The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (30 page)

He tried to roll over, but couldn’t. Reaching out with his hands, he felt what appeared to be the steel frame of a wall and chunks of drywall. The explosion must have knocked over at least a section of one interior wall. He tried to move and more pain shot through his head. He touched his scalp. It felt wet. He peered at his fingers, but visibility was so poor he couldn’t really see them.

Derek held still, trying to think. “Hello?” he called out. “Hello?” His own words were barely audible. He yawned hard. His ears popped with a painful snap. He tried again. “Hello?” Better. A little better. The over-pressure from the explosions had affected his ears, hopefully not permanently.

“Derek?”

“I’m over here.”

More light, but he couldn’t see where it was coming from. Beams, cutting through the haze and dust that hung in the air. They shined here and there, eerily arcing through the debris-filled hallway.

Irina Khournikova appeared out of the gloom and knelt down next to him. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better.”

So had she, apparently. Blood oozed from a cut across her forehead that had been hastily taped shut. One eye was swollen, a large bruise growing purple on her cheekbone. A swarthy, wiry soldier appeared next to her. “Let’s get this shit off you, man.”

“This is Lieutenant Jorge Ruiz,” Irina said.

“McCormack?” Derek asked.

Ruiz shook his head. “He was practically next to the doors when they went off.”

“How many?”

“Everybody but me and Irina here.” His voice was sober.

Irina said, “Are we … the bomb that went off—?”

“I had it in bleach. It didn’t stop it from exploding, but maybe it killed whatever bug they had in it.” He didn’t add that he didn’t know if the container had been airtight or if the brief exposure to the bleach during the actual detonation would be enough to kill the germs they’d had in there.

Ruiz said, “I’m gonna lift this off you, man. Let us know if it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

Ruiz gave a soft laugh. “I haven’t moved anything yet.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the kind of day I’ve had.”

“Me, too, brother. On three. One. Two. Three.”

Ruiz hefted the wall off Derek with a grunt and he slithered out with Irina’s assistance. Ruiz dropped the wall back down with a dull thud. It kicked up another cloud of dust and grit. Derek pushed his way across the debris and leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor. Irina took out a first-aid kit and studied his scalp. “You get all this from this explosion?”

“No. There’ve been a few other problems. Couple knife fights, got caught in two other explosions, fell through the ceiling a couple times, and I’ve been shot at least once.”

Ruiz said, “Okay, you win, man. Your day has been worse than mine.”

“What about the first explosion? That crashing sound?” Derek asked.

Irina frowned. Ruiz answered for her. “Team Alpha was going in
through the roof. They set off a booby-trap. It took out four of them and there’s no access any more. The entire elevator shaft collapsed and is filled with debris. There’s a hole about six inches wide that they can use to look into the ballroom, but that’s about it. It’s just us.”

Derek rubbed his forehead. “Got any Tylenol?”

Irina went through the first-aid kit and found some pain medication, offering it with her canteen. “We can call for backup.”

“Time?”

“Going right on by.” Ruiz peered down the hallway. “Can we get into the ballroom from down here?”

Derek nodded, wincing. “Give me a second. I have an idea.”

Irina waited patiently. Ruiz got on his radio and called Agent LeVoi, explaining their status. He got off a moment later. “She’s sending another team through the tunnels.”

Derek snapped his fingers. “I do have a plan.” He looked at Ruiz. “Can they jam signals?”

“You bet. That was the plan, before everything went to hell.”

“Good. Make sure we still can. When we go busting in there, I don’t want them blowing everything up around us.”

Ruiz got back on the radio. Irina knelt beside him. “Coffee is dead. So is President Vakhach.”

He thought about that a moment. “You’re saying you don’t have a lot of motive to be here.”

“As good a motive as any now. This has to end. Thanks to you, we’re down to five terrorist targets. But five terrorists with automatic weapons and plastic explosives in a room with five hundred people can do a lot of damage and cause a lot of death in a very short period of time. Is this a good plan?”

“No. Sorry. It’s not a good plan. I don’t have any good plans today. My good plan went to shit before noon. I’m way past plans A, B, C, and D and well on my way to plan Z. I just hope to survive plan Z.”

Ruiz turned back to them. “El Tiberón killed Prince Talal of Saudi Arabia. We’ve got orders to go in now before they kill anybody else. The backup team’s five minutes away. What do I tell them?”

