by R. A. McGee
But the number Klaus had tracked had led him here. The industrial park was a bit outside of the general DC metro area, but not so far as to be inconvenient. The building was three stories, covered in brick, with dozens of windows on the two sides he could see. Surrounding the building was some sort of junkyard, abandoned cars strewn about, with the odd trailer from a semi thrown in.
Clark had watched the building for nearly two hours. The afternoon sun was bright overhead, but he hadn't seen any movement. He’d moved to different spots in the industrial park, getting a better vantage point, but saw no one.
He’d been on missions where he was waiting to ambush someone. The more people there were involved, the less likely that everyone could stay completely hidden. Eventually, some idiot would get complacent and move, spotlight themselves. If not that, the morning coffee would run through person after person, making it impossible to sit without finding somewhere to relieve themselves. Eventually, everyone moved.
Not here. No one, not for two hours. Clark thought it was impossible to have everyone locked down for that long, but waited another hour just in case.
He eyes strained at the binos, trying to get some hint of movement. The dull roar in his shoulder had turned into a full-blown primal scream, the site of his stitches inflamed and painful.
In the face of no better plan, Clark decided he’d kept Lucy waiting long enough. Picking his way back through the other warehouses, overgrown lots, and poorly paved roads, Clark came to his ride. He popped the trunk and considered his options.
Exeter/Dixon had a nice stash of weaponry, which had saved Clark the hassle of going to another of his caches. Clark pulled a southwestern-patterned blanket back, revealing a 16-inch AR-15. Not the fully automatic version he’d carried in the military, but close enough. Clark moved it, and the six magazines that accompanied it, out of the way.
There was also a set of soft body armor. Clark was larger than Exeter, and the vest was two sizes smaller than what he normally wore. A little narrow in the chest, not covering as much as it should. A little small on the sides, leaving a gap in protection, as the Velcro straps strained to close the armor. Not ideal, but much better than nothing.
His own Glock rode his hip, and he had plenty of extra magazines. He slipped the sling of the AR over his neck and under his armpit, then slammed the door shut. He picked his way through the abandoned vehicles to the right side of the building.
Bordered on the rear by a canal, the back way would afford him the most hidden means of entry. Stalking along the canal, Clark came to a barbed-wire fence. Poorly staked to the earth, it had begun to curl up at the bottom over the years. Clark pulled it up toward him and ducked underneath it. He used old cars as cover, slipping between them, stopping every so often to wait and be still, listening for anyone else.
He made his way past a rusted old pickup truck, then it was only open space between him and the back corner of the building. Taking one last look, Clark sprinted across the open area, exposed to anyone who was watching. He hurtled behind the corner, trying to press himself into the wall and make himself as small as possible.
No shouts were heard; no bullets impacted his body, trying to keep him from his goal. Clark hopped up on the lid of an industrial-sized garbage dumpster, brown and pocked with rust.
Placing his hands securely behind a large drainpipe that ran from the roof to the ground, he wrenched as hard as he could, testing its sturdiness. Confident it would hold, he flipped the slung rifle behind him, gripped the drainpipe, and placed his feet, one at a time, on the vertical brick surface.
Hand over hand he climbed the wall, out of sight of windows, and worked his way to the roof. He straddled the roofline, then brought his other leg over, dropping four feet onto the asphalt roof tiles, pulling his rifle in front of him, looking for a sentry hidden behind the roofline.
There was no one. Moving quickly, Clark checked the entire perimeter, then walked over to the three-quarter-sized door that led into the building. He tried the knob, but it was securely shut. Turning it as far as it could go, Clark heard the metal groan. Then he shouldered through the door, sending it askew on broken hinges.
The musky smell of the building wafted up at Clark, but he heard nothing, so he stepped down the metal stairs and onto the third level.
The warehouse was empty space—a run-down remnant of what appeared to be a masonry company, judging by the small piles of brick and various stones on the floor.
With no walls up, the only things obstructing Clark’s view of the entire floor were dozens of large, metal support beams that held the structure together.
The light coming through the grimy windows was strong, and Clark saw the floor was empty.
Except for a woman sitting in a chair, strapped down, with a hood on.
Fifty-Seven
Clark hesitated for a moment, pushing aside the feeling of rushing to aid the woman in the chair. This was a trap. There was no telling what was waiting for him when he got to Lucy.
After looking around for a few moments, two things occurred to Clark. First was that there was legitimately no one else on the floor. The space was too open to hide anyone. If it was an ambush, it would take the assailants time to get to him from wherever they were hiding.
The second thing that he realized was that he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to leave Lucy tied to the chair one moment longer than she needed to be. Rifle raised, he walked over to her, muzzle sweeping back and forth as he went.
Closing the last yard, he reached out and snatched the hood off the woman. But it wasn’t Lucy.
Immediately her hands shot up from behind her back, pistol pointed toward Clark. Acting out of instinct rather than any conscious thought, he grabbed the muzzle with his left hand, held it tight, and pushed it away from him.
The woman shot out of the chair, hand still on her pistol, and launched a kick toward his head. He blocked it with his right arm, then crashed a big hook into the woman’s stomach. At the same time, he yanked the pistol from her hands, then pushed her back into the chair.
