They all nodded.
“Five seconds,” Geoffrey said.
The men pressed their weapons to their shoulders.
“Three… two…”
The final digits went unspoken. Two seconds later, Geoffrey turned the lock and slid through the opening into the stairwell. They moved like a single organism around the corner and into the danger zone. First man, second man, third man.
Len was just about to make the final turn when an explosion ripped the night apart.
Jonathan hit the top step to the fourth floor just as Boxers was taking out the hallway lights. He backed down a couple of steps to protect himself from ricochets or fragments. After the shooting was done and the fourth floor was as dark as they could make it, he reentered the corridor and jogged to the spot where Yelena stood outside a cell, her hands pressed against the door, as if to touch the occupants on the other side.
He heard her say, “I’m coming, sweetheart. We’re going to get you out.”
The cell was nearly in the middle of the northern wall, slightly closer to the east than the west. Despite Boxers’ head start, the two men arrived more or less together. “Yelena,” Jonathan said, “Watch the west hallway. If you see anyone who’s not us — and I mean anyone—kill them. Don’t challenge them, don’t tell them to drop their weapon. Just shoot. I’ll cover the east end.”
It was not uncommon for Jonathan to involve PCs in the mechanics of their own rescue, and experience taught that the concept of the quick kill was an elusive one among civilians raised with bullshit TV honor codes where every enemy had to be given a chance, and it was cowardly to shoot a bad guy in the back.
“Nicholas Mishin!” Jonathan yelled. “Are you inside?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m one of the guys who’s here to take you home. Josef, are you there, too?”
“What happened to Babushka?” a young voice answered. From the way it cracked, Jonathan knew that puberty had not arrived, but was on its way.
“I’m right here!” Yelena yelled.
As Boxers unslung his ruck and put it on the floor, Jonathan said, “Listen to me. I need you to—”
The building shook with four explosions in such rapid succession that an inexperienced ear might have heard them as a single blast.
Jonathan jumped at the sound and the PCs yelled.
“Oh my God, what was that?” Yelena said. She ducked to a low stoop to protect herself.
“That’s the sound of evener odds,” Boxers said. “I bet it’s a mess down there.”
“What does he mean?” Yelena asked.
“Never mind,” Jonathan said. “Keep an eye on your door.”
If nothing else, he thought, there was a lot less chance of her having to shoot anyone.
Nicholas had never felt this level of fear. He worried that his heart might bruise itself against the bones of his chest. The explosions, the shooting, the screaming of wounded men. These were the sounds of the Apocalypse, a conclusion that seemed borne out by the dancing white and yellow light of fires burning out of control.
He worried that Josef would never be right after this. That last explosion seemed to take him to a place that was literally out of his mind. He dropped to the floor in a crouch, pressed his hands against the sides of his head, and screamed.
Nicholas dropped with him and gathered him into his arms, rocking him. “We’ll be okay,” he whispered. “We’ll be okay, we’ll be okay. Babushka is here to rescue us.” He spoke as if that actually made sense. As if the First Lady of the United States routinely engaged in warfare. A distant part of him wondered if maybe he was the one who had lost his mind, and that none of this was happening at all.
“Nicholas, listen to me,” yelled the voice from the other side of the door. “Are you there?”
Josef had stopped screaming, but he continued to cry, his hands still pressed to his face.
“I’m here!” Nicholas yelled. “We’re both here.”
“We’re going to open the door with an explosive charge,” the voice said. “I need you to get as far away as you can, against the back wall. Lie on the floor with your backs to the door. Plug your ears, close your eyes, and don’t open them until I tell you.”
“Is that safe?” Nicholas asked.
“Safer than leaving you inside.”
He heard a smile in the man’s voice with that last line, and he realized how stupid a question he’d just asked.
“We’re in a time crunch here, Nicholas, so keep your head in the game. Repeat back what I just told you.”
Nicholas repeated it, and was pleased to see that Josef was already getting himself into position.
“Just a few more seconds now,” the voice said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Len Shaw had never seen bodies so mangled. They’d been torn apart by the blast, bits of flesh and internal organs embedded into the stone of the walls, ceiling, and floor. There were no survivors. There were no corpses complete enough to identify. His stomach churned at the sight and the stench of the carnage, the combined stink of explosive, burned hair, and shit.
Len had survived only because he had yet to turn the corner when the bomb exploded. Had he been in the lead — had he been in the position he’d wanted — he would be among this carnage.
As the dust settled and the smoke thinned, he saw what he had feared. This scene was replicated at the far end of the hallway. These Americans — these animals — had set dual traps.
No, it was even worse. As he looked down through the metal floor, he saw the same devastation yet again, directly below.
They’d booby-trapped every level, a brilliant move that guaranteed that no one could interfere with what they were doing — or at least that there would be an unspeakable price to be paid by anyone who tried.
Len knew now that he was alone. His comrades were mostly dead, and of those who remained alive, none would be willing to risk such violence again. They were spent.
But Len would not give up. Nothing remained of any of the plans that he had made or the dreams that he had entertained. All he had left now was revenge against those who had wrought this violence upon him and upon the Movement.
As his ears cleared from the explosion, he heard voices shouting from above, and then there was another explosion, this one not a fraction of what caused the slaughter that surrounded him, but the instant he heard it, he knew exactly what it was. The invaders had just blown open the Mishins’ cell door.
The Americans were going to win unless he stopped them.
Resolute in the certainty that one way or the other he was going to die tonight, he started up the final flight of stairs.
Boxers’ GPC had shredded the wooden door at the lock, but had wedged the hardware into the jamb, requiring Big Guy to kick the door four times to get it open.
The Mishins were exactly where they were supposed to be, in the back of the cell, cowering against the floor. Jonathan pulled a visible-light chem light from his vest, broke it open, and shook it. It glowed a green that everyone could see. As Yelena darted into the room to be with them, Jonathan pressed his hand against the center of her vest. “No,” he said. “You hold the hallway. Shoot anything that you see.”
“But I don’t see anything. It’s dark.”
“Then shoot anything that you hear moving. We’re almost done.”
Jonathan closed the distance to the PCs in three strides and put his hand on Nicholas’s back to roll him over. “You okay?”
He looked terrified. “I’m fine.”
“How about you, Josef?”
“Joey,” the boy said. “Who are you?”
Jonathan heard strength in the kid’s voice. He liked that. “Listen up,” he said. “We’re in a hurry.”