The Devil's Pitchfork (34 page)

“General Johnston? Anything further?”

Johnston nodded, hesitant. He took a deep breath. “This is a very dangerous mission, gentlemen. The United States government does not sanction this action. If your mission is completed satisfactorily, I do not believe there will be negative repercussions to you, though I cannot guarantee this. If your mission does not end satisfactorily, then it will not matter. The Fallen Angels will release this virus on the population and millions will die. Millions. This is your opportunity to back out. I understand your positions as professionals.” He carefully did not use the word mercenaries. “This is a job. It is possible that this job’s scope is beyond what you expected. If you are not up to it, or do not wish to risk the possible repercussions, say so and you may leave.”

He waited. None of the men stepped forward. Johnston nodded to Stuart English. “Back to you, General English.”

English stepped forward. “Here is how we start. Each of you will be provided with a radio set...”

57

The Fallen Angels’ Headquarters

D
EREK WAS FAMILIAR WITH
laboratories. More than familiar. He spent most of his undergraduate years in laboratories. As a soldier, he found he missed the peculiar order and atmosphere of the laboratory. His brother, now a physician with Doctors Without Borders working in Congo, told him to go back to graduate school and combine the two, his love of science and his adrenaline addiction, and work in the field. It had been good advice, but not without its perils. He studied biological and chemical warfare. When he went back to school to pursue his doctorate, his life had once again returned to laboratories. But now he found a particularly vicious and determined form of evil in these laboratories hidden in dark corners of the world.

Laboratories were dangerous places. They were filled with hazardous, flammable and often explosive chemicals. Many laboratories had butane pumped in via Bunsen burner gas lines, though this one did not seem to have that kind of equipment. It did have compressed air tanks. And many bottles of ethyl alcohol.

First, Derek stepped out of the spacesuit. He’d destroyed all the Chimera and now he needed agility and dexterity. Moving quickly, he twisted off the steel safety caps on the gas tanks and examined the regulators. Yes, this would do nicely. He placed the five gas tanks—one oxygen, two nitrogen and two carbon dioxide—together, then surrounded them with as many bottles of chemicals he could find, preferably chemicals that when exposed to flame—or each other—would go up in a large and dangerous explosion. Derek tried to remember if he had seen a stack of gasoline containers along one side of this trailer. He was pretty sure there had been, but which side? He didn’t know for sure and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He moved on.

He needed some sort of fuse. Some laboratories kept lengths of cotton-fiber rope because they were used as the wicks for alcohol burners, which could, among other things, be used to sterilize coverslips. But he found no rope in the lab. He turned back to the little room where he had been held captive. On the plastic cot was a thin mattress. He dragged it out into the main part of the laboratory and, using a pair of scissors, cut it into long strips and tied them together until he had a length of cloth rope nearly thirty feet long.

Using a large two-liter beaker, he filled the glass container with ethanol and dropped the cloth rope into it.

He carefully took the glass bottles of vaccine, wrapped them in padding from the mattress and placed them in a small cardboard box that had once contained laboratory felt-tipped marker pens. He sealed the box with tape and tucked it under his arm.

Derek took a deep breath. If he wasn’t careful how he did this he would be at ground zero when all hell broke loose. He took a moment to think things through. Finding a piece of paper and a pencil, he drew a rough sketch of the warehouse as he remembered it. Thinking where the doors were, where the vehicles were kept, where the other trailers and various people were within the large rectangular space. Plotting his escape, he did what he had been trained by the U.S. Army to do: work out multiple escape routes.

When he thought he was ready, he opened the various doors to the trailers, leaving them open until he was just inside the final door to the rest of the warehouse. Heart hammering, he retraced his steps, took the alcohol-soaked cloth and wrapped it around the regulator’s outtake manifolds, then unreeled the sopping cloth through the trailer until it was just by the exit. The ventilation system was already working on the alcohol fumes and he was concerned that the alcohol would evaporate too quickly.

He hurried back to the compressed gas containers, turned the valves on full to release the gas. Carrying the bucket of alcohol, he poured it along the length of the cloth, emptying it by the final exit door.

