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.
Chapter 32
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
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.
Chapter 32
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
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