The Eye of God

by James Rollins

  Gray reached the door and found it open. He slipped inside, did a fast sweep with his rifle, but spotted no one. He strained for any voices, but he heard nothing.

  Guan-yin joined him. She looked pale, her jaw tense. Only then did he remember Seichan’s mother had spent a brutal year in a camp such as this in Vietnam. He noted the curled scar across her cheek and brow. From the way she jumped when Zhuang touched her elbow as he entered, that physical scarring was probably the least of her damage.

  “According to my map,” Gray said, drawing her attention to the task at hand, “the holding cells and interrogation rooms are in the back.”

  Guan-yin gave him a shaky nod.

  The three of them set off in that direction, sweeping room by room. At the end of the corridor, a pool of light spilled from an open doorway.

  Gray aimed for there, still straining for any noises.

  The silence was beginning to unnerve him.

  He reached the open door and peeked his head around to search the next room. It was a small space with chairs facing a large window that viewed into a neighboring chamber.

  With care, Gray slipped inside and stared through the glass, likely a one-way mirror. The well-lit room beyond revealed a strange sight. Two men lay sprawled on the floor in matching pools of blood. One was a North Korean guard. Gray surmised the other was a lab tech based on the long white coat he was wearing.

  Two others shared the space with the dead men and appeared to be locked inside. The pair strained to open the only door. Gray also noted the toppled metal stool on the floor below the window. They must have tried to shatter through the mirrored glass only to find it bulletproof.

  Gray recognized one of the trapped men immediately, even with the bandage over his nose.

  Hwan Pak.

  The other stood taller, with a dark beard and Eurasian features. Gray remembered him from the streets of Macau, hauling Seichan into the Cadillac.

  “Ju-long Delgado,” Guan-yin said as she stepped beside him.

  Gray stared again at the dead men, recognizing Seichan’s handiwork.

  “I think we have a problem,” he said, picturing the hundred-acre prison. “Your daughter escaped.”

  To make matters worse, sirens suddenly sounded all around the camp, blaring loudly, accompanied by a loudspeaker barking orders.

  Gray turned to Guan-yin.

  They’d been discovered.

  9:16 P.M.

  Seichan lay in filth, despairing as the sirens erupted all around.

  Earlier, she had crawled under one of the raised barracks to hide. The prison had been built in the swampy marshlands bordering the Taedong River, which regularly flooded its banks, requiring this stilt construction.

  Unfortunately, that was as far as the planning went to keep the prisoners comfortable. There was no heat, little ventilation, and from the stink of ammonia and other rank smells, toilet facilities must be lacking above, too.

  As she lay there for the past half hour, she listened to the muffled stir of humanity packed above: whispers, sobs, angrier outbursts, even the soft words of a mother comforting a child. Entire families were imprisoned here, condemned for reeducation, but mostly used as slave labor.

  Anger burned through her. It was the only thing that kept her warm as the night had turned ever colder. She had chosen this spot so she would have a clear view of the main gate, hoping for some sign of Gray.

  Moments ago, she had watched a dark green transport truck roll through the fence flanked by uniformed guards on motorcycles. They were bringing in reinforcements. Worse still, as the truck trundled into camp, it stopped in the shadow of the interrogation center with a wheeze of its brakes.

  She cursed her luck.

  Shortly after that, the sirens blew. She pictured the new arrivals discovering Pak and Ju-long locked in the torture chamber. Her escape was now known.

  As the alarms continued to ring out, spotlights flared all along the fencing. The entire camp was being roused to find her.

  She clutched her pistol, wondering where she could hide. She considered mixing with the general population, but surely someone would talk, point a finger at her in order to gain a small favor from the guards.

  She began to sidle backward, away from the main gates, away from the brighter lights. Shadows were still her best defense.

  Glancing toward the heart of the prison, she spotted the heavy tracks of a tank grinding through the muck. It was crossing from the depths of the camp toward the main gate, intending to close off any hope of escape that way.

