by T L Yeager
Fifteen minutes later, Fazul announced the start of phase three. Six-man teams would ascend each of the four buildings. They would slip sheets of paper under each door and block the stairwells on either end with the blockade bars as they went. By the time phase three was over, the Surfside Resort would be a prison filled with cowering hostages.
18
Surfside Resort, Aruba: Room #1661
Ross’s eyes fluttered as he worked to reconcile the sound that had drawn him from Dreamland. Reaching for the phone, the tap and echo he’d heard repeated in his mind.
It was 5:37 A.M. The message he had sent to Maddie earlier in the night had failed to go through.
A sharp crack rang out, its echo rounding up and out of the U-shaped complex like high-pitched thunder.
Ross looked at the curtains covering the door.
Another crack. Another echo.
He cocked his head and squinted. He could almost feel the shrill crack as much as he could hear it.
Ross stood and threw open the curtains covering the slider to the balcony. He fumbled with the lock and shoved it open.
Crack! The wave of the echo dropped Ross to the ground. He hobbled forward on a knee curling his hands around the metal spindles of the balcony and pulling his face up to look down on the source.
Crack! This time a zipping sound sang into the distance as the echo carried itself up and away from the resort.
“Jesus Christ,” Ross said. It was the first time he considered it might be a gunshot.
He pulled himself tighter to the bar, centering his focus down and to the left where there was an opening in the U-shape of the buildings.
A dark figure jogged along the path at the top of the pool by the artificial rocks and waterslide. The figure then walked up to something on the ground.
Is that a body? Ross thought.
The figure in the distance pulled up short of the smudge of darkness on the sidewalk.
Crack! A flash strobed the space from darkness.
With the echo still fading, Ross reopened his eyes and tracked two more figures running toward the first. They formed up close around the body on the ground, standing for a few seconds and then turned and sprinted back in the direction they had come.
Ross held a death grip on the railing. He stared at the still shadow on the sidewalk, then scanned the area to the right.
An object floated into view in the lazy river. Having come around the corner from the opposite side, it glided in the steady man-made current and bumped up against the edge of the pool.
It’s a float. It has to be a float, he thought. But it wasn’t, and there was no denying it.
Red fear gripped him. He didn’t know what was happening but he wanted to run. Run away with Izzy.
“Papa, what was that noise? Why is the door open?” Izzy was sitting up in the bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin.
“It’ll be okay, baby. I need you to get up for me. We’re gonna put on our clothes. We need to leave.”
Isabelle tracked her father to the dresser. “Daddy?’
“Izzy, I don’t have time to explain. I’m not sure what’s going on, honey. We just need to go and I need you to help me, baby.” Ross pulled clothes from the drawers and pitched them behind him onto the bed. “Scooch down to the end of the bed.”
Izzy dropped the blankets and complied with her father’s request. She clawed her way to the foot of the bed and Ross shimmied the pajamas off her.
A quiet sob formed and then Izzy said, “Where are we going, Papa?” The snivel built into a cry as she drew in shuddered breaths.
Ross grabbed his daughter by the shoulders. He shook her in a way he had never done before.
“I need you to be brave for me, Izzy. We don’t have time for crying.” He slid his hands down to his daughter’s wrists and pulled her from the bed. “We need to go!”
19
Surfside Resort, Aruba: Security Room
“Someone tell me what’s happening!” Fazul yelled into his microphone, his irritation unmasked. “The entire resort is awake. Prepare for resistance. Protocol three in effect. Order everyone back into their rooms and shoot any who do not comply.”
“This is Building Two perimeter ground. A hostage ran from the main lobby. He headed for the road. I ordered him to stop. I fired twice. Jamal cut him off and turned him back toward the center of the resort. I finished him there.”
Fazul had watched the execution on the security screen. He was standing above Fahd monitoring his men as they worked their way up through the floors of the resort buildings. Sixteen of the men were armed with silenced weapons. They were only needed for the night invasion when maintaining quiet was critical. The small submachine guns were not as powerful or psychologically terrifying as the high-powered AKM assault rifle that had just woken the resort.
The problem was that Fazul had hoped to avoid firing any unsuppressed weapons until they reached phase four. By then all the pamphlets would have been delivered and the noise would have been reinforcement instead of a compromise.
How had the fool guard let one get out? Fazul pushed his way out of the security suite and into the main lobby.
Assad, the youngest team member, was standing by the door to the main office. The boy had clearly known Fazul would come for him.
“What’s your excuse?” Fazul pulled his pistol from the holster beneath his arm and held it by his side.
“The bathroom. I’m… I’m so sorry, Fazul.”
“The bathroom!” yelled Fazul. He raised his hand and stepped up, bringing it down against the side of Assad’s face. The weight of the pistol sent the boy to the floor.
“Piss on the floor. Do not leave your post!”
