by Joe Nobody
In that moment, while he waited for the assailants to reload, Griffin’s mind turned to Kit. She had been behind the three armed marshals, without body armor. Had she been hurt? Was she somewhere bleeding in a pile of rubble?
Sensing a lull in the incoming fire, Griff pushed his concerns for his friend aside. “Someone here thinks it’s open season on feds,” he growled. Pivoting back away from the wall, he brought his carbine into the fight and squinted to identify his attackers.
His trained eye zeroed in on the first would-be assassin at two o’clock. The trigger man was inserting a magazine.
The red dot centered on the shooter’s chest, Griffin’s finger squeezing the M4’s trigger and sending three 5.56 rounds hammering into center mass. Before he saw the assailant spin and jerk, the marshal was scanning for the second target.
From his left, Griffin recognized the gentler pop, pop, pop of a pistol, then witnessed the other shooter clutch his midsection. Kit had joined the fray, having gone prone behind the body of a downed marshal and bringing her Glock into the fight.
“Are you okay?” Storm shouted, his ears ringing from the explosive gunfire in the enclosed area.
“Yes!” she yelled back, despite being only five feet away.
“Cover me,” he replied, moving to regain his feet.
As the cops from outside rushed in with weapons drawn, Griffin was up and moving toward the two gunmen, rifle at his shoulder, secretly hoping the ambushers were playing possum.
He found the first man lying face down with his legs at an impossible angle. A growing pool of crimson was peeking out from under his chest. Three golf ball-sized holes in the man’s back oozed blood, two of the M4’s rounds finding the spinal cord. Griffin didn’t even need to check the guy’s pulse.
Kit’s target was in worse shape, one of her .40 caliber slugs hitting the gunman square in the nose. Bending to collect the dead man’s weapon, Griffin then hustled back to the entrance.
Both of the local marshals had been wounded in the initial barrage, one taking a slug to the gut just under his armor, the other sporting a hole in his upper thigh. Relieved that both would survive, Marshal Storm checked outside to see how many civilians had been injured in the ambush.
The police stationed there were recovering, most of the crowd having run like hell when the firefight erupted. Griff counted three people down, surrounded by cops who were frantically calling for medical personnel and backup.
Rushing to the first wounded citizen, Griffin visually assessed her condition in a matter of seconds and knew instantly the woman would live. The second man needed immediate help, his lungs generating a sucking sound as he breathed. The third casualty was Mr. Terret.
A trooper who had stooped beside the body glanced up and recognized Storm. “No pulse. He took a round in the back of the head,” the officer reported.
“Shit!” Griffin spat, bending over to check for any identification on the body. “I really, really needed to talk to this guy.”
“We’re not the only ones after Mr. Foster,” Kit announced, rushing to his side. “Who the hell are these guys? Neither shooter had ID; I checked. Both were armed with fully automatic weapons and pockets full of mags.”
“Terret is dead,” Griffin interrupted, indicating the corpse at his feet. “I don’t know who these attackers are, but at least now we know these events are all connected. First, the Army shows up. Now, these guys,” he continued. “Everybody wants to get their hands on that damned computer brain.”
“Opening fire on a bunch of federal marshals isn’t a subtle act,” she nodded. “These are some hardcore people. We have to find Foster before they do.”
Turning to the policeman who was obviously in charge, Griffin demanded, “Seal this building. Nobody in or out. I don’t care if they have a badge, or a uniform, or a permission slip from God. That includes your people.”
The cop started to argue, “My people? Just what in the hell are you implying, Marshal?”
Kit didn’t let him take another breath. Shoving her ID into the blustering lieutenant’s face, she added, “I am Assistant US Attorney Carson. If you don’t follow this marshal’s orders, immediately, I will have you brought up on obstruction charges… with a vengeance. Do you understand?”
The firefight, combined with the worst night of his professional life, took all the starch out of the officer. “Right. On it,” he snipped, reaching for the radio pinned to his shoulder.
