Page 59 of Renegade (The Santini Assassins #2)

“I gotta let my team know it’s safe to bring the President back.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Greystone tapped the comm. “Austin, you there?”

“I’m so relieved to hear your voice.”

“They did it,” he said, relief pouring out of him. “They disarmed the units. And the canine teams cleared the buildings, including the Pentagon and the White House.”

“You did it!” He could hear the pure joy in her voice. “Congratulations. You must be so relieved.”

“It’s a good feeling. ”

“Is it safe to return?” she asked.

“It’s safe,” Greystone said.

“Let me tell Evelyn,” she said. “Evelyn, the threat has been removed.” After a few seconds, Caroline said, “She’s letting the President know.”

“Come on home to me, baby. We got some celebrating to do.”

“That sounds perfect,” she replied. “Absolutely perfect.”

Caroline ended the conversation, and Greystone watched as the EOD team brought the bomb transport containers into the building.

He lived life on the edge, but this was cutting it close, even for him.

CAROLINE

Caroline flicked her gaze out the window as a jet streaked past.

What was that?

She leaned over, her focus out the small window. When she didn’t see anything for several seconds, she breathed deep.

I’m seeing things.

Then, the jet shot past again. It didn’t look like any military aircraft she’d ever seen.

“Did you see that jet?” she asked Evelyn.

Evelyn stopped typing, glanced out the window. “I don’t see anything.”

“Where are the F-16s?” Caroline asked.

“Give me two minutes. I have to use the restroom.” Evelyn left and Caroline slid into her seat near the window. One of the F-16s flanked Air Force One off its tail. She glanced across the aisle, but couldn’t see the other one .

Just then, the F-16 banked hard right, creating significant separation from the 747. The other F-16 appeared from below and joined the first. To Caroline’s horror, a missile hit the wing of one of the F-16s and it began spiraling downward.

Four unmarked jets flew nearby, one flanking each side of Air Force One, while the other two went after the F-16s.

“Ohgod.” She rushed over to one of the attendants. “We’re being attacked by enemy fighters.”

The flight attendant glanced out the window. “Sit down, buckle up.”

She hurried back and sat as Evelyn rushed down the aisle, took her seat. The President had emerged from the conference room and stood in the aisle, surrounded by several people.

Caroline tapped her ear pod. “Grey, we’ve got a problem.”

“Go,” he replied.

“Four unmarked jets have engaged the F-16s in combat. One of the F-16s is down.”

“Where’s the second?” he asked.

“It moved away from us and it’s fighting two of the four jets by itself.”

“Hello, this is Captain McAnter.” The captain’s confident cadence did nothing to calm her. “We have a situation. I need everyone in their seats. Buckle up. Stay calm. If you are a person of faith, pray.”

A woman in the back started screaming, but she was quickly subdued.

“Austin, talk to me.” Grey’s velvety voice hijacked her attention. “What’s happening?”

She stared out the window, then gasped as the jet was stuck. “The second F-16 was hit, the pilot ejected. The four foreign jets have us surrounded.”

“Fuck.”

Air Force Once banked left, slowly turning in the morning sky. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the captain. “We’ve been directed to head east, so I’m making the necessary adjustment.”

“Ohmygod, we’re being hijacked!” someone cried out.

Dread filled Caroline’s soul, her stomach roiled, and her pulse jumped to triple digits.

“Remain calm,” said the pilot. “We don’t yet know where we’re going. Sit tight and we’ll let you know something soon.”

Silence filled the giant Boeing jet. People started praying, someone was sobbing.

“Grey,” Caroline murmured. “We’re being hijacked.”

“I’m on it,” he said, his voice as steady and confident as she’d come to expect from him.

GREYSTONE

Greystone made a call.

“Greystone, now’s not a good time,” Evelyn said.

“Caroline told me. I need a police escort to Joint base Anacostia-Bolling.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the Hoover building.”

Five minutes later, Secret Service was racing him through traffic. Even so, the fifteen-minute car ride was taking for-fucking-ever.

He made another call.

