For some reason, Ricardo felt exposed as he pedaled into the office park, though he wasn't completely sure why. There were probably fewer people here than in the neighborhoods he'd just traveled through. Maybe it was the wide streets of the office park with its few mature trees, the buildings set far back from the road. His tension only escalating, Ricardo didn't fully understand if it was that exposed feeling that had him amped up or worry about what might lay ahead of him. He swung the bike around the last turn and charged onto the block that held his offices.
He could immediately see that something was wrong. The secure, manned gate at the entrance to his facility was abandoned. His protocol required two men be on that gate at all times. Ricardo pedaled directly to the gate, applied the brakes, and brought the bike to a smooth stop. The padlocked chain that had secured the gate hung loose. Ricardo picked up one end of the chain, examined it, and saw the distinctive pinch marks left by a pair of bolt cutters. As quietly as he could, Ricardo opened one side of the gate and stepped through.
He laid the bike down on the ground and shouldered the P90, the selector set to spray-and-pray. Though he saw no bodies, what he did find was just as alarming. There were two thick puddles of congealed blood and a pair of drag marks that led around the corner of the building.
Ricardo clenched his jaw and took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. First Doc, then the four men on his chopper. If his gate guards were dead, that likely meant two more. Seven dead in his organization in one day. He'd never experienced anything like that before and suspected the worst wasn't over yet.
He flattened himself against the side of the brick building and moved toward the corner. He paused there, sucked in another breath, and peered around the edge. No movement, no strange vehicles, and none of his people.
"Hmmmm," he groaned, not even noticing he was doing it aloud.
He stepped around the corner into the back parking lot of the building. This area was mostly concealed behind tall privacy fencing with razor wire at the top. The wide concrete parking lot was both a staging area for operations and the landing pad for the chopper. It was where his assets came and went in relative privacy, concealed behind tinted windows or in the back of cargo vans. During normal times there was always a guard back there. Since the collapse, they'd been operating under heightened security protocols and Ricardo had put three guards back there. Now there were none.
When he stepped from the mulched landscaping to the concrete his toe found a spent shell casing and it skipped away, ringing like a dropped dime. The facility's big industrial generator hummed in the background, charging the batteries on the solar backup when they dropped below a certain level. Ricardo jogged toward the three roll-up doors that led into the warehouse. A single door for foot traffic was located just beyond them. All were closed. Ricardo tested the handle on the hinged door and it was locked. He lowered the P90 and placed his palm on the screen of the biometric reader, impatiently waiting for it to read his data. A second passed before the electronic strike clicked and opened.
Ricardo tugged on the lever handle before the strike relocked itself, then stepped into the warehouse portion of his facility. A dozen skylights filled the room with enough light to see what the attackers had left for him—a row of bodies neatly laid out on the concrete floor.
Stunned, he understood that he had to clear the facility and make sure none of the attackers were still there, but he couldn't pull himself away from the scene. Operators and specialists were his business, but these people were the core. This was his hand-picked security team, his data people, and his administrative staff. Eighteen people in total, some of whom had been with him since the beginning. Eighteen people he'd never be able to replace. Eighteen people with whom he had coffee and donuts, with whom he exchanged pleasantries in the hall. Whoever had done this had ripped the heart from his organization. Ricardo would make them pay if it was the last thing he ever did.
He jogged across the warehouse and used his palm to access the main portion of the building. A severed hand lay nearby, the discarded key that the attackers had used to obtain entry. He doubted that whoever had attacked them had left anyone behind. There would have been no reason for it. Whoever had ordered the hit would assume that everyone on the chopper was dead and no one would be returning here. They would assume that his entire organization had been decimated.
Ricardo proceeded up the hall, fast and silent, ducking his head into each room he passed. Spotting computers and filing cabinets sitting unmolested told him something about the operation that had taken place here. The people who had hit his building didn't feel like they needed to mine his records for intel. They already had all the intel they needed.
Again, he didn't suspect anyone within his organization of selling them out, but someone on the inside had, either within the Macallan Collective or close enough to that organization to know details. Had they been intercepting his calls and secure messages? Had their network been hacked? Had they been under surveillance for a while? Too many questions and not a single answer for any of them.
The building wasn't huge, the warehouse comprising most of the square footage of the structure. In no time, Ricardo had scoured the building from top to bottom. He found no more bodies, nor did he find anyone lying in wait for him. Comfortable that he was safe for the moment, he went to his office and powered up the desktop computer linked to his security system.
Confident in the finality of the actions they'd taken, the attackers made no effort to erase their tracks. Ricardo reviewed the security footage from the moment his chopper lifted off. He discovered that the compound was hit about the same time as the missile warning system had sounded on the chopper. This was a coordinated, synchronized attack.
Snipers working from beyond the range of his cameras had dropped the gate guards with suppressed shots. A strike team had immediately moved in on foot, cutting the chain on the gate and streaming inside. When the ten assaulters were inside, the man with the bolt cutters followed and pulled the gate shut. Everyone was wearing black fatigues, balaclavas, and eye protection. There'd be no way to get an identification on any of them.
