The armed attackers had noticed him too late, though.
As McFly zipped into the warehouse window, the top of one of the assault vehicles blew. Then the other. A soldier crawled out the back of one burning vehicle, coughing and hacking. I didn’t see a similar form crawl out of the second.
Mal winced. “$300k+ taxpayer money per vehicle. Molten slag.”
“I know they’re trying to kill us and all, but won’t you have to answer for destroying expensive government property?”
“Two things, Ripley. First, you’re assuming they’ll win and take us into custody. They won’t—they just lost their control comms and heavy artillery. Second, you’re assuming they’ll get around to prosecuting us afterward. They won’t do that, either. This operation is completely off-book, illegal as all get out. See any insignias on the attackers’ uniforms? No? Take it from me: Whoever is behind this, they don’t want the public—chiefly their Congressional funding oversight—to know a blessed thing about this op.”
“Hey, Gamble must have called in the cavalry,” Baltar said, pointing. “Look there.”
A vehicle similar to the two assault vehicles (both of which were now burning like bonfires) turned the corner. The new vehicle was dark blue with bright white lettering that read “FBI.”
Baltar indicated another monitor. The black-clad attackers were fleeing. Keeping to the shadows of the warehouses across from the clubhouse, they raced to the end of the block and evaporated into the night.
“Is that it?” I asked, my throat tight.
“I doubt it,” Mal answered. “They’ll stay away as long as the FBI is here, but you can be sure we haven’t seen the last of them. They seem to want you pretty bad, Ripley.”
He jerked his chin at Zander, then me. “You two. Time to have that talk.”
We followed along after him, but I’d left nanobugs on Baltar. I wanted to keep tabs on the FBI presence.
Mal showed us to his office. “Have a seat.”
We sat. He sat.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well, for starts, you and John-Boy here know each other.”
“You introduced us at our first tradecraft class a couple weeks back.”
“Nope. You guys ‘know’ each other.”
“Know each other how?” Zander asked.
“Come on, guys; I don’t care if you’re together.” He pointed at my hand. “Look. Neither of you wore a wedding ring in class. Kind of a giveaway.”
We didn’t respond.
Mal sat back and considered us through lazy, speculative eyes. “It’d be too bad if they were to take you, Ripley, because you’re a fine-looking woman, and I thought maybe we’d shared a moment back there. I was even thinking of asking you out. You know. Dinner, drinks, dancing . . . a long night of getting to know each other . . . intimately?”
He raked his eyes over me and smiled. “Or should I consider you off limits?”
I’d seen Zander’s anger only a few times, like when Mateo Martinez had provoked him. I’d seen him angry, and I’d seen him deadly serious. As he answered Mal through stiff lips, though, he was neither angry nor serious—just the deadly part.
“Yeah. You should.”
Mal chuckled softly. “You’re way too easy to provoke, John-Boy. You should work on that.”
“And you should move on.”
Mal cleared his throat. “I was just proving my point. ’Nuff said.” He jumped back to business.
“Everything else notwithstanding, we’re wondering what the deal is with you guys. Too many things don’t add up. You aren’t ex-military. You don’t know guns. You aren’t spooks. You aren’t analysts. We can’t tell what you guys are—but you managed to lose my guys during our SDR exercises and break into the clubhouse. And you—” he jabbed a finger in my direction, “you knocked Dredd on his can. So . . . what gives?”
Zander shrugged; he was still letting off steam. I gave Mal my wide-eyed “who, me?” routine. Neither Zander nor I spoke.
Mal sighed. “Okay. I get it. Whatever it is, it’s above my pay grade. Meeting over.”
“Uh, do you mind if John-Boy and I hang out here a while, Mal?”
“What do you mean?”
I slanted a look at Zander. It hadn’t dawned on him that our covers were “blown,” but I knew they were—and using our real identities to work the President’s assignment now seemed like the most colossal mistake ever.
“I think we need to stay with you guys until we hear from Gamble.” Meaning the President.
