Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

"Great."

  "YOU'VE BEEN STARING AT those cards for some time now, Dr. Rand."

  "I don't have enough information. I'm used to doing detailed investigation, asking questions, formulating hypotheses, and starting over again until I've refined the result."

  "That's a great process in the academic world."

  Tess tipped her head. "Are you saying I'm not living in the real world, Sergeant?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm suggesting you're not thinking in the real world. I assume you read a lot."

  "More than most. What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Recently I read a book by Malcolm Gladwell called Blink. It's a good read."

  "You read Malcolm Gladwell?"

  "Doesn't everyone?" Kincaid pushed his chair back, walked around to Tess's side, and looked at the cards pinned to the wall. "Gladwell gives many examples of people who come to the right conclusion in the blink of an eye. It's called, 'thin slicing.' I'll loan you the book, but for now all you need to know is to trust your instincts."

  "Trust my instincts. I think this is a little too important to just trust my instincts."

  "Forgive me, ma'am; it is precisely because it is so important that you do." He folded his arms and hunched his shoulders in a way that reminded her of a kindly professor she had while an undergraduate.

  "I don't follow."

  "There are some things that cannot be taught in leadership school." He rubbed his eyes, the first sign of weariness she had seen. She had forgotten he had been up and moving as long as Colonel Mac had. "I'm good at what I do, ma'am. If I'm not being too self-aggrandizing, I'm pretty good at organization and mission planning. However, in the field I learned very quickly that I'm not a leader of men. On base, sure. Under fire, I'm cool and thoughtful, but that's not enough. Mission leaders—men like Eric Moyer—are people who know what to do even when they don't know why. They size up a situation in a moment and make a decision without long analysis. Later, when asked why they did what they did, they can't tell you." He motioned to the cards. "Pick."

  "Sergeant—"

  "Pick."

  "Fine. Anyone ever tell you you're one pushy man?"

  "Colonel MacGregor has been known to mention it—every day."

  Tess stepped to the card-littered wall and studied it. She grabbed two cards and handed them to Kinkaid.

  "Really? Are you sure?"

  "I thought the whole point was to let the subconscious do its part."

  "I would never have picked these two."

  "I'm not saying they're the ones. I just have a feeling about them. Can we do backgrounds on them?"

  "Right away. In the meantime, we need to think this through. I'm not going to Colonel Mac and say, 'We have a good feeling about this.'"

  "What? This was your idea."

  "Not the way I plan to tell the story."

  CHAPTER 37

  ZINSSER DECIDED ON A team of three. He asked Brianne to sit this one out. She told him what he could do with the suggestion. He, Brianne, Presley, and Arnold huddled.

  "I'll be first in. We move quickly. There will be no hesitancy. Understood? A half-second delay and one of us gets killed. When we go in, we go in committed. Can you do that?"

  That got three yeses. Moments before Zinsser tried to talk them into letting him go into the building alone. That idea was killed before he put the period on the sentence.

  He looked at Brianne, Presley, and Arnold and feared for them. He should wait for a team. He should wait until the building was surrounded and the "talkers" tried to convince the perps to walk out with their hands up. That's what he should do, but he knew there would be a firefight and Gina could be caught in the middle. So, never hindered by procedural rules, Zinsser made his decision. To his surprise, Brianne agreed as did Presley.

  "We do this the military way. I don't know what your training included, but let me give a word or two of advice. First, this is not a drill. If you do not shoot bad guys, bad guys will kill you where you stand. We have reason to believe these guys are professionals." Zinsser poked a finger in the middle of Presley's chest. "You probably already know this, but make your first shot a body mass shot. Aim for the center of the body. If they're wearing their armor, the force of the shot will cause enough pain for you to take a head shot. Make sense?"

  They agreed.

  "If you can't do this, tell me now. This is no movie. There will be real blood. If we do this right, it will be their blood."

