The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (24 page)

Irina shook her head. “Not that well. But I know what he’s— how do you say it in English? I know what he’s made of.”

“Will he turn himself in?”

Irina thought hard. “Maybe. But if he does, he will have something— I think the expression is, up his arm?”

“Up his sleeve,” LeVoi said. “The expression is, ‘He’ll have something up his sleeve.’ ”

“Yes. I do not know if Derek Stillwater will comply with this man’s demand. But if he does, he will have a plan to—”

Everybody paused, waiting for her to finish the sentence. Slowly, she said, “He will have a plan for disrupting Pablo Juarez’s actions.”

“Then let’s get ready to help him out,” said LeVoi. “People! We need at least two potential access points.”

“The roof,” the woman with the CAD/CAM programs said.

“The basement tunnels,” said Irina.

“And,” said LeVoi, “the loading dock.”

Secretary Johnston stood outside the PEOC, cell phone pressed to his ear. He was listening to his daughter Valerie whine. The connection was horrible, filled with static and dropouts, but Johnston wasn’t sure he cared, because he wished his daughter would shut the fuck up.

“We really need you today, Dad. Mom’s wackier than usual. Not violent, thank God, I don’t know if I could handle that, but she’s driving me nuts. The microwave was just the first thing. She’s skinny-dipping now! She said she can’t find her suit, so she just took her clothes off, went out in the backyard, waved to the neighbors, and jumped in.”

“Bet Ed liked that.” Ed Barron was their next-door neighbor, a retired accountant from the IRS.

“Dad, it’s not funny! I was so embarrassed.”

Johnston stifled his sigh. “Val, you do realize—”

“I need a break, Dad!”

“You do realize I’m in the middle of an international crisis, honey?”

“I don’t care! It’s always something. You’ve always put your job ahead of your family. Dragging us all over the world, and now this bull-shit with Homeland Security. Mom needs you. I need you.” Her voice was growing more shrill as she went along, gaining momentum. Johnston figured it was only a matter of time before she started bringing up every childhood grievance she’d ever had, every punishment, every missed concert, play, or parent-teachers conference. His thirty-eight-year-old daughter had her own problems including a bitter divorce and current unemployment in her chosen field of interior design, but most of her problems existed solely in her head.

“Valerie, this is a really bad—”

“Are you listening to me?”

“I am, Val, but I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” He clicked off the
phone, powered it down, and rushed back into the PEOC just as Richard Coffee’s next television appearance began.

Ten minutes later Johnston stared at the video monitor, now blank. He had spent his years in the military sending men and women on missions that would surely kill some of them. It was part of the calculus of warfare, and he had learned to live with it.

Still, he counted Derek Stillwater as more than one of his soldiers. He considered him a friend, and he wished now that he had never sent Derek undercover at the resort. Not that there had been any argument from Derek. Derek, who normally rejected any involvement with DHS, had a bond with Richard Coffee. And Johnston knew it was more than a desire for vengeance or justice. Derek wanted to believe that somewhere in the madness that was The Fallen Angel still lived Richard Coffee, U.S. soldier and friend.

He reached out with a shaky hand and downed half a glass of water. Pressing a hand to his stomach, he quelled a pang of stomach pain. Probably an ulcer, he thought. Or hoped. He hoped it wasn’t something like stomach cancer that would leave his wife in the incapable hands of their neurotic only daughter.

He looked over at General Puskorius. Puskorius looked like he had swallowed a live cat.

“Go ahead,” Johnston said. “Say what’s on your mind.”

“I hope your boy’s got balls.”

Johnston nodded. “He does, but that doesn’t mean he’ll turn himself in. Would you?”

Puskorius opened his mouth to respond when President Newman stood up. He did that whenever he wanted people to listen to him, Johnston noted.

“Don’t you think turning over half this operation to a Russian is nuts?”

Johnston shook his head. “No sir, I don’t. We’re running through our chain of command so fast I’m glad to have anybody with experience in there. Besides, she’s advising and consulting. She’s not actually in charge. And I’ve read Khournikova’s file, or at least as much of it as the FSB would release to me. She was so directly involved in the Pitchfork business that when it was all over I wanted as much information on her as I could get. She has been very insightful when it comes to The Fallen
Angels. She knows as much about them as anybody.” He winced as another bolt of pain jabbed at his gut.

