The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

  He took a sip of his coffee before climbing into his truck, looking toward the mountains. He liked the view: Pikes Peak, the Colorado Rockies. It was beautiful here, but it wasn’t home. He wanted to go home. Just a couple more days.

  “Hey, amante. Qué pasa?”

  Michael turned with a smile. “Amante? What’s that mean?”

  The speaker was a woman, Maria Sanchez. She worked for the food service at the resort’s International Center. Working in the International Center and all over the resort for the last eight months Michael had gotten to know Maria pretty much whether he wanted to or not. Maria Sanchez was in her twenties, with large liquid eyes, black curly hair, and a vivacious smile. She was a flirt and Michael Gabriel knew exactly what amante meant in Spanish.

  She wore her uniform for the day— a black skirt that stopped an inch or so above her knees, a while blouse, hose, and heels. “You make that uniform look illegal, querido,” he said.

  Maria laughed, the sound like high-pitched bells tinkling in the thin Colorado air. “All this time you knew!” She threw him a lascivious look followed by a mock pout. “All this time I have been waiting for this tall, dark, and handsome senor to sweep me off my feet.”

  Michael Gabriel grinned. “Ah, Maria, I’ve seen you hanging around with your boyfriend, the one with all the muscles. He’d break me into pieces if he caught me smiling at you.”

  “Oh you!” She linked arms with him. “Aren’t you going into work early today?”

  He shrugged. “Big day.”

  “Long day, you mean. All those world leaders pretending to be so proper, to have their moral authority. How many times do you think some prime minister will pinch my nalga today, eh?”

  “Sell it to the National Enquirer for a hundred grand.”

  “Ah, I wish. Well, I got to go, unless you want to give me a ride?” She flashed him a coquettish look, ever the vamp. Over the last six months he had given her the occasional ride into the resort or back to the apartment. They’d even had a couple of dates. Fun, nothing serious. He wasn’t sure Maria was looking for serious, and God knows he kept his emotional distance. If it bothered her, she hid it well.

  Only once, eating Mexican food at a place in Colorado Springs called El Azteco, did she seem frustrated with him. “Ay, Dios mio! Michael, my tall, dark senor with all the secrets. You never talk about yourself! You are a bandito with a dark past, no?”

  He had laughed and said, “I am a bandito with a dark past, si, senorita, and you should be worried about what you don’t know about me. I am a bad muchacho who would do horrible things to you in the darkness.”

  She had wriggled in that terribly sexy way of hers and said, “Ooh, senor, what kind of horrible things?”

  “Wicked, evil, nasty things, senorita. So you should watch yourself.”

  They had moved on, and she hadn’t again suggested that she wanted to know more about his past than he was willing to give.

  “Maria, Maria,” he said, arms wide, “I would love to drive you in today, especially with the hassles with parking. My chariot is your chariot. Hop aboard.”

  With another laugh, Maria ran around the truck and jumped into the passenger seat. Michael Gabriel, whose real name was Derek Stillwater, climbed into the truck, fired up the engine, and headed toward the resort. Despite the beautiful, flirtatious woman in the passenger seat chattering away, he thought, It’s almost over. One way or the other, it’s almost over.

  Chapter 7

  The Fallen and El Tiburón, pushing their dollies loaded with champagne, wine, and weapons, moved coolly into the International Center, where they were met by another Secret Service agent who studied their paperwork, double-checked the Secret Service seal on the boxes, and waved them on. Turning a corner, they were met by a member of the catering staff. He was dressed the same way they were, in black slacks, a white shirt and jacket. His dark hair was worn cropped to his skull; a thick black mustache decorated his upper lip. He moved with a bold, athletic, loose-limbed grace, and his manner was nonchalant, almost jolly.

  “You made it,” he said.

  The Fallen nodded and pointed to the dolly containing the boxes filled with weapons. “These are the ones you need to worry about.”

  “Excellent. Follow me. We’ll be setting up in Cheyenne Hall. That’s where the initial meet and greet is being held. It’s just as we were told.”

