by Pamela Clare
“Yes, sir. There was a place where the wooden supports and the concrete had crumbled. It was wide enough to step through.” She’d found it both fascinating and creepy. “The concrete was pretty weak. I accidentally bumped it, and more of the wall fell away.”
“That’s great to know.”
Addy sat up, rubbed her ear, Hoppy clutched to her chin, tears running down her little cheeks.
“It sounds like you have an unhappy little one there.”
“She’s got a fever, and her ear hurts. I think she’s got an ear infection. She’s Marc and Sophie Hunter’s 4-year-old daughter. I’m watching their kids tonight. They’re like family to us and ... ” A hard lump formed in her throat, stopped her from saying more.
“Marc Hunter—the SWAT captain?”
She swallowed, blinked back her tears. “Yes, sir. His wife Sophie is ... ”
Tuck finished for Tessa. “She’s one of the hostages.”
“Yes.” Tessa was grateful she didn’t have to explain further.
“If you’d like, I can send our team medic over. Nathan Schroder is a former PJ—pararescue jumper. He’s the best. I’ll tell him what’s up. I think he has time to make a quick house call.”
Tessa was astonished. “You ... you can do that?”
“Absolutely. You’ve been a big help tonight. I know Hunter has more than done his part, too. We take care of our own.”
That was something Julian might have said.
“Thank you, Tuck.”
“You got it. I’ll get your address from your husband and send Schroder over.”
The call ended.
Tessa held Addy close. “A doctor is coming to make you feel better.”
“I want Mommy.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. I know.”
* * *
21:50
Garment bag slung over his shoulder, Zach bent low and hurried through the darkness toward the red brick building that served as the entrance to the United States Penitentiary Administrative Maximum Facility, or ADX for short—also known as Supermax or The Alcatraz of the Rockies. Dirt and pebbles kicked up by the rotor wash stung his skin, the ground dry as a bone. The prison warden, Ron Headley, greeted Zach and offered him coffee and a Danish.
“No, thanks. I need to get airborne with the prisoner as soon as possible.”
“I understand.” Headley moved with him through several levels of security toward a steel holding cell inside the prison itself, where Ortíz stood, shouting words no one could hear at guards he couldn’t see.
“He doesn’t know?”
“No, sir. We’ve done exactly what you requested.”
Zach hadn’t wanted to let Ortíz know why he was getting out, not until they were airborne. He wanted to do whatever he could to prevent word from spreading through the prison about Moreno and the hostage situation. He didn’t want anyone getting ideas. “Open it up.”
Ortíz looked surprised to see him. “You?”
Zach threw the garment bag at his chest. “Me.”
Zach had been part of the team that had transported Ortíz to ADX after his sentencing.
Ortíz caught the bag. “What’s goin’ on, man? You can’t just drag me around. You got to tell me what’s up.”
“Tonight is your lucky night, Ortíz. You’re leaving.”
Ortíz glared at him, angry. “Nah, man. Don’t try to fool me.”
Zach gave a snort. “You don’t want out? That’s okay by me.”
He turned to go.
“Wait!” Ortíz called after him. “You serious, man?”
“I’m serious, man.”
“What... ? Why... ?”
“Let’s just say your cousin brokered a deal for you.” Zach pointed to the garment bag. “Get out of the prison jumpsuit, and put on the pretty clothes. There’s a helicopter waiting to take us to where your cousin in Denver.”
Disbelief on his face, Ortíz opened the garment bag, saw the suit. “Nice threads.”
“Yeah. Nothing but the best.” One of the other DUSMs had grabbed them out of his own closet.
“You gonna leave me to dress?”
“No. You’re going to strip naked and dress right here, right in front of me.” Zach didn’t want the bastard bringing any homemade weapons into the helo. None of the officers on this op were armed. They couldn’t risk Ortíz stealing a firearm. That meant they needed to be extra cautious when it came to protecting themselves.
