The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (16 page)

President Langston said, “If I must choose, then I choose myself. Kill me in exchange for the end of this situation.”

The Fallen burst out laughing. “Playing for the cameras, Mr. President? This isn’t an election year. You can’t even run for office again! How noble and self-sacrificing. But no, I don’t think so. That would be too simple and easy for you. I think there’s a lot to be said about a new Cold War.”

He walked behind the line of leaders and stood at an angle to Russian President Pieter Vakhach. Vakhach was a slim, balding man with sharp features and piercing dark eyes. There was something vulpine about the man, something that always gave the impression of an untrustworthy predator plotting an ambush.

Vakhach sat straight, not looking backward. His voice steady, he said in Russian, “I am prepared to die. I love my wife, Sasha, and my
children, Ivan and Boris. I hope you will remember me with warmth and love. I hope Mother Russia will continue to grow and prosper. Farewell.”

“Yes, yes,” said The Fallen. “Very nice. Farewell to you, too.” He raised the gun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

Crouched on the catwalk, Derek felt a slight vibration beneath his feet. He reached over and gently touched Maria’s wrist, hoping to communicate that he wanted her to stay very still and be very quiet.

Somewhere below and behind them a door opened. A moment later the door shut with a soft click. There was almost no sound of people below, yet Derek sensed the presence of at least one person, possibly more.

Leaning toward Maria he brought his lips to her ear and in a barely audible voice said, “Don’t make a sound.” Carefully adjusting the MP-5 and sack of Molotov cocktails, he slid to the catwalk until he was lying bellydown. Again, he wasn’t able to see anything.

Reaching for his screwdriver, he was preparing to drill another tiny hole in the drop ceiling when a low voice spoke in heavily accented English, “Nothing.”

The voice was almost directly beneath them. A different voice, this one also accented, but a much different accent and a higher-pitched voice, said, “Fallen, this is León. East hallway, perimeter three, is clear. I repeat, east hallway is clear.”

Definitely two men, Derek thought.

Maria tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the radio. He clicked on his radio to hear Coffee saying in English, “What’s the status at the loading dock?”

The higher-pitched voice said, “A big pile of rubble. You can’t get through that way. No one but a rat could get through that.”

The other voice, in what sounded like a Russian accent: “Somebody blew themselves up.”

Coffee: “Tigre. Oso. Status?”

Two separate voices, clearly Spanish accented, identified themselves: “Tigre here. Clear.”

“Oso here. Clear.”

Coffee: “ León and Puma. Is the east hallway secure?”

The one called León said, “Secure. No one can get in here from the kitchen and the other entrance is totally wired.”

“Da,” said Puma. “It is secure.”

“Then come on back. I need you more in here. Radio me when you get to the door.”

“Affirmative,” said Puma.

Derek swallowed. He leaned toward Maria and whispered, “Take the cocktails down the catwalk as far as you can go, light one, kick through the ceiling tile and drop it, then run! Now! Hurry!” He shoved the lighter into her trembling hand.

He sensed hesitation then felt the catwalk vibrating as Maria did as he told her to.

Bringing the MP-5 around, double-checking it was loaded, the safety off, he crouched in place, ready.

A click and the lighter flashed in the darkness. Maria crouched a good twenty yards away, shaking hand holding one of the bottles of sherry, flame quivering as she tried to get the wick to ignite.

Below: “What’s that? Someone above us? Move!”

Dammit!

Gunfire roared from below. Each bullet hole through the ceiling let in light that acted like a laser beam in the crawl space, skewering the dust. They were everywhere, simultaneously moving toward Maria and himself.

Maria seemed frozen in place. The wick didn’t want to light. The needles of light raced along toward her position.

The wick lit, then went out.

Derek kept his eyes on the beams of light as they zigzagged back and forth. Part of the firing stopped. It was followed by a clatter then a metallic sound as another magazine was slammed home.

Come on, Maria. Come on.

Her hands shook so badly it looked like a dancing firefly from Derek’s viewpoint. Then the torch lit.

Maria leaned over, slammed her foot through the ceiling, and tossed the Molotov cocktail through the hole.

“Jump!” Derek followed his own advice and stepped off the catwalk onto the dropped ceiling tile, which disintegrated around him. As he fell, he fired the MP-5.

