Jack Be Nimble: A Lion About to Roar Book 4

by Ben English

  He found Steve still fiddling with the technology when the comms beeped. Had it been twenty minutes already? Jack and Mercedes came online first.

  Rather than explain why the woman was still with him and not making her way through the tunnel, Jack was curt. “Groucho, can you manage to cover us in here? There are cameras all over the place, and we’re about to enter what looks like a high-traffic zone.”

  “Not sure,” said Steve. “The security architecture here is a bit different. Hard to tell exactly where you are.” He looked at a schematic of the building on one screen and lines of code on another. “There’s an elevator ahead of you, next to what looks like some kind of storage area. I can loop the video feed there for about thirty seconds, but I can’t see the video myself. It might be guarded by real humans.”

  “We’ll deal with the guards ourselves. How soon can you give us that 30-second window?”

  Steve worked the keyboard. “In about thirty seconds.”

  “Do it. Give us a five second countdown. Are you okay? Is the area secure?”

  “As it can be,” said Ian. The elevator you made took some damage during the storm, so if you’ve got a plan B for exfil—”

  “First things first. I have some ideas for getting us out of here, but if the transmitter doesn’t go down, getting off the island is going to be the least of our problems.”

  Steve started the countdown. Jack clicked off between three and two.

  While they waited for the others to join the call, Ian handed Steve the remote control for the claymores, the “clacker.”

  “You think the mines will do any good?” asked Steve.

  “Give the bad guys something to think about if they’re going to try to take the hill. If we’ve got claymores, what else might we have, get it? To hear Alonzo talk about the Colombians, they don’t give up easily. Probably will keep coming until they’re sure we’re dead.”

  “Just like a Mob hit, right?”

  Ian shook his head, looking at the hills. “Depends. The new Mob, sure. The old Mob had more rules, more class. They’d only come after you once, really hard, but if you survive a hit, they’d generally let you live.”

  “You’re serious?”

  He indicated himself. “Hello, FBI.”

  Ian looked again at the shining silver disk on the mountain above them. He could make it up there in maybe half an hour, he thought, if he moved fast and didn’t stop.

  Temple of the Pagan God

  “Three, two, one.”

  *

  The word to secure the elevator came from the very top, Mr. Raines himself, and the two guards took to their task readily. The compound was under attack by unknown forces; much of the main building had been wrecked by the weather and internal bombing, and each man considered himself a point of defense. Mr. Raines himself had come this way, a few minutes after they took up their post—probably headed to his work area back up in the mountain. It was an honor to serve someone as brilliant as Mr. Raines.

  The problem lay in the fact that the man they sought to impress was far, far above the task of managing duty rosters and the regular rotation schedule. He had been obeyed instantly, but the two men set to guard the elevator had not been relieved since he and his entourage passed by. Both were hungry. Since they’d technically just been coming off a duty rotation when they were assigned to this post, both had more than a niggling suspicion they’d been forgotten.

  “I hear there are caramel apples in the kitchen,” said one. Before his companion could respond, a small black disk rolled toward them out of the dark. It looked like a hockey puck, but it was not a hockey puck.

  *

  Jack sprinted to the elevator as soon as the two million-candlepower flash and the 185 decibel bang died out. Neither guard was conscious, and one of them actually dented the elevator door with his helmet. He slapped the call button, then bent over the men.

  20 seconds left.

  Part of the floor nearby was actually burning; oil stains dried darkly against concrete and led further into the branching tunnels which pierced deeply into the mountain. Several of the lights had shattered. Grenades in an enclosed space carried much force.

  He and Mercedes each took radios, earpieces, and additional ammunition to carry. Keycards, keys, and a Beretta for Mercedes. She took the whole ammo belt, including a telescoping baton.

  “Ollie, Stan,” said Steve, “Problem. Armed men in the elevator, headed down. Wearing body armor and looks like they’re carrying gas canisters. Sorry. I couldn’t spoof the fire alarm.”

  Jack snatched the other guard’s baton and knocked out the remaining lights immediately around the elevator, moving down the oil-streaked corridor.

  Mercedes followed suit, taking care of the lights in the corridor. She trusted him, apparently.

  The oil stains, both fresh and ancient, meant heavy machinery being moved. None of the dried oil led into the guarded elevator; another lift had to exist.

  The surfaces of the tunnel had been carved with such precision they appeared to be poured concrete. Streaks of glassy volcanic rock shot through the walls, floor, and ceiling; most were black obsidian but here and there a bright streak of crystal white stood stark against the darkness. The white patches gleamed liquidly in the weak illumination, almost but not quite casting off more light than they received. Like frozen lightning.

  Belatedly, an alarm sounded, booming off the cold concrete walls.

  Light clove the dark floor as the elevator doors opened, and Jack followed Mercedes around a corner. The whooping siren made such a thing impossible, but he imagined he heard the jackboots of the other guards filling the hall, spreading out. They would initially proceed slowly in the darkness, but that would last just as long as it took them to remember they had flashlights.

  One grenade left.

