by Jim Heskett
He gritted his teeth and opened the door onto the fourth floor. He could hear them in the gallery room ahead. With all the gear, he had to inch forward to keep from clanging. He felt like a person-and-a-half with all the various implements jutting from his frame.
Eyes closed, he tried to listen to differentiate the individual voices. Heard three, maybe four of them up ahead. Too many of them to take on directly? The odds were a little better, but still not great. He didn’t even have a solid plan. The hope of manipulating them into splitting into small clusters so he could pick them off in manageable groups was slim. It might work once, or maybe twice. Plus, as soon as he started popping off shots, they would all know where he was.
He wondered if they knew he wasn’t downstairs any longer. If they were planning to send anyone after him.
A flash of memory appeared, back when he was undercover on an operation and was a completely different person. Nicknamed Boy Scout. Layne and his team were searching an apartment building for a man who had stolen some of their mission gear. They started on the ground floor and worked their way up, scouring each floor. By the time they had climbed several flights of stairs, breathless and tired, they realized they were the ones being hunted. Their target had maneuvered behind them somehow and had stayed out of sight. Keeping far enough away that they hadn’t noticed this clever thief creeping up on them until it was almost too late.
Layne had nearly died that day. Noticing the sound of a door clicking shut in the stairwell below him had saved his life.
Being hunted was not the most comfortable feeling. And in that instance, only one tracker was on their trail. If the invaders downstairs were onto him, they would send a dozen or more.
The odds seemed insurmountable.
Then, to his left, the elevator door opened. Layne pivoted, M4 raised. He tried to swallow, but his throat seized up. A lump like a tennis ball.
Out walked two men, holding a woman by the arms. Not Jasmine. They halted when they saw Layne. Their eyes wide, taken completely by surprise.
Layne’s instincts told him to shoot. But he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t hit the hostage.
“Let her go,” he said.
The man on the left unholstered a sidearm and lifted it toward the woman’s head. She bucked against him, but the man’s grip was too firm. He jabbed the nose of the pistol against her temple.
Layne raised the sight to his eyes, but it was too late. The gun went off. A spray of red ejected from the woman’s head as she jiggled like a rag doll.
Layne pressed the trigger. He unleashed a stream of bullets in the direction of the two men. He thought he’d been prepared for the M4’s kick, but it surprised him. The rifle’s nose traveled up, and he shot much higher than he’d intended. Also, it became hot instantly in his hands. Even after a fraction of a second, he could feel it in his palms.
Bullets peppered their body armor, knocking them both back. One round pierced the neck of the man on the left. Blood squirted out as he spun, staggering. The other man fired back, and bullets whizzed over Layne’s head. He’d shot high, too.
Layne ducked and tried to press the trigger again, but nothing happened. Gun jammed.
The lone invader lowered the nose of his rifle amid the haze of ammunition fire. Layne didn’t wait to eat a bullet. He launched to his right, out of the path of the oncoming fire. His ears rang as shots ricocheted off the floor. Each blast made his eyes slam shut, and he struggled to keep them open.
His feet carried him backward, through the door, out into the stairwell. He stumbled back down the steps, landing halfway to the next floor. The entire exchange had lasted less than ten seconds. Ten seconds and dozens of bullets. Two dead, one of them an innocent woman.
He grunted and rolled over to rise to his feet. Back aching.
Layne had killed one, but left the other alive. And now, they definitely knew he was here.
13
Layne examined his M4 and found it sizzling to the touch. That might explain why it had jammed. He swung the rifle around to his back and unclipped a Beretta 92FS from the belt. Muscle memory checked the magazine and noted it was full. He was more comfortable with handguns, anyway, ever since he’d retired. Assault weapons were a young man’s tool.
For a killing machine, the pistol grip felt like an old friend.
He shuffled down the stairs to the landing on the floor below and pointed the pistol up, waiting for the guard he’d left alive to come rumbling after him.
But he didn’t. Layne waited there for two full minutes, and no one came into the stairs. He considered retracing his steps and bursting out through the door to finish the invader, but what if he was there, waiting to shoot the first thing he saw? Layne couldn’t trust he was faster on the draw.
Then, he heard something by the nearby door. He crept over to it and dropped to the floor. A pair of shadows cutting under the door indicated two feet on the other side. The shadows swerved. The man was now standing with his back to the door.
A walkie-talkie squawked. Layne closed his eyes and listened. He pushed his ear toward the crack to hear better.
“Yes?” said a voice.
Layne couldn’t pick out the voice coming through the walkie. Too scratchy.
“Am I to pursue or not?” More scratchy reply. “Yes, sir. Understood.”
The conversation ended, and the feet stayed in place. Ten seconds later, another set of shadows appeared. Now there were four outside the door. Two men, rooted in place, both of them facing away from the door. Guarding it.
Layne knew their game. They were going to plant armed men outside the exits from this maintenance stairwell, to trap him inside and force him to come out.
He’d lost his primary method of sneaking around the building. Taking the elevator was too dangerous, and they obviously knew that.
