by Mark Terry
Suddenly Matsumoto turned to face him, raised the right hand and sprayed something into Michael’s face.
Michael gasped. His vision darkened. He shook his head and tried to breathe, but his lungs seemed locked up. It felt like he had lost control of his body. He caught just a glimpse of glee on Kevin Matsumoto’s face before he crumpled to the catwalk.
98
7:57 p.m.
CURSING HIS BAD LEG, Derek moved across the catwalk as fast as he could. On the other side of the catwalk, a vast gulf between them, he saw Jill emerge on the other side of the arena.
The two men—Kevin Matsumoto and Michael Church—were battling. Matsumoto shoved Michael. Michael bounced off the railing, lost his balance and fell to the catwalk. For a moment of horror, it looked like Michael would roll right off. His legs swung out into space.
“No!” Derek screamed, pushing himself to move faster.
Michael caught his fingers in the catwalk’s mesh and levered himself back onto the grid, rolling in a smooth, graceful motion onto his feet. With leopard-like fluidity he leapt after Matsumoto, who was rushing toward the remote control.
Derek was closing in when Matsumoto turned his back on him, facing Michael. He raised his right hand and sprayed mist directly into Michael’s face.
Derek saw Michael freeze, his hands raising in a defensive motion in front of him, gasping loudly, then clutching at his chest.
Derek was almost to the remote control. He bent to pick it up and Matsumoto whirled toward him and rushed forward, shoulder down.
Derek, off-balance, swung his crutch in a hard arc, catching Matsumoto in the leg, knocking him off balance.
Matsumoto stumbled over the remote control. It skittered away, behind Derek.
Matsumoto swung his arm wildly. “Get out of my way!”
Derek swung the crutch, again catching Matsumoto in the knee. With a howl, Matsumoto dropped to the metal walkway, clutching his leg. From his crouched position Matsumoto glared up at him. As if spring-loaded, Matsumoto launched himself toward Derek.
Derek braced himself.
But it was a feint.
Matsumoto’s right hand came up.
Derek felt a spray of liquid into his face and tried to hold his breath. He hoped the atomizer was almost empty from being used on Michael. He exhaled sharply, rubbed his face with his sleeve, anything to minimize his exposure. Too late. His vision dimmed. His lungs seized up.
He tried to reach Matsumoto, tried to get one last grip on The Serpent before he passed out ... before he died...
But...
Derek slumped to the metal catwalk, struggling to breathe.
99
7:58 p.m.
JILL CHURCH RUSHED DOWN the catwalk. She had never felt fear like this. “Michael!” she screamed, her voice ragged with emotion. “Michael!”
He collapsed to the catwalk and Kevin Matsumoto grinned.
She saw the grin, saw the glee—the joy!—in his face as he sprayed sarin gas into her son’s face.
As she ran she reached for her gun. Her son! He had killed her son!
Derek Stillwater raced across the catwalk from the other end, reaching for the remote control. Kevin Matsumoto exploded into motion, throwing himself at Derek like a football tackle.
Derek, stooped over, shifted and struck out with his crutch, knocking Matsumoto off balance.
The gun was in her hands. She was closing the distance.
Michael writhed on the platform, hands clutching at his throat.
She heard Matsumoto scream, “Get out of my way!”
She saw Stillwater swing the crutch again. She heard Matsumoto scream, saw him drop to his knees.
And then Matsumoto leapt to his feet and sprayed sarin gas in Derek’s face.
Jill saw Derek stagger, try to reach for Matsumoto, hands outstretched...
Jill stood over her son, gun out, standing in a perfect Weaver stance, feet shoulder’s-width apart, oriented at a 45-degree angle to her target. Her right arm extended, elbow locked. Her left arm was tucked close to the body, hand supporting the right hand. “Kevin!” she shouted.
Matsumoto turned to glare at her. He reached for the remote control.
Jill fired.
And fired.
And fired.
Kevin Matsumoto jerked at each shot, red blossoming on his chest. His body twitched like a marionette. He reached one last time for the remote control.
