by Thomas Locke
Charlie ran at a crouch, using the shrubs to shield his acceleration. The truck slowed and halted before the compound gates. He waited until the driver reached out his window to tab the security panel, then opened the passenger door. The driver was alone.
Charlie held his revolver up where the lone driver could see and asked, “Do you speak English?”
“Sí—yes.”
“Good. Now tell me you want to live.”
83
Charlie moved the driver to the back of the truck and used silver duct tape to lash his wrists and ankles and mouth. The driver, a chubby Latino in his fifties, watched him with eyes swimming in fear.
Charlie drove through the open gates and swung the truck in a tight circle. The truck peeped its warning signal as he backed up to the loading dock. He climbed down from the truck, leaving the driver’s door open and the motor running. He dumped his duffle on the raised loading platform, then jogged back out through the open gates. The silenced pistol gave sharp coughs as he shot out the front tires and windscreens of both cars.
He vaulted up the stairs to the loading platform, crouched, and unzipped the duffle. He inserted a fresh clip into the pistol and put two more full clips into his left trouser pocket. He hefted the shotgun, checked to ensure the chamber was filled, opened the box of shells, and put six more rounds into his right pocket.
The bikers had not come up with his requested C-4 plastic explosive. Charlie had asked for it because he wanted the bikers to assume he was a burglar, in town to make a head-on assault of some high-security compound. Instead, they had supplied him with a dozen flash-bang grenades. Which was what Charlie had wanted all along. He slipped four into his jacket pockets and strung the remainder to his belt by their handles. When he stood, he clinked. But Charlie was way beyond the point where he needed to worry about making a little noise.
The back of the loading platform contained three reinforced metal doors. Charlie levered a round into the shotgun, braced himself, and fired at the first handle. The boom slammed through the concrete cavern. He stomped open the door and faced a chilled larder with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
He stepped to the next door and fired again. The shotgun’s solid rounds kicked him back on his heels. He hammered the door open and faced another concrete chamber. Only this one was filled with wires and cables and electronic controls. Charlie smiled with adrenaline mirth, unclipped two of the concussion grenades, tossed them inside, shut the door, and planted himself down the wall. The resulting explosion blew the reinforced metal door off its hinges and into the loading area, where it rocked and smoldered.
He aimed at the next door-lock, fired, kicked, tossed in another flash-bang, and then replanted himself on the side wall.
Combat soldiers had their own special term for Charlie’s tactics.
Shock and awe.
84
Even before the first of the patients appeared in the passage leading to the Treatment Room, Elene was up and moving. “We have to go now.”
Eli remained where he was, trapped by Reese’s presence even though the woman stared away from them, across the atrium, to where the din steadily increased.
“Eli.”
He turned slowly.
“If you are coming, you have to move now.”
He remained where he was.
Instead, it was Joss who said, “What do you need?”
“We must move everybody into the sleeping quarters,” Elene replied. “Don’t take the elevators. The power is about to go out. Use the stairs.”
Consuela whined, “We’ll be trapped there. We’ll never get out.”
Elene said, “That is not going to happen.”
She shooed them up and got them moving just as the first patients staggered into the atrium’s opposite corner. The shrieking cacophony accelerated their departure. Elene remained where she was. She might as well have been invisible, for all the attention Reese and Kevin Hanley and the security personnel showed her. They were all focused on the screaming patients and on Trent.
Reese pointed at Trent Major and shrilled, “Get him!”
Then the atrium was filled with the sound of a sonic boom.
Though she had expected it, Elene still flinched as the air around her compressed tightly. The security personnel and Reese were caught completely off guard. They were still recovering when the second explosion rocked the building.
All the lights went out.
Two seconds later, the atrium was filled with a spectral illumination, more silver than white. Emergency lights glared from all four corners of the ceiling, too intense to be stared at directly. It cast the giant chamber into bizarre shadows.
