Dead or Alive

by Grant Blackwood

  Browning up and tracking right, left, up, down, Brian crossed the distance, then dropped into a crouch beside the steps. After two minutes, he gestured Dominic across. Brian pointed at the wooden steps and drew his thumb across his throat. Too old, too noisy. Dominic nodded. He crab-walked to the edge of the porch and tested the railing. He turned and gave a thumbs-up to Brian. Three minutes later they were over the railing and on the porch. They moved to the door, each taking a jamb. Brian tested the knob. It was unlocked. He swung it open two inches, then stopped. Waited. He pushed it open the rest of the way, peeked around the corner, and pulled back. He shook his head.

  They stepped across the threshold, Brownings up and tracking for movement. They were in a tiled foyer. Ahead and to the right, a set of stairs led up to a balcony hall lined with doors. To their left and right, sitting rooms. The walls were painted stark white stucco, seemingly glowing in the darkness. Dominic pointed to himself. On me. Brian nodded and sidestepped over, and together they moved into the sitting room and into a dining room beyond, off which they found a kitchen. Out the opposite kitchen door they found themselves back in the sitting room to the left of the foyer.

  Brian pointed at the stairs and got a nod in return. Dominic backed into the corner of the foyer to act as overwatch as Brian mounted the stairs; once at the top, he took overwatch, and Dominic climbed up to join him.

  There were four doors along the hall and one on the far wall. They started with the first door. A bedroom. Empty, bed made. The air was musty, as though the room hadn’t been occupied for some time. They moved to the second and third doors and found two more empty bedrooms. Behind the fourth door was what looked like a home office, complete with an oak desk, a multiline phone, a fax/scanner/copier, and a flat-screen computer monitor. Brian stepped inside and looked around. Built into a credenza opposite the desk was a wall safe.

  They moved to the last door. Dominic pressed his ear to the wood, then pulled back and mouthed, Snoring. He gestured: I’ll go for Almasi; you clear the room.

  Brian nodded.

  Dominic turned the knob, eased the door open an inch, and put his eye to the gap. He turned back, gave Brian a nod, then swung open the door. He was at Almasi’s four-poster bed in three strides. Almasi was lying on his back, his arms by his sides. Brian was moving through the room, checking the corners and the master bedroom. He nodded at Dominic, who grabbed Almasi’s opposite arm, jerked him onto his stomach, pressed his face into the pillow. Almasi was instantly awake, arms flailing. Dominic jammed the Browning’s suppressor into the base of his neck.

  “One sound and you’re dead. Nod once if you understand.”

  Almasi nodded.

  “We’re leaving, and you’re coming with us. Make life hard for us and I’ll make sure you die badly. You’ve got a computer and a safe in your office. You’re going to give us the password and combination, yes?”

  Almasi nodded again.

  Brian handed Dominic a roll of duct tape; he bound Almasi’s hands, then tossed back the roll. He backed away from the bed and gestured for Almasi to stand. He did so. With Brian in the lead, they moved back into the hall, then into the office.

  Dominic powered up Almasi’s computer, a high-end Dell tower. The Windows Vista logo came up, followed by a log-in screen. He found a pad and pen in the desk drawer and shoved it across the desk to Almasi. “User name and password.”

  Almasi didn’t move.

  Brian pulled a nearby chair across the room and shoved Almasi down in it. He pressed the Browning against Almasi’s right knee. “That’s where I’ll start. Knees, then ankles, then elbows.” He picked up the pad and pen from the desk and dropped them in Almasi’s lap. “User name and password.”

  This time Almasi didn’t hesitate. When he finished, Brian handed the pad to Dominic, who logged in and began scanning the computer’s directories. “Get him started on the safe,” Dominic said. “I’ll start downloading, then toss his bedroom.” He inserted a flash drive into the tower’s USB port and began transferring files.

  Brian got Almasi to his feet and prodded him toward the safe. “Open.”

  “My hands.”

  “You’ll manage.”

  Almasi dropped to his knees and began turning the dial.

  “Be right back,” Dominic said, and left the room.

  Almasi looked up at Brian. “Done.”

  “Open it, then move back.”

