The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

“ETA?”

  “Thirty minutes. Wheels up in ten.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Padillo clicked off and spun in the chair to face Macklin. “Everybody’s gathered at Peterson and are loading onto the choppers as we speak. ETA thirty minutes.”

  Macklin nodded. Slender, tall, athletic, she wore her auburn hair cropped just below her ears. Her navy blue suit was tailored to emphasize her broad shoulders, which made her appear more willowy than she actually was. She came off as determined because of a square jaw that she tended to lead with, and her habit of speaking through clenched teeth. “I need a minute in private.”

  Padillo frowned. “Can it wait?”

  She shook her head.

  He waved her over to a private office and kicked out the agent who was using it. It was a utilitarian box, a few photos of mountain vistas on the wall, a large metal desk, three chairs, and a computer. It was a temporary office used by whatever visiting security agent was running a particular security event. The resort’s security director, a former FBI agent, had a much nicer office down the hall.

  Macklin shut the door and said, “I just got a phone call from Director Bray. Something’s going on. It’s political, but it has some security implications. Are you familiar with a DHS troubleshooter by the name of Derek Stillwater?”

  Padillo searched his memory and shrugged. “Name rings a bell, but I don’t know why.”

  “He retrieved Chimera during last year’s—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Right. He’s dead, though.”

  “So we were led to believe.”

  Padillo arched his eyebrows. “Meaning what?”

  “Director Bray just received a phone call from Senator Weschel, head of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Weschel claims that Derek Stillwater isn’t actually dead, and that he’s here at the summit. Undercover.”

  Padillo blinked. “Undercover.”

  Macklin nodded.

  “We weren’t informed of this. Not at all. He didn’t turn up on any background checks. Do we know what his cover is?”

  “No,” said Macklin. “And we haven’t confirmed any of this.”

  “Who’s Weschel’s source?”

  “No idea.”

  Padillo swallowed. Hard. The Secret Service was under the blanket of the Department of Homeland Security now. If Stillwater was really here, an undercover asset, he should have been informed.

  “I don’t—” He stopped, not wanting to make it appear he was out of the loop or that he didn’t know how to handle this situation. “I see,” he said. “I’ll look into it. Thank you.”

  Macklin cocked her head. “Look, Lee. It’s not completely clear if Stillwater’s one of the good guys or not. We were investigating him. There were hints he was involved with The Fallen Angels. When he died it got set aside. This smells like a cover-up.”

  Padillo leaned back in his chair, hands up in a surrender gesture. “All right. Thank you. I get your point. I want a couple people looking for him. Once they find him, we want him locked up. We can deal with the particulars after the summit’s over. Take care of it. He’s your baby. Work for you?”

  Macklin shot him a thumbs-up. “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 20

  Derek finished fixing the two sabotaged stoves under the harangues of Chef O’Grady. They fell off him the way water flowed off a rock. Derek wondered whatever would possess a man to scream at someone holding tools in his hand— an overwhelming desire to have a wrench jammed up his ass?

  “Finally,” O’Grady said. “You took long enough.”

  Derek stood up and turned to the chef, expression flat. He held a screwdriver pointed at O’Grady’s swelling midsection. “It took as long as it took,” he said. Something in his tone of voice and the look on his face must have gotten through to the chef, because he lapsed into silence for a moment.

  Derek nodded. “Unless there’s something else out here, I’ll get to work on the walk-in.”

  “No,” O’Grady said with a shake of his head. “That’s it for here.”

  Derek collected his tools and walked away with a wink at one of the cooks. It was a short-lived respite. As soon as he was out of the area he heard O’Grady screaming: “Those are supposed to be carmelized! Not fried! Carmelized! We want the sugars! We’re not doing Cajun here! Nothing’s blackened! Where did you learn to cook? McDonald’s?”

  Chapter 21

  Richard Coffee and El Tiburón closed the ceiling panel by the entrance to the main banquet hall and stepped off the ladder. Coffee tapped his earpiece, listened for a moment, then said to El Tiburón, “Wheels up at Peterson. ETA twenty minutes.”

