosion, followed by the louder detonation of gas lines in the food court.

They exchanged looks of fear. Abramson grabbed an old-fashioned red telephone on the credenza behind him, which was a direct connection to the Bloomington Police Department. Parker ran into the adjoining communications center and ordered the dispatcher to broadcast an evacuation order over the mall’s speakers. She pulled the lever for the fire alarm. Bells and horns blared. Thousands of people began breaking for the exits and safety.

Security Officer Pavel Kadyrov rushed inside the office, his eyes wide with excitement, and Fran Parker tossed him a key ring, yelling for him to open the weapons locker. The big officer with the shaved head fumbled with the keys until he found the correct one, clicked the lock, and pulled apart the twin doors of the cabinet. A selection of handguns, a riot shotgun, and an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle were arranged neatly in a wall rack beside a few boxes of ammunition and a few stun and teargas grenades. The weapons were well oiled and in pristine condition. Kadyrov knew how they worked from previous careers. He loaded a Glock 20 and stuck it into his utility belt, then pulled down the 12-gauge Winchester 870P shotgun and pushed six rounds into the black weapon.

The guard was handy with guns. He had grown up in Chechnya, where he had fought alongside fellow Muslims against the brutal Russians. Four years ago, a visitor with a Frankenstein face came through and recruited him to take his skills abroad, for a special purpose. Entering the United States on a student visa with refugee status, Kadyrov got the job at Mall USA and was studying criminal justice at a Bloomington community college. He was a solid, popular, and conscientious worker who had never missed a shift.

The Chechnyan held the long pump-action shotgun with the familiarity of a long-lost lover, racked one into the tube, brought it up, and fired into the back of Lieutenant Parker. The blast flung her onto the dispatcher at the communications console. Kadyrov cocked in another round and jammed the shotgun against the head of the startled dispatcher. The trigger pull vaporized the skull.

He had mentally practiced this vital opening step hundreds of times. With a third shell loaded, he was ready when Major Abramson opened the door to his private office. The powerful shot tore open the man’s gut and kicked him back against the desk, where he slid to the floor with his life spilling away. A second shot tore into the chest.

Kadyrov reloaded the shotgun, then went around the room to kick the plugs from every electrical outlet. The place went dark, and its computers buzzed and flashed and failed. Within four minutes of receiving the “sword” order, the likable big kid from Chechnya had stopped the heart of the mall’s security operation.

Other security guards were separated and isolated out on the floors, without comms or leadership, and the arriving police would now have to come in blind because all surveillance feeds had been terminated. Soon, someone would come to the security office, and Pavel Kadyrov would be waiting there with an arsenal that he had barely tapped.

Kadyrov wondered how the assault was going elsewhere in Mall USA, because it had never been practiced with all of the participants. There were others, he knew, and each person had a specific task. The explosions from the food court indicated that his comrades were already at work. Kadyrov concentrated on carrying out his own assignment and thought about the money he was being paid.

Now came the empty time between attack and response, the difference between law enforcement and military, slow versus aggressive defense. The series of explosions was easily heard in the parking lot, and as he approached the east entrance, he also heard the boom of a shotgun not too far away.

With the M-16 in the crook of his arm, he called 911. “A confirmed terrorist attack has begun at Mall USA. My name is Kyle Swanson, and I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. I am armed and about to enter from the east.”

“Sir. We already have help on the way to that location. Don’t go in there.” The dispatcher was curt and spoke with authority.

“I am five-foot-nine and have long brownish-blond hair. I’m wearing a black armored vest with my shield pinned to it and jeans.”

“Sir. Listen to me!”

“I am carrying an M-16 and a sidearm.”

“No! Wait for backup and SWAT! You can’t do anything alone.”

Kyle took a deep breath. “There has been a rolling explosion, and I hear gunfire. People are dying in there. I don’t have time to wait.” Having given confirmation of the attack and the description of himself, he signed off, unlimbered the rifle, and picked up his pace, heading for the sound of the guns. He would have to first push his way through the thick crowds that were crushing together as they made for the doors.

“Make a hole!” he shouted as he elbowed through, holding his rifle up high. “Make a hole, dammit! Get out of my way!”

From the midst of the panicking throng, a white shirt appeared and a tall security cop stepped into his path. The guard raised his canister of pepper spray, and Kyle butt-stroked him across the face. The man went down. As people surged around, Swanson grabbed him by the shirt and hoisted him back to his feet. “Listen!” Kyle shouted. “I’m a federal agent, and I’m going after the shooters. You guide people out of here and set up a triage area outside. Help is coming.”

The skinny young man was wobbly, his bright blue eyes bulged, a purple bruise was forming on his cheek, and his thoughts were scrambled. The lack of training was obvious. “But it’s cold out there,” he protested in a strangled cry.

Kyle shoved him. “Go!” The popa-popa-popa-pop rattle of a machine gun opened up from high overhead, deeper into the mall. He found a stairway but was making only plodding progress because so many people were headed the other way. There must have been at least ten thousand people shopping in the mall when this thing started, he thought. It was a vast free-fire shooting gallery filled with human beings gripped in panic. He could not possibly save them all. His best option was to stop the killing at its source and bring down the people on the guns.

Another automatic weapon opened up deep in the mall, the unique rip of an AK-47. How the hell did they get automatic weapons in here? That was a question to ponder later, for bullets were striking and people were falling. Swanson found some free room and raced up the nearest steps two at a time, passing the second floor at a full run, ascending toward the top gallery. Screams filled his ears. Everywhere he looked, people were running for their lives, crouched into hiding places, or lying dead or wounded on the floors and being trampled by others. Glass shop windows crashed into dangerously sharp splinters as bullets sheared them like scissors.

He wanted to reach the uppermost floor, as in any battle: take the high ground and attack from the top down. A stuttering machine gun was close, and Kyle ducked lower as he ended the sprinting climb. Peering to his left, he saw that a man was kneeling and facing the other way, working an RPK light machine gun that was resting on a bipod braced on a solid stone bench. From that position at the end of the hall, the shooter had an unimpeded sight line that covered an axis that prevented anyone from trying to reach the stairs to descend. Bodies were strewn on the floor beyond him and well-dressed store dummies had spilled out from the shattered display windows of the adjacent upscale Cannes Clothing store. The victims looked like broken mannequins. The gunner was doing damage.