Satisfied, Griffin pulled Kit to the side. “We may not find Foster first, but we can make damn sure he doesn’t get out of the building.”
“What if they’re here just to kill him?” Kit asked, her question causing Griffin to form a deep scowl.
“Shit… I didn’t think of that. We better get the cops to help us begin a search.”
Turning to find the Lieutenant, Griffin nearly ran into the man. It was obvious the local cop was troubled. “I’ve been in contact with our people at every exit except the loading dock. There are two, armed hospital guards stationed there. Neither of them is answering. I’m sending someone to check in on them.”
“Don’t,” Griffin replied. “We’ll go. Keep your people away from there.”
Chapter 20
Naturally, the chapel was fairly sound-proof to allow solitude for grieving families, but the structure’s architects had never figured on a mass shooting. William wasn’t sure if the barely audible popping noises were gunshots or could be attributed to some normal hospital activity. His mind didn’t associate any known catalyst with the faint bursts of noise, so he was on edge. “You’re being a nervous Nelly,” he whispered, eyes returning to his laptop.
The soft scrape of a boot on carpet caused him to jump. Peering over the screen, he found himself staring into the dark, emotionless eyes of a Hispanic man. It was the weapon in the Cuban’s hands that caused William’s blood to run ice cold.
The Cuban smirked, happy to be the one that captured the target. Just like Castro back in the day, Sebastian might even throw in some bonus money.
“Stand up. You’re coming with me,” he commanded in accented English, reaching to pick up the football while a second gunman snatched William’s backpack, slamming the laptop inside.
“Where?” William managed to ask, having trouble getting his terrified legs to work, his eyes unable to leave the barrel of the rifle pointed at his chest.
The Cuban had played this same game dozens of times. How many dissidents had he hunted down? How many had he located hiding in a church? They always acted the same, always pleaded for their lives in the end. This one was scared, nearly to the edge of panic. He hoped his prisoner marched back to the loading dock, rather than being carried kicking and screaming.
“We’re going to meet an old friend of yours,” the Cuban responded. “If you walk calmly and don’t try any shit, you won’t be harmed. If you get clever, I will show you no mercy, slaughtering you without hesitation. Do you understand me?”
Nodding vigorously, William indicated his comprehension.
The second hired gun led the captive from the chapel while the Cuban radioed Sebastian with an update. “Did he have a briefcase or special bag?”
“Yes,” the contractor responded.
“Good. Bring him to the dock. I’ll send some people to meet you. The cops are starting to fan out, so be careful. Above all else, I need that special case.”
Leaving Sutherland behind with the wounded marshals, Kit and Griffin were heading for the loading dock when at the far end of the main corridor, the federal prosecutor noted some unusual movement. “Is that Foster?” she whispered, pulling the marshal to the side.
Craning his neck for a better view, Griffin inhaled sharply. “Yes, and he’s got an escort. Probably some of the same group that ambushed us at the front door. They’re headed right for us.”
Worried that the gunmen would identify them, Kit grabbed the marshal and spun him against the wall. She then moved close in a
n embrace, trying to obscure his load vest and weapon with her body. “Hug me… put your hands under my jacket and spread the fabric like a cloak… hug me like we just lost our sister.”
He did just that, burying his head into her hair as he watched the approaching trio. It was obvious that Foster wasn’t happy about the two men trailing behind him. It was also clear that both henchmen carried long guns under their jackets.
“More automatic weapons,” the marshal hissed into Kit’s ear. “If they open up in the hallway, a lot of people are going to die. Stay like this until they get close.”
She merely nodded, Griffin sensing her breasts rising as she took a deep breath.
When William was ten steps away, Griffin pulled Kit extra close, preparing to throw her out of the way if the gunmen caught on.
At five steps, Griff lessened his grip on Kit, ready to expose the carbine from under her jacket.
At three steps, he shifted his weight, hand reaching for the pistol in his belt instead. They were too close for a long gun.
