Constant Fear

by Daniel Palmer

  From her cruiser, Ellie retrieved her binoculars and used them to pinpoint what she believed was the Academy Building, where Jake said the hostages were being held. She ignored the cold, even though the wind packed a chilly punch. Lowering the binoculars, Ellie kept her eyes locked on the Academy Building.

  What are you going to do, Jake?

  Her mind flooded with thoughts of the terrible things that could happen inside that school. The images went away, but the ache lingered. Ellie knew one thing for certain: Jake was Haggar’s best hope for avoiding a lifetime of sleepless nights.

  Kibo sensed someone coming up the driveway and barked noisily from inside the house. Soon as Ellie opened the front door, Kibo, his tongue lolling to one side of his mouth, leapt up on hind legs and slammed his front paws against Ellie’s chest hard enough to knock her off balance. Then he gave her face a good licking.

  “I missed you too, sweetie,” Ellie said, roughing up his fur.

  Kibo followed Ellie outside and relieved himself on the grass. At the same time, Ellie opened the trunk of her cruiser. A war was going on in Winston, and while she was far from the action, she needed to prepare. From the trunk, Ellie removed her body armor—

  POLICE emblazoned on the front pouch in bright yellow lettering—and got it fitted into place. Kibo looked wistfully at Ellie until she said, “Get in!”

  Kibo barked once and got his nose under the door handle. When his head came up, the door latch disengaged. Kibo put a paw into the crack, which was enough to get the door open the rest of the way. He clambered into the front seat and sat upright and alert, like he was her partner.

  Ellie gave Kibo his treat. Her dad had shown her how to train a dog to do that trick; and every time Kibo opened a door, she thought of her father. “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail,” her dad used to say.

  She made the drive into town with her strobes flashing but siren off. The streets were quiet, and plenty of detours directed traffic away from the prep school. Five minutes later, Ellie arrived at the local high school, where she believed Lance Dent had set up a temporary headquarters.

  The school parking lot was near capacity. Inside, it was noisy and chaotic. There wasn’t a better place to house all the boarding kids from The Pep. Displaced students roamed the halls with drained looks on their faces. The excitement of the evacuation had given way to uncertainty and fear.

  Kibo didn’t seem to mind all the commotion. As long as he was with Ellie, everything was right in the world. He heeled as Ellie walked him through noisy corridors. Several students stopped to pet Kibo, and Ellie let them. She could see it gave them a few minutes of comfort. Kibo, as Ellie expected, relished every bit of attention lavished upon him.

  Ellie eventually made it to the auditorium, which looked like postdisaster images she had seen on the Red Cross website. Students were splayed out on floor mats, or huddled in groups on the bleachers. Lost looks, exhausted expressions, and sagging shoulders were common. Trash barrels overflowed with food wrappers and plastic drink bottles.

  Kibo didn’t like the noise, or the smell, because he kept close to Ellie’s side and whimpered occasionally. Several students came up to Ellie and asked what was going on. Other uniformed police officers were inside the school, and Ellie made sure the kids knew where to find them. Television reporters from various news outlets were present, but Ellie wasn’t granting any interviews.

  The Internet spread rumors faster than facts, and most of the stories Ellie heard were gruesome and unsettling. Kids had been killed, one girl was certain. Another boy said that some of the hostages had been beheaded and there was a video online that was being blocked. Most of what they said to Ellie was inaccurate or unconfirmed. Ellie validated only what was being reported on the news: a woman had been shot and there was an active hostage situation at The Pep.

  In one of the crowded hallways, Ellie found a teacher who directed her to the principal’s office on the first floor. Inside the anteroom, Ellie got nervous looks from a few parents waiting to speak to Lance. Maybe it was the uniform that scared people, or maybe it was the eighty-five-pound German shepherd.

  Ellie poked her head into the principal’s office and saw Lance on the phone, seated behind a large desk. Lance saw her looking at him and held up a finger to ask her to wait. Ellie thought he was puffy and pale. She had busted guys after a five-day bender who looked better. From the doorway, Ellie could hear his half of the conversation clearly.