“Angela? What the hell are you doing here?”
The blonde looked up at him, mic on her throat, tiny camera rig on a headband above her ear. She sputtered as she spoke, the fist in her belly having sapped her wind. “I could ask you the same, Clark. I guess McHenry was right about you being a traitor.”
Clark’s eyes darted around. Angela was a Blackthorn employee, tasked to another team leader. If she was here, then Blackthorn was here. Somehow, McHenry had set him up. “A traitor? I’m trying to save my friend.”
“Not the way we heard it. The Old Man sent us to bring you in.”
“Who’s ‘us’?”
“The guys were waiting downstairs to jump you when you came in. But I knew better—you wouldn’t come strolling in the front door. You might be crooked, but you’re not an idiot.”
“How many?”
She shrugged from the chair. “Does it matter? They’ll be here soon. Be smart. Lie down on the ground. Save everyone a lot of effort.”
Clark wasn’t hearing her, his head calculating what had happened. McHenry wouldn’t have involved Blackthorn unless he was sure he’d covered his track well enough from both the Costa Rican kidnapping of one of his own assets and the leak of information to the Mexican cartel. He would be too afraid that Clark could dime him out with the info he’d gathered from Lucy.
He would only make this move if he felt he’d buried the information. What had changed?
“Clark? Listen, no one wants this to go bad, least of all you. All you need to do is put your gun down and let us take you in.”
“You know I won’t do that.”
“I know. But I had to try.”
Clark put her hood back on and punctuated it with an open-hand slap across Angela’s face. The woman went limp, sliding from the chair and onto the floor.
Aware that there could be no one above him in the building, Clark knew the threat would be coming from below. He char
ged over to the stairwell, pushed open the fire door, and heard the noise of boots on the ground and the metal clips of rifle slings and body armor clanking.
He closed the door and leaned against the wall, waiting for his former colleagues to make their way up the stairs. Keeping his rifle slung, he reached down and picked up a brick, slipping two fingers into each hole, his thumb wrapped around the back.
The noise from the stairwell stopped and everything was quiet. Clark knew what was coming, so he closed his eyes and pushed his left palm against his left ear, raising his shoulder to bury his right ear into it.
The door opened a crack and two silver, cylindrical objects slipped in. Seconds later, a deafening boom shook the third floor, with an accompanying flash of light. Clark felt the impact in his chest and kept his ears covered for as long as he dared.
Then they came in.
The first man through the door turned to the right, the muzzle of his barrel nearly hitting Clark. Clark grabbed the rifle and yanked it out of the man’s hands, slamming the brick into the side of his balaclava-clad face.
The man went limp, but Clark held him up, using his body as a shield as four more men with rifles flooded into the room behind him. There was dust and debris from the flashbang grenades, helping to mask his presence. Their attention elsewhere, Clark slipped behind the last man into the hallway, the door closing behind him.
He knew he had only seconds before they realized he was gone. The simple solution would have been to shoot them all. Easy and quick. Clark had dealt with far greater numbers before.
But these were men he’d worked and bled with. He even liked some of them. It wasn’t their fault that McHenry had sent them after him. Hell, for all they knew, his disavow was legit and they were doing the country a service tracking him down.
No, Clark wouldn’t kill them, not unless he had no choice. His altruism stopped at his own life or life in prison.
Leaping down the stairs a flight at a time, Clark had just reached the first floor when bullets impacted the metal stairs in front of him. Something slammed into his rib cage. The bite was too great to be a ricochet, and the ill-fitting vest had failed him.
He ducked into the door to that level and was surprised to see a maze of cubicles. Falling down and in disarray, they were a complement to a matted, gray, industrial linoleum that ran throughout the space.
Clark sprinted to the end of the room, diving behind a flimsy wall just as the door swung open and more flashbangs were deployed.
He didn’t have time to cover his ears, but this time he was far enough away that there was only a minor ringing in his ears.
He doubled back, down an empty aisle, sprinting toward the door. They’d think he was in the rear of the room, hiding. In reality, he was closing the distance. He stopped short, ducking into a cubicle, waiting for his pursuers.
Brick held tightly in his hand, he breathed deeply, trying to steady himself. He peeked around the cubicle, at the front door, saw it kick open, and counted three men move in after him.
They fanned out, trying to cover more ground. All of them moved as quietly as they could, heel to toe on the linoleum, but they weren’t quiet enough.
Despite the faint ringing in his ears, Clark heard the squeaking of boots, and waited until someone was in the cubicle next to him, then sprang out.
He pushed the muzzle of the rifle away from him and slammed the brick against that side of the man’s head. The man struggled and Clark hit him again, this time knocking him out before he could alert his companions, who were further in the room, intently searching for him. Clark dragged the unconscious man into the cubicle, pushed him under the empty desk, then pulled the man’s balaclava off.
He recognized the man. Hartley was a former Marine, a big jarhead whom Clark had worked with before. Vulgar and brash, but competent. Clark hoped he hadn't hurt the man too badly. He stepped out of the cubicle, into the empty aisle in front of him, and turned right toward the exit door.