When William was even with Kit, the marshal shoved her hard into the hostage as he stepped into the two gunmen.
With the element of surprise on his side, Griffin was dangerously close before either could react. The marshal’s leg seemed only to twitch before a vicious kick landed on the closer man’s chin, a sickening crack sounding as his head snapped backward.
As his first target crumpled to the floor, Marshal Storm reached to pin the Cuban’s short-barreled AK against his body. It was a deception.
Assuming that his foe wasn’t without skills, the Cuban reacted exactly as the marshal anticipated, using both hands to secure his weapon.
Aware that surrendering your rifle was the ultimate sin to a soldier, Griff counted on the Cuban to do exactly what he had been trained to do. Years of drills and screaming military instructors surfaced, his grip tightening on the weapon as he tried to spin away.
Using the web between his forefinger and thumb, the marshal struck like a coiled cobra, hitting the Cuban in the throat and nearly smashing the kidnapper’s windpipe. Then in a swirling blur of fists and elbows, the marshal delivered three rapid, punishing blows that crushed bone and snapped ligaments.
As the Cuban’s eyes rolled white, gunshots sounded behind the Marshal’s back. Kit, still trying to untangle herself from William, ducked instinctively as a round slammed into the wall above her head.
The air cracked as more lead zipped past Griffin, the marshal bending to grab the lady prosecutor’s leg and pull her out of danger.
Nurses, doctors, and orderlies were screaming and running in all directions as the tempo of incoming fire increased, everyone trying to find an open door or something to hide behind.
In a second, Griffin guided Kit into some sort of lab, the marshal yelling, “Stay put!” as he ducked back into the hall to retrieve Foster.
The shooters, now charging down the corridor, spotted Griffin’s movement, their bullets chasing the marshal as he darted across the opening bent at the waist.
Too frightened to move, William had curled into an unresponsive lump of flesh as round after round of death tore into the wall and floors around him. As Griffin grasped the terrified man’s arm, two bullets struck the marshal’s vest, the savage impact sending him sliding across the polished floor and into the far wall.
While the Kevlar plates saved Griffin’s life, he struggled to draw air or make his body answer any command. He had to get William. He had to pull Gravity Well’s master to safety if this nightmare were going to end.
Regrouping, and sensing her partner was in trouble, Kit popped around the doorway, snapping three shots at the approaching gunmen. Griffin, horrified that she had exposed herself, watched as the wall next to her head exploded in a fountain of plaster and wood.
After a beat, she appeared again, firing blindly through the choking cloud of debris before ducking back into the lab. She had diverted the attackers’ attention for a fraction of a second though, and that was all the marshal needed.
Knowing he wouldn’t make it back across the hall, Griffin reached for the adjacent door and yanked hard on the heavy steel handle.
He thought to use it as a shield, hoping it would buy a second or two to regain his legs and restore his oxygen. William, seeing the opening and wanting to be anywhere but in that hallway, scratched, clawed and scrambled through the doorway before the marshal could react.
Griffin followed him, crawling onto a set of metal steps that led down into a dimly lit area. William, now on his feet, was seeking freedom as fast as his legs would move, a metal case and backpack clutched close to his chest.
To thwart his nemesis’ escape, Griffin forced his legs to move and followed. He caught up quickly, the frightened fugitive waiting by a locked door at the bottom of the steps.
“It’s locked,” Foster whined, stating the obvious. “We’re trapped.”
“Stand back,” Griffin ordered. Then placing his body between the unarmed civilian and the door, he drew his pistol and fired two shots into the electronic lock.
More gunfire burst from the first floor, the marshal’s head and gun snapping back to cover the doorway above. He guessed that Kit was still engaged in the skirmish, either that, or the police had joined the melee.
Testing the doorway, Griffin found the lock still held. “Stand back,” he ordered again, giving the stubborn catch another two doses of lead.
This time his plan worked, the marshal pulling the wrecked handle and exposing a dark corridor. “Go!” he ordered, shoving William forward.
