Day of Wrath

One after the other, he sloshed the contents of both into the leaf bag and then tied it off.

Thirty seconds more gone.

He dragged the liquid-filled bag over on top of the plastic explosives.

It would tamp the explosion-directing most of the blast downward. The water should also help suppress any fires he started.

“Delta Two, this is One. I’m set,” Thorn radioed.

“On my way,” Helen said.

He grabbed the rucksack, slung it over his back, lit the end of the Primacord, and raced out into the hallway — slamming the conference room door shut behind him.

Peter’s signal galvanized Helen into action. She thrust her pistol back into its holster and took one of the plastic-tube pipe bombs he’d manufactured out of her rucksack. It contained almost half a pound of explosive. A length of fuse poked out of the cap on the end.

She lit the fuse.

One thousand one. One thousand two … Helen lobbed the pipe bomb down the stairwell. It bounced once on the landing, then rolled down the second flight of stairs — and out of her line of sight.

Move! Move! Move! She scrambled upright, kicked the fire door shut, and sprinted down the hall.

One thousand four. Now!

Helen rocketed around the corner at a full run and threw herself prone.

Thorn looked up and saw Helen skidding toward him.

One floor below, the pipe bomb exploded — sending the nails they’d buried inside the plastic explosive sleeting outward through a deadly arc.

WHAMMM.

The steel fire door banged open blown almost off its hinges by the blast. His ears rang … And then the breaching charge he’d rigged detonated. WHUMMPPP.

This time the whole floor bucked up and down as the shock wave rippled through it. The door to the conference room flew out into the corridor and smashed into the opposite wall.

“Here we go!” Thorn yelled, extending a hand to help Helen to her feet. “You ready?”

She nodded tightly. “Yes!”

He whirled around and rushed back into the smoke-filled conference room. The chairs and tables that had once filled the room were piled in a jumble of broken, twisted wreckage in the corner. There was nothing left of the water-filled bag he’d used to tamp down the charge.

In fact, the only thing left in that spot was a scorched patch on the floor.

Thorn took a running leap and landed squarely on that charred, smoking section.

First Floor Dieter Schmidt, a onetime meteorological-officer in the East German Air Force, threaded his way through the knot of groggy, cursing pilots fumbling for their gear and boots amid a tangle of overturned cots and spilled duffel bags. The sudden commando raid had caught them all by surprise.

He clutched a handful of charts, thanking God that Ibrahim wanted his key personnel down below-out of harm’s way. The only trouble was that the stairs down to safety were right next to the stairs leading up to the floor above. And he could see two security guards crouched there — spraying the stairwell with rounds from their submachine guns.

Schmidt swallowed hard — trying to steel himself to make the dash past that opening. This was supposed to have been easy money, he reminded himself bitterly. Run a few weather predictions, keep them updated, and then collect a hundred thousand marks to stash in that rather meager pension fund of his … A white cylinder bounced down the stairs and rolled out onto the floor.

Some animal instinct prompted the meteorology officer to dive for cover.

WHAMMM.

A bright white flash strobed through the room — lighting every darkened corner for a single, dazzling, deadly instant.

Pieces of shrapnel shrieked outward from the explosion — tearing into everything in their path.

Half deafened by the blast, Schmidt raised his head cautiously.

The two guards were gone — blown into bloody rags by the full force of the explosion. Half the pilots around him were also down — stunned and bleeding. He saw one man staring in horror at a nail protruding out of the back of his open hand.

You should have ducked, the meteorologist thought smugly. WHUMMPPP.

Schmidt buried his head in his hand and then lifted it again.

What the devil? He was soaked. Where in God’s name had all this water come from?

The meteorologist stared up at the ceiling in shock — just in time to see a large piece of it break away and come hurtling straight down on top of him.

Thorn hit the floor hard and rolled away — ignoring the pain stabbing through his ankles and legs. His pistol broke loose and skittered across the floor. The fall had been further than he’d anticipated — more like fifteen feet instead of ten. He was damned lucky he hadn’t sprained an ankle — or broken his neck.

Like the poor dumb son of a bitch he’d landed on.

The dead man’s eyes were open wide in stunned horror — staring sightlessly up through a pair of crushed, wire-frame glasses.

His head lay cocked at a sickening angle.

Helen dropped through the opening, landed on the smoking pile of debris, and rolled in the other direction.