Peak Oil (25 page)

“Hello, Captain,” Sal Frydman said, bowing his head to Alexa.

Alexa looked up at the screen and smiled tiredly. “Major.”

“I’ve managed to get into the security feed, and I’m almost into the data repository. Another half an hour, tops.”

Alexa nodded. “Please keep me posted.” She turned to face Dr. Ryan. “Is David Beck still alive?”

The older man pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know. I heard that he committed suicide in jail.”
 

Alexa nodded. She glanced at Laiveaux. “We must go now, General. She has information that could blow this case wide open.”

Laiveaux pursed his lips and looked at Bruce, who simply shrugged.
 

“All right, let’s go then,” she said and hobbled out of the tent.

The Hummers sped down the blacktop, their wheels humming noisily across the tarmac. Bruce stared straight ahead, trying to figure out a way to approach the subject tactfully. Screw this, she needed to talk. He glanced sidelong at Alexa. “About Neil . . .” he blurted out and then immediately regretted his words.

She looked at him, the corner of her mouth turned up slightly in a stiff smile. “He’s dead.” She looked straight back at the road, sitting in silence.

“I’m sorry, Alexa.”

She glanced at him, the humorless smile etched on her face like a mask. Now he knew what had changed. Her eyes. They were somehow . . . lifeless. She looked back at the road with her stiff smile.

They approached the refinery. “Okay, get ready, here we go,” she said over the two-way radio and slapped a magazine into her MP7.
 

Her tone worried Bruce: cold as tempered steel, emotion all but gone.
 

She pointed at the booms in front of the guardhouse as Bruce slowed down. “Drive through them,” she said.

He shrugged and stepped on the gas. A guard ran toward the guardhouse and dove toward the door as the Humvees smashed through the boom. Alexa leaned out of the window and sprayed bullets his way, stitching large holes through the bulletproof glass. He fell backward, clutching his chest.
 

“Go straight,” she said.

“Over the golf course?” Bruce asked.

Alexa nodded. He ripped the steering wheel to the right, spun onto the fairway, and then accelerated, leaving deep ruts in the green grass as they slid and slipped their way toward the refinery. Alexa looked back and smiled with satisfaction.
 

Bruce ducked as a bullet ricocheted from the hood of the Hummer and ripped holes into the ground in front of the vehicle. He peered from below the window arch to see where the gunfire was coming from. He swerved as another burst of bullets slammed into the side of the car.
Shit, we’re an open target
, he thought. “The guards in the tower, you need to take them out now, Alexa,” he shouted, zigzagging across the fairway.
 

Alexa unclipped a box and pulled a rocket launcher from its protective foam, opened a hatch at the top of the Hummer, and took aim. She fired, and a second later the tower exploded in a massive ball of flames. She dropped the rocket launcher on the seat next to Colonel Max Porter.
 

“Reload,” she said calmly.
 

Porter slapped another missile into the launcher and handed it back to Alexa. She aimed and fired again, sending another tower crashing to the ground as the guards leaped for cover.
 

She slipped into the seat next to Bruce and pointed to a gap between the trees. “Head to the eastern side of the refinery. Go straight through the fence.”
 

Bruce pointed the Hummer toward the gap, and the car clattered through the first fence, sparks exploding off the hood as they crashed their way through. Bruce slowed down, and then he accelerated through the second fence as well. They screeched to a halt in front of the refinery complex, soldiers leaping out of the Hummers and taking defensive positions, using the vehicles as shields.
 

“Secure the perimeter,” Alexa ordered. “Nothing comes in or goes out.”

The men positioned themselves around the building. Alexa pointed to the two men closest to her. “Lipner, Simkin, with me.” She signaled to Bruce. “Be ready.”
 

Bruce nodded. ”And you be careful.” That crazy, half-smile again, her eyes deadly calm.

She waved the men forward, slammed a magazine into the MP7, and jerked her head toward the door. “Follow me.”
 

Alexa followed the route to Fitch’s office that she had memorized from the blueprints. She raised her wrist to her mouth. “She still in there?”

Her earpiece crackled. “Yes, she’s alone,” Frydman answered. Then more urgently, “Watch out, Captain, bogey heading your way, northwest at six o’ clock.”
 

Alexa spun around and motioned to the two soldiers in front of her.
Duck
. They dropped to the ground as Alexa fired. The small rifle spat two high-velocity 4.6 mm rounds that exploded into the guard’s bulletproof jacket and helmet and continued straight through him. He fell down to his knees and slumped forward, large exit wounds visible through his head and back.

“Okay, one more, fifteen yards, left entrance, seven yards farther right corner, both armed,” Frydman hissed in her ear. Alexa pointed backward and held her fist in the air. The men stood still, waiting for their orders. Alexa patted her head.
Cover this area
.

She counted out fifteen long steps and stopped in front of the door to her left. She slid the shoulder stock back in and held the rifle in front of her, gripping it like a pistol. Although the recoil from the gas-propelled cartridge would be minimal, she didn’t want to test her painful shoulder unnecessarily.
 

She fired a single shot at the lock, shattering it and probably alerting the guard. She kicked the door open, wincing as the shock from the blow jolted through her body. She still felt the effects from her injuries, although the Ketamine had mercifully dulled her protesting nervous system.
 

Alexa entered the room, swiveling the rifle from side to side. A guard to her left aimed a roundhouse kick at her head. She ducked and ripped a knife from the sheath on her back, stabbing him just below his left rib. Then she pulled it out and drove the blade in an upward arc, sinking it in deep beneath his chin. She held him up by the knife shaft, his eyes bulging as blood burbled from between his lips.
 

“That’s for the dog you made Neil kill.”

She dropped him to the ground, ripped the knife free, wiped the blade on his back, and then slid it back into the sheath and slipped around the doorway. She crouched and slunk another seven steps to the end of the passageway.

