There was more speed in it than force, and Ben assumed there wasn’t enough force to kill the man. All the same, the impact knocked the giant of a man out cold.
Ben didn’t wait to check on him. That was what all the doctors were there for. Instead, he bent down, picked up the handgun, a Glock 19, opened the door, and stepped into a large hallway.
He had escaped his captors into what appeared to be a large medical center. Ben knew there was more to come and that he had to move fast.
A doctor quickly aroused Devereaux.
Devereaux called after Ben. “Mr. Gellie!”
Ben turned for a split second – just to make sure the guy didn’t have a second weapon. Devereaux didn’t. Otherwise he would have drawn it. Ben didn’t say anything, he turned to run.
Behind him, he heard Devereaux shout, “They won’t let you leave this building alive.”
Chapter Two
Gripping the handle of the Glock, Ben moved at a fast run down the corridor.
There was no way he was going to make it out of a secure medical building without some kind of leverage. And right now, all he could think of was a hostage. Devereaux had made it clear that normal judicial procedures didn’t apply, and Ben didn’t want to go to whatever that place where suspected terrorists “disappeared”.
He hit the end of the hallway and turned the corner, his boots squeaking on the tile.
Two men stepped out of an office door.
They were both dressed in civilian clothes, jeans, polo shirts, and North Face insulated jackets, but they carried themselves like military men.
One of the civilians was shorter than Ben, about six feet. The other one was a real monster, even bigger than Devereaux, about six feet four, if he had to guess, and a wall of pure muscle.
“Put the gun down!” someone shouted from behind.
“Stop that man!” called Devereaux’s voice.
Ben dashed forward and grabbed the shorter of the two men by the neck. The man was fast, but not fast enough. His hands came up uselessly to try to block, well after Ben’s fingers had found the side of the man’s neck.
Nobody was faster than Ben, especially when he was keyed up on adrenaline like this. Soon, that adrenaline would ebb and recede, but right now, he would use it to extract every ounce of speed and strength from his system.
He pulled the man backward, knocking him off-balance and kicking him on the back of the knees as he went down. Ben turned in toward the falling man, caught him against his chest, looped an elbow around the man’s neck, and then pressed his nice new Glock 19 into the side of the man’s face.
It felt like the people around him were moving in slow motion.
He had another split-second before anyone else could do anything, so he put his back toward the wall, dragging his hostage with him. The big guy had turned toward him with the dumbfounded expression of a person who couldn’t believe his bad luck.
Devereaux and another man in a cheap black suit had caught up with them. The other man had his handgun out, a Glock 19 to match the one that Ben had pressed against his hostage’s face.
Ben shouted, “Everyone back away, or this man dies!”
“We’re not looking for trouble,” his hostage said.
“Yeah, neither was I. Hell, all I was just trying to do was the right thing, and now look at me.”
The hostage remained silent.
Ben motioned toward the door. “Anyone in that room?”
“Yes,” the man replied, mechanically. “One person. Female.”
“Can the room be secured?”
The hostage paused, as though he was taking the question seriously. “Sure.”
“Good.”
He opened the door and pushed hard, kicking the hostage’s knees out from under him. The man landed inside the office on his hands, before quickly righting himself and standing up.
A woman with stark red hair and striking emerald green eyes stared at him with dismay. “What is the meaning of this?”
Ben didn’t have time for niceties. He said, “Out!”
Her eyes grew wide with incredulity. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No,” Ben replied, firing a single warning shot at her desk. “And I don’t care. Get out of here, or this man dies!”
The woman scowled. She straightened her suit and headed toward the door.
Her eyes met his hostage.
“Don’t worry, he’ll never make it out of the building alive,” she said defiantly, as she stepped out through the door.
Ben latched the door behind her.
It appeared to be an ornamental door, made out of rich mahogany, but had two linings of lead, designed to interfere with listening devices, preventing eavesdropping. The metal latch was solid. It would be impossible to kick in, and it would take time for the marines stationed nearby to retrieve a battering ram.
It was clear that he was in a bigwig’s office. It had a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table off to the side as well as a desk and a computer and a phone. The carpet was a deep, royal blue and the desk looked like actual mahogany. One wall was lined with bookcases filled with books and hardbound document folders.
A mini-fridge in the corner caught his eye.
When was the last time he’d had anything to drink?
There wasn’t a lot of time to get out of the building. “Where am I?”
His hostage replied, “This is the Secretary’s office.”
“What building?”
The stranger squinted through piercing blue eyes, surprise creeping in at his attacker’s obvious confusion. “The Pentagon.”
“The Pentagon!” Ben’s eyes flashed anger. “What the hell am I doing at the Pentagon?”
His prisoner shrugged as though the question had nothing to do with him. “I have no idea.”
Ben looked around the room, searching for a way out. He wore an expression of mulish obstinacy. His focus was shifting fractionally in and out, his brows rising and falling a little, the shape of his mouth always changing, as if he was constantly thinking. As if there was a computer behind his eyes, running at full speed.
