The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

  He opened his eyes and thought, Richard Coffee’s dead again?

  He felt a little sad somehow. He and Coffee had been friends once. The kind of friends who watched each other’s backs. The kind of friend you depended on to save your life in a sticky situation.

  He had once thought Coffee was dead, exposed to biological and chemical weapons residue while in the first Gulf War. Then he had been miraculously reborn as The Fallen, a megalomaniacal cult leader and terrorist intent on destroying the world.

  Crazy.

  He rolled over and peered down at this new devil, Pablo Juarez. That was the problem with devils, he supposed. You killed one and there was always another one to come along.

  What Juarez wanted was madness incarnate. Colombia wasn’t represented in the G8. Not even the G20. Mexico, Argentina, and Brazil were their closest neighbors, and it was doubtful they would want that kind of unrest in their neighborhood. Not that Colombian President Pedro Gomez was too likely to step down and turn over the reins of power, no matter how much pressure was applied from the rest of the world.

  Richard Coffee could make all the demands he wanted, but Derek knew they were all window dressing. Coffee had wanted chaos. Chaos on a huge scale, on an apocalyptic scale. Coffee, somewhere in his diseased brain, was venting his rage on the planet and all mankind, and, unfortunately, for the world, Coffee had been trained well by the United States government on how to do it.

  Juarez, on the other hand, was a man with a different mission. No less crazy, perhaps, but he somehow thought his demands might be met. Or more likely, wanted the world’s attention brought to bear on Colombia, the ongoing civil war, and the AUC’s role in it. Just another suicidal terrorist who wanted to use other people’s lives as a billboard.

  Suddenly filled with energy, Derek picked up the cable he had been considering, but froze when he heard Pablo Juarez speaking again.

  And he was calling Derek’s name.

  Derek crawled back to peer down at the man, who was talking into a radio, to the cameras. Juarez spoke in good clean English with a heavy Spanish accent, but Derek had no problems hearing him or understanding him. Juarez stood there in his dark pants and shirt, an MP-5 over one shoulder. Dark-skinned, dark hair, a confident, imposing figure on a stage before the world leaders, Peter Vakhach dead, Richard Coffee dead.

  Another devil who wanted to dance on the grave of the world.

  “Hello, Derek Stillwater. I know you are out there. Listening. I will not play games with you as The Fallen had. So here is an ultimatum. You must turn yourself into my men in the next five minutes, or I will shoot the Israeli Prime Minister and a dozen hostages here in the audience.” Juarez looked at his watch. “Five minutes from now.”

  Derek swallowed hard. He felt paralyzed. What to do? The clock was ticking.

  Chapter 68

  Irina Khournikova and Brenda LeVoi and a dozen other agents watched Richard Coffee’s death on a TV in the security office at the main resort building. News had spread of Vincent Silvedo’s duplicity, and the deaths of Lee Padillo and Larry Swenson and the half dozen agents who had been killed along with them. The general sentiment was that these terrorists would be leaving Colorado in body bags.

  The airwaves had been sizzling between Washington, D.C. and Colorado. It was obvious to the agents on the ground that the blame game was well underway and the D.C. pols were looking for the scapegoat du jour. Finally, it had been made clear that Brenda LeVoi and the Russian woman were now in charge. Khournikova thought it ironic that a foreign intelligence agent was being given a widely declared opportunity to share the blame if the day got any worse.

  Khournikova watched the video unblinkingly. One of the Secret Service agents, a short, balding man with a Texas twang, muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

  Irina said, “We’re down to six.”

  “Yeah,” the agent said. “Maybe if we wait another hour they’ll all kill each other, and we can all go home.”

  Brenda LeVoi shook her head, expression grim. “We’re down to the core group, I think. They’re all Juarez’s people now. He’s right. The Fallen Angels don’t exist any more. This is a different threat now.” She focused on Irina. “You have a plan?”

  Irina nodded, surveying the group. She gripped the woman’s arm and pulled her away from the crowd. “Do you trust them?”

  Brenda studied her. “I have to.”