  “I want to know the same, Mrs. Eichel,” Lance said into his cell phone. “And I promise we’re doing everything possible to locate Hilary. Where are you now?” A beat, and then he said, “You’re about an hour and a half away.” Another beat. “Yes, call if you need. Anytime.”

  A woman in a blue suit, her hair going in more directions than a boy band, pushed her way into the office, holding a cell phone as if it were a Fabergé egg.

  Into his phone, Lance said, “If you’ll please just give us time, I’m in touch with the Winston Police Department every few minutes, and I’m doing what I can to help locate all of your children.”

  “It’s William Cranston, Troy’s dad,” the woman with the phone said in a whispered voice. “He’s demanding to speak with you.”

  “Yes, yes, Judy,” Lance said. “Tell him I’ll be right with him.”

  “He’ll be right with you,” Judy said into the phone. She pulled the phone from her ear, and Ellie could hear some angry talk.

  Lance said, “Mrs. Eichel, I’m going to call you back. The police are here now.”

  He had been so focused on Mrs. Eichel, Lance hadn’t recognized Ellie standing in his doorway. He had never met Kibo before. When Lance realized who it was, a smile came over his face. His look told her she wasn’t just a cop. She was an important person to his brother.

  Lance stayed in his seat. Exhaustion held him down like an anchor. “Sorry, it’s crazy here, Ellie. I was going to call you. Have you heard from Jake?”

  Ellie nodded.

  “You know he’s in the school.”

  Ellie nodded again. “We think he’s coming out.”

  Lance didn’t seem to believe it.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. “I’m sorry to rush, but I need to keep in contact with the parents of the missing kids.”

  Ellie had come to ask for Lance’s help in identifying Javier. Seeing how frazzled he was, she hesitated. She could manage on her own.

  “I need to see a directory with the names of every student and I need the parents’ names and addresses as well. Faculty, too, even if they’re part-time.”

  Lance wasn’t bothered by the request. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll have Judy get it for you right away. Our records are all online, so it’ll be easy to access.”

  “Great,” Ellie said.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle on my own,” Ellie said.

  CHAPTER 41

  Jake followed a branch off the main tunnel that terminated at a set of metal stairs. He took those stairs two at a time; and at the top landing, he unlocked a steel door, using his master key. He left every door he came through unlocked to facilitate a fast exit.

  He made an in-and-out trip through the basement janitor’s closet and sprinted to the stairwell. Then, it was up a set of stairs to the first floor of the Academy Building; he clutched the AK-47 in both hands as he went. He proceeded without extreme caution. Time wouldn’t allow it. Twenty minutes had already ticked off the clock. Twenty minutes left to go. From here, Jake knew the quickest route to the Feldman Auditorium.

  The end of the hallway spilled out into an open foyer with high ceilings. Jake stopped to poke his head around the corner. He could see the auditorium doors not more than thirty feet away. They weren’t being guarded. Why bother? They had the FBI held at bay with a bogus bomb threat. Maybe somebody was patrolling outside, but Jake thought it unlikely. It would leave them vulnerable to snipers. The action was happening inside the auditorium. And who didn’t wa
nt to be in on the action?

  Jake emerged from his hiding place in a crouch, the AK-47 slung across his shoulder. His footsteps echoed softly as he inched his way toward the auditorium doors. When he got there, Jake reached over his shoulder and removed one of the steel rebar rods, which poked out the top of his backpack. The rod came free as though Jake had unsheathed a sword.

  Behind the closed doors, Jake heard the voice of the man he believed to be Fausto addressing his captives. Jake did not stop to listen. He, instead, slid the rebar between the looped handle on each door with the dexterity of a bomb technician defusing a device. He released his grip and the rod dropped maybe a millimeter into place, just enough to make a small noise of metal on metal.

  Jake’s hand went to the butt of his Glock. He waited for an alarm to sound. Shots to be fired. Men to come for him. He exhaled when nothing happened.

  Jake checked over his work. The rebar was long enough to hold firm, no matter how many pushed against the door. He snuck around to the other side of the auditorium and created the same barricade, using a second rebar rod on a different set of auditorium doors. Two additional emergency exits were at the back of the auditorium, and Jake secured those doors in the same manner. Four exits, all secured using unbendable rebar.

