Threat Vector

trying to work under dim emergency lights and lighting from a sliver of moon through the large windows.

Granger leapt to his feet and rushed to a small broom closet in the corner. “Gunfire,” he said gravely. He opened the broom closet and retrieved a Colt M16 select fire rifle. It was loaded and kept here in case of emergency.

Granger had not fired a rifle in many years, but he deftly pulled back the charging handle, motioned for Hendley to stay right where he was, and then swung out into the hall with the gun raised in front of him.

Crane saw the man appear at the end of the hall some fifty feet away. The American saw Crane and his two operators at the same time, and he fired a short burst from his rifle. Crane dove for cover behind a planter by the elevator but then immediately rolled back out on the floor and fired an entire magazine from his machine pistol.

Sam Granger’s knees buckled as the rounds tore into his chest. An involuntary muscle spasm in his arm and hand caused him to squeeze off another three-round burst as he fell backward into the conference room.

Crane looked back over his shoulder; Duck had been shot through the forehead by the suited man’s M16 rifle. He now lay flat on his back, a pool of blood growing in the dark hall.

Gull and Crane rushed forward, leapt over the dead American, and entered the conference room. There, an older man in a tie and shirtsleeves stood near a table. Crane recognized him from a picture he’d been sent by Center. He was Gerry Hendley, director of Hendley Associates.

“Put your hands up,” Crane said, and Gull rushed in, knocked the old man onto his desk, and secured his hands behind his back.

SIXTY-NINE

Crane had his men bring everyone into the conference room on the second floor. There were nine individuals other than the three security officers and one executive they killed during the initial attack, and they were all bound at the wrists behind their backs and seated in chairs by the wall.

Crane called his controller and had the power restored to the building, and then he addressed the group in a monotone and heavily accented voice.

“We will bring your computer network back online. We need to do this quickly. I will require your passwords to the network and a description of each of your duties and access levels. There are many of you here; I do not need you all.” With the same monotone voice he said, “If you refuse to help, you will be shot.”

Gerry Hendley spoke up: “If you let everyone else go, I will give you whatever you want.”

Crane had been facing away, but he turned back to Hendley. “No talking.” He lifted his machine pistol, pointed it at Hendley’s forehead. He held it there for a moment.

His earpiece chirped. He put his hand to his ear and turned away. “Ni shuo shen me?” What did you say?

* * *

In the lobby, Grouse knelt down behind the reception desk and repeated himself softly: “I said an old man and a girl are coming to the front of the building.”

Crane replied, “Don’t let them in.”

“He has a key. I see it in his hand.”

“Okay. Let them in then, and take them. Hold them down there until we have what we need here, in case they have passwords we require.”

“Understood.”

“Do you need me to send someone else down with you?”

Grouse winced with a fresh throb of pain in his wounded leg, but he quickly said, “Of course not. It’s an old man and a girl.”

John Clark and Melanie Kraft entered Hendley Associates’ lobby, and immediately Grouse stood up behind the reception desk and pointed his Steyr machine pistol at them. He had them put their hands on their heads and turn back to the wall; then he limped over to them and frisked them with one hand while keeping the weapon trained on their heads.

He found a SIG Sauer pistol on the old man, which was a surprise. He pulled it out of a shoulder holster and stuck it in his waistband. On the woman he found no weapons, but he relieved her of her purse. He then had them stand against the wall in the elevator lobby with their hands on their heads.

* * *

Melanie Kraft fought waves of panic as she stood there, her fingers laced together on top of her brunette hair. She looked over at Mr. Clark; he was doing the same, but his eyes were a flurry of activity.

She whispered, “What should we do?”

Clark looked over to her. Before he said anything, the Chinese man said, “No talking!”

Melanie leaned back against the wall, felt a quiver in her legs.

The armed man divided his attention between the two of them and the front of the building.

Melanie regarded the gunman now, and she saw no feeling, no emotion. He spoke into his headset once or twice, but other than that he looked and acted almost like a robot.

Except his limp. It was clear that he was having trouble with one of his legs.

Now Melanie’s terrified eyes darted back to John, hoping to see some sign that he had a plan. But she saw instead that he looked different; he had changed in the past few seconds, his face had reddened, and his eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets.

“John?”

“No talking!” the man said again, but Melanie was not paying attention to him. All her focus was on John Clark, because it was apparent that something was wrong.

His hands came off his head and his face grimaced in pain and he clutched his chest.

“Hand on head! Hand on head!”

Clark slowly lowered to his knees. His face was beet-red now; she could see purple veins in his forehead.

“Oh my God!” she said. “John, what’s wrong?”

* * *

The old man took a half-step back and put his hand out to the wall.

“Don’t move!” said Grouse, and he lifted his Steyr TMP machine pistol up to the man as he steadied himself against the wall. Grouse saw the man’s face was red, and he saw the girl looking on with concern.

The Divine Sword commando spun his weapon’s barrel to the girl. “Don’t move!” he repeated, principally because he did not know much English. But the dark-haired girl dropped to the floor next to the man, cradling him in her arms.

“John? John! What’s wrong?”

The old gweilo put his hand to his chest.

“He’s having a heart attack!” the girl said.

* * *

Grouse called on his radio in Chinese: “Crane, this is Grouse. I think the old man is having a heart attack.”

“Then let him die. I’ll send someone down to get the girl and bring her up here. Crane out.”

The white man was on his side on the tile floor, he was shaking and convulsing, his left arm was stuck out ramrod straight, and his right hand was pressed tightly against his heart.

Grouse pointed his gun at the girl.

“You move! Get up! Get back!” He knelt down slowly, the pain in his leg wound forcing him to adjust as he did so, and he grabbed her by her hair with his free hand. He started to pull her up and away from the dying old gweilo. He yanked her away, shoved her against the wall by the elevators, and then started to turn back to the man. As he did so, however, he felt an impact on his ankles, his feet flew out from under him, and he flipped backward. He crashed on his back on the tile floor right next to the white man, who no longer appeared to be dying.