Edge by Jeffery Deaver
In a moment the man revived. He looked up at us, fearfully, and began to retch. Pogue and I dragged him around the corner of the building and I ripped the gag off and let him vomit. When he was done Pogue slapped another gag on him. I crouched down and pulled out the small locking-blade Buck knife I carry.
I opened it with a soft click. The man stirred. I pointed to the gag and held up two fingers. Terrifying the man even more, Pogue applied a second.
I bent close and said, "Is Loving here?"
A hesitation. Pogue gripped one of the man's hands and I scraped the blade across the top of a nail. Painless but persuasive; even with the gag, you could hear the terrified scream.
A yes nod.
"How many people inside, total?" I began to count. At four, he bobbed his head up and down vigorously.
"And the man who hired Loving? We know he's on his way. When will he get here? Blink--each blink is five minutes."
I tallied them up. It came to a half hour.
"Who is he?"
A series of desperate nos. I believed he didn't know the primary's identity.
"Inside, those four . . . are they all with the girl?"
A shrug but a terrified one and I suspected he didn't know.
"Where?" I began running through various directions, at which he either nodded or shook his head. Once or twice he shrugged.
Apparently they were in the back of the facility, straight down the main corridor, though he didn't know or couldn't remember if it was upstairs or down. While just one story here at the entrance, farther inside the hill there were multiple floors, duBois had learned.
I nodded to Pogue and closed my eyes and tilted my head briefly. The man extracted a heavy-duty hypodermic syringe. The guard stirred violently, probably thinking we were going to kill him, but Pogue got the needle into a vein skillfully and a moment later he was asleep. "How long?" I whispered.
"Two hours, give or take."
I ripped the gag off, fearful that the guard might vomit again and choke to death. Pogue looked at me questioningly, as if he didn't care what happened to the man, but said nothing.
At the front door I spit on the hinges to keep them from squealing and we eased it silently open. I expected to find battery-powered lamps but the overhead lights were working. Pogue shrugged at what could be deduced from the functioning power: Perhaps the facility had been taken over by Henry Loving. A place of business--to ply his trade as a lifter. It was intimidating; subjects would be terrified to be brought here. Also, the walls were thick enough to withstand a Russian assault--which meant that any locals passing nearby couldn't hear the screams from inside.
The linoleum-floored corridor, stained from water seepage, extended straight to the back of the facility. I looked for cameras or other security systems and found none.
I returned the silenced Beretta to Pogue and drew my Glock. We started down the hundred-foot-long hallway, keeping to the shadows. Pogue was in front and I watched the rear regularly. He tried doorknobs occasionally but the doors were locked. Apparently there was only this one main way in and out of the facility, though there would have to be some fire exits.
Escape would come later, though. First, I had to find the principal that I'd lost.
Where the corridor ended there were stairs leading both down and up.
Which way?
I played another game. I mentally flipped a coin.
Up won.
Chapter 62
PAUSING TO LISTEN, on the second-floor landing.
Faint noises, the source impossible to guess, came from unknown directions. Taps, clicks, water dripping? The air here was raw with the scent of mold and very chill. I knew that interrogators regularly use underheated interview rooms.
The door to the second floor was locked and we continued to the third floor, the top. At the far end of this corridor we could see illumination, about fifty feet ahead. We moved quickly along the shabby linoleum to the doorway from which the light filtered. We paused outside and glanced in. The door opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the second floor, a very large room, seventy-five by a hundred feet or so. The place was a control room of some sort, filled with gray desks, partitions and metal electronics consoles from which the guts had been removed. The smell of musty paper joined that of the mold. The overhead lights were off but at the far end, on the other side of high partitions, were pools of illumination.
I pointed and, with Pogue now covering me, we went in the direction of the light, crouching, practically on our knees. We came to a stairwell heading down to the main floor but stayed on the balcony. Soon we could hear voices rising and falling softly from the far end of the room, in the direction in which we were headed. Men's voices, I couldn't make out the words. But there were some tones of impatience, followed by a calm utterance, perhaps reassurance.
If Amanda was there, she wasn't speaking.
We continued farther down the balcony, moving slowly. There was a lot of trash up here, including broken glass and scraps of sheet metal, which we had to avoid. The men were speaking softly; they would easily hear the sound made by a careless footfall.
Finally we got to the end of the balcony. Below us were the pools of light we'd seen. I rose slowly and peeked over the edge. The light, I saw, was cast by two cheap, mismatched lamps sitting on desks. Incongruously, one sported a Disney shade, torn and stained. Nemo, I noted.
Only ten feet from it sat Amanda Kessler.
In dusty jeans and dark blue sweatshirt the girl huddled in a gray metal office chair, face grim and defiant. Her knees were drawn up. Her wrists were duct taped but they'd let her keep her bear purse with its silly grin.
Her captors were underneath us, obscured by the overhanging balcony. Loving and the three others. If we could get the four of them into the open, out from under the balcony, we'd be in an excellent shooting position. I raised two fingers and drew my hand across my throat. Two more raised fingers, then the letter L, to indicate Loving, and I pointed to my shoulder.