He considered bursting out, killing the two men and then finding the nearest window. Shooting it out and then trying to escape the building via the outside. Somehow. Maybe he could find a storm drain to descend. But then, that would leave the hostages no better off than they were before. Plus, he would have the ring of barricades to contend with.
No, he had to stay in here. Had to do something from inside.
An idea popped into his head. The roof. If he could get up there, he could talk to SWAT and brief them on what to expect, if they tried to raid the building. Maybe they could drop him some explosives, or they could even deliver backup via chopper, and he could sneak them down the maintenance stairs. If he had three or four SWAT team members with him, then bursting through one of these guarded stairwell doors wouldn’t seem futile.
He hustled up the stairs all the way to the seventh floor, panting, gear attachments jangling on his belt. Sweaty inside the body armor. He paused outside the door marked 7. There wasn’t another way up because the stairs ended. No roof access from the stairs.
“Shit.” Maybe he could still find roof access somewhere on this floor.
He kicked open the door to find an invader on the other side. Caught off-guard. Layne shot him twice in the forehead before the man could get a finger around the trigger of his M4. Dead before he even fell to the ground. As he slid down the wall he’d been leaning against, a trail of blood marked his passage. Two holes in the wall where the bullets had exited. He died with his eyes open, staring straight ahead. That same expression of surprise on his face.
Layne relieved the dying man of his sidearm and pistol magazines, which he shoved in his pocket. He lifted the M4’s strap over the dead man’s head. Removed the magazine from the rifle and ejected the round from the chamber. Then, he smacked the rifle against the floor until it had broken into pieces. He had no use for two assault rifles. Better to leave them with one less to use against him.
Then, the rush of adrenaline caught up with him. How many had he killed? Two? Three? The deaths already blurred in his mind. If he lost count, he might be in for a rough episode if an unexpected one surprised him with a gun against his temple.
He did everything possible to keep the image of his daughter’s face out of his mind. If that happened, he would lose his edge.
Jasmine. Focus on Jasmine and helping her escape.
Layne continued along the floor, seeking roof access. There were no doors indicating anything like that, no panels in the ceiling possibly hiding a pull-down ladder. After hunting for five full minutes, he gave up. No way could he get to the roof from here.
Going back down the stairs wasn’t an option if they were guarding the exits on each floor. He had only one way out remaining: the elevator. He found it at the entrance to the floor’s main exhibit space. Layne didn’t bother to look inside the room to see which exhibit was there. He had tunnel vision, driven by adrenaline and the constant threat of finding a bullet around every corner.
He removed the knife from his belt and jabbed it into the crack between the closed elevator doors. Once it had opened an inch, he stowed the knife and pried the doors apart. Inside, he found himself looking down an endless elevator shaft. A cable hung in the middle, a line of gray amid all the black.
And when he looked up, he saw an unmarked, flat ceiling. No roof access here, either.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, nearly growling.
From the direction he’d come, Layne heard a door swing open. Footsteps thundering onto the tile. Apparently, they’d changed their minds about waiting for him.
He looked left and right. He didn’t know the layout of this floor. Didn’t know where he could hide. And based on the number of footfalls he heard coming toward him, he had no notion of taking on the group racing in his direction. At least four, maybe five of them.
Only one choice he could see.
He stepped into the elevator shaft, his feet spreading out to land on the rungs of a metal ladder. With one arm gripping the ladder to keep himself from falling, he reached out with the other and snatched one elevator door. Grunting, he wrenched it closed. Then, the other. When they pressed shut, the shaft became utterly dark.
He sealed himself inside only a few seconds before the footsteps roared into the lobby in front of the elevators. Then paused. Muted voices carried on. Layne, holding on for dear life, breathed, trying to make as little sound as possible.
Then, the footsteps continued, growing quieter.
He let out a massive breath and surveyed the area. Eyes now becoming adjusted to the dark. He was standing on a long ladder, like a fire escape outside a building. The elevator shaft itself was relatively smooth, occasionally broken by small running lights or grates, leading out to somewhere.
Now, what the hell was he supposed to do?
14
Since going up wasn’t an option, Layne elected to descend the elevator shaft. On the off chance he had to let go of this ladder, he’d rather do it closer to the ground, not higher up. He preferred not to become a splat of flesh and body armor at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Plus, he might find an air conditioning duct or something else below him that would allow a new avenue to sneak around the building.
Carefully, he descended the ladder. One foot, one hand, making sure his heel landed solidly on the rung below before he attempted to release each hand above. He kept his eyes forward, trying not to think of the inky depth below his feet.
With gritted teeth, Layne breathed for a few moments, trying to clear his head. He needed a plan. There wasn’t an unlimited number of these invaders. Maybe if he offed a few more of them, he could create a diversion somehow. Make the rest of them scramble, thinking they were facing a sizable group of resistance fighters inside the building. Terrorize the terrorists. Then, amid the chaos, move the hostages out of the building. But how to chaperone them past the barricades? Sneaking fifty or a hundred hostages wasn’t the same thing as finding a hole to squeeze one or two people through.
For now, he had to focus on thinning out their numbers. Shifting the balance of power in his direction. Whatever happened after that, he’d have to devise a flawless plan when the opportunity presented itself.
