Constant Fear

by Daniel Palmer

  “Move! Move!” Jake shouted.

  Grenade two was up and away. Bullets whizzed by Jake’s head, and he returned fire with his rifle. The smoke was doing its job, but Jake launched one more grenade for good measure and went back to two-handed firing.

  Pixie was the first kid to take initiative. He commando-crawled across the gap between the first row of seats and the stage. With the smoke and the dark, the flash of Jake’s gun barrel would help navigate him to the stage like airport runway lights.

  A thick curtain of smoke rose up behind Pixie. Only Jake could see the boy on the move. Pixie reached the front of the stage and hauled himself up. Jake never let up with the gunfire. He shifted position several times to make targeting him even harder. First he rolled right, then to the left, and back right again.

  When his ammo ran low, Jake took out a new magazine from his battle belt and activated the rifle’s magazine catch with his thumb. He rotated the new magazine forward to the correct angle for insertion. Total time without shooting never went more than a couple of seconds. He thought he had enough bullets with him to get all six kids through the trapdoor.

  By this point, the kids’ ears must have been ringing, but Jake kept his finger on the trigger. They could sustain worse injuries than hearing loss. Return fire came at Jake through the fog in spurts, and some of it splintered the stage floor, not more than five feet away. A little too close for comfort.

  Jake sighted a target through his optics and fired at him through the haze. His bullets turned the auditorium chairs into Swiss cheese and flushed a shooter out of hiding. Jake tracked the man to the front door, where another man’s body already lay. The smoke was still pretty thin over there and Jake had no trouble tracking him. It looked to Jake like the man at the door had a claw for a hand. He could have ten clawed hands. That door wasn’t going to budge.

  Jake let a burst of bullets fly that put plenty of holes into his target. Liquid exploded from the man’s midsection and blended with the gathering smoke.

  Jake kept up the suppressive fire. At some point, someone would shoot blindly at the front of the stage and hit one of the slow-moving kids. Jake had to hurry them along. He yelled, “Move now or you’ll be shot.”

  Hilary had her hands over her eyes, and a scream fell from her mouth, which was mostly drowned out by gunfire. At least she was on the move. David and Rafa followed, and next came Andy, who looked a bit disoriented. Solomon brought up the rear. All of them crawled toward the stage. Ten feet felt more like ten miles. They were going too slow. Jake screamed, “Move it! Move it!”

  The kids needed better protection, so Jake stood up. It put him in a vulnerable position, but he improved his vantage point. He peppered the auditorium seats with as many bullets as his gun could spit out, sweeping the barrel from right to left and back again. He changed magazines three times. This happened as more smoke poured out of the canisters and turned the visibility nearly to zero. Return gunfire came at Jake through the smog, but it was way off the mark.

  One by one, the kids crawled onto the stage. He kept up the gunfire until he again ran out of ammo. This time, he changed magazines, using the new cartridge to release the old. It was a skill Ellie had taught him at the range.

  “Down in the hole!” Jake yelled. “The pit door is open. Get down in it!”

  Jake turned his head in time to see Pixie feel his way across the stage in the dark and drop into the pit. One by one, like lemmings on the march, they all went down into the hole. Andy said nothing as he crept along. Chances were, he didn’t even know it was Jake doing the shooting.

  As Jake had calculated, the return fire was nonexistent. In this environment, he had all the advantage. He could target better than they could. He had won the first round. But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  Whoever had taken the kids hostage would follow them into the tunnels.

  CHAPTER 43

  Three Javiers had connections to the school: one was a student and two were parents.

  Ellie found the student huddled on the auditorium bleachers with a group of his friends. He was a tall and thin boy, with tousled dark hair and a handsome face. Ellie asked him some basic questions to determine whether he had any connection to Andy Dent or his missing friends.

