Dale knew the best way to needle Merc was to criticize Spader. He didn't know what kind of history they had, but Merc fired up pretty quick when Spader was criticized.
Dale said, 'Whoever heard of thieves with a business plan?'
Merc stopped packing the bag he was working on. He studied Dale for a moment, then said, 'This is your first operation with Spader, so just sit back and learn. After all, the whole world knows what happens when you are in charge of a heist.'
Dale heard his own voice go cold. 'The whole world doesn't know actually. Nobody knows except the people who were down there.'
Merc sat back on his haunches, suddenly interested in talking again. 'Well that's a pretty small group of people considering you were the only one who got out alive. Funny that.'
Dale took three slow breaths and tried to stay calm. Even so, his voice shook with anger when he replied, 'You don't know what you're talking about. I bet that all you know is what you read in the papers.'
Merc shrugged, obviously enjoying the response he was eliciting. 'Hmmm...the newspapers said the operation was all down to you. Your planning. You chose the site. You chose the time. You recruited the team. Any of that wrong so far, Dale?'
Dale stood, job forgotten, and stared at Merc.
Merc stared back, pressing the point. 'And you were presumed dead. And yet here you are, standing before me. Very much alive.'
Dale suddenly recognized where all this angst from Merc had originated. 'So you’re saying you don't trust me because of the Paris thing?'
'I don't know you,' answered Merc, bending forward to start work on the bags again. 'I don't know how Spader found you when no one else in the world could. I don't know why he recruited you. And I don't know how you managed to survive in Paris while everyone else died. But you better not try any of that bullshit here, or I'll put you down myself.'
Dale felt his anger passing. He felt more in control again. 'If you had a problem with this, why not say something during the last three months. Why wait until now?'
'Because my life wasn't in your hands for the last three months, that's why.'
'We all have secrets, Merc. Believe it or not, I know a few things about you, but you don't see me dragging them out in the middle of an operation.'
Merc laughed. 'Trust me. You have absolutely no idea who I am.'
'Whatever you say, Mercy.'
Mercerelli paused, not for long, but long enough for Dale to see his intentional slip with the name had hit the mark.
'Enough talking,' spat Merc. 'Let's just get this stuff bagged up and on the plane.'
Chapter 7
Those bastards had shot him! Right in the chest! Shot him, god damn it!
With his back pressed up against the stone, edging slowly along the wall, Kline listened for activity inside the security hut. There was no knowing where the intruders were now.
Kline had never been shot before. Not even during his years working with Rourke in Blackwater. Even with a bulletproof vest, he felt like a heard of racing camels had taken turns kicking him in the chest. Big camels. Double-humpers.
The shocking impact had pushed every wisp of breath from his lungs. For long seconds his lung walls felt stuck together, so no matter how he tried, he couldn't suck in a breath. He'd panicked, thinking he'd survived the gunshot only to suffocate. While he'd gaped like a fish, unable to inhale, the firefight raged just meters away.
Then the first wisp of air slipped down into his chest, then the second, then he was choking down breaths as bullets ricocheted everywhere.
He'd lost his radio while scrambling away. It fell back there somewhere among the rubble. Now he had no way of knowing how the skirmish panned out. It hadn't sounded like his team won the upper hand.
If they ever had a chance, thought Kline.
He knew they’d walked into a trap. The intruders were too slick. Forged orders with a legitimate barcode? What was that about? That kind of resource wasn't easy to come by. And the location of the skirmish, Kline now realized, worked precisely in favor of the incursion team. Almost as though they had planned for the violence to kick off in that precise location. Plus, the very fact that Kline had been the first one shot after he'd intentionally positioned their front-man as a human shield. Whoever had shot him must have come damn close to hitting one of his own people. They had wanted to take him down first to sow confusion among his force. It seemed to have worked. Kline definitely felt confused.
So what was their objective now? Surely they didn't know Rourke's secret. And who in the seven hells were they? It didn't really matter. Kline needed to shut them down as quickly as possible. Well, as soon as he could find a radio to get everyone regrouped.