He was firing at nothing.

In the direction he was facing there was only a burning pool of alcohol amidst broken glass.

He hit the ground hard, dropped, and rolled. Behind him were the two terrorists. One, a blocky, square-headed Slavic guy was pressed against one wall. The other, slim, wiry, looked Middle Eastern, was sprawled on the floor, gun held ready.

Derek continued to fire. He hit the Russian, who jerked spasmodically, dropping to his knees, stumbling sideways on top of the Israeli. Derek, continuing to roll, fired. The body of the Russian jumped and thumped and twitched as Derek’s 10-mm rounds tore the body to shreds.

The Israeli struggled to get out from behind the Russian’s corpse, finally using his body as a blockade.

Derek continued to roll. He tried to take careful aim on the Israeli, but the man was on the move as well. Bullets whined past Derek’s head, ricocheting off the walls.

He squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

The MP-5 magazine held sixty rounds, and on full automatic, it took only seconds to empty the weapon.

It was empty.

And the Israeli knew it. He shoved aside the Russian and climbed to his feet. He brought up his own MP-5 and sighted on Derek. “A walking dead man. Say good-bye, whoever you are.”

Derek tensed, waiting for his death. His luck had finally run out. He was too far from the man to go after him. He was in a straight hallway with nothing to hide behind.

He heard something like breaking glass. Derek had just long enough to think, “Maria?” before the hallway was filled with a wall of fire and debris. He was slammed off his feet by the force of the explosion.

Everything went black.

El Tiburón moved the camera in for a close-up as The Fallen squeezed the trigger. He wanted the world to see the assassination of the Russian leader in all its bloody reality. This is power, he thought.

A rattle of gunfire sounded from outside the ballroom. On the monitor, Pieter Vakhach flinched, then settled into a frozen, watchful calm. The crowd, tensely watching the drama, shrieked and screamed at the unexplained noise. El Tiburón, through the cameras, saw The Fallen’s expression— saw his distraction.

“Shoot him,” El Tiburón hissed. “What are you waiting for?”

The gunfire continued. On the stage, The Fallen turned toward the east doors, waiting.

Silence. The gunfire ended. The Fallen turned back toward Vakhach and raised his weapon.

An explosion rocked the building. The floor shook. More screams. The tremors were so strong that for a moment The Fallen staggered, then righted himself. He tapped his throat mic so the entire network could hear. “León. Puma. Report in. What is your status?”

Silence.

“Tigre. Oso. Report in. What is your status?”

After a moment of confused rustling and static, a voice came on: “Tigre here. The elevator lobby and the doors between the lobby and the east hallway just blew. I have no idea what set them off. Uh— I’m fine and—”

Another voice, “Oso here. I’m— I’ll live. I was a little close to the explosion. I’ll— I’ll be all right.”

“Can you access the east hallway?”

Oso: “Negative, Fallen. Area completely blocked.”

“Maintain positions.”

Blood boiling, El Tiburón started toward the front of the ballroom. The Fallen spun and pointed at him. “Maintain position.”

“Don’t you get it? Someone is picking off our people one by one!” he shouted. “We’re losing the third perimeter!”

The Fallen seemed to grow taller, his eyes blazing with anger. “Do your job! I know what I’m doing.”

The Fallen strode back to Pieter Vakhach, raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the back of the Russian leader’s skull and exploded out his face, spraying blood and bone and brain. Vakhach slumped forward and toppled over to the floor. The gunshot faded away, lost in screams and shouts of outrage.

The Fallen turned so he gazed directly at the main camera. “You have exactly one hour to comply with our original demands or another leader will die.” With a slashing gesture, he ordered El Tiburón to shut off the cameras.

Derek came to abruptly, jerking to consciousness as if thrust through a plate-glass window. One second it was black, the next he was in the light lunging for his assault rifle. Everything hurt. There were sharp, needle-like jabs of pain all over his body, exclamation points in a general background ache. He felt pressure on his right leg.

Blinking, he looked down. The hallway was littered with debris— concrete and wood and wires and bits of metal. A large chunk of concrete rested on his leg.

He tried to sit up. Inside his skull it felt like a great weight was sliding on a greased surface. The weight smashed into the front of his head, right behind his eyes. Fireworks went off and the world grayed out again. Gasping for air, he twisted sideways and retched.

