* * *
As soon as the pilot turned on the light, Logan acted, realizing he only had precious seconds left. He unholstered the Glock and prepared to fire when the glass in the doors on the side of the cable car exploded outward.
Bastard is shooting at the helicopter, he realized, not me. And then the helicopter pilot did exactly what Logan expected—he fired back.
The pod-mounted 20mm cannon hammered the top of the cable car, and Logan felt the car shutter and rock with each impact from the large-caliber rounds, knowing that if whoever was inside hadn’t hit the deck, his body parts had likely hit all the surfaces of the inside of the car. Logan had seen enough IR pilot footage of terrorists blown to white smithereens to know what a 20mm cannon did to the human body. He also knew the moment to act was upon him, and he aimed at the window above and fired in quick succession.
The window shattered, but Logan knew that the man inside probably thought it was incoming fire from the helicopter. Now or never, he thought, and reached upward with one hand and then the other, pulling himself over the lip of the bench seat and through the crumbling window, careful to avoid the jagged glass falling around him.
Logan fell onto the seat, aware that the 20mm rounds had suddenly stopped. His mind captured everything inside the interior of the cramped cable car in a quick snapshot. Dark figure kneeling. Doesn’t see me yet. Weapon pointed out. And through the other side of the cable car, he saw the support tower looming closer in the darkness. At least I won’t get knocked off this thing, he thought.
Unfortunately, two things simultaneously happened that ruined his optimism: a loud wrenching sound vibrated through the car, as if a tin can were being torn apart and the sound magnified by a thousand; and his target’s head turned toward him in the darkened close quarters.
Logan lashed out with his right foot, and the black machine pistol was knocked from the shadow man’s hands, clipped the top lip of the cable car doors where the glass had been, and careened through the empty space down to the mountainside below. At least now I have a chance to take this sonofabitch alive.
The man stood and backed away at the same time, the back of his legs stopping against the edge of the opposite seat.
“I don’t know if you speak English, and I don’t care. If you move, I’m shooting you in both legs. So stand still until we get to the station,” Logan said. The man didn’t respond, which told Logan he understood either his words or his tone. It didn’t matter which.
Two loud pops echoed inside the car, and Logan’s view of the world outside tilted crazily as the left side of the car dropped, sending both men plummeting to the floor toward the ruined doors and the darkness beyond.
* * *
Cole Matthews was not accustomed to good fortune, even when it presented itself to him in a nice little package, wrapped in a bow of irony.
Once he’d reached the top of the roof, he’d found no trace of the man who’d stolen his Glock. He’d been confused, refusing to believe his enemy had jumped from the rooftop to his death below. Cole hadn’t seen a parachute on him. He acknowledged that one could’ve been staged on the rooftop, in which case his Glock and the man who held it were likely sailing down the side of the mountain like Batman through Gotham City.
But then he’d found the rope tied to the base of the radio tower, wrapped around a support beam, from where it trailed over the edge of the roof.
He stared at the man rappelling down the side of the building and smiled to himself. And he waited. Should’ve kept the axe, asshole. This is what you get for stealing my Glock.
The man passed the middle of the hotel and picked up speed. He kicked off the side of the hotel as he bounced his way down. Cole figured he’d be at the bottom in another fifteen seconds. You’re going to get there faster than you anticipated.
He stepped back away from the edge, positioned himself, counted to five, and forcefully swung the axe over his head.
With a tremendous impact that sent vibrations shooting up his arms, the axe split the rope, and Cole either imagined or heard a faint scream that was abruptly cut off two seconds later. He smiled in the darkness, walked back to the ledge, and looked over the side.
A figure lay unmoving at the base of the hotel fourteen floors below. Cole didn’t think he was dead, but he also didn’t care if he was, not really. He’d roughly calculated to drop the man from two to three stories, his intent to break his legs and incapacitate him. Better get down there just in case he wakes up.