The patients wailed and writhed and formed a macabre procession about the atrium.
At that point, Elene could have ridden bareback on a silver unicorn around the atrium and gone unnoticed.
Trent started toward her just as two further blasts shook the chamber. Elene resisted the urge to pluck Eli bodily from his seat. The young man sat staring at his hands, totally detached from the insanity that filled the chamber.
His choice.
Elene met Trent by the stairway. “Second floor. Hurry.”
Trent gasped from behind her, “What was that?”
“Charlie Hazard.”
“He’s here? I thought—”
“You thought Charlie would do his ascent and then leave us alone.” Elene gripped his arm and urged him along the landing. “Charlie Hazard is a pro. He is coming to make sure you all get out of this safely.”
From down below, someone shouted her name. Elene assumed it was Reese. She pointed down the stairs to where Joss led four of the others up toward them. “Joss Stone is a former Marine. Tell him—”
Elene’s words were lost to another boom, this one louder. Elene assumed Charlie had just breached the kitchen exit. The lights flickered, and when they restabilized, Elene realized that the duty officer had started up the stairs behind them. He was in the process of crouching and aiming his pistol back toward the cafeteria area when the ground floor erupted in light and noise.
Elene staggered into Trent and they both tumbled to the floor. She had heard of concussion grenades her entire career, but this was the first time she had felt their impact. Even from two stories up, the assault scrambled her brain.
But the adrenaline surge gave her the strength to focus. She forced herself to her knees, gripped Trent’s shoulders, and shook him. Hard. “Are you with me?”
He floundered a minute, then with her help made it back to his feet. Elene risked a glance over the railing. Joss was standing over an inert security guard and helping Consuela stand.
She turned to Trent and said, “Tell Joss the truck is waiting for you at the loading platform through the kitchen. He’ll know what to do.”
“What about you?”
“There’s something I have to destroy.”
“But—”
“Listen to me.” From below came the sounds of gunfire. The patients’ screams tore at Elene’s vision. “Get everyone out of here, Trent. That’s what you and Joss must focus on now.”
She turned and ran.
85
As far as Charlie was concerned, he could not have dreamed up a better kill zone.
The emergency lights were planted into the ceiling, which was miles overhead. The designers had tried to overcome the atrium’s size by strengthening the lights’ power. This resulted in an almost strobe effect. Whatever was directly in the path of the illumination was lit up with laser-like intensity. But everything else was lost in impenetrable shadows.
Charlie spotted Reese Clawson standing next to a blue-jacketed security specialist. The specialist was in a regulation crouch, his pistol held in a two-armed grip. Another man, portly and scared, gaped at the insane scene. Charlie discounted him immediately. Reese screamed something at the security guy. The man paid her no notice. He searched the periphery. Ready. Charlie knew as soon as he started up the stairs, he’d be spotted.
>
He plucked another three concussion grenades from his belt and lofted them high. They clattered down in the atrium’s far corner, behind the trio.
The flash was monumental, the response even worse.
The patients all screamed in renewed panic. They raced about, weaving back and forth with arms outstretched and necks taut with the effort to bawl even louder. Charlie evaded the clutch of one bug-eyed young man and bolted up the stairs.
Two bullets whanged sparks off the railing. Clearly the security guy knew how to recover under fire. Charlie vaulted the final three stairs and rolled.
“Here! In here!”
Elene crouched inside an open door and waved frantically. She winced but did not retreat as a round struck the panel directly overhead. Charlie leapt inside. Elene pointed at the inner access. “I can’t get it open!”
“Stand back.” Charlie slipped the shotgun off his shoulder, aimed, and blew the door off its hinges. They stepped into a smoldering room. Directly ahead was a glass viewing station fronted by a control panel that ran the entire length of the wall. “These are the main controls?”
“Reese sits by the mike, her technician by the computer station there.”
