by L. T. Ryan
She trained her sights on the door and fired at the first glimpse of a gun barrel. The muzzle disappeared and she could hear the men clamoring for cover.
It was a good bet that Levi had rescinded his little directive on his way out. Regardless of if he had or not, Haeli posed a big problem that these men would be forced to deal with.
The warning shot had bought her a minute or two. The men on the other side of the door understood the predicament they were in. Every cop and soldier did. The fatal funnel, they called it. A universal truth that the person in the room always had the drop on the person entering the room. The doorway was a funnel, delivering victims into her waiting sights.
Haeli also knew how to overcome the problem. In a moment, the men would stack up and flood the room, branching out in different directions. In theory, it was a numbers game. She would have to take each of them out before one of them could land a shot. It wasn’t a game she would win.
Haeli trained the pistol on the door while she moved to her father, almost losing her footing on the slick puddle that continued to creep out from under him. She tugged at his shirtsleeve, flipping him over onto his back. All color had drained from his face. His chest was still. He was gone.
She had expected nothing different. Based on the location of the exit wound, Haeli figured the bullet had passed straight through his heart before ending up in the wall a few inches from her head. It was a sad irony. The very heart that turned him against her had saved her. A heart that had more capacity for love and sacrifice than she believed. She would mourn. She would break down and cry.
But not now.
A flash of movement caught her eye. She snapped her head around to find one eye peeking around the edge of a cabinet. Roberts.
He was a coward and a snake, that much was clear, but he posed no threat to her. She gave him no further thought.
Haeli heard the whisper of the metal ladder. The men would assault the room any second. And she wouldn’t be there when they did.
31
The F150 bounced in a front-to-back oscillating pattern, the enhanced suspension forced to its limits by the rough terrain. The truck’s off-road capabilities weren’t designed with speed in mind, but he continued to hammer the accelerator.
It had been several hours since they’d left Henderson. With each passing minute, Blake had become more impatient. Thoughts of finding Haeli’s mutilated body crept up on him like waking nightmares. Worst case scenarios replaced the monotony of the dark desert road.
The decision to take the truck instead of Grant’s helicopter had been a difficult one. Grant had offered, but flying would have meant either losing the element of surprise or tacking on a few hours to hike in, defeating the purpose. The truck would let them get close and now, minutes away from their target, Blake knew it was the right choice.
Lit up by the screen of his phone, Fezz’s face broke through the pitch darkness of the cab like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. “This is good. The access road should be right over that hill.” Then, with a click of a button, he withdrew to the darkness.
Boots were on the ground before the truck rolled to a complete stop. Blake killed the engine and gathered his weapons. He pushed off the running board and met the ground a few feet away.
The density and height of the vegetation surprised Blake. He had turned the headlights off when they left the road. Blind, his two-part navigation strategy comprised a wing and a prayer. Within a minute or two, his eyes had adjusted enough to make out some features, but the scratching of the wiry branches on the truck’s undercarriage remained the sole sign of life.
Blake took the lead up the steep hill, dropping to his stomach when he reached the top. The rest filed in next to him, the five foreheads protruding like spines on the sloped back of a stegosaurus.
Fifty yards to the southeast and ninety degrees from their position, the creatively disguised guardhouse nestled itself in the mouth of the valley. The hills, which flanked the building, morphed into mountain peaks in the distance.
Blake counted four vehicles in the parking lot. Five if he included the Little Bird helicopter that sat within the white painted circle to the east side of the lot.
“Bring back poor memories, Griff?” Khat jabbed his elbow into what would have been Griff’s rib cage if it wasn’t buried under a half an inch of Kevlar. “Any way we can disable that thing?”
Blake understood Khat’s concern, and he agreed. It was a long drive out of there. The last thing they needed was an air assault. A good idea in theory, it was imprudent. There had been no time to work out a way to disable the cameras and sensors like Blake had originally planned. The lack of preparation would have to be compensated by sheer speed, skill, and luck.
“It’s too risky. We have no idea where the cameras are, how many there are. If we tip them off, give them even a few seconds lead time, we’re screwed.” Blake pointed toward the northwestern corner of the ranger station. “No, we go straight along this angle. Once we leave this spot, we don’t stop ‘til we’re inside. Fezz, you take the door and then hang back. I’m in first. There shouldn’t be much risk of anyone hearing us up here, so spray and pray boys.” He patted Fezz on the back. “Ready?”
The big man said, “Born ready.”
“See you on the other side.” It was something Blake always said in the last calm moment before the storm. Something he was compelled to say. And, man, did he feel good saying it.
Fezz bolted, then Blake, then the others. They reached the wooden door of the station before Blake had started breathing heavily.
Fezz’s foot slammed against the door, just above the handle. It swung open with mild protest.
Blake crashed through the opening, mashing the trigger at the first glimpse of movement. Twenty bullets went down range, at least ten of them fatally striking his target. The man in the khaki uniform slumped over the desk, his rifle leaning uselessly against the wall a few feet away.
