Capitol Danger

by J. D. Tyler

  She closed her eyes, as if to visualize. “Directly across is the top of the building across the street. Beyond that, you can see the church on the corner of 16th and I Street. And an office building. It’s winter, so you can see the park, and the White House, most of the cornice and the roof.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “That’s great, thanks.”

  She grabbed his arm as he started to rise. “If I don’t make it and you do, tell my sister I love her, okay? Her name’s Rose.”

  “You’ll tell her yourself. You can introduce me someday.”

  She nodded, her faint smile tight and sad. “Yes. We’ll do that.”

  He was crouched to jump off the stage when she called to him. “Edward?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Glad I got to meet you.”

  “Same here,” he said, smiling at her. “Hang tough, Parkerston. We’ll get out of this.”

  She nodded and he jumped off the stage.

  “Cheryl Parkerston rented that room right as the hotel opened last month. She said there’s a view of the White House roof, that you can see the Washington Monument, but not any of it clearly.”

  “Wait, wait,” Sara Hardinger said, throwing out a hand. “What are the cross streets?”

  “16th and K, outside the building. Next over is 16th and I. Then 16th dead ends into H, at Lafayette Park.”

  “What’s on the corner of 16th and I?”

  Rouse looked nonplussed, but said, “St. Regis is on 16th and K, on the opposite corner to this hotel. There’s a Starbucks on the other corner.”

  “You’d know that,” Sara said. “Rouse is an addict.”

  “Guilty,” he said. “I don’t know I Street though, except how to get through it.”

  “Labor unions,” Hayden McGhee said. “There’s one on each corner. Um, Laborers International, I think, on one corner. AFL-CIO on the other corner. There’s a big party in the lobby of the AFL-CIO.” They all looked at her, and she blushed. “What? I walked from the McPherson Square Metro. No way was I parking down here tonight.”

  “Maybe that’s their target?” O’Keefe said. “Both unions-–hell, most of the unions–-supported this president because their membership is skewing more and more towards women in the workplace. They made a huge deal out of it and ran ads featuring women in Labor.”

  Burke shook his head. “Too nebulous.”

  Retta looked pensive, like she had something she wanted to say but wasn’t sure she should.

  “Honey?”

  Retta shook her head, no, she didn’t want to say. From behind the console, Burke caught the movement. “Retta, if there’s something you’re thinking, share it. We don’t have any idea what’s going on and anything we can figure out helps. So, spill,” he said, with a big grin.

  “It’s that movie, about the White House going down. The one with Jamie Foxx. He’s got this shoulder-launching rocket. In the movie he says something about it being accurate to a couple of miles if you know what you’re doing. It’s only a couple of blocks to--”

  “The White House,” they all chorused.

  “If you can see it--” Burke said.

  “--you can hit it,” Sara Hardinger finished.

  “Okay, okay,” Rouse said, making a down-boy motion with his hands. “We don’t know that they’re going to do something like that, but it’s a hell of a good guess. Burke, any more chatter?”

  Hayden was the one who answered him. “It’s like they know we’re listening,” she said. “Now they’re talking about how many rooms they’ve got locked down, how many people they’ve killed, how quickly they’re making their escape.”

  “It doesn’t ring true,” Burke finished the thought. “They’re playacting for us.”

  Rouse nodded. “Good ploy.”

  “Okay, so here’s what I think. I think we need to see if we can put together two teams. One to go up to seven. One to go down and see if there’s a way out. What do you think?”

  “Too dangerous,” Sara said. “We don’t have enough people to protect the wounded and send two teams. One team. One team goes down to find a way out. I don’t think we even have enough for that, but we have to do something.”

  Burke nodded, but added, “I think one team, but they go up, check it out, then, depending on what they find, they go down.” He looked at JR and O’Keefe, both of whom were, relatively, unscathed. “And when they go down, it’s to scope out and see if there’s a way to get help in, because we’re in Shit City in here.”

