The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (20 page)

He pointed upward. “I want you to go up there. See where that air duct is? You can hide behind it and he won’t be able to see you.”

“What about you?”

More shots into the doorway.

“Go!” He gave her a shove. Reluctantly, she limped toward the steel stairs leading up to the upper catwalk.

Derek frowned and hobbled down the metal steps and slipped into the shadows of the furnace. Heat came off the furnace in waves. He glanced around, spied Maria, and gave her a thumbs-up. In a moment she was gone.

He brought the MP-5 around, leaned against one of the boiler tanks, almost burning his arm on the hot metal. Shifting locations, he stood behind a round metal duct about three feet in diameter, covered with pink fiberglass insulation. He wasn’t wild about it as a hiding place. Bullets would sheer right through it as if it were onionskin paper.

Another round of gunfire rattled into the door.

Followed by silence.

The guy, Mad Dog, was smarter than the other people who’d gone after him. Or he’d just learned his lesson.

Silence. And more silence.

From above Maria said, “Derek? What’s going—”

Suddenly the lights clicked out. All of them. “Don’t talk!” he called out. “Not a word!”

The generator still hummed. The furnace and air-conditioning units still roared. But the electrical lights were off. Like somebody had flicked a switch or closed a circuit.

He didn’t like that one bit. The power plant had four doors. They were all supposed to be—

What was that sound? Shuffling?

In the darkness, Derek tried to focus on the sound, which seemed to be an echo of some sort. But from where? It stopped before he could pin it down.

He listened. Nothing. He couldn’t hear Maria. He couldn’t hear the sound, whatever it had been. All he could hear was the roar of the machinery in the room.

He disciplined himself to wait, hoping Maria would stay right where she was.

Creak.

Derek tensed. Somebody was moving. Maybe it was Maria.

Or maybe it was just metal adjusting to her weight or his weight or changes in the room’s temperature.

A scream tore through the space. It was followed by the German-accented voice floating down from above.

“Well, fraülein. Aren’t you a pretty little thing? So tell me, where is your boyfriend, eh? Come out, come out, wherever you are. Herr Doktor Stillwater? If you do not show yourself by the time I count to five, I will slit this pretty little lady’s throat. Eins.”

“Run!” Maria shouted. “Run, Derek!”

“Zwei.”

Derek swallowed. If he stepped out, they were both dead. If he didn’t step out, Maria was almost assuredly dead.

“Drei.”

His eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Mostly pilot lights that lit the gas furnace and hot water tanks, causing an eerie reddish glow.

“Vier.”

He studied the furnace next to him. Along the bottom was a ledge where a sheet of blue flame burned off the gas that fed the furnace. An idea came to him. A crazy, suicidal idea.

He called out, “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

Irina Khournikova stood behind an oak tree thirty yards from the entrance to the International Center. The sounds of gunfire from the hillside were beginning to fade, the firefight coming to an end.

She studied the building, her gaze taking in the numerous closed-circuit cameras scattered around the grounds. She was convinced that the International Center’s Security Center had been taken over by one or more members of The Fallen Angels and they were using the cameras to keep tabs on any counter-terror measures the Secret Service might take.

Using the tree trunk to lean against, she set the MP-5 on single fire, sighted in on one of the cameras, breathed in, out, then squeezed the trigger. The camera exploded with a satisfying pop!

Methodically, Khournikova shot out the seven cameras she identified on her side of the building. Three of them she hit on the first shot. The other four had required two or even three shots. She was a decent marksman, but worked much better in close and hand to hand. Still, she had accomplished what she wanted to accomplish.

She slipped from the cover of the oak and ran to a blue spruce closer to the building. She rolled to the ground and slipped beneath the boughs, lying flat on a mat of dried pine needles. The odor of spruce filled her nose. She waited, motionless, heart beating in her chest, a reassuring clockwork that she was still alive.

A minute ticked by. Two.

Gracefully, she rolled out from under the tree and sprinted to the entrance of the building. Two security cameras monitored the front entrance. Using the Sig Sauer, she blasted them to pieces and slipped through the door, keeping to the walls.

