With the H&K on a single-point sling around his neck, Ryan pulled the pin on a CTS stun grenade known as a 9-Bang, which, as its name implied, gave off nine bright, arrhythmic bangs spaced roughly eight-tenths of a second apart, temporarily blinding and disorienting those around it if they weren’t prepared. Earpieces worn by Campus operators amplified ambient noise but momentarily cut out for any sudden sound over ninety decibels.
The flash-bang began to detonate roughly a second and a half after it left Ryan’s hand and the spoon flew away. Ryan and Caruso, prepared for the concussion and flash, advanced rapidly. Ryan put two rounds center-mass in the man who was holding the length of cable, sidestepping as he fired to bring Chavez into view. Disoriented and holding his ears from the effects of the flash-bang, a thickly muscled man who’d been standing over Chavez turned to make a run for the door. Chavez threw his body sideways, tipping the chair laterally into the man’s knee. The man screamed, clawing for the pistol in his belt as he tried to push up on all fours. Ryan anchored him to the ground with a double tap to the back of his head.
Caruso took care of the two by the wall with two quick shots each. They weren’t actively shooting, but pistols were visible at their waists, and anyone standing around the same room while Ding was being beaten was bought and paid for as far as the team was concerned.
“Clear!” Caruso said, as both men slumped at virtually the same moment.
Ryan scanned his area of the room. “Clear!”
Caruso took a knee and turned to cover the door with his rifle.
Ryan let the H&K rest on his sling, parking it across his body on the left so he could reach either it or his handgun if the need arose. He’d knelt by Chavez, who lay on his side, still strapped to the chair, moving his jaw back and forth.
Chavez blinked up with the only eye not damaged too much to open. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see your ugly mug.”
Ryan flicked open his Benchmade and cut him free. “Anything broken?”
Chavez winced as he rolled to a sitting position, then climbed to his feet. He rubbed his wrists. “I’m not bending anywhere I shouldn’t be.”
Gunfire clattered in the lobby — guards shooting back. The pistols were suppressed, but there was no doubt they’d heard the 9-Bang.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Ryan asked.
“Four,” Chavez said. “Seriously, I’m good. Give me a gun. I’ll help.”
Clark’s voice crackled in Ryan’s ear. The man was astoundingly calm considering the circumstances — like a sloth, if a sloth could kick your ass and shoot a forty-five.
“Three down in the lobby,” he said.
Adara came back next. “Upstairs is clear.”
“Northeast office is clear,” Ryan said. “Checking the other rooms now. Missing man accounted for.”
“Copy,” Clark said. “Let’s get that tech and get out of here.”
“Shit!” Chavez said. “They have man-down radios!”
“We have a problem,” Ryan said, relaying Chavez’s message since he didn’t yet have commo with the rest of the team.
Sometimes called a “lone worker,” the “man down” feature on radios worn by utility, security, and law enforcement personnel notified central dispatch in the event the device canted more than a given number of degrees, i.e., if the wearer fell on his or her side.
“Copy,” Clark said. “We’ll assume someone is responding. Get the tech and let’s get out of here.”
“I think we’re just… about… there,” Midas said.
Suparman’s office was a shrine to himself. A life-size painting of him, helmet in hand, wearing a red-and-white NASCAR racing suit took up much of the wall directly across the thirty-foot room from his glass desk. A silk scarf around his neck blew in the wind, making him look more like Evel Knievel than a race car driver. Another painting, about half that size but still large enough to be unsettling, depicted Suparman dressed like Theodore Roosevelt on a rearing horse — complete with slouch hat and cavalry saber. A marble bust of the man sat on a pedestal by the window, where it would get plenty of natural light. With bare shoulders, it read SUPARMAN: CINCINNATUS OF GAMES. The sleepy marble eyes, absent the thick glasses, gazed toward the desk, leaving Adara to wonder if Suparman carried on conversations with the ugly thing. She was genuinely surprised that despite his name, Suparman had no paintings of himself in a cape or a single big red S anywhere in the office other than the company logo.
Suparman didn’t get where he was by narcissism alone. Two large bookcases held well-read volumes on computer theory, linear algebra, calculus, and neural networks. An arcade-style Space Invaders game stood like a shrine near the Cincinnatus bust. Adara found three obvious cameras, one over the vault, one over the door, facing into the office, and another in the same location, facing out. She gave each lens a blast of spray paint before posting with her rifle by the office door while Midas worked on the vault.
“How’s it coming there, sport?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Thought I had it with the digital photo,” Midas said. “I’m going to try one other thing with this scanner.”
Adara glanced back to see Midas leaning forward, cheek to the locking mechanism, the screen of his smartphone pressed between his face and the scanner. There was a momentary red glow as the scanner did its work, and then a satisfying metallic click as the vault lock slid out of battery.
“We’re in,” Midas said over the radio, slipping the phone back into his pocket, ready to open the heavy steel door. “Moment of truth…”
Jack Ryan, Jr., was posted outside in front of the glass double doors. He crouched behind a low hedge, ready to give the rest of the team a heads-up if he saw anyone approaching. The feeble headlight of a lone scooter bounced down Sam Ratulangi Road from the north, then turned into the driveway. The rider, a kid in his late teens or early twenties, got off the bike long enough to slide open the metal gate. He wore a blue uniform like the guards in the lobby did, but his shirt was untucked. It was hard to tell, but it didn’t look like he was wearing his Sam Browne belt. Probably off duty. It sure didn’t look like he was responding to a break-in.
Ryan alerted the rest of the team and let the kid approach. If he was a scout sent ahead by some tactical team he should have won an Oscar. He carried two plastic bags that looked to be loaded with food. Oblivious to the world around him, he looked at his feet as he walked, shoulders bouncing as if he were dancing. Eighties metal poured from a set of white earbuds, loud enough for Ryan to recognize it as “Girls, Girls, Girls,” by Mötley Crüe. With his eyes on his shoes, the kid had yet to notice that the door was broken.
Ryan waited for him to get within ten feet, then stepped out, aimed with the MP5.
The kid’s mouth fell open, and he said something in Indonesian — likely a curse, judging from the startled look on his thin face. He raised his arms, the bags still in his hands. “Who are you?”
Ryan motioned him inside with the gun muzzle.
Clark and the others were waiting.
The kid, who said his name was Ismaya, gazed at the carnage, mouth agape.
“What… Who are you people?” More of the Oscar-worthy performance. Hands still up, Ismaya grimaced when he saw Chavez. “What happened to you?”
“How long have you been gone?” Clark asked, his voice stern, businesslike.