Cole turned, climbed down from the top of the roof one level at a time carrying his newfound favorite weapon, eager to link up with Hector to see if he’d been able to salvage any intelligence from the burning penthouse.
* * *
Logan’s feet hit the steel bottom of the left door, and he found himself leaning backward against the floor at a forty-five-degree angle. The cable car rocked back and forth, even as it barreled toward the support tower, the motion sending a moment of panic racing through Logan as he realized a crash was imminent. No way we make it through the gap between the beams now. Have to get off this thing or I’m dead. Other guy can fend for himself.
Logan turned to his right as the man he’d pursued across the hotel, who’d also braced himself against the bottom of the right-side door, locked eyes with him and had the same epiphany—Escape or die.
Logan rotated and struck the man in the face with his left fist before he could react. The blow landed on the man’s cheekbone, splitting the skin. He saw blood, glistening black in the darkness, flow down the man’s cheek. The man raised his hands to defend himself, and Logan delivered a second blow, which sent the man’s own fist crashing into the side of his nose. Hands in the air, Logan focused on the man’s body, which had been the main target all along. It was just like boxing, except in reverse and for survival, not a championship belt. Weaken the head to get to the body.
Logan pivoted to his right and delivered a series of powerful blows to the man’s rib cage. He felt at least one crack, and the man keeled over like a drunk outside a bar after a hard night of drinking.
Logan reached for the man’s head when a tremendous crash roared as the cable car slammed into the bottom support beam of the tower. The impact sent him sprawling forward into the bent-over enemy, and both men hit the juncture where the floor met the bottom of the doors.
The car suddenly lurched up, as if the gears on top were going to grind it through the space, crushing the car between the beams. Sparks from the machinery above cascaded over the sides of the car, illuminating the inside with twinkling flashes of synthetic light. The car suddenly stopped its short ascent and dropped back down two feet, jarring to an abrupt halt as Logan felt a moment of weightlessness. The left side of the door was flung open, swinging wildly down and out—like my luck, Logan thought—and then everything was still. The two men were motionless, as if stunned by the violent turn of events. I need to get the hell out of here, Logan thought. Have to climb out the door and up.
Two loud metallic pops exploded above the car, and both men were spurred into action.
The man uttered something in Russian, and Logan cursed himself as he recognized the language. It’s always the goddamned Russians. What is it with these guys? Can’t we all just get the fuck along?
Apparently, the Russian did not share the same sentiment, as he tried to pull Logan’s legs from underneath him, shouting in Russian at Logan.
Logan West was exhausted from the chase, but his adrenaline surged, along with the rage he’d been fighting for months after the death of Mike Benson. This bastard is another shadow puppet in the Organization’s play. No mercy, Logan. It’s you or him. Climb or die, he heard Mike say inside his head. Damn straight, Logan replied, and lashed out with his left foot, striking the Russian on the side of the jaw with his Oakley hiking boot. The man’s head snapped backward, and he slumped to the floor, either dazed or unconscious. Logan didn’t care which.
Now for the hard part, he thought, as he braced his left foot a
gainst the inclined floor and stepped up onto the bottom of the right-side door where the glass had been before being shot out by the helicopter, which now hovered one hundred yards away, as if waiting to attack again.
Logan didn’t know what else to do, so he waved at the pilot, praying he wouldn’t be torn apart by automatic cannon fire. The nose of the helicopter moved up and down slightly in acknowledgment, and Logan nodded, more to himself in relief than to the pilot. He turned and stepped up through the empty window, reaching for the safety bar above the doors. He grasped the bar, shoulder width apart, and said a prayer of thanks to the Marine Corps for the thousands of pull-ups he’d performed during his service. “Semper Fi, motherfucker,” he muttered, and pulled himself up until his upper body was above the top of the cable car.
He found himself staring at the bottom of a J-hook curved metal arm attached to a large square frame connected to the top of the cable car. Half of the frame had been wrenched away from the top of the car, either from the cannon fire or the impact. The tower was mere feet away, stretching vertically above and below him, the support beam level with his head. Get on the roof and jump to the beam.
