The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

  Swenson broke off as a muffled explosion echoed between the buildings. He looked at his second in command, Agent Laura Parrish. Parrish sat at a computer workstation, furiously tapping keys. She shook her head, tapped the screen for Swenson to check, and jumped up from her chair, and ran toward the door.

  “Sir,” said Swenson, “something’s going on now. We’re checking it out.” He studied the computer screen. “And it looks like we’ve got some data on X Man. His name is Pablo Juarez, sir. A Colombian national. His entire family was killed by—” Another muffled explosion punctuated the air.

  Parrish stepped back into the MCU. “Small explosions coming from the International Center.”

  Swenson nodded. “Excuse me, sir. I’ve got somebody working on the International Center right now. Um, back to Juarez. The intelligence I just received says, er, his entire family was killed by the Colombian government in a counter-terror strike aimed at one of the drug cartels about ten years ago. He joined the, uh, AUC as a result. I don’t— I see, one of the paramilitaries, the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. But there is intelligence here, sir, that he left because they weren’t— they booted him out, sir. I don’t know. Just a moment.”

  He pulled out his walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. “Special K. This is Superman. Do you read?”

  Static.

  He repeated the message. Nothing.

  “Sir,” he said into the phone, “do you have a plan? I— just a moment, sir.”

  The door to the Mobile Command Unit opened and FBI agent Vincent Silvedo stepped in. It took a moment for Swenson to recognize him. “Silvedo, where have you been? Hang on, I need a full—”

  Silvedo tossed two hand grenades into the Mobile Command Unit and leapt out the door.

  Chapter 62

  In the White House PEOC, General Puskorius glowered at the telephone. Agent Swenson’s call had been played over the speaker so everybody could hear it. Everybody heard the blast that resulted in the phone going dead.

  Puskorius said, “Who the fuck is Silvedo?”

  Director Johnston cocked an eye at Secret Service Director O’Malley, who consulted his laptop. “Silvedo, Vincent. Special Agent. One of ours.”

  Nobody said a word. Nobody knew anything. Had Silvedo just blown up the MCU? Or was that a coincidence? What had really happened to the MCU?

  General Puskorius was punching numbers into his phone when the phone in front of Director Johnston buzzed. He picked it up and announced himself. “Yes—” His face grew pale. “Yes. I understand. Just a moment. I’m putting you on speaker.” He hit a button on the console. He said, “This is Special Agent Brenda LeVoi. Go ahead, LeVoi.”

  The woman’s voice was high-pitched and threaded with tension. “Sir, the Mobile Command Unit has been hit. It looks like somebody threw a grenade or something into it. There are no survivors. I repeat, there are no survivors. Agent Swenson is dead. Agent Parrish is dead.” She rattled off the names of four more Secret Service agents who had been in the MCU.

  Director O’Malley studied his computer. “Agent LeVoi, this is Director O’Malley. Do you see Agent Vincent Silvedo anywhere around there?”

  Silence. “No, sir. I would have expected him to be trapped in the Cheyenne Center after the lockdown. He was originally stationed in the loading dock. That was the source of one of the explosions, sir. Nobody has heard from him since lockdown.”

  O’Malley glanced over at Johnston, who shook his head. O’Malley said, “We need an update, Agent. I believe you worked directly under Agent Swenson’s group?”

  “I led a— just a moment, sir. There’s someone— it’s Agent Silvedo. Just a moment.”

  Johnston was on his feet, shouting at the telephone. “Agent LeVoi! Agent LeVoi! Silvedo may be a mole. I repeat, Silvedo—”

  But she was off the phone.

  Chapter 63

  Irina Khournikova raced toward the Mobile Command Unit. The explosion was distinctive and came from exactly where she was headed. She redoubled her efforts, skidding beneath the boughs of another blue spruce, watching as agents rushed toward the RV that was now smoking, windows shattered.

  Her gaze shifted, searching for the muscular form of Vincent Silvedo. She was sure he was the figure that had slipped out of the International Center, another of Richard Coffee’s Fallen Angels— an insider. And with his position at the loading dock he would have been key to getting Coffee and his people into the facility.

