The Eye of God: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  He was instantly on his feet as the military police surrounded the first bus and swarmed from the hotel lobby toward their vehicle. They had moments to react before being permanently trapped in this vise.

  Zhuang was enough of a tactician with the Triad to recognize the same. He repeated the instruction to the driver in Cantonese, and the bus lurched heavily backward.

  As its speed picked up, Gray dropped to his knees beside the hidden trapdoor in the floorboards and yanked it open.

  Gunshots peppered the side of the retreating bus, shattering windows. The front took the brunt of the assault. The driver suddenly fell to the side with a cry of pain. The bus listed crookedly. Zhuang rolled the driver aside, tossing his body roughly into the stairwell and taking the seat himself.

  The bus immediately straightened and sped faster.

  Gray grabbed the assault rifle strapped to the underside of the trapdoor. It had been readied there in case there was any trouble at the border. He had noted it earlier when he and Kowalski had hidden down there.

  “Pass the weapons out,” he ordered Kowalski, pointing to the remainder of the cache below.

  If they were to survive this, he needed this bus to become an urban assault vehicle—one with a smiling yellow cat on its side.

  But first they had to break free of this closing trap.

  He leaped atop the backseat, switching places with Kowalski, and popped open the emergency exit in the roof of the bus. Jumping, he pulled himself halfway through the hatch and braced himself there. He hauled up the assault rifle and aimed it at the pair of jeeps swinging up the circular driveway to cut off their retreat.

  He strafed the windshield of the first, sending the vehicle careening off the driveway and into the manicured lawn. The second veered but kept on the road—until the bus, barreling in reverse, struck it a glancing blow.

  The jeep crashed to the side, going up on two wheels.

  The impact came close to throwing Gray out of the hatch, but at least they had broken free of the closing snare.

  The bus reached the end of the driveway and did a 180-degree skid into the six-lane highway, turning the face of the bus away from the hotel. Gears cranked, the engine roared, then they were rolling forward again, gaining speed on the empty road.

  Back at the hotel, the remaining military jeeps gave chase.

  More vehicles with sirens flashing appeared ahead, racing toward them along the wide street. In the distance, the spearing lights of a helicopter rose into the sky over the darkened city.

  So far, the North Korean ambush, though a surprise, had a rushed feel to it. Whoever had planned this attack must have had little time to fully mobilize the Pyongyang police force. But now the city was waking up, preparing to bring all force to bear.

  Throughout the bus, weapons were handed out, windows pulled down. Assault rifles poked out on all sides. Still, how long could they hope to hold off the might of the North Korean armed forces?

  The answer: not long at all.

  Gray ducked back down and called over to Guan-yin. “Can you reach the man scheduled to bring the military transport truck? Get him to abandon it elsewhere for us.”

  She nodded, slung her rifle over her shoulder, and took out her phone.

  Their only hope of surviving, of reaching Seichan, was to stick to the old adage: If you can’t fight them, join them.

  They had to create enough confusion and obfuscation to create a small window to offload the bus and get everyone into that transport truck. With all the military vehicles about to flood the streets of Pyongyang, they might be able to blend in with them during the chaos.

  “There’s an underpass near the highway that heads south out of town,” Gray said. “Tell him to leave it there . . . and do it now!”

  Leaving the details to her, he shoved up through the hatch again.

  The military jeeps from the hotel were closing in on them, firing over the top of their windshields toward the fleeing bus. But the shots mostly went wide, a few pelting into the rear. One lucky round sparked near his elbow.

  Gray ducked lower, aimed his assault rifle, and shot back. A windshield shattered on one jeep, and it swerved into its neighbor, bumping and rebounding away. The collision slowed the jeeps enough for the bus to stretch its lead substantially.

  At the same time, flashing lights drew down upon the bus from up ahead. A barrage of gunfire erupted from both sides of the bus. Police vehicles scattered to either side. A few tried to barricade the way, but the six-lane thoroughfare proved too wide. The bus careened through them, delivering a merciless salvo of gunfire as punishment as they passed.

