Fallen Angel (34 page)

CHAPTER 39

ZINSSER CRAMMED EVERY EMOTION
into a dark, secret place near the corner of his soul. It was what he did when the situation needed more machine than man. Zinsser became that machine.

He swung the door open, the P228 at arm's length, and saw what he feared. The good news: Gina was still alive, still restrained in the oak chair they saw in the threat-video. In the second it took to glance at her, he saw no additional injuries. Seeing her strapped to the chair in nothing but her underwear made something snap inside Zinsser. The bad news: Another man stood behind Gina holding a large-caliber handgun—the kind only insecure men carried—to Gina's head, pushing her head almost to her left shoulder.

"Hold it right there," the man said. He was six foot four if he was an inch and looked to be 250 pounds of muscle. "One bad move on your part and you'll be scooping the girl's brains off the walls."

Zinsser looked deep in the man's eyes and saw a coward. "Lower your weapon and you live."

"No dice. I move this gun an inch and my life isn't worth a dime."

"It's not worth that now."

"Okay, funny man, here's how this is going to work. Your crew is going to withdraw. Young Ms. Moyer here is going to be my ticket out of here. Here's what I want—"

Zinsser put a bullet in the man's forehead. He collapsed like a house of cards.

Gina screamed. Screamed. Continued screaming. Blood and tissue covered her.

"Gina, it's okay. It's me, Jerry. You know me. I've been to your house a few times. It's over now—"

Bang. Bang-bang.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

The sound came from the other side of the wall. Zinsser snapped his head that direction. He jetted from the room, rounded the corner, and saw three things: Sergeant Presley sitting on the floor holding his left shoulder, crimson oozing between his fingers; a dead woman bleeding from at least four holes in her chest; and Brianne pointing her Glock at the unmoving form. The gun wiggled in her trembling hand.

Zinsser stepped to her and laid his hand on her weapon, pushing it down. "It's over."

"How's that for a body mass shot?" Her voice trembled more than her hand.

"You done good, Agent Lazzaro."

"Saved my life." Presley struggled to his feet.

"Stay down, Sergeant."

He shook his head. "It's just a flesh wound." He tried to stand but collapsed again. "I think I'll just sit here."

Kneeling by the officer, Zinsser did a quick review of the wound. "In and out. Doesn't look like it hit any arteries. I see some bone frags. You'll live but won't be throwing any fastballs anytime soon."

"Got the jump on me. She came out of the head, gun blazing. I got off a shot but missed. She already popped me. Agent Lazzaro had just cleared one of the offices and, well, did that." He nodded at the corpse.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Zinsser turned to aim. Five uniformed police officers poured into the room. The entire operation took less than two minutes, although it seemed a lot longer to Zinsser.

"Call an ambulance," Zinsser ordered.

Andy Arnold made the call.

"How's Gina?" Brianne asked.

"Shook." Zinsser stood. "At least she's stopped screaming—" Two holes in the wall separating the open work area from Gina's holding space—two large bullet holes.

Zinsser made it to Gina's door in a sprint, flung it open, and plunged into the room.

Gina leaned forward against her restraints, unmoving.

"No. No! NO!" He lowered his weapon and drew a large folding knife from his pocket, popping the blade open in one move. "Help me! Help me!"

Zinsser the machine melted into a slag-covered pool in the heat of what he was seeing. The bottled emotions broke free. He cut the nylon ties and the straps that held Gina to the chair, tossed the blade aside, and eased the girl to the floor. There was a hole in her left arm and one in the side of her chest.

She wasn't breathing.

"Oh, God no. Please, God. Please."

Brianne knelt beside Gina's body, leaned over her head, and placed an ear over Gina's nose. Brianne shook her head. She tilted Gina's head back, pulled her jaw down, laid her lips over Gina's, and exhaled, sending air into her lungs. Blood and air bubbled from the wound in her chest. "Pneumothorax. Put your hand on the wound."

"What?"

"Your hand. Put it over the wound. Air is getting in the chest cavity and collapsing her lung."

Zinsser forced himself back into battle mode: emotionless, acute thinking, senses sharp as scalpels.

Brianne blew more air into Gina's lungs, repeating the process three times, then put two fingers to one of the girl's carotid arteries. "No pulse. Move."

Zinsser slipped further to the side but kept his hand over the wound, blood tinting his fingers. Brianne raised a fist and brought it down on Gina's sternum, executing a precordial thump. Again, she checked for a pulse. "Nothing."

She moved to the other side of Gina, laced her fingers together, placed her hands over the center of Gina's chest, and pushed, counting, "One, two, three . . ."

THE UNIVERSE WAS BLACK,
ebony, Stygian. Yet Moyer did not feel blind. He was standing. He knew that much. He could feel ground or floor or something beneath his feet. He looked up. No stars. He looked from side to side, but there was nothing but more dark.

