The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (22 page)

Tentatively, he reached out for the ledge with his left hand. Not even close.

Even more tentatively he reached out one leg, stretching. Close. Maybe twelve inches from the ledge.

With a forty foot-drop if he missed.

Craning his neck, he decided he really had no choice. The motor and gears overhead were housed in a steel box, which had a narrow lip he could grasp. Reaching upward, he gripped the underside of the equipment with his left hand, testing to see if the sharp metal edge would support his weight. It seemed to. He reached up with both hands and pulled himself over, hand over hand.

Thank God for pull-ups, he thought, as he dangled over the pit.

Swaying, he monkeyed across to the wall. He had to swing forward. He felt for the ledge with his toes, missing, swinging wildly back and forth. His battered, bloody hands pulsed with pain. He knew he was losing his grip— he only had seconds. He could feel his fingers slipping.

He tried again. The strength was leaving his hands. He couldn’t stay here all day. He stretched. His toes came to rest on the ledge. He was able to take some of the weight off his fingers and hands. He almost wanted to laugh out loud, it felt so much better on his hands.

Taking a deep breath, he shifted his weight, and swung entirely onto the narrow ledge, hands pressed on either side of the elevator entryway. He felt like a spider climbing a wall.

He gripped the doorframe with one hand and wedged his left hand into the door opening, trying to muscle the door. It gave an inch. Then two. He swayed as a current of vertigo swept over him. He felt his body swing out, his center of gravity shifting, drawing him backward into the pit, where he would tumble, plunge, and die, body shattered on the elevator rooftop.

With a grunt, he shoved the door open and lunged inside, falling to the floor, gasping for breath.

After a moment, he crawled into the workspace. His muscles trembled; his body was soaked in sweat and blood. His heart hammered in his chest. Blood roared in his ears, air burning like molten lava in his throat and chest. Rest. He needed rest.

One minute. Three. Five. His heartbeat slowed, oxygen rushed to his aching lungs.

The workspace was long and narrow, about six feet high and six feet wide. It ran the length of the ballroom. There was only a narrow space to walk along the back wall. The entire floor was littered with cables and wires and cutouts for variously sized spotlights and lighting options.

He approached a cutaway for an overhead spotlight and peered down. Below him stretched the ballroom. He was almost directly above the stage. By shifting around he could see the leaders of the free world, strapped to chairs. And in front of them, performing for the television camera, was Richard Coffee, talking on a telephone. Derek watched in interest, getting the lay of the room. He heard Coffee say, “Delta, Delta, Bravo, Delta, Gamma, Alpha,” and click off the phone.

A wiry, dark-skinned Latino crossed over to Coffee and they spoke in low tones. Derek got the sense they were disagreeing about something. Then the Latino stalked away, back to the TV camera.

Derek took the time to rest and consider his options. He had a handgun. He had a knife. He had an assault rifle. There appeared to be nine or ten bad guys in the room. He needed an accurate count. If he started sniping at them, they’d kill the hostages and the leaders.

He had to think. He needed a plan. A real plan. And at the moment, his mind was blank.

Special Agent Lawrence Swenson stood in the middle of the Mobile Command Unit on the telephone talking to General Puskorius back in Washington, D.C. He was trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice under control. “Yes, General, I understand that. Yes, all of your Delta Force people have been recovered. Yes, all dead. Yes. Last report, all four enemy snipers were killed, as well as the infiltration unit masquerading as Colorado National Guard at Checkpoint Delta. Plan?”

Swenson swallowed. General Puskorius wanted to know if he had a plan for rescuing the world leaders. Events were so far out of control he hadn’t had time to even start on a plan, especially since the Pentagon’s plan turned into such a cluster fuck. “Sir, one is— no, sir. I’m working on regaining control of the International Center security center now—”

Swenson broke off as a muffled explosion echoed between the buildings. He looked at his second in command, Agent Laura Parrish. Parrish sat at a computer workstation, furiously tapping keys. She shook her head, tapped the screen for Swenson to check, and jumped up from her chair, and ran toward the door.

“Sir,” said Swenson, “something’s going on now. We’re checking it out.” He studied the computer screen. “And it looks like we’ve got some data on X Man. His name is Pablo Juarez, sir. A Colombian national. His entire family was killed by—” Another muffled explosion punctuated the air.

