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Derek studied the emergency door. There were small
packets of Semtex plastic explosives attached to it. Small
didn’t mean harmless. Less than a pound brought down Flight
103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. The wiring to the detonators
wasn’t straightforward. They appeared to have been booby-
trapped. The wide double doors leading to the loading dock
seemed un-mined. But Derek didn’t trust his eyes. He had no
clue what was on the other side of the doors. The doors to
the utility hallway, on the other hand, were definitely
booby-trapped. A tangle of wires, Semtex, and a radio
receiver with a red light, suggesting The Fallen Angels
could turn them on or off at will. Or blow them from a
distance.

“Okay,” he said. “Nobody tries to leave using these
two doorways. I can’t tell if this one is rigged or--”

“We can’t just stand here!” yelled one of the cooks
in a panicky voice. He was a blocky man with a shaved
skull, skin tanned and smooth. His eyes were wide, face
stretched taut in fear. “I can’t stand it. They’re going to
come after us. We can’t just stand here. We’ll be sitting
ducks. All that shooting—“

He lunged toward the doors to the loading dock.

Derek spun, hand outstretched, a cry of, “Don’t—“

The cook slammed into the doors with his considerable
bulk, meaty forearms crashing down on the door levers.

Derek, heart hammering in his chest, turned, caught
Maria in his arms and leapt toward the entryway. They were
almost there when an explosion blasted into the crowded
anteroom.

A pressure wave moving over 30,000 feet per second
slammed into Derek, driving him and Maria through the
doorway and back into the kitchen, followed by a rain of
debris—shards of steel, brick, wood, lathe … and human
flesh.

It took a few moments for Derek to come to his
senses. He was lying sprawled on top of Maria, whose eyes
were closed. She seemed to be mumbling to herself.

Wincing, Derek rolled off and gently shook
her. “Maria. Are you okay?”

She opened her eyes. “Am I dead?”

“No. Are you hurt?”

“My ears hurt.”

Derek smiled slightly. “Yeah. Me, too.” He turned to
look back toward the doorway. There was nothing there. A
pile of rubble, shredded metal and wood. There

were no screams or cries or moans. He and Maria had been
furthest from the blast, on the opposite side of
approximately twenty people who had taken the full force of
the explosion—saving their lives, but losing theirs.

Dimly he heard the thump of feet and shouts in what
he thought were Spanish coming from the opposite end of the
kitchen. He quickly scrambled to the dead terrorist and
flung open his black jacket. Around his waist was a
communication kit, the cords trailing to his ears and a
throat microphone. Deftly Derek unbuckled it, snatched up
the knife the terrorist had wielded, glanced around and
dragged a steel table over beneath the ceiling tile he had
crashed through.

Maria was now on her feet, tears streaming down her
face. He caught her by the arm and dragged her to the
table. “Up you go.”

“Who are you?”

“Derek Stillwater, Department of Homeland Security.
You first.”

Slowly she climbed up on the table. He boosted her
through the hole, then handed her the MP-5 and the
communication kit. Then he reached up, caught hold of the
frame and with a groan, hauled himself through the hole.

Below him he heard a door clang open and two of
Coffee’s Fallen Angels rushed into the kitchen. Derek
paused, brought the MP-5 up to his shoulder and waited.

As the men appeared before him, he squeezed the
trigger.

There was a loud, heart-stopping click! In the gloom
Derek raised the gun to stare at the translucent magazine.
Empty.

The two Fallen Angels below heard the click, stared
upward, and raised their weapons. One shouted in Spanish.

Maria whispered in his ear, “’Surrender now.’”

“No damned way,” he said, gripped her arm and dragged
her as fast as he could along the catwalk.

Gunfire shrieked beneath them, chewing through the
ceiling tiles.