Derek held out his hand and Ruiz helped him to his feet. “Tell them to plan on blowing out the doors to the ballroom and going in hard, aiming
for the bad guys. Just before they do, we want all communications jammed.”

“You’re right,” Irina said. “It’s not a good plan. It’ll get everybody killed. Including us.”

“What about us?” Ruiz asked. “We gonna just sit here and direct traffic? Have us a little picnic? Because I forgot the beer, man, if that’s what you had in mind.” His words were light, but Derek heard the pain and fury behind the bravado. Ruiz was a joker, the guy who laughed in the face of death, making light of a situation gone to hell on the express train. But he knew Ruiz was pissed— he’d lost most of his team. It was there in his coiled body language, in the slithering creature behind his dark eyes.

Derek’s smile was hard and tight. “We’re going to be stars of the stage, my friend. Our job is to get to the leaders before all hell breaks loose and take out this head guy, El Tiburón, before he kills somebody else.”

“Three on one,” Ruiz said. “I like those odds. How about you?”

Irina raised an eyebrow. “It sounds better than it did before, but I’d like a few more details.”

Ruiz grinned. “Hey, this guy’s Special Forces. He’s got cojones the size of cannon balls. He’s done okay without our help so far.”

Irina said, “He’s also lucky. His luck won’t last forever. I’d like to get out of this alive.”

“Babe, we get out of this alive, I’m taking you out to dinner.”

Irina grinned back. “Jorge, we get out of this alive, I’m taking you up on it.”

“It’s a date.”

Derek rubbed his neck and shook his head. “Jesus, you guys. You want to be alone for a little while?”

“Maybe later, man. I got a reason to live now. Got a hot date planned for this evening. Dinner and dancing—”

“Tick,” Irina said, “tock. Time’s a wasting.”

Derek flashed her a salute. “You heard the lady, Ruiz. Anybody have a spare set of night vision goggles?”

Ruiz handed him a set.

Derek pulled them on and clicked the switch. The hallways lit up in
shades of green and black. “First, anybody seen my screwdriver? You never know when you’re—”

Ruiz handed him one.

“Good. Now I’m fully armed. All right. Plan Z. Follow me.”

Ruiz hefted his SCAR L assault rifle. “To hell and back, vato. To hell and back.”

Derek led Irina and Ruiz down the corridor, staying as quiet as possible. He was limping like an old man, he thought. His whole body screamed at him to stop, quit, lay down somewhere, rest. His hearing was muffled, his head ached, his ribs and arms and hands burned from cuts and abrasions and wounds. He knew the clock was ticking on his endurance. The fuel gauge was just about on empty.

As they moved away from the tunnel area, the hallway cleared. Farther down the hallway he could see the destruction caused by the collapse of the elevator shaft. Rubble filled the hallway nearly to the ceiling.

He led them into the storage area beneath the stage. Part of this room had suffered damage as well, one wall partly collapsed, cinder blocks and chunks of concrete scattered on the floor.

Ruiz tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and Ruiz tapped his ear, indicating the radio. Moving close to Derek, he whispered, “Backup’s in the tunnel, coming into this building.”

Derek nodded. He turned and pointed to the trapdoor that opened onto the center of the stage. Ruiz stepped close, flashing a light on it at an oblique angle. He pointed at the padlock. Derek smiled and showed his screwdriver.

Together they moved a table over beneath the trapdoor. Derek climbed up on it and began to loosen the screws that held the hasp on the door to the stage. Irina prowled the area while Ruiz held a light for Derek to see. It took about two minutes because he wanted to minimize noise and vibration, but finally the hasp and padlock dropped into his hand. He set it aside, and waved Irina and Ruiz to the other side of the room to talk.

In the dust on the floor, he drew a sketch of the stage, the location
of the world leaders and how the backstage area was laid out in comparison to the ballroom and the trapdoor. “Only one person can go through at a time,” he murmured. “Luckily, the door opens toward the back of the stage, so you can go straight up and out. But if you’re not quick it can be a bottleneck. You’ve got to go up and get out of the way for the next person. I’ll go first—”

Irina shook her head. “You’re too slow. I’ve seen you limping around. You’re cut to pieces. You’ve been shot. It’s amazing you’re still moving. You open the door, I’ll go through first.”