  She ran low for the next row of barracks and the shadows it afforded.

  Moments ago, she had prayed for Gray to come.

  Now she hoped he would stay far away.

  9:18 P.M.

  Gray ran with Guan-yin back toward the entrance to the interrogation building. Zhuang rushed ahead of them, leading the way.

  “Someone must have talked back at the hotel,” Gray said.

  “Or someone saw through our ruse here,” Guan-yin offered. From her stern expression, she plainly refused to believe any of her captured men at the hotel would break so soon.

  Reaching the door, Zhuang looked out and waved them to his side. Looking past the swordsman’s shoulder, Gray saw the dark camp now blazing with lights. Off to the right, the North Korean guards at the gate milled around in momentary confusion. No one seemed to be paying attention to their truck or the fake guards around it.

  “Our cover remains intact,” Gray said, relieved. “Still, one of your men must have let them know this was our target.”

  “But not the exact details of our plan,” Guan-yin countered, defending the man who was likely being severely tortured.

  “At least not yet. Still, that leaves us a small window to take advantage of the element of surprise.” Gray eyed the confusion at the prison entrance, knowing it wouldn’t last. “We need to gain control of that main gate now.”

  Guan-yin understood. “And hold it long enough until my daughter can be found.”

  Gray nodded. Once they acted, all hell would break loose. But they had no choice. The time for stealth was over.

  He turned to Guan-yin and her lieutenant. “I need you both to rally your crew—then attack and hold that gate. The firefight should draw all eyes to you, allowing for a small team to make a fast canvass of the remainder of the camp.”

  In agreement, Zhuang silently slid his sword from the scabbard over his back.

  Gray pointed to the motorcycles.

  “I’ll take Kowalski and two of the bikes. We’ll split up and cover as much ground as we can. Seichan is surely watching what’s happening. Hopefully, she’ll recognize our faces if we can get close enough.”

  Guan-yin consulted briefly with Zhuang, who then ran out to ready his strike team. She turned back to Gray and gripped his forearm.

  “Find my daughter.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Or die trying.

  9:22 P.M.

  Seichan rolled out from under another barrack and straightened. She’d made it a third of the way across the camp, moving row by row, sticking to shadows, which grew thicker the farther she got away from the fences.

  As she turned, ready to bolt for the next barrack, a huge explosion rocked the camp. She twisted around to see a column of black smoke curl through the flare of spotlights off by the main gate.

  What the hell . . . ?

  A rattle of distant gunfire reached her.

  Could that be Gray?

  Cursing him for a fool while undeniably relieved, she headed along the length of the barracks. She wanted to reach the end of the row, which offered a clear view back toward the gate.

  Lights suddenly flared behind her. With the sirens blaring and her focus elsewhere, she had failed to register the threat until too late. A North Korean jeep raced around the corner of the last barrack, spearing her with its headlamps. Behind the vehicle trotted twin lines of soldiers.

  Momentarily frozen in the light, she re
alized she was holding her pistol in plain sight.

  A prisoner with a gun.

  9:23 P.M.

  Gray rode alongside Kowalski. Their two bikes raced away from the firefight at the gate and headed for the deeper camp.

  Through his rearview mirror, Gray had watched the mortar blast take out the inner gate. Black smoke clouded the view as Guan-yin’s team ran forward to dispatch the remaining stunned troops. Zhuang’s steel blade flashed momentarily through the pall of smoke, like lightning in a thundercloud—then was gone.

  Twin fiery explosions from rocket-propelled grenades took out the two guard towers that flanked the gate, turning them into blazing torches, adding to the thick smoke. Spats of additional rifle fire doused the spotlights farther along the fencing to either side, sinking the lower gate into deeper darkness.

  As gunfire continued to rattle behind them, Gray waved his arm, signaling for Kowalski to split off. The big man was going to canvass the acres of barracks to the right, Gray to the left.

