Exacerbyte (Ellie Conway Book 3)

by Cat Connor

  The person was a few yards in front me, wearing a security uniform. I pulled my badge from my pocket and hung it around my neck as I slipped and slid, trying to hurry over to him.

  “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Conway. How many of you are there out here?” I pointed to the stadium grounds.

  “Six of us.”

  “Are your radios working?”

  He appeared to find my question strange. If I was Hawk and I’d planted a bomb, I’d be interfering with radio and cell signals just to mess with people.

  “Yes.”

  “In a few minutes the stadium is going to empty. It’s going to be total mayhem because no one will want to leave. Do you have an evacuation plan?”

  He nodded, confused.

  Of course they did.

  “Then begin to follow your plan.”

  “Why are we evacuating?”

  They should know about it by now!

  “Bomb threat,” I replied. As if leaving wasn’t going to cause panic enough, let’s up the ante with a good old-fashioned bomb threat. “Can you handle this area? I’ve got to keep moving.”

  “Yes,” he said with a sudden burst of authority. He hit the squawk button on his radio and announced to his fellow guards that they were evacuating.

  “One other thing,” I said, pulling pictures of the missing teens and of the Harris woman from my pocket.

  He nodded.

  “If you see these people, detain them.”

  I ran on, following the curved concourse and trying to find a way down. My phone beeped. It was the first reminder. We had fifteen minutes to clear the stadium. Any second I’d be running against the current and unable to get to the stage at all.

  That thought terrified me and I couldn’t fathom why.

  I called Sean while I running. “Turner and Hooch … where are they and are they wearing body armor?”

  “They’re wearing stab-proof vests and they’re beside the stage with the band’s cars.”

  “Do we know where this bomb is?”

  “In the vicinity of the stage is all we have.”

  And the Unsub is so trustworthy we should immediately believe him? My internal voice erupted with ‘We have no choice.’

  “Get a dog to go over those cars.” A ghastly feeling of impending doom flowed through my body. “Sean, tell all police to wear ballistic body armor. Stab-proof won’t help in this situation.”

  “On it.”

  It was hard work convincing myself security never left the cars.

  Normally security never left the cars. This wasn’t normal.

  Another concrete tunnel led me into deafening noise. The stage was still far below me. Rowan called for calm in the crowd.

  People rushed toward me. They were anything but calm. I saw angry, panicked and annoyed – but no calm.

  I ducked under arms and dodged around people making my way down more steps to another level. This time I chose not to go through the tunnel. I vaulted over the rail and swung into the landing below me. I continued on my new trajectory downward, running down steps, evading the building panic and vaulting over railings onto the landings below.

  Rowan was still on stage, so were the rest of the band. Soon I was too low down to see behind the screened-off area, so couldn’t tell if the dogs had finished going over the cars. I made it to the grass. The middle was clear because the alarmed crowd of people all jammed themselves into the corners trying to get out.

  Police wearing stab-proof vests still lined the barricade as I hurtled toward the stage. A cop stepped in front of me. I came to an abrupt stop.

  “Found anything?” I asked, grabbing my badge and shoving it in his face. I was not in a charitable mood. Bombs make me edgy.

  “No ma’am,” he replied.

  “You all need to put on ballistic body armor. Anyone without it is putting themselves at risk.”

  I vaulted over the barricade and crossed the remaining four feet to the stage edge without replying. Rowan leaned down and held out his hand, which I took as I clambered onto the stage.

  “What the fuck are you still doing here?” I hissed at him trying to control my breathing and the exasperation I felt at seeing him and the band still on stage.

  “Making sure everyone leaves.”

  “This is not a ship. You are not the captain. Get the fuck out of here!” I looked beyond Rowan at the rest of the band. “Go!”

  Turner and Hooch appeared from the right side of the stage behind a black curtain. “They’re clear,” Turner called.

  “Get the band into the cars and gone,” I replied.

  Rowan still held my hand. I shook it off.

