The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

  Chapter 39

  Derek and Maria rushed through the darkness along the narrow catwalk in a crouch, bullets buzzing around them like a swarm of bees. Maria moaned in a high-pitched hum as she ran. Derek shoved her forward— smack into the dividing wall. She cried out, but not for long. Derek picked her up and flung her over. She fell with a harsh cry onto the catwalk on the other side. Derek dived after her.

  Below him the two terrorists spoke to each other in Spanish. He grabbed Maria and whispered in her ear, “What are they saying?”

  She listened and whispered back, “They’re not sure what to do. They came up against a wall. They’re going to come up here and check on us.”

  Derek squinted through the gloom, thinking. He studied the bit of wall they had climbed over. Reaching into his belt, he pulled out the stiletto. This, he thought, is suicidal.

  Approaching the wall with the electrical lines snaking over it he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, then used the knife to carefully peel the insulating rubber from the cables, exposing the electrical wiring. Not far away he could hear the men clambering up into the crawl space. He didn’t have much time. Taking a deep breath, he stripped off one more piece of rubber, snapped on the mini-flashlight he had taken off Agent Creff, and tossed it so its light aimed away from the wall.

  Another searing pain tore through his head and he staggered for a moment, fireworks bursting before his eyes. Sucking in air, he crept toward Maria who was huddled on the catwalk. He gently reached down, took hold of her high-heeled shoes and slipped them off her feet. “It’ll be easier for now. Follow me,” he said, took her hand, and began to sneak deeper into the bowels of the crawl space, shuffling along beams, over heating and cooling ducts, edging along the framework for the drop ceiling. Finally, they stopped at a juncture, solid wall at their backs, perched on a support beam.

  Behind them the two terrorists approached the dividing wall. Derek paused, crouching on a rusty beam, his fingers against Maria’s lips. They were only twenty or thirty feet away, barely concealed in the shadows.

  A moment. Two—

  A deathly scream echoed through the crawl space, followed by a thud and a crash as one of their pursuers grabbed hold of the bare electrical wires, then fell through the ceiling tiles to the floor below. Derek hoped he’d gotten a lethal shock. He waited, uncertain what the second terrorist would do.

  Derek heard murmurs, again in Spanish. Maria gripped his hand, whispered in his ear, “He’s on a radio, I think.”

  Derek still held the radio pack he had taken off the terrorist. He searched for the earphone jack, put it in his ear and fumbled with the switches.

  “— alguien se defiende— él saboteó el crawl space—”

  Derek yanked out the earpiece and handed it to Maria. “Translate.”

  She stuffed it into her ear and listened for a moment. In a whisper she said, “Someone— someone, The Fallen Angel? The Fallen Angel is telling him to go to the walk-in freezer in the kitchen. To open it and get back with him. They—”

  The remaining terrorist shuffled away and they distinctly heard him drop back to the floor below.

  Derek hissed, “Keep listening. Come on.” He spidered his way back across the cables and conduits to the catwalk, and raced toward the walk-in freezer where he had begun.

  Maria kept up, sticking close to him, fear radiating off her like heat waves. She kept one hand on his shirt, not letting go.

  Finally, Derek stopped, listening. Below him came the rattle and clank of keys on a padlock. The door to the freezer opened with a shushing sound. Instantly Derek dropped off the catwalk onto the tiles, crashing to the ground below. He slammed his shoulder against the freezer door, clicked the padlock shut, and flung himself to the floor out of the way. A moment went by. The muffled sound of gunfire escaped from the freezer as the terrorist tried to shoot his way out. The glass window shattered. Then silence.

  From his position on the floor, Derek studied the freezer door. A couple bullets had punctured through, but clearly not all. Firing a gun inside a stainless steel box was not the brightest thing to do. At least one of the bullets— maybe more— would have bounced around off steel shelves, walls, and flooring. Derek had no desire to place his head against the small window and see if a ricochet had killed the guy. It could be a ruse, but he doubted it. At least one of the terrorists was a moron. Hopefully a dead moron. He doubted if many of the others would be as stupid.

