Cold Shot: A Novel

by Henshaw, Mark

  Cooke looked at Drescher, murder on her face. “You want me to call the White House?” he asked

  She took five seconds to answer. “Not yet,” she finally said. “But soon. We have more immediate priorities.” Cooke looked toward the screen. “Call Jon and Mills.”

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  The padlock dropped open. Kyra lifted it, swung the latch out, then replaced the lock. The doorknob turned easily in her hand and she moved inside and closed the door in a single movement. No yells. No shots. She’d made it inside. Getting back out to the fence would be no easier—

  One thing at a time.

  The darkness was broken by the system status lights on a series of rack-mounted servers and other gear. It was cooler here than outside, with the air suffering from the processed smell of air-conditioning. The small building had no windows, but light could still leak out from under the door. She pulled the Maglite from her pouch, turned it on, and swept the room with the red light.

  “I’m in,” she said.

  The only furniture was a chair parked in front of a desk with a monitor sitting on it, which connected to a CPU underneath. The desk sat next to the rack, which stood taller than Kyra’s head and was full of single mounted servers and other equipment, not all of which she could immediately identify. She swept the south wall—

  There you are.

  The video cables reached to the floor from a junction box on the wall. She leaned in, trying to squeeze herself into the space, and found the box where the wires connected in the rack.

  Kyra dropped to one knee, pulled her satchel over her head, set it on the floor, then unzipped the top and pulled out the iPad, a set of cables, and a tool kit. Then she extracted the little black box.

  • • •

  Carreño walked slowly. The cigarro reached the end of its short life; he dropped it, reached for one of its brothers, then decided against it. His supply here was limited and he didn’t want to burn through them all in a single night.

  He passed a pair of SEBIN soldiers walking north, who saluted him as he passed. He returned the salute, sloppy and hardly caring. He saw the southern fence a few hundred feet down the gravel road. He’d go that far, maybe then smoke another cigarro, and return. A half hour’s walk total. Maybe longer if he moved slowly.

  • • •

  Kyra pushed the cable head into the iPad port, then launched the app. The room lit up from the new picture, causing her to suck in a nervous breath.

  The iPad screen split into eight boxes, each showing the feed from a different camera. She swiped the screen and the eight boxes scrolled off, replaced by eight more. Then again and again. Kyra had access to the take from at least thirty-two different cameras through the facility, some inside buildings, which ones she didn’t know.

  She pressed a button on the screen and started recording.

  U.S. Embassy

  Caracas, Venezuela

  Marisa watched as the heat signature in the shape of a man entered the frame, walking south at a slow pace. She checked the clock. Ten minutes since entry. “Arrowhead, Quiver,” she announced. “One hostile moving your way. He’s in no hurry. You’ve got maybe five minutes until he reaches your position. Time to start packing up.”

  “Roger that.”

  The secure phone on Marisa’s desk began to ring. She let it go to voice mail. It rang again. Finally she picked up the receiver. “This is Mills.”

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  She’d only been recording the camera network feed for ten minutes, but a quick check showed that the tablet’s storage was filling up fast. Thirty-two cameras . . . ten minutes per camera . . . three hundred twenty minutes . . . five hours twenty minutes of total footage. She wouldn’t be able to record more than a few minutes more before the computer ran out of space to store the feed.

  Kyra waited another three minutes, then closed down the recording app, unplugged the cable, and began to retrieve her gear.

  • • •

  The southern fence and the signs warning of unexploded ordnance were less than a hundred feet away now. Carreño wondered whether anyone had ever been so foolish as to ignore the warnings and climb the fence. Bored men did like to drink after all. Booze and machismo were a bad combination.

  The work sheds were behind him now. The only buildings between here and the end were a storage shack that held nothing important and the small security annex, little more than a relay point for the camera network.

  He looked over at the security building, squinting.

  The padlock hung from the latch. Was it open? He couldn’t tell from this distance. Carreño frowned and moved toward the building.

  U.S. Embassy

  Caracas, Venezuela

  Marisa looked at the telephone receiver in her hand in disbelief. She grabbed the mouse, zoomed the picture on her screen out, widening the angle of the satellite feed. Soldiers were rushing out of the CAVIM chemical factory, more from other buildings, running for trucks, jeeps, any vehicle that would move. “Oh, no . . .” Then she saw movement near the facility’s southern end. She narrowed the picture again. One man was walking directly to the security hub.

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  Her gear was packed. Kyra slipped the satchel strap over her head.

  “Arrowhead, Quiver. Hostile inbound on your front door, ETA ten seconds, and you’re going to have a lot more behind him in two minutes. Do you have another exit?”

  “Negative,” Kyra advised.

  “You have to get out now,” Marisa ordered. “When you do, run for the fence.”

  “What’s—”

  “Don’t ask, just do it.”

  “Roger that.”

  • • •

  The padlock was open. He looked at the base of the door . . . no light streamed out. Someone had left the door unsecured after leaving. Incompetents, Carreño thought. He pulled the padlock out of the latch, ready to secure the door again.

  Best to be sure, he thought after a moment.

