Текст книги "Independence Day "
Автор книги: Ben Coes
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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
108
NEW YORK HARBOR
Tacoma saw him just after Polk rammed the cigarette boat. The moment just before Calibrisi ordered in the SEALs.
He was standing on a different boat, a pretty white boat, behind the cigarette boat, far away from the boat that was about to be attacked by the SEALs.
He was bald. But it wasn’t normal-looking. It was the unmistakable grayness of death, the sickly color of a person after he’s been irradiated. It was the look his mother had just before she died.
In that second of recognition, Tacoma knew that the SEALs were approaching the wrong boat. And that once the bald man saw the frogmen, it would all be over. Everything.
Shielded momentarily by the cigarette boat, Tacoma ripped off his shirt and jeans. Beneath, he had on an Olympic-style tactical warm weather swimsuit, armless at the top, thin material down to midthigh, all black. He slipped into the water as Polk and Katie were turned in the opposite direction, watching the other boat just as the SEALs made their approach from below.
He dived down until he was safely beneath the hulls of boats overhead.
Tacoma navigated as he’d done as a kid—before he knew what UDT stood for, before Hell Week, before SEALs, before there were masks with digitally imposed maps, before he knew what commo was, when it was just the water at the lake and the moonlight.
He swam as fast as he’d ever done, arms lunging, legs kicking furiously, lungs burning, desperate for another breath of air. When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he kept going, until he saw it: the dark green hull of the Talaria and, just above the waterline, the fresh white paint the terrorists had slapped on to cover it up.
He felt a rush of warmth as adrenaline flamed inside him. Time seemed to stand still. It was as if he’d been born to be here.
He grabbed the wooden ski platform and climbed up.
He slipped silently onto the transom at the same moment his hand pulled the SIG Sauer P226 from his weapons pocket, then raised the gun, its black suppressor targeted toward the two men.
He climbed onto the deck. He stood without moving, dripping wet, clutching the gun. He trained the muzzle on the driver, then waited in silence. And then a young girl’s screams echoed across the water.
Both men turned.
Tacoma fired a slug into the side of the driver’s head, spraying blood and brains across the console, dropping the man to the deck in a contorted heap.
In the half second that followed, the bald man raised his withered arm. He stretched it out toward Tacoma, as if pointing.
It was then that Tacoma saw it.
In between where they stood was a table. On the table was the detonator. Its red button stuck up in the air, as if asking to be pressed.
His eyes locked with Tacoma’s. Small eyes, clever eyes, black eyes filled with hate. They moved to the gun, carefully studying the hole at the end of the suppressor, still aimed at his head.
A long, pregnant silence took over the deck.
Both of them knew where the detonator was. Both knew that if the terrorist lunged, even if Tacoma shot him at that same moment, the momentum of his lunge would enable him to land on the detonator.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Tacoma calmly, still breathing heavily. “You’re thinking, should I go for it? Even if he shoots me, I’ll probably land on it. Am I right?”
The bald man didn’t respond. Instead, he crouched ever so slightly, coiling his legs, waiting for the precise moment to go.
“The thing is, if I shot you in the head, you’d be right,” continued Tacoma, still holding the man’s skull in the center of the gun. “It would go right through your brain and out the back. In fact, it would probably go pretty damn quick because of how small your brain is.”
Tacoma grinned slightly, then swept the muzzle down, stopping when it was aimed dead center at the terrorist’s chest.
“But the breastplate is a lot stronger,” said Tacoma. “Runs down through your body. That’s where you fucked up. You should’ve gone for it when I had it aimed at your head. You would’ve won. Now that I got your breastplate, it doesn’t matter how hard you jump. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter anymore. As long as I can hit that breastplate, you’re going backward. No way around it. It’s physics, dude.”
The terrorist jumped toward the table, surprising Tacoma. But the surprise lasted less than a second. Tacoma pumped the trigger. A telltale metallic thwack was the only sound as the suppressed gun sent a slug through the air. It struck him dead center in the chest, kicking him off his feet and back into the wall. He dropped.
Tacoma walked across the deck, gun aimed at all times on the man. He stepped above him, then stared down into his eyes.
“You see? I told ya.”