  Zinsser took a few moments to describe the room Gina was in. As he did, Brianne's phone chimed. She answered and stepped away. A moment later she returned.

  "Ever heard of Green Zone?"

  Zinsser groaned. "Don't tell me. Facial recognition came back."

  "My team got enough markers off the Home Warehouse security video to identify two of the three suspects—both the men. Both have military backgrounds and were dishonorably discharged for thefts they committed in Iraq. Somehow they ended up with Green Zone."

  "Green Zone?" Presley said. "I think I've heard of them."

  Zinsser rubbed his face. "You may have. They're one of many private contractors who provide civilian soldiers in war zones for a hefty fee. Some of the groups are filled with brave, experienced, loyal men. A couple are filled with military rejects." He looked down the street.

  "Your expression tells me this is bad." Presley looked worried.

  "The plan remains the same but the degree of difficulty has gone up. They're former military and probably some of Green Zone's elite." He thought for a moment. "I should go in alone."

  Brianne rolled her eyes. "Yeah? Well, it's not going to happen. Besides, it's not about you; it's about the girl. We go in together or we wait for backup."

  Zinsser used his cell phone to call his boss.

  "It's about time you called, Agent Zinsser."

  Zinsser filled him in on most of the story, leaving out his plan to enter the building. "Agent Lazzaro's people have used the video to identify two of the three suspects. They're part of Green Zone."

  Wallace sent a stream of curses over the cellular system. "Give me the names."

  "Brianne is texting you the info. We need to let Colonel MacGregor know. He still has to help run down the mole."

  "Did she tell you about the other video?"

  Zinsser didn't like what he was hearing. "No. What other video?"

  Brianne looked up, puzzled.

  "We just sent it to her crew in the FBI. Same message but . . ."

  "But what?"

  Wallace's voice dropped a dozen decibels. "They were holding a gun to the girl's head."

  "That tears it." Every muscle in his body tensed.

  "Zinsser, what are you planning?"

  "Thanks for passing that on, Boss."

  "You found the hideout, didn't you? You know where the perps are."

  "Gotta go, Boss."

  "You will do nothing until I get there. What's your exact location? Zinsser? Zinsser!"

  Zinsser closed his phone. "Cell phones off."

  "That didn't sound good." Brianne quieted her phone. "I could hear him like he was standing next to me."

  "You must have heard wrong. He said to go on it."

  "Sure he did." Brianne took a folder from Presley and started down the walk.

  "I think she likes you, Agent."

  "I can see why you never made detective."

  MOYER WATCHED CRISPIN. THE young soldier hadn't moved his eyes from the small screen on the controller despite the bumps and twists Lev was putting the truck through. Crispin's focus remained welded to the device in his hands. Every few minutes he would say, "Good. Still good."

  Moyer, like the others, took his turn peeking at the small monitor.

  "Exactly what was it you put on the vehicle?" Pete eyed the device like a lion looking at his next meal.

  "I used the MAV. Wired it into the grill of the lead car."

  "How did you know which car would be the lead?"

  "We didn't. The cars were in a line and the fl
atbed was at the rear. Boss guessed the first car in would be the first car out, so I wired it to the grill. Anyplace else and the thing would be noticed."

  "It looks like a little jet except it has a propeller," J. J. said. "I can't believe something that small can fly."

  "Bees fly and they're a lot smaller." Moyer assumed Crispin had dealt with such objections before. "Small is good for recon. Harder to see; impossible to target."

  "And it has a tiny camera sending a live video back to you." Pete leaned forward to steal another look.

  "Yes. Granted it's not a great picture, but it's detailed enough. Ironic in a way."

  "How's that?" Shaq asked.

  "The most important thing on that satellite is its secret and advanced optics and here we are following something a thousand times smaller and with a much cheaper camera."

  Moyer addressed Lev. "Not too fast. We don't have to be on their tails. We can use the MAV's radio as a beacon if we lose them. I don't want them to know we're here."

