Black Skies

by Leo J. Maloney

  Leaning over the side, he signaled for Lily to follow. He raised his night-vision goggles and stood against the side of the lowest boxy unit of the house, drawing his combat knife. Lily soon swung her body in a smooth fluid motion over the wall, landing at his side. She pulled the ladder up and stashed it in Morgan’s rucksack. It was surprisingly compact when bunched up.

  “Diesel, we’re up here. Give me the position of the guards?”

  “There’s one right above you. Keep flat against the wall. Another one is about to round your corner in just over ten seconds. Bishop and Spartan, there are two there, facing away from you about eight feet from the corner. I want you all to make your move on my mark.”

  Morgan gripped his knife.

  “Three,” counted Diesel, “two, one . . .”

  The guard appeared at the corner right at Diesel’s mark. He appeared to be looking out at the moonlit ocean, oblivious to the death that awaited him. Morgan let him walk to the edge of the wall, so that he had his back to him. In a quick and precise motion, Morgan grabbed the man’s forehead and slit his neck. He gurgled, and Morgan nudged him so that he slumped over the wall. The man spun in the air to land on his back on the ground below. Morgan then heard the whistle of a sniper’s bullet, and the dull impact above. The guard from the roof tumbled down and hit the deck around the corner from Morgan and Lily, blood and brains splattering around his head.

  Thanks, Diesel.

  Morgan signaled for Lily to go. She took the lead this time, and he followed behind.

  “Lily, you’ve got a man behind the glass at the entrance nearest to you.” He was referring to the enormous French doors that faced the swimming pool. “Bishop and Spartan, there are two bad guys coming around from the front on your side.”

  “How do you want to take this one?” Morgan asked.

  “Follow my lead,” she told him. She dropped her gear, undid her bulletproof vest, and then unzipped her wetsuit, pulling off the top so that it hung limply at her front and Morgan could see her exposed back.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She walked out, in full view of the glass door, and continued to walk forward.

  He heard the door unlock, slide open, and another of the guards, Uzi in hand, emerged from the interior. The man whistled to call her attention, and she turned around, looking innocent.

  “Oh, dear, am I in trouble?” she said innocently.

  Morgan was so stunned by what she had done that he almost forgot to take action. He approached from behind and plunged his tactical knife into the man’s neck. Holding on to his torso and still gripping the knife, Morgan pulled him backward, setting him gently down in the darkness where he wouldn’t be spotted.

  “I’d like to see you try that trick,” said Lily.

  “Let’s get inside,” Morgan told Lily, who had followed him. “And for God’s sake, put a shirt on.”

  She pulled on her wetsuit and re-strapped her vest. They rounded the corner once more, Bishop and Spartan showed up from the far end of the house. They met at the open French doors, and Bishop took the lead, spreading wispy white curtains as he entered.

  They had come into a sort of lounge, with sprawling couches all done in wicker and white leather. Morgan couldn’t help thinking that Jenny would adore it.

  “We’ll get Weinberg upstairs,” said Morgan. “You two secure the first floor.”

  “Roger,” said Bishop. Morgan lowered his night-vision goggles and signaled for Lily to follow him, clutching his MP5. They crept up the wooden staircase and found a hallway upstairs with five doors, all on their left, facing the ocean, ending in another curving staircase. Lily guarded their back as Morgan checked the rooms one by one. The first four came up empty. The door to the fifth was closed.

  Morgan pushed the door, which opened with a creak. Beyond it was a suite furnished with a rustic hardwood bed with matching closet and dresser. White curtains billowed from the door to the balcony, on the opposite wall. Weinberg was lying on top of the comforter on the bed, naked, curled up facing away from them. Morgan raised the MP5 and unlocked the safety catch.

  “Weinberg!” Morgan shouted.

  The German sat up, confused and blinking in the darkness.

  “No sudden movements,” said Morgan, “or I’ll shoot. Get slowly out of bed. Put on some—”

  “Stop!” came a sharp, imperious female voice from behind them, and light flooded the room from the hallway. “I have a gun on you, and I can shoot you both before you turn around.” Lena Weinberg. Shit. They had no idea she was here. “Don’t move a muscle. Guns on the floor. Both of you.” Morgan looked at Lily, who seemed about ready to turn around and shoot Lena. He mouthed no.