  Javier was pleasant enough, and not the least bit nervous to speak with her. He answered politely and confirmed what she initially suspected: Javier Ortega was just another displaced student from Pepperell Academy caught up in the chaos. Javier gave Kibo some much-appreciated affection, and Ellie returned to her cruiser. This time, Ellie opened the door for her dog, and Kibo climbed in the front passenger seat, where he sat patiently while Ellie got the second Javier on the phone.

  Javier number two lived in Orange County, California, and was a father of a student named Willow. Naturally, he had heard all about the incident at the school where his daughter boarded and answered the phone almost as soon as it rang. Ellie introduced herself as a member of the Winston PD and asked the same questions of this Javier as she did the other. There was nothing here, either. Javier said he hadn’t heard of any of the kids she mentioned, and Ellie was inclined to believe him. His biggest concern was for Willow, to whom he had spoken just moments ago. Ellie assured him the local high school was a safe environment for his daughter and ended the call after offering a few more assurances.

  The last Javier on Ellie’s list lived in Winston, so she decided to take a drive over there.

  The neighborhood where Javier Martinez lived with his wife, Stacey, seemed a different world from Jake’s little trailer home. The Martinez family, Ellie learned, had one son, Gus, who boarded at the school. Judging by the size and condition of the Martinez homestead, Gus’s education was not a strain on the family finances.

  Ellie pulled her cruiser to the curb and cut the engine. All the lights in the home were off, except for one in the hallway. At the high school, she had asked around for Gus Martinez, but a girl named Rebecca had told her that he and his family had gone on vacation. Ellie’s radar went up right away.

  A vacation before a major incident at the school? The timing was certainly a little peculiar.

  She figured if this Javier had been somehow involved, he had pulled up stakes and gotten his family out of Dodge. Ellie wasn’t surprised to find the house dark and no cars in the driveway. The garage had no windows, but Ellie doubted she’d find any cars inside. The Martinez family was supposedly gone, after all. But to where?

  Ellie cupped Kibo’s face in her hands. “Wait here, buddy. I’ll be right back.”

  The evening air had a bite, so Ellie zipped up her jacket to stave off the cold. The neighborhood was quiet, as most neighborhoods were at this hour. The persistent chop of helicopters overhead was the only clue that something big was going down a few miles away.

  Ellie walked up the front steps and peered into a side window, using her flashlight to enhance her vision. It was dark inside except for a single light in the kitchen, a typical precaution any family might take when leaving home for a week or so. Ellie knew this same as the burglars. From what she could see, the place looked in order. No overturned furniture. Nothing to suggest a struggle. Ellie noticed an ADT sticker on the window, but the panel was out of view, so she had no way to know if the alarm was on or not. She assumed it was on.

  Maybe it was just a vacation.

  Ellie decided to check around back. She was going to report this to Haggar. It was worth doing even if the lead didn’t pan out. He was already working on other intel that Jake had supplied, including the name Fausto. According to Haggar, the FBI had agents investigating reports of major thefts. Two hundred million dollars bought a lot of chatter. They could investigate and make inquiries all they wanted. At some point, Haggar would realize Jake wasn’t unstable—that he was, in fact, their best hope for a positive outcome. She only hoped that realization did not come too late.

  After Ellie scoped out the backyard, she’d see what she could do to get Jake some support. She hadn’t
heard any reports on the radio, but the FBI was using secured channels to communicate and Ellie wasn’t privy to most of those conversations. Jake could be up to his eyeballs in bullets. She had no way of knowing.

  Do what you can do. Focus on making a difference.

  That was what her father would have advised. Maybe this jaunt would help. Maybe she could find a clue that would help locate the Martinez clan, and, assuming they were involved somehow, make a difference.

  Ellie kept her flashlight on, even though the moonlight sufficed. The side yard was nicely manicured, Ellie observed. The trees were pruned, the hedges trimmed, and Ellie saw nothing out of the ordinary. She shone her light into the small hopper windows and saw a finished basement with all the accoutrements of wealth: foosball table, pool table, comfy couch, and that was just what she could make out. A closed door probably opened into an unfinished side. Nothing unusual.

