Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) (36 page)

A few feet ahead, lying across his path, were two more white-suited workers, their uniforms blotted with red. Chest wounds. Two stories below he saw their automatic weapons lying on the lip of the pool.

Feeling the tremor of footsteps on the ramp below him, Thorn leaned over the railing and saw Pauly Chee inching up behind another white-suited security man, who was armed with an automatic pistol.

Thorn turned away and tried to project his voice out into the big room.

“FBI! Stop where you are. Thrown down your weapons.”

While Thorn mounted the railing, both men halted. Pauly looking behind him, the security guy swinging around, shocked to find Pauly so close.

Thorn tucked his flashlight in his waistband, took a grip on the lower rail, and kicked out over the blue water, swinging like one of those high-bar gymnasts working up to a full three-sixty, only Thorn was a long way past his prime and had only the smallest of windows to sail through. Splashing into that pool was not an option.

His hands held firm as he kicked out parallel to the water, then gravity swung him down and he timed his release, dismounting the rail and flying feetfirst through the space between the two ramps, a crazy Tarzan yell breaking from his lungs.

Aiming for Pauly’s head, but mistiming and sideswiping the guard instead. Thorn knocked the man’s weapon loose, sent him sprawling backward into the rail, and Thorn thudded down against the steel ramp hard on his rump.

Quick-stepping to the guard, Pauly kicked his machine pistol over the side, and it splashed into the turquoise water. Pauly aimed his pistol at the security man’s face, but Thorn scooted in front of the guy and struggled to his feet.

“Let him go. He’s no threat.”

Pauly blinked at Thorn and aimed past him at the man.

Thorn dodged to his left and blocked him again. “This isn’t what he meant.”

“What?”

“Putting the genie back in the bottle.”

“I should never have told you about that.”

“He didn’t mean to send you off killing people.”

“How do you know what he meant?”

“You know he didn’t. He meant the opposite.”

The security guy had gotten to his feet. A man in his thirties, face shiny with sweat. “Hey, look. I got three kids, a new puppy for godsakes.”

Pauly aimed the pistol at him again and told him to shut up and turn around and walk the fuck out of here, then run as far away as he could get.

“Thanks,” the man said. “Thanks to both of you.”

When he was gone, Thorn held out his hand, palm up. “Give me the gun.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s over. We did what we set out to do. Bringing down that cooling tower, man, that’s enough for one day. Time for a pitcher of beer.”

“Still the funnyman.”

“I’m dead serious. We’re done.”

By now Thorn had seen Pauly’s moves often enough to know his mouth went slack before he attacked. So Thorn’s hand was already moving to the handle of the flashlight when Pauly drew back his hand and sidearmed his pistol toward Thorn’s skull. A recap of what he’d done to Sheffield, pistol-whipping him to his knees.

The flashlight blunted the blow and the handgun broke loose from Pauly’s grip and sailed into the pool. Thorn pivoted on his good leg, bent low, rammed the butt of the flashlight into Pauly’s crotch, and heard the satisfying sound of Pauly’s wail as he pitched back against the railing.

But Thorn was wrong. It wasn’t a wail.

It was a war whoop, for Pauly bounced off the railing as if it were the elastic ropes of a boxing ring, and he was propelled forward into Thorn’s gut, driving his shoulder deep, knocking loose Thorn’s breath, then hauling him upright, lifting him overhead, a swiftly executed clean and jerk, then carrying him two steps toward the edge of the ramp. Squirming, Thorn stared down into the irradiated blue, seeing the dark racks at the bottom lurking like a toxic reef.

Helpless in Pauly’s grip, Thorn went still and tried to pick a handhold he could swipe at on his flight toward the water. A bundle of wires looping out from a girder looked promising. Thorn focused on that bundle as Pauly made a half turn to his right and tossed Thorn headfirst against the steel ramp.

FORTY-TWO

CLAUDE WAS HAVING CHILLS. HIS
pecker twitching inside his boxers. Fucking cooling tower coming down in an avalanche of dust. This half-assed attack had morphed into something else. This would go international. It would be all-time big, up there with the Twin Towers and Pearl Harbor in the annals of disaster lore. It would last for weeks on the front page, take up the full evening news. His pecker might never stop twitching.

