Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)
Page 32
A scream pierced his numbed mind and he turned to see Estere go down, her body hit repeatedly, riddled by bullets. She cried out again and started to crawl toward him, pain distorting the beauty of her features.
“No!” It took Thomas a moment to realize the cry had come from his own lips. He hurled himself forward, his world narrowing to one focus, a sole purpose. Save her…
Sergeant Obregon hurtled up the hill, dropping to one knee beside Hamid’s firing position. The Stinger was already locked-on, beeping TARGET ACQUIRED.
Missile away…
She was dying. He knew that, her blood soaking his shirt as he held her close. A stinging pain tore at his side as the helicopter bore down upon the helpless couple.
They were going to die.
All at once, Thomas heard a sound, like a fiery arrow arcing through the air. He looked up just in time to see the sky explode in flame as the missile connected with its target, directly impacting the Hind’s port engine.
Molten pieces of metal showered down upon them as the helicopter staggered off course, going down. He held her close, sheltering her with his body, only too aware of the futility of the gesture.
“Stay with me, baby,” he whispered desperately. “Just stay with me.”
Another explosion pierced his consciousness as the helicopter slammed into the ground a hundred yards away. Inferno…
Harun arrived at the edge of the treeline just in time to see the helicopter hit by a SAM. “Spread out,” he ordered, waving his men forward. “We need the American.”
He checked the chamber of his rifle once more in a nervous gesture. It was loaded. Then they were moving, fanned out across the hill as they moved into the open.
She coughed, tiny flecks of blood spattering against Thomas’s cheek as he held her there against his shoulder. Breathing was an effort now as she drifted in and out of consciousness.
He laid her body on the ground, careful to move her gently. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded as she felt his hands move away.
“Don’t worry,” he bent over to kiss her forehead. “We’re going home.”
“America?” A light shone ever so briefly in those beautiful eyes.
“Yeah,” he lied bravely. “America.”
He looked up to see Hamid standing over them, a grim, shadowed look on the Iraqi’s face. “She’s not going to make it,” he stated, his voice quiet.
“She needs a medic,” Thomas shot back, unwilling to face it. Not now. “Do you have IVs?”
Hamid started to nod, then movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn. Just as the shooting started.
Harun dove toward the ground as the Americans started to return fire, cursing as he did so. One of his men had lost his nerve and opened up too soon. He saw the offender stagger and fall, cut down by enemy fire, and Harun smiled. Justice…
“Get him back to the vehicle!” Hamid yelled, going prone near the body of the horse and aiming his AK-74 over the corpse.
Two Rangers took hold of Thomas by the arms and pulled him away from the scene, hurrying him back toward the border and the waiting Humvee.
Hamid toggled the switch on his lip mike. “Disengage and fall back. We are on the wrong side of the border. I repeat, disengage.”
He knelt by the girl’s side, feeling carefully for a pulse. There was none. His gaze swept over her bullet-riddled torso, up to where her sightless eyes stared skyward. Such a waste, he reflected, taking his fingers and gently closing her eyes in a final gesture of respect. Time to go…
4:23 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“We just received a message from Officer Zakiri,” the communications officer stated, poking her head into Daniel Lasker’s cubicle. “They have Parker and are exfiltrating from the Qandil. He’s been shot in the side, a flesh wound.”
“They had trouble, Michelle?”
The woman nodded. “An Iranian helicopter showed up just as they were crossing. They were forced to bring it down.”
Lasker took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll need to wake up the DCIA. We’ve got to start putting together a story. Do they have the blood samples?”
“I don’t know,” she replied after a moment. “Zakiri didn’t say.”
“Then call him back. Lay will want to know.”
12:28 P.M. Baghdad Time
Qandil Mountains
Iraq
Thomas winced as the Humvee went over a bump, feeling pain shoot through his side as the adrenaline faded from his system. Hamid was wrapping a bandage around his mid-section and he looked up into the Iraqi’s eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
A nod was the only reply he received. Thomas fell silent, fighting against the emotions inside him. To have left her that way.
Hamid’s TACSAT went off and he motioned for Davood to pick it up, as he tightened the bandage firmly against the wound.
“They want to know if we have the vials,” Davood stated over a moment, covering the phone with his hand.
A look of surprise spread over the Iraqi’s face. “Didn’t you get them?”
“No.”
Hamid banged his fist against the door of the Humvee, swearing under his breath. “We can’t go back for it–that place is swarming with military. Tell Langley that the mission was a wash.”
“Wait.” It was Thomas’s voice.
“What’s the matter?”
Grimacing against the pain, he reached into the remnants of his jacket and pulled a pair of vials from an inner pocket. “I got these.”
“Affirmative, Langley,” Davood responded. “The package is secure. In transit.”
