Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  "It looks like a hospital," Crispin said.

  Peter corrected him. "It looks like it used to be a hospital."

  "Well, riddle me this: Why is there a hospital way out here?" Crispin slipped off his pack.

  "We're not that far from Nov Arman." Moyer raised his binoculars. "There used to be a government mining operation a couple of decades ago—Soviet Union days. The mine ran out or became too expensive to run. We don't know."

  "Makes a good hideout," Pete said. "It's like the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang hiding out in the wilds of Wyoming."

  "You ready, Hawkeye?"

  "I will be in one. What have you got?"

  Moyer scanned the buildings from his hiding spot behind a pair of trees. "I see a main building with two smaller buildings in the back. Those look abandoned. Padlocks on the doors. Broken windows."

  "Boss, Shaq." The earbud buzzed in Moyer's ear. "We have a good view."

  They were in position. "Roger that. I believe the back two buildings are unoccupied. Do you concur?"

  Thirty seconds passed. "Concur. No activity on this side. Everyone seems to be inside. Chow time, maybe."

  "Stand by."

  "Hawkeye. Put Voyager up and make a wide pass."

  "Working on it, Boss." Crispin worked quickly but carefully. The little helicopter came to life and rose under Crispin's control.

  Moyer moved to Crispin's side. The little craft worked perfectly, giving Moyer a moment of confidence. Crispin guided Voyager high and kept it a good distance from the buildings, trying to be invisible and quiet.

  Moyer broadcast what he was seeing to Rich and his team. "High-set windows on the south side. Maybe patient ward. Bigger windows on the east side. Assume offices. Big windows on the north. Should be visible to you. Assume cafeteria. More small, high-set windows on the west. Maybe a second ward. Wait one."

  Moyer leaned closer to Crispin. "Back up."

  Crispin turned the craft around. "Shaq, Boss. Back door open."

  "Understood."

  "Colt, Doc, you take sniper position. The rest of us move on my signal." Once more he scanned the area. Only God knew what was about to happen. He hoped J. J. was right: that God was in the holy dark. Images of his family flooded his mind and he forced them back despite the urge to dwell on their faces and voices.

  Moyer pulled his balaclava mask over his face, then switched off his M4's safety. "Colt, Boss. You ready?"

  "Just waiting for the go."

  Crispin brought Voyager back and put it by his pack. He grinned at Pete.

  "What's got you so happy?"

  "While I was busy stuffing the MAV into the grill of the car, Colt was busy stuffing something else."

  Peter turned his head slightly. "Such as?"

  Moyer answered for the new guy. "Come on, Junior, what do you think Colt would be doing?"

  Pete's eyes widened. "He didn't."

  "Oh yeah, man," Crispin said. "He did."

  "Shaq, Boss, start your move."

  "Roger that."

  Crispin stood. "Boss, before we left the Michael Monsoor we said we do this for family. We do this for Gina."

  Pete triggered his mike. "For Gina."

  J. J.: "For Gina."

  Rich: "For Gina."

  Jose: "You bet."

  Moyer blinked back tears, then activated his radio. "Thanks, guys." Inhale. "Colt, go."

  Three seconds later one of the Humvee-looking Tigers burst into flames and flew several feet in the air before landing on its side. A half second later, car two did the same, landing as a burning hulk. It was joined by the third vehicle bursting into a ball of fire.

  "C4 is a wonderful thing." Moyer began his run to the back of the building where he saw the open door.

  THE M110 SNIPER RIFLE was an extension of J. J.'s body. The collapsible stock was extended and fit perfectly in the socket of his right arm. He waited until the first four men ran from the front of the hospital, AK-47s in hand, before he stroked the trigger. He chose the last man out as the first to die. The others had a greater distance to run back to the building.

  He dropped a second man when he heard Jose's M4 come to life. A burst of bullets cut down the third. J. J. inched his rifle to the side and put a round high in the man's chest. He staggered back, then twisted to the ground.

  THERE WAS AN ENDURING thought in the Army. Train a man hard and long and when the chips are down, he follows his training more than his instincts. Moyer was in full operation mode. His vision narrowed, his senses became supersensitive, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, fueling every muscle.

