Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (18 page)

“Granite chips, I think. Did you get the guy above me?”

“I hope he’s the only one.”

“What do we do about the—”

A distinctive whooshing sound filled the air. Something shrieked overhead and struck a wall thirty feet away. The explosion punched at their ears, filling the air with dust.

“
RPG
!”

Staring around, Derek grabbed Noa and dragged her at a dead run into the dust, which obscured them from the shooters.

He pulled her into the nearest doorway. The thick wooden door was painted a dull green. It was also locked.

Derek pounded on it, then stepped back and kicked at it, wobbling on his bad leg. Noa pushed him aside, raised the tactical shotgun and blew a hole in the door. Reaching her hand through the hole, she flipped a latch and pushed the door open. They tumbled through, slamming it shut and jamming the latch home.

They were inside a crypt.

Noa tumbled to the side,
pressing her back to the wall, shotgun raised. She could not believe how complicated things had gotten since hooking up with Derek.

Just another fun-filled day in the Middle East, she thought.

The crypt wasn’t just a crypt, she saw. It apparently had been a crypt with shelves along the wall that appeared to be ossuaries, and four monuments of sorts similar to those out in the courtyard. But people had moved into it. A length of rope crossed one end of the room. Laundry hung from it. At another space were mats padded with pillows and blankets. A small propane camp stove rested against the wall with a beat-up tin kettle and a frying pan
resting atop it.

Derek, who had moved to the other side of the doorway, back also against the wall, said, “Hello.”

Noa adjusted her gaze. Only a few feet away from Derek a woman in traditional robes and a girl cowered in the corner. In Arabic she said, “Sorry. Is there a way to the roof?”

The woman pointed.

“Stay here. Don’t go out. They’ll shoot at anyone who comes out.”

To Derek, she said, “This way.”

She led, Derek limping after her, watching her back, eyes never really leaving the woman and her daughter. Down a dim, narrow hallway there were two more rooms, one apparently used as some sort of storage room, the other a makeshift bathroom with a water basin, a camp toilet, and several towels.

Next was a steep, narrow stairway.

“Careful,” Derek said.

“Make sure they don’t follow us up here.”

Following the shotgun, she crept up the stairs. At the top was a wooden trapdoor. She applied pressure and the door rose an inch. Harsh daylight slanted through. Dust floated in the sunbeams. She pushed it up more, peering out.

Derek rested a hand on her back, reassuring, letting her know where he was.

“Looks clear,” she said.

“I’m slow,” he said. “If I flip the door up, you want to go out first?”

“I’ll go left. You follow as fast as you can to the right.”

He tapped her back and moved alongside her. She noticed that his pant leg was dark, soaked with blood. Thinking of the scars she had noticed—touched and explored—only two nights ago, she rested her hand on his neck. “Let’s not get shot up any more today, okay?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“It’s a deal.”

He pressed his wounded right arm and shoulder in its sling against the trapdoor. The MP5 hung from his left hand. “On three.”

One.

Two.

On three he shoved up on the trapdoor, which exploded open and clattered over with a sharp bang! Noa surged through the hatch and rolled left. She felt more than saw Derek explode after her, rolling to the right.

It was a flat roof. Out of one end stuck a metal chimney. There was extensive damage from time—the roof was pocked and gouged by years and weather. A lip ran around the edge, about two-feet high.

A man in jeans, camo shirt and black hat sprawled dead, blood soaking into the ancient wood and adobe of the roof.

From across the courtyard a shout rang out in Arabic: “There!”

Before she could bring the shotgun around she heard the chatter of Derek’s MP5. As soon as he fired, he rolled, moving away from his last firing position. She flung aside the shotgun and brought up her own MP5, popped up and fired.

Like Derek, she dropped down and rolled.

From a short distance they heard the chatter of automatic weapons fire.

She exchanged a look with Derek. “Our backup might have arrived.”

He pointed to himself and then toward the corner of the building. “How good a shot are you?”

“Very.”

“You get positioned. I’ll draw their fire. You take them out. Did you see how many there are?”

“Two.”

“Let’s make it count, then.”

He squirmed to the corner. She slithered closer to the lip. Derek nodded, rose up on one knee and fired three bursts. She waited after the first one and rose up, resting the gun on the parapet.