He inched the suppressor up a few inches, then pumped another slug between the terrorist’s eyes.
“Happy Independence Day, motherfucker.”
EPILOGUE
FREEMANS
NEW YORK CITY
THREE MONTHS LATER
Freemans was crowded. The New York City restaurant, located at the end of a dark alley, was like an old hunting club on the inside, with dark wood and stuffed moose and deer heads hanging from the walls. There was barely enough light to see.
Dewey was a few minutes early and he stepped to the bar, ordering a bourbon and a beer, both of which he deposited down his throat so quickly that the bartender did a double take.
“Another round?”
Dewey nodded.
The bar was packed. Most of the people there were in their twenties. Of the two dozen or so people at the bar, Dewey guessed that three-quarters of them were female, and three-quarters of them were models.
Tacoma, he thought as he drained the second bourbon, then sat down and took a small sip of beer.
Suddenly, a magazine landed on the bar in front of Dewey in the same moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Calibrisi.
“Hi, hotshot.”
“Hi, Hector.”
On the bar was the most recent issue of People magazine. The cover showed a male movie star Dewey didn’t recognize. Below his face, the cover read: “The 50 Sexiest Men Alive.”
“Oh, goody,” said Dewey, enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen this issue yet.”
Calibrisi took the stool next to Dewey and ordered a glass of wine.
“Page sixty,” said Calibrisi, nodding with a smile at the magazine.
“You finally made it,” said Dewey, flipping through the magazine. “It’s about time they started considering large protruding hairy guts sexy.”
“Fuck you. Read it.”
As he flipped through the magazine, he stopped at an earlier article. It featured a large photo of Katya Basaeyev. She was seated in a chair, legs crossed, smiling. Behind her, a window showed the skyline of Moscow on a sunny day.
“She’s dancing again,” said Calibrisi.
Dewey said nothing.
“Would you really have dropped her?” asked Calibrisi.
Dewey paused at the question, staring at Katya’s beautiful face for a few extra moments before continuing to flip through the magazine. He didn’t answer the question.
He found page sixty. He looked down at the photo. It was a glossy, full-page portrait of Tacoma. He was standing in a tight all-black Olympic-style swimsuit. His hair was slicked back and he was dripping wet. His arms and shoulders were tan and ripped in muscles. Each hand clutched a gun, and both were aimed at the camera. Kneeling to each side of him were females clad in skimpy string bikinis, one blond, the other brunette, both staring up adoringly at Tacoma.
“I’m going to puke,” said Dewey.
Calibrisi laughed.
#4 Rob Tacoma, America’s Hero
The only thing hotter than the bullets flying out of ex–Navy SEAL Rob Tacoma’s gun are the smoldering green eyes on his luscious Virginia-born face. With his Fourth of July heroics, 29-year-old Tacoma earned his place in America’s pantheon of legends. With his movie star good looks and chiseled physique, Tacoma earns #4 on this year’s list of the World’s Sexiest Men Alive. Tacoma is single and plans to stay that way—unless some girl out there can figure out a way to deliver a kill shot to this studmuffin’s flak jacket–covered heart.
Dewey shut the magazine and looked at the bartender.
“I need another bourbon.”
Just then, a commotion came from the door. Katie was standing just inside the door, waiting for Tacoma. Tacoma was outside, surrounded by girls. He had a pen out and was signing autographs. Katie’s eyes found Dewey. She rolled them and shook her head, then came over to the bar.
Katie was dressed in brown linen pants, high-heeled sandals, and a sleeveless see-through silk chemise. She’d let her hair grow out a bit. She resembled a young Ingrid Bergman.
Dewey looked at her as she approached, scanning her from head to toe, without taking his eyes off her.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“You.”
Katie blushed slightly.
“You look nice,” he said, reaching his arms out and wrapping them around her.
“Nice?” she whispered, holding Dewey tightly. “I like that. By the way, how are you, cutie? I missed the hell out of you.”
“I missed you too,” said Dewey. “I’m good.”
Katie let go of Dewey and wrapped her arms around Calibrisi.
“Hi, big fella.”
“Hi, Katie.”
Dewey nodded to Tacoma, who was still at the door.
“Is it like this everywhere?” he asked.