This was the end of days, the whole, entire doomsday enchilada, best possible event a security professional such as Claude could dream of. And he was dead center. Claude the vortex. Claude the calm, still eye of the storm.

He waited silently, standing twenty yards from the loading dock that led into the control-room complex. Him and his six best. In the shadows, next to a Dumpster that was shielded by a slatted wall. Peering through the slats, watching the action. Six more guys waiting inside, his fucking pincer movement about to pince.

They stayed put, even after seeing the north cooling tower coming down, stayed put watching Leslie and Cameron Prince roll up to the loading ramp, get out, go in through the door Claude had left unlocked, he and his men watching them unload the creatures, start to carry them inside. He waited until both of them were inside the building, Sheffield still in the truck. Bound up, it looked like. Sitting there in the backseat. A gift.

“Hey, Mr. Sellers, shouldn’t we be going in?”

“Okay, boys, light ’em up. Go take these motherfuckers down.”

Claude followed his men across the parking lot, taking a detour by the Suburban for a quick hello to his favorite asshole in charge.

*   *   *

Claude Sellers’s men, suited up in helmets, flak jackets, and carrying AR-15s, rushed into the back door of the control-room complex thirty seconds behind Leslie and Cameron. Sheffield strained at his cuffs, trying to rip them apart though he knew damn well it was impossible. Losing it for a minute.

Then Claude was at the window looking in. A big grin. He opened the door. Giant blue stone at his throat, that stupid string tie. Yellow shirt under his Kevlar.

“Agent Sheffield. How you doing this fine evening?”

“Cut me loose, you jackass.”

“As of now, I can’t provide that service, but I tell you what I will do.”

“This is coming back on you, Sellers, gonna take a big bite out of your ass.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say. You just rest easy now, you hear, Special Agent. I got to get inside, lead my men into battle, take care of some badass terrorists. When I’m done, I’ll be right back to settle up with you, since it appears you’re a coconspirator, possibly even the gang leader. You sit tight, now, you hear.”

Claude took hold of Sheffield’s shoulder and yanked him forward, tugged on his plastic cuffs to see they were secure, then slammed the door and jogged away, ducking into the back door. A few seconds after he entered, the door blew open again, and half a dozen civilians poured out. Men and women in street clothes, a couple in white smocks, wild looks. Several with their hands clamped over their mouths.

Sheffield called out to them, but no one heard, or if they did, they didn’t glance his way and disappeared around the side of the adjacent complex.

He sat for a few seconds testing the tightness of the cuffs. Thorn could’ve left a little goddamn slack, but he hadn’t. Going along with these fuckers or seeming to. Frank’s guess, the terrorists were holding Thorn’s boy hostage, forcing Thorn to stay in line. But why Thorn? That, he didn’t know.

Sheffield hadn’t been keeping up with his yoga and he’d gained a few pounds around the middle, so doing the tuck-and-squeeze, slipping his bound wrists under his butt and down the back of his legs and past his feet, then bringing them to his front side, well, that wasn’t going to work. Two tries showed him that.

He sat for a minute thinking. From inside the control complex he heard gunfire, five shots, very deliberate, then a quick spray of automatic fire. Probably Leslie and Prince going down. Sheffield was usually a stickler for rules. The gang of elves were officially on the wrong side of this disaster, but the deeper he’d dug into it, the less true that seemed. Given the choice, his first shot would have been at Sellers before turning his firepower on the others.

Frank stopped. Firepower. Struck by the way words could pop up, carrying all their associations, like direct messages from the unconscious, solving shit.

Yeah, of course. Firepower.

Frank brought his bound wrists to his right pants pocket. Bent sideways, dropping his shoulder down, twisting his spine. Pushing a fingertip deep enough in the pocket to brush the silver lighter. His old man’s gift, a memento. The lighter that had ignited a thousand Lucky Strikes and charcoal barbecues and bottle rockets on the Fourth.

He emptied his lungs, compressed his right rib cage, and stretched harder toward the pocket, got a finger around the trigger of his vintage lighter. You saw them in fifties gangster movies, a femme fatale in an illegal casino lighting up. Press the tiny button, it snaps open, rolling the flint against the steel. On the sides there were inlaid green shamrocks. Frank’s lucky day. New flint, fresh lighter fluid. His goofy hobby. Keeping the Sheffield flame alive, by God.