Kyle lifted his M-16, steadied up, and did a triple tap that paced up the man’s spine, from kidneys to between the shoulders and then between the ears. The pulverized terrorist slammed forward hard against the bench, and the front of his destroyed skull emptied into a flower display. Kyle listened. That takedown had stopped the firing here, but there was more elsewhere. Another explosion as a grenade blew up in the playground far below.

Swanson pushed the body away and took over the well-chosen tactical location himself, gaining a view all the way to the far end of the corridor. From this point, the sniper could reach out and touch someone else. He noticed the dead gunman wore a blue denim shirt that was stamped with the distinctive logo of Cannes Clothing. Obviously an employee. A white strip of cloth was tied around his head.

After a quick scan around, Kyle unloaded the RPK and threw it aside, then phoned Lucky Sharif.

“We’re on the way,” the FBI special agent barked above the noise of the siren. “Coming in, everything we’ve got. How bad is it?”

“About as bad is it could be,” Kyle answered truthfully. “Terrorists are slaughtering everybody they can. They control the mall. Bunch of bodies already down.”

“Where are you?” Sharif recognized that the voice of his friend had tightened. He was in action.

“I just took out a bad guy with a drum-loaded RPK, up on the third floor. A Slavic-looking piece of Eurotrash. Unknown number of shooters are still active. They haven’t realized I’m up here with the altitude advantage.”

“Roger that. An RPK? How did that get inside?”

“You guys figure that out down the line. Also, I just heard a grenade go off. Talk to you later. I’m busy.”

“Good hunting, Kyle. Hold on. I’m coming.”

His M-16 was an older A2 model, but it could slam out a 5.56 × 45mm NATO bullet at a muzzle velocity of 3,050 feet per second, with good accuracy up to 550 meters. Swanson had expended only three rounds, so he had twenty-seven still in the box magazine, with another full thirty-round clip in his pocket. From a kneeling position, he brought the rifle to his shoulder, turned away from the chaos and the dead and the cries of the wounded, and tracked his aim around the third floor: top to bottom, side to side.

At the far end, a swarthy young man with a short beard had leaned over the railing and was showering down wild bursts with an AK-47. He was not aiming, just shooting, almost as if in celebration. Swanson took a line on him and squeezed the trigger with the gentleness born of practice. The first bullet hit the exposed left rib cage, and when he jerked around with the impact, Kyle plunged a second bullet into the soft belly. The terrorist screamed and fell backward with his own trigger still depressed as the AK continued to fire, moving under its own recoil to trace bullets up the nearest wall and into the ceiling.

Swanson realized that one also was wearing a white strip of cloth tied around his head, so it was probably a crude recognition signal. Did they even know each other? He could use that. He snatched the bandanna from his first target and fitted it around his own head. It was stained with blood but still had enough white showing to give a moment’s pause to other terrorists, which would be a fatal flaw.

Kyle jumped up and ran into the destroyed Cannes Clothing store. That had been the machine gunner’s easiest target because he apparently worked there, and he had shot the hell out of it. Swanson drove hard through the dress racks, leaped over debris and bodies, circled the cashier counter, and charged like a bull through a small storeroom and out the rear exit.

Everything changed as soon as he was through the portal. All of the glitter was gone, and this was the work area, the warren of hallways and storage spaces that made the mall tick. Banks of long fluorescent bulbs provided pale and stark illumination, and the bare floor was unpainted concrete. Wiring and ductwork ran overhead to allow carts and clothing racks and machinery to move about freely. Unfinished drywall was stenciled with signage that told which doors led to which shops.

Kyle stopped and was looking both ways for threats when he noticed a wide chunk of drywall that had been roughly torn away from the back entrance to the Cannes store, a hole made so recently that the bits and pieces still clung to the tape and were scattered on the floor. The hole was ragged around the edges. On the floor, a heavy canvas duffel bag yawned open and empty beside a sheet of plastic that reeked of gun oil. That had been where some weapon, probably the RPK, had been hidden, out of sight until needed. The gunner knew precisely where to find it.

Swanson turned left and moved into a fast jog down the empty hall, noting the locations of the cargo elevators and staircases as he passed. He wanted to reach the far end of the hall before cutting back out into the mall itself and coming in from a new angle, but he had to be cautious. If he could move freely back in this unseen web of corridors, so could the bad guys, who would know exactly where they were. He did not lower his guard. He did not know how many people were on the attack team, but that did not really matter. Two were already off the board, and he would just kill the rest of them one at a time, until there were no more.

25 THE FIRST HOUR

The Cobra had spent the sheikh’s funds wisely, for it was not unlimited. A top priority, even before traveling the world to enlist his assassins, was to set up primary, secondary, and tertiary escape routes from the United States for himself. Becoming a dead martyr was not in his plans.

Within an hour after leaving the mall, Pierre had driven them past Burnsville and Lakeville and was approaching the town of Faribault on I-35 as the radio reported that terrorists were attacking the Mall USA.

Traffic was sparse going south on the broad road, which had been salted and plowed. The BMW’s front wheels threw a stutter of grit on the undercarriage, and the wipers stayed busy slashing at the collecting snow. The storm pushed on the car’s boxy rear like wind billowing a sail. Minnesota received only about nine hours of sunlight during the day in late January, and by four o’clock, darkness was already clamping down. Headlights brightened the falling snow, and Pierre piloted as much by following the red taillights of other cars as he did by watching the dark ribbon of highway that was bordered on both sides by hefty banks of snow and ice. There were no roadblocks on the southbound lanes, but law enforcement vehicles blazed up the interstate’s northbound corridor beneath flashing halos of red, blue, white, and orange.

Omar Jama was settled and quiet on the open road, for he had no advice to help Pierre drive in such weather. When they saw the illuminated green signs for the town of Faribault, Omar Jama consulted the GPS app on his cell phone and guided Pierre onto the local streets of the small community. They went less than three miles before finding a darkened brick building that housed an enclosed long-term parking garage. The Cobra recited the four-digit entry code, Pierre punched the buttons in a little box, and the folding storm door obediently rolled up. They drove inside, and Pierre was told to park the filthy BMW in a slot adjacent to a clean Lexus.