  Almasi did so, sidling backward on his knees. Brian knelt before the safe. Inside, it was empty, save a single CD-ROM in a paper sleeve. He reached inside. In the corner of his eye, he saw Almasi’s bound hands moving toward the shelf beside him. He turned, saw the pistol in his hands, spun, brought the Browning up while sidestepping. There was a crack. The room flashed orange. From the hip, Brian snapped off a shot, hitting Almasi in the center of the sternum. Almasi toppled sideways.

  “Brian!” Dominic came through the door, took two strides, and kicked the gun from Almasi’s hand. He knelt down, checked his pulse. “He’s gone.”

  “He came up with a gun,” Brian panted. “Took my eyes off him for a second. Goddamn it.”

  “Whoa, sit down, Brian, sit down.”

  “What?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Huh?”

  Dominic pushed him into the chair, grabbed his right hand, and pressed it against his upper belly. Brian felt the wetness and took his hand away and looked at his fingers. “Aw, shit.”

  “Keep the pressure on it.”

  “We’re gonna have company. Better check.”

  Dominic moved to the window and parted the curtains. Below, lights were coming on in the adobe huts. “They’re coming.” He turned back to Brian, who had his shirt open. There was a pinkie-tip-sized hole about four inches below his right nipple. He pressed his fingertips around the wound and winced. Blood gushed from the wound.

  “Rib broken?” Dominic asked from the window.

  “Yeah, I think so. Slowed the bullet down. Ah, Jesus, that hurts. Shit, shit, shit! Get that CD I dropped, will you? It was in the safe.”

  Dominic grabbed his backpack from the floor, fished inside, came up with a half a dozen maxi-pads. He handed them to Brian, then returned to the window. “We should have brought the real deal.”

  “These are better, man, really absorb the blood.” He tore open a pad and pressed it to his chest. “See anything?”

  “Lights are on. They’ll be coming. Can you move?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gonna see if I can slow them up.”

  Dominic grabbed Almasi’s pistol-a Beretta.32 Tomcat semiauto-from the floor.

  “What kind of rounds?” Brian asked.

  Dominic ejected the magazine and checked. “Hollow-point.”

  “Huh. Okay. Get moving.”

  Dominic dashed out the door, down the stairs, then out the door. He dropped to a crouch beside the steps, took aim on the westernmost hut, and fired three rounds through the window. Shouts came from inside. The lights went off. Dominic sprinted back into the house, locked the door, then turned right and ran to the corner window. He opened it and fired four shots at the east-side hut, then put five rounds through the front door. The pistol’s slide locked open. He dropped it, ran back upstairs. Brian was on his feet and steadying himself against the desk.

  “I’m good. Bleeding’s slowing down. You got a plan?”

  “Yep.” Dominic scooped up the CD-ROM from the floor, shoved it into his backpack, then leaned across the desk and jerked the flash drive from the tower’s USB port. “The porch is right below us. Once they make their move, you’re going out the window. Lay flat on the roof. When you hear things start in here, get to the ground and go for the barn. If you feel up to it, go for the car. I’ll meet you along the way. Gimme your gun.”

  “Dom-”

  “Shut up and give me your gun. Can you handle your pack?” Brian nodded. Dominic handed it to him. “You’re looking green, bro. Sure you’re okay to move?”

  “
We have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Watch the window, give me the play-by-play.”

  “Got it.”

  Dominic laid both Brownings on the desk, looked around the room. He grabbed Almasi’s desk chair and shoved it toward the door, then did the same with a nearby side table. He bulldozed them through the door, down the hall, then tipped them down the stairs. They tumbled to the bottom and landed in a heap.

  “How’re we doing?” he called.

  “Nothing yet-wait. Got a body coming out, circling west. He’s got the AK.”

  Dominic went into the first guest bedroom and grabbed a nightstand, a floor lamp, and a chair, all of which he shoved down the stairs.

  “What the hell are you doin’, Dom?”

  “Homemade barricade.”

  He repeated the process with the next guest bedroom, then returned to the office. He grabbed his backpack and slipped it on, then grabbed up the Brownings and removed the noise suppressors, then shoved them into his belt.

  At the window, Brian said, “You go, cowboy. The other three just came out… Two heading for the porch, another around the front. First one’s coming around the east side now. Hey, I found a surprise in the closet.” He pointed to the corner, where a shotgun was leaning. “Twelve-gauge Mossberg 835. Six rounds loaded.”