  Agents fought their way into the MCU, reappearing a moment later dragging limp, bloody bodies. Irina counted five agents. Where was Silvedo? Had he disappeared? Did he decide this was a good time to exit the area?

  A woman with short-cropped blonde hair and a narrow jaw seemed to be the agent in charge now. She looked vaguely familiar. Irina searched her memory. Over the last week of close preparation and over the months of setup, she had come in contact with most of the Secret Service and Bureau of Diplomatic Security agents working the summit. There weren’t that many women. This would be— LeVoi, she thought. Brenda LeVoi.

  LeVoi was on a phone now, her posture rigid. Irina thought LeVoi was talking to somebody higher up, apprising them of the situation.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a muscular man appear. She focused her gaze, recognizing Vincent Silvedo. He was walking directly toward LeVoi and the knot of agents recovering the dead.

  Irina brought her handgun around, focusing the sites directly on Silvedo’s chest. She tracked his every step as he approached.

  LeVoi turned to him, dropping the hand that held the telephone. She seemed to be speaking directly to Silvedo.

  With lightning-like quickness Silvedo had a gun up and was pointing it at LeVoi.

  Without hesitation Irina pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 64

  Irina Khournikova slipped out from beneath the blue spruce, arms wide, the handgun dangling from her index finger. She walked slowly toward the cluster of Secret Service and FBI agents who had hit the ground, guns drawn, as the bullets she had fired tore through Vincent Silvedo’s chest.

  Agent Brenda LeVoi was the first on her feet. She had her handgun out, aimed at Irina.

  “I am Irina Khournikova, FSB, Russia,” she said slowly and clearly. “I was tracking Agent Silvedo from the International Center. Swenson charged me with trying to retake it.”

  She now stood ten feet from the agents, who were all tense. Irina looked at Silvedo. His corpse looked like refuse. She wondered what had inspired him to turn traitor. She knew Richard Coffee was creative in his recruitment. Sometimes it was blackmail. Sometimes money. Sometimes it was just the right offer to the right person at the right time, part of Coffee’s gift and charisma. Find a disaffected agent and stroke his ego, convince him he really was as brilliant as he thought and would be rewarded with The Fallen Angels.

  Irina said, “He was going to kill you.”

  LeVoi nodded. “I know. Put the gun down, please.”

  Irina dropped her gun. “I have a knife, too. I’m reaching for it now.”

  LeVoi nodded. Moving deliberately, Irina retrieved the knife and dropped it to the ground next to the handgun.

  LeVoi said, “Step away, please. Step back five paces.”

  Irina did so, hands still up in the air. LeVoi walked over and quickly patted her down. LeVoi’s fair complexion was reddened by flames from the MCU, her jaw set in a stressed, determined way, yet her voice seemed calm and in control. “Identification?”

  Irina handed over her credentials. She said, “Silvedo used hand grenades in the International Center. I was waiting for him to come out. I was up in a tree they had in the lobby, waiting, and he snuck out and tossed two grenades as a cover. I landed in the fountain when the tree fell over.”

  LeVoi said, “He used grenades in the MCU, too.” Her voice cracked, but she shook it off. “You can take your hands down.” She seemed to realize she had dropped her phone. She walked over to where she had let it slip from her grasp when she went for her gun, pic
ked it up, and spoke into it.

  “Director O’Malley? This is Agent LeVoi. Yes, the situation is under control.” She briefly described what had happened. “Yes. Irina Khournikova. With the Russian FSB. Yes. Just a moment.”

  She handed the phone to Khournikova. “This is the president’s Emergency Operations Center in the White House. You’re on speaker with General Puskorius, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Director O’Malley, the Secret Service director, Director Johnston with the Department of Homeland Security, as well as the FBI and CIA directors and probably quite a few other people. Secretary Johnston wants to talk to you.”

  Khournikova knew the man by reputation only. What could he possibly want? She took the phone. “This is Irina Khournikova.”