Parrish stepped back into the MCU. “Small explosions coming from the International Center.”

Swenson nodded. “Excuse me, sir. I’ve got somebody working on the International Center right now. Um, back to Juarez. The intelligence I just received says, er, his entire family was killed by the Colombian government in a counter-terror strike aimed at one of the drug cartels
about ten years ago. He joined the, uh, AUC as a result. I don’t— I see, one of the paramilitaries, the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. But there is intelligence here, sir, that he left because they weren’t— they booted him out, sir. I don’t know. Just a moment.”

He pulled out his walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. “Special K. This is Superman. Do you read?”

Static.

He repeated the message. Nothing.

“Sir,” he said into the phone, “do you have a plan? I— just a moment, sir.”

The door to the Mobile Command Unit opened and FBI agent Vincent Silvedo stepped in. It took a moment for Swenson to recognize him. “Silvedo, where have you been? Hang on, I need a full—”

Silvedo tossed two hand grenades into the Mobile Command Unit and leapt out the door.

In the White House PEOC, General Puskorius glowered at the telephone. Agent Swenson’s call had been played over the speaker so everybody could hear it. Everybody heard the blast that resulted in the phone going dead.

Puskorius said, “Who the fuck is Silvedo?”

Director Johnston cocked an eye at Secret Service Director O’Malley, who consulted his laptop. “Silvedo, Vincent. Special Agent. One of ours.”

Nobody said a word. Nobody knew anything. Had Silvedo just blown up the MCU? Or was that a coincidence? What had really happened to the MCU?

General Puskorius was punching numbers into his phone when the phone in front of Director Johnston buzzed. He picked it up and announced himself. “Yes—” His face grew pale. “Yes. I understand. Just a moment. I’m putting you on speaker.” He hit a button on the console. He said, “This is Special Agent Brenda LeVoi. Go ahead, LeVoi.”

The woman’s voice was high-pitched and threaded with tension. “Sir, the Mobile Command Unit has been hit. It looks like somebody threw a grenade or something into it. There are no survivors. I repeat, there are no survivors. Agent Swenson is dead. Agent Parrish is dead.” She rattled off the names of four more Secret Service agents who had been in the MCU.

Director O’Malley studied his computer. “Agent LeVoi, this is Director O’Malley. Do you see Agent Vincent Silvedo anywhere around there?”

Silence. “No, sir. I would have expected him to be trapped in the Cheyenne Center after the lockdown. He was originally stationed in the
loading dock. That was the source of one of the explosions, sir. Nobody has heard from him since lockdown.”

O’Malley glanced over at Johnston, who shook his head. O’Malley said, “We need an update, Agent. I believe you worked directly under Agent Swenson’s group?”

“I led a— just a moment, sir. There’s someone— it’s Agent Silvedo. Just a moment.”

Johnston was on his feet, shouting at the telephone. “Agent LeVoi! Agent LeVoi! Silvedo may be a mole. I repeat, Silvedo—”

But she was off the phone.

Irina Khournikova raced toward the Mobile Command Unit. The explosion was distinctive and came from exactly where she was headed. She redoubled her efforts, skidding beneath the boughs of another blue spruce, watching as agents rushed toward the RV that was now smoking, windows shattered.

Her gaze shifted, searching for the muscular form of Vincent Silvedo. She was sure he was the figure that had slipped out of the International Center, another of Richard Coffee’s Fallen Angels— an insider. And with his position at the loading dock he would have been key to getting Coffee and his people into the facility.

Agents fought their way into the MCU, reappearing a moment later dragging limp, bloody bodies. Irina counted five agents. Where was Silvedo? Had he disappeared? Did he decide this was a good time to exit the area?

A woman with short-cropped blonde hair and a narrow jaw seemed to be the agent in charge now. She looked vaguely familiar. Irina searched her memory. Over the last week of close preparation and over the months of setup, she had come in contact with most of the Secret Service and Bureau of Diplomatic Security agents working the summit. There weren’t that many women. This would be— LeVoi, she thought. Brenda LeVoi.

LeVoi was on a phone now, her posture rigid. Irina thought LeVoi was talking to somebody higher up, apprising them of the situation.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a muscular man appear. She focused her gaze, recognizing Vincent Silvedo. He was walking directly toward LeVoi and the knot of agents recovering the dead.

Irina brought her handgun around, focusing the sites directly on Silvedo’s chest. She tracked his every step as he approached.

