Jake staggered out of the stall and gazed down at the only person he had ever killed. Dead eyes layered with a milky film gazed up at Jake from the floor. The man’s neck was pretty much shredded. Jake couldn’t see the back of his skull, but that was probably for the best. Blood covered a wide swath of the tiled floor, and the smell was enough to make Jake queasy again. His face felt hot. Skin clammy. He had murdered a man who would have killed him, but that didn’t make it an easy thing to do.
Keeping watch over the door, Jake searched for a wallet, lifting the man’s body to check each pocket for an ID. Nothing. What Jake did find was a square sheet of paper in the man’s front right pocket, folded several times over. Jake’s hands trembled as he unfolded the paper, and his eyes went wide when he saw the contents.
It was a map of the school campus. Someone had drawn lines through the Terry Science Center and the library, and Gibson Hall. This man had checked those buildings, Jake believed. And he was here in the Society Building doing the same. He was working counterclockwise, going from building to building. After the Society Building, he’d have to clear the dormitories and dining hall. Smaller buildings were dotted around, too. None of those buildings had any markings on them. Dead guy hadn’t cleared them yet. The campus could become confusing, but the man made sure he would have no trouble getting back to his colleagues. Around the image of the Academy Building, somebody had drawn a big circle. It might as well have been an x to mark the spot.
Jake knew where to look for his son.
CHAPTER 30
Leo Haggar, the FBI’s special agent in charge of the hostage crisis, commandeered the largest conference room at the Winston PD for his team’s tactical-operations center. Lining the walls were maps of Winston and Pepperell Academy, adorned with pushpins to denote the location and type of assets deployed. More than a hundred feet were on the ground, and that number would grow. Haggar’s Red Unit mobilized to this sleepy little hamlet in excellent time.
The Red, Blue, and Gold Units comprised the three tactical teams that formed the FBI’s HRT. These units were part of the tactical-support branch of the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group (CIRG). They were the elite of the elite, a national SWAT team that trained for the most dangerous missions.
Even at fifty-five, Haggar could blend in just fine with the supremely well-conditioned men under his command. He had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders, and a thick waist to support his powerful legs. If Haggar had a spirit animal, it would most certainly be a silverback gorilla, which also shared his fierce disposition. His face was square, with creases that ran the length of his forehead. A pair of frosty blue eyes gave the distinct impression that Agent Haggar was never truly pleased, which was often the case. Two long lines framed a dimpled chin and seemed to pull his mouth into a permanent scowl. No doubt about it: Leo Haggar was an intimidating presence even when he wasn’t wearing his bulletproof FBI tactical gear.
Haggar had been at home, helping his teenage son with pitching mechanics, when his boss called to report a hostage crisis at a prep school.
There was a threat of a dirty bomb, and Haggar knew he’d soon initiate deployment protocols of his Red Unit.
His son’s coaching would have to wait.
The motto of HRT was “Servare Vitas” (“To Save Lives”) and Haggar focused on the most pressing challenge: how to neutralize the threat and retrieve the hostages unharmed. No simple task—but if anybody could do it, it would be HRT.
The elite force had evolved from a simple observation made in the late 1970s, after then-FBI Director William Webster watched a demonstration of the capabilities of the U.S. Army’s Delta Force. Webster asked why the men didn’t carry any restraints.
“The dead don’t need handcuffs,” a Delta operator had replied.
The two dozen or so highly trained hostage-rescue specialists included fearsome assault and sniper teams. Two helicopters from the Tactical Helicopter Unit (THU), a Bell 412EP and UH-60M Black Hawk, were parked at the same private airfield where the transport plane carrying the HRT forces had landed. From there, it was only a short drive to Winston, and the state police used a convoy of tactical-response vehicles to help get the Red Unit into position.
Jurisdiction was no longer a question. The state and local police were on hand to lend support, but this was the FBI’s show. The HRT’s credentials were unchallenged. Only a handful of special agents made it through the rigorous selection process, which included eight months of intensive training before their first mission deployment. They were skilled in tactics, firearms, and, most important, teamwork. This mission, it seemed, would tax every one of those disciplines to the extreme.