  He tossed his cigarro onto the gravel, replaced the padlock, and pushed the door open. It swung into darkness; he stepped inside and went blind, his eyes seeing only the dark until the lights from the server rack began to focus. He touched the light switch on the wall to his right. The room went bright, blinding him again just as he saw something in the corner of his eye—

  The elbow hit Carreño hard enough that he spewed blood on the wall as his head snapped to the right. He stumbled off balance, then turned back toward his attacker. He swung wild, the vision in his left eye blurry from the strike. He missed, but the swing gave him time to pull the pistol from his belt holster under his coat. His attacker was an unfocused blur but at this distance he hardly had to aim—

  • • •

  Kyra’s own vision was taking too long to adjust to the light, was still blurry, but she saw the intruder go for his belt and then there was a gun in his right hand. She struck out with her left, hitting his gun with her palm and driving away from her body, then grabbing it with her hand to control the weapon. She leaned in, putting her weight behind her arm, driving the pistol toward the ground. She struck forward, driving her right forearm into the man’s throat, compressing his windpipe, and he began to gag. Then she dropped her arm, grabbing the rear of the pistol with both hands, and twisted it to the side.

  • • •

  Carreño felt the gun being torn from his fingers. Panicked, he pulled the trigger.

  • • •

  The gun jerked in Kyra’s hand, shooting off to her right, and she went deaf, her ears ringing from the shot. The man jumped back, trying to rip the gun away from her. Kyra ran forward with him and swung her hands to the right, moving the gun to the side. She kicked forward and caught him between the legs, giving him a blow to the testicles that threatened to lift him off the ground. She threw another punch, this one
with her left hand that caught him square in the nose, drawing blood again and forcing his eyes to shut from the pain. Kyra twisted the gun hard, this time finally pulling the weapon from his hand before he could fire.

  • • •

  The Venezuelan threw his head up, catching Kyra just under the jaw with his skull and knocking her back. She couldn’t keep her hand on the gun. It hit the server rack, then the floor, but she couldn’t see it. The man charged forward, blind, hoping to knock her on her back. He was coming in low, trying to put his shoulder in her stomach and fold her in half. She’d have no leverage and he’d have her on the floor.

  Kyra rolled backward under him. She grabbed his shirt with both hands as she went down and brought her legs up, putting her feet on his stomach. He was out of control now. He’d thought to tackle her, but now he was flying forward with Kyra fully underneath him. She pushed up with her legs; the man went airborne over her, and smashed into the wall behind.

  Kyra twisted on the ground, pushing herself back to her feet. The SEBIN officer behind her made it onto his feet a second after she did. The second was all she needed.

  • • •

  Carreño forced his eyes open as he dragged himself to his feet. His vision was sharper now. His attacker—

  —was a woman. He was getting thrashed by a woman.

  No puede ser.

  The woman’s boot caught him in his stomach, compressing it into his spine, and the air rushed out of him. Carreño tried to suck in a breath as he fell backward onto the wall. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor. His diaphragm refused to move and he felt like he was choking. He clutched at his abdomen, trying to protect it, helpless.

  • • •

  Kyra drew her Glock and pointed at his head. The man held out his hand, pure instinct, trying to put anything between him and the gun. “No, por favor,” he gasped, looking at her face.

  Kyra stared down at him, finally able to stare at his face. Even with the blood gushing from his nose, she recognized him.

  Andrés Carreño was lying at her feet.

  Cold anger erupted inside her chest, a calm rage that took control of her.

  Kyra kicked him in the ribs, knocking him backward. Then she was on him, beating him with the gun. It was stupid, she knew, to engage him again at close range on the floor . . . he could grab her, grab the gun, but she couldn’t control herself, like she was a spectator in her own mind. He tried to block one of her swinging arms, missed, and she caught him in the temple with cold steel. The nausea rose in his gut so fast he couldn’t hold it down. Carreño vomited onto the floor.

  • • •

  “Arrowhead! Arrowhead!” Kyra heard Marisa yelling in her ear. The sight and smell of Carreño’s bile on the floor cut through her fury and Kyra took control of herself, forcing her emotions down. She pulled back and scrambled to her feet, still covering the SEBIN director with her pistol.

  “This is Arrowhead,” she said, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding too fast.

  “Status?”

  “One . . . one hostile . . . incapacitated,” Kyra told her, her chest heaving. “It’s him.” The adrenaline was surging through her again, the panic attack starting to rise.

  U.S. Embassy

  Caracas, Venezuela

  The station chief scrolled down the map on her screen. SEBIN soldiers were everywhere and spreading out in all four directions. At least twenty were moving south, only a few hundreds yards from the security hub.

  “Understood. Leave him and get out immediately. Do you copy?”

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  Leave him? Carreño was in her sights and she was furious, angrier than she could ever remember being.

  There was murder in her heart, Carreño’s quivering body seemed to fill her vision and the Glock was light in her hands, the tritium sights over the barrel glowing a faint white.

  The panic was gone, displaced by a cold, dark calm.

  U.S. Embassy

  Caracas, Venezuela

  “Arrowhead, do you copy?” Marisa asked again, her voice more urgent now.