  Dominic stepped to Brian and gently opened the window. He helped Brian out and held on until he was splayed across the shingles. Dominic said, “I’m going to wait until they’re all in the house. I’ll yell for more ammo. You hear that, you go. How long will you need?”

  “Two minutes.”

  “I’ll be right behind you. We can’t have them on our tails.”

  Dominic closed the window, turned around, snatched up the shotgun, and headed into the hall. From the west-side sitting room came the sound of breaking glass. Down in the foyer, something pounded into the door. Then again, then a third time. The doorjamb cracked, bulged inward. Dominic pumped the shotgun and dropped to his belly and eased the shotgun’s barrel an inch through the banister uprights. In the sitting room he heard a chair leg squelch on wood. A head peeked around the corner, pulled back, then returned. Dominic froze. He held his breath. Nothing to see here, asshole. The pounding on the door became louder, more insistent. The man in the sitting room took one last peek around the corner, then sidestepped, his AK up and tracking along the balcony. He sidestepped one of the toppled nightstands, then went back to the door. He took his left hand off the AK, reached for the doorknob.

  Dominic adjusted the shotgun, laid the front site over the man’s chest, and fired. The man staggered backward and slammed into the door and slumped down. Footsteps pounded across the porch and faded away. A few moments later came the sound of breaking glass. One down, three left, Dominic thought. A thought popped into his head. He got up, ran back to the office, and opened the window. He handed one of the Brownings to Brian. “In case they decide to climb.” He closed the window and returned to the hall.

  Downstairs, nothing was moving. A full minute passed, then somewhere to Dominic’s right he heard a whispered voice. To the left a hand appeared around the corner and tossed something up the stairs. Grenade, Dominic thought even as it bounced onto the balcony. The shape told him it wasn’t a frag but a flash-bang. They didn’t want to risk killing Almasi. Too late, boys. Dominic pushed himself up, rolled right through the office door, and clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. There was a ringing boom. White light flashed through Dominic’s eyelids. He felt the floor beneath him tremble. He rolled back onto his belly and wriggled back to the door. To his left, a figure was charging up the stairs, firing as he went. Bullets pounded into the wall. The man reached the top of the stairs and stopped, crouching behind the corner post. Dominic drew the Browning from his belt, took aim, and fired. The bullet tore through the man’s exposed kneecap. He screamed and tumbled backward down the stairs. Dominic changed back to the shotgun, got up, raced down the hall. He fired at a head peeking around the sitting-room entrance. Miss. He pumped another round into the chamber, swiveled right, and fired from the hip, hitting the tumbling man center-mass. He landed on the foyer floor and was still. Dominic spun left, ducked into the first guest bedroom, dropped to his belly.

  “Almost out of ammo!” he shouted. “Get me some!”

  Dominic checked his watch. Two minutes. He took stock. Almost two full mags for the Browning and six rounds left in the shotgun. He rolled left, then got to his feet and peeked around the corner. In the foyer, nothing moved. He took a step out, keeping behind the corner post. He checked once more, then spun and sprinted down the hall. Bullets peppered the wall behind him. He hunched over, covered the last eight feet, and ducked into Almasi’s master bedroom.

  “Bro, where’s that damned ammo!” Dominic shouted.

  He counted to ten, then stepped out, fired two blasts into the foyer, then closed the office door before stepping back into the bedroom. He slammed the door shut loud enough that it wouldn’t be missed. Once they made it up the stairs, they’d have to clear the guest bedrooms, then the office, leaving Almasi’s bedroom for last. The question was, how long would that take? How long before one of them went back outside to cut off the window exits?

  He locked the door and pressed his ear to the wood. One minute passed, then two. From the foyer he heard the scrape of furniture on tile. Then the creak of a stair tread. Brian crept to the window, opened it, and climbed out onto the roof. He left the window open. He looked around, saw no one. He crouch-walked to the edge. It was a ten-foot drop. He stuffed the shotgun between his pack and his shoulder blades, then rolled onto his belly and let his legs and torso dangle. He let go. As soon as his feet impacted the ground, he bent his knees and rolled. He climbed to his feet and sprinted around the house to the east side, then mounted the porch and found the broken window. He slipped inside and crept across the sitting room to the foyer. He peeked around the corner. On the balcony, only one figure was visible. He stood, back toward Dominic, at the threshold of the second guest bedroom. Dominic stepped out, picked his way through the jumble of furniture to the center of the foyer. He drew the Browning, took aim, and shot the man in the back of the head. Even as he was falling, Dominic sidestepped and ducked beneath the stairs. He holstered the Browning, drew the shotgun.

