by Chris Mooney
The main road from the highway wrapped around the side of the building, past the delivery entrance and then opened up into the spacious parking lot full of cars. The battered Ford Bronco from the skydiving school was parked at the bottom of the concrete stairs that led to the mailroom, its door held open by a brick. Past the Bronco was a fire truck and another van, this one gray. The vehicles were parked parallel to each other, blocking the main road to prevent anyone from entering or exiting the parking lot. The gray van's driver's-side door was open, waiting for the driver to return.
The front entrance and lobby was made of clear glass. Past the front door was a security guard station. Beyond that were two sets of elevators. No firemen or bomb technicians lingered around, and, he noticed, the security gates had not been deployed. If Randy had triggered the alarm, those gates would have covered each of the company's two exits.
Conway removed the Palm Pilot from his back pocket and checked the screen. The window displaying the download status was still frozen the software was no longer being downloaded into the suit but if Angel Eyes had Randy, he would use him to bring the server back online. Once that happened, a few more minutes worth of work and Angel Eyes and his men would be done and gone.
Conway leaned the Palm upright against the tree so he could see the screen. His phone vibrated against his hip. He removed it from the case and pressed it against his sweaty ear.
"Steve, Keith Harring, Hazard Team leader for Unit Six." The voice was deep and gritty, as if he had sand lodged in his throat.
"We were finally able to get through to Delburn. Bouchard filled us in. You get through to Scott?"
"I did."
"Give me your status."
"The lab server is still offline."
"And Scott?"
"I haven't been able to reach him. Where are you?"
"En route to your location. We just left."
Just left? Conway felt his body sag. He had hoped Hazard had already moved in.
As if sensing the question, Harring said, "Our communications were being jammed. When we saw what went down at the airport, we knew the gig had gone FUBAR, so we tried another way out not easy since the place looks like a war zone."
"What about Bouchard?"
"We lost contact. Hold on."
Harring's voice moved away and spoke to someone else, the words inaudible over the sound of car horns blaring and the rapid click-click-click of fingers working a keyboard. The airport was max twenty minutes away. Once the lab server came back online, a few more minutes and Angel Eyes would be downloading the software and would be gone well before Hazard arrived.
Harring was back now: "The satellite's locked on your heat signature The field you're sitting in is clear. You're the only guy out back.
Now listen to me and listen carefully.
"I've got the building's floor and design schematics loaded onto our system. I'm working with a three-dimensional model that allows us to see where they're traveling inside. The satellite will pick up heat signatures and motion. The first floor is clear, and so is the second and third. On the fourth, I'm showing three bodies, all alive, standing outside a door. One is sitting, the other three standing."
"The lab's on the fourth floor," Conway said.
"If they're inside the lab, you won't be able to pick up their heat signatures or voices or any transmissions. The entire place is shielded. The others must be in there with Dixon."
"I thought they couldn't get inside the lab without wearing special encoded badges that the lab's security would go off."
"They could have used Randy to disable the security."
"But not Dixon."
"Dix doesn't have the security clearance."
"Okay, good, that buys us some time. The security room is clear. My guess is that they're saving that for last. Get the suit out first, and then have their guys go inside the security room and remove the surveillance tapes. No way they're going to leave that evidence wait, we've got action." Harring's voice was tight now, excited.
"I'm showing two men standing outside the lab door. They're kicking the guy sitting on the floor, and one of them has a weapon, looks like a submachine gun, he's pointing it at this guy's head."
"Randy," Conway said and felt a heaviness fill his heart. They've got him.
"Randy know you're here?"
"He knows I'm alive."
"So these guys are going to try to make him talk."
"Randy won't talk."
"He might if they blow out one of his kneecaps. He's young, Steve. A newbie. He's scared, and if he starts babbling, he'll blow any chance we've got of salvaging this operation."
Below his eyes, Conway saw movement. He looked down at the Palm's screen and saw what was happening.
"The server's back online," he said.
"They're downloading the remaining files."
"How long until they're "
"They're seventy percent done. Ten minutes, maybe five, I don't know, it's too close."
"We won't make it in time."
Two years of hard work, the countless man hours and sleepless nights, the deaths of IWAC team members, Pasha, and now Dixon and Randy were about to be slaughtered.
Harring said, "You have to shut down the server."
"They have Randy. They would have used him to shut off my permissions."
"But they think you're dead, right?"
"They would have shut off my access. It's the smart thing to do."
"But you don't know that. You armed?"
"I've got my Palm Pilot."
"And it has the Air Taser system, right?"
"Yeah."
"I can work with that. Steve, I can watch you on my screen here, watch your back and tell you where to go. The delivery room is clear. You can enter from the side." No urgency in Harring's voice, just a cold, professional precision that reminded Conway of a seasoned coach who was confidently telling the younger player that the bases were loaded, and all he had to do was step up to the plate, hit a line drive, and the game was over.
