Two federal SUVs escorted the van, front and back. This was the third time Nicole had been transported from the jail to the federal courthouse. The first two times were uneventful, but necessary so her team could adjust last-minute details. Last Monday, she went to the courthouse to give the Assistant United States Attorney a juicy morsel to exploit. On Thursday, it was to review documentation and sign the plea agreement. After the explosion at the DEA’s evidence locker ten days ago, the AUSA was more than happy to have a valuable source of information.
The angry, defeated look on Brad Donnelly’s face as he watched her in the courtroom had thrilled her to no end. She won, he lost.
He had far, far more to lose before she was done with him and the people he worked for.
Today, they were taking her back to the courthouse to spill her guts. Third transport, it had become routine. She’d already agreed to the plea deal, so now it was just a matter of talking. Everything she knew about Tobias, his operation, the gun and drug trades, the money-laundering arrangement he’d had with the now-dead bitch congresswoman—she had all week to unburden herself, to make good on her promise before being transported to a federal prison far from Texas.
She wasn’t going to say a word. She’d be free or dead before she ever made it to court.
Nicole was used to stakeouts and long periods of waiting; she remained calm. Very calm. An alert dream state.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Nicole smiled deep inside, so deep that her blue eyes remained blank and her mouth a thin, straight line. Her plan was nearly foolproof. She had contingencies on top of her contingencies, which was why the DEA had never known she was the most dangerous fox in their henhouse.
The transport van slowed as they approached a red light, after the lead SUV drove through the intersection. The guards glanced at the cross traffic. There were supposed to be no stops on the short, ten-minute drive from the jail to the federal courthouse. The lead car had a sensor that turned red lights green so they wouldn’t even have to slow down.
Full stop meant trouble.
They stopped. A school bus was coming through the intersection, they couldn’t risk a collision.
Nicole couldn’t see the bus from the back of the van, but she knew it was there.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t react at all.
But she’d been ready for a very long time. Her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline surging in anticipation. And still, she remained motionless.
If Brad Donnelly had been in charge of the operation, he would have changed the route and time at the last minute—it was his M.O. But Nicole took the gamble when she planned her escape that the AUSA would follow standard protocols for a cooperating prisoner, and that Samantha Archer wouldn’t even tell Donnelly the where or when because he’d been so angry about the plea agreement. That was one of those factors that Nicole couldn’t control—who said what to whom, and if what they said would matter. But Sam Archer was predictable, and if she had told Brad about the transport, she wouldn’t let him anywhere near it. One reason Nicole had pushed him so hard earlier—both when she was his partner and after her arrest—was to keep him on the edge. Sam Archer got nervous when Brad was in maverick mode. She much preferred to work with cops who took direct orders without question.
And Nicole’s gamble worked.
It also helped that she’d stacked the deck, so to speak, by having someone on the inside to ensure that the AUSA didn’t deviate from protocol. And if they did deviate? She had another plan, though that would have resulted in a higher body count.
This time, she didn’t need it.
The guard sitting directly in front of her spoke into his radio. “Report.”
The passenger said, “Traffic stop.”
The guard was suspicious. Too smart for his own good. He said, “It’s supposed to be green all the way.”
“The lead car is holding up across the intersection, we have the tail car, nothing out of the ordinary.”
The guard said, “Run it.”
“Pedestrians. A school bus.”
Nicole smiled and closed her eyes.
The school bus full of children rolled into the intersection and stopped, blocking the transport van.
“Shit,” the driver said. He radioed immediately. “Alpha-One, we have a situation. Code Yellow.”
The lead SUV responded. “Back up, re-route parallel to the north.”
“Negative,” Alpha-Two responded. “Civilian vehicles behind us, no way to turn around without exiting the vehicle and directing traffic.”
Alpha-One said, “Code Red, be alert. Back-up en route.”
The school bus didn’t move. Three masked men emerged with fully-automatic weapons and opened fire on the front of the transport van.
The windshield was bullet-proof, but enough pressure from high-caliber weapons and even bullet-proof glass breaks.
In less than ten seconds both cops in the cab were dead.
It had been Nicole’s idea to use the school bus. No cop would return fire when her crew was shielded by innocent kids.
The guards in the back of the transport van had their guns out—one aimed at Nicole, one aimed at the rear door. The smart guard who’d sensed a problem before the problem occurred, reported through the open mic, “Two officers down! We’re under attack. Three shooters minimum, possible hostile driver, multiple hostages in the bus.”
There was no response.
“Alpha-One, this is Zeta-One. I repeat, officers down. Under attack. Hostages in bus. Confirm.”