Khat, Griff, and Grant pushed into the back room. Fezz joined Blake, keeping his attention on the front entryway.
Blake performed a combat reload, replacing the half-depleted magazine with a fresh one. He had expected to hear additional shots as the team moved to the second room. There were none.
Blake joined the rest of the team in time to see Grant press his index finger to his lips and point to a piece of wood attached to a lone interior door. Cursive letters were burned into the plank with a soldering iron and read: Water Closet.
Grant pointed the Kriss Vector at the door and let off a flurry of rounds. A smattering of jagged, splintering holes appeared. They listened. Apart from the ticking of a vintage Smokey the Bear clock, there was only silence.
Khat planted a knee at a forty-five-degree angle to the bathroom door, the weapon seated on his shoulder and his index finger taking up the slack of the trigger. Grant snapped the door open. Khat held.
A khaki mound of a man laid in a heap, a pistol still clutched in his hand. Grant drove the heel of his boot down into the man’s limp hand, then reached down and removed the pistol. Judging by the lack of even the slightest flinch, it was a safe assumption that the man would not be mounting a counterattack.
Griff opened one of the four cabinets. Paper goods. He opened a second. “Bingo.”
The green glow of fluorescent lights rose from the bottom of the concrete stairs and illuminated the inside edges of the cabinet.
Khat pushed past Griff and started down the stairs. “Let’s go.”
“Khat, wait.” Blake let his weapon hang from its sling. He moved to the bathroom, grabbed the dead man’s ankles, and dragged him into the room. Stepping on the man’s feet, he pulled his arms, hoisting him upright into a ghoulish ballroom dance. Finally, he dipped down and flung the limp body over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
With his cargo securely fastened, Blake took a few labored steps toward the cabinet, then stopped to look around the room. “Where’s Kook?”
Grant emerged from the front r
oom. A bloody combat knife in one hand, a gory microchip pinched between the fingers of his other. “Is this what you’re after?”
Blake sloughed the body off his shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud. “Better idea.”
“Now, can we go?” Khat didn’t wait for the answer before he was once again descending the stairs.
Step two, underway.
The team grouped at the bottom and moved as a unit through the wide tunnel. Dead straight and level, they could see its termination in the distance. It was helpful, but they would not be covered should someone appear. The faster they could get to the end and out of the death zone, the better.
This time, Blake found his breath labored by the time they finished traversing the half mile stretch. Grant waved the chip in front of the sensor to pop the latch. He cracked the door a half inch and held it there until the team stacked up behind him.
Once inside, they would face two corridors. One that led straight ahead and one that branched off to the right.
Blake had taken several photos of Grant’s computer monitor and texted them to the others. During the drive, the four others studied the blueprints and took turns testing each other. Other than Blake, Grant had seemed to have the best recollection despite not having seen the plans until just before they hit the road.
The exercise had devolved into something akin to bar trivia night. The penalty for a wrong answer was relentless ridicule. The prize for a perfect score would be revealed in the next few minutes.
Last they knew, Haeli was being held in the genetics laboratory. Although the plans showed multiple laboratories, only one sat in the southeast corner of the structure. From where they stood, it was in front of them. Only the hallway they were about to enter did not lead there. Not directly. The layout of the facility comprised a series of snaking and branching corridors.
Griff had been the one to boil down the shortest path into a mnemonic. Some Rottweiler Let Loose on the Red Rug. Straight, Right, Left, Left, Right, Right. As ridiculous as it sounded, Blake couldn’t have forgotten it if he tried. Six simple instructions that would lead them to Haeli.
With a tap on his shoulder, Grant swung the door wide and burst into the underground compound and peeled right. Blake pushed forward and held. The others split between the two options.
“It’s a ghost town,” Griff whispered.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Khat replied.
“Hopefully, it stays this way. Keep moving. Fezz, you’re with me on point,” Blake said.
The five men fell into formation and moved as a group. Blake and Fezz led, directing their weapons ahead. Griff took the left and Khat took the right, ready to react should anyone emerge from one of the closed doors along both sides of the corridor. Grant took the rear, shuffling backward to address any threat that might appear from behind. To avoid taking their eyes off the prospective targets, each of the men always kept a shoulder or hip in contact with another man.
Reaching the first corridor on the right, Blake raised the back of his left hand to Fezz’s chest. The group stopped. Griff and Khat each shifted to a forty-five-degree angle, covering the rooms they had already passed.
The sound of shuffling feet pierced the baseline silence of the whirring air exchangers. Not close, but close enough. Blake held his breath to eliminate the sound of air passing through his nostrils, then listened. Metallic jingling. A small, muted sleighbell. He tried to clear the absurd first impression from his mind and replace it with something more feasible. He waited. The sound came again, and with it the same mental image of a sleighbell being squeezed tightly and shaken. The footsteps grew closer.
Blake weighed the benefit of visually assessing the approaching person with the risk of alerting the person, or persons, to the group’s presence. Was there only one, as it sounded, or were there more? An unassuming scientist, or one of Levi’s mercenaries? He decided it was worth the risk.