  Ahead, Mercedes opened a door and stood motionless in the wash of a bright yellow bulb from a side-passage. Her hand was raised as if to call his attention.

  Against the darkness the bright light sculpted her, seemed to carve each detail of her form and presence right out of absolute black. The light appeared to be the same color as her hair and skin. Her eyes were very wide and gleamed at their edges like emeralds, sacred jewels in the eyes of a pagan idol. Half light, half void, she gestured for him to follow.

  The entrance turned out to be double doors, and they even locked. That was a nice break.

  Wide enough to accommodate a forklift, the passage had hooks and shelves all up one side. Gloves, hard hats, and heavy aprons hung from the wall. The only exit was another set of double doors, this time locked from the other side. Sure.

  “Don’t suppose you know how to jimmy a lock?” she asked.

  Well. As a matter of fact, he had a torsion wrench and a full set of picks in his pocket. What he didn’t have was time. Jack kicked the door open and let his momentum carry him over the threshold.

  “Holy cow,” he said.

  A Place to Stand

  A weak glare emanating from a bank of lights at least forty meters above the floor illuminated the chamber. Mercedes came through the door behind him and looked around in wonder. “Holy cow,” she agreed.

  They stood on the ground floor of some sort of vast storeroom, at least a football field in length. Jack judged the ceiling to be at least ten, maybe twelve stories above. Metal scaffolding reached up the walls, creating walkways and platforms at each level, where side-vaults recessed back further into the mountain. Each “shelf” was high and wide enough to hold a two-story house, and all were full of boxes, crates, barrels, and shelving units.

  At their level, pallets holding items of all description sat on evenly-spaced shelves, with wide aisles in between. The area appeared deserted.

  Mercedes indicated a metal staircase.

  “Right behind you,” Jack said, and considered the door. He’d wrecked the lock; one of the hinges was bent so it wouldn’t close properly. He did the best he could, hefting the door back into its frame. The area he
ld a small fleet of forklifts and electric cars, but he avoided them. Even if the electronic key he’d taken from the guard would allow him to start an ignition, he suspected the use of the key would be recorded in a database somewhere, and they needed to remain undetected for as long as possible.

  Mercedes’ feet pounded up the steel stairs, echoing in the large chamber.

  Jack settled for a manual forklift and a full pallet of what looked like screws and nails. He eased the whole affair tightly against the door and set the brake on the lift. Probably not worth it, the dry voice told him. You think there’s only one entrance to a room this important?

  The air was dank and thick with the dead musk of subterranean cement. Jack looked up again, scanning the walkways under the banks of fluorescents for any movement, any sign they’d been discovered. From above they would be an easy target.

  By the time he reached the stairs Mercedes was already three stories above him. She moved fast and taut, obviously accustomed to running an incline. He took the stairs three at a time, but slowed to two at the first landing. Each flight of open-tread steps was barely six feet wide and had no safety railing. Nothing but open air between him and the dark, glossy floor.

  His vision jumped a bit with the impact of each stride. As he rose higher and higher, it struck Jack that the ground below resembled a deeply clouded fluid, trembling and rippling under the headlong force of his ascent. The damp air aided the illusion. With very little imagination, the floor seemed barely one step removed from ink.

  Each floor held a bank of fluorescents, though they were nearly all dark, receding back into the darkness of each vault.

  He passed a level of mid-sized machinery, bound in shrink-wrap. The next floor held row upon row of surgical equipment, wrapped and crated. Three floors up, he chanced a longer look at a barrel; according to the label it contained whole-grain wheat, and he quick-counted several hundred other identical containers. The next several stories held similar preserved foodstuffs, freeze-dried, flash-cooked, and vacuum-sealed. The metal shelves were gleaming and oiled. Nothing was dusty.

  And he was only seeing the contents of the vaults immediately in fronting the staircase; the other walls were honeycombed with vaults. What other devices and raw materials lay nearby, shrouded in plastic?

  It was obvious Raines intended to use these provisions—there was a staging area at the landing of each section of stairway, each with a wide metal table. As Jack passed upward he noticed items on many of the tables, carefully laid out as if they were being cleaned or prepped for immediate purpose.

  At the eighth or ninth floor, he became aware of a steel platform suspended directly under the middle of the ceiling, held aloft by thick cabling at each corner. It sat on a track which allowed it to move completely around the room; when lowered it would be able to service any of the vaults. “He’s really thought this out,” Jack muttered to himself.

  A door boomed open below, and Jack immediately stopped. Flashlight beams carved the thin light. Something crashed, and under the tinkling echo, Jack crept up a few more stairs. He looked down.

  Which was a mistake. The stairway was made up of vertical metal slats; the grillwork allowed an unimpeded view of the lower floors. As Jack’s eyes focused on each succeeding story below, vertigo shuddered through him in waves.

  He lost his balance. He felt himself toppling.

  Find the solid. Find a horizontal surface.

  Jack dropped to his knees. He stifled a cry of pain, but the sound of the impact carried downward, resonating through the steel framework.