Omar Jama climbed from the SUV and stretched, pleased to find the temperature in about the sixty-degree range. “This place is winterized, so my car should start, but you may have to give me some help,” he said. The garage door, on a timer, automatically lowered itself after forty-five seconds and shut out the noisy wind. Pierre remained in the driver’s seat. Clinton stepped out, walked to a steel support post, turned his back, and urinated.

The lights brightened when the door closed, and the Cobra unlocked the Lexus. He adjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate his big body, fixed the mirrors, and turned on the heat, spending a few moments to study the controls. Omar was not a car guy, but this vehicle was extremely simple. He got it running, then left it idling in neutral and got out to give it time to warm up and for the oil to circulate.

“I will be changing to this Lexus now and continue on by myself. You both can return to Minneapolis and disappear. I thank you for remaining by my side during the time of crisis. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Would you like to come with me and be my bodyguards? I can promise plenty of money, excitement, girls, and power when we get to Africa.”

Clinton shook his head and laughed at the thought. “No, thank you, sir. Africa is too far from home for us. We would melt in that heat.”

The Cobra laughed with him. “I understand, but wanted to make the offer. So, good fortune to you both, my friends. May Allah bestow his blessings.” He withdrew a Glock 19 pistol from a deep side pocket of his overcoat in a single, smooth motion and shot Clinton in the mouth, then fired twice through the open SUV window and hit Pierre in the neck and head. As the driver collapsed onto the seat, a kill shot was put into Clinton’s head. It was unfortunate to have to eliminate such loyal men, but they were all expendable. He had offered them a chance, and they refused, leaving him without a choice. He would not take a chance on either being captured alive.

He put the pistol away, opened the driver’s-side door, reached in, and triggered the rear hatch’s latch. It was hard work to wrestle the body of Pierre down below window level, then wrestle Clinton’s corpse into the wide rear-cargo area without getting his clothes bloody. He shut down the SUV engine and locked it. It should remain undiscovered for hours, probably until late morning at least — maybe days. The Cobra peeled off the overcoat and threw it into the back of the Lexus. The interior was toasty, and he wasted no more time. He backed out of the parking slot and drove to the exit door, then tapped his code into the security box while keeping his other hand over the left side of his face to stymie the surveillance-video camera. When the door was open, Omar Jama pulled out into the weather. The door closed behind him and the cold, still night consumed the garage.

His escape route was set. Maybe a drive-thru restaurant would be open on Highway 60. The Lexus shouldered bravely into the darkness as he headed west toward Mankato, where a chartered jet was waiting to take him away, boring up above the storm and away from this wasteland of ice, snow, and eternal cold. Within a week, he would be home in Somalia, to be hailed worldwide as the new hero who had struck America a savage blow.

Swanson made a quick peek around the corner and found the path clear. The door into the rear of a store that sold athletic gear hung open, and he went in with a quick roll that ended with his back to a wall. People whimpered nearby, and he wiggled over and found them huddled behind some cardboard cartons. A man on his knees was bandaging the bleeding shoulder wound of a sales clerk. “Shhhh,” Kyle said, finger to his lips. “I’m a friendly. Stay put.”

He low-crawled out into the sales area, through the debris, the sharp shattered glass, overturned tables, two dead customers, and another wounded clerk, whose bright yellow golf shirt was smeared with blood. A steady hiccup was popping just outside, and Swanson recognized that it was a pistol. Looking over a display case, he spotted a man with the telltale white bandanna sitting on the floor with his back to a bushy planter, concentrating on reloading a handgun. The shooter was black and slender, built like a Somali, and wearing the gray twill uniform of a maintenance crew member. Swanson had an easy aim with his M-16, waited for the reloading process to be completed, then gave a low whistle. The gunman looked around, and Kyle popped a single round into the heart area, rupturing the vital organ. The body went into the spasms of a death dance. He fell, the body braced against the potted plant.

“Yo! Friendly! Back here! Hold your fire!” A hushed male voice came from the stock room. Quiet and calm with no accent.

Kyle pulled his M-16 around to the sound. “Who’s that?”

“I’m a friendly, too. Ernie Harrison. Ex — navy corpsman.”

“Come out on your belly, hands first, so I can see you,” Kyle growled.

Empty hands appeared in the door, followed by broad shoulders and a square face. It was the guy from the back room. The man had Minnesota-blue eyes, pale skin, and short, sandy hair. He was about thirty years old, and his long-sleeved shirt had dark stains. He squirmed forward, as if he had a lot of practice in staying low under fire. “Can I get in this fight?”

“No, but you can help. Stay here for a second. I’ll be right back.” Kyle waddled like a duck out of the door and scooped up the fallen pistol, a Smith & Wesson MP9L with a fresh clip of seventeen rounds, then yanked the white cloth from the man’s head and replaced the stained one he wore. Returning inside the store, he handed the S & W to Harrison, who had pulled the wounded clerk in the yellow shirt to safety and was probing his wounds. “This pistol has a full clip. You work with the injured, Harrison, and check down the hallway for others. I know there are some back in the Cannes Clothing store. If I find more, I’ll send them back. The cops are on the way.”

“I can help you. I pulled a tour in Fallujah,” Harrison said, expertly checking the clip and putting the safety on.

Kyle ruefully shook his head. “You can help more by staying out of my way and dealing with the injured. The whole mall is a slaughterhouse right now, and there are a ton of casualties out there, Harrison. You may be the only person here with any medical training, so do what you do best. But if anyone with a gun comes around, remember that these tangos all are wearing a white bandanna around their foreheads, so use that as identification and an aim point. Shoot, don’t talk.”

“Got it. Just out of curiosity, who the hell are you?”

“My name is Kyle Swanson, and I’m a retired marine. I think I have this third level almost under control, so I’m going down to hunt on the second floor. Good luck.” Then he was out the door. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone.

Harrison thought: Kyle Swanson. Why is that name familiar? He could not recall. He crawled back to the clutch of wounded, pulling the clerk behind him.

The best way to save ammo was to use somebody else’s bullets. Using a collapsed aisle for concealment, Swanson found still another shooter on the top level. It was an older guy who walked casually beside the railing, as if strolling in the park, taking single potshots down with an AK. White bandanna.