20
Surfside Resort, Aruba: Building One, Sixth Floor
Hassan and his team stopped in their tracks when the faint thumps of gunfire echoed their way into the stairwell. They moved up to the sixth floor as the communication with Fazul uncovered the source. Hassan was still calculating the implications as they opened the door.
An Indian man stood outside his room, just four doors up the hallway. Wearing a dark red robe, he looked on in amazement. His eyes widened as they darted between their masks and the weapons they were holding.
Halfway up the hall, a man and small child bolted from their room. The man locked eyes with Hassan and then turned and ran, dragging the child behind him.
Hassan activated his mic and spoke calmly. “We’ve only made it to the sixth floor in building one. We’ve got people in the halls. They’re running away from us. Press them back to their rooms from the other side.”
“We copy. We’re entering the atrium now,” came a voice in reply.
Stairwells bookending the buildings were each assigned two men. One provided cover, looking up the stairs for anyone descending. The other secured the door blockade bars. They held the bar in place with one hand and used the other to mark the six holes in the blocks with a Sharpie. Then he set it down and bored the holes using a powerful cordless driver equipped with a diamond tipped masonry bit. They had practiced it hundreds of times on the walls of the seafood sorting facility. Each hole took just seconds to open. The bar would be held back in place and the top two bolts screwed a few turns by hand. Then a second cordless driver slung over the shoulder would drive the bolts home.
The doors were designed to open into the stairwell so that panicked guests could just push them open in an emergency. With the blockade bars in place, there was no escaping. The heavy threads of the titanium bolts held fast to the concrete and prevented the doors from opening.
Hassan and two other soldiers stood inside the hall as the bar was secured behind the door at their backs. The men on his left and right wore bags filled with pamphlets. Hassan provided cover as they worked their way up the halls. They stood ready, waiting for a knock from behind before starting down the hall.
At the far end of Building One, the other two-man stairwell team was already in position on the sixt
h floor. The cover man protected the stairs while the other stepped inside burnishing his weapon. His job was to ward off hostages as Hassan’s team worked their way down the hall toward him. Once they arrived, the soldier would step back inside and ready the holes while Hassan and his men covered from the inside. Once the holes were prepared, they’d move into the stairwell and wait until the bar was secure before moving up to the next floor.
Hassan and his men would work each hall moving between the opposite stairwells and the pairs of men assigned to protect them. This systematic process was designed to lock down the floors, one at a time, from the bottom up. Any hostages who left their rooms were herded back inside as the men made their way to the top floor.
The teams working Buildings Two, Three and Four were nearing the top floors when the shots rang out. They had made short work of it and descended the stairwells after all the pamphlets were delivered and the final blockade bars were secured in place.
Hassan’s team had been delayed because his men were tasked with sandbag fortification. The task had run overtime and was not complete when Fazul initiated phase three. Their late start would plague them now.
“Go!” The voice from behind the door was followed by a knock. It was indication that the blockade bar was in place and they could begin moving up the hall.
The Indian man retreated, the lock mechanism of the door echoing in the hall as he secured the deadbolt.
“Let’s move,” said Hassan.
21
Surfside Resort, Aruba: Building One, Sixth Floor
Ross pulled Isabelle back to her feet at least twice as he yanked her down the hallway. He was operating on pure instinct now, instinct that instructed him to run the other direction when he saw the masks and guns at the end of the hall. They looked like Halloween skeleton costumes. One was all black, but the other two had flags painted on the front. One had the Union Jack painted across its face. The other looked like the stripes of the Dutch flag. He didn’t want Izzy to see them. Ross would beat them to the stairwell next to the elevators. His habit of checking exits in hotels and on airplanes might actually pay off.
As they approached the elevator atrium, a lone masked man stepped out into the hall and pointed his black rifle at Ross. His mask bore the stars and stripes of the United States.
“Back to your room!” he commanded.
Ross stopped, Izzy slamming into his back. Before Ross could turn, Izzy caught a glimpse of the man and released a penetrating scream. Ross hefted her up into a bear hug and turned for their room.
“Daddy, what is that?” The screams pierced Ross’s eardrums.
Several doors opened. People poked their heads into the hall.
“Back in your rooms! All of you!” The orders came from both sides.
The three masked men at the other end of the hall were making their way toward Ross and Izzy now. The one in the middle seemed to be protecting the other two as they pulled papers from messenger bags and slid them under the doors.
Their room was too far. They would have beaten Ross to it even if he ran. He just wanted to get back inside—back behind the protection that he’d given up so easily.
He moved to a door that had closed a moment before, the occupant retreating at the sight of the masked men. Ross tried the handle but it was locked. He banged on it with his fists.
“Open. Please open the door and let us in!” he yelled.
“Back in your room. Now!” The man near the elevators was closer than the others. He took several steps then lifted the rifle to his shoulder as Ross watched.
Ross leaned on the door. “Please. My daughter!”
“Go to YOUR room,” ordered the man. Izzy screamed again then panted sounds of fear into her father’s shoulder. Out of options, Ross turned and made his way back toward their room.
