by G. K. Parks
“Where was Wheeler at the time?” I asked, finding a strategically good place in an alcove at the end of the hallway, just in case.
“According to his tail, in his room.” He paused slightly to check the information for my unasked question. “One of the executive suites on the upper level.”
“Jason was with Rachel at his apartment,” I said more to myself than Mark. “Did Paul call anyone else from the motel prior to yesterday?”
“Nope. Phone records are clean. Be careful, Parker. You aren’t HRT.”
“No, but they’re outside. They didn’t give me a choice. A breach was imminent, and they planned to go in blind.”
“Jesus,” he sighed, “you are insane. Why the hell are you trying to protect Paul when he eluded me and got himself into this mess? He looks dirty as shit.”
“That doesn’t matter. I have to go. If you find something useful, let me know.”
Disconnecting, I continued my sweep until the seventh floor. The main elevator was stopped there, and the door was left open. A chair was wedged between the doors to prevent it from leaving this level. The adjacent elevator appeared intact, and I continued to check for signs of life.
Continuing to the stairwell, I tried to open the door, but it was locked. After radioing in the information, I turned my face away and broke the glass with my elbow. The window was small and rather high, but looking down, I saw a makeshift barricade shoved against the door. How exactly did Jason Oster find the time or strength to move a couch from one of the suites to the seventh floor landing of the stairwell? Either he had an accomplice, or multiple hostages moved the furniture while being held at gunpoint. Neither scenario was ideal, and I provided a follow-up over the comms.
“Parker, return to the lobby. You can’t go any higher,” Walton instructed. “We’ll send up the team.”
“No.” I went back to the elevator bank. Maybe I could take the elevator instead. “Can you flip the power back on?” I asked.
“Parker.” Walton was prepared to argue.
“C’mon, I’ve come all this way. You can either do that or try phoning Oster again and tell him to meet me on the seventh floor.”
“We’ve tried. Oster doesn’t answer.” The radio emitted some static. “Hold on. We’ll get power restored.”
The entire building let out a whining hum as the power came back on, and I moved the chair out of the way, stepping inside the elevator. Punching eight, I waited, but the doors didn’t close. The button didn’t illuminate, and I let out an annoyed snarl. Having spent a substantial amount of time riding elevators recently, I used all the tricks of the trade, but it was DOA. Somehow, Oster must have disabled it.
I went to the second elevator and pressed the call button, but it didn’t work either. Informing Walton to cut the power again, I went back to the first disabled elevator and stood on the chair to access the hatch in the ceiling. I hated heights and dark, narrow spaces, but if this was anything like the elevator system at MT, I should be able to get on top of the elevator and get the doors opened for the level above.
Carefully pulling myself on top of the elevator, I felt my muscles pull and strain. Thankfully, my ribs didn’t pop. With any luck, they were fully healed and wouldn’t break under the physical exertion I was about to subject them to. It had been almost two months since I did any strength training, and it showed as I dug my fingers between the doors, yanking and clawing. Whenever I got out of this mess, I would have to go back to the gym for some indoor rock climbing.
“Come on, open, sesame,” I hissed, finally finding purchase and managing to force the outer doors open. “Now don’t close on me.” I hissed, grabbing the ledge and hoisting myself slowly up. Who knew what was waiting on level eight, but so far, we were off to a rocky start.
Thirty-nine
I pressed my back against the wall, using whatever cover position I could find. My gun was poised, and my finger hovered above the trigger. Taking a breath, I cautiously peered down the corridor. The hallway appeared as desolate as the previous seven levels, and I stepped out of the elevator alcove.
This was unchecked territory, and I began a sweep for possible guests, gunmen, and Jason. When nothing turned up, I radioed an all clear and told Walton I’d work on removing the barricade in the stairwell. Before continuing my trek upward, I took the stairs down to seven and struggled to push the heavy couch out of the way. The thing weighed a ton, and I realized it was a sleeper sofa from one of the suites. It definitely took two people, if not more, to move the furniture to its current position. Pushing my back into it, I managed to scoot the couch far enough to allow one door to be opened from level seven. My muscles cramped and ached, but at least there was a viable escape route.
