The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (11 page)

A spasm ripped through his head. Wincing, he almost dropped the screwdriver, then as quickly as it came it was gone.

Not good, he thought. Working efficiently, he unscrewed the panel and set it aside, too. Above was darkness. He had been through the crawl space before as part of his maintenance duties. There were steel mesh walkways, I-beams, and in some cases precious little space to maneuver. The crawl spaces were dusty, moldy, and unpleasant.

He dropped back down to the ground and checked to see if any of the dead agents were still carrying their firearms. A quick search revealed that they were not. Coffee must have taken them.

Derek thought for a moment. Because he had known that his tool-box would be searched periodically as he tried to work, he had not kept a gun in it. Instead, over the eight months he was here he had stashed three weapons in each of the main buildings. The problem, he reflected, was he was currently in the Cheyenne Center. He had strapped a Sig Sauer P226R tactical combat handgun to a corner of the underside of the ballroom stage and camouflaged it beneath a matching wooden box.

He was a long ways from that gun. And even farther from the other two guns he had hidden in the other two buildings.

Derek pawed through his toolbox, settled on a lug wrench, a screwdriver, and his flashlight. There was also the flashlight on the keychain he had lifted from Agent Creff. Wishing that he had stowed some Tylenol, or even better, Percocet, in his toolbox, he clambered up through the hole into the crawl space. Carefully he set the panel and insulation back in place, plunging the space into nearly perfect darkness.

Derek turned on the flashlight and checked out the new terrain. He stood on a narrow, steel-mesh catwalk, about two feet wide. Although it ran straight into the distance, he couldn’t remain on it because the contractors and engineers had placed the ductwork, pipes and wiring every which way, crisscrossing the catwalk, thoroughly blocking the path.

Metal hangers were bolted into overhead subfloor, maintaining a steel framework for the dropped ceiling. He knew from experience that they would maintain his weight, but for how long was always the question. They weren’t designed to hold the weight of a 185-pound man.

Orienting himself, he quietly paced down the catwalk, stepping over wires and conduits until he noted that he had to climb over part of a wall. It wasn’t a support wall so it didn’t run to the ceiling above him, but there was only about two feet of clearance. Less, actually, he saw, because somebody had run thick insulated electrical cables over the wall at the nexus of the catwalk.

Derek flashed the beam around, looking for a safer alternative. He saw nothing. With a silent sigh he approached the wall and studied the electrical cables. They looked completely insulated. If they weren’t, this would be the shortest terrorism counteroffensive in history.

He straddled the wall, slipping over the cables, trying not to touch them, but finding it inevitable. His back pressed against the rough concrete of the crawl space ceiling above him. He was squeezed against the cables.

Then he was over, balancing again on the catwalk. If he was right he was now above the kitchen area. Murmured voices wafted up from below.

Derek sprawled on the catwalk and tried to peer through the cracks to see down below. He could see nothing. He considered that problem for a moment, retrieved the Phillips screwdriver from his tool belt, leaned over and slowly began to drive a tiny hole into the plasterboard ceiling square.

He took his time, not wanting to create any noise or pop through
suddenly. After a minute he felt the material give and he gently pushed the screwdriver through and pulled it back out. A pencil-sized beam of light shot upward past him.

Leaning precariously off the catwalk he pressed his eye against the tiny hole.

His range wasn’t so hot, but he could see more than he expected to. He was directly above the part of the kitchen where the catering staff was gathered. Apparently they were all being held in one area. Most of the crowd was sitting on the floor in their white smocks and black pants, looking toward someone. A handful were standing. He recognized Maria instantly. She didn’t look happy. She stood facing someone, her expression fierce, her posture defiant. She rattled off something in Spanish that was entirely too fast for Derek’s limited Spanish skills. He recognized the tone and he recognized the word jódale, which he knew meant “fuck you.”

Easy, Maria. Don’t screw with—

A man in dark clothes appeared in his line of vision. He seemed familiar. Derek thought he was somebody on the catering staff. The man still wore the black shoes and pants, but he had removed the white smock to reveal a black turtleneck. Swarthy, with short dark hair, he now carried an assault rifle. From the looks of the collapsible stock Derek thought it was an MP-5. In guttural Spanish the man snarled, “¿Cierre la boca, la ramera! ”

Derek wasn’t sure what that meant, but he thought it was along the lines of, “Shut your mouth, bitch!”

