Peak Oil (32 page)

Neil sucked in a couple of deep breaths and then rolled his shoulders, steadying his breathing. This was it. Anderson Fitch was going down.

Present Time

Alexa stood in front of the large white screen, her hands behind her back, studying the blueprints to Anderson Fitch’s mansion. The rest of the group sat at separate tables in the mess tent, talking quietly and sipping coffee. She turned around as Bruce’s phone rang.
 

“It’s Porter,” he said as he answered the call. Colonel Porter had been sent to reconnaissance Fitch’s mansion, and they were waiting impatiently for some news from the plant or the ranch, anything that would initiate a course of action.

He spoke for a while and then disconnected the call as Alexa waited expectantly. “Fitch is up to something,” he said turning to Alexa. “Captain, do you want me to take command?”

“What’s up?” Alexa asked, clamping her hands together.

“Fitch is burning paperwork, and trucks are moving in and out. Porter reckons he’s trying to get rid of evidence.”

Alexa’s heart pounded as she turned to face the troops. “All right, men, gather your weapons. Be ready to move in five minutes.”
 

Neil cocked his head to the side as he heard voices upstairs. He jogged into the dining room and pulled away the lacy curtains from the paneled door. The butler sat on a chair in the foyer, one leg folded daintily over the other, licking his finger as he paged through a magazine.
 

Neil swung the doors open and dashed out of the kitchen, his weapon trained on the man. “Get down and shut up!”

The man threw the magazine in the air and shrieked before Neil could close the distance between them and clobber the man on the skull. He went down in a heap, the magazine landing beside him.
Elle Decor
.
 

“Shit, sorry,” Neil whispered, glancing around. He stepped over the man and bounded up the marble stairway, pulling himself up by the wooden balustrade. He entered a wide passageway that led to a balcony at the opposite end. Twelve doors lined the hallway, six on either side, and Neil heard urgent voices in one of the rooms to his left. He sneaked closer and put his ear to the door and immediately recognized Andy Fitch and Bis Latorre’s voices, apparently in a heated argument.
 

Neil looked back as Fitch’s butler appeared around the corner, dragging himself on the ground by his arms, a trickle of blood spilling from his eyebrow and onto his cheek. He noticed Neil and started hollering like a maniac. “He’s here, everyone, he’s up here . . .”

Neil cursed and then dispatched him with his final bullet.
What a waste of good ammo
. He made up his mind and then flung open the door and marched inside, pointing the gun at Fitch. “Show me your hands.”

Fitch had Latorre in a two-handed grip by the shirt on his chest, his head jerking around and his eyes widening in surprise. “I killed you.”
 

Neil shrugged and pointed the weapon, indicating that they should sit down. “Care to enlighten me on your cozy relationship?”

Latorre flopped into a chair, his arms hanging limply off the armrests. “Sergeant Neil Allen, meet Andy Fitch, my father,” he said with a tired flourish of his hand.

Neil nodded slowly. “What’s your real name, then?”

“I used to be known as Chris Fitch.”

“You came back to warn him,” Neil said, jerking his head at Andy.

Latorre shook his head. “No, no, I was following orders. Besides, I needed to know the truth. I needed to find out if he had changed his ways. Had become . . . better, somehow.”

Andy Fitch sneered. “You were always a mighty big disappointment to me, boy,” he said, an ugly twist to his mouth. He smirked at Neil. “Luckily my stupid son gave me a warning that you folks were headed my way, so I made a plan and framed an employee. He was getting too nosy anyway.”

Neil snorted. “David Beck.”

Fitch grinned and then winked slyly.

Latorre shook his head. “You’re sick.”

Neil heard the door crack open, and then Latorre’s eyes widened as Neil was grabbed from behind, a strong arm gripping his neck. Neil struggled and then leaned forward, trying to find the leverage to get the man off of him, lifting the man off his feet as he tried.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Andy Fitch shouted and slammed a fist into Neil’s stomach. Neil jerked upward from the impact, and the man behind him tightened his grip around Neil’s neck.