  Moyer pushed through the back door, kicking bags of garbage and scraps of food. He discovered the reason the back door was open. Someone was getting ready to take out the trash. In Moyer's mind, that was his goal too.

  Moyer cut into the first room he encountered: the kitchen. He heard Rich move past to the next room. The kitchen was clear and Moyer emerged into the hall that separated the kitchen from a staff dining area.

  Pete was now in the lead as they moved single file down the hall. The hall formed a T with another hall. The interior was confusing and ill planned, perhaps changed over the years. Those were questions for others to ask and answer.

  The rata-tat-tat of automatic fire drew Moyer's attention. It came from his right. Rich moved the same direction, a few steps ahead. He motioned for Crispin and Pete to search the other rooms. The hall led to the front of the building and opened into a small lobby.

  Rich lowered into a crouch, then to a knee, and pointed the barrel into the lobby. Four men were firing out windows in the direction of J. J. and Jose.

  One of the men fell backward, blood running from his throat. J. J. was on his game. Moyer raised his weapon. One of the men who turned to see his fallen partner caught a glimpse of Rich. He turned and raised his AK-47. He was dead a moment later. Both Moyer and Rich fired. Four bodies lay on the tile floor.

  "Lobby clear." The message was meant for J. J. more than anyone. He needed to know that he could save his ammo.

  Moyer heard a scream and then a loud bang. Rich fell and rolled to his side, unconscious, the skin along his right temple and over his eye a mess of blood and tissue. Moyer had never seen Rich unconscious. Then Moyer noticed more blood on the floor—his.

  The room began to spin. A motion to his right caught his attention: the sole of a boot hit him in the face.

  Pain ran down his neck. Driven by instinct, Moyer tried to raise his M4. Through pain-fogged vision, he saw a stout man with a hate-filled sneer on his face and a Russian sidearm in his hand.

  "You picked the wrong camp to invade." The heavy accent made it difficult for Moyer to understand. He did, however, know what it meant when an angry man raised a gun and pointed it in another man's face.

  Moyer managed two words: "Bite me." Darkness poured into his eyes.

  Two sounds drifted into Moyer's brain: "Egonov!" and a very loud bang.

  CHAPTER 39

  ZINSSER CRAMMED EVERY EMOTION into a dark, secret place near the corner of his soul. It was what he did when the situation needed more machine than man. Zinsser became that machine.

  He swung the door open, the P228 at arm's length, and saw what he feared. The good news: Gina was still alive, still restrained in the oak chair they saw in the threat-video. In the second it took to glance at her, he saw no additional injuries. Seeing her strapped to the chair in nothing but her underwear made something snap inside Zinsser. The bad news: Another man stood behind Gina holding a large-caliber handgun—the kind only insecure men carried—to Gina's head, pushing her head almost to her left shoulder.

  "Hold it right there," the man said. He was six foot four if he was an inch and looked to be 250 pounds of muscle. "One bad move on your part and you'll be scooping the girl's brains off the walls."

  Zinsser looked deep in the man's eyes and saw a coward. "Lower your weapon and you live."

  "No dice. I move this gun an inch and my life isn't worth a dime."

  "It
's not worth that now."

  "Okay, funny man, here's how this is going to work. Your crew is going to withdraw. Young Ms. Moyer here is going to be my ticket out of here. Here's what I want—"

  Zinsser put a bullet in the man's forehead. He collapsed like a house of cards.

  Gina screamed. Screamed. Continued screaming. Blood and tissue covered her.

  "Gina, it's okay. It's me, Jerry. You know me. I've been to your house a few times. It's over now—"

  Bang. Bang-bang.

  Pop-pop-pop-pop.

  The sound came from the other side of the wall. Zinsser snapped his head that direction. He jetted from the room, rounded the corner, and saw three things: Sergeant Presley sitting on the floor holding his left shoulder, crimson oozing between his fingers; a dead woman bleeding from at least four holes in her chest; and Brianne pointing her Glock at the unmoving form. The gun wiggled in her trembling hand.

  Zinsser stepped to her and laid his hand on her weapon, pushing it down. "It's over."