“Malparido gonorrea,” he hissed at Zach. “You can’t bust me for nothin’ now that I’m leaving, right?”
“Me? No. I can’t bust you for nothing.”
A small blade of sharpened plastic fell from the waistband of Ortíz’s underwear, hit the floor, bounced.
Zach stepped on it, slid it away from Ortíz and kicked it over to one of the correctional officers.
Ortíz stood naked, fumbling with the zipper on the trousers. “Quit staring at me. Stupid maricón. Fag. I bet you like to take it in the ass.”
“Shut up, Ortíz.” Zach put just enough authority in his voice to remind Ortíz what had happened during their last encounter.
The smirk left Ortíz’s face. He slipped into the boxers, trousers, and dress shirt, and then held up the vest. “What’s this?”
“Special body armor. Not everyone likes you as much as I do. It’s part of my job to keep you safe.”
Ortíz put it on, and Zach helped him strap it into place. “I’m really leaving?”
“Yes, really.” He would also be coming back, but Zach didn’t explain that part.
Ortíz was going to help save lives tonight, whether he wanted to or not.
The bastard slipped into the suit jacket, then put on the socks and the polished shoes, smiling up at Zach with a “fuck you” look in his eyes. “I knew Pepe would find a way to get me outa here. Man, I hate this place. It’s evil. You got no idea.”
“Cry me a river.” Zach didn’t feel like listening to more. “Let’s go.”
They were escorted back through security to the front entrance, a half dozen COs armed only with batons and stun guns on hand to ensure Ortíz didn’t bolt. Then again, where would he run? It was pitch black and freezing out there, and ADX was in the middle of freaking nowhere.
At the doors, Ortíz balked, his gaze shifting from the darkness to Zach. “How do I know you’re not taking me somewhere to kill me?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I would just do it right here and save myself time. Now either get with the program, or go back to your cell.”
“It’s cold. Don’t I get a jacket?”
They had decided not to give him winter clothing in case he got away. Hypothermia could stop a man as surely as a bullet.
“Toughen up, cupcake.” Zach gave him a shove.
Ortíz tripped out the doors and into the darkness, his anger with Zach vanishing the moment he saw the stars, a look of amazement coming over his face.
Enjoy it while you can, you son of a bitch.
Zach and his hand-picked team of DUSMs escorted Ortíz to the helo, helped him strap into his seat, three sitting behind, Zach sitting beside him just behind the pilot.
The helo’s rotors started up, gained speed, the little craft rising off the ground, then nosing toward Colorado Springs.
Zach held fast to the remote in his pocket, leaned forward to speak rehearsed lines to the pilot. “Take the fastest route to Denver.”
Ortíz let out a shout, looked back down at ADX, cursing it in Spanish.
“Excited?” Zach took out the encrypted cell phone the FBI had given him for this mission. “Tell your cousin all about it.”
* * *
22:00
Pepe was tired of talking. He’d been on the phone with Kimble, the new hotshot negotiator, for an hour. The pendejo was trying to ingratiate himself, trying to pretend like he cared what happened to Pepe and his friends. All he cared about were the hostages.
“We need to talk about the helicopter, too. Have you given any th
ought to what kind of helicopter you’ll need? Your cousin will be flying into the city in a Blackhawk. They can carry up to fourteen men, plus the flight crew. Depending on how many men you plan to take with you, you might need something bigger. We have Chinooks on base at Fort Carson. They can carry up to forty-six.”
Pepe wasn’t going to leave in a helicopter at all. He was going to leave via the tunnel, and then blow the hotel sky high with the journalists, Sheridan, and that bitch Holmes still inside, but he couldn’t say this. “The Blackhawk is fine.”
“Okay. Good. We’ll get you a Blackhawk.”
They’d get him anything he asked for right now because he had the Secretary of State. He could have fun with this—make a few outrageous requests, laugh at their stupidity, watch them kiss his ass. But he didn’t have the patience for it. The man’s bland voice was beginning to fray his nerves.
