by Misty Evans
While he was gone, Lawson wondered what information was so valuable Flynn refused to give it to him over the radio. They had already determined there was little chance Dmitri, Vos Loo or the other men with them had the technology to decipher their transmissions even if they were monitoring the airwaves. The only reason for Flynn to worry about the secrecy of his latest information was if he believed the Germans or some other country's intelligence service with the proper equipment and technology was listening.
Ten minutes later, Lawson started at Johnny's voice behind him. “Coming up behind you, Commander,” he whispered. The man must have double-timed his belly crawl to make it back so fast.
"What have you got?” Lawson asked.
"Pakistan's InterServices Intelligence reports their prisoner broke. He claims a squad of al-Qaeda sub-bosses are headed this way to meet with Biaggio and Dmitri this evening. They're planning on buying biological agents and the weapons to disperse them.” Quick looked toward the helo pad. “It's a big deal. Sheikh Jaradh Abdul Mohammed is supposedly among them."
Sheikh Mohammed was described by CIA counterterrorism experts as one of al-Qaeda's operation chiefs. An intimate of bin Laden's, he'd also been instrumental in designing the attacks on the World Trade Center according to some reports.
Lawson shifted his gun. “Why would one of al-Qaeda's most important leaders venture out of hiding?"
"Biaggio insisted he wouldn't work with anyone else. Since he holds the strings in Europe right now on the type of munitions al-Qaeda needs for putting anthrax and other shit into the air, I guess Mohammed didn't have a lot of choice. Plus, here in Switzerland, the antiterrorist laws are pretty weak. The most these guys will get if they're arrested is ten years in jail."
Lawson considered what Flynn and the high command back in the States were planning. Mohammed was the catch of the century if they could pull it off. “Are we sure this prisoner is telling the truth?"
Johnny smiled, his teeth white against his mud-caked face. “Interrogators wired the guy's balls to a 110-volt generator and the minute they turned the crank, he babbled like an auctioneer."
Lawson's scrotum tucked up into his body. “Jesus. I would, too, even if I made it all up."
Johnny raised his hand and made a clamping motion with his thumb and fingers. “Alligator clips. Vietnam-era torture technique."
Torture didn't always work. People would say anything to make the pain stop. “So how long do we wait to see if Sheikh's party shows?"
"Our guy claims before prayer this evening."
Glancing at his watch, Lawson blew out a breath. “If they're running on Eastern Europe time and they plan to have the deal done in time to pray, that means we've potentially got less than an hour."
"Yep. Flynn wants you to reconfigure the groups so there is one to meet the al-Qaeda liaison. Our new primary goal is to take Mohammed alive."
Lawson didn't like what he was hearing. “The minute we descend on the al-Qaeda group, Dmitri will know we're here. We'll lose the element of surprise for taking the bunker."
And getting Zara out alive. The unspoken words ran through Lawson's brain, and he could see by the way Johnny nodded he was thinking the same thing.
The two lay side-by-side for several long minutes. Finally, Lawson told his friend, “I think I'm too close to this one, Johnny. I'm not sure I know what the right call is."
Silence hung in the rain between them as Johnny took awhile to answer. “What's your gut say?"
Lawson chuckled. “My gut says, ‘fuck Mohammed'. We don't even know for sure he and his entourage are going to show up. We need to take the bunker and take it now before Dmitri gets wind we're out here. Flynn can take care of the Sheikh."
"I agree."
Lt. Redington's voice half-whispered over both of their headsets. “Tango at four o'clock."
Lawson spoke into his lip mike, “Copy that. What's our boy doing?"
"Sentry duty on the footpath by the perimeter. Southwest side. Cell phone in hand. Probably shitty reception inside the bunker."
Unspoken communication passed between Lawson and Johnny. Lawson spoke again into his mike. “Who is in position to take him out?"
"This is Apollo,” came the reply of the SEAL sniper. “I have him in my sights."
He didn't hesitate as he gave the command. “When the tango is out of camera range, take him out even if he's still on his phone. Whoever is closest, conceal the body."