Whoever was in there would know she was coming. She studied the lobby. It was a long, wide entryway, complete with fountain and bronze
sculpture of the world held on the fingertips of an extended hand. From the ceiling hung a glittering modern chandelier of lights and mirrors. Several full-grown sycamore trees grew from the main floor, branches extended in leafy abundance toward a pyramidal skylight. The floor was granite, steps leading up on either side of the fountain to the main level. More utilitarian steps led down to meeting rooms and the security center.

Irina went up.

She took out two more security cameras, comfortable that she had blinded the security center to her activities in this part of the International Center. Now it was time to play mind games.

Irina slipped into the men’s bathroom on the upper level. She climbed up on a sink and unscrewed the fasteners holding an acoustic tile in place, and hoisted herself up into the ceiling area.

Irina shined her flashlight around, finding what she hoped to find. Fiber-optic cables. She followed the line of cables until they met another group and split off in several directions. Using her combat knife, she sliced the bundle of cables. She moved farther along the crawl space along an I-beam until she came to another line of fiber-optic cables. Again, she cut them.

Time to move back, she thought, and retraced her path to the men’s bathroom. She dropped down on the sink, crept to the doorway, and slipped out. Back in the lobby, she climbed up into the branches of one of the sycamore trees that grew in the lobby and settled in to wait.

Derek moved toward the stairs, arms held out in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t know if you can see me, but I’m coming out. Let her go.”

Above him he heard the sound of movement. The German-accented voice said, “Let there be light.”

With a click a bank of lights flashed on, barely illuminating the power plant. Above him, at the top of the stairs, was the tall, broad-shouldered terrorist. The shoulder and right arm of his black clothes looked wet from blood that oozed from the wound where Maria had struck him with the knife.

The terrorist had his right arm around Maria, a wicked looking blade pressed against her throat. In his left arm he held an MP-5, which he had aimed down the stairs.

“Let her go,” Derek said. “I’m the one you’re after.”

“Ja, Herr Doktor Derek Stillwater. It will be my pleasure to kill you. You have caused much trouble on this day, nein?”

“Let her go.”

“Same old tune. But you still carry your weapon. Set it down on the ground.”

When Derek hesitated, the terrorist flicked out with the knife. Maria gasped and a thin line of blood leaked out from a shallow cut in her throat.

Perro Loco snarled, “Do it!”

Derek shrugged off the MP-5 and held it out by the shoulder strap. “I’m setting it down. Right here.” He dropped the assault rifle with a clatter.

“Gut. Das ist gut! You certainly make it easy.” Dorfman brought the MP-5 around toward Derek.

Gunfire ripped through the power plant— repeated small explosions rattling around against metal.

Dorfman ducked, confused.

The 10mm bullets Derek had placed in the blue flame of the furnace pan had ignited.

Derek charged up the stairs, lunging to get hold of the knife held to Maria’s throat.

Dorfman responded by swinging the MP-5 at Derek, striking him in the neck with the barrel.

Dazed, vision blurring, Derek stumbled, teetering on the metal stairs.

“She’s dead!” shouted Dorfman. “She’s—” He howled in pain as Maria grabbed his arm with both hands and sunk her teeth into his wrist.

Derek lurched forward and yanked the MP-5 from the terrorist’s grip. Dorfman dropped the knife and slammed his free hand into the back of Maria’s head. With a cry she tripped forward, tumbling down the stairs, knocking Derek down as she flailed past him. Derek snagged the rail, hand out for Maria, inches out of reach. She rolled past him with a cry. Twisting, he launched himself upward at the terrorist.

Dorfman fumbled for the assault rifle. Derek booted it away. Fast as a snake, Dorfman kicked out, catching Derek in the ribs. Derek fell again, skittering down the steps, grabbing the railing, and swinging to his feet as Dorfman snatched up the loose knife.

Derek leapt to the landing, pulling the knife he’d taken from one of the terrorists in the kitchen.

Dorfman laughed. “I love a knife fight. Bring it on Herr Green Beret. It’s been a while since I gutted an American Special Operative.”

Derek stayed in a crouch, knife in his right hand. He focused his attention on the blade in the terrorist’s hands.

Dorfman feinted left, left, back, laughing the whole time. Derek didn’t flinch or move. Pain ripped through his skull and his vision blurred. He worked to maintain his focus, to ignore the wave of vertigo.