  Irina hesitated before saying, “Derek Stillwater has done a good job of thinning the numbers in there.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  Somebody said, “LeVoi. Incoming message from the secretary.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Hang on.” LeVoi turned back to Irina. “Are you sure?”

  Irina nodded. “Yes. Who else?”

  “Right.” LeVoi seemed to think, then walked over to the agent who had tried to catch her attention and retrieved her notebook computer, bringing up the communication from Secretary Johnston. She studied the information for a moment. “All right, people. We’ve got intel. Somehow they’ve got somebody on the inside feeding them information. There appears there’s some delay, but if we coordinate an op, we might be able to get almost real-time data on these guys’ locations inside the ballroom. We have less than an hour. Khournikova, you have the floor.”

  Irina stepped forward. “I need at least two snipers with thermal imaging gear.”

  Two of the men stepped forward. They almost looked like twins. Tall, hawklike features, bold piercing stares, short dark hair. “We’re all set.”

  Irina nodded. “Good. Get set up outside the front of the Cheyenne Center.” She turned back to the crowd. “We have blueprints of the Cheyenne Center?”

  A dark-skinned woman pointed to a computer file. “3D CAD/CAM. We’ve been going over it. You’re considering a dynamic entry?”

  Irina nodded. “We’re going to have to blow our way in.” She smiled. “But conveniently, The Fallen Angels already set the explosives in place. We just need to be ready for the timing.”

  “Aw shit,” an agent monitoring the radio said. He was a blond built like a bodybuilder, with gray eyes and a sunburned face.

  Everybody turned to him. He gestured to the radio. “This guy, Pablo Juarez, is communicating directly with Derek Stillwater. Says he’s got five minutes to turn himself over or he’s going to kill the Israeli PM and a dozen hostages.”

  Irina turned back to the two snipers. “Go! Do it now! You know what to do!”

  With a nod they sprinted from the building.

  LeVoi turned to Irina. “Not enough time. How well do you know this guy?”

  Irina shook her head. “Not that well. But I know what he’s— how do you say it in English? I know what he’s made of.”

  “Will he turn himself in?”

  Irina thought hard. “Maybe. But if he does, he will have something— I think the expression is, up his arm?”

  “Up his sleeve,” LeVoi said. “The expression is, ‘He’ll have something up his sleeve.’ ”

  “Yes. I do not know if Derek Stillwater will comply with this man’s demand. But if he does, he will have a plan to—”

  Everybody paused, waiting for her to finish the sentence. Slowly, she said, “He will have a plan for disrupting Pablo Juarez’s actions.”

  “Then let’s get ready to help him out,” said LeVoi. “People! We need at least two potential access points.”

  “The roof,” the woman with the CAD/CAM programs said.

  “The basement tunnels,” said Irina.

  “And,” said LeVoi, “the loading dock.”

  Chapter 69

  Secretary Johnston stood outside the PEOC, cell phone pressed to his ear. He was listening to his daughter Valerie whine. The connection was horrible, filled with static and dropouts, but Johnston wasn’t sure he cared, because he wished his daughter would shut the fuck up.

  “We really need you today, Dad. Mom’s wackier than usual. Not violent, thank God, I don’t know if I could handle that, but s
he’s driving me nuts. The microwave was just the first thing. She’s skinny-dipping now! She said she can’t find her suit, so she just took her clothes off, went out in the backyard, waved to the neighbors, and jumped in.”

  “Bet Ed liked that.” Ed Barron was their next-door neighbor, a retired accountant from the IRS.

  “Dad, it’s not funny! I was so embarrassed.”

  Johnston stifled his sigh. “Val, you do realize—”

  “I need a break, Dad!”

  “You do realize I’m in the middle of an international crisis, honey?”

  “I don’t care! It’s always something. You’ve always put your job ahead of your family. Dragging us all over the world, and now this bull-shit with Homeland Security. Mom needs you. I need you.” Her voice was growing more shrill as she went along, gaining momentum. Johnston figured it was only a matter of time before she started bringing up every childhood grievance she’d ever had, every punishment, every missed concert, play, or parent-teachers conference. His thirty-eight-year-old daughter had her own problems including a bitter divorce and current unemployment in her chosen field of interior design, but most of her problems existed solely in her head.

