Sweet Dreams

by Aaron Patterson

  The hallway was clear, but he could tell someone was in the room to his right. He looked for a place to hide, but all he could see was a large crate beside the door where the voices were coming from.

  He looked back to the room he’d just come from. That’s it!

  Returning to the washroom, he set the metal chair upright, then lifted the masked man and balanced his limp body on the seat. Taking off the man’s mask, he pulled it over his own head and tied the attacker’s hands behind his back.

  He looked to be Kirk’s height and weight. This might just work after all. He loosened the light bulb that hung just above his head, then frisked the dead man’s pockets for weapons.

  Nothing.

  A voice behind him suddenly demanded, “Hey, what are you doing? You’re supposed to take him back to his cell.” The man had a thick, Russian accent.

  Kirk froze and waited for the man to get within striking distance. He knew he would only have one shot at this.

  “You! Hurry up!” The man stepped into the room.

  Whirling around, Kirk lurched forward and slid the sharp blade into his target’s abdomen. The man gasped in pain, but before he could react, Kirk yanked the blade out, and in one sweeping motion, slashed it across his throat, spraying a stream of blood onto his chest.

  A confused look flashed across his face before the Russian fell to his knees, blood spewing from his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  Kirk removed the man’s mask and searched his second kill for weapons. He smiled when he found a Glock. After checking to make sure the clip was full, he stepped into the hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears. Despite the throb in his ribs, he crouched and crept down the long hall, gun in hand.

  The only way out appeared to be the door at the far end. He ducked behind a crate, rested a moment, then jumped from his hiding place. Almost running, but still hunkered as low as possible, he worked his way to the end of the hall.

  Hearing voices, he stopped by a closed door, feeling like a sitting duck as he squatted in the open. He heard whispers and moans on the other side of the door. At least two people were in the cell.

  That was all he needed. He’d be lucky to make it out alive on his own, let alone trying to drag other people with him.

  He tried the cell door. Locked.

  He crawled to the next door and twisted the handle, which gave way to pressure. He pushed the door open and slipped inside. The cell was dark and smelled like a sewer, but it made a good place to hide and think.

  It didn’t take him long to decide to go for help then return for the others, whoever they were. He looked out into the hall, wondering what to do next. He needed to draw out whoever was on the other side of the door—the door that could lead him to freedom. He needed the element of surprise, if he was going to make out of this place alive.

  CHAPTER 23

  PAT ROTTER GRUNTED AS his jaw was slammed into the side of his apartment building.

  “Hey,” he squealed, “what d’ya want?”

  Mark held him firmly against the wall, his forearm digging into the back of his neck. “You’re coming with me, or you’ll die!” Mark was determined not to lose K and Sam again, even if it meant killing this poor sop before he actually did anything.

  “Easy, man! I don’t have any money.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Mark growled. He pushed Pat toward his car, shoved him into the passenger seat and shut the door, still pointing the fake gun through his coat pocket.

  He walked around the other side of the Honda and got in, thinking fast. The kid would soon figure out he didn’t have a gun. He had to figure a way to keep the edge, no matter what.

  He started the car then turned to Pat. “I want you to listen, Pat Rotter, and listen hard. I know who you are and what you’re doing. I’m with the FBI. We know you’re involved with a terrorist organization that is planning to blow up a grocery store tomorrow morning.”

  Pat’s eyes grew big and round. “Uh, how did ” He stuttered and looked away, avoiding Mark’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mark sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll give you two choices, Rotter. You can cooperate with me and tell me everything you know, or you can spend the rest of your life behind bars. Who will take care of your grandmother while you’re in prison?”

  Pat jerked his gaze toward Mark and ogled him, as if testing his resolve. Finally, with an exasperated huff, he nodded and began to talk, fast.

  “All I did was sell them the C-4 I took from work.” He raised his hands. “I swear on my grandma’s Bible, that’s all I did, man.” He gripped his thighs and gazed straight ahead, eyes wide.

  Mark tapped the steering wheel. “We have good intel that you’re the one who’s going to plant the bomb. What is this about you only sold them the C-4?”

  “I swear that’s all I did. They haven’t even paid me for it yet. I’m supposed to meet them today to get my fifty grand. I don’t know anything about a bomb.”

  Mark studied the nervous youth’s face. His contacts were probably planning to hold the cash until he promised to plant the bomb. Once he placed it in the store, they’d incinerate him along with everyone else.

  He suddenly turned to Pat and barked, “Get out of the car.”

  Pat jerked. “Yes, sir!” He reached for the door handle.

  “If you contact those people again, or I catch you getting into any more trouble, God help you!”

  Pat shook his head violently. “I won’t go back. I’ll stay away from those people. It was a stupid thing to do.” He clenched his fists. “I’ll stay out of trouble, I promise.”

  “Good.” Mark squinted at Pat, trying to give him his sternest stare. “I’ll be watching you.”

  Pat jumped from his car, slammed the door and ran up the stairs to his apartment without looking back.