  “I see your bulletproof vests,” said Lena, “and I raise you a lifetime of instruction as a sharpshooter. I am pointing my gun at you, Ms. Randall. If either of you move a muscle, you’ll be dead within half a second. And I have to say, the odds will not look good for you, either, Mr. Morgan. Now, guns on the floor!”

  Morgan unslung the MP5 and set it on the floor. Lily scowled but followed suit.

  “Handguns!” Lena exclaimed.

  They unholstered their sidearms and let them drop to the floor.

  “Good. Now back up against the window.” They circled the bed, arms up. “Gunther! Come on behind me!”

  They heard the groan of the bed as Weinberg stood. “Shoot them, Lena.”

  Morgan was calculating the probability of being able to break through the window when a loud crash of something made of glass or china shattering reverberated from downstairs.

  “Ah, so they are not alone,” said Lena.

  “That’s right,” said Morgan. “Toss the gun and we might let you live.”

  Heavy steps thudded on the stairwell. All four of them tensed up. Come on, Bishop! Spartan!

  From the hallway appeared the hulking frame of Anse Fleischer.

  It was enough of a distraction for Morgan to make his move. In one swift movement and a grunt of exertion, he lifted the bed on its side, pushing it against the door. He and Lily pivoted out of the way as Lena shot through the mattress, bullets hitting the window and far wall. Morgan picked up his MP5 and kicked Lily’s over to her.

  Now what? Morgan couldn’t risk killing Weinberg. He loosed a hail of bullets into the bed, aiming high. That would keep them away, but time was on their side, not Morgan’s. The Weinbergs could simply call the police—if they hadn’t already. All they could do was hold their ground.

  Except—the balcony. They still had the Kevlar ladder.

  “Lily, get that open,” he said, motioning toward the balcony door. He pulled out the ladder from his rucksack.

  “Spartan,” he said, fixing the hook on the ledge, letting it unroll down to the deck. “Bishop. Report in.”

  “They’re not responding,” said Diesel over the comm.

  “I need to get to them,” said Morgan. “Can you provide a distraction?”

  “Like a big explosion?” asked Diesel. “I’ve got two very large gas tanks in my sight.”

  “That’ll do,” said Morgan.

  “On your mark,” said Diesel.

  “No time like the present,” said Morgan. He motioned for Lily to climb out onto the balcony, while he let fly a barrage of covering fire at the room door. Then, to Lily: “When you touch down, go directly inside and look for them.”

  “Leave no man behind,” said Lily, who disappeared out the window.

  “Good. Okay, Diesel,” said Morgan, “we’re ready for you.”

  “Hold on to your asses,” said Diesel. Morgan heard a distant gunshot, then another. The house shook, and the backyard was lit up in orange by the unseen fireball.

  Morgan climbed over the parapet and down on the ladder. He clambered down, rung by rung, until he touched down on the deck again. Lily was already inside the house.

  “They’re here!” she called out. “And alive! Give me a hand!”

  Morgan ran in the house, into the foyer. Bishop and Spartan were laid o
ut on the floor. They had been beaten, and the furniture around them was broken. Half of Spartan’s face was red and swollen, with a deep cut on her cheek. Bishop was bleeding from the forehead, where several pieces of glass were embedded. A large framed mirror that hung on the wall was badly cracked.

  “I got her,” said Lily, lifting Spartan with considerable difficulty. Spartan, half conscious, was at least able to support part of her weight on her own feet, but Lily looked like she might fall any second.

  Morgan turned his attention to Bishop, who was mumbling incoherently. “Okay, buddy, come on, let’s get up.” Bishop, tall and muscular, was heavy as hell. “Come on, let’s go.”