"Roger, Commander,” Redington answered.
Ten seconds later, the SEAL lieutenant's voice spoke over Lawson's headset. “Tango down and concealed. Combat vest holds a radio and a remote control garage door opener."
Bingo. There was no reason to use a sledgehammer when you could use a garage door opener. “Where did the tango emerge from, Lieutenant?"
"Funny you should ask, sir.” Lawson could tell Redington was smiling. “I think we just found another way into the bunker."
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Chapter Forty-One
Zara stood in ankle-deep water with her back up against the wall nearest the door. She'd turned the water down to a trickle and now stood listening for footsteps in the hall. In one hand, she held her Prada jacket. In the other, a jagged piece of plastic tray. Leveraging the tray on the edge of the sink, she'd broken it into several pieces to form a rudimentary knife. It wasn't much of a weapon against an MP60, but Lawson had taught her to use less and still take a man down.
Without a clock or a window, it was impossible for her to know what time it was. The sensory deprivation left her disoriented and exhaustion made her lightheaded. She was also starving. She hadn't eaten the food Dmitri had brought for fear it was drugged. It made sense Vos Loo wouldn't want drugs in her system before he injected his supervirus, but then Dmitri was also a skilled liar. It wasn't worth the chance.
Hearing voices in the hallway, she tensed. Leaning forward, she laid her ear against the door, trying to make out what the men were saying. The conversation in Italian was muffled.
She pressed her ear hard against the cool metal and brought an arm up over her other ear to block out the dripping water. The men drew closer, the tone of their voices low but relaxed, and stopped outside her door. Zara listened, her heart pounding a staccato inside her rib cage.
"The Muslim dogs are on their way. Vos Loo wants the girl."
"We should have a turn at her first, huh? This one would be more fun. She's not doped up. Might put up more of a fight.” Rude snickers.
"When will Iacopo be back from his cigarette break?"
"He should have been back fifteen minutes ago, the horse's ass. Go find him."
"What about the girl?"
"I'll take care of her, stupido."
Silence. Then more snickering and a back slap.
Zara lifted her ear from the door and moved back along the wall. Or maybe, I'll take care of you.
Across the short expanse of room, a drop of water fell into the sink's pool. One of the guard's footsteps receded down the hall.
As she examined the jacket in her right hand and the primitive knife in her left, her nerves calmed just like they always did right before something major. She'd been priming herself for this moment for hours and finally it was here. She blinked several times, rolled her shoulders and let out her breath.
At the sound of the door sliding open, she tightened her hold on the knife. Water rushed out of the room and the guard expressed surprise with a curse word. Distracted by the water rushing over his boots, he failed to bring up his gun immediately. As he stepped inside the doorway to see what was causing the flood, Zara threw her jacket at his head, blinding him.
He jerked his head and reached for the jacket with his empty hand. She turned and delivered a solid kick to the arm cradling his semi-automatic weapon. The guard went sideways, stumbling on the mattress and losing his balance. The MP60 splashed into the water on the floor.
Dropping her homemade weapon, she dove for the gun. Adrenaline pumping th
rough her body, she grabbed the barrel and swung the butt of the gun down on the guard's head. The man recoiled, still trying to jerk Zara's coat off his face and calling for help. As he rolled away from her, he fell off the mattress, the jacket falling free.
She lunged and brought the butt end of the gun down on his head again, this time connecting with his temple. His body froze for an instant before crumpling into a flaccid heap in the water.
Her arms and legs trembling, Zara stood over him while she caught her breath. She slung the strap of the gun over her head, took a handful of stuffing from the soaked mattress and wedged it in the man's mouth. Bringing her head up, she scanned the opened doorway to be sure no one was approaching.
She had to work fast. Water from the room was still seeping out. She rolled the guard onto his stomach and pulled a shoestring from her jeans pocket. Quickly she tied the man's hands behind his back before she relieved him of the handgun strapped to his ankle and the knife on his belt.