  The backyard was broad and flat. Flower gardens looked lovingly maintained. Things didn’t have to be in shambles for something to be going on, but Ellie was scoping out the scene. Doing what she could do.

  Ellie stuffed her hands in her jacket pocket and gazed up at the sky. The stars winked down on her and the vastness of it all was a reminder of her distance from Jake. What was happening with him? Ellie couldn’t waste another second chasing down this lead. She needed to be back in the action.

  As she turned to go, something in a tall row of juniper trees at the far end of the backyard caught her eye. A glowing reddish ember hovered inexplicably in the dark. It took Ellie a moment to realize what it was: a cigarette. Somebody was in the yard, concealed in those trees, smoking a butt.

  Ellie undid the snap on her gun holster. Her hand went to the handle of her Glock 19. She took a step toward the smoker.

  “This is the police. Come out where I can see you.”

  The ember glowed brighter. The smoker took a drag.

  “Come out from the bushes now.”

  Ellie’s heart began to race. Her nerves tingled. She pulled the gun from its holster, trained the weapon on the ember and shone her flashlight on the bushes as she took another step toward the smoker.

  “Come out now.”

  Ellie saw the bright flash, heard the pop, and an instant later felt pain in her leg. She went to the ground as her injured leg folded in on her. She felt an excruciating burning sensation, and hot blood pumped through a hole in her thigh. The ground seemed to sprout hands that held her down. She couldn’t move, couldn’t get up.

  Another flash came from the dark. This bullet struck the ground near Ellie’s head. She found strength to lift her body maybe a few inches off the ground. It was enough to squeeze the trigger in the direction of the shooter.

  Ellie got five shots off in rapid succession. She aimed just to the right of the glowing ember. She saw the cigarette fall from the shooter’s mouth and heard him cry out. Then she heard nothing.

  Ellie put her finger on the bullet wound to her thigh. The blood flowed steadily, but she didn’t think the bullet had hit a major artery.

  The basement door flew open, and Ellie cocked her head in the direction of the sound. Sensors on the door detected movement and turned on a powerful set of floodlights. Ellie saw a tall, shadowy figure come lumbering toward her. Fear was something foreign to Ellie, but now it wrapped around her like a straitjacket. The man came fast. She saw the flash when he was maybe fifteen feet away. The gunshot echoed into the night.

  Ellie heard Kibo bark in distress. The bullet struck Ellie in the chest. The pain was instant and intense. She puffed out her cheeks and tried to make the burn go away. The shadowy figure approached and put three more bullets into her body—another one in the chest, one in the stomach, and a third in her other leg. With each bullet, Ellie’s body jolted in shock. She came up off the ground a few inches and fell back down with a thud.

  The fourth shot, a head shot, landed in the dirt.

  She heard the man say, “Hijo de puta.”

  Through slits in her eyes, Ellie watched the man continue his approach until he now loomed over her. Blood seeped out of the hole in her other leg in steady hot spurts. The chest and stomach wounds were nothing; those bullets had struck her body armor and would leave nasty bruises. But her legs burned. The hot lead was like a blowtorch to her muscles.

  Ellie felt the ground for her Glock. She brushed against the metal with the tips of her fingers. If she stretched, she might be able to reach it. But the pain in her chest and stomach made the slightest movement impossible.

  The man came over to her and laughed as he put a boot on her chest. “Adios,” he said. He took aim with his gun.

  Her next move was pure reflex. Ellie latched onto the man’s ankle and gave it a hard yank. His surprised eyes widened until the whites became the size of cue balls. As he fell backward, Ellie reached for her gun. The man quickly rolled on top of her and moved his arm to get the gun in front of her face. Ellie seized his right wrist with her left hand and applied counterforce. She pushed across her body while her right hand continued to search for her weapon.

  Her attacker was at least six feet tall and outweighed her by fifty pounds. His square face was frozen in an expression of rage. He pushed hard against Ellie’s arm and gained an inch. Another few inches would put the barrel of his gun in front of her face.