  "How's that for a body mass shot?" Her voice trembled more than her hand.

  "You done good, Agent Lazzaro."

  "Saved my life." Presley struggled to his feet.

  "Stay down, Sergeant."

  He shook his head. "It's just a flesh wound." He tried to stand but collapsed again. "I think I'll just sit here."

  Kneeling by the officer, Zinsser did a quick review of the wound. "In and out. Doesn't look like it hit any arteries. I see some bone frags. You'll live but won't be throwing any fastballs anytime soon."

  "Got the jump on me. She came out of the head, gun blazing. I got off a shot but missed. She already popped me. Agent Lazzaro had just cleared one of the offices and, well, did that." He nodded at the corpse.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Zinsser turned to aim. Five uniformed police officers poured into the room. The entire operation took less than two minutes, although it seemed a lot longer to Zinsser.

  "Call an ambulance," Zinsser ordered.

  Andy Arnold made the call.

  "How's Gina?" Brianne asked.

  "Shook." Zinsser stood. "At least she's stopped screaming—" Two holes in the wall separating the open work area from Gina's holding space—two large bullet holes.

  Zinsser made it to Gina's door in a sprint, flung it open, and plunged into the room.

  Gina leaned forward against her restraints, unmoving.

  "No. No! NO!" He lowered his weapon and drew a large folding knife from his pocket, popping the blade open in one move. "Help me! Help me!"

  Zinsser the machine melted into a slag-covered pool in the heat of what he was seeing. The bottled emotions broke free. He cut the nylon ties and the straps that held Gina to the chair, tossed the blade aside, and eased the girl to the floor. There was a hole in her left arm and one in the side of her chest.

  She wasn't breathing.

  "Oh, God no. Please, God. Please."

  Brianne knelt beside Gina's body, leaned over her head, and placed an ear over Gina's nose. Brianne shook her head. She tilted Gina's head back, pulled her jaw down, laid her lips over Gina's, and exhaled, sending air into her lungs. Blood and air bubbled from the wound in her chest. "Pneumothorax. Put your hand on the wound."

  "What?"

  "Your hand. Put it over the wound. Air is getting in the chest cavity and collapsing her lung."

  Zinsser forced himself back into battle mode: emotionless, acute thinking, senses sharp as scalpels.

  Brianne blew more air into Gina's lungs, repeating the process three times, then put two fingers to one of the girl's carotid arteries. "No pulse. Move."

  Zinsser slipped further to the side but kept his hand over the wound, blood tinting his fingers. Brianne raised a fist and brought it down on Gina's sternum, executing a precordial thump. Again, she checked for a pulse. "Nothing."

  She moved to the other side of Gina, laced her fingers together, placed her hands over the center of Gina's chest, and pushed, counting, "One, two, three . . ."

  THE UNIVERSE WAS BLACK, ebony, Stygian. Yet Moyer did not feel blind. He was standing. He knew that much. He could feel ground or floor or something beneath his feet. He looked up. No stars. He looked from side to side, but there was nothing but more dark.

  He should be filled with terror. Why wasn't he? Something real but intangible surrounded him, like he was floating in a pool of ink.

  He touched his arm and it felt real. He felt no clothing but he didn't feel nude. Whatever he wore was right for this place.

  "Daddy?"

  Moyer turned. Behind him, bathed in a light with no apparent source, stood Gina, pretty and perfect. "Gina!" He closed the distance between them in rapid steps and took her in his arms, lifting her from the ground and swinging her in a big circle. "Baby. My girl." He set her down and stroked her hair.

  "I love you, Daddy. I miss you."

  Tears ran down Moyer's face like rivers. "I love you. I love you so much. I haven't said it enough in your life. I love you, adore you. I'm proud of you. You are my life."

  She clung to him for a moment, then stroked his cheek, wiping away tears. "Everything is going to be fine, Daddy. Everything is going to be fine."

  Slowly, Gina, bathed in ethereal light, began to move back and up.

  "Where are you going? No. Stay. Stay with me. I need you, baby."

  "It's going to be all right, Daddy. It really is."