  Secretary James Johnston’s gruff, raspy voice came over the phone. “I guess we have to thank you, Ms. Khournikova.”

  “I was doing my job.”

  “Yes. Who is your direct supervisor?”

  “That would have been Mikhail Alexandrov. But he is one of The Fallen Angels.”

  “Yes, we know. Ms. Khournikova, you’re proving to be quite helpful to us. Do you have any ideas on how to end this siege?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Good. Let me talk to Agent LeVoi.”

  Khournikova turned the phone over to LeVoi, who listened for a moment, then nodded. “Yes sir. In five minutes? Yes. I’ll be expecting it. I’ll keep you apprised.” She clicked off the telephone and looked at Khournikova. “You and I are now in charge of ending this mess. You told Secretary Johnston you had some ideas. I want to hear them. Right now.”

  Khournikova nodded and gestured to the ground. “Can I get my weapons back? I had an MP-5 in the International Center, but the tree fell on it. I’d like another. I also need some dry clothes.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll get you a rifle ASAP and find you some fatigues unless you have clothes you brought.” LeVoi turned to the agents and said, “I’ve just been made Agent-in-Charge. I want a full sit-rep in fifteen minutes.” She looked at her watch and shook her head. “We’ve got to get to a TV. They’re scheduled to come on and announce their new demands in about five minutes. Let’s go.”

  A cloud of smoke rolled off the burning Mobile Command Unit. A team of firefighters was using extinguishers to try and douse the flames of the charred skeleton of metal and plastic. The fumes stung her eyes and bit at her nostrils. The smoke brought with it the stench of burned bodies, blood, and death. She shivered, clothes wet, the mountain air suddenly feeling cold despite the warmth of the sun. Khournikova said, “Do any of your snipers have thermal imaging capabilities?”

  LeVoi, who had been turning toward the main complex, halted. “Probably. You have an idea?”

  Khournikova nodded. “I have at least one.”

  Chapter 65

  Sprawling on the floor in the workspace, eyes pressed to a crack around an overhead spotlight cutout, Derek studied the ballroom and The Fallen Angels’ positions. Richard Coffee was staying close to the leaders on stage. Another one seemed to be sticking close to the TV cameras and their controls. There was a total of eight, all armed, spread out around the room. The hostages sat in chairs, some with their heads together, whispering, but most were silent, waiting.

  He tried to puzzle out a plan. Leaning back, he inspected his MP-5. It was an assault rifle, not a sniper rifle, and he wasn’t a sniper anyway. Although he had been trained in Special Forces, his expertise was biological and chemical warfare. He wasn’t a sniper. He could probably take out one or two of The Angels from here, but that would result in a massive return of gunfire that he was pretty sure he would not survive. Unless—

  He checked the rounds remaining in his sole magazine. Ten. Not good.

  Not for the first time he considered the trapdoor in the stage. He was a long ways from there now.

  He considered access to the roof. There wasn’t any from here. There was a stairwell that led to the roof, but he was certain it had been wired.

  For a moment he rested, monitoring his aches and pains. Resting probably wasn’t a great idea. He’d been running on adrenaline for the last couple hours and he would only get stiff and slow if he rested too long. He closed his eyes, opened them, thinking that they had started out with a dozen men in the ballroom, and four on the perimeter. He had eliminated two of the perimeter men, then four of the Angels from the ballroom.

  There were still two in the front lobby, but at the moment he didn’t consider them a particular threat.

  He wondered if it was possible to decrease the numbers in the ballroom from where he was.

  He wondered if he could do it without getting himself or the world leaders or any of the other people in the ballroom killed.

  Derek crept back over to the elevator doors and looked down the shaft, pondering the drop. Glancing back over his shoulder, he considered the coils of wiring and cable. His gaze lit on a roll of electrical cable, probably fifty or sixty feet of it. He crawled back over to it and checked its thickness. Rubber coated cable. He tested it. It was strong. Strong enough to support him?

  What you’re thinking is suicidal.

