Power Down (16 page)

The chopper suddenly tilted left. The main chopper blade arched to the side, toward a line of armed gunmen, who scattered before the blade ripped the air where they had just stood. Dewey braced himself for what he thought would be the impact of the blade striking the rooftop, but the pilot pulled back, steadying the chopper. Holding his knee with his mangled hand, he managed to continue a wobbly descent. The chopper bounced and weaved in the air just a few feet above the building. The gunmen, who’d just evaded the out-of-control blade, dived for cover again, yelling. The front right skid of the helicopter banged the pad roughly.

Dewey aimed the pistol at the pilot’s other knee and fired. The scream was deafening. The chopper lifted momentarily, less than a foot off the ground, arched backward, then started to sweep around out of control counterclockwise.

“
Pull up!
” yelled Dewey.

The pilot was now covered in his own blood. The helicopter continued to rise in a semicontrolled veer.

“The black building.
Now!
”

As the pilot eased the chopper away from the rooftop, one of the gunmen charged, machine gun aimed squarely at Dewey.

He was a big man, at least six five, and had curly dark hair and sunglasses. He was yelling at the pilot as he aimed.

Dewey kept the Colt in his right hand aimed at the pilot’s head. In his left hand he held the pilot’s gun. He crossed his left hand beneath his right arm and fired through the door of the chopper. He missed. Fired again. This shot struck the gunman squarely in the forehead. The top of his head came off like a saucer as the man jerked backward from the force of the shot.

“
Get us out of here!
” yelled Dewey.

As the chopper climbed, the remaining gunmen opened fire. The windshield shattered and bullets ricocheted around the cabin. Slugs hit the chopper’s blades, its engines, and its tail. Dewey ducked as low as he could as the pilot pulled the chopper laterally away from the building, then higher into the sky. The chopper was struggling. The engine sputtered.

“We’re not going to make it,” said the pilot.

The helicopter frame vibrated furiously. The whole machine pitched violently to the left. Smoke enveloped the sky in a cloud of dark black.

“
I can’t hold it!
”

The chopper circled uncontrollably downward shrouded in black, as the engine coughed and the main rotor struggled to keep the chopper in the air.

A stray bullet tore into the pilot’s head, snapping his skull sideways.

Dewey grabbed the stick, but it was no use. Even if he knew how to fly a helicopter, it wouldn’t have mattered. The machine was out of control. It gyrated and dropped uncontrollably downward in a storm of smoke.

As the chopper dropped, it careened toward a smaller, half-constructed building, a skeleton of steel girders tarped in bright orange construction web and debris netting. Its row of girders punctured the air like steel teeth. The chopper continued soaring in a sideways bender, smoke coughing in plumes behind it, toward the corner of the girders. Dewey held on to his seat for dear life as the impact came. The chopper struck down violently into the building. The sound was deafening as steel met steel. The destroyed chopper wedged upside down into a row of girders, one of which stabbed a line through the engine block like a knife through butter. Soon, the smoke was joined by flames, which burst out from a fissure of the main fuel tank.

Dewey quickly scanned the scene. In the aftermath of the crash, the helicopter hung like a Christmas ornament on an extended girder at the edge of the half-constructed building, at least twenty-five stories above the crowded streets of Cali.

The front of the helicopter was aimed skyward. The cabin glass was shattered and for the most part gone.

Dewey looked for his gun and found it beneath the seat. He belted it and felt for his knife. Still sheathed at his calf.

He stood on the back of the seat. The chopper swung precariously back and forth on the steel axis. He lifted himself up. He pulled himself onto the steel girder, out of the helicopter cabin.

The cars directly below him looked like toys.

Dewey knelt atop the steel bar and looked up. A line of gunmen peered down at him from the taller skyscraper, training their weapons. Suddenly, shots rang out. A bullet dinged the girder just in front of his outstretched arm. He had to move. He shimmied away as quickly as he dared and didn’t look down.

