Split Second (19 page)

31

Joe Allen and the three other
members of the small team descended from the heavens as inconspicuously as
possible. The large helicopter incorporated two breathtaking new experimental
technologies, one that eliminated noise and one that camouflaged the craft.
These technologies worked so well that unless one was expecting to see the
helo
, it could easily fail to register in the conscious
mind.

Captain Jason Thompson landed on
Soyer’s front lawn as Recinos stood a safe distance away with his mouth hanging
open. How in the world had someone managed to camouflage something so big? To completely
silence a machine that was thunderously noisy by its very nature? Was there
anything science wouldn’t eventually enable mankind to do?

“Well done, Lieutenant Recinos,”
said Allen as he stepped from the just-settled aircraft. At his orders, Laub
and Wilmes carefully gathered up Greg Soyer from the floor of his home and
carried him into the helicopter, and then remained outside to alert Allen if
anyone happened to approach the house.

“Recinos and Thompson,” said
Allen, having remained inside, “just sit tight. I need to get what I came here
for,” he explained, and then he proceeded to tear through Soyer’s office like a
spinning Tasmanian devil out of a Looney Tunes cartoon, leaving no drawer,
painting, or piece of furniture intact.

While he was careful to avoid
shards of glass, halfway through his demolition he was stabbed by a piece and
began bleeding far more excessively than the minor damage it had caused should
have warranted. He was more annoyed that he had to steal a hand towel from Soyer’s
bathroom to staunch the flow, delaying his efforts, than by the actual stab
wound itself.

After fifteen minutes he had
found a half-dozen flash drives, but only one that was password protected. He
put this one in a special steel case and then all six in his pocket.

Joe Allen then gathered the
entire team on Soyer’s front lawn, next to the parked helicopter, his hand
still wrapped in the towel.

“Okay, here’s the plan going
forward,” he said. “Lieutenants Wilmes and Recinos will stay inside the house,
out of sight. Captain Thompson will fly me and Greg Soyer out of here. We’ll
deposit Soyer somewhere safe and then return as soon as possible, landing a few
minutes away and awaiting a signal.”

Allen turned to the hulking soldier
on his left. “Lieutenant Laub, I want you to conceal yourself outside, watching
all approaches to the house. Aaron Blake’s car is still in LA, but we’ve learned
that he isn’t in his apartment, either, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in a
car unknown to us and on his way here. If you see the UPS guy or a few girl scouts
selling cookies, let them ring the bell, and make sure they leave when no one
answers. If you see Aaron Blake or Jenna Morrison, alert Lieutenants Wilmes and
Recinos immediately and stay out of sight.”

Allen paused. “I should also
mention that Soyer has a live-in girlfriend, Alisa
Bonesteel
,
but we’ll be monitoring her and don’t expect her to be a factor. Obviously, if
this changes, we’ll alert you immediately.”

He faced Wilmes and Recinos and
removed two gas canisters from a rucksack, each the shape of a soda can, except
almost three times larger in every dimension, and handed one to each man. “Using
both of these would be overkill. Even a single one is overkill given the size
of this house. But since overdosing isn’t a problem with this particular gas,
don’t be shy.”

Recinos examined the canister he
had been given. Its operation couldn’t be simpler. Pull the pin and throw or
roll the canister.

“Once you two get the word from
Laub that he’s spotted your targets,” continued Allen, “open the front door a
hair, put on your masks, and get out of sight. Make sure the door to Soyer’s
office remains shut, so they can’t see it was tossed. When they enter to
investigate, give them some time to make it to the center of the house. Then
activate the canisters.”

He paused to be sure they were
with him. “Signal us and we’ll be here in a few minutes. I’ll want to spend more
time tearing apart the rest of the house, including every last couch cushion,
mattress, and drawer, just to be sure I have the flash drive I need. But after
this we can all haul our unconscious cargo back to base.”

Recinos sighed inwardly. It was
bad enough having a temporary CO with questionable motives, but even worse when
he was of questionable competence. To be fair, Allen had done well planning the
attack on Soyer, but maybe he had just been lucky.

“Sir,” he said, “with all due
respect, this plan won’t work.”

Allen’s eyes narrowed. “Why do
you say that, Lieutenant?” he asked evenly, and to his credit, he sounded
interested rather than defensive.

