by Mark Parragh
“Ah, man, come on!”
“Someone has to hold the gates. Nobody in or out. You hold the gate until we’re ready to go. It’s important.”
“All right, Chief,” Fat Rodriguez said, somewhat mollified.
“The rest of you, we’ll move in through the front doors and fan out. Destroy anything that looks useful.”
There was a metallic snap, and the thick phone and data cable crashed down into the undergrowth.
“Got it, boss!” Sosa shouted.
“All right, get down here. Everybody mount up.”
They loaded back into the van. Acevedo rode shotgun while Fat Rodriguez drove.
“Floor it,” he said. “Let’s move.”
Rodriguez jammed down the pedal, and the van shimmied fast across the washboard surface, throwing back gravel on the curves.
“Once more,” Acevedo shouted over the noise. “Nobody gets hurt. We don’t need these folks dead, and we don’t want heat. So let them run away. Some idiot tries to fight back, beat him up a little, but don’t shoot them. They’re not our enemies. They’re just in the way, so we’re moving them along. Everybody clear on that?”
One by one they sounded off that they were indeed clear on that. Acevedo figured they probably got it. They weren’t killers. They were just some guys who wanted to retire someday. They’d get the job done and get out clean, and then they could get back to doing things that made sense.
“All right. Now give me a radio check.”
They inserted their earpieces and checked in, one by one. “Good. Stay in touch!” said Acevedo. “You see something, sound off. And listen to me. I’ll be keeping the time.”
The van slewed around a curve, and Acevedo saw the facility’s open gates, a line of dusty old cars parked off to one side.
“We’re in there no more than five minutes, and then back to the van! In the meantime, anything looks expensive, shoot it up. Anything looks important, shoot it up. Computers, file cabinets, whatever. We don’t want to have to come back here!”
Then Fat Rodriguez sped through the gates and slid the van to a stop. Acevedo pulled on his mask.
“Okay, it’s on!” he shouted, and bailed out. He heard the van’s side door slide open behind him.
Some skinny white guy was standing in the parking lot, halfway between the building and the cars. He just stood there and looked at them, slack-jawed with confusion. Acevedo fired two quick bursts over his head, and the guy turned and bolted back across the walkway.
It was definitely on.
Chapter 10
Crane knelt in the marshy ground and examined shattered fragments of plastic from an instrument case. Some were clear, others a dull gray. And they were thick; it had taken hard work with a heavy tool to do this. Crane powered up the Canon point and shoot he’d bought the night before and took a few pictures.
Melissa stood a few yards away, looking around in disgust.
Crane listened to the rustle of the Rio Cubuy, not much more than a stream here. Over that, the calls of birds and tree frogs. In every direction was green. Huge fronds and clinging vines shot through with the dark vertical slashes of tree trunks climbing through the lower levels of the forest in search of sunlight.
“I assume your people have been here since it happened,” said Crane.
“Yeah, Luis, our intern. He found this and brought me and Thom out to see it.”
So most of the boot prints Crane was seeing were probably theirs. But whoever did this had to get in and out somehow. He and Melissa had come down a narrow, packed dirt trail from the edge of the facility grounds. It gradually descended the ridge and followed the river upstream for almost a mile. Here they were deep in the rainforest, in a relatively narrow part of the valley. Directly across the river, the land angled sharply up to the far ridge. On this side there was a bit more flood plain, but still the only way out besides the trail itself was over one ridge or the other, through thick forest.
“Did you cross the river after it happened?”
“No, no gear over there. Why?”
Crane rose and made his way down to the water’s edge.
“I’m trying to figure out how they got here. Best way would be just like we did it. Drive in and then hike down this same trail. Is anyone in the lab at night?”
“Sometimes,” said Melissa. “Maybe. After this started up, we began locking the gates at night.”
So they couldn’t be sure someone wouldn’t see them if they crossed the grounds. Maybe they were careful. Maybe they just didn’t care.
He studied the thick mud of the riverbank. It would be easy enough to ford, but they would have left tracks here. Deep ones. He considered following the river to look for signs of a crossing.
“Why would someone do this?” Melissa said in frustration. “We’re not hurting anybody!”
Crane snapped a few more photos of the riverbank, the unbroken stretches of thick, sandy mud scattered with stones.
“Have to disagree,” he said. “To do this, they’d have to hump it through three or four miles of forest. In the dark. Carrying heavy tools. That’s dedication. They’ve got a reason for this. We just don’t know what it is.”
Crane checked the map screen on his GPS, looking for fire roads or some other means of access. But the map showed only the thin blue trace of the river and some contour lines. If there were any trails through here, they weren’t mapped.
“All right,” Crane said finally. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s head back.”
Melissa was quiet as they walked back up the trail. They were nearly to the edge of the clearing before she spoke. “So what are you going to tell Josh?”
“I’m not ready to tell him anything just yet,” said Crane. “I want to try a couple things first. Looks like you’ve got plenty of room to spare. Can I set up a cot in one?”
“We can do that.” Her voice was controlled. Crane could sense her irritation. “I’ll talk to Luis.”