So far, Agent Haggar was not about to take any chances. He commandeered forces already deployed; and following the hostage taker’s instructions, he established a perimeter two kilometers from the school. It was not an impossible distance for a highly skilled sniper equipped with a long-range rifle. But the sight lines were terrible unless they moved closer, which risked exposure. And even if they took out one of the targets, there was no telling how many others were holed up inside the school. The campus had at least thirty buildings. The targets could be spread out in different buildings, and any of them could possess the ability to trigger the bomb.
Specially equipped aircraft were already scanning the nearby area for radioactive signatures, but that process was a bit like finding the haystack so they could then go looking for a needle. They needed more information. Who were these people? Terrorists? If so, why did they take students as hostages? And which students did they take?
A roll call was in process to account for all of the students, but the effort was proving cumbersome. Some of the students were legitimately away; others might have gone home rather than to the designated evacuation zone; still, others might have taken advantage of the free time to roam and play. It was a sloppy evacuation process from Haggar’s point of view, and it could be hours before they had a definitive list of hostages.
At least for the moment, nobody was going near the school until Haggar had more information. He had been involved in several lengthy hostage barricades, and understood they could be physically and mentally challenging. Haggar knew they were in for the long haul.
A knock on the door drew Haggar’s attention. Ellie Barnes entered in her police uniform, while Haggar was dressed for war. Haggar had been expecting this visit. Ellie’s boss, William Bladd, the chief of police for the Town of Winston, had arranged the meeting. He told Haggar that Ellie was one of his best cops, and she evidently had some vital information to share.
Haggar shook Ellie’s hand and invited her to sit down. Ellie spent a moment standing, gawking at the array of maps and intel wallpapering the room.
“It doesn’t mean shit,” Haggar said. “Looks impressive, but it’s nothing. This is the first minutes. When we’re done, all that will matter are the results. Freed hostages, a defused bomb, and no dead except maybe for the assholes who did this.”
“Understood,” Ellie said. “Do we have any idea who these people are?”
Haggar’s mouth dipped into a sour frown. “No clue. We have a team at Quantico analyzing the voice recordings. All I can tell you right now is the guy who called in the threat sounded Mexican. So what do you got for me?”
Haggar moved a chair so Ellie could take a seat.
“I called in a concern I had about the ex-husband of the woman who was shot.”
Haggar glanced down at his notes. “Laura Collins, is that right?”
“Yes. I’m—I’m friends with Jake Dent, Laura’s ex.”
“And you were concerned because why?”
“Because I thought Jake might do something in retaliation for what happened to Laura. He was also worried that his son was missing, and he couldn’t get in touch with several of his son’s friends.”
“Does he think his son is a hostage?”
“It’s definitely a concern.”
“Have you given those names
over to our team? The son’s friends, I mean.”
Ellie nodded. “Yes, of course. I told my lieutenant and he said he’d relay the information to the FBI.”
That intel hadn’t made it to Haggar. A clog in the pipeline he’d clear by ripping somebody a new asshole.
“Jake Dent—do you know where he is now?”
“That’s the thing,” Ellie said. “I can’t get in touch with him. Before your team got here, I brought up my concern about Jake to the state police and they sent two detectives to follow him.”
Haggar scowled. He should have been briefed. The size of the asshole he was going to rip just grew. “Did they find anything?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Ellie said.
Haggar got on his phone and within minutes got an earful from a detective about being left on a lengthy stakeout for what was certainly a dead end. Jake Dent had gone into his home hours ago and nobody had come out. They even canvassed the woods behind his house. The car was there, TV was on, and the shades were drawn. Haggar didn’t like that one bit. He knew nothing about Jake Dent, but he did know something about being a dad.
“Try to coax him out for a chat. Hell, see if he’s even there for goodness sake,” Haggar barked into the phone. There was a pause while Haggar listened to some response. “Call me back when you get some useful information,” Haggar said before ending the call.
