An Armageddon Duology (56 page)

“
T
here’s a second one
!” shouted Savas from the back of the vehicle.

The RV screamed as Cohen pushed it past seventy. She glanced down at the gauges.

“We’re running hot again!”

“How bad?” shouted Savas, moving to the front of the camper.

“Just in the red. But she can’t take much more of this.”

York loaded shells in a pearl-handled, double-barreled shotgun from the Bosworth collection. “No choice, sister. Those two trucks aren’t looking to parlay.” She slammed the barrels shut with a snap.

“Absolutely not!” said Savas to York. “Put the gun away. If they make a move, you’re going to stay out of sight. You’re the target. Don’t be crazy!”

“We’re not going to let them make a move,” she said. “We’re going to move on them first.”

“Elaine—”

York looked sideways down the window along the side of the RV. “Your husband always have this problem with authority?”

“Pretty much,” said Cohen.

“You want to let me drive, Rebecca?”

“I’m the analyst. He’s Rambo.”

“Then it’s settled,” said York. “This rig won’t auto-pilot. We need as many guns as we can. I’m shooting.”

Savas sighed. “Perfect.”

“Second one is closing. It’s going to be soon. Since you’re worried I’m too delicate for combat, you take the rear window and I’ll cover our flank.”

“Back window is jammed, remember?”

York cocked her head to one side. “What do you think the shotgun is for? Bosworth will understand.”

Savas moved quickly to the back as York rolled down the window beside her. The roar of rushing air thundered into the RV. He kept to the side of the window to avoid being seen by the SUV tailing them. Crouched beside it, he signaled to York with his fingers, and mouthed, “Three, two, one...”

He sprang backward, aiming the gun, and turned his head. A deafening explosion roared through the vehicle, dust and debris clouding the air. Most of the blast carried outward, slamming into the onrushing SUV. The truck stuttered and swerved, the driver nearly losing control. Savas pumped the action.

“The other’s overtaking us!” cried York.

He pulled the trigger again, aiming the twelve-gauge through the window as the pursuing vehicle closed the gap. The front windshield of the SUV shattered directly in front of the driver, a hole the size of a fist punctured in the glass. A cloud of red burst inside and coated the windows, the truck veering violently to the right. It flipped, rolling wildly, and was quickly lost to sight as it smashed to a stop.

Two blasts in short succession followed from the front of the RV. Savas heard a tire explode, followed by the careening form of the second SUV veering into the median and plowing into the concrete separator.

“Good shooting, agent Savas!” cried York triumphantly.

“Two more trucks!” cried Savas. He dove to the floor and yelled to York: “Down, down, down!”

York dropped underneath the booth table. Bullets exploded through the camper. Windows shattered, glass fragments raining on the ancient carpet and upholstery. Cohen cried out as the rearview mirror popped. An engine roared and as the blade beats of a helicopter boomed from the left Cohen shouted again. Instinctively, she swerved to an approaching off ramp, trying to slow the RV and control the exit.

“Sorry!” she screamed. “I thought it would ram us!”

“Forcing us off the highway,” cried Savas, rushing to the back of the camper. “Got a little distance, but the SUVs are following. Helicopter is banking for another pass.”

“Can you get a shot at it?” cried York.

“Maybe,” he said, “but they’ve got automatic weapons. I won’t last long enough to aim.”

York turned and looked ahead through the front window. “Where are they herding us?”

Cohen sounded defeated. “Local road. Two-lane. Nothing but farms and fields.”

“Take the on-ramp?” called Savas. “Quickly!”

Cohen turned sharply right onto the two-lane road. “Can’t! Black SUV at the bottom of it waiting!” She accelerated, the lumbering vehicle rocking back and forth.

“Our bird is back,” said York, grimacing. “What the hell is it doing?”

The craft sped in front of them, passing overhead and down the road for some distance. It turned and banked sharply, half a circle until it had aligned itself with the road again.

“Oh, shit,” said York. The helicopter dropped altitude and hovered just a few feet over the road. “John, those SUVs still behind?”

“Closing the gap. It’s going be a shooting gallery in a few seconds!”