  Jake next padded down a hallway, AK-47 at the ready. He took the stairs back to the basement and from there worked his way into the tunnels. A check of his stopwatch showed ten additional minutes off the clock. Ten left to go.

  On to phase two.

  Jake shot down the tunnel, headed for the pit, running as though his body were on fire. He used the headlamp to light the way, but probably could have made it there blindfolded. All his senses worked on overdrive—every sound magnified, every touch internalized, every musty odor overpowering.

  Jake’s heartbeat matched the pace and power of a jackhammer. He took in shallow, sharp breaths to try and slow it down, but gave up. It was impossible to control the adrenaline. The killer instinct, so natural to him on the mound, came back, but in an altered state and intensified. He, in no way, relished what was to come. The need to kill and a desire to do so are different beasts.

  A check of the time: three more minutes gone.

  Inside the pit, the headlamp lit the space well enough. He saw the three decomposing men in a heap on the floor, where he had left them—Big Red and his two mangled companions. The smell of blood hit him hard. If his stomach let go, he might give himself away. Now it was showtime. Even though he prepped like a trained soldier, Jake took inspiration from the only place where he did actual battle: the mound.

  Be the aggressor. Attack and don’t ever let up. Show no weakness.

  Jake moved the bodies and rolled the stairs back into place. Another three minutes off the clock.

  Down to four.

  “You are fast running out of time, little ones. Efren y Armando, vengan aquí.”

  Efren, Armando, Fausto. How many more were there? Didn’t much matter. Jake had enough ammo to engage a small army.

  With the stairs in place, Jake went to the back wall of the pit and shone his headlamp on the fuse box. He removed his backpack, opened the top, and fished out the light sticks. He had five of them. Plenty. He did the break-and-shake on each stick. They were glowing, but in infrared so that it didn’t really look like any chemical reaction had taken place. He checked the smoke grenades hitched to his chest rig. Fine there as well. The flares were also within easy reach.

  “Many famous Mexicans have died by firing squad,” Fausto said, his voice amplified by Jake’s hearing protection. “You still have a little time left.”

  One minute according to Jake’s timer.

  “Please, please, none of us has it. Believe us.” That was Andy’s voice. He sounded strong, alert. And that was Hilary’s doing.

  Jake opened the fuse box. There were circuit breakers for different sections of the auditorium, but his only interest was the red master switch. Jake held the light stick in one hand. He looked at the stairs. It would take only a few seconds to cross the pit, get up the stairs, open the trapdoor, and start shooting. Three seconds. Maybe four. Fausto could open fire on the kids during that time. It was a possibility. A serious risk. The blackout should be a big-enough distraction, Jake thought. He wouldn’t need them frozen for long. His other option was to listen to six gunshots.

  Jake sucked down a breath and closed his eyes. He visualized exactly what was about to happen. Focused his thoughts, his intentions. This was the windup.

  Now for the pitch.

  CHAPTER 42

  Jake shut off his headlamp. The pit area became a canvas of black. He lowered his night vision optical, and the dark pit was awash in a green glow. Every detail showed in high definition, including the dead bodies strewn about the concrete floor. He put his left hand on the red power switch. In his right hand, he held the IR light sticks that powered his night vision.

  He hoped the kids would take cover on the floor.

  He counted in his head.

  One.

  He heard Fausto say from the auditorium, “I’d prepare your last words.”

  The whimpers became sobs.

  Two.

  Jake bent his knees to get into a sprinter’s stance.

  “No? Nothing?” Fausto said. “Well, as you wish.”

  Three.

  Jake pulled the switch down and cut the power to the auditorium. At the same instant, he bolted forward.

  “¿Qué pasó?” The voice sounded angry and surprised. Chatter interspersed with other commotion, like the sound of auditorium seats folding closed.

  Jake bounded across the pit, navigating with the help of his optics. He got his foot on the first step, and it was easy from there to get all the way up.

