"I've only got seven rounds," said Shanley apologetically. He had remembered to put acoustic plugs in his ears, Fitzduane observed. A very good idea, given the decibel count of a .50 in a confined space.
"I'm going hot," said Shanley.
Fitzduane put his fingers to his ears and was glad he had. There was a deafening crack, and a large chunk of parapet blew away, carrying a black-hooded gunman with it.
Shanley fired again and again in a measured sequence, demolishing a long chunk of the parapet. A figure rose from the rubble, and Fitzduane snapped the AKM to his shoulder and dropped him.
The terrorist helicopter rose from behind the dome of the main block and swiveled its machine guns toward their position.
Shanley was taking aim with the Barrett. Fitzduane grabbed him and pulled him down.
A long, intense burst of fire raked along the second floor and blew every remaining window apart.
Fitzduane and Shanley crouched down below the window as the air was filled with fire. Then they could hear the helicopter pulling away. They stood up and Shanley raised the Barrett hopefully, but already it was out of sight behind the cover of the hotel and receding into the distance.
"How many rounds have you got left in that thing?" said Fitzduane.
Shanley removed the magazine. It was empty. He worked the bolt. The round was ejected. "One," he said.
Fitzduane contemplated his companion. The man was surprisingly calm for someone who had seen action for the first time. His forehead was beaded with sweat, but he was in control.
"Shanley," he said. "You are a piece of work."
Kilmara came in brushing plaster dust from his clothing and eyed the damage to the parapet across the way. It looked as if a demolition crew had been at work for a morning. "The hotel may not like you," he said.
"Don was planning to take on the helicopter with one round," said Fitzduane. "This is a man who believes in his weapon."
Kilmara was still eyeing the destruction. "One round, one helicopter! Well, by the looks of that mess it would probably be enough."
Shanley did not say anything. He could not stop it. Tears flooded from his eyes. He felt confused, tired, and terribly sad. As he looked up at the wrecked parapet he could see only Texas still alive. And then she was blasted apart and falling through this terrible red mist.
It could not have happened. It was his imagination. All of this was some elaborate war game. It was simulated. Soon everyone would get up and walk around and the music would start up again.
He looked down to the poolside below.
It was a mistake.
Her body was still there. Nothing had changed. It was not a dream. The water was now a solid, glowing, backlit crimson.
He slumped to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
Fitzduane reached out and rested his hand on Shanley's shoulder. He knew it helped. It had been done to him under very similar circumstances.
Kilmara looked at them and remembered. Fitzduane had been young then. They both had.
There was always a reaction. After a while it did not show, but it stayed with you.
* * * * *
Maury had designed his mobile home to be as near soundproof as possible. He wanted to be able to work anywhere without interruption.
In this case, matters were made even more convenient by the fact that the Bastogne Inn, which specialized in conferences and exhibitions, had a special serviced area for mobile homes and trailers. You had to pay, of course, but you could plug into the hotel phone system, cable TV, power and plumbing, and even utilize room service if you wanted. For Maury, it was an ideal arrangement.
He was oblivious to the terrorist attack. He was also so buried in his analysis that he had completely forgotten to pass on a message he had received. It had not struck him as particularly urgent, and then Lee Cochrane had phoned and the fax had beeped and the note got buried under a file.
After a while, the phone became a nuisance and he hit the mute button and engaged the answering machine. He needed to focus. There were aspects to this Mexican thing that did not make sense. There had to be more to it. There was an agenda he was missing, he was sure of it. But what?
He learned about the attack when Kilmara came to get him. Immediately he tried to notify Cochrane but could not get through.
Feeling decidedly shaken and, for no rational reason, guilty for not having been there, he went to help Fitzduane and Kilmara do what they could with the injured and the shell-shocked survivors. A stream of ambulances was already beginning to arrive, and medical teams were soon hard at work. The air was filled with the sound of medevac and other helicopters. Local, state, and federal law-enforcement units poured in.
The message remained forgotten.
* * * * *
Fitzduane watched the ambulance doors close and the vehicle accelerate away, siren screaming and lights flashing.
That was the last of the wounded taken care of. There would now be the whole wretched business of being questioned by the bevy of law-enforcement people who had spent the last couple of hours installing themselves in strength and debating jurisdiction. Some had tried to question him earlier, but apart from giving what descriptions he could of the terrorist helicopter, he had refused to say any more until the wounded were attended to.
His motive was not entirely altruistic. He had found that giving succor to another helped ease the stress reaction that cut in after combat and the suppressed guilt that came from the taking of human life. On the conscious level he had not regret about what he had done, but his subconscious seemed to have feelings of its own. It was confusing, and all the more so because he was incredibly tired.
He slumped down on a sofa in the reception area. The rooms were all cordoned off. They were going to have to bunk down in Maury's trailer, he supposed. He looked down at his clothing. God, he was a mess!
His shirt and trousers were ripped, and caked with dried blood. His hands and forearms were streaked with dried blood also. The blood of the killers and the blood of the victims. It had been a long time since he had seen so many terrible injuries. More than sixty had been killed and perhaps two hundred wounded. Many were critical. The butcher's bill would mount up over the next few days.