Rolling him over, she tapped his cheek. “Good job, stupido."
As she shoved the handgun into the waist of her jeans, she picked up her jacket. She removed the strap of the semi-automatic weapon, stuck her arms into the jacket's sleeves and replaced the strap over her shoulder. The guard's knife fit in the right pocket.
Moving toward the door, she came up short. Annette stood there, taking in Zara's handiwork and fingering the gun in her hand. Zara brought the MP60 up and leveled it at her chest.
Annette slid her gun back into its holster. “Looks like you don't need my help breaking out after all."
Zara kept the gun trained on her. “You're here to break me out?"
Annette's eyes were tired and sad. “I'm sorry, Zara. Biaggio has my sister. I've tried everything over the past six years to find her and get her away from him, but nothing's worked. This was my last hope.” She wiped brusquely at the tears in her eyes. “Looks like I've failed again, but at least I can help you and your sister."
"Do you know where Lucie is?"
Annette pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs. North side. Take the stairs at the end of the hall. Once you've got her, go down to the garage. I left the keys in the Hummer."
"What about you?"
"I have some unfinished business with Biaggio and Dmitri.” With that she turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Zara thought about going after her, but she couldn't risk it. In the doorway she let her eyes slide to the left and then to the right. Seeing no one, she stepped into the hall and pressed the lighted button on the remote control pad.
With a soft whoosh, the door to her cell closed.
* * * *
"Hel-lo,” Lawson whispered, examining the camouflaged entrance of the tunnel. Tucked in to the northeast side of the hill and out of camera range, the tunnel, Lawson guessed, was Vos Loo's escape route if he were ever cornered.
Flynn's voice crackled in his ear. “What have you got, Commander?"
Lawson exchanged a smile with Lt. Redington and touched the communication button on his radio. “A way into the bunker undetected,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Ask our techie friend at HQ if he knows anything about underground escape tunnels."
Flynn was silent for a moment. “Roger. I'll get back to you."
The two leaders moved stealthily into the nearby trees. “I can take two men out of my group,” Lt. Redington said, “and send them in ahead of the rest of us to find where the hostages are positioned. They can plant audio-video devices to give us a better picture of what we'll encounter once we're in."
Lawson had already brought Redington up to date on Flynn's orders regarding the arrival of Sheikh Mohammed. He shook his head. “Pegasus will do the infiltration. We can use the tunnel to get in undetected and possibly secure the hostages without raising any alarms. Your men stay here and handle the Sheikh if he shows."
Redington nodded, but gave him a skeptical look. “And if you do raise an alarm?"
Lawson slapped the SEAL leader on the back. “I expect you to come in with guns blazing, Lieutenant, and save my ass."
Redington smiled. “Copy that, sir."
* * * *
The bottoms of her wet sneakers squeaked on the concrete floor. Zara kicked them off and laid the heavy MP60 on the floor next to them. She needed to move like a cat, quickly and silently. The shoes were too noisy and the MP60 was too awkward in her hands. The brutal power of the weapon was attractive, but the weight and size were an encumbrance.
Removing the guard's handgun from her jacket, a heavy black European 9-millimeter, she checked the safety. It wasn't on. She chambered a round and listened.
Hearing nothing, she ran past the cells—cages, really, with steel bars from floor to ceiling—and eyed the end of the hall. On each side was a closed door. Annette hadn't said which one was the door to the stairs. Hang right, her brain told her. All right turns would eventually lead her in an ever-narrowing circle. She'd be sure not to miss the stairs or Lucie.
Of course, she wouldn't miss the guards either, but maybe if she were very careful, she could dodge them. Zara leaned her back against the wall and checked the clip in the gun. Fourteen bullets and one in the chamber. At least stupido had given her that much plus his knife. It was tempting to go back for the semi-automatic weapon but she again ditched the idea. She was much more comfortable with the handgun and her wits.
Pushing off the wall, she reloaded the gun and moved quickly down the hall. Once at the door, she pressed her ear against it and listened. Dmitri would be checking his watch about now and wondering where she and stupido were. He might already be on his way to find out what was holding them up.