  Then they were momentarily free of ground pursuit.

  Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the air.

  A helicopter swept into view along the road ahead. It banked in a turn and dove toward them. A chain-gun under the nose blazed with fire, chugged heavy rounds, drilling across the asphalt straight toward their vehicle.

  The heavier bus could never outmaneuver that deadly bird.

  Gray twisted around and fired at the helicopter, but it was too thickly armored to have any effect. He might as well have been firing spitballs.

  Then the side door opened at the front of the bus. A large form leaned out—Kowalski—shouldering a Russian RPG-29 grenade launcher. It was meant as a weapon against tanks, but anything with armor was fair game.

  Kowalski whooped loudly as he fired at nearly point-blank range. The rocket-propelled grenade shot skyward in a trail of smoke and struck the bird just below its rotors.

  Gray dropped back through the hatch and flattened to the floor. Through the exit door in the roof, he saw the helicopter explode above the bus as the vehicle shot under it, trying to escape both the blast and the rain of carnage.

  It failed.

  The explosion rocked the bus. A piece of rotor speared through the rear, slicing the air a foot above Gray’s sprawled body, close enough to feel the heat of its blasted steel on his face.

  But they were still moving, limping now on a blown tire.

  Using the rotor as a step-up, Gray climbed back through the hatch. The fiery wreckage of the helicopter smoked and receded behind them. But more birds lit up the skies across the city, converging toward them.

  As if sensing the need for cover, Zhuang swung the bus off the wide thoroughfare and into a mazelike canyon of apartment buildings. He kept the headlamps off to keep their passage as hidden as possible.

  Gray hoped the burning helicopter on the ground would draw the others toward it, like moths to a flame, allowing their bus to gain some further distance. They continued in a circuitous path southward through the city, avoiding main thoroughfares where they could.

  Sirens rang throughout Pyongyang.

  Still, the streets remained empty, the windows dark. The residents knew better than to show their faces.

  After several tense minutes, the highway underpass appeared ahead down a narrow alley of closed shops and garages. Zhuang slowed as they crept toward that well of deeper darkness. The underpass was so low that Gray had to duck down through the hatch or risk getting decapitated.

  He hurried to the front of the bus, where Kowalski still held the tube of the grenade launcher. They slid under the highway. The space appeared empty, but it was too dark to say for sure.

  If the transport isn’t here . . .

  With his heart in his throat, Gray whispered to Zhuang, “Try the lights.”

  The swordsman flicked on the headlamps. Light exploded throughout the underpass, exposing every hidden corner.

  Nothing.

  Gray glanced back to Guan-yin, who had followed him forward.

  She shook her head. “He said he’d be here.”

  Kowalski slammed his palm against the door. “Motherfu—”

  A set of headlamps suddenly blazed a few streets up. A large truck shot into view, skidded around a corner at a fast clip, and sped toward them.

  Gray pulled the door release of the bus and hopped out
.

  He raised his weapon toward the racing vehicle.

  Guan-yin joined him, urging him to lower his weapon. “It’s our truck.”

  She was proven correct as the dark green vehicle braked hard next to theirs. It was a Chinese model with a tall driver’s compartment and an enclosed rear bed. It wasn’t armored, but Gray was not complaining.

  The driver hopped out, collected a satchel of money from Guan-yin, then sprinted away.

  “Guess he’s not big on small talk,” Kowalski said.

  They quickly offloaded all their gear from the bus, both uniforms and weapons. Likewise, three military motorcycles were rolled out of the truck bed and onto the asphalt. The bikes would act as an entourage for the personnel carrier.

  Five men—those who looked the most Korean and spoke the language fluently—dressed immediately. Three of them mounted the motorcycles, and two climbed into the truck’s cab. The rest of the crew ducked immediately into the rear bed.

  Except for one plucky volunteer who agreed to stay with the bus.

