The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (25 page)

“One.”

Wingline said, “Two.”

As Broadbent said, “Three,” their fingers squeezed the rifle triggers. A burst of simultaneous gunfire broke the silence. Glass shattered and the ghostly figures on the infrared view screens disappeared, falling to the floor.

Bitter cordite filled the air around them. A slight blue cloud of smoke quickly blew away in the breeze.

Wingline said, “Got mine. Two in the heart. You?”

Broadbent smiled. “All three. You’re buying the beer.”

Wingline tapped his microphone. “Piper One. Mission accomplished. Over.”

Derek didn’t have time to screw around. He leapt to his feet and stood on the edge of the open elevator doors, looking down the shaft. He would have to duplicate his route up, which should be easier on the way down. At least in theory.

Getting back to the elevator cables was no easy feat.

He stretched, reaching upward for the gearbox lip that had supported him before. His fingers barely scraped the edge. He stretched, groaning as a slash of pain ripped through his side.

He fell backward into the workspace, thinking. Back to his original idea.

Derek picked up the coil of electrical wire. He wasn’t thrilled by it. He didn’t know how much weight it could support. No guts, no glory? He hoped they wouldn’t carve that on his tombstone.

Without thought his left hand rose and touched the St. Sebastian’s medal and four-leaf clover he wore around his neck. You’re either lucky or you’re dead, he thought.

He unreeled the coil of electrical wire, dangling it over the edge. Hand over hand, quickly. When it hit the elevator shaft he hauled it back up, unreeled the same amount and swiftly braided the two strands together in a coil, knotting the end. Using his utility tool, he sliced the wire, found a metal I-beam in the exposed walls, and tied off the wire.

He still didn’t like it, but time was running out. He slung the MP-5 over his back, gripped the braided wire, and slipped over the edge.

Almost immediately he felt the wire stretching taut under his weight. He picked up his pace, hands raw with pain in the effort to hold onto the thin line. He counted as he went. One. Two. Three.

Sweat drenched his body. His muscles burned.

Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two.

The line snapped.

Flailing, he fell, dropping a dozen feet onto the top of the elevator with a loud crash that rattled every cell in his body.

Too much, he thought, gasping for air. How much am I expected to do?

Derek thought of Maria. Of what she had just done. Of how in order to make it from the power plant to the ballroom with a broken leg she must have already moved out of the furnace room into the hallway. Why? Probably to lose the company of the dead man and the heat. And he thought of the effort that must have taken. And how much courage it took for her to turn herself in like that. To risk sacrificing herself.

With a groan he rolled over onto his knees, quickly checked to make sure nothing was broken, and slipped into the elevator car through the top hatch. He took the MP-5 off his shoulder and checked his magazine. Half full.

Or half empty, he supposed. When life gives you limes, make Margaritas, and all that. He realized his brain was skidding around like a car hitting black ice, and forced himself to concentrate.

About thirty bullets. He clicked the weapon over to single fire. He couldn’t afford semiautomatic, which would shoot three bullets per pull of the trigger, and he sure as hell couldn’t afford full auto. He’d be ammoless in seconds.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the elevator door, crouching low in case this new hunter was close by.

Nothing.

Quietly, Derek slipped out of the elevator into the basement. Keeping to the walls, he began a slow recon down the hall. He stopped. Listened. Was that breathing he heard? Or the sound of his own heartbeat?

He approached the corner.

A figure exploded out of the darkness, rifle raised.

Derek dropped, kicking out, connecting with the man’s knee. The terrorist fell with a cry, his gun firing. Bullets ripped into the fluorescent lights overhead, which exploded with pops, glass shards raining down, the immediate hallway plunged into gloom.

Derek tried to bring his own gun around, but the man was on him, hand around his throat, squeezing.

Derek tried to get at the man’s own throat. Don’t attack the hands. Fight back!

The pressure on his throat increased. He couldn’t breath. Darkness.

Derek’s hand caught on the handle of the Emerson knife where it hung from his pocket. He gripped it and swung it. The razor-sharp blade slammed into the man’s thigh.

The terrorist arched back with an ugly snarl.