  Mark sighed. Maybe he’d scared the kid good enough to avoid any more stupid situations. He started the car and pulled out of the apartment complex parking lot. It was time to pay a little visit to a few bomb makers.

  He dialed directory assistance as he drove. He needed a gun to make his point at the cabin. He could feel his instincts taking over, just like in his dream. He didn’t know how much of his dream was true or how much was going to come true, but he wasn’t going to sit around when hundreds of innocent people were about to be killed.

  The computerized operator came on the line. “City and state, please.”

  “New York City, New York.”

  Finally, he was connected to the American Gun Club. “Yeah, is Fred there?”

  “Uh, Fred? No one by that name works here.”

  “He’s the fat man smoking a stogie over by the fireplace.”

  The voice on the other end went silent. It was a long shot, but Fred was the only person he knew in the whole city who could supply weapons on short notice.

  “Hold on one second.”

  After what felt like forever, he heard Fred wheeze and cough as he picked up the receiver. “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Hey, Fred. I’ve got eight hundred dollars, cash, and I need a gun—today.”

  “Uh… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. Meet me in half an hour at the old train depot out in Brooklyn. You know the one?”

  “Yeah. ”

  “Half an hour.”

  He hung up the phone and tried not think about how crazy this was. The depot was about an hour from the cabin. He was going to change his own future and the future of hundreds of other families, whatever it took. He could ask forgiveness later.

  * * *

  HUNCHED IN THE DARK, empty cell, Kirk waited. He could hear what sounded like a child crying softly in the cell down the hall. How could he live with himself if he left a child, and who knows who else, to suffer what he could only imagine? This was no preschool. But he worked better alone. He’d come back later.

  He started to leave the cell but sighed. What if there was no later?<
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  He slipped out of his hiding place and found the door where he could hear the child. It was another heavy, wooden door wrapped with old, rusty metal, like the one he’d been trapped in earlier.

  He shot a glance up and down the empty, open hallway. If one of the Russians appeared, he’d have no place to hide. He was totally exposed.

  He tapped the door and whispered, “I’m a cop. Anyone in there?”

  “Yes, me and my daughter. Please help us!” The shaking voice sounded female.

  “Okay, hold on. I need to find a key to unlock the door.”

  “Be careful!”

  He tiptoed to the door at the end of the hall, where he heard loud snoring. He took a deep breath, and pushed the door open and peered inside, where he saw a desk topped by computer monitors and a small television. A sleeping guard was slumped in his chair in front of the television, his back to the door.

  Kirk opened the door just enough to crawl through. Seeing no one else in the room, he snuck behind the sleeping guard, then stood with his gun drawn, adrenaline flowing, ribs screaming.

  The foyer in front of the desk was empty. A guard walked past the glass windows on the outside of the building, but no one was nearby. He glanced at the marble floors and the rounded curve of the huge lobby.

  He raised his gun over the guard’s head and smashed it against his left temple. The guard grunted and fell to the side.

  Kirk propped him so that he looked like he was watching the television, then took the keys from his belt.

  Back in the empty hallway, he hurried to the woman’s cell. Before he unlocked the door, he whispered, “Got the keys.”

  He could hear movement inside as he shoved one key after another into the lock. Finally, one fit. The lock was old and rusted and made a grinding sound as the key clicked the deadbolt open.

  The door swung open and hit the wall with a bang. A slender woman and a small girl were standing just inside the opening. They squinted as bright light streamed in from the hallway.

  Though the woman looked beat up and dirty, he could tell she had light-blonde hair. The little girl, who had similar hair color, was hugging the woman’s leg, her eyes wide with fear and her face smudged with grime. A small cut above her right eye was caked with dried blood.

  He motioned to the child, put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Be very, very quiet.”

  She nodded.

  “Follow me and do as I say.”

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of the prison with a woman and a child in tow, but he knew he had to try. He led them to the end of the hall and had them wait outside the door.

  Stepping behind the still-unconscious guard, he scanned the lobby. This time, he noticed three elevators on the left. But the expanse between the desk and the elevators was vast and windowed, with no place to hide. The guards, who were making their rounds on the other side of the glass, would see them for sure.

  He looked around the desk, hoping to find something, anything that would help. Ah, a radio! He shoved at the fat guard’s spare tire to maneuver the two-way radio from his belt. Here we go.

  He hit the talk button. “Intruder! Intruder at the rear of the building. Every available man, run to the southeast end of the building!” He ducked behind the desk as guards rushed past the windows, then poked his head back into the hallway and motioned to the two frightened females. “Let’s go.”

  He hurried across the lobby and out the main door, thinking they’d use the elevators only if they needed to retreat. It was dark, and he didn’t know if it was early morning or late in the evening, but it didn’t matter. They were out of the building.

  The woman, carrying her daughter, followed directly behind him without a word. The air was cold and sharp as they made their way across the lawn that fronted the building. He could see his breath puff out in front of him as he ran hunched over.

  They reached a large bush and hid behind it. They could see bouncing beams of light from flashlights as their captors searched for the intruders.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He moved behind a tree to get a feel for the complex’s layout. They were in the middle of the woods. A dirt road on the left led to a gate flanked by guard towers. The glow of a cigarette stood out like a tiny spark against the dark sky as one of the guards took a drag. For some reason, the tower guards didn’t seem too concerned by the alert.