  Using his back, Jake forced open the trapdoor. He emerged into the dark. Nobody in the auditorium could see him on the stage. Jake gently lowered the trapdoor to the floor so it remained open. That was to be the way out. Light from cell phones waved about in the dark as if they were levitated. The chatter continued. There was movement toward the doors.

  Jake rolled across the stage to get some distance from the pit opening. An accidental tumble would be disastrous. He tossed one light stick toward the back of the auditorium with the arm strength of an outfielder. The chem light bounced over several rows of seats and settled at the back of the room. He sent three more light sticks flying.

  The noise they made upon landing might have given Jake away. For safety, he sank deeper into the darkness of the stage. As he did, he rolled to his left.

  Sure enough, bullets came at Jake from multiple directions. Shots peppered the stage, but missed him by a wide margin. Jake peered into his night vision optical. The world was green, and well lit from the scattering of infrared glow sticks.

  He could see the kids cowering on the floor. Some used their hands to shield their heads. They were still in their school uniforms. Jake counted six hostages in total, including Andy at the end of the row, hands over his head like the others. His boy. There might be additional hostages, but Jake doubted it. These six were all connected.

  Flashes in the dark auditorium announced the bullets to come. They hit everywhere but where it mattered. They were firing blind, and it was highly ineffective. In the second row, Jake sighted a thin guy aiming a sizable shotgun. Even though his aim was off target, a shotgun blast covered a wide area. “Thin Man” got off a single shot that made a powerful blast and added to the overwhelming stench of gunpowder.

  A fraction of a second after the shotgun blast, Jake pulled the trigger on his rifle. A quick succession of pops followed and three bullets exploded the thin guy’s chest. The sticky collision caused the man to crumple over the auditorium chairs. His legs bent at an unnatural angle, and his feet pointed skyward but didn’t move.

  Now that he could see where to shoot and what to avoid, Jake laid down heavy suppressive fire. Bullets spit from his rifle barrel like hornets fleeing an aggravated nest. Gas-operated weapons were efficie
nt at ejecting spent cartridges and loading another. Jake could get off about forty rounds a minute, including time to change magazines, chamber the first round, and clear any jams.

  Unfortunately, so could the other guys, and they had more guns. Eventually one of them would get lucky. Then again, they didn’t know how many people had infiltrated the auditorium, so they were shooting everywhere. For now, the kids were safe as long as they stayed on the floor. The bullets were going way over their heads, so the kids were in the best possible location.

  Movement drew Jake’s gaze to the auditorium doors on his right. Somebody was trying to get out. Through the optics, Jake targeted a heavyset man as he pushed against the doors with his substantial weight.

  Jake rolled onto his stomach and took aim. He let go a burst. One bullet struck the back of the man’s head, splitting it open like a watermelon dropped from a height. Two other bullets pierced him in the back near the shoulder blades. The rifle in the man’s hand dropped to the floor and landed just before his lifeless body did the same.

  At the back of the auditorium, Jake spotted two other targets pushing against the emergency exit doors. One had long, frizzy hair; the other guy’s hair was short. Both had thin builds, a little harder to hit. But they were less than forty-five meters away. Jake was a fine shot at twice that distance. He pulled the trigger, and a fraction of a second later, there were no guys at that door.

  Four hostiles down in less than thirty seconds.

  “Get up here!” Jake screamed at the kids between shots. “Get up here now.”

  The remainder of the crew had spread out and took up cover behind different seats in different rows. Jake saw them come up from time to time like prairie dogs out to have a look around. They didn’t stay up for long. Jake sighted them quickly and decorated their seats with bullets. Maybe he struck gold. Probably not. The goal wasn’t annihilation. It was rescue.

  Jake’s constant stream of bullets pinned the hostage takers down and kept them from returning fire. This gave the kids a short window to make their move, but Jake wanted them fully concealed from view. From a prone position, he unclipped one of the four smoke grenades on his chest rig. He fired the AK-47 without aiming, using one hand. With his teeth, he pulled the pin on the grenade and gave it a toss. The projectile flew with a tall arc and a smoky tail. As soon as it hit, thick smoke billowed into the pitch-black room.