He inched along the wall and used his knife to cut where the canvas tent joined the stonework. He twisted the knife and peered through the hole. Looks clear.
A sudden noise made Kline spin and bring up his weapon. It sounded like sliding rubble, not too far away. He couldn't see anything though.
Quickly entering the tent, he walked over the scuff marks where Rourke had killed Nina. Shame that. She was hot, for an old bird. Still, it was all for a good cause. Kline still felt surprised how quickly things had changed. Six months ago, something like that would have really bothered him. The injustice of it would have stung him. He might not have actually done anything about it, but he would have known it felt wrong and preferred that it hadn't happened.
What Rourke showed him in the Gallery changed everything. In fact, meeting Rourke had changed everything. Rourke had been Kline’s instructor at his first Blackwater training camp six years ago. He’d become something of Kline’s mentor. Of all Rourke’s lessons, one stood out most personally to Kline: People never really knew themselves until they had the full dimensions of their character tested. If anything, the last six years with Rourke had proven that. Kline felt surprised by what he’d become, but not disappointed. Despite the changes, he didn’t hate himself.
Right now he hated that bastard who shot him in the chest.
Well, he had a perfectly lovely way to settle the score.
He snatched the spare radio from Rourke’s heavy desk. The battery seemed OK. Kline set the frequency and spoke into the unit. 'This is Kline. How many of them did we take down?'
'This is Sirocco,' came the reply after a moment. 'We didn't take down any. We've lost Carmichael. How bad are you hit?'
'I'm still mobile. Hardly felt a thing. I want everyone to rally at the security hut. We need to regroup and take down these guys.'
Rourke's voice came over the radio. 'I need some warm bodies in the Gallery, Kline. You can have six men. I'll take the rest with me.'
Frustrated, Kline almost swore into the radio. He struggled to keep his voice reasonable. 'Rourke, with respect, those guys aren't fucking around. They outclassed us back there on our own turf. They've got an agenda, and we need to address it hard and fast before things get further out of hand.'
'Well, that's what I trained you for, Kline. When I get out of the Gallery, I expect you to have this all sorted out.'
Angrily, Kline had to admit that Rourke was right. They were working to a tight timeline now. 'OK, I'll handle it. But I'm dipping into your stockpile.'
'Use whatever you need to get the job done. You can turn this place into rock-powder for all I care.'
'I was hoping you'd say that. I'll get it sorted.'
'Good hunting,' signed off Rourke.
There were three reasons Rourke had chosen this structure as the security hut. First, it was practically intact, except for where a section of the ceiling had caved in. They had made good use of that hole in the ceiling, constructing an observation point on the roof. Second, the structure branched off into four smaller chambers that were impossible to reach without coming through the front entrance. The third reason was a secret that only Kline and Rourke shared.
Kline yanked back the grey tarpaulin that hid Rourke's stockpile of toys. He scanned the pile of goodies.
The
re. Those were what he wanted. Shoot him, will they? Well, they were about to get the surprise of their lives.
Kline chose the weapons as three of his team rushed into the hut.
He pointed at Sirocco. 'Grab me two more of these. We’ve got some housekeeping to take care of.'
#
Fontana and Randerson settled just inside a three-quarters collapsed ruin with a view of the comm-tent.
They'd picked this spot from the aerial photographs.
Crouched side by side, Randerson studied Fontana and tried to decide what he liked least about the man. Tough call. He pretty much hated everything about him. Fontana had at least twenty kilograms more muscle-mass than Randerson. His washed-out grey eyes were that spooky color you sometimes saw in domestic dogs that went savage and killed a family member. His attention to personal grooming was disturbingly anal, neurotic even. His black sideburns, hair and eyebrows were absolutely G.I. Joe doll perfect. His simian-like jaw started at his temples and dominated his face with a wide mouth crowded with big, chemically whitened teeth.