Opening the door to eight, I performed a quick visual sweep and continued to nine. Russell’s office was on ten, and my stress level began to skyrocket. I was close. The air felt electric, and swallowing, I forced myself to focus. Halfway through level nine, I heard the stairwell door clang closed. Spinning, I aimed at the sound and met the business end of Jason Oster’s handgun.
“Put your gun down,” Oster insisted.
“Why don’t we both lower our guns?” I asked, wondering why he would think I would obey when he had no additional leverage. As if reading my mind, a man I didn’t recognize emerged onto the floor, dragging Paul Eastman with him. Paul was being held at gunpoint, and I eased my finger slowly off the trigger. “You wanted to negotiate in person,” I said, holding up my left hand and slowly reholstering my handgun. “But you definitely didn’t make it easy to get here.”
“I needed to make sure you were alone,” Oster said, but his words sounded rehearsed.
“You’re not.” Pointing out the obvious was an innate talent.
“No,” his eyes bore into me as if trying to convey something, “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Alex, I’m so sorry,” Paul muttered, and the guy clocked him with his gun hand. Eastman stumbled into the wall and wiped at his bloody brow.
“Let him go. You can keep me instead,” I offered, wishing there was a way to broadcast this conversation to the team who was probably on the fourth or fifth floor by now.
“Take her gun and search her,” Oster instructed, and the man shoved Paul toward me.
“Alex,” Paul whispered, reaching inside my jacket and removing my nine millimeter, “it’s not Jason.” The man who was holding him at gunpoint was aiming at the back of Paul’s head and barking at him to drop my gun and kick it toward him. Paul complied and then proceeded to frisk me. “He doesn’t have a choice.”
“What?” I whispered as Paul removed the police radio from my pocket and held it up. The man stepped forward and grabbed it while Jason remained at the far end of the hallway. It looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“Is that it?” the man asked.
“She doesn’t have any other weapons,” Paul replied, leaving my cell phone in my pocket. Either he was sloppy, or he was hoping we could phone-a-friend.
“She better not,” the man snarled. “Or you’ll both be dead.”
“So can we get back to the topic at hand? Or should we start with some introductions?” I asked, focusing on Oster. He was in charge. “You said we could discuss demands in person.”
“Okay, first, I want safe passage and access to my safe deposit box. After my trip to the bank, I want a car waiting outside with the engine running, a full tank of gas, and absolutely no GPS or lowjack installed. No one will follow me or track me. When I’m clear, I’ll release Paul at some truck stop.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it,” Jason said, ignoring his accomplice.
“All right, I’m sure we can make that happen.” I looked at the radio that Mr. Accomplice was holding. “What are you willing to give up as a show of good faith?” I glanced at Paul. “Maybe release a hostage or let me make sure no one else is being held against their will.”
“I can’t lose my only leverage,” Jason insiste
d, and he turned his head to the side to make sure no one was coming up from behind him. At that moment, I spotted the wire from an earpiece running down his neck and to his collar. Either someone else was giving orders, or he had more people helping than the single guy keeping a gun trained on Paul. “Go on,” he jerked his head at the stairwell, “go tell them what I want. We’ll hang on to the radio, and you can use it to give me an answer.”
“Okay.” I shot a concerned look at Paul. “I’ll get you out of this. I promise.” He nodded, wiping at the blood running down his face. Stepping forward, I doubted I’d get my weapon back, and I didn’t want to ask. “You’ll hear from me soon,” I assured Jason, heading toward the stairwell.
He didn’t move, but I felt two guns trained on me. Not being suicidal, there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d try something, and I walked slowly past Paul and Jason’s assistant. Just as I passed Jason, opening the stairwell door, my phone buzzed. Hoping they didn’t hear the faint vibration, I continued at the same pace.
