by LC Champlin
Across the asphalt came the cannibals at jogging speed. They took three or four strides, torsos pitching farther forward with each step, then dropped to all fours and pushed with their hindquarters for one pace like lions on the hunt. The lunge brought them upright to repeat the cycle.
One last chance, then Birk would deserve whatever he reaped. Albin dashed along the building. At the corner, he risked a look around, at the north side. Birk was approaching the main entrance, which faced the central car park. The man had gone insane! He must prefer the terrorists to either Albin or the cannibals. As he wished, then.
Albin sprinted back to the service door.
“Ssssssaaahhh!” One of the suit-clad monsters broke off and loped toward him.
Chapter 60
Cornered
Life in Color – OneRepublic
Access card, where? The plastic bit into Albin’s palm as he shoved his hand into his hip pocket. Twenty meters remained between him and the cannibal. Burnt-orange eyes bulged from blisters and motor oil. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to run. Sweat made his fingers slick as he turned the card to fit the reader. As he swiped, the card slipped out of his grip. He fumbled for it, catching it against the side of the building.
Ssssssaaaaaahhh!
The door jerked open. He threw himself in. Even a terrorist opening the door offered more chance than did the monsters. Bracing his back against the door, he winced as a thud shook the barrier. He turned and shot the bolts, top and bottom.
Chest heaving, sweat rolling into his collar, he leaned against the door with elbows locked and head down. His stomach clenched as his heart climbed up his throat to escape the snake of dread that slithered through him.
A touch on his shoulder. Head jerking up, he then relaxed with recognition. Behrmann. Again.
“Are you all right?”
“Ah.” Albin pushed from the door, collected himself.
“I saw what happened out there. What happened to Vic? He went around the corner and—”
“He is . . .” He straightened his collar. His shirt would require a good dry cleaning after this. The Armani would stay in the pack until the cleaners could restore its former glory. Where had his glasses gone during all the commotion?
“Mr. Conrad!”
“What?” he snapped, glasses half out of his pocket. Ah, right. The nightmare at hand. Keep your head.
“Birk.” She stared at him, concern and curiosity in her face. “Is he . . .”
Albin’s gaze flinched toward the door. “I’m not certain.” On the topic of doors: “If you saw everything, why didn’t you open the door sooner when you saw I was returning?”
She opened her mouth to excuse her failure.
“Never mind. We need to get to the second floor,” he declared as he trotted to the lift.
“Why?”
“Now.” He swung the pack onto his back and tightened the straps. “Move.”
Behrmann hurried over, entering the cage and closing the gate behind her. “You didn’t get any of that oil drool on you, did you?”
“No. Why?”
After gaining the second floor, he swiveled about, locked his knee behind the cage wall and caught her wrist. Muscles bunching, he heaved her up to his level.
“Good,” she whispered from beside him while he reeled in the cord, “because Cory said—”
“Who?”
Rolling her eyes, she hissed, “The DHS adviser in the van! He said some of the mucus splashed on Emme—”
Holding a finger to his lips for silence, Albin motioned her back with his free hand. Five seconds, then ten passed. Perhaps Birk had escaped the terrorists and taken cover in another section of the building.
Slam! Albin flinched. The door to the ground level.
Below, an LED beam swept across the floor, up the walls, along the cargo. He backed up on all fours. Light blazed up through the shaft and licked the edges of the cage.
Then the beam retreated. A male voice speaking Arabic echoed off bare walls. Another, similar voice crackled over his radio. Darkness washed in below.
Slam!
Behrmann padded to his side, knelt, but he held up a hand to forestall the imminent question. The situation bore waiting another few seconds. Haste makes corpses, and not the enemy’s, as the Conrad proverb went.
Thirty seconds passed before Albin spoke. “That proves Birk was captured.”
“He told them where we are? Or did they put two and two together?”
Albin shook his head, pushing to his feet. “I do not presume to speculate.” Threat avoided, his mind clicked back to Behrmann. Had she at last offered useful information? “What about the DHS adviser and . . .”
“Emme. Her name was Emme.” The reporter pushed her hands through her hair in frustration. “The man she helped vomited on her. Shortly after that, the cannibal symptoms appeared.”
The world went still and cold. Albin stopped breathing. “You might have informed us of that earlier.”
“I tried, but Mr. Serebus wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t get the chance to mention it later.”
“I see.” He forced his lungs to expand. Now they knew one of the routes of transmission. “Thank you, Ms. Behrmann. That information is invaluable.”
She beamed. “ABC at your service!” Then the situation’s gravity grounded her. “Now what? With only two of us, we really can’t get to the Armory.”
“I was under the impression you thought that a poor strategy. Or rather, you did when I suggested it. Choose a stance, please, Ms. Behrmann.”
“I think time is of the essence, that’s all. Mr. Serebus getting captured changes things. The kidnappers might decide to take their valuable hostages and escape. Going to the Armory and getting help could take hours.”
“I was under the impression you wanted to go to the Armory. Now you don’t think that’s wise? Is it only because your boss, your friend, is up there?” Her tone softened at this.
