by Frank Hughes
A wave of hot air washed over us. Bits of sizzling metal hissed past, rattling on the elevator frame. The whole structure shook as another barrel exploded. Günter stumbled, grabbing for the corner support of the car, and I kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over, dropping the gun. I kicked at it. It skittered across the platform and over the edge, but the sling caught on some bit of metal, leaving the gun dangling.
I turned my attention to Ms. Ricasso, who was already reaching for that damn necklace. I took two long strides across the platform and kicked her as well. She went down, but before I could shove her over the side, I saw Günter reaching for the gun. Ms. Ricasso grabbed my leg with both hands and held it. By the time I stomped on her and broke free, Günter was swinging the muzzle around. I charged into him, knocking him towards the edge. He went over backwards, snapping the yellow rope. As he fell, he seized my shirt front and together we hurtled towards the water below.
54.
I sucked in some air and prayed the water was deep. I knew it would be cold, so I clamped my mouth shut, resolving to hold in as much air as possible.
Günter hit first, gasping at the shock of the frigid water. His lungs emptied in a stream of bubbles as we plunged towards the bottom. Out of air, he struggled towards the surface, spinning me to one side, but he was hampered by his waterlogged clothing and heavy boots. I wrapped my legs around his torso and tried to hold him under, but I had no real leverage. His great strength forced us up, but then the roaring sound increased and we were under the falls, the pounding water pushing from above while a swirling current pulled from below. My hands scraped along the uneven bottom and I hooked the handcuff chain on the stump of a stalagmite, holding us both down. He punched me and clawed at my face, but his struggles became weaker, the punches losing their power, and then he was still.
I released him, unhooked the chain, and pushed off diagonally from the bottom, away from the waterfall. I gulped in air when I broke the surface and began bicycling my legs to stay there. Memories of the two weeks of torture with a Navy SEAL in North Carolina flashed through my mind, especially the part where he taught us to swim with our hands tied behind us and feet bound at the ankles. At the time I’d considered reporting it as a war crime; right now I thought it the most productive experience of my entire life. With my legs free, staying afloat was child’s play, but I had another problem; in the icy water I had just minutes before extreme hypothermia set in.
I started for shore and noticed the rocky bank was speeding by. Hypothermia, it seemed, was the least of my worries. What I had thought was an underground lake was actually a river rushing towards some subsurface outlet. I was caught in its powerful current, which now began to drag me under as well. I pumped my legs harder to keep my head above the surface, but the effort and the extreme cold were stealing the last of my strength.
I took a lungful of air and relaxed. The vortex pulled me beneath the surface. Except for suspended minerals, the water was gin clear in the glare of the still burning electric lights. I flew past dissolving stalagmites, Günter’s body pacing me a few feet ahead. Then the current shifted, taking us around a slight bend. Ahead was what at first appeared to be solid rock, but then I saw the black mouth of a roughly circular opening, nearly the width of a man’s body, its edges worn smooth by the passage of countless tons of water. The suspended particles began swirling just ahead of it, glittering briefly before disappearing inside, like stars sucked into a black hole.
Going through that opening would not be a good thing, and even if I wasn’t sucked through, I would be pinned against it or jammed in partway to drown. Unless I could plug the hole.
I surfaced for a quick breath of air, then swam down towards Günter, reversing myself when I reached him. I pressed my ankles against either side of his torso, catching him between my legs so that I was approaching the drain feet first, holding his corpse towards the opening. I maneuvered him to a somewhat vertical position, so he would not go in head or feet first. Just before impact, I released him and placed my feet on his chest.
We hit the opening and surrounding rock with a force that rattled my teeth. I kicked out with both legs, over and over, stuffing the corpse into the opening. The pressure of water on my back seemed to ease. I moved down his body, kicking at his legs, forcing them into a crevice at the bottom, sealing as much of the hole as possible.
The river released its grip. I kicked up, breaking the surface into a chaotic world lit by orange flame and shaken by secondary explosions. A tear opened in the wall of the green house and it imploded, the lower pressure inside sucking in the flames.
The blasts and the heat were weakening the cave. Chunks of ceiling dropped like missiles, some splashing into the water around me, others shattering on the cavern floor. I ignored them, concentrating on swimming towards the shore with legs that felt dead. How I would get out with my hands cuffed behind me was not clear yet, but my dulling mind suggested solving that problem once I got there.
When I reached the bank, the water, backing up from the plugged hole, was noticeably higher. If it rose high enough, I could flop over like a seal, but that was not going to happen in time. The water was just too cold and my strength was ebbing fast. It was all I could do to just keep my head above the surface.
I rested my chin on the rocky bank and relaxed, so that I was just hanging there. All pain was gone, and I was actually feeling a little elated. From my low angle I could not see much, but a column of black smoke was pumping towards the dark ceiling and I smiled at it, happy that at least I was taking their operation down with me.