  They pushed the now-empty dolly back into a storage area. Silently they stripped off their windbreakers and donned the white coats of the catering staff. Coffee spoke into his throat mic. “On schedule. I repeat, on schedule.”

  The two men shared a satisfied glance. Everything was going according to plan. El Tiburón said, “This seems too easy.”

  Coffee smiled. “Sometimes things go according to plan. But we’re not through yet. Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  The Fallen clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “A pleasure working with you.”

  Without seeming to hurry, they separated. They exited the storage area, moving into the banquet room. El Tiburón headed toward one of the tables loaded with liquor, his job to mix in with the waitstaff. Coffee moved through on his way to the kitchen, where he would help deliver food to the banquet area.

  Coffee checked his watch again. ETA: twelve minutes.

  Chapter 22

  Agent Sarah Macklin sat at her computer in the FBI command center in the resort’s main building. It was a conference room with no windows, and they had brought in a dozen folding tables and loaded up the room with computers, telephones, and radio equipment. Eight or nine agents were monitoring the computers and talking on the phones, keeping tabs on various aspects of the security event.

  Macklin compared the headshot of Derek Stillwater she had pulled off the bureau database with the headshots of male employees at the Cheyenne Hills Resort. She was able to winnow it down to about seven hundred faces just by eliminating the women. She started with last names beginning with the letters A through I. One of her agents, Bill Creff, looked at J through S. Joe Snyder sifted T through Z.

  “Check this out,” Snyder said.

  She and Creff glanced over at Snyder’s computer, peering at the face on the screen. Angular face, dark wavy hair, age thirty-five to fifty. The name was Stanley Federov and the file indicated he worked in the golf shop. They studied the image.

  “Close, but not quite. Keep him on the list, though.”

  They went back to their computers.

  Macklin’s radio buzzed in her ear. She clicked it on. “Macklin.”

  “This is Padillo. POTUS is on his way. ETA four minutes.”

  “Understood.”

  She clicked past the face on the screen, an African-American. The next up on the resort’s security database was a headshot of a guy on the resort’s maintenance staff. His name was Michael Gabriel.

  She pulled up Derek Stillwater’s headshot and placed it alongside the one of Michael Gabriel that had been taken for his security badge. The hair was different— much shorter and lighter in color, and he’d grown a goatee, but it was clearly the same man. “Bingo!” she said.

  Snyder and Creff took a look. Creff said, “Been working here eight months. Timing’s right.”

  “Good cover, too,” said Macklin. “Complete access to the facility.”

  Macklin picked up the phone and dialed Steve Planchette, head of maintenance. When he answered, she said, “This is FBI Special-Agent-in-Charge Sarah Macklin. Is your employee Michael Gabriel working today?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “In the kitchen, I think. There a problem?”

  “No, sir. No problem. Thank you.”

  She hung up and looked a
t her partners. “Okay, gentlemen. Let’s go pick up this guy.”

  Chapter 23

  Derek Stillwater was working inside the walk-in freezer. The Cheyenne Center’s kitchen area was large enough to support one walk-in freezer and two walk-in refrigerators. The refrigerators were convenient to the cooking areas, but the freezer was tucked away in a cul-de-sac near a service hallway, which was partly why Derek had chosen to sabotage it.

  It was cold, so he propped the door open. For some reason known only to the contractors who custom made and installed it, the controls were inside the freezer instead of outside. The compressor was beneath the structure. The walk-in was large, easily twenty-five feet deep, seven feet high, and fifteen feet wide. Shelves ran along the walls and were jammed with frozen produce.

  He had purposely created a short in the controls that would be relatively easy to fix. Still, it was a pain in the ass. In order to open the control panel all the way he had to shove aside a stainless steel shelf piled high with what looked like frozen turkeys—dozens of them. Then, jammed into the corner, he used his screwdriver to open the control panel, shut down the power so he didn’t fry himself, then reconnected the wires.

  Derek was in a very awkward position when a broad-shouldered woman in a dark suit stepped into the freezer, followed by two other men. Derek recognized the woman.