“What’s that?” the man asked, glowering at Paul.
Jason grabbed my elbow and yanked me backward, locating my phone immediately. He ripped it out of my pocket, glanced at the caller I.D., dropped it to the floor, and smashed it with his foot.
“Wrong number?” I asked, afraid of what was to follow.
He remained silent, motionless before me, and after what felt like an eternity, he blinked. “You can’t be trusted, so we’re going upstairs.”
I heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Paul yelped. I squeezed my eyes closed, choreographing an attack strategy in my mind, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t guarantee Paul wouldn’t be killed before I could intervene.
“Let me go outside. I can get you what you want,” I said, using the authoritarian tone from my federal agent days. “It’s the only chance you have of walking out of this alive.”
“Upstairs,” Oster replied, and he shoved me toward the staircase. “I’m sorry about this.”
Not as sorry as you’re gonna be, I thought as I slowly took the steps, scanning the area for any sign of life. I stopped at the doorway to level ten and turned. Paul was being shoved up the steps by the unnamed man. The brutality seemed unnecessary, perhaps even a tad personal, and I wondered if Paul knew who he was. Oster pressed his lips together and nodded at the door.
“Fine,” I mumbled, “it’s your show. For the record, the only reason I came inside was to negotiate. When I don’t return in a timely fashion, they will storm this place and resolve matters using extreme prejudice. I don’t want to see that happen.” I blew out a slow breath, contemplating the possibility of persuading Oster to reconsider. “Be smart about this, Jason.”
“Inside,” the other man barked, coming to stand a few feet away on the landing.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I turned toward him, “are you in charge? Because if that’s the case, I’m only authorized to deal with whoever’s in charge.”
“Inside,” Oster repeated, and this time he grabbed the door handle out of my grip and shoved me forward.
This level seemed just as lifeless as the others. Despite the fact I was here a few hours ago to speak with Gordon Russell, it had an eerie quality. Maybe it was the lack of electricity and the dim lighting that made it a bit spooky.
Jason pressed the gun barrel into my back and put his free hand on my shoulder, leading me down the hallway to the conference room where we had been sequestered the afternoon Alvin Hodge was found dead. Three people were inside, but Gordon Russell was the only one I recognized. Why didn’t any of them try to escape when there were no visual hostiles guarding them? Maybe they were threatened and scared, but still, the chance of survival was much greater if you weren’t hanging around in a conference room.
“Take a seat,” Oster commanded, and I sat. He took a seat across from me, near the door, and Paul took a seat at the far end of the table. Oster’s accomplice remained stationed in front of the conference room door. He pressed his lips together. “Is the FBI outside?”
“Yes.” Why was he asking that question?
“Do they know who is still inside this hotel?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room.
“I’m not working with the FBI. I have no idea what they know.” It was partially true. “Frankly, it doesn’t make much of a difference. They have a rulebook, and they will breach. Extreme prejudice. Bang.” I tilted my head. “Unless I’m outside in the next ten minutes, they’re coming in.”
“Call them off,” the man at the door said, stepping forward and dropping the radio on the table. I didn’t even acknowledge him.
“Are you in charge, Jason?” I asked, wondering who this guy was who seemed to be calling the shots. Assuming there was some truth to Paul’s warning, someone would do something to tip me off. With any luck, a fight would break out amongst the enemy, and I could use it to my advantage. “Because if you are, it’s your decision what happens to me and everyone else here.”
“Call them off,” the man said again, and I looked up at him.
“It doesn’t work that way. I leave, or they come in. That’s the only way the tactical assault is stopped.”
“Fine,” Jason hissed. “Tell them not to breach. Senator Wheeler is still inside, and he’s the first one we’ll kill if they come within a hundred feet of the building.”
“First of all, I didn’t bring my measuring tape, but I’d guess they are already within a hundred feet of the building. Second, Wheeler isn’t senator anymore, so why would they give a shit?”