“Given Blake’s background and
record, he won’t fall for it. Leaving the door slightly ajar is too obvious a
trap. When he sees this, the
last
thing he’ll do is enter the house.”

“Do the rest of you agree?” said
Allen.

They all nodded yes.

“So what do you recommend, Lieutenant
Recinos?”

“We have to make him work for
it. At least a little. We want him to think we struck here and are now gone, so
he’ll feel comfortable doing a post mortem on the house. Let him figure out we
were here on his own. If he’s half as good as his file says, it’ll be obvious
enough to him without us purposely making it
too
obvious. So keep the front door closed and locked. When he
realizes we were here, he’ll recon the perimeter. When he comes to the slider
in back, he’ll see that it’s been smashed and the office tossed. We’ll stay out
of sight inside. Since it won’t seem to him like we’re inviting him in, he’ll
come in on his own.”

 
Allen considered. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I
believe your analysis is correct. Please proceed accordingly.”

Recinos was surprised by how
well he had taken this. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Since Allen appeared to be so
receptive to his recommendation, perhaps he would try his luck again. “And one
other thing,” he added, gesturing to Allen’s hand. “Before you use the first
aid kit in the helo to bandage that up, how do you feel about donating some of
that red liquid for the cause?”

Allen raised his eyebrows
questioningly.

“And don’t worry, sir,” added
Recinos. “We can make a little of that go a long way.”

32

Blake turned from the busy street
and began to wind his way up the twisted quarter-mile path to his friend’s
home, hoping the aging, dented 2008 Kia Optima he had bought for two grand had
enough power to make it up a short incline without collapsing. He hadn’t
exactly had the time to give it a proper test drive, and the guy he had bought
it from seemed about as trustworthy as . . . well, as a used car salesman.

“I sense you’re a little tense,
Jenna,” said Blake.

“I thought I had disguised it
better.”

“Are you worried about Greg’s
trustworthiness?”

“Not at all. I’m just nervous
about finding out what’s really on that flash drive. Whatever it is, it’s been
the cause of so much violence, so much tragedy.”

“This is true,” said Blake
solemnly. “But we already know the nature of the discovery from Nathan’s
e-mail. We’ll just be getting the nuts and bolts, which only Dan will have a
hope of understanding, anyway.”

Jenna simply nodded as they
reached their destination.

Blake pulled up beside Soyer’s
car and the three passengers walked the short distance to the door in silence.

Blake couldn’t put his finger on
it, but something wasn’t right. When he reached the front door he spun slowly
around. When his eyes came to rest on the middle of Soyer’s front lawn, his stomach
tightened.

This is what he had noticed in
his peripheral vision, what had alerted his subconscious. Either his friend had
just been visited by a dragon, or something else had landed on his lawn and
left telltale indentations in the soft ground.

Other than this, there wasn’t a
hair out of place anywhere. Given the chopper was no longer there, the assault
team that had visited Soyer must have already come and gone. Blake felt bile
rise in his throat as he imagined his friend lying in a pool of blood, his
death entirely Blake’s fault.

Jenna was oblivious to these concerns
and raised her hand to push the doorbell. Blake snatched her wrist with surprising
speed, startling her. Fortunately, she didn’t let out any sound. He leaned
closer to his two companions. “Someone was here,” he whispered. “Probably gone,
but let’s take a look around before we go inside.”

He considered sending them back
to the car but decided against it. The odds were that the safest place for them
was by his side.

“Follow me,” he whispered, even
softer than before, his mouth just inches from their ears. “Be alert. I’ll be
looking in windows. I need you to scan the real estate away from the house when
I do. Tread silently, and no speaking. Tap me if you see something noteworthy.”
The corners of his mouth turned up into an almost undetectable smile. “Unless
we’re about to be shot,” he added, “then scream for all you’re worth.”

Blake began circling the house,
his gun drawn, cautiously peering through windows as he came to them. When he
reached the back of the house the wounded slider made its presence known, with
half of an entire pane now obliterated.

Blake’s jaw clenched tightly.
Along with pieces of glass, Soyer’s office was a wreck. Someone had put it
through a blender. They were too late. The attackers had almost certainly
gotten what they were after.

His friend’s body was not in
sight, nor could he detect any blood. Not that this necessarily meant anything.
Greg Soyer could well be lying dead elsewhere in the house, somewhere that
couldn’t be seen from a window.