  “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “Not yet. Now give me some of your calm and get the fuck out of Dodge.”

  I looked out over the stadium.

  Then looked again.

  Someone was moving away from the exits. The person was running along the first row of seats and hiding as they went. I tugged my phone from my pocket and made a call. “Hey Sean, heads up … Someone moving quickly, first row toward the Crusaders’ logo on the pitch.”

  “I’m over that way, I’ll intercept.”

  Hooch called out, “Everyone’s in the car except Rowan Grange.”

  That was because he’d grabbed my hand again. “Go,” I said, pulling my hand from his grasp.

  “I’ll be waiting.” His usual easy smile vanished without a trace. “Be careful.”

  I sent him across the stage to Hooch and he looked back, I felt his eyes. Standing on the stage, I was aware of other eyes, watching.

  Police handlers and dogs appeared from the very back of the stage. The crowd slowly dispersed through the exits amidst screaming and crying.

  Behind the black curtain, the last car left the area. Road cordons gave them a clear path out. One less thing to worry about.

  Dogs sniffed all the equipment and grid-searched the entire stage. Two more dog teams scoured the stands, starting at the edges, moving slowly in.

  Sean ran toward someone.

  Lee was visible from my right, moving toward Sean; Sam was heading across the pitch to help. I looked for Doc and spotted him hurtling down the concrete steps not far from where I’d been. I shoved my badge inside my vest so it didn’t bounce into my face, jumped off the stage and ran to meet them clutching my phone in one hand.

  As I neared the bottom of the stands, something whizzed past my head. I ducked. A familiar sound followed.

  The report echoed around the stands. I dove over the low wall separating the stand from the grounds and pulled my gun. Doc disappeared from sight. I pressed the button on the side of my phone and said, “Gunfire.”

  My fingers scrabbled into my pocket searching for a wireless microphone and receiver.

  I depressed the button on the side of my phone again, opening the channel to the rest of my team and said, “Go wireless.”

  Another shot rang out. I pressed the receiver into my ear then flipped the tiny switch on the microphone and pinned it firmly to my collar.

  “Check in,” I said.

  “Sean, check.”

  “Lee, check.”

  “Kurt, check.”

  Within seconds, I could hear Sam’s voice in my ear with digital clarity.

  “Sam, check. Direction of gunfire?”

  “Maybe toward the edge by the screened-off area,” I replied.

  The boys would’ve all heard the report but sounds distorted in a stadium. We needed another shot to determine direction. Our ears would adapt, calculate and more accurately discern the shots from the echo. We needed one but didn’t want another one.

  Another shot rang out.

  I jammed my phone back in my pocket and said, “Sean, did you get that person? Over.”

  Sean said, “Copy. It’s a kid. Over.”

  “The kid? Over.”

  “Copy. Her name is Shannon Harris. This is the kid,” Sean replied. “I have Shannon Harris. Keep your head down. Lee’s moving toward y
ou. Over.”

  I looked to my right and saw feet running. It wasn’t Lee. The shoes belonged to a much younger and smaller person. The feet climbed. I shoved my gun back in my holster and ran, remaining as crouched as I could, following the feet. Four different whispers in my ear demanded to know what I was doing. I whispered back, “Following someone. Over.”

  The feet went up two rows of seats then stopped. I reached them with minimal breaking of cover. It was a young girl.

  I grabbed at the girl’s arm and pulled her down behind seats in the nearest row. The rest of her body followed. It was the only cover we had.

  “No, No, Stop!” the kid screamed while trying to pull her arm free.

  “Shut up,” I hissed clamping my hand across her mouth. “I’m a cop.”

  She was breathing hard and trying to back away but she was up against a seat; there was nowhere to go.

  “Calm down. Who are you running from?”

  “A man,” she puffed. “He bought me here to see the concert. He said I could meet the band.”

  “This man is where?” I asked, not seeing anyone chasing her.

  “I don’t know, I ran when the bomb thing happened. He said we were meeting his friend and I’d like him.”