“We can go in other ways,” Ellie suggested. She was tiptoeing on a line that wasn’t frequently crossed. The FBI was a stickler for rules and procedures—in part because the organization operated under the microscope of media scrutiny, but also because they were tasked with upholding the law, not breaking it.
“I’ll get a warrant if it comes to it,” Haggar said. “In the meantime, I’m going to learn everything about Jake Dent that’s possible to know.”
CHAPTER 31
Fausto brought the teens back to the auditorium. His expression had changed. The playful glint in his eyes was gone. The cat that had been toying with a cornered mouse seemed to have grown tired of its game. Fausto sat all six members of The Shire in the front row. The kids were no longer tied up, gagged, or blindfolded. Fausto had terrorized them enough so they wouldn’t attempt anything foolish, he believed. The dead bodies were off the stage; the lifeless forms of El Gallo and the two other cartel members had been dumped through a trapdoor. Normally, the door was used for theatrical productions, but in this case it functioned as a quick disposal mechanism.
Andy sat at the end of the row, next to Hilary. Beside Hilary sat Solomon, followed by Rafa, then David, and last Pixie. Fausto, Efren, and Armando, whose scars were more apparent under the harsh glare of the theater lights, clustered onstage, talking in Spanish. Four of the cartel sat in the row behind the teens with their weapons resting on their laps. One guard was posted at the door. There would be no tolerating another surprise visitor.
Andy’s legs bounced up and down continuously, and the rest of him—arms, neck, head—had trouble keeping still. He sweated as if he were hot, but shook as if he were freezing. Hilary took hold of Andy’s hand, linking her fingers with his, making an effort to settle him. Andy ripped his hand away and flashed Hilary an angry look.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered in a harsh, scolding tone. “I don’t want to be touched.”
His speech came out thick, the words a bit slurred. At first, Hilary was offended, but almost as quickly she understood. She saw all the symptoms. Andy had educated The Shire, his closest friends, about what to look for in the event he hadn’t managed his blood sugar properly. He was irritable, sweating profusely, and not speaking clearly. There were progressive stages of hypoglycemia, and Hilary believed Andy was past the point where food would work fast enough. He needed his glucose tablets, more likely an injection of glucagon. She knew he kept an emergency kit in his backpack at all times. Andy clutched his stomach as though he was going to be sick, and he couldn’t quiet the shaking in his arms and legs.
“What’s your blood sugar level?” Hilary whispered to Andy.
“Gonna kill Whippet. Gonna kill him,” Andy breathed out the words.
Hilary saw that Andy’s gaze was locked on an exceedingly thin man with just a trace of a mustache, guarding the door and brandishing a gun sleek as he was. To her eyes, he did, in fact, resemble a whippet—lean and muscular.
“Calla la boca,” Tornado, with the frizzy hair, scolded.
Hilary ignored him. Same as she had ignored the scar-faced man who had interrogated her, groped her, insulted her, and threatened her. There was nothing else she could do. Every answer was the same: “I don’t have the money,” even when they showed her the video feed of poor Javier.
“Your backpack with your medicine, Andy. Where is it?”
“Backpack,” Andy managed.
El Tornado yanked on Hilary’s hair hard, wrenching her head back and snapping her neck so hard she yowled.
“¡Cállate!” he said. “Shut up!”
Fausto, drawn to the commotion, looked displeased. He stepped to the front of the stage and spread his arms in a dramatic gesture.
“We have spoken to each of you individually,” he said in a booming voice. “You have all seen the pain you caused Javier Martinez, father of your classmate. I cannot drill another hole without killing him, and, sadly, I need him alive. I showed you the horror of me and yet you still do not cooperate. I take this as a personal failing. I am deeply disappointed in myself. I admit this. But I do not give up easily. So I try something new to inspire you.”
Fausto exited to his right, leaving Efren and Armando alone on the stage. The enforcers chattered among themselves, and Hilary used the distraction to lean into Andy. “Your medicine,” she whispered. “Where is your backpack?”