But it was what came out of that mouth that bothered Randerson the most. If Fontana could just learn to shut his mouth every once in a while, they might be able to find some common ground.
And what was with that tattoo? It was the stupidest tattoo he'd ever seen. It was a compass, a large black eight-pointed star on his left bicep, but the cardinal points were in the wrong locations. East and west were on the wrong sides. It was obviously intentional. No tattoo-artist would make that mistake. The tattoo covered his massive bicep.
Physically, Fontana was Randerson's complete opposite. Lean all over, Randerson had a narrow face with a pointed jaw and crooked teeth. He'd had braces as a kid, but they didn't take. His brown hair was shorter than he liked, but twice as long as Fontana’s one inch flat-top. He was a full head shorter than Fontana’s six-foot-four frame of muscle.
What was Spader thinking teaming me up with Chewbacca here? I wish I'd gone with Dale.
Randerson had only known Dale for a few months, but they'd become fast friends almost immediately. Partly because Randerson rarely read the newspaper. He'd remained unfamiliar of Dale’s notoriety until Spader introduced them. 'Dale Brish' was a name he'd read online a few times or caught on the television news, but he hadn't followed it with the same level of interest as some people. People like Mercerelli, for example. Mercerelli had studied the unfolding story closely, and then went out of his way to alienate Dale the moment the two men met. Since then, Dale had made a pretty big effort with Merc, even starting the fight in Paris and taking a beating from Merc to let the man blow off some steam. Just before the fight started, Dale had finished his beer in one long gulp and then told Randerson to stay out of the fight no matter what happened.
'What fight?' Randerson had asked.
Not that he had much of a choice. If he had tried to help Dale, Fontana would have stepped in, just for the fun of it.
Dale had walked up to the bar where Merc and Fontana were laughing and drinking. He'd plonked his empty mug on the bar, turned to Merc and said loud enough for the entire bar to hear, 'How you going, fuck-face?'
Dale had given a good account of himself against a bigger and more experienced man. At least for the first fifteen seconds until Merc got serious. Randerson had taken Dale's stitches out last week.
The fight hadn't seemed to have done much good. Merc was still being a prick. Secretly, Randerson guessed it was the new puppy syndrome. Merc was the old dog, worried the new puppy was getting all their master's attention.
As usual, it all came back to Spader.
And Spader had teamed Randerson up with Fontana.
Fontana held the LAW rocket in his hands like a priceless artifact, obviously savoring the tactile smoothness of the weapons outer casing. 'I've always wanted to fire one of these.'
Randerson grabbed Fontana's shirtsleeve. 'I thought you'd fired one before.'
'Nup.'
'Wait, I heard you tell Spader that you’d fired one of these.'
'Yeah,' confirmed Fontana. 'I wanted to make sure I'd be the one who got to fire it. I think it says something about not standing behind me. You might get a little singed. Your hair's too long anyway, so stay there if you want. We can kill two birds with one stone.'
Randerson scuttled away from behind Fontana. 'You prick. You better be pointing that in the right direction!'
Fontana lowered the weapon from his shoulder. 'Relax. Look, there's a little picture on the side.'
For his own safety, Randerson glanced at the little set of instructions printed on the side of the weapon. A little diagram of a person illustrated the proper way to hold and fire the weapon.
Randerson peered closer. 'Wait, is that your name under the guy in the picture?'
'Yeah - I scratched it on there. Now it's a picture of a little Fontana. A mini-me. Cool, huh?’
Randerson shook his head at the fool with the big gun. 'There's something wrong with you. In the head. There's something wrong with your brain, Fontana.'
Fontana shouldered the weapon and looked over the tube at Randerson. 'That's twice now you've hurt my feelings, Randy. You should be careful, or I might start to take it personally.'
Randerson met Fontana's stare and said dead-pan, 'You can take it any way you want. I call them as I see them.'
Fontana broke into a smile and sighted back down his weapon. 'Yeah, I think I like that about you. Now let's make some fireworks.'