Oxygen rushed into Derek’s lungs, flooding his brain. He twisted the knife.

An animal-like howl.

Derek rolled out from under the hunter, holding onto the knife, slashing upward through thigh muscle. Hot blood coursed over his hand.

The terrorist had short-cropped dark hair, a wispy mustache, and the face of an adolescent, all soft skin and round features, now deformed in pain and fury. His hand clamped down on Derek’s wrist, squeezing. He kicked out, catching Derek in the ribs where he had been shot.

Derek lost his grip on the knife as the world burst into red-hot pain. It felt as if he had been stabbed in the ribs, not kicked. He dropped to his knees, holding his side, trying to suck in air.

The terrorist staggered to his feet, reached down and yanked the Emerson knife out of his leg, brandishing it in front of him, scarlet blood dripping from the blade as he advanced toward Derek. “¿Está muerto!”

He came at Derek like an experienced knife fighter, blade hidden in his hand, other hand forward. He slashed out not to stab, but to slice at a vital point— his throat, the inside of his arm—

Derek was instantly on his feet, shifting sideways, moving with the hand holding the knife.

Derek feinted with his right hand then lashed out with his left foot, hitting the hunter’s wounded thigh. The hunter yelled and dropped to the ground, but not before he slashed at Derek’s leg, connecting with his calf.

Burning pain seared across Derek’s shin. He kicked out with the same leg, connecting with the hunter’s jaw, slamming him backward to the ground. Hobbling forward, Derek kicked his thigh again.

The knife fell from the man’s hand. With a grunt the man dropped to the ground clutching his leg and moaning.

Derek reached down and picked up the MP-5 and the Emerson knife. He brought the gun around, standing well out of range.

“Do you speak English?”

The man stared up at him. His eyes were half closed, his expression blank. Derek wasn’t sure he was completely conscious. He repeated his question. “Habla Ingles?”

“Si,” he muttered. “Poco.”

The wound in the terrorist’s leg was still bleeding, soaking his pant leg and pooling on the floor. Derek wondered if an artery had been severed.

Derek said, “What’s your name?”

The man stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Do you want to die?” Derek demanded. “Do you want to die now?”

There was fear in his eyes and something else. Hope? “No.” Barely a whisper.

“What’s your name?”

“José.”

“Okay, José. Put your hands on your head and keep them there.”

With great effort José took his hands away from his leg and placed them on top of his head. Derek cautiously knelt next to him and rolled him back over on his stomach. He took the Emerson knife and slashed away the leg of José’s pants, cut it into strips and used one to tie José’s hands behind his back. Then he rolled him over and studied the leg. He wasn’t entirely sure the man was still alive until he opened his eyes and looked at him.

“How old are you, José?”

Derek wasn’t sure he was going to answer, but after a moment’s silence the slurred response, “Dieciséis.”

Derek thought for a moment, his own Spanish rudimentary and rusty. Sixteen. José was sixteen years old. A boy in a man’s body.

He used the knife to cut off José’s other pant leg, wadded it into a makeshift bandage and pressed it down on the wounded leg. Using the remaining strips, he tied it tight, not at all sure it would stop the bleeding.

Exhaustion ate away at Derek. It was now a physical entity, like carrying someone around on your back. He studied his own leg, which throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He gingerly rolled up his pant leg to look at the wound. It was bleeding and it was deep, but he didn’t think it
would kill him. He wanted to lie down. His ribs hurt. His head pounded. His hands were scraped and raw and bleeding. His back ached from where he had fallen on the elevator.

He reached over and cut the sleeve of José’s shirt off. Derek fashioned it into a bandage on his fresh wound and carefully rolled his pant leg back down. Death of a thousand cuts, he thought morbidly. I’ll be like that knight in“Monty Python and the Holy Grail”that keeps coming even after you cut off his arms and legs.

He looked at José. The kid wasn’t doing so well. Derek could see that the bandage on the thigh was soaked with dark blood. He reached over and sliced José’s shirt off him, folded it over and over and pressed it against the wound, then slowly rolled José over so he was lying on it, his back against the wall.