Chapter 61
Cui Bono
Control – Halsey
Albin moved toward the lift door, but the reporter caught his arm. She needed to learn the importance of boundaries.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“The weapons cache.”
“Stop and listen. The gunmen—” He pulled free, but she stepped in front of him, a human roadblock. “They’re checking the bathroom and camera room.” Other direction? Still blocked. “I saw while you were out with Dr. Birk. That’s why I wasn’t at the door when you came back.”
Albin went still. “I see.” How well could one conceal weapons in an average washroom? He would trust Mr. Serebus’s unconventional creativity, which had yet to disappoint. He mentioned overhead . . . The ceiling.
“We need a plan. Bursting in will just get us killed.”
“Who is this us?” Albin dropped the pack to one shoulder and produced the torch.
“You can’t do this alone.”
“Regrettably, I don’t have the luxury of leaving you out.” He flicked the beam over boxes and crates. A thorough inventory of resources composed the first step of any project, from painting a bedroom to restructuring a corporation.
“I’m glad you understand that. I know I’m no Nathan Serebus or even a Jordan or Rodriguez, but two heads are better than one, remember.”
“That depends.”
She came abreast of him under the auspices of looking at the cargo. “What’s your plan after we get the weapons, Mr. Conrad?”
“Each party holds what the other values.” He moved on to the next stack of boxes, which contained copy paper.
“You’re going to try hostage negotiating, like in some Liam Neeson thriller?”
“As an attorney, I believe I have passable skills in the arena.” Atop one of the boxes rested a box cutter. He thumbed the blade out, then in. Splendid.
“What are you offering as trade? Wait . . . the files?” She abandoned all pretense o
f box investigating to stare at him. “How would that work? They’ll capture all of us. What assurance do we have—”
The rest of her babble faded to a buzz as Albin strode toward the lift shaft. By now the terrorists should have removed their dead or whatever they did in such situations. Tightening the backpack straps, he peered down. As all seemed clear, he dropped to the lift floor. Still and dark, the loading dock waited. Straightening, he started for the ground-level entrance.
Thud.
He whirled, only to find Behrmann adjusting her jacket as she came to his side. “I’m not missing this little Easter-egg hunt.”
“Delightful,” Albin muttered as he drew the box-cutter and eased the door open.
No gunmen opened fire, so he stole to the corner. Five minutes should cover the expedition. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, he padded down the main hall. If Behrmann proved a risk, he would act. Mr. Serebus’s fondness for duct tape and insistence on its inclusion in their accoutrements may prove justified.
He paused near the first hall at the sight of a security guard’s corpse in front of the camera control room. A sharp intake of breath from Behrmann sounded behind him.
A right turn brought them to the washrooms. Albin raised the box cutter before easing open the door to the women’s side. Iron, copper, refuse, gun smoke, and chemicals permeated the air, forced him to fight his gag reflex. Emergency lighting turned the interior to murk. Dark mud and liquid splattered the floor in two distinct areas, while white fire extinguisher contents frosted the stalls and tile. Heel-drag tracks marked the removal of the two enemies.
“Uhg.” Behrmann breathed as she slid in to join him.
“Make yourself of use and uncover those Easter eggs about which you were so enthusiastic.” Mr. Serebus might think reporters useful at times, but this situation did not fit the criteria.
The torchlight fell on a ceiling tile over the sink. A gap between tile and support indicated tampering. He climbed onto the sink while Behrmann swung her smartphone around the stalls. Lifting the tile aside, he felt along the upper sides of the tiles adjacent to the first. A pistol: a Beretta 92 with a second magazine. They found temporary storage behind his belt.
By the light of her mobile, Behrmann examined the sink’s underside. “Hey.” She pulled a large object free. “A vest. It’s . . . sticky.”
Albin couldn’t help grinning at her naïveté. “Congealing blood typically does take on a sticky quality.”
“Right. Yeah. Look, there’s a radio on it.”
“As I hoped.” Above the tile to his right, the cold butt of—he maneuvered it down an AKM rifle. Brilliant.
“Oh, you found a machine gun!”
“Only by the National Firearms Act definition,” he sighed. The magazine appeared full; he snapped it back into the receiver. After ducking into the strap, he jumped down from the sink.
Stepping into the nearest stall, he flicked the light over the fixtures. In the toilet-paper dispenser, a black rectangle stood out against the paper.
“I still don’t think it’s a safe plan.” Behrmann paused as she pulled out a paper towel and began wiping the blood off the vest, grimacing. “I can’t believe just calling the head honcho upstairs and—”
Albin inserted the scissor half’s point into the dispenser’s lock and twisted. It required a moment of work to free the radio.
Everyone possessed special skills; some skills made their owners millionaires, while others simply made their owners insufferable. Typical of a reporter, Behrmann’s special skill involved arguing against and mocking every idea not originating in her own mind. Sadly, she alone was his backup. If he couldn’t make her of use, the fault lay with him.
“What, pray tell, is your solution, Ms. Behrmann?”
“So you radio the gunmen.” She wanted to run a simulation. How novel. “Then what? Trade the data for the hostages. Okay. They’ll say, ‘Give us the data or we kill everyone.’”