“Because he’s still under protection by the federal government,” Oster declared, “and they wouldn’t risk his life. Too much bad publicity.”
“You’re wrong.” I made a show of surveying the room. “Plus, I don’t see Wheeler anywhere. How do I know you aren’t making it up to save your skin?”
“Get up,” Oster growled, but I didn’t budge. “Move,” he bellowed, coming around the table and grabbing my arm and dragging me out of the room.
This put me in proximity for some close quarters maneuvers, and I moved swiftly, striking and leaving him dazed in order to grab his gun. Just as I wrestled it from his hands and broke free from his grip, the gun aimed at his chest, a door opened behind me, and the metallic sound of a gun being cocked reverberated in the empty area.
“I’ll shoot him,” I warned, not turning around. “Oster, call off your dogs, or you won’t live to see tomorrow.”
“I don’t care if you shoot him,” a voice said from behind, and then the gun went off.
The look of shock and pain registered on Oster’s face, and he clutched at his stomach as he tumbled to the ground. Not lowering the weapon, I turned to face the shooter and fired. It clicked ineffectually. That didn’t work out the way I hoped. Rodney Wheeler stood with his gun pointed at my chest. And the man from the other room came up from behind, leaving me no choice but to surrender.
“I take it you’re the great and powerful Oz?” Glaring, I wasn’t surprised that Wheeler was in charge. We suspected him all along. But why was Oster doing his bidding? Why was Jason holding an unloaded weapon? And what additional leverage did Wheeler have on him? Rachel was safe and sound.
He smiled maliciously. “Indeed.” He stuck his hand out, and his partner handed him the confiscated weapon. “Drag him into the other room. We don’t need him making a mess in the hallway.”
“He’ll die without medical treatment.”
“And you were planning to shoot him.” He shrugged. “Aren’t you fickle?”
Paul was inside the conference room, and PDN required first responder training for their employees in the event of an emergency. With any luck, he could buy Jason some time.
“Well, at least now I know who’s in charge. Do you want to give me your list of demands to pass along to the appropriate parties? Everyone can still walk away from this.”
He laughed, an uncontrollable, manic sound. “Why should I worry? I’m untouchable.”
“That’s not true. They coul
d spin it. You’d be an accidental casualty. Hell, the government lies. You were in Congress, so I’m sure you’re well aware of that fact. We could put a lovely PR spin, make you a true patriot. You died heroically while attempting to save the lives of countless hostages.”
“It’s scary how accurate your depiction is,” Wheeler commented, the gun never faltering. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m a P.I. I work for myself.”
“Don’t screw with me. They wouldn’t let some P.I. run rampant into this building. What are you? DHS? FBI? You’re not police. They might be cynical and jaded but not to the extent of expertly weaving a line like that.”
I smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. He expected answers, obedience, and maybe even fear. But at the moment, he didn’t know who I was, how much the authorities outside knew of the situation, or if they were waiting for my reappearance. He couldn’t touch me, not yet. Not until he had some answers, and I was good at this game. But there was no telling how long it might take, and Jason Oster didn’t have much time. It was imperative that I work quickly.
“Want to share your list of demands?” I asked, not wavering or dropping the knowing smile.
Forty
“Fine,” Wheeler shrugged, “we’ll do this a different way, Ms. Parker.” His eyes flicked to the conference room. “Oh, I’m not as clueless as you’d like me to be. Mr. Oster has told me plenty about you, your work with PDN, your job with Paul Eastman, but frankly, I don’t buy it.” He jerked his head at the open door to Gordon Russell’s office. “After you.”
Slowly, I entered the room. It was empty, but from the tenth story window, there was a lovely view of the barricades and tents set up outside. He must have been watching the entire time.
“What do you want?” I tried again.
“I’ve had a tail for the last few months. My personal security guard noticed almost immediately, despite the fact the Secret Service denied it. Why is the FBI monitoring me?”
