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Delgado blinked, once more feeling resentment at the French language. Périmètre was obviously perimeter. And ouvert—it was over? What did that mean? Perimeters can’t be over. No, that had to be wrong. Ouvert had to mean something else, like—
Wait.
The French troopers were jumping up. Was it possible? Delgado fought through the fog of sleep that had been settling over him and tried to think. Ouvert—could it be? Did it mean—
Yes, it did. The Frenchmen on duty were all on their feet, obviously excited. One of them, a man Delgado knew as Mercier, looked at Delgado, jerked his head toward the door, and said, “It is now, Frank! We go now!” and then hurried out the door. Open, Delgado thought. Ouvert means open. The perimeter is open.
And before Frank knew what he was doing, he was on his feet and out the door, too.
The inside of the hangar quickly turned from an uninhabited dead zone to a beehive of activity. The two teams, FBI and French, came in at a run, some of them still pulling on clothing or finishing sandwiches as they ran. Men scrambled in all directions to find equipment. Delgado managed to locate his assault rifle, pull on his flak jacket, and get to his place on the lead chopper. And ten minutes after the alert, the four helicopters of the joint team were in the air and headed for Île des Choux.
They flew low, just above the waves. The half-hour trip over the dark ocean seemed much longer. But finally, there it was ahead of them. Île des Choux. The choppers circled once as they descended, and Delgado could see wreckage in the surf, bobbing wildly in the rough waters; chunks of material that had come from boats, and here and there something that had to be all or part of a human being. It was obviously the detritus of a failed assault, and also obvious that Stone’s attack was already over.
That was troubling. A surprise assault should have lasted a lot longer. No matter how well armed and well prepared Boniface’s force might be, if they’d been caught unaware, the attackers should have gained a foothold, moved forward, and the fighting should still be going on. There were no signs that this was the case.
If it was over—who had won? If Boniface, would the defenders be back on guard, all their lethal systems ready for more? Delgado glanced up front to the cockpit. SAC Finn was there, conferring with Bertrand Bouchard and one of the French technicians. After a quick and heated discussion, they separated. Bouchard spoke to the pilot, and the chopper began its final approach. Finn came back, and raising his voice to be heard over the engine noise, he called, “It’s a go! Lock and load!”
Delgado breathed a sigh of relief. They must have determined that the perimeter was still ouvert. Most likely the defenders, relaxing after their victory, had simply not turned it back on yet. They were going in—he would finally come face-to-face with Riley Wolfe. And, of course, Bailey Stone and Boniface.
The helicopters came in on the island’s central plateau, picking out the best landing zone with their spotlights. The plateau was flat, and they found a good spot quickly. It was close to their target—American infrared satellite imaging and French intelligence had determined that there were several hatches there, for service access to the weapons systems on top, and possibly for emergency exit.
All four choppers came down quickly and the members of the joint team leapt out. The FBI’s CIRG strike force leader, Fleming, ran forward with his French counterpart, a dark and wiry man named Delacroix. They sprinted to the nearby access hatch and knelt, dropping two large packs to the ground beside them. Working quickly and efficiently, they pulled explosive charges from the packs, wired them to the hatch, and ran back, waving for everyone to take cover. The rest of the team crouched down in what cover they could find, and a moment later the charges blew.
From his secure spot behind a boulder, Delgado watched as a large metal hatch cover shot straight up into the air. It came down on the far side of the plateau, which Delgado thought was either outstanding skill by Fleming and Delacroix or, more likely, really good luck. The two demolition men ran forward to look, waved an all clear, and SAC Finn jumped up. “Let’s do it!” he called.
With the rest of the team, Delgado jumped up. His ears were still ringing, but that didn’t matter. He ran forward to the opening where the access hatch had been moments before and looked in. It was even darker than the night around him. Dimly he could see a ladder leading down into the interior. But vision ended only a
bout ten feet down, and the ladder vanished into complete darkness.
A French trooper jostled him from behind, whispering urgently, “Allons-y!” Delgado didn’t need a translation; he slung his assault rifle around to his back and went down into darkness.
* * *
—
Monique had given up hope days ago. Maybe weeks; she had no idea how long she had been here. There was no way to measure time in this unchanging damp, dim stone cell, and she had stopped trying. What was the point? She was here, she would die here, and how long she waited for that certainty didn’t really matter.
When she first got here she had made one brief, very stupid attempt to get away. It had lasted only a few seconds, but the beating it brought on lasted for what seemed like hours. She didn’t try again.
There was no reason for hope. No one knew she was here, and no one was coming to save her. So she sat. She waited. Out of boredom more than hunger, she ate the green slop they brought her. Other than that, nothing changed. The monotony became just another layer of pain for Monique to shut out. Gradually, she fell into a hopeless slump, in which she would simply stare at her hands. When they brought her meals, she no longer even looked up. What did it matter?
And then one day—one night? no way to tell—she heard gunfire, shouting, explosions.
It took a few minutes for the sounds to break through the choking cloud of hopelessness and indifference Monique had built. But finally, the sounds registered. There was fighting going on. Could it mean rescue?
She tried to clamp down on the hope that flickered inside her, but she couldn’t stop a small flame from glowing. Fighting meant change. Any change at all had to be better, didn’t it?
Monique raised her eyes to the small barred window in the door and waited. The shooting stopped. Soon after, she heard voices. They sounded happy, triumphant. And they were the same voices she’d been hearing all along.
Nothing had changed. She was still locked up here, waiting to die.
And then she heard more shooting, more shouts and screams and explosions. This time, she didn’t bother to look up. It was just more of the same. There was no reason to think it meant anything to her. She slumped back into the gray ache of despair. She didn’t even look up later when the cell door opened. Not even when she heard the slow footsteps of someone coming in.
Not until she heard the voice.
“Come with me if you want to live,” it said.
* * *