Jill fired again.
The bullet took him in the heart and he toppled sideways, off the catwalk. He spiraled awkwardly to land with a visceral thunk on the concrete stairs a hundred feet below.
She knelt next to Michael. “Michael! It’s Mom! Michael, hang on!”
Derek Stillwater gasped out, “Jill!”
She looked at him. In his outstretched hand he held the atropine injector. She jumped to him, snatched it out of his hand. There was only enough for one dose.
“Derek—”
”Do it,” he whispered.
She turned back, broke open the injector and slammed it home into her son’s thigh, injecting the antidote into his bloodstream.
With a last, desperate prayer, she turned to Derek and plunged the injector into his leg, hoping there was still some atropine in the cylinder, that it would at least slow down the effects of the poison. He groaned, but did not move. She turned back to her son.
“It’ll be all right, Michael,” she said, holding his hand. “Hold on. It’ll be all right. You did great. Absolutely great! Hang on! Hang on!”
100
9:03 p.m.
JILL SAT WITH MICHAEL in the emergency room at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak. It was the only Level I Trauma Center in Oakland County. There had been some discussion on where to take Michael and Derek, but the FBI agent who ran the HMRU, Zoelig, had loaded them into the Huey and raced off toward Royal Oak.
As she climbed into the helicopter with her son she saw Matt Gray turning to the media available and taking credit for the successful operation. It figured, she thought. Gray was like a cat. He always landed on his feet. She had watched the paramedics and the HMRU doctors working on Derek and her son, noticing the taut, worried expressions on their faces as they took Derek’s vital signs and injected him with drugs. It had been a horrible, sinking feeling for her. Only a partial success. And now Derek … she didn’t want to think about it. He had meant … something to her. She didn’t know what, exactly. Some personal frisson, a little bit of attraction, or potential for something more. Maybe it was just the stress of the crisis, strangers drawn together. She hoped—prayed—Derek would make it.
Now, in the hospital, she turned her attention back to her son. Michael lay on an examining table, an I.V. in his arm, an oxygen mask over his face. He looked up at her. He said, “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head and stroked his hair. She leaned close to him. “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you right now, Michael. Do you realize you saved thousands of lives? You’re a hero. You were so brave...” Her voice broke and she wiped at her eye. “Michael, your father would be so proud of you. You’re an awful lot like him.”
Michael smiled and closed his eyes.
Someone at the door cleared his throat. Jill turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit standing in the doorway. It took a moment to recognize him.
“General—”
General James Johnston, Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, raised his hand and said, “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Johnston was a grizzled man in his early sixties with a military bearing. It was there in the straightness of his spine and the set of his square jaw. It was there in the clear arrow-like way his gaze looked at people. He held out his hand and introduced himself.
“I understand you were instrumental in preventing this final attack. Thank you very much. Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.” She shook his hand. “I was ... it was really Derek who did it, sir.”
Johnston shook his head. “He couldn’t have done it without you. I understand you have some problems facing you with Agent Gray. I’ll help you with that as much as I can. And if you tire of the Bureau, I promise you there will be a future with us at DHS.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
Johnston turned to Michael. “And this is the young man who took on The Serpent single-handedly. I’m very impressed, young man. Very impressed. We’re all thankful. Good work, son.”
Michael shook his hand. He moved the oxygen mask aside and said, “Sir. Is Doctor Stillwater all right?”
Johnston looked him directly in the eye. “I’m sorry, son. Doctor Stillwater didn’t make it. We weren’t able to get him treated quickly enough.”
Michael blinked. “I—”
Johnston patted his shoulder. “He was a good man. And a good friend. I’m very sorry.”
He stepped back, nodded, and said, “If you need anything, Agent Church, just let me know. I’ll have my staff contact you shortly.” He looked at her closely. “And don’t feel guilty about the choice you made. It wasn’t really a choice, after all, was it?”
She shook her head, words catching in her throat.