“Yes,” Katie said, exasperation in her voice. “It’s crazy. He had two girls in his room this morning when I went by to meet him. I think they were cheerleaders.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Dewey.
“They had cheerleader uniforms on.”
Dewey laughed.
“You guys are not going to believe his ego,” said Katie. “If you thought it was out of control before—”
“Let him enjoy it,” said Calibrisi. “He did something important. He’s young and single. Let him bask in his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Katie, shaking her head. “As happy as I am that bomb didn’t go off, there are times I find myself wishing it had.”
Dewey, Calibrisi, and Katie all started laughing. They turned to see where Tacoma was. He signed the last autograph, then entered Freemans.
His hair was slicked back and combed neatly down the middle. He had on a light tan leather jacket. It was partially unzipped. He didn’t have a shirt on. He wore madras shorts and cowboy boots.
“I think I agree with Katie,” said Dewey, smiling and waving to Tacoma. “Hector, do you have Bokolov’s number?”
Tacoma nodded to Dewey, raising his hand like a gun and firing his index finger at him.
“Did he just wink at me?” asked Dewey.
“He doesn’t have a shirt on,” said Calibrisi, incredulous.
Tacoma stepped to the bar. He wrapped his arms around Dewey, then Calibrisi. He nodded to the bartender, who brought him a bottle of beer.
“Okay, before you guys say anything, I have three points I wanna make,” said Tacoma, looking at Dewey.
“Let me guess,” said Dewey. “You met someone who delivered a kill shot to your flak jacket–covered heart.”
Tacoma shook his head.
“First, I can’t help it if some magazine names me to their sexiest man alive list. Now, if you ask me, I should’ve been number two, but that’s water under the bridge. Second, I didn’t know about those two chicks they stuck in the picture.”
“Chicks?” asked Katie. “Can you possibly be more offensive?”
Tacoma took a big swig from the bottle.
“And what’s third?” asked Dewey.
“What?” asked Tacoma.
“You said you had three points,” said Dewey. “That was two.”
“I think I said two. I had two points.”
“Do us all a favor and put a lid on it for a few minutes, will ya, Mr. Sexy?” said Dewey.
Tacoma, slightly chastened, nodded, then grinned.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, man.”
Just then, the hostess approached.
“Your table is ready.”
They followed the hostess to a table in the dimly lit back room. They ordered several bottles of wine along with dinner. They caught up as they ate, eventually enjoying Tacoma’s regaling them with his various exploits since the fateful day he killed the terrorist in New York harbor. At some point, they all realized Tacoma was not, in fact, bragging. He was as surprised, dumbfounded, and amused by it all as they were.
After dessert had been cleared and there followed a lull in conversation, Dewey glanced at Calibrisi. His mind flashed to the beginning of it all. Castine. Calibrisi had flown up not because of the coming attack, not even because he needed Dewey. He came that day to rescue him. Dewey wasn’t good at saying thank-you, at least not with words, but he allowed a smile to come to his face. He picked up his wineglass.
“Here’s to Hector,” said Dewey.
“Here, here,” Tacoma chimed in, raising his glass.
“To our fearless leader,” added Katie.
Calibrisi smiled in silence and raised his glass, moving it to the other three.
“So what are you going to do about Gant and Roberts?” asked Dewey, after downing the remaining wine in his glass.
“Josh is spending some time in one of our more out-of-the-way stations,” said Calibrisi. “If there’s ever a terrorist threat in Biak, he’ll be the first to know.”
“Biak?” asked Katie.
“An island near Papua New Guinea,” said Calibrisi. “Apparently there’re still some cannibals running around, but personally I have my doubts.”
“What about Roberts?” asked Dewey.
Calibrisi smiled knowingly, but didn’t answer Dewey’s question.
Just then, the waitress brought over the check, which Calibrisi grabbed before anyone else could.
“So what are you up to tonight?” he asked Katie.
“Nothing too exciting,” she said. “I might stay in the city. I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t Igor live near here?” asked Tacoma, grinning at Katie.
“Yeah, I think he does,” said Calibrisi.
Katie smiled mischievously and then turned to Calibrisi.
“How about you?”
“I’m headed back tonight. I haven’t seen Vivian in a week.”
