The subbasement had never been designed as office space, but as a buffer between the main building and the wasteland, swamps, and dumps that the land had been before construction began. Over forty thousand concrete piles had been driven to support the subbasement. The ceiling was low, about six and a half feet, and the corridor was crisscrossed with pipes, cables, and phone lines. Widely spaced fluorescent bulbs provided only dim light.
Killean turned right and walked down the long corridor. There were seventeen and a half miles of corridor in the upper five floors of the Pentagon and he estimated another three miles or so down here. He didn’t think anybody knew the entire layout. He’d been down here with Eichen on several occasions, and he knew the way to the Nexus Command Post that had been established during the last year of Eisenhower’s administration. After several hundred feet, he stopped in front of a steel door. His key fit in the slot and the door slowly swung inward. As he stepped in, he turned to the left for the light switch.
He felt the slightest of breezes on the back of his neck and reached up with his left hand, saving his life as the garrote came over his head. It caught on his hand, jamming it against his throat, the wire slicing deep into the skin, but saving his jugular from being severed.
Killean pivoted, feeling the garrote cut deeper into his left hand, while he slammed with his right elbow into the chest of the man behind him. The pressure on the wire lessened and Killean dropped to a knee, freeing himself, pulling his left hand back, feeling skin peel away with the metal wire. He dove into the corridor, got to his feet, and prepared to sprint back the way he had come.
A bullet creased his cheek, a burning line of pain. He spun about and dashed in the opposite direction, into the labyrinth of the subbasement. As he ran, his mind kept going back to an experiment he’d conducted many years ago in college as part of a physiological psychology course. Rats in a maze. Now he knew how the rats had felt. He could feel wetness on his cheek and he knew it was blood. The pain from his hand was a steady scream. He could hear running footsteps behind him and he picked up the pace.
He came to an angle turn to the corridor and paused, peeking around to see if anyone was waiting. For a thousand feet the dimly lit corridor was empty. He turned the corner and began running again, hearing his shoes slap against the unfinished concrete floor and the sound of his heavy breathing loud in his ears.
Killean thought of the twenty-three thousand people who were working in the building above him, yet he knew that he-and those hunting him-were the only ones on this floor. He’d started carrying a pistol when he heard about Eichen, but he’d left it in his car in order to pass through the metal detectors to get into the Pentagon. Obviously his hunters had been able to circumvent the security of the building with their weapons.
The bullet hit his left thigh a split second before he heard the shot. The impact sent him spinning about before he went down.
He was surprised there was no pain when he looked down and saw the blood pulsing out of the wound. His hand actually hurt much worse. But from the squirts of blood coming out, he knew the artery had been hit.
He could hear someone coming. He held his head up. Two men, one with a rifle. He pushed with his good leg, crawling away from them, his good hand scrambling in his jacket and pulling out his SATPhone. He flipped it open. Nothing. The signal couldn’t get through the floors of concrete and metal above him. He kept pushing back until a boot came down on his chest, pinning him to the ground.
Killean knew he had lost a lot of blood. He felt very weary, the pain from his hand more distant now, his wounded leg just a dead weight below his waist. The phone dropped from his hand.
A man leaned close to him, holding something in his hand. In the dim light, Killean could make out jewels and diamonds sparkling. An elongated cross.
The man picked up his SATPhone. “Is there someone left alive to call here in the States?”
Killean spit at the cross.
The man laughed. “That’s the most effective thing Nexus has ever done against us.” He put the cross away and held the SATPhone in front of Killean. “Who is left?”
Killean heard the voice as if from far away as his head slumped back on the concrete. He knew they’d taken down Eichen. And the agent who had made the contact when they killed Callahan. If the Priory was asking, that meant they didn’t know about Mentor.
The man put his foot on the thigh wound and ground the heel, but Killean felt nothing.
“Who is left?”
If Nexus was not much of a threat, why was the Priory so concerned about wiping them out? Killean wondered. It meant the Priory was afraid. He felt a slap across his face and he blinked.
“Who is left?”
It was Killean’s turn to smile. And that was how he died.
Luis Farruco was thirty-eight years old and had survived sixteen years as a member of Cesar’s cartel. He’d risen in the ranks not because of intelligence but rather through ruthlessness and, more importantly, the fact that he had lived so long in such a dangerous occupation.
Since Cesar had begun spending more time at Saba, Farruco had taken over more of the operations in Colombia. Right now, he was pacing back and forth in the master bedroom of Cesar’s villa, the naked women on the bed of little interest to him.
The door to the room swung open and two of his men came in, holding a third between them. The man’s face was bloodied; his fingers twisted where each had been snapped one by one.
They threw the man onto the floor. The two women made no attempt to cover themselves; indeed they edged closer to the scene, predatory eyes watching, sensing Farruco’s blood lust.
Farruco squatted in front of the wounded man. “Alonzo, tell me the truth.”
Alonzo lifted his head. “I have!”
Farruco reached forward and grabbed Alonzo’s jaw. “You were the one responsible for guarding the bodies. No one can get in that freezer unless they go down the corridor that was your post. So why are you lying to me? Did you leave your post? Tell me.”
“I did nothing! I did nothing! I was there. I swear on my mother. I never left.”
“Take him to the balcony,” he ordered his guards.
He followed as they pushed Alonzo up against the steel railing overlooking the extensive front lawn. The two women were right behind Farruco.
Farruco held a hand out and one of the guards gave him a sawed-off shotgun. He pushed the large barrel under Alonzo’s jaw, jerking his head up. The man’s eyes bulged and he tried to speak, but the pressure of the steel under his chin only allowed him a garbled plea.
Farruco pulled the shotgun back slightly. “Tell me.”
Alonzo was sobbing. “I swear! I was there the entire time. No one passed.”
A line furrowed Farruco’s brow. He’d seen enough men beg for their lives, and he realized that Alonzo was telling the truth.
He pulled the trigger. Alonzo’s head exploded, spraying blood, brain, and bone out over the lawn. The headless body collapsed. Farruco indicated for the guards to toss it over the railing-he didn’t want the carpet in the bedroom to get soiled.
Even if Alonzo had been telling the truth, for the other men to see him sobbing and begging meant his effectiveness in the organization was over. Farruco handed the gun back to the guard as his cell phone buzzed. The two women were at his side, running their hands up and down his body.
“Yes?”
He stiffened as he recognized Cesar’s voice, and pushed the women away roughly. He listened and then acknowledged the order he had been given.
Flipping the phone shut, he shouted orders to his guards. Then he went to the large gun case on the wall nearest the balcony and opened it. He surveyed the various weapons inside. He could hear shouts now from the lawn as his men brought the Americans out and lined them up.