Rogue Code (46 page)

Without thinking her self-defense training took over. She’d been taught to simply act if this ever happened to her. An attacker, she’d been told, is stronger than you, may have a weapon, but he is vulnerable.

Iyers had surrendered utterly to the drives within him. Desires long suppressed were now raging out of control. He was no longer, strictly speaking, human. He wanted to possess, to destroy, to kill.

On his knees, sound coming from his mouth that made no sense, he unbuckled his belt and lowered his trousers. Daryl, no longer feeling his hands on her, forced her eyes to focus. He was standing right there, his legs slightly parted. With all her strength, following her training, she raised her right leg, and before Iyers could react, shot her foot into his groin like a bolt.

The pain coursed through Iyers’s lower body, sickening in its intensity, the nausea almost overwhelming as he doubled up. Daryl pulled her leg up again, then kicked him a second time, now in the face, with everything she had.

Iyers cried out, then rolled away, writhing on the ground, one hand on his broken nose, the other clutching himself. Blood was streaming, clogging his throat, and he thought for an instant that he was choking to death.

Daryl also rolled, then with a sense of urgency, she pushed herself up and onto her feet. Run! Run! That’s what she’d been taught. She looked and could just make out the street beyond the Dumpsters. She could be there in seconds, long before Iyers had any chance of recovery.

She took a step, then another, finding it very hard to move her feet. She was walking like a zombie. She felt naked and held her arms across her body. She took another step, then another. It wasn’t far. She could see cars driving by.

She reached the first Dumpster. Exhausted, she braced her hand on it to draw a deep breath, to gather her strength. Just then, Iyers leaped on her from behind. They fell to the dirty pavement, Daryl trying to push him off, Iyers’s hands clutching at her throat.

He was too heavy, too strong, she knew. This wouldn’t work. She tried rolling right, then left, but the man used his legs to pin her down. In desperation Daryl spread her arms and searched the ground about her, looking for something, anything, to help.

Nothing.

She could no longer breathe, and for just an instant, the thought formed that this was the end, that her life would extinguish in this filthy alley, at the hands of a rapist. She felt a sense of loss, of regret.

Then her right hand had it. She didn’t know what “it” was but it was heavy, with sharp corners. She slammed it against Iyers’s head, glancing off it. His hands relaxed on her throat, and she drew a lungful of welcome air. She struck again, and this time he fell from her.

Daryl struggled to her knees but stayed where she was. He’d come after her again if she ran. He’d come. She knew it. She lifted the object and struck his head again, then again, then again, until finally she knew he wouldn’t chase her, that he’d never chase anyone again.

78

GRUPO TÉCNICO

RUA ADOLFO MOTA

GRANDE TIJUCA

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

12:24
A.M.

Sergio and Paulinho were dead. César could see their bodies in the light of the raging flames. The fire was to the ceiling now and had begun to spread along the walls. Wooden furniture here and there was spontaneously combusting under the intense heat, making sounds like popcorn in a kettle. How many men was he facing? Four, five? He couldn’t tell but surely his team had hit someone. Sergio and Paulinho were too good to have missed entirely.

Bandeira crawled from where he’d been hidden to César, his weapon at the ready. “We have to get out of here before we are burned alive. Have you seen Pedro?”

“No. He’s probably upstairs.”

“I hope you’re right. Rush them,” he ordered. “I’ll cover you.”

Rush? César thought. Yes, stand up, run forward, draw fire, and
chefe
will kill them. And I’ll be dead. He didn’t move.

“I said ‘rush them’!”

Just then, a voice called from across the room. “We’ve got Pedro! Leave us while there’s still time. We’ll be in touch. We’ll release him unharmed afterwards.”

It was Bandeira who answered. “
Filhos de putas!
Release my son now, and you’ll live! Otherwise, you and your families are all dead!”

Bandeira aimed at the direction of Carl’s voice and opened fire. The bullets churned up the woodwork around Carl, rising in an irregular line along the wall, then bore down toward him. Carl rolled away from the lethal spray.

Frank fired three times at the muzzle flash, then an instant later felt a blow to his side followed a moment later by pain. He too rolled away, grabbing at his side.

