The Buried

CHAPTER 7

Helen Cho left her Pacific Heights home at ten minutes after one a.m., and headed for her office in the financial district so she could report to the mysterious contact that Danielle Chad had been found.

Tonight’s mission outside Seattle wasn’t even close to being the first job Helen had supervised that had gone off the rails, but there was no denying it had taken one of the strangest turns. She periodically checked her mirrors for anything unusual, but the cars behind her were an ever-changing mix and nothing stood out. Soon she was turning down the street where her office was located.

During the day, the street-level entrance was usually open, allowing people to drive down a ramp before reaching the main gate, but at this time of night, a metal curtain cut it off. She pulled up close to the control box and pushed the button to lower her window so she could flash her pass in front of the reader.

As the glass moved down, she heard the roar of an engine and started to turn toward it. Before she could see anything, she was rocked sideways, the air filling with the groan of twisting metal and the screech of rubber.

She swayed in her seat, momentarily dazed, before her training kicked in. Fumbling open the central console, she grabbed for the pistol she thought she’d never have to use, but the muzzle hadn’t even cleared the container when she heard the muffled thup and felt something hit her neck.

Her hand shot up to the wound. She expected to find blood and a bullet hole, but instead her fingers touched a small metal tube.

The world suddenly pulled away, everything growing distant and muted and unreal. The metal tube fell from her neck into her hand, its sharp tip pricking her palm. It was like she knew what it was, but didn’t at the same time.

Within seconds, dark clouds began to move in, narrowing her vision to a point of light, and then nothing.

It was the job of the security officer on duty in the monitoring room to alert his supervisor and the overnight director of anything unusual.

Which is exactly what that evening’s officer would have done if he’d been in the room to witness the takedown of Director Cho via the cameras mounted outside the garage. But the drops that had been put in his coffee fifteen minutes earlier by one of the very men he reported to had resulted in an emergency trip to the toilet, leaving the monitoring room temporarily unattended.

By the time he returned and saw Cho’s smashed sedan abandoned in the street, the director was already crossing the Golden Gate Bridge toward Mill Valley.

The squad assembled at 4:20 a.m. in the parking lot behind St. Luke’s Lutheran Church in the Clyde Hill section of Bellevue, a few blocks away from the target house.

They were eight in number — four each from offices in Los Angeles and San Francisco. The Bay Area team had arrived first, their jet touching down at 3:42. From there, they transferred to a helicopter that flew them to the eighteenth fairway of the Glendale Country Club, where a black Suburban waited for them by the clubhouse.

The L.A. crew landed ten minutes later and followed the same route.

Though the two groups did not share a home base, they had worked together many times and were familiar with each other’s strengths. Stevens, as senior officer, was squad leader.

He held up the tablet computer that displayed the diagram of the safe house each man had memorized on the trip north. He pointed at the sliding glass back door. “Red one and red two, here.” Red was their team designation, with Stevens as red seven and the man assigned to remain at the vehicles as red eight. Stevens pointed at the garage. “Red three and red four.” And then moved his finger to the front door. “Red five and red six. Questions?”

No one spoke up.

Stevens looked at his watch. “Transit time to site is three minutes. Once everyone’s in position, wait for my mark and then we go. I want this done and us out of there by 4:35 latest.” He paused, then said, “Mic check.”

Comm gear was switched on, and in team order, each man said, “Check, check.” They then piled into the Suburban and headed to the safe house.

According to the info packet Stevens had read on the flight up, the house had been seized years ago in a criminal investigation by some forgotten government agency. Control of the building had eventually shifted to the NSA, who loaned it out to other US intelligence divisions on an as-needed basis. It seemed odd to be raiding one of their own locations — it certainly was a first for him and his team — but orders were orders.

They approached via the backyard of the house directly behind the target.

Upon reaching the rear fence, Stevens raised his night scope and examined the other side. He picked up no heat signatures in the backyard, and also none near the windows, all of which had their shades drawn.

“Go,” he whispered into his mic.

One by one, the team scaled the fence and crept across the open grass, each man to his assigned location. Stevens went last, joining the two men covering the sliding door at the back.

A click over the comm signaled red three and red four were in position. A few seconds later a double click confirmed the same for red five and red six.

Stevens clicked his mic button three times, signaling everyone to move in.

Safe houses were modified to make them difficult to enter — unless you had ties to the agency overseeing it. Master keys had been waiting for them in the Suburban, keys that not only freed the locks but also contained micro-transponders that disabled the home’s security system. After the glass door slid open, everything remained nice and quiet.

Red one entered first, pausing just inside for a quick look around before motioning to Stevens and red two that it was clear. Silently, they made their way through the family room into the kitchen and the dining room. There they linked up with red five and red six, who indicated the front of the house was also clear.

On the other side of the first floor was a hallway that led to a guest room, a bathroom, and the garage. Stevens looked down it as red three and red four emerged from the guest room. They informed him no one was in that part of the house.

So far things were going even better than Stevens had hoped. No one on watch meant the targets were likely sound asleep in the second-floor bedrooms.

He silently instructed red five and red six to remain at the base of the stairs before he headed up with the others.

Another hallway ran the length of the second floor. To the left was the massive master suite, and to the right four more bedrooms, a bathroom, and a linen closet. Leaving red three and red four to hold at the top of the stairs, Stevens went left with the other two.

At the master suite, red one did the honors of opening the door and pushing it inward. When they heard no response from inside, they slipped through the gap, but within seconds all three lowered their weapons.

The bed wasn’t just empty, it had no sheets on it, only two pillows and a folded blanket stacked at the foot of the mattress, waiting for the room’s next occupant.

Stevens directed red one to check the bathroom and red two to check the walk-in closet, but both returned shaking their heads.

Apparently the targets didn’t feel the need to use the best room in the house. That made a certain amount of sense given that Stevens had been told one of the targets was a hostage. Her captors must have felt it necessary to stay in the same room as she. It’s what Stevens would have done.

They moved back into the hall and headed to the other end, taking red three and red four with them.

The first bedroom was exactly like the master — stacked blankets and pillows, no sheets.

The same was true of bedroom two.

And three.

The bathroom was also clear.

Stevens felt both confused and irritated as they approached the door to the final bedroom. As red one moved to open it, Stevens tapped him on the shoulder and signaled that he would do it. He turned the knob and pushed the door inward.

The room was empty.

Cursing, he pulled out his phone.