  Sarah Macklin, the bureau’s lead agent during the summit. Like most of the staffers at the resort, he had sat through a few briefings she had run on what to expect. He was not encouraged by her presence.

  “Michael Gabriel?”

  He nodded. “Yeah? Who’re you?”

  She held up her identification. “Will you please step out of there?”

  “Uh, sure. Wait a second, I’m almost—”

  “Now, Mr. Gabriel.”

  Taking his time, he joined the wires, closed the panel, turned on the power, and looked at the indicators. The power came back on. With it he heard the whir of the compressor kick in.

  “Mr. Gabriel—”

  “Just finishing this up,” he said, “or we’re going to lose a few thousand pounds of meat.” He flashed Macklin a wry grin. “Wouldn’t want to give all the leaders of the free world a case of salmonella poisoning, now, would we?” He screwed the panel shut.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked, squeezing out from behind the shelving. “Hey, one of you guys help me shove this—”

  Macklin’s gun was out, as were Creff’s and Snyder’s. “Dr. Derek Stillwater, please drop your tools and tool belt and place your hands on top of your head.”

  Oh shit.

  “Hey, I don’t—”

  “Do it!”

  Damn.

  He cautiously slipped the screwdriver into his tool belt and held out his hands. “I’m going to unbuckle this, all right? I’m not going to do anything crazy. Okay? Ease down. Easy. I’m reaching down to unbuckle the belt.”

  He slowly dropped his hands to the buckle of his tool belt and unlatched it. The belt with a few of his tools slid away. He held it up in his right hand. “I’m going to put this right here next to my toolbox. Okay? Right here. Everything’s cool.”

  Slowly he let the belt down.

  “I’m coming forward. Slowly.”

  He did, hands held up.

  “On your head.”

  He placed his hands on top of his head. Stepping backward, Macklin said, “Creff, pat him down.”

  Creff holstered his sidearm and deftly searched Derek. Creff pulled out Derek’s wallet and flipped through it. “Michael Gabriel, it says.”

  “He’s Derek Stillwater. Dr. Stillwater, you’re supposed to be dead. Hands behind your back. Creff, cuffs, please.”

  “Hey, this isn’t nece—”

  Creff jerked Derek’s arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs tightly around his wrists.

  Derek protested. “Take it easy! I’m one of the good guys.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Macklin said. “Now, step outside.”

  “I want you to make a call to Secretary James Johnston. His personal cell phone number is—”

  “Can it, Stillwater.” She stepped out of the freezer. Creff gave him a shove so he followed her out into the corner of the kitchen area. The freezer was near the service walkway that ran beside the kitchen. Derek stumbled out of the freezer and into the hallway, dropping momentarily to his knees.

  “Hey, go easy!”

  Creff stepped up, caught him beneath his armpits and boosted him to his feet. “ ‘Hey’ yourself, asshole!”

  Derek turned to face Creff and froze. Standing behind Creff was Richard Coffee. Coffee recognized him at the same time.

  “That’s Coffee! Hey, look—”

  Coffee recovered fast, hand slipping inside his white catering jacket. He pulled out a matte black semiautomatic with a slender, cylindrical silencer on the muzzle. With an eerie calm, he fired the gun.

  There was a pop, not loud, and Creff’s head snapped back and he fell to the floor.

  Another pop, and Snyder went down.

  Agent Macklin was struggling for her gun, eyes wide, when Coffee shot her in the face.

  Derek, arms cuffed behind his back, tried to turn and run, but Coffee was on him in an instant. Squinting, Coffee spun him around, flung open the freezer door and shoved him in. He followed the move by smashing the barrel of his gun against Derek’s head.

  Derek’s world exploded into sizzling reds and blacks and golds, but he didn’t lose consciousness. He struggled to sit up, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The freezer door closed. When it reopened, Coffee dragged Macklin’s body in, followed shortly afterward by the bodies of Bill Creff and Joe Snyder.

  Coffee disappeared for a moment. Derek’s vision doubled, tripled, then returned to normal, though his skull throbbed and blood leaked down his forehead. Not as bad as Macklin, he thought, and turned away from the sight of her obliterated features.