  The transfer was done in less than five minutes. The bus took off in one direction, the truck and motorcycles in the other. The hope was for the bus to lure the hunters away, to give them as hard and long a chase as possible. Then the driver would ditch the bus and vanish into the vastness of the dark city.

  Gray stared out the back flap of the bed, watching the bus disappear. Once it was gone, he dropped the flap and stared around the dark, tight space as everyone switched into North Korean uniforms.

  He caught one face, shadowed by a tattoo, staring back at him.

  They both shared the same worry.

  Once word reached Seichan’s captors of their escape, how would they react? Would they move her to a new location or kill her immediately?

  And the more important question, How much time do we have left to save her?

  8:02 P.M.

  Seichan writhed in her restraints as a steel needle was slowly driven under her fingernail. Four others already poked from the same hand. Pain shot all the way to her shoulders. She breathed heavily through her nose, refusing to scream.

  Her torturer sat on a stool, bent over her arm, expressionless but intently focused, as if he were giving her a manicure.

  Other tools of black interrogation were spread in plain view behind him, shining coldly under the fluorescent lights. She knew this was as much psychological as anything, a warning of what was to come if she continued to refuse to talk.

  The room’s only other occupant paced to her other side, wringing his small hands. “Tell us who the Americans are,” Pak repeated, his voice high and nasal through his splinted bandage. “And this will stop.”

  Like hell it would.

  She knew they intended to wring everything and anything they could out of her. Her coming days promised endless suffering. Her worst fear was not the shining drill bits or threats of rape, but that she would eventually break. In time, she would tell them anything; whether true or false, it wouldn’t matter then.

  Still, she took comfort where she could.

  If they were questioning her about Gray and Kowalski, then likely the pair had survived the ambush in Macau and the fiery attack in Hong Kong. If he was breathing, Seichan knew, Gray would not stop trying to reach her.

  But can I last that long?

  Does he even know where I am?

  She held back hope, knowing that path only led to weakness. In the end, it would be better if Gray never tried freeing her, because to do so would only get him killed.

  Her interrogator—who had been introduced to her as Nam Kwon—gently attached tiny electrical clips to each of the five imbedded needles. He spoke softly, never looking up, his voice a whisper, almost apologetic.

  “The jolt of electricity will feel as if your fingernails are being ripped out all at the same time. The pain will be beyond imagining.”

  She ignored his words, knowing that he wanted her to imagine that pain. Often the anticipation of pain was worse than enduring it.

  Pak came forward, leaning his face close to hers. “Tell us who these Americans are.”

  She stared up at him and smiled coldly. “They’re the ones who are going to rip off your balls and feed them to pigs.”

  As his eyes narrowed in anger, she slammed her head forward and butted him square in the face.

  He bellowed, falling backward, fresh blood spurting from his nose.

  Pak waved to Kwon. “Do it! Make her scream!”

  Kwon remained calm. Unhurried, he reached and twisted a dial. “This is the lowest voltage,” he said—then flipped a switch.

  Pak got what he asked for.

  Pain ripped through her. Surprise more than agony squeezed a cry from her throat. Her arm turned to fire as electricity contorted her body. Rigid muscles fought the restraints in convulsive trembles.

  Through the red fire, she saw the door open behind Kwon and Pak.

  The interruption drew their attention. Kwon flipped the switch back, and she sagged into the chair, her body still quaking with aftershocks, her hand burning.

  Delgado stared toward her, his face ashen but doing his best not to show any reaction. He finally had to look away.

  Clearing his throat, Delgado said, “I’ve just heard word from my man Tomaz at the Ryugyong. Half of the Duàn zhī Triad have been captured or killed at the hotel. But another half escaped in a second bus. All Pyongyang is out searching for them.”

  Confused, Seichan focused through the residual pain. The Duàn zhī was her mother’s gang. But what were they doing here in North Korea? She struggled to understand. Was her mother simply seeking revenge from the attack on her stronghold in Hong Kong? Or was it something more personal?

  She swallowed back hope but failed to completely stanch it.