With steady hands, he picked up a box of matches he had found in a drawer and lit it. The flame danced at the end of the matchstick. One, he thought.

He touched the match to the cloth. Two.

It ignited with a blue flame and fast, faster than he could have thought possible, the alcohol-soaked cloth caught flame.

His eyes grew wide, because the cloth didn’t ignite, the alcohol did. The blue flame raced toward the gas canisters within the laboratory.

Slamming himself against the door, Derek rushed out into the main warehouse, sprinting toward the exit.

58

Alexandria, Virginia

S
TUART
E
NGLISH AND
J
AMES
Johnston sat in a Ford Explorer four blocks from the warehouse they had identified as the probable headquarters of The Fallen Angels. English had a portable radio and was in contact with all of his men. The two men had agreed that English would be the tactical command and Johnston would oversee the operation.

English directed his men to slowly converge on the warehouse from all points of the compass. Because they were in a warehouse district—row after row of steel, concrete and brick warehouses--they entered the area in four trucks as if to make deliveries. One man drove, one rode in the passenger seat and three men were in the back. Once they were close to the warehouse they would fan out and begin their mission.

Each truck was given a radio designation of A, B, C, and D. Each man in each truck was given a letter one through five. They were reporting in now.

“Alpha-three in, I have the target in sight. There are no signs of human guards.”

“Delta-one here. I see video cameras. Confirm.”

“Beta-five, I confirm three video cameras on north side of target.”

Into his radio Stuart English said, “Confirm cameras on all areas.”

In a matter of minutes it was confirmed. There were twelve cameras identified, two at each corner and one in the middle. It was not an unexpected problem. The problem was exactly how to deal with them. The cameras were mounted high on the sides of the building and English’s crew were not equipped to climb and reach them in a fast, effective way. Also, timing was an issue. Although they had enough sharpshooters to take out the surveillance cameras, the element of surprise would be eliminated if they did so—they would have to make a full-out assault on the building simultaneously. This would be problematic because they had no idea what they were getting into. No idea how many people were inside, how they were armed and what the layout of the facility was. As far as anybody could tell, there were no blind spots.

English said to Johnston, “Any ideas?”

“Are there ventilation ducts?”

English passed on the question to his team. A moment later the Alpha-leader, Alpha-one, responded. “Affirmative. On south side of building and on the roof. Suggestion, sir.”

“Go ahead.” English raised an eyebrow at Johnston.

“One of the trucks can drive by close on one side as if on their way by. We can have someone flash one of the lights as we go by to cause a problem with one of the cameras. The passenger side, using a rope and grapple, will take that opportunity to get onto the roof. From there they should be able to—”

Alpha-One’s report was interrupted by the crumping sound of an explosion coming from inside the building. There were shouts and confusion. Even inside their Ford Explorer they could hear the sound of the explosion from four blocks away.

“What’s going on? Report!” English shouted into the radio.

“We don’t know. Something from inside the warehouse. Some sort of explosion. We don’t know what’s going on.”

Johnston gripped English’s arm. “Tell them to go in. It’s their diversion.”

English paled. He could be sending twenty men into a deadly situation. Then he nodded. “Code Pellinor. I repeat: Code Pellinor. Go in.”

59

The Fallen Angels’ Headquarters

D
EREK, BARE FEET SLAPPING
on the cold pavement, did not get more than twenty steps from the trailer when there was a loud crumping sound. He saw four or five of Coffee’s terrorists turn from what they were doing to see the noise and spot him racing toward the nearest door.

Then there was a much louder sound and Derek felt a percussion wave slam into him like the hand of God and he found himself flying through the air and slamming hard to the pavement. A rain of debris--glass, wood, shards of aluminum--fell around him. With a desperate lunge he threw himself under another trailer, clutching the precious box of Chimera vaccine against his chest. From beneath the trailer he watched the destruction of the laboratory. It looked like it had been sitting on a volcano. The plywood that had layered the inside of the trailer burned with a huge cloud of black smoke. He didn’t think his bomb caused so much destruction; it must have been the stacks of fuel presumably used for generators and the complicated ventilation system of the laboratory.