Then she started as a chattering sound echoed through the rainforest. Birds shrieked and the forest itself seemed to shudder. “What was that?”
Crane knew exactly what it was. A Kalashnikov. A short burst, followed quickly by another. He grabbed Melissa’s hand and led her a few yards off the trail. “Get down and stay here! Right here! I’ll come back for you.”
She looked stunned for a moment, and then she met his eyes and nodded.
Crane patted down his pockets. The closest thing he had to a weapon was a folding utility knife.
More gunfire echoed through the forest. Bursts over bursts. More than one gun.
He gave one last look back at Melissa and ran down the trail toward the labs. He stopped at the edge of the clearing to survey the building. From here, everything looked calm. But he could hear more gunfire. Four of Melissa’s people were there. They were civilians, untrained, unarmed. He had to get inside.
Crane sprinted across the thirty yards of open ground to the rear wall. To his left was a window. To his right he would eventually reach an outside walk leading around the far side of the building. That would get him to the front doors.
He was considering which route to take when the window exploded in a burst of bullets. Shattered glass sprayed out, glittering in the sun as it fell into the grass. Crane ran to the window and edged up against the hole, ready to jump the shooter if he stuck his head outside.
But nothing happened. After perhaps twenty seconds, Crane risked a quick glance around the edge of the steel window frame. The room was empty, as if the shooter had paused in the doorway just long enough to spray the room with fire before moving on.
At least it made his decision easier.
###
The kid had found a mop somewhere and jammed it into the door handles. Acevedo could see it through the glass doors. What an idiot. Frightened people did stupid things. Acevedo leveled his gun and unloaded a long, sweeping burst that shattered the doors and the glass panels on either side of it.
Then he stepped through
with the others at his back. The place was still for an instant. The scientists had retreated deeper into the building. Probably hiding someplace. That was fine. If they stayed out of the way, they’d be all right.
He waved his men off in groups, and they jogged down the hallways, checking doors as they went. Acevedo himself went straight ahead. He’d seen the blueprints of the building, but it was a mess—a rats’ maze of hallways and ramps dotted with stairwells and large chambers with skylights.
He took the first door on the right and found himself in a conference room. Windows on the opposite side, a long table with leather chairs, a ceiling-mounted projector, and a screen on the wall at the end.
He caught a glimpse of motion beyond the table and leveled the gun. A terrified woman crouched there, clutching a phone. She was desperately flashing the hook, trying and failing to get a dial tone. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, trembling.
Acevedo raised the gun and fired into the projector. It exploded into a rain of plastic and sparks that fell across the table. The woman screamed and cowered.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted. “Run away!”
She hesitated for an instant and then dashed around the table, the long way so she wouldn’t have to pass him. She disappeared out the door like a rabbit with a hungry dog on its tail.
His earpiece beeped. “This is Acosta, lower level, east wing. I’ve got equipment here.”
“So wreck it.”
He heard gunfire over the channel for a moment before it cut out, and then echoes off the cement walls and floor. He took a deep breath. This was going to be easy.
###
Crane stepped through the shattered window and into the empty room beyond. The air conditioning made it feel like stepping into a refrigerator. He heard gunshots, short bursts. People screaming. Hoarse voices shouting in Spanish.
He moved quickly across the room and pressed his back against the wall by the doorway. It was hard to locate sounds in this warren of bare concrete, but he thought the gunshots were coming from farther away. He popped his head around the doorway for an instant, and then back, and then out again looking the other way. Nothing.
He stepped out into a long corridor lined with identical doorways. He tried to call up a mental map of the place from his tour, but the design was too sprawling and complicated. So Crane did the next best thing. He followed the noise.
When he reached the atrium, he knew he was close. The shots echoed much louder here. Then a figure in black appeared on the level below him. Crane registered a dark ski mask, the instantly recognizable shape of a Kalashnikov. Crane dropped behind the safety railing at the edge of the mezzanine. It was made of enameled metal panels between posts, and it gave him gaps to look through. He watched the gunman step into a doorway, raising the rifle to firing position. Then he disappeared into the room and Crane heard him empty the clip, hosing down the room.
A few moments later, one of the scientists—the biochemist Sabelio—ran out and sprinted for the stairs. From the room he’d left, Crane heard the shooter slam another clip into his weapon and resume firing. He heard the ragged clatter of shell casings ejecting, the impact of bullets on fragile machinery. He’d let the person in the room escape unharmed, but he was still shooting up the equipment. That wasn’t accidental. He could have easily killed Sabelio, but he hadn’t. So they weren’t here to kill the staff. That was something, at least.
The biochemist reached the second level and took off into the nearest hallway, away from Crane. Crane stood and hissed “Over here!” as loudly as he dared. But Sabelio wasn’t listening. He was running on adrenaline and pure terror, and he was likely to blunder into another shooter the way he was going.