Derek, running with a noticeable limp, fired bursts of gunfire over her head.

The two men jumped to their feet.

She took out the one on the left.

Then the second.

Silence.

Then more gunfire from the sniper’s nest.

She looked over at Derek. He was lying face-down on the roof.

Lynn Sholes sat in a
chair in front of a bank of computer monitors in the embassy’s crisis center. She was flanked on either side by embassy regional security officers. They were monitoring the Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team (
FAST
) or making sure the communications between the
FAST
team, Derek and his team, and their resources back in Washington kept working.

“I want a sit-rep on Stillwater,” she said.

“They’re not responding.”

“Spear One, this is Eagle One. What is your sit-rep?”

Nothing.

Irina: They’re not responding.

“I bloody well know that. What’s going on?”

Behind her someone cleared her throat. It was Jane Fallows, one of her staffers. “I’m busy, Jane.”

“Ma’am, you’ve been called to the Ambassador’s office immediately.”

“We’re in the middle of an operation. Tell her to wait.”

Jane, a tall, angular woman in her thirties who always reminded Sholes of a flamingo, cleared her throat again. “General El-Sisi is here.”

Sholes stared at the computer screen directly ahead of her, a map of Cairo with various markers indicating where her teams
were located.

“He’s here. Now?”

“And he wants to speak with you.”

General Abdel Fattah El-Sisi was the Egyptian Defense Minister, the head of all of Egypt’s military. What the hell?

To the
RSO
immediately to her left, Jake Abelson, she said, “Take over.”

As she walked out of the room, she heard Jake say, “All teams, this is Eagle Two, switching over for Eagle One. Spear One, respond please.”

Ambassador Anne Patterson was a career diplomat who had been the U.S. Ambassador to Egypt since 2011 and before that had been Ambassador to Pakistan. For the most part Sholes liked her, found her intelligent and professional. In her fifties, Patterson had shoulder-length blonde hair and liked linen suits and colorful scarves. Her pantsuit today was teal. Sholes knew Patterson was a good poker player, but she’d worked with the woman for three years and could tell she was tense. Egypt had been a mess since the Arab Spring and the U.S. had a mixed relationship with the Morsi government, which in turn had a mixed relationship with General el-Sisi.

General el-Sisi rose from his chair across from Patterson, a barrel-chested fireplug of a man in full dress uniform, stars on his collars, full fruit salad on his chest. He held his military hat under his left arm. Ambassador Patterson said, “General el-Sisi, this is
RSO
Lynn Sholes. She heads up our security here. She’s overseeing the search for Secretary Mandalevo.”

With a tiny hint of a bow, the general shook her hand. It was big and strong and rough. His complexion was dark, even for an Egyptian, hair still black but receding to reveal a high forehead. He was jowly, like a bulldog. “Sorry to meet under these circumstances,” General el-Sisi said. “How is the search coming?”

“We are following some leads.”

He studied her for a moment with his dark, intense gaze, then gestured at a chair. She sat. “I’m in the middle of operations, General. Is there something I can do for you?”

“It is more what I can do for you. I would like to offer any support and resources.”

Ambassador Patterson cut in. “Thank you, General. We appreciate that very much. I have tried to get through to President Morsi, but he is unavailable.”

General el-Sisi’s face twisted into a small, sardonic smile. “Is that correct? I am … surprised he has not offered every assistance possible.”

“What are you suggesting?” Sholes said, ignoring Patterson’s subtle headshake.

“I am not suggesting anything,” el-Sisi rumbled. “But I believe that the kidnapper, Sheikh Hussein Nazif is not a stranger to President Morsi’s regime.”

“Are you saying,” Ambassador Patterson said, “that the President is behind this crisis?”

“No, no, no,” the general said, hands splayed in protest. “Of course not. I am quite sure that there is no overt support for an organization such as the Nazif Brigade by the government. I merely wish to offer any assistance and resources the Egyptian military has available. We are already searching, of course.”

“Do you have any information on where Nazif is?” Sholes asked.

“No, although I have people working on that.”

“Do you have intelligence on the Nazif Brigade?” the ambassador asked.

“We do.”

“Will you share it with us?” Sholes asked.

The general reached into his pocket and withdrew a flash drive, which he rested on Ambassador Patterson’s desk. “It has been translated into English.”