Then, like a hard kick, a bullet hit him in the left shoulder. It nearly sent him careening off of the steel beam. But he held on. The girder was the only thing separating him from a free fall to his death. The bullet had punctured the top of his left bicep near the shoulder joint. The wound, which seemed to have missed bone, now bled freely. Dewey lay on the girder for a moment, testing the strength left in his arm. With a groan he resumed his shimmying, leaving a trail of blood behind. Finally he climbed down onto a cement floor and found the construction area was deserted. He grabbed a filthy rag from the ground. He tied it around his arm to stem the bleeding.

Dewey looked back one last time. The gunmen were out of sight, but they’d soon be hunting for him in the streets. He turned and walked into the abandoned building, past piles of steel girders and pallets of lumber, toward the stairwell that would deliver him to the anonymous streets of Cali twenty-five stories below.

MARKS’S SKI HOUSE
ASPEN, COLORADO

Teddy Marks sat in the leather armchair, staring at the flames burning in the stone fireplace in front of him. In his right hand he held a glass half filled with eighteen-year-old Talisker single malt, a thick Cohiba cigar in his left. Plumes of gray smoke wandered up softly toward the ceiling.

A winter snowstorm blew hard outside, the snow accumulating like a white blanket across the dark Colorado mountains. Marks pulled the leather hassock closer and rearranged his feet on top of it. The song “Jessica” by the Allman Brothers played softly in the background. He took another sip of his scotch, quietly contemplating the perfection of the moment.

On a large, dark red chesterfield in front of the fireplace, Nicholas Anson sat with his wife, Annie. Each held a glass of red wine.

“You sure you don’t mind the smoke?” Marks asked.

“Not at all,” said Annie Anson. “I kind of like it. Nick used to smoke cigars. I’m glad he quit, but I miss the smell sometimes.”

Marks nodded. “This place sits empty ninety-five percent of the time. Drives me crazy. I’m glad you could come this weekend. We deserve some R and R, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do,” Anson said, smiling. He took a sip from his wineglass.

Marks had bought the place five years before, a sprawling old farmhouse in the foothills above Aspen. The place had cost him nearly seven million dollars. Tonight, sipping the peaty-flavored scotch, puffing on a cigar, he could only think it had been worth every penny.

Less than a quarter mile away, a solitary dark figure slipped methodically through the Colorado woods. He’d snowshoed in from a logging road more than ten miles away, tracking across a deserted swath of old growth on the backside of Snowmass. The dark black celluloid of his coat blended against the surrounding pines like camouflage, rendering the man virtually invisible to anyone who might be looking for him there. No one was. Jutting out from his head, ATN PS15-4 night-vision goggles allowed him to see the snow-shrouded landscape as in daytime, but with an apocalyptic green hue behind everything.

The storm had been unexpected, but it made his concealment all the more complete. Otherwise, it was neither a benefit nor a distraction. Simply another factor in a mission he’d been planning for more than three years.

At the edge of the pines, he saw the first sign of the Marks estate, the old barn. Beyond that, he knew, he would find the big stone farmhouse.

The man moved to the corner of the barn and removed the snowshoes, leaving them at the western corner of the barn. Without the snowshoes, the snow now surrounded him up to his waist. But that didn’t matter.

As he climbed through the drifts, he ran one last time through the file on Marks.

Marks had spent most of his career at KKB, beginning as an oil futures trader with the company at age twenty-five. He did his undergraduate work at Ohio State in only three years, then got an MBA at night from the University of Chicago. His rise at KKB had been rapid.

The relevant part of Marks’s career for the assassin had occurred before Ohio State. In 1969, at the age of eighteen, Marks enlisted in the Navy after reading about how badly America was losing the battle in the jungles of Vietnam and Cambodia. After basic training at Naval Station
Great Lakes, he was asked to join the Navy SEALs, a program of elite fighters who received training in all-terrain warfare: sea, air, and land. After a year of brutal training, Marks and the rest of his team were sent to Vietnam. His team ran infiltration, exfiltration, and search-and-destroy missions deep in the Cambodian jungles.

