Running Blind (21 page)

She watched for several more minutes, then keyed up a program—and
bam!

It reverted back to something she hadn't even tried to access.

What the
heck
was going on?

She keyed in the part of the network that ran the cameras and saw what appeared to be a great deal of camera activity—as if someone was searching the facility the same way she and Cooper had searched earlier today, when they wanted to get a look into the “No Admittance” room. Was this activity pre­programmed as part of weekend surveillance?

Then an unfamiliar command scrolled across the screen. Based on her previous explorations, it might have something to do with the fourth floor. Corbet's lab?

Was Corbet somehow manipulating the cameras? Or was he using such a large volume of the server's capacity that the system couldn't function properly? It hardly seemed likely, but she was going to find out.

But first, she had to go back to her room for the notes she'd taken when she'd isolated the camera for Corbet's lab. Without them, it could take hours to find that specific camera again.

Flashlight in hand, she opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

And stopped cold when she heard footsteps. In the stairwell. Where none should be, in the almost-empty facility.

Heart slamming, she eased back into the janitor's room, turned off the lights and the flashlight, and stood there, the door open a crack, her heart beating so hard and fast she felt light-headed.

The stairwell door opened. Then closed.

Relax. Relax. It's only the security guard.

But some sixth sense told her to stay quiet. So she did—and she thought about the computer glitches and the cameras searching the floors.

Feeling a sudden urge to contact Cooper, she reached for her earbud—and realized she'd left it in her room after her shower.

She squinted through the tiny crack between the doorway and the frame . . . and saw a dark figure. Carrying a big gun.

Then he spoke.

And it sure as hell wasn't English.

She didn't know what he'd said or whom he'd said it to—maybe he had a radio—but that language had no place in the bunker.

So close to panic now that she thought she'd pee her pants, she forced calming breaths, waiting for him to continue down the hall.

When she no longer heard footsteps, she counted to ten.

Then she counted again.

Only because she had to get to Cooper did she find the courage to leave the room. She inched the door open, carefully checked to make sure the hall was empty, searched and found the little red eye that was the surveillance camera, and waited until it swiveled in the opposite direction from the living quarters.

And then she ran like hell.

35

“Wake up!”

He wasn't asleep, for Pete's sake. He'd just lain down to rest his eyes for a sec.

“Cooper! For God's sake, Cooper. Wake
up
!” A hand smacked his face hard.

He reared straight up in bed. “What?”

Then he saw her face, and the cobwebs cleared real quick.

He shot off the bed, gripped her shoulders with both hands, and held her steady. “Settle down. Tell me what's got you so spooked.”

“A man. In the stairwell.”

“Yeah. Probably the gua—”

“
Not
a guard,” she cut in sharply. “Not
our
guard, anyway. He wasn't speaking English.”

He instantly clicked over to red alert. “What was he speaking?”

“Russian.”

He slid into his pants, stepped into his boots, and pulled a shirt over his head. “You sure?”

“Had to be. I was in the janitor's office, checking whether the computer worked there, because something hinky was going on with my tablet.”

Hinky
did not sound good. “Hinky how? And make it fast.”

“I couldn't keep control of it. I thought maybe there was a problem with the network port in my room. But now I think someone's manipulating the computers, because the same thing happened when I tried to use the computer in the janitor's room. The surveillance cameras are being manipulated, too, so that means there's more than one unknown person here.”

Coop swore under his breath as he quickly tied his boots.

“What do we do?”

“
We
don't do anything. You stay here. I'm going to go check it out. Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me. Got it?”

She nodded like a bobblehead.

“Deep breaths, Rhonda. And put in your earbud.”

•    •    •

Coop didn't travel with weapons on security gigs, and he sure as hell wished he had one now. He made sure his Emerson knife was in his pocket, ready to go. The blade was short but tough enough to cut himself out of a crashed airplane if the need arose.

Conscious of where the security cameras were pointing, he slid into the hallway, eased along the wall, then hotfooted it to the stairwell door.

He cracked open the door and listened carefully. He hated stairwells and this was his second “fatal funnels” of the week. Even someone shooting blindly could get lucky with a wild shot. They also had a lot of dead spaces to set up an ambush.

And there it was.

The sound of someone breathing. Then muttering into a radio. Rhonda was right about the language. Coop's Russian vocabulary was fairly limited, but he recognized it when he heard it.

Sonofabitch.

Somehow this guy had breached the building. And Rhonda was right: if there was one, there were more. The facility was under attack.

He dragged a hand roughly over his jaw, assessing his options.

Slim and none. He had a single-blade knife, the element of surprise, and a woman with no experience in hand-to-hand combat.

So, bottom line, he was on his own. First order of business: reduce his opponents by one. Then arm himself with more than a pocketknife.

The Russian was on the landing above him, still speaking into a radio. Had he lifted it from the main entrance, or had he taken out one of the weekend guards? His money was on the latter, which meant he was most likely dead.

Very quietly, Coop pulled out the Emerson, then ran the back side of the blade across the metal framework of the stairs just above his head, making a scratching noise.

That should do it.

The Russian went silent and then started down the stairs. When he hit the last step and wheeled around the corner, Coop jumped out from under the steps, startling him enough that he lost focus.

Coop chopped the rifle barrel of an M4 away, stepped into the Russian, and jammed his knife into the soft spot beneath his ear. He twisted the blade, and the man sagged against him, dead before he hit the floor.

He quickly searched the body—standard-issue gear from the U.S.A.—and felt sick to his stomach. Had he killed an American soldier?

Then he ripped open the dead man's shirt, saw the tattoo on his chest, and knew exactly what he was dealing with.

Spetsnaz. Former Soviet Union special forces. They made the KGB look like newborn puppies.

The radio crackled.

He was fluent in Farsi and Arabic but knew only a little Russian—but he'd bet his life that this was a routine check-in. On a deep breath, Coop picked up the radio, keyed the mike, and took a shot at it. “Yes, I am fine,” he said in Russian.

At least, that's what he hoped he said, and he counted on the static from the mike covering his horrible accent.

After a lengthy pause on the other end, the radio squawked again.

Okay. Whatever the guy said was beyond him. Time to beat feet.

He slung the dead Russian's rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his extra magazines, and, dodging the camera, dragged the body back down the hallway of the living quarters.

“Oh, my God.”

He looked up and saw Rhonda in the hall.

“I told you to stay inside. Since you didn't, hold the door open.”

She stood back as he dragged the body into the room. “Russian?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“'Fraid so. Former Spetsnaz.”

He pulled back the man's shirt and showed her the tattoo of a bat on a yellow and blue field with Cyrillic letters surrounding it.

“That's their gang tat. These are hard-core warriors, the Russian equivalent to the Navy SEALs but a lot meaner and without any integrity.”

“So we're under attack.”

“Hell, yes.”

He quickly stripped the body of the harness containing more ammo pouches and put it on. Then he slid the dead Russian under the bed. He'd hoped to find a handgun so he could arm Rhonda, but no such luck.

“How did they get in here?” she asked.

“Best guess? High-altitude, high-opening parachutes. Radar can't detect them. They land inside the perimeter—don't have to deal with the guards on the fence that way. Take out the three guards patrolling the building, use their ID to gain entry. Done deal.”

“I don't suppose now is a good time to point out that you're the only thing standing between God knows how many Russians and Eagle Claw?”

He had to grin. “You stated that obvious point very well.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked, clearly scared to death but with enough fire in her eyes that he knew she was hanging in there.

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Past the wild eyes and the messy hair, past the natural beauty that would always take his breath away. He had to get her out of this. He had to get them
both
out of this, because he damn sure wasn't through with this woman. And he had to keep the Russians from getting Eagle Claw, or there wouldn't be a world left for him and her to really get to know each other in.

“Okay,” he said, coming up with a plan. “I don't know how many we're up against, but if I'd planned this op, I'd run it lean. Maybe three men positioned outside. One man on each floor to take out the guards. A couple of computer techs to gather data off Corbet's computer. Two, maybe three more, just for insurance. So maybe thirteen. Now twelve. And I'd want to get in and get out fast.”

He thought for a moment. “If I can get you to a computer, can you gain control of the cameras and the system again?”

“Damn right I can.”

“Then that's our first priority. You man those cameras, help me find our bad guys, so I can take them out, and let me know if they're getting close to Corbet. We can't let these bastards get their hands on him or anything to do with Eagle Claw.”

“You're going to take out thirteen . . . or, for all we know, thirty men? By yourself? What about the guards? If I can locate them, they can help.”

He didn't want to tell her but didn't have much choice. “The guards are dead, Rhonda. Otherwise, the Russians wouldn't have control of the computers and feel free to roam the halls. And they're going to come looking for their silent friend here real soon, when he doesn't check in.”

Her eyes got wider—then she threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

Please, God, let her be wrong.
“Steady, now,” he said.

She gave him a firm nod.

“Atta girl. Now, stay with me. We've got to move fast to have any chance of getting on top of this.”

Watching the camera, they slid out into the hallway, keeping along the wall. When it was clear, he hustled toward the stairwell door, opened it slowly, and, satisfied that the landing was empty, ducked inside. Like a good soldier, she stuck to him like a shadow.

“Stay here,” he whispered, then made sure the stairwell and the next landing were clear before he motioned for her to join him.

He followed the same process up to level three, where he found another Russian standing guard in the hall outside the stairwell door.

He motioned for Rhonda to stand back. Then he cracked open the door and rattled out the only Russian phrase he knew with rock-solid certainty. “Hey, baby, come here often?” And he let the door click shut.

Half a heartbeat later, the Russian ripped open the door and burst into the stairwell.

Coop cracked him on the head with the rifle, then spun him around, grabbed his mouth to keep him quiet, and jammed his Emerson knife into his kidney and twisted, severing the abdominal aorta. The Russian shuddered, then went limp and bled to death internally. One fewer bad guy to hunt.

Coop lowered the body to the floor, then stood and saw Rhonda's horrified stare.

He knew that look. He'd worn it the first time he'd seen an enemy combatant killed. Couldn't be helped.

They had to keep moving. He quickly stripped the body of ammunition and handed Rhonda the guard's rifle. He'd expected her to hold the M4 at arm's length like it was a snake, but she pulled herself together, expertly checked to see if it was loaded, and slapped the bottom of the magazine to make sure it was fully seated.

“Oh, man. Now you've done it. I am
so
turned on.”

She ignored him. “What's next?”

“We get you to a computer.”
And out of harm's way.

He glanced out into the hallway to the administrative floor. All was clear.

“Let's go.”

Using his key card, he opened the door to the first room he came to.

“This guy has a high pay grade,” he murmured as they walked into an executive suite, complete with an aircraft-carrier-sized desk, wood paneling, an “I love me” picture wall, and other executive toys.

“This'll do,” she said as she crossed the room, set her rifle on the desk so she could get at it quickly, and piled the ammo pouch next to it. Then she settled into the plush chair and turned on the computer. “I'm going to
own
this network. These guys are toast.”

God, he loved her grit. “I'll be back in time for cocktails, darling.”

“Just take care of you,” she said sternly.

He tapped his earpiece radio. “Keep in touch. And keep that rifle in arm's reach.”

With that final order, he slipped out the door and went on the hunt.