“Do you have a pilot, or will you need a pilot?”
Pepe snapped. “Of course we will need a pilot!”
“Okay. That’s good to know. Have you thought about other things you might want—clothes, food, maybe medical supplies?”
And it hit Pepe.
They were fishing. They were trying to get information.
The question about the helicopter was a way of forcing him to reveal how many men he had, the question about supplies a sneaky way of trying to find out if any of his men had been injured.
“Enough bullshit!” He was about to disconnect the call. “Don’t call me again until my cousin—”
“Commander Moreno, I’ve just received word that your cousin is airborne. We’re patching him through. Are you there?”
“Pepe?” Oscar’s voice came over the phone.
Pepe found himself on his feet, adrenaline rushing to his head. He switched into Spanish. “Where are you?”
“I’m wearing a suit and sitting in a helicopter flying toward Denver.” Oscar laughed. “You found a way, Pepe. I knew you would.”
“Are you really in a helicopter?”
“¡Sí!” Oscar laughed again. “I can’t believe it myself. Is it true you took hostages?”
Pepe’s mind raced, searching for any way this could be a deception. “What do you see outside?”
“It’s mostly dark, but there are city lights in the distance.”
His plan had worked. The US government had buckled.
Of course it had worked. Pepe had known it would. He’d taken his time, thought of everything. Now his uncle would not be able to deny him his rightful place in the family business. He would be the favored nephew, equal to Oscar, the stupid pendejo.
“Ask the pilot how long it will be before you arrive.” He waited on the line while Oscar asked.
“He says about two hours.”
About two hours.
“That’s cutting it close to the deadline I gave them.”
“I’m so glad to be out of that place. It was terrible, Pepe. You are always alone—no sunlight, no one to talk to, just the thoughts in your head. I would rather be dead than live in such a place.”
Oscar had always been weak.
Embarrassed for him, Pepe changed the subject. “We’ll live like kings back in Colombia. Call me again when they say you’re about to land.”
“I will. Gracias, mi primo.” Thank you, cousin.
Pepe hung up the phone, a sense of triumph swelling behind his breastbone. He turned to his men, called out the news to them. “Oscar is free and on his way.”
His men cheered, smiles on their faces.
“Well done, commander!”
He basked in their adulation, pulled out his phone, sent text messages to Luis and Camilo. He asked Camilo to take his place for a few minutes. All of this had gotten him riled up, made him horny. He wanted to spend some time with that little puta.
He motioned to her to come over.
The phone rang again.
“Commander Moreno, we’re keeping our word. We need some reassurance from you, that you will keep yours.”
Mother of God, he was sick of talking to this bastard. “The Moreno family is not the one that broke the agreement. The US government did that.”
“You’re working with me this time. I’m not the judge or the prosecutor. It’s my job to make sure this turns out well.”
“What do you want?” Even as Pepe asked, he knew. The pregnant woman. “I’m not letting anyone else go until my cousin and the thirty-five million are here.”
“We’ve got a kit of supplies our medic put together for Kat James—things she’ll need for herself and the baby in case she delivers before she’s released. There are scissors for cutting the umbilical cord, a cord clamp, an injection of oxytocin to help prevent postpartum hemorrhage, as well as sanitary napkins.”
Pepe’s stomach turned at the description of the kit’s contents, the idea of blood and gore coming out of a woman’s body there sickening. “I will allow this. You can bring it to the loading dock.”
“We’ve already left the kit on the fire escape outside the Onyx Room.”
Pepe didn’t like this. “I didn’t say you could come up to the hotel.”
Why hadn’t the guys on the ground floor seen anything?
“You’ve got a woman in premature labor. Her life and that of her baby are on the line. You’ve gained the respect of a lot of our team out here, but you’re going to lose all that if anything happens to mother or baby.”
Pepe didn’t give a damn about earning the respect of gringos—except that some part of him did. “I’ll send one of my men for the kit, but this better not be a trick.”