Secret Service Director O’Malley said, “I pulled up the file on Brenda LeVoi. She’s a little green, but her track record is excellent. And frankly, she’s just about as good as we’re going to be able to do without flying people in. Think how many agents we lost inside the ballroom! Easily half our contingent.”

President Newman snarled, “We need to find out how Coffee had so much inside knowledge. We need to clean house. Look how it’s going to play to the world— Secret Service agents turned terrorists. O’Malley, you have to answer to this! And you, Johnston!”

Johnston, voice soft, said, “Let’s solve the problem before we start pointing the finger, Mr. President. We’re juggling flaming torches here and we can’t afford to lose our concentration.” He wondered if Newman wanted this problem solved. In his darkest heart of hearts, Newman probably wanted President Langston killed during this debacle so he could take over the reins of the presidency.

“Shit,” Puskorius said. “The goddamned Fallen Angels don’t exist anymore. Except in those helicopters over the Gulf.” He turned to look at President Newman. “Mr. President, we have to make a decision about them and we have to make it now.”

Director Ballard said, “The Colombian government was just on the line telling us they would shoot them down if they come near their air space.”

“We’ll shoot them down ourselves,” the president said. He looked directly at General Puskorius. “Do it. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir.” Puskorius reached for the phone.

Derek checked his watch. Three minutes. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Inhaled again. Moving over toward the lights, he raised the MP-5, prepared to smash the stock down on one of the fixtures so he could catch Juarez’s attention, tell him he was coming to surrender.

He froze as a dim pounding reached his ears. What was it?

Crouching, he peered down below. Everybody in the ballroom had turned toward one of the doors near the stage that led out onto the hallway.

Juarez jerked his rifle, indicating to one of his men to check the door. He pulled out the PDA he had taken from Coffee, waiting. Three of Juarez’s men gathered around the door, MP-5s raised and aimed at whoever was behind it.

“Now!” Juarez said, and clicked a button.

One of the terrorists shoved the door open. Maria fell into the ballroom, using a broom as a rude crutch. She shouted in Spanish, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s me! Don’t shoot El Presidente Langston.”

Derek clenched his fists, cursing under his breath.

The terrorists picked her up by the arms. She cried out in pain as they dragged her toward the center of the room in front of Juarez. He glared down at her.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Maria Sanchez.”

Juarez reached out and caught her throat in his hand, squeezing. “Who are you?” he snarled. “FBI? Secret Service?”

Derek swung his gun around. He slowly pushed it through the crack, widening it so he could see. He aimed the MP-5’s sights directly on the back of Juarez’s neck. It was an awkward firing position, and he was
concerned that if he hit Juarez from this angle at this range with a 10-mm round it would go right through him and into Maria.

“Nobody,” Maria croaked out. “I … I work for the resort.”

He shook her, voice loud. “I don’t believe you! How could you have killed so many? Are you a cop? A soldier? Who are you?”

Maria sobbed, voice weak. “Let … go. I’ll … I’ll tell you about Derek … Stillwater.”

Juarez flung her away. She crumpled to the floor with an agonized scream, sobbing and gasping for air.

“Where is Derek Stillwater? Where? Tell me!”

“He’s—” Maria sobbed. “He’s dead.”

Derek closed his eyes. Maria, he thought. Be careful.

Juarez’s gaze was as flat and unblinking as a reptile’s. Finally he brought his MP-5 around and pressed the barrel to Maria’s forehead. She closed her eyes, but said nothing.

“How?” Juarez asked.

She opened her eyes to look at him.

“Some German.”

Juarez seemed startled by this. “And the German? Perro Loco. What of him?”

“I shot him— while they were fighting.”

Derek realized he was holding his breath and let it out slowly. Good, Maria. Stick to the truth as much as possible. Please.

“And Stillwater?”

She looked away, shaking her head. “Dead.”

“How?”

“A … a knife fight. The German cut … cut his throat.” She raised her hands to show the blood.

“What happened to your leg?”

“I fell. Down some stairs.”