Where was Kathleen?
He felt a sudden rush of concern. He checked his watch. It was after 10:00 P.M. and it was dark outside. Actually, it was a blessing that she had not been at the party, but still, he was worried. It was not in her nature to stay out of touch like this. They were not a typical couple who could wander at will. They were under terrorist threat, and there were routines and disciplines they had to stick to. One key routine was regular communication. It was a burden but it was reality, and Kathleen was conscientious. In fact, she was better than he was.
Two men with law enforcement stamped all over them were talking to a grim-faced Kilmara over by the reception counter. One slid a photograph out of a file and showed it to Kilmara. He studied it intently and shook his head. The other then slid something small and gold out of a plastic envelope and held it in the palm of his hand.
Kilmara picked up the bracelet and read the inscription inside, then nodded. He looked across at Fitzduane, and there was both shock and sympathy in his face.
Fitzduane suddenly felt cold and sick. He tried to stand up, but for a moment his body seemed unwilling to respond. His limbs felt leaden and he seemed to have no strength.
Kilmara and the two men came over.
"Hugo," said Kilmara quietly, "just prepare yourself. This may not be as bad as it seems."
"What? Fitzduane wanted to scream. What is it? Why don't you just tell me? At the same time he understood what Kilmara was trying to do and his whole being fought to be ready for what he was going to hear.
The photograph of the murdered woman meant nothing to him, and his hopes began to rise. She was young and blond, and her features were not remotely familiar.
Then he saw the bracelet and absolute horror swept through him. Kathleen ha
d been kidnapped. But by whom and why?
The older of the two men spoke. "My name is Sheriff Jacklin, Colonel Fitzduane, and this here is Detective Erdman. I hate to say this, but it looks as if your wife might have been taken by the same people" — he made a gesture toward the pool — "who did all this. And as to who they are, you can rest assured we're going to find out."
Fitzduane looked at him blankly, as if he had not heard the words. Then he got to his feet unsteadily and turned away without explanation and walked toward the entrance. He felt as if he could not breathe and fresh air was the only solution. He staggered like a drunken man.
Kathleen was gone. He would never see her again. The people who had taken her killed without hesitation. They would not let her live. She would be a witness. She would have learned something. You always learned something, and these were people who took no chances. Kathleen would die — might already be dead — and he would have to accept it.
He could not accept it. Emotion ran through him. He held up his bloody hands. He was responsible for all this. Action and reaction and his cursed curiosity. It all went back to finding a hanging body and deciding to find out why. It was one body too many and it was on his doorstep and the victim had been so damned young. If only he had just walked on and never looked back.
"Hugo!" called Kilmara, his voice loud and sharp.
Fitzduane lowered his hands, then shook his head a couple of times as if trying to wake himself up. He had been oblivious to his surroundings, aware only of the balmy night air. He breathed in and out deeply.
The forecourt was a hive of activity. Law-enforcement vehicles came and went, and media vans with TV cameras mounted on their roofs were lined up behind the guarded perimeter. Arc lights supplemented the hotel lighting. As he watched, a helicopter touched down. Other helicopters circled above. Media again, he supposed.
Beyond the perimeter held back by barriers were many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of curious onlookers wedged five or six deep.
"Publicity is the oxygen of terrorism," someone had said. Well, these terrorists were getting plenty of oxygen. He hoped they choked on it.
Maury was standing beside Kilmara, looking rather anxious. Kilmara was reading something, and then he looked up. He appeared puzzled, and, followed by Maury, he walked toward Fitzduane.
"Maury took a phone message earlier on," he said. "It was from a woman. The switch tried your room and, finding no one there, rang Maury's trailer."
Maury shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Hugo. Probably I should have delivered it earlier, but you were in and out all day and I thought you would be in again soon —and then I forgot about it."
Fitzduane read the message.
CALL ME SOONEST. R.O IS ALIVE. YAIBO ARE IN YOUR AREA. TAKE EVERY CARE.
CHIFUNE
The number she had given bore a Fayetteville area code.
The blood drained from Fitzduane's face.
R.O.? Reiko Oshima! It was all beginning to make horrible sense.
He told Kilmara.
The General's face turned gray. He had come up against her in Ireland. She was the most dangerous terrorist he had ever encountered. Most of the time there was no longer any rationale as to why she killed. The act was an end in itself to her.
Fitzduane called the number.
"Fitzduane-san," she said. The voice was the same, the formal address a barrier between them. Unbidden, the memory of her body came to him.
"I have an address," she said. "It is a Yaibo safe house. Your wife may be there. Go quickly."
"How do you know?" he said. "Chifune, how do you know?"
"I've had my people out," she said. "Now hurry, Fitzduane-san. There is very little time. Approach carefully but in force. Go quickly. They will move soon. I cannot stay."
"Oshima?" said Fitzduane. "Is she behind this?"
The phone was dead.
"Sheriff," said Fitzduane, showing Jacklin the address. "Where is this place?"