“Thank you,” Patterson said, voice level. “I will leave it up to
RSO
Sholes as to what assistance she might need.”

He stood and shook both their hands. “You have my direct number?” He directed this question to the ambassador. She nodded.

He turned to leave, then paused. “There is a person on President Morsi’s staff who might be of assistance to you. His name is Ali Urabi.”

“And his role?” Ambassador Patterson asked.

The general shrugged. “His title is Political Advisor. However, I believe he may be more of an intelligence liaison.” Something tugged at the edges of his mouth, but Sholes didn’t think it was a smile. “Good luck,” he said, and let himself out.

Sholes turned to Patterson. “That make sense to you?”

The ambassador’s expression was distant. “Be very careful what you do, Lynn. We need to get Robert back safe, but we don’t want to blow up the entire region in the process.”

Noa rushed over to Derek.
As she approached, he turned his head to look at her. “Did you get them?”

“Yes. Are you okay?”

“I could use a nap.”

“Let me check your leg.”

“Are you just trying to get me out of my pants?”

“Shut up, sit up and let me take a look at that.”

He rolled over and sat up. Pulling up his pantleg, Noa wiped at the wound. He winced.

“Stop being such a baby.”

“Well, it hurts, dammit.”

“It’s a graze.”

“Still hurts.”

She pulled a bottle of water from her backpack and poured it on the wound, clearing away
blood and grime. “Okay,” she said. “More than a graze. This will hurt a bit.”

Using the first aid kit, she poured a coagulant into the shallow wound, pressed gauze into it, and wrapped surgical tape around his calf.

In her ear, her own team: Sit-rep.

Tapping the mic, she said, “We’re okay. Taking a breather at the moment. State team is finishing off a sniper nearby.”

“Don’t linger.”

“Affirmative.”

Derek looked at her. “Big Brother?”

“Just checking in. Have you responded to your people?”

Derek tapped his ear. Reaching into his pocket, he checked the phone. The jack had slipped out. “Charge is running down, too. Just a sec.”

Noa changed the channel on her set and immediately got a panicked, “Spear One. Check in. This is Eagle Two. Do you read me?”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Spear One here. We’re fine, more or less.”

“Good. But we’ve lost contact with Spear Two.”

Derek turned toward the site of the sniper’s nest. “Haven’t heard anything in a bit. We’ll check it out.”

It took a
while to work their way from the rooftop to the sniper’s nest. Not far from the entrance to the three-story building they saw a black Humvee, presumably the State Department
RSO
team’s vehicle. Derek tapped into his phone. “Anything from Spear Two?”

“Negative, Spear One.”

He exchanged a quizzical look with Noa, placing a finger to his lips. She nodded.

Scanning the area, all sightlines, he looked for any evidence of gunmen. It was, well, as quiet as tomb. Derek limped up the stairs, Noa behind him. Like the building they had been in before, the stairs were steep and narrow, pitted and uneven from age and wear.

Halfway up the stairs Derek froze. Spinning on his bad leg, he lost his balance, teetered, then caught Noa by her arm and shouted, “Get out of here! Now! Now!”

They rushed down and out of the building. Derek burst out the door and brought his gun up, checking their sightlines again.

“What?”

“I smelled … Did you smell anything?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Something … ”

“Cut grass? Hay?”

Noa frowned. “Maybe. What’s that mean?”

“Phosgene,” he said. “I think there’s poison gas up there.”

Noa paled.

“I don’t suppose you brought a gas mask?”

“No.”

Derek shook his head. He tapped on his radio. “Eagle One, this is Spear One. Cannot enter building. Believe there is presence of phosgene gas. I repeat, I believe there is presence of phosgene gas. Have you heard anything from Spear Two?”

Sholes: Negative.

“Shit.” Derek looked around, frantic. He limped across the street to another building. Peering inside, he saw it too had been occupied. Instead of a propane stove, however, it looked like they had used a fire pit. He tore off his sling, reached into the fire pit and picked up a fistful of the charred wood and charcoal. He crumpled it into his fist, dumped it into the sling, and then knotted it on both sides so the charcoal was in a clump.

“What are you doing?”

“We don’t have time. I’m going up.”

“Are you insane?”

Sholes: Sit-rep.

“I’m going in.”