“Of course. I already told you we haven’t seen the last of the assaulters, but not to worry. You’re safe here. Feel free to hang out in the training center as long as you need.”
Turns out, it’s a good thing we did.
Chapter 28
I SLEPT CURLED UP ON a sofa in the training center. Zander sprawled in a chair, his long legs stuck out in front of him. We logged maybe three hours before Gamble called early in the morning.
I swiped sleep from my eyes and yawned. “Morning. How’s Trujillo?”
“She had surgery to set her fingers and repair the broken bones in her face, and she’s doped to the gills. Doctors need to keep an eye on her for a couple of days minimum.” He added, “I hear the FBI showed up at the clubhouse and scared away the bad guys.”
“Not before McFly McFlitted down a zip line over the assault vehicles and blew their turrets off.”
“Yeah, my source told me one of the drivers didn’t make it out. His body was badly burned, and they haven’t yet identified him.”
“The rest of the attackers bugged out when the FBI showed up. Thanks for sending them, Gamble.”
“Hey, I’m always up for exposing unlawful military actions, but you can also thank the President. I conveyed everything that happened to Kennedy, and he put the President on the line with us. It was the President’s decision that I report an unauthorized paramilitary action to the FBI. He knew they would respond with an FBI strike force.”
“Well, it was a smart move.”
“Have the nanomites heard anything further from Danforth’s array?”
“I just woke up. Zan—I mean John-Boy—is still out, but no. The nanomites tell me they are not in ongoing contact with Danforth’s nanobugs. Confirms our suspicion that Danforth is in a shielded facility. Hey, Gamble?”
“Yes?”
“The nanobugs sent out a data packet while Danforth was ordering the helo strike. Danforth may be in a shielded facility with a ‘secure’ landline, but the nanobugs were able to send data through that line when it was in use.
“Here’s the zinger: The array reported that Danforth’s companion recognized Zander and has decided that Jayda is Gemma in disguise. Bottom line? We’re blown, Gamble. We can’t go back to our apartment, and I sure can’t go back to work.”
“Uh, yeah. That might be awkward.”
“Awkward? Ha-ha-ha. You’re cute, Gamble.”
“Me? Cute? You must be sleep deprived.”
“Not as much as you. Listen, we’re going to stay at Malware’s clubhouse until we know what to do next. Seems like the safest place for us.”
“Okay. And you know where to find me. Logan and I are swapping shifts keeping an eye on Trujillo.”
“Roger that.”
Gamble chuckled. “Take care, Jayda.”
I left Zander sleeping and went in search of coffee. I checked Mal’s office, but it was empty. I struck pay dirt in the operations center.
Baltar the Bleary cracked a smile when I stuck my head in. I guessed Baltar to be the oldest of Mal’s crew; his five o’clock shadow (plus twelve hours) had that gray/grizzled tint of the over-forty crowd.
“Hey, Rip. Sleep?”
“A couple hours. Not you, huh?”
“No, but soon. Too much activity going on last night.”
“The FBI?”
“They had firetrucks and a big crime scene unit down here. Closed off the street. Mal went out and talked to them, mostly to stonewall t
hem. After all, we just live here. We didn’t invite the intruders. Never seen them before. Nothing more to tell.”
“Uh, hello? McFly dropped incendiary shells on them?”
“Like Mal told them, we never fired a shot. We aren’t responsible for crazy paramilitary people blowing themselves up in the street. By the way, the feds hauled off the charred BearCat remains an hour ago. What a waste.”
Something he said niggled at me. “Wait. You guys live here?”
“Yeah. We have our own apartments on the second and third floors. We have a few part-time employees, too, meaning they have homes and families. We treat them like firefighters: They spend a couple shifts here each week. After the attackers ran off, Mal called in four part-timers to beef up our numbers—Fiona, Mulder, Banner, and Neo. You’ll probably meet them today.”
“I thought you guys only did training.”