On the other side, Griff looked for someplace to hide. Nothing offered shelter from the looming battle. Only a long, empty corridor of evenly spaced, metal doors met his gaze.
Knowing that distance was life, he pushed Foster ahead. “Keep moving. We don’t want to get caught here.”
The marshal tried the first three doors they passed, finding each of them locked tight. After the third unsuccessful attempt, he considered shooting another lock, but then the sign on the door changed his mind. Gaining entrance to the cleaning supply closet wasn’t going to save them.
The subterranean passage ended at a “T,” a small placard indicating the boiler room was situated to the right, records storage to the left. As Griffin finished reading the directional notice, the door he had just shot burst open with a startling crash.
Grabbing William by the back of his jacket, Griffin shoved his captive hard to the right as a rattling string of gunfire erupted behind them. The tech executive didn’t need any further motivation to run.
It was a good 50-yard dash to the boiler room’s door, Griffin easily keeping up with William despite constantly peering over his shoulder. There was no doubt they were being pursued; it was just a matter of time before high-velocity death came their way.
Finally, the two panting men reached a double-wide entrance covered in warning notices. “No Unauthorized Entry,” and “Warning: Dangerous Area,” were the two the marshal noticed first.
Without waiting to test the doors, Griffin again pushed William to the side. This time, using his carbine, the marshal fired three shots into the mechanism above the knob. Two lightning-fast kicks later, the thick steel gave way and swung inward.
Entering quickly, Griffin pushed the door closed just as the first bullet pinged off its surface. Knowing it would take their pursuers five or more seconds to reach the opening, he turned to William and shouted, “Get away from the door! Get down!”
The fleeing duo found themselves surrounded by a maze of pipes, serious-looking equipment, and button-rich consoles. It was an orderly, clean environment, much different than the boiler room from the marshal’s high school days. It was also a dead end and a cramped one at that. Other than the main tank of the boiler, Griffin could see all four walls. There were no exit doors, staircases, or any other way out. “Oh, shit,” he hissed. “We’re trapped.”
Reaching for his microphone, Griffin keyed the
button. “This is Marshal Storm; this is Marshal Storm. Can anybody hear me? Anybody on this frequency?”
“Your radio’s been hit,” William announced, pointing at the black transmitter box on Griffin’s vest. Half of the original case had been blown apart, apparently by one of the rounds that had struck the marshal in the main corridor.
“Shit,” Griffin barked, now reaching for his cell phone. He cursed again when the device indicated no signal. “Damned basement is blocking my mobile!”
Unable to call for help, the priority became buying them some time. Opening the door just enough, Griffin stuck his rifle through the gap and sprayed 10 blind shots back down the hall. A scream of pain told the marshal he’d clipped flesh. “That will give them something to think about,” he grunted, hustling back to the wall.
During that brief glimpse into the passage, Griffin spotted several men hugging the walls and moving toward him. “How many damn people are after you? Who the hell are those guys?” he asked.
“I don’t know who they are,” a gasping William managed.
Bullets began impacting the doors, some of the lead passing through, other rounds merely denting the thick metal. The men in the hall were evidently unhappy with the marshal’s attempt to impede their progress.
“What are they after? Gravity Well’s password? What is in that case you keep hugging?” Griffin demanded as he scanned again for a way out. A fresh magazine slammed into the M4.
Nearly in shock, William seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Far beyond any attempt at deception, his answer tumbled out in a monotone voice of honesty. “This is Gravity Well,” he began, gently touching the case he’d been clutching. “At least its core. A copy of the trained neural net is in here,” he explained. “With this, you could recreate a fully functioning system in a matter of days. This is what they’re after.”
Griffin now understood, the puzzle pieces falling into place. While a hundred other questions raced through his head, he was aware that now wasn’t the time for an interrogation. Glancing back at the tortured door, he decided he would remind the men in the hall that he was a US marshal. Besides, he had to buy Kit and the cops more time to mount a rescue.