Sholes: Proceed.

“It wasn’t a request.”

He tied it around his head, so the section with the charcoal was over his nose and mouth. In a muffled voice he said, “If I’m not down in three minutes or you haven’t heard from me, hold your breath and drag my dead ass out of there.”

She caught his arm. “You can’t do this.”

“I can. Cover my six.”

He headed up. His shoulder ached, but he liked the better mobility without the sling. The charcoal stench was strong, but he hoped the makeshift filter would give him a little extra time.

Following the barrel of the MP5 up the steps, he pressed himself against the wall on the left and edged upward. “Second floor.” He sighed. “Shit. I’ve got to clear this room. Hang on. I’m going in.”

He didn’t know if the mic was picking up his voice or not.

He pushed through the entryway. Two big rooms, empty. Niches in the walls like a mausoleum, all of them empty. “Okay, nothing here. Going up.”

Noa: I’ll clear the main floor.

“Do
NOT
go into the main floor. Phosgene is heavier than air, it’ll sink to lower levels.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but any exposed skin began to tingle. Phosgene, when it came into contact with moisture, like sweat, became acidic. At high concentrations it would be caustic. “Light shafting through here. This level is probably open, like it was under construction or something. Up we go … ”

He peeked up. “Shit. Boots. It’s … the medic.”

Kneeling next to her, he pressed his fingers to her throat. He felt a faint pulse. Hauling on her boots, he dragged her to the steps, muttering, “This is going to be fun.”

Hauling her feet first until her upper body was on the floor and her legs hung down the steps, he turned his back to her, caught her arms and used leverage and gravity to get her over his back in a fireman’s carry. He teetered at the top of the steps and for a horrifying moment worried he was going to tumble down the stairs. Catching his balance, he proceeded downward.

Noa was halfway up the steps, caught the medic and helped bring her down. “What’s first aid?” she asked.

“Air. Rinse her face and eyes and any exposed skin.”

He turned and rushed up the stairs as fast as he could. At the top of the steps he paused, took a deep, horrid-smelling breath, and plunged into the third level.

It was open to the air. It must have taken a hell of a high concentration of phosgene to kill anybody. Brigham and his other team members sprawled on the floor. A man in jeans and a black T-shirt was crumpled next to a sniper rifle and an RPG.

Along the far wall were steel barrels.

Derek started toward the nearest body, but stopped, frozen. Blood rushed in his ears. The whole room was rigged. Derek saw the red lasers, similar to what one would find on a garage door. They were scattered around the room.

The beams themselves were not visible, but the sensors were. Creeping toward the American, he noted that the man was lying in the path of at least two beams. Catching his boots, he hauled back on the man, dragging him toward the stairs. He was a hell of a lot heavier than the female medic.

“Derek? Report in.”

“I’m fine. Coming down in a few seconds.”

He did the same procedure with this guy that he had done with the medic. It was much harder. Staggering down the stairs, Noa came up and helped him. Outside, they spread out the body and checked his pulse.

Derek started CPR.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Eight, nine minutes, maybe.”

“Can you take over?”

“Derek … ”

He pushed back on his heels, drenched in sweat, eyes burning. Dizziness swept over him and he swayed, dropping to his hands and knees. He panted out, “There are two more bodies up there.”

Noa yanked the makeshift filter off his face and poured a bottle of water over his head. He sucked in air. Noa disappeared.

She had run into the building.

“What are you doing?” he said into the mic.

“Rest,” she said.

What choice did he have? He crawled over to the medic. She was conscious, breathing deep. Her eyes were red.

“Gonna make it,” he said to her.

“Team?”

He shook his head, sucked in as much air as he could and staggered to his feet, heading back into the building.

Slow footsteps clumped down the steps. Taking as deep a breath as he could, he climbed upward. Noa was halfway down, dragging Brigham in a fireman’s carry, the stupid filter over her face, complexion red with exertion.

He caught Brigham and together they dragged him outside. Tumbling him to the hard ground, he pressed fingers to his neck. Noa was already pouring water over his face and hands.

“He’s alive,” she said. “He was close to the open area. Probably saved his life. I think he took out the sniper.”

Brigham groaned, rolled sideways and vomited. His bloodshot eyes opened and he looked at Derek. “Secretary?”

“Not yet.”