  “He’s right,” Edward chimed in. “Frankly I’m not as worried about the seventh floor as I am getting all these people to hospitals. We’re going to start losing people now, just from lack of basics that I just don’t have. Saline. Forceps. Shit, just bandages, sutures—even thread and a needle would help, but we don’t have it. This is triage, but we’ve done that. It’s all we can do until we have something else to work with.”

  “You’ve done a hell of a job, Doc,” JR spoke up. He was a quiet one, but when he did speak, everyone stopped to listen.

  There were noises of agreement and assent throughout the small group.

  “That leaves Doc out, though, for reconnaissance,” O’Keefe said. And you too, Chapman.” Before either man could protest, O’Keefe explained. “If you can get a line out, Burke, you and Ms. McGhee, that’s half the battle. Doc can start telling the hospital what he’s got and what he needs in order of priority. That’s job one.”

  Rouse briskly took point again. “Samson’s out, so’re Patel and Todd. They’ll be okay to hold the doors, but they’re all injured enough that I wouldn’t want them to have to go prowling through the building doing a Die Hard, unless they had to.”

  “Agree,” Sara said. “I’ll go.”

  Rouse started to protest, but O’Keefe said, “You gotta get rid of the long part of the dress then.” She’d already found a pair of black Keds. One of the wait staff had stashed them behind a bar.

  “The magazine on Burke’s Kahr is empty,” Retta said, “but I could go, if you have another weapon.”

  Edward bit down on his automatic protest. Retta had grown up in Oklahoma, she’d been handling guns all her life and was an upper-level belt in some obscure kind of martial art. His brain couldn’t latch onto the name at the moment, but it was good stuff.

  “Okay. So Retta, O’Keefe and I--” Rouse began, but all of the rest of them were shaking their heads. Edward said what they were thinking.

  “Not you, Rouse. You said it yourself, you’re not a general and I’m not a doctor, but we’re playing those roles for right now. You can’t leave. These people are hurt and scared and still in mortal danger. You leave and we’ll have a riot on our hands.”

  JR nodded. “He’s right, Pete. You’re needed here.”

  Rouse looked mutinous for a moment, but finally nodded. “Okay. You’re right. JR, O’Keefe, Retta, Sara, see if you can piece together some tactical gear. Some of the waiters were wearing vests, or half-vests. Let’s scrounge that, and weapons, and get you on the move.”

  “A good plan.”

  “Edward,” Retta said, moving to his side as the others moved away to start checking for gear. She looped her arms around his neck, just as she had earlier in the evening, and gave him the same look. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not telling me I couldn’t do it.”

  He bent and rested his head on hers. “Retta, you are the love of my life. I want you to marry me, to be my wife, and the mother of our children. What kind of husband would I be if I tried to make you different, make you change, make you...” he let go of her long enough to make a wide, flapping gesture, which made her laugh. “Something else. You’re you. That means you’re smart and strong and capable.

  “I don’t want you to do this,” he said. “I’ll be clear on that. But I know you can shoot, I know you can work with them as part of a team.”

  She grabbed him tight, stretching up on her tiptoes to kiss him. When she pulled back, en
ding the kiss far too soon, she had her warrior glint in full force. “Maybe I finally believe you, Edward George Millner the Third. Maybe, if you ask me again when this is over, maybe my answer will be different.”

  “Retta,” he began, but she put a finger to his lips.

  “Later. First things first.”

  For the first time since the shooting started, his heart lightened.

  They would make it. They would start a life. Together.

  Retta hustled off to see if she could scrounge some shoes as well, and help with tactical gear and weapons, too.

  Rooted in place by both his hope and fear, Edward couldn’t seem to make himself move as the men at the service doors shifted everything blocking the doors to one side, long enough for the reconnaissance team of O’Keefe, Sara, Retta and the taciturn JR, to slip out.

  “Classy move, Doc,” Burke said softly from the board. At his side Hayden McGhee nodded. Tears stood in her eyes, but before he –-or she-– could be embarrassed by them, Hayden ducked her head and resumed fiddling with the control.

