The terrorist stood and raised his weapon. “I said no.”
Kelly felt her ears redden and started to stand anyway, thinking she could appeal to the young man’s sense of propriety. Jerry raised his head, glaring at the man, and she had second thoughts. If the situation accelerated, he’d be the first one to swell up at the guard. She didn’t need that.
“Fine. Guys, move a little so I can unfold my legs. Give me some room. It’s all right, Mr. Beck.”
“No talking!” Shorty stalked halfway across the courtroom. He moved like a weight lifter. “I said no talking!”
Jerry tensed. The kids rustled, recoiling from the angry young man looming over them. Kelly had to do as ordered to keep the students safe.
Matt’s legendary stubbornness rose. “I need to go.”
“We’ll go pretty soon, baby.”
“No, I need to go.”
She understood. “Oh.”
Shorty stepped closer and noticed Matt’s shoes were on the wrong feet. “Are you stupid or something? What is he doing?”
“No. He’s smart as a whip.” Kelly clamped her jaw to regain control. “Listen, he needs to use the restroom.”
“No one is leaving this room. You, pee your pants.”
The annoying ringtone again cut through the tension and vibrated against the metal trashcan. In a rage, the terrorist rushed across the courtroom and swept the can full of phones to the floor. He crushed them underfoot like ants, stomping with hysterical gyrations. Plastic shards flew across the polished floor as his fury increased, then he found the right one and the music ended.
With a grunt, Shorty kicked an undamaged phone that skittered across the floor and stomped back to his position at the rear wall. He squatted, facing the judge’s elevated bench, and stared at Kelly with an expression that made her shiver.
Matt’s face twisted at the outburst. She pulled his head against her shoulder to whisper in his ear. “Don’t think about it. Hold it as long as you can. If you have to, let go, it’ll be all right.”
“No, it won’t.”
She watched Jerry, praying he wouldn’t do anything, and wondered where her husband was.
Chapter 40
A steady stream of anxious and frightened parents trickled into the Posada’s lobby.
Instead of being underfoot in the Command Center, as the banquet room was now called, Herman chose to stay in the lobby with the people he’d known for years. He and Gabe took positions near the roaring fireplace, doing their best to calm the more hysterical moms and dads.
Herman’s soft, steady voice worked, at least for a while. “Cool your jets. The sheriff is doing what he can. You have to let ’em figure this out.”
Tall and slender, Dale Perkins, who ran the Conoco, held onto his short wife like an anchor. “So what is it they’re doing?”
“I don’t know for sure, but they have a plan, you can be sure of that.”
“I need to know more than that. What’s their process?”
Herman held back a growl. He hated people’s demands for information. In his past experience, people didn’t need to know everything. “What difference does it make? Just give ’em room.”
“We heard those people have machine guns.”
“That’s what I heard, too.” Herman gave them the rundown, omitting some details because he didn’t think Ethan wanted them discussed.
Blair Rogers was white with either fear or fury. A move-in, Blair had arrived in Ballard ten years earlier and opened an art gallery. He had a son inside the courthouse. “They need to go on in there and get my boy out.”
“I know, but you can’t just walk up to the door. This is a nervous situation, and it’s gonna take those boys in there some time to figure it out. They won’t go in right now, because it’s not an active shooting situation. That’s good. Hostage situations give us time.”
Herman stopped when the side door off the Posada’s plaza slammed open. Two men bulled through like linemen taking the field in the state playoffs. Shaking snow from their worn gimme caps and coats, the Mayo brothers scanned the crowd. Seeing Herman standing inside a semicircle of worried parents, they came straight over.
The ring parted as they pushed through. Luke unzipped his Carhartt coat. “Who’s running this outfit?” The look in the thirty-five-year-old rancher’s eyes said he was sober as a judge.
One year younger, Danny shared his features, tousled hair, solid noses, laugh lines, and thick cowboy mustaches. “Tell us what to do, Herman.”