Pressing his body against the wall, Blake peeked down the hallway. The vantage point offered a profile view of a single male, late twenties or early thirties, wearing the familiar Techyon black fatigues. The man jiggled the handle to a room. The source of the metallic clicking sound became obvious in retrospect. Blake retreated behind the corner.
A non-combatant would have been preferable but, all things considered, it wasn’t the worst-case scenario. There was only one, and he appeared to be engaged in a routine task that had nothing to do with him or his team. If he kept on his current trajectory, they were going to become well acquainted.
The man was not an issue. It wasn’t even the MP7 that hung from his shoulder and bounced against his kidney that concerned Blake. Against his alabaster skin, a slender microphone jutted from his ear across his cheekbone and looked like a deep facial gash. The deadliest weapon in the place.
The group waited for the results of the momentary reconnaissance. Blake would relay them in five simple gestures. First, he pointed his index finger in the threat's direction. Second, he held up the same finger to signify that there was only one man. Third, he flipped his hand over and pointed at his gun to relay that the man was armed. Fourth, he added his middle finger, flicking the two fingers like two tiny legs walking through the air. Last, he turned his back to the wall and chopped his bladed hand in the direction the man was moving.
Because the group broke the formation and lined up, backs against the wall, the message had been fully received.
Fezz had filed in next to Blake. He withdrew his combat knife. Blake reached over and pushed Fezz’s forearm downward. Fezz nodded and re-sheathed the blade.
Blake tapped Fezz’s vest and grabbed his attention for a second silent message. He paused for a moment while he contemplated how to best convey the desired course of action without words. He settled on something, then executed it.
Blake held his finger to his lips, snapped his hands outward in a grasping motion, and twisted his fists toward the ground. Snatch and contain.
Footsteps drew closer. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the man was upon them.
Fezz lunged forward, smashing his right hand into the mouth and nose of the unprepared opponent. Fezz’s left hand hooked around the back of the man’s head. The man’s eyelids opened so wide it looked like his eyeballs would fall out.
Blake ripped the radio from the man’s hip, snapping the plastic clip that fastened it. The earpiece popped out and lodged against his collar. Blake yanked downward in three violent motions until the plastic microphone snapped and sent the remaining portion of the device down his back and out the bottom of his shirt.
Fezz kicked his foot behind the man and swept it back, knocking both his legs out from under him. He hit the ground in a seated position, legs extended straight in front of him, head still trapped in the vice.
Khat leaned in and jammed the business end of the suppressor into the man’s forehead. There was no resistance. The man’s hands remained glued to the floor where he had planted them to break his fall.
Grant sauntered around the man and removed the sling from his shoulder. The MP7 came with it.
Blake peered down the corridor from which the man had come. There was no one else in sight. He decided it was safe to communicate verbally. He motioned to the closest door and whispered, “Get him inside.”
Fezz spun the man around, maintaining his grip. He dragged the man along the floor by his head until reaching the door. Griff grabbed the man’s right wrist and torqued it upward toward the access control sensor. The latch clicked.
The lights switched on upon entering, revealing a small sea of cubicles. Blake looked around for something substantial to bind the man to. The only option appeared to be the two structural columns that divided the room.
Several pairs of flex cuffs dangled from the webbing of Blake’s tactical vest. The same was true for all of them. Blake would have liked to have strung a few of the oversized zip ties together to secure the man to a column, but they had already been formed in a handcuff shape and there wa
s no way to release them once they were engaged. Blake moved on to the second option.
“Hold him tight.” Blake unlaced the man’s boots and removed them. He flexed the man’s feet and worked a pair of the plastic cuffs over the man’s heels and on his ankles.
“Give me your hands,” Blake said.
The man lifted his arms.
Blake cinched a cuff around one wrist then reached under the leg shackles to grab his other.
At the prospect of being hobbled by having his hands bound on either side of his leg restraints, the man pulled his arm away and squirmed. Although Fezz’s hand covered much of the man’s face, his muffled protests were heard.
“Khat,” Blake said.
Khat again jammed the muzzle of his gun into the man’s forehead, off-center from the round red mark that still lingered from the last time.
A muted stutter came from the man. Blake wasn’t sure if it was a nervous laugh or a cry. Maybe both. Either way, he relented.
As the last zip tie ratcheted, Fezz let go of the man’s mouth.
“What do you want?” the man asked.
“What’s your name?” Blake countered.
“Bobby,” the man answered. He paused a moment, then dropped his head. “Dempsey.”
“Listen up, Bobby Dempsey,” Blake continued, “if you answer our questions, the worst of it is behind you. If not, well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happens.”
Griff jumped in, skipping the theatrics, and getting right to the point. “Where’s Haeli?”
Dempsey craned his neck to look over his shoulder at Griff, then turned back to Blake. “I don’t know. I know nothing about it.”
Blake shook his head. “Twist his head off.”
