FREEFALL (A Megalith Thriller Book 1)

by D R Sanford

  The billowing smoke consumed the corridor, obscuring his view of the response team and their ability to gauge him as a threat. Val’s teammates vanished into a door three down on the right. All the better.

  He dropped the extra gear he’d transported from the armory and hurried to the intersecting corner with the ammo bag that complemented his prize, the AA-12 automatic shotgun.

  In service for thirty years, the gun had received a high powered makeover to become maintenance free, simple, and devastating. Innovation in combat and self-defense ammunition in recent years made it an equalizer when faced with enemies in the front and no worries about damage control.

  A quick check of the twenty round drum magazine currently installed delayed Val. Flechette rounds. Not good for the dozen or so people coughing up a lung down the hall but something he’d hoped to try out. Maybe later.

  He stripped the mag and dumped it into his open bag. Each drum had been clearly marked on the armory shelves.

  “Oh, there you are,” he murmured.

  Val loaded the new mag, chambered a cartridge, and entered the main hall again. Holding the gun’s butt tight to his right shoulder, he allowed his left side to skim the wall and sighted dead ahead.

  Three on each side. Waiting for the tear gas to incapacitate the enemy. Predictable. He may as well close his eyes for all he’d need them. But then he’d miss the show.

  Val pulled the trigger on the AA-12, working left to right. Four seconds of minimal recoil beat his shoulder. Twenty rounds of miniature exploding grenades obliterated the far end of the hall. Reaching into his voluminous ammo bag, Val chose a drum for round two, ready to take out any stragglers.

  ***

  The seventh door yielded a surprise, an unwelcome one.

  Cullen pressed the entry door inward. A split second before he resumed his position along the wall, gaping holes burst through the plaster behind him.

  Dropping to the tile flooring, he searched for targets in the darkened room, spotted a silhouette correcting its aim, and fired three rapid shots.

  The vague form stumbled backward, bouncing off the window panes.

  Cullen felt a sting in his left side, wetness trickling along his hip.

  Alex passed over, low in the doorway and clearing the room. A bedside lamp came to life at his touch. Cullen’s jaw clenched at the sight on the bed.

  A girl, no more than twenty, restrained to the bed by wide leather straps, a hastily tied gag in her mouth. At least seven months pregnant by the looks of her.

  She writhed on the bed covers, unsure if her situation just escalated from bad to worse. The girl twisted away from Alex until he laid a hand on her forehead. Cullen witnessed Alex’s tranquilizing effects again. Wondered at the strange power the man called upon. His nimble fingers worked on the cuffs at her hands and feet. Finished on the gag.

  Quiet until now, the radio he’d liberated from the breach team squawked in his ear.

  “C2, this is T1, over.”

  “T1, I read you. What’s your status, over?” Cullen recognized the deep rumble of Fergus’ voice.

  “The asset is secure, C2. Ready to move to your location.”

  “Make sure you use the elevators. The stairwells are compromised.”

  “Roger that, C2. Over and out.”

  A hiss of static and then they were gone. With only four floors in the building, Cullen had to hedge his bets and keep an eye down the hall.

  “Alex, I could use that HK again.”

  The carbine slid across the floor, bumping into the sole of his boots. He swapped the pistol in his hands for the carbine. Shallow breaths. A low profile against the door jamb with the optic’s red dot trained on the middle passenger elevator.

  A shadow spread across the floor at the T intersection, moving in from the right. The muzzle of a carbine peeked around the corner at shoulder height. Instinctively, Cullen drew back in the doorway, waiting for a good look at T1 and their cargo.

  Five seconds ticked off in his head. Another look revealed four men spread out in a semi-circle protecting two women while waiting for the elevator.

  Before Cullen had a chance to identify anyone, the two center guards raised their carbine and challenged Cullen.

  “Contact.”

  He ducked into the doorway, thumbing the radio on his hip.

  “Hold your fire, T1,” Cullen responded. Judging from the large T3 emblazoned on the front of his vest, he called out “T3 is down the hall from you, T1. The northeast corner is clear.”