Other camera angles revealed how the assaulters had swarmed the private parking lot by the warehouse, taking down his team with a practiced efficiency. His men were dead within seconds, with no opportunity to call for help or issue a warning. As Ricardo watched in horror, two of the assaulters hacked the hand from one of his employees. They went to one of the biometric readers leading into the warehouse and slapped the still-warm palm onto the screen. In the customary two seconds that the reader required, the roll-up door began retracting and the bodies were dragged inside.
The strike team used the same technique to enter the main building, then poured through all the offices, taking out every employee with accurate, suppressed bursts. Examining the time stamp on the footage, Ricardo noted that the time from the team's entry until the last of his employees was killed was less than one minute. Once the assaulters confirmed that everyone in the facility had been killed, they retreated without taking anything or even searching the offices. They'd come with one goal only. Accomplishing that, they backed out and disappeared down the street on foot.
"Dammit!" Ricardo bellowed, slamming his fist on his desk. He sagged backward in his chair, his mind racing. The normally cool, calm, and collected man was rattled, angry, and thirsty for revenge. He dug into the backpack on his desk and retrieved one of the satellite phones. He plugged it into the charger, then punched one of the contacts. After a few rings, a voice answered.
"Banks." It was Earl Banks at the West Virginia compound.
"Earl, it's Ricardo. I'm at the main office and everyone here is dead. I just reviewed the footage. A strike team hit them about the same time my chopper went down. In and out in one minute and they took nothing. The goal was just to wipe my organization off the face of the Earth and they pretty much succeeded at that."
Banks let out a deep breath. "You guys have been burned."
>
"I think we've all been burned, my friend. I can only assume that the Macallan Collective has been completely compromised. I'm hoping I've maintained enough insulation between myself and your facility that I might be able to shelter there and try to pick up the pieces. What do you think?"
"You're welcome here, Ricardo. Things have been quiet. No sign of any trouble. How do you intend to get here?"
Ricardo chuckled. "I have a bike. I made good time getting to Chantilly. I think I could reach you in two days if I don't run into trouble on the road."
"Hell, Ricardo, I'm one hundred and thirty miles from you. That's one heck of a ride."
"I'm one heck of a rider, actually. I can do that in two days as long as I don't run into any interference."
"If you don't mind, I'm going to check around. I might have a buddy with a chopper who could pick you up. He's been running some private jobs but he's not one of your normal beltway contractors. He's a total freelancer."
"Go for it," Ricardo urged. "Just don't tell your friend my name. With everything that's happened, I don't want anyone suspecting I survived the attack."
"Roger that. It might take me a day or two to get up with him. Is that okay?"
"No problem. I need to do some snooping on my end. There are some people I want to speak to."
"Got it. I'll be in touch then," Banks said, ending the call.
Ricardo got to his feet and locked his office door. He set the security system to a motion-sensitive mode that would issue an audible alert tone if there was motion anywhere within the facility. Secure in the knowledge that he'd at least have a little warning if anyone returned to finish him off, he stripped off the strange clothes he was wearing and headed for the restroom attached to his office.
He took a hot shower, trying to wash away the experiences of the day, trying to wash away the anger which might prompt an irrational and poorly thought out response to the attack on his organization. When he was done, he changed into one of the spare European suits he kept in his office closet. Typically he'd wear concealable soft armor hidden beneath his shirt but was concerned that wouldn't be enough today. He needed a higher level of protection, as well as some additional storage for spare magazines.
He dropped a plate carrier over his head, careful not to mess up his hair. The level IV plates were some of the lightest composite plates available on the market. The carrier offered Velcro pockets for the P90 mags, as well as a few for his handguns and any other goodies he felt like carrying.
When he finally had a pair of his own shoes on his feet again, the world felt a little more normal. He slid his holster inside his waistband and his Microtech knife into a jacket pocket. He strapped an S&W Shield in .45 caliber to his ankle, aware that he'd probably have to remove it if he ended up riding the bicycle. One leg weighing more than the other would throw his pedal cadence off. He retrieved a long wool overcoat from his closet, similar to the one he'd been wearing when he left the facility earlier in the day. A scarf draped around his neck completed the look.
From his wall safe, Ricardo retrieved his spare laptop, a clone of the one he lost in the messenger bag aboard his chopper. He extracted a sleeve of gold Krugerrands and a manila packet with a selection of passports and other vital documents. All of these went into a black nylon courier bag he could carry over his shoulder. He placed the contents of his backpack into the courier bag also, with the exception of the damp clothes he'd been wearing when his chopper went down. For some reason, perhaps out of a desire to overlay some normality onto the situation, he took those damp items into the restroom and placed them in a dry-cleaning bag.
It was a pointless gesture really. Despite the abundance of gear, supplies, and weapons remaining at the facility, he couldn't imagine he'd be returning there anytime soon. As word spread of the attack, which it inevitably would, one of his neighbors would probably conduct an exploratory visit, then claim the resources for themselves. Such was the nature of their business. Such was the nature of the world.
