“I do,” the man said. “My name is Sebastian. Though I must admit, my name will be of no consequence to you unless you tell me why you are here.”
Chavez groaned, head lolling, hoping he looked completely subdued. “My people will call the police if I am not back within the hour.”
“Please,” Sebastian scoffed. “The police are quite — how shall I put this? — friendly to Mr. Suparman. I would not depend on them.” He prodded Chavez’s chin again with the cable, harder this time, drawing blood with the raw wires. “It will go much better for you if you tell me who you are working for.”
Chavez just sat there, panting, waiting, hoping the transmitter in his belt was still working.
“Nothing?” Sebastian sighed. “Very well. Then there is no point in being gentle any longer.” He gave the boxer a nod. The two along the wall began to giggle again.
Bracing himself for another blow, Chavez heard a faint pop outside the window, then the rattle of breaking glass in the hallway.
An instant later, a fist-size metal canister clattered into the office through the open door. Chavez opened his mouth and closed his eyes, recognizing it immediately for what it was.
Sebastian and his men… did not.
With a black balaclava over his face, Caruso used the Ruger Mark IV to take out the two cameras under the rear of the building the moment Clark gave the go order. With the Gemtech suppressor, the .22 made little more noise than a Red Ryder BB gun. Ryan saw the glass door in the back move slightly, indicating a pressure change inside caused when Clark, Adara, and Midas came through the front. He popped the lock on the back door with a Halligan tool, shattering the glass in the process, and button-hooked inside behind Caruso. No audible alarms, but that wasn’t surprising, since there were so many guards on-site.
With the H&K on a single-point sling around his neck, Ryan pulled the pin on a CTS stun grenade known as a 9-Bang, which, as its name implied, gave off nine bright, arrhythmic bangs spaced roughly eight-tenths of a second apart, temporarily blinding and disorienting those around it if they weren’t prepared. Earpieces worn by Campus operators amplified ambient noise but momentarily cut out for any sudden sound over ninety decibels.
The flash-bang began to detonate roughly a second and a half after it left Ryan’s hand and the spoon flew away. Ryan and Caruso, prepared for the concussion and flash, advanced rapidly. Ryan put two rounds center-mass in the man who was holding the length of cable, sidestepping as he fired to bring Chavez into view. Disoriented and holding his ears from the effects of the flash-bang, a thickly muscled man who’d been standing over Chavez turned to make a run for the door. Chavez threw his body sideways, tipping the chair laterally into the man’s knee. The man screamed, clawing for the pistol in his belt as he tried to push up on all fours. Ryan anchored him to the ground with a double tap to the back of his head.
Caruso took care of the two by the wall with two quick shots each. They weren’t actively shooting, but pistols were visible at their waists, and anyone standing around the same room while Ding was being beaten was bought and paid for as far as the team was concerned.
“Clear!” Caruso said, as both men slumped at virtually the same moment.
Ryan scanned his area of the room. “Clear!”
Caruso took a knee and turned to cover the door with his rifle.
Ryan let the H&K rest on his sling, parking it across his body on the left so he could reach either it or his handgun if the need arose. He’d knelt by Chavez, who lay on his side, still strapped to the chair, moving his jaw back and forth.
Chavez blinked up with the only eye not damaged too much to open. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see your ugly mug.”
Ryan flicked open his Benchmade and cut him free. “Anything broken?”
Chavez winced as he rolled to a sitting position, then climbed to his feet. He rubbed his wrists. “I’m not bending anywhere I shouldn’t be.”
Gunfire clattered in the lobby — guards shooting back. The pistols were suppressed, but there was no doubt they’d heard the 9-Bang.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Ryan asked.
“Four,” Chavez said. “Seriously, I’m good. Give me a gun. I’ll help.”
Clark’s voice crackled in Ryan’s ear. The man was astoundingly calm considering the circumstances — like a sloth, if a sloth could kick your ass and shoot a forty-five.
Adara came back next.
“Northeast office is clear,” Ryan said. “Checking the other rooms now. Missing man accounted for.”
“Shit!” Chavez said. “They have man-down radios!”
“We have a problem,” Ryan said, relaying Chavez’s message since he didn’t yet have commo with the rest of the team.