  Suddenly the door swung open and Coffee stepped through again. He reached down and hauled Derek to his feet. He slammed him against the stainless steel door and pressed the barrel of the gun under his chin.

  “Not dead after all.”

  Derek didn’t reply.

  “Are you frightened, Derek? Knees shaky? Is this how Nadia felt when you tortured her to death? Helpless?”

  Derek’s mind raced. The still-hot barrel of the silenced gun burned into his jaw. “She’s—not—dead.”

  Coffee’s face twisted in unexpected shock. He smashed the butt of the gun against Derek’s jaw. “What did you say?”

  Stumbling to the cold metal floor, Derek tried to suck air into his lungs. His pulse hammered in his ears, blood roaring through his veins. “She’s not dead,” he said, wondering if the blow had broken his jaw. His speech seemed a little slurred. “They have her. The FBI.”

  “She’s dead! You murdered her!”

  Coffee was in his face. The icy control he so casually wore was only a thin veneer over insanity. Derek stared up at him, feeling calmer. “She’s not dead, Richard. She’s at Guantanamo with the rest of The Fallen Angels we captured in Alexandria.”

  “You lie!” The gun rose and fell again. This time Derek slumped to the floor, his vision blurring, unable to get up with his arms behind his back.

  “You lie!”

  Derek shook his head and instantly regretted the movement. “No,” he grunted out. “She’s alive. Just like I am.”

  Coffee spun in circles like a child unsure which direction to go. He flexed his arms in frustration, staring down at Derek at his feet. He raised the gun, aimed it—

  He glanced at his watch and seemed to reconsider. “Fucker!” he coughed. “I’ll be back for you later! You will tell me the truth about Nadia.” Coffee reached down and ripped Derek’s Iridium phone off his belt, dropped it to the floor and stomped it into pieces.

  And Coffee was gone, the metal door of the freezer slamming shut behind him. Derek heard a metallic clank, then nothing.

&n
bsp; Nadia Kosov, thought Derek. We really do get punished for our sins. Nadia Kosov had been Richard Coffee’s common-law wife. She had tried to first recruit Derek to The Fallen Angels, and when that didn’t work, tried to kill him. Derek had overpowered her and interrogated her—that was the official word for what amounted to torture—only she had accidentally died before revealing what she knew.

  Derek was using this knowledge to keep Coffee at bay. He was using what must be a last desperate hope in Coffee’s diseased brain to barter for his life.

  If Coffee knew the truth, if he abandoned all hope that Nadia might be alive in a maximum-security prison cell somewhere, then he would put a bullet in Derek’s head without blinking an eye.

  Derek had some slim hope that their old friendship would at least make Coffee hesitate to kill him. But it was a hope as slim and as fragile as swamp grass and just as likely to bend, break, or pull from the muck as it was to hold. It was not something Derek wanted to wager his life on.

  He stared at the pile of corpses, wondering which one had the keys to the handcuffs. Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain jolting through his skull, he squirmed toward the agent who had cuffed him.

  Chapter 24

  Irina Khournikova stood outside the entrance to the International Center with one of her fellow FSB security agents, Ivan Petrovitch. Coming toward the resort was a fleet of Sikorsky VH-3D helicopters painted green and white. She counted ten. These were Marine Helicopter Squadron-1, the personal helicopter transport for the White House, which were being used to fly the summit leaders from Peterson Air Force Base to the resort.

  Ivan brushed back his thinning gray hair with a large hand and said, “It feels a bit like a show of power.”

  “Fairly standard transportation at these summits. And easier to control than limousines.”

  “Da. I suppose.” Ivan was in his late fifties, a grizzled old veteran of the FSB, and before that the KGB, and unlike many in the bureau, Irina trusted him.

  Irina checked her watch, noting that everything was proceeding right on schedule. That was good. It made everybody’s life in the security detail easier. Still, she felt uneasy. She thought about Derek Stillwater, undercover. She had spent much of the last eight months studying what her government knew about the DHS troubleshooter.