“Guys, I’m not in charge. We’re just here to support them.” Herman twisted in place toward the Command Center.
“Well, hell, Herman. You know more’n the rest of these city people. Let us help.”
Dolores Hernandez, the owner of the Chat ’N Chew café, pushed through the patio doors with a pasteboard box full of coffee cups, creamer, and sugar. The generations-old Southern tradition of bringing food to any tragedy was ingrained in every Ballard resident.
Behind her, three café regulars hauled containers of hot coffee. She pointed to the Posada’s registration counter for one of the tall containers. “Put that right there and plug it in.” She continued on to the command center with the rest following like baby ducks.
Rogers ignored her and faced the Mayo brothers. “They’re just talking in there, but we don’t need some cowboys to start ordering people around.”
Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Buddy, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, so I ’magine the safest thing for you is to not get in our business. You need to back out and let these guys do their job.”
Herman held up a hand. “Easy boys, we don’t need to go fighting among ourselves.”
The noise level dropped off enough for Sheriff Armstrong’s voice to filter through the open doors. He was back on the landline because cell phone service was still jammed from the number of calls coming from panicked citizens.
“We’re blind here.” The frustration in his voice was thick as he paced behind the table with a receiver against his ear. “We’re trying to operate in a blizzard. No . . . you aren’t getting it. Drones? It’s a blizzard out there. The storm’s paralyzed this whole town. I’m wearing the big hat until you get here, and I don’t care if you are Homeland Security. You and the FBI and the CIA and any other son-of-a-bitch who works for three-letter outfits can all lock horns when y’all ski in, but I’m gonna hang up now. What? When do you think you’re gonna get here?”
Silence.
“By that time it’ll be too late, I’m afraid.”
Ethan glanced up to see the faces through the glass-panel wall. They ran the gamut from hard, to furious, to blank, and frightened.
He pointed and Deputy Malone closed the glass and wood doors to block off the remainder of the conversation.
Chapter 41
Arturo found a flashlight on the maintenance man’s worktable and flicked it on, probing the dark corners beyond the fluorescent lights’ reach. The noise downstairs quieted, and he felt safe for the first time since he and Sonny Hawke heard the gunshots.
The skeletal structure of the attic revealed itself as he painted the darkness with the weak yellow beam. Crisscrossed supports, ductwork, dusty wires stapled to rafters, and dust-covered insulation stretched into the distance. He flicked it off and wondered what to do.
“Javier?”
The voice came through the attic door seconds before the lock rattled against the latch. A sharp, audible snap followed the metallic clatter. The lock thudded to the floor. Terrified, Arturo flicked off the overhead lights. The door opened, spilling feeble light into the pitch-black attic.
He backed around the chimney, keeping one hand on the rough bricks and feeling with his feet. Light footsteps on the boards made them creak, torturing him with the need to peek. The fluorescent shop lights suspended from the rafters buzzed back to life.
Arturo swallowed as loud as a horse drinking from a trough. Every instinct shouted for him to bolt. Instead, he placed the palm of one ha
nd against the rough bricks to steady himself.
“Espantapájaros?” The strange voice cut through the attic. “Javier!”
The frightened kid wondered why he was calling for Scarecrow. Maybe the guy knew Arturo was there and calling him by that name was some version of scaredy-cat back where he came from.
Arturo was sure he hadn’t been seen, but the guy probably knew he was hiding. He’d watched plenty of movies where people were discovered by the littlest thing like a footprint in the dust. One thing was sure. He wasn’t going to answer the guy.
“Es León.”
It’s Lion?
Arturo decided that Javier was most likely the corpse on the antique canvas cot. Then he got it. Scarecrow and Lion, characters from the Wizard of Oz. What was up with that?
Switches clicked, the sound crisp. The man muttered as tools clanked in harmony with more clicks. An electronic whine came alive, followed by the hum of a computer booting up.
The sound of a hammer smashing metal made Arturo jump. He choked down a cry and forced himself to remain still.