  Without thinking about it, he clutched at a St. Sebastian’s medal he wore around his neck with a steel four-leaf clover and ju-ju beads. He wasn’t superstitious— not exactly; but he believed in luck, good and bad. You never knew when the good luck was going to come. It was horribly unpredictable that way. But one thing was for sure— you could always count on bad luck. It was always just around the corner. So was good luck, for that matter, but you couldn’t depend on it.

  Pulling over another chair, he poked his head up into the crawl space. “Come on down for a bit.” Maria was pressed against a steel I-beam that ran straight up and down through the building, trying to be as small as possible. She crawled toward him and he helped her down.

  “I’m really glad you’re alive.” He studied her for a moment then held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Derek Stillwater.”

  She clenched his hand for a moment before pointing. “You’re bleeding. I … I shot you.”

  He touched his ribs and pulled away blood. “Okay. Right. Stay right here.” He found a basket of the catering staff’s clean linens. He plucked several clean napkins out of the pile and headed back toward Maria, stopping to grab a bottle of unopened sherry.

  Pain radiated from his ribs and his knee and his head, and for a moment exhaustion— the adrenaline rush fading— swept over him. Gathering his reserve, he handed her the bottle of sherry and peeled his shirt off.

  “I could use a drink,” she said, just a hint of mischief in her voice.

  “We get out of here, I’ll buy you one.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Maybe somewhere warm,” he said. “Without terrorists.”

  “I’d like that even better.”

  She pulled open the sherry and held it up. “What’s this for?”

  He handed her one of the napkins. “Soak this with sherry.”

  She did. The smell of the alcohol filled his nose. He took one of the other napkins, folded it repeatedly and said, “Now, I need you to gently clean off my ribs.” He took the folded napkin, stuffed it in his mouth and bit down.

  Maria dabbed at the wounds in his side. As soon as the alcohol touched the knife and bullet wounds Derek went rigid, moaning into the cloth, hands balled into white fists. Sweat beaded up on his entire body. He shivered.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Yeah, me too, he thought.

  The linen came away with rust-colored blood and brighter scarlet. Still bleeding, but clotting. He’d been grazed, but deep. Taking several of the napkins he formed a makeshift bandage and pressed them against his ribs. He pulled his blood-soaked shirt back on.

  He looked at the bottle of sherry for a second then said, “Go grab a couple of bottles of these, okay?”

  While she gathered the sherry, he crossed over to the electrocuted terrorist, who was lying on the floor, body lifeless and rigid on top of one of the stoves. Derek picked up his MP-5, studied the magazine. Half empty. Searching the man, he found a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, two more full magazines for the MP-5, the radio kit, which he co-opted for himself, and a knife. Derek hefted the knife, studying it. It wasn’t just any knife. It was an Emerson CQC-7, an absolutely amazing work of art. Seven inches long with a razor-sharp blade and serrated edge. It could cut through steel if he needed it to. He attached it to his belt and felt significantly more optimistic about their likelihood of surviving the day intact.

  Derek took a minute to absorb their surroundings. The abandoned kitchen, the dead terrorists, the pile of rubble and debris at one end. Everything was coated
with a fresh layer of gray dust. It still hung in the air like fog. The acrid odor of blood, cordite, and the distinctive stench of detonated Semtex.

  Maria showed up with six bottles of sherry and a bottle of vodka. “We having a party?”

  Derek nodded, opening all of the bottles. “Yes. A cocktail party. A Molotov cocktail party.” He poured a quarter of the booze down a sink. Using the knife he stripped linens and forced them into the bottles. Looking around, he found a cloth bag that held potatoes. He dumped the potatoes and carefully placed the sherry and vodka bottles in the bag.

  “You’ve got a job now,” he said, and tapped the radio kit. “Let’s get this on you. I want you to listen and translate.” He helped her put the kit around her waist and adjust it. Then he disconnected the microphone so she wouldn’t inadvertently click it on. “Tell me everything you hear. Okay?”