The assassin removed the night-vision goggles and clipped them to his belt pack. He pulled a pair of wire cutters from a coat pocket and at the side of the red barn opened a small door on the front of a gray metal box. Reaching in, he quickly clipped the phone lines to the house.

The terrorist reached into his coat and removed his weapon, a heavily customized Taurus Cycle 2 semiautomatic handgun with a small, hand-forged custom snubnose black silencer screwed to the end. He moved from the barn through the waist-high snowdrift. At the corner of the home, he inched to the window. Inside, a fire blazed warmly; near it sat his target, Marks, plus a tall man with a receding hairline in a denim shirt and a woman with sandy-colored hair holding a wineglass. They would be collateral damage.

Marks and his guests couldn’t have arranged themselves any more conveniently. The intruder took a step back from the window, lifted the gun, and aimed at Marks’s head.

It may have been something as insignificant and fleeting as a reflection off the side of his crystal glass. Or perhaps it was the faint whisper of movement in the snow outside the window. Maybe it was just instinct. But in that one instant, as the killer raised his weapon and prepared to fire, Marks felt fear in his heart the likes of which he hadn’t felt in years, not since Cambodia; terror he’d known, hated, worked every day since to put behind him and forget about. It was the terror of the hunted.

Marks reeled forward. Like a deer lurching from a hunter, he threw himself out of the leather armchair at the same moment the window behind him shattered. He landed chest first on the hard pine floor, but one slug had found its mark, striking him squarely in the shoulder.

Nicholas and Annie Anson barely had time to react to the gunfire. They watched, stunned, as Marks leapt to the ground. Blood arced from Marks’s shoulder and splattered across their laps before they had any notion of what had happened. By that time, the killer had targeted
them. Two shots to Nick Anson’s head, two more into Annie Anson’s chest.

Marks had felt the searing burn of a bullet before. He was hurt, he knew, but he could still move. His premonition had bought him time. He registered the Ansons’ deaths peripherally as his instincts raced ahead of his thoughts. He would have to kill this one, he knew, if he wanted to live.

Outside, the assassin moved quickly around the corner of the house. He couldn’t tell if he’d killed Marks. He pushed through the snowdrift as fast as he could, inserting another clip into his Taurus.

Marks’s shoulder spasmed in agony. As he lay on the hardwood floor, he looked down at his shoulder, concerned by the unabated flow of blood. It spilled onto the ground like water.

He knew that to survive, he couldn’t dwell on his injury, and he couldn’t stay still. Whoever was out there was a professional. He would not leave until he’d completed his job.

Marks looked up at the fire. His eyes roamed to the wall next to the large stones of the fireplace. There, he saw the big bay window that looked out on the mountain. From behind that window, the killer would have a perfect line of fire. Marks crawled out of the room.

By the time the killer moved through the deep snow around the corner of the house, a minute had passed. When he reached the bay window, the target was gone.

The killer knew the mission bore risk; Marks was not a soft target. Paranoia crowded his mind. He knew the importance now of acting quickly to end this. He couldn’t allow Marks the time to react.

He punched his gloved hand through the window. Reaching up, he unlatched the lock and raised the window. Holding the gun in his left hand, the killer placed both arms through the window to pull himself through.

As he pulled his torso over the windowsill, the killer looked suddenly to his right. Marks, covered from neck to waist in blood, was
coming at him. Marks’s left arm was immobile, bleeding profusely. His right swung the iron poker from the fireplace with brutal force onto the killer’s skull. The killer heard himself cry out. As the assassin wriggled the rest of the way in, Marks swung the poker again. Shoulder. The gun fell out of the killer’s hand and slid across the hardwood floor and into the fireplace, resting atop the hot coals near the grate.

Marks raised the iron poker again. He stepped forward, anticipating the final blow to his attacker, and swung with fury. But Marks’s foot suddenly slipped in the pool of blood on the ground. His balance shifted, the slice of the iron through air came down awkwardly, slower, and the killer anticipated it. He reached up, tore the iron from Marks’s hand as it came down.