  Gina ascended skyward and became the only star in the ebony cloak.

  "Gina!"

  He was alone in the dark again—but not alone. Something was moving in the black, occupying it, filling it. Something good and comforting. Moyer heard J. J.'s voice: "Boss, all I'm saying is that God is in the darkness with you. There is a holy dark."

  CAPTAIN MASTERS HEARD GUNFIRE and it gave him a moment of hope. He had been on enough missions and heard enough gunfire in his day to recognize the distinct sound of American-made M4s. He pulled at his restraints.

  The door to his room exploded open and two men burst in. Two men in black camo and matching masks marched in, automatic weapons searching for any target. Seeing the room had only one occupant and he was strapped to a bed, the men lowered their M4s. One man approached Masters, the other turned to the door, his weapon at the ready for anyone who might have followed them.

  Masters watched the soldier study the situation. The man's eyes brightened. "You call for a taxi?"

  "That would be me. I'm late for the theater. Man, have I got someone for you to meet."

  He shouldered his weapon and began removing the restraints. "They call me Junior. You are?"

  "Captain Scott Masters."

  "You able to move?"

  "Yes. I'm a little weak, but I'm sure I can walk."

  "Wounds?"

  "Face and side. Side hurts the most."

  "Okay, I'm going to release you, but I want you to stay here until—"

  "You can forget that noise, soldier. Give me a status report. Did you find my men?"

  "Yes, sir." Junior's voice faltered. "I'm afraid you're the last one alive."

  "No, I was told—"

  "We found two bodies. One has been dead for hours. The other . . . I think someone shot him when we came in. I'm surprised to find you alive."

  The door opened and all eyes turned to a thin man in a doctor's smock.

  "No," Masters snapped. "Hold your fire."

  "Identify yourself," the other soldier demanded.

  The man looked at Masters and shrugged. "He calls me Igor."

  "He's the doctor," Masters said. "He hooked me up with antibiotics—finally."

  "May I?" Igor nodded to Masters. "The IV?"

  Junior said, "Go ahead, but don't mess with us. I still have plenty of bullets."

  Igor moved to Masters and removed the IV needle. Masters sat up. The room twisted and spun. "Where's Egonov?"

  "Who's Egonov?"

  "He's the lead clown." Masters stood and wobbled, then found his footing. Every part of him hurt. Despite the antibio
tics, his fever still raged. He needed to spend more time in bed with high-caliber drugs, but that would have to wait. "Give me your sidearm, soldier."

  "No can do, Captain. You're in no condition."

  "I'm guessing I outrank you. Don't be insubordinate. I know what I'm doing. I've been doing it longer than you. Now hand it over or I'll knock you down and take it."

  "You know there's no chance you could do that in your condition."

  "Yeah, but threats are all I have at the moment."

  "Hawkeye, give the captain your sidearm."

  "What? Why mine?"

  "I may need mine to save my life."

  "Oh, I see how it is. Nice. Real nice."

  The handgun felt good in Masters's hand. "Have you cleared the facility?"

  "This side. Stay here until we come back for you. We still have several rooms to check."

  "Understood."

  The two exited. One minute later, Masters started for the door.

  "Where are you going?" Igor asked.

  "My mission isn't over yet."

  Captain Scott Masters put one wobbly step after another and walked out the door. With each step he grew more certain. With Igor by his side, Masters, bent at the waist from his wounds, moved down the hall.

  The hall ended near the lobby/waiting area. Two soldiers dressed like those who were in his room were about to engage a group of armed men near the windows of the extended lobby.

  One of the Russians fell; another turned with weapon raised; and the soldiers opened fire, gunning down the remaining men. He recognized one of the newly dead men as the bearded man who installed the speaker in his room. Good riddance.

  A blur to his right caught his attention. A man emerged from the back of the building, a GSh-18 weapon in his hand. He pulled the trigger just as the larger of the two soldiers turned. The bullet hit the right side of his head just below the helmet rim. Another shot struck the other rescuer in the arm or chest. Masters couldn't tell.

  The shooter advanced and drove the heel of his boot in the man with the head wound, then kicked the other in the face. Masters watched as the man raised his weapon.