And then the terrorist backhanded her, knocking her to the ground. Blood trickled from her mouth, and she stared at him in a mixture of fear and defiance.

The terrorist raised the MP-5 and aimed it at Maria.

Derek grabbed his wrench, lurched to his feet on the catwalk and jumped onto the ceiling panel. With a crash the panel exploded into fiber-board splinters, and Derek dropped straight through toward the ground.

Secretary James Johnston sat around the long maple table in the White House Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC) located in the basement beneath the East Wing. He wasn’t alone. The vice president was there along with the national security advisor, the director of the FBI, the attorney general, the director of the Secret Service, the director of the CIA, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. All eyes were on a live feed from the Cheyenne Center, which was currently blank. All ears were attuned to a secure line from Colorado.

Secret Service agent Lawrence Swenson, now running the show in Colorado, was providing a calm and clear update that didn’t quite mask that Swenson was the ad hoc leader in charge of the biggest terrorist cluster fuck in U.S. history.

“— thirty-five dead at Checkpoint Delta at last count, mostly protestors. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what happened, but Brigadier General Cole is dealing with that. The rumor is that the shooters weren’t real Colorado National Guard, but we haven’t— Hang on.”

Johnston looked at Attorney General Norris Penderton, a sinewy bit of a Texan who always wore sunglasses when he wasn’t on camera. He wore them now in the gloomy PEOC, chewing hard on a wad of nicotine gum, sun-weathered face a study in intensity. Penderton leaned over and muttered, “Can’t decide if Veep Newman’s scared shitless or happy as a pig in shit.”

Alexander Newman was the vice president, and Johnston wasn’t sure either. Newman had been a senator from Alabama prior to election, and he wasn’t considered a particularly viable candidate for president in the next election, even though the party would almost have to support him. A competent enough administrator, the guy lacked charisma, was stiff and wooden on camera. He was as ambitious as any other D.C.
pol— which is to say he’d fuck a snake and kill his mother, or vice versa, if it would get him elected president of the United States— but he wasn’t a man who instilled confidence in the people around him, which went double for the professional crisis managers who were currently sharing the stage with him.

Swenson came back on the secure line. “We’ve got confirmation. The four Colorado National Guardsmen originally assigned to Checkpoint Delta have been found dead. Their bodies were in the Humvee, and initial impressions are they’ve been dead for some time.”

Johnston said, “Agent Swenson, this is Secretary Johnston.”

“Yes sir.”

“What happened to Agent Lee Padillo?”

Static crackled across the line. Swenson said, “We’re not sure, sir.”

“Why is that?”

“Sir, Padillo was in the Security Center in the International Center. We have lost contact with Padillo and with the Security Center overall. All three buildings in the complex have been isolated from each other. The Security Center is locked down, and we’re still trying to access the International Center’s security system. There appear to be new codes to the security overrides.”

“Do you think Padillo is part of this terrorist attack?” Johnston asked.

“Sir … Sir, I honestly don’t know, sir. We’re still— sir, the feed’s coming back on.”

The cameras from the Cheyenne Center ballroom clicked back on. Vice President Newman said, “Oh my God!”

On the screen they saw the twenty major world leaders propped in chairs, explosive devices strapped to their chests. For a moment the screen was blocked by a tall, dark-haired man moving away from the cameras toward the terrorist they knew as The Fallen Angel.

FBI Director Sean O’Malley said, “I want information on every single terrorist we see. We know who Coffee is, but who’s that guy?”

CIA Director Lynn Ballard had a phone to his ear. “We’re on it.” He glanced at the screen and said, “Holy shit!”

Everyone’s attention turned to him. Ballard pointed a finger. “That’s Mikhail Alexandrov! He’s with the FSB! He’s with The Fallen Angels?”

Johnston’s voice was low. “Coffee was noted for recruiting from within the ranks of intelligence agencies worldwide.”

“But Alexandrov? I know him! I—” Ballard trailed off, expression stunned.

On the screen they watched the dark-haired man talk to Coffee, then walk away. Johnston murmured, “Whoever he is, he acts like the second in command.”

Coffee moved toward the cameras until his image filled the screen.