Andy’s head rolled onto his chest. Hilary could tell it was an effort for him just to lift it. His blinking turned rapid. Reaching across her body, Hilary touched Andy’s chest and could feel his heart mimicking the pace of his fluttering eyes.
Fausto returned to the stage, brandishing a massive knife, more like a machete. “Who here has been to a pig roast before?” he asked.
One of the enforcers raised his hand.
Fausto glowered at him from the stage. “¡No, pendejo!” he barked. “Not you, the kids. Los malditos. Who here has been to a pig roast before?”
No hands went up this time. Fausto came to the front of the stage.
“Please, Andy, you’re sick,” Hilary whispered again. “Where is your backpack?”
Andy strained to make eye contact. His head bobbed up and down as if he were going for an apple inside an invisible tub of water.
Fausto hesitated, scanning the front row. His gaze settled on Solomon. “You, fat one. Come up here.”
Solomon shrank in his seat. He looked to his left and right as if perhaps a different Solomon had entered the room. Fausto brushed the hair off his face so his eyes could be seen and his intent understood. He was in no mood for delay tactics.
“Bring the fat one to me,” Fausto commanded.
Two of the enforcers, Una Mano and El Cortador, rose from their seats and came around to the front row. Each took one of Solomon’s arms and with effort hoisted him to his feet. They dragged him to the stage and up a short flight of stairs, with Solomon whimpering the whole way. Once they got him onstage, the pair shoved Solomon hard from behind. He stumbled as he lurched forward, arms whirling for balance before he dropped to his knees.
Fausto seized a clump of Solomon’s hair and hoisted him back to his feet. Next he set the sharp edge of the machete’s blade against Solomon’s meaty throat.
“I explain now how I gut a pig,” Fausto said. “Again, my English, I’m sorry. But my machete speak a different language. One I think you all understand.”
Terror flooded Solomon’s eyes. His breathing turned shallow and he began to make strangled noises from deep in his throat as his whole body shook.
Hilary’s attention vacillated between poor Solomon and the boy she loved. “
Please, Andy, answer me,” she said.
The man with angry eyes, the one she’d heard Fausto call El Mata Padres—Father Killer—leaned over and bathed her face with his hot and sour breath.
“Quiet and listen,” he said.
From the stage, Fausto continued with his demonstration. “First,” he said, “you must put the pig on its back.”
With a sweep of his leg, Fausto knocked Solomon off his feet. Solomon hit the stage floor and let out a cry of complete surprise. He opened his mouth to gasp for air, flopping about like a fish tossed on a dock. Annoyed, Fausto stepped on Solomon’s chest to hold him still, but his writhing continued. David and Rafa lowered their heads. They could not bear to watch. But Pixie fixed his gaze on Fausto. If Fausto’s men took notice, they would have seen something change inside the smallest member of The Shire. Hatred now—not fear.
“With the pig on the ground,” Fausto said, “you clean off the hair using a knife.” Fausto directed his attention to Solomon. “Now don’t move, piggy, or you will get hurt.” Fausto pulled up Solomon’s shirt and exposed a fleshy midsection dimpled with fat. Efren pinned Solomon’s arms over his head. Working slowly, Fausto scraped the blade of the machete against Solomon’s stomach, using a long stroke in a languid, fluid motion. There was no blood. Fausto applied no real pressure, but the machete produced the same scraping sound a shaving razor makes as it glides over the skin.
Solomon began to whimper. “I want my mom,” he said in a strangled voice. “I want my mom.”
Fausto ignored him. “When that is done, you hang the piggy upside down.” He motioned for Efren and Armando to hoist Solomon up.
Solomon might have weighed 225 pounds, but those two lifted him as if he were filled with feathers. They had an equally easy time flipping him upside down to hold him by his legs. Solomon’s face turned beet red as blood flooded his brain. Strands of hair gently kissed the stage floor like the bristles of a broom. Coins and gum wrappers tumbled out of his pants pockets, and Solomon’s shirt fell down to cover part of his face.
Constant Fear Page 20
