by LC Champlin
“How?” Administrator access to the servers?
“Elementary.”
Footsteps behind them made Nathan turn. A terrorist with a shemagh wrapped around his face and outfitted like the others halted beside Cheel’s hound, a plate carrier in hand.
“Your accoutrements as requested, Mr. Serebus.” Cheel grinned. “Titanium plates, of course.”
“Only the best.”
“There are no weapons. Your smartphone and wallet are included, however.”
The guard held the armor up and Cheel nodded; Nathan ducked into it. A terrorist for a page? The whole situation made his skin crawl.
“You also have your radio. Do not delay further.”
++++++++++++
Weapons up, Albin and Behrmann darted to an abandoned dump truck that hulked alongside the road.
“Where are we headed?” Behrmann whispered from beside Albin, her back against a rear tire.
How had the view from the helicopter looked? Industrial buildings, car parks . . . Ah, a vacant lot that stored concrete road barriers lay southwest. South of that sat a car dealership or rental agency, if he judged by the parking layout with the vehicles boxing each other in.
He leaned out for a glance around, then replied as he retracted, “The carpentry business. What are you going to do?”
“Wait.” She turned to the truck cab. “Give me thirty seconds and I’ll join you.”
One eye on his surroundings, Albin watched as the newshound holstered the handgun in her vest and hurried to the passenger door. She fiddled with something at her waist, then withdrew a wire, the type usually used for clothes hangers. After a glance around, she climbed to the door and peered through the window.
Fifteen seconds, Albin wanted to warn, but held his tongue.
Balancing on the step, Behrmann bent the wire, then slid it between the rubber seal and the window. A few moments of fishing . . . Albin allowed a smile of approval as she pulled the door open and ducked inside. The press did indeed open doors.
Behrmann trotted back to his side, pistol at the ready. “It’s a great vantage point. The rock shield over the cab gives some cover from the snipers, too.”
He gave her a curt nod. “I am glad your misspent youth is useful.”
They advanced to the next vehicle, a pickup truck.
Movement on the right snapped the rifle toward the neighboring building. Two figures shambled from behind a hedgerow.
“It’s—”
“Move!” The cannibals hadn’t spotted them yet.
He and his shadow sprinted across the street, using a car as concealment. Once at the opening in the lot’s chain-link fence, he led the way along the weed-covered barrier. Ahead lay the concrete road barriers stacked like boards in a lumberyard. Tractor tires had churned the sand into ruts.
Across the fence at the southern end of the lot resided the woodworking company, according to the sign that rose above the car park.
At the fence’s angle, he wedged his foot into the wire and swung over. Behrmann came over a moment later as he headed west, toward the building’s rear. The roof projected over the alley for the remaining stretch.
Around the corner he found the structure’s carport-like rear deserted. Ah, there, a service door. As he halted at the ingress, he raised the AKM butt. Glass shattered with the blow. Next came the torch, which flicked about the shop’s rear. Lumber, professional-grade saws, lathes, partially completed projects . . . By pressing himself against the wall, he could glimpse the area adjacent to the door. There, the security system keypad near the door: dark with the power outage and exhausted battery.
Behrmann arrived, face bright with exhilaration, her weapon thankfully not pointed at him. “What are we waiting for?”
“Shh.” He reached through and unlocked the door.
Weapon up, he eased inside. Quietly—
“Hey! Is anybody here!”
He jumped, heart clenching hard enough to make him wince. “Shut up!” he hissed, rounding on her. He turned back to pan the assault rifle over the dark interior.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Behrmann chided. “Why would there be bad guys here? If there are, they’d have heard the glass break already. If there are regular people here, like the owner or workers, they need to know we’re not going to hurt them.”
“Are you familiar with the concept of safety first?” He advanced deeper into the workshop. “Next time, you may be first through the door to take fire from illogical ‘bad guys.’”
“We don’t want to hurt you!”
Rigid, Albin about-faced to come nose to nose with her, or rather neck to nose due to height. “Do you have short-term memory loss? Precisely what part of—”
“Look, nobody’s here.”
“Go on.” Smiling like a perfect host, he stepped aside with a sweep of his arm toward the rest of the building.
She returned the smile. “I shall.”
Chapter 71
Between the Lines
Human – Rag’n’Bone Man
If no one occupied the shop, Behrmann’s expedition would give Albin time to think. If she walked into an ambush, well, then he would know where the hostiles were lurking.
With a sigh he began a sweep of the workshop. He needed to prepare for the riskiest negotiation of his career. Scenarios formed in his mind and queued for evaluation.
First, extraction options. The ransom/hostage exchange would set the stage for departure. Logic dictated the terrorists would use fast transport. An aircraft, likely a helicopter. The landing place? Somewhere close with good cover, easy access. The car park. Otherwise, the roof. A walkway connected the buildings at the second floor, eliminating the need to risk crossing the street. Ground transport would arrive for the main troop body, unless they planned to commit homicide attacks or disperse into the city.
