The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

  Lt. General Akron sighed. “I think that means explosion. Two explosions outside.”

  FBI Director O’Malley said, “We know there’s been two explosions. And they’ve been inside the building, but not in the main room. ‘DS’? That means he thinks Derek Stillwater caused them?”

  “Or he wonders if he did,” Johnston said. He stretched back in his chair, listening to his spine pop, thinking, Getting old and falling apart.

  “Let’s hope it’s him,” O’Malley said. “Okay, Bill. ‘GUESS 4 BGs DEAD.’ Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “I’m guessing, but I think Bob’s saying he thinks four of the bad guys—BGs—are dead.”

  Akron looked pale and drained. Johnston thought they all did. The footage of Vakhach being executed had riveted the world, but now everybody knew what was at stake. Already governments were starting to point fingers, and almost all of them were working to take their kidnapped leaders out of the loop. It wasn’t all that easy, though.

  Vice President Newman had called a meeting in fifteen minutes to implement invoking the Twenty-fifth, which would require the vote of the cabinet. But two of the cabinet members—Robert Mandalevo and Joshua Babcock, the secretary of commerce—were kidnapped, and two others were out of the country. The secretary of transportation was on a trip to Canada and the secretary of state was in Indonesia.

  Akron said, “And ‘10 Inside’ suggests to me that at least two of the dead were from the twelve that were inside the ballroom. Something’s going on. Somehow somebody is picking off these terrorists.”

  “Stillwater,” Johnston said. “I’m convinced.” His gut said it was true. He had a lot of faith in Derek. Maybe too much.

  O’Malley grunted. “Good for you. I’m not.”

  Johnston let it go. O’Malley was pissed about Derek’s faked death. “ ‘Xman and RC fight.’ Trouble in paradise? We saw the exchange between Coffee and the Hispanic guy, El Tiburón.”

  CIA Director Ballard said, “We’re working on identifying him. There’s a Russian FSB agent working with Agent Swenson and her people to figure him out.”

  “Khournikova?” asked Johnston. He had been briefed by Swenson and wasn’t sure he thought that was a good idea. He wasn’t a huge believer that Khournikova was on their side. She definitely fell in the “undecided” column.

  “Yes. And I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Swenson wants her under his eye,” Johnston said. “He’s not sure he trusts her. Why should I?”

  “I don’t either, but she came up with a few good ideas. And if there’s bad blood between this guy, the Shark, and Coffee, I’m all for it.”

  “Sure,” Johnston agreed. He turned back to the screen. “Now, I’m confused. What’s all this? ‘RC—PDA 2 CTRL C4. JAM?’ ”

  Akron licked his lips. “I think it means Richard Coffee’s using a PDA to control the plastic explosives.”

  Director Ballard blurted, “He’s suggesting we jam the signal? I’ve got to get the NSA on this—ASAP.” Ballard was on his phone already.

  Johnston glanced at O’Malley. “Puskorius needs to know about this.” He glanced at his watch. “The op’s about to begin.”

  O’Malley nodded. “Better call him yourself. Try to coordinate with the NSA. I hope this works.”

  Johnston nodded, thoughts on Derek Stillwater running around picking off Angels. If he was alive. If that’s what he was doing. That thought did a little two-step with his thoughts about his wife’s increasingly loopy behavior. He split up that pair and concentrated on the national crisis.

  There had been no contact from Derek, and a call to his sat phone indicated he was off the grid. Johnston shot off a little prayer to whatever gods might be listening and stood up.

  “I’m off to discuss invoking the Twenty-fifth. Keep me informed. I’ll call Puskorius on the way.”

  Chapter 47

  Richard Coffee stepped around the corpse of the Russian leader, jumped off the stage, and strode over to Franz Dorfmann. El Tiburón jogged over to where the two men stood near the front of the room. What now?

  Coffee stopped talking for a moment to watch him approach, then nodded. “I need Perro Loco for a special op.”

  “Are you sending him to his death, too?” asked El Tiburón.

  Coffee spun, gun up, but this time El Tiburón was ready. The two men stood in identical crouches, handguns aimed in each other’s faces.

