The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (15 page)

The Cheyenne Center in many ways was a building inside a building. The center was the ballroom, a large open space. Around it were hallways. On the opposite side of those hallways were storage rooms, kitchen and utility areas, and the outer wall of the building. When the Cheyenne Center went into security lockdown, the open lobby areas and various exits were covered by a steel-mesh gate that dropped from the ceiling or rolled out from the walls.

Derek knew that the lobby was a problematic area for Coffee. It angled from the southeast corner of the building all the way along most of the front. Eight glass double doors and assorted windows presented a tactical hole in Coffee’s plan. The steel mesh would keep an assault force out— at least for a while— but it was wide open for sharpshooters. That is, if Coffee’s men hadn’t somehow managed to block out the windows, which he suspected they had. But he doubted that Coffee would leave that space unguarded.

There had been two men in the kitchen. Apparently, there had been two more in the eastern utility hallway. Derek figured at least two and
possibly more manning the lobby area, which was very large. That was where he and Maria were headed. If they could get there.

They crouched on the catwalk, but in front of them was what looked like a pile of rubble— bricks, torn and twisted metal, shredded plaster, and sheetrock. They were near where the explosion had been. Derek wondered if there was another way.

Maria tapped him on the shoulder, pointing at her ears. He turned on his radio and listened to Richard Coffee talking to people he gave numbers to: cinco, seis, siete, ocho. Numbers five, six, seven, and eight. He and Maria had managed to eliminate four. He wondered how many more there were.

She listened, expression intense. She hunched her shoulders over, frowning.

“What?” he asked.

“He’s telling them to stay sharp. To keep an eye out for Derek Still-water. That you’re dressed like a maintenance guy and you’re really dangerous and to kill you on sight.”

Derek smiled. “Anything else?”

“No. He told them to stay in— border— maybe perimeter three, zone one. I think he meant perimeter. Now there’s silence.”

Derek studied the tangled maze of metal. “Ready? We’ve got to be careful.”

Derek clicked off the radio. He was relying on Maria to monitor the radio chatter, but he wanted to concentrate on any sounds around them.

He crept forward slowly. Whenever he made a move, he tested to make sure it would carry his weight. The explosion had kicked up a cloud of dust and mold that still hung in the air like smog. He felt a tickle at the back of his throat and in his nose, blinking as particles irritated his eyes.

The catwalk came to an abrupt end, dangling into space. Below them was a pile of rubble. They were still over the hallway outside the kitchen area.

Reaching up, Derek grasped a metal heating duct. It was about two feet wide and maybe nine inches high. It was suspended from the ceiling by metal braces bolted into the roofing. Slowly he shifted his full weight onto the duct. It held with a metallic shiver and groan.

Maria whispered, “I am not getting inside that thing.”

“Too small,” Derek said. “On top, though—”

He stood up and slithered on top of the duct. It was tight. There were only about eighteen inches between the top of the duct and the ceiling. He crawled forward.

Behind him he heard a muttered curse, then Maria was behind him. Inch by inch, they wriggled along the ductwork, desperately trying not to make noise.

Derek felt a vibration. He froze. Maria bumped into him.

The duct dropped half an inch with a shudder.

Maria let out a little cry.

More vibration. Gripping the flashlight, Derek aimed it around. From here they had two choices. Keep going or drop a dozen feet onto a pile of shattered bricks, concrete, and jutting steel rebar.

“Move,” he hissed, and pressed onward.

The ductwork twitched. He picked up his pace. The MP-5 on his back scraped against the rough concrete above him.

Another jolt. Bigger. A chuffing sound, as of metal bolts tearing slowly from concrete.

“Michael!”

Derek lunged forward, faster, scurrying.

Maria: “Wait!”

“Hurry!”

Faster. More vibration. The ductwork was starting a regular rattling rhythm.

“Ooooh!”

The ductwork twisted, shifting a good three inches on the right side. Derek felt himself sliding off, and with a grunt, lunged off the duct toward a steel I-beam. He slammed into it with an “oooph!” and angled himself to a better position. Twisting around, he saw Maria scrabbling at the ductwork as she slid sideways, long nails clicking on the metal.

Reaching out, he caught her around the waist and hauled her toward him. With a cry, she flailed about, snagging his arms.

