by Sean Black
Lock knew that arguing would get him nowhere. ‘I already explained to you that this would take at least two hours. The travel time alone will be that, never mind the actual extraction.’
Mareta seemed to mull it over. ‘Then only two of these men will die.’
Seventy-three
Two German Shepherds prowled the fence surrounding Nicholas Van Straten’s Shinnecock Bay estate, white teeth bared. Ty reached down into a brown paper bag, came up with half a dozen hamburger patties they’d picked up on the way from a bemused fast-food operative, stepped back and lobbed them over the fence. The dogs sniffed at them suspiciously. Then one of them, presumably the alpha male, cocked his leg and took a leak on them. The other one followed suit a second later.
So the dogs had been trained to eat only what they were given by their owner, usually achieved by a rather crude form of aversion therapy involving beating them with a stick any time they got close to food not delivered by him.
‘Plan B it is then,’ Ty said, walking back to the car. He opened the back door and Angel bounded out.
Carrie followed. ‘Whoa, where are you taking her?’
‘Oldest trick in the book. Don’t worry,’ he said, patting Angel on the head, ‘she likes bad boys.’
Carrie folded her arms. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Well, she followed Ryan, didn’t she?’
Carrie looked around. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’
‘Price of getting the scoop of the century.’
He took Angel off her leash and she wandered over to the fence. ‘Go on,’ Ty whispered, before turning back to Carrie. ‘What’s the way to a man’s heart if not through his stomach?’
‘That’s so disgusting.’
‘Hey, it was your boyfriend’s idea, not mine.’
The Shepherds were frantic now, wet black noses pressed against the fence. Bared teeth and barking had given way to quivering tails and yelps of desire. Much to Ty’s relief, Angel reciprocated, seemingly pleased with the attention from not one but two strapping Germans. One of the Shepherds began to paw at the ground near the fence, clods of earth flying up. The other joined it, and soon both dogs were engaged in a race to see who could tunnel their way to Angel first.
It took the two dogs just under ten minutes to dig a hole under the fence big enough so that they could squeeze through to the other side. They didn’t even give Ty or Carrie a second look as they sniffed around Angel.
Ty set to work cutting a hole in the fence with a pair of wire cutters, then turned back to Carrie. ‘You clear on what you have to do now?’
Carrie started the walk back to where the news truck was parked short of the compound’s gates. ‘It’s hardly rocket science,’ she said.
The two dogs snarled and Ty glanced over his shoulder, worried that they’d lost interest in Angel. He was relieved to see that they were facing off at each other, presumably to see who got the first shot. Angel sat watching them, wagging her tail. Ty left Carrie to enjoy the live show and slipped out of sight into the undergrowth.
As he made his way towards the mansion, he ran through in his head the security systems in place. The dogs were the most noticeable and in all likelihood the most effective deterrent, especially to the casual intruder. Mounted on the exterior of the house were motion sensors. Infrared lights and CCTV cams allowed a three-sixty view of the area surrounding the house to the member of the security detail in the ops room, a converted space next to the utility on the ground floor. Anyone escaping detection on their approach would then face wireless contacts on all points of entry, and further motion sensors in every room, except the four bedroom suites and hallways. No one wanted Van Straten getting up to take a leak in the middle of the night to the whoop of a hundred-fifty-decibel alarm.
Ty got within fifty yards of the front of the house and stopped. Lights were on in two of the rooms. He made a quick mental adjustment about the time he’d have once he was in place.
He skirted the motion sensors and headed for the garage. It was adjacent to but separate from the house. No cameras here. No motion sensors either. He forced open the side door and stepped inside. The place smelled of motor oil and detergent. There were three cars parked inside a space which could easily accommodate twice that number. The first was a Mercedes 500 SLK, a smooth ride. Ty immediately discounted it. The second was Stafford’s. This just got better and better. But he wouldn’t be using that one either.