Swanson put his trust in the flimsy camouflage of his own white bandanna and in the fact that the enemy was not expecting opposition. He stepped out into the open and walked toward the shooter, closing the gap between them with every step. The man glanced over and recognized the white ID cloth. Although the grim eyes were afire, his rifle was still pointed down at the helpless targets. Kyle gave a quick acknowledging wave with his empty left hand to divert the man’s attention even more. The puny deception could not last, so he locked into a standing firing position at point-blank range and saw the terrorist flinch upon realizing what was about to happen. Nine shots, and all struck the target: eight torso hits and one in the gun arm. Kyle ran forward, ripped away the AK-47, and snatched up an extra magazine of ammo before firing a make-sure death round into the man’s temple.

Swanson slung his M-16 across his back and ejected the magazine of the AK-47 to snap in the fresh one. He would use that weapon until it was dry and then drop it and take another one.

Shoot. Move. Communicate. He had four kills on the top floor and not a shot had come back his way in return. Kyle was in his comfort zone, an elite killing machine, working with precision against an unsuspecting enemy.

Lucky Sharif and Janna Ecklund found mayhem and chaos when they arrived in the sprawling Mall USA parking lot. The bedlam that had surrounded the suicide bomb at the Target Center had spread to the mall, tripled in size, and was still growing. Hundreds of people were trying to escape, and the two FBI agents could hear gunfire ripping inside the shopping center. Moans of despair, sharp curses, low prayers, and keening shrieks rose from the clusters of civilians who scrambled toward the safety of flashing emergency-vehicle lights. Anyone who fell was trampled underfoot.

Janna snaked their car into the tangle and parked against the bumper of a police car to help create a barricade. Another car pulled in immediately behind, and civilians flopped down behind the makeshift barrier, gasping for breath, crying, many of them bleeding.

The spilling tide also pushed against anyone trying to get inside, thwarting cops and first responders. There were too many people in the way, too many people hurting, and the officers and medics and firefighters were unable to get a grip on the scene. Rescuers and victims alike were locked in stalemate, with bullets pecking at those still inside.

Lucky’s personal telephone buzzed, and he heard the bop-bop-bop-bop of automatic gunfire before Swanson said a word. Then the sniper quickly painted a horrific picture of the shopping center being a free-fire zone, with gunmen on all three levels. The exact size of the attack force was unknown. Kyle estimated at least two hundred civilians were dead, probably many more, and an untold number were wounded. “They aren’t taking hostages or negotiating,” Swanson said. “They are just trying to kill as many as possible.”

The terrorists wore white bandannas as identification, but otherwise looked like ordinary employees and came in all sizes, ages, and colors. Kyle speculated the guns and grenades had been smuggled in over the past months and had been hidden in the walls of the service corridors and other out-of-the-way caches.

“When are the cops coming in?” Swanson asked.

Lucky worked his way forward. “I can’t give you a time, Kyle. The first people here were traffic cops, and they have had their hands full at the exits. They won’t go inside unprotected. One guy tried to and was ordered to stand down, and he threw his badge in the snow. I see a SWAT team that looks about ready to go.”

“Okay. Okay. Tell them to put on the night-vision goggles, then shut off the interior lights. I don’t think the bad guys have NVGs. Also, the volume of gunfire seems to be slackening, so it looks like the mass-slaughter phase is done and the terrorists are shifting to find individuals and groups that are hiding. Darkness will help the victims hide.”

“If it’s dark, you won’t be able to see either.”

There was a snort that sounded like a laugh. “Don’t worry about that, Lucky. They don’t know that I’m here. I already bagged four of them, and they still don’t know I’m here. Anyway, I like fighting in the dark. I gotta go.”

“Kyle, I’m coming in to help.”

“Let the SWATs do it, Lucky. We’ll force these rats into a kill pocket or help them die in place. You coordinate this mess, and I don’t have to explain to Deqo how you got shot right before her birthday. Check with you later.” The call ended.

Immediately, Lucky’s handheld radio came to life with his SAC, Hugh Brooks, wanting an update. “Imagine trying to evacuate a town of about ten thousand people through a couple of doors. That’s about where we are,” Sharif answered. “There are about a half-dozen first priorities, and the weather is totally brutal.”

“Are the terrorists firing outside the building?”

“Not that we can see. I just got a call from Swanson, who is up on the third floor.”

“Tell him to stay out of sight and keep reporting.”

Lucky smiled. “Too late for that, Hugh. He has already killed four of the terrorists.”

There was a pause on the other end as Brooks made notes. “Order Swanson to stay out of the way. Just report. Washington is flipping out about this,” the SAC said.

“They should be concerned,” Lucky responded. “It’s bad. Kyle estimates minimum of two hundred dead.”

Brooks wrapped it up. “The governor has called out the Minnesota National Guard, so you can expect a lot more manpower and good vehicles soon. Homeland Security is gearing up and has dispatched helicopters. Our own Hostage Rescue Team is five minutes away, and every hospital in the region is preparing for the onslaught of wounded.”

Lucky said, “I’m leaving Janna in the command center with the radio. The bad guys knocked out the surveillance cameras, and Kyle is our only set of eyes in there. We need more. I’m going in.”

“Permission absolutely denied, Special Agent Sharif. You be clear on that! You stay right where you are and keep things organized. Plenty of guns are coming. I want you and Janna out of the way. Let the locals handle the entry and the fight. We are there to support them.”

“Roger that, boss,” Lucky said, and signed off.

He gave the operational radio to Janna, who was examining a diagram alongside a state trooper. “Brooks wants me to go in with the SWATs and link up with Kyle. You handle the liaison until I get back.”

She flared. “That’s bullshit, Lucky. You go, I go.”

“Sorry, Janna. SAC’s orders.” He headed for the SWAT van to join the assault force.

26 THE HUNTED

Franjo Boban did not mind this kind of work. The big Serbian had done it before. Back in 1993, when he was a Scorpion with the army of Republika Srpska, the Serbians exterminated thousands of Bosnian Muslims in a valley near the village of Srebrenica. His gun ran hot back in those days, just as his Kalashnikov was steaming after an hour of steady shooting in the mall. He did not know how many men and boys he had murdered back in the valley, and he did not know the score today, either, only that it would be high.