  I spoke to the kid, “What’s your name?”

  Another bullet whizzed past us.

  “Nicola Gallagher.”

  “Happy to meet you, Nicola.” She slumped into a gap under a chair seat and began to cry. “I’m Special Agent Conway and we’ve been looking for you and some other girls.”

  “You’re American.”

  “Yes. FBI.” I spoke into my collar. “Lee, did you get that? Over.”

  “Copy. Nicola is safe. Maybe this shooter wants them too, over.”

  “Maybe so, over,” I replied and dragged the kid further down into the cover provided by the seat backs in front of us. “Are you hurt? Did the man you were running from hurt you?”

  She shook her head; her long hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders.

  “Doc, negative on injury, over.”

  “Roger and out,” Doc replied.

  I directed another question at Nicola. “What’s his name?”

  “John McClane.”

  Was our Unsub really a Bruce Willis fan?

  “Where’ve you been all this time?”

  “Moving around, we moved a lot. I said I wanted to go home. He said Mom knew where I was and it was okay. He promised I could meet Rowan Grange. I was going to meet a rock star.”

  This little girl should’ve been home playing with Bratz dolls, not interested in meeting rock stars and definitely not hiding from a shooter in a stadium.

  I whispered into my collar, “Sam … Do we have a location on the shooter? Over.”

  “I’m on him like white on rice, Chicky, over.”

  “Good to know. Do you reckon the other kids are here? Over.”

  “I reckon so. Sam out.”

  Nicola tugged at my arm inviting my full attention. “We were going to meet someone with another girl, here somewhere.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Samantha, I think that’s what he said on the phone.”

  “Did you all hear that? Over.”

  Four yesses came back.

  I scanned the area, looking for anyone trying to creep up on us.

  My legs were starting to cramp crouched the way I was. The temptation to simply stand up was strong. If we stood and moved fast, I reasoned we had a good chance of getting to the nearest tunnel. Moving targets are hard to hit.

  Unless of course the shooter is a sniper and using a halfway decent rifle. Not a thought I wanted to entertain because it narrowed the possibility of escape – and my legs hurt.

  I grabbed Nicola firmly by the hand and then freed my gun. Her eyes widened.

  “You have a gun?”

  “I’m FBI. We do guns,” I said with a smile. “You and me, we’re going to run now.” I indicated a tunnel ahead of us, a few rows up. “We’re going to run up those stairs over there and into that tunnel.”

  “He’ll shoot us!”

  Her panic swelled.

  “No he won’t,” I told her firmly. “He won’t because my team will not let that happen.”

  Sam, Sean, Doc and Lee would be scoping our location and listening to everything I said. I needed them to cover us. I pretty much wanted them to open fire on the stadium.

  The dogs and handlers from the stands were pulled back for their own safety. All police were now dispersed and in covered positions. I knew some were armed and more armed officers would be on the way.

  I let Nicola go for a second and spoke to Lee. “Lee, we need cover fire, but for god’s sake don’t hit anyone! Over.”

  “It’s too risky, Ellie. Sam and I have narrowed his position and have armed police coming up behind him. Lee out.”

  Oh, crap.

  “Sean, does your kid know anything about a bomb? Over.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that, Sean out.”

  “Did he mention a bomb?” I whispered to Nicola.

  Nicola grabbed my hand. She stumbled over words, “He said it wasn’t real. The bomb, I mean.”

  “And it probably isn’t,” I replied, as her hand squeezed mine tighter and her fingers dug into my palm.

  “Then why is everyone looking for it?”

  Everything in front of me spelled the beginning of the end. It was all wrong and there was a sense that it would end badly. I let some of Rowan’s faith and calm wash over me.

  With composed gentleness, I answered her question, “It’s what everyone has to do when a threat is made.”

  A scream poured from the tunnel. We stared at each other for a beat. Her eyes grew wider and more panicked.

  “You can do this,” I said and adjusted my grip on Nicola’s hand. “Now, run.”