It slipped out of his grasp twice before he hooked his fingertip around that trigger a third time and inched it out of the pocket.

More gunfire coming from inside the complex. One of Claude’s men stumbled out the back door, propped up by a buddy. Both of them looked to be wounded. One worse than the other. Staggering away into the darkness.

Frank clicked the trigger, got the flame. Working out the logistics behind his back where he couldn’t see a damn thing, having to do this by feel and guesswork. And right away the goddamn flame singed the inside of his wrist. He fumbled it, almost lost it in the crack between the seats. Cursing.

He clicked it again, got another flame, tried to peer over his shoulder, direct his right hand. But the tiny flame burned him again, a deep, scalding shot of hurt, Sheffield smelling his own goddamn flesh, but bearing it, because he could also smell the plastic. It was melting, giving way. If he didn’t set his fucking uniform on fire first.

Not more than a minute later the back door of the complex blew open again, and three of Claude’s finest squeezed through. Two guys holding up a fellow cop in the middle. Dude was unconscious or dead. Both supporting guys looked torn up. Blood-spattered, faces marked up. The door slammed shut and a second later blew open again and Claude was there. Wild-eyed, a pistol in each hand. Stomping down the back steps, yelling something to his guys.

Sirens now. A chopper circling overhead, maybe two. Frank couldn’t tell, so much commotion everywhere.

Sellers marched over to the car and flung open the door. Frank’s hands still pinned behind him, feet together. Same position.

“Sounds like your guys are making a hash of it.”

“Fuckers got away.”

“Slipped through your web. Why am I not surprised?”

“Makes you all the more important, Sheffield, taking down the boss.”

“Yeah, Sheffield the terrorist.”

“What’s that stink?” Claude sniffed at the air inside the car. “You shit yourself, Sheffield? Big, brave dude like you, you load up your shorts?”

“When you gotta go…”

“Some shithead’s going to pay for this. And that shithead’s going to be you, Sheffield. You’re going down.”

Claude was breathing hard, a Glock in each hand, a tremble in his arms.

“So it’s falling apart, huh, Claude?”

“Where’s Nicole?”

“Dead in a ditch out on the entrance road.”

“Yeah?”

“These ELF people, they aren’t the pussies you thought they were. She underestimated them, just like you’re doing.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, agent fucking in charge of nothing. I’m going to cut you loose. Then I’m going to step back, give you a fighting chance to make an escape, and we’ll see how that plays out. See if you stand and fight or make a break. Either way’s fine by me.”

“You really think you can pin this on me?”

“Got you on tape riding into the plant, using your credentials to claim the drill was canceled, which it was not. We got a permanent record of that, Sheffield. You think I didn’t cover my ass? You’re the one’s underestimating.”

Claude holstered one of the Glocks and reached back to his utility belt and drew out a tactical knife and popped it open. Big-ass serrated edge.

“Now I’ll turn you around to face away from me, and I’ll cut your hands loose. Then I’ll step back and I’ll count to three. That’s fair. More of a chance than you fucking deserve.”

Claude leaned inside the door and stooped forward to slice through the cuffs, his stupid-ass bolo tie dangling down in front of Frank’s face.

Frank reached up with his right hand, grabbed hold, and yanked those strings hard and kneed Claude in the face. Broke his nose.

The weapons fell away. Sheffield repeated it, bolo yank, knee smash.

Blood flowing from Claude Sellers’s mouth. Blinded by blood, Sellers was clawing at Frank’s face, tearing the flesh on one cheek, nails digging into the wound Pauly Chee had given him. Frank did the bolo routine again. Getting a rhythm, putting more force behind it this time. Claude’s hands fell away from Frank’s face.

Sheffield pushed him back out the door, then held him straight up, a good strong grip on the strings.

“You did Bendell and you did Magnuson. You fried them. Tell me, Claude. It’s confession time.”

Sellers spit a bloody tooth into Frank’s face.

Sheffield hauled him down, bending him forward with the tie, dragging his head back inside the SUV, taking hold of the door handle and lining up Claude’s neck, then slamming that heavy-ass Suburban door on Sellers’s head.

Claude spit blood and more teeth onto Sheffield’s lap.

“You electrocuted Bendell and you tried to fry me, but got an NCIS agent instead, a good man. Tell me you did it and we can close up shop and go home.”