The communications tower Fontana was aiming at suddenly exploded. The satellite dish flew straight up in the air like a flying saucer from an old black and white movie. The explosion looked huge, far bigger than Randerson expected. The fireball actually mushroomed like a mini atomic warhead going off. Pieces of the comm-tower rained down everywhere. A square piece of steel the size of a dinner plate clanged off the ruins right next to Randerson. It was still on fire, so Randerson kicked a little dirt over it.
'Geez,' said Randerson, moving away from the smoldering steel and taking in the damage. 'Nice shooting. I half expected you to miss. That baby really packs a punch, huh?'
Confused, Fontana glared at the end of his rocket launcher. 'That wasn't me.'
'What?'
'I didn't fire yet. LAW rocket's still primed. Still loaded. I never got a chance to even fire the sucker. Someone else just blew up that tower.'
Randerson didn't know what to say. Fontana was stupid, but not that stupid. The only other possibility seemed absurd.
Obviously Fontana hadn't reached the same conclusion yet. He growled into his radio. 'Hey! Who just took out my real estate?'
Randerson shook his head. If both other teams were on target time-wise, they should both right now be out of radio contact. Spending so much of his time underground, Randerson had a much better grasp of this concept than Fontana. No answer came back over the radio, just as Randerson expected. It meant the other two teams were either underground or within a solid stone structure.
Randerson said, 'Think about it, Fontana. You've got the only crowd-pleaser. I saw Spader packing the gear. Dale and Merc will still be bagging the artifacts. Spader and Gordon must be in the Gallery by now. It wasn't either of them. It had to be the rent-a-cops.'
Fontana stared at the fire. 'It was a rocket. I saw it hit. It came from over that way.'
Randerson waved at Fontana’s Law rocket. 'Why would the rent-a-cops have a rocket launcher? That's a bit hard-core for local security don't you think?'
Fontana was still staring at the fire, obviously disappointed he hadn't gotten to shoot off his weapon. 'The tin-badges should be trying to protect their assets, not destroy them. Why would they take out their own comm-tower?'
Randerson watched the smoke spiraling upwards. 'I can't think of any good reason, which means it must be a bad one. We need to find Spader ASAP. Something very strange is going on here.'
#
Yuck, there's that smell again,' complained Claire.
Libby pinched her nose. 'It s
mells like a slaughter house. I noticed it last week, but it's worse now. What's causing it?'
'The silt,' answered Claire. 'Apparently it's some kind of organic compound in the buried silt. A flower extract they used to paint on people. It reacts this way on contact with air. The smell seems to go away for a while, and then suddenly you cop a big whiff again.'
Libby recalled the tour Ethan provided when she arrived at the Plaza with Joel and Perry. 'It smelled worse in the Gallery. And the bunker was bad too.'
Claire sniffed her own forearm and then nodded to the tent they crouched beside. 'It gets into the bedding. It's impossible to remove the smell if you sleep without taking a shower. It's worse on hot days when the silt lake warms up.'
Libby crouched in front of Claire with her left hip pressed to the tent. Three green towels hung from Marco’s makeshift clothesline, partially concealing them from anyone passing the tents. Both women's knees were covered in mud. Crawling, Claire had led the way through the little city of tents until they could see their target.
The communications tower.
'OK, it looks clear. Let's go now.'
'No wait,' warned Libby, wiping her dirty hands on her pants. 'We haven't watched it long enough. It's too quiet.'
'I can't see anyone in there,' insisted Claire.
'Listen,' said Libby. 'The shooting's stopped. They've stopped fighting. So where is everybody now? I think we should just sit tight a few minutes and see what's going on.'
One thing Libby had learned studying ecology was the value of patient observation. Concealed observation provided unexpected rewards. Right now her gut instinct told her that she and Claire should not be moving closer to the communications tent. They had taken so long to reach this point, crawling slowly from the workshop to the kitchen to the stores hut to here, it seemed silly and dangerous to rush in now.
PLAZA Page 10