When his side had lost that war, Franjo changed shirts and loyalties, and became a mercenary who specialized in the lucrative trade of helping various African warlords. His real name was on a list of vicious Serbs that the world wanted to arrest and put on trial for being war criminals, so he had purchased a new one. A few years ago, he had been recruited in Libya by a scarred black fellow called the Cobra, who had paid in one-ounce gold coins.

The big man had been working for seven months as a forklift operator at the loading docks of the Mall USA when the “sword” command — the signal to attack — had arrived. Boban drove his forklift to the service area, where it usually was parked, and removed a fake service panel in the rear wall. Inside the wall was the weapon he had hidden there, along with a half-dozen banana-shaped ammo magazines, all of which were wrapped in protective layers of heavy plastic. Also in the plastic roll was a white sweatband that he stretched around his forehead and a canvas bag that he looped around his belt. He ran up to the second floor and came out shooting. This was easier than in Srebrenica, and he was able to take brief breaks in his rampage, for his murders were merely a pathway to theft.

Franjo Boban alternated shooting with plundering cash registers and jewelry stores, where he would stuff money, precious stones, and gold into a simple canvas laundry bag with a tie top. Even the vaults at the high-end jewelry stores yielded to a burst of automatic fire, and then the good stuff was open to him. He planned to hide the loaded carryall in the same place that he had kept his AK, park the big forklift in front of it, and call it a day. Dump the gun and the sweatband, do some small cuts on the face and arms for blood authenticity, and then work his way outside with the crowd seeking protection and help, mingling with the actual victims so he would appear to be just another unfortunate person who had been caught in hell.

Franjo withdrew to one of the broad staircases, for the biggest prize in this section was up on the third floor, an elite shop that specialized in high-end jewelry, loose diamonds, and very expensive wristwatches, from Rolex and Omega to Patek Philippe and Vacheron. He loved merchandise that was easy to carry and even easier to sell at top dollar in Europe. The vaults were waiting for him.

He was starting up the staircase when the lights went out, and he stubbed the steel toe of his work boot. His rifle was over his shoulder, and the bag was in his right hand, with plenty of room still inside. He caught his balance and came to a stop to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, recalling the path he had so often traveled around the Mall USA. After seven months of running around the place, he knew every possible route from any point A to any point B. His vision improved in the ambient light, and he began to make out some details. There was something at the top of the stairs. A person?

Kyle Swanson had kept his eyes closed while anticipating the darkness, and he actually felt a physical change when the lights went out. When he opened them again, he was able to see enough to navigate and instantly made out the shape of a large guy stumbling around on the stairs. The guy had a sack in his hand, a rifle hanging from a strap, and a white sweatband that seemed to glow as he looked up, puzzled. Swanson shouldered his AK-47, clicked the selector lever with his thumb, and, when the off-balance man recovered his footing, opened up on full automatic. He fought down the recoil and didn’t bother to count the rounds he fired, because he just kept it up until the magazine was empty. When Kyle padded down the steps, he stepped on paper and objects that had spewed from the bullet-ripped shoulder bag. Money and jewels surrounded the ruthless dead man. All of this murder and a burglar to boot, Kyle thought. He tossed his empty AK and took the one that had been carried by Franjo Boban.

Security guard Pavel Kadyrov had locked the door of the main office after his initial killings, then pushed some desks together for a barricade, unlocking it again and taking a seat in a comfortable rolling chair. Kadyrov laid a pistol on the next desk, where it would be at hand if necessary, and then rested the Winchester 870P shotgun across a stack of telephone books. A white bandanna circled his forehead.

Ten more former friends and coworkers came through the portal one by one, like turkeys to the slaughter. Usually they threw open the door and rushed in to reach some safety and get a weapon and instructions from Major Abramson and Lieutenant Parker. None of the guards had deserted when the melee erupted, but they had no idea how to handle such a situation, and all they carried were cans of pepper spray and radios that no longer worked. When they entered the office and recognized an ambush, it was too late. Pavel blasted each in turn, then closed the door again, shoved the latest body out of the way, and got back into his position to prepare for the next victim. When the lights went out, he knew the easy part was over.

“FBI! Coming in!” A man’s deep voice shouted the alert, and there was a loud pounding on the door, but it was not opened. Kadyrov responded with a Winchester blast that tore a huge hole through it. This was the first visitor since the lights had gone out—no less than the friggin’ FBI! — and someone smart enough not to charge through an unsecured door. The terrorist decided to leave. There was another door in the major’s office, so Kadyrov surged to his feet and reached for the pistol on the desk.

Lucky Sharif had donned a set of night-vision goggles before entering the mall, and had dashed straight for the security office on the lower floor to try to get those cameras back online. Then he wanted to organize the uniformed officers, who probably were trapped inside, and turn the office into a solid defensive block so the SWAT teams could leapfrog into action elsewhere.

As he approached the security headquarters, he stopped. A dark stain of blood had pooled beneath the door, and the opposite wall was punctured with bullet holes. Sharif put his back against the wall beside the door, pounded twice on the upper part, and yelled “FBI! Coming in!” He dove flat just as a shotgun blast exploded through the thin door and tore it from the hinges.

Lucky rolled to his stomach, pointed his Glock 22 into the room, and pulled the trigger as fast as he could. Three of the nine .40 caliber rounds caught Pavel Kadyrov in the side and back, and one severed his spine. The killer from Chechnya spun a little pirouette, his arms thrown wide and his feet tangled in the rolling chair. He was dead when he toppled to the floor.

Sharif edged inside and saw the other bodies in the embarrassing postures of death, washed in blood. Lucky moved to the man he had shot and kicked the weapons away. There was no need to check for a pulse. The FBI agent took a quick tour, preaching to himself to ignore the corpses. The comms were shot to shit, the TV screens were shattered, and clumps of wiring had been uprooted by the handful.

He took out his radio and reported back to the command center outside in a controlled whisper. “I am in the security office on the first floor. None of the officers are alive, and the surveillance equipment has been destroyed. I killed one terrorist, who was dressed as if he was one of the officers himself. He assassinated the others, about a dozen.”

Janna Ecklund relayed the report to others. With the security office clear, the cops could establish a base of operations inside, Lucky suggested.

“That may still be a little while, Lucky.” She hesitated to give him the situation. “We are still somewhat disorganized out here. Battlefield bureaucracy.”