Along the wall he explored tool chests. Cardboard, box cutters, a carpenter pencil, tape . . . Now he made progress! He dropped them on a workbench.
Where to position himself for the most effective attack? Cover the roof from . . . the other roof. This meant he needed to return to the original building and gain the third floor with its roof access.
Behrmann reentered the workshop, still in one piece. Either her guess proved correct, or the ‘bad guys’ sent her as bait.
“I infer from the absence of a triumphant shout that you found nothing of use,” he stated, hunting through a tool chest drawer.
Brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face, she came to his side to inspect his finds. “There was a set of keys, but I don’t like the idea of starring in an action flick scene where a missile—”
“RPG.”
“RPG hits my truck.”
“Do they include a key fob?”
“Yeah. Here.” She pulled them out of her pocket, dropped them into his waiting hand. “Why?”
Panic button? Yes. He clipped them to a belt loop. “It may prove a useful distraction.”
“The phones are still out.”
“The lines were likely damaged during the earthquake, or perhaps were cut on purpose.” Challenges inspired him, but at this point he would appreciate a simple airlift out.
“The box cutter on the table is for your use,” he added, straightening from the drawer.
“Better than a pen, I suppose. Now what do you have in mind? I say we—”
The radio cut her off.
“Mr. Conrad, do you copy?” The assured voice of Nathan Serebus echoed around the shop. Mr. Conrad?
“I copy, sir.” Albin shot Behrmann a look of triumph as he keyed the handset.
“How close are you?”
“How close should I be?” He needed to read between the lines and hear every word, every nuance.
“I’ve made some new business associates similar to those at Cyril.” The kidnappers with whom he feigned cooperation. “They want all the data you’re holding. We made a gentleman’s agreement, and
they’ve offered compelling terms. I believe we can trust them, at least more than our government’s people. And don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“As expected, sir. How do you propose we conduct the exchange?”
“Ah, it’s a delivery, not an exchange.”
“Sir?” As predicted, the terrorists eschewed a prisoner/ransom exchange.
“Myself and the others are accompanying them. They’ve offered you an opening as well. It’s really a better deal than we worked out with the fucking DHS.”
Profanity. Things began to grow clearer.
“This Istiqaamah group’s leader is a clear-thinking man at least. These people are offering fast transport out of here, too.”
“Is he serious—”
Albin held a hand up for silence. “Do I understand correctly that you are . . . voluntarily siding with these terrorists?” Istiqaamah? A branch of the Daesh, or perhaps Al Qaida?
“Problem? I found the canoe; you have the paddle. I can see how you’d be confused and pissed off at me. I felt the same way at St. Regis with the bodyguard. You have every right to, but this is my day in the sun. I can read the writing on the wall. I can take advantage of this disorder to keep from being crushed. Remember who you work for. You’re to keep your mouth shut and do as I fucking order. Understood?”
“What is he—”
Albin mimed slitting his throat as he took several steps away from her noise.
“Quite clearly, sir.”
“Good. Choose a suitable place for the handoff. I’ll do it myself, but these gentlemen will be providing protection.”
“I disapprove of this idea, but I will discharge my duty. Leave the radio on. I will provide directions in approximately seven minutes. The time begins now. Out.”
Albin let out a breath, then turned to Behrmann. “The clock is ticking.”
++++++++++++
The first domino fell.
Nathan cocked his head as he turned to Cheel. “As I said, he won’t risk his life for this. Now, you have less than seven minutes to place your men—”
“I am aware.” Congeniality in the smile, mastery in the deep-set eyes. “Please bear in mind I reserve the right to veto an inappropriate retrieval site.”
Cheel motioned to Ali, who stepped closer. Orders in Arabic followed. With a nod Ali turned on his heel and strode down the hall, delivering assignments via his HT.
“Let us go, Mr. Serebus,” Cheel began, facing Nathan again. “Logically the rendezvous point will be outside the building, for your man will not risk being trapped.”
“Should he be worried about being trapped?”
Cheel waved for Nathan to follow him down the hall. “I will possess the data and the unexpected bonus of your cooperation. Add to these blessings the people who accompanied you, and I will not ask Allah for more.” They lacked the necessary manpower and interest to hunt down one man. “After I obtain the data,” Cheel related as they sidestepped a terrorist goon who double-timed past them, “our transportation will arrive.”
One step behind Cheel and two ahead of the goat-fucker guards, Nathan kept quiet as they descended the stairs.
Thud-thud-thud.
Dull thunder rumbled above. Gunfire. It halted him, drew his attention to the ceiling as if he could see through the concrete and steel.
Cheel’s radio crackled with a babble of Arabic. Face dark, spine rigid, the terrorist chief barked orders over the mic.
The third-floor fire door banged open and a masked gunman pounded down the steps to speak to Cheel. With a slicing gesture, the Indian snapped an order that sent the man running back upstairs.
“What happened?” Nathan demanded.
Cheel leveled an iron-hard gaze at him. “The hazards of the situation will be dealt with appropriately.”