He knew there might be backup somewhere else. There was nothing he could do about it. Charlie pumped new shells into the gun and demanded, “Where is Trent?”
“With the team. Heading for the truck.”
“Move back into the lobby.”
“I want—”
“Go!” He levered a fresh round into the chamber, aimed at the controls, and fired. The round dug a smoldering cavity into the station and shattered the glass wall. Charlie fired three more rounds, his ears aching from the noise in the enclosed space. He stepped forward, gripped two of his remaining four grenades, pulled out the pins, held them over two of the newly excavated holes in the console, dropped, turned, and flew.
And ran straight into a three-way battle for control of the security man’s gun.
At first glance, Elene looked totally outmanned. She was the smallest by far. Reese appeared to be almost twice her size. The security guy was a giant by comparison. But Elene fought with a ferocity that stunned both her opponents. She gouged the security guy in the eye, gripped his gun hand, and bit deep into Reese’s shoulder.
Reese screamed and fought to free herself. Elene just bit down harder.
Charlie flipped the shotgun over and clipped the security guy above his left ear. The guy blinked and struggled to stay upright. Charlie was going in for a second blow when the wall behind him erupted.
They were blown completely through the wall and landed in a dusty heap in front of the elevators. Charlie felt something warm dribble down his neck and assumed one of his eardrums had burst. He sifted through the rubble and came up with Elene. The security guy was out. Reese struggled feebly. Charlie gripped Elene by the collar and stumbled for the stairs.
He definitely needed to rethink his take on analysts. He’d always assumed the only reason anybody ever became one was because they were attracted by the lure of danger, so long as the peril was directed at somebody else. But this was one stand-up lady. Charlie intended to tell her that, soon as he managed to wash the dust from his throat and relocate his voice. Right now, though, it was all he could do to cough and walk down the stairs.
To his astonishment, Elene chose that moment to wrestle out of his grip and race back up.
Charlie wheeled about and saw Reese reaching over the banister, taking aim with the security man’s gun.
Reese’s hair was a witch’s brew about her face. Her features were pulled back in a feral mask, turned white by the dust. Her eyes burned at him as she fired.
Charlie threw himself toward the railing directly below Reese, limiting her target area. He felt a searing burn score its way down his back. He arched in agony, which drew his head directly into her line of fire.
Then Elene attacked.
Charlie needed both hands to haul himself back up the stairs. He arrived at the top to find the two women scrambling in the debris, all four hands locked on the pistol. But Reese now matched the smaller woman for ferocity, particularly after she spotted Charlie’s approach. She snarled and pried the gun down. And shot Elene.
Charlie gripped the gun with one hand and hammered Reese with the other. Her eyelids fluttered. He punched her again, a straight right to the jaw. Her eyes swam back and she slumped.
Charlie cradled Elene in his arms and tumbled down the stairs.
He followed his course of entry back down the rear hallway and onto the loading platform. A dozen hands helped him off the dock and into the truck’s rear hold. A young man with a compact military build and a killer’s eyes helped ease Elene down to the floorboards, then shouted, “Go, go!”
But as Trent gunned the motor, Elene murmured, “Tell him to stop.”
Charlie did not understand it, did not even agree. But he saw something in her gaze that caused him to shout the order forward.
When the truck ground to a halt, Joss complained, “There’s an army breathing down on us.”
“Do as she says.” Charlie sank down beside the stricken woman. “Hang on now.”
But her lips were tinted pink, and her eyes held a fevered awareness. “For what? I’m checking out, and you know it.”
Charlie held back on the trite words that would only shape a lie. Instead he said, “You saved my life back there.”
“Just repaying the favor.” She coughed, and it cost her.
“Easy now. We’ll get you to safety.”
“No you won’t. You’ve got to take me back and set me on the loading dock where the police will find me.” She stopped his protest with a smile. “It happened just like I saw. But I couldn’t tell you this last part because I knew you wouldn’t agree.” Elene coughed once more and managed, “Heroes don’t like being saved. Do they.”