“Dammit, Janna. Tell them that civilians are dying every minute in this place. I still hear a lot of gunfire. They need to move!”

“I’ll do what I can. You be careful in there. By the way, the SAC is furious with you.”

Lucky closed off the call, then swapped to his personal cell and hit Kyle’s number on speed dial. “I’m in,” he said. “The tangos destroyed the security office, including all comms and surveillance.”

Swanson was crouched in a doorway near a dancing pool of water on the second floor. “What about reinforcements?”

“Still gathering outside and blocking off all entrances and exits; secure the area. You know the drill.”

Kyle gave a snort. “We need more shooters, Lucky. I get the feeling this is coming to the end game. These terrorists will either go down in a blaze of glory or break off the action and try to escape.”

“SWAT will be in soon,” Lucky said, hoping he was right. “Meanwhile, let’s you and I team up. I will hold my position at the main security office near the east entrance, in the first-floor service corridor. You come to me. We’ll make this a strongpoint.”

“Don’t shoot me.”

“I have night goggles.”

“Okay. I will be down there in about ninety seconds.” Swanson put his phone away, stepped over the body at the bottom of the escalator, tore off the white bandanna, and unslung the M-16 to replace the Kalashnikov. The masquerade, no longer necessary, was too dangerous to continue using. Wearing a white rag on his head was just asking for bullets when the cavalry arrived. He loped over to the narrow steel steps of an escalator that was no longer moving, ran down, and went prone when he got to the first-floor landing.

This was the area that had taken the brunt of the attack, and bodies lay all around. Not individuals, but stacks of helpless and unsuspecting people who had fallen during the opening minutes, when the fusillade fell on them from above. Swanson shut his mind away from the horror, still seeing it but having to continue the fight. Stay focused! He came to a knee beside a little motorized railroad engine that hauled shoppers around the mall in miniature boxcars. The half-dozen passengers were dead, as was the engineer. Kyle sprinted into a darkened bookstore and followed the muzzle of his rifle back through the storeroom.

The deal the man from al Shabaab had brokered with Hector Arrado while they drank strong coffee at a Havana sidewalk restaurant the previous year was for fifty thousand dollars, paid up front, for an hour’s worth of shooting in the Mall USA and another fifty when it was over. He would not be working alone but was told nothing more about the other raiders.

Just one hour, then each man would be responsible for making his own escape. Each had also been responsible for getting jobs at the mall and for hiding their weapons until needed. Arrado liked the fact that if he didn’t know about the others, then the others did not know about him. The only insignia was that each man would wear a white kerchief around his forehead for easy recognition.

The hour was done, and the assault had been an indoor hell. Arrado had aimlessly shot into crowds of Americans and flipped in a couple of flash-bang and teargas grenades to cause even more confusion. This was just a good payday for the old Sandinista fighter from Nicaragua.

The Sandinistas and their former Contra enemies now lived side by side and continued their war, but with words in the National Assembly instead of with bullets in the jungle. The peace in Nicaragua had put a lot of men out of work, and there was not much in the job market for a onetime Marxist revolutionary such as Hector. Arrado had gone to work after the war doing what he had been trained to do, whenever he could find a willing buyer — except for the drug cartels. The money was better with them, but life was much shorter.

During the mall massacre, he also had looted a few cash drawers, but was not greedy. A bag of money would just slow him down and draw attention, and it was important for him to remain mobile until he was safe outside. Arrado had entered the United States through Texas and had no intention of ever leaving America, the country he once hated with such passion. A hundred thousand dollars was more than a fair wage. A good start.

At first, the shooting had been unopposed, but Arrado had long ago learned the nuances of a battlefield, and the tempo of the attack had changed. He also was hearing a different sort of shooting, a pattern that was more deliberate. A small pistol did not have the crisp and unique sound made by an M-16 rifle. Danger might be headed his way. It was time to go.

Along with his hidden arms cache, Arrado had stowed a medical satchel with a big Red Cross emblazoned on it, and in the bag was the blue scrub uniform of a medic, including a stethoscope. He dumped the rifle and his head cloth and changed clothes. A 9mm pistol was hidden in his belt, and it was not difficult to find fresh blood to smear on his face and shirt.

He was supposed to have yelled “God is great!” a couple of times, too, but had forgotten to do that and discarded the idea of screaming anything at all now as he made his way forward. Along with the new costume, he had one more prop — a little blond boy about six years old, whom Hector had targeted in the opening volley. The child was standing at a popcorn stand that became a handy marker to help Arrado locate the body. He would make his way outside carrying a child.

Cawelle Sharif held his pistol in a two-handed grip as he stood in the darkened doorway of the security office, ignoring the corpses behind him. Kyle would be coming from the far end of the corridor, and the SWATs were expected from the opposite end. He swiveled his gaze back and forth to cover both directions and picked up a distant shadow, coming toward him from the west.

When he recognized that it was not Swanson, Lucky shouted, “Halt! Police! Get on your knees!”

The shape moved closer. It was a man carrying some burden. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot me. Please!” he called in a shaken voice without breaking stride.

Lucky brought the gun square to the approaching target. “I won’t tell you again. Stop right now!”

“I’m a paramedic with the mall medical staff. I’ve got a badly wounded kid here, and we need to get him to safety.” Hector Arrado extended his arms and offered the dead child out for inspection while he continued to shuffle closer. “He’s going to die if we can’t get him to help.”

They were only ten paces apart, and Hector Arrado could make out the figure with the gun. It was some kind of cop, wearing goggles.

“I said stop!” Lucky called out, louder. He could clearly see the boy draped in the arms of a man in bloodstained medic scrubs, with a stethoscope hung around his neck.

“Yes. I’m stopping. But I can’t put my hands up in the air.” He reached the little body out farther. “Please, Officer. He is hurt bad. I will put him on the floor.”

Arrado lowered the child, then thrust his arms forward to hurl the fifty-pound body toward Lucky, who automatically wanted to catch the child. Hands now free, Hector yanked the pistol from his belt.

In the darkness, he never saw the narrow black bulk of the M-16 drop over his head.

Kyle Swanson had one hand on the butt and one on the barrel, and pulled the rifle back with all his strength while simultaneously kicking behind the right knee to drop the guy. Swanson rode the terrorist all the way down, and the built-up rage from the senseless slaughter was transmitted into his muscles. The man clawed at the rifle crushing his throat, making strained gurgling noises as Kyle tightened the grip and pulled back even harder while shoving a knee into the man’s back.

