by Ben Coes
“Are they still throwing people out of the building?”
“Every hour.”
Dewey swallowed, momentarily silent. In the dim light, he glanced at Katie.
“Have they…”
“There have only been two females,” said Igor, anticipating Dewey’s question. “One was Middle Eastern, the other was Japanese or Korean.”
Dewey felt guilty for even asking, and even guiltier for the peace of mind that washed over him when he realized Daisy was still alive.
“What is the news saying?” asked Dewey. “Are we negotiating?”
“They don’t know. They’re speculating that some sort of negotiation is going on, but they don’t know.”
“We need to know,” said Katie.
“I know someone who will know,” said Dewey. “Igor, patch in the following number.”
Dewey read off Dellenbaugh’s cell number.
“Will do. Hold on.”
A few seconds later, Dellenbaugh’s calm, deep voice came over commo.
“Hi, Dewey.”
“Mr. President,” said Dewey, “we’re inside the building and preparing to move. I’m on commo with a few other people. Before we go in, can you give us a status on what’s happening? Are we negotiating?”
“Yes, but it’s going nowhere. We’re trying to get them to stop the killing before we’ll discuss terms. It’s not working. They won’t stop throwing people until the shipment arrives.”
“What’s the ask?”
“ISIS gets the weapons, the students go free. The problem is, those weapons will kill a lot more than five hundred Americans if the shipment is delivered. The bigger problem is that Nazir is a pathological liar. Doing any deal requires him to keep his word. If these guys are suicide bombers, they’ll wait for the shipment to arrive, then blow up themselves and the building.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck.”
Dewey tapped his ear. He looked at Smith.
“Should we check in with your guys?”
“Good idea. Igor, can you patch me into McNaughton?”
“Sure.”
A few moments later, Dave McNaughton from the FBI came on.
Smith tapped his ear. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Are you in?”
“Yes. You’re on a party line. We made it into the basement and are getting ready to move. Is there anything we need to know?”
“We managed to place a jamming device up high,” said McNaughton. “It was Robbins. They shot him, but he managed to set it before that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Smith.
Dewey spoke up. “Getting that jammer up high was critical. Their interoperability is now shut off, not to mention being able to communicate with Nazir.”
“I think now is the time to start pre-positioning for the different scenarios our assault is going to create,” said Smith. “Hopefully, we’re successful, but you’ll need munitions people before you can even get to anyone upstairs. After that, it’s medical.”
“Already on it,” said McNaughton.
“I figured,” said Smith. “Now, if we aren’t successful, it’s because of one of two things. Either they stopped us and held the building, in which case I believe you’ll have to look at one of your assault scenarios. I’m not sure which one, but getting half these kids out of there is better than none. If somehow they manage to detonate all or part of the building, well, we don’t need to talk about that one. You know what to do.”
“It won’t be that one,” said McNaughton. “Good luck in there.”
Tacoma stood up. On the floor was a neatly lined-up array of submachine guns, handguns, and a variety of more firearms, as well as knives and piles of mags.
“We need to move right now,” he said.
* * *
Tariq entered the tenth floor and fired an unmuted shot into the wall. Except for a few grief-filled moans and cries, the gunfire no longer caused the pandemonium it once had.
“Everyone on the right side of the dorm,” he barked, “up to eleven. Now!”
He looked into a room on his right, realizing that, depending on which direction he was walking, either side could be the right-hand side of the building.
“That’s everyone in here!” he shouted, firing a round into the ceiling.
“What about those of us in the window?” asked someone who was shielding the room from snipers.
Tariq suddenly remembered: Sirhan had told him to push another one out. He was quietly grateful to the student who reminded him.
“Good question.” Tariq moved behind the boy who had asked the question, pumping a round next to his head, which shattered the glass. “If you’re in the window, remain standing in the window.”
Tariq pushed the boy out. He tumbled forward, screaming as he fell.
Two students were running toward him. Both were male. One was tall, with long, curly blond hair. The other was shorter and stockier.
Tariq triggered the gun just as they leapt, aiming at the short boy, who was closer, at the same time lurching to his right, away from the tall one, whom he knew he would not have time to hit. Then a set of arms grabbed him from behind, just as his first shots ripped the short student’s chest and sent him spiraling to the floor amid screaming and confusion.
The tall one reached Tariq just as the muzzle crossed the last inches of air, then was ripped upward, out of his hands, by another student.
They beat Tariq as rabid screams came from their mouths, which mixed with the high-pitched, metallic, bee-sting noise of an Uzi, firing from the door, and they all looked, including Tariq, bleeding and trapped.
It was Meuse. He held two guns, a rifle, aimed at the door in case anyone dared to enter, the other an Uzi, which he fired with calm efficiency at the students surrounding Tariq and then along the walls. He looked at the windows, where four students still stood. He swept the submachine gun across them. All four fell out, their horrible screams mixed with the sound of breaking glass. Then they hit the ground and the screams ceased.
Meuse went to Tariq, whose nose and mouth were bleeding.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand.