"You want me to be a running target until you get there," Con-way said.
"They won't be able to touch you, I promise."
Time was running down on the Palm Pilot.
It is in the midst of these split-second decisions that character is forged. You don't have time to prepare. You must quickly draw on your inner resources and training, act and hope for the best.
Conway shoved the Palm Pilot into his back pocket and stood up.
"I'll make contact with you once I'm inside."
Twenty-Two.
Conway ran up the concrete steps and past the opened door and plunged into the cold semidarkness of the delivery room.
The overhead banks of fluorescent lighting had been shut off. The only source of light came from the opened door and the two computer monitors on each desk, their dark-blue screens glowing against the back wall.
The mailroom was long, rectangular and windowless, full of rows of supply cabinets, shelving, and large copying machines. Conway moved behind the counter and walked toward the back of the mailroom, the phone pressed against his ear. Overhead, the air conditioning clicked on, and a rush of cold air blew down from the ceiling.
"I'm inside," Conway whispered, his voice hoarse.
"I'll need a minute or so to set up."
"You're clear," Harring said.
Every desktop computer inside the building was hooked into the company's Local Area Network, or LAN. Each employee had a unique user name and password that allowed him access to specific directories and files; other directories and their contents were restricted, permanently out of their reach. As the company's network administrator, Conway had access to all six servers. What he had to do now was reboot one of the mailroom's desktop computers and log on as the administrator, which would allow him to bring the lab's security system back online.
You hope. If they used Randy to shut off your access, you won't be able to do a thing.
Conway moved to the
first desk and hit the reboot button on the desktop PC. The computer monitor went black and then came to life again, lines and lines of white text scrolling across the screen as it went through its series of internal tests. Next item: find a headset. Conway searched through drawers, desk tops, and shelving and then found one in the back, lying on top of a copier. He fitted the unit over his head and adjusted the padded microphone so it sat right against the corner of his mouth. All he would have to do was whisper and Harring would hear him. Conway clipped the phone to his belt and then moved back behind the desk and sat down.
On the computer monitor, a window asked him to enter his user ID and password. He typed it in and then paused, his finger hovering above the ENTER key. If Angel Eyes had someone monitoring the network, the second Conway pressed the key, it didn't matter if the password was accepted or denied, they would know someone else was inside the building. If no one was monitoring the network and Conway's passwords were accepted, he could trigger the lab's alarm system. He would be locking himself here with Angel Eyes.
"They're beating the shit out of Randy," Harring said.
"I'm about to log on. How far away are you?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes."
Conway looked at the ENTER key. Come on, just let this go through and buy me some time. He pressed the key and the window disappeared, his information sent into the vast computer matrix for verification. shit.
Conway stared at the new window on the monitor.
"Denied access," he said.
"They've shut me off from the network. I can't do anything from "
"They're moving," Harring said, his voice loud and tight.
Conway stood up and ran toward the counter, Harring saying, "I'm counting two men, these boys are sprinting and heading straight for the stairs or the elevator, I can't tell which yet. Get to the security room."
Two doors, one leading back outside, the other the stairs. Con-way opened the second door to the gray-painted stairwell and ran up the stairs, the squeak and thud of his boots echoing loudly up the stairwell. He opened the door and moved onto the second floor, easing the door back into its frame so it wouldn't make a sound. High above him a door slammed open against a wall, followed by the rush of footsteps, all of it real now, no longer imaginary scenarios.
The door shut, Conway turned and ran down stretches of blue-gray painted hallways ending and beginning, beginning and ending, a maze crafted from a nightmare, until the last hallway disappeared and gave way to an open area of cubicles, private offices, and meeting rooms.
The place was strangely empty and quiet. The desktops glowed with the sunlight pouring in from the windows. Conway moved down the final corridor and when it split to the right, he turned and now faced the security-room door. A key-card scanning device was mounted on the wall, located next to the door handle. Conway fished his key card from his front pocket, found it and slid the card through the scanner. The light turned red.
"They've shut off my access to the security room," Conway said. He tried the doorknob; the door shook inside the frame.
"I can't get in."
"You got a key?"
"No." The company's office and security manager, Joe Langdon, was the only person who had the keys.
From far down the maze of corridors, Conway heard the second-floor door burst open against the wall and then slam shut.
Harring: "Target two is running in your direction."
The security room was located at the corner of the building in a suite of private offices. The only way out of here was to go back the way he came the same corridors through which one of Angel Eyes's men was now running.
"I want you to turn the corner and wait," Harring said, his seasoned voice clear and calm.
"Target one is in the mailroom looking around, and the one coming in your direction is alone. They probably think you bolted back outside.
Get your Palm ready. If you do exactly what I say, we can level the playing field until I get there."