  Ellie’s fingers brushed against something metal. She stretched them until it felt like her knuckles would separate from the joints. The man snarled and pushed even harder, his gun inching ever closer to her face. With one final stretch, Ellie’s fingers grazed her gun once more. At that very moment, her attacker put a hand around her throat and began to squeeze. Bile raced up Ellie’s esophagus, collecting there and choking her more. Ellie kicked frantically as her right hand finally got a good grip on her gun.

  With one final effort, as her world turned dark, Ellie lifted the gun off the ground and moved it under the man’s body. She fired several shots in rapid succession into his gut and chest.

  The intense pressure on her throat released as the man tumbled back and off her body. His legs kicked spastically; then they went still.

  Ellie rolled over onto her stomach, coughing, spitting, fighting the burn in her throat, her legs, her body. She started to crawl toward her car. She had bitten her tongue in the struggle and spat gobs of blood onto the grass. Her stomach and chest felt as if they had been torn apart by some animal, but she knew it was just bruising from the gunshots.

  Ellie reached for her radio during her crawl. She had just pulled it off her belt, when the basement door flew open again. She cocked her head once more in that direction and saw a man charging at an angle that didn’t give her a clear shot. He came fast. No letup in his stride. He dove on top of her, tackling her while she was already on the ground. Ellie tried to fend him off, but he was wiry and far stronger. He had little trouble wrenching the radio and gun from her hands.

  He stood and used his boot to flip Ellie onto her back. “You just killed my friends, bitch.” He pointed what appeared to be a miniature cannon at Ellie’s head.

  Kibo’s barks echoed like gunshots.

  CHAPTER 44

  Everyone was in the pit. It was crowded, and Jake almost landed on one of the kids. It was too dark to see which one. Whoever it was scurried off into a corner like a terrified animal.

  The blackness had to go. Jake flicked on his headlamp and whirled in the direction of the mewling teens. All the color had drained from their faces. David and Rafa put fingers in their ears, as if that could fix their damaged hearing. Their uniforms were in shambles—dirty, torn, stained. They stared vacantly, each one looking utterly lost and wholly terrified. They huddled together in a corner of the pit as far from the three corpses as possible.

  “Through the door,” Jake said. “It’s unlocked. Hurry!”

  Nobody moved, paralyzed possibly by hearing loss, but more likely by fear.

  Jake lunged at the door and pulled it open with force. He grabbed the closest person to him, Da
vid, and stuffed him through the compact opening.

  “Go and run!”

  One by one, the kids stooped to get low enough. Like Alice crawling through the small door to enter Wonderland, they vanished into the dark tunnel beyond. As they departed, Jake stood below the pit opening and fired round after round from his AK-47 into the air. Shell casings plunked down like metallic raindrops. Bullets fired from his gun hit the ceiling and probably nothing else. Jake’s only goal was to deter the others from trying to follow. Eventually somebody would, though. It was the only way out of the auditorium, unless they somehow managed to break down one of the exit doors.

  Jake went through two more magazines while keeping anybody from attempting to enter the pit. He was down to just two magazines of ammo. Sixty more shots, plus his pistols.

  Jake looked back in time to see the last kid enter the tunnel. It was Andy, and Jake wasn’t at all surprised that his son waited for the others.

  Jake stopped shooting, secured his weapon, and dove through the door to the tunnel like a base runner sliding headfirst into second. From a pocket on his chest rig, Jake retrieved the key and spent precious seconds getting the tunnel entrance locked.

  The kids had not ventured far. They huddled together for comfort, for contact. They were safe, but that could change in a heartbeat. Jake heard footsteps descend the metal stairs. Death was coming.

  Jake said, “Go. Go. Hurry!”

  Jake’s headlamp fell on Andy. He could see his son’s puzzled and awed expression.

  “Dad?” Andy said.

  “No time,” Jake answered.