by R. A. McGee
He stared at Fitz as he started toward the maintenance room. SEAL or not, at some point he was going to have to show that asshole who was boss.
Scott walked through the break room and into the memorabilia room. He continued down the big space until he found the small electrical room. He looked at the thermostat, but the digital readout showed no numbers.
“This thing busted?” Scott muttered.
He fiddled with the unit to see if it was accidentally turned off, but it was dead. He sighed and reached up, tugging on a heavy canvas strap that hung from the ceiling.
How the hell am I supposed to know what’s wrong with this thing? Scott thought. Pulling the strap released a set of foldable, metal stairs. Scott unfolded the stairs, pushed them to lock them into place, and then ascended to the roof. Several rungs later, he was at the access door leading outside. Scott rotated the wheel on the bottom of the door until he heard a lock tumble and the door was free to move. He pushed it and it pivoted on a hinge, locking in place when it was vertical.
The sunlight was bright on Scott’s face and he squinted while he climbed the rest of the way up the metal stairs and out onto the roof. He stood, hands shielding his eyes for a moment. Then Scott felt himself being elevated, and his world went black.
Fifty-Six
~Before~
Porter and Ross had been waiting for someone to come and check the air handler for nearly an hour.
“How long do you think this will take?”
“No telling,” Porter said.
“What are we going to do when someone comes out?”
“Knock him out, tie him up, push him off the roof,” Porter said, listing options.
“Do you think Candy Man made a call yet? Think Schmidt is spooked?” Ross said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Rivera would have called,” Porter said.
“Is that blood?”
Porter looked at his hand. Blood from the gash the barbed wire had given him was dripping down his fingers. “Yes.”
“Is it bad? Do you need a doctor?”
“Hold on one second, I’ll just find one. Doctor? Doctor? Is anyone on this rooftop a doctor?” Porter said in a stage whisper.
“I’m sorry I’m talking so much, I’m just nervous,” Ross said.
“Try to relax. We still have more moving parts. You can’t get all geeked out on me now. You’ve done good so far,” Porter said.
His hand did look bad, so he tore his sleeve off and wrapped it twice around the injured area. At least he could keep debris out of it.
“You think so? I think I killed that guy in the warehouse.”
“You didn’t kill that guy,” Porter said. “Stop worrying about it. Besides, even if you did, is that a big loss?”
“I mean… yeah, it kind of is. I never killed anyone before,” Ross said.
“These guys work for a scumbag who buys and sells little kids. Don’t have sympathy for them.”
Ross was quiet for a few moments. “I guess you’re right, but it feels weird. I keep replaying it in my head.”
“Put the movie on pause. Worry about it later. I need you here right now,” Porter said.
Ross nodded and looked around. “Hey man, have you noticed any cameras?”
“No. I’ve been looking for them and there aren’t any. Doesn’t really matter though.”
“Why not? I don’t want my face on the news.”
“It won’t be,” Porter said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“I don’t know how you can be so sure—” Ross said.
The door on the roof floor between them made a creaking noise.
“See? It worked. Just be ready,” Porter said.
The creaking noise from the door continued. There was a click and the door swung open and stopped. Porter and Ross took a few steps backward so they would be behind the door and could use it as concealment.
A big white man came up the stairs, pausing halfway to rub his eyes. His back was towards Porter and Ross and he couldn’t see them crouched behind the floor-door. The big man stepped onto the asphalt roof and stood straight, blinking and still rubbing his eyes.
Porter stepped from behind the door and closed the distance between himself and the guard. While the guard was still facing away, Porter bent over and hugged both of the guy’s legs tight. Porter then stood straight up with the man, inverting him a hundred and eighty degrees, and dropped him. He landed directly on his head, and went stiff as a board. Porter checked and confirmed that he was out cold.
“See? No problem,” Porter said.
“Well, that’s one way to do it. I prefer a brick myself,” Ross said sarcastically.
“I said stop worrying about it.”
The pair trussed the guard like a Thanksgiving turkey, arms and legs behind his back. Then, they untucked his guard uniform and stuffed the bottom of the shirt into his mouth so he couldn’t yell for help. Porter went through the man’s duty belt.
“He has much better stuff than the last guy. Here.” He handed Ross the guard’s Heckler and Koch pistol.
“You know I have no clue how to work one of these,” Ross said.
“It's easy, just point and shoot. This H&K doesn’t even have a safety.” Porter dropped the magazine and made sure there were rounds. Then he pulled the gun’s slide a small bit to the rear to make sure there was a round in the chamber. He handed it to Ross. “It’s good to go.”
Ross accepted it, careful to keep his finger off the trigger. Porter had at least taught him that much. “Fine, let’s go.”
“Listen, I know you won’t like this, but I really need you to stay here this time.”
“Porter—”
“Hear me out. I need you to watch this guy and make sure he doesn’t wake up and cause a ruckus. Plus, they might send someone else up here to check things out. We can’t have another guy find this one. Then everyone will know we’re here.”