Dorfman shifted the knife to his right hand, then his left, then his right again. “Come on, Herr Doktor! Show me how tough you—”

Dorfman stumbled backward as a blast of gunfire ripped into his chest. With a guttural gasp he fell backward to the metal catwalk.

Derek glanced down to where Maria was sitting at the base of the stairs, the MP-5 in her hands. He said, “I love you.”

“You should, after that. Three times I’ve saved your butt. How long were you going to screw around with that asshole?”

“Thanks to you, I didn’t have to.”

He checked to make sure the German was dead before limping down the stairs to Maria. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head. Her leg bent at an awkward angle beneath her and sweat beaded her forehead. If possible, she was even paler than before. “I think it’s broken.”

He leaned over and kissed her. He felt her leg. “Not compound, I don’t think. But you’re not going anywhere. You are one tough chick, you know that? Let’s get you comfortable.”

In a janitor’s closet filled with brooms, mops, buckets, and bottles of bleach, Derek found an old blanket and a box of rags. He grabbed a pair of brooms and some of the rags. He snapped one of the broom handles into two pieces and gently fashioned a splint on Maria’s leg. She cried out, biting her lip when he moved her. Finally he got her into a comfortable position. He created a nest for her with the blanket and helped prop her against one wall. “I don’t suppose you have some Tylenol, do you?” she asked.

“No. Sorry. How’s the pain?”

“I’ve felt worse.”

He didn’t believe her. “Hang on.” He limped back to the body of Dorfman and searched his pockets, coming up empty. Derek returned to Maria.

“Is he dead?” She gestured feebly with one hand.

“Definitely.”

“Then I can stay here while you … you go do what you have to do.” He met her gaze. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone.”

“I might be safer here than with you, amante.”

“You’ve got a point. It hasn’t been so safe being with me.”

She was quiet and he saw she was crying. It was the first time he’d seen her cry. During everything she’d held on, been tough. Brave. He cupped her cheek and kissed her. “You’ve been fantastic today. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Go,” she said. “Go. But kiss me. I’m afraid I’ll never see you again.”

“You’ll see me again. And we’ve got a date for my boat. Right?”

She closed her eyes. “Go, amante. Adiós.”

Derek kissed her long and sweet then picked up his MP-5, made sure he had a full magazine, and quietly slipped out of the power plant.

The sun was harsh and hot at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, beating down on the tarmac of the naval base’s runway. A team of naval guards marched the twenty-three captured members of The Fallen Angels toward two waiting Pave Hawk helicopters, their rotors already spinning.

Captain Sean Alexander stopped the group and said, “Who here are pilots?”

The group of terrorists stared at him, not responding.

Alexander took a step closer. His blue eyes were glittering and hard. He was a tall, lithe man, quick on his feet, a Naval Intelligence officer who was part of the Gitmo security team. He had short blond hair and a square jaw and a mind that whirred and spun as fast as any supercomputer. He held up a telephone. “This is an Iridium satellite phone. The number for Richard Coffee is already programmed in. Once you’re in the air, you’re to contact him and tell him where you are.”

A wiry Asian, Moo Duk Kwan, stepped forward. Alexander knew Kwan was a former South Korean intelligence officer. He also knew that Kwan was one of four of The Fallen Angels qualified to fly the Pave Hawk. Kwan held his hand out. Alexander dropped the phone into it. Kwan remained where he was, gaze fixed on Alexander.

Alexander looked down at the Korean, feeling the waves of hatred and antagonism aimed at him. In a level voice he said, “You’ve been given clearance to fly to Colombia. The Colombian government has been alerted.”

Kwan glanced at one of his companions. Alexander knew his name was Gregor Grünwald, a dropout from what had once been the East German Stasi. He had read his file provided by the German government. Grünwald was a scary, dangerous man. An assassin, soldier, pilot, computer expert, and probable sociopath.

Grünwald said, “Let’s go.” He turned without a second glance, and led the twenty-three terrorists toward the waiting helicopters.

They split into two groups without discussion and one by one climbed aboard, the hatches slamming shut. A moment later the rotors spun faster. The helicopters lifted off like giant locusts and headed south and west over the Gulf of Mexico.