  Pak glowered at Delgado. “And Guan-yin?”

  Her mother . . .

  Seichan held her breath.

  Delgado did not look any happier than the North Korean. “She was not among those captured. Neither was Zhuang, her lieutenant.”

  Pak stamped back and forth, balling a fist. “But she remains on our soil. She will not escape for long.”

  Delgado made a noncommittal noise, plainly less convinced. Guan-yin had survived his fiery assault on her stronghold. He was not going to underestimate his opponent.

  “I have more news,” Delgado said. “It appears the Americans came with Guan-yin.”

  “They are here!” Pak’s face flushed darkly.

  Seichan also felt a surge of emotion—hope rising inside her despite her efforts to rein it back.

  “What about the prisoner?” Delgado asked, returning his attention to Seichan. “It would not be prudent to leave her here.”

  Pak nodded. “There’s a prison camp near my lab. It’s in the remote northern mountains, known to only a handful of those in power, and well guarded. I had planned on transferring her tomorrow anyway. We will do that now.”

  So he meant to keep her close to him, clearly intending to enjoy her every scream. Not good. Seichan knew that if she reached that camp, all was lost.

  “It would be better to kill her now,” Delgado suggested and nodded to Pak’s holstered pistol. “A bullet to the head.”

  Seichan sensed this proposition was expressed more as a concern for her than for Pak. A quick death would be better than months of torture that ended in the same grave.

  Pak wasn’t having any of it, puffing out his chest with nationalistic pride. “That would be a cowardly response to a minor threat.”

  Delgado shrugged.

  Pak glanced at her, blood still dripping from his nose. She read his expression. His decision against killing her was less about honor and more about his fondness for torture. He had a small taste of it a moment ago. He wanted more.

  Pak called to the guard outside the door, while slipping his own pistol free. Once the soldier stepped inside, he pointed to Seichan. “Free her, and take her to my jeep. Make sure she is securely bound.”

&nbs
p; “It is very cold, seon-saeng-nim,” the guard said formally. “Should I find her clothes for travel?”

  Pak eyed her up and down.

  “Aniyo,” he finally declined. “If she wants warmth, she must beg for it.”

  With the matter settled, the guard pointed his rifle at her. Kwon undid the padded cuffs that held her to the steel chair.

  First her ankles, then her wrists.

  As soon as her last arm was freed, she lashed out, stabbing the ends of the needles still poking from her fingertips into Kwon’s eyes. He stumbled back, partially blocking the guard’s angle of fire as she had planned.

  She sprang up, grabbed Kwon, and rolled him fully between her and the soldier as the man opened fire. Rounds skewered through the interrogator but did not find her. She shoved his bulk at the guard, tangling them up long enough for Seichan to spin around and snatch the pistol from Pak’s stunned fingers.

  She whipped back and planted a single shot into the soldier’s skull.

  Running for the door, she snatched up his rifle with her free hand and fled the room—leaving Delgado and Pak unharmed. Not knowing what she might face, she dared not waste a bullet on them.

  Once outside, she dead-bolted the door to the interrogation room. She then painfully pulled out each of the steel needles. Through the small window, she watched Pak rage impotently inside. Insulated against the screams of the tortured, not a sound escaped the room.

  Behind Pak, Delgado caught her eyes, his arms folded over his chest. He smiled at her, offering her a small nod of respect.

  Turning heel, she ran for the exit to the interrogation building. Luckily it was deserted at this late hour. She slowed only long enough to search a bank of lockers near the front door, hoping to find a North Korean uniform.

  Failing that, she at least found a crumpled set of inmate clothing at the bottom of one locker. She slipped into the dark Communist tunic and pulled on a set of loose pants. The only decoration to its drabness was a red badge featuring Kim Il-Sung’s face on the left breast.

  With regret, she placed the stolen assault rifle in the locker. It was too large to hide, and wearing the clothes of a prisoner, she would have a hard time explaining the presence of a rifle.