Conviction (2009)

  “Got it.”

  THEY were halfway down the ramp when gunfire from below peppered the walls above their heads. They veered right, away from the railing, and kept going. Behind him Fisher heard a plastic tink tink tink and turned to see a fragmentation grenade rolling down the ramp toward them.

  “Down!”

  He spun on his heel, scooped the grenade with his free hand, and shovel tossed it over the railing.

  “Grenade!” a British-accented voice called, followed by the explosion.

  From the level above came the double fwump of Noboru firing the ARWEN. Voices shouted, then the overlapping chatter of Valentina and Hansen firing their Grozas.

  Fisher called to Gillespie, “Keep moving,” then plucked a flashbang off his harness and pulled the pin. She did the same. They rounded the corner, tossed the grenades, dropped to their knees until they heard the explosion, then got up and moved into the blinding light, guns up and tracking for targets. He kept Gillespie in the corner of his eye, instinctively closing or opening the distance between them to keep an overlapping field of fire.

  “Clear,” Fisher called.

  “Clear,” she replied.

  Fisher heard Hansen’s voice in his headset. “We’re coming down. Four tangos down.”

  “Roger,” Fisher replied

  In unison, he and Gillespie turned right, checked the medical corridor for targets, then kept moving, following the curve of the railing. Fisher slowed their pace, taking slow, measured steps, controlling his breathing. He checked Gillespie; she was doing the same. They reached the head of the weapons zone corridor, paused, and saw nothing moving. Fisher turned to check their right flank and saw a figure charging at them from medical.

  “Target!” he said, and squeezed off two rounds. The figure went down. “Moving.” Groza still at his shoulder, he paced forward. Gillespie followed, turning in a half circle as she covered their flanks and rear. Fisher reached the corner at the corridor, paused, peeked around. A muzzle flashed in the darkness.

  “Fire at the bottom of the ramp,” Fisher advised Hansen.

  “Roger. Coming down now.”

  Fisher saw the three of them appear down the ramp. He gave them a nod, then stuck the Groza around the corner and fired two shots down the corridor. Hansen, Noboru, and Valentina rushed forward and pressed against the opposite wall. Noboru dropped to one knee and aimed the ARWEN back up the ramp.

  “How many?” Hansen asked Fisher.

  “One that we know of.”

  “We’ll take care of him.”

  Fisher nodded, and he and Gillespie backed away and kept circling around the ramp until they reached ballistics.

  “Target!” Gillespie called. Fisher turned with her. They fired together. The figure went down.

  “Are these Zahm’s?” she asked.

  Fisher nodded. “Unless he expanded his crew, he’s only got three left.”

  From medical rose a double pop from a Groza. Valentina called over her radio, “Target down.”

  Fisher replied, “Hansen, you and Valentina clear medical.”

  “Roger.”

  “Noboru, can you hold the ramp?”

  “Bet your ass.”

  From down the corridor to ballistics they heard a shout. Fisher stopped and crouched down. Gillespie did the same. “That’s Ames,” she said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fisher radioed to Hansen, “Moving to ballistics.”

  H E and Gillespie headed out. A hundred yards down the corridor they heard Ames’s voice again: “Shouldn’t have left it sitting here alone, Chucky.”

  “Ah, bloody hell, you little weasel! Come down here so I can put a bullet in your brain.”

  “Can’t do that, Chucky—”

  “Don’t call me Chucky!”

  Fisher and Gillespie kept going until they were within sight of the main door. Pressed against the near wall, with Gillespie behind him, Fisher slid ahead until he could see inside. Like the ballistics zones above, this one was wide open, measuring several football fields in length, and filled with engine test stands and workbenches.

  Fisher peeked through the door, then pulled back and said to Gillespie, “Zahm’s at the far end of the room with his last two men. They’re standing at the mouth of the middle blast funnel. Right inside the door there’s a double row of workbenches running down the right hand wall. Keep your eyes sharp for Ames. He’s hiding somewhere. Ready?”

  She nodded.