  “Roger that, T3. A heads up would have been nice.”

  “Sorry. Comms malfunctioned after the breach blast. Mind if I step out?”

  “Fine by me.”

  Cullen craned his neck to speak with Alex and saw the concern lining his brow.

  “Sit tight, okay?”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Not at all. Gotta go.”

  Cullen stepped out, making a show of checking the hall to the north, lowered his weapon, and walked steadily toward the elevators.

  Halfway there and the elevator chimed.

  Doors parted. The guards tightened up, obscuring his view of the women.

  Everyone stepped inside. True to human nature, they all turned and faced the entrance.

  Maeve, tall and strikingly beautiful, watched his approach over the valley of her guards’ close shoulders. She smiled. Recognition lit her eyes, but she made no move to alert her bodyguard. Maeve’s eyes shifted to the woman at her side.

  The crown of her head faced Cullen. She looked up, unfocused, if not drugged then broken.

  Nora. Twenty feet away. Maeve beside her. The elevator doors began to close, promising to block his way.

  Cullen’s feet and hands moved automatically as he charged the doors. Surprise bought him perhaps a second before weapons raised to meet him.

  Within steps of the steel barriers, his finger depressed the trigger on full auto. A center guard’s left shoulder exploded, and Cullen swore Maeve’s head snapped back behind him.

  A hail of gunfire from within the car struck Cullen, slowing his headlong sprint and leaving him gasping on the floor. The doors sealed. Maeve’s private elevator carried Nora away.

  Just a few more steps.

  Cullen couldn’t tell what caused more agony, seeing Nora only to lose her again or the bullets that tore through his flesh and caved in his vest. He fought for breath. Clawed at the tiles, trying to drag himself to the doors.

  Hurried footsteps reminded Cullen that he lay exposed on the ground. He tried in vain to orient himself through the haze of blackness crowding his vision. Firm hands gripped the edges of the vest Cullen wore and dragged him away from the hallway intersection. Propped him against the wall.

  Oxygen flooded Cullen’s lungs, eased the vertigo dragging him down.

  Larkin, his uniform speckled with blood, ran his hands over the velcro straps fixing Cullen’s vest to his torso and eased the tension. He drew in deep breaths, aware of a wetness along his side where stray bullets carved furrows along his ribs.

  A strident voice broke in over the radio, “C1 is wounded. All teams converge on level three. Switch to radio protocol B.”

  He didn’t catch the entire message, but Larkin tuned in that something was happening. Cullen croaked, “We have to get moving. Everyone and their brother is about to swarm in on us.”

  To emphasize the point, the echoing boom of large caliber gunfire rang out below them. Laeg, Robbie, and Velasco weren’t having much more luck than Cullen and his team had found.

  Larkin pulled Cullen to his feet in time to greet Alex. He carried the weapon bags and ammo pouches Cullen had left behind.

  “I take it we’re being painted into a corner?” asked Alex.

  “Looks that way. We have to get off this floor, and fast.”

  “If we cannot find an exit, we make one,” Larkin replied.

  He paced the intersection, eying the stairwell at the far end along with all the doors in their vicinit
y. Behind his back, Larkin pressed the elevator buttons and swiped a key card on the other doors without success.

  Having scavenged for himself, Larkin pulled a straight tanto knife from a leg sheath and drove it to the hilt in the main elevator’s door seal. A shift of his weight and a twist of the knife spread the doors an inch. Alex left Cullen’s side to assist.

  “Cullen, can you make it over here?”

  “Hold on. I think so.”

  He walked on wobbly legs, feeling like the building rode on giant waves beneath him. His fingers brushed the wall for support until he reached the open elevator and the dark shaft stretching down into the valley floor.

  “It looks like they’re keeping the car up there on the fourth floor,” Alex said, pointing up to the car’s undercarriage.

  “I suppose that means we have to go down then.”

  “Cullen,” Alex started, “I think we should split up here. For a number of reasons.”

  “I’m not following you,” he breathed. Thankfully, the pain in his side had begun receding.