She smelled stale tobacco smoke and heard someone whispering. The man was praying softly, sounding frightened. And he had every right to be.

She walked around the corner and pointed her rifle at him. He stood kneeling, his hands in the air. His pistol was placed on the floor in front of him.

“Please, miss, I beg of you.”

She trotted up to him and smacked the butt of the MP7 down on the side of his temple. He slumped to the ground, out for the count. Alexa ran back to her men and signaled for them to follow her. She lifted her wrist to her mouth. “All clear?”

“Affirmative, Captain,” came the tinny response.

She stopped in front of Fitch’s office and wiggled the doorknob. Locked. “Kick it down,” she said, pointing at Lipner. She was in enough pain already.

Lipner nodded. He stepped back, and his boot connected with the door below the lock. It burst open and settled against the doorframe, hanging on its hinges. He entered the room, swept his rifle left and right, and then signaled that the room was clear.

Lucy Beck was gagged and bound to the chair, her eyes puffy and swollen. Alexa removed the gag and cut the ropes around her wrist. Lucy rubbed them and smiled gratefully.

“Where is Fitch?” Alexa asked.

Lucy bit her lip. “He left a couple of minutes ago in a hurry.”

Alexa pursed her lips. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

She grabbed Lucy’s hand and backtracked their way to the exit of the building. Simkin opened the door an inch and cursed. “Shit, it’s worse than Baghdad out there,” he shouted and ducked back as a bullet exploded through the glass door.

Alexa marched forward, pushed him aside, and then peered outside. Her men were crouching for cover behind the vehicles, firing at guards on the roof of the refinery. Bullets slammed into the wall next to her.
 

What the hell?

“Use the damn launcher,” she shouted at Forrester.
 

“Wouldn’t that be excessive force?” he shouted back at her, squinting his eyes, ducking for cover.

Alexa shook her head. “They set the precedent,” she whispered. She signaled to Simkin and Lipner to cover her and then bolted to the back door of the Hummer as the covering fire barked behind her.

She grabbed the rocket launcher from the backseat of the Hummer, stood on the tire, and pulled herself up by the roof rail. She took aim and fired in the general direction of the refinery’s roof. A guard yelled and jumped from the building as the gas-propelled missile sped toward him, trailing smoke and vapor. A second man jumped up and started running, much too late, the roof exploding around him and engulfing him in flames and debris.
 

“Problem solved,” Alexa said and climbed into the Hummer. “Let’s go,” she shouted at Bruce.

He nodded and reversed the Humvee through the fence, swung the wheel, and spun a large circle on a putting green. They barreled down the fairway and headed to the nonexistent exit booms.

Alexa looked back. The refinery was on fire. Dr. Lucy Beck sat in the backseat, her palm to her chest, her face panicked as he breathed deeply.
 

Alexa ground her teeth and blinked. Neil was still dead. And someone had to pay.

Andy Fitch lit a cigar, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke through his nose. According to the latest report, Lucy Beck had been rescued and the refinery had been damaged in a fire. He made up his mind. He would need some outside help even though he hated involving outsiders. He pursed his lips and punched a number into his phone. A man with a strong Russian accent answered.
 

“Toporov. Andy Fitch here. I’m in need of some of your specialized services.”

“Fitch, my friend. Covert or operational?” the man asked.

“Operational. I have Interpol and Mossad breathing down my neck.”

“How many?” Toporov asked in a raspy voice.

“They have fifteen men.”

Toporov whistled. “You have stuck your hand in a hornet’s nest, my friend. What is this all about?”

Fitch shrugged. “Money.”

“Yes, always about the money. I won’t be able to hold them off forever.”

“I only need time to discard some incriminating evidence and clean my tracks,” Fitch said and took another puff. “About a week.”

Toporov went silent. “Okay, twenty-five bar. Cash. I’ll send twenty of my best men, and I’ll supply the weapons and ammunition.”

“Deal.” Fitch disconnected the call. He had made use of Toporov’s services before. After Perestroika, Nicolay Toporov started working for the highest bidder. His Spetsnaz troops became mercenaries, taking on suicide missions and always coming out on top.
 

Fitch felt more comfortable now. This would buy him the time needed to dot the i’s. He wasn’t planning on sticking around for much longer.
 

Bella sauntered into the study. “Oh, baby, have you been playing in the mud again?” he asked as the large cat jumped onto his lap. “What happened to you?” he asked, examining her ear. She purred blissfully.

Bella’s mother had been his ticket to his enormous fortune.
 

Like the refinery, she had served her purpose. A man needed to let go, even if he loved something dearly.

He would still be a multibillionaire. His riches were stashed away in a Chilean bank account. He would wipe the tracks and go live abroad, sipping piña coladas and living the good life. Maybe somewhere in Mexico or South America.

His phone rang. He looked at the screen and sighed. “Fitch,” he answered.

“Andy, this is Senator Williamson,” a deep female voice said. “Do we have any problems that you cannot deal with down there?”
 

“Nope, everything is under control. I’m cleaning things up as we speak.”

“Good, as long as no evidence leads back to me. I don’t want to get bit in the ass by this.”

“You won’t. By the way, your check is in the mail.”

“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize our business relationship.”

“Good-bye, Senator,” Fitch said and disconnected the call.

Bitch
.

Dr. Joseph Ryan crunched into a piece of toast. Two soldiers were cleaning up the remnants of a late lunch, and he sat contemplating what to do while sipping on his mug of coffee. He couldn’t go back to Fitch, or Refatex for that matter; those bridges were razed to the ground with no hope of ever being rebuilt. He had given up on his fortunes. Come to think of it, he didn’t even have a 401k to fall back on. He was penniless and without a home.