Crane shook his head and then took off after him. He entered the hallway he’d seen Sabelio go down just in time to see him duck into a doorway. Crane followed and found himself in what looked like an improvised break room with folding lounge chairs, a cooler, and a plastic trash can overflowing with empty bottles. He saw Sabelio leap out the shattered window and hit the ground running in the direction of the rainforest. That would do, Crane thought. He was moving off the battlefield. That left three unaccounted for.
He stepped back out into the hallway—and nearly collided with another armed man.
For both of them, there was an instant of shock. Their eyes met through the shooter’s black ski mask, and Crane picked up his surprise. Crane was an unexpected factor. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
In the next moment, they both reacted on instinct. The shooter raised his gun, and Crane grabbed the barrel and the receiver. Crane forced the muzzle up toward the ceiling, and the shooter was pulled off balance. He fell against the wall even as he tried to yank the gun out of Crane’s grasp. Crane pushed him back hard, and the man’s elbow slammed against the cement wall behind him. He cried out in pain and released the grip. Crane punched him hard in the face and bounced his head off the cement. The man staggered, still trying to regain control of the weapon. Crane finished him off with a flurry of strikes. Even though he was fading, the man grasped at the trigger again, and Crane twisted the gun hard, heard the arm snap. The man slid to the floor and didn’t move.
Crane quickly swept the AK across the hallway and then spun and checked the other end. No one was there. He didn’t know how long it would take the others to realize one of their men was down. He had more pressing concerns.
He checked the magazine. It was nearly empty, but the unconscious man had three more. Crane took them and loaded one into the gun. The Kalashnikov didn’t seem to have been very well cared for. It was certainly not up to Hurricane Group standards. But it obviously worked. And least he was now armed.
###
Melissa crouched at the edge of the woods, her torso pressed hard against the rough back of a Tabonuco tree as she listened to the gunfire. She wasn’t sure how long Crane had been gone. It felt like a long time, but some part of her kept popping up through her fear to observe that adrenaline could be tampering with her sense of time passing. As if she gave a damn about that.
Those were her friends in there.
She’d recruited most of them herself. She’d gotten funding for them and talked them into coming out here and living on what she could scrape up. She’d brought them all here, and someone was…no, she wouldn’t think they were killing them.
Another burst of fire startled her. She looked around, but nothing moved. Erase the sound of sporadic gunshots, and the day looked calm, lazy. A good day to leave the electrophoresis units to run while they hung out on the roof with some cold beers.
But they’d probably never do that again. There was no coming back from this. It was hard enough scraping up the funding the first time around. There were plenty of other projects for the big donors to back. Projects that didn’t have armed terrorists hanging over their heads.
She’d worked so hard. She must have given that damn presentation a hundred times—to foundations, corporate citizenship boards, even garden clubs. Anybody with some money and an interest in plants.
She breathed out hard. She had gone begging to garden clubs full of little old rich ladies for this! And now someone was destroying it all, and she didn’t even know why.
To hell with that.
Melissa had broken out of the undergrowth before she quite realized it. She picked up her pace and ran toward her building. Around the corner to her right was an access door into the basement. The keys were in her pocket. Just inside that door was a room they’d used to store construction supplies during the renovation work. She remembered a pile of metal pipes there.
The part of her brain that had been commenting on her perception of time was sounding alarms and reminding her that the men inside had machine guns, but she was done listening to it.
She unlocked the door and slipped inside. The gunshots were louder, of course, but she didn’t see anyone, living or dead. She turned quickly into the first doorway and found the supplies, just as she’d remembered. She
grabbed a milk crate and used it to block open the back door. If any of her people were alive, she’d get them out this way and take them back to the safety of the woods. Then she went back and grabbed a pipe. It was perfect. About the size and weight of a baseball bat. All she needed now was someone to hit.
Chapter 11
Acevedo knocked several computers off the table where they were lined up, and then fired a burst into each of them. He swept the room and didn’t see any other likely targets.
He checked his watch.
“Three minutes,” he said into his mic. “Check.”
The responses came back quickly. “Okay.” “All good.” Four of them in quick succession.
There should have been five.
“Gavilan?”
Nothing. He repeated the call.
“I saw him headed for the back west quadrant,” said Sosa.
“Find him.”
Acevedo didn’t like this. It should have been clockwork.
“He’s down!” Sosa shouted over the open channel, and Acevedo could hear the sudden fear in his voice.
There was a burst of frightened chatter from the others, and Acevedo barked at them to shut up.
“He’s alive,” Sosa reported, “but somebody beat him up. He’s out. I can’t find his gun!”
What the hell was going on? There was no way any of the scientists could have done that, even if they got the drop on him somehow.
But the woman had gone to the mainland for help. Supposedly a man was coming back with her. One man. Probably unarmed—he hadn’t shot Gavilan; he’d taken him down and then claimed his gun. It didn’t make any sense. Gavilan was a beast. If this man had dropped him like that…
No. The others needed him to stay in control, tell them what to do. He had to pull this together.
“Sosa, get him out!” he snapped. “Take him to the van. The rest of you sweep the building again. There’s someone else here. Find out what we’re up against. And the gloves are off. You see someone with a gun, kill him!”