* * *
Dewey climbed the stairs from the subbasement to the basement, entering a low-ceilinged, brightly lit corridor.
“Hold on,” said Igor over commo. “Looks like there’s movement.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dewey.
“They’re moving students from ten to eleven.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Dewey stopped and removed a black Sharpie from his pants pocket. He looked around at everyone, then started writing on his forearm.
“Let’s have the terrorists again, Igor, by floor.”
“One on the first floor, one on six, two on ten, and now it looks like two on eleven. One on twelve.”
As Igor dictated, Dewey wrote down a sequence of numbers: 11, 61, 102, 112, 121. Each number showed the floor where the terrorists were and the number of terrorists on that floor.
He handed the pen around. Tacoma, Smith, and Katie all wrote down the same numbers.
“Igor, if that changes—”
“I’ll let you know if any of them move. Don’t forget the four students down the hall.”
“Thanks.”
Dewey shook his head, not knowing what to do. If they released them, they would have to stay put. People could be very irrational, especially teenagers, and especially terrified teenagers.
“What would we do with them?” asked Tacoma.
Dewey thought for several seconds. He looked at Smith.
“If we get the bomb down, your guys can get in there, right?”
“Yeah.”
Dewey looked at Tacoma.
“I have an idea.”
* * *
Dewey moved down the basement corridor toward the door. The students were behind it.
The stench of urine was strong, even through the door.
> He opened it. The students were chained across the room from the far door, which led into a tunnel that connected to the next building. There were three girls and a boy. One of the girls looked okay, if tired. The boy looked unconscious, as did one of the other girls. The last girl, Chinese, was sobbing. They were all standing. They had to, otherwise they would all be strangled by the chain that gripped their necks. The floor was covered in wetness from urine. There was also blood. Studying the students, he saw that the calm-looking girl had tried to pull her head through the chain. Her neck was cut almost completely around. Blood still trickled.
The ones who were awake did not even register Dewey’s entrance, so deep was their shock and trauma.
He moved to the door and studied the shoe box. It was set lengthwise, parallel to the door. If the detonator was a trigger button, Dewey assumed it was on the bottom of the device, designed to detonate if the box fell. Dewey held the box firm to the door and removed his combat blade, inserting the tip into the seam and slashing down, tearing a neat cut along one side of the bomb.
“No!” screamed one of the students.
It was a horrendous yell, full of terror.
“I’m here to save you,” said Dewey. “You’ve all been extremely brave. It’s going to be okay.”
He slashed the blade along the other side of the IED. Holding the device gently, he moved the blade to his mouth and clenched it in his teeth as he lifted the IED and moved it away.
Dewey flipped open the three dead bolts, then pulled the door in. The chain slackened. All four students collapsed to the floor.
“Please help us,” said the calm one.
The boy woke up, as did the sleeping female.
“Who are you?” said the male student.
The sobbing girl, who’d just screamed, continued to wail and sob.
“I’m American,” said Dewey. “You’re being rescued. The FBI will be here to cut that chain in a few minutes. Can you hold on just a little longer?”
Dewey moved past them, down the corridor, shutting the interior door behind him in case any of the students screamed. At the end of the hallway, he opened a door. It was a janitor’s closet. He placed the bomb gingerly at the bottom of a large utility sink, making a mental note to make McNaughton aware of it.
Dewey hit his earbud.
“Igor, patch in McNaughton.”
Katie, Tacoma, and Smith were waiting at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the first floor.
“McNaughton. What do you got?”
“The basement bomb is down,” Dewey said. “Those kids are a mess. Commander, the bomb is down the hallway, in a utility closet, trigger down. Looks like a shoe box. Careful.”
“How soon until I can get them out?”
“As long as your guys go in and recon the four, immediately. But they need to be quick, quiet, and they can’t hang around. I don’t want any men trying to come in beyond there. Even the slightest noise echoing up those stairs could lead to more casualties.”
“Understood.”
“Of course, as soon as we’re clear upstairs, that can be the primary egress for your munitions people and first responders.”
* * *
Dewey studied his arm again: 11, 61, 102, 112, 121.
Designing an effective assault was a challenge. Ideally, they would all move at the same time, in unison, on different floors. But the terrorists were too spread out to do that. This meant that if the terrorists had some form of internal communications, anything—a grunt, a scream, even the mere absence of one of the men from their commo—would tell everyone else they were there.
Dewey hit commo. “Igor, is that guy still on one?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, listen up.”
He gestured for Tacoma, Katie, and Smith to come in closer. He trained a light on his forearm: 11, 61, 102, 112, 121.
“Our only way up is the elevator shafts. We can do it from this floor, and try to avoid the guy on one, but I think that’s risky. If he hears anything, we’re screwed. Besides, I kinda want to kill him.”
“Me too,” said Smith.
“The problem is, even though we jammed their walkie-talkies and cells, they probably have some sort of periodic check-in. A yell up the stairs or something. Once we kill this guy, we’re in a race against time. Which means we climb hard and fast, got it?”