Jamal Jefferson answered. “Hey, Greystone.”

“Commander, Air Force One has been hijacked. I’m on my way to the base. Are you there now?”

“Did you say hijacked?” Jamal asked.

“Yes. Suit up and find me a flight suit.”

“I’m not seeing anything on radar. ”

“Air Force One was on its way to Area 51, but four jets intercepted it. The F-16s were shot down.”

“How many jets are you thinking?” Jamal asked.

“As many as we can get into the air.”

“Where are you?”

“Ten minutes out. Let the security guard know Secret Service is gonna blow through the front gate. I’m in a three-vehicle escort.”

“See you in ten.”

“Jamal, find out who we’re up against,” Greystone said.

“Who the fuck cares,” Jamal bit out.

The line went dead and Greystone flicked his gaze out the window to the wailing sirens of the Secret Service sedans.

Did the Haqazzii terror cell have this kind of power?

Jamal’s right. Doesn’t matter who it is, we’ll take ‘em out.

Beyond doing his duty to his country and ensuring the safety of the President, his mom was on that flight… and his future wife.

Not gonna lose you, Bella.

The sedan slowed at the guard entrance of the base and Greystone breathed deep. The driver got directions, then sped forward. Seconds later, they stopped in front of Aviation. Greystone jumped out and ran toward the building.

As he hurried inside, Jamal jogged down the hall toward him. “Flight suit is in my office. The crew is arming up and running through a pre-flight check.”

As Greystone extended his hand, he smiled. “Ready to have some fun?”

Chuffing out a laugh, Jamal shook it. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“I love this job and I’m ready to do what I’ve been trained to do.” He disappeared into Jamal’s office, removed the black boots, tugged off the Kevlar vest, black shirt, and black pants. He stepped into the jumpsuit, zipped up, and tapped the comm, still nestled in his ear.

“Austin.”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“This is bad, Grey.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“I love you too,” she said.

He tapped off the comm, exited the office, and strode toward Jamal. Jamal handed him a helmet, and the two men continued on.

Outside, Greystone slid on his sunglasses, turned his attention to the bright blue sky. The day was perfect for flying. He met the other two pilots. One man, one woman. He shook their hands, then regarded Jamal. “Have they been prepped?”

“We’re all set,” Jamal said. “I checked with air traffic control. They lost communication with Air Force One twenty-eight minutes ago.”

Greystone nodded. “Have commercial flights in the region been grounded?”

“Seventeen minutes ago,” Jamal explained. “The skies are ours.”

Greystone eyed each pilot. “Let’s do it.”

Greystone strode to the F-18, shook the hand of the technician. “How’s she look?”

“Great. She’s ready to go,” said the crewman. “Good luck, sir.”

He climbed into the cockpit, strapped on his helmet, connected the oxygen, and checked his gauges. He fired up the jet, waited for ground crew to direct them toward the runway. After a salute, he rolled the jet forward.

Here we go.

One by one, they taxied toward the first runway and took their positions .

“Striker One ready,” Greystone said.

“Striker Two in place,” said Jamal.

“Striker Three in position,” said the male pilot.

“Striker Four all set,” said the female pilot.

“Tower, this is Striker One,” Greystone said. “Requesting permission for take-off.”

“Striker One, you’re clear for take-off,” the controller responded.

Greystone pushed on the throttle, the jet lurched forward, and he set his sights straight ahead. Then, he punched it, and the F-18 roared as it accelerated down the runway. Seconds later, he was airborne, heading for the hijacked jet, now flying over the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

A minute later, all four aircraft were flying in a perfect diamond formation, with Greystone as lead. As the planes sliced through the late morning skies, Greystone looked in his mirrors at the jets behind him.

“How’s everyone doin’?” he asked.

All responded in the affirmative.

The next twenty-minutes felt like forever. Once they’d located the bandits, they’d have to be swift, they’d have to be precise, and they’d have to ensure the people inside Air Force One didn’t become collateral damage.

His radar blipped as it picked up the five aircraft headed toward them, still out of view.