  “In short, if we’re all caught the mission is over. Our chances may be better on our own. You could descend and throw them off the trail. And to be totally honest, I can’t stand knowing there are innocent women up here strapped and gagged to beds.

  “Perhaps I can lay low, blend in and do some good up here. Besides, Maeve will keep Nora locked up for hours until the ceremony. We need to buy time and stay alive.”

  Larkin didn’t need much more than that. He quickly hefted packs, handed Alex a sidearm with extra magazines, and leaned into the shaft. Wrapping his arms and legs around the cables, Larkin slid down and disappeared from sight.

  “Are you going back to that room, Alex?”

  “That’s my first stop, why?”

  “Pull off the guard’s radio and keep it tuned in to channel one. Hopefully we can find a rally point.

  “Will do. You take care of yourself, okay?” Alex held out his hand. They both felt the press of time.

  “Alex, promise me, if you’re able to reach Nora you will get her out and not look back.”

  “I can’t promise that, and you know it. Now go.” He backpedaled, offering a wave before turning down the main corridor.

  Cullen’s chest screamed as he leaned out to grasp the thick cables then surrendered to gravity.

  —Chapter 22—

  FIND

  Maeve paced the hardwood floor, beating a deeper rut along a familiar path in her high-heeled boots. The staccato rhythm comforted her, all the more after judging the discomfort on the faces of Lugaid’s elite guard. One of them actually twitched each time she dropped her right heel. She edged a tad closer to increase the effect.

  Something failed to add up. A straightforward suicidal assassination attempt would have broken down the instant they recognized her. Even without weapons, the only available solution lay in piercing her bodyguard bubble and killing her in any way possible.

  An underlying motive must be guiding them, she thought.

  That’s why she’d sent for Nora, to extend the safety of her enhanced security. Fergus, on the other hand, fell short in his duties. His office labored diligently to ensure that any transfers met strict background checks, both their history on paper and the DNA in their veins. For an entire team to infiltrate Cruacha, either Fergus or one of his officers was to blame.

  Enough reason to cripple his sidearm at least. Besides, Fergus crept closer to retirement every day. If he proved himself innocent, a fresh start may be in order. If he had assisted Ferdiad in any way, Fergus would be seriously diminished as a threat.

  Shouts drew Maeve’s attention to her office entrance. Two of the four men sent to retrieve Nora carried one of their own on their shoulders, dragging his feet along the floor. Staining the majestic oak with his blood.

  “Stop,” she shouted. “He isn’t even alive, you fools. I can feel it from here. Wrap him up, and take him into the mountain infirmary.”

  The twitchy guard produced a tarp from a vest pocket, quickly unfolding it at the feet of the dead man. Lugaid’s boys, always prepared for the wet work. Maybe she’d misread him earlier.

  Behind them trailed the fourth bodyguard in the detail, carrying a gruesome copy of herself. The right side of her head—all the way down to her collarbone—was drenched in blood and bullet wounds.

  Clotting blood caked the lustrous auburn hair. No sign of the right eye. The left one stared up to the rafters high above. Sightless. Lifeless.

  Covered in blood spatter and shaking like a leaf, Nora stood back on the threshold. Hands protectively covering her distended abdomen. Lugaid detached himself from the shadows under the balcony and led her away to a quiet corner.

  The man holding Maeve’s body-double gaped at her in confusion.

  “Do we have another tarp?” she asked.

  Someone obliged. Unfolded the crinkling black plastic on the plank floor.

  Georg, that was his name, stood frozen in place. Protecting the remains of his beloved queen and staring at Maeve in confusion.

  “It’s a shock, I know. Rest easy, Georg. She’s just a double sent on an errand I didn’t feel required my attention. Please set her down.”

  Blinking away his astonishment, Georg knelt, gently placing Morrigan on the plastic sheet.

  “This is a rare treat for all of you. Who here has witnessed the resurrection of a goddess?”

  Maeve addressed the throng but neglected to check for a response.

  “To be honest, not even I know what it is that gives Morrigan her corporeal form or allows her to shift into the guise of her choosing.”