The three men at that end were past his room now, though. He slowed and pointed the hand that had been across Izzy’s back.
“My room is there. I’ll go back if you’ll let us pass.”
“Put the girl down.” The man in the middle with the British mask motioned toward the floor.
Ross hesitated, and then released the grip on his daughter. Izzy clung more tightly as she began sliding down her father’s body.
“No, Daddy! No! Don’t put me down.” She clung to her father like a feeding tick.
Ross lowered her to the floor. He bent forward and kissed her head.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s going to be okay. I’m still right here.”
He straightened and focused on the only part of the man that felt human, his auburn eyes. He felt the rippling tremors of fear run down to the floor of his body as the masked man stepped up and reached out.
Ross took a step back. “Don’t touch her!”
The men distributing the papers had stopped and raised their rifles. The one in the middle looked down and closed in quickly, grabbing Izzy by the shirt collar.
“Get your hands off my daughter.” Ross instinctively reacted to the fear of death that coursed inside him. He stepped forward with all his 200+ pounds and pushed the man backwards.
From the either side, unseen hands flew to his chest, the lackeys on either side stepping up to defend their lieutenant.
“Calm down! Now,” said the man in the middle as Ross’s back hit the wall.
The underlings had pulled up close in front, and for an instant, Ross thought about going for one of their guns. But he was separated from Izzy, and that pushed the adrenaline in his body to hysterical levels. He turned and swam passed the two men, nearly falling to the floor in an attempt to thread the only open path to his daughter.
A pop of pain shocked his left temple. The carpeted floor rushed up and then disappeared, replaced by white tracers streaming across blackness. He felt the friction of carpet heating his cheek and caught the front end of another of Izzy’s piercing screams.
22
12,500 Feet above the Southern Caribbean
Madeline’s flight had been in a holding pattern for 15 minutes when the pilot announced that they were cleared to land. Sitting stock-still for the better part of five hours had stiffened her joints and made her insanely restless. The flight had gone better than she expected. Traveling with kids was like everything else kid-related; people made it out to be worse than it was.
The Char-monster had been downright pleasant for most of the trip. For the first hour and a half, she played with toy shakers and chomped on puffs. She’d slept through most of the second half. There was just one tiny piece there in the middle that had Maddie sweating.
A baby’s fussiness always starts out as a hint. Whether you’re looking and listening for it is the key.
Two women and one young man were working the flight. The fit steward kept coming by to check on Maddie. His tepid smile lingered on beyond professional courtesy. It had Maddie’s mind running enough that she’d missed the signs. Was he checking her out?
The frustration blossomed in Charlotte and unfortunately for Maddie, she hadn’t picked up on the early cues. She had broken into a full cry before Maddie realized it was time to change her diaper and feed her a bottle. Ross would have laid out the plan halfway through the first whimper. It was times like that when Maddie realized just how much their roles were reversed from the norm before she walked away from the Corps.
What sucked the most was changing a squirming baby on a foldout tray table in the closet of a bathroom. There’s nothing quite like swapping a baby diaper in an airborne port-a-potty. Luckily for Maddie, the dry diaper helped. Charlotte had calmed down a few notches by the time they were done—enough that the scowls had turned to grins, mostly.
Maddie kept Charlotte in the Baby Bjorn for most of the flight. She hung from her chest like a kangaroo joey. She’d never gotten used to wearing the baby. Being hands-free had obvious benefits, but there was just something about it that never sat quite right.
Fuck what anyone else thinks. She repeated the mantra as she made her way back to her seat.
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Maddie had brought a Tervis Tumbler and a thermos of hot water to heat the bottle. She’d mix up the formula in the bottle, fill the Tervis with hot water and then float the bottle to heat it. It was a technique she and Ross had used for years. Typically a two-person operation, she had to hold the Tervis between her feet and pour the steaming water from above.
After she floated the bottle someone said, “Semper fi, Mommy-o.”
When Maddie stretched for the cup, her shirtsleeve rode up and exposed a portion of the small Eagle, Globe and Anchor tattooed on her right shoulder.
She hesitated to look back. She knew who it was. The smell of the stale cigarette smoke entrenched in the man’s clothes had been nauseating since they took-off.
Maddie glanced back over her shoulder, eyeing the overweight hustler. He was leaning back, his feet in the isle and his face drawn up into a Robert De Niro expression. The woman next to him had overapplied her makeup. She was half his size but twice as weathered. The man had killed a half a case of potato chip bags and they both had been ordering miniatures of tequila to mix with their orange juice.
“Were you in the Corps?” the man asked.
Maddie nodded. “Yeah. You?”
“Nah. Not me. I got ‘spect for the leathernecks, though. Specially a woman leatherneck.”
Maddie stared ahead at the tray table. Too bad you don’t have any respect for yourself, she thought. She considered several inappropriate responses but then remembered the bottle and checked it to see if it was warm.
Maddie unclipped the carrier and held Charlotte in her lap. She polished off the bottle.