Jacklin checked the paper. "About an hour away, I guess. Maybe more. It's outside my jurisdiction."
"Sheriff," said Fitzduane. "Give me some people. I beg you. There's no time to clear this. Please."
Jacklin thought quickly. "I'll lay on a chopper. There will be a SWAT team waiting when you land." He barked into his radio.
Eight minutes later, Fitzduane and his pilot were airborne.
Fitzduane's face was wet with tears. Dear God, he thought. Let us be in time.
Kathleen. Our baby.
Oshima! His heart turned to stone. It is you, I know it. I will find you if you're with the devil himself, and this time there will be no mistake. I will kill you.
He dried his cheeks and checked his weapons.
However long it takes, I will kill you. I swear it.
The helicopter swooped in to land in a clearing. The spot was wooded. Fitzduane had no sense of location. Jacklin had said the address sounded like a farm, which seemed to make sense.
"Colonel," said the pilot. "Semper Fi, sir."
Fitzduane shook his head wordlessly as a rush of emotion gripped him.
* * * * *
A deserted shack had been selected as temporary headquarters. Marked and unmarked vehicles were parked around it. They entered. The room had been cleared and now housed a bank of communications equipment on trestle tables. Maps of the area were being pinned up.
"Colonel Fitzduane?" said a man in black combat fatigues. A submachine gun hung around his neck. "Special Agent Hillgrove. FBI HRT out of Raleigh."
"The house?"
"It's about four hundred meters up ahead," said Hillgrove. "Clapboard farmhouse, kinda run-down. A barn and some other outbuildings. A rusty tractor and no animals. Two cars parked outside, but no lights on inside the farm that we can see. The drapes are closed. And that's about all we know."
"It's surrounded?" said Fitzduane.
"Yes, sir," said Hillgrove. "The state troopers have it sewn up every which way. We only got here ten minutes ago."
"My wife?"
Hillgrove's face reflected compassion and caution. According to Sheriff Jacklin, the woman had been grabbed the previous afternoon and a helicopter had been involved. That suggested that she had already been flown out of the area. Still, you could never be certain.
He shook his head. "We just don't know yet, sir. An electronic-surveillance team are moving into position now. They'll try and drill through and place a few miniature probes in position. But it will take some time. Best get some rest, sir."
Fitzduane absorbed the news. He was exhausted, he knew, and still in shock. He was not thinking clearly. There was information he should pass on to the FBI man, but he could not think what it was. He felt dizzy.
"Glass of water, sir," said Hillgrove, his voice concerned by distant. "You'd better sit down."
Fitzduane could feel his vision dimming, and there was a ringing in his ears. Someone took his arm and eased him onto a chair. He took the water with both hands and drank greedily. God, he was making all the classic errors. He was in shock, he had let himself get dehydrated, and he hadn't eaten. He was way overtired. He was personally involved.
He would have to get a grip. He closed his eyes. In the background he could hear the constant chatter of radio communications and the sound of footsteps as people walked to and for. The floor creaked.
Hillgrove seemed to know what he was doing, Fitzduane reflected sleepily. But there is something I should tell him. He dozed.
* * * * *
"Tac One," said a voice in Hillgrove's earpiece.
"Roger, Five," said Hillgrove.
"We're inserting now," said Five. "Should come up on video any second."
Hillgrove had a mental picture of the surveillance team withdrawing their drill bits very slowly, careful to avoid the slightest sound, and inserting cameras and sound probes no bigger than the head of a matchstick.
He stared intently at the three video monitors. Any moment the first picture would come through. Whether there was li
ght inside or not would make no difference except to the quality of the images. The miniature cameras had night-vision capability.
The first camera was coming on stream. The focus was slightly off and was adjusted.
"My God!" said a voice in absolute shock. "What have they done to her? What's that stuff hanging out of her? Oh My God!"
The wide-angle lens distorted the image and the picture had the greenish negative quality of night vision, so flesh tones could not be seen.
Nonetheless, the content was clear.
The naked woman's arms had been tied to the rafters and her legs spread and tied apart.
Her throat had been slashed, and her body and the floor beneath her were black with blood.
She had been gutted.
The voice was a harsh whisper, a cry of hatred, pain, and the very depths of despair. The name was drawn out, a long sibilant sound.
"Oshimaaaaaa! Oshimaaaa!" whispered Fitzduane. "That's how she kills."
Hillgrove's mouth was dry. He swallowed. Fitzduane had woken and was staring intently at the monitor.
"Is it — do you recognize...?"
"I—I don't know," he whispered. "Her face. They've cut off her face."
* * * * *
Hillgrove continued the electronic surveillance for an hour. The findings were clear enough. The killers, whoever they were, were long gone.
The entry team were moving into position when Fitzduane remembered. "Don't go in," he said suddenly.
"Wait one," said Hillgrove into his mouthpiece. "What did you say, sir?" he said to Fitzduane.
"I know these people," said Fitzduane, "and they know us. As soon as they find a safe house, they prepare to move on. The house then becomes a trap. They know we will find it sooner rather than later, and they know roughly how long it will take us. The place will be mined."
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 14