Point of Impact (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 3) Read online

  “You mean saving your life?”

  She nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. Even though you were creepily stalking me, I guess I can forgive that since the result was I survived being captured by that madman.”

  “Stalking or surveillance. Po-tay-toe, Pa-tah-toe.”

  “However you want to characterize it is fine with me,” she said before pausing. “B-but it needs to stop.”

  He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no more. I’ve made my decision that I’m going to stick with Firestorm.”

  Parker cocked his head to one side. “Is there anything I can say to get you to reconsider?”

  “Not at this point. I’m satisfied with my role at Firestorm, and we’ve got a good thing going, Brady and I.”

  “Please tell me you’re not sticking around just because you secretly think you’re going to have a shot at a relationship with Hawk?”

  Alex leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes.

  “If you think I have some kind of schoolgirl crush on Brady Hawk, you’re sorely mistaken. Our relationship is entirely professional and—”

  “You mean like how you like to trade Bollywood quotes and always manage to meet in person even though Firestorm’s policy strictly forbids it—”

  “How do you—?”

  “Searchlight sees all and knows all. And if you’re honest with yourself, Alex, you’d realize that’s the only reason you’re choosing to remain there. It’s not about loyalty for you. It’s about another ‘L’ word. And I’m afraid you’re incredibly delusional if you think Hawk is interested in you.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  “If you want to come work with us, you’d have an opportunity to put your incredible skills to good use—not to mention avoiding serving prison time or ending up dead in a gutter at the hands of some other nefarious organization in the shadows that doesn’t play by the rules.”

  “Sounds like how I’d describe Searchlight.”

  “If that’s how you think of Searchlight, you clearly know nothing about us.”

  A waitress set a mug down in front of Alex. “Cream or sugar?”

  Alex waived the waitress off and turned her full attention back toward Parker.

  “You may have saved my life, but don’t you dare take the moral high ground with me. No one has a corner on the market for virtue or vice. We’re all responsible for the actions we take, whether we are working for an employer or acting on our own.”

  Parker sighed. “I obviously touched a nerve there.”

  Alex crossed her arms and stared out the window, refusing to look directly at him.

  Parker held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Look, Searchlight isn’t perfect, but we are the lone watchdog in this crazy world. Our mission is to make sure no one group is gaining too much power in an effort to prevent a global tyrant from ever emerging. In fact, we eliminate most tyrants.”

  “There will always be another one to take his place, no matter what you do or how pure your mission might be.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, but that attitude won’t change anything.”

  “And neither will picking them off as if you’re shooting ducks on the pond at the county fair.”

  “Violence isn’t our only vehicle for dealing with troublesome leaders, Alex. There are other ways besides dispatching an assassin.”

  “I’m very well aware of other methods. And if you think that Firestorm’s only method of dealing with problems is through targeting someone’s life, you know nothing about Firestorm.”

  Parker chuckled. “I doubt that, but please enlighten me.”

  Alex only glared at Parker.

  “Go ahead. The floor is yours. Tell how else Firestorm handles problems.”

  Alex stood up. “We’re done, me and you. Thanks for saving my life, but that’s about all I can say right now.”

  Parker eyed her closely. “Well, perhaps I made a mistake then.”

  Alex abruptly exited the bistro. She didn’t have time for Parker’s smug and condescending comments. She had a city to save—and that was more than she could say for Searchlight.

  CHAPTER 37

  MAHMOD JOINED HIS FELLOW OPERATIVES in the Zuhr prayer before finishing preparations for their attack. The atmosphere felt somewhat surreal to Mahmod, who just a few days ago was close to strapping on a suicide vest or risk getting shot. The fact that Mahmod was still alive seemed like a blessing from Allah. And tomorrow, Mahmod would make sure that his family would remember his sacrifice—not for a meaningless car bombing but for the deadliest single attack on U.S. soil.

  Mahmod took his seat at a conference room table after prayers concluded and studied the plans. He smiled as he finished going over the plan for the third time. It was flawless.

  “Something amusing?” Laman asked as he settled into the seat next to Mahmod.

  “I’m just thinking about how victory will feel.”

  Laman wagged his finger. “Never celebrate until you hold the trophy.”

  “Too bad I won't be around to celebrate.”

  Laman rubbed the top of Mahmod’s head. “Tomorrow, you will celebrate with Allah.”

  Mahmod nodded. “I hope so.”

  “You will. Without your help, there’s the possibility that maybe only a few hundred or a few thousand will die instead of hundreds of thousands.”

  “Are you sure no one will be looking for bombs tomorrow?”

  “The U.S. authorities are looking for a weapon, not a bomb. Once we target the bridge, you can seal off the infidels in their tomb by detonating the bomb.”

  “And spend the rest of my eternity celebrating with Allah.”

  Laman grinned. “No doubt Allah will receive you with open arms.”

  “Will you take care of my family?”

  “I’ll make sure they are compensated appropriately for your courageous acts.”

  “Thank you for letting me join your fight,” Mahmod said. “It’s given meaning and purpose to my life.”