The eyes of the old Sandinista bulged, sharp pain swamped his brain, the bones in his neck shattered to seal off his breath, and his spine felt as if it was breaking. His wordless burbling softened to hacking, mewling sounds, like those of a small animal at the mercy of a larger beast.

“Don’t kill him, Kyle,” Lucky called out. “We need a prisoner.”

Swanson gave the rifle a final jerk, and the neck popped with a loud crack. “Then let’s go find one,” he said, and got to his feet. A sardonic smirk played across his face.

27 THE RIDE

The lights snapped back on throughout the mall with a sudden ferocity. After the period of intense darkness, the bath of brilliant illumination temporarily blinded everyone still alive in the giant shopping complex. Kyle hit the deck to hide his eyes, and Lucky shouted in pain because his night goggles amplified the sudden sun. The loud explosions of flash-bang grenades added even more shock.

Police SWAT units burst through doors on the east, west, and south sides, following shimmering clouds of smoke grenades. The tactical strike forces of several different law enforcement agencies, all armored up in black coveralls, heavy plate vests, helmets and visors and goggled gas masks, were carrying an arsenal of weapons when they crashed into Mall USA like long black ribbons of menacing aliens. Cops with megaphones yelled for everyone to get down and stay down. Every exit was blocked.

The heaviest stream of police swarmed in from the east and fanned into a line across the first floor and advanced step by step, almost inviting a terrorist to take a shot. The cops’ guns were up and ready. The south team immediately went pounding up the stairs to the second floor, and the west unit sprinted to the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. The former navy corpsman Ernie Harrison, tending the wounded, sprawled onto the floor and laced his hands behind his head, becoming statue-still. When he finally peeped up, Harrison saw the holes at the ends of three AR-15 barrels in his face, seemingly as large as the mouths of battleship cannons. He smiled and extended his wrists to be cuffed.

A lieutenant with the St. Paul SWAT team led another small team directly to the security office, running and shouting for Sharif and Swanson, who shouted back and held their badges high. The officer looked around at the carnage and had to fight back the bile surging into his throat. “Holy shit,” he said, then clicked his radio mike and reported slowly, using distinct sounds, to be certain his communication was intelligible. “Comm Six here. Security office clear, and we have linked up with our assets.”

The officer waved, and the two men got to their feet. “Are you two guys all right?”

“Why, I’m just skippy,” said Kyle.

“We’re good,” said Lucky. “It’s all yours.”

“Don’t kill the medic up on the third floor,” Swanson added.

“We already have Mr. Harrison in hand. He’s safe,” replied the lieutenant.

A pair of EMT medics entered the bullet-riddled office and stepped from body to body, looking for signs of life but finding none. Fourteen civilian security guards had been shot to death in this one small part of the second-biggest shopping center in the nation.

Lucky pointed to the body of the man in the hallway. “This is one of the bad guys. He was pretending to be a medic. We need to keep his body apart from the others for forensics, and please take special care with the boy. Bastard used his corpse as a shield.”

A geek squad arrived with toolboxes and rolls of cable to try and at least slave the surveillance cameras to the command and control center out in the parking lot. Sporadic gunfire echoed from various points of the shopping center as the SWAT officers and snipers engaged the remaining terrorists wherever they could be found.

The techs, firefighters, doctors, and nurses coming into the mall were veterans of emergency rooms and familiar with the dreadful types of injuries that can befall a human body. None had ever encountered destruction at such a catastrophic level. The mall had the look of a butcher shop bombed by aircraft, and dead and wounded were scattered like bloody rags. Streams of crimson blood had congealed into dark puddles. The specialists stepped over the bodies of the dead, some of whom had sustained enough bullet wounds to have been rekilled several times. The stench of death filled the air, and some lunatic terrorist had scrawled “Allahu Akbar!” in blood on the white wall of a shop that sold sunglasses and small gifts.

FBI Special Agent Janna Ecklund gave Lucky an unprofessional hug and a kiss on the mouth. “You are in a world of shit,” she told him when she disengaged. He shrugged and sat down to catch a breather.

Janna called for Swanson and the SWAT lieutenant to join them. “You are a priority now, Swanson. The people in Washington want you out of here, and right now, without being identified. The press would have a field day if they find that a CIA agent was involved. So you were never here.”

Kyle snapped back, “I shot terrorists!”

“They won’t make the distinction. To the media, it would be the CIA killing people on American soil,” she replied. “Lieutenant, can you get him through the cordon?”

“Yeah.” He looked at the sniper’s lean build. “We’ll put a Police Windbreaker and a cap on him and use a marked squad for transport. There are so many vehicles coming and going out of this place on a route that has been secured for emergency vehicles that he won’t be noticed.”

Kyle glanced at Lucky. “So we go back to Deqo at the hotel?”

“I have to stay here with Janna and deal with the aftermath and let the boss chew my ass for a while. We’ll be along soon.”

The gunfire in the hallways and corridors had slackened to individual shootouts. Any terrorists still alive were outnumbered and outgunned, and the police fired at them on sight if they saw a weapon. Two-member attack teams cleared the individual shops and hallways and storage areas, calling out “clear” and spray-painting a large X when they were done. It was methodical and thorough and strong. The medical crews followed along.

The lieutenant was listening to the radio in his ear and stepped outside for a minute into the main courtyard to survey the damage. He came back in, muttering, “Impossible. Impossible.” His eyes flicked over to Swanson, and the cop nodded approval. “I don’t know who you really are, pal, but thanks. Helluva job.”

A St. Paul police car ferried Swanson away from the Mall USA slaughter, through curtains of snow and an angry wind that hissed at the windows. Officer Nellie Roper drove him from Bloomington back into Minneapolis. Roper was actually a twenty-year-old police cadet, but the emergency at the mall was of such magnitude that police departments brought in everyone with a uniform and a badge, even those who were not quite yet rookies. Her firm orders were to take this anonymous passenger to the Graves 601 Hotel, keep him away from the media, and not to ask questions; in fact, to say nothing at all. She shelved her natural curiosity and locked her eyes on the tricky cold roads, her hands gripped at ten and two on the steering wheel. The headlights showed a tunnel through the falling snow. It was not hard to keep her mouth shut, for the mystery man was locked up really tight and absolutely oozed danger. Was he even awake? The smell of gun smoke clung to him like a fragrance that she found to be sexy as hell.

