The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (2 page)

Ferrigno said, “Please step out of the vehicle, gentlemen.”

The Fallen Angel and his partner, who was designated El Tiburón,
clambered out. Ferrigno said, “You have your paperwork and identification with you?”

Nodding, The Fallen Angel handed it over to Ferrigno. Ferrigno rolled his shoulders as if to relieve tension as he looked over the credentials. “What’s inside the truck?”

“What it says,” The Fallen said. “Dom Pérignon, Krug, several cases of wine. They wanted extra, just in case.”

Ferrigno nodded. “We were told about the last-minute order.” He chewed on his lip, watching his team go over the truck. The agent with the mirror said, “Clear.”

Ferrigno nodded. “How’s it going, Matt?”

The agent with the German shepherd reappeared a moment later and shrugged. “Seems okay.”

Ferrigno appeared relieved. “Okay. You’re clear. Go around to the loading dock. The agent there, Vincent Silvedo, will walk you through security.”

“Thanks.”

The Fallen Angel and El Tiburón climbed back into the van and drove toward the loading dock. “It worked,” El Tiburón said. He was a dark-skinned man, Colombian, with a narrow face, thick mustache, and long-fingered hands as delicate as a girl’s.

“Yes.” The Fallen smiled. “Of course it did.” He took off the cowboy hat, tossed it behind him and ran a thick-knuckled hand through his straw-colored hair. Of course it did.

The dogs couldn’t sniff through a vacuum. The van was refrigerated. The refrigeration unit contained a compressor. Built into one end of the van was a heavy, steel compartment. In it were guns, C4 plastic explosives, detonators, ammunition, and gas masks. The compressor sucked the air out of the compartment, effectively sealing it.

After loading the gear into the compartment, they had washed down the interior of the van with bleach, then spilled several bottles of wine and champagne on the floor, mopped it out with detergent, rubbed in some oil and grease and mopped that out as well.

But the compartment was only part of their cargo. The champagne bottles themselves were even more important.

The Fallen Angel backed the van into the loading dock area. It was large enough to accommodate two full-sized semis side-by-side, with a loading platform at the back. Unlike many loading docks, it could be shuttered with rolling steel doors. He and El Tiburón climbed out and were met by Vincent Silvedo, the Secret Service agent. Silvedo also wore black camo and carried an MP5. The man looked like a walking muscle, his upper body a taut V that stretched his tight black T-shirt and vest.

“Any problems?” he asked, scratching at a bristly five o’clock shadow.

The Fallen Angel shook his head. Silvedo had been an easy recruitment— a combination of flattery and bribery. Hammering in on the man’s vanity, his ego— passed over for two promotions, obviously they don’t recognize your abilities, but we will, Vincent, oh yes, with us you’ll rise to the top. And we’ll make you rich in the process.

The Fallen Angel reached over to a control panel inside the truck and flipped a switch, cutting the power to the compressor. “We’ll just unload things and you can point the way.”

Silvedo’s teeth flashed. “Excellent.” He studied his notepad and scribbled something, then handed the paperwork to The Fallen. “Show this to Agent Bannister inside.”

The two men unloaded the truck, moving the bottles of wine and champagne onto dollies. Once everything was properly loaded, Silvedo handed each of them a packet containing the black pants, shoes, white shirt and jacket of the catering staff. Richard Coffee and El Tiburón stepped into the van and quickly changed clothing while Silvedo kept watch.

Once dressed, The Fallen Angel knelt by the lockbox, turned a handle, waited a moment as the vacuum released and air hissed in. It opened
with a sucking sound. The contents were in three crates labeled Dom Pérignon, but instead contained weapons and explosives. He removed the three crates and hauled them to a waiting dolly. He looked at Silvedo.

“Ready?”

“Absolutely.” Silvedo grinned. “This is going to be fun.”

The Fallen Angel locked eyes with Silvedo, who instantly calmed down. In a low voice, The Fallen said, “Discipline.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Fallen nodded. Had Silvedo been too easy? Had he overlooked something when he recruited him as a sleeper years ago? Too late now. But Silvedo wouldn’t survive the day. He would make sure of it personally. “Very good,” he said. “We’ll see you inside.”

The Fallen Angel tapped his throat mic. “Second and third perimeters breached. On schedule.”