“Get out of here,” the guard shouted in a heavy Russian accent. “I’ll deal with this bastard,” the man grunted.

Fitch seemed to hesitate; then he nodded and bolted for the doorway.
 

Neil strained with effort, leaning forward, and then jerked back and slammed the back of his head into where he thought the man’s nose would be. He heard the satisfying crack of cartilage, but the soldier simply grunted, tightening his grip.
 

Neil saw Latorre jump up and step around them. The man grunted as Latorre hit him, and Neil felt the grip slacken as Latorre slammed a heavy boot onto the man’s knee. The soldier let go of Neil and grabbed his injured leg as Andy Fitch ran back into the room, glancing from side to side, looking for a way out. “The bitch is here,” he shouted, desperation in his voice.

“Go out the window,” the guard mumbled and raised a pistol toward Neil. Latorre reacted and went for the gun; then he screamed and fell back, clutching his stomach, as a shot reverberated through the room.
 

It gave Neil the fraction of a second he needed, and he didn’t hesitate, kicking out and landing a bone-jarring blow in the Russian’s face.

Latorre slumped to the ground, rolling around and moaning, blood gushing through his fingers, smearing the pine board floors beneath him as he thrashed around. The Russian lay sprawled out next to him, blood trickling from a broken nose. Neil heard Fitch’s unsteady footsteps on the roof of the manor.

He took a split second to make up his mind. He would catch Fitch and leave Alexa to deal with these two.
 

He leaped out the window and then followed Anderson Fitch down the roof.

Alexa lifted her wrist to her mouth. “Do you have a location for me?”
 

The earpiece crackled. “I’m sorry, Captain. I managed to get the blueprints for the house from the Houston Deeds Office, but I can only offer you satellite imaging, I cannot see inside.”

Alexa sighed. “Roger that.” She would have to go in blind. She cast an alert gaze over the property and slammed a magazine into the MP7. “I guess you couldn’t find any info on the cancellation codes on the mainframe?”

Sal Frydman’s voice hissed in her ear. “No, no codes, no data regarding the shale extraction. Fitch must have kept the records elsewhere.”

She had thought as much. She popped two Ketamines into her mouth and chewed. “Okay, men, let’s do this.” She glanced sideways at Bruce, who had a steely look in his eyes. “Flank me.”

Bruce nodded. They leaped over the wooden picket fence surrounding the ranch and ran through a field to a horse corral behind the house. The animals were skittish, neighing and milling about in a bunch. Whitewashed stables were visible a hundred yards ahead.

Frydman’s voice hissed in her ear. “I have two men on the perimeter on the southeast and southwest sides of the stables.”

She clutched her hand into a fist, waved it at Bruce, and then pointed to the left of the stables in front of them. He nodded. She jogged in a crouch next to the building, ears strained, unsheathed a knife from a holster on her back, and peered around the corner.
 

A brawny guy wearing a blue camouflage uniform walked away from her. A Kalashnikov hung by a leather strap over his back. Her earpiece crackled.
 

“Captain, these guys are Spetsnaz,” Bruce said.

“Spetsnaz, how do you know?”

“The guy that I just killed had the tattoo on his arm. Alpha Unit”

Alexa swallowed.
 

“Remember what I taught you.”

Great advice, thanks
. Spetsnaz. Russian Special Forces. She had never encountered them before, but they had fearsome reputations. The Alpha Unit had apparently only lost four officers during its entire history, all the way back to the Cold War. When you compared that to the tens of thousands of soldiers killed by Alpha Unit, you knew what you were dealing with.

She crept around the corner and slunk along the barn wall toward the man, breathing through her mouth as she gripped the knife in her hand. The soldier slowed his pace and then stopped and cocked his head to the side, listening attentively.
 

Shit.

