Rogue Faction Part 2: A Cyrus Cooper Thriller: Book Three Page 9

  Chapter 13

  The Voss Compound

  9:44 pm

  Cyrus stepped off the elevator and started down the hall. Shedding his security escort felt good; he had breathing room for the first time since entering the compound. There was a quickness to his step; he was anxious to find Natasha and update her on the conversation with Voss. He knew she was worried about fallout from the transplant procedure, and she had every right to be uncomfortable with it. Many of the exposed memories were deeply personal and they involved her.

  No sooner had he tapped the doorbell on the control panel beside her bedroom door, and the doors shot open with a swish. Natasha was standing there staring him right in the eye. Her bare feet bobbed between flatfooted and tiptoed, and she practically dripped with nervous energy.

  “Well?” she demanded instantly. “How bad was it?”

  He shrugged, his stare noncommittal.

  Her eyes bulged and her lips puckered. She looked like she might explode in anticipation. A moment later, she cast him with a more calculating expression that he didn’t understand. She leaned out into the hallway and looked both ways.

  “No security detail?” she grinned mischievously. She slinked up in front of him and slid her arms around his neck. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

  “A very good sign,” he admitted, and kissed her tenderly. Her body drew more tightly against his. A moment later, he felt her pulling him into the room. A very good sign, he grinned and let her lead the way.

  “Don’t you even want to know what we talked about?” Cyrus asked, daring to tease just a little more.

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t,” she whispered and bit gently at his lip, making it clear she intended to get her way.

  Three rapid bangs sounded from somewhere nearby, just before the doors slid shut behind them.

  “What was that?” Natasha whispered. Her eyes were wide and he could feel her pulse quicken further beneath his touch. Cyrus knew she recognized the sound of gunshots from their close call the night before.

  Shit, he thought. His eyes flashed a quick circuit of the bedroom in search of anything that would be useful as a weapon. There wasn’t much. The gunshots had come from somewhere upstairs. Either from Voss’s office and lab on four, or the security center and guard’s quarters on five.

  Cyrus knew that if he were trying to sack the compound from the inside, he’d start with the security office. He wasn’t familiar with the layout of level five.

  “Where’s the bag I brought back from the bus station locker?” Cyrus asked.

  “Security took it as soon as we got back. I tried to keep it but—.”

  He squeezed her hand. “It’s ok,” he said softly.

  Rifling through Natasha’s art supplies, Cyrus found a pair of thick, wood handled paintbrushes. He took one for himself and gave the other to her.

  “I’m going to find out what’s happening,” he said as he led her back to the door. “Anna’s in her room?”

  She nodded.

  “Get her and bring her here,” he explained. “I want you both in the hidden stairwell behind your closet. If I don’t come for you in the next hour, take the tunnel and get out of here.”

  “We can’t leave without my father.”

  “Take care of your sister. I’m going for your father right now, but you can’t wait for us.” He kissed her quickly before ducking through the door.

  Cyrus stopped when he reached the balcony overlooking the common area three floors below. Another volley of gunshots sounded from above; it sounded more like small arms fire. He hit the elevator button and glanced over the railing. The first floor was deserted. Even the guard normally stationed at the front entrance was missing. The panel beside the front doors flashed a bright red security alert. Even from a distance, Cyrus could see it was displaying a security lockdown message.

  He glanced back at the elevator. The lockdown explained why the elevator wasn’t responding to his call. It also meant one of two things had happened. Either the facility had suffered an incursion, or their security had been infiltrated. Either way, some kind of enemy force was clearly inside the building. Their first order of business would be to dispatch the security staff.

  Suddenly everything Cyrus had overheard about the attack on Gretchen made sense. No one could find logic in the assault at the time. The reason for the attack was now painfully obvious. Dargo had left the facility, taking half the remaining security force to deal with the assault on Gretchen. The entire attack had been a diversion intended to lead Dargo away from the compound. It was a ploy to weaken internal security.

  Circling back to the emergency stairwell, Cyrus found the door sealed. The security system’s electromagnetic locking mechanism had secured the stairwell, just as it had the elevator. He was effectively trapped on the third floor.

  More gunshots sounded from above.

  Being trapped was a mixed blessing. He was stuck and unarmed, but there were no hostiles on his level. It also meant Natasha and Anna wouldn’t have trouble reaching the hidden stairwell through the access panel in Natasha’s closet. Unfortunately, it left him unable to respond to the attack.

  That was unacceptable.

  Returning to the balcony, Cyrus took another look at the common room three floors below. The sofas arranged around the entertainment center were almost right beneath him. Aside from that, all he really saw was a lot of unforgiving stone tile. Undeterred, he stuck the wide, wood shaft of the paintbrush in his back pocket and climbed onto the stainless steel rail atop the pane of thick glass at the end of the balcony.

  Stretching as far as possible, he still couldn’t reach the floor above. He stood there, teetering like a clumsy tightrope walker on the round steel railing for what seemed like an eternity before finally committing to a desperate vertical jump. He would either reach a handhold on the floor above or go crashing to the lobby below.