“All right, then. Good work to both of you.”
Johnston turned on his heel and walked out of the examining room, closing the door behind him.
Jill sat back down and looked at Michael. Michael took a deep breath of oxygen, then pushed the mask aside. His eyes were filled with tears, but he blinked them back. “I wanted to talk to him about...”
She took Michael’s hand. “I’ll tell you about your father. It’s about time I did. Anything you want to know.”
EPILOGUE
9:23 p.m.
DEREK STILLWATER OPENED HIS eyes. He felt like shit. His entire body ached and throbbed. His vision was poor. He found it difficult to focus. Sarin affected the eyes, called miosis, making the pupils constrict. Everything seemed a little dark, despite the lights shining brightly in what apparently was a hospital room.
He turned to see General James Johnston sitting next to his bed. Johnston looked up from a report he was reading. “Hello, Derek.”
“So I died and went to hell.”
Johnston grunted. It might have been a laugh. “You’re alive, my friend. A little worse for wear, but Zoelig was able to get atropine and a few other things into you and get you here.”
“Where’s here?”
“William Beaumont Hospital.”
Derek closed his eyes. He had no memory of getting here. He vaguely remembered gunshots and Jill appearing. He remembered offering her the atropine injector. Then he had no memory after that.
“The Aum are back,” he said.
Johnston nodded. “So it appears.”
“Kevin Matsumoto may be the son of Shoko Asahara. We need to get in touch with the Japanese—”
”I already have.” Johnston held up the report. “My counterpart in Japan faxed me this immediately. Here, look at this.” He handed Derek a photograph. It was of Kevin Matsumoto and a Japanese woman in what looked like a bar.
Derek struggled to focus his eyes. It read: Rika Matsumoto and Kevin Matsumoto (American). Zengenjimachi, Miyakojima-ku, Osaka. It was dated six months earlier.
“That’s Rika? The head of Aleph?”
“Yes,” Johnston said. “The revered daughter of Shoko Asahara. They’ve also sent me a transcript of part of their conversation, although they didn’t get all of it. You know the Japanese National Police have the core of Aum Shinrikyo that aren’t in prison under around-the-clock surveillance.”
“For the last ten years. I thought it was going to end soon.”
Johnston shrugged. “I doubt it’ll ever end. Here, want to read?”
“My eyesight’s not so hot. What’s it say?”
Johnston glanced at the report. “She insists that her father was always faithful to her mother and she doesn’t believe that Kevin is her half-brother. He says a DNA test can prove that he is. She insists that he’s welcome to join Aleph, but he is not a child of Shoko Asahara and has no right to be the leader, that’s her birthright. Then Kevin gets angry, tells her he’s going to prove that he’s the rightful leader of Aum, gets up and stomps out of the bar.”
“Nice of them to share that with us after the fact.”
Johnston nodded. “20/20 hindsight. And so much for intergovernmental cooperation.”
“It never occurs to them that a biochemistry graduate student who think he’s the rightful heir to Aum Shinrikyo might have some nastiness planned.”
“Sakamoto Tsutsumi, my associate in Japan, assures me they would have gotten it to me or the FBI eventually.”
Derek closed his eyes and groaned. Such bullshit. Suddenly he turned to Johnston. “Did Michael make it?”
“He’s better than you. He’ll be fine.”
“Gutsy kid. Takes after his dad.”
“Yes, I understand you knew his father.”
Derek nodded. “A good man. And Jill’s a good woman, too. She’s got some guts, once she starts thinking for herself. I look forward to seeing them.”
Johnston stood up and looked down at Derek. “That may have to wait a while. You’re officially dead.”
Derek groaned. “Oh boy. This is hell after all. What are you doing here? How long have you been here?”
Johnston shook his head. “I got in around eight-thirty. I left as fast as I could after receiving a disturbing telephone call from an FBI agent named Simona Toreanno. It’s a long story and not what I have to say to you right now. I received some top-level intelligence today, Derek. About Coffee.”