He and El Tiburón pushed their lethal cargo into the loading area of the International Center.

Michael Gabriel walked out his apartment door, driving mug of black coffee in his hand, and strode toward his pickup truck. He wore the uniform of the Cheyenne Hills Resort maintenance staff— rubber-soled shoes, khaki pants, and denim shirt. An ID badge hung on a lanyard around his neck and what looked like a normal cell phone hung on his belt, although it was, in fact, an Iridium satellite phone.

He stopped by the truck, a beat-up blue Dodge Ram, marred with rust and Bondo. He stretched his six-foot frame and ran a hand through his thick wiry brown hair. Just a couple more days. One way or the other.

He took a sip of his coffee before climbing into his truck, looking toward the mountains. He liked the view: Pikes Peak, the Colorado Rockies. It was beautiful here, but it wasn’t home. He wanted to go home. Just a couple more days.

“Hey, amante. Qué pasa?”

Michael turned with a smile. “Amante? What’s that mean?”

The speaker was a woman, Maria Sanchez. She worked for the food service at the resort’s International Center. Working in the International Center and all over the resort for the last eight months Michael had gotten to know Maria pretty much whether he wanted to or not. Maria Sanchez was in her twenties, with large liquid eyes, black curly hair, and a vivacious smile. She was a flirt and Michael Gabriel knew exactly what amante meant in Spanish.

She wore her uniform for the day— a black skirt that stopped an inch or so above her knees, a while blouse, hose, and heels. “You make that uniform look illegal, querido,” he said.

Maria laughed, the sound like high-pitched bells tinkling in the thin Colorado air. “All this time you knew!” She threw him a lascivious look
followed by a mock pout. “All this time I have been waiting for this tall, dark, and handsome senor to sweep me off my feet.”

Michael Gabriel grinned. “Ah, Maria, I’ve seen you hanging around with your boyfriend, the one with all the muscles. He’d break me into pieces if he caught me smiling at you.”

“Oh you!” She linked arms with him. “Aren’t you going into work early today?”

He shrugged. “Big day.”

“Long day, you mean. All those world leaders pretending to be so proper, to have their moral authority. How many times do you think some prime minister will pinch my nalga today, eh?”

“Sell it to the National Enquirer for a hundred grand.”

“Ah, I wish. Well, I got to go, unless you want to give me a ride?” She flashed him a coquettish look, ever the vamp. Over the last six months he had given her the occasional ride into the resort or back to the apartment. They’d even had a couple of dates. Fun, nothing serious. He wasn’t sure Maria was looking for serious, and God knows he kept his emotional distance. If it bothered her, she hid it well.

Only once, eating Mexican food at a place in Colorado Springs called El Azteco, did she seem frustrated with him. “Ay, Dios mio! Michael, my tall, dark senor with all the secrets. You never talk about yourself! You are a bandito with a dark past, no?”

He had laughed and said, “I am a bandito with a dark past, si, senorita, and you should be worried about what you don’t know about me. I am a bad muchacho who would do horrible things to you in the darkness.”

She had wriggled in that terribly sexy way of hers and said, “Ooh, senor, what kind of horrible things?”

“Wicked, evil, nasty things, senorita. So you should watch yourself.”

They had moved on, and she hadn’t again suggested that she wanted to know more about his past than he was willing to give.

“Maria, Maria,” he said, arms wide, “I would love to drive you in today, especially with the hassles with parking. My chariot is your chariot. Hop aboard.”

With another laugh, Maria ran around the truck and jumped into the passenger seat. Michael Gabriel, whose real name was Derek Stillwater,
climbed into the truck, fired up the engine, and headed toward the resort. Despite the beautiful, flirtatious woman in the passenger seat chattering away, he thought, It’s almost over. One way or the other, it’s almost over.

The Fallen and El Tiburón, pushing their dollies loaded with champagne, wine, and weapons, moved coolly into the International Center, where they were met by another Secret Service agent who studied their paperwork, double-checked the Secret Service seal on the boxes, and waved them on. Turning a corner, they were met by a member of the catering staff. He was dressed the same way they were, in black slacks, a white shirt and jacket. His dark hair was worn cropped to his skull; a thick black mustache decorated his upper lip. He moved with a bold, athletic, loose-limbed grace, and his manner was nonchalant, almost jolly.