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  Kyra stared at Carreño’s bleeding face through her sights. The anger was like a living animal, trying to rip control of her hands away from her and make her put a bullet through his brain.

  It would be so easy to surrender.

  She breathed in deep . . . then moved her finger off the trigger.

  It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  U.S. Embassy

  Caracas, Venezuela

  It was a very long pause, one that seemed to stretch out time. “Roger that. Understood,” Kyra said, her voice calmer now.

  Marisa looked at the screen. “Hostiles approaching your area, three hundred yards and closing on your position. You have ninety seconds. Fall back.”

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  Kyra kept the gun on Carreño as she moved to the only exit. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. She took the padlock, threw the latch, and locked Carreño inside.

  Her knees quivered, the rage inside her chest turning on her now, screaming at her for fighting it. She felt weak all over, her whole body shaking.

  Then she heard the voices, all yelling in Spanish, orders and curses. She looked to her right, north, and saw the line of soldiers moving in her direction. Headlights broke over the low ridge behind the men and jeeps came tearing down the road, sliding side to side on the gravel as their drivers swerved to avoid hitting their own men.

  Kyra ran for the fence.

  • • •

  The first bullets hit the ground to her left and she heard some ricochet off bricks and metal. She turned right and sprinted to put the shack between her and the soldiers. A few more rounds hit the building as she threw herself behind it. The adrenaline was making it hard to think now, and to keep her hands steady.

  The jeeps were close now, less than fifty yards away. She could hear the engines growling as they approached, at least two of them. She looked around the corner, saw them approaching the security hub, four men in each jeep. She saw her inverted T-cut in the fence. It was ten feet away.

  She was out of time. The soldiers were too close now. She’d never make it through.

  She had three clips for the Glock, seventeen 9mm rounds each, with one in the chamber—fifty-two shots.

  Dozens of soldiers were on foot, running to this position. The men in the jeeps were yelling into their radios, calling for dozens more, all with automatic weapons, thousands of rounds. She wouldn’t even be able to stop them from flanking her on either side.

  Her mind went suddenly clear again and she felt a peaceful calm settle over her.

  She closed her eyes, then set the Glock on the ground and prepared to step out from behind the shack, arms raised.

  I guess I’m going to end up in Los Teques prison after all.

  • • •

  Kyra’s head jerked as she heard the supersonic crack of the .50mm round as it hit the lead jeep in the grille six inches above the bumper. The monstrous round tore a hole in the metal and steam and fluids blew out of the engine in a violent gush. The bullet ripped into the engine itself, cracking the block and throwing shrapnel in every direction under the hood. Only then did Kyra hear the deep boom of the gunshot as the sound wave finally caught up to the supersonic slug. The driver, blinded by the steam, stomped the brake pedal into the floor and the jeep’s last act was to crash to a halt.

  The second .50 hit the trailing jeep a few inches below the line where the hood met the grille, killing it as dead as its brother, and Kyra heard that gunshot a moment later. Two more rounds hit the vehicle in quick succession. The passengers got the message, threw themselves out of the vehicle onto the ground and stumbled for cover in any direction they could find it. The other SEBIN officers all did the same, and
Kyra heard the first yells of francotirador!

  Sniper.

  “Arrowhead, this is Sherlock,” Kyra heard over her headset. “Fall back. I’ll keep your friends occupied.” Another bullet hit the lamppost light to make the point, sending sparks and shattered glass into the grass below.

  It was Jon’s voice.

  Kyra grabbed her Glock off the ground and sprinted for the cut in the fence.

  CIA Director’s Conference Room

  The room exploded in cheers and Cooke saw Drescher smiling, the first time she could ever recall the man looking pleased with anything.

  “Do we have clearance to fire on the Venezuelans on this op?” he asked.

  “No,” Cooke admitted. “But I’ll deal with the president if he has a problem with it.”

  “He will,” Drescher said.

  CAVIM Explosives Factory

  “Sherlock, this is Quiver. Don’t kill anyone if you can avoid it.”

  “Quiver, Sherlock. Wasn’t planning on it. Please don’t tell the bad guys.”

  “We’re the ones who broke into their facility. I think that makes us the bad guys,” Marisa said.

  “Fine by me. Bad guys don’t have to feel guilty about property damage.” Jon pulled the trigger on the large rifle and sent another slug downrange.

  He was lying prone in Kyra’s shelter, the Barrett sticking out from the crude woven roof she had lashed together. He kept his eye on the scope and swept the optic over the CAVIM fence line. Kyra had pulled herself through the T-cut and was dragging herself to her feet now. A SEBIN soldier swung his rifle over the tail end of his murdered jeep, trying to line up on the running girl. Jon pulled his own trigger, smooth but quick, and the Barrett yelled at the soldier in the valley below, tearing another hole in the jeep’s hood. The Venezuelan leaped back, throwing himself onto his back, wetting himself as he did. He scrambled behind the jeep, out of Jon’s line of sight.

  • • •

  Kyra ran to her right along the fence line for the edge of the forest. There was no sense running back through the ordnance field now. Five seconds and she was clear of the explosives range, then she turned and sprinted for the hill. She holstered her Glock and accelerated through the brush, ignoring the plants and small trees as they tore at her legs.