“A little help here!” With her full weight suddenly on him, Derek was afraid they were both going to fall off the I-beam. He felt a tearing sensation in his side and sheets of pain blasted through his ribs. Almost dropping her, he groaned and leaned back, drawing her upward.

Feet kicking wildly, she boosted herself next to him on the beam.

Derek flashed the light on the ductwork. Now that their weight was off it, it had ceased tilting and was only vibrating softly.

“I could really use a drink,” Maria whispered fiercely.

Derek reached into his bag and pulled out the bottle of vodka. “One sip,” he said, and handed it to her.

She pulled the soaked rag out, took a hit and handed it back to him. He took a sip, winced, then shoved the rag back in.

“Where are we?” she asked.

Derek flashed the light around. “Above the east utility hallway. We can edge along this beam for a bit then get back on the catwalk.”

She clung to the beam, eyes wide, face covered with grime. “I called you Michael. I guess you’re really Derek.”

“Yes.”

“I liked Michael.”

“You’ll probably like Derek, too. Take a breather, then we should keep moving.”

Maria was quiet. “Maybe I should just hole up here and you go do whatever you need to do.”

Derek tried to relax, but it was almost impossible balanced on the I-beam, the rough metal cutting into his thighs and hands. “I need you.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, “One more sip?”

He handed her the vodka. She took a swallow and handed it back.

He placed it carefully back in the bag and checked his watch. He didn’t know if there was a clock ticking down somewhere. It was 11:43 a.m.

Taking a deep breath, he whispered, “Let’s go,” and began a slow, awkward crawl along the I-beam. His knee ached, his back screamed with pain, and his head throbbed. The instances of double vision were increasing. A wave of vertigo washed over him, like clinging to a tilting planet. He froze, sucking in air, forcing himself to focus. After a moment his equilibrium returned to normal. Not good, he thought, and continued forward.

Finally, after five minutes, he stretched off the I-beam onto the cat-walk. Holding a hand out, he helped Maria over. They were above the utility hallway on the east side of the Cheyenne Center. It looked like
they had a clear shot from here to where he knew there was a set of service stairs and an elevator. He glanced at his watch again.

11:50 a.m.

They hurried along the catwalk, stepping over pipes and wires, but running into no more obstacles. They moved carefully so as not to make noise. Derek periodically popped on his flashlight to check the way, but tried to keep its use to a minimum.

11:53 a.m.

They came to an abrupt stop at a half-wall. On the other side of the wall was what appeared to be a smooth cement block structure. Derek knew it housed an elevator. Near the catwalk, at about waist height, was a metal hatch cut into the wall. It allowed access to the elevator shaft.

Derek shone the light over the half-wall, the elevator unit, and the utility hallway. He knew a doorway built into the half-wall divided the elevator lobby from the utility hallway. Across the structure ran several thin wires, like fishing line.

He clicked off the flashlight.

Three red lights burned in the darkness.

He flicked on the light again.

“What is that?” Maria asked.

“The wall, the doorway, and the hatch to the elevator unit are all wired with explosives,” he said.

The only sound was the sharp intake of breath as Maria took in that information. “What do we do?”

Derek looked at his watch again, feeling an urgency he couldn’t quite explain. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

Suddenly she tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed to her ears. He clicked on the radio and listened to Coffee rattling away in Spanish.

He shot Maria a questioning look. “Madre de Dios,” she whispered.

“What?”

“He’s telling all his people to be on extra alert, because he doesn’t believe they will meet his first ransom demand at noon and he will have to kill one of the G8. He says to prepare for a possible counterattack.”

Richard Coffee crossed the ballroom to speak with Mikhail Alexandrov and Amron Aryeh. Seeing them talking, El Tiburón joined them. Although he was technically The Fallen’s second in command, he understood that Coffee’s relationship with the Russian and the Israeli went back much further than his own, that they were, in some peculiar way, members of the original Fallen Angels.

The Fallen nodded to him in greeting, but addressed Alexandrov and Aryeh. “I don’t like what’s going on out there. I want you two to go out there and take out whoever is causing problems.”

El Tiburón said, “Why don’t you tell us who it is who is causing the problems.”