“Air Force One and four bandits dead ahead. Assume attack formation,” he commanded.

The other jets fell into line behind his, making it harder for the enemy to know how many they were up against. Within thirty seconds, he made visual contact. The small dots flanking Air Force One grew larger and more menacing as they approached.

Suddenly, multiple steams of smoke emanated from the bandit jets .

“Incoming!” Greystone yelled. “Take evasive action!”

His team pulled up and split off in various directions, according to plan, deploying flares from their tails. The missiles exploded when they hit the flare, doing no damage to their planes.

After Air Force Once passed beneath them, the Strike team regrouped and began their pursuit. Two of the bandits did a one-eighty and flew toward them at closing speeds in excess of seven hundred miles an hour.

“I’ve got the one on the right.” Greystone locked on his target and launched a laser-guided sidewinder missile.

The bandit shot off a missile before exploding in a huge fireball.

Greystone veered sharply and the incoming missile narrowly missed him.

The aerial combat continued with him craning in every direction, and spotting the second bandit.

“Striker Three, he’s on your six,” Greystone warned.

“I can’t shake him,” Striker Three replied.

The enemy craft sprayed the F-18 with bullets from its 30mm cannon until smoke began pouring from the engines and the jet began to nosedive.

“Hornet Three, ejecting,” said the male pilot. His canopy blew off and he rocketed into the sky. Seconds later, his parachute deployed and he floated toward the frigid ocean waters below.

“Striker Two’s got him.” Jamal unleashed his Gatling gun on the enemy, blanketing the jet with a hail of depleted uranium rounds until it exploded from a hit to its fuel tank.

Two down, two to go.

Greystone flew forward, his focus on the remaining two bandits flanking Air Force One.

“Striker Two and Striker Four, engage the bandit on the port side, with Striker Two as lead. “I’ll take the one on starboard.”

With his sights set on the right bird, he activated the F-18’s afterburners. As he caught up with his prey, the enemy veered hard right in a tight circle, attempting to loop behind him. But Greystone’s quick reactions kept him on the bandit’s tail.

“You’re mine, you son of a bitch,” Greystone growled, and he opened fire.

But the pilot of the enemy craft was also well-trained, and he executed a cobra maneuver, pulling up sharply and stalling in midair, then leveling off and accelerating after Greystone had rocketed by. Now, Greystone was the one in the crosshairs, and the bandit began firing his machine gun.

Two can play that game, asshole.

Greystone pulled the stick back hard and cut the throttle.

As the plane angled toward the heavens, he started squeezing blood into his head, doing everything he could to keep from passing out.

The G-force was brutal until he leveled the jet, went full thrusters, and locked in on the enemy jet that had passed beneath him.

And he opened fire, this time blasting the enemy with two missiles. Despite the bandit’s attempts to avoid them, Greystone scored a direct hit. Smoke billowed from the craft as it spiraled toward the ocean waters below.

“Adios, motherfucker.”

Suddenly, another jet rose from below on his left and he prepared to engage. When he realized it was Jamal, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“All bandits splashed,” Jamal said as Striker Four pulled up on Greystone’s right. “That was some nice flying, Greystone.”

“Right back atcha both,” Greystone replied. “What’s the word on Striker Three?”

“The Coast Guard’s been alerted,” Jamal replied.

“Copy. Time to escort Air Force One to safety.”

As they approached the 747, Greystone contacted the pilot. “Captain, this is Commander Santini, Striker one. State your condition. ”

“Good to hear your voice, Commander. We weren’t hit, and we sustained no onboard injuries,” the captain replied.

“That’s what we wanna hear,” Greystone said.

“That was one impressive aerial combat. Are you accompanying us to Area 51?”

“Yes, sir,” Greystone replied as he settled into his seat.

The four-craft formation executed a slow turn until they attained a west-by-northwest heading.

It was smooth flying for the next hundred miles until, without warning, something rocketed upward in front of the 747.

“What the hell was that?” Greystone asked.

“A surface-to-air missile,” Jamal replied. “We’re under attack.”

This time, they were fucked.