Calibrisi looked at Dewey.
“What about you?”
“Me?” asked Dewey. He looked at his watch. “Oh, shit. I’m actually going to see something.”
“Something?” asked Katie. “Or someone?”
“Someone. It’s nothing.”
Dewey got to his feet.
“You’re not leaving yet,” said Tacoma. “Let’s hear it.”
“No way.”
“Come on, Grampa. Who is she?”
Dewey shot Tacoma a look.
“Someone whose identity is above your pay grade, studmuffin.”
“So you won’t tell us who the lucky lady is?” asked Tacoma, flashing a smile.
“Tell you what, tough guy,” said Dewey, “let’s arm wrestle. You win, I’ll tell you her name. I win, I get that leather jacket.”
Dewey sat down. He put his right arm up, resting it on the table. Tacoma placed his arm on the table. Their hands met and clasped tightly together.
A small crowd started to gather in the back room to watch—waiters and waitresses, a few people from the bar—until there wasn’t any more room left.
“We go on three,” said Dewey. “Katie, you call it.”
“Honestly,” said Katie, “you two are like little children.”
“Katie,” said Dewey.
“Fine,” she said, smiling. “One … two … three.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Last year, I brought my then six-year-old daughter to the Flatiron Building in New York City. This is the headquarters of my publisher, St. Martin’s Press. When Sally Richardson, the company CEO, heard we were in the building, she insisted on us coming up to her office to say hi. Sally was, as usual, incredibly busy. But she put everything on hold to welcome us. We caught up and shared some laughs. Feeling bad that we were taking up so much of the boss’s time, I suggested we should go so that Sally could get back to work.
“Now hold on just a minute, Ben,” said Sally. She then turned to Esmé. “Esmé, before you leave, could you do something for me?”
“Sure, Mrs. Richardson.”
Sally patted the empty seat next to her.
“Would you please read aloud to me?”
Esmé walked over and sat down next to Sally on the big sofa. For the next ten minutes, she read aloud to Sally and the rest of us. It was a moment that reminded me why I became a writer, and why, with every book, I’m fortunate enough to have St. Martin’s Press on my side.
So thank you everyone at SMP, with special gratitude to Sally, Keith Kahla, Jennifer Enderlin, George Witte, Martin Quinn, Jeff Capshew, Lisa Tomasello, Krista Loercher, Paul Hochman, Justin Velella, Kelsey Lawrence, Melissa Hastings, Rafal Gibek, Jason Reigal, Ervin Serrano, and Hannah Braaten. And a special thank-you to the late Matthew Shear, whose laughter and kindness I will never forget.
I would also like to thank the talented group of people who represent me: Nicole James, Aaron Priest, Chris George, Terra Chalberg, and Rachel Sussman.
As with every book, a number of technical experts offered me their guidance and thoughts. Thank you for your help: Gail Riley, Matthew Bunn, Alex Mijailovic, Kevin Ryan, Jonathan KomLosy, and Rorke Denver.
An extra, very sincere thank-you to Nicole James and Keith Kahla, who demand nothing but the best from me, and then help me find it with their brilliance, toughness, patience, and, above all, humor.
Finally, a heartfelt thank-you to my family, Shannon, Charlie, Teddy, Oscar, and Esmé. I’m very proud of you—each of you—for your own unique and wonderful gifts. You make me laugh, keep me humble, and always find a way to show me your love when I need it most. A hundred times a day, I think to myself, look at how lucky you are, the only person alive who can look at the five of you and and say the words, this is my family.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEN COES is the author of the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling Dewey Andreas novels, including Power Down, Coup d’État, The Last Refuge, and Eye for an Eye. He lives in Wellesley, Massachusetts.
Follow the author on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bencoes. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY BEN COES
Power Down
Coup d’ É tat
The Last Refuge
Eye for an Eye
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Ben Coes
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
INDEPENDENCE DAY. Copyright © 2015 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
“The Witness” ©copyright 1933 by W. H. Auden, renewed. Reprinted by Permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: Statue of Liberty by darkshadow/Getty Images; sky by serg64/shutterstock
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-04316-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4126-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466841260
First Edition: June 2015