  “Dammit,” she finally said, sniffling, so that the word sounded more watery than fierce. “I’ve had it. Move,” she said to Burke, shifting off the chair and onto the floor, levering her injured leg as best she could.

  “What? What?” Burke said, scooting away to give her room.

  “I’m taking this damn thing apart and rewiring it. It’s got Wi-Fi capability, and I damn sure know that if I can rewire that, we can communicate.”

  Burke looked at Edward, and he shrugged. “I guess if she says she can, she can. Rock on, McGhee,” he said, and got a grunt and a curse in response.

  “All right then,” Edward said, moving to do what he could, forcing himself to believe they would get communications soon. “Let’s prioritize.”

  His woman had her work, and he had his. He strode to the bar where he’d seen a hanging clipboard. He flipped the damp pages over and grabbed a pen from the floor. It was a gorgeously engraved work of art. He hoped whoever it belonged to had survived. He’d be sure to try and return it.

  He glanced at his watch. To his astonishment, little more than an hour had passed since the shooting started. It felt like days.

  Weeks, even.

  Rouse got on stage again. “Everybody!” he called, and he got instant silence. The General, indeed.

  “We’re going to try to get communications back,” he said, gesturing toward where Burke and Hayden worked on the board. “A team of agents from various agencies are going to try and sneak out and get us some help. A two-pronged approach.”

  There were some ragged cheers and a few shouted comments, but Rouse signaled for silence. When he got it, the distinct sound of gunfire returned and everyone instinctively ducked toward the floor.

  “We need everyone to stay alert, and be ready to go as soon as we get EMTs, Paramedics and Fire in here to help. If you’ve got your ID, hang on to it. If you don’t, don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Help each other, help us, and we’ll make it through this,” Rouse said, then turned to jump back down. There was a smattering of applause, and that lifted Edward’s heart.

  People were assholes sometimes, but, when it counted, they could also be pretty damn awesome.

  He stopped by the first cluster of people. “Hi, I’m Edward, I’ll be your server today,” he joked, and several of the people managed a smile. “As Agent Rouse said, we believe help will be here soon, so I need to get your names, and what injuries you have. We want to be sure the most gravely injured are seen first.”

  One of the guys from that first group got up and picked up a fallen Reserved table sign to use as a clipboard, and began to help. His head and eye were bandaged –-Edward vaguely remembered doing that in the first few minutes after the fight-– and he was a bit wobbly, but, after confirming what needed to be asked, he headed over to the next group.

  “Thanks,” Edward called after him.

  “Least I can do,” the man said, tapping the bandage.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nils Olderson,” the guy said, then, with a nod he crouched down at the next group.

  “The hockey player?” the girl in front of him said, struggling to sit up and stare. “I was sitting next to the Capitals’ star recruit and didn’t know it?”

  Edward pressed her shoulder to keep her seated. Her leg was wrapped from hip to heel. He remembered that wound. It looked like a bullet had plowed along her leg, cutting a furrow as if a long, red-hot poker had been laid along her leg.

  “Yep. Now that I know you’re a fan, I’ll tell him to come back and say hi, which is a good lead-in to you telling me what your name is.”

  “Hannah, Hannah Danvers.”

  “How old are you, Hannah?”

  “Seventeen,” she said, still staring after Nils.

  Now for the tricky part.

  “Hannah, are either of your parents here, alive?”

  He knew it was blunt, but he had a lot of people to cover and he had to know. There was no way to ease into it.

  She shook her head, suddenly more interested in her hands, covered in dried blood, than the hockey player.

  “Dad’s...Dad’s--” she said, and the sobs caught in her throat. She looked stricken and tears flowed soundlessly down her cheeks. Finally, she just pointed. A covered body lay toward the center of the room. “He lay over me. When the shooting started. He lay over me. He--”

  “Your mom?” he asked softly, but Hannah just shook her head. “Was she here?”