After checking the mirror to make sure he was presentable, Ricardo draped the P90 around his neck and hung the courier bag onto his shoulder. With a last look around, he left his office, locking the door behind him. He walked down the hall, turning the lights off as he went. He paused in the warehouse to say goodbye to the staff.
"Sorry I can't do more for you," he whispered. "Perhaps one day I'll be able to get word to your families and make this right. I promise I'll try. In the meantime, I can at least kill whatever bastards are responsible."
He left the warehouse, locking the door behind him, and headed for an old Ford Taurus. Part of his company fleet, it was as generic and nondescript as any automobile could be. He had no intention of driving it anywhere but he was going to lock his courier bag in the trunk for a while. He had some doors to knock on before going to West Virginia.
4
Chantilly, Virginia
The offices of Straight Razor Security were in an adjacent complex, less than a quarter-mile from Ricardo's company. Ricardo had known the owner, Hector Vasquez, for several years. They weren't direct competitors so he could help Straight Razor Security out on the occasional job without cutting his own throat, so to speak. Even beyond being colleagues in the same industry, Ricardo and Hector were almost friends. They occasionally went out to dinner together or met for drinks to talk shop. It was always about business though. Personal lives always stayed personal. No one in this line of work ever revealed too much about themselves.
While Ricardo ran a lean operation that employed a vast stable of specialists, Straight Razor was primarily in the manpower business. If you needed twenty executive protection professionals to escort a VIP to an overseas meeting, he was your guy. If you needed one hundred men to beef up embassy security due to political tensions, Hector Vasquez had you covered. If you had a celebrity dealing with a stalker, he had the men for that too.
Hector's people were typically workout junkies who were more likely to manhandle someone than kill them. They stiff-armed people with a single-minded determination to protect their assigned asset. They often preferred three-piece suits to fatigues and Brazilian Jujitsu to slashing throats. When they could, they avoided long field assignments with no weight rooms or showers. That didn't make them bad guys. There was a huge market for that kind of thing, it just wasn't Ricardo's thing. His people liked the dirty jobs.
Ricardo knew that business was currently booming for Straight Razor Security, same as it had been for him up until this morning. All manner of VIPs, from politicians to celebrities, had employed private security to help them weather the apocalypse. Hector supplemented his security services by using his connections to the military supply chain and his relationship with foreign entrepreneurs to bring in food and supplies for his VIP clients. If you had enough money, you could buy your way through the apocalypse. You might not have power or internet but you certainly wouldn't starve or do without evening cocktails. Hector could hook you up.
Of course, Ricardo could have used one of his sat phones to call Ricardo. He had the man's number. He didn't want to simply hear Hector's voice, though, he wanted to look the man in the eye. He wanted to see Hector's reaction to his questions. He needed to know that the responses he was getting were the truth and that was much easier to discern when you stood face to face with someone.
When he turned onto the street approaching Straight Razor Security's offices, Ricardo raised his hands above his head and walked in the direction of the fenced compound. Hector's facility was surrounded by permanent chain-link fencing with razor wire on top. There was a hastily thrown together guardhouse just beyond a rolling chain-link gate. A black Suburban blocked the entrance, adding an extra layer of protection in case someone tried to ram the gate. Hector had once told Ricardo that he thought it made a good impression to require people to go through security when entering his offices. Ricardo suspected few people got past that security these days.
"Stop right there!" a voice barked.
R
icardo did as he was told, stopping in the street about fifty feet from the rolling gate. A man in black fatigues stood outside the fortified guardhouse, a rifle leveled on Ricardo.
"State your business."
Ricardo cleared his throat. "I'm assuming Mr. Vasquez is in. Please tell him that a friend is at the gate and wishes to speak with him."
There was a pause before the man replied. "What's your business with Mr. Vasquez?"
Ricardo sighed. He didn't like staring down the barrel of a gun. "I assure you that he'll accept my visit. Please tell him that his friend with the Licor 43 is at the gate. He'll know what that means."
Ricardo had introduced Hector to the Spanish cordial Licor 43, a vanilla-flavored liqueur that had been around since the days of the Roman Empire. They'd often had an after-dinner toast with it at their favorite bar.
"Stand by," the guard said. "You can lower your hands but keep them in sight. No sudden moves." The man reached into the guard shack and came out with a radio. He raised it to his lips, speaking so quietly Ricardo couldn't make out the words.
While Ricardo waited, he scanned the visible area of the compound. Another guard watched him from behind a parked vehicle, his rifle leveled across the hood. A scissor lift, a work platform designed to raise a construction worker for working on high projects like installing light fixtures, had been repurposed as a watch tower. Another of Hector's armed men stood atop it, his full attention focused on Ricardo.
The man at the guardhouse replaced his radio in the shack. "One moment, sir. Mr. Vasquez will come out to speak to you."
Ricardo waited patiently, keeping his hands out of his pockets. The security team's attention never wavered from him. In a little more than two minutes, Hector appeared, jogging toward the gate. He ordered one of the guards to unlock it and open it a few feet. Hector stepped through, followed by a guard who positioned himself just outside the gate, head on a swivel and rifle up. A second guard moved forward to stand just inside the gate as backup to the first.
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 4