Derek struggled to sit up. “What?!”
Johnston pushed him gently back down. “Rest. Take it easy. They think he’s somewhere in the United States. I thought it might be good, especially since this opportunity came up, for Coffee to think you’re dead.”
Derek rested against the pillow, thinking, Kevin Matsumoto and Aum Shinrikyo momentarily forgotten. Richard Coffee. He called himself The Fallen, or The Fallen Angel. The leader of a cult-like group of terrorists determined to obtain a weapon of mass destruction and wreak havoc on the world. A man he had once called a friend.
The Fallen Angel was back in the country.
Derek thought about what General Johnston had done. He smiled. “It’s like the Irish toast, isn’t it?”
Johnston looked puzzled. “What’s that?”
“A famous Irish toast.” Derek smiled again, thinking. Planning. “May you find yourself in heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.”
Preview the next book in the Derek Stillwater series.
The Fallen
1
7:47 a.m.
LIEUTENANT CHARLIE WALKER TRACKED the van rolling down the road toward Checkpoint Delta through his M24 Sniper Rifle’s scope. He had the crosshairs centered on the driver’s head, finger caressing the trigger. Pow! he thought. Pow. Pow. Calm. Like target shooting. Not real flesh and blood. Not a person. Not a human being. Just a target. He rehearsed the kill in his mind. Two shots through the driver’s head. Shift so he could watch the passenger jump out. Pow. Pick him off. Anybody in the rear? Shift to the right, catch them as they scrambled out of the back.
Wearing a Ghillie Suit, a Nomex flight suit camouflaged with leaves and brush, he hid on a hillside overlooking Cheyenne Hills, a sprawling five-star resort outside Colorado Springs at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. A member of the Colorado National Guard’s 19th Special Forces Group, Charlie was invisible among the shrubs and underbrush that covered the slopes.
Darkness covered the hillside, the sun still blocked by the surrounding mountains. The thin Colorado air was cold for mid-June. At sunrise the temperature would jump dramatically. It would be damn near impossible to lay out in a Ghillie Suit in scorching 80-degree sun. He wasn’t looking forward to it. It would be a long hot day. Already he was coated with a slick of sweat. His stomach grumbled. He had a peanut butter energy bar in his pocke
t and a canteen of lukewarm water. But he knew a cold six-pack of Coors was waiting for him when he was done.
He also had to pee. When this van passed through, he would crawl over to a stand of aspen and relieve himself. He had considered the aspens for his sniper nest, but it was a partially obstructed view of Checkpoint Delta. But in the hot daytime sun, he might consider it, at least part of the time. The open sunlight would be brutal.
Charlie peered through AN-PVS 7B Night Vision Goggles, everything glowing green. Charlie slowly swiveled his rifle, tracking the vehicle, a red panel van. The National Guard manned checkpoints at strategic sites along all entrances to Cheyenne Hills in preparation for the G8 Summit. The Summit officially began at 10:00 A.M. with the arrival of twenty heads of state and their entourages. Checkpoint Delta was just west of Cheyenne Hills West, one of the fancy castle-like resort buildings on the west side of Double Mirror Lake.
The red panel van slowed to a stop by the checkpoint. Charlie focused the crosshairs of his rifle sights on the driver’s-side door and waited. How many times tonight? Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? Over and over during the night he repeated the routine and nothing exciting happened. He didn’t think it would. This G8 thing was a big, big deal. The Secret Service ultimately ran security, overseeing Brigadier General Frank Cole’s command of the National Guard troops. From what Charlie could see, Cheyenne Hills was zipped up tighter than a plastic baggie.
Charlie had only two minutes to live.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the “lunch club” at Henry Ford Hospital’s cytogenetics lab. Those lunches were some of the best things about working there. Thanks to Judy Bailey, Jessica Sanchez, Nicole Ballard, Bedford Embrey, Jill Crouchman, John Hou, Trish Ritchie, Martha Chu, and the various people who rotated in and out of the group.