As Logan reached for the bottom of the J-hook, he watched in horror as two more rivets popped like gunshots, and the frame peeled away from the roof like the top of a soup can being ripped open.
The car shuddered beneath him, and Logan grabbed on to a metal bar covered in rubber that jutted from the bottom of the J-hook. Two more rivets let loose, and the car dropped several inches. You have seconds, jackass. Move or die!
Logan West scrambled to the roof of the ruined cable car, with only one thought, singular in purpose—get off this death trap. Ignoring the howling wind, the roar of the helicopter, and the dizzying height, he exhaled, focused on the support beam, and leapt from the roof of the cable car.
His chest slammed into the metal beam, and for a moment, he thought he’d bounce off and to his death below, but his arms held tight, and his boots found a footing on a crossbeam. He turned to look at the top of the car, wondered how soon before it fell to the trees and pavement eighty feet below, and was greeted by the face and upper body of the Russian, who’d regained his composure from Logan’s blow and followed his lead up and out of the car.
The man screamed in Russian, and Logan replied, “English! I don’t speak Russian!”
In a thick accent, the man spoke loudly, “Will you help me?”
Logan was transported in his mind to the Nile River, when he’d been forced to make a similar choice as a monstrous crocodile had silently stalked him and the man he’d captured in the river moments before. It had been startlingly simple—use the man for bait or die. He’d cut Namir Badawi across the chest and swum for his life. He’d made the right call, and the Sudanese intelligence chief had died a horrifically violent death. But Logan had survived, which was what had mattered.
But this was different: there was no crocodile. There was just a man, an enemy he’d just bested in hand-to-hand combat, asking for help before he died. Logan West was many things—husband, warrior, killer, Marine, soon-to-be father—but his moral compass was guided by the innate desire to help others, even enemy combatants. And that’s what this middle-aged man is. A warrior. I can see it in him, on his face. His decision was made.
“Get on the roof and jump and grab my arm,” Logan replied loudly. He wrapped his left arm around the top of the support beam, rotated his body so that he was perpendicular to the tower, and extended his right arm. “But if you try anything, I swear to all the gods that I will drop you. Do you understand me?”
The Russian nodded and scrambled to the rooftop and pulled his legs up behind him. He rested for a brief moment, his back against the J-hook, but the moment was all it took for calamity to strike.
“Move it or—” were the last words the Russian heard as the remaining rivets on the frame exploded upward, freeing the cable car beneath it.
The Russian realized his death was imminent, that he’d run out of time, and he looked at Logan with a resolve that Logan recognized. He’s facing it like a warrior. The Russian nodded, acknowledging that an enemy he didn’t know had been willing to help him in his final moments, even if he’d failed, and then he was gone, plummeting to his death below on top of the ruined cable car.
The cable and J-hook, free of their burden, sprang upward, and Logan sidestepped to his left to avoid being slashed by the flailing metal. He gripped the crossbeam for dear life and waited.
A second later, the earth shook and the tower vibrated violently as the cable car crashed to the ground inches from the base. Logan prayed that the tower, as ancient as the hotel, didn’t collapse, as he looked toward the helicopter and pointed down.
The pilot understood and slowly began to circle the area, spotlight flashing across the park grounds as it looked for an area with enough clearance for the rotor blades.
With no imminent threat to life or limb, Logan descended the tower, wondering if Cole and Hector had succeeded. Don’t want to think about it if they didn’t, he thought. Too much blood had been sacrificed on the mountain. Just focus on your footing, one foot, then the other. The rest will sort itself out. It always does.
Logan knew this to be true, and reached the ground safely. As he stepped off the tower, he was confronted with the remains of the cable car, which had crumpled inward at the impact. The Russian’s body had been sucked back inside, and all that was visible were two forearms sticking up at awkward angles.
