The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (10 page)

Standing on the stage, The Fallen surveyed the room. The gas had an amazingly fast effect, but lasted only fifteen or twenty minutes at the longest. The banquet hall’s ventilation system worked quickly to clear the air of the Fentanyl. Already he could see people stirring. Into his microphone he said, “Two minutes. Check in by the numbers.”

“Uno, check.”

“Dos, check.”

“Tres, check.”

“Quatro, check.”

The Fallen stood on the stage, eyes on his watch, counting down the time while his men finished securing the banquet hall. Finally, El Tiburón moved up the aisle toward the front stage, an MP-5 clutched in one hand. He stopped at the TV cameras that supplied a 360-degree view of the banquet hall.

With a flourish, he pulled off his gas mask and dropped it to the floor. Inhaling, he flashed The Fallen an okay sign and said, “Doce. Check.”

The Fallen nodded. “Proceed.”

El Tiburón flicked the switch that controlled all six cameras. He gave The Fallen a thumbs-up.

The Fallen stood motionless at the front of the stage. After two
beats, three, he slowly reached up and drew off the gas mask. Staring into the camera, he said in English, “I am The Fallen Angel. We— The Fallen Angels— have taken over the G8 Summit and have all of the world’s leaders as hostages. But first, we want you to understand what is at stake here.”

He waved his hand at his men. As one, The Fallen Angels spread out across the room and stood over various individuals sprawled on the floor.

The Fallen Angel said, “These people are members of the security staff for the twenty countries present here today. There are fifty-three of them. They are members of the United States Secret Service, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Bureau of Diplomatic Security. There are also members of the Israeli Mossad and ISF, the Russian FSB, and many, many others. We have identified every single one of them.”

At a wave of his hand, The Fallen Angels fired their assault rifles on full automatic into the bodies of the scattered security experts. The bodies jumped as blood and tissue misted upward. The guns roared and cordite drifted into the air.

The Fallen gestured again and the guns fell silent.

He waited. “The Fallen Angels have arrived,” he said. He made a slashing gesture across his throat and Mikhail Alexandrov, who was closest to the cameras, cut off the feed.

Derek paused, gasping for breath. Nearly blinding pain blasted through his head from Coffee’s blows, and blood seeped from inside his mouth. He didn’t think Coffee had broken his jaw, but he’d definitely done some damage to a couple of teeth. Probing with his tongue, he was pretty sure a couple of molars had either been shattered or knocked out. They felt jagged, the gum swollen and raw.

The body nearest him was the female Secret Service agent, Sarah Macklin. She was crumpled halfway beneath the third agent, Joe Snyder, and he couldn’t get to her pockets without a lot of work.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he tried to see exactly how the bodies were scattered. Coffee had shut off the lights when he left, and the only light in the freezer was what filtered through the small window in the door.

Agent Bill Creff had cuffed Derek’s hands behind his back. Creff was farthest away.

Oh screw it, Derek thought, and rolled onto his knees, then awkwardly struggled to his feet. Over by the door he used his shoulder to click on the light. Blinking against the sudden illumination, he tried to push his way out of the door, but wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge. He thought Coffee had locked the door. It was possible to lock the freezer door from the outside with a padlock. Coffee apparently had done so.

First, get the damned cuffs off, Derek thought. He stepped over the bodies of Sarah Macklin and Joe Snyder until he stood next to Creff. With a sigh, he dropped to his knees beside Creff’s body.

“This isn’t any fun for me, buddy,” he murmured, and rolled to a sitting position so his hands were closest to Creff. He started with the agent’s jacket pocket, which revealed only a wad of pink Kleenex. Further contortions got him into Creff’s pants pocket.

Another wad of Kleenex.

Stumbling to his feet, he stared at the body. Creff was wedged against the shelving units. Getting into the other pockets—

Back down on his knees, he proceeded to roll on top of the stiffening corpse. Derek squirmed until he was lying with his hands near Creff’s right-hand pocket, lying on top of the dead man. Staring up at the ceiling for a moment, he cursed every decision he had ever made in his life leading him to this situation. By scooting toward Creff’s feet he was able to get the fingers of one hand into Creff’s pants pocket.