Hearing no sounds coming from the other side, she turned the knob and pushed the door open, gun at the ready.
Nothing.
Except the most beautiful flight of stairs Zara had ever seen. She took them two at a time.
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Chapter Forty-Two
Lawson's point man moved ahead of him in the dark tunnel. The sides were fortified and in decent shape for a structure that seemed ancient. The tunnel had probably been built by someone in a previous century, possibly even as far back as the Romans. The first of the Vos Loo scientists had incorporated it into his compound. Smart man.
Johnny stopped and held up a hand. Lawson stopped behind him and repeated the gesture to communicate to the men bringing up the rear. The noiseless conga line froze.
At first he thought his point man had found a tripwire or some other measure to warn the occupants inside the laboratory of a security breach, but when Johnny motioned him forward, Lawson saw through his night vision goggles that the only thing he'd found was the interior door.
The two men scanned for infrared pinpoint beams and ran their fingers around the entire doorframe feeling for thin lines of copper wire. There were none. Neither was there any kind of keypad or other electronic-verification device requiring a number or thumbprint to access the compound. Johnny exchanged a look with Lawson and the two examined the door again, unable to believe Alexandrov Dmitri would leave himself so open.
But then it wasn't Dmitri's compound. It was Vos Loo's. No doubt Dmitri had sent the guard to cover this one weak spot in the entire operational base. Lucky for Pegasus, the guard just had to talk to his girlfriend.
There was only one way to know for sure if they could walk into the lion's den without detection. Lawson motioned his point man to fall back. He reached for the latch on the wooden door and listened for noise on the other side. Johnny aimed his suppressed MP5 at the space the door covered.
And then he heard it, footsteps. Someone was coming.
Drawing back, Lawson flagged Johnny. The message was conveyed down the line at the speed of light and when the door to the tunnel opened, the guard's eyes never had time to adjust to the darkness before his windpipe was shattered.
As Lawson and his conga line entered the compound, they used the SEAL technique of peeling off man-by-man from the line and cl
earing a given area of the room they were entering. All they met was fluorescent light, scattered boxes and half-empty shelves. A supply closet.
Two terrorists down, about ten more to go. The conga line reformed and the men moved on.
* * * *
"Where is your man Antonio?” Dmitri demanded when Stefano entered the lab. “We are still waiting for him. Time is short."
The mafia leader set his newspaper on the stainless-steel table next to a set of vials and gave Dmitri an inpatient look. “He and Francesco should be back. Did you check the monitor?"
Jon Vos Loo turned his small, dark eyes on Stefano. “Do not lay things on my counter.” His voice was so low Dmitri barely heard him. With a gloved hand, the biochemist picked up the newspaper and dropped it in a nearby garbage can. “Nothing on my counter,” he repeated under his breath.
Dmitri reined in the urge to slap Vos Loo upside the head. God save them all, he would be glad when he was done dealing with the mad scientist. Stefano, too, for that matter.
Walking past the exam table, he strode into a side room where four video monitors sat in a row. Their screens showed no activity inside or out. Dmitri slapped the empty chair where one of Stefano's men should have been stationed. The Mafia leader had been rotating them through security details and two-hour naps to keep boredom and exhaustion at bay, but with his force limited to twelve, he was short of eyes.
As he studied the black and white video screen showing the area of jail cells, Dmitri's pulse rate jumped. There was something on the floor. A liquid? He leaned forward over the empty chair and squinted at the monitor. In the corner of the screen he could see something else. Something solid and dark.
He straightened and glanced at the other three screens. Two showed a view of the outside of the bunker, top and bottom. A third showed multiple views of the stairwell, each picture taking up a quarter of the screen.
A shadow caught his eye.
Checking the screen showing the jail cells, he fingered the gold chain around his wrist. The princess was up to her tricks.
He strode back into the lab. “Come with me,” he said to Stefano. “And bring the syringe."