Alexa leaped toward him as he spun around and pointed the Kalashnikov at her. She ducked to her right and then slapped the gun to the side as the stutter of machine-gun fire barked close to her ear. Chunks of wood were ripped out as the bullets stitched holes into the wall. Alexa swung the knife, plunging it twice into the back of his leg. He grunted and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her up toward him. She plunged the knife into his thigh and arm as fast as she could as he tried to defend against the blows.
 

Her muscles tightened as another deafening shot rang out, and the man’s eyes widened in surprise, a large exit wound appearing in his forehead. He let go of Alexa and slumped to the ground.
 

Make that five losses.

Bruce jogged toward her. “So much for the silent approach.”

Alexa pursed her lips, wiping her face with the back of her arm. “I had it under control.”

Bruce nodded silently and then crept toward Fitch’s mansion, not looking back. She dashed toward him and grabbed his shoulder, pointing at the orange tinge to the sky in front of the mansion.
 

“Cover me, I need to stop them,” she said, and she sprinted to the back door and peered through the kitchen window. The room was empty. She crept along the wall to the front of the house and then crouched next to the porch.

Two men were busy hauling bags over their shoulders and dumping them onto a large fire, pieces of black ash blown into the air by the warm updraft. A man wearing dark army clothes skipped back up the stairs to the house, while another heaved the unburned documents into the fire with a pitchfork.

Alexa spoke into the microphone on her wrist. “Major Bryden, cover the back. Colonel Porter, back him up.”

The two men acknowledged her request. Alexa stood up from behind the porch and marched toward the two men. “Stand right where you are.” She pointed her gun at their backs. “Get your hands in the air.”

They swung around, casting wary glances her way. One of the men lifted his hands uncertainly, rooted in place, while a slow smile crept across the other man’s face. He started ambling toward Alexa, nonchalantly, muttering something in Russian.
 

“C’mon,” she said, sighing loudly, and then fired a single shot. The soldier slumped to the ground with a neat hole between his eyes. She pointed the gun at the second man, who held his hands out in front of him defensively. “Good boy. Now sit,” she said, pointing the gun at the ground.
 

He dropped to the ground.

“Stay,” she said and then talked into her wrist. “I have a tame
le Russe
in front of the house, please secure.”

She jogged up the porch and crouched next to the entrance, peering inside. Andy Fitch was bounding down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He skidded to a halt and froze when he saw her, his bushy eyebrows squashed together as his eyes darted around the room.

“Hold it,” Alexa shouted. She could feel her throat restrict, her finger tightening around the trigger, and she had to use all of her willpower to stop from pulling the trigger.

Fitch spun around and bolted back up the stairs.

“Shit!”

He dashed around a corner, and Alexa heard a door open and slam closed. The lock turned and clicked as she skidded to a halt in front of the door. She stood back and slammed her shoulder into it and then winced as a jolt of pain surged through her ribs. She lifted her wrist to her mouth, sucking in raspy breaths. “Colonel Porter, I need you on the first floor.”

Alexa heard angry voices inside and then a scuffle, chairs scraping and falling to the ground. A shot was fired, someone screamed, and then glass crashed. Alexa looked back as she heard Porter rush up the stairs. “I need the door opened, quick,” she said.
 

Porter nodded and smashed a boot into the door. It went straight through. He balanced awkwardly as he struggled to pull his leg free. He took careful aim and tried again. The second kick slammed the door open, causing it to smack against the wall with a bang.

Alexa shoved him to the side and ran inside, swinging her gun in a wide arc around the room. Bis Latorre was lying on the ground, moaning in pain as he clutched his stomach with both hands. A dark pool of blood had already formed beneath his writhing body. Alexa knelt next to him.
 

“Hello, Captain,” he said with a grimace. “He went out the window.”

Alexa glanced over her shoulder. “Find him,” she ordered Porter. She had a couple of questions she wanted to ask the traitor before he bled to death.