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.
He had to get to a defensible position. Bullets ricocheted off the alley walls, and he turned, pulled out his side arm and fired a few rounds, forcing the two men following him to stop and take refuge in doorways in the alley.
Ahead of him, the alley opened onto an old dusty street that ran along one of Jakarta’s 37 rivers. There was a river market, with produce vendors, pottery dealers, and vendors of all sorts. They were in full flight, pointing, yelling, and gathering the day’s take in cash and hurrying away from the shots.
David cleared the alley and more gunfire engulfed him. A shot caught him dead in the center of the chest, throwing him violently to the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
At his head, more gunshots dug into the ground — the men in the alley were closing fast.
He rolled toward the alley wall, away from the shots. He struggled to breathe.
It was a trap — the men in the alley were herding him.
He took out two grenades. He pulled the pins, waited a full second, then threw one behind him, in the alley, the other around the corner, toward the ambush.
Then he ran flat out for the river, firing at the ambush as he went.
Behind him he heard the muffled sound of the alley explosion, then the louder blast in the open at the ambush.
Just before he reached the banks of the river he heard another explosion, this one much closer, maybe eight feet behind him. The blast threw him off his feet, out over the river.
Inside the armored van, Kate sat again. Then stood again. It sounded like World War Three outside: explosions, automatic gunfire, debris hitting the side of the truck.
She walked to the locker with the guns and bulletproof vests. More gunfire. Maybe she should put on some kind of armor? She took out one of the black outfits. It was heavy, so much heavier than she’d thought. She looked down at the rumpled clothes she had slept in at her office. What a weird day.
There was a knock at the door, then, “Dr. Warner?”
She dropped the vest.
It wasn’t his voice, the one who had gotten her from the police. It wasn’t David.
She needed a gun.
“Dr. Warner, we’re coming in.”
The door opened.
Three men in black armor, like the men who had taken the kids. They approached her.
“We’re glad you’re safe, Dr. Warner. We’re here to rescue you.”
“Who are you? Where is he, the man who was here.” She took a step back.
The gunfire had died down. Then two, no, three explosions in the distance.
They inched toward her. She took another step back. She could reach the gun. Could she fire it?
“It’s alright Dr. Warner. Just come on out of there. We’re taking you to see Martin. He sent us.”
“What? I want to talk to him. I’m not going anywhere until I speak with him.”
“It’s ok—”
“No, I want you out of here right now,” she said.
The man in the back pushed past the other two and said, “I told you Lars, you owe me fifty bucks.” Kate knew the voice — the gruff, scratchy voice of the man who had taken her children. It was him. Kate froze, fear running through her.
When the man reached her, he grabbed Kate’s arm, hard, and spun her around, sliding his hand down to her wrist. He grabbed her other wrist and held them together with one hand as he zipped-tied them with the other.
She tried to pull away, but the thin plastic cut into her, sending sharp pains up her arms.
The man pulled her back by her long blond hair and jerked the black bag over her head, sending Kate into complete darkness.