“Hazards? Someone attacked?” No, they couldn’t have reached the third floor without notice. Albin wouldn’t attempt something so foolish. Besides, if the gunman had taken Albin or Josephine, Cheel would trumpet his victory. An escape attempt by the hostages wouldn’t stimulate the present reaction. Mutiny? Unthinkable. Cannibal infection in the ranks?
“Come,” Cheel turned and continued down the stairs.
Two gunmen waited in the middle of the airy lobby. An empty security desk guarded the back wall, looking over the deserted parking lot.
“Go, Mr. Serebus,” the terrorist chief ordered with a nod toward the glass doors. “I will be watching.”
Chapter 72
Devils in the Details
The Draw – Bastille
“What are you doing?” Behrmann yelped, at Albin’s elbow.
“Giving over the data,” he muttered as the conversation replayed in his mind. Seven minutes plus the time Mr. Serebus took to reach the pickup location remained for Albin to decipher the code. Missing even one nuance could bring disaster. Albin closed his eyes, centered his thoughts.
Miles away, Behrmann prattled: “The data’s our only leverage—”
Fast transport, Cyril, the bodyguard, trust—they all made sense, but what about the all the data remark? Only one drive existed.
“You can’t seriously be considering handing it over when they’re not even releasing—”
Then the order regarding the rendezvous point . . . The location made all the difference, but what it influenced depended on the plan as a whole.
“I can’t believe he’d turn like that!”
“Remember for whom I work,” Albin repeated, rubbing the back of his neck in thought.
“He didn’t even sound like himself. Is he pretending? Did they do something to him?”
Albin’s eyes snapped open as he wheeled about. “Do shut up, Ms. Behrmann. I have work to do. You may follow my leadership, provide useful information, or step aside.”
She blinked at him for a moment, then shook her head as if dust had flown into her eyes. “Sorry? You have some sort of plan now, or are you switching sides too? At this point I really think we should consider how much this data is worth to the gunmen—”
“Terrorists.” Albin shouldered past her, heading for the workbench that held his salvage. “If you truly wish to save the lives of your friends and to make an impact, trust me.”
Behrmann crossed her arms, frowning. “I do trust you, but that doesn’t make him sound like less of a dick.”
At the table, Albin began to tear off strips of tape. “It’s part of a larger picture. Mr. Serebus avoids using profanity around his family. He meant to call attention to the sentence,” he explained as he laid the strips on the cardboard.
“About taking orders? That’s pretty obvious.”
“From the moment I assumed my role as adviser, he insisted I do not work for him, but that we work together. I am to consider myself a consultant who advises only one client. I do not take orders.” He smoothed the crosspiece of the A.
Behrmann cocked her head as she looked at the design on the cardboard. “That’s the Arete Technologies logo.”
“A gold star for you.” He flipped the cardboard over.
“All right, if he’s not being an a-hole, what’s he saying?”
I wish I knew. He took up the pencil. Day in the sun, writing on the wall? A smile grew as realization dawned.
“God, you’re smiling.” Behrmann eyed him, then she too smiled. “You know, don’t you. Or you think you know.”
“I do.” What he had pieced together appeared as daring and high-stakes as the best Serebus plans; he must have interpreted the clues as intended.
The pencil scratched across the cardboard: Car park across the street. Else return. Or Mors Ab Alto w/surrender.
“Death from above? What’s the last part mean?”
She understood the motto. His tone thawed from admiration: “He will know.”
“You boys like to keep it cryptic, don’t you.”
Albin raised a brow at her while he slid the pencil into his pocket. “I prefer the term ‘secure
.’”
For all his scorn, she handled herself well. Not only did she keep her head, she even stepped up to the challenge by inventing plans.
He started toward the exit. “Sun Tzu.”
“The man who wrote The Art of War?” She trailed him.
“Mr. Serebus keeps a number of quotes framed in his office. One of them is, ‘All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive,’” he continued as he placed the cardboard message on the floor five meters from the door. “‘When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.’”
Her face lit with comprehension. “I get it now.”
Albin unslung the rifle from his back. “Weapon trade time.” He motioned for the Beretta.
“He said sun and writing on the wall.” She ducked into the rifle strap.
“Correct.”
“He wants you to . . . No, that can’t be.” She broke off as she shook her head.
“Yes?”
She sighed, rifle across her chest in a 90% correct form. “You’re going to look like you’ve deserted him. He believes that’ll give him more . . . leverage? Elbow room?”
“Excellent deduction, Ms. Behrmann.” She didn’t require knowledge of Mr. Serebus’s designs on the data.
“Wait a second.” She turned and jogged to the leftmost painting room, disappeared behind the plastic drapes, then reappeared with a folded tarp under her arm. Why . . .?
“We will conduct the transaction in the sand lot to the north.”
“Open enough to keep the gunmen happy, but with cover, too. But”—her brows knit—“what’s his plan after he gets the data?”
What indeed. “Come,” Albin ordered as he eased the door open.
The reporter fell in behind him as they slipped from the building.