  Fisher eased back to the door, lifted the Groza, and braced the barrel against the jamb. He nodded. Hunched over, Gillespie stepped around him and crept to the nearest bench. She took up a covering position, and he trotted forward to join her.

  Zahm yelled, “Give it up, Ames. You ain’t going to get ’em open.”

  “Don’t want to!” Ames shouted back.

  Gillespie whispered, “What’s he doing?”

  Fisher shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  Hansen said over the headset, “Medical clear.” “Move on to weapons.”

  “Roger.”

  “Noboru?”

  “All okay. I can hear them moving around up there but no action. I think they’re trying to call the elevator. Should I—”

  “No, leave them. We’ve got Zahm and we’ve got the arsenal. Not exactly the original plan, but it’ll do. Hansen, once you’re done clearing weapons and electronics, backtrack to Noboru and hold. As soon as we wrap up Zahm, we’ll be there.”

  “Roger. And Ames?”

  “He’s dumb enough to have stayed. We’ll take him, too.”

  LEAPFROGGING, Fisher and Gillespie made their way down the row of benches until they were within a hundred yards of Zahm and his two men. Fisher gestured for Gillespie to take the man on the left. She nodded and set up for the shot. Fisher fired first. His target went down. Zahm spun that way, then heard the second man collapse and turned back.

  “Hi, Chuck,” Fisher called.

  Zahm turned around. He was holding a 9mm semiautomatic in his right hand.

  “Lose it,” Fisher ordered.

  Zahm dropped the gun. “Fisher!” he called back with a wide grin.

  “You just couldn’t sit still, could you?” Fisher replied. “Couldn’t have stayed in Portugal, enjoyed your villa and your mojitos and your boat.”

  “Boring. Too damned boring.”

  “Then you’re going to hate prison,” Fisher called.

  “You can put me in, but you can’t keep me there.”

  From somewhere in the space, Ames yelled, “You’re both wrong!”

  Fisher looked at Gillespie. “He’s not in here.”

  “What?”

  “The echo’s wrong. He’s above us—ballistics, second level. He’s yelling down the exhaust shaft.”

  And then Fisher realized what was happening. He keyed the radio, “Ben, say position.”

  “Electronics. Just finishing.”

  “Move now, back to the ramp. You, Valentina, and Noboru get topside as fast as you can.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Do it. Blast your way through whoever’s up there, but don’t slow down.”

  “Roger.”

  Gillespie asked Fisher, “What’s—”

  Ames shouted again: “Okay, Chucky, here it comes....”

  Fisher told her, “We’re leaving. Move!”

  From the far end of the space they heard a crash. They turned back to see an Anvil case bounce off the middle exhaust funnel and slam into the wall behind it.

  Zahm spun around and stared at the case. “Son of a bitch! Ames, I’m gonna—”

  A second case fell, this one the size of a closet. It struck the floor upside down and split open. Fisher saw a couple of dozen cylindrical objects skitter across the floor. Another case fell, then another, and then they were raining down the exhaust vent until the mound was taller than the funnels. Over the din, Zahm was shouting unintelligible curses. He stopped suddenly and stared at the debri
s.

  Ames called, “Missed one. Here it comes.”

  A brick-sized white object dropped down the vent and disappeared into the pile.

  “Ah, bloody hell!” Zahm called.

  Gillespie said, “What?”

  “Semtex,” Fisher replied. “Run.”

  THEY were sixty feet from the door when the charge went off. A split second later a grenade detonated, then another, then rose a thunderous whoop.

  Fisher felt a wave slam into his back. The air was sucked from his lungs. He tumbled end over end and slammed into a wall. He rolled over and looked around.

  “Kimberly!”

  He heard a groan near the door. She lay on her back, with her torso in the corridor and her legs lying across the threshold. Fisher pushed himself to his knees and stumbled toward her. He looked left. The back wall of the space was gone, along with the concrete blast funnels. Water gushed through the hole and surged across the floor toward them. Fisher reached Gillespie, grabbed her by the collar, and ran, dragging her out the door and down the corridor.

  Hansen was on the radio. “What the hell was that?”