“Where is Perro Loco? Where is Stillwater?”

Derek tensed, waiting.

She didn’t reply. Juarez bent over, caught up a fistful of her hair and pulled so she was looking at him. “Where are the bodies?”

“In the basement.”

“Where?”

“In … in the furnace room.”

He flung her away and started toward one of his men.

Maria turned from where she cowered on the floor and shouted at him. “What do you people think you’re doing? Don’t you realize this is suicidal? You can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this.”

Juarez stopped, turned, and knelt in front of her. “My family was murdered by government soldiers. My mother and father and sister and baby brother were raped and murdered by those animals. They have to pay.”

“Nobody’s going to pay except you! Don’t you realize you can’t do this forever? It’s only been a few hours. They’ll figure out a way in. They’ll blow up the doors and storm in here and shoot you down like dogs! All these lives will be wasted. The world already heard what you wanted. We’ve heard your message! But you can’t—”

He reached out as if to stroke her cheek, but instead backhanded her across the face. His voice was low but clear. “Do you think we are fools? Do you think this is all we want? Did you not understand The Fallen Angel? We may be willing to martyr ourselves to a cause, but we will bring a plague onto mankind.”

Derek pulled back the gun and pressed himself to the opening, straining to hear every word.

Maria, holding a hand to where he had hit her, sobbed out, “I don’t … I don’t understand. What plague?”

Juarez stood up. He laughed. “Let them come, Maria. Let them blow down the doors and take our lives. We will still succeed. Because The Fallen Angel and myself, The Angel of Death, have planted the seeds of the world’s destruction in this building.”

He laughed, hands on hips, and it was cold and crazy.

“They will never know,” he said. “But The Fallen Angels and I planted a biological weapon in this building. The Fallen was mad, but he was a genius. Plans within plans within plans. He always had a backup. If they storm the doors, as you say, they will set it off. And every single person in this building will be infected with a plague that will spread around the world within weeks. So let them come! Let them come!”

He spun and pointed at one of his men. “Go! Verify that Stillwater is dead. Bring back his head.” He turned and looked back at Maria. “You had better not be lying or I will cut your heart out as the world watches.”

He punched a key on the PDA, and one of his men slipped out the door.

Outside the Cheyenne Center, Secret Service snipers Bob Wingline and John Broadbent lay on a slight hillock beneath a birch tree about thirty yards from the entrance. Both carried HS Precision Pro 2000 HTR tactical sniper rifles mounted with DiOP TADS— thermal augmented day sights. Once they were set, they studied the front of the building through the video screen of the sights, which displayed black-and-white infrared images.

Wingline murmured, “Two bogeys.”

On the screen the building was etched in shades of black, white, and gray as various heat levels came into play. They saw the metal bars of the security gates as one temperature, the windows as varying temperatures, the inside of the Cheyenne Center’s lobby as yet another range of temperatures. And moving back and forth slowly at opposite ends of the lobby were two ghostly white human figures.

Wingline said, “I’ve got the one on the left.”

Broadbent nodded. He tapped his microphone on and said, “This is Piper Two. We are in place. I repeat, we are in place. Two subjects. I repeat, two subjects.”

Agent Brenda LeVoi’s voice rang in their earpieces. “This is Eagle One. Confirm and hold.”

Wingline tapped his microphone. “This is Piper One, Eagle One. Confirm and hold.”

The two snipers watched the ghosts move slowly back and forth on the screens. Seconds ticked by. The afternoon sun beat down on the men, but they were two of the finest snipers on the planet, and had a mission they were very eager to perform.

Wingline moved the crosshairs of his rifle so they followed the figure on the left. He murmured, “Like pluckin’ apples from a tree.”

Broadbent muttered, “I bet I can get three into mine.”

Wingline smiled. “You do and I’ll buy the beer.”

“You’re on.”

A slight breeze blew. It was eerily silent. There were no traffic sounds. There was a seventy-mile no-fly zone around the resort. The earlier clatter of small arms fire had died away as the snipers on the roofs and the National Guard had hunted down The Fallen Angels’ snipers in the foothills.

LeVoi’s voice sounded in their ears. “Proceed when ready.”

Wingline said, “On three?”