The guard’s holster was empty. If Lori had done this, now she was armed. Wouldn’t she know the team was American? Should he contact the Det? Maybe the CIA had a way of communicating with her. But if she was the mole, or she knew enough not to trust the CIA...or was it Mossad? Maybe the Israelis fed them dirty intel so the Det would clean up their crap?
He shook his head. Always trust your team, Jim had said. And Lori was a part of his, though the struggle to defy orders soured his gut. Was he endangering the rest of his men in an attempt to protect Lori? He held duty to both...but family came first.
He glanced at the locator. She was inside the warehouse now. Gae’s elevation looked as if he was on the second floor. Muffled automatic-weapons fire came from somewhere above. Gae was moving in on the data center.
A green blur burst into the hallway ten meters down. Two shots cracked loud in Red’s ear. One hit above the trigger guard, wrenching the MP5 from his grip. The side of the weapon blew open as several shells in the magazine exploded. He dove back around the corner for cover, but managed a glance down the corridor. The blur had been two men, green uniforms, sidearms drawn.
His hand stung. Blood oozed through slices in the Cordura glove, though a quick glance revealed all his fingers were still attached.
Footfalls pounded his way. They were rushing him.
Red tore a fire extinguisher from the wall and, backing away, filled the hall with thick, powdery fog. He yanked his sidearm from its holster and jerked his head down, swinging the monocular over an eye. A second later, two fuzzy people-shaped forms glowed warm yellow in the haze. Red fired twice into one, who fell with a heavy thud upon the ground. The other rushed on, shaping into the figure of a man as it closed in. He aimed for the torso and emptied his clip into it. At each shot, the sidearm kicked hard as a .44 Magnum, powered by the Det ammo.
But the man still charged on. He broke through the fog screen at a full sprint. Damn. This guard was huge, with a neck thick as a mule’s.
North Koreans were supposed to be starving. Where’d they grow this guy?
The guard’s legs pumped, quickly closing the gap between them. A fat ballistic vest stretched across his chest and a green helmet snugly crowned an oversize cranium. Mule Neck raised his weapon and Red tucked a shoulder, rolling toward the man, aiming to sweep his legs out from under.
But the guard dove over, then stretched out thick arms and caught himself. He hopped quickly to his feet, firing as Red dove through the nearest door. Brooms and a mop scattered like pick-up sticks as he landed hard.
No time to reload. Red’s fingers grasped the handle of his KA-BAR, thankful for the sharp pain in his hand, indicating it still worked. Mule Neck kicked in the door and fired twice, both shots hitting Red squarely below the chest. Since there was no SAPI plate in his own lightweight ballistic vest, the shots needled like fingers digging deep into his sternum. Knowing they hadn’t penetrated the Kevlar was no consolation to him or his locked diaphragm. He stepped close and jabbed the knife into Mule Neck’s forearm. The guard screamed and dropped the pistol, but still managed to clamp onto Red’s good hand and head-butt him away. His helmet smashed the monocular to the floor. The KA-BAR fell, clattering into the hallway, out of reach.
Red rushed him again. Mule Neck lifted him from the ground and pinned him against the doorjamb. He clenched his hairy knuckles in a fist, but Red jabbed at his Adam’s apple. The fist still flew, telegraphed, and Red tilted his neck. Knuckles smashed the wooden molding next to his ear.
He tried a head-butt, and the jagged aluminum mount where his monocular had broken off caught Mule Neck across the nose, crushing it flat. The blow stunned the man for a second, long enough for Red to twist free and grab a broom. He broke the handle over one knee and thrust the splintered end under Mule Neck’s groin flap. It sank deep and came out the back of the big man’s thigh. He bent, and Red thrust the other half under his chin so hard it drove through his brain and lifted his helmet.
The guard collapsed, broom sticking out his leg.