  “Level four is blasted open,” Fisher replied. “The lake’s coming in. Where are you?”

  “Near the top of the first-level ramp. There are about a dozen bad guys here. They’re putting up a fight. The rest went up in the elevator.”

  “Hold on, we’re coming. Gillespie’s hurt. Can you spare Valentina?”

  “She’s on her way.”

  Fisher was halfway down the corridor. The ramp intersection was in sight. He glanced over his shoulder and saw debris and litter swirling through the ballistics door as if blown by a giant fan. The first of the water boiled through at knee height, but within seconds it rose over the top of the jamb and began climbing toward the ceiling.

  He heard Gillespie mutter, “God Almighty . . .”

  He looked down at her. Her eyes were open and she was blinking rapidly.

  “Can you walk?” Fisher asked.

  “The hell with that! I can run!” she shouted.

  He released her collar. She rolled over, scrambled to her feet, grabbed Fisher’s outstretched hand, and together they sprinted to the ramp, around the railing, and started up the incline. Behind them, the wave surged into the intersection, crashed over the railing, and slammed into their legs, shoving them sideways. Fisher went down. His nose shattered on the concrete. His vision swirled. He tasted blood. He spit, pushed himself to his knees. Ahead of him, Gillespie had stopped on the ramp. She saw him fall and turned back.

  “No! I’m okay. . . . I’m up!” he shouted. “Keep going!”

  Valentina came sprinting down the ramp, and Fisher shouted, “Take her!” and together she and Gillespie turned and kept going. Fisher gathered his feet under him, then slipped and skidded back down the ramp. The water crashed over his head, enveloping him. The world went muffled. Then he was sliding again. In the froth he glimpsed a straight line . . . a piece of steel. The railing! He slapped at it with his hand and missed. Tried again and, this time, managed to hold on. He reached up with his opposite hand, grabbed the next railing, and heaved. His head broke into the air. Behind him, the fourth level was gone, flooded up to the ceiling.

  “Sam!”

  Fisher looked up. Noboru was leaning over the railing with his hand extended and Hansen holding on to his legs. “Grab on!”

  Fisher put his foot on the railing. It slipped off. Pain shot up his leg. He gasped. Something wrong with my left foot, he thought. Broken. He tried again, this time using his knee, and managed to climb halfway from the water. With both arms braced on the railing, Fisher lifted his right leg from the water, pressed it against the top rail. Noboru’s hand was eighteen inches away. Fisher took a breath, coiled his leg beneath him, and pushed off. His palm touched Noboru’s; then he was falling again. He curled his fingertips into claws. Noboru did the same. Fisher jerked to a stop. Noboru’s other hand was waving before his eyes. Fisher latched onto it with his free hand. Hansen began hauling them upward.

  Together, they sprawled backward onto the ramp. They’d gained only a temporary advantage, he saw: The water was already rising around the curve.

  “You okay?” Hansen asked, helping Fisher to his feet. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Hansen and Noboru charged up the ramp and around the next turn. Fisher hobbled after them. “Sam?” Hansen called.

  “Keep going!”

  Hansen reappeared on the ramp. “Your foot.”

  “Fell asleep.”

  The water lapped over his ankles. Fisher stopped and looked down. His toes were almost pointing backward. The pain thundered in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again.

  Hansen started back down toward him.

  “Ben.”

  The tone of Fisher’s voice stopped Hansen in his tracks. “I can help you, Sam.”

  “Get everybody topside. I’m right behind you.”

  “Your foot’s broken.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Go now, or the next time I see you I’m going to shoot you.”

  Hansen held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded, turned around, and disappeared.

  THE water was shockingly cold. Fisher stood perfectly still, letting it surge over his calves, then his knees. The throbbing in his ankle tapered off. From the level above came the sound of Grozas firing. It went on for fifteen more seconds; then there was silence.

  Fisher radioed: “Ben, where are you?”

  “First level. Bad guys are either gone or dead. Elevator’s out of commission. We’re heading back the way we came in.”

  “Good.”

  “As soon as everyone’s out, I’ll—”

  “No need. I’m coming up on the first-level ramp,” Fisher lied. “I’m a minute behind you. Leave the rope for me.”