  As his partner took off, Gray hunched over his bike and angled into the shadowy depths of the rows of barracks. He knew the attack at the gate had succeeded only because of the element of surprise. Once the camp fully rallied, their small force could not hold that spot for long.

  He searched the dark rows to either side, sensing the press of time.

  Where are you, Seichan?

  9:24 P.M.

  Seichan leaped headlong toward the cover of the closest barrack, taking advantage of the momentary shock of the North Korean troops. She twisted in midair and aimed her pistol back at the jeep. She squeezed the trigger over and over again, taking out one headlamp and driving the troops to cover.

  As she hit the ground, momentum rolled her between the stilts of the closest barrack and into darkness. Gunfire peppered the dirt behind her.

  She kept going, spinning under the planks and through the muck to the other side. Without pausing, she dove for the next row, rolling again under the barrack.

  All the while, she tracked the troops. The jeep sped past her original position, fishtailing around the end of the row, intending to circle around and trap her. Closer at hand, the twin rows of soldiers split apart, running between the barracks, flanking wide to prevent her escape.

  Her flight had bought her only a minute or two of freedom at best. The wave of soldiers would eventually overwhelm her. And with only one bullet left in her pistol, she could never fight her way to freedom.

  She needed another way.

  9:25 P.M.

  Over the rumble of his motorcycle, Gray heard gunfire erupt to his left, along with shouts and hollered orders. He headed for the commotion, hoping for the best.

  As he raced between a narrow squeeze of barracks, a figure popped into view ahead of him, wearing a muddy set of prison garb. It took him an extra breath to recognize Seichan.

  Thank God . . .

  Relief flooded through him, along with something deeper that warmed his heart.

  She lifted her arm toward him, as if beckoning him to her side.

  Only then did he see the pistol in her hand.

  She centered her aim and fired.

  9:26 P.M.

  Seichan needed that motorcycle.

  A second ago, she had heard the throaty whine of its engine and headed toward it, knowing it could be her only means of escape. With one bullet left in her pistol, she dared not fail. As she stepped into the open, she aimed for a center-mass shot and pulled the trigger.

  The rider flew backward with the impact, spinning off the bike.

  The motorcycle twisted and crashed into the side of a barrack. Tossing her pistol aside, she sprinted to the bike. She hauled it off the ground, mounted it, and kicked the stalled engine into roaring glory. With a goose of power, she spun the bike around.

  The rider rose to an elbow and reached for his assault rifle.

  I could use that, too, she realized.

  She gunned forward, leaning her arm out, ready to scoop the weapon off the ground.

  The rider lifted his pained face toward her.

  She gasped with recognition, blinded to everything but those storm-blue eyes.

  Gray . . .

  She braked hard as she reached him, skidding sideways.

  He stood, with a hand pressed to his bloody shoulder. “You really have to stop shooting me,” he mumbled, retrieving the rifle with his good arm. “A simple hello will do next time.”

  She pulled him to her and kissed his lips.

  “Okay, that’s a little better . . . but we’ll have to practice it some more.”

  She heard the growl of the jeep stalking along a neighboring row.

  Shouts closed in behind her.

  “Hop on!” she urged.

  Despite the pain, Gray quickly swung a leg over. He circled her waist with one arm, while firing behind her with the other.

  In the rearview mirror, she watched soldiers scatter out of view.

  “Go!” he said.

  She gunned the engine, and the bike took off like a jackrabbit.

  Gray tightened his arm around her.

  She didn’t know if they would make it to freedom, but she knew one thing for sure. She never wanted him to let go.

  9:28 P.M.

  Gray’s shoulder burned with each bump. Blood flowed in hot streams across his chest. If he hadn’t shifted to the side at the last moment after seeing Seichan’s pistol, she would have struck him square in the chest.

  He clung to her with his bad arm, twisted half around, his rifle gripped one-handed. He took potshots whenever he spotted anyone in a North Korean uniform.

  Then thirty yards back, a jeep skidded into view, its one remaining headlamp shining toward them. A soldier on the passenger side was on his feet, leveling a rifle on the frame of the windshield.