  From his perspective, the jump was executed in painfully slow motion. Even as his leap neared its apex, Cyrus wasn’t sure it had what it took. But stretching his arms with everything he had, his fingers slipped over the right-angled edge of the balcony above at the exact moment he ran out of vertical life.

  Struggling to keep his tenuous grip, Cyrus lifted his body weight using only the tips of his fingers. Slowly, he was able to extend his grip and slip the second knuckles of each finger over the ledge. Two more gunshots broke out nearby, and Cyrus held silent and steady. He could only hope that no one above had heard or seen him.

  After about twenty seconds, he knew there wasn’t any choice. He couldn’t hold on much longer. The silence in the immediate area was enough to make him risk his next move.

  Drawing himself up required great effort. Most of his strength was sapped while hanging silently by his fingers. The strength in his arms was fading fast.

  Clenching his teeth and bearing down, he pulled harder, levering himself onto a tiny four inch ledge that extended beyond the glass and chrome railing at the end of the balcony.

  Throwing a leg over the railing and huffing a sigh of relief, Cyrus dropped to the safety of the fourth floor. But that safety was short lived. He heard the sound of someone slamming themselves bodily against a door not far down the adjacent hallway. Without stopping to see who was coming, Cyrus ducked around the corner where the hallway opened onto the balcony.

  A moment later, a guard stepped from the end of the hall. He had his gun raised and ready. For a fraction of a second, Cyrus struggled to designate him as either friend or foe. While it was clear that a rival force had infiltrated the building, possibly posing as guards, the sounds of weapon fire meant there were friendlies still in play.

  When the guard turned, bringing his weapon to bear, Cyrus knew he wasn’t facing an ally. It wasn’t so much that the man was challenging him. Present circumstances dictated that loyal guards would have as much trouble deciphering Cyrus’s intentions as he did theirs. It was the look in the man’s eyes that told Cyrus he was an assailant. The guard had
chosen to target him with clear and obvious intent. There was no indecision—a luxury afforded only to the attacking force at that moment.

  The guard swung his gun laterally toward Cyrus who batted it away with a swift parry of his left hand. At the same time, Cyrus snatched the paintbrush from his back pocket using his right. Spinning the brush in a single fluid motion, he gathered both speed and inertia in his swing. He planted the blunted tip of the brush’s handle solidly in his attacker’s abdomen, just below the ribcage. To Cyrus’s shock, his improvised weapon failed to penetrate flesh. Unfortunately, the tip of the brush met a rigid, solid surface that stopped his assault cold. Cyrus felt the shaft of the brush slip through his hand.

  The gunman was wearing body armor.

  The man cast his eyes down and saw the paintbrush for the first time. A grin spread across his face as he locked eyes with Cyrus. Still fighting with the man to keep the gun at a safe angle, Cyrus spun his opponent a hundred and eighty degrees and forced him backward until he was pinned against the steel railing.

  “What are you laughing at?” Cyrus said through clenched teeth. He took a half step backward and then smashed his forehead into the man’s nose. There was a sickening crunch of cartilage, and Cyrus felt the man’s strength leave the arm fighting for control of the gun. Without wasting a second, Cyrus let go of the gun and shoved his left hand under his assailant’s chin. At the same time, his right hand found the man’s belt buckle. In one swift motion, he hoisted his attacker by the belt and sent him tipping backward over the railing.

  The man disappeared in an instant. The crunch of shattering bones that followed was unmistakable. Cyrus didn’t even take the time to look at his handiwork. He knew from the sound of the previous gunshots that more than one gunman was on the loose. His only regret was not relieving his opponent of his firearm before sending him to his death.

  Snatching the paintbrush from the floor, Cyrus darted down the hall. Body armor. He wouldn’t make the same mistake at his next encounter.

  Stopping at the door to Voss’s office, Cyrus considered his options. Voss was unquestionably the target of any operation. Whoever was behind the attack clearly wanted something from him. The surest way to ensure Voss’s compliance was to leverage his daughters. The same theory had been floated by Monica Fichtner prior to Cyrus’s infiltration of the compound. That was why Natasha and Anna were already safely out of harm’s way, hiding in a part of the building that not even Voss knew existed.

  Whoever was attacking the compound would need to approach Voss directly in order to get what they were after. With that in mind, Cyrus’s plan was simple. He needed to get to Voss before his opponents could. Failing that, he would need to recover Voss at all costs.

  Simple… Yeah, hardly.

  Cyrus stood at the door to Voss’s office armed with only the short shaft of wood that was a paintbrush handle. The sound of his heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his head was sore after using it as a blunt force weapon against the man on the balcony. A stabbing pain in his side reminded him that he was still suffering from a gunshot wound, and he was pretty sure he’d already torn some of his stitches for the umpteenth time. On top of it all, as soon as he walked through Voss’s door he was likely to be shot full of holes.

  A grim smile crossed his face. Natasha would be upset when she had to stitch him up once more. The idea brought a silent laugh, and the laugh brought a surge of pain. But when the pain sucked his breath away, Cyrus was left with an idea. As far as plans went, it wasn’t genius, but it might do the trick.

  A wounded target represented a much smaller threat. That might be something he could use to his advantage.