Next to Stafford’s vehicle squatted the up-armoured Hummer. It was black rather than the fire engine red he’d seen previously. With fresh paintwork. He guessed this had to be the one they’d used to try to clip Carrie with. She’d told him all about it on the drive over.
He dug out his cell and texted four letters to Carrie’s number: C-A-L-L. Then he climbed under the Hummer and set to work.
*
‘It’s that dumb bitch from NBC,’ said Stafford, holding up the phone for his father, who was already deep into his third Scotch on the rocks.
‘What does she want?’
‘Something about a breach of security at the naval yard site.’
Van Straten snatched the handset from his son’s grasp. ‘This is Nicholas Van Straten.’
‘Mr Van Straten, where are you?’
‘Why?’
‘Have the FBI spoken to you?’
‘No, why would they have?’
‘Because wherever you are, you have to leave there, immediately. There’s a grave threat to your life and that of your son.’
‘Ms Delaney, I can assure you that we’re quite safe where we are.’
‘Mr Van Straten, do you have a television in the room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then switch it on to NBC.’
Nicholas clicked his fingers towards the remote on the bed. Stafford picked it up and tossed it to his father, who caught it and thumbed down to the channel. The screen was split. On the right side was a mass of emergency response vehicles shot from a distance but recognizably parked near to the Meditech facility. On the left side of the screen was a static shot of the front gate of their house.
‘Mr Van Straten?’
‘I’m here.’
‘And Ryan Lock will be joining you shortly. I received a call from him an hour ago to say that he was on his way to speak with you. He sounded pretty angry—’
Carrie didn’t get to finish the sentence before Nicholas Van Straten hung up. Satisfied that she hadn’t told a single lie, she turned back to her cameraman. ‘OK, let’s get back to the naval yard.’
‘He won’t do an interview?’ asked her cameraman.
‘He’s not even there,’ she lied.
The guy shrugged and began hastily packing up his gear as Angel trotted back to them, covered in dirt and wagging her tail.
‘Slut,’ said Carrie, reaching over to open the rear door of the truck for her.
Ty tensed as the side door into the garage opened. A pair of boots made their way across to the Hummer. They stopped at the driver’s door, right next to where Ty’s head was. Ty could have reached out and touched them.
He waited for the boots to walk round to the other side and start the vehicle inspection. Or for the driver’s face to appear at his eye level so he could shove a gun in his face. Or for the mounted mirror to appear so he could grab it, drag the guy under and choke him out with the rag tucked into his shirt.
But none of this happened. Things had gotten sloppy real fast since he and Lock had been relieved of their duty. Or the driver was in one holy hell of a rush. Maybe both.
The Hummer chirped as the driver hit the clicker, disabling the alarm and unlocking all four doors. Ty watched as a boot lifted on to the running board, the door opened and the other boot followed. The driver’s door thunked shut.
Ty pushed back with his hands, crawling backwards, emerging just to the right of the Hummer’s tailgate. He unholstered the Glock, ready to go, and hunkered down, duck-walking the few steps round to the right rear passenger door. Hi
s next action called for one solid component: speed.
He reached up and gripped the handle, opened the door and flung himself inside. The interior of the Hummer was big enough that he could extend his arm without the driver being able to reach it.
He held the gun to the driver’s head. ‘You even breathe wrong, asshole, and you’re history.’
Seventy-four
Croft reached slowly under his shoulder and came up with his weapon, a Sig 226. He handed it, butt first, to Ty. Ty switched it with the Glock, jamming that into his holster as back-up.
‘Leave the keys in the ignition and step out of the vehicle.’ Once Croft had done that, Ty threw him a rag. ‘Put that in the big hole in the middle of your face and turn round.’
Croft caught the rag and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he turned round. Ty dug around in Croft’s pockets for the keys to the Mercedes, using them to open the trunk. He shoved Croft towards it. Croft got in, still at gunpoint.