His fingers wrapped around a set of keys. Clutching them, he then scooted upward and rolled off Creff’s body. He found himself face to face with Sarah Macklin, green eyes glazed and empty. She had been attractive once, but death mocked beauty.

Sitting up, he felt like his head was going to explode. He sucked in deep breaths of frigid air, trying to get his body back under control. For a moment, spots danced in front of his eyes and he wondered if he would pass out.

Concussion. He was sure of it. What he really needed was rest. And maybe a skull X-ray. Or a CT scan.

His vision blurred for a moment, doubled, then shifted back to single focus. He didn’t like that. He’d been cracked in the head and punched around a bit. The headache wasn’t unexpected. The double vision, on the other hand, could indicate a serious problem.

His fingers fumbled with the keys. The cold made his fingers numb and he couldn’t tell which key he needed by touch. Cursing, he dropped the keys on the floor and shifted around so he was lying with his nose inches from the keys in front of his face. He studied the key fob. It looked like a mountain climber’s carabiner, but it said FBI in white letters on it. Derek saw that it was actually a miniature flashlight. Eight keys hung from it. One of them was the tiny handcuff key.

Using his tongue, he shifted and separated the keys until the handcuff key stood out alone. The metallic taste of the keys didn’t go well with the blood trickling down the back of his throat. For a moment he thought he was going to vomit, but swallowed back the bile and got himself under control.

“Here we go again.” Derek rolled again, twisted, and got the keys into his hands. After a moment’s fumbling, the left cuff was off. With a
sigh, he flexed his shoulders, stretched his arms, and unlocked the right cuff.

Derek stood against the door trying to think. Coffee had trashed his phone. He needed to get out of here. He studied the bodies of the three agents. Creff wore a communication unit around his waist, as did the other two agents. He quickly stripped Creff of the radio and plugged the earpiece into his ear.

“— Security Center, do you copy? I repeat, Security Center, do you copy?” The voice sounded stressed. “Goddammit, Padillo! Answer your fucking radio!”

Uh-oh, thought Derek. Not good. Lee Padillo was the head Secret Service guy. He was running the show. Why wasn’t he responding?

He shifted frequencies. Another voice: “— the Cheyenne is under total lockdown. I repeat, total lockdown. No response from the—” The channel broke up in a burst of static, the words fading in and out. “— fuckin’ firefight— National Guard— body— hostages—”

A chill ripped through Derek’s body. It sounded like all hell had broken loose. Then another voice broke in and he realized just how accurate that assessment had been.

“This is Secret Service Agent Lawrence Swenson. I repeat, this is Agent Lawrence Swenson. I am now in charge of summit security due to the suspected death of Lee Padillo. A terrorist organization calling itself The Fallen Angels has taken over the Cheyenne Center, murdered the on-site security personnel, and is holding the G20 leaders and other members of the G20 delegations hostage. From this point forward we will maintain radio silence until I can get a sit-rep. I repeat, we will maintain radio silence from this point forward.”

Derek changed frequencies, but came up with silence. His heart thudded in his chest and he closed his eyes, willing this mess away. Opening his eyes, he leaned down and picked up his tool belt, plucked out a screwdriver and studied the walls and the ceiling of the freezer, deciding what his best point of exit would be.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved aside the food on the shelves, climbed up until he was close to the ceiling, and started working on the screws that held together one of the stainless steel panels.

El Tiburón thought it would have been more effective if they had waited for everybody to wake up. Killing the security people in front of all the bureaucrats would have had a controlling effect.

He worried about controlling the crowd. The Fallen Angels were an experienced, ruthless group. They were heavily armed, they had set up precautions all around the facility, they were in control. Still, they were outnumbered from within nearly six to one. And, although they had surprises set up outside the facility, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the Cheyenne Center became the focus of a massive law enforcement and military operation.

El Tiburón wondered if The Fallen had made his first miscalculation.

Then he thought: What difference does it make? We all have to die sometime. If we take them with us, what does it matter in the end?

Around them, the bureaucrats were waking up. He wondered if they would all awaken. When the Russian FSB used the gas in the Moscow Theater, a lot of people had died. Of course, they had been severely underfed and dehydrated over three days, and many were children and the aged.

