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 asigh, 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.
Chapter 31
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.
“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 asigh, 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.
Chapter 31
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.
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