The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (31 page)

“Is this your idea of being a hero for your people?” Derek asked. “To hide behind an old man? Use him as a human shield? That’s a coward’s way, don’t you think? Let him go and face me. Man to man. Come
on, Pablo. Come on, vato loco. Show me who’s got the balls! You’re a dead man anyway. You know that. It’s only a matter of time before this room is flooded with agents. Some sharpshooter will put a bullet in your head from twenty feet away.”

Pablo took the gun away from President Langston’s head and aimed it at Derek. “Shut up! Shut your mouth!”

Derek stepped to the side. Just one step. His chest swelled. One misstep and Juarez would pull the trigger and this shitty day would be over for good.

“Impulse control problems, Pablo? Feeling a little stressed out? That’s because you’re cornered. You’re like a rat in a trap, vato. There’s no place for you to go. Even if you set President Langston free and run out that door, this building is surrounded. They’ll gun you down like a dog in the road. Won’t that be a brave, heroic end for you, eh vato? I don’t think you’re an El Tiburón. You’re not a shark. You’re more like a little fishy. A goldfish. How do you say guppy in Spanish, Pablo? Eh vato? El guppo?”

Pablo, face twisted in rage, flung President Langston to the side and rushed toward Derek, gun thrust forward.

Derek dropped to his knees. As he did, he swung the Emerson knife up out of his pocket. Pablo loomed over him, a guttural blood cry echoing around the room. Derek swung the knife up and into Pablo’s stomach.

The battle cry turned to a breathless whistle. Pablo dropped the gun and gripped Derek’s wrists with both hands. Pablo’s eyes grew wide, expression twisted in pain and surprise. And something else. Regret? Sadness?

Putting all his muscle into it, Derek lunged upward, driving the blade up through Pablo’s diaphragm. Hot blood gushed over his hand.

Pablo grunted. His mouth opened to speak, to scream, to moan. No sound came out. He choked, trying to bring in air, unable to because of the ravaged diaphragm. He opened his mouth again. Blood sprayed from his lips.

Derek twisted the blade, the feeling of gristle and bone and flesh parting beneath his hand filling him with horror. And primal satisfaction.

Pablo’s face went blank. His hands still clutched at Derek’s wrists.

Derek lunged again, twisting, ripping upward and back.

Blood spewed from the wound. Pablo sank to his knees, clutching
his stomach then slowly fell over sideways. His lips moved as if in silent prayer.

Derek knelt next to him, trying to hear.

Pablo tried to speak again. Then he was still.

Derek knelt there next to him for a long moment. Exhaustion weighed on every cell in his body.

President Langston awkwardly climbed to his feet. Thoughtfully, respectfully, Derek wiped the blood off the knife using Pablo’s shirt. He looked into the empty eyes of the dead man for a moment, repulsed by Pablo’s actions and by his wasted end. With a shake of his head, he climbed to his feet, groaning. He limped over to the president and cut off the plasti-cuffs, then took off the “suicide” vest.

President Langston, rubbing his wrists, looked down at Pablo Juarez. “What did he say there at the end?”

“Madre. Perdone.”

President Langston shot him a quizzical look. “Mother?”

Derek nodded. “Mother. Forgive. Maybe he was trying to say, Mother, forgive me.”

Coast Guard Captain Paul Billings was met at the offshore oil platform by Bob Ravenshield, the drill foreman. Ravenshield was a burly, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with whispy gray hair and a perpetual squint. He looked at Billings and said, “They stole our fucking boat.”

Billings nodded. “What kind?”

“Sixty-four foot cabin cruiser. Owned by the company. We use it to ferry personnel back and forth. Named Lady Okie.”

Billings was lean and tall, sandy hair blowing in the mild breeze. “How many people?” He sighed and thought better of it. Get the story first before asking questions. Billings recognized a first-class cluster fuck when he saw one, and he knew there would be investigations for years into who screwed up. “Just tell me what happened.”

“That fuckin’ helicopter dropped off five people. They came blasting in here, ran right past us, and down to the boat. We tried to stop ’em, but we don’t have guns or anything.”

“Did they? You said they came blasting in here. Were they armed?” Hell, they shouldn’t have been armed. As far as he was concerned they should never have been given a helicopter.