There were no children here. But not all of the G20 bureaucrats were young and healthy.

El Tiburón let a small smile flash across his face before settling back into his usual watchful calculations. He hoped many would die. It would make this operation easier.

At the front of the stage, several of the Angels had set up a row of chairs. One by one, they dragged a semiconscious world leader forward and propped him in a chair.

Around him, people began to stir, sitting up. Several vomited. The stink filled the air.

Near him, a tall, thin, bald man sat up, looked around, eyes widening in recognition. El Tiburón watched the man with interest. He expected the man to panic, to show anger or fear. Instead the man seemed to take in the scene instantly, understand exactly what was going on, and clamp down on his emotions. A neutral, calm mask was all he showed the world. He glanced up at El Tiburón. Their eyes locked. The man said, “Who are you?”

The man was with the American delegation, El Tiburón knew that much. But exactly who he was, he didn’t know. He was slightly surprised that the man remained sitting on the floor. Around the room, dozens of people were waking, and often rising to their feet or sitting back in their chairs. Some were checking the people around them, trying to offer rudimentary first aid or assurance.

El Tiburón said, “We are The Fallen Angels.”

The man merely nodded. He said, “May I stand?”

“Si.”

The man studied him thoughtfully for a moment before climbing to his feet. He was taller than El Tiburón expected, slightly over six feet. The man scanned the room before focusing on the main stage where the leaders were starting to awaken.

Close to where El Tiburón stood, a man jumped to his feet, looking around wildly. El Tiburón wasn’t sure, but thought he was with the German delegation. The man was short, with thick blond hair, pink cheeks, and a whispy mustache. There was something childlike about him. His blue eyes widened in alarm. “Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Was machts? Scheisse!”

The little German shouted something else unintelligible and sprinted for a doorway. The tall American reached for him, but was keeping an eye on his surroundings— keeping an eye on El Tiburón. Without hesitation El Tiburón raised his weapon and fired a single burst. The little German sprawled forward on his face and lay still. A few people screamed. More stared in horrified silence.

Raising his voice, he shouted to be heard. “I am El Tiburón. The shark. The Angel of Death. If you behave, you may survive this. If you do not, we will kill you without mercy. Without hesitation. Without regret.”

He turned. The tall thin man watched him closely. It bothered him that the man did not seem afraid. The man seemed to be studying him as if gathering information.

El Tiburón stalked toward the man, who now did not meet his gaze, but shifted his body into a less confrontational posture, relaxing, turning his eyes away.

“Who are you?”El Tiburón demanded. “What is your name?”

“My name,” the man said slowly, “is Robert Mandalevo.”

El Tiburón turned the barrel of his MP-5 so it was aimed directly at Robert Mandalevo’s chest. “Do you fear the Angel of Death, Robert Mandalevo? Do you believe I would kill you without hesitation?”

“Yes. I believe you would kill without hesitation.” Mandalevo still did not meet his gaze.

“Believe it,”El Tiburón said. “And I would enjoy doing it. Who are you? You are an American?”

Mandalevo nodded.

El Tiburón prodded him with the assault rifle. “Your position. Tell me. What is your title? What do you do for El Presidente Langston?”

Without blinking, without hesitation, Mandalevo said, “I’m the assistant deputy political advisor.”

El Tiburón grimaced and instantly dismissed the man who was a minor bureaucrat in the White House administration. Without warning he slammed the butt of the rifle into Mandalevo’s skull, who crumpled to the floor, hands trying to stanch the flow of blood from a gash in his scalp.

El Tiburón turned his back away from Mandalevo and strode toward the cameras. It was almost time for The Fallen to address the world.

The two-foot-square stainless steel plate came loose and Derek slid it out and set it aside. Above the plate was yellow fiberglass insulation, which he also removed. Above that was a ceiling panel made of thick fiberboard and screwed into place. The typical walk-in freezer was custom built for each space, but there needed to be room for the compressor and wiring. The compressor in this particular freezer was set into an opening at the back of the freezer beneath the flooring. Above him, however, was a four-foot-high crawl space filled with electrical wires, heating and cooling ducts, and gas and water pipes, as well as fiber-optic lines.