Ross thought for a moment. “You’re actually right. Someone has to stay here.”
Porter grabbed the radio from the guard’s duty belt and gave it to Ross. “Now we each have one. Keep your ears open in case you hear someone say something about the roof.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to drop in and take a look around. I’ll be back,” Porter said.
“What am I supposed to do if someone comes up here?”
Porter gestured to the pistol Ross was holding. “Unless you’d rather find another brick.” Porter slipped through the hole in the roof without another word.
Fifty-Seven
Porter descended the folding metal staircase and found himself in a utility room, small and cramped. He thought about closing the roof access door and folding up the stairs. That would ensure no one could get to Ross. But then he thought better of it. He didn’t want to trap Ross up there, in case they had to move quickly. There was also the possibility Ross could take one of them out. Under normal circumstances, that would have been a ridiculous thought, but Ross was ready and had the drop on anyone who would show up. Better to leave the stairs and access door as they were.
Porter got to the door of the utility room and tried the handle. It was unlocked and he slowly opened it, then looked left and right to orient himself. Porter stepped into the larger room and went all the way to the back wall. He’d hoped that the building with the A/C units would have been the living quarters. Nothing in here but a collection of junk and old memorabilia. He saw two doors, one on each side wall.
Which way would they keep a kid?
He headed left. If that wasn’t the right way, he could sweep back across the remaining three buildings and know that nothing was behind him. Opening the door, he stepped into the breezeway.
It was covered but open on the sides. Looking up, Porter saw electrical wiring and silver air conditioning ducts on the underside of the covering.
They ran the A/C through all the buildings. No wond
er it wasn’t on top of the living quarters.
Porter pulled the handle of the door and stepped inside.
He was in a large open room, containing a table and several chairs. A television on the far wall was on mute. The smell of old coffee hung in the air. Porter waited for a few moments and heard nothing. He moved across the room and went out another door, through another breezeway, and into another building.
He was in a kitchen, large and modern like a restaurant’s. There was the smell of bacon being fried and bread baking. Porter walked along with the wall at his back and passed a large stove. The man cooking at the stove wore a chef’s coat, and was concentrating on his work. Porter kept walking; the man didn’t notice.
Continuing on, Porter found himself in the prep area, with fruits and vegetables on stainless steel countertops, and then he moved toward the walk-in refrigerator and freezer. They were on the left-most wall, which made sense. There had to be a way for them to vent their exhaust outside. There was an interior wall that ran parallel to the outside wall, about eight feet pushed out. That wall created a hallway. Porter ducked into it and put the freezer and coolers to his back while peeking around the wall back into the kitchen.
No kids here.
He had decided to go back the way he came when he heard the handle on the walk-in cooler pop open, and a big guy with a shaved head emerged, eating an apple. He was dark-skinned and dressed in the Parabellum uniform of the two guards Porter had already encountered.
There was a frozen moment as both men looked at each other. Porter moved first. He stepped forward and launched an enormous right hand at the guard, but the guard was quick to react and raised his left arm, tucking his chin. The full effect of the blow caught the man on his biceps and forearm. The force pushed the guard back, but he was unharmed.
The man reached out and hit Porter with a quick uppercut. It was fast but lacked power. Porter’s teeth slammed together, then he reached behind the man’s head with his right hand and hit him with a pair of elbows, which split the guard’s eyebrow open. The guard punched Porter with both hands in the chest, creating distance between the men.
Porter leaped at the guard again. This time the guard tried an overhand right, but Porter was ready. He slipped to the left and the guard’s punch sailed past his head. As he was moving, he hit the man in the stomach, which doubled him over. Porter straightened up and brought his elbow down on the back of the bent-over guard’s neck, near the base of his spine, and the man went down, convulsing. Porter stepped away to make sure there was no subterfuge. After several moments, he reached in and checked for the now motionless man’s pulse. He found none.
Porter caught his breath.
He went back to the corner of the hallway to ensure that no one heard the ruckus. The chef was still cooking, and Porter saw no one else in the large kitchen. He checked the guard’s duty belt. Except for a different model handgun, he had the same stuff as the guard Porter had taken out on the roof.
Porter took the gun and put it in his back pocket. He dragged the guard into the walk-in cooler and pulled him to the back, doing a decent job of hiding his body under several fifty-pound sacks of apples.
Porter shut the walk-in cooler and went back to the corner. The chef had moved to the other side of the room, so Porter hustled down the walkway with its rubber anti-slip mats, and went out the door he’d come in through.
Stepping into the breezeway, he fished the pistol out of his back pocket: a Sig Sauer P229. Porter was very familiar with this pistol. He’d had one as his duty weapon for several years when he was a fed, before he had wised up and bought his own Glock. Still, it was an accurate and reliable weapon.
Porter dropped the magazine out and saw that it was full. He checked the chamber, and found it loaded. Keeping the gun out, Porter decided he was done being sneaky. Besides, now he had another gun, one that couldn’t be traced back to him.
One he wasn’t worried about using.