  Laman nodded knowingly and stood up before exiting the room.

  Once the room was empty, Mahmod took out his phone and began taking pictures of the PUB-47 schematics.

  When he was almost finished, Talib walked into the room.

  “What are you doing?” Talib asked.

  Mahmod looked up and smiled. “It’s always good to have a backup, right?”

  Talib remained stoic. “As long as it stays out of the hands of the wrong people.” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

  Mahmod reluctantly handed it to him.

  Talib swiped through several screens and deleted the images.

  “It is good to take initiative, but sometimes we don’t realize how our actions may come back to haunt us. This would undoubtedly be detrimental to you if you ever got caught.”

  “I was only trying to help,” Mahmod protested.

  “Of course you were, but you are an ignorant fool if you think that’s going to help.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Silence. Can I count on you to do as you’re told tomorrow without hesitation?”

  Mahmod nodded.

  “Good. Don’t let me down. Don’t let Al Hasib down.”

  Talib handed the phone back to Mahmod.

  “I think you’re done here now, aren’t you?”

  Mahmod exited the room and joined his fellow operatives in the common area.

  They all needed plenty of rest. Saturday was going to be a big day.

  CHAPTER 38

  HAWK CALLED OLIVIA YOUNG to give her an update about her father. He hated keeping everything a secret, but he wanted to assure her that people were still out there actively looking for him.

  “Did you find him?” Olivia asked as she answered her phone.

  “We’re still looking, but we think we might have a chance to extract him tomorrow.”

  Olivia was quiet for a moment. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

&n
bsp; “Without getting into too much detail, I know he is.”

  “Come on, Brady. You can’t tell me what’s going on?”

  “I wish I could, but the reality is, I can’t. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to do my best to capture him tomorrow.”

  “Okay, good luck. I’ll have my phone on tomorrow and will be waiting to hear from you,” she said. “I’m running in the race across the bridge, so if for some reason I don’t answer, please leave a message.”

  “You’re participating in the bridge run?”

  She laughed. “Yeah. Like me and two hundred thousand of my closest friends.”

  Hawk pondered if he should say anything.

  “Hawk? Hawk? You still there?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “Is everything all right? What’s wrong?”

  “J-just find something else to do tomorrow, okay?”

  “Is something going to happen at the bridge?”

  Hawk hesitated again. “I can’t say for sure, but as your friend, I’m advising you to stay away from it.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t, but just consider what I said very seriously.”

  “Fine. Please call me as soon as you know something.”

  Hawk hung up and stared out the window of his hotel room. He hoped he was wrong, but deep down he knew he wasn’t.

  Tomorrow’s going to be hell.

  CHAPTER 39

  MAHMOD TUGGED HIS BACKPACK TIGHT across his shoulders and tried to blend into the mass of humanity striding toward the starting area for the Golden Gate 5K Fun Run/Walk to celebrate the bridge’s 80th anniversary. Through his sunglasses he glanced as the sun, which had started to climb in the east on an unusually clear day. It was 8:30 on Saturday morning, and hardly a trace of fog in the bay could be seen.

  “What a day for a run?” asked the young woman next to him.

  He watched as she pumped her legs high in place to warm up. Her pink halter top would’ve been considered scandalous back home—not to mention her high cut shorts that left little to the imagination.

  “Nice day, indeed,” Mahmod said as he pushed the wheelchair in front of him.

  He tried to avert his eyes but was drawn to her long smooth legs and tight skin. Her voluptuous figure and pretty face was a nice bonus.

  How do these American men do it? I’d be an animal if I lived here.

  Mahmod looked out across the water, straining to see if Laman and Talib were close to approaching the bridge. They’d learned that the PUB-47 could strike from quite a distance and with incredible force, but Talib insisted in their final meeting that they get as close as reasonably possible before unleashing the weapon. This was an opportunity that may never come again, just like 9/11 was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to use a fully fueled airliner as a bomb. One shot was all you could count on getting—and Al Hasib wanted to make sure it counted.

  “Is that your grandpa?” the woman asked while still running in place.

  “Oh, him?” Mahmod asked, glancing down at the wheelchair in front of him. “This is my uncle. He’s got Parkinsons, so he can’t walk across. But he was born here the year this bridge was built and wanted to be here for the celebration.”

  Mahmod hoped he didn’t push the lie too far. He was counting on the fact that the hat tugged down across Tom Colton’s face and the heavy dose of drugs he’d been administered moments before being rolled onto the bridge wouldn’t betray the truth.

  “Aww, how sweet,” she said, winking at Mahmod. “You’re a jewel.”

  Mahmod forced a smile and pressed ahead with Colton and the wheelchair.

  “It’s nothing. Who wouldn’t do this for an uncle who fought for our country in the war?”

  She smiled. “And a patriot, too? Wow. What a family.”

  Mahmod nodded and glanced at the sea of people spread across the bridge. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the imminent screams. The heightened anticipation of starting the race would soon devolve into thousands of anguished cries.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  Then a voice in his ear.

  “How are you, Mahmod?” Laman asked.