Blake motioned for the two
civilians to follow as he carefully pulled a few large shards of glass from
their moorings to enlarge the jagged hole enough for them to enter without
becoming impaled.

When all three were inside, Blake
spent several minutes inspecting the office and listening for hostiles, but was
not rewarded in either endeavor. Finally, he cautiously opened the door into
the main house. Seeing no one, he motioned yet again for Jenna and Walsh to
follow.

Blake began searching the house
methodically, his gun always leading the way. When he reached the family room
he threw open the door to the closet, prepared to fire, but only found a few
light jackets hanging inside.

As they approached the half-open
door to the kitchen, Blake spied remnants of a bloody handprint near the handle,
further sharpening his already heightened sense of alertness. When he reached
the entrance, he rushed through, crouching low as he did, but the room was
empty, and the door on the opposite side leading to the dining room was fully
closed. Jenna and Walsh followed him in, and their mouths hung open as they saw
hints of a trail of blood leading to Soyer’s massive refrigerator, as though
the blood trail had once been extensive, but a hasty clean-up hadn’t quite
managed to get it all.

All three walked zombie-like toward
the refrigerator in horror.

Blake, who was in the lead, shot
up a hand to call a halt, but his companions missed this signal and continued
walking, only stopping when they ran into him.

Blake’s intuition was sending
him an alarm once again. This didn’t feel right. Either the assault team wouldn’t
care about leaving tracks, or they’d be sure to clean up perfectly. There
should be no middle ground. And why would a group this sophisticated stuff Soyer’s
body in a refrigerator?

The appliance was probably booby-trapped,
Blake realized. The tiny
lightbulb
wouldn’t be the
only thing that was activated when they opened the door.

A loud thud sounded as something
large crashed onto the kitchen’s glossy black cooktop, landing among four large
circles etched into the ceramic. Blake wheeled, prepared to fire toward the
small center island, and spotted the newly arrived canister.

The instant he saw it, he
instinctively resisted the urge to draw more air into his lungs. If the gas was
largely benign, this would buy him time. If not, he was dead already.

Regardless, he couldn’t hold his
breath for long.

Jenna Morrison and Dan Walsh
reacted the way any civilian would. They gasped, and their hearts accelerated
explosively, causing them to suck in even more air than usual. Both collapsed
in heaps beside Blake.

Blake darted behind the half-open
door leading from the kitchen to the family room, from which the canister had
been tossed. He flattened himself against the wall and waited, his gun still
drawn. His only chance was that he could hold his breath until whoever was
responsible entered the kitchen to inspect his handiwork.

But after only thirty seconds, Blake’s
lungs were already
on fire
. Perhaps
he had joined the wrong Special Forces unit. Had he been a Navy SEAL he could
have held his breath until the sun set, but breath-holding wasn’t his strong
suit.

At last, fifteen seconds of
agony later, a man walked cautiously through the door, and Blake struck,
clocking him in the skull with his gun, but it was only a glancing blow and the
man retained consciousness. Blake knew he could only hold his breath for ten or
fifteen seconds more, if that. Every cell in his body was now screaming for
oxygen, and only his battle-tested will prevented him from succumbing to this
ultimate, irresistible need.

As the man chopped at Blake’s arm,
forcing his gun to fly into the middle of the kitchen and clatter around the
floor, Blake slapped desperately at his mask, dislodging it from his face.

The man’s eyes widened in panic,
but as he moved to replace the mask over his mouth, Blake jabbed him in the
stomach, causing a reflexive exhalation, followed by a reflexive
inhalation
.

 
The gas took effect instantly.

As the man folded to the ground,
Blake stripped his mask from him and brought it to his mouth. He gasped a
breath, barely clinging to consciousness. The infusion of air sparked him back
to life, and his vitality returned in a rush as he gulped down several more rapid-fire
lungfuls while securing the mask in place.

His mind began hitting on all
cylinders. Were there more hostiles?

If this was his op, he would
have assigned
two
commandos. He would
wait until his quarry was in a contained room, without windows, as they had
done. But this kitchen had two entrances. So he would man
both
, in case a man like Blake managed to hold his breath in time
and race for a window, crashing through to breathable air. So Blake reasoned
there would be another man in the dining room, one who had the sense to wait
longer before entering the kitchen.

Blake scooped up his gun and darted
to the opposite entrance, once again pressing himself flat against the wall,
but this time masked and able to breathe.