Swanson was thankful for the silence. He knew that a case of after-action jitters was approaching, the period in which his body calmed and his mind would relax enough to realize what he had seen and endured at the mall, and what he had done in response. Despite the heater’s being on full blast, his hands and feet were numb with cold, and his body so chilled that he pulled his jacket and the Windbreaker tight. He clamped his jaw tight when his teeth started to chatter. He had to just hold off a little bit longer, until he could reach Deqo, who would understand and let him pour it all out. Then, he could be warm again. Swanson yearned for a cup of hot, comforting coffee, and he felt the rhythm of the wheels and each shimmer of the shock absorbers.

There was a lake out there. He could smell it. Of course there was. Minnesota officially was the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, which was inaccurate because there were really many, many more, from Aaron to Zumbra. When he looked out the side window, streaked by snow, Kyle saw the slick sheen of ice on the lake melting into turbulent water, with small, narrow boats piercing foamy waves. Fire replaced snow along the shoreline. The heat of a blast furnace grabbed him, a heat so real that he flinched. One boat turned and made straight for him. Oh, no. Not now.

“Hello.” A reed-thin figure in a long and ragged black cloak spoke, with bright ruby eyes fixed on Swanson. “My entire fleet is busy tonight. We have hundreds of freshly dead to ferry into eternity.”

Kyle refused to answer. If he didn’t respond, maybe the Boatman nightmare would paddle away. He squeezed his fists tighter in the jacket pockets.

The Boatman continued, unbothered by the silence. He stirred the water slightly with the long oar at the stern. “Look at my boat. The rest are filled to overflowing with new passengers, while I have only these six.”

Swanson knew those were the faces of the men he had killed at the mall. They were ghastly. The Boatman always came to haul away Kyle’s victims.

“You only killed a handful for me! It was hardly worth the trip. I am very disappointed. Perhaps you have grown too old for our little game, and I should reconsider our relationship. You’re not even a marine anymore. Why don’t you step into the boat and leave your worries behind. I will allow you to sleep forever.”

Swanson jerked his head sharply back and forth. NO!

“Hmm. I could insist,” mused the Boatman. “But you are always a good supplier, so once you get the proper feel for your new position, you will again be a reliable harvester. We now won’t be leashed by those bothersome Marine Corps regulations and rules of engagement. Actually, I foresee a future of certain slaughter now that you can operate beyond all rules; shining new numbers of souls for me to ferry home.” The spectral figure giggled. “You really have no idea of the possibilities. Your new employer will let you shoot first and ask questions later, but there will never even be questions. Finally, you will live up to your potential, and the marine’s best sniper will become the world’s best assassin.”

Kyle was now sweating heavily, and he unzipped the jacket and pulled off his gloves. His breath began to huff to steady his nerves. He was never emotional while doing his job, but there was always this bitter brew waiting at the end. Then his post-traumatic stress would be over — until the next time.

The Boatman gave a final wave and then pushed on his oar, and the stiletto-thin craft with six dead men knifed back to join the similar boats going to and from the mall. “Only six! You should have done better.”

Swanson blinked and saw that solid winter had returned beyond the windshield, with snow dancing through the lights. Fire had been quenched by ice. The dream was gone. He snarled, almost to himself, “I gave you what I could, you bloodthirsty bastard. I, too, wish I had killed more.”

A faint call returned like a fading echo. “I am not the only one disappointed with your work. Because you did not kill more of your enemies, you allowed them to slaughter more innocents. Look how full the other boats are. You failed everybody.”

The patrol officer had stopped the car in front of the Graves 601, more than a bit alarmed at the strange behavior of her passenger, who was dazed, sweating, and talking to himself. Perhaps there was a concussion. “You don’t look too good, sir. Let me take you to the hospital.”

Kyle snapped out of it and gave her an almost invisible smile. “No. I’m fine. Thanks for the ride, Officer.” Swanson stepped into the subzero night and breathed in deeply, then walked into the hotel. Safe at last. Tired to the bone.

Lucky and Janna arrived after two o’clock the next morning, having followed a snowplow for the last bumpy mile. Deqo was asleep in her room with two blankets pulled up to her chin. Kyle was asleep in a chair facing the door, with his Colt .45 resting on a side table. Dim light was provided by a single sixty-watt bulb in the entranceway, for he had turned off all the others. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, even with the strong coffee, and he had lost that fight.

Deqo stirred when they entered, then put on a robe and came out to them. Lucky walked across and kissed her on the forehead. “Happy birthday, Grandma,” he said.

The old woman smiled. Janna tossed away her heavy jacket and kicked off her boots, sat on the sofa, and put an arm around Deqo. “Birthday girl!”

Deqo Sharif burst into tears. “I saw him. I saw that devil, that evil man,” she said. “What happened at the mall, Lucky? Kyle wouldn’t let me watch TV after midnight.”

Lucky did not sugarcoat the truth. He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “The last official count is more than five hundred confirmed dead, with another eight hundred or so wounded. There apparently were at least sixteen terrorists, and most of them are dead, too. Only two were taken prisoner. We don’t know how many, if any, escaped.”

Kyle gave a low whistle. Thirteen hundred casualties, estimating on the low side! He slipped the pistol back into its shoulder holster. “You guys look a little beat up. Let’s have some coffee and slice up that birthday cake.”

Deqo struggled to her feet and looked at the three strong but haggard-looking people in the suite: three people she loved, who had just endured a horrible event. “Did you catch the Cobra?”

Janna said, “No. He got away, for now. But we will find him, Deqo. That I can promise. A nationwide manhunt is under way. That’s a big net.”

“Janna girl, you don’t know him. He survived in the slums of Mogadishu for years when he was only a child. He survived the worst prisons in Africa. Now he is back and has spread his poison and has once again escaped. You won’t find him.”

Kyle had his hands on his hips, and he stretched. His voice was confident. He was with his friends, and they were all safe and warm, at least for the time being. “You’re wrong, Deqo. We will find him, and we will kill him. Now, let’s go have some cake, and I’ll give you your birthday present.”