  We ran up the steps. Gunfire erupted behind us. She tripped; I dragged her back to her feet and kept moving, clambering quickly up the last steps then along a short flat area and into the tunnel. I pushed Nicola over to the semi-safety of the thick concrete walls and shadows.

  “Stay here,” I whispered. “I need to see where the screaming came from.”

  “Don’t. Leave. Me. Here.” Panic punctuated her small voice. Her words broke apart sending, tumbling into the atmosphere.

  Another scream pierced the air. It caught several of the syllables in midair and shot them like arrows across the pitch.

  “Wait,” I replied firmly. “Sit down and wait.”

  She sat. I must’ve hit the right tone. Kids and animals, it’s all about tone.

  Inching forward, gun in hand, I hugged the wall until the end of the tunnel. No noise. I peered out and looked around.

  No one was there. Down the concourse on the left were bathrooms. That was the only place I could see where someone could hide.

  I turned back to Nicola. I couldn’t let her out of my sight while I sauntered off to check the toilets. Anything could happen.

  My mind tried to stop the last image I had of leaving someone alone. There was no way to escape the associated guilt, because I couldn’t get past feeling that I had left Mac and Carla alone and the subsequent events were my fault.

  That wasn’t right. Mac wasn’t alone: there were cops everywhere. He was sitting in the back of my car with Carla while I went to view a crime scene and interview a woman possibly responsible for the death of Carla’s mother. Yet within minutes, Mac and the suspect were both dead. It left me twisting in the wind trying to figure out what happened.

  A gust of cool wind flowed down the tunnel, messing my hair, freezing my ears.

  I moved quietly. I listened for any signs of life from the concourse behind me and filtered out the chatter I could hear from the boys as they discussed movement.

  Ignore the wind.

  It was too quiet.

  In my head, the scream echoed on.

  Ignore the scream.

  My voice croaked as I whispered into my col
lar before reaching Nicola, “Too quiet, not good. I need backup. Over.”

  The wind blew a gust into my face. A waft of familiar cologne hit me like an open-handed slap.

  My mind was deciphering the discrepancies. If someone was on the concourse with a kid, where did they go? There was no way out of the stadium.

  I hadn’t heard any footsteps.

  With no one around and nothing to absorb sound, footsteps would’ve been audible out on the concourse. Echoes should’ve slipped down the tunnel like the cologne.

  Closed and guarded exits. Police working their way through the complex.

  Where did they go?

  The bathroom.

  Radio procedure was foremost in my mind as I issued a priority message. “Break-Break. I need you to come up the front of the stands. I repeat, the front, use external stairs. Over.”

  Coming up from the inside would put my backup in harm’s way, if indeed there were to be someone hiding in a bathroom. The ramps were open and the wide-open concourse provided no cover for us and enabled a shooter to get clear shots from the bathroom areas and access tunnels.

  Nicola was crouched, pale, shaking, and studying me.

  Innocent eyes.

  I signaled to her to stay where she was and moved back a few feet toward the concourse.

  Another puff of air filled the tunnel and on it sailed remnants of the same cologne.

  “Sean, what’s above us? Over.”

  “A conference room, or something like that. Over,” Sean replied.

  “Does it overlook the stadium? Over.”

  “Yes and half the city. Over.”

  Anyone up there would’ve seen the police, seen the band leave, seen the kids and seen us. Hell, they would’ve seen everything.

  “He could be up there. Over.”

  “Yes, but he can’t shoot from there, Ellie. Over.”

  It’s worse than someone shooting from up there. Someone up there has a bird’s eye view of the entire stadium.

  “He can direct a shooter. Over.”

  “Copy. Jesus,” Sean muttered on a hiss of breath.

  “I need someone with me. We gotta get these kids to safety. Over.”

  Knowing I was responsible for children was gnawing at my gut and it was a horrible feeling.

  “Copy that. On our way, Chicky Babe. Over,” Lee replied.

  Shots rang out again, followed by a clear voice somewhere below me, “Armed police. Drop your weapon.”