  "Fine with me." Lev kept his eyes on the road. "I do not want them to know we're here either."

  "They're slowing."

  Everyone looked to Crispin.

  "Distance?" Moyer asked.

  "Best I can tell we're still two klicks behind . . . fork in the road . . . turning left. Road narrows. Potholes. The image is pitching and yawing like crazy. Rough ride."

  Moyer moved to the back of the van, struggling to keep his feet beneath him, using the sides of the van and the shoulders of his men to steady himself. He hovered over Crispin. A large white block appeared in the monitor. "Is that a building?" The image settled.

  "Slowing more, Boss. This may be it."

  Seconds passed with agonizing slowness. Only the sound of the motor and the twisting of the frame and body of the truck on the rough road hung in the air. Moyer's heart picked up its pace.

  "Stopped. Boss, they've stopped."

  Moyer drew in the image on the screen. The forward motion ceased and he could see people moving in front of the camera. They walked around the vehicle. Moyer assumed the others were tending to the satellite loaded on the back of the truck. Time was crucial.

  "Pick it up, Lev. Get us a klick away."

  "Understood."

  Moyer looked at his men and they stared at him. "Brave men need our help. You guys ready to lend a hand?"

  "Hooah!"

  "We bring them home. Dead or alive, we bring them home. Am I right?"

  "Hooah!"

  Moyer paused. "Look, gentlemen, I know I've been off my game; I know I'm missing a stride because of my . . . my daughter. Know this. I serve with the best. You are the best. I don't know what's ahead, but I know we are going to leave a mark." He paused and inhaled deeply. "If any one of you gets dead, I will kick your butts. Understood?"

  "Yes, Boss."

  "This may be rough. The enemy is well armed and well trained. We have the advantage of surprise. That and I think we're pretty ticked off."

  "Heard that," Shaq said.

  "They have what belongs to us. It's time to wipe the smiles from their faces." Moyer moved to his spot in the van. "Lock and load, gentlemen. Lock and load."

  ZINSSER, HOLDING A MANILA file folder, walked down the middle of the street. To his left walked Brianne; to his right Sergeant Presley. Both held similar folders. Zinsser stopped every few steps, pointed at one of the abandoned buildings, and made notes on the outside of the folder. Occasionally, Brianne would do the same.

  They took no defensive positions, did not stay in the remaining shadows and growing gloom of early evening. They walked like people who belonged there, like people simply doing their job.

  They neared the building Brianne identified. A quick look told Zinsser she was right about the window. The color of the covering was right, the size and shape of the window matched, the presence of the Tacoma seen in the video surveillance parked a couple of miles away convinced him they were in the right place.

  Zinsser used the time to study the buildings closer. They were laid out in a style long out of fashion, with one access to the lower floor stores and an enclosed stairway with access from the street and leading to a second-floor office.

  As they reached the target building, the front door from the stairway opened and a man exited, closing the door behind him. He was big, thick, and looked like he lived in the gym. He also wore a black shirt and black pants. He looked at Zinsser. "What you guys doing?"

  Zinsser smiled. "Oh, I didn't know any of the buildings were occupied—well, by anyone other than the homeless."

  "I asked you a question."

  "Yes, that you did. I'm sorry, but we're with the county and we have to survey the streets in the area. You see, some people have filed a complaint against the new owners who want to tear everything down to make way for new construction." Zinsser approached the man as he spoke. "Some people think the buildings are historic landmarks." Closer. "Maybe you're one of the people who filed a complaint."

  "I don't know anything about that."

  "Well, I'm confused." Zinsser scratched his head. "My associates and I were told the buildings were empty. Are you doing construction in there? Because if you are, I have to ask if you have a permit."

  Closer. Zinsser was now on the sidewalk, just three feet from the man in black.

  "No construction."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "That's none of your business." He reached for the knob on the door and turned it. The door opened a few inches.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm one of the CPA types. Like to have all my numbers in order, if you know what I mean. Look, let me give you one of my cards."