Sound came to him as if he had stuffed his fingers in his ears. Shouts. A few screams.

Gunfire.

Suddenly explosions ripped the air as doors on opposite sides of the warehouse blew inward, followed by armed men.

Automatic gunfire chattered in return.

From his hiding spot Derek saw the tall thin figure of Dr. Ling creeping toward a doorway, about to make his escape during the chaos.

With a flare of rage, Derek dropped the vaccine and lunged from beneath the trailer and sprinted toward the torturous Asian. Ling must have sensed something because he spun just as Derek reached him. His eyes widened his recognition. His hand darted inside his jacket and withdrew a stiletto. “So, Dr. Stillwater. You live.”

Derek slowed, hands up, dropping into a defensive martial arts stance.

Ling shifted the blade from hand to hand, moving in a circle. Around them was chaos, flames and gunfire. “I assume you are responsible for this.”

Derek didn’t comment. Ling’s hands were very fast. It was difficult keeping his eyes on  the blade. He needed to keep his concentration on Ling’s center of gravity, on his hips and stomach because that was where he would get a clue as to the man’s intentions. Not the hands, the waist, the thighs. But he also needed to know where the blade was.

Ling lunged with his left hand. His empty left hand.

Derek spun, slamming his arm down to block the right hand that held the blade. He caught Ling’s wrist. With his left hand Ling jabbed his stiffened fingers into Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s arm grew numb.

Derek twisted Ling’s right wrist, grinding the bones, and snapped his bare foot into Ling’s knee. Ling grunted and lunged with the knife blade, up, toward Derek’s wrist.

Derek kicked Ling’s knee again. Ling dropped to the ground, bringing Derek with him, the knife point close to his wrist.

Derek tried to use his right arm, but it was numb. Ling jabbed his free hand at Derek’s eyes. Derek flinched back, still clutching Ling’s knife hand.

Ling’s free hand curved into what Derek recognized as a shape called “the rooster’s head.” Fingers joined and curved downward, wrist up. It could be used to block, to strike, and could be used to strike with the joined fingertips or the blunt edge of the wrist.

Derek fell foward toward Ling, using gravity, and swung his numb arm upward, slamming his elbow into Ling’s face.

Ling stumbled backward, thrashing out of Derek’s grasp, rolling smoothly and coming up on his feet. The stiletto was back in his hands. The Asian’s eyes narrowed and he moved cautiously, the blade moving back and forth, back and forth.

Derek lunged right as if to go for the knife, then dropped to the floor and swept Ling’s feet out from under him, spinning as he did, bringing his fist down on Ling’s wrist with an audible crack. The knife dropped to the pavement. Ling snatched it up in his other hand and lunged with a scream at Derek, who shuffled backward before the attack. Ling kept coming, backing Derek against the hard surface of a trailer.

A familiar voice shouted, “Freeze,” but neither man paid any attention.

Ling thrust the blade at Derek’s throat. At the last second Derek shifted. Just a few inches. The knife plunged past him and into the thin aluminum skin of the trailer.

For just a fraction of a section the knife stuck as Ling struggled to pull the blade out of the plywood and aluminum wall.

Derek struck Ling in the throat with a closed fist. There was the nauseating sound of cartilage crushing. Ling, eyes wide, let go of the stiletto and staggered backward, fingers scrabbling at his ruined throat. He tried to speak, but the only sound was a harsh gurgle followed by blood spewing from his mouth.

Before Derek could take another step James Johnston stepped forward, placed a gun to Ling’s head and pulled the trigger. Ling collapsed to the floor, most of his head gone, very much dead.

Johnston walked over to Derek. “Are you okay?”

Derek held out his hand. “Can I borrow your gun?”

Johnston, a baffled expression, handed over the Glock. Derek took it, stepped over to the corpse of Ling, and emptied every round in the magazine into the Asian’s body. Each round made the body jump and Derek felt something surge inside him at each twitch. When he had spent each round he felt the anger seep away, leaving scar tissue like a burn on his soul.