“I asked for your solution.” Would she arrive at his conclusion: feign disinterest in the fate of the hostages, thus devaluing the terrorists’ bargaining chip?
“Well . . .” She paused to pull out another paper towel. “If we could lead some of them away and deal with them—”
“Hostages, in case they slipped your mind.” He pushed past her to make a last sweep of the washroom.
“Same goes if we threaten to destroy the data,” she finished as she turned the vest about for inspection.
They had likely recovered the full cache. Time to leave.
Leave. The terrorists’ exit strategy. The terrorists needed to depart before the government arrived. They couldn’t leave without the data, presumably, unless they considered themselves completely outmatched. That assumed they did not turn themselves into suicide bombs instead.
“Do you want this?” Behrmann tapped the vest, to which he shook his head.
“You require it more.”
Easing the door open a slit, he looked out from behind the iron sights, then advanced down the hall toward the relative safety of the intake dock.
One did not retain the position of adviser to Nathan Serebus without learning how the man’s mind operated, and then emulating it to a point. At the moment, a few Serebus strategies rose to the fore: seeing opposition as opportunity, using an opponent’s weaknesses and strengths against them, and buying when blood is on the ground.
The two slid back into the gloomy warehouse. Albin laid the AKM on a stack of boxes and, before Behrmann could volunteer any more exasperating “solutions,” announced, “The terrorists’ obvious strength and weakness is their exit strategy.”
“Obvious. Yes, certainly.” Sarcasm dripped from her reply.
Albin squinted in the glare of her stupidity. “Shall I spell it out for you? Their first priority, or so we assume, is to secure the data. If they are unable to achieve this goal, they will hopefully retain their high-level prisoners and evacuate the building. The same holds true if they default on their portion of the hostage trade.”
“You’re basically counting on them not handing everyone over when they get the data.” Approval warmed her tone.
“Of course. There are at least fifteen other men to extract, if they intend to move them. If they keep the prisoners, then there are six people more to evacuate. Air provides the fastest exit, but to carry eight passengers, which is the fewest if we consider guards for the hostages, they require a mid-sized to large helicopter. Ground transportation is fraught with more hazards due to the cannibals and the chance of hostages attempting escape, but it is easier to arrange. Four to five Suburbans can complete the task comfortably.”
Behrmann pinched the bridge of her nose. “All right, let me get this clear. You’re suggesting we . . . hit them when they’re leaving, since everyone will be spread out and scrambling. This is apparently after we give them the data.”
“The files are the terrorists’ requirement for departure.”
“We could capture the rocket launcher from the building next door—”
“Ms. Behrmann,” Albin lowered his voice, “I loathe admitting ignorance, but I must in regard to the operation of an RPG. I may be underestimating your expertise, however.” Sarcasm oiled the dagger of his words.
“It can’t be that complicated.”
“No.” He turned to continue taking inventory. Boxes of syringe needles, several of latex gloves, more copy paper . . .
“We could convince them the army’s arrived. But I’m not sure how only you and I could do that.”
Against all odds, she had made a suggestion deserving exploration. “We bluff.” One of Mr. Serebus’s favorite tactics.
“Maybe.” Behrmann withdrew her mobile and activated its light as she moved to the cargo that lined the walls. “But they have an idea how many people were on the chopper.”
“Precisely.” His torch beam joined hers on the boxes. “If we appear to have gained reinforcements, they will be doubly am
bushed and off balance.”
“I’ll go scrounge up some clay pots, trumpets, and torches, shall I?” Behrmann deadpanned.
“Even that would be more helpful than giving criticism sans solutions.”
“Do you think I have some master plan worked out and I’m just keeping it back because I enjoy pointing out holes in your plans?” She sighed, shoulders drooping under her ABC windbreaker. “I . . . I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve reported on stories like this, but I’ve never been part of them.”
“You are fortunate, then.” Finally she had admitted her inadequacy. Now she could begin to advance.
She gave him a small smile. “I’ve always wanted to be part of the story, though, not just climb the ranks in the network.”
“Mm.” If she embarked on her life story, the duct tape would prove tempting. “The excitement is appealing in one’s youth. It lasts only until the first crisis.”
“That’s part of it, but really, I’ve always wanted to—to have an impact.” She punched her a fist into her palm.
“An impact.” Albin stopped, flicked the torch to pin her in the beam. “Meaning what, precisely?” Did she even know herself?
Raising a hand to shield her eyes, she replied, “I . . . want to make the world a better place—”
“To go to Hell from?” Desert winds howled behind the vault in his mind.
She stared at him as if he had just eviscerated a kitten.
With a sigh, he reached up to massage his temples. “It’s been a tense time, as you know, Ms. Behrmann.” He put a hand on her shoulder—lightly. He still needed her. And . . . she showed a glimmer of promise. “If you want to make the world a better place . . .”
“Yes?” A pilgrim scaling a mountain to consult the summit guru on the meaning of life would look no more expectant than Josephine Behrmann.
You reconsider your objective. “You—”
Something thudded against the service door. Cannibals proving useful? Never let a crisis go to waste.