  Zinsser started for his back pocket as the man faced him, his hand still on the doorknob. Zinsser's hand never reached his back pocket. His right fist impacted the man's throat. As he raised his hand to reach for his crushed larynx, Zinsser brought the same hand back then up into the man's nose.

  Before the man in black could drop, Zinsser had him by the front of the shirt, and, without losing hold of the file, he held the handgun he concealed beneath it, threw him over his hip and head first into the concrete. Zinsser heard a bone snap. He didn't bother checking.

  Brianne and Presley took positions to either side of the door; both dropped the folders they had been using to conceal their weapons.

  Zinsser looked into their eyes and was happy to see determination rather than fear. He took a deep breath, then, "Fast, calm, no turning back. Got it?"

  "Give the word," Brianne said. "We're behind you."

  Zinsser held up three fingers and silently counted down. When he retracted the last finger, he flung the door open and stepped into the dim stairway.

  He heard voices.

  Too many voices.

  Zinsser started up the stairs, his P228 pointed up and to the corner where the stairs wrapped around a wall, making a ninety-degree turn. Brianne was two steps down, her Glock 27 out and pointed down and away from Zinsser's back. Presley followed with his Beretta 9mm pointed down.

  It was a lousy situation: three people in a confined space, each with a weapon that made big holes in people. He was comfortable with Brianne's training but didn't know what to think about Presley.

  Nearing the landing at the corner, Zinsser paused and listened. He identified three distinct voices, all male. What about the female he saw on the surveillance video?

  A creak.

  A step.

  Someone was coming down the stairs.

  "I'll check." He spoke loudly. "He probably decided to have a smoke—"

  Zinsser stepped on the midpoint landing and rounded the corner.

  Another man in black.

  Two taps. One round hit the man in the sternum, the other punched through his right cheekbone. Zinsser ignored the splatter and charged up the last few stairs. He had to catch the others flatfooted.

  The stairs ended in a wide, open area. The floor was asphalt tile, the kind popular four or five decades ago. Two men sat at a
folding table playing cards. Man Two on the video was dealing.

  Zinsser ended his game with two rounds to the chest. He pointed the business end of the pistol at the second man who lay facedown on the table, a pool of blood oozing from his head. Brianne had made one shot. It was all that was needed.

  Zinsser's ears were ringing; the loud report of the guns in a confined area were doing damage.

  The three stood ready, waiting for someone else to appear. The cavernous space gave them a clear view of most of the floor, but several rooms—offices and a pair of bathrooms—lined the back wall of the space. There was one other room: one freshly made with no drywall on the exterior of the stud wall.

  Gina.

  Handgun ever before him, Zinsser moved, slow step after slow step, closer to what he had come to think of as a cell. He had a decision to make. There was at least one other actor: the woman. Two bathrooms, three additional doors to what he assumed were offices. His biggest concern was if someone was with Gina, ready to kill if backed in a corner.

  Zinsser motioned for Brianne and Presley to check the side rooms. He moved to the cell. Behind him he heard a door open.

  "Clear."

  Good. That's one.

  Zinsser reached the cell, stopping short of the door with its wire-laced window. A shadow from inside played across the textured glass, a shadow that could only be made by someone standing.

  Zinsser laid a hand on the doorknob.

  His heart chugged like a locomotive. He couldn't remember the last time he took a breath. His hands were slick with sweat. Let her be alive. Let me do this right.

  He flung the door open.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE APPROACH TO THE buildings was fast at first, but as they closed the last one hundred yards . . . Anyone seeing the approach of six men in camo, body armor, packs, sidearms, helmets, and more would know exactly what was going on. That's why Moyer was moving slowly.

  He split the team. Rich, J. J., and Doc approached from the north; Moyer, Pete, and Crispin came from the south.

  Before they left, Moyer ordered Pete to report their situation. Moyer spread his men out, knowing Rich would be doing the same.