He should be filled with terror. Why wasn't he? Something real but intangible surrounded him, like he was floating in a pool of ink.

He touched his arm and it felt real. He felt no clothing but he didn't feel nude. Whatever he wore was right for this place.

"Daddy?"

Moyer turned. Behind him, bathed in a light with no apparent source, stood Gina, pretty and perfect. "Gina!" He closed the distance between them in rapid steps and took her in his arms, lifting her from the ground and swinging her in a big circle. "Baby. My girl." He set her down and stroked her hair.

"I love you, Daddy. I miss you."

Tears ran down Moyer's face like rivers. "I love you. I love you so much. I haven't said it enough in your life. I love you, adore you. I'm proud of you. You are my life."

She clung to him for a moment, then stroked his cheek, wiping away tears. "Everything is going to be fine, Daddy. Everything is going to be fine."

Slowly, Gina, bathed in ethereal light, began to move back and up.

"Where are you going? No. Stay. Stay with me. I need you, baby."

"It's going to be all right, Daddy. It really is."

Gina ascended skyward and became the only star in the ebony cloak.

"Gina!"

He was alone in the dark again—but not alone. Something was moving in the black, occupying it, filling it. Something good and comforting. Moyer heard J. J.'s voice:
"Boss, all I'm saying is that God is in the darkness with you. There is a holy dark."

CAPTAIN MASTERS HEARD GUNFIRE
and it gave him a moment of hope. He had been on enough missions and heard enough gunfire in his day to recognize the distinct sound of American-made M4s. He pulled at his restraints.

The door to his room exploded open and two men burst in. Two men in black camo and matching masks marched in, automatic weapons searching for any target. Seeing the room had only one occupant and he was strapped to a bed, the men lowered their M4s. One man approached Masters, the other turned to the door, his weapon at the ready for anyone who might have followed them.

Masters watched the soldier study the situation. The man's eyes brightened. "You call for a taxi?"

"That would be me. I'm late for the theater. Man, have I got someone for you to meet."

He shouldered his weapon and began removing the restraints. "They call me Junior. You are?"

"Captain Scott Masters."

"You able to move?"

"Yes. I'm a little weak, but I'm sure I can walk."

"Wounds?"

"Face and side. Side hurts the most."

"Okay, I'm going to release you, but I want you to stay here until—"

"You can forget that noise, soldier. Give me a status report. Did you find my men?"

"Yes, sir." Junior's voice faltered. "I'm afraid you're the last one alive."

"No, I was told—"

"We found two bodies. One has been dead for hours. The other . . . I think someone shot him when we came in. I'm surprised to find you alive."

The door opened and all eyes turned to a thin man in a doctor's smock.

"No," Masters snapped. "Hold your fire."

"Identify yourself," the other soldier demanded.

The man looked at Masters and shrugged. "He calls me Igor."

"He's the doctor," Masters said. "He hooked me up with antibiotics—finally."

"May I?" Igor nodded to Masters. "The IV?"

Junior said, "Go ahead, but don't mess with us. I still have plenty of bullets."

Igor moved to Masters and removed the IV needle. Masters sat up. The room twisted and spun. "Where's Egonov?"

"Who's Egonov?"

"He's the lead clown." Masters stood and wobbled, then found his footing. Every part of him hurt. Despite the antibiotics, his fever still raged. He needed to spend more time in bed with high-caliber drugs, but that would have to wait. "Give me your sidearm, soldier."

"No can do, Captain. You're in no condition."

"I'm guessing I outrank you. Don't be insubordinate. I know what I'm doing. I've been doing it longer than you. Now hand it over or I'll knock you down and take it."

"You know there's no chance you could do that in your condition."

"Yeah, but threats are all I have at the moment."

"Hawkeye, give the captain your sidearm."

"What? Why mine?"

"I may need mine to save my life."

"Oh, I see how it is. Nice. Real nice."

The handgun felt good in Masters's hand. "Have you cleared the facility?"

"This side. Stay here until we come back for you. We still have several rooms to check."

"Understood."

The two exited. One minute later, Masters started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Igor asked.

"My mission isn't over yet."

Captain Scott Masters put one wobbly step after another and walked out the door. With each step he grew more certain. With Igor by his side, Masters, bent at the waist from his wounds, moved down the hall.

The hall ended near the lobby/waiting area. Two soldiers dressed like those who were in his room were about to engage a group of armed men near the windows of the extended lobby.

One of the Russians fell; another turned with weapon raised; and the soldiers opened fire, gunning down the remaining men. He recognized one of the newly dead men as the bearded man who installed the speaker in his room.
Good riddance
.

A blur to his right caught his attention. A man emerged from the back of the building, a GSh-18 weapon in his hand. He pulled the trigger just as the larger of the two soldiers turned. The bullet hit the right side of his head just below the helmet rim. Another shot struck the other rescuer in the arm or chest. Masters couldn't tell.