“No, that’s a small slice of our repertoire. We do high-profile security work and government contracting in addition to training.”
“Interesting.”
I sniffed the pot near Baltar. “Mind if I have a cup?”
“Help yourself, Ripley.”
“SATELLITE IMAGERY SHOWS them driving into that building’s garage. They are still holed up there.”
She nodded. “Have the FBI departed?”
“Yes, and the remains of the assault vehicles have been hauled away.”
“Good. Are your people regrouped and prepared as I directed? Do they understand that it is imperative to take the woman alive and undamaged?”
Danforth nodded.
“Hit them again. Now.”
“In broad daylight? The FBI . . .”
“Deploy the strike teams as I’ve instructed. I need to keep Jayda and Zander Cruz busy while I solve the challenge of how to trap them.”
“I’d prefer for the operation to be discreet.”
“The time for discretion is over, Lawrence. The clock is running, and the plan goes forward this week. Give your people the green light.”
Danforth submitted. He picked up the secure landline and issued the orders.
STEAMING CUP IN HAND, I wandered back to the training center and sat down on the arm of Zander’s chair. “Morning, babe.”
Zander yawned, stretched, sniffed—sat up, and took notice. “Is that coffee? Smells divine. Want to share?”
“Hmm.” I indulged in another blissful slurp before, feigning reluctance, I shook my head. “Honey, I love you—but love has its limits.”
He stroked my arm and looked up from under his thick, dark lashes.
“All right. Listen. I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.”
He pursed his lips and canted a Flynn Rider brow in my direction. “Here comes the smolder.”
*Preen*
Locking my unimpressed gaze on him, I blinked once and took a looong, sloooow pull on my mug. Smacked my lips in appreciation.
“Dunno. This is really good.”
His mouth widened in a toothy smile. “How about now?”
“Uhhhh, nope.”
“Okay, this is kind of an off day for me. This doesn’t normally hap—”
I drained my cup. “Ooops. All gone.”
“Hey. You broke my smolder.”
I leaned toward him, feigning a bit of my own smolder. “What if I told you of a place, a magical place, where coffee runs free in pure, rich mountain streams—and one has but to ask to receive all one desires?”
“Shrew. You know where the pot is.”
I giggled. “Yeah. C’mon, sweetie. I’ll show you to the burbling fountain of life.”
“You’d better. I just gave my best performance—ever.”
I led him to the operations center and pointed at the coffee pot. “Behold!”
Baltar cracked another grin. “Morning, John-Boy.”
“A good day to be alive, Baltar.”
Those were the last words I heard Zander speak before—
Jayda Cruz—Danforth has given orders to attack the clubhouse a second time!
Every nerve in my body jangled at their warning. “Nano, when?”
The strike teams were prepositioned; they are coming NOW.
“Baltar! We’re under attack!”
Baltar hesitated only a microsecond before he hit a switch. A low alarm sounded throughout the clubhouse. We heard the rush of feet as Mal, Dredd, McFly, Deckard, and the Malware personnel we hadn’t yet met grabbed their weapons and deployed.
My eyes were locked on the screens in front of Baltar. “There!”
Malware, Inc. had cameras mounted on the warehouses surrounding the clubhouse. One camera was angled toward the clubhouse’s roof.
A Black Hawk helo swooped over the roof. Two heavy lines dropped from its doors. As we watched, attackers fast-roped down to the roof.
“They’re setting a charge on the hatch!”
Baltar spoke into his headset. “Mal, we have company on the roof. At least a dozen.”
“Copy. Dredd? Get your team upstairs to greet our visitors.”
“Roger that.”
“Baltar—” I pointed at other monitors. Two teams of twelve were on the ground, one team at the garage, the other at the side entrance. The assault was designed and coordinated to hit the clubhouse at three different points simultaneously.
“I see them.” Baltar spoke into his mic again. “Mal, we have two squads of tangos on the ground attempting to breach the side entrance and the garage.”