“
Agora!
” Now! Bandeira ordered and this time César leaped forward, firing as he did.

Across the room Carl saw the figure rise, then rush forward in a crouch. He fired and the man stumbled, then fell. Bandeira opened up on his gun’s flash but Carl had already moved, one bullet stinging as it struck his boot.

On the stairs, Jeff and Pedro were struggling, but one-sidedly as the young man’s hands were behind his back. Still, the young man kept at it, pushing at the American, instinctively trying to shove him the rest of the way down the stairs, into the open, where someone would surely see and kill him.

Though still limited primarily to the walls and ceiling, the fire crawled into the living area. The flames now reached the lower steps of the stairs, blocking them intermittently. The air was filled with heat and smoke, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

Carl moved to Oscar and found him still alive but unconscious. He looked near death. “Come on,” he said, hoping Oscar could hear him. “Time to go.” He took Oscar by his arms and dragged him along, crawling away from the inferno toward the rear door and escape.

Jeff and Pedro continued to struggle. More than once Jeff had Pedro against the railing but each time the young man had found a way off. Finally, Jeff pinned him and shoved with all his strength. The railing gave and Pedro screamed as he was pitched off the stairs, Jeff teetering but managing to keep from falling after him. Pedro plunged backwards fifteen feet, falling headfirst to the floor, where he lay unmoving. His body wasn’t far from Frank who saw at once that the man was dead. So much for the ace in the hole.

“Jeff!” he shouted into his mic, no longer sure the cell phones even worked. “Jeff! Get out of here. I’ll cover.”

Jeff could see Frank below and heard him over the roaring flames.

“Get the others and go!” Frank shouted. “I’ll go out the second floor and meet you outside.”

*   *   *

Lying on the floor, Bandeira watched César die and was stunned. What had he done? His three best men, all dead within minutes. Then he looked up and there were two men struggling on the stairs. Suddenly, one of them, his son, had plummeted to the floor.

He saw another figure bolt across his line of fire but was too shocked to shoot. His son. His only son. He began moving toward him, hardly registering the man in front of him, to his left, pulling someone from the flames. The heat was intense. The acrid smoke bit his nostrils. When he finally reached Pedro, he could no longer see the man.

The salon was becoming an inferno of yellow and red flame. Smoke made it almost impossible to breathe. Bandeira knew if he remained here much longer, he’d be dead. He reached out and touched Pedro’s still face, felt his hair. An image of him as a toddler learning to walk flashed in his mind.

Bandeira forced his mind back to the now. He looked up to the second floor and saw his son’s killer crawling up the stairs, away from the flames and smoke toward the upper office. In a rage, Bandeira aimed and fired, bullets piercing the stairs. He fired his IMBEL MD97 empty, and he dropped it, pulled out the automatic pistol he often carried, and ran to the foot of the stairs, which were nearly engulfed in the fire. He paused, judged the dancing flames, then plunged across, scrambling up the steps, only one thought on his mind. To kill the man who’d murdered his son.

*   *   *

Jeff had seen the bullets lacing through the staircases and thrown himself against the wall. When the firing stopped, he rushed to the second-floor landing as Frank ordered, still clinging to the pistol. The smoke was now so thick, he could scarcely breathe and his throat ached. He turned, instinctively searching for his friends below but could see nothing beyond the bright flames and heavy smoke. He went into the offices, then to the back room and straight to one of the windows.

It was barred against burglary, and he could see no way in the dark of opening it. He stepped back and kicked, then kicked again. Behind him he could hear the fire. All around him the smoke filled the room. He coughed, then gagged. He knew that he’d pass out soon.

At the top of the landing Bandeira suddenly emerged, his clothes smoldering from the flames, his hair singed, his eyebrows nearly burned off. He spotted the figure at the window and fired.

The glass shattered in front of Jeff. He turned and there was Bandeira. Jeff dived to the side, Bandeira snapping off a round as he did. Bandeira reached the doorway, low against the floor, and risked a quick look. Spotting Jeff, he fired again, missing him, then ducked back from the doorway.