  “I … I don’t know if I can do this.”

  He held her by both arms. “You saved my life. Honey, you can do anything. You have to do this. There’s nowhere else to go. If I could get you out of here, I would. I need you. Hell, Maria. The whole world needs you.”

  Her eyes went wide. She had been trembling before, but receiving instructions— doing something— seemed to calm her a little bit. She took a deep breath. “What are we going to do?”

  Derek grinned. “I heard them use a word on the radio, a Spanish word. Saboteó. What does that mean?”

  “Sabotage. Or booby-trap.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s what we’re going to do, honey. I’m going to make their life miserable, even it if kills me.” He took her hand. “Come on, let’s go.” Carrying the MP-5 and the bag of Molotov cocktails, he led Maria over to the chair and helped boost her back into the crawl space. “Let’s hunt some Fallen Angels.”

  Chapter 40

  Secret Service Agent Lawrence Swenson leaned over a computer terminal in the Mobile Command Unit, essentially a bus stripped of seats and redone as a high-tech communications center. Six agents monitored radios and computers. Swenson was a broad, burly man with graying hair and a thick black beard. His eyes blazed as he studied the computer monitor. Into his microphone he said, “I want a heads-up when you’re ready to breach the security center. Do you think anybody’s in there?”

  “Negative. Can’t tell.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Agent Swenson?”

  Swenson turned to glare at the speaker, one of the Russian security people. He searched his memory for a name, but came up blank. “Who are you?”

  Holding up identification, she said, “Russian FSB. I’m Agent Irina Khournikova. May I have a moment?”

  “Look, lady. Every country represented wants a piece of my time. Why don’t you get in line.”

  Khournikova stepped closer, keeping her voice low. “I have information that might be of use to you.”

  He studied her for a moment before waving for her to follow him into a tiny office that should have been in use by Lee Padillo. Swenson didn’t have a good feeling about Padillo’s disappearance. He was pretty sure Padillo was dead.

  The office had just about enough space for a computer, desk, and two chairs. He crunched into the chair behind the desk, fingers subtly dancing on the keyboard as he sat.

  “Sit. Khournikova, right? Name rings a bell. We met, but—”

  Khournikova, still standing, tapped the computer monitor. “What does your computer say, Agent Swenson?”

  Swenson shot her a bland look then dropped his gaze to the computer. “Huh. So you’re the one. Tell you what, Agent Khournikova. You’re either an expert on Richard Coffee and these Fallen Angels, or you’re some sort of collaborator. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my people lock you up until this whole cluster fuck is a bad memory.”

  “Because I can provide you with information that might help end this sooner rather than later.”

  Swenson made a come-on gesture with his left hand. His right hand never strayed too far from the semiautomatic on his hip. “I’m all ears. Have a seat.”

  Khournikova sat. “One of my security people is apparently one of The Fallen Angels.”

  “Mikhail Alexandrov,” Swenson said. “We know.”

  Khournikova remained expressionless. “Very good, Agent Swenson. I’m reasonably impressed. May I ask a question?”

  Swenson shrugged.

  “What language are they using to communicate with each other?”

  Swenson cocked his head, interested. “Spanish. Coffee’s fluent in about eight languages.”

  “At least,” Khournikova said. “But he has not been long in Central and South America. Probably twelve months or so.”

  “Yes,” Swenson said. “Probably. Seeing as how he slipped away from you in D.C. around then. That wasn’t long after you escaped from an FBI interview room, now, was it?”

  Khournikova sighed. “ ‘Escape,’ is an interesting choice of words, seeing as how one of your FBI agents was intent on assassinating me under the nose of your own people.”

  “Yeah,” Swenson said. “I guess it’s all a matter of interpretation. You got a point about this Spanish-language thing?”

  “The Fallen Angels are international. They are made up of—”

  “I’ve read the file,” Swenson interrupted. “In fact, only recently.”