  Franz Dorfmann, the Mad Dog, who had spent much of his career as an assassin for the German Abwehr, calmly reached out with both hands, gripped the men’s wrists and forced them to lower their weapons. “Nein. Not now. Now is for discipline.” He turned to El Tiburón, a merry expression on his sharp, angular features. “Is this not a suicide mission, comrade? A foolhardy mission by a small band of brilliant and audacious rebels? We all have to die someday. Why not today? It is a beautiful day, is it not? Today is a good day to die.”

  “Perhaps if The Fallen will tell us who is picking us off one by one. What angel of death is stalking us and cutting our numbers? He knows. It’s time for him to share his secrets.”

  Coffee’s expression was taut, rage and violence just below the surface of his skin like frigid water beneath black ice. “You will never know all my secrets. But, Si, El Tiburón. Who is the real Angel of Death here? Me? You? Perro Loco? Or is it this man who hunts us?” He turned away, but not before the icy expression turned to one of contempt. “Perro Loco, El Tiburón is correct. Someone stalks us. His name is Derek Stillwater. Unless things have changed, he is a troubleshooter for the American Department of Homeland Security.”

  “How do you know this?” El Tiburón demanded. He felt his heart rate accelerate. Finally, some truth from The Fallen.

  “I ran into him in the kitchen just before the op started. I killed three Secret Service agents who were arresting him, and I locked him in a walk-in freezer in the kitchen.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him?! You fool—”

  This time Coffee was faster, his gun barrel inches from El Tiburón’s eyes. “Do not think I won’t kill you.”

  “Without me,” El Tiburón hissed, “my men will not follow you to their graves.”

  The German interrupted, voice calm. “I need to know more about Derek Stillwater. Clearly he is a capable enemy.”

  Coffee lowered his weapon. “We were once partners. U.S. Army Special Forces. He’s a specialist in biological and chemical warfare. He has a Ph.D. He’s very, very smart. But don’t let that specialty fool you. He was trained like I was— he’s a killer, and his years out of the service haven’t dulled his edge. It won’t be easy taking him down.”

  “No problem.” Dorfmann pulled out his handgun, double-checked it was loaded, a round in the chamber, the safety off. With a lightning fast flick of his hand he had his combat knife out of its sheath. Without any warning whatsoever the glittering black blade slashed across El Tiburón’s shirt. It left a six-inch-long flap in the cloth, but didn’t touch his skin. “I have a rather sharp edge myself.”

  “Games! Now is not the time for games!” spat El Tiburón.

  Dorfmann— Perro Loco— laughed. “It’s all a game, El Tiburón. You take yourself so seriously.” He nodded to The Fallen and headed toward the doors.

  Coffee called him back. “Perro Loco!”

  Dorfmann turned back, eyebrows raised, expression mocking. “Si, jefe?”

  “Don’t underestimate Derek Stillwater. He’s very creative. Very resourceful.” Coffee hesitated. “He saved my life more than once. Brought me back from the dead. He’s come back from the dead himself. He’s very hard to kill. I’ve tried. You’re going to have to stop him for good.”

  “My pleasure!” To El Tiburón: “Auf wiedersehen, meiner Kleiner Fisch. Bis später.”

  Dorfmann paused at the door long enough for The Fallen to shut down the detonators, then slipped out like smoke and was gone.

  El Tiburón locked eyes with The Fallen. “You talk about Stillwater as if he’s still
your friend. You should have killed him when you had the chance. It’s not like you to show mercy. You left a trained killer alone in a walk-in freezer just before our op began. And now he’s stalking us. You may have given Perro Loco his death sentence. And we need the numbers here.”

  Coffee did not flinch. “Be careful, meiner Kleiner Fisch, that I don’t give you your death sentence.” And he walked away.

  Chapter 48

  Maria helped Derek limp toward the end of the hallway. They paused for a moment at the body of the Russian. Derek performed a rough search, coming up with a fresh magazine for the MP-5. Otherwise, the man had nothing left to take. I already took his life, thought Derek. What else was there? He stood up and studied the field of rubble.