“I need to get out of here!”
“That might be difficult,” his hostage pointed out pragmatically. “We’re near the center of the Pentagon. Already, there must be a dozen soldiers swarming toward this office. The building’s going to be on lockdown. No one’s getting in or out.”
Ben smiled sardonically. “Then we’d better move quickly. Because if I die, you die.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Let’s both try and get out of here alive.”
“That sounds good to me,” Ben replied.
Ben held his breath, still trying to determine his next move.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” the hostage asked, his voice calm, almost insouciant.
It was the man with the Glock pressed against his face, asking as if he had all the time in the world to sort this out – he was just curious.
Ben knew the guy was just trying to defuse the situation, but he chose to take it as an actual question.
Maybe somebody would care.
“I came in to donate blood for a buddy who had been in a motorcycle accident, and now I’m a terrorist, apparently. They needed to do some ‘tests’ and all of a sudden I’m knocked out and shipped to the Pentagon. I asked for a lawyer, and they laughed at me and told me terrorists don’t have rights.”
Ben snapped his eyes back onto his hostage. The pawn he’d just captured was staring at him, looking him up and down. Finally, his gaze fastened onto Ben’s eyes.
It felt like an intrusion. Ben gritted his teeth. “Don’t get any ideas about being a hero.”
“Okay.”
“I have fast reflexes. Always have. And I have the gun. So just don’t.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t actually want to have to kill anyone. I’m sorry I dragged you into this, and I promise to do my best to make sure we both
make it out of this unhurt. I’m not a terrorist. I was born less than five miles from here, and I’ve lived here my entire life. But if you try to screw me over, I’ll kill you without a second thought.”
“Okay.”
A loud, dull WHACK of a battering ram reverberated through the reinforced door.
Ben screamed, “Do that again I’ll shoot your friend in the goddamned head.”
His captive remained silent.
Ben said, “You best believe I mean it.”
The man shrugged. “I believe you.”
The banging stopped.
He and the hostage turned toward each other again. Ben took a moment to look the guy over a little more thoroughly. He had brown, wavy hair in a short haircut that made the guy come across as a slightly modernized Christopher Reeve. Handsome, blue eyes, wry grin. He seemed almost unnaturally calm.
Ben’s mind was racing, trying to think of the next thing. The next step. The phone started ringing, and he was tempted to rip the cord out and toss it. Just what he didn’t need but had to expect.
“I need to get out of here,” he said, trying to focus himself despite the noise.
His hostage said, “Okay.”
“Okay, what?” Ben asked. It seemed like that was the only answer the guy would give unless he was asked a direct question.
“Okay…you have the gun, and you have it pointed at my chest.” The man still spoke calmly. His speech was at a normal speed or maybe a little slower, just to be clear. His face hadn’t turned red with a raised blood pressure, and he didn’t look like he was even breathing faster.
Damn, the man could fake being calm.
The hostage said, “I was about to go on vacation, and now my life is in your hands.”
“Nothing but bad luck,” Ben said.
The stranger flashed him a wry, one-sided smile.
“I’m sorry you were at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Ben added. “Twenty-four hours ago, a friend of mine was in a serious motorcycle accident.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Yeah. The docs said that the hospital’s supply of his blood type was dangerously low. They thought they had enough, but then they gave me that puppy-dog look, you know, and I thought, hell, why not? I told him I would do anything I could to help. I expected to get dumped in a recliner with a magazine for ten minutes, then handed a glass of OJ and a donut.”
“Sure.”
“No. They took a sample of blood, walked off with it, and ten minutes later they were back for another sample of blood. That was not the total amount they needed, either. Just for ‘tests.’ I ask what’s going on, and they tell me they’re running a special test on my blood to make sure it won’t harm the person who receives it. Okay, I’ve never had that happen before, but fine – hospitals are always coming up with new ways to make life more difficult, right?”
The hostage nodded.
“This goes on for a while. More samples, more tests. Finally, I tell them that I’m done with it. I’m on my way out the door, ready or not. And not only do they try to stop me from going, but this cute blonde doc who’s been smiling and flirting with me the whole time sticks something in my shoulder to knock me out. Nobody will answer my questions, but they’re not talking about me being a terrorist, either.”
“Go on.”
“Then I wake up in another room, my wrists strapped to the arms of a chair while they take more blood samples. As if the first set of docs hadn’t taken enough. Fifteen minutes after I wake up, the big agent out in the hall tells me that I’m a terrorist, I have no rights, and by the way, my parents were terrorists, too, and my entire life is a lie constructed by my foster parents.”
Meanwhile, something in the back of Ben’s head had finally processed the situation. He was in the Pentagon, which was across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. proper. The entire area was a mishmash of nose-to-tail traffic. Trying to boost a car, or even a tank wasn’t going to get him very far before he was bogged down. And the Potomac wasn’t the kind of river on which you could just wave down a water taxi.