Conway moved past the door, turned the corner, and pressed his back against the wall. To his left and several feet away was an opened door leading into a private office; to his right, the hallway continued for maybe thirty feet, and then the walls disappeared into the wide sea of cubicles he had just passed. Conway looked down at the carpet. Good.
The overhead lights didn't throw off his shadow. Palm Pilot in hand, he called up the program that turned the PDA into an Air Taser.
"Our boy just turned the corner and is walking down the final hallway,"
Harring said.
"Stay where you are, regulate your breathing. You don't want him to hear you."
He won't have to see or hear me, all he'll have to do is take a whiff of the air, and he'll know I'm right here. An odor of sweat and grime and dry blood rose from his skin.
Hung on the wall and facing the hallway that contained the security room door was a framed poster of an American Cup racing boat diving deep into a towering wave. In the glass's reflection, Conway saw the small, blurred shadow of a man grow larger as he walked up the hallway toward him.
Harring whispered over Conway's earphone: "When I tell you, you're going to turn around and hit him with your Taser. Just remember to stay low."
Conway took slow, deep breaths through his nose and regulated his breathing. He placed his thumb on the Palm's button. The problem with the Palm's Air Taser System was that you only had one shot. Once he pressed the button, he would drain the entire battery. The Palm Pilot became useless until it was recharged. He had only one shot to bring this guy down.
"Twenty feet and closing," Harring whispered, barely audible.
"He's moving slowly, looking for you. Stay sharp."
The hum of the fluorescent lighting was maddening. Over the earphone, Conway heard the screech of tires, car horns blaring. His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow.
Harring whispered, "Get ready."
Down to the wire now, Conway could feel it, like an electric current moving through his veins. His fate was about to be decided, everything hinged on him and (go ahead and say it) luck. Conway's muscles tensed.
Ready.
"Now!" Harring said.
Conway turned the corner, staying low.
The man dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap had just removed his latex-covered hand away from the doorknob, his right hand fastened around the grip of a submachine gun when he saw Steve Conway on the floor with one hand on the ground, the other hand holding in the air a Palm Pilot organizer. Startled, the man tried to turn his body and brought the weapon around just as two barbs shot out of the Palm and pierced his leg and chest. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The Palm was dead. Conway yanked out the barbs, wrapped the wire around the Palm and then shoved the unit into his back pocket.
He stood up, grabbed the man's baseball hat and then dragged him into one of the offices. The guy had greasy black hair and pale skin young, early twenties, too young to be doing this. He knelt down and first removed the weapon, a Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun the preferred weapon for close quarters combat and used by the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team and terrorist groups. A sup-presser was threaded over the barrel and a tactical light was mounted under the forward handguard. The HK, he noticed, had been set to semiautomatic mode.
One shot and this guy would have turned you into hamburger.
"He's down," Conway said. He fastened the machine gun's strap over his shoulder and then started going through the guy's front pockets.
Nothing. Conway rolled him over and tried the back pockets. The words "Bomb Squad" were printed on the back of the T-shirt. Conway checked the guy's waistband and ankles for a hidden weapon and came up empty.
The radio clipped to the man's belt crackled and came to life. The voice spoke in Russian. Conway had studied the language and knew exactly what the Russian man had said: Demetri, did you find Comuay?
"They know I'm in here," Conway said to Harring.
"Where's ta
rget one?"
"Still in the mailroom no, wait, he just ran outside. He's heading toward the van."
They're getting ready to move.
An alarm sounded. Not the fire alarm, no, this one was steady and very distinct: ding-ding, ding-ding.
"What's going on?" Harring's voice was barely audible.
"They've activated the lab's security system," Conway said.
"They're locking me inside the building."
Right now metal gates similar to the ones city store owners pulled down across their small shops at night to prevent burglaries and vandalism were descending all over the lobby and the delivery entrance. Any window or area on the first floor that could provide an exit would now be gated. Running was useless. Conway was trapped.
Conway thought of the man who had just run outside and wondered, Why are they deploying the security system now? They're locking themselves inside the building.
Because they know you're here. They've got you trapped, and now they're coming to take care of you. You walked right into it.
Unless those gates came back up, the Hazard Team would have no way of entering the building and Conway would have no way of escaping. He stood up and shut the door, quieting the sound of the alarm.
Harring said, "We've got movement."
Conway brought the HK up and pointed it at the door, a new, wired energy surging through his body.
"Six people running out the lab doors and they're all brandishing weapons," Harring said.
"Where's Randy?"
A click over his receiver as Harring swallowed and then said, "Shit.
One of them is dragging Randy back inside the lab."
To kill him, Conway thought. Angel Eyes is going to kill Randy and Dixon. Right. The man didn't leave witnesses.
The lab was on the fourth floor, max five minutes away.
You have time, you can still save them.
"I'm going to the lab," Conway said.