This time when he came to he noticed the body of the Israeli terrorist. The corpse was a dozen feet away, twisted in a way nature had never intended, dark eyes staring blankly into whatever level of hell was reserved for terrorists.

A hand gently touched his brow. Blinking, Derek looked up. Maria sat near him. Blood covered her face and oozed from a vicious gash in her forehead. She was completely coated in grime and soot, her clothing torn and scraped.

“Sit still,” she said.

“Are you okay?” he croaked out.

Her smile appeared alabaster against the dirt. “I’ve had better days. Let’s see if I can get that cement off your leg.”

She staggered to her feet and stumbled over to him. Derek noted a deep cut in one of her thighs, blood running down her leg.

“We’ve got to take care of your leg,” he said.

“Later,” she muttered, and crouched down next to him, pain twisting her face. She gripped the cement block and with a grunt, shifted it a few inches. Derek thought he was screaming until his throat couldn’t take it, slipping back into the darkness, but a moment later he looked up to see Maria crouched by his foot studying the concrete.

“Sorry,” he said.

She turned to him, expression grim. “For what?”

“Uh, screaming.”

“You didn’t scream. You just passed out. That leg hurt?”

He started to shake his head, thought better of it, and said, “No. Yes. Never mind. Does your leg hurt?”

“Like a sonofabitch. Next time I decide to play commando, I don’t want to be wearing a skirt.”

“Next time.”

“I can’t lift this thing.”

“We need a lever. Maybe one of the guns.”

She looked around. “Okay, amigo. With the right lever you can move the world.” She limped over and picked up the Israeli’s MP-5. Walking back to Derek, she started to set the stock against the concrete block.

“Uh, Maria?” Derek’s voice was soft but urgent. “Take the fucking magazine out and put the safety on before you shoot yourself in the head.”

She plopped down on the floor, dropping the gun to the ground, put her face in her hands and began to sob. “I … I can’t do this! I can’t!”

Maria was out of reach, but he tried to touch her and reassure her. It wasn’t easy twisting. Again, he felt the world gray around the edges, but by concentrating and sucking in deep breaths of air, he managed to stay conscious. “Maria,” he said, “Maria, listen to me. I need you. I really need you right now. You can do this. In fact, you’re amazing. I couldn’t have gotten a better person to help me out here. Look at me.”

She took her hands from her face. Now she looked like a raccoon, her tears creating clean circles under her eyes. He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Okay, honey,” he said, “hand me the gun.”

Sniffling, she handed it to him. He removed the magazine, checked to make sure the barrel was clear, clicked on the safety, and handed it back to her. With a fierce look of concentration, she jammed the stock under the cement block.

“Ready?”

“When you are.”

With a grunt she levered the block off his foot. The pain was intense, but not the worst he’d ever experienced. He slowly moved his leg and tried to rotate his ankle and flex his foot. More sparklers of pain, but not unbearable. He didn’t know if he had broken anything. It was possible, and he thought the foot might be swelling. The worst thing he could do now was take the boot off. If he did, he’d never get it back on. Using the MP-5 as a crutch, he lurched to his feet and tried to take a step. Painful, but usable— barely. A sprain, he thought, or maybe just bad bruising.

“I’ll help,” Maria said, and slipped in under his arm. “Where do you want to go?”

“A beach in the Virgin Islands might be nice. How long do you think it would take to get there?”

She smiled. “Is that a proposition, amante?”

He smiled back. “Maria, let me tell you something. I own a sixty-foot cabin cruiser docked back in Baltimore. If we get out of this mess alive, you can join me and we’ll take it down to the Caribbean for a few months.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it. Now, where do you want to go?”

“Our dead friend over here.” He pointed to the Israeli.

She helped him hobble over to the Israeli. The more he moved, the easier it got, although he knew these things were relative. He wouldn’t be sprinting anywhere anytime soon, and if he had to jump again, he was totally screwed.

Awkwardly kneeling, Derek roughly searched the corpse, coming up with another knife, a radio receiver that appeared to have been damaged in the explosion, and nothing else. Using the knife, he started slicing the Israeli’s shirt to pieces. When he had enough strips, he gestured for Maria to sit next to him. She did.