Fallen Angel (33 page)

Before the man in black could drop, Zinsser had him by the front of the shirt, and, without losing hold of the file, he held the handgun he concealed beneath it, threw him over his hip and head first into the concrete. Zinsser heard a bone snap. He didn't bother checking.

Brianne and Presley took positions to either side of the door; both dropped the folders they had been using to conceal their weapons.

Zinsser looked into their eyes and was happy to see determination rather than fear. He took a deep breath, then, "Fast, calm, no turning back. Got it?"

"Give the word," Brianne said. "We're behind you."

Zinsser held up three fingers and silently counted down. When he retracted the last finger, he flung the door open and stepped into the dim stairway.

He heard voices.

Too many voices.

Zinsser started up the stairs, his P228 pointed up and to the corner where the stairs wrapped around a wall, making a ninety-degree turn. Brianne was two steps down, her Glock 27 out and pointed down and away from Zinsser's back. Presley followed with his Beretta 9mm pointed down.

It was a lousy situation: three people in a confined space, each with a weapon that made big holes in people. He was comfortable with Brianne's training but didn't know what to think about Presley.

Nearing the landing at the corner, Zinsser paused and listened. He identified three distinct voices, all male. What about the female he saw on the surveillance video?

A creak.

A step.

Someone was coming down the stairs.

"I'll check." He spoke loudly. "He probably decided to have a smoke—"

Zinsser stepped on the midpoint landing and rounded the corner.

Another man in black.

Two taps. One round hit the man in the sternum, the other punched through his right cheekbone. Zinsser ignored the splatter and charged up the last few stairs. He had to catch the others flatfooted.

The stairs ended in a wide, open area. The floor was asphalt tile, the kind popular four or five decades ago. Two men sat at a folding table playing cards. Man Two on the video was dealing.

Zinsser ended his game with two rounds to the chest. He pointed the business end of the pistol at the second man who lay facedown on the table, a pool of blood oozing from his head. Brianne had made one shot. It was all that was needed.

Zinsser's ears were ringing; the loud report of the guns in a confined area were doing damage.

The three stood ready, waiting for someone else to appear. The cavernous space gave them a clear view of most of the floor, but several rooms—offices and a pair of bathrooms—lined the back wall of the space. There was one other room: one freshly made with no drywall on the exterior of the stud wall.

Gina.

Handgun ever before him, Zinsser moved, slow step after slow step, closer to what he had come to think of as a cell. He had a decision to make. There was at least one other actor: the woman. Two bathrooms, three additional doors to what he assumed were offices. His biggest concern was if someone was with Gina, ready to kill if backed in a corner.

Zinsser motioned for Brianne and Presley to check the side rooms. He moved to the cell. Behind him he heard a door open.

"Clear."

Good. That's one.

Zinsser reached the cell, stopping short of the door with its wire-laced window. A shadow from inside played across the textured glass, a shadow that could only be made by someone standing.

Zinsser laid a hand on the doorknob.

His heart chugged like a locomotive. He couldn't remember the last time he took a breath. His hands were slick with sweat.
Let her be alive. Let me do this right
.

He flung the door open.

CHAPTER 38

THE APPROACH TO THE
buildings was fast at first, but as they closed the last one hundred yards . . . Anyone seeing the approach of six men in camo, body armor, packs, sidearms, helmets, and more would know exactly what was going on. That's why Moyer was moving slowly.

He split the team. Rich, J. J., and Doc approached from the north; Moyer, Pete, and Crispin came from the south.

Before they left, Moyer ordered Pete to report their situation. Moyer spread his men out, knowing Rich would be doing the same.

"It looks like a hospital," Crispin said.

Peter corrected him. "It looks like it used to be a hospital."

"Well, riddle me this: Why is there a hospital way out here?" Crispin slipped off his pack.

"We're not that far from Nov Arman." Moyer raised his binoculars. "There used to be a government mining operation a couple of decades ago—Soviet Union days. The mine ran out or became too expensive to run. We don't know."

"Makes a good hideout," Pete said. "It's like the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang hiding out in the wilds of Wyoming."

"You ready, Hawkeye?"

"I will be in one. What have you got?"

Moyer scanned the buildings from his hiding spot behind a pair of trees. "I see a main building with two smaller buildings in the back. Those look abandoned. Padlocks on the doors. Broken windows."

"Boss, Shaq." The earbud buzzed in Moyer's ear. "We have a good view."

They were in position. "Roger that. I believe the back two buildings are unoccupied. Do you concur?"

Thirty seconds passed. "Concur. No activity on this side. Everyone seems to be inside. Chow time, maybe."

"Stand by."

"Hawkeye. Put
Voyager
up and make a wide pass."

"Working on it, Boss." Crispin worked quickly but carefully. The little helicopter came to life and rose under Crispin's control.