The man quieted again and more clicks from an electronic device followed. He whistled an unidentifiable tune through his teeth. The man appeared to be enjoying his work, but then Arturo got it. The computer was slow in booting up and the guy was killing time.
Mouth open to breathe as quietly as possible, Arturo heard footsteps coming around the chimney. The acoustics made it sound as if the intruder was on both sides at the same time. Wanting to back away, but restricted to the platform, all the teenager could do was flatten against the bricks and hope the shadows would work to his benefit.
A flashlight beam probed the corners, following the crude walkway around the chimney. It found the cot and danced over the blanket, coming to rest on the legs sticking out. “Javier? Usted vino aquí a dormir?”
Arturo translated the question. You came up here to sleep?
Shaking, the boy squirreled around the chimney, keeping his face away from the probing beam. He heard the blanket rustle, and a quick intake of breath.
“Madre de dios!”
Arturo moved again. This time Sonny’s oversize coat scraped on the rough bricks. He glanced downward and saw the beam of white light play along the dusty planks.
Two quick footsteps, and a sudden glare blinded him. Arturo squinted past the tactical light into the surprised eyes of a man wearing a bandana over the lower half of his face.
“Don’t move!”
Arturo again did what any normal kid would do.
He ran.
“Deténgase!”
The teenager had no intention of stopping. Blinking the spots out of his eyes, Arturo ducked around the chimney and took the only escape route he had, and that was deeper into the attic. A thin walkway of weathered boards angled away, but Arturo ignored it, jumping from one rafter to the next, ducking under the trusses.
Lion followed and lost his balance on the narrow catwalk. Catching one of the collar ties, he swung the short machine pistol to bear, but the kid skipped across the rafters with the sure feet of a mountain goat.
“Stop!”
Instead, Arturo circled around toward the darkest part of the attic. The frustrated terrorist used the light mounted on his machine pistol to pick his way along still another narrow, dusty line of boards half-buried under drifts of dusty insulation. The kid risked a glance backward to see the man moving in a slow crouch to intercept him.
Arturo moved deeper into the attic, using both hands and feet to skitter over the rafters. His pursuer cracked his head on a truss and cursed. The chase slowed as the sloping roof pitch forced them both to a stop.
Thinking he had the boy trapped, the man crouched in an awkward, off-balance position and aimed his machine pistol. “Stop! Stop!” His accent was thick and heavy, one Arturo was familiar with. “Paro o te pego un tiro dónde está parado!”
I’ll shoot you if you don’t surrender!
Whining deep in his throat, Arturo froze and pointed the weak beam of his flashlight at the bad guy named Lion. Arturo again squinted into the bright tactical light on the weapon aimed at his chest. He felt he was being drawn into the dark man’s eyes that were as paralyzing as those of a cobra. They surely belonged to a demon instead of a lion.
Arturo used his left hand to make a sign against mal de ojo, the evil eye, and saw the startled look on the Mexican’s face. The man took one step to the side to dodge the curse from the left-handed witch and found nothing of substance underfoot.
Lion dropped between the two-by-ten joists and disappeared into a cloud of insulation as muffled gunfire rattled somewhere below. The ancient plaster and lath of the ceiling below gave under his weight with a soft crunch and he fell through.
Arturo was stunned when the man disappeared.
He must have been El Diablo himself. The mal de ojo had worked, just like his grandmother promised.
Chapter 42
Rural electricity is iffy at best, and the violent snowstorm played havoc with the power lines. It was only a matter of time before two lines blew together, or the accumulated weight of ice and snow caused one to snap.
Kelly gasped when Wilfred Bates, the County Extension agent, launched himself from beside Mr. Beck the instant the lights flickered and went out.
Like almost everyone in the room, Shorty and Stretch glanced upward at the large white pendant lights hanging overhead. Stretch turned to the window. Shorty reached for the doorknob and gave it a twist.
Despite his potbelly and out-of-shape physique, the middle-aged agent who worked with ranchers and farmers vaulted the bar and charged Shorty. Running light as a feather on the toes of his soft-soled shoes, the man was silent on the polished floor.