“What do I do?” cried Cohen, the bulk of the helicopter approaching quickly.

“Side road!” shouted York. “There!”

Cohen swerved. Dust clouded the air behind her as the RV skidded on the dirt and pebble road. She fought the wheel and centered the vehicle, catching her breath as the uneven surface flung them up and down.

“SUVs following!” cried Savas from behind. He hung on like some trapeze artist to the bunk beds as the vehicle lurched side to side.

“That house,” said York, top of the hill. “If we can make it we can go to ground there. Fight them off.”

“It’s too far,” whispered Cohen. “We’re too slow on this road!”

“Hush, child! Don’t think! Do!” York stepped up and strapped herself in beside Cohen. “Gun it! Make for the driveway. Ram the gate!”

The sounds of the helicopter had returned, higher but still in pursuit.

“They’re almost on us,” yelled Savas. A shotgun blast sounded from the back. It elicited return machine gun fire, strafing the top level of the camper.

York pointed forward. “Rebecca, look out—”

The camper pitched forward. Savas was thrown toward the front, his form flying through the corridor and slamming into the back of the passenger-side seat. The RV shuddered, the nose diving down, the windshield darkening and shattering like a spider web. They reeled sideways and the camper fell on its side, sliding to a rending stop in a fog of dust and raining pebbles.

“John!” cried Cohen as she fought with her seatbelt. She crawled along the left wall of the camper, coughing in the thick dust. He lay unmoving, blood covering his face. A strong reek of gasoline filled the air.

York called, “We’ve got to get out! The front glass—it’s peeled half back. Help me out!”

Torn between the unconscious Savas and York, Cohen paused, paralyzed. She turned to the front. York was suspended sideways above her in the passenger seat, the belt the only thing keeping her from tumbling down. Cohen braced the president’s form with her shoulder and wrapped her arms around her.

“Release the belt,” she said.

The belt clicked and the full weight of York’s body pushed Cohen downward. She cushioned the older woman’s fall with a grunt. They turned and kicked violently the remaining sheet of shattered glass, peeling it further from the window.

Dirt continued to spill slowly into the camper, and they could see an abandoned, unplowed field in front of them. York grabbed her gun and turned to Cohen.

“Pull him out,” she coughed, the fumes thick and pungent. “This thing could go up like a bomb any second. Those bastards are likely right outside by now. I’ll do my best.”

Cohen stared at her in disbelief but needed no prodding to turn back to Savas. The old woman groaned as she wedged herself out the empty window frame, the gun dragged behind her.

The air above brightened with a flash of orange, and a rending, ground-shaking explosion shook the RV. York squinted, adopting a bent crouch, the gun aimed as she pivoted to survey her surroundings. Off to her right, a fireball plunged from the sky and exploded a second time on impacting a neighboring field. A powerful engine rushed over her head, and the shadow of a muscular aircraft darkened the sun. The wreckage of the helicopter burned in front of her.

When the plane had passed, York turned to look behind the camper. The men were rushing back to the SUVs, planting themselves behind it for cover, aiming machine guns upward. They opened fire as the engine noise returned. York followed their aim. Swooping in over the field like some demonic crop duster, a plane rushed right toward them, heedless of their gunfire.

York gasped. The plane opened fire from the nose, a trail of light spewing from a hunting dragon. A deep grating sound battered her ears. The SUVs and men around it simply exploded.

Not from a bomb or missile, but from the impact of thousands of rounds of heavy ammunition. The bodies were blown apart in puffs of red, flesh and limbs spraying behind them. The vehicles similarly disintegrated, metal filleted off the chassis, the gas tanks igniting and torching the remainder.

The aircraft passed over the scene of destruction like a bird of prey, and banked once more, coming in low over the neighboring field with wheels visible. It was landing.

York lowered her shotgun and leaned against it, sweat and grime smearing her clothes. “About damn time.”

T
hree shadows crouched
in the thick foliage at the forest’s edge, a manicured expanse of green erupting before them and crashing into a white and gray chalet-style structure. Bright walls trimmed with dark balconies and rain gutters were offset by a purple-tinged shingled roof. Two prominent gables fought for attention along the front of the structure, one centered over the window-studded ground floor entrance, large words in cursive script decorating its center:
Hotel de Bilderberg
.