  “They started in the Republic of Georgia. Coffee— calling himself Surkho Andarbek— recruited his members from intelligence agencies around the world.”

  “Yeah, disgraced and otherwise ‘fallen’ spies. ‘Traitors’ is another word for them.”

  Khournikova nodded in agreement. “I dedicated years to studying Andarbek and The Fallen Angels. To the best of my knowledge they recruited no one from South or Central America. They undoubtedly have some assets there, but I do not believe that the core of The Fallen Angels comes from the Americas. They are Russian, Eastern European, and Asian. Most of those are in, how do you say it? Gitmo.”

  Swenson sat up, fingers twisting at his beard. “How reliable do you think your insights into The Fallen Angels are, Agent Khournikova?”

  “I haven’t caught him yet, so they are flawed. I believe, however, that there is only one other person on the planet with more insight into Richard Coffee.”

  “Yeah? Who would that be?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

  “I’d like to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.” He flashed her a sardonic grin. “No offense intended.”

  “None taken, Agent Swenson. I believe you must know of Dr. Derek Stillwater.”

  Swenson thumped his fingers on his thigh for a moment. “I, um, mighta heard of Derek Stillwater. You know, of course, that there were suspicions that you and he were in cahoots with Coffee.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Swenson shrugged. “I’m not privy to every bit of information on the events of last year. All in all, I would have to say no. But Stillwater’s dead, right?”

  She paused before answering. “I do not believe you think so, Agent Swenson. Perhaps he has been in touch?”

  “From beyond the grave?”

  She shook her head. “You are … bullshitting me. Testing me. You must know that he’s alive and he’s here.”

  “Must I?”

  She nodded.

  Swenson kept his gaze on her for a long moment. “Let’s back away from Stillwater for a moment, Ms. Khournikova. Just for a second. You were talking about these Spanish speakers and The Fallen Angels being relatively new to Central and South America.”

  She nodded.

  Swenson splayed his fingers. “So?”

  “If he has Spanish speakers— and it appears he is working with a team of them, correct?— then they are not part of the original Fallen Angels. They are some sort of cabal he has recruited or, perhaps, collaborated with, in order to meet his— and their— goals. If he is working with people from the Americas, I suspect they’re from Colombia, El Salvador, Nicaragua, or perhaps som
e of the Mexican provinces, such as Chiapas.”

  Swanson craned his neck backward and stared at the ceiling of the tiny office for a moment, thinking. “Okay, Ms. Khournikova. I’ve got a tiny bit of intel for you. For a while there the NSA hacked in on their communications before they went into a scramble mode. They’re still working on it, but in my experience with Radio Shack encryption technology, we’re shit out of luck on breaking through in anything resembling a useful amount of time. But in that brief— fucking brief— window of opportunity, they picked up three or four people talking in Spanish. The NSA— you know who they are, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. You would. The NSA turned it over to some analysts in the CIA and they’re pretty sure that the accents and syntax mean these guys are from Colombia.”

  “As I suspected.”

  “Great. What does that mean?”

  Khournikova leaned forward. “What is in Colombia, Agent Swenson?”

  “Cocaine and a bunch of paramilitary and terrorist screwballs. Not much else except carnations and coffee beans.”

  “These are not drug traffickers.”

  “That wouldn’t have been my guess.”

  “So they either come from inside the Colombian government, which I doubt, or they come from antigovernment organizations. Knowing who the anti-Colombian government organizations are will get us a long way toward knowing more about this group, who I would not call The Fallen Angels, despite being led by Richard Coffee.”

  “And,” Swenson said slowly, “if we can figure out who they are, maybe we can figure out what they really want. And try to anticipate it.”

  Khournikova nodded. “Yes. I think that would be a good approach.”

  Swenson said, “All right, Agent Khournikova. You’re on my team. You stay here. Right here. By my side.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  Swenson stood up. “Let’s just say I’m keeping my mind open. Now, you had something to say about Derek Stillwater?”

  “He is here. He was undercover. If he’s still alive, he may be of use to us.”