  As they walked back to the living room, Morgan’s eyes were drawn to the stairs. The Weinbergs would be coming down any second now. He and Lily, carrying their injured comrades, could do little to defend themselves. He picked up the pace, but Lily was lagging behind. Morgan made it outside and carried Bishop around the corner of the house, where he and Lily had originally scaled the wall. He then went back for Lily and Spartan. They had not yet crossed the living room. He reached them and held Spartan up himself.

  “Here, let me,” he said to Lily. “You get out of here.”

  He picked Spartan up—she was solid, but still a lot smaller than Bishop. He heard footsteps on the stairwell. Fleischer and his employers were coming downstairs. Morgan had to get out with Spartan. Knees burning, he ran outside, hearing gunfire behind him. A bullet whizzed past his ear. He carried Spartan toward the side of the house, where Lily was standing over Bishop. She had her gun out.

  “Get out of the way!” she yelled, but he couldn’t. Moving away from the side of the house would expose him to gunfire from inside. But Fleischer would reach the glass doors to the outer deck in seconds. Morgan looked back and saw him emerge, gun in hand. He raised it to shoot, and—

  A shot rang out and hit the side of the house, inches from Fleischer’s head. He doubled back inside.

  Diesel!

  “Get the hell out!” said Diesel through the comm.

  “I’m working on it!”

  He ran over to the others. “There’s no ladder,” said Lily.

  “We’ll just use the same—” he trailed off. That ladder was hanging over the glass door, exposed to the inside of the house.

  He turned to Bishop. “Come on, buddy” he said, close to the man’s face. He slapped him, and he seemed to stir.

  “Cobra . . .” he said, barely getting the word out.

  “He’s out of commission,” said Morgan. Lily, meanwhile, was bent over Spartan, trying to wake her. Spartan stirred, and then opened her eyes.

  “Wake up!” Lily said. “We’re not out of the woods yet. Can you stand up?”

  “I think so,” said Spartan. Groaning, she got up. “Bishop—”

  “Alive,” said Morgan. “But unconscious. We need to get out of here, and the way out is down there.” He pointed to the wall with the long drop.

  “That’s got to be eight feet,” she said. “Do we have a ladder?”

  “No,” said Morgan. “We’ll have to jump. After we drop Bishop down.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Come on,” he said, “help me with him.”

  The three of them together hoisted Bishop onto the wall, which was low on their side, and sat him down. “Now,” said Morgan, “we’re going to hold on to him for as long as possible, and lower him as far as possible. Got it?”

  Morgan pushed Bishop over, and grunted from the weight. Lily nearly went over with him. Holding him by the arms, they managed to lower him far enough that the drop was a mere three feet.

  “Sorry, buddy,” said Morgan. Then, to Spartan and Lily, “Okay, let go.”

  Bishop dropped, his feet hit the ground, and he fell on his side.

  “Spartan, you next,” said Morgan. “I’ve got you.” She held his hand until she was low enough, then let go.

  “Lily—”

  “I got this,” she said, and swung over the wall, hanging by her hands, and turned loose.

  Morgan looked down at the three of them, then back at the house. “I’m going back,” he said. “I can’t let them get away.”

  “That’s suicide!” said Lily. “Even I can tell you that!”

  “I can’t let them slip through our fingers again.”

  “We can’t carry him without you!” said Lily, motioning to Bishop. “We need you here. He needs your help. He’ll die if he doesn’t get medical attention.”

  Morgan looked back again. They were right. He couldn’t leave Bishop to die. He dropped from the ledge, a stab of pain shooting through his right knee as he hit the ground. He then bent down to lift up Bishop. “Let’s go!” he said. “Diesel, you there? What do you see?”

  “They’re still in the house,” said Diesel. “I fired a couple more warning shots, and they seemed to get the picture and stay out of sight. Hold on, I see something. Police cars on the road—get the hell out of there, Cobra!”

  “Go on,” he said. “Lily, watch her back. I’m not sure she’s one hundred percent yet.”

  “What about you?” Lily asked.

  “Carrying Bishop is going to slow me down,” Morgan told her. “There’s no reason for you to wait. Go!”