  “Valerie, this is a really bad—”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “I am, Val, but I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” He clicked off the phone, powered it down, and rushed back into the PEOC just as Richard Coffee’s next television appearance began.

  Ten minutes later Johnston stared at the video monitor, now blank. He had spent his years in the military sending men and women on missions that would surely kill some of them. It was part of the calculus of warfare, and he had learned to live with it.

  Still, he counted Derek Stillwater as more than one of his soldiers. He considered him a friend, and he wished now that he had never sent Derek undercover at the resort. Not that there had been any argument from Derek. Derek, who normally rejected any involvement with DHS, had a bond with Richard Coffee. And Johnston knew it was more than a desire for vengeance or justice. Derek wanted to believe that somewhere in the madness that was The Fallen Angel still lived Richard Coffee, U.S. soldier and friend.

  He reached out with a shaky hand and downed half a glass of water. Pressing a hand to his stomach, he quelled a pang of stomach pain. Probably an ulcer, he thought. Or hoped. He hoped it wasn’t something like stomach cancer that would leave his wife in the incapable hands of their neurotic only daughter.

  He looked over at General Puskorius. Puskorius looked like he had swallowed a live cat.

  “Go ahead,” Johnston said. “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “I hope your boy’s got balls.”

  Johnston nodded. “He does, but that doesn’t mean he’ll turn himself in. Would you?”

  Puskorius opened his mouth to respond when President Newman stood up. He did that whenever he wanted people to listen to him, Johnston noted.

  “Don’t you think turning over half this operation to a Russian is nuts?”

  Johnston shook his head. “No sir, I don’t. We’re running through our chain of command so fast I’m glad to have anybody with experience in there. Besides, she’s advising and consulting. She’s not actually in charge. And I’ve read Khournikova’s file, or at least as much of it as the FSB would release to me. She was so directly involved in the Pitchfork business that when it was all over I wanted as much information on her as I could get. She has been very insightful when it comes to The Fallen Angels. She knows as much about them as anybody.” He winced as another bolt of pain jabbed at his gut.

  Secret Service Director O’Malley said, “I pulled up the file on Brenda LeVoi. She’s a little green, but her track record is excellent. And frankly, she’s just about as good as we’re going to be able to do without flying people in. Think how many agents we lost inside the ballroom! Easily half our contingent.”

  President Newman snarled, “We need to find out how Coffee had so much inside knowledge. We need to clean house. Look how it’s going to play to the world— Secret Service agents turned terrorists. O’Malley, you have to answer to this! And you, Johnston!”

  Johnston, voice soft, said, “Let’s solve the problem before we start pointing the finger, Mr. President. We’re juggling flaming torches here and we can’t afford to lose our concentration.” He wondered if Newman wanted this problem solved. In his darkest heart of hearts, Newman probably wanted President Langston killed during this debacle so he could take over the reins of the presidency.

  “Shit,” Puskorius said. “The goddamned Fallen Angels don’t exist anymore. Except in those helicopters over the Gulf.” He turned to look at President Newman. “Mr. President, we have to make a decision about them and we have to make it now.”

  Director Ballard said, “The Colombian government was just on the line telling us they would shoot them down if they come near their air space.”

  “We’ll shoot them down ourselves,” the president said. He looked directly at General Puskorius. “Do it. That’s an order.”

  “Yes sir.” Puskorius reached for the phone.

  Chapter 70

  Derek checked his watch. Three minutes. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Inhaled again. Moving over toward the lights, he raised the MP-5, prepared to smash the stock down on one of the fixtures so he could catch Juarez’s attention, tell him he was coming to surrender.

  He froze as a dim pounding reached his ears. What was it?

  Crouching, he peered down below. Everybody in the ballroom had turned toward one of the doors near the stage that led out onto the hallway.