Just over a minute had passed
since the canister had been thrown, but it seemed like ten. He was vaguely
aware of time compressing, of his mind being able to operate at superhuman
speed, of events proceeding in slow motion—one of the reasons he was such an adrenaline
junkie.

Then, right on cue, a second man
opened the door from the kitchen to the dining room and entered the kitchen.

“Freeze!” snapped Blake,
pressing his gun into the intruder’s back.

He considered tearing off the
man’s mask and rendering him unconscious, but decided against it. “Drop your
gun,” he barked though his mask, but even as he said this he realized the man
wasn’t holding one. “Get your gun with two fingers and toss it to the other
side of the room,” he amended.

The man did as he was told.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Recinos.”

“How many?” barked Blake.

“Just two of us,” said
Recinos
, nodding toward his fallen comrade on the opposite
side of the kitchen.

“Lie to me again and I put a
bullet in your head. How many?”

“Just two,” repeated the man
without hesitation.

Blake spotted a small, nondescript
tattoo on the man’s neck, just above his shoulders. Kermit the frog, only half
an inch high.

Blake understood its meaning
immediately. The man was a special operator. Green Beret.

Despite what was often depicted in movies and
television, special operators were severely discouraged from getting any unit
identifying tattoos. Often these soldiers sported long hair and beards on
missions overseas to blend in. Being recognized as military in any way could
spell disaster. If a mission went wrong, wearing a tattoo of a SEAL Trident or
Special Forces arrowhead wasn’t the best way to pretend you were a student,
simply visiting your captor’s spectacular third world country.

But some soldiers took to wearing tattoos they
believed only other commandos would recognize. Terrorists wouldn’t connect
Kermit the Frog, if they had any idea who that was, with the Green Berets. But Blake
did. The frog’s catchphrase said it all:
It’s
not easy being green.

So what the hell were an Army Ranger and Green Beret
doing warring in a civilian home in Orange County? It was all insane.

But Blake had no time right now to reflect on the
absurdity. He still had plenty of work to do.

“Remove your mask,” he ordered, “and take a breath.”

“Not going to happen,” said Recinos. “You’ll have to
shoot me first.”

Blake sighed. “Look, I know you’re a Green Beret. Are
you aware I was a Ranger?”

“Yes.”

“Then what the hell are you doing attacking me?”

“I wasn’t told why. And I was assured you weren’t
going to be harmed. If not, I wouldn’t have been a part of this op, regardless
of orders, until I was convinced you were an enemy of the state.”

“You’re being played,” said Blake. “I don’t know
what’s going on, but I’m one of the good guys in this drama. So take off your
mask and breathe. I promise you, you’ll awaken good as new. I swear it.”

Recinos stared long and hard into Blake’s eyes,
weighing his soul. “Okay,” he said finally, reaching for his mask. “And if my
superiors
did
get it wrong, as you
say, I wish you the best of luck.”

“It would help if you would tell me if there are any
men outside.”

Instead of replying, Recinos removed his mask, took a
deep breath, and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Blake verified that Jenna and Walsh were still alive
and then rushed to the front door. He opened it halfway, but stood to the side
in case this attracted gunfire. When none was forthcoming, he crouched low and
screamed as loudly as he could through the opening. “Both of your comrades are
unconscious. Recinos told me you were out here. Surrender in the next ten
seconds and everyone lives. Stay where you are and I put bullets into the heads
of your two friends.”

Blake hoped his acting ability was holding up. For
one, he could well be talking to himself, since there was no guarantee there
was anyone outside, and further, he wouldn’t hurt the helpless men lying
unconscious in the kitchen under any circumstances.

“Okay then!” shouted Blake. “Your mistake! You’ll miss
them when they’re gone. Especially knowing
you
killed them.”

With that he began to swing the door fully closed.

“Wait!” screamed a man, bolting out from behind Soyer’s
Mercedes, his hands raised over his head. “I surrender.”

“Good choice,” said Blake, pushing the door fully open
once more. He was a little surprised there had actually been another hostile.
Good for Recinos. He had protected his teammate under threat of being shot,
never once flinching. Blake was aware there could well be more men lurking
about, but at this point it was a risk he had to take.

He ordered the newcomer inside the house. As he slowly
moved forward, the man shot a quick, furtive glance over Blake’s head and skyward,
but Blake was locked onto his eyes like a laser-guided missile and easily
caught this.