  He took hold of the dolly and walked them around to a freight elevator and punched the button. His name was Alvaro Hernandez, though his current designation within The Fallen Angels was El Camaleón.

  They loaded the dollies into the freight elevator and rode it to the basement. From the elevator they took a right turn into a tunnel that extended off in both directions. They passed several Secret Service agents. Twice they were stopped, their paperwork reviewed, the Secret Service seals inspected. Silvedo had done his job and there were no problems. Their security credentials and paperwork were completely filled out.

  They passed through a pair of steel security doors. The Fallen studied these thoughtfully. As if reading his mind, El Camaleón said, “Definitely. I’ll take care of it. I haven’t seen a flaw yet.”

  “Good.”

  Beyond the steel door, the hallway angled upward at a slight grade. Tile walls, acoustical tile ceiling, hard-textured cement, polymer flooring, and harsh fluorescent lighting were the only things to see. The air smelled of industrial cleanser and was thick with humidity. At crossroads a sign indicated an emergency exit to the left. To the right was a hallway leading to the elevators. Straight ahead it said: Technical Work Areas.

  They turned right and took the freight elevator to the first floor. El Camaleón led the way. They entered a service corridor on one end of the mammoth Cheyenne Hall. Off to the left a hallway led to the kitchen area where the cooks and caterers were preparing for the event. To the right were a series of storage rooms and walk-in freezers. Straight ahead was an undecorated, utilitarian corridor, blank wall on the left, service doors on the right opening into the hall itself.

  They pushed their carts forward into Cheyenne Hall. It was a banquet hall filled with round tables covered with crisp white linens. At the front of the room was a raised stage with twenty black leather chairs. A microphone and glass podium jutted above a raised glass TelePrompTer screen. Just below the stage was a compact set of six television cameras that allowed for 360 degree viewing of the summit. An army of similarly dressed catering staff prepared the tables around the perimeter of the room.

  El Camaleón pointed to the tables stretched against the walls. “Put the bottles of champagne on those. Stacked appropriately.” A faint smile ghosted his dark features. “Make sure you get them on all sides of the room. I’m going to put these boxes in the storage area. Jaime will keep a close eye on them.”

  He pushed the cart containing the crates filled with weapons and explosives across the room. The Fallen and El Tiburón went to work opening their crates and carefully setting the bottles of wine and champagne on the long narrow tables that graced the walls of the room.

  The Fallen Angel looked around, feeling the thrill of a plan coming together. He tapped his throat mic. “First perimeter breached. On schedule.”

  Chapter 8

  Derek Stillwater eyed the National Guard troops manning the final checkpoint. They seemed professional enough. Four men in camo carrying M4 carbines. They spread out in standard formation, covering the truck. Yet for some reason they seemed different than the guards at the previous two checkpoints. More menacing. Maybe it was just that they were guarding the actual entrance to the resort itself.

  Maria said, “I don’t like this much. Makes me feel— I don’t know, like I’m living in a war zone or something.”

  Derek didn’t say anything, but rolled down his window. As far as he was concerned for the next three days— the duration of the G8 Summit— they were living in a war zone. A guardsman walked over. “Only authorized vehicles today, sir.” He had dark brown eyes, almost blac
k, and thick eyelashes like a girl. He was a broad, swarthy guy with high cheekbones and a solicitous, but cold, manner.

  Derek held out his identification for the resort and handed over Maria’s, as well. He also handed over the official paperwork they had been instructed to bring with them. The guardsman took it, studying the identification and the sticker on the truck’s windshield.

  “You can go.”

  Derek took the paperwork back, nodded, and drove on. He glanced at the soldiers in the rearview mirror and frowned. Everything seemed okay. Nothing unexpected. But for some reason he had a bad vibe. He couldn’t pin it down. Just paranoia, he thought. Pregame nerves.

  Maria, a chatterbox all the way here, was suddenly quiet. She punched the radio back on, a staticky FM station that was playing a hip-hop tune in staccato Spanish. “Shit.” She jabbed it off. “I hate this.”

