Black Skies (30 page)

“A
ll right, this is the situation,” Bloch told Shepard and Spartan in their suite at the Mandarin Oriental, with Morgan, Conley, and Lily on speakerphone. “We have to find a tactical nuclear weapon that’s located somewhere on American soil. We have zero leads as of right now, and this is a race against the clock. Run a search for Weinberg’s names on every database.”

“We’ve tried that,” said Shepard. “No go. No hits for his own name and ID or his sister’s, no known aliases.... It looks like money can buy you real anonymity.”

“Shipping manifests?” suggested Lily. “Anything that can help us determine how he got the bomb here?”

“Not in the time that we have,” said Shepard.

“Can we do a satellite sweep for the bomb’s radiation signature?” asked Conley.

“It’s possible in theory,” said Shepard. “But not in our time frame.”

“Why not?” asked Morgan.

“Making a general sweep of the whole country, for starters, would take days that we don’t have,” said Shepard. “Also, there’s nothing unique about the signature on a nuclear bomb. We’d be poring over satellite readouts for weeks trying to weed out all the CT scan and X-ray machines.”

“What if we narrowed down the search parameters?” suggested Bloch. “Give you a target area to run the search?”

“That might work,” said Shepard. “What are we looking for?”

“What would he need to launch a missile?” asked Bloch.

“Highway access to get the equipment in, enough space to set up the rig,” said Conley.

“And privacy,” added Morgan. “You don’t want the neighbors catching sight of your nuclear missile.”

“Let’s not forget that Weinberg travels in style,” said Lily. “He wouldn’t settle for any old place.”

“So let’s see . . .” said Shepard. “Properties larger than fifty acres . . . rented or bought in the past year. . . . Let’s set a price threshold. . . . There!” His screen displayed a list of real estate properties. “All right,” he said. “Now, I’m going to input their coordinates into our instructions for the satellite sweep, and see if something comes up.”

Everyone watched Shepard’s computer screen as it blinked through a blur of images and numbers. After about thirty seconds, Shepard said, “You know, this is probably going to take awhile. Why don’t you all go get a cup of coffee or something?”

Bloch sat back down on the room’s sofa, and noticed how tired she was. There was a deep ache in her muscles, and her eyelids grew heavy. The pain in her torso was dulled, but still hurt constantly, always at the edge of her consciousness. She was tired, so tired. If only she could rest her eyes—

 

“We’ve got a hit!” came Shepard’s voice.

Bloch’s eyes shot open. “How long was I out?” she asked.

“About an hour and a half,” said Spartan.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” she said.

“Boss, you’re burning the candle at both ends,” said Shepard. “We thought you could use the rest.”

“All right, no matter,” said Bloch. “What do we have?”

“Manor house in South Carolina,” said Shepard, showing her a satellite photo of a green property. “One hundred and fifty acres, colonial style. Rented out six months ago to an anonymous holding company, and look at what we have on the front lawn!” He pointed to a rectangular red smear overlaid on the satellite picture of the house and property. “Radiation signature. That’s our bomb.”

“All right,” said Bloch. “It’s time to move out. Cobra, Cougar, Lily, get moving. I’m sending Diesel your way as well. We’ll work on getting you access to the mansion from here.”

I
t was nighttime when Morgan pulled the Corolla carrying Conley and Lily into a narrow roadside stop where Diesel was waiting for them. They were a mere four hundred yards from the edge of Weinberg’s property.

“I’ve brought us some firepower,” said Diesel. He popped his trunk and displayed a wide array of weapons, as well as bulletproof vests and night-vision goggles for everyone. “Gear up,” he told them. “We’re moving out right away.”

Morgan surveyed the weapons—automatics and semiautomatics, handguns, tactical knives, and—

“I call dibs on
that
one,” said Morgan.

“I thought you might,” said Diesel. “That we use in case we need to destroy the missile.”

“Won’t it cause the warhead to go nuclear?” asked Morgan.