A figure entered my line of vision, coming directly at me. It was a guard, wearing the trademark orange parka and carrying a submachine gun. He came directly towards me. There was nothing I could do, so I just watched him, waiting for the muzzle flash that would be the last thing I ever saw. Dimly, I saw him lay the gun down and loom over me. I continued watching, just a spectator, while he reached out and grabbed me by the hair. I remember thinking that was very strange. I was pulled, none to gently, half out of the river, where he shifted his grip to my belt and dragged me onto dry rock, turning me on my back.
“Craig! Craig!” The guard slapped me twice on the face. “Snap out of it.”
There was a sudden burst of new flame as the processing building caught fire. The bright orange light lit up the face of my rescuer.
“Cat?”
“I swear to God, if you call me that again I’ll toss you back in the water.”
“Yes, Chief Masterson.”
“Can you walk?” Her question was punctuated by a loud blast and a mushroom of flame from the processing building.
“I’d planned on running.”
“You’d better. It’s every girl for herself from this point on.”
“The elevator,” I said.
She helped me to my feet, stepping behind me.
“What are you doing?”
“There was a cuff key in this jacket.”
My hands came free and then we were running behind the green house. My legs were numb and ungainly, so I immediately fell behind. The heat was tremendous, and steam rose from my clothes as they began to dry.
Ten yards ahead, Cat pressed the button to call the elevator. I stopped beside her, looking at the remains of the nearest building. Flames had reached the chemical storage room.
“We don’t have much time,” I said. “There’s drums of cleaning solvent in there and we are way too close.”
Above us, a thick overcast was sinking lower and lower, eating away at the breathable air. A huge piece of rock appeared silently from the murk, striking the concrete in front of the blackened, mangled remains of the forklifts and breaking apart with a sound like a cannon shot. I yanked Catherine down, covering her body with mine as the shrapnel pelted me and clanged off the metal frame of the elevator.
The elevator thumped to a stop and we scrambled on. Catherine punched the button, but nothing happened.
“Do you have one of the cards?” I said.
>
“What cards?”
“They all carry them. Look in your pockets”
She dug around in the parka, and found the white card.
“Now what?”
“Swipe it.”
“It’s asking for a code.”
“It’s eight digits. I think it’s the date,” I said. “Punch in today’s date.”
She tapped in the eight digits. “It didn’t work.”
“Shit! Wait, the security people are European. Give me the card.”
I swiped it against the panel and punched in the eight digit date military style: day first, then month and year. The platform began to rise.
“That was some guess,” said Catherine.
“Not really. One of the guards gave it away back at the cell.”
The greenhouse was a liquid mess, the molten plastic running into the river. The processing building was a riot of explosions as the volatile chemicals ignited. Then we were in a thick fog of toxic smoke. The chemical smell was nauseating. We held our breath until we were through the worst of it, into a rocky shaft. Above us was light.
“You probably know more about this than I do,” said Cat, shoving the MP5 towards me.
I took the gun and checked the chamber and magazine. Cat had a USP in her hand now.
“Ever shot anyone?” I said.
“No.”
“Don’t think about them as people, just targets. Let your training take over. And remember the mag release for that gun is on the trigger guard.”
“Right.”
The elevator bumped to a halt and we were looking out from the tower of pallets I’d seen the previous evening.
“We’re in the ghost town warehouse,” I said, raising the MP5 to my shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
We crept to the end of the pallets. I felt the vibration of another explosion below my feet. The pallets shuddered ominously. There was no sound of activity and the forklifts stood unused. Lights were on in the office. I glanced over at the open warehouse door. One of the Sno-Cats was idling just inside, pointed towards the opening. Two armed men stood guard nearby.
“I’ll take those two,” I whispered. “Cover the office.”
I led the way towards the Sno-Cat, sweeping the barrel in front of me. The two men looked at us curiously, confused by Catherine’s orange parka. Then one of them realized something was wrong.
“Shit,” he said, and raised his weapon.
I fired a three round burst and shifted to the other man. A second burst took him in the chest and he fell next to his buddy. Pistol shots rang out behind me. I turned to the office, where a man was dragging himself back inside, his leg a dead weight.
“How many?” I said.
“Two. I only got the one.”
The building shuddered again and one of the pallet towers collapsed, spewing shards of splintered wood across the warehouse.
“Get in the Cat.”
We ran to the vehicle. I put a couple of bursts through the office windows while Catherine climbed in.
“Set!” she said.
“Okay, cover me.” I snatched up the dead men’s fallen weapons and climbed up.
“You know how to drive one of these?” she said, as I settled in front of the controls.
“How hard can it be?”
I put it into gear and stepped on the gas. We lurched backwards. Catherine gave me a look.
“I knew that would happen,” I said, correcting the gear. “See if you can find the heater. I’m soaked.”
“Take this while I look.” She shrugged out of the parka and put it over my shoulders.
The Cat rumbled out of the warehouse into the muddy, churned up snow.
“Where are we headed?” she said.
“I’m headed up top. The rats will be leaving the ship. See if you can spot the service trail.”
She opened the door and leaned out for a better look. “There, over to the right.” She looked back. “Oh, dear God!”
“What?”
“The warehouse.”