  “You don’t like that song?”

  She glared at him. She flapped her hands, encompassing the guards, the resort, the whole world. “No, this! All this!”

  “Hey, it’s no big deal,” he said. “Just some weekend warriors trying to keep the world safe for democracy.”

  “I didn’t like them,” she said, voice soft.

  It took him a moment to figure who “them” were. “Why?”

  She didn’t answer right away. They were closing in on the next checkpoint, which was manned by the Secret Service. Finally she said, “I don’t know. Something. His accent, maybe.”

  Derek raised an eyebrow. “Accent? What accent?”

  “Something out of the country.”

  “He looked Hispanic to me. You have more of an accent than he did.”

  “I have no accent, Michael!”

  Derek laughed. “Right. No accent at all, querido.”

  “I don’t!”

  He laughed more, feeling relieved. “Okay, you don’t have an accent. What was this guy’s accent? He looked Hispanic to me.”

  “I don’t know. Not Mex. Just— something.”

  A part of Derek’s mind took it seriously. Another part just figured Maria was feeling jittery. Hell, he felt jittery.

  They pulled up to the Secret Service checkpoint in front of Cheyenne Hall and were asked to step out of the truck. They did, handing over their identification and security paperwork.

  The lead Secret Service agent at this checkpoint, Larry Ferrigno, studied Derek’s paperwork. “Michael Gabriel,” he said, reading from the ID. “What do you do here?”

  “Maintenance,” Derek said. Ten feet away another agent questioned Maria.

  “What part of the complex?”

  Derek gestured toward the three-building complex of Cheyenne Hall, the International Center, and Colorado Springs Hall. “Typically here. I mean, I go where I’m needed, but mostly I work here. That’s where I’m assigned today.”

  “Right. I remember seeing your name on the list. Let me double-check.” Ferrigno glanced at the screen of a tablet computer and adjusted the cursor. He nodded, tapping a stylus against the drop-down menus, accessing the Secret Service database.

  The agent with the dog inspected his truck. Another agent used the mirror to look underneath it for bombs.

  “Is there a problem?” Derek wondered how thorough the Service had dug into his background. It was a problem with these National Special Security Events. The Cheyenne Resort had over 1,600 employees. In the case of the G8 Summit, you had to coordinate with about twenty countries’ security services and deal with the fact that each country’s leader brought along thirty or forty staff members. A background check wasn’t going to dredge up every single quirk in each person’s history.

  Ferrigno shook his head and handed Derek back his credentials. “Nope. Have a good day, sir. Please park in Lot C. You know where that is?”

  Derek nodded.

  Relieved to have made it through this, he climbed back in the truck, but Maria waved him off. “I’m right here, Mike. I’ll just walk in. It’s shorter.”

  “No problem. Have a good one.”

  “You, too. And thanks for the ride.”

  She strutted away and Derek noted with amusement that all the Secret Service agents watched her walk away in her short skirt and heels. Yeah, well, when you’ve got it, flaunt it, he thought. Maria was worth watching. He jammed the old truck into gear and headed over to Lot C, which was out of the way and inconvenient to Cheyenne Hall.

  He parked in the shade of a huge hackberry tree and took a deep breath before climbing out of the truck. As Michael Gabriel, he was a charming loner, the one few people got to know. His story was that he grew up in Florida, but liked the mountains. He was handy, had a year or so of junior college. He spent the last fifteen or twenty years working maintenance at hotels. He was nobody unusual. Just a guy doing his job.

  Derek Stillwater, on the other hand, had a Ph.D., and retired with the rank of colonel from Army Special Forces where he specialized in biological and chemical warfare and counterterrorism. Derek Stillwater was “officially” dead, having died in a domestic terror incident eight months earlier. His job title was “troubleshooter” for the Department of Homeland Security. Whenever there was a potential biological or chemical terrorism event in the U.S., he went along with the FBI to “evaluate, coordinate, and investigate.”

