He scanned in a circular motion. At the twelve o’clock position, spanning an angle from eleven o’clock to one o’clock, was a doorless opening toward stairs and a room to the left housing storage lockers. The stairs were the accessibility point for the bunker — unless one used the method of blowing a hole through the ceiling and rappelling down. The area seemed empty.
Leading with his gun in a crouched position, he turned to a closed door at the two o’clock position. Continuing his spin, next was an empty corridor, dim and backlit by reddish emergency lighting, extending for perhaps thirty feet. At five o’clock and seven o’clock positions in the circular wall, there were doors, both closed. Finally, at nine o’clock, a corridor parallel with the other, running radially outward. It, too, was empty.
Inside one of these three rooms. He moved toward the closed door at five o’clock. Crouching low and along the wall, he tested the door handle. It was unlocked, and he turned the handle enough to disengage the mechanism, pushing the door very slightly open. Nothing happened. With a blinding spin, he rotated to face the door, maintaining a crouch on one foot and bringing his right leg like a battering ram against the wood and kicking the door open. His weapon was trained on the interior.
The room was empty of personnel. To his right and left, furniture: couches, chairs, and a table. Along the circumference of the wall radially out from him, a series of four doors, all open and revealing very small bedrooms, like one might expect on a submarine. Crew’s quarters. The VP wasn’t here.
He turned next to the closed door at the two o’clock position. He again made the same approach and tried the handle. This time it was locked, and he thought he picked up faint noises of motion within the room. He place the machine gun on the floor and unslung his shotgun. He loaded a special breaching round into the chamber, then stood far enough back to minimize pellet ricochet. He aimed at the top hinge, turned his face away from the door, and pulled the trigger.
The blast opened a large hole in the door, obliterating the hinge. He received several pellet fragments across his Kevlar armor, and a few nicked his neck. He felt blood trickle and the acidic pain from the wound, but he knew it was minor. Without pausing, he kicked the lower hinge of the door forcefully. It was enough. The door crashed inward from the damaged side.
Immediately he spun to the side, out of the way of the entrance, just as someone within the room repeatedly discharged a firearm. He removed a fragmentation grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and reached around the doorframe. He flung the grenade into the room inches above the floor, like a stone over a pond. The grenade skipped several times, struck the far wall, and exploded. There was a cry from inside, and the wraith spun into the doorway with his shotgun.
He saw a man stumbling toward the center of the room, shrapnel embedded in his face and arms, his clothes already a bloody mess. Still the agent tried to raise his weapon, tried to see through the blood pouring over his eyes from his head wound. The wraith unloaded two rounds from his shotgun into the chest and face of the man, blowing him to pieces.
He quickly scanned the room. Its purpose was mechanicaclass="underline" air filtration, water heaters, and banks of batteries. It was the heart and lungs of the underground bunker, impressive in its design and robustness. No one else was there. The vice president was behind the last door.
He walked up to the twitching body in front of him and searched it. From the man’s pocket, he removed an earpiece and transmitter. Fitting them on, he activated the device and pressed the button to call out. Several seconds later, a voice came through.
“Tony? Jesus, Tony what the hell is happening? Is anybody left? It’s just me here, and the two in the back room. They’re hysterical! Tony?”
The wraith threw the device to the floor and walked out of the room.
60
The black town car pulled up to the top of the hill. Immediately, Lopez knew that something terrible had happened. Even from this distance, even in the pale predawn light, the destruction was clear. Fires burned near the gate to the mansion, wreckage strewn about. He thought he could discern the shape of bodies in the middle of the roadway.
Even more ominous, the house itself was burning. Black smoke billowed into the sky. He rubbed his fatigued eyes — it almost looked like there was a giant hole in the front of the house.
He shifted gears and drove down the hill. Awkwardly, he tried to avoid the dead forms directly behind the gate, and continued this obstacle course all the way to the house itself. Bodies littered the driveway, the lawn, and were hanging out of destroyed portions of the blasted structure. Some had been shot. Some were burned beyond recognition. Armageddon had come to the quiet back-ways of Maryland.
He pulled to a stop near the entrance to the house, or at least what he assumed was the entrance. It was like looking into the gutted remains of some Roman amphitheater, most of the walls gone, the view to the sky utterly unobstructed. To cement the surreal nature of the scene, a large military truck was parked inside the house. From what he could see, it looked like there was a giant pit in front of it. The mouth of hell.
He stopped the engine. Houston was sleeping again. He put his hand close to her mouth and felt her soft breathing. He brushed some of her short, dyed-black hair away from her face. He preferred the river of gold before they had disguised themselves, but she was still beautiful. Her white skin especially contrasted with the dark hair she had adopted. At his touch, she opened her eyes. Two bright-blue sapphires shown out at him.
“Francisco,” she said, her voice sounding dry. “Check the bandages. They feel really wet.”
He got out of the car and moved quickly to her side. Opening the door, he carefully removed her seat belt and unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her side. The bandages were stained pink. It wasn’t a tremendous loss of blood, but it was not minor. We’re running out of time.
“Take this.” She held up her father’s pistol. The weight quickly became too much for her, and her hand began to drop to her lap. He caught it in his left and took the firearm with his right. She looked weakly at him. “It’s single action. Cock it once, and then you can empty the clip. Thumb safety. Activates only after you cock it.” She paused to catch her breath, exhausted. “This is your show. It won’t be hunting squirrels in Alabama, Francisco. You might not come back.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then resumed. “If you don’t come back, then I’ll die here. That’s fine with me. I feel so tired. I don’t want anyone else coming for me but you. Okay, Francisco?”
He had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what to say. Her words should have sounded like nonsense, and yet in some primitive way, they were beautiful to him. “God willing, Sara, we’ll stop him, and we’ll get out of this. Here, let me lay this back for you.”
Lopez worked the controls on the car seat, and slowly her chair reclined almost to a horizontal position. He reached in and stroked her hair. “That better?”
She nodded. “Cold. Thirsty.”
You idiot! Of course she was! But they had nothing to drink with them. “Wait here, Sara.”