Moyer moved to Crispin's side. The little craft worked perfectly, giving Moyer a moment of confidence. Crispin guided
Voyager
high and kept it a good distance from the buildings, trying to be invisible and quiet.

Moyer broadcast what he was seeing to Rich and his team. "High-set windows on the south side. Maybe patient ward. Bigger windows on the east side. Assume offices. Big windows on the north. Should be visible to you. Assume cafeteria. More small, high-set windows on the west. Maybe a second ward. Wait one."

Moyer leaned closer to Crispin. "Back up."

Crispin turned the craft around. "Shaq, Boss. Back door open."

"Understood."

"Colt, Doc, you take sniper position. The rest of us move on my signal." Once more he scanned the area. Only God knew what was about to happen. He hoped J. J. was right: that God was in the holy dark. Images of his family flooded his mind and he forced them back despite the urge to dwell on their faces and voices.

Moyer pulled his balaclava mask over his face, then switched off his M4's safety. "Colt, Boss. You ready?"

"Just waiting for the go."

Crispin brought
Voyager
back and put it by his pack. He grinned at Pete.

"What's got you so happy?"

"While I was busy stuffing the MAV into the grill of the car, Colt was busy stuffing something else."

Peter turned his head slightly. "Such as?"

Moyer answered for the new guy. "Come on, Junior, what do you think Colt would be doing?"

Pete's eyes widened. "He didn't."

"Oh yeah, man," Crispin said. "He did."

"Shaq, Boss, start your move."

"Roger that."

Crispin stood. "Boss, before we left the
Michael Monsoor
we said we do this for family. We do this for Gina."

Pete triggered his mike. "For Gina."

J. J.: "For Gina."

Rich: "For Gina."

Jose: "You bet."

Moyer blinked back tears, then activated his radio. "Thanks, guys." Inhale. "Colt, go."

Three seconds later one of the Humvee-looking Tigers burst into flames and flew several feet in the air before landing on its side. A half second later, car two did the same, landing as a burning hulk. It was joined by the third vehicle bursting into a ball of fire.

"C4 is a wonderful thing." Moyer began his run to the back of the building where he saw the open door.

THE M110 SNIPER RIFLE
was an extension of J. J.'s body. The collapsible stock was extended and fit perfectly in the socket of his right arm. He waited until the first four men ran from the front of the hospital, AK-47s in hand, before he stroked the trigger. He chose the last man out as the first to die. The others had a greater distance to run back to the building.

He dropped a second man when he heard Jose's M4 come to life. A burst of bullets cut down the third. J. J. inched his rifle to the side and put a round high in the man's chest. He staggered back, then twisted to the ground.

THERE WAS AN ENDURING
thought in the Army. Train a man hard and long and when the chips are down, he follows his training more than his instincts. Moyer was in full operation mode. His vision narrowed, his senses became supersensitive, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, fueling every muscle.

Moyer pushed through the back door, kicking bags of garbage and scraps of food. He discovered the reason the back door was open. Someone was getting ready to take out the trash. In Moyer's mind, that was his goal too.

Moyer cut into the first room he encountered: the kitchen. He heard Rich move past to the next room. The kitchen was clear and Moyer emerged into the hall that separated the kitchen from a staff dining area.

Pete was now in the lead as they moved single file down the hall. The hall formed a
T
with another hall. The interior was confusing and ill planned, perhaps changed over the years. Those were questions for others to ask and answer.

The
rata-tat-tat
of automatic fire drew Moyer's attention. It came from his right. Rich moved the same direction, a few steps ahead. He motioned for Crispin and Pete to search the other rooms. The hall led to the front of the building and opened into a small lobby.

Rich lowered into a crouch, then to a knee, and pointed the barrel into the lobby. Four men were firing out windows in the direction of J. J. and Jose.

One of the men fell backward, blood running from his throat. J. J. was on his game. Moyer raised his weapon. One of the men who turned to see his fallen partner caught a glimpse of Rich. He turned and raised his AK-47. He was dead a moment later. Both Moyer and Rich fired. Four bodies lay on the tile floor.

"Lobby clear." The message was meant for J. J. more than anyone. He needed to know that he could save his ammo.

Moyer heard a scream and then a loud bang. Rich fell and rolled to his side, unconscious, the skin along his right temple and over his eye a mess of blood and tissue. Moyer had never seen Rich unconscious. Then Moyer noticed more blood on the floor—his.

The room began to spin. A motion to his right caught his attention: the sole of a boot hit him in the face.

Pain ran down his neck. Driven by instinct, Moyer tried to raise his M4. Through pain-fogged vision, he saw a stout man with a hate-filled sneer on his face and a Russian sidearm in his hand.

"You picked the wrong camp to invade." The heavy accent made it difficult for Moyer to understand. He did, however, know what it meant when an angry man raised a gun and pointed it in another man's face.

Moyer managed two words: "Bite me." Darkness poured into his eyes.

Two sounds drifted into Moyer's brain: "Egonov!" and a very loud bang.