Lightfoote placed a hand on Houston’s left shoulder. “And you’re sure that’s the last of the security?”

Houston nodded. “Key was taking out the central power line. We could have played peek-a-boo with those motion sensors and cameras all day and still been spotted. But they didn’t wire it redundantly. So,
pop
, find the main power line and cut it before it can branch out. Forest goes blind.”

“I really need to hang out more with you two,” said Lightfoote.

“We’ve seen a little more of this than we’d like,” said Houston.

On Houston’s right, Lopez scanned the grassy field in front of them through binoculars. “Any minute now they’re going to notice the system’s down. The security on the building is still doing fine, I’m sure.”

“So we wait for them to come to us,” said Houston.

“Then what?” asked Lightfoote.

“We’ll see,” said Lopez. “We’ll either get a leg up or have to make a mad dash, and then all hope for surprise is gone. It’ll be a first-person shooter at that point.”

Houston took the binoculars from Lopez and made her own appraisal of the grounds. “Let’s hope a leg up. And look, just in time.” She offered Lightfoote the lens.

Lightfoote focused below. “Two redshirts.”

“Redshirts?” asked Lopez.

Lightfoote looked over the binoculars at him. “Star Trek? Security guys that always beam down but don’t beam up?” Lopez shook his head and shrugged. “Never mind.” She turned her attention back to the approaching figures. “Two men. One’s muscle. Well trained, fit, and he’s packing. The other’s not. He’s clumsy. A technician I’d bet.”

Lopez spoke to Houston. “Charges prepped?”

She nodded. “It’s modified. More flash than bang.”

“Assuming you got it right.” He looked at Lightfoote. “She’s our resident
untrained
explosives operative.”

Houston shoved him upright. “Not by choice. Now, let’s get in position.”

Each grabbed a bag from the ground. They moved quietly twenty yards to the right, hugging the forest edge and keeping the two guards in sight. As the men reached the woods, the three of them lowered to the ground behind a large bush and fallen log. The power line snaked into the forest in front of them.

The Bilderberg workers approached. A heavyset man kneeled before the main cable, shaking his head and gesturing to a frayed gap in the line. A short conversation followed, the features of the trim man clouding with concern. He nodded and reached into his pocket and retrieved a mobile phone.

“Now, Sara,” whispered Lopez.

“Look away!” she hissed back.

They turned their faces and shut their eyes. A blinding flash and a sharp crack sent the two men falling to the ground, writhing and moaning.

The three figures in black pounced: leaping over the fallen tree, they fell on the prone figures like tigers. After a brief contest, the two Bilderberg agents lay incapacitated and unconscious, hog-tied and gagged with duct tape.

“Got his cell,” said Houston, tossing a roll of tape onto a black bag beside her. “Any of you understand this?” She held the phone up.

Lightfoote shook her head. Lopez laughed. “This is our lucky day. Guess the unemployment rate is pushing people out of southern Europe.” He took the phone from her. “It’s Spanish.”

Houston smiled. “I think what he was planning to write was
shut the outer security system down
. Power linkage, need to isolate systems. Sound believable?”

“Maybe,” said Lopez. “Let’s see how it works.”

As Lopez texted, Lightfoote continued to search the men, pulling out IDs and weapons. She called up to Houston. “Cards are magnetized. Might get lucky with them inside.” Houston nodded. Lightfoote held up a black gun. “Another pistol.”

“Looks like a Walther,” said Houston. “Standard issue police pistol in these parts. German made.”

“Good,” said Lightfoote removing a shoulder holster from the man and fitting it to herself. “Never know when you’re going to need a good German pistol.”

“And the ruse pays off,” said Lopez, shaking his head. “They’re dropping the system for five minutes. They’re sending backup. Guess they’re nervous.”

Lightfoote stood up and smiled. “A leg up.”

“Maybe two,” said Lopez. “Let’s go.”