  Hannah shook her head. “Puerto Rico, with her new boyfriend,” she managed, gulping in air as she fought for control. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

  A woman in the group moved to sit next to the weeping girl, putting her arm around her to pull her in close. The girl collapsed against the woman and sobbed.

  The woman’s eyes were wet as well, and she shook her head. “I’ve got her. I was going to carp at you for saying that to her, that way, but...” she shrugged and patted the sobbing young woman. “No real way to do it easy, is there?”

  Miserable, he shook his head. “No.”

  “I’m Mirabelle Bennett, I’m from the New York office of Stand Together. I’ve got a head wound,” she said, pointing to her napkin bandage, “but it’s not bad. My biggest issue is that I’m diabetic and I can’t find my purse and my insulin. With all the adrenaline...” she trailed off, looking faint.

  “Yeah, I get that. Okay, describe your bag and where you were.” She did and he nodded. “I’ll see if I can find it. If not, maybe Hannah could help you with that. It could help you both,” he said, and the woman nodded.

  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll see if someone can bring you more water and some food to get your blood sugar stabilized once you have insulin.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can look for it,” another of the group piped up. “I’m Tucker Hoffsinger. My arm’s hurt,” he said, wincing as he moved it. “I think I got shot. Somebody bandaged it up, but I’m kinda vague on what he said. I’m trying not to think about it because if I do, I’ll throw up.”

  “Then think about finding Mirabelle’s bag, and her insulin, then some food, which should help you both.”

  “Yeah,” the nattily dressed Tucker said. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  “Once you find the insulin, look under the tables over there,” Edward gestured toward the least damaged part of the ballroom, toward the back right corner where a steamship-round of beef dried out under the lights. “Don’t get anything from the top of the table, there was too much flying glass to be sure it didn’t get into the exposed food.”

  Too much glass, too much blood, and too many bullets. The kinds of things that flew around in a battle didn’t belong in food. He did have enough tact not to say that.

  “Okay, okay, that makes sense,” Tucker said, nodding and wincing. “They sometimes have spare stuff under the tables.”

  Hannah lifted her head, and her tear
-swollen face was bleak, but she said, “Our caterer keeps hot boxes under the tables. Maybe they do, too.”

  “Good. That’s good thinking, Hannah. Okay, Tucker, you have your mission. See if you can get Mirabelle some protein. Or anything else you can find that’s wrapped up or clear of the glass, from under the tables.”

  “Got it,” the man said, and hurried off, searching the floor for Mirabelle’s purse.

  Edward shifted and got the other four names in the group. They had cuts and lacerations, several of which needed stitches, but their bleeding was stopped and they could hold on.

  He leapfrogged over Nils to start on the next group.

  He’d just finished another miserable questioning of a survivor who’d fainted as she recounted her husband and father’s heroism in protecting her, and turned to the next, when he felt it.

  The floor shivered.

  That was the only word for it. He felt it through his knees where he knelt on the blood-soaked carpet.

  “What the...?” someone exclaimed.

  “Earthquake?” another squeaked.

  “Shit.” That was Rouse. His voice cut through the room. “Hang on, everyone! Get down and cover your heads!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fuck! Something had blown!

  His next thought was, Retta!

  From across the room, he met Burke Chapman’s gaze. The other man’s face mirrored Edward’s concern.

  The floor rippled –-there was no other word for it-– but other than more stage rigging falling, nothing else happened.

  “What was that?”

  “What’s happening now?”

  “Oh, my God!”

  The shouts and groans and weeping returned as everyone reacted to the latest event.

  “Everybody stay calm,” Rouse shouted. “That could be the bad guys, or it could be help coming. We don’t know, so quit freakin’ panicking!”

  “Easy for you to say,” a voice slurred. Trammelstone again, rising from the seeming dead, waving a bottle. “You’ve got a gun!”

  Before anyone could agree, and a mutiny form, a woman stood up and whacked Trammelstone on the back of his now-bald head with her hand.