I wanted two dead and Loving and one other wounded, to keep them alive for interrogation. A shattered clavicle or scapula will completely disable a hostile, unlike a leg shot.
Pogue acknowledged my message while I looked around the floor to find something to fling into the shadows to draw them out--as Pogue himself had done at the safe house just hours before.
One of the kidnappers entered our line of sight below, walking toward the girl. He paused before he got to Amanda, who watched him with narrowed eyes. He picked up a coffee cup. The bulky man was in a suit. He sipped and looked around the room. "They fired missiles from here?"
"I don't know," came another voice. Not Loving's.
"It was Nikes."
"What, like the shoe?"
"Like the Greek god."
The voices had no Southern drawl.
"There are silos around here someplace. In Clifton. In case the Russians attacked."
"The Russians? Why would they attack us?"
"Jesus."
I picked up a few bits of broken glass. Pogue saw and silently took a second magazine for the Beretta out of his holster and set it on the floor in front of him. I kept my second in my pocket. I only had one extra, unlike Pogue, who seemed to have about a hundred rounds on him, and if the operation became one of pursuit or escape under fire I didn't want to leave any ammunition behind.
"Where is he?" another voice called.
"Be patient."
I felt a chill, hearing the calm voice of Henry Loving.
"You think they know?"
"That we have her? Not yet. McCall would've let us know."
The girl said suddenly, "You're going to get arrested. All of you. Or shot." Amanda Kessler was not, unlike the others, whispering. Her voice was strident.
The man with the coffee glanced at her but said nothing.
Neither did anybody else.
"My father's a policeman."
"We know," came another voice.
But Loving shushed
I glanced at Pogue. From his pocket he withdrew earplugs. I was familiar with them. They block out the high decibels and pitch of gunfire but allow human voices through. He handed a pair to me. I shoved them in. I took a deep breath and let fly the piece of glass, which landed with a tink in the far corner of the room.
The hostile in view set down the coffee and drew his pistol. "Fuck was that?"
Two others appeared from below the balcony, one with a dark automatic in his hand, moving forward slowly.
That was three. We needed the fourth to make our plan work. Where was Loving?
Come on. . . .
From directly underneath us, the lifter calmly ordered, "Call out front."
As the three men in front of us looked around, one lifted a radio. "Jamie, what's up? Is he here yet? We heard something inside."
Receiving no response, he looked back uncertainly.
I let fly another bit of glass and it skidded across the floor.
Both of the armed men below us lifted their weapons.
"Shut the radio off," Loving commanded.
And stepped into view.
We now had all four targets in front of us, bracketing Amanda. Loving and the man with the radio were to the right of her and the two armed captors on the left.
Pogue pointed to the two with the weapons and drew his finger over his throat, then to himself.
He was, after all, a professional killer and I was, in effect, the opposite. I prepared to shoot into the shoulder of the man on the right and Henry Loving.
I aimed. Pogue held up three fingers of his left hand and began counting down.
I trained my sights on Loving. The image in my mind was Abe Fallow.
Two . . .
It was then that Amanda gave a gasp and jerked back. "Oh, shit." She screamed, "No!" She was staring down. The men crouched and separated and we momentarily lost our targets. One stepped back, just out of view.
Pogue and I froze.
The girl said, "A rat. There's a rat under the chair! Get it away!"
"A--"
The captor nearest her muttered, "Fuck, scared the shit out of me." He stood and stepped forward, close to Amanda, looking under the chair.
Pogue and I started to aim once more.
Which was when the girl's bound hands lifted the bear purse to her mouth. She unzipped it with her teeth and managed to pull out a small black canister. She aimed awkwardly but fired a stream of orange pepper spray directly into the startled face of her captor. From two feet away it shot straight into his eyes. He screamed and dropped his gun, which Amanda dove for. The man beside him swung his gun toward her.
Loving shouted, "No!"
Pogue and I simultaneously shot the man who was about to fire at Amanda.
Henry Loving knew instantly what had happened and, as we turned our guns toward him and the others, he swept his arm into the lamps, which shattered on the floor, plunging the room into darkness. The only illumination now was the ruddy glow from the three exit signs.
Pogue and I stared down into the murky scene, where I had a vague image of Amanda scrabbling away from the men into the obstacle course of the room.
Then, beneath me, I heard the whispers of the three remaining captors as they planned their strategy.
Chapter 63
NOW IT DIDN'T matter if there was a mole in Freddy's office or not, since Loving knew about our presence. So I hit SEND, transmitting the text I'd prepared earlier. It gave Freddy a brief explanation and an urgent request for backup. I told him too that the primary was en route, so to set up roadblocks around the facility.
Amanda's heroics had guaranteed that we now needed all the help we could get.
Eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, we made our way down the stairway to the floor of the control room. I saw a dim form but whether it was a shadow or a silhouette, I didn't know. I aimed but was well aware it might be Amanda and waited for a clear image.
I never got one. He, or she, disappeared.
I heard hard breathing and faint groans from the man Amanda had sprayed. "Fuck, that hurts. . . . Okay, okay. I can see. I've got my weapon. Who the fuck's here?"
From somewhere, not that far away, Loving hissed for their silence.