They zipped up the backpacks and strapped them over their shoulders, leaping out of the woods and down the steep grass incline. Houston trailed behind, her leg slowing her pace. Pistols gleamed in their hands, eyes flashing between the ground and the door to the extended wing of the hotel to keep balance.

Lightfoote and Lopez reached the side of the building first, and the former priest reached into his black robes to remove a metallic canister, spraying black the lens of a camera mounted on the wall. Houston caught up with them, her face dripping with sweat. She placed her back along the wall, gun held to the side of her head, aimed up.

Lightfoote backed away from the hinges, hugging the wall as well. “Opens outward,” she whispered. “I hear movement. They’re coming.”

At her last word, the door to the hotel swung toward her, and two men in suits exited. Each had a wired earpiece and showed a firearms bulge in their tailored jackets. They never got the opportunity to reach for them.

Lightfoote and Lopez caught them utterly flatfooted, a fury of disabling strikes bringing the pair down. The man beside Lightfoote had taken a heel to the back of his head and lay sprawled in front of her. Lopez followed a split second later, a powerful punch to the abdomen loudly cracking a rib, his target doubling over. He grabbed the man’s head with his other hand and drove it into his knee. The body fell heavily to the ground.

Houston had already darted inside. “Clear!” she said, waving them in. “Francisco, get those bodies in here before we attract attention. Angel—”

“The transformer. On it.” Lightfoote removed a gray block and set of wires from a bag and sprinted along the side of the hotel.

As Houston kept watch, Lopez dragged the unconscious bodies inside. The door opened to a small vestibule, revealing a second doorway. He tied up the pair and sealed their mouths with tape. His eyes darted sharply as the inner door clicked. Houston stood beside it, an ID card in her hand from one of the employees, the door open.

The building shook violently and a blast ruptured the air around them. The lights inside cut, the door making a loud and final metallic clip. The hallway behind it turned red from emergency lighting.

Houston tossed the ID to the floor. “Glad I tried this before Angel blew the thing.”

Lightfoote bounded through the doorway panting. “Main transformer’s down. Unless they’ve got a backup generator, power’s dead for a good bit.”

“Power looks out here,” said Lopez, checking the mag on his sidearm, “but you can bet what’s below has a redundant source. Question is how stable, and how long until it kicks in.”

Houston moved down the hallway. “It won’t matter if we don’t find a way to get down there. This was the wired wing. The entrance is here, somewhere.”

A sound of scraping metal screamed from the corridor, and they instinctively crouched and aimed. Two men bounded into the hallway space, weapons drawn, seeming to materialize out of the wall itself.

A storm of gunfire greeted them. The three invaders held the advantage, the Bilderberg guards shaken from the blast and orienting to the hallway. They were hit with multiple gunshots before they could even pinpoint the location of their attackers. One managed a wild shot into the ceiling. Their bodies fell heavily to the ground, groans escaping from one of them.

Three panthers bounded forward. One of their targets was clearly dead, two shots having struck him in the heart. Lightfoote crouched beside the other who moaned, crawling forward, a crimson soup pouring from his stomach and neck.

“He’s bleeding out.” She rose. “We move.”

Blood splattered the corridor walls but for an opening in one panel, revealing a passageway down. A set of spiraling metallic stairs raced away from them into a red light that dimmed to a fog below. Shouts and the sounds of running feet echoed upward from the stone walls.

A door beside them opened, and the terrified countenance of a black woman stared at them. Houston pointed the barrel of her gun down the hallway. “Go,” she said. The woman tore down the plush carpeting, dodging the bodies in front of her.

Lopez removed a pair of grenades. “Clear.”

The two women stepped backward and away from the opening as he pulled the pins. He dropped them immediately along the sides of the stairwell, a two-foot buffer between the railing and the wall allowing them to fall without impediment nearly the entire depth of the shaft. He jumped away from the opening, placing his back against the wall.

Loud clanks followed, a cry of surprise from below, and two nearly simultaneous explosions vibrating the walls. Smoke poured up through the shaft and into the corridor. Screams of pain came with it.

“Leg up,” said Lightfoote, stepping through the opening. She descended rapidly.