“No way, babe,” Ruiz said. “I’m first up. But I agree with her, vato. You’re an old man compared to me and you’re hurt. You push up the door and I’ll go through first.”

Irina scowled at him. “I’m first through because you’re going to boost me through as soon as Derek pops the lid. I can’t do that for you nearly as well as you can for me.”

Ruiz scowled right back at her then grinned. “Babe, I can tell you like it on top. Okay. You ready?”

They moved back to the trapdoor. All three of them perched on the table. It wobbled precariously under their weight. Irina had her MP-5 ready. She dropped into a crouch. Ruiz called Peterson Air Force Base and gave the go-ahead for all radio signals to be jammed beginning in one minute to last for ten minutes. He studied his watch, immediately tapped the radio, and subvocalized into the throat mic. “This is Bravo One to Gamma One. One minute and counting from now!”

Derek stood beneath the trapdoor, hands pressed to it. Ruiz crouched next to Irina, hands around her waist, eyes on his wristwatch. She kissed him on the cheek. “This better be a great restaurant.”

His eyes sparkled. “You bet. The best— seven— six— five—”

Derek tensed, sucking in a chestful of air.

“Four— three— two— one!”

Pablo Juarez was prepared for an assault, but not from behind. He was standing on the lip of the stage, facing the crowd, his assault rifle at the ready. The PDA was in his hand, the signal to blow the explosives on the world leaders only a button click away. His men had moved toward the center of the ballroom, herding the crowd closer together, away from the doors.

Behind him a section of the wooden stage slammed upward with a bang. Juarez spun. A tall woman with auburn hair burst out of the stage opening as if she had bounced off a trampoline.

Before the woman had even landed on her feet, multiple explosions ripped the ballroom as the doors slammed inward.

Juarez was already moving, finger punching the key to set off the suicide belts.

His eyes widened when nothing happened.

Gripping the PDA, he jabbed at the button. Rage rushed through him. The screen read: No Signal.

He screamed, an inchoate, wordless venting of frustration and anger.

The woman hit the floor in a crouch and immediately sprinted for the world leaders. Another man appeared in the hatch, this one keeping low and rolling. Unlike the woman, this one wore camo fatigues.

The woman’s gun swung toward him.

Pablo dived forward and swung an arm around President Langston’s neck, jerking him out of the chair and to his feet, using him as a human shield.

“Go ahead and shoot!” he screamed, backing away from Irina and Ruiz. “Go ahead!”

In the main ballroom Secret Service and FBI agents swarmed
through the doors. The crowd, screaming, was mostly huddling to the floor. Some of those closer to the doors rushed the openings. Pablo’s men opened fire. FBI shooters, crouched by the entryways, took out the terrorists in a calm, methodical fashion, one by one.

The ballroom was filled with blue smoke. Gunfire chattered amid screams and the thud of falling bodies.

President Langston shouted, “End this now! Shoot him!”

Pablo Juarez cursed. Dragging President Langston with him, he leapt across the stage, firing as he went, and tumbled through the trap-door into the room below.

Derek was coiled to leap through the hatch when two men fell through on top of him. All three slammed to the tabletop, which collapsed beneath them. A suffocating cloud of dust rose up. Derek rolled and rose to his knees, searching for his gun, which had fallen from his hands on impact.

Pablo Juarez struggled to his feet, clutching President Langston close to his chest. His MP-5 was somewhere on the floor. He pulled out a handgun and held it to President Langston’s head.

“Don’t move or I’ll kill him! I will!”

Derek stayed in a crouch, poised. He fought back a choking cough from the dust, blinking it out of his eyes. Voice calm, he said, “Mr. President. How are you doing?”

“Is that you, Derek?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shoot us. Don’t worry about me.”

If Derek had a gun, he would have. He didn’t know where the damned thing was. Somewhere in the debris. Out of reach. He said, “Pablo, put the gun down. It’s over. It’s all over now.” He slowly got to his feet, bringing his hands down along his sides.

“I said don’t move!”

“Easy! We can talk. We’re reasonable men, aren’t we?” Blood sang in his veins. Pressure built behind his ears. Above him he heard screams and the rattle of gunfire.

“Don’t move!” Pablo’s voice went up in pitch, his tone reedy with anger. “I said, do not move!”