Jeff fired in return, then moved his aim and fired twice into the wall next to the door, as if it weren’t there, recalling from his childhood how often bullets easily penetrated seemingly solid objects. But he could see from the holes left in the paint that the interior walls of the mansion were made of brick and plaster and were all but impervious to bullets.

Bandeira rushed through the doorway, firing a snap shot toward Jeff as he did to keep him down, and came to a stop concealed on the other side of the desk.

For a long minute, the only sound was the raging fire. The heat through the floor was intense, and Jeff expected flames to burst into existence any second. Smoke had filled the room like a dense fog.

Out of time, Jeff lowered his face to the floor, could just see his adversary under the desk, his foot, knee, and lower leg. He fired.

Bandeira screamed, rolled in pain, then lay on his back, his head and arm just beyond the desk, he raised his pistol to shoot again. Before he could, Jeff had him in view and fired twice into his chest.

Bandeira let out a low groan. The weapon fell from his hand. He looked out of the office toward the stairs and his dead son. He felt nothing. No pain, no desire. Nothing. And he thought nothing as his life ended.

79

WALL STREET

NEW YORK CITY

12:33
A.M.

Daryl lay with her head against the Dumpster, utterly exhausted, sucking air, grateful just to be alive. The sweet sensation of existence swept through her, nearly matched by enormous relief. She wasn’t going to die. She would live.

She stayed like that for some minutes, unable to move, unable to think clearly, simply being.

Finally, she stirred and as she did the pain returned. It took her a good minute to get to her feet. When she was standing, she saw the dark form not far away. Iyers hadn’t moved. She had no intention of checking on him. He was dead. She knew it.

She spotted her jacket. She’d need it. Not far away was her purse, which had been dragged with her by the shoulder strap. She took them both, clutching them to her breast.

She swooned momentarily. When her balance returned, she reached into Iyers’s pocket and took his badge. That would get her back in the Exchange, and hopefully the night guard wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t a Richard. Then she began walking along the alley toward Wall Street, taking baby steps, stopping whenever the effort was more than she could manage. As she neared the exit there was more light, and for the first time, she considered her appearance.

She couldn’t leave the alley looking like this. Someone would call the police. By the time she explained what happened, the urgency of her work in the Exchange, 3:00
A
.
M
. would have come and gone. By then, it would be too late to stop the operation.

But could she just leave a dead body in the alley in the heart of Manhattan? She laughed, then kept laughing. It happened all the time, why not now?

She got control of herself and began the process of fixing her appearance. She straightened her skirt, brushing off the worst of what clung to it. Her blouse had been ripped apart. She brushed the sleeves of her jacket, then slowly buttoned it in front of her, fixing the white blouse collar so it showed above the jacket. She reached for her hair, realizing at once there was nothing much she could do with it here. She rubbed her hands all over her face.

She removed her mirror from her purse but could scarcely make herself out in the darkness. She put the mirror away and removed her makeup compact. She ran the pad across her cheeks, sure it would be an improvement.

The street was quiet. The life and death struggle in the alley had gone completely unnoticed. She turned right and walked as deliberately as she could to the coffee shop, the bright lights like a welcoming beacon. She pushed open the door and walked into a wave of warm air, humid from the kitchen and bodies, the ripe smell of fast food and coffee almost overwhelming her.

She kept walking toward the rear, where she knew the bathrooms would be. A young waitress carrying paper-wrapped silverware said, “Miss, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

One of the men eating in a booth stared at her as she passed but said nothing; then she was at the restrooms and inside. She went into the stall and sat, holding her head in her hands for a long time, her mind numb. Get yourself together, she said silently. You’ve got work to do yet. You can collapse tomorrow.

She looked in the mirror with alarm. The left side of her face was already bruising and her eye was turning dark. There were livid scratches on both sides of her face. One of her earrings was gone. She removed the other. Her hair was a mess. She let it out entirely, then removed a comb and brush from her purse. When she had it as good as it could look, she removed her makeup compact. She gingerly applied a coat to the bruising, covered the scratches, which stung like hell, then used her pinkie to lessen the darkening around her eye. She finished with lipstick.