  Footsteps pounded on the balcony above, then stopped. The footsteps resumed, this time moving cautiously. With a splintering crack, a door flew open. Office, Dominic thought. Thirty seconds passed. Footsteps came out of the office, then paused. The master-bedroom door was kicked open.

  See the window, dickhead…

  Another thirty seconds passed.

  “Yebnen kelp!” a voice barked.

  Dominic’s Arabic was mediocre, but the tone told him the phrase was a curse, somewhere along the lines of shit or sonofabitch.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall, then down the stairs, then onto the tiled foyer. He heard the rattle of a lock being disengaged. Dominic crab-walked two steps, brought up the shotgun, and blasted the man in the back of the legs. The impact shoved him against the door. His AK clattered to the tiles as he slumped sideways. Dominic stood up and tossed away the shotgun. He drew the Browning and walked over to the man, who lay writing and groaning on the floor. He saw Dominic and put up his hands. “Please…”

  “Too late for that.”

  Dominic shot him in the forehead.

  He found Brian sitting on the ground behind the barn, his back resting against the slope. He saw Dominic and raised his hand in greeting. “Get ’em?”

  “Every last one. How’re you doing?”

  Brian gave a wobbly shake of his head. His face was ashen and glistening with sweat. “Got a confession to make.”

  “What?”

  “Bullet missed my ribs, went clean through. It’s in my liver, Dom.”

  “Jesus, are you sure?” He moved to open Brian’s shirt, but Brian waved him off.

  “The blood’s really dark, almost black. Hollo
w-point probably shredded my liver. I can barely feel my legs, too.”

  “I’ll get you to the hospital.”

  “No. Too many questions.”

  “Fuck you. Zuwarah’s ten miles away.”

  Dominic knelt down, grabbed Brian’s opposite arm, and pulled him across his shoulders. He got his feet under him and straightened up. “You okay?”

  “Yep,” Brian grunted.

  The slog back up the hill took ten minutes, then ten more minutes for Dominic to pick his way down the opposite slope. When he reached the quarry floor, he started jogging toward the Opel. “You still with me?” Dominic asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He reached the Opel, then dropped to his knees and lowered Brian to the ground. From the backseat, Bari called, “What happened?”

  “He’s shot. Is there a hospital in Zuwarah?”

  “Yes.”

  Dominic opened the back door and used his pocketknife to cut Bari free. Together they lifted Brian into the backseat.

  “You know where it is?” Dominic asked Bari, who nodded. “Then you drive. Take one wrong turn and I’ll blow you away, understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Bari climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Dominic ran around the car and got into the backseat with Brian. “Go, go!”

  70

  THEIR TARGET was not in São Paulo proper but eighty miles north of the city and the center of Brazil’s exploding petro-economy. The largest refinery in all of Brazil, the Paulinia REPLAN facility processed nearly 400,000 barrels of oil per day, some twenty million gallons. Enough, Shasif Hadi had read, to fill more than thirty Olympic-sized swimming pools. Of course, as Ibrahim had told him during their initial briefing, sabotaging such a facility was no easy task. There were myriad safety redundancies to be considered, not to mention the physical security measures. Getting onto the refinery grounds would be no hurdle at all (the highest perimeter fence was ten feet tall), but once inside, there was little they could do. Explosives could destroy collection tanks, but these were spaced too far apart to hope for a domino effect. Similarly, the facility’s hundreds of control valves (officially known as ESDs, or emergency shutdown devices), which regulated the flow of chemicals to the labyrinth of distillation columns, fractionation towers, cracking units, and blending and storage tanks, were virtually invulnerable, having been recently refitted with something called a Neles ValvGuard system, which was, in turn, regulated from the refinery’s control center, which from their earlier reconnaissance trips they knew was belowground and heavily fortified. Shasif understood none of these particulars, but the essence of Ibrahim’s point was clear: The odds against causing a catastrophic leak within the Paulinia REPLAN were astronomical. But that word-within-Shasif reminded himself, was pivotal, wasn’t it? There were other ways to start the dominoes falling.