“You made it,” he said.

The Fallen nodded and pointed to the dolly containing the boxes filled with weapons. “These are the ones you need to worry about.”

“Excellent. Follow me. We’ll be setting up in Cheyenne Hall. That’s where the initial meet and greet is being held. It’s just as we were told.”

He took hold of the dolly and walked them around to a freight elevator and punched the button. His name was Alvaro Hernandez, though his current designation within The Fallen Angels was El Camaleón.

They loaded the dollies into the freight elevator and rode it to the basement. From the elevator they took a right turn into a tunnel that extended off in both directions. They passed several Secret Service agents. Twice they were stopped, their paperwork reviewed, the Secret Service seals inspected. Silvedo had done his job and there were no problems. Their security credentials and paperwork were completely filled out.

They passed through a pair of steel security doors. The Fallen studied these thoughtfully. As if reading his mind, El Camaleón said, “Definitely. I’ll take care of it. I haven’t seen a flaw yet.”

“Good.”

Beyond the steel door, the hallway angled upward at a slight grade. Tile walls, acoustical tile ceiling, hard-textured cement, polymer flooring, and harsh fluorescent lighting were the only things to see. The air smelled of industrial cleanser and was thick with humidity. At crossroads a sign indicated an emergency exit to the left. To the right was a hallway leading to the elevators. Straight ahead it said: Technical Work Areas.

They turned right and took the freight elevator to the first floor. El Camaleón led the way. They entered a service corridor on one end of the mammoth Cheyenne Hall. Off to the left a hallway led to the kitchen area where the cooks and caterers were preparing for the event. To the right were a series of storage rooms and walk-in freezers. Straight ahead was an undecorated, utilitarian corridor, blank wall on the left, service doors on the right opening into the hall itself.

They pushed their carts forward into Cheyenne Hall. It was a banquet hall filled with round tables covered with crisp white linens. At the front of the room was a raised stage with twenty black leather chairs. A microphone and glass podium jutted above a raised glass TelePrompTer screen. Just below the stage was a compact set of six television cameras that allowed for 360 degree viewing of the summit. An army of similarly dressed catering staff prepared the tables around the perimeter of the room.

El Camaleón pointed to the tables stretched against the walls. “Put the bottles of champagne on those. Stacked appropriately.” A faint smile ghosted his dark features. “Make sure you get them on all sides of the room. I’m going to put these boxes in the storage area. Jaime will keep a close eye on them.”

He pushed the cart containing the crates filled with weapons and explosives across the room. The Fallen and El Tiburón went to work opening their crates and carefully setting the bottles of wine and champagne on the long narrow tables that graced the walls of the room.

The Fallen Angel looked around, feeling the thrill of a plan coming together. He tapped his throat mic. “First perimeter breached. On schedule.”

Derek Stillwater eyed the National Guard troops manning the final checkpoint. They seemed professional enough. Four men in camo carrying M4 carbines. They spread out in standard formation, covering the truck. Yet for some reason they seemed different than the guards at the previous two checkpoints. More menacing. Maybe it was just that they were guarding the actual entrance to the resort itself.

Maria said, “I don’t like this much. Makes me feel— I don’t know, like I’m living in a war zone or something.”

Derek didn’t say anything, but rolled down his window. As far as he was concerned for the next three days— the duration of the G8 Summit— they were living in a war zone. A guardsman walked over. “Only authorized vehicles today, sir.” He had dark brown eyes, almost black, and thick eyelashes like a girl. He was a broad, swarthy guy with high cheekbones and a solicitous, but cold, manner.

Derek held out his identification for the resort and handed over Maria’s, as well. He also handed over the official paperwork they had been instructed to bring with them. The guardsman took it, studying the identification and the sticker on the truck’s windshield.

“You can go.”

Derek took the paperwork back, nodded, and drove on. He glanced at the soldiers in the rearview mirror and frowned. Everything seemed okay. Nothing unexpected. But for some reason he had a bad vibe. He couldn’t pin it down. Just paranoia, he thought. Pregame nerves.

Maria, a chatterbox all the way here, was suddenly quiet. She punched the radio back on, a staticky FM station that was playing a hip-hop tune in staccato Spanish. “Shit.” She jabbed it off. “I hate this.”