Red snatched the Korean’s sidearm and pointed it toward the open door, holding his breath, listening. The buzz of a florescent light. The rush of fluid through bare pipes in the utility closet, but no footfalls. He was suddenly aware of the intense pain in his hand. He shook it a few times, then held it to the dim light spilling through the doorway. The middle finger canted unnaturally to one side at the knuckle. Maybe broken. He took a chance, pinched the end, and gave it a solid yank. It popped back in place and he flexed, happy all the fingers responded, though the dislocated one still stuck out stiffly from the pistol grip, as if a vulgar gesture to his assailants.
“Fitting,” he mumbled.
The extinguisher fog had dissipated to a hazy mist. Thick white dust covered a sprawl of bodies and equipment, like snow over rocks. Red scooped up the smashed monocular, then slipped it into his assault pack. He lifted the locator and brushed off the screen to find it a spiderweb of cracks. Wires stuck out the back. A boot must’ve nailed it. He cinched the MP5’s shoulder strap tight, fastening the ruined weapon across his back. Leave behind as little as possible—standard operating procedure.
He rolled Mule Neck over and retrieved his own sidearm from beneath him. Starting down the hallway, he slipped on extinguisher dust but caught himself with a hand on the wall, leaving behind a red streak upon whitewash.
At the end stood a tan steel entrance. Why didn’t Koreans ever put windows in the doors? He pressed through into an identical hall twenty meters long, sprinted its length, and pushed open another, brown rust around sagging hinges. He stepped into darkness.
He reached to flip down the monocular but remembered it wasn’t there as his fingers grasped at air. The shuffle of his feet seemed to echo, as if in a larger room. The air stank of sulfured grease and machine oil. A dim light grew in the distance as his eyes adjusted.
Five meters ahead, across yellow lines on a floor, stretched a machine that looked like the guts of a several stainless-steel combines stacked to the ceiling. Threshing drums and sieves and straw walkers, connected by belts and conveyors. Steel ladders formed an exoskeleton, running two stories up to catwalks that stretched the contraption’s length.
Ah, the printing press.
Dim light shone from the other side. It flashed once upon a near wall. Someone had walked in front of the bulb.
Red pressed his comm and whispered, “Lanyard, report.”
“Charges set on the ink barrels. I’m back with Cooley in the tree line. Two minutes, fifteen seconds to go.”
So the movement wasn’t Lanyard. “Can you delay?”
“Negative. Just timed charges, like the plan.”
Red ran to a ladder at the end of the press. Peering around one corner, he discovered an identical printer, forklift parked in the middle of the aisle separating them. The light he’d seen came from a single bulb above a doorway at the far end of the warehouse. Two dozen barrels were stacked on pallets in a corner, fifteen feet high.
He stuck a finger to his ear and turned the gain on his enhanced auditory all the way up. A crackle of static, then faint breathless exhalations. He turned his head, trying to get a fix on the direction, but it seemed to be coming from everywhere.
He glanced at his watch. A minute thirty seconds. No luxury of waiting them out. He cocked his head at the grit of sand under a heel; then he heard a muffled “Shit.” A click. One of the barrels seemed to darken. It had been illuminated from beneath. Someone was crouching behind a pallet of rolled paper ten meters away. They’d just closed a phone or some other light source.
“Lori!” he whispered.
Silence.
“It’s me. Tony.”
An eternity passed. Then, “Tony?”
Her voice was hoarse, maybe from running, or distorted by the enhanced auditory.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
A sigh. “I’
m so glad it’s you guys.”
She stood and strode toward him. The light behind silhouetted her form, shading her features. Like a phantom emerging from fog. Or Mule Neck from the haze.
He broke the cover of the press and waved a hurry up. “Move, damn it. We don’t have—”
She raised a pistol and fired four times into his gut. He went over backward, flailing like a drowning man. He reached for the ladder as he fell, but missed. Why’d his wife just shoot him? His team had been sent to kill her. But certainly she’d trust him, her husband. She must be so deep in whatever investigation she was a part of, she didn’t know who to believe.
She turned and fled toward the door. He tried to yell after her, but his spasming lungs managed only a wheeze. Maybe he’d been hit beneath the vest.