Then she was gone.
86
They stopped at a pharmacy. Though Joss wanted to handle it, Consuela took Charlie’s money and went in alone. She returned ten minutes later, carrying two bulging plastic bags. As Trent drove them inland, Joss handed Charlie a bottle of Advil and a liter of water. Then Charlie lay on the truck floorboards and Joss went to work. He did a thorough job of swabbing out the wound, used three bottles of the spray intended for children’s sore throat as a local anesthetic, then stitched Charlie shut. “It ain’t gonna be the most perfect job. But it’s not like you don’t already got your share of scars.”
Charlie’s back already felt better. The piercing burn was diminished to the constant ache of a healing wound. “You’re Ranger?”
“Naw, man, I don’t got no time for those fidos. Marines all the way, baby.” Joss padded the area with alcohol and taped a field dressing into place. “You’re good to go. But you want some advice, I’d say let somebody else take the next punch.”
Charlie rose to his feet and shrugged. The stitches and field dressing shifted comfortably. Now if only they could do something for the wound to his heart. “Thanks, Joss.”
“Okay, now it’s my turn.” Consuela tried to cover her own distress with a scowl. “Hold still.” She used a bottle of hand disinfectant and cotton swabbing to clean Elene’s blood from Charlie’s face and arms. Then she handed him the second shopping bag. “It’s not what you’d call high fashion. But it’s clean and it ought to fit.”
“It’s great.” Charlie stripped off his dusty and bloodied clothes and put on the Santa Barbara T-shirt and sweatpants. Then he eased himself down beside the trussed Latino driver. “Consuela, could you give me a hand here?”
“No problem.” She moved back beside him, taking care not to touch the still-wet bloodstain by the rear doors. The other passengers watched them with the slack expressions of bomb victims. Which, Charlie supposed, they were.
Charlie cut the tape away from the driver’s wrists and ankles. Then he called through the sliding front window, “Trent!”
“Yes?”
“You st
ill got our money belt?”
“Around my waist.”
“Pass it back, will you?”
When the nylon belt made its way back, Charlie unzipped one compartment and held the cash before the driver’s face. Then he pulled the tape from the man’s mouth.
The driver said, “Please, señor, I want no trouble.”
“I want to apologize for what’s happened. And I’m going to make it up to you.” Charlie counted out fifty hundreds. “Here’s five thousand dollars.”
“Please, there is no need—”
“Is this your truck?”
“Yes. Is mine. And my brother’s.”
“So yours is a family business.”
The driver’s T-shirt was bound to his body by fresh sweat. “Yes, is true. Nine of us.”
“They must be worried. Do you have a phone?”
Through the sliding window, the young man in the passenger seat said, “There’s one here on the dash. It’s rung maybe half a dozen times since we started off.”
Charlie asked the driver, “Will you call them and say you’re all right? Tell them you will be coming home a little late, you’ve had an unexpected job. But you’re fine, and you’ll be done around midnight. Until then, they shouldn’t expect to hear from you.”
“Of course, señor.” The driver accepted the phone, but his trembling fingers made a hash of dialing. He gripped the phone with both hands, hung his head, and huffed a fearful moan.
Consuela touched his arm and spoke to him in Spanish. The driver did not look up, but he managed to dial the number and speak to someone. Consuela nodded to Charlie.
When the driver cut the connection, Charlie said, “I’d like to offer you another five thousand. To vanish for the rest of the day.”
The driver lifted his head. “Please?”
Charlie waited while Consuela translated. The driver’s gaze shifted back and forth between them. Clearly the man was having difficulty understanding what he was hearing. Charlie went on, “We’re going to be getting out in a little while. All I want you to do is hold off contacting anyone else until tonight. Drive somewhere and park. Then at midnight, you go home. Do anything you like. Tell anyone anything. Or not. It’s up to you.”