‘Soon as I get some distance I’ll call the local PD and send someone to get you out.’
Ty slammed the trunk shut and got into the driver’s seat of the Hummer. He took the Glock back out of the holster and stowed it in the compartment between the front seats; the Sig he left on his lap. He then reached up, hit the button on the garage opener and drove out, closing the door again as soon as the Hummer was clear.
He swung the monster vehicle around in front of the house. The door opened and a guard appeared. That made sense. He’d been expecting a three-man team: one to drive, one to act as BG, and one to stay behind and act as residential security in case they had to come back in a hurry.
The guard was followed by Nicholas Van Straten. Then came Stafford. In the darkness and through tinted glass, Ty knew that none of them would be able to see him.
As per standard procedure, the guard opened the door and stepped back. Van Straten and Stafford were too busy talking to look in Ty’s direction. Plus the interior dome light had long since been disabled – standard procedure to mitigate against sniper attack. Nothing a shooter liked better than a nice big shaft of light to spotlight their target.
The Van Stratens took their seats. Stafford was yakking away like he was on speed. In the rear-view Ty could see his father doing his best to tune him out. Still neither man had looked at him. Staff were like so much background scenery to guys like them.
The guard closed the door and started round the vehicle to get into the front passenger seat. Ty clicked the button on the console to his left which locked all the doors and accelerated away, leaving the guard standing where the Hummer had been.
The gates were open, and he sped through. ‘Where to, gentlemen?’ he asked, swivelling round, and savouring their expression of shock. ‘Or I could stop somewhere quiet, pull the two of you out, make you kneel over a ditch and shoot you in the back of the head.’
Stafford spoke up. ‘Listen, Tyrone, if this is about my terminating your contract—’
‘Oh yeah, cos this is how I usually respond to being laid off.’
‘Turn this vehicle around immediately!’ said Stafford, his voice shrill and unconvincing.
One eye on the road, Ty took his right hand off the wheel and pointed the 226 at him. ‘Shut the hell up.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas Van Straten. ‘Shut the hell up, Stafford.’
Ty noticed Stafford’s hand sliding down to the door handle, about as casually as a fourteen-year-old trying to cop a handful in a darkened movie theatre. ‘It’s locked. But if you want to take your chances, at least wait until I hit the freeway.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll recognize it when we get there.’
Seventy-five
Josh stirred in his father’s arms as Mareta made the guard kneel on the floor with his face to the wall. In her right hand she held a Glock; in her left, two pieces of metal linked to the detonator, contact guaranteeing everyone’s death. Lock wanted the kid out of there, and here was his chance.
‘Hasn’t he seen enough killing?’ Lock asked her.
‘Then take him outside.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Richard.
‘Go on, then,’ Mareta said, as if the desire to spare a child from seeing cold-blooded murder was a clear sign of weakness.
Lock watched as Khalid escorted them both out. ‘Thank you.’
The guard facing the wall began to break down. ‘Please, don’t let her do this. I have a wife and kids.’
Mareta swiped at the back of his head with the Glock, leaving a gash across the top of his skull. ‘Then why do you take this job?’
‘Five minutes. Give him another five minutes, Mareta,’ said Lock.
‘Then at the end of those five minutes, you ask for another five. I know these games.’
That was something Lock hoped Frisk and the rest of the JTTF were also factoring in. Most terrorists didn’t survive their first siege; Mareta attended them with about the same frequency that newly married women out on Long Island attended baby showers. By now she must know the hostage negotiator’s playbook better than they did.
‘How’s your leg?’ Lock asked, hoping to distract her.
‘Wonderful.’
She checked the screens. More vehicles massing outside the perimeter. Most of them clustered either side of the gate.
‘No sign of your friend,’ she said.
‘He’ll be here.’
Mareta lowered the gun. ‘OK, have your five minutes. But after that, it’s half an hour until I kill the next one.’
‘You said every hour.’