4:49 A.M. Eastern Time
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
“The front door just opened. We have a twenty on Nichols.”
“He’s leaving early,” Vic observed, stamping his feet against the ground. “Are you ready to move, Terri?”
“Already on the road,” the woman’s voice replied over his headset.
Harry felt the lock click behind him and then he was out, into the darkness. There was something he loved about this time, the early morning before the world was awake. He was a creature of the night, at his most comfortable when surrounded by darkness.
But something was wrong. He could feel it in the air. He was wearing a light jacket, the .45 holstered underneath close to his side.
He picked up the pace, jogging out onto the country road that ran past his house. The countryside had changed greatly since his parents had been alive, the urban sprawl spreading out from Alexandria and Richmond in all directions. But Cypress had somehow escaped, remaining a largely rural community. At times, that was a good thing.
“Start moving, Vic. I’m on him.”
At her words, he leaped from his cover and ran toward the back door of the manor, ducking low to minimize his silhouette against the moonlight.
The security system was sophisticated, but nothing he wasn’t capable of handling. His only problem was time—Nichols’ early departure had thrown them. Was he going to stick to his routine, or cut the run short today?
The woman had been behind him for ten minutes. She wasn’t a local, Harry knew that much for certain. It was the main reason he still lived in Cypress, despite the commute and other disadvantages. Someone who didn’t belong stuck out like a sore thumb.
Speaking of sore… He slowed down and limped to the side of the road, sitting down and breathing heavily.
Her pace never slackened as she ran toward him and he watched her come, his hand across his stomach and near the butt of his Colt.
“You all right?” she asked, slowing as she came up. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, a pleasant if not pretty face gazing down upon him. A wire ran from her ear to what looked like an MP3 player at her waist.
“Stomach cramps,” he responded with a grimace.
A look of concern came into her eyes. “Are you going to make it all right?”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” she replied, chuckling at his humor. “Good luck and enjoy your run.”
She seemed to pass on almost reluctantly, hitting her stride again only when she was twenty yards beyond him.
“I’ve been made,” she hissed into her lip mike once she was out of earshot of Nichols.
“You’re sure?”
“He had a case of stomach cramps and sat down by the edge of the road,” was her bitter retort. “Fine actor, but—”
“But fifteen-year spec-ops veterans don’t get stomach cramps from running three hundred yards,” the other man finished for her.
“Exactly. And he’s packing.”
“Vic, are you hearing this? Are you in?”
“Yes to both questions. Where is he now?”
“He just passed me, I’m laying here in the stubble of a corn field.”
“Be more careful next time.”
She was behind him again. He could feel her, a palpable presence there in the darkness and he pressed on. Just a couple hundred yards more.
A mailbox loomed ahead of him and he turned in, his feet pounding down a gravel driveway. The building at the end had started life as a barn until it had been renovated in the ‘60s as a country house by an enterprising lobbyist in the Johnson administration.
Harry went up to the front step and slid back a metal hinge on the door handle, exposing a biometric scanner. A quick scan of his thumbprint and he was in, closing the door carefully behind him.
The front rooms were nicely-furnished, giving the impression of middle-class occupancy. He didn’t spend much time there within view of the windows, making his way through the darkness to the basement door.
“He went into a house,” Vic heard the woman declare, giving his partner an address to run down.
“Stay there and stay out of sight,” she was instructed. Vic diverted his attention from the conversation in his ear, focusing instead on Nichols’ desk. A laptop computer sat closed in the top drawer of the desk and he took it out, doing a careful examination of it for any possible hazards.
His partner’s voice came back on the network. “The deed was registered in the name of Manuel Diaz in 2005.”
“And?” Terri asked.
“He’s not your average Joe Sixpack. Nichols served with this guy when he first joined the CIA.” There was a long pause, silence filling up the other end of the network. “We’re looking at something strange here—running cross-check now—Diaz died in 2003. Somebody used his identity to buy the house.”
“Nichols?”
Harry adjusted the night-vision goggles to his eyes as he made his way through the subterranean darkness. The tunnel was the second reason he had stayed in Cypress, in the old family house. Judging by a date chiseled into a limestone rock near the manor house entrance, the tunnel had been constructed in the early days of the Civil War, as a means of traveling unseen between the manor and the stables. When the barn had been renovated in the 1960s, the exit had been covered up by rubble and never uncovered during the lobbyist’s occupancy.
Harry had finally secured the second property following the death of the owner and used it as his own personal safehouse, registering the deed in the name of a close colleague at the Agency.
Wooden stairs appeared, their outline a dark green through the lens of the goggles. He paused at their bottom to unzip his jacket, withdrawing the .45 from its holster. Time to roll…
5:21 A.M.
“Where are we at, Vic?”