  Juarez jerked his rifle, indicating to one of his men to check the door. He pulled out the PDA he had taken from Coffee, waiting. Three of Juarez’s men gathered around the door, MP-5s raised and aimed at whoever was behind it.

  “Now!” Juarez said, and clicked a button.

  One of the terrorists shoved the door open. Maria fell into the ballroom, using a broom as a rude crutch. She shouted in Spanish, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s me! Don’t shoot El Presidente Langston.”

  Derek clenched his fists, cursing under his breath.

  The terrorists picked her up by the arms. She cried out in pain as they dragged her toward the center of the room in front of Juarez. He glared down at her.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Maria Sanchez.”

  Juarez reached out and caught her throat in his hand, squeezing. “Who are you?” he snarled. “FBI? Secret Service?”

  Derek swung his gun around. He slowly pushed it through the crack, widening it so he could see. He aimed the MP-5’s sights directly on the back of Juarez’s neck. It was an awkward firing position, and he was concerned that if he hit Juarez from this angle at this range with a 10-mm round it would go right through him and into Maria.

  “Nobody,” Maria croaked out. “I … I work for the resort.”

  He shook her, voice loud. “I don’t believe you! How could you have killed so many? Are you a cop? A soldier? Who are you?”

  Maria sobbed, voice weak. “Let … go. I’ll … I’ll tell you about Derek … Stillwater.”

  Juarez flung her away. She crumpled to the floor with an agonized scream, sobbing and gasping for air.

  “Where is Derek Stillwater? Where? Tell me!”

  “He’s—” Maria sobbed. “He’s dead.”

  Derek closed his eyes. Maria, he thought. Be careful.

  Juarez’s gaze was as flat and unblinking as a reptile’s. Finally he brought his MP-5 around and pressed the barrel to Maria’s forehead. She closed her eyes, but said nothing.

  “How?” Juarez asked.

  She opened her eyes to look at him.

  “Some German.”

  Juarez seemed startled by this. “And the German? Perro Loco. What of him?”

  “I shot him— while they were fighting.”

  Derek realized he was holding his breath and let it out slowly. Good, Maria. Stick to the truth as much as possible. Ple
ase.

  “And Stillwater?”

  She looked away, shaking her head. “Dead.”

  “How?”

  “A … a knife fight. The German cut … cut his throat.” She raised her hands to show the blood.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “I fell. Down some stairs.”

  “Where is Perro Loco? Where is Stillwater?”

  Derek tensed, waiting.

  She didn’t reply. Juarez bent over, caught up a fistful of her hair and pulled so she was looking at him. “Where are the bodies?”

  “In the basement.”

  “Where?”

  “In … in the furnace room.”

  He flung her away and started toward one of his men.

  Maria turned from where she cowered on the floor and shouted at him. “What do you people think you’re doing? Don’t you realize this is suicidal? You can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this.”

  Juarez stopped, turned, and knelt in front of her. “My family was murdered by government soldiers. My mother and father and sister and baby brother were raped and murdered by those animals. They have to pay.”

  “Nobody’s going to pay except you! Don’t you realize you can’t do this forever? It’s only been a few hours. They’ll figure out a way in. They’ll blow up the doors and storm in here and shoot you down like dogs! All these lives will be wasted. The world already heard what you wanted. We’ve heard your message! But you can’t—”

  He reached out as if to stroke her cheek, but instead backhanded her across the face. His voice was low but clear. “Do you think we are fools? Do you think this is all we want? Did you not understand The Fallen Angel? We may be willing to martyr ourselves to a cause, but we will bring a plague onto mankind.”

  Derek pulled back the gun and pressed himself to the opening, straining to hear every word.

  Maria, holding a hand to where he had hit her, sobbed out, “I don’t … I don’t understand. What plague?”

  Juarez stood up. He laughed. “Let them come, Maria. Let them blow down the doors and take our lives. We will still succeed. Because The Fallen Angel and myself, The Angel of Death, have planted the seeds of the world’s destruction in this building.”