“I am The Fallen Angel. This is our first demand.” He paused. Silence stretched like taffy, tension increasing as every second ticked by. Finally: “It is exactly 11:00 A.M. Mountain Time. The United States government has twenty-three of my fellow Angels in custody at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. All twenty-three of them must be released by noon, 12:00 CMT. They are to be given two fully fueled Pave Hawk HH-60 helicopters with filled auxiliary fuel tanks. They are to be released by noon with clear passage across the Gulf of Mexico into Colombian airspace. Several of The Fallen Angels are capable of piloting the Pave Hawk. At exactly 12:00 CMT I must receive a telephone call from one of the Angels, specifically Nadia Kosov, confirming that they are free. This is not negotiable. I will place a telephone call in the next five minutes directly to CIA Director Lynn Ballard to give him the appropriate number to call. If Nadia Kosov does not call me in one hour I will kill one of the leaders on the stage.”

Coffee made a slashing gesture across his neck and the video feed was cut.

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” blurted the vice president. “The United States has a policy of not negotiating with terrorists.” He was trying to sound strong and decisive, but there was a bit of a question in his words.

Johnston clutched at the table. His stomach roiled, eyes wide. Nobody noticed his reaction as everybody in the room started talking about what they should do to respond to The Fallen Angels’ demands.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said.

Nobody heard him. The vice president said, “We’re going to need to coordinate with—”

“Lynn,” said O’Malley, “get the NSA and NRO on the line and tell
them we need some recon ASAP of the Cheyenne Resort. We need to know what’s going on—”

General Viteras Puskorius, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, said, “I can mobilize Delta Force ASAP, start a—”

“We have to contact the leadership,” said the national security advisor, “to make sure the G20 don’t initiate their own—”

Johnston slammed his fist down on the table and roared, “Shut up!”

Everybody stopped talking and turned toward Johnston. “We’re fucked,” he said. “Even if we wanted to, we can’t meet those demands. Nadia Kosov is dead. And the reason Coffee wants her specifically is because she was his common-law wife.”

Derek crashed through the ceiling almost on top of the terrorist. The man spun, startled, eyes wide. As Derek fell he saw the terrorist raise his MP-5 toward him almost as if in slow motion. Striking out with the wrench Derek made contact with the barrel of the assault rifle just as he slammed to the floor.

The MP-5 swung wide and down and the Angel squeezed the trigger. A burst of gunfire ripped up the tile floor. Bullets whistled and ricocheted off steel tables and cast-iron cooking surfaces. The kitchen staff screamed, some covering their heads, others diving to the floor.

Derek, having performed more than a few HALO parachute jumps in his military career, hit the floor hard, knees bent, dropped, and rolled. He came up swinging the wrench.

The Angel, eyes squinted in hard, angry slashes, tried to raise the MP-5 again, but the wrench came down on his hand. With a guttural howl he dropped the weapon with a clatter.

Derek moved in, still swinging.

“Bastardo loco!” The man launched himself at Derek, arms and legs flailing. The terrorist was a skilled, experienced fighter. He liked to fight inside, grappling with Derek, limiting the wrench as a useful weapon. His elbows slammed into Derek’s ribs. Derek narrowly dodged a fist to his jaw.

Derek rotated his grip on the wrench, not holding it like a club but like a clumsy knife. The hesitation cost him dearly. The Angel wrapped his hands around Derek’s throat. Squeezed.

Within seconds Derek weakened, a cloudy veil dropping over his vision.

With a short, hard thrust, Derek slammed the handle of the wrench
into the man’s belly, just inches above his crotch. With a groan the Angel dropped to his knees. Derek spun the wrench around—

“Michael, watch out!”

The Angel lunged out of the crouch with a stiletto in his hand, a battle-lust shriek tearing the air. Derek brought the wrench down on the blade— not quite fast enough. It caught him alongside his ribs. A ribbon of pain lanced through his side.

The terrorist grinned, laughing low and nasty. He thrust the knife again.

Derek, ready, stepped sideways and back, bringing the Angel along with him, using his momentum against him. Again the knife clipped his ribs, but as the terrorist tumbled forward, Derek slammed his knee into the man’s crotch. When the man groaned and leaned forward, Derek smashed his elbow onto the back of the man’s head, following with a savage swing of the wrench to the base of the skull.