“If you hit the rear of the rocket, it’ll be disabled without setting off the bomb,” said Diesel. “Just be careful to aim for the butt.”

 

They left the cars where they had parked and walked into the woods with Conley navigating, the terrain rendered green by the night vision. They reached the perimeter wall to Weinberg’s property within ten minutes. It was the most remote corner they could find, where it bordered public land. Morgan slung a FIM-92 Stinger portable surface-to-air missile launcher, a particularly heavy weapon, across his back. It weighed him down as he climbed the tactical ladder to the top.

Once in, they spread out on the forested area, taking cover as they moved across the terrain. They soon neared the expansive lawn in front of the house. It was an enormous colonial mansion, red brick with majestic white columns and entablature. But impressive as it was, it garnered less attention than the missile, more than half as tall as the house, illuminated by the floodlights that lit up the entire area.

From behind the tree line, Morgan counted twelve men in black—the same hired guns, he surmised, that had carried out the attack on Liberty Island. Four were patrolling the edge of the lawn and two held sniper positions on the balcony, while the rest were scattered around the missile. They carried an assortment of submachine guns—Morgan saw three Uzis and two MP5s and a Colt nine millimeter among them. He clutched his own suppressed Remington sniper rifle and stood with his back to a mossy beech trunk.

“We’re outnumbered three to one, at least,” said Morgan over the radio communicator. “Our one advantage is the element of surprise. Let’s use it wisely.”

“Roger,” said Diesel. “I’ll take the sniper on the left, and you the one on the right, you figure?”

“Confirmed,” said Morgan. “Conley, Lily, give us covering fire. Remember not to stay in one place—you stay put, you let them know where we are and how many we are. Let’s keep them guessing.”

Morgan rested the Remington on a low bough of the beech and found his first target lying behind the white banister of the corner of the balcony. Taking stock of the wind, he adjusted the shot.

“Do you have your shot, Diesel?”

“Standing by,” he said.

“On my mark. Three. Two. One.”

The gunshots rang out nearly simultaneously. Morgan’s target jerked at the impact of the bullet.

Immediately, the remaining ten commandos sprinted out toward the woods, fanning out over the lawn. He heard the suppressed fire from Lily’s and Conley’s MP5s. Morgan took aim with his rifle again, waited for another burst of bullets—from his right, Lily—and took the shot, hitting one of the running men in the neck. With this second shot, his location would certainly be made, so Morgan ran parallel to the tree line, taking cover now behind a bush.

“Morgan!” Gunther Weinberg bellowed from the house’s veranda. “I know you’re out there!”

Forgetting about the approaching hostiles, Morgan took aim at Weinberg, but he was too hasty. The bullet sailed over Weinberg’s head to hit the ceiling.

“Launch!” Weinberg exclaimed. “Launch now!”

The first of the guards had reached the tree line to Morgan’s distant left, but Conley was waiting for him and took him out with four discharges of his Beretta Storm .45. Morgan ran again, leaving the position he’d given away while Diesel took out another hostile with his sniper rifle.

Morgan took cover behind a boulder and lifted the bulky Stinger surface-to-air launcher he had carried with him onto his shoulder. The tactical nuclear missile lit up with a deafening roar, shooting a jet of blue fire into the lawn.

“Ready to neutralize the weapon,” said Morgan. “Cover me.”

“Aim carefully,” said Diesel. “We’ve got one chance at this.”

Morgan was taking aim when something blocked his view—two commandos entering the forest directly between him and the missile.

“Need backup!” he called out. He laid aside the launcher. His sniper rifle would be of no use at such close quarters. He unholstered his Walther PPK nine millimeter and crouched behind the boulder.

“Morgan, you need to take out that missile!” said Conley.

He heard the cracks of the men’s footsteps—they were flanking him on either side of the stone. He transferred his weapon to his left hand and unsheathed his combat knife with his right. It was a stupid, desperate move, but it was his only option.