LeVoi turned to him, dropping the hand that held the telephone. She seemed to be speaking directly to Silvedo.

With lightning-like quickness Silvedo had a gun up and was pointing it at LeVoi.

Without hesitation Irina pulled the trigger.

Irina Khournikova slipped out from beneath the blue spruce, arms wide, the handgun dangling from her index finger. She walked slowly toward the cluster of Secret Service and FBI agents who had hit the ground, guns drawn, as the bullets she had fired tore through Vincent Silvedo’s chest.

Agent Brenda LeVoi was the first on her feet. She had her handgun out, aimed at Irina.

“I am Irina Khournikova, FSB, Russia,” she said slowly and clearly. “I was tracking Agent Silvedo from the International Center. Swenson charged me with trying to retake it.”

She now stood ten feet from the agents, who were all tense. Irina looked at Silvedo. His corpse looked like refuse. She wondered what had inspired him to turn traitor. She knew Richard Coffee was creative in his recruitment. Sometimes it was blackmail. Sometimes money. Sometimes it was just the right offer to the right person at the right time, part of Coffee’s gift and charisma. Find a disaffected agent and stroke his ego, convince him he really was as brilliant as he thought and would be rewarded with The Fallen Angels.

Irina said, “He was going to kill you.”

LeVoi nodded. “I know. Put the gun down, please.”

Irina dropped her gun. “I have a knife, too. I’m reaching for it now.”

LeVoi nodded. Moving deliberately, Irina retrieved the knife and dropped it to the ground next to the handgun.

LeVoi said, “Step away, please. Step back five paces.”

Irina did so, hands still up in the air. LeVoi walked over and quickly patted her down. LeVoi’s fair complexion was reddened by flames from the MCU, her jaw set in a stressed, determined way, yet her voice seemed calm and in control. “Identification?”

Irina handed over her credentials. She said, “Silvedo used hand grenades in the International Center. I was waiting for him to come out. I was up in a tree they had in the lobby, waiting, and he snuck out and tossed two grenades as a cover. I landed in the fountain when the tree fell over.”

LeVoi said, “He used grenades in the MCU, too.” Her voice cracked, but she shook it off. “You can take your hands down.” She seemed to realize she had dropped her phone. She walked over to where she had let it slip from her grasp when she went for her gun, picked it up, and spoke into it.

“Director O’Malley? This is Agent LeVoi. Yes, the situation is under control.” She briefly described what had happened. “Yes. Irina Khournikova. With the Russian FSB. Yes. Just a moment.”

She handed the phone to Khournikova. “This is the president’s Emergency Operations Center in the White House. You’re on speaker with General Puskorius, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Director O’Malley, the Secret Service director, Director Johnston with the Department of Homeland Security, as well as the FBI and CIA directors and probably quite a few other people. Secretary Johnston wants to talk to you.”

Khournikova knew the man by reputation only. What could he possibly want? She took the phone. “This is Irina Khournikova.”

Secretary James Johnston’s gruff, raspy voice came over the phone. “I guess we have to thank you, Ms. Khournikova.”

“I was doing my job.”

“Yes. Who is your direct supervisor?”

“That would have been Mikhail Alexandrov. But he is one of The Fallen Angels.”

“Yes, we know. Ms. Khournikova, you’re proving to be quite helpful to us. Do you have any ideas on how to end this siege?”

“Perhaps.”

“Good. Let me talk to Agent LeVoi.”

Khournikova turned the phone over to LeVoi, who listened for a moment, then nodded. “Yes sir. In five minutes? Yes. I’ll be expecting it. I’ll keep you apprised.” She clicked off the telephone and looked at Khournikova. “You and I are now in charge of ending this mess. You told Secretary Johnston you had some ideas. I want to hear them. Right now.”

Khournikova nodded and gestured to the ground. “Can I get my weapons back? I had an MP-5 in the International Center, but the tree fell on it. I’d like another. I also need some dry clothes.”

“Absolutely. We’ll get you a rifle ASAP and find you some fatigues unless you have clothes you brought.” LeVoi turned to the agents and said, “I’ve just been made Agent-in-Charge. I want a full sit-rep in fifteen minutes.” She looked at her watch and shook her head. “We’ve got to get to a TV. They’re scheduled to come on and announce their new demands in about five minutes. Let’s go.”