“No. That’s just an expression. No guns or weapons. But they seemed to know right what they were doing. They got on the boat and when one of my guys, Ben, tried to stop them, well, I mean, Ben’s a big guy, but this guy just sort of reached out and broke his arm like it was a matchstick, you know? Told him to back off. And then they were gone. I mean, it happened so fast—”

Billings took notes and directed Ravenshield to help his people search the platform.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

Billings nodded. “I do believe you. But these are international terrorists. We want to make sure.”

Ravenshield scowled, turned, and spat over the railing. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.”

Billings went back to his boat and made a call. He was patched directly through to Secretary James Johnston, which gave him pause. That was just about as high up the food chain as he’d ever been and the air was a little thin up there. He thought again about who was going to get blamed for this mess, and was determined not to have the shit fall on his shoulders. He gave the secretary a carefully worded sit-rep— situation report— and awaited directions.

Johnston’s groan came over the line. “Same story with the cruise ship. Go looking for the boats, Captain. Keep us informed. We’ll have the whole damned Navy and Coast Guard out looking for them now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Captain?”

“Sir?”

“Shoot on sight.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Billings clicked off and swallowed. He looked out over the horizon and shook his head. He headed for the radar room. Maybe they could get a bead on these guys. But he had his doubts. It was a big ocean.

Derek followed President Langston up onto the stage. The remaining Angels were either dead or kneeling on the floor, hands cuffed behind them. The room was crazy, people talking, people weeping, people milling around. The world leaders were discussing whether to hold a press conference immediately. Medics were trying to triage patients. There were dozens of corpses scattered around the room, mostly security people from the various countries.

Derek scanned around and spotted Maria in the center of the room. He ran past the president and Irina, jumped off the stage and pushed his way through the crowd. He knelt down next to her and hugged her close. She hugged him back.

“You’re alive!” she said.

He couldn’t stop smiling. “Of course I’m alive! But you! Are you crazy? Why didn’t you just stay where you were?”

“It was better for you to do your thing. See how good it worked out?”

“Maria! You’re crazy!”

“You bet. And don’t forget, you promised me a trip on your boat.”

“As soon as your leg’s okay.”

“Now go. You have work to do, right?”

Derek nodded. He needed to make sure nobody rushed out before they could get the area tested for biological contamination.

Secretary Mandalevo stood a few feet away. He said, “You must be Dr. Stillwater.”

Derek looked at him. “Secretary Mandalevo, right?”

“Yes.”

Derek nodded to him. “See she’s taken care of, okay?” He then told Mandalevo what needed to be done. Mandalevo nodded. “It’ll be taken
care of. Take it easy. Get your wounds taken care of. You’re done for now, Doctor.”

Derek nodded and looked at Maria, who winked at him. He turned and started to walk away when Mandalevo said, “Dr. Stillwater.”

He turned to look at the man. Something passed between them, an understanding, and maybe some type of informal agreement. Derek knew that he would meet the man again in the near future.

Mandalevo, face tired, but eyes sharp and alert, said, “Well done.”

Derek nodded and walked toward the front of the room. He looked for Irina, but didn’t see her at first. Then he spotted her kneeling near the base of the stage. When he got to her, he saw she was kneeling next to the body of Richard Coffee. A medic was kneeling next to her.

She looked up at him. “He’s still alive.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

The medic glanced up. “Barely.”

Words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. Or even what to feel or think.

He saw the gun on Irina’s belt. His first reaction was to grab her gun and empty it into Coffee’s head. He could see similar emotions in Irina Khournikova’s eyes.

President Langston appeared at his side. “He’s alive?”

Irina nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”

President Langston’s face flushed. “He murdered my wife and children.”

Derek nodded. The world leaders were watching them now. Dozens of people were watching them. President Langston couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Coffee’s body. He held out his hand to Irina. “Give me your gun.”

Silently she handed it to him.

President Langston aimed the gun at Richard Coffee. A long moment went by as a million emotions flitted across his face. Then he seemed to sag, and he dropped the gun to his side. “Take him to the hospital. Put security around him.”

The medic nodded. “Yes sir.”

