Subject: To the man at Tower Records.
Message: I wish we could have connected but there wasn’t time. I’m afraid I may be out of time again. My friend sent me your messages. I still don’t understand. I’m sorry for being so direct. I really don’t have time to play games with mixed messages. I couldn’t reach my friend on the phone, but maybe you can contact him on this board. Please reply with any information that could help him. Thanks and good luck.
Josh hit send. Why couldn’t he reach David? He still had internet access — it must be on a completely different connection — a connection the Clocktower operatives didn’t know about. It made sense for the secure phone and video conference. The door camera was easy: they could have cut the cord and connected it to another video source or simply placed a picture of the hall in front of the camera and let it run.
Out of the corner of his eye, Josh saw the display with the red dots change quickly — the dots in the safe houses were massing at the doors. They were making a move. Then they disappeared. Dead.
Josh’s eyes returned to the door. The torch was picking up speed. He refreshed the Craigslist page, hoping the contact would respond.
CHAPTER 24
Clocktower Mobile Operations Center
Jakarta, Indonesia
David looked up to see the woman — Dr. Warner — standing over him.
“Are you hurt?” she said.
He pushed her aside and got to his feet. The monitors revealed the scene outside: the suburban with three of his field operatives lay in burnt pieces scattered about the deserted street. He didn’t see the two men who had been driving the truck — the second blast must have gotten them. Or a sniper.
David shook his head to try to clear it, then stumbled over to the weapons lockers. He pulled out two smoke canisters, ripped the pin out of each one, and walked to the double doors at the rear of the truck.
Slowly, he pushed one of the doors open, then quickly dropped one canister and rolled the other a little further out. He heard the soft hiss of smoke escape the cylinders as they spun around on the street. A small wisp of the gray-white smoke wafted into the truck as he carefully closed the door.
He had expected at least one potshot when he opened the door. They must want the girl alive.
He returned to the weapons locker and began arming himself. He slung an automatic assault rifle over his shoulder and stuffed magazines for the massive gun and his side arm into the pockets of his pants. He pulled a hard black helmet on and re-strapped his body armor.
“Hey, what are you doing? What’s happening?”
“Stay here and keep the door shut. I’ll be back when it’s safe,” David said as he started for the door.
“What?! You’re going out there?”
“Yes—”
“Are you crazy?”
“Look we’re sitting ducks in here; it’s just a matter of time before they reach us. I have to fight in the open, get to cover, and find a way out. I’ll be back.”
“Well, well— are— can I get a gun or something?”
He turned to her. She was scared, but he had to give her credit, she had guts. “No, you cannot have a gun.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the only person you’re likely to hurt with it. Now close this door behind me.” He pulled his goggles down from his helmet, covering he eyes. In one fluid motion, he opened the door and jumped out into the smoke.
Three seconds into his sprint, the bullets began raining down on him. The rifles’ report told him what he needed to know: the snipers were on the tops of the buildings to his left.
He darted into an alley across the street, unslung his rifle and began firing. He hit the closest sniper, saw him go down, and fired two blasts of automatic shots at the other two. Both withdrew behind the brick edifice at the top of the old building.
A bullet whizzed by his head. Another dug into the concrete plaster of the building beside him, spraying shards of brick and concrete into his helmet and body armor. He pivoted to the source: four men on foot, running toward him. Immari Security. Not his men.
He fired three quick blasts at them. They scattered. Two fell.
The second he let off the trigger, he heard the whoosh sound.
He dove to the other side of the alley as the rocket-propelled grenade exploded ten feet from where he had stood a second ago.
He should have killed the snipers first. Or gotten out of their range at least.
Rubble fell around him. Smoke filled the air.
David struggled to fill his lungs again.
The street was quiet. He rolled over.
Footfalls, coming toward him.
He got to his feet and ran into the alley, leaving his rifle behind.