Had Wilfred Bates waited, things could have worked in his favor. Shorty might have opened the door to peer into the hallway, blocking his view of the hostages.
The lights flickered back on and steadied.
Bates was four steps away when Shorty saw him coming. He had just enough time to drop his hand to the grip, spin, and raise the muzzle.
The agent was another step closer when Shorty squeezed the trigger. The first round hit the floor inches from the man’s foot.
“Kids!” Kelly’s voice was sharp. “Look at me!”
A few listened. The rest turned toward the sound of gunfire
Two steps away, and the next round punched a hole just above Bate’s kneecap, shattering the femur.
The muzzle swing was hard and fast, causing the third round to miss and punch a hole through the bar’s railing and bury itself into a woman’s chest.
Screams from the hostages followed the man’s falling body as he crashed into the short terrorist, knocking him back against the wall. Stretch whirled in time to see half a dozen hostages stand, including Jerry and his buddy Stephen.
“Sit or I will shoot!” His eyes flicked to Shorty, kicking himself free of the stranger who moaned and grasped his leg with both hands. Blood poured from the wound and the county agent rolled onto his back in agony, away from Shorty, who rose.
Cowed by the rifle pointed in their direction, the hostages settled back to the floor, some raising their hands, many crying.
“Enough! Silence!” Stretch brought the rifle to his shoulder, sighting on first one, then another of those who expected him to open fire. “Shoot the next one who moves.”
“Yes!” Shorty joined him in sweeping the room. “I will shoot again.”
Dorothy pushed into the room. “What is this?”
Stretch pointed. “He chose to fight back.”
Dorothy watched the bleeding, moaning man writhing on the floor. “Kill him, as a lesson. The rest of you, watch and understand that we are in control.” Throwing one last look at the hostages, she pivoted and disappeared through the door.
Time slowed for Kelly as Stretch let his rifle dangle from the strap with a grin. He drew a knife from the sheath attached to his vest. A terrifying grin split his face.
“Students!”
Kelly’s voice broke. “Look at me now and don’t make a move. Matt honey, squeeze ’em shut like it’s bright outside.” She held his face against her chest and locked eyes with her son. “Do it!”
Shorty approached the weeping adult hostages, his finger on the trigger. “No! Watch and understand who is blessed by Allah!”
Stretch grabbed Bates’s collar and dragged him across the smooth floor to the wall opposite the door. The man groaned and held up one hand in defense.
“My God,” Mr. Beck said, as if the muzzle of an M4 wasn’t mere feet away. “Not here. Not in this country.”
Spittle flew. “Silence!”
Stretch dropped, one knee on the agent’s head and the other on his chest. He lowered the blade.
Kelly met Mr. Beck’s gaze. Both knew what was coming next.
The adult hostages’ cries of horror drowned the sounds of the beheading. But the voices couldn’t cover the coppery smell of pumping blood.
Chapter 43
Homeland Security was raising his blood pressure, and Sheriff Ethan Armstrong felt like the phone was growing to his ear. Another part of his mind registered the amount of food coming in the hotel from townspeople who wanted to help. Despite the storm’s intensity, more people packed the lobby. His attention flicked from one to the other. “Yessir. I understand protocol.”
He wondered how many times he’d have to repeat that phrase in one day.
“I’m sure, being Homeland Security and all that, you know the roads are already closed. There’s no traffic moving in or out because visibility is zero. I’m operating blind. This is worse than the storm that popped up over Haystack Mountain in Alpine back in 1983. Back then rain came after a three-foot snow, and we were iced in for a week. I hope that don’t happen again, but you never know. We’re puttin’ together a response, but I’m not going to tell you over an unsecured line.”
Sheriff Armstrong watched Herman talking with a clot of concerned people in front of the fireplace. He thanked his lucky stars to have the retired Ranger turned rancher out there acting as a buffer between the command center and the growing throng.
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