I tried. I’m sorry. But Logan knew a hard truth—not everyone was saved. Intentions had no place on the mountain. The Russian had chosen the wrong side, and he’d paid for it with his life. The finality of it crystallized the issue for Logan. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. And Logan knew that was a place that evil men did not want to be.
PART III
OLD FRIENDS
CHAPTER 16
SEBIN Headquarters
Wednesday, 0100 Venezuelan Standard Time
The knowledge that he was standing in the most notorious detention facility in Venezuela, a place that housed political dissidents, criminals, and anyone else the regime deemed an enemy of the state, sickened Logan West. He knew Cole felt it too. While it was not as full of degradation as the Sudanese black-site prison that he and Cole had fought their way out of, it was still oppressive, intended to break a man’s will and crush the human spirit. After only a few hours in the underground facility, he had no doubt it likely had a one hundred percent success rate.
It was widely reported by the press and family members of its captives that the facility, known as La Tumba—the Tomb—subjected its political prisoners to a constant barrage of inhuman conditions while in captivity. Cells were painted white, and bright lights were kept on twenty-four hours a day to induce a form of white torture that caused the prisoners to lose track of time. The only sounds were from the Metro Caracas railway cars that passed through nearby tunnels. Additionally, temperatures were freezing, cells didn’t have individual toilets, and the prisoners suffered malnutrition and hallucinations.
Now, having been a witness to the real thing, Logan could confirm that the reports were all true. He was present in a place of evil and suffering, forced to choke back the waves of anger that relentlessly assaulted his conscience. He had the feel of being in the mouth of madness, a place suffocating and overwhelming, and he knew that if he spent too much time in it, it would threaten to consume a part of him.
Just breathe, Logan, he calmed himself, as he looked at the closed-circuit TV and listened to the conversation in the cell three doors down from the monitoring room.
As if reading his mind, Cole said, “Just the mission, brother. We’re not here for anything else. He put himself in that room.”
He’s right, and you know it. Yet Logan also knew that they were on shifting moral sands on this one. Enemies had become friends, adversaries had become allies, and one had nearly died for their mutual cause. He’d had to shift his paradigm. The old w
ays and codes of conduct were gone. It was a different, merciless geopolitical world with new rules of war.
“That’s true to a certain extent,” Logan replied. “More precisely, the puppet masters that ordered him and his unit here are the real ones responsible. He was just doing his job, just like we were. The only difference is that we’re much better at it than they are.” Because you’ve had too much practice in the dark art of bloodshed over the past two and a half years, his psyche reminded him. But I didn’t ask for it. It came to my doorstep. Remember that.
“And thank God for that,” Cole replied. “In fact, the Russian major in there should be grateful for it. He’s lucky to be alive, and I’m pretty sure he knows it.”
After Logan had survived the chaos on the cable car, he’d linked back up in the lobby of the hotel to find Hector, Santiago, Cole, and the lone Spetsnaz survivor, Major Fedor Azarov, waiting for him. Even before Logan had run back up the cobblestone street, Hector had retrieved their packs from the tree line, and Cole had bound, gagged, and blindfolded the Russian to prevent him from observing others as he was transported to the Tomb.
Unfortunately, the fire in the penthouse of the Humboldt had destroyed everything inside the suite before burning out, preserving the historic landmark, but Hector had grabbed the remains of two shattered Toughbook laptops with Cyrillic keypads. Logan had no idea what the SEBIN’s digital forensics unit was like, but he doubted that they’d be able to retrieve anything actionable in the near term, which was when he knew they’d need it. The FBI lab in Quantico was out of the picture, since it would take at least a day to get the laptops back to the States, too little, too late.
No. Whatever happened next would be determined by Major Azarov and the intelligence he was willing to reveal.
The conversation stopped inside the interrogation room, and Hector and Santiago slid their metal chairs back from the table, stood up without another word, and exited the room, leaving the shackled Russian chained to a thick loop on top of the table. Moments later, the two men entered the monitoring room.
Rules of War Page 10