  He had been undercover for eight months in preparation for a possible attack on the G8 by a terrorist calling himself The Fallen Angel.

  Derek knew The Fallen Angel well. They had once been partners. They had once been friends. And he had reason to believe they were going to meet again.

  Chapter 9

  Washington D.C.

  President Langston’s administrative assistant ushered Secretary James Johnston into the Oval Office. Johnston was no stranger to the Oval Office, and walked briskly over to stand squarely at the feet of the American eagle on the presidential seal. Although he was no longer a general or even in the military, he couldn’t quite suppress the urge to stand at attention and salute. He squared his shoulders and waited.

  Behind the president were three multipaned windows overlooking the south lawn. This morning a team of maintenance people were mowing and trimming the emerald green grass. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  Langston had aged. His sandy brown hair was shot through with gray and his rugged face looked craggy and worn. When he ran for office he had been boyish, vigorous, lean, and handsome. Johnston thought the presidency should come with a warning label: “The Surgeon General warns that the presidency will prematurely age you and has a high risk of early death.”

  The job always wore on the holders of the office, but the death of most of his cabinet and his wife and children in a terrorist attack added decades to President Langston’s appearance. And his mind had changed. He was not the man who had been elected; this new man was angry, distracted, and tired. Wearing a navy blue three-piece suit, President Langston sat behind his desk, peering at paperwork through bifocals. “Hello, Jim. Have a seat. Robert’s coming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  President Langston waved him to sit down, ignoring him. Johnston and Langston were not on the best of terms, and never had been. Johnston’s political leanings were just a bit too liberal for the conservative administration. But his tenure on the Joint Chiefs, his expertise on terrorism, and the need for the Republican Party to have a military man in the cabinet to make up for Langston’s lack of military experience made him a frontrunner for secretary of homeland security.

  President Langston finished underlining something in the document he was reading, and set it aside as Secretary Robert Mandalevo was ushered in by the president’s chief of staff, Lauren McCullough. President Langston sat back in his chair and gestured for Mandalevo, the director of national intelligence, to take a seat. Mandalevo was a tall, elegant man with a shaved scalp, long, oval face, and grim eyes. Johnston didn’t think he had ever seen Mandalevo smile. Mandalevo looked like a scalpel with his lean, straight build and black tailored suit. “Good morning, Mr. Presiden
t,” he said, and settled into a chair next to Johnston. Mandalevo tipped his head. “Good morning, Jim.”

  Chief of Staff Lauren McCullough swept a blunt hand over her steel gray hair. “Wheels up in one hour, Mr. President.”

  Langston waved a hand. “I know, I know.”

  McCullough wore a gray suit and rose blouse and low heeled shoes. Pearl earrings and a matching necklace and a slim Piaget watch were her only jewelry. She was a serious, grouchy autocrat with the personality of a badger and the protective instincts of a momma bear. She knew her business and didn’t let anybody forget it.

  Johnston made it a point to stay on McCullough’s good side though, because she never failed to remember who was loyal and competent, and who wasn’t. She never failed to repay political grudges or favors. Her mind was like a political calculator. Johnston liked her. Unlike most Beltway politicians, she would never stab you in the back— she’d look you right in the eyes as she slipped the stiletto between your ribs.

  “Yes. Well, gentlemen,” she said, “I want your intelligence briefing for summit security. Robert? Why don’t you start.”

  With a nod, Secretary Mandalevo ran through a summary of international intelligence recently gathered surrounding the G8 Summit. He finished with, “There has been some chatter regarding the inclusion of Crown Prince Talal and Minister Shitzak Tichon, but nothing directly threatening.”

  President Langston scowled. “Damned Palestinians pissed off they weren’t invited?”

  Always diplomatic, Mandalevo said, “Nobody believes the Palestinian government should be considered one of the economically strongest in the world, Mr. President.” It was hard to argue that point, and nobody commented on how deftly Mandalevo sidestepped the actual question.

  “So there aren’t any major terrorist threats to the summit?” asked McCullough.