Collins held up his device again, then quickly returned it to its pouch with a shake of his head. Something was wrong. He skulked down the length of plastic and peeked around. It was clear, so he stepped through without hesitation. The area on the other side was the same, with two more curtains of plastic eight feet in front of them.
They crept forward to the slit dividing them, and Collins opened it with the barrel of his weapon. What Sharon saw beyond the hanging plastic made her heart stop. Sitting motionless in the center of the area was a hooded child slumped over the bindings that held him to an office chair. But the child was not her son—unless they'd changed his clothes to throw off the authorities. She studied the shape and height of the boy. It could be Ben.
Collins checked left and right, then pushed inside. Sharon stayed on his heels until they were safely inside the area. She looked around and went for the hood, repeating one sentence over and over in her mind. Let it be Ben, let it be Ben, let it be...
As her hand neared the hood, a loud voice filled the room. It was Ben’s voice. "Mom!"
She leapt back with a screech.
"It's a recorder," said Collin, pointing to a small speaker in the boy’s lap. He circled the chair to a black duffel bag lying on the floor, flipped his weapon onto his back, and crouched.
"What is it?" she said, coming around the other side.
He unzipped the bag and peeled it open to reveal wires, metal tubes, and a readout panel counting down in red digital letters from twenty-five.
Collins' head snapped up. "We have to get out of here."
Sharon stared into the bag with horror and disbelief. How could it be? The message said everything would be all right. This was definitely not all right!
Collins jumped to his feet. "Run! I'll get Ben!" As he said it, he grabbed the chair, but collapsed against it.
Sharon's skin jumped.
"It must be bolted!" His hand shot to his belt. He pulled his knife free and started cutting through the duct tape and rope.
Sharon watched, frozen in terror. The countdown was on twenty-one. They didn’t have time! She looked at the bomb in the bag.
"Run, Sharon. I've got him!" Collins didn't look up as he sawed. "I'll get him out, just run!"
She watched him rip the bindings away piece by piece. With each violent pull, a shock rippled through her body in response. It would take four more cuts—if Collins made no mistakes—and the clock was down to sixteen seconds.
"You're not going to make it!" she said in half hysterics.
He ripped another rope away.
"There’s only twelve seconds!"
He ripped another rope away. Two remained.
"Ten seconds! We have to run!"
He ignored her warning and kept sawing.
Sharon's eyes fell on the digital countdown again. Eight seconds. They were past the point of no return!
Her eyes loosened as the reality of what was about to happen sank in. She focused in on a thick green wire hanging below the flashing red numbers, and two words flashed in her mind. She collapsed to her knees and reached into the bag. With one yank the green wire pulled free.
The number 2 froze. Glowing red.
Collins stood over her in shocked amazement, sweat dripping from his face, chest heaving for oxygen. "Well—how about that," he said, in his same even tone.
She looked at him with eyes wide and repeated the two words from the message. "Pull green."
Chapter 18
The energy drink snaking through his veins made it even harder for David to deal with the semi-automatic rifle pressed against the side of his thigh. Stress crawled across his forehead and cheeks like a thousand tiny spiders and his chest burned with an all-consuming anxiety.
Keep it together, David.
If he did as he was told he would make it through this. They wanted him alive. If that were not the case, the weapon would be aimed at a vital organ.
"Just be cool," said the man next to him.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Be cool," he repeated.
"Are you one of them?" said David, eyes locked forward on the elevator door.
"You make it sound so sinister."
"Demon’s are sinister."
"I prefer the term archangel," the man said with a hint of humor in his deep voice.
"But angels don't inhabit human bodies."
"Don't they?" The man shot him a belittling glance.
The elevator stopped on the ground floor of the Apex Plaza, and the doors slid open with a slow mechanical slide. Three SWAT officers stood, blocking the way. Two had their weapons trained and ready.
"Whoa," said the man standing next to David. "Be calm, fellas. I'm taking David down to the basement to follow one of his messages. We'll be back soon."
The officers lowered their weapons. One gave a smile. "Next time call ahead, okay, Dave."
"I forgot you guys had the elevators set to stop on the ground floor or I would have." David reached out and stabbed the button for the basement. "See you in a couple," he said, as the door sealed shut.
David's body loosened.
"Good job, Chance. You see. When you listen, no one gets hurt." He turned his eyes up casually, looked at the glowing number above the door, and chuckled to himself. "Hardly sinister."
Bing. The doors slid open, and the man guided him down a long hall with a shiny floor that smelled of cleaner. Fluorescent light gave everything an eerie green tint.
"Where are we going? Why are you separating me from my son?"
"Separating," he said with a chuckle. "I'm not separating you. I'm bringing you to him."
Was it true? Was Collins chasing a rabbit trail? Why? "What do you want from us? If you want me dead you could do that right now."
"Could I?"
The inflection in his voice caused David to look back over his shoulder. His expression was a strange mix of humor and irony. David's pace slowed as a realization washed over him. This man didn't only want him alive, he wasn't allowed to kill him. What did that mean? Was all of his posturing a bluff? David slowed even more. "You can't kill me. Can you?"
