Gone Black (21 page)

One floor below where Black was being brutally recaptured but on the opposite side of the fortress, Claire was jerking frantically on the doorknob, trying to dislodge the lock, force it off, and tear the door open with her bare hands. She couldn't budge it, couldn't get out, but Black had. He'd done it. He'd escaped and he was free! He would get away from them and he'd find her. She sank down on her heels there beside the door and listened for any sounds outside in the hall. She heard nothing. No shots, no shouting, no alarms going off. But the stone walls were very thick and insulated any noise, and she didn't know how far away Black was being held. She hoped to God he was somewhere safe now, hiding, and that he knew where he was and how to get out. Because she sure as hell did not. Then she heard something stir behind her inside the room. She jerked around and heard somebody whispering her name.

Jumping up, she looked at the television screen but it had gone black again. No sound at all. Nothing. Then she saw him. Little Rico. He was peering out at her through the ornate brass grate attached to the bottom of the wall beside the bed. He was beckoning for her to come over. The camera was still blinking red, filming her again. Watching her. She couldn't let them see the boy. Claire hesitated, and then she walked over to the bed and sat down where her body would block the grate from the camera. She faced away from surveillance and spoke very softly, not sure if the camera included audio feeds. But there had been sound earlier when she'd seen Black put Jaxy out flat on the ground. Jaxy had talked to her.

“Stay in there, Rico. You hear me? Don't come out here because they're watching me.”

He did not move. She could barely make out his face through the intricate filigreed pattern on the grate.

“I found that man named Black,” Rico whispered softly. “He got away from them, but they caught him and dragged him back.”

Claire shut her eyes. Oh, God, no. All her hopes disintegrated into a heap of disappointment and growing despair. “Did they hurt him?”

“Barto hit him in the back with his gun and then the one named Ronald hit him in the head.”

“Did they take him back to that white room?”

“Yeah. But I think he got real mixed up and stuff. He couldn't see me very well and I think he didn't know I was really there. He didn't think I was real.”

“Do you know where that room is? Where they keep him locked up?”

“I can see him through the grate in that room, too. It's just like this one. I can take you there if you hurry up and crawl in here with me.”

Claire felt a tingle of hope rising up and lodging tightly at the back of her throat. She kept her voice low. “Stay right there, Rico. Don't you move, okay? Don't say a word. And don't come out. Understand?”

He nodded and quickly backed away until he faded into the darkness behind him. Claire thought about her options, decided that they were a helluva lot better off than they had been a few minutes ago. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head, rolled her head across her shoulders, acted as if she were even more dead tired than she already was. She moved to the door and flipped off the ceiling fixture. The room went dark. They couldn't see her, not unless the camera was infrared, but it probably was. Marcel Soquet seemed pretty thorough to her. They had their murder lairs planned down to every last detail, made them into real works of evil art. But she still felt like her chances had improved considerably. If Rico could take her out through that air shaft or passage, or whatever the hell it was, she could get to Black. He had said so. Maybe even get him out through the one in his room, if they were very lucky.

Claire moved to the bed as if intending on going to sleep, but then the TV lit up again. And there was Black, being shoved back into the white room, knocked around some by Jaxy's two favorite henchmen. And then they had him sitting down on the floor, and Jaxy showed up, alive and well, unfortunately, and kneeling beside him, but her nose and mouth were both bleeding down the front of her white shirt. He had hurt her, big-time. But not enough to end her abuse. Jaxy got out some kind of little pouch and started forcing something into his mouth. Oh, God, it was more of the drugs. Black fought hard to resist taking them, struggling desperately against their tight holds, until he managed to get one arm free and knock her back away from him again. But then he faltered as whatever drug she had given him started its effect. It was fast-acting, whatever it was, so it had to have been a large dose, probably too large, and probably given to him way too soon after the last one. She watched as he fell onto his back, holding his head with both hands and rolling around as if in agony. Damn them, damn them! She wanted them all dead, so badly that she could taste her anger and bitterness on her tongue.

Black's captors slowly backed away then and left him there on the floor, fighting the drug demons that were slowly overtaking his mind. A few seconds later, the monitor went dark yet again. Show over. Claire got into the bed and pulled the blanket up over her. She lay there without moving, still trembling with anger and helplessness. Sick to her soul, just thinking about what they were doing to Black, the terrible things they were putting him through. But now there was hope, thank God. Poor little abused Rico just might help her get away. She had to be very patient for a while longer, wait until the red light stopped blinking, as it sometimes did. Then she would make her move, slide down onto the floor, get that grate open, and then she would go get Black.

But minute after minute dragged on and on, and she stared at the camera, waiting, waiting, trying to hold off on her desire to just jerk it down and smash it into a million pieces. The longer it took, the more Black suffered, and she just couldn't stand it.

After a long time, she whispered, “Rico? You still there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I get in there with you? Is there enough room? You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“They're still watching. How does it open?”

“There's a latch inside, but it's hard to find. It's open now. You can just pull it out and wiggle inside with me.”

