Helen watched as he put the magnet back on one end of the ruler, and then squeezed out a dollop of Krazy Glue under the door frame. The glue would help hold the ruler in place against the pad — ensuring that the alarm wouldn’t trip when they opened the door.
A screwdriver sufficed to lever the door up and away from the melted bolt — revealing a darkened set of stairs leading down.
Peter started moving, but stopped when Helen stuck her arm out in front of him.
“Not so fast,” she said, showing him the second squeeze bottle she’d packed along in her rucksack. This one was filled with white chalk dust. “Subtlety, remember?”
He grinned sheepishly and hung his head in mock shame.
“Sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” Helen squirted a cloud of chalk dust into the doorway.
A laser beam appeared right across the middle of the opening — glowing red through the swirling white fog.
Peter whistled softly under his breath. “Jesus Christ. A pressure plate and a laser sensor! These bastards aren’t screwing around!”
Helen nodded slowly. Now that they knew it was there, it wouldn’t be difficult for them to wriggle under the laser beam — even in body armor.
But who knew how many more alarms or booby traps the bad guys had rigged throughout the building they were about to enter?
She watched as Peter slid under the beam and then followed suit.
The stairs from the roof ended in a closed steel fire door.
Peter unholstered his 9mm SIG-Sauer and stood ready while she tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed down gently, unlatching the door, and pulled out her own pistol. The shotgun slung over her shoulder was a two-handed weapon and too unwieldy for what she had in mind.
The fingers on his left hand flashed out a count. One. Two. Three. Go.
Crouching low while Peter covered her from above, Helen pulled the door open a crack. Dim light spilled into the darkened stairway. She flipped the eyepieces of her nightvision gear back up and poked her head through the opening — rapidly scanning the area beyond. She was facing north now.
The fire door opened up into a hallway that ran east before dead-ending to her left and then turned north not far to the right. There was no one in sight.
A faint, familiar smell hung in the ain-the odor of too many people crowded into too tight a space without adequate personal hygiene. She sniffed. It was an aroma she associated with college dorms.
She slipped out into the hall and took up a firing stance, covering Peter as he glided out behind her.
He nodded toward an identical fire door adjacent to the one they’d just come through and mouthed, “Stairs down.”
Helen nodded. They’d have to clear this floor first. Without knowing anything about the building layout, they couldn’t risk leaving any door unopened or any room unchecked. Doing anything else was just asking to be bushwhacked from behind.
At Peter’s signal, she moved slowly down the hall to the right, with her Beretta out and ready to fire. He followed her, periodically checking behind them.
Helen turned the corner. The hallway stretched north and then turned back east. There were doors on either side.
She drew nearer to the first door. A three-by-five card taped to the outside of the door displayed what looked like two names, “Eberhardt,” and “Prless.” These must be living quarters. She arched an eyebrow at Peter and nodded toward the door.
He nodded back.
She tested the knob. It turned easily and quietly. The door swung open under gentle pressure — just far enough to show the foot of a cot.
She pushed the door open a bit further and then moved inside — angling right to clear the entrance for Peter.
Once they were both in, he closed the door behind them.
From her position on the floor, Helen scanned the room. The light spilling under the door bottom provided ample illumination for her intensifiers.
Two holstered pistols hung from a single chair placed between two cots.
Each cot was occupied by a soundly sleeping man. Perfect.
She smiled coldly. Why fight fair when you didn’t have to fight at all?
Taking care of the two men took just a couple of minutes. The procedure was simple: Whack each sleeping man over the head to stun him. Shove a piece of old cloth into his mouth and wrap several lengths of duct tape around the man’s face to hold the ready-made gag in place. Then tightly bind the wide-eyed, thoroughly frightened, and still groggy German’s wrists and ankles with cable ties. Easy and effective — the best combination. Helen snagged their weapons and shoved them into her rucksack. Even though these clowns weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, she wasn’t going to make the mistake of leaving usable weapons behind.
Two down, an unknown number to go, Helen thought as they left the bedroom and edged back out into the hall.
She softly recounted their progress to Farrell and listened as he made his own report. “That patrol seems to be still mucking around in the woods. I’ll keep you posted if I see them heading back your way.”
They kept working their way from room to room — moving carefully and cautiously, consciously fighting the urge to hurry.
Stealth was their best ally now — not speed. The next two bed rooms were empty, though both showed signs of recent occupancy.
By now Helen had a pretty good mental picture of how this floor was laid out. Living quarters ran in a giant U along the outer walls — at least five rooms laid out to house two men each.
The inner loop of the U contained a rest room, a small kitchen, and a conference room that obviously served as both a lounge and an eating area.
They found and disposed of two more sleepers in the fourth bedroom.
Body armor and web gear hanging from hooks above the cots made it clear that these guys were guards — not technicians.
The fifth and final bedroom was unoccupied, and the only two other rooms on the floor were both dedicated to machinery and equipment storage.
Helen closed the storage room door behind her and looked at Peter. He was down on one knee with his pistol out — covering the stairwell leading down. “Ready?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, starting to rise.
And then the fire door to the stairs swung wide open.
Startled, Thorn raised his weapon.
A young, thin man wearing overalls stepped out into the hallway.
He carried a steaming mug in one hand. His other hand was still holding the fire door open.
Time stood still.
No weapon, Thorn realized suddenly. He’s not carrying a weapon. Years of training warred against the instinct to kill, and his training won.
You did not shoot unarmed civilians. Especially not when you were already acting outside the law. They’d have to take this guy alive.
His finger relaxed on the trigger.
The young technician saw them at the same moment. His eyes widened.
Time kicked back into gear.
The mug went one way in a spray of scalding brown liquid.
The technician went the other — whirling round and throwing himself down the stairs. “Alarm! Alarm!”
Shit.
Thorn raced toward the stairwell. He took the stairs down at breakneck speed, skidded onto a landing, rebounded off the wall, turned — and threw himself flat as a high-velocity round fired from below tore low over his