"Pick up the pace," said the man with a shove.
"No," said David, coming to a complete stop. "Not until you tell me what’s going on."
The man brought the dark socket of his barrel tip up and placed it on David's forehead. "You are testing my patience."
Fear clawed David's gut, but he stood firm. "You can't kill me and you know it. So why don't you tell me where you're bringing me, and why."
The hard tip of the gun barrel poked his forehead like a battering ram. Pain bloomed around it. "Does that hurt?" said the officer with a cock of his head.
Yeah! It hurt a lot! David rubbed his forehead and gave a slow stubborn nod.
"There are things worse than dead," said the man with a sneer. He slapped David's shoulder with the butt of his rifle. "Move it. We're on a time table." They continued down the hall, through several doors and several rooms, past scientific equipment, caged animals, and even a cadaver on a gurney. "Stop here," said the man, sliding some equipment from in front of a flimsy wooden door. He lifted up on the hole where the doorknob used to be and slid the door over. Beyond was a pocket of darkness. "Get in," he said, moving out of the way.
David hesitated.
"Get in!"
It was unwise to argue with the man. David had seen the fruit of that, so he scurried into the darkness—which became more complete as the door closed behind them.
There was a click, and a single light bulb came on. It swung from a cobwebbed ceiling on a single wire and had a beaded metal chain dangling from it. The officer released the chain and sent the light swinging as he turned to bolt the door.
David took a step back and something hard caught the heel of his foot. His hands flew up and he let out a startled burst of air as he began falling backward. In one fluid motion the officer spun around, his hand shot out like lightning and caught David by the front of his vest. David
had never seen anyone move so fast in his life. It defied the laws of physics.
"Watch your step," said the man with a smile, "It's a long way down."
He got his balance and looked behind him. His heel had snagged onto a ladder in a hole descending deep into the earth. They climbed down and moved through a dry sewer vein to another ladder that led to the basement of another building. Judging from how long they had walked through the sewer, it was probably two buildings away from the one the authorities were assaulting. They must have sent the kidnapper up to the eighth floor of the other building with a decoy while his son was spirited away through the dark sewer line to this other building. But for what purpose? It all felt like an elaborate setup to lure him in, to trap him, but why bring him downtown? If they wanted to do something to him, they could have done it at his house. There was nothing preventing them—as his unwelcome houseguest had proven. Why this elaborate scheme to kidnap his son and lure him in? It didn't make any sense.
The officer led him to a freight elevator and up to the fifty-second floor where they stepped off into a cavernous room filled with the frames of unfinished offices—unfinished, save for one. They walked through skeleton two-by-four walls and piles of sheetrock, past two saw horses straddled by a plank containing cups, sugars, and a coffee maker. The light on the coffee maker glowed amber, and the pot was filled with water, giving the impression that someone had come to start the coffee for the morning, but for whatever reason, didn’t finish. David winced. Brilliant, Sherlock, now you know someone intended to make coffee. How does that help you in any possible way?
The officer brought him to the door of the finished office, gave a tilt of his head, and prodded David to enter.
David took the knob in his sweaty hand, turned, and pushed.
Inside the room sat the last man he ever expected to see.
Chapter 19
The office was not a white powdery husk with framed up two-by-fours and hanging wires as David had expected. It was completely finished and furnished. Paintings, diplomas, and artifacts adorned the walls, and the entire back wall was a window looking out onto the city below. A leather couch and an opulent glass coffee table sat to the left, and, toward the rear, in the center, was a large mahogany desk with artifacts and antiques from around the world.
This was clearly the office of a millionaire CEO, and that was who David expected to see behind the giant desk—not that the man behind the desk didn't look as though he belonged in such a refined environment. It was just that—he was supposed to be dead.
David's vocal chords forced the name out of his dry throat. "Brad?"
Brad's face had an uncharacteristic sternness to it, at least for the Brad Knight he remembered. But was this the Brad Knight he knew, or was what he knew all wrong? Had Brad been faking all these months? Was he the true mastermind behind the bomb threats and assassination attempt, embedding himself inside a plot of his own making?
"Step inside," said the SWAT officer, politely poking David with the tip of his weapon.
David entered, his eyes fixed on Brad. "Why? Why would you do all this?"
His old boss had a look of surprise wash over his face. "Why would I...?"
"Where’s my son?" spat David. "Why did you take him?"
"Your son?" His features melted into a look of astonishment. "They took your son?"
"You don't know?"
"No. Why would I?"
David's eyes darted around. "Because you're behind that desk, and I'm here, being herded by this goon."
"I'm only here because they strapped me to this chair."
"So—you're not the one doing all this?"
His face twisted. "No! They told me you were behind it all!"
"Me?!"
Brad shook his head. "I'm such an idiot. They told me your abilities aren't real, that you made everything up to explain how you were at all the places where these things were happening."
The officer shut the door. "Have a seat, David." He pointed with his weapon. "There. On the couch."