  Morgan watched them run off into the darkness, and carried Bishop along, one step at a time, Morgan’s knee pulsating with pain with every footfall. The tactical team leader was wavering on the edge of consciousness. “You—are—going—to have—to buy me—something extra—nice—when we get—back,” Morgan said through his ragged breaths. “Bishop! Wake—up!”

  Bishop murmured as they walked together, dragging his feet.

  It took interminable minutes of pain until Morgan reached the sconce where they had stashed their equipment. Spartan was waiting there for him.

  “Lily’s gone to the boat,” she said. “She said she’d bring back the dinghy for Bishop. And me too, I guess.”

  Morgan slumped against the ridge, catching his breath. “Diesel,” he said, “we’re clear, get your ass down here.”

  The police had brought searchlights, but they were far enough away that the cops would take a long time getting there. They heard the sputtering of the dinghy’s engine some ten minutes later. They loaded Bishop first onto the dinghy floor.

  “I got this,” said Spartan, but her hand slipped and she fell on the rock, crying out in pain. Morgan and Diesel helped her on, then they pushed it out onto the water, climbing in when it had cleared the beach.

  As they rode back to the darkened schooner in gloomy, defeated silence, Morgan heard the rotors start up on Weinberg’s chopper. It was the sound of him once again slipping through their fingers.

  Chapter 37

  June 9

  Langley

  Chapman’s phone rang. Caller ID told him that it was Rose, and he fiddled with a paper clip until the call went to voice mail. He’d been dodging her calls out of guilt. Instead, he sent brief text messages informing her that he was okay but couldn’t pick up the phone, and asked about her and Ella.

  A knock came at his door, and Cynthia Gillespie opened it without stepping through the threshold.

  “Hey, look, I thought you should know. That alert you had me place on Weinberg? Well, we got a hit. He arrived at JFK airport this morning by private jet. Looks like he’s here to attend some charity gala in New York City. Shall I send you the details?”

  “Please do,” he said. “Cyn?

  “Yeah? Do you need something else?”

  “Could you just come in here and talk to me for a minute?”

  She exhaled with nervous weariness, and sat down on a chair across from his desk. “All right, I’m here.”

  “Listen,” he said. He swallowed, working up his nerve. “Cyn, we have to talk about what happened.”

  “Nothing happened, Buck,” she said. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Something did happen,” he insisted.

  “Buck . . .”
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  “We need to talk about it, Cyn.”

  “We really don’t,” she said.

  “Cyn,” he said. “Come on.”

  “What the hell do you want me to say? You’re married, Buck. It can’t happen, and that’s that.” She stood up, and then he did as well.

  “I know it can’t, I just feel like . . .”

  “Like what, Buck?” she said.

  “Like we need to clear the air. Look, clearly, this was a mistake—”

  “I know,” she said, with irritation. “It was, and there’s nothing else to say. Consider the air cleared.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Shit, Buck, what do you want me to say? You kissed me, remember?”

  “I know,” he stammered. “I just—Listen, you’re the best analyst in this office, and just about the only person I can trust in this entire agency. Damn it, I need you, Cyn, and I need to know that you’ll be around and we can work together.”

  Her face turned to an expression that he couldn’t read, and there was something between them he couldn’t understand. It was interrupted by the cell phone on his desk ringing. Caller ID displayed his wife’s name in large, clearly visible letters.

  Cynthia looked down at the phone, then back up at him. “I need to go, Buck. I have work to do. We have work to do. Let’s leave the high school drama aside and just do our jobs, all right?”

  She turned around and shut the door behind her. Buck listened to the phone ringing, wondering what had gone wrong in that conversation.

  The phone stopped ringing, and the call went to voice mail. Buck took his other phone from his coat pocket and dialed Smith.

  Chapter 38

  June 9

  Andover

  Morgan walked into his home through the garage door in the late afternoon, in dire need of a shower. The team had been picked up by a helicopter from the schooner and gone straight to the airport, where a jet had brought them to America. Lily had been put up at the downtown Hilton, and Spartan had been sent to the hospital with Morgan. He got his fingers properly immobilized and was checked for fractures and internal damage—just one, a hairline on a right rib—and then was discharged. He took a cab home.