  Mahmod put his cell phone up to his ear to prevent the woman next to him from knowing he was either crazy or had a listening device.

  “I’m well. And you?” Mahmod replied.

  “Just want to make sure you aren’t having any second thoughts.”

  “No, no. I’m good. And so is Uncle Charlie,” Mahmod said, turning and winking at the girl next to him. He mouthed, “It’s my aunt.”

  She smiled and nodded knowingly.

  “Excellent. Everyone is getting into place now, and we’re about to leave the harbor. Stay strong.”

  Laman ended the communique.

  Mahmod inched forward and then stopped.

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked him.

  He nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Olivia. And yours?”

  “I’m Alvin. Would you do me a big favor and keep pushing him for just a minute? I need to run to the restroom before the race begins.”

  “You think you’ll be able to find me?” she asked.

  “Sure. It’s not like there are many beautiful women pushing wheelchairs on the bridge. And besides, we haven’t really moved much in the past few minutes.”

  She smiled politely. “Okay. I’ll be here, but please get back quickly. I’m aiming for a PR today.”

  “A PR?”

  “Personal record.”

  Mahmod hung his backpack on the wheelchair.

  “Oh, of course,” he said.

  He spun and started to walk back up the hill toward the refreshment area where there were rows of port-a-potties.

  Mahmod couldn’t do it. Not now. Not ever.

  He’d let the pretty little lady do the dirty work for him.

  CHAPTER 40

  WITH ASSISTANCE FROM THE FBI, Hawk secured a cigarette boat on Saturday morning from the docks in Sausalito. With two agents assigned to drive the boat, Hawk was free to concentrate on surveillance and targeting, if necessary.

  Hawk checked his watch. At 8:30 a.m., they only had thirty minutes before the race began and the bridge was flooded with people.

  “Hard to believe Otis Redding wrote one of his best songs while taking in this view,” one of the agents said.

  “He’d be writing an entirely different song if he sat on the docks today and took in what’s about to go down,” Hawk said.

  “I intend on making it back alive,” the other agent said as he steered the boat toward the main channel.

  “So do I, but whether we’re successful or not, it’s going to be messy.”

  “How messy?” the agent driving asked.

  “That’s going to depend upon us.”

  The wind blowing across the bay created rather choppy waters, which didn’t make much difference as the boat bounced along rhythmically while it searched for any signs of Al Hasib operatives. Though they were several miles from the bridge, Hawk could see the pre-race festivities taking place. The mass of humanity crowding onto the bridge and the surrounding areas created a greater sense of urgency. It was one thing to talk about crowd numbers of 250,000, but it was another to see it in person. Any attack right now would be catastrophic. With a death toll of 3,000, the Great Earthquake of San Francisco in 1906 seemed like a large loss of life. But it would be menial in comparison to what could potentially occur.

  Hawk hailed Alex on his comlink.

  “What are we looking for, Alex?”

  “It’d be nice if they flew a flag on their boat, right?”

  Hawk nodded. “Isn’t that the truth? So, you think they’re on the water?”

  “That’s what I would do if I was them. Less opportunities to get noticed or caught. Plus, it’s the best place to target from. You’d get a clear shot at the bridge.”

  “Where exactly would you think they would be?”

  �
��The PUB-47 has a range of about half a mile with full power. It can shoot from farther and destroy a smaller target. But it’s going to need to get as close as possible to take down the bridge—and they only need to take out one side. Since it’s a suspension bridge, the whole thing will crumble once one side goes down.”

  “So, what you’re saying is pick a side?”

  “Flip a coin, pick a side. Do whatever you can. But take a wag at it—unless you can get another boat.”

  “That’s not an option at this point, nor do I trust anyone to do the job either.”

  “Remember that it doesn’t have to be a terribly big boat—I’m guessing maybe a thirty to forty-foot boat. And once they shoot, they are going to want to get as far away as possible for fear of getting caught in the crashing debris.”

  Hawk scanned the waters with his binoculars. “So, maybe the smaller the boat, the better?”

  “I’d say the bigger the motor, the better when it comes to small boats. It likely won’t be a yacht, but something with a decent cabin and a powerful engine.”

  He exhaled. “I wished we would’ve caught these bastards on the land.”

  “As long as we catch them before they shower terror on the Golden Gate Bridge, it won’t much matter.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Good luck, Hawk. I’ll be watching.”

  Hawk continued to scan the bay for several more minutes without seeing any boats that seemed likely to be used by terrorists for the purposes Alex described.

  He was about to circle around when he spotted the ideal type of boat.

  “Right there,” Hawk said as he pointed. “I think I see them.”

  “Are you sure?” the driver asked.

  “Not a hundred percent. We need to get closer to get a better view. But make it quick. We’re running out of time.”

  Just then a shot ripped through the air.

  CHAPTER 41

  TALIB AL-ASADI looked over the PUB-47 once more as he sat in the cabin below deck of the 39-foot motor yacht he’d rented for the week. He ran his fingers over the contours and then shut one eye while he looked down the barrel with the other.