Without warning Coffee snapped a fist into El Tiburón’s face. The blow sent him reeling, stumbling to the ground. In a flash he was back on his feet, reaching for his gun. Before he could even swing the barrel around, Coffee had his Glock aimed in his face. The Fallen said nothing. He waited, expression neutral.

El Tiburón held his hands up in a surrender gesture. His jaw throbbed, but it was not overwhelming. It was certainly not as painful as the humiliation. “No disrespect, Fallen.”

Coffee still didn’t say anything. The gun didn’t dip or waver.

El Tiburón bowed his head, breaking eye contact. “I’m sorry, Fallen. I meant no disrespect.”

The air felt heavy with anticipation. Every single one of the captives— and their captors— watched in breathless silence. El Tiburón waited, coiled within himself, body and life balanced as if on a blade.

Coffee nodded and plunged the Glock back into its holster. His attention refocused on the Russian and the Israeli. “I’ll let you out the east door. Come on.”

The three men moved through the crowd, which shrank away from them. El Tiburón returned to the TV controls. Blood filled his mouth. He spit it on the floor. He liked the taste of blood in his mouth. He was a shark. He was El Tiburón. His gaze lingered on The Fallen and a blossom of rage grew in his gut. Not grew, he thought. Just came out of hiding.

He watched The Fallen pull out his PDA and tap keys, disarming the explosives on that particular door. Aryeh, slim, wiry, with short curly hair, and Alexandrov, with his big square head and flat Slavic features made for an odd-looking pair, except El Tiburón knew they were stone killers. They both held their MP-5s at the ready. When The Fallen gave the signal, they slipped through the door. As soon as the door was shut, Fallen tapped a key on the PDA, rearming the door’s explosives.

Richard Coffee turned and stared at him from across the ballroom. He jerked his hand and thumb in an upward gesture, meaning, “Turn on the TVs.”

El Tiburón flicked on the TV cameras.

The Fallen strode across the room and up onto the stage to loom over the leaders in their chairs, their suicide vests grisly reminders of their helplessness. The Fallen pulled up another chair, spun it around next to the U.S. president and straddled it. El Tiburón moved the camera in for a close-up of the The Fallen in his black fatigues, his burning eyes, and square jaw, and the haggard, pale president of the United States, tied immobile in a chair. The Fallen spoke into a wireless microphone taken from the podium.

“So, Mr. President. It is only minutes until the first deadline. Do you think your government will release my people from Guantanamo Bay?”

President Langston, eyes locked on the camera, said in a strong, clear voice, “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

The Fallen smiled. “That means no. I was very clear in my demands. If I do not receive a phone call from Nadia Kosov stating the condition of—”

He was interrupted by his phone ringing. El Tiburón noted the look of eager anticipation— even surprise— on The Fallen’s face. The Fallen jerked out the cell phone and put it to his ear. “Nadia?”

Who was Nadia? El Tiburón wondered, that so much hope would fill The Fallen’s heart?

The Fallen listened for a moment. “Stop now,” he said, voice harsh. “I was very clear on this.” He clicked off the phone and dropped it into a pocket. To President Langston he said, “You are quite correct, Mr. President. They will not negotiate. Yet. As promised, I am going to kill one of the leaders here. But who shall it be? You decide. Tell me, Mr. President, what world leader will pay for your country’s stubbornness?”

President Langston said, “I will not negotiate with you either.”

The Fallen laughed and climbed to his feet.

El Tiburón pulled back so all of the leaders were in the picture.

“Mr. President,” The Fallen said, “this is not a negotiation. One of them will die. You will eventually die. But our life is built upon the choices we make, is it not? Who will you choose? Will it be your friend, Prime Minister Hollenbeck? U.S. and British relations will survive you choosing his death. President Waldenstrom? Eh? The head of the European Union? No, what do Europeans care of the EU president? Merely a bureaucrat, no nationalist pride there.”

He strode down the line of leaders. “Crown Prince Talal? Will the U.S. oil imports survive your fingering the Saudi leader? Hmmm. There’s potential there.”

The Fallen paused, body erect, clearly conscious of the eyes of the world on him. “Perhaps it’s time to restart the Cold War. Perhaps President Vakhach?”