If she got outside... Richards would be covering the area by now. That man would drop her before she got ten meters. Red raised his pistol. Periphery vision was fading from lack of oxygen, his aim as if sighting through a scope. This heaving for air was worse than drowning, as his chest locked tight. He sighted his weapon on her hip, the front blade quivering. A swallow to ease the oxygen craving, then he exhaled what little breath was left in his lungs. The blade steadied and he squeezed the trigger as she passed the roll of paper. He felt no recoil.
Her leg buckled. She fell on her side, but sprang back up and hopped on the other toward the door, reaching for the handle.
A hiss-pop from the corner and everything turned salmon pink. Boom! A rush of air ripped a seam in the building’s siding, spraying the far end of the warehouse in burning, boiling liquid. Splashes landed thick near Red, but he was shielded from a direct blast by the large press. Smoke rose from the top, hissing like a steam locomotive. Across tongues of flame and wavering heat, Lori lay on the concrete, clothing smoking, skin melting. Heat pressed Red’s face as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come, wouldn’t come.... The fire darkened to black.
Chapter 34 – Heat
Fists pressed into Red’s gut, like a medic performing chest compressions on his belly. A cold breeze licked his eyelids, and he cracked them open. Boots flashed before his face, kicking up snow. One arm hung limp, fingers almost touching the heels that whirled below them. Lanyard had him over a shoulder, running. Red lifted his head as a side door of the warehouse slammed closed behind them.
Snow crunched under Lanyard’s soles. His breathing was gravelly. A few seconds later came a loud boom-whoosh, and the warehouse door flung open. Blue fire billowed from it like a demon threatening to grab Red’s wilted arms and drag him down. The concussion blew them forward, and he landed on his back, sliding away on the icy crust of snow.
A shallow breath pierced his diaphragm like a knife. He tried another, body clamoring for air, more air. Short gasps were all he could manage. A blink, and Cooley was kneeling next to him. The doctor unzipped his dry suit and frigid air locked his lungs again.
Icy fingers thrust under his ballistic vest, probing. Finally, Red managed a full inhalation. “Son of a bitch,” he moaned.
Cooley yanked his hand out and glanced at Lanyard. “No bullets went through.” He gripped the shoulder of Red’s vest. “Help me get him to the truck.”
They lifted Red to his feet and he started toward the warehouse door in a stagger. Lanyard spun him back around and, with Cooley, propped him between their shoulders, running toward the parking lot. “Don’t wanna go back there. Your bell’s been rung.”
“She’s...she’s...” Red tried.
“Fried like scrapple.” Lanyard laughed. “We toasted that bitch!”
Red turned to look back toward the warehouse. Black smoke billowed from its shattered roof. Charred blackness grew above the doorway. “What?”
“Saw you on my locator. I was almost there when my first charge blew. Lucky you didn’t get burned, close as you were.”
They thought he’d killed the mole. His legs pumped in air as the team lifted and carried him. At last, they sat him on the gravel lot and he leaned against a truck tire. Each breath still brought sharp pain, though less intense now. But the agony in his mind was still exploding. How could he explain to the kids what had just happened? Three children, no mother, and he’d done it. He gripped his calf in both hands and lifted, bending his knees to lever himself upright again.
“Stay put,” Cooley snapped. “Let me see that hand.”
Red lifted his arm, heavy as a wet log. He didn’t give a damn about his hand, or the op, or the Det for that matter.
Cooley pinched his fingers, one by one, running down each, squeezing the bones and joints.
“Lori’s dead,” Red whispered.
Cooley smirked and tapped one temple. “Not supposed to name the targets. Bad for your head.”
“Doc. That was my wife.”
Lanyard shot a glance at Cooley. The doctor let go of his hand. “You’re in shock. The mole’s dead. Your wife’s fine. Catch your breath. We need your head here, with us. We’re three minutes from exit.”
They just didn’t understand.
A dark figure sprinted from the office building a hundred meters away, toward a white flatbed with a silver cylindrical tank strapped to it.