  Derek crawled back and peered down at Richard Coffee. The angle was all wrong from where he was. He couldn’t shoot straight down. If he was to try this, he would have to choose one or two of The Angels farther back, where he could have time to set an angle of fire.

  You’re crazy. Don’t even consider this.

  Derek put the coil of cable in his lap and started to unreel it, wondering if there was a way to minimize his risk. The thought made him want to laugh. He hadn’t minimized his risk even once all day. Why start now?

  From below he heard Richard Coffee’s voice, talking to the TVs. “I want the world to know that the U.S. government—”

  Chapter 66

  El Tiburón clicked on the cameras. He did not have a good feeling about this. It was a feeling he had felt before— of a piece of cloth unraveling. It would start with a single loose thread, but soon everything would fall apart.

  It was a feeling that reminded him of when he was a teenager, playing with his friends in the hills outside his village, hearing explosions and gunfire, smelling smoke. Running home, he discovered his family murdered, his house in flames.

  It hadn’t taken him long to join the AUC, to become a guerilla, to try and overthrow the corrupt Colombian government that had killed his momma, poppa, sister, and baby brother. He had channeled his rage into being the best, the most ruthless, and had gained a reputation as El Tiburón, the shark, the predator who didn’t stop moving and killing or he would die.

  But eventually the AUC became as corrupt, as weak, as institutionalized as the government they were fighting. So El Tiburón took his loyal men and fought their own war.

  He could still smell the blood of his first kill, slitting the throat of a Colombian soldier on patrol. He could still feel how powerful it had felt, the hot blood gushing over his hand—

  At the front of the ballroom, The Fallen stood before the world leaders. He said, “I want the world to know that the U.S. government has capitulated to one of our demands. They have released my fellow Fallen Angels from their prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, given them helicopters and freedom to fly to Colombia.”

  The Fallen took a step forward. “The U.S. government has bought themselves time. I still require the release of Nadia Kosov. You have—”

  El Tiburón stepped out from behind the camera and screamed, “No! Enough! Don’t you understand? Nadia Kosov is dead. There is no negotiating on that point. Move on!”

  Coffee glowered across the room at him. Turning back to the cameras, he said, “You have one hour to release Nadia Kosov and have her contact me or—”

  El Tiburón snarled a wordless cry, raised his MP-5 and fired. The rounds caught Richard Coffee in the chest. Coffee crumpled to the stage, feebly reaching for his gun, which had fallen out of his hand. With a groan, he toppled off the stage to the floor.

  El Tiburón
raised his hand and shouted, “¿Ahora!”

  As one, six of the remaining Fallen Angels turned, raised their assault rifles and fired at Didier Christophe, the one remaining Fallen Angel who was not one of El Tiburón’s recruits from Colombia. Christophe’s rifle spat out a half dozen rounds as he died, falling to the ballroom amidst screams and cries from the audience.

  El Tiburón stalked to the front of the ballroom. He faced the cameras. “My name is Pablo Juarez, with the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. We are now in control of the leaders of the G8. The Fallen Angels no longer exist. You will answer to me now. Our demands are very simple. Colombian President Pedro Gomez and his administration must resign from office immediately, and turn over control of the Republic of Colombia to Francisco Vasquez, current leader of the AUC. Under President Vasquez, all countries in the G20 present today will keep diplomatic and economic ties open. If I am not informed of this transition in one hour, I will kill United States President Jack Langston. To prove that I am serious—”

  El Tiburón leapt up on stage, aimed his handgun at European Union President Waldenstrom and fired. He took another step, standing before German Chancellor Heidi Braun, raised the gun, and fired. He turned back to the camera.

  “You have one hour.”

  PART IV

  JUDGMENT DAY

  Chapter 67

  Derek, high above the action, rolled over on his back and closed his eyes. A lightning bolt of pain blasted through his head and quickly subsided. Momentarily he had a sensation of floating, of the vastness and antiquity of the universe, of the repetitive nature of violence. If I quit now, so what? If crazies kill all the leaders of the world, so what? There are plenty of politicians itching to take their spots.