Morgan emerged from behind the boulder, the two hostiles no more than three yards away. As he raised his left hand to shoot and drew his right to make the throw, gunfire rang out from his right and a single shot on his left, and the two men collapsed inward.

“That works too,” said Morgan, sheathing his knife and holstering the PPK.

“You said you needed backup,” said Diesel.

“You’re welcome,” said Lily.

“Appreciated,” he said, picking up the rocket launcher. The missile began rising in the air. One shot. That’s all that stood between him and the detonation of a nuclear weapon on the homeland.

Morgan pulled the trigger. The rocket fired out of the cylinder, burning bright, and hit the missile between two of its rear fins. The steel cylinder exploded in a red fireball that rose up past the roof. What was left of the missile flew two hundred feet to land on the far end of the lawn.

Morgan smirked.

“Spread out!” he yelled. “We’re taking Weinberg tonight!”

“Cobra, Cougar, flank the house on—”

A single distant gunshot rang out, and Diesel cried out in pain. “I’m hit!” he said. “I took one in the leg.”

By eyeballing the rough angle of entry, Morgan knew the bullet had come from the house. He looked through the scope of his rifle and found the shooter, positioned at the attic window above the central cornice. All he could see were pale, feminine hands.

“That’s Lena Weinberg,” said Morgan, back against a broad maple.

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get her.”

“Hold that thought.” Morgan took a shot. He had no hope of making it, but he hit the window, shattering the glass, and saw her withdraw.

“How many hostiles left on the ground?” Morgan asked.

“Three,” said Conley.

Another gunshot. “Two,” corrected Diesel.

“You two fend them off,” said Morgan. “I’m off to get Weinberg.” He looked at Lily. “Let’s go together. Ready?”

Without responding, Lily took off across the lawn. He sprinted after her, keeping his distance, dodging left and right at random intervals. He made it across the grass in ten seconds flat and reached the safety of the front door, where Lena couldn’t shoot them from the balcony.

Lily opened the door and walked in, Morgan following. The house was filled with hunting trophies and bodies of taxidermied critters, which filled the spacious entrance hall with ominous shadows.

“Morgan!” came Weinberg’s voice from beyond a door ahead.

Morgan turned to Lily. “Go find Lena!” He stepped forward, rifle in hand, to take cover behind a grandfather clock. “Weinberg!” he shouted. “You’re not leaving this house alive if you don’t come out with your hands up right
goddamn
now.”

“I have a different idea,” said Weinberg. “You might have taken my Anse, but I am not defenseless, you know.”

Automatic fire tore through the door, from at least six guns. Morgan hugged the wall and let the clock take the brunt of it.

“You are the one who will die, I think,” said Weinberg.

 

Lily ran upstairs. She heard heavy footsteps coming from the balcony and along the upstairs corridor, toward the back of the house. She only saw a dark shadow of Lena Weinberg disappearing into a dark threshold—no, not entirely dark. There was a flickering light inside. Lily ran headlong down the hall, gun drawn, and into the door after Lena.

She heard the low whistle of wood flying through the air before something hit her hand, knocking the handgun onto the floor. Before she could react, another blow caught her in the back and sent her flying forward on her knees. In the dim light, which emanated from a fireplace in the far wall, she saw as her eyes adjusted the upraised aristocratic chin of Lena Weinberg and her cool, deadly eyes. She was holding a quarterstaff in both hands.

“I thought you might come,” she said. “I’ve been reading up on you. I didn’t know who you were then, but I do now.”

She swung the staff. Lily rolled out of the way just as it whipped by her and thwacked the hardwood floor.

“Poor little orphan girl,” Lena said. “Out for revenge on the man who killed her parents.”

“It was revenge before,” said Lily. “Now, I just want the pleasure of seeing you dead.” They circled each other. Lena lunged, and Lily dodged again.