Vic sighed in exasperation. “Do I have to answer that question every five minutes?”
“Just nervous, I guess. Nichols still hasn’t left this bogus property and no lights have been turned on. It’s like he’s waiting for something.”
“He’s a career operator. Cautious. Can you blame him? Believe me, that caution extends to his computer security. It’s one of the most thorough jobs I’ve ever seen.”
“Nice to know my work is appreciated,” a new voice cut in. Vic whirled on heel to find himself staring into the muzzle of a .45 Colt. The man behind the gun was tall, his height seemingly accentuated by a pair of NVGs perched atop his head. Cold blue eyes stared down the barrel of the Colt at Vic. But he knew the face well, from a dozen surveillance photos taken over the last week. Harold Nichols.
“Take off the wire and give it here,” Nichols instructed carefully, his voice even. Determined. The look on his face told Vic he would shoot without hesitation if his orders were not followed.
The CIA man took the microphone from him and crushed it against the floor, his gaze never wavering. “Now, I don’t need to know who you are. Names are irrelevant and I know you’re the man who was following us at the service station five days ago. What I want to know is who you’re working for.”
Vic took a deep breath. “My ID is in my wallet—may I?”
A smile crossed Nichols’ face and he cocked his head. “Left hand, and do it slowly. Very slowly.”
Harry watched the man as he reached into his back pocket, moving awkwardly with his left hand. The wallet came back out and fell open, disclosing a blue shield. The man smiled suddenly. “Special Agent Victor Caruso. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation…”
5:30 A.M.
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
Carter came bustling through the door of the op-center with his jacket over his arm, a cup of steaming coffee in his right hand and a bagel clenched firmly between his teeth.
“I’ve got a call for you, Ron,” Michelle announced, looking up from her terminal. “Harold Nichols, on your secure line.”
He rolled his eyes and gestured toward her with the cup of coffee. “I’ll transfer it to your workstation,” she replied.
He mumbled something that might have been “thanks” and hurried to his cubicle, punching the speaker button as he bit off a chunk of bagel and deposited his coffee beside the computer. “Good grief, Harry,” he began with his mouth full, “do you suppose you could have picked a busier time to call? I haven’t been here five minutes and we’re already running damage control on an international situation. Everything’s gotta be tight before the intelligence briefing in an hour. Is this important?”
“I’m sitting here in my den with a gun pointed at a burglar who claims to be working for the Bureau. So, no, to answer your question, it’s not important,” Harry retorted acidly. “Not important at all.”
6:13 A.M.
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
Harry looked from the picture on his TACSAT’s screen to the handcuffed man sitting in front of him and back again. “You check out,” he announced finally.
The FBI agent smiled. “What did I tell you? Now safe that blamed pistol before you hurt somebody with it.”
“We’re not done yet,” Harry announced, rising from his chair, the cocked .45 still leveled at the agent’s mid-section. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, in my house.”
Caruso looked back at him, unruffled. “As a federal agent without powers of arrest, you don’t have the authority to interrogate me regarding the nature of my warrant.”
Taking him by the collar of his jacket, Harry pulled the agent to his feet, propelling him toward the door. “For now, it’ll suffice that I’m the guy with the gun. Come on, we’ve got a trip to take.”
The first faint traces of dawn were creeping over the Piedmont as the pair exited from the side door of the house. Harry pushed the FBI man toward the large outbuilding that served as his garage.
“How did you get back into the house?” Caruso demanded, looking back over his shoulder as they entered the garage.
Harry snorted, opening the door of his sedan. “Wouldn’t you just love to know. Get in, you’re driving.”
A man in the treeline across the road watched through binocular
s as the garage door opened and the two men drove out onto the road. “Get Director Haskel on the phone. Agent Caruso is in CIA custody.”
7:01 A.M.
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“What is the Bureau doing running an investigation of our operators?” David Lay wondered aloud, looking up from his desk into the eyes of Ron Carter.
“I don’t know, sir. Nichols and this Agent Caruso just arrived at the main gate, so we may get some answers soon.”
“He brought him here?”
“Yes, sir. I authorized the visitor’s pass for Caruso, although I’m told Nichols has him in handcuffs.”
The DCIA chuckled. “An FBI agent in irons. That alone should be worth the price of admission.”
The phone on his desk buzzed and he picked it up. “Sir,” his secretary began, “I have Director Eric Haskel on line 4.”
Lay rolled his eyes. “That didn’t take long. Put him through.”
The phone beeped twice and then the transfer was complete. “Good morning, Eric,” Lay greeted cheerfully.
The FBI director did not reciprocate. “I’m informed that you have one of my people, Lay. An agent named Victor Caruso.”
“Your sources are good, Eric. I was only told fifteen minutes ago myself.”
“I want him released. At once.”