“Copy that. All available personnel to the main floor.”
Zander asked, “What do you want us to do, Baltar?”
“You and Ripley stick with me. We’re in the core of the clubhouse. If, by chance, we’re breached, get to the panic room and lock it down.” Without taking his eyes off the screens, he pointed through the operations center door, across the training center, to another door. “It’s the safest place here, and it has a bug-out hatch.”
“But we can help you fend off the attackers,” I said.
Baltar was too busy to outright laugh at me. “Sure you can. Just stay put.”
Zander and I watched the battle play out on the monitors while Baltar fed updated information to Malware team leaders. The problem, as I saw it, was in the sheer numbers. I counted thirty-six assaulters to Mal’s nine defenders—ten, counting Baltar.
Twelve, counting us.
More than sufficient if we counted the nanomites.
The attacking team on the roof blasted through the hatch, only to find the second one. That did not deter them. While they set their second charges, Dredd and his crew positioned themselves to pick off the attackers when they broke through and dropped into the third floor.
Instead, we saw the attackers on the roof toss several somethings down the chimney. They lay flat on the roof to protect themselves from the intense light and noise that followed. Even over the monitors, the ongoing mini-explosions were deafening.
Baltar cursed. “Freaking nine bangers!”
Deafened and disoriented, Dredd pulled his team back to safety. Immediately, the attackers dropped into the third floor and spewed an unrelenting barrage of rounds.
Baltar reported the news. “Mal, third floor is breached. Repeat. Tangos inside.”
“Copy that but cannot assist—”
The Black Hawk had not flown away; it had waited, hovering high above, out of camera range. Now it descended, straight down to street level, its rotor wash pummeling the clubhouse, the three barrels of a GAU-19 .50cal Gatling gun taking aim at the garage doors. As the combatants on the ground raced away from the clubhouse, I realized that their presence had served to lure Mal and his team to defensive positions just inside the two entrances . . . where the Black Hawk’s belt-fed BMG rounds would shred them to bits.
Baltar screamed, “Incoming .50cal! Pull back! Pull back!”
The rattling roar of the Gatling gun reached us in the operations center as it decimated the garage doors, punching through two layers of armor
ed steel like so much tissue paper. Its work done, the Black Hawk rose and lifted away, and the two dozen assailants charged into the clubhouse.
Mal’s voice came over the speakers. “All units! Fall back to defensive position Bravo. Repeat, fall back to defensive position Bravo!”
Baltar pressed a few buttons. “Bravo open for business.”
When he received no response, Zander and I ran to the training center. Moments later, Malware’s personnel, dirtied and bloodied, rushed into the room. A man we didn’t know secured the training center’s blast doors behind the last of them.
Mal counted his people: Dredd, Deckard, and the man on the door; McFly and three others, one a woman.
Mal asked Dredd, “Mulder?”
“Sorry, Mal. He took out two of theirs, but . . . he didn’t make it.”
Mal shook his head and strode to operations. “What’s our status?”
“Thirty-four bad guys inside perimeter Alpha.”
“Are we locked down?”
“Yes. But look.”
We assembled around Baltar’s station, and he pointed to three monitors. The attacking teams were stacked far back in the passageways and around the corners. Waiting. Waiting on their demolition experts to finish laying charges—not against the blast door, but against the reinforced concrete walls in two separate locations.
“They’ll be inside in five minutes, give or take a few ounces of C4.”
Mal turned to Zander and me. “Time for you two to go.”
He pointed at the woman we didn’t know: She was big, broad, and hardened. “Fiona will escort you through the bug-out passage.”
Fiona growled at Mal. “You’re sending me away?”
“You have a kid at home, Fiona, so yes—and it’s not open for debate.”
He turned to us. “John-Boy? Ripley? When you come out the other end, you’ll be on your own. We wish you well.”
“But—”
Mal jerked his chin at Zander. “John-Boy? Get her out of here.”
Deep State Stealth Page 30