He stepped into the next room and found it empty. Taking an immediate right, Porter traced the perimeter of the room. He found a small gym in the corner and a single-user restroom, but no people. His route had taken him to the door on the far side, which he opened, stepping into another breezeway. He wasted no time getting to the other building and opening the door.
Back to the museum. Porter realized this building was nicer than the other two. There was carpet on the floor and drywall covering the insulated metal walls the other buildings had. As Porter traced the perimeter of the room, he heard the door in front of him click open. In walked a small man with glasses, wearing a black suit. He didn’t notice Porter leaning with his back against the wall, so Porter fell in behind him. He followed for a few feet, then tapped the man on the shoulder. The man turned, and seemed stunned to have a pistol in his face.
“Where is the girl?”
“She… she…”
“Spit it out.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“Yes,” Porter said.
“She’s in the next building.”
“Straight through the breezeway?” Porter said.
“Here, use this.” The man took off his lanyard and gave it to Porter. Dangling at the bottom was a keycard.
“No loyalty to your boss, huh?”
“None. Please don’t hurt me.”
“How many people know about the girl?” Porter said.
“What?”
“How many people know about the girl you are keeping?”
“No one. No one. Just me and Schmidt. No one else. You can do anything with her, no one knows she’s here,” the small man stammered.
“That’s good to know. Turn around.”
“But…”
“Turn around,” Porter said.
The small man turned around and Porter hit him on the side of the head. He fell as if someone had flipped a switch. He was snorting on the floor as Porter stepped over him and moved on to the next door.
He opened it and came face to muzzle with a pistol.
Fifty-Eight
A man had his pistol in Porter’s face, and Porter had his pistol pointed at the man’s chest.
“You must be the reason I haven’t heard from Prater for a while.”
“Maybe. Is he the guy with the old revolver, or the big white guy you sent to check on the A/C unit? Or, wait, is he the brother that likes apples? I get confused.”
“You took all my guys out?”
“I didn’t get the guy in the gatehouse yet.”
“That was Prater.”
“Ahh. Must have caught him making rounds. I left the chef alone,” Porter said.
“He’s just a civilian.”
“Then yeah, I took all your guys out.”
“I gotta say, I’m pretty impressed,” the man said. The name tag on his uniform read Fitzhenry and his arms were nestled snugly into the sleeves on his uniform. His skin had a leathery look, like he’d spent too much time in the sun.
“I’m not. They were shit. That’s not their fault. I blame you; you’re the boss.”
“Good help is hard to find. That’s not a cliché, it’s the gospel. Sometimes you make do with what you got. If I still had my team of SEALS, you would never have gotten this far,” Fitzhenry said.
“Never is a long time.”
“That’s right. And you’re never getting to Mr. Schmidt.”
“How did you know I was coming? Cameras?” Porter said. “I didn’t notice any.”
“Cameras? Hell, no. That fat bastard won’t pay for any. He said good old-fashioned human power was what he wanted guarding him. Thought technology would make us complacent. I was coming in from having a smoke and saw you with Charles. Saw the little bitch give you the keycard. Knew it was a matter of time till you walked through that door.”
“Well, you got me. Now what?” Porter took several slow, small steps backward, to create space between himself and Fitzhenry. This allowed him to raise his pistol until he had a clear shot at the team leader’s
neck.
“I’m not too sure. I figured I’d dust you when you came out here, but you pointing that pistol at me changed my plan. Now we’re stuck.”
“You could always see if action beats reaction. Try to get your shot off at me.”
“I could,” the team leader said, “but I’d rather not chance it. I’m not a huge fan of being shot.”
“I understand your position. It doesn’t blow my skirt up, either.” Porter had taken several more small steps backward. The breezeway was several feet wide, but the lane was a hundred feet long, running from the back of one warehouse building to the front. True to its name, there was a breeze being funneled between the two buildings.
“There’s no chance I let you walk. I don’t really like this guy, Schmidt, but he’s paying me. I have a reputation, you know? If word gets out I can’t protect my clients, my work prospects are toast. This outfit I’m working for pays well; I’d hate to lose my job.”
“We couldn’t have that.”
“Nope. Shoot straight with me; you got to Tommy?”
“Which one was he?” Porter said.
“Apple guy.”
“No more Tommy,” Porter said, focused on lining up the front sight of the Sig Sauer with the team leader’s nose.
“He was good. You must be better.”
“Count on it,” Porter said.
“I have a crazy thought. Why don’t we drop these pistols? Settle this like men.”
“Not sure I catch your meaning, Navy.”
“I haven’t been in a real fight since I left the service. You must be pretty good to take out Tommy. I want to see how good you are,” Fitzhenry said.
Porter looked at him.
“Come on. If you win, you can have Schmidt. When I win, I’ll kill you. My reputation stays intact. Fair?”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Porter said. “That you aren’t going to shoot me when I lower my gun?”
“My word is solid. See?” Fitzhenry broke the grip on his gun and raised his left hand, as his right lowered the pistol. “See? I’m an honest guy. Now let’s say we get this thing going—”