David’s mind raced with questions as he walked toward the couch. Nothing made sense. He expected to meet whoever was in charge. He expected to see his son. What was Brad doing here? Not that he wasn't thrilled to see him alive, but how did he fit into all of this?
"Sit," said the officer.
The tone of the man’s voice caused David’s legs to weaken. He dropped down onto the couch with a squeak.
"Here," said the SWAT officer, taking a knife from the sheath on his leg. "You'll need this."
David eyed the sturdy knife. "For what?"
"To hurt yourself," he said with dark grin, laying it on the glass coffee table.
A spike of fear drove into David's belly. This was it. This was the reason they had brought him here. They couldn't hurt him, but he could hurt himself, if given the right incentive. But—why Brad? Why not his son? They had gone through all the trouble of kidnapping Ben, why not use him?
"Why Brad Knight?" said the possessed officer with a flare in his voice, as if ciphering the thought from David's bewildered mind. "Why not use your son? Wouldn't that be more effective?"
"Yes," said David weakly.
"We don't want to hurt you, David." His face darkened. "We want to kill you."
A shiver wiggled up his spine like a poisonous snake.
"And, since we can't kill you ourselves, we need you to do it for us. Your friend is going to help us."
Brad struggled against his bindings. "Don't listen to him, David. Whatever they do to me, I can take it."
The officer laughed. "I'm not going to do anything to you, except put a bullet in your neck."
Time began to slow and swim around David's deadened skin. Had Brad been spared again from the arms of death, only to be murdered in cold blood right before his eyes? Did he have the courage to do what was required to save his friend’s life?
"It all rests with you, David. If you do what I say, your friend will walk away unharmed."
David struggled for a breath. "I don't understand."
"This is a trial run. You will prove yourself, and we will prove ourselves."
The knife looked hard and heavy against the glass. Its sharp edge glinted in the light of the sun’s rays pushing in through the large window. Staring at it, David began imagining the many ways he could hurt himself with such an implement—but he let out a terrible scream inside his head, forcing the thoughts back into the encroaching darkness. His own broken voice filled his ears. "What if I can't?"
"Then Brad will die, and we will move on to your son." He laughed. "There are two lessons you can learn. The first is quite simple. If you obey, we will do as we promise and release your friend, and, ultimately, your son."
So this was a test run?
"If I kill myself..." he said with slow revelation.
The man's face lit. "Now you're getting it!" His tone had a parent-like quality. "The second lesson is merely an extension of what you already know. We have no problem killing the people you love. If you fail, this will simply be a reinforcement of that principle. If we kill Brad Knight, you will understand that we can and will kill as we see fit."
Could they? Did they truly have the power to kill Brad, or was this all a bluff? Did God save Brad from the terrorists? Had he also saved him from the doomed flight 304, or did these fallen angels kidnap him before he got on the plane? That was the question. If God had redirected him, then he had to be protected!
"Brad, what happened on the day of flight 304? What prevented you from getting on that plane?"
The officer was noticeably disturbed by the question.
"The cab was late. Why?"
"It doesn't matter," said the officer.
"When did these people grab you?"
"Enough," said the officer, bringing his weapon up and placing it on Brad's neck. "It's time to make your decision."
"Did you see him jump?" said David. "He’s afraid of your answer because he knows what it will reveal to me."
> The officer's face twisted as he pressed the barrel in. Brad took the brunt of it and smiled. "I don't know what you're getting at David, but I trust you."
"Did they prevent you from getting on that flight?"
The officer growled. "Not one more word."
David turned toward the officer. "You've already given me my answer. You know you can't kill him. He's protected. This is all a bluff." His heart pounded in his neck as he stared transfixed at the officer’s trigger finger. This was the right call. He had to believe this was the right call. But how could he know without a message? His eyes scanned the room desperately. But there were no words close enough to read. Please! He cried into his mind. Tell me what to do!
Four words took form in his head. This must be hard.
It wasn't a consoling remark saying this must be hard for you to go through. It was an establishing statement. What was about to happen was going to be hard, but it was necessary. It was important. This must be hard. He could feel a great sadness in each word. This was not something God wanted.
The officer let out a heart-stopping scream and drove the butt of his weapon into Brad's shoulder socket.
"AARRRGHH!" Brad's face tightened in agony.
David jumped to his feet. "STOP!"
"We could have done this the easy way," he spat. "You could have done as we told you, and your friend would have walked away unharmed." He gripped Brad by the hair and slammed his face into the desk.
"NO!" screamed David with hysteria in his eyes.
The weapon snapped up and the barrel pointed at him. "You chose this! Now you can choose how bad it will be!" The officer poked the gun in his direction. "SIT! DOWN!"
David sank back down on the couch.
"If you get up again, I'll cut off one of his fingers. Or worse." His face soured. "I may not have authority to kill him but if you push me I'll make sure his own mother won’t recognize him."
Brad lifted his face from the desk. A string of drool and blood trailed down from his lip. "It's okay, David. I can live with this. I'd rather it be me."
"How noble," mocked the officer. "Let's see how you feel in fifteen minutes."
Lies (The David Chance Series Book 3) Page 12