God, what a brave little kid Rico was. Claire tossed around on the bed a while for the camera's benefit, and then she put pillows up underneath the sheets to approximate her shape. It wouldn't work, not in a million years, not even in a dark room, but if she could slip out of the bed on the side away from the camera, she might be able to crawl inside the vent without being seen. If she was lucky, the pillows might buy her time, but down deep, she knew it wasn't going to work.

So she waited another hour or so. It was still dark outside the one window, but it had to be getting close to dawn now. She tried to keep still, not move at all for a long time, hoping they'd think she was out cold. Truth was, she was exhausted so she didn't dare close her eyes. She hadn't really slept any length of time since the night before her wedding, which seemed like a hundred years ago, and not much then. She'd been too uptight.

But the camera kept up its steady blinking, and she knew she didn't have a chance to make it to that vent until it went off. Even if the camera didn't have infrared, they could still see her. So she had to wait and not do anything rash or stupid. But right now, that was what she really wanted to do—just jump up and get the hell outta that room.

Novak and the team decided to make their move on the chateau just before five o'clock in the morning. Decked out in night gear, they separated and took their places at designated intervals along the outside wall. Novak lay concealed in heavy brush, wearing black and gray camouflage, his face and hands blackened. The plan was to wait for Booker and Holliday to get inside from either side and into place before he set off the first explosives, the ones he'd set up with meticulous precision along the length of the electrified fence several hours earlier. He had set them to detonate at five-second intervals along the outer edge and bring the fence down all at once, in a domino effect meant to disorient the guards on the perimeter.

The whole damn mission was a high-stakes gamble. He wasn't comfortable with it, and he was pretty sure the other two men weren't, either. They were both experienced and well-trained enough to see the flaws and worry about the short time they'd had to put together the assault, just like he was. There weren't that many guards on the fence, either, which didn't make sense to Novak. Soquet's organization was purportedly a big operation, well organized with well-trained people and encompassing several continents with arms and explosive devices and assassinations and narcotic distribution, all for sale to terrorists and other radical groups as well as any criminal organization that had enough money to pay for the best. If this was where he was keeping his prized prisoners, Nick and Claire, where were all the guards? Unless the main protective detail was inside the chateau, all assigned to guard both prisoners up close and personal and with lethal intent.

Somewhere within that massive chateau, his two friends were imprisoned. At least, Black was in there. His GPS signal flashed steadily, still on beat, glowing on Booker's handheld monitor, nice and strong and regular. Nicholas Black was definitely inside that house all right, most likely under heavy guard. For the millionth time, Novak hoped that Claire was in there with him. Otherwise, she was most likely already buried in a shallow grave somewhere.

Novak lifted his arm and looked at the soft glow of his wristwatch. Almost time to go. The C-4 was set to start going off in exactly two minutes. He rose onto his haunches, ready to move out, his assault rifle in his right hand, very eager now to storm the place and fight his way inside. With the SEALs, he had performed similar assault and extraction missions and mostly under the same kind of outnumbered conditions. But his orders rarely included a target who was a personal friend. A partner. Someone he cared about. And this time he cared a lot. He had only known Claire for a matter of months, but he admired her. He liked her a lot, and she didn't deserve to die at the hands of some maniacal criminal sadist. He'd known Black a bit longer, and he was a fine man. Neither of them deserved to die.

Even more concerning, Novak didn't like the fact that they were operating on French soil and without official government sanction. This was Novak's country, or at least one of them. He had a triple citizenship: France and the United States and Australia. On the other hand, the criminals inside this place needed to be blown down into hell where they belonged. And if all went according to plan, it wouldn't be long until he could do just that.

Staring at the second hand on his watch, he waited, five seconds, four seconds, three seconds, two seconds, and then he heard the loud explosions going off one after another, every five seconds, ripping through the fabric of the quiet night, six times, each one shaking the ground under his feet. The fence in front of him fell inward, hitting the ground and throwing a shower of sparks as the electricity flared and then died. He jumped up and ran over it in a crouch and out into the open fields in front of the dark, hulking chateau. He could hear the ocean now, the waves crashing on the shore and then ebbing away, and he could see a high mountain range rising up behind the big place, dark and massive and solid, blocking out the stars twinkling in the black sky.

Novak headed in a low crouch for the front courtyard, his silenced weapon up and ready to fire on anybody who got in his way. He heard sporadic gunfire from the enemy, and knew that Booker and Holliday had engaged. They would take out any guard accosting them. He hadn't seen anybody yet, which was fine by him. He ran hard for cover, hunched over, wanting to get out of the no-man's-land, just in case Soquet had a sniper positioned on the roof. And he probably did. That's what Novak would've done.

More gunfire erupted all around, staccato bursts in the darkness, but then everything grew quiet as death again. He had expected at least a dozen men to rush out of the big garage at one side of the courtyard or spill out of the massive front entrance gate, but the house remained dark and silent. Frowning, not sure what to expect, he made it to the low interior wall, inched along behind it, protecting his back, until he reached a tall and fancy wrought-iron arched garden gate. It was closed, but there was no guard and there was no lock. Now fearing he was walking into a trap, he waited where he was for a few moments, listening for the ratcheting of weapons or the scuff of shoes on pavement. His headphone crackled inside his ear, and Booker's voice came to him, very low, “Clear in back.”