  She eased herself to the floor beside a concerned Georg and patted him on the shoulder.

  “I do, however, know a few little tricks. And although I could tuck her away to regenerate on her own, I have the feeling she will be needed today.”

  Keeping contact with Georg, she tapped reassuringly down his back. A deft swipe along his weapons belt and Maeve held Georg’s unsheathed KA-BAR in her hand.

  With cold precision Maeve drove the combat knife’s point beneath his jaw line, severing the carotid artery and piercing the base of his brain.

  Georg toppled onto Morrigan, an unstrung puppet.

  Very Romeo and Juliet, she thought.

  Back on her feet. Pressing the wrinkles from her skirt. Maeve watched Georg’s blood spurt down the edge of the KA-BAR’s blade, soak Morrigan’s body, and mingle in the open wounds.

  Her gaze passed over the troops, impassive and uncaring.

  “Their inability to protect my proxy is the same as failing me directly. Who among you cares to repeat their mistake and die at my hands?”

  As expected, no one spoke a word, but she had thought it worth stating the consequences.

  “Twitchy,” she selected the anxious one. Almost caused him to jump out of his skin. “Go take care of the others.”

  “Alone, ma’am?”

  “Absolutely. Consider it a rite of passage if you must. Now go.”

  Twitchy sped away, climbing steps two at a time to reach the library’s balcony level. Sprinted for the sliding bookcase the protection detail left open.

  Maeve felt some minor relief after he disappeared in the hidden passageway. She’d regret removing another body from her service just because he annoyed her.

  The “kraa” of a crow drew her back to Georg’s still form. In place of Morrigan’s corpse, the black feathered bird hopped on his upturned chest. Spastic wings reached out. Perched on his shoulder, Morrigan’s thick beak wedged deep in the neck wound, tilted her head back, and drank from the source.

  Pecking and drinking. Pulling and eating. The crow stripped the flesh from Georg’s neck, consuming the soft tissues and scraping her beak along the cartilage of the larynx for any leftover morsels.

  Maeve stood transfixed. The life-giving power of sacrifice never lost its impact. Seeing Morrigan in her most elemental form, feasting on Maeve’s sacrifice, acknowledged the thin line betwee
n life and death.

  Invariably, one fed the other.

  “Lugaid. Where are you? You should be watching this,” she called.

  “Breathtaking, my queen,” Lugaid breathed at her ear. “A rare pleasure, though I believe the incompetent’s sacrifice is too great an honor for him.”

  “How do you manage to sneak up on me like that?” Maeve craned her neck to the right, saw him standing a step behind, likewise entranced by the gorging crow.

  “Lives of practice, my dear.” A wry smile curled his lips. Tall and wiry, Lugaid came from a stock he’d engineered long ago. Through careful breeding and genetic manipulation, he’d achieved a state of near hairlessness.

  Maeve didn’t care for it much, but she saw how it unsettled various family patriarchs who cherished their trademark beards and let him have his way. Lugaid offered a different answer each time she inquired. Always something about stealth, speed, or the psychological advantage.

  Personally, she thought Lugaid was plain crazy, yet he never questioned her orders or gave reason to suspect his loyalty. For that, and his stellar history of performance in bed, she gladly forgave his quirks.

  His eyes drifted off their mark as Lugaid cupped a hand to his earpiece.

  “Maeve, we have an exceptionally mouthy intruder on the radio. Would you care to converse with him?”

  “I suppose they want their dear Ferdiad returned to them? Or the few remaining have sworn to kill us one by one, leaving me very sorry I woke up this morning?”

  “That’s the gist actually, but it’s not Ferdiad he’s asking for.”

  “Well then, let’s get to the meat of the matter shall we?”

  She took a mental picture of Morrigan feasting, blood coating her feathers, flesh hanging from her beak. Returning to her desk, she passed Ferdiad, concerned about the drug-induced sleep Lugaid had administered.

  Maeve wagged a finger in Ferdiad’s direction as she sat, asking, “How much did you give him, by the way?”

  “I’d say he’ll be under for at least another hour,” he replied and took the seat next to Ferdiad.