With any luck, he could slip out while the other two men searched the space.
Instead, a short man with an MP-5 turned the end of the aisle. Before he could be noticed, Clark stepped back the way he’d come, away from the precious exit door, crouching near the far wall.
Another man was there, moving away from Clark, thoroughly sweeping his rifle through each abandoned cube along the way.
Clark set the brick down and pulled his knife, flicking the blade on the Spyderco open and holding it with an icepick grip. He crept down the middle of the aisle, directly behind the searcher. As the man looked left and right, Clark moved closer, hidden in the man’s blind spot.
Now within arm’s reach, Clark reached out and grabbed the rifle sling running across the man’s broad back. He pulled it tight, snatching the rifle out of the man’s hands and pinning it uselessly against his chest.
At the same time, Clark reached down and sunk his knife deep into the man’s hamstring. The man cried out in pain. Clark yanked the man off-balance, and slammed him backward onto the dirty linoleum.
The man struggled, but Clark crashed two big left hands into his nose and silenced him. Clark didn’t bother to move the man into hiding. There was only one pursuer left, and Clark was just about done with sneaking. He was back on his feet and around the corner.
He peeked down the next aisle, and saw a flash of the short man moving toward the noise his friend had made. Away from the exit door. Clark waited for a moment, then sprinted down the aisle, towards the exit. He’d have a clear shot to escape.
As he neared the door, the barrel of the short man’s muzzle appeared around the corner. Which was wrong. The man was moving to the back of the space—he shouldn’t have been there.
Unless he’d decided against checking on his partner. Unless the short man had figured out Clark was headed to the exit, and doubled back to meet him there.
Clarks rifle was still slung to his back. He spun it to the front, and snapped it up as he moved.
The rest of the short man’s body appeared around the corner, and Clark had no choice.
Him or me.
As the man finished rounding the corner, he looked up to orient himself. Clark raised his rifle, aimed the red dot, and pulled the trigger.
Fifty-Eight
Clark shot the man three times, careful to stay in the center of his body armor, near the spot where the extra-thick bulletproof plate would be. As the man stumbled backward, Clark tracked the dot to the right and shot him in the shoulder.
The man sprawled out, screaming and writhing in pain. His arm lay uselessly by his side.
“You fucker,” the short man screamed. “I can’t believe you shot me.”
“Be glad I didn’t aim higher.”
The man coughed and sputtered on the floor. “What about my arm?”
“When you wake up, you’re gonna have to ask a doctor.”
Clark kicked the man in the side of the head and his screaming stopped. He waited at the side of the door, in case anyone was drawn to the volley of gunfire.
The burned smell of propellant hung heavy in the air. All Clark could think of was a cigarette. The taste rose up in the back of his mouth and he pushed it away, concentrating on the task at hand.
Several long moments passed and he heard nothing in the stairwell. Clark knew he couldn’t wait all day to move, so he bit the bullet, slung the door open and, after a quick scan, continued down the stairwell to the ground level.
Pushing out the door, the bright sunlight stung his eyes, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. He stayed close to the side of the building until he could see better.
“Big Man,” Terry Hakagawa’s southern accent called out, “I’m thinking you may want to stop now.”
Clark walked out into the open. The stitches in his right arm were a wreck, and blood streamed down his forearm, as well as from the wound in his side. He was losing blood fast. He willed himself forward, limping toward the sound of the voice. “Listen, Terry, this isn’t re
al. All this is bullshit.”
“I can’t get a hold of any of my guys from inside the building. No one’s answering their comms. I’d say a building full of dead operatives is a big deal.”
“They aren’t dead.”
“The hell you say.”
“Why would I lie? I could have killed those guys, but I didn’t.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Terry said. “Dust comes to town, everyone goes down, ain’t that how it goes around the office?”
“Whatever.” Clark stopped walking and Terry stepped out from behind a rust-colored Buick. His MP-5 was leveled at Clark, unwavering. “Why are you guys even here?”
“Beats me. McHenry came in and said this was a priority. Said you’ve lost it. Started working with some criminal elements. He said you’re disavowed, Czerny. What the fuck’s going on?”
“McHenry’s dirty as sin. He did it.”
“It? You need to be more specific.”
“Remember when Banks was taken in Costa Rica? McHenry set that whole thing up.”
“I thought that was David Butterfield?”
“Damn it, Terry, listen to what I’m saying. He framed Butterfield. It was easy, Butterfield’s so dumb and no one likes him anyway. But it wasn’t David, it was McHenry.”
Terry motioned to the hood of a car. “Why don’t you lean against that, Big Boy. You ain't looking so hot.” His MP-5 never wavered as he stepped aside and let Clark prop himself up.
“Thanks,” Clark said. He took a few deep breaths to stop his head from spinning. “You still smoke?”
“Gave it up a few months ago. Apparently it’s bad for you.”
Clark gestured to his arm and his side. “So’s a lot of things.”
The two stood in silence for a few moments. “You know he arranged for my girl to be killed?”
“Come again?”
“Remember when my place was firebombed?”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Terry said.