“You’re going to bleed to death if that doesn’t stop,” he said. “But it’s all I can do for you.”

He looked into the boy-man’s face, reached out and gently slapped him. José’s eyes opened a little wider.

“I have a couple questions.”

“Questions?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve helped you so far, José. But there are some things I need to know. You answer them, maybe I can end this and get you to a hospital.”

José stared at Derek.

“Pablo said he and The Fallen Angel were going to bring a plague down. Did you know this?”

José hesitated. His head bobbed ever so slightly.

“What type of plague?”

“A germ bomb.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“It … it is here.”

“In the building?”

“Si.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. Pablo and Fallen. Placed it. I just did what I was told.”

“Can Pablo set it off with the computer? With the PDA?”

Silence. Derek reached over and slapped his face again. His eyes opened wider, but the brown orbs were glazed and unseeing. “José! Wake
up! Can Pablo set it off with the PDA? The little computer he got off The Fallen?”

Barely audible. “Si.”

“Do you know where it is? Where they put it?”

Silence.

Derek slapped him again, but he didn’t respond. The new pad of bandages was soaked with blood. Derek pressed his fingers into José’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak and thready and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. He slapped him again, harder. No response.

Then José’s eyes opened and he muttered something. Derek leaned forward, close to the man’s face, listening intently. “I can’t hear you, José. Where is the germ bomb? Do you know where it is? Tell me where it is.”

José muttered something and fell silent. Derek reached out and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

He wanted to feel angry. He wanted to shake him and bring him back to life and demand that he tell him where the bioweapon was.

But he was too tired. Too used up.

He moved around so his back was to the wall and leaned there, resting. He let his brain drift. He looked over at José and then bent down and checked through his pockets. Nothing. On his belt was a radio, which he took. He crawled over and checked José’s MP-5. It had a nearly full magazine, which might prove useful.

With an effort Derek climbed to his feet, swaying there in the hallway. If José had known where the bioweapon was, he hadn’t revealed it before his death. Derek would just have to find it himself. And with that thought, he pushed off from the wall and started walking toward the furnace room.

Captain Jim “Beam” Lakemoore arced his F/A-18 Super Hornet into a turn, bringing it down to 2,000 feet. “This is Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762. I have a sixty on target. Target is— I repeat— target is changing course. Evasive— target is— target is dropping to the deck.”

The helicopters had slowed and were hovering. Lakemoore flashed overhead at 450 knots and was fifty knots out on turn-around. He checked his radar and called to Lieutenant Fred “Stooge” Collins behind him, “Can you get a visual?”

“Where the hell—? They’re going due north. Shit. There’s an offshore oil platform—”

Beam dropped to a thousand feet. “This is Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762. Target is moving due north. They are moving toward an off-shore oil platform. I repeat—”

Again they roared past the helicopter and brought the Super Hornet around.

In Beam’s headphones the tower of the USS Carl Vinson said, “Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762, can you give us coordinates?”

Stooge rattled off estimated latitude and longitude of the offshore oil platform.

The aircraft carrier tower said, “Can you acquire target without endangering platform?”

Beam brought the Super Hornet around again. “Window closing, sir.”

“Lock on and hold. I repeat, lock on and hold. Confirm Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762.”

“CV, this is Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762. Lock and hold. I repeat, lock and hold.”

From behind him Stooge said, “We’re going to lose them.”

“Where’s the second bogey?”

“Heading northeast. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Shit. Where the fuck are they going? Disney World?”

Stooge laughed. “They aren’t going far.”

Beam: “CV, this is Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762. We are losing target.”

“Christ,” Stooge said. “Are we going to fire on an oil platform?”

“I want a visual,” Beam said, and dropped down to five hundred feet, bringing the Super Hornet in direct line with the offshore oil platform that jutted up out of the Gulf of Mexico like a skeletal monster.

“That’s where they’re heading. What do you say, thousand meters to go?”

“And closing,” Beam said. Into his radio, “CV, this is Bravo-Delta-Oscar 1762. Target is one thousand meters and closing. I repeat, one thousand meters and closing.”