Holliday came on, “Clear at garage.”

Novak said, “Clear in front, but I don't like this. This is way too easy.”

“Roger that,” said Booker. “Could be a trap. Go in as planned. Be expecting fire.”

Novak knew all that without being told. He took one deep breath and then barreled through the iron gate, low and fast, the old hinges squealing shrilly in the stillness. Then he ran across the courtyard and through the glare of a spotlight affixed high on the side of the house. That's when he heard a sharp ring and the ricochet of a bullet hitting the pavement behind him followed by the loud crack of a sniper rifle. The sound rolled like thunder through the night and echoed back into the woods. He hit the dirt on his belly, combat crawled across to the wall of the house, and took a knee under a bank of windows. He stopped there and waited.

“Sniper on roof, front right,” he breathed into the headset. Then he lifted his gun and scanned the part of the roof where he figured the shot had come from. His high-power nightscope was top-of-the-line, and he patiently scanned back and forth until he finally saw the sniper when he raised his head just enough to peer down into the courtyard. The sniper was positioned against one of the huge gray stone chimneys at the far end of the house. Novak ducked down and got into position to fire and then steadied the gun sight on the spot where he'd seen the sniper. He looked around for the enemy on the ground but saw no one. No shots now. All was quiet.

Then another shot rang out from the same area on the roof, probably the sniper firing at Booker or Holliday. He moved, crawling inside a thick stand of lilac bushes hugging the interior wall, and then he turned and rested the rifle barrel on the top of the wall and put his right eye back to the scope. He waited for the man to appear again and could hear the others in his team shooting back at the sniper's position from their cover. When the sniper's head came up again to scan the courtyard below, Novak pulled the trigger, nice and slow and easy. He saw the top of the shooter's head disintegrate and fly back into the darkness, and Novak got back down fast, flat on his stomach. Listening for return fire. For another sniper. Nothing.

After a few minutes, he rose up into a crouch and then ran the rest of the way across the courtyard to the front door, staying low and in the shadows. He was met in the threshold by two of Soquet's men rushing out at him, both dressed in black and armed with automatic rifles. He shot one twice in the chest and then ducked behind the wall as the other riddled it with a barrage of bullets. He scrambled along behind it, with gunfire erupting all over the estate now, and ran headlong into another bad guy coming around the far end. Novak shot him midchest, twice again, and then rose and fired at the man pursuing him. The man was knocked backward by the force of the slug and landed on his back, writhing and groaning. Novak shot him again, made the door, and edged inside, weapon ready.

John Booker was already inside some kind of big hall and running lightly up some wide steps leading to the second floor, his assault rifle up and out in front. Holliday inched in from the back of the hall, and the two of them walked backward up either side of the massive staircase, covering Booker's back. The place was dark, only a few sconces lit along the walls, but there was no opposition or gunmen on the stairs or upstairs hall. Booker was already halfway up a smaller staircase rising to a third floor.

Following the light they'd seen remain on all night long, they had already ascertained that Black was in some kind of tower room, most likely guarded by a tight cadre of Soquet's most elite guards. The three of them edged down the wide stone corridor in staggered positions toward Black's prison, and Novak could hear music now, playing very loud. What was that? It sounded like wedding music. He kept thinking that this wasn't right, nothing about it was, that everything seemed all wrong. Way too easy. Everything in him knew it, and he was suddenly afraid that they were heading into a death trap.

Holliday must have shared his view, because he muttered softly aside to Novak, “This is messed up. Where are the guards up here?”

“Right,” said Novak. “Be ready.”

When they gained the far hallway, the one where they thought Black was most likely being held, they tried doors and cleared empty, dilapidated rooms with peeling paint and fallen plaster ceilings and carved marble fireplaces, until they found one near the end of the corridor that was locked. Inside, the music blared on, so loud that it echoed down the hallway. Booker gave them a hand signal, and then they went in quick and hard. Booker kicked the door open and led, then Holliday, with Novak last.

Inside, they found a huge bedroom. There was a white canopy bed sitting on the far side. It looked like somebody was lying under the blankets. There was a TV monitor on the ceiling and a red settee at the end of the bed. Booker started moving cautiously away from the door, and then Novak saw the bomb sitting on the floor beside the bed. He yelled a warning and they all tried to seek cover, as the entire room exploded in their faces. Red and orange and yellow flames and black smoke and a blast of heat hit them, the explosion violent enough to blow them completely off their feet and into the air. Acrid smoke and soot and devouring flames licked across the bed and up the walls, and plaster rained down on their sprawling bodies. Nobody moved for the first few seconds, and nothing could be heard except the crackle and pop of flames as the fire caught and raged up the walls and across the floor, inching toward the three injured men.