“I give you my word,” said Kimble. “One of the hostages—Holly Andris—has some training as a nurse. She’ll know what to do with it.”
Pepe disconnected. “You didn’t tell me you were a nurse.”
She looked up at him, shrugged. “Well, I’m not a very good one.”
Pepe couldn’t help it. He laughed.
* * *
22:01
Gabe adjusted his headlamp, listening while Tower went over the plan. He’d gotten a text from Chief Irving on the cell phone he’d taken telling him to meet Hunter, Andris, and Tower on the eighth floor, where they were waiting for him with a bag of gear. They’d brought him up to date, explaining that HRT was now calling the shots and outlining the plan.
Two would take up positions on the third floor that gave them unbroken lines of sight to the mezzanine balcony and the main doorway of the Grand Ballroom, ready to open fire on HRT’s command. Someone else would stay on the roof to prevent Moreno’s men from taking it back. Someone would make his way down the ventilation shaft to the floor above the Grand Ballroom—a mechanical floor filled with machinery and other equipment—where he would insert a slender camera through the ceiling so that guys in the command center could get eyes on both Moreno and the hostages.
Gabe had immediately volunteered for the latter. It fit his skill set, and he’d be as close as he could be to Kat.
Tower ran his finger over the image of the building plans on his tablet. “It’s a six-story drop, and we don’t know how snug it’s going to get, what conditions you’ll encounter, or what shape the metal is in. This hotel has been around since Custer was a child, so you might come across a clusterfuck of electrical wires or maybe pipes carrying hot water. Don’t get yourself burned or killed. If you get stuck, we’ll get you out when this is over. If you fall …”
“I won’t fall.”
“He won’t,” Hunter said. “Trust me.”
Gabe gave Hunter a nod, appreciating the vote of confidence.
“Once you get there, look for hatches in the floor. Staff use them to service the lights in the Grand Ballroom. Look for an opening—it doesn’t take much—to slide the lens of the camera through the ceiling. It should give HRT a view of the entire space. Listen to HRT’s directions from there.”
“Got it.”
“And Rossiter?” Hunter said.
“Yeah?”
“Be quiet.
If they hear you moving around up there …”
Wearing climbing shoes on his feet, Gabe lifted himself into the ventilation shaft, gear strapped to his chest in a small pack, his headlamp lighting the way.
It was easy going at first. He chimneyed his way down, using opposing pressure with his hands, knees, feet, and back on the sidewalls to control his descent, looking downward to make certain before he moved that the shaft walls weren’t about to run out or change direction.
“How’s it going in there?” Tower’s voice sounded in his ear.
“It’s like big-crack climbing in Moab or Yosemite.”
Except dustier. And not at all scenic.
He must have gone down a good three or four floors when the shaft narrowed, making it almost impossible to look down. He was forced to climb back up to a wider space, remove his pack and tie it around the ankle of his prosthetic leg, and descend again, the metal pressed against his chest. It was a damned good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic.
He was starting to worry that it would become so narrow that he would get stuck and wouldn’t be able to breathe, when the pack hanging from his foot struck bottom. From there, it divided into four separate shafts, dropping at an angle.
“I’m at an intersection here.”
“Take the one that heads north,” Tower said.
“Right.” Gabe shifted so that he could see his watch, which had a built-in compass, then slid into the shaft that headed in the direction closest to north, stirring up dust as he moved.
The shaft was almost horizontal now, enabling him to head down face first, but the metal was thinner here. It creaked and popped as he moved, raising the real possibility that someone would hear him. Dust tickled his nose, his throat, and he found himself fighting not to sneeze. “Are there any tangos near my position?”
“Negative,” came the reply from the mobile command center.
Then Gabe saw light. It filtered through a small screen. Beyond the screen, he could see a room full of machines—furnaces, electrical panels, AC controls. He opened his bag, took out the hand drill, and removed the bolts holding the cover in place one by one, then held fast to the screen as he worked his way out of the shaft and lowered his feet to the floor.