Gae’s voice crackled in Red’s ear. “Thirty seconds till boom.”
Half a minute later, a small blast like a couple of grenades cracked from the roof. No smoke. A few seconds after that, another explosion, then a third, both from inside the building. A single window blew outward on the snow. The fuel truck’s engine started and Lanyard ran toward the building.
Red still had the team to get out safely. And the Koreans. He owed it to them, too. He pressed his comm. “Richards, report.”
“Pair of headlights coming down the main road from the direction of the prison camp. Nothing else in sight.”
“How long till they get here?”
“On that crappy road? Five minutes.”
Red hopped to his feet. Cooley tried to lean on his shoulder to keep him down, but Red pushed him away. He ran toward the golden statue and, for a second, the sweetness of honeysuckle blew past on a frigid gust. He stopped on the walkway, reached into the black nylon assault pack, and snaked out a black box the size of a cell phone. Then he stepped toward the first target, fingertips numbed by cold. Removing a lens cover, he pressed record and held the device over each target.
The effectiveness of the .50 cal was astoundingly gruesome. There wasn’t enough left of most of their faces for the CIA to identify. None were in uniform. Only two had pistols on belt holsters. He stepped over a man whose arm lay three meters away, the other only partially attached. His face was intact, the fatal shot having ripped through his neck. This had been the driver of the jeep—Cooley’s target. Red clenched his jaw and glanced toward the plow truck. The man was vindictive. No way could this butchery have been an accident.
He video recorded all six and slipped the device back into his pack. Running toward the plow truck, his stomach churned to vinegar, the only relief being having not recorded Lori’s body lying there.
He’d have time to think about that later. Right now, he had to keep flying. Keep pace. Get the team out safe, along with Sergio and his family.
“None of us wanted to be there,” his grandfather had said to him, twenty-something years ago. “We all hated it. Each mission, fewer and fewer made it back. But...” He sighed, the exhalation ending in a higher-pitched wheeze. A breath risen on sorrow, it seemed, his heart still off somewhere in 1944. “But your crew’s depending on you. And the infantry on the ground, too. Something had to break down the Nazi war machine.”
Only now did Red remember what his grandfather had said next, tousling his hair. “Someday, you’ll understand, though I pray you never have reason to.”
* * * *
Ko hunched below the dashboard, peering through a shrinking slice of defrosted glass above where the heater, now cold, had bee
n running. He tapped on the back of the cab the first three notes and waited. No answer came back. He tapped again, this time so hard his knuckle stung. Still nothing. Jellyfish had just run from the office building and was driving a fuel truck toward it. If something was wrong with his sister, now’d be the time to check. The doctor was speaking with Pumpkin Beard on the other side of the truck, so he lifted the driver-side door handle. His boots landed upon hardpack. He stepped gingerly toward the back. Would his head suddenly explode, too?
He glanced around the tailgate. Flames cast shadows of trees to dance upon the snow and rocks, stretching and flapping, outlined in orange, pale yellow, and blue. He stepped up to the bumper and gripped a chain, the same one around which his fingers had cramped a few hours earlier. He pushed his head beneath the tarp and strained eyes to see in darkness. Shortly, Eun Hee came into focus. Her arms were wrapped around Soo Jin, rocking her.
“She keeps falling asleep, Abeoji. One of the men told me to not let her doze off. But it’s been so long. She’s cold as ice.”
Ko dropped down again and ran to the cab. He shifted the truck into neutral and hit the starter button, cranking the engine to life. They had plenty of gas and didn’t need to be quiet any longer. He flipped on the heater.
The passenger door flew open. A pistol gripped in a bloody, sliced glove pointed at his head. Pumpkin Beard brandished the weapon.
Ko’s hands rose instinctively. He thumbed toward the bed. “My sister, she’s too cold. Not moving.”
Pumpkin Beard’s eyes narrowed. They were rimmed with pale red and too shiny, as if possessed by an evil spirit.
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