“Yeah,” said Tacoma. “What about up top? Who hits what?”
“We climb to seven and move in,” said Dewey. “Except Katie. You get off on six and take that guy. Then meet us on seven. Igor, we’re going to need real precise movements here.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Why not hit him from seven?” asked Tacoma.
“If he hears anything, he’s going to go to the sound. I’d rather have him run down the sixth-floor hallway than up to seven. He’s likely to yell if he does that.”
“Got it. I agree.”
“I’ll take the stairs to one and take that guy,” said Dewey, signaling and walking down the corridor, giving the design over commo. “You guys follow me up.”
“Yeah, got it.”
“We do a commo check to make sure we’re all in position. Nobody moves until I give the go. No one. Let’s go.”
Dewey felt a surge of adrenaline in his arms, then all over. He pulled his Colt M1911A1 from his shoulder holster, a black suppressor jutting ominously from the end.
“Igor, you ready?”
“Yes, I’m good.”
* * *
At the entrance to the stairs, Dewey glanced at the others, then pulled the door open and stepped in total silence up the concrete steps. He rounded the landing and kept climbing.
“Where is he?” Dewey whispered.
He reached the top of the stairs. The door to the first floor was directly in front of him. He stepped lightly to it, trying not to make any sound.
“Directly in front of the door,” whispered Igor. “Be very quiet. You are only a few inches away.”
The doorknob was on the left-hand side of the door. He would need to open the door with his right hand and fire with his off hand.
Slowly, he moved the gun to his left hand and reached for the doorknob. Carefully, quietly, he turned the knob as far as it would go.
“His head moved a little,” whispered Igor. “He may have heard something.”
Dewey raised the suppressed .45 and trained it on the seam of the closed door. He pulled the door slowly open, every inch taking endless moments, his heart racing, until he had the first glimpse of the black hair on the back of his skull, then his entire frame, until at last the door was fully open and the terrorist was standing in front of him, back turned, a submachine gun in his hands. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. He had black hair down to his shoulders. Dewey trained the gun at the man’s head and moved it closer until it was less than an inch away. The suppressor tremored just a bit, as if blown by a peaceful wind. He felt the ceramic trigger against his finger as he pulled it back …
A scream from somewhere up above. Arabic. A signal. The check-in?
The terrorist looked at his watch.
Dewey’s mind raced. The terrorist had heard the call, but the door had been open. His ears would’ve sensed it. He had to know the door was open.
Can he see me? Did he turn enough to catch a glimpse?
Yet Dewey didn’t shoot. He needed the man to give the signal back. Otherwise …
Instinct.
The gunman sensed something.
It happens now.
“Dewey,” said Igor, so softly Dewey thought his mind was playing tricks.
The terrorist wheeled around, murder in his eyes. He found Dewey.
Instinct, fear, hatred—they all disappeared in that fraction of a second. It came back then, the moment he’d grown to know so well, a crucible in time, a passage that, once made, one could never return. Dewey felt himself transported to the place of his innermost desire, a primal state. Timeless, ageless, a place without borders. It wa
s the place of the hunter, the assassin, the soldier.
He fired the Colt—three quick taps—three telltale thwacks from the suppressor. The first bullet struck the terrorist in the center of his neck, the throat, the larynx. The second went straight through his mouth, blowing out the back of his skull. The third ripped into his left eye. He tumbled awkwardly, silently, falling in the path of the blood and skull that rained a crimson shadow across the lobby floor.
Dewey paused, catching his breath.
“One down,” he whispered.
Smith, Tacoma, and Katie moved silently to the first-floor landing. Katie stepped toward the stairs. She removed a small flashlight and aimed it up. A massive web of thin wire covered the entire flight of stairs. Set on top of the web near the centermost point was an IED. Any movement—any movement—of the wires and the bomb would fall and detonate.
“That’s a lot of Semtex,” she said matter-of-factly.
She leaned into the middle of the stairwell and peered up, aiming the light. She removed a powerful night optic to get a better view. She counted two more flights with banisters wrapped in wire.
“That’s enough Semtex to take out half the floor,” said Katie. “Not to mention what would happen to the ones above it after the first explodes. This side of the building would collapse.”
Dewey glanced at the bomb. He understood even more clearly that the terrorists had no intention of leaving the building—or letting the students live. Every exit point was gone; the elevators were destroyed; both stairwells were wired with enough Semtex to take down half the building—and likely trip the IEDs on the other side of the building as well.
But Dewey didn’t say anything.
They cut across the lobby, past several dead bodies. Tacoma pried open the first elevator door. He pulled a portable electric screwdriver from his jacket and reached up, as did Dewey a moment later. They removed the top panel of the elevator car, handing it to Smith, who put it in the hallway. A small steel door was visible at the roof of the elevator. Tacoma reached up and pushed it open. Beyond was pitch-black.
Tacoma turned, pointing at his eyes, indicating they would need night optics.
Dewey took climbing gloves and night optics from the duffel and handed them out. He looked down at his forearm. He pulled out the Sharpie and crossed off the first number:
