Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller (56 page)

He was about to try and untie her when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, the flash of chrome from a muzzle being raised. Instead, he pushed Alex’s chair over, banking that she’d be safer from gunfire lying on her side; then he rolled out of the way even as Park and the guard opened fire, the bullets pinging off of the walls and concrete, one even ricocheting off the bomb casing. Before they could fully round the corner he was to his feet, balanced and ready. The guard rushed into the area, rifle out in front of him. Brennan grabbed the barrel, shoving it at first down and then, once the gun butt was squarely under the man’s chin, back up towards him, taking the man out with one hard thrust.

He stepped sideways quickly as Park fired two more shots, both missing, then spun into a low leg sweep, taking her feet out from under her, the pistol flying into the corner of the work space.

Park sprung to her feet from her back almost as soon as she hit the ground, at the ready. She crouched low, feet slightly at each side, knees apart, one first splayed across her torso, the other held high to block or offer an open palm technique.

Brennan took a deep, cleansing breath. “Chen style? I hate Chen style.”

“Most people do,” she said, as they circled each other. “It’s hard to hit what you can’t touch.”

He struck quickly, lunging in with a front kick, trying to use his size and speed advantage to close the gap between them before she could react. But instead of moving, Park twisted at the waist with the speed and dexterity of a diver, making herself small, his foot brushing by her. She shifted her weight to her inside foot and kept the rotation going but pulled it in tight, so that she was spinning around his torso in the same motion, her foot pirouetting three hundred and sixty degrees, the torque at her waist snapping it around like a whip, catching Brennan flush in the right hip, striking a nerve and instantly numbing it.

He stumbled sideways as she readjusted her stance, ready for a rapid rebuttal. Brennan shook the blow off. “And that’s why I hate Chen style,” he muttered. “It’s like getting your ass kicked by a ballerina.”

She said nothing, turning her torso away from him to the left as she stepped in, then to the right, his concentration fixed on her body movements and losing track of her hands. A flurry of punches followed, part of a prescribed pattern, Brennan able to block more than a dozen blows in quick succession before, inevitably, one broke through his defense, the open palm catching him in the solar plexus. He turned slightly just at the point of contact, absorbing some of the blow’s strength and avoiding having his wind knocked out, settling instead with half-losing his balance, stumbling backwards. She followed up smoothly with a solid kick to the side of his knee, which he felt give slightly, an instant sprain that send a shock of pain through the nerve.

Brennan backed away, half-limping, creating as much distance as she’d immediately allow. Her technique was near-perfect, he thought. It made it difficult to go on the offensive; Chen style allowed an expert practitioner to use his or her opponent’s weight against them, using locking holds to throw them off balance followed by rapid strikes derived from Chinese boxing.

So he motioned for her to advance, cupping his hand upside down, fingers beckoning her forward. “If that’s the best you’ve got,” Brennan said, “this isn’t going to last long.”

That annoyed Park, and she charged in again, shifting her focus at the last second to his midsection, a flurry of open palm blows designed to weaken his legs via nerve and gut strikes. On the last flurry, as he backed away blocking, Brennan turned sideways, allowing the punch to drift past him, using its momentum to take her by the wrist, turning his hips quickly to toss her half way across the room.

Park absorbed the throw expertly, landing hard but recovering quickly, rolling back to her feet. “Judo? Against a Korean? That’s a little on-the-nose isn’t it, Mr. Brennan?”

“I’ll take whatever you give me,” he said. The truth was, Brennan was an expert; but Park was a master. Her movements looked silken, they were so smooth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alex stirring, trying to fight her bonds. If he was lucky, Brennan thought, she’d manage to get free on her own then get the hell out of there.

The distraction nearly cost him, Park reaching in a smooth motion for her ankle, a throwing knife tossed backhanded as he looked away, the blade skimming by his chin before it lodged in the crate behind him. He pulled it out of the wood and tossed it aside in a show of mock contempt, making sure it landed near Alex.  “Time for us to stop playing around, Park,” he said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

It was time to go on the offensive; counterattacking hadn’t been working, Brennan reasoned. He took a half-step forward then heard the sound just behind and to his left, ducking at the last second as the guard behind him opened fire, the bullets tearing through the nearby table tops. Brennan pushed off the floor, sliding backwards along the polished concrete so that he was beneath the man, facing up. He slammed a pair of fists into the man’s groin, and the guard went down in a weeping mess, clutching his bruised privates.

The man’s rifle clattered to the ground beside him, and Brennan quickly grabbed it. He turned, saying, “Got any more help around…”

It was as far as he’d get; Park pistol-whipped him from behind, sending Brennan back into dreamland.

“What’s the situation, colonel?”

The director was fatigued and had been working since six that morning; but he had no intention of showing it. They’d set up a command post across the parking lot in a tent. The building was surrounded and a pair of Delta Force operatives had gone in for a closer look.

The colonel pointed to the building as he talked. “A truck pulled out about an hour ago with nearly two dozen mercs inside and a bunch of eggheads, maybe Chinese. We waited until they reached the avenue before taking them in. They’re being gone over now by an interrogation unit to see what we can get out of them quickly. We’ve got two guards remaining, at least, there and there, front and side. We’ve got a third in the rafters who will be tough to neutralize; the position is well guarded, above a steel eye-beam. In the back we’ve got four heat signatures, but three of them are on the ground and perhaps unconscious.”

“Eyes on any of our people?”

“Negative, sir. The interior is arranged to make surveillance extremely difficult. With your permission, we’d like to drill a hole for a fiber optic line near the back of the warehouse, so that we can get a proper look.”

“What kind of exposure would that create?”

“Some noise, but minimal. We use a special drill, extremely slow and quiet.”

“How long?”

“Perhaps ten minutes.”

The director checked his watch. It was ten minutes before twelve. “Jonah?” he asked.

“They could be looking at midnight as a target time,” Jonah said. “Or they could wait until the Fourth is in full swing tomorrow, get the maximum psychological effect.”

The director reserved his impatience. “That’s two options. What do you think they’re most likely…”

“I think they could do it at any moment,” Jonah said. “And if they’re professionals, they’ll be aware by now that we’re out here. So time is against us.”

The colonel could tell where the conversation was headed. “I don’t want to send eyes in there blind, sir,” he said. “We’ve had too many past instances where…”

The director held up both hands. “Peace, colonel, peace. Jonah’s not trying to override your idea; we’re just considering the timing. Ten minutes may be five minutes more than we’ve got.”

“We have an alternative,” the colonel said. “We can send in a robot. If we’ve got eyes on us already, the worst that happens is we lose the unit. Best case, it gets to the back of the building and gives us a good look.”

“Do it quickly, colonel,” the director said. “And have your teams ready to go in five.”

Malone woke in stuttering fashion, her eyes barely able to open; her head pounded from the force of the rifle blow and her right shoulder felt numb from the weight of leaning on the nerve for too long.

She was on her side, she realized. Her hands were still bound to the chair; she pivoted her head around and could just see enough to know Joe was unconscious on the floor nearby. There was someone else there, too; a guard, maybe? She tried to shift her position slowly, pulling the chair along with her, doing it slowly to avoid making noise. She managed to turn it forty-five degrees, enough to see the Korean woman working on the device.

Park took a key out of her pocket. Then she opened a small, square panel towards the tail end of the cylinder and slotted the key into a lock; a quarter turn switched on a small green light. The woman turned away from the bomb, walking towards the adjacent table. A series of candles had been set up on its surface, like a small shrine. Several photos were leaning against the candlesticks. She started to light the candles.

The scene reminded Malone of an old war movie, the part in which the Japanese kamikaze pilot prepared himself for death. She looked around, frantically, for something to pry her wrist ties loose.

The throwing knife was nearly flat and she almost didn’t see it, lying in the shadows of the table to her right, just visible out of the corner of her eye. She looked back at Park for a moment, just to make sure she wasn’t paying attention; then Malone began to slowly drag the chair that way, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Park took out a phone and placed it on the table beside the makeshift shrine. Then she took a small square pillow from the tabletop and placed it in front of the shrine. The pillow’s position on the table had obscured a digital clock from view; it read eleven-fifty-seven. Park kneeled on the pillow then leaned forward to light incense that sat in jars next to the pictures. Park raised both hands in front of her in a sign of prayer and closed her eyes.

The knife was almost within her grasp; Malone shuffled the chair a few more inches, before checking on her captor again. Park was immersed in her prayers, having a conversation in Korean with someone. Her God? Her ancestors? Malone didn’t care. She had to reach that knife. It was just six inches from her right hand; her elbow was bruised and hurt like hell from the initial fall and from her attempts to cross the room; Joe was still unconscious. Malone held off a wave of anxiety and hopelessness. She wondered what time it was and how many minutes she had left; she slid the chair another six inches, the wood squeaking loudly enough on the concrete floor to make her wince, but again not drawing Park away from her ceremony. The blade was near her fingertips, as if she could almost brush the handle.