  Gray strafed the front of the jeep, taking out the other headlamp.

  The impact swerved the vehicle, ruining the soldier’s aim. Rounds tore into the wooden stairs of a barrack to the left. Screams of panic echoed from inside.

  “Veer right!” he hollered to Seichan.

  She juked the bike in that direction, so fast that he almost lost his grip on her. With his thighs clenched to the seat, he leaned out and returned fire, concentrating on the jeep’s right front tire, unloading a full spray, tearing apart the rubber.

  “Left!” he yelled.

  The bike swung to the other side, as rounds blasted past his ear. Aiming at the left front tire, he fired another burst, shredding it to black confetti.

  The trajectory of the jeep, already shaky after losing the first tire, became unruly as the rims drilled into the mud, miring the front end.

  As the jeep slowed to a crawl behind them, Seichan sped away, aiming for the gates a hundred yards ahead. Gray kept his rifle pointed back, plinking a few shots to discourage any retaliation.

  Suddenly Seichan hit the brakes hard, nosing the bike up on one wheel.

  Gray swung around in time to see a tank burst into view ahead of them, treads churning mud in a fast turn toward the prison entrance. It was a forty-ton Chonma-ho battle tank. The behemoth filled the road ahead of them, trundling between a row of barracks and a line of cement-block administration buildings.

  The monster ignored them or maybe assumed they were allies. Either way, its long 115 mm gun was pointed toward the gate, ready to put an end to their brief insurgency.

  “Get around it!” Gray yelled in Seichan’s ear.

  Their only hope of escape was to outrace that beast of steel and fire, to reach that main gate ahead of the tank and get everyone moving.

  Seichan bent low over the bike’s handles and took the first left turn into the narrow space between the barracks. With a scream of the engine, she slipped past the first barrack and skidded into the smaller lane that paralleled the main road. Opening the throttle, they flew down this new track.

  Gray stared to the right as barracks flashed past, catching glimpses of the tank churning up the neighboring road.
<
br />   We’ll never make it.

  Even if the tank didn’t fire its big gun, they would be hard-pressed to clear the gate ahead of that trundling Goliath.

  That is, until David appeared.

  A smaller shape shot out of the smoke by the gate and raced toward the tank. It was Kowalski on his bike. Gray had radioed his partner earlier to pull back after he found Seichan. The big man must have reached the gates ahead of them—and plainly had his own solution to the problem of the battle tank.

  Letting go of his motorcycle’s handlebars, Kowalski lifted his RPG-29 launcher to his shoulder and fired. The rocket flew the remaining distance and struck the tank head-on.

  The explosion sounded like the earth cracking, accompanied by fire, smoke, and a rain of scorched steel.

  Kowalski lost control of his bike, dropped it on its side, and skidded toward the burning tank, which continued to roll forward on its own, about to crush him.

  Pushing the bike harder, Seichan got ahead of the slowing tank, turned at the next barrack, and swept to the main road. She plainly meant to go to Kowalski’s aid, but as their bike shot through a wall of smoke, they found the big man already on his feet, sprinting for the gate.

  The guy was indestructible.

  A glance back showed the front of the tank, blast charred and smoking. It was no longer a threat, but they were far from safe.

  They reached the gates only slightly ahead of Kowalski.

  He huffed and puffed, pointing to Gray, then to Seichan, catching his breath. “Next time . . . don’t be so goddamned late.”

  The rest of the strike team prepped to leave, ready to scramble.

  And for good reason.

  Out across the prison, the headlights of jeeps and armored personnel carriers converged toward them.

  “Time to go,” Gray said, staying seated on the bike with Seichan.

  One of the Triad members rolled a new motorcycle up to Kowalski and patted his broad shoulder in appreciation.

  From here, the plan was for the truck to make a run for Pyongyang, where the vehicle would be ditched and the team would scatter into the city, reaching various prestaged safe houses where new Chinese papers would get them back across the border.