The answer to escaping was going to have to involve getting into the air. The Pentagon didn’t have a runway – he knew that much – they flew in and out on helicopters.
But a helicopter wasn’t going to take him as far as he needed to go.
If they were going to treat him like a terrorist, then he needed to get out of the country – fast. He had a passport at home, but that was the last place that he dared go at the moment. He’d have to hijack a plane up to Canada probably. And his best bet on that was to leverage his hostage into a helicopter ride from the Pentagon to Ronald Reagan Airport and to take a small jet or a plane straight north to Canada.
How angry would the Canadians be at him? Probably pretty angry. And they’d probably extradite him as soon as look at him. But it would be one more barrier between him and being thrown away forever in some hellhole prison.
Problem: he had no idea how to fly.
Solution: include that in the requirements he delivered during hostage negotiations.
Problem: he didn’t want to hurt anyone.
Solution: get the hostage over on his side.
Even though his hostage clearly had the mien of a military man, he wasn’t dressed for it. His skin was tanned, and he wore jeans and a white, unbranded polo shirt, with a pair of sunglasses hooked over the collar of his shirt. He looked far more the image of a “wealthy playboy” than anything even remotely military.
“Do you work here?” Ben asked.
“No.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here? They don’t let tourists tie up senior officials.”
“I came to talk to a friend of mine.”
“Yeah, who’s she? Some bird you’re dating?”
Another dry half-smile. “No. Her name’s Margaret, and she’s the Secretary of Defense.”
Ben cursed. “Just what the hell have I gotten myself into? Couldn’t you have been just some random businessman’s son, here to bribe officials and play golf?”
“I don’t play golf that often,” the man admitted. “I’d just like to get back to my vacation, to be honest. I really don’t care what you’ve done or not done. If it were up to me, I’d just let you go about your business and bid you good day.”
“I’d just as soon go about my business, too,” Ben said. “Unfortunately, that’s not how this is going to work for either of us.”
“Okay.”
“Where are we, relative to the helicopter pads?” he asked.
The hostage raised an eyebrow.
“Look,” Ben said. “I’ve never been here before, and I need to get out. You’ve been here before. I have no doubt about it. I’m a desperate man. Desperate men take desperate risks…like answering that damn phone and making demands for a helicopter and a pilot.”
“I have a question for you.”
Great, here it comes. The inevitable heroic speech. It was going to come straight out of some action movie – he had no doubt.
“Save it,” Ben said. “I’m not interested in heroics. The fact is, if I don’t escape, you’re going to die.”
The hostage ignored him and said, “Are you planning on bombing anything or anyone?”
“What? No! Of course not!” Ben was surprised and disgusted by the question. “I’m not a terrorist. Just desperate. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I’m threatening you to keep you from trying to screw me over. If I could toss the Glock and walk out of here and just go back to my life, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Reilly’s jaw clenched for a second. Then he grinned. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“I’ll get you out of the building.”
Not I’ll help you, or I’ll cooperate, don’t shoot, but he was going to get Ben out of the building. All right then.
Ben started to say something sarcastic, but his throat had tightened up. He actually felt like believing the guy.
“Thank you,” he said in
a half-croak. “My name’s Ben Gellie. If we survive this and I get to clear my name, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I’d like that,” the hostage replied.
“Me too,” Ben said. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Sam Reilly.”
“What were you doing here?”
“To be honest, I was just about to go on a much overdue vacation.”
Chapter Three
The Secretary of Defense was fuming at being expelled from her own office by a terrorist. Immediately, she started barking orders and taking command of the siege. Tom Bower stood to the side and let her rant.
The Secretary cursed and then, turning to the several soldiers who were already taking up defensive positions around her office, said, “Can someone please tell me how we let someone walk into the Pentagon with a Glock for God’s sake?”
A large man with a shaved head in a dark suit answered. “I can, ma’am.”
The Secretary leveled her eyes at him. “And you are?”
“Ryan Devereaux, FBI.”
“What do you know, Devereaux?” she asked.
“His name is Ben Gellie,” Devereaux said. “He was brought in for questioning about an hour ago regarding a case spanning more than forty years.”
She raised her eyebrows. “He was being interrogated on a case that happened when he was just a child?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Should I know about this case?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. It should have been a series of routine questions, but he freaked out and escaped.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to tell me how he ended up with a loaded handgun in my office?”
Despite his size, Devereaux shrank into the background, becoming diminutive, as though he didn’t want to be seen. His confident voice softened, and he raised the palms of his hands in a gesture of apology. “I’m afraid that’s my service issued weapon, ma’am.”
Her face was unreadable. It was carved out of necessity. She wasn’t making any further decisions on the cause of the incident. Instead, she’d filed those away to be dealt with later and was now focused on the task at hand.
The Holy Grail (Sam Reilly Book 13) Page 3