She needed to manoeuver herself around, swivel the chair so that her immobilized hand could grasp the end of the knife between her fingers, lift it off the floor enough to turn it, slide the blade under the plastic restraint.

The digital clock read eleven-fifty-eight.

The Delta Force commander hurried back to the command post, a dark-colored eighteen-wheel truck-and-trailer that was parked on the far side of the warehouse parking lot. The door hissed open for him and he jogged up the three stairs.

Inside, the director and his aides were gathered around a makeshift tactical map of the property.

“Sir,” he said.

“Colonel,” said Wilkie. “What have we got?”

“The robot confirms our initial assessment. The two guards at the front are no problem.”

“But?”

“But the one in the rafters is positioned over a steel girder, more than thirty feet up, and the one in the back is with the device. We have two unconscious prisoners, it appears, including one matching the description of your man Brennan and another of the reporter, Alex Malone. There’s also a guard.”

“Recommendation?”

“Go in hard and fast from three points,” the colonel said, pointing to the map, “here, here and here.”

“Time?”

“Twenty seconds from breach to control, maybe thirty. Might take longer to flush the guard out of the rafters but we’ll have the device by then.”

“Time to disarm?”

“The expert says it can be done quickly, in a matter of a minute, maybe two.”

“Then we go in one minute,” Wilkie said, looking at his watch. “It’s two minutes to midnight, gentlemen. We may be cutting this extremely close.”

Joe was beginning to stir, his body shifting slightly on the floor.

Come on
, Malone thought,
if ever I needed your help it’s now, dammit
.

She pushed the chair a little further using her feet, wincing again as the wood squeaked its way across the polished concrete.

Then she felt it, the slightest of raised edges brushing the fingertips of her right hand. Something metal.

The knife. She grasped frantically for it, only able to use three fingers and a thumb, pincer like. Malone managed to raise its pommel just above the ground… then dropped it, the knife clattering loudly enough to draw Park’s attention. But instead of trying to stop her, the North Korean agent ignored her, turning her head back to the shrine, tears rolling down her cheeks as she submitted to the inevitable.

The clock ticked over to eleven-fifty-nine.

Malone stretched her hand as far as she could in the same vague direction, hitting the thin edge of the knife blade again. She tried to grasp it, pincer-like, between her thumb and forefinger. The blade rose shakily off the concrete… before the weight of it made her finger shake slightly, the blade clattering back to the concrete again.

“No goddamn it!” Malone said. “Just a little closer.”

From the front of the building, she heard the sound of glass shattering, voices. Then there was a bang from the direction of the side door, commands being shouted as a tactical team breached the building. A brief burst of gun fire followed, then another.

Malone glanced back to the makeshift shrine. Park had picked up her cell phone and was dialing.

“They’re too late,” Park said quietly. “In thirty seconds, my employer will detonate  the device. And if that is unsuccessful, I need only to hit ‘send’ and this forsaken nation will burn in nuclear fire.”

Joe groaned a few feet away. “What….”

“Joe, wake up!” Malone said. “Dammit, please Joe!” She tried to pick the knife up again and managed to grasp it, before turning it so that the handle was in her palm, the blade under the wrist tie. She tried frantically to saw it back and forward, but the knife’s edges weren’t sharp enough and she wasn’t getting enough leverage.

The clock ticked over to midnight.

Park held her arms to either side and looked up, but with her eyes closed, a look of serenity on her face. “It’s time,” she said.

She stood silently. Malone was frozen, her eyes flitting between the clock and Park, expecting a momentary flash, a blinding heat, anything. From thirty yards away she could hear footsteps, boots on the ground, pounding their way towards the back of the building.

Park glanced down at the bomb, its gleaming chrome sullied only by the small square opening where she’d removed the switch panel.

Footsteps echoed along the corridor approaching them, soldiers’ boots. Park looked down at the clock again, then at the device. She looked anxious, obviously worried that the bomb hadn’t been triggered already.

She unlocked her phone with a finger swipe.

“No!” Malone yelled. “Please… please, I have a family, friends…”

“It’s better this way,” Park said. “It will all be over very, very quickly. You won’t feel anything.”

The tactical team reached the corner of the work space, the lead poking his head and muzzle around the corner. “This is the government of the United States. Everyone here is under arrest. Get down on the ground, with your hands on your head.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Malone,” Park said with a half smile, her face slightly sad.

She pushed the ‘send’ button.