“Oh, the cold-blooded killer. Quite a departure from the Monte Carlo floozie, don’t you think, Miss Randall?”

“And you’re not quite the proper lady you pretend to be, are you?”

“It is entirely proper for a lady to learn to defend herself,” Lena said.

Lily scanned the room for a possible weapon. She spotted one: a basket of canes near the door through which she had come in. She stepped back as Lena advanced again, keeping Lily away from the door. This was going to take some risk.

Lily feinted forward and left, and Lena swept her quarterstaff at her. Lily then rolled right, and in one fluid motion as she got up, she picked up a cane from the basket.

“Well done!” Lena laughed. “Perhaps we are more evenly matched than I thought.”

The cane had a nice heft to it. Lily practiced swinging it a few times as Lena looked for the right moment to pounce. Lily made the first move, striking low at Lena’s legs, and missing. Lena landed a sharp blow against Lily’s left arm, and she cried out in pain.

Lena swung down this time, and Lily rolled away. Not backing down, Lena swung again, and this time Lily parried with her cane. However, with the blow, the cane seemed to break, suddenly much lighter in her hands. She was about to toss it aside when she looked at it and was surprised.

Lena’s blow hadn’t broken the cane, merely unsheathed the sword that was hidden inside.

“Oh, this should be interesting,” said Lena. She pressed forward, sending blow after blow. Lily knew the sword-cane couldn’t parry one of those blows, so she was left to dodge one after the other. At one point she nearly lost her balance, and Lena took advantage of it to kick her in the chest. Lily knocked against a table, dropping a number of unseen objects backward toward the flickering fire. Again the staff came down, and Lily dodged aside.

“You know, there’s more to Gunther and me than meets the eye,” Lena said, pressing forward. “Gunther, the playboy, is infinitely more than that.”

“A psychopath and a terrorist?” asked Lily, lashing out with the sword but coming up short.

“Gunther has the vision,” Lena said, offended. “The grand ideas. I admit, he is better at that than me. But he would be nothing without me. He would have accomplished little, because he has no knack for the practical. I was the planner. The one who took care of business.”

The light in the room had grown brighter. Risking a look, Lily turned her head to the fireplace and saw that the cloth from the table she had knocked down had fallen into the flames, which had spread to the carpet and the drapes.

“Do you think I care about the dynamics of your sick little family?” said Lily.

“I do have a point, you idiot girl.”

“That being?”

“Who do you think killed your parents? I mean, do you really think Gunther would concern himself with trifling details? Two insignificant British journalists?
I
arranged for the accident.”

“Bitch,” Lily said through gritted teeth.

Lena laughed. “I suppose I am. Does it make you angry? Does it make your face hot, your blood boil? Do you want to kill me more than ever now?” She swung the quarterstaff, and Lily narrowly avoided having her skull crushed.

The fire seemed to be galloping now. This old house was ripe for the flames, full of dusty tapestries and hardwood.

“I just wanted to see your face when I told you,” Lena said. “Before you die.”

She launched an attack. Lily rolled under it, getting on the other side of Lena—the side near the door. Lightning quick, she slashed at Lena’s calves. The woman bellowed in pain but did not even stumble. Lily backed out the door, letting Lena swing at her furiously but ineffectively. She was getting enraged and tired. Hers was a heavier weapon that Lily’s, and its weight was taking a toll.

With the next swing, Lily evaded easily and stuck again, opening a deep cut in Lena’s right arm. Lily’s anger was fading, leaving her alert. She saw that downstairs, Morgan was pinned down by several gunmen. The steady gunfire kept him from coming out.

Another blow from Lena, another dodge. Lily tipped a heavy chair with her foot and pushed it against Lena. It was enough to make her stagger back. Lily slashed at her hands, so that she dropped her staff. Then Lily kicked Lena against the banister and plunged the sword into Lena’s heart. She gasped, more surprised than in pain. Blood gushed out of her chest, and she went limp.