Mareta sighed. ‘We negotiate. I give you something, you give me something back in return. That’s how it works, no?’
Seventy-six
Twenty miles short of the naval yard, the empty tank light on the Hummer’s console pinged on. Ty groaned. The fuel consumption on a Hummer wasn’t great at the best of times, but throw on close to a ton of B-7 armour and it practically required its own oil field.
‘Problem?’ asked Stafford from the back seat.
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Ty responded with a grimace.
Three miles down the road, he found a gas station. His plan was simple. Threaten the living shit out of his cargo. Get fifty bucks of gas. Throw a Lincoln through the slot and get back on the road.
Ty pulled in and swivelled round. ‘I’ll be gone less than two minutes. You’ll be in my sight the whole time. If I see you move in any way, shape or form that makes me uncomfortable, I’ll kill you faster than David Duke at a Nation of Islam cookout.’
He turned off the ignition, took the keys with him, got out and locked up. He then grabbed the nozzle and jammed it into the gas tank. His eyes flitted between the dollars and cents ticking over on the display and the doors of the Hummer. He stared at the point where Stafford and Van Straten would be. He couldn’t see a damn through the tint, but he didn’t want them to think that.
These days when he bought gas, the numbers flicked past like a slot machine, but this pump seemed near glacial. Fifty dollars up, he placed the nozzle back in the pump, closed the flap and went to pay, looking back at the Hummer every few yards.
He pushed the money through the tray in the bandit screen and jogged back.
As he went to open the driver’s door, he remembered. Damn. The Glock. He’d left it in the front compartment.
He glanced back. The gas attendant, a young Hispanic kid in his early twenties, was perched on a stool watching whatever crap they threw on TV at this hour.
Ty drew his own weapon, yanked open the door and stepped back behind it, bracing himself for the first flash of movement.
Nothing.
From the angle he was at he could see only Nicholas Van Straten’s shoulder. But Pops wasn’t the one he was worried about.
‘Step out of the car. One at a time. You first, Stafford.’
‘Stay in the car. Get out of the car. Which one is it?’
‘Be quiet, Stafford,’ Ty hear
d Van Straten mumble.
‘Could you at least open the door, then?’ Stafford asked, tetchily.
Ty slammed shut the driver’s door, moved up the side of the vehicle, reached over and opened the passenger door, making sure to keep the armoured plate between him and Stafford. Stafford stepped out, hands held high in the air.
Ty glanced over his shoulder to see the gas attendant staring at them, no doubt trying to work out what kind of special-needs criminal brings his victims to a gas station to rob them.
Nothing else for Ty to do now but get on with it. He patted Stafford down. Clean.
‘OK, now you.’
Nicholas Van Straten stepped out and Ty repeated the procedure. Nothing on him either.
‘Stay there,’ he told them.
Clambering into the front seat, he opened the compartment. The gun was gone. He stepped back to see Stafford waving frantically to the attendant, miming someone making a phone call.
‘OK, where is it?’ he asked Stafford.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Stafford was doing exactly what Ty would have done in this situation. Stall. The gas attendant was already on the phone, one eye on what was unfolding outside, spitting his words out as fast as he could into the handset.
Stafford must have known that Ty had some purpose for them. Otherwise he would have killed them both at the house. Or pulled off the road back in Shinnecock Bay and done it.
‘I don’t need both of you,’ Ty said. ‘So who’s it to be?’
‘I think if you took a vote, it would end in stalemate,’ Nicholas Van Straten said drily.
‘Hmm,’ Ty said, mulling it over. ‘Guess that leaves me the casting vote then.’
He levelled the gun at Nicholas Van Straten’s head.
‘Go ahead,’ said Stafford.
‘It’s tucked into the back seat,’ Nicholas said.
‘So much for family unity,’ Ty said, reaching back into the vehicle and securing the weapon.
He hustled them back inside the Hummer, just as the police cruiser pulled in.