Where was Amanda?
A moment later I heard more whispering.
Loving was playing a Bayesian game now, one modeled on imperfect information. He wouldn't know whom he was up against. How many we were, who we were, what our agenda was. But he'd be making instantaneous adjustments in assessing the probability of what his enemy would do.
He'd think there might be just one adversary here--he wouldn't have heard the second shot, from Pogue's silenced weapon. He knew that the attacker had eliminated the guard out front. He knew that the opponent was willing to fire without surrender demands. Another bit of information was that to distract them we'd flung glass into the corner of the control room, meaning this was a very limited operation, with no SWAT backup. Had the Bureau's hostage rescue team been on hand, this place would have been lit up like Times Square.
Loving would be thinking he and his men outnumbered the opponents and that they still had some time. Enough to find the girl and escape.
A piercing scream filled the black space. Amanda. She was near me. I could hear the sounds of a struggle. Then a loud clank and a man shouted in pain, "Need some help. She got me with that fucking spray shit. I'm in the northwest corner--"
"Quiet," Loving shouted, as Pogue and I separated instinctively and moved fast in that direction. I fired covering shots high.
The shadowy figure by the door lifted his gun and fired a round in my general direction. Pogue returned fire, a burst of three, and sent the man to the floor, though he wasn't hit--not badly at least--since he continued to fire.
I tallied one dead, one or two hit by pepper spray.
"Fuck, she got away," another voice called.
"We're federal agents," I called, "we've got teams outside too."
Pogue shouted, "We know there are three of you. I want all three with hands up standing in the light of the exit door. Do it now. Or we will engage you."
Then Henry Loving spoke again: "Corte, you're running a rogue operation. We won't kill the girl. We just need some information. Back out."
"Fuck you," Amanda cried.
"Amanda!" I called. "Get on the floor. Lie down, wherever you are. Stay down, be quiet."
This was greeted with several more shots in my direction.
"Stop the firing," Loving said adamantly.
"Where are you?" Amanda cried.
"Just get on the floor. There are--"
A huge crack of explosion and I was rolling backward, blinded.
A flash-bang grenade.
Underestimated them, I thought. Even the earplugs didn't save my hearing this time. Pogue too hadn't expected the grenade and had been slammed into the desk hard. Still, he struggled to his knees again and looked for a target, though the flash had been so bright our vision was fuzzy.
We both scrabbled away from the place where one of the kidnappers had lobbed the nonlethal stun grenade. I was desperate to find Amanda but didn't dare call again for fear of giving away my position; I could tell from their shadows they were moving in, flanking us.
It was then that I heard a noise behind me and spun around, as the attacker, only a few feet away, lunged forward, slamming me to the floor.
Chapter 64
THE ATTACKER WAS kicking and trying desperately to get to my weapon.
At the same time as my vision began to return I caught a whiff of sweat and perfume.
"Amanda!" I whispered. "It's me, Corte." I pushed her off me.
The girl backed up, squinting and aiming the pepper spray into my face. In the red light from the exit sign I could see her grim eyes.
She's got some grit, your daughter. It'd take a lot to get her rattled. . . .
The panic bled from her expression. "Oh . . . Mr. Corte."
Pogue looked our way and gestured us down, then scanned the nearby portions of the office.
The girl collapsed against me, not in panic, though. She was exhausted.
Nearby: the sound of metal hitting the concrete floor.
"Eyes and ears," Pogue snapped.
I closed my eyes and pulled Amanda close, her face in my chest, covering her ears. When the grenade went off, this time we were prepared.
Except that this grenade was different.
There was a hiss and pop, rather than an explosion. I looked up to see a brilliant white light fill the entire room, shooting stark shadows onto the walls. At the same time the phosphorus burst out in a small dome and ignited the nearby portion of floor, the partitions and the upholstery of the office chairs. The brilliant white light died but the fire continued--and it grew--and we could just make out shadowy forms moving briefly on the far side of the room, then vanishing.
A moment later another grenade landed, closer to us. We scrabbled away before it detonated and another sphere of the sticky incendiary rose. Phosphorus is like napalm. It sticks like glue and will burn through clothing and skin.
"We can't stay here," Pogue whispered, looking right and left. Eyes scanning constantly. "Okay, here's what we do. We can't all run a defense going back out the main corridor, so I'm going to keep them pinned. You and the girl go out the front. When help comes tell 'em where I am."
Pogue's approach was the only logical one. I said, "Freddy's on his way. Shouldn't be long."
Another grenade flew toward us and we were just able to get out of the way in time. It detonated, starting a third fire.
I considered a possible strategy. I whispered, "One minute."
I eased Amanda down under a desk and gestured for Pogue to cover her. He acknowledged this. I made my way a little closer to where I believed the latest grenade had come from. I knew the flash-bang grenades would have stunned the others' hearing too and I was betting that Loving might not recognize my voice.
I took a deep breath and shouted, "Henry, he's behind you! Ten feet."
Loving didn't fall for it, in fact he instantly anticipated the strategy and called, "No! Everybody down." But one of his colleagues had risen from cover and spun around, lifting his gun.