I stopped the Cat and looked back. The building was collapsing in on itself, the roof crumbling, the walls folding in. It began to sink slowly, then suddenly disappeared, engulfed in a plume of pulverized earth and black oily smoke. The sinkhole snatched a nearby building in its widening maw.
“Jesus,” I said, “the ceiling must have collapsed.”
“Well, get the fuck out of here! This place is laced with mine shafts.”
I put the Sno-Cat into gear and pressed my foot to the floor. We rattled up the service trail while a good part of the ghost town disappeared in a debris cloud behind us. When I felt we were safe, I stopped.
“Why are you stopping?” said Catherine.
“Time for you to get out.”
“Why? You’ll need me.”
“Not on this, Catherine. You’re a cop, you’ve got rules. I’m not offering opportunities to give up. No high priced lawyers and bought off juries.”
She looked at me. “Let’s go.”
“It’s just the two of us. Not very good odds.”
She grinned. “You want to wait until they get some more bad guys?”
“Chief, I think I’m in love.”
“Down tiger.”
I gave her a look. “No police procedure bullshit?”
She reached down and picked up one of the MP5s and confirmed it was loaded.
“I told you before,” she said. “It’s outside my jurisdiction.”
55.
I kept the pedal to the floor, turning off the service trail onto Easy Street.
“What were they up to back there?” said Cat.
“Making cocaine.”
“Say what?”
“It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later. How did you get out of jail?”
“When the others dragged Boyd away, I told the guard I had to go to the bathroom.” She shrugged. “I’m sure he had visions of taking my pants down and having some fun. He got the surprise of his life. Knocked him cold, took his jacket and guns. Left him cuffed to those chains and stuffed his sock in his mouth to keep him quiet.”
“Nice,” I said.
“Then I went looking for you. Got to the cavern just in time to see your swan dive off the elevator. Nice escape plan, by the way. I assume the fire was courtesy of you.”
“I may have been careless with flammable liquids.”
“Do tell. By the way, where’d you learn to swim with your hands cuffed behind your back?”
“YouTube.”
“You really are a jackass.”
We were silent for a while. I noticed her staring at me.
“What?” I said.
“The way you shot those two men in the warehouse. You were an assassin, weren’t you?”
“I guess you could call it that. They had other names for it.”
“Who did you kill?”
I looked away and said nothing.
“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s classified.”
“I understand.” She turned away.
A moment later, my own voice startled me. “Terrorists, sometimes, but mainly their money men and support people. And a car dealer.”
“How? Why?”
“It was after nine eleven. Military special units were concentrating on the active bad guys, the ones who stage attacks. There’s only so many special ops people, and what with the war on terror, Afghanistan, and then Iraq, there really weren’t many resources left to attack the support network. Someone got the bright idea to find people who lost someone in the attacks. Cops, ex-military, federal agents like me, anyone with a certain type of training and personality. People so anxious for revenge they would do just about anything.”
“You lost someone in the attack?”
“I thought I did. My wife. Mary.”
“So, this was like what the Israelis did after Munich?”
“Yeah. We always imp
rove on the past by making the exact same mistakes. Protocols were created to avoid their little errors, through redundant vetting of the targets. We even brought in one of the Mossad executioners as a consultant. He didn’t think it was such a good idea, but, what the hell, we were going to do it anyway and his fee was good.”
“The man who was killed in New York.”
“Yes. Raviv Peled.”
“Why didn’t we hear about this? There was nothing in the papers.”
“It was a ‘black op’. Completely off the books and kept secret from Congress. Training, deployment, salary, everything was done through a private contractor.”
“A contractor?”
“You’ve heard of them.” I told her the name.
“Wasn’t there some scandal?”
“That was a byproduct of the cover. They used a bookkeeping trick to launder the money used to pay us and finance operations and equipment. It made it look like their contractors in Iraq were earning a fortune in taxpayer money. In reality, a large chunk was siphoned off to fund us. They also got caught shipping weapons that clearly weren’t for combat, like that shipment of silenced pistols hidden in dog food that made the New York Times. They took the financial and public relations hit and said nothing.”
“So, what did you do? Were you a sniper or something?”
“You can’t travel freely if you’re armed. We used guns rarely.”
“So.” She trailed off, as the implications of that statement became apparent.
“That’s right,” I said, “we used whatever was at hand. Up close and personal.”
“How many people did you kill?” she said, quietly.
“In my official capacity? Thirty-six bad guys and one innocent.”
“The innocent. That’s when you stopped?”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
I didn’t speak for a minute, thinking back, remembering the hit, the abort order that came ten minutes too late.
“We got a tip from an informant about a Pakistani in Paris. That he was a hawaladar. You know what that is?”
“Some sort of money launderer.”
“That’s not entirely fair. Hawal is a way of moving money through personal contacts, usually families. I need fifteen thousand bucks in New York, so my cousin in India gives the fifteen grand to some guy there and his cousin in the Bronx hands me the money. Of course, that evades the bank transfer tracing mechanisms, so Al Qaeda uses it to fund some of its cells. We were told this particular guy’s family was tight with Al Qaeda back in Pakistan, and they were using him to funnel funds to a guy in Munich who was organizing an attack on an airliner.”