  Now what?

  Between them and the guards, a double fence acted as a dog-run. The dogs he could see sniffing around looked like pit bulls. Other dogs were motionless, probably sleeping.

  He heard a vehicle and ducked behind a bush. A Jeep was headed toward them with a gunner on top holding a machine gun and a spotlight.

  He looked over to where the woman and child were hiding, and a sick feeling came over him. The Jeep stopped a few feet from them, and a guard stepped out, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. The flare from the lighter made his face look sinister.

  Kirk willed the two females to remain motionless. He could barely make out the woman’s form ten yards ahead. He cursed himself for leaving them alone, and his heart jumped into his throat when the girl started crying.

  No!

  He jumped up, yelled, and ran toward the Jeep waving his arms. The guard dropped his cigarette and leveled a gun at Kirk. He dropped the Glock on the ground behind him, hoping the girl and her mother would find it and have something with which to defend themselves.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  He raised his hands in the air, stealing a glance at the two, who were crawling under broken pallets piled in a twisted heap.

  The guard shoved Kirk into the Jeep and drove him to a loading dock, where he was dumped on the hard, concrete floor and soundly kicked before being dragged back to his cell. The door slammed with a loud thud, and, once again, he was alone in the dark.

  * * *

  THE WOMAN RELAXED HER grip on her daughter’s mouth when her silent sobs stopped and she fell asleep. But she didn’t relax her vigilance. She’d never been so scared. If her captors found them, she was sure they’d kill both of them for trying to escape. They were hateful, evil men.

  She tried not to cry. She needed to be strong for her little girl. But the whole complex was swarming with guards, and she was terrified.

  They’d stay hidden until morning. Then she’d decide what to do. She thought of their rescuer and shuddered at the thought of what he was enduring for their sake.

  Who was he? Why did he help them? She pulled her little girl close. It would be morning soon, and she would have a completely new situation to deal with. The cover of the pallets wouldn’t be enough for them to be able to escape detection in daylight. She saw a small outbuilding about a hundred feet away. Maybe it was an electric building or a pump house of some kind. Whatever it was, something told her they had to get inside.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE RIOT SHOTGUN WAS just like the one Mark remembered in his dream—down to the black stock and the way the cold metal felt in his hands. He paid Fred and left.

  The road was paved with graying blacktop. Fall leaves shone in bright colors, making the hills come alive with bright reds, oranges, and yellows. Better than the snow. Then again, had that really been snow?

  He wasn’t sure what to think. The dream, or whatever he’d gone through, had taken him through a year of life he had no desire to repeat. His future was in his own hands now. For better or for worse, he believed what he dreamed or saw was real—or would be real, if he didn’t act.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t remember why, but he had a feeling he was supposed to see someone.

  A car, maybe, or a woman. Yeah, a woman. Bits and pieces of that day were coming back to him as he drove the dangerous path toward the cabin.

  Just past a KOA Campground sign, a dirt road on the left called to him like some spirit pulling him to his fate. He glanced in the mirror before swinging his Honda onto the road. He almost didn’
t recognize the hard eyes that stared back at him. He looked away before he lost his nerve and hurried home to his wife and daughter, who would be killed tomorrow.

  He found the wide spot in the road where he’d parked before. For a moment, he stood on the hill staring at the valley below and the cabin at the base of the mountain. The shotgun was loaded and ready. He edged into the trees with it cradled in his left arm.

  Up close, the cabin looked the same, but without a pile of wood stacked on the porch.

  Two trucks were parked in front—the same two he remembered. A chill ran up his spine, making him shiver. The men inside were going to see someone other than Pat Rotter today, someone who didn’t want money.

  He crouched behind the old, gray Chevy and could hear what sounded like an intense argument inside the building. Peering around the front bumper, he could see that one of the men was standing with his back to the front window, waving his arms and yelling.

  Time to make history. He shifted his feet, his heart pounding. But then, like a machine, he seemed to downshift a gear. He could feel his heart rate slow and a sense of control and knowing surge through his body.

  He jumped from his hiding place and bull-rushed the door with his shoulder down, shotgun ready. The door splintered with a cracking, groaning sound and gave way as he crashed through it, landing on his side.

  The man at the window swung around, yanking a pistol from his hip holster.

  Mark rolled to his feet and pumped a shell into the man’s chest.

  The big man doubled over, and his gun clattered to the wood floor, sliding away in a spin. He landed in a bloody heap, a huge, red stain covering his chest.

  The other two men, who’d jumped to their feet, guns in hand, froze.

  “Anyone else care to try me?” His voice was calm, almost conversational.

  They did not hesitate this time. Like obedient children, they dropped their weapons in unison.

  “Sit down with your hands in the air. You drop ‘em, you die.” He waved the shotgun toward the table, and they did as they were told.

  He saw the shell of a phone sitting on the table with a black remote transmitter next to the detonator. He picked the transmitter up.