  Several of the men below fired immediately. Jack reflexively curled into a ball, but either the shots went wide or they were deflected by the layers of scaffolding.

  Breathing raggedly, he sprinted up the last few flights of stairs.

  Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. There was another set of double doors, but she hadn’t gone through them—too many locks. There wasn’t time to pick them. They were out of room to run.

  Boots echoed on the stairs below.

  Where was she?

  “Jack,” Mercedes said. She was crouching on the other side of the assembly table, holding some kind of drill in her hands. He hadn’t heard the sound of the drill over the gunfire or the men coming up the stairs. He chanced a look over the edge, and was rewarded with a hail of bullets from below.

  “How far?” she asked, gritting her teeth. Her hands were obscured by the device on the table. It was a piece of a generator, a big one, obviously assembled from components which themselves were enormous. Mostly cast iron, and had to weigh over a ton. Very ugly in the yellow light above the table. Looked heavy. The table wasn’t intended to support this kind of mass.

  “They’re about halfway up,” he said.

  She turned and tossed him the drill, and he understood. The table legs were held together by stainless steel bolts.

  The drill was fitted with a bit designed to remove nuts, and he followed her example on the nearest table leg. In a few seconds, the only things holding the table upright were the unsecured bolts, their tips protruding a good inch.

  Mercedes handed him a ball peen hammer, took up one of her own, and stepped back.

  “Three-two-one!”

  Together they swung their hammers against the naked bolts protruding from the tops of the table legs. With a tremendous clatter, the bolts popped, the legs fell, and the table dumped its contents toward the abyss. Mercedes let out a whoop of triumph as the generator slid off the table, tilted towards the edge—

  And rocked solidly back onto its base, not quite half off the precipice.

  “Damn it!” she shouted, striking it with the hammer. It rebounded off the solid metal, grazing her forearm and drawing a hiss of pain. She cried out and fell against a scaffolding support, one of the vertical anchors sunk into the ceiling.

  The footsteps on the stairway drew closer. Jack didn’t have to lean out to see the dark shapes swarming up at them from below. He wondered how many he could take with him when they rounded the stair landing, or if they would just shoot the two of them from below, through the scaffolding. He looked around for a second weapon. Mercedes’ hammer had bounced back under the table. He searched for it with his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Double kuri dragon was a fighting technique using two short sickles. It adapted well to close-in battles where the enemy had nowhere to run and the wielder had nothing left to lose. A second hammer would do in place of a sickle. Where the hell had it gone?

  She was beyond angry. With a ferocity that surprised him, Mercedes seized a metal table leg. A thin serpent of blood wound down her arm. “We need a—thing! A—damn it, Jack! Archimedes! What’s Archimedes need?”

  “A fulcrum.”

  Vibrations from the approaching footfalls rose through the floor. The yellow bulb over their heads began to sway.

  Jack set his hammer at the base of the generator and dodged back as Mercedes drove the table leg between it at the generator’s edge. She barely took a moment to set the lever properly and then dug her shoulder down against it, shoving with her free arm against the nearby scaffolding.

  Jack hurled himself next to her, pushing with as much strength he could bring to bear. At once, he felt the generator move. But it was not enough. The damn thing was a solid mass, a dead weight. Mercedes swore under her breath. He was close enough to feel her perspiration and blood, hot on his skin. The table leg bowed; much more pressure and it would snap like a dry stick of wood. Or a human femur. Jack took a deep breath, and several things happened all at once.

  One level below, certainly not more than two, the guards opened fire. Sparks glistened against the metal surfaces below them. Others continued up the stairs. He could count them by the rhythm of their feet against the metal. There were three. One had a shorter gait than the others, very close to Alonzo’s.

  The table leg shivered and started to give.

  Mercedes made a feral sound and leaned her whole body into the lever. In doing so, she t
hrew her entire weight against Jack, even more as she walked her legs up the scaffolding support and pushed against the framework. Jack became her point of balance, and his bones creaked at the power flowing like a river out of her legs and back.

  Drops of her perspiration arched upwards toward the swinging light, and Jack exhaled with her, striving downward with all his strength.

  The table leg shattered with a single metallic, indignant note. The generator hesitated at the edge for a heartbreaking instant, and then vanished from view. It passage downward was direct, clamorous, and epic. It tumbled with equanimity and very little deflection through struts, supports, stairs, and men.

  Mercedes and Jack clung to each other as the squat iron mass plunged through the connected steel framework, then scrambled to the edge.

  The generator did not bounce, but cratered deeply into the polished floor. Bits of stairs continued to rain down around it as men belatedly dove for cover. The nearest guard was five stories below, curled into a fetal position and cradling his arm.

  Damage wrought by the generator shattered the illusion that the floor was a liquid of any kind. For some reason, this greatly relieved Jack.

  When the groans of steel and men subsided somewhat, Mercedes filled her lungs and shouted down at them. “You guys ever think about all the things you could do to somebody trying to follow you?”

  A few of them actually ran for the door.

  Her arm wasn’t really bleeding all that much, and didn’t look as bad as he’d feared.