Derek knelt next to Coffee. He felt a heavy weight on his chest. His emotions spun out of control. Richard Coffee— his friend. Richard Coffee— his enemy.

Coffee stirred. His eyes opened a sliver. Recognition seeped onto his face. He croaked, “Derek?”

“Yes.”

“Over? Did … you … win?”

“Yes.”

A sigh escaped Coffee’s lips. His eyes closed. Derek thought he was dead.

The medics placed Coffee on a stretcher and hooked up an IV. Coffee’s hand fluttered. “Derek?”

Derek stood next to him. Took his hand. “I’m here.”

“Nadia?”

“She’s dead, Richard. It was an accident, but she’s dead. I’m sorry.”

Coffee’s chest heaved. He coughed once and groaned.

His chest stopped moving. Derek felt Coffee’s hand go limp. The medic double-checked his vitals and shook his head. “He’s gone.”

President Langston rested his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “The man called himself The Fallen Angel. He’s evil. I should have shot him.”

Derek didn’t disagree. He didn’t know if he could have pulled the trigger under those circumstances either, though. Richard Coffee the friend had been gone for a long time. Richard Coffee who called himself The Fallen Angel wasn’t somebody Derek wanted around. The world was better off without him.

He saw Irina watching him. Her face was tight and pale. She had hunted Richard Coffee for a long time. He had killed her lover. What was she thinking right now? What was she feeling?

She stepped close to Derek and kissed him on the cheek. Without another word she turned and walked away.

President Langston removed his hand from Derek’s shoulder. “Good work, Dr. Stillwater. Very good work today. We stopped the devil today.”

Derek shrugged. “There’s always another one to take his place, sir.” He turned to follow Irina out of the ballroom.

The Salacious Sally, Derek’s cabin cruiser, sailed through the calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico in a southwesterly direction. Atop the flying bridge, Derek studied the GPS. He glanced off his port bow toward the distant island of Cuba. The sun beat down on his bare shoulders. His hair had grown out and was bleached from the sun. Even some of the scars were healing, although some of them refused to tan, no matter how much time he spent on deck with his shirt off.

There were other scars, though, unseen, but felt. He still didn’t sleep well, the nights torn by nightmares of everything going wrong. Of being caught in explosions, being a step too slow. Nightmares of missing the biological bomb Coffee had hidden away, of the deadly plague he had installed in it infecting the G20 leaders and staff, all the survivors taking the diseases home with them.

A forensic analysis of recovered bomb fragments found DNA and antigenic evidence of a strain of virus that caused Venezuelan equine encephalitis, which could be transmitted to horses, humans, and birds. There was no evidence it had escaped the bleach or the explosion. There was some discussion as to whether or not Coffee had gotten the weaponized viral material from a lab in Venezuela, but it was entirely possible they had cultured it themselves from infected animals in Colombia or Mexico.

A voice behind him said, “Ever been there?”

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. Irina Khournikova appeared behind him in a black string bikini carrying a pitcher of Margaritas and two glasses.

“Cuba?”

She nodded, set the glasses down and poured two margaritas, invitingly green. She’d even added salt to the rims.

He smiled, remembering. “Oh, I spent a little time at Gitmo. In and out.”

She cocked her head, then leaned close and kissed him. Derek snaked an arm around her waist and brought her close. He kissed her back. She tasted of salt and tequila and lime. Once the events in Colorado had wrapped up, Maria had been made offers by TV producers for the story of her life. She’d gotten offers to act in a Spanish-language TV series and do some modeling. Derek Stillwater— or perhaps Michael Gabriel— had been quickly forgotten, which was probably just as well.

Sergeant Jorge Ruiz had received commendations and immediately been promoted and transferred to Afghanistan. Derek had asked Irina out instead. And now they’d been on The Sally for two weeks, currently heading for Cancun, Cozumel, and probably down to Aruba. Maybe even Costa Rica. He heard it was nice. He’d never been there.

“How about you?” he asked. “Ever go to Cuba? Last bastion of Soviet-style Communism?”

She smiled. “Yes. I spent a year there working with the Dirección General de Inteligencia.” She took a sip of her margarita and then leaned forward to kiss him again. “And interestingly enough, I read a file on a Canadian businessman by the name of Richard Blankman who looked surprisingly like you.”