  Silence.

  Fisher hobbled forward a few feet until the water level retreated to his knees

  “Leave the rope for me,” Fisher repeated.

  “Roger.”

  He felt a wave of relief. Hansen and the others would make it. Knowing that, he steeled himself for what he had to do. He had no intention of standing on this ramp and waiting for the water to overtake him.

  He took a deep breath, then a step forward. Pain burst behind his eyes. Another breath, another step forward. Each one got easier until he was clear of the water and twenty feet from the top of the ramp. He paused and patted his sides, looking for his Groza. It was gone. At the top of the ramp he saw a discarded AK-47. He fixed his eyes on it and kept going. Ten feet . . . five feet . . .

  Pause. Breathe. Go.

  Behind him the water had gained some ground, now lapping at his heels.

  Five feet . . . He stopped, leaned down, and snagged the AK’s sling with his fingertip and lifted it up. As a cane it was too short, but it took a portion of the weight off his ankle. He walked into the next level’s intersection.

  One more to go.

  Hansen’s voice: “We’re out, Sam. Where are you?”

  “Almost there.”

  Fisher pulled off his headset and tossed it away and kept walking.

  The last ramp seemed to take hours. Hundreds of steps, but Fisher knew it couldn’t have been more than minutes. The water dogged him, surging and retreating as it filled the level behind him, then finally rolling over his legs and staying there.

  He reached the top of the ramp. Level 1. He took another minibreak, then turned right and started down across the intersection toward the utility-room corridor. He was twenty feet away when the floor trembled, then heaved upward. A crack shot threw the floor, splitting the corridor down the middle. Fisher started backpedaling. A geyser of water burst from the floor, and the concrete began falling away into the chasm.

  Fisher turned around, looked around. Directly ahead of him lay the elevator. Out of service, he thought numbly. He turned back. The utility corridor was gone; in its place a ravine fil
led with white water. It boiled up the walls and started rushing into the intersection.

  No choice, Sam.

  He started hobbling toward the elevator. He heard the wall of water approaching and could feel on his back the rush of cool air being pushed ahead of the surge, but he ignored it and kept his eyes fixed on the elevator.

  He was ten feet from the door when the wave slammed into him.

  EPILOGUE

  PORTINHO DA ARRÁBIDA , PORTUGAL

  HE felt a vague pang of guilt for not being excited at the prospect of having company, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that if he told them the truth, they would probably understand and even forgive him for it. They were friends, certainly, but not in the pure sense of the word. Of course, that predicament wasn’t uncommon in a business where friendships were usually forged in the fire of hardship and tragedy. It was a strong, almost instantaneous bond, one that most people rarely took time to examine. The proverbial elephant in every room. He was cynical, that much he could admit, but whether that was his permanent mind-set or simply a bad habit that would fade with time, he didn’t know. He would find out.

  Fisher stepped away from the sunlit floor-to-ceiling windows and walked to his nearby leather armchair. He propped the cane against the arm and took a test lap around the room. The limp was almost gone and would eventually disappear altogether. Thanks to pins and screws and plates, the bones in his ankle were almost as good as new. His only reminder of the injury would be an uncanny knack for predicting rain. Given the alternatives, he considered it a fair trade.

  The wave that had slammed into his back drove him headfirst into the side of the elevator-shaft wall, momentarily stunning him. When he opened his eyes, a second or half second later, he saw the partially open elevator doors sweeping past him. Acting on instinct, he shoved his arm into the gap, then made a fist and did a bicep curl until his shoulder was wedged between the doors. Having had no time to take a breath before the wave hit, Fisher found himself under five feet of water without an ounce of air in his lungs. He squirmed deeper into the elevator, his one good leg crabbing at the floor until he popped through the gap and he was able to stand. The water boiled at his chin. He looked up. His headlamp illuminated the ceiling escape hatch. He reached up. It was just out of reach, so he steadied himself, breathing deeply, oxygenating his blood as the water rose over his mouth, his nose, his eyes, and then he was submerged.