  Sagging and clutching his side, Cyrus took a deep breath and tapped the button on the panel beside the door. As the doors whisked open, he crumpled against the frame and feigned a struggle to stay on his feet. Though he didn’t make a show of it, as soon as the doors slid away, he’d taken the whole of the office in before stumbling and looking away. There were two men from the security team present, dressed in their traditional dark suits, just like the man he’d encountered in the hall. But Voss was nowhere to be seen.

  “Don’t move!” one of the guards ordered. He kept Cyrus covered from the middle of the room while the other man moved to intercept him.

  “Seriously, kid,” the second guard said as he advanced. “Take it easy. You don’t have to die, too. We’re just here for the family.”

  As the second guard came within arm’s reach, Cyrus finally raised his drooped head and looked the man square in the eyes. His steely glare startled the man who stopped in his tracks. “Over my dead body,” Cyrus growled. Standing suddenly upright from his stooped position, Cyrus closed the gap between them in two long steps. He batted his assailant’s gun away and slammed the tip of the paintbrush down into the soft tissue where the man’s neck met his shoulder. The handle of the brush plunged in, stopping only when Cyrus’s closed fist impacted the man’s collarbone. Blood sprayed from the gory wound as the guard’s eyes bulged helplessly, his breath already gone; his life was soon to follow.

  Staying in motion, Cyrus spun, keeping this collapsing opponent’s form between him and the remaining gunman. Two shots rang out but caught the dying guard in the back. By that point, Cyrus had already stripped his human shield of his gun. As the bloody body fell to the floor, Cyrus came out firing.

  The first two shots Cyrus fired caught the remaining gunman in the center of his chest and sent him staggering. Cyrus knew those wouldn’t be kill shots—he was now aware the men wore body armor. Still, the shots were enough to keep his attacker from drawing a bead on him, and a fraction of a second later, Cyrus snapped off a third shot to the center of the man’s face. The blood splatter on the back wall left no question as to the lethalness of the shot.

  Twenty seconds later, Cyrus had relieved each of the gunmen of a pair of spare magazines. For the first time since taking up the paintbrush, he felt properly outfitted for the task at hand. Still, he needed to find Voss. It seemed like the two gunmen had been left behind to bar access to the lab beyond. Cyrus eyed the door on the back wall leading to Voss’s private lab.

  Tapping the button on the wall, Cyrus stepped aside as the doors whisked open. It was some relief when he wasn’t immediately greeted by a hail of gunfire. Still, he wasn’t feeling overly optimistic. Leaning only as far as was required, he peeked around the doorjamb, leading with the muzzle of his gun.

  The lab was dimly lit. There were sterile lab counters covered with equipment, just as there had been when Voss performed the transplant procedure hours earlier. At first glance the lab appeared uninhabited. But that didn’t make sense. Cyrus stood silently and listened. After a moment he heard the sound of fingers flying across a computer keyboard. They were distant and almost inaudible over the low hum of idling lab equipment.

  Stepping into the room, Cyrus moved slowly and silently. He heard the doors slide shut behind him and strained for the sounds of distant keystrokes. They hadn’t so much as paused, so there was no indication that his approach had been compromised.

  Moving further into the room, Cyrus made his way along the edge of a massive walk-in freezer. When he reached the corner, he peered around the end. Twenty yards away, Voss sat on a tall stool before a computer terminal. He was entering commands into the computer at a rapid pace. A tall man in a dark suit stood beside him with the barrel of his gun pressed behind Voss’s ear.

  “You have to give me a few minutes. It takes time to decrypt the files,” Voss was explaining to the man with the gun. “If I give you the data now it’ll do you no good.”

  The man in the suit pushed harder with the gun, causing Voss to shudder in pain. “Don’t test me. I know the difference between encrypting and decrypting. You’re trying to encrypt the files before you copy them to the drive. If you mess with me, I swear you’ll regret it!”

  There was no response, only an involuntary whimper from Voss. A moment later, he began entering commands once more. “Alrigh
t—Alright! Just give me a minute. There is a lot of data. You said you want copies of everything,” he said in a sad, placating tone.

  “You’d better get it all. If you miss anything, you won’t be the one to pay the price. If you miss even a single file it’ll cost you one of your daughters.”

  Voss’s keystrokes fell silent. Cyrus saw him try to turn and face the man in the suit, but with the gun pressed so rigidly against the corner of his skull it made the motion painfully impossible. “You leave them out of this!” he demanded, even as he squirmed in pain.

  Cyrus didn’t like the look of the situation. The guard had the gun pressed far too tightly against Voss’s head. Taking the man out was a dicey proposition at best. Making matters worse, the guy wasn’t smart enough to keep his finger off the trigger while corkscrewing the end of the weapon into Voss’s flesh. It meant there was far too much of a chance that the weapon would go off even if Cyrus clipped him with a head shot from a distance. Hell, it would be a miracle if the guard didn’t kill Voss by accident before he was done. It raised an important question. These guys were clearly just hired muscle, marionettes doing a job. So who is pulling their strings? Cyrus knew it would be the same person behind the attack on the train, the assault on the bar, the attack at the bus terminal, and certainly the same person responsible for what happened to Boone’s team.