Foot over foot, hand over hand, down the ladder he went.
Then, in the darkness, something whirred. Gears clicked. And the cable in the middle of the shaft vibrated.
The elevator was rising.
“Aww, c’mon, man,” he said through gritted teeth.
He looked up into the darkness, trying to spy the ceiling. Imagined that metal box ascending to meet him. He had no doubt he could drop off the ladder and land on the elevator car, but what if it carried him all the way to the top? Would he encounter a few feet of leeway, or would he smush into the ceiling as the elevator hit the top floor?
He didn’t want to find out.
Bearing his teeth, Layne hustled down the ladder to the next set of elevator doors. As soon as he could reach them, he leaned down and jabbed his knife into the crack. An etched number on the frame around the elevator door indicated the number 4, where the main exhibit was housed. Where the invaders were most likely gathered.
Couldn’t worry about that now. He had only one concern. Not becoming a splat on the ceiling.
The cable rattled behind him. He could hear the elevator ascending, the sounds bouncing off the surrounding walls. Couldn’t see it below. But he could feel the air rushing up through the shaft. A headache forming, pulsing behind his eyes. Making his mind race, squeezing his brain.
He wiggled the knife back and forth. The doors shifted open an inch, and he dropped down another two rungs on the ladder. The rush of air below him flowed faster, making his hair move, tickling his ears.
He jabbed a foot into the opening and pushed. One door slid open, then he kicked the other one. He’d made a space barely big enough to fit his body through.
He looked down. Now he could see the roof of the elevator, hurtling toward him.
Layne swung his feet into the opening as the elevator car rushed up to meet him. The implements on his vest and belt clanged against the open elevator doors. He felt the back of his head connect with the corner of the rising elevator as his torso emerged onto the museum’s fourth floor.
His eyes went blurry from the head bump. Then his feet landed, and he whipped his arms back to prevent himself from tumbling forward.
Layne opened his eyes to find five armed men with rifles, the black mouths of their barrels all pointed at him.
15
Standing across from five heavily armed white guys, Layne saw his life flash before his eyes. Then, his daughter’s short life. Wasn’t a pleasant experience. For a half second, neither he nor the others did anything. They seemed a little too shocked that he’d swung out of the elevator shaft a moment earlier.
Then, one of them came to his senses and wrapped a finger around the trigger.
“Hey!”
Layne’s head spun to the right to see Sarah, the woman who had nearly taken his head off with the stanchion on the second floor. She careened around a corner, waving her hands to get their attention.
When all the invaders across from Layne pivoted their heads to look at her, he took his chance. He raised two pistols and emptied the magazines while swerving his arms across his field of view. Two of the men, he hit in the chest. Their body armor caught the bullets, but the shots still knocked them back. One of them, Layne shot in the forehead, dropping him. And two more took bullets in the legs.
“Run!” Layne said as he loaded a fresh magazine into one of the Berettas.
Sarah whirled and raced back the way she’d come. Layne took off in the opposite direction, toward a hallway, popping off blind shots behind him.
The two guards who’d been shot in the vests recovered quickly. As Layne hoped, they both headed in his direction. Away from the unarmed Sarah.
As Layne fled, he discovered the hallway w
asn’t a hallway, but a short passage into a room with sculptures. Bronze things twisted into various geometric shapes. He knocked into one crossing the room, sending it hard onto the floor. It screeched as it slid across the hardwood.
He bumped into the others, crashing them to the floor. At least, his pursuers would have to look down to avoid them, providing him with a few seconds where they couldn’t shoot at him.
He popped fresh magazines into the Berettas as he darted down a hall after leaving the room. The world was shaky, disjointed. With the thumping behind his eyes and the ringing in his ears, it was all he could do to keep his feet underneath him.
He found himself inside the Jewish art exhibit. A sign read: Smuggled Art, Auschwitz 1941-1942. Paintings, pencil drawings, sculptures, fragments of diaries. All of them created by concentration camp prisoners and smuggled out.
And then, Layne noted the bodies. So many, he didn’t know how to count them. Piled in a corner, sometimes two or three high. Maybe twenty dead, with bullet holes in their heads. Puddles of blood shimmering under the lights.
An armed man stood on the far side of the room, arranging pieces of art in rows. Lifting paintings from slots on the various walls and then lining them along the walls.
When Layne skidded inside, the man dropped a painting of a cow. He leaped toward an M4 rifle, leaning up against a wall. He fumbled with the strap as he tried to lift it over his head.
Layne aimed and fired. Hit the man in the crotch. He staggered, and Layne fired again, this time tagging him in the left ear. The man twisted and fell to the ground. As blood spurted, he flailed like a fish.
He heaved in a few breaths as one of his eyes flickered in a rapid wink. His head jiggled back and forth and then settled to the side, his lolling mouth open as he gave one last twitch.
Layne rushed over and liberated him of his pistol magazines. He shoved them into his pockets. The image of the man’s winking eye played in his head, distracting him. Layne squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, trying to shutter it from his mind.