  “I want to get to what’s left of the elevator shaft,” he said. “When they put these charges in place they were pretty clever. They could have put enough to take the whole building down. There’s been plenty of damage, and both explosions have managed to shut down the hallways. I wonder if they planned it this way or if they had a lot of dumb luck.”

  Maria said nothing. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She stood, self-contained, shivering. Derek sighed, reached over, and held her. “You’ve been amazing,” he said. “Absolutely amazing. You’re one tough babe.”

  Voice muffled against his shirt, she said, “Mama didn’t raise no wimps.”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “No, she didn’t. Smart, tough, and beautiful. But we can’t stand here. Let’s get going.”

  He nudged her forward, and together they picked their way over and around the debris field, finally clambering on top of a huge pile of brick, concrete, and steel.

  Derek reached out and grasped the twisted remains of the catwalk. It seemed relatively secure, angling upward into a hole in the ceiling. “Follow me,” he said, and began a laborious scramble upward into the darkness.

  Struggling, his ankle throbbing, Derek thought he heard the whisper of a door opening and closing beneath and below them, farther down the hallway. He paused, ears straining to hear. Nothing. Doubt gnawing at his guts, he continued forward.

  Chapter 49

  Lieutenant Sam O’Shay, U.S. Army’s 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, Delta, checked his gear— the High Altitude Precision Parachute System (HAPPS)— for the tenth time, studied his altimeter, then double-checked his watch. He and his five-man insertion team were roaring at 20,000 feet over the Rocky Mountains toward the Cheyenne Resort. Operation Tagger had been put together just about as fast as any op could be put together.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” he said into his radio, the roar of the CASA C-212 Aviocar aircraft drowning out any other communication. “Operation Tagger. There are three, I repeat, three Secret Service snipers on the roofs of each building. We will be landing on the Cheyenne Center itself. The snipers have been made aware of this operation.”

  “Gee, you take all the fun out of it,” said Santiago, smirking.

  O’Shay knew Santiago made jokes to overcome his fear. He continued. “There are approximately six hundred hostages being held, at last count, by ten— I repeat, ten!— armed terrorists. The building has been wired with C4 or Semtex and the detonators are controlled via a PDA held by the terrorist leader. He doesn’t have to turn them all on or off, he can control each individually. Also, the leaders of the world— including the president of the United States— are wired with C4 or Semtex and can presumably be detonated by hand. The Puzzle Palace is going to scramble the satellite signals and jam any radio signals starting in five minutes. Gentlemen, they will not be able to set off or turn off those explosives from this time forward. They will not be able to communicate with each other. But we will not be able to communicate with each other, either. Stay in visual communication and be careful. Let’s hunt some bad guys.” He looked at his watch then checked in with the pilot.

  “T-minus four minutes, Lieutenant. Proceed with predrop.”

  They were going to perform HALO drops, or High Altitude Low Opening. They didn’t know who The Fallen Angels had outside the facility watching. They didn’t know what the communications were like. The NSA would be jamming all communications, but they didn’t know if these guys had some sort of visual communication or not.

  Lieutenant O’Shay thought their intel sucked, and had spoken freely to General Puskorius on that issue. The general had ordered him to proceed, which was the job of Delta Force, after all. To do the impossible. Antiterrorism, hostage rescue.

  In O’Shay’s ears the pilot said, “T-minus two minutes. We have a westerly wind at ten knots on the deck.”

  O’Shay studied a PDA attached to his wrist, part of his complicated drop-and-insert gear. He punched a key and brought up aerial photographs of the Cheyenne Center. To his team he said, “Note the layout of the buildings. Do NOT miss the Cheyenne Center. Do NOT confuse them.”

  Santiago said, “Looks to me like there’s a Starbucks down the road. Maybe I’ll drop in there for a Frappuccino.”

  “Santiago, we pull off Tagger and I’ll buy the beer for the next month.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “T-minus one minute.”

  “We’re up,” O’Shay said.

  His team trotted toward the back of the C-212. With a punch of a switch, the rear hatch opened. Wind roared into and out of the plane.

  “Let’s go!” O’Shay rushed forward and threw himself out of the hatch, spread eagle. Even through his flight suit he could feel the bite of the cold at 20,000 feet. The oxygen through his mask tasted metallic and flat.

  Down they plunged, gravity grabbing the team and dragging them toward earth at ever-increasing speeds.

  O’Shay, into his radio, counted off his altimeter. “20,000. 18,000. 16,000—”

  Faster and faster. Finally, visual. He spotted the Cheyenne Resort just outside the suburban sprawl of Colorado Springs. The green open spaces of the golf course, the blue of the lake, the outline of the numerous buildings and parking lots.

  They were right on target. He checked the GPS on his left wrist, noted the pilot had been accurate in their launch time. If they didn’t encounter wind sheer on the ground, they shouldn’t have a problem hitting their targets.

  His team screamed downward at 260 feet per second.

  4,000.

  3,000.

  2,000.

  At 1,000 feet, his chute opened automatically with a ripping, popping sound. His entire body jerked at the deceleration, a snap to every bone and muscle in his body that he would feel for days afterward. His hands by his sides, he yoked the controls until he had the rectangular shape of the Cheyenne Center in his line of vision.

  I hope to hell the snipers have been informed.

  Around him he saw the rest of his team, parachutes open, flying toward their target.

  800 feet.

  700.

  They were low enough they could now see details of the building. Black-topped roof. Red brick walls. The snipers weren’t visible against it from this height. He noted the Mobile Control Unit. He noted the National Guard rolling down the roads, setting up perimeters— tanks and armored personnel carriers and Humvees.

  400 feet.

  Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. A splash of scarlet where there shouldn’t be one.

  Twisting around, he saw Santiago’s jumpsuit covered with red. Santiago slumped unnaturally in his harness.

  Another.

  He swiveled his head. Franklin. A mist of red swirling into the up-draft, a fog of blood escaping from a helmet that was barely there.

  O’Shay went cold. There were snipers out there, taking out his team as they parachuted in.

  Into his microphone: “Snipers. Take evasive action! I repeat, take—”

  But the National Security Agency was jamming all radio and satellite communications in the area. They couldn’t hear him. No one could.

  O’Shay spun his chute in an erratic fashion, jinking, swerving, trying to avoid being an ea
sy target. Another of his team went down, slumped in his harness, blood soaking his flight suit.

  Where the hell were the snipers? Not the bureau snipers on the building. In the hills surrounding the resort?

  “Goddammit, we didn’t have enough—”

  But Lieutenant O’Shay didn’t have even enough time to finish his thought as a high velocity sniper round struck him in the chest as he crossed into the three hundred-feet range.

  Chapter 50

  Derek found the elevator structure to be relatively intact. The wall that had separated the hallway from the elevator was gone. Huge chunks of concrete and steel were piled six and seven feet high, some of them from the elevator infrastructure, most from the floor, wall, doors, and ceiling.

  The catwalk was a twisted, unstable wreck. As they inched along, the catwalk wobbled and vibrated with every move they made. Finally, drenched in sweat, vision doubling, pain flashing through his head and leg, he made it to the wall. Instead of a steel hatchway crisscrossed with wires and Semtex, Derek found a ragged hole in the structure.

  Derek hauled himself through and sprawled atop the elevator car. Maria slipped in beside him.

  Gulping air, he studied their situation. They could drop into the elevator through the roof hatch, pry open the doors, and possibly make their way into the lobby, though he had suspicions that there was as much debris blocking that way as was blocking the route they had come.

  In addition, it was almost certain that two of Coffee’s Fallen Angels were patrolling the lobby, armed and in better shape than he and Maria.

  He took the flashlight out and beamed it upward. His heart sank.

  Some elevator companies placed steel rungs into the elevator shaft so maintenance workers could climb up and down the shaft as necessary. Most did not. Derek knew that most elevator workers just rode the elevator on the roof— elevator surfing— until they got to the motor and gears built into the rooftop elevator controls. That was apparently the situation here. There was no ladder or steps or steel rungs. What he saw were blank concrete walls and steel cables that ran upward past the limits of his flashlight beam.