by Greg Rucka
“Six.”
“You have seven.”
“Yeah, there’s a park girl with them, knows how to sign. She’s a mouthy one, I keep telling her she doesn’t shut up, I’ll give her something else for her mouth to do.”
Heat blazes up Gabriel’s neck. He is aware of Betsy just outside the door, scanning for more cameras, listening.
“We don’t…” Gabriel begins, doesn’t trust his voice, stops. Clears his throat, then tries again, saying, “We don’t have time for that bullshit.”
“Fuck, I know that. Maybe we can keep a couple of them for later?” Vladimir laughs.
“I’m en route. Keep your hands off them. I mean that.”
“I was joking,” Vladimir says.
Gabriel thinks maybe he isn’t.
It takes another fourteen minutes before they’re at the mouth of Hendar’s Lair, another seven cameras dead along the way, with Gabriel taking just long enough to reach Charlie One and Charlie Two separately over the park phone, telling them that their coms have been breached. From here on out, Gabriel tells them, we use the park phones or our own cell phones.
Now Gabriel ducks the chain, climbs over the treasure chest–themed carts stacked in a line at the platform. Music plays, variations of Hendar’s theme, much louder than Gabriel has ever heard it before in the absence of crowds and the running of the ride. At the entrance of the tunnel, multicolored lights swirl and yellow, wicked eyes shine in the darkness.
“Tell Vladimir to come out here,” Gabriel says. “Take over for him inside. I’ll keep watch.”
Betsy says, “That Uzbek shit, he’s going to fuck us, you know that?”
“I know that.”
“You’re going to let him?”
“I am not. No, I am not. Go get Vladimir. Don’t touch the hostages. We’re going to need them.”
Betsy nods in understanding. “Yeah. That’s good.”
The man heads down the tunnel, following the ride’s track, disappears into the darkness. The music breaks, Hendar growling, his voice rising, seductively dripping poison into the ear.
I smell you…I hear you…I see you…always nice to have someone drop by for a bite to eat.…
Another growl that turns into a rich, sinister laugh.
Come in, come in. There’s so much I want to show you…so much I want to teach you. Why else would you dare enter my domain? I know what you want, and I will give it to you. I will teach you of power. Come…if you dare.…
A growl, then a roar, and screams that Gabriel always assumed were from guests, and now realizes are also part of the sound track. He turns to the control console, wondering if there’s a clearly marked way to shut it off, just to mute it for a moment, and his eye catches on the flickering black-and-white images relayed from inside. Like all the enclosed attractions, Hendar’s Lair has on-site monitoring, similar to the surveillance out of the security office, but local to each ride.
Gabriel looks at the tiny square images, the whites too bright to accommodate the dimness within, and of the eight screens, six show him nothing, just empty trackway. But two of them have angles on the hostages, and he can see Betsy now speaking to Vladimir, gesturing. The cameras are nowhere near as high-resolution as the ones he left in the command post, but he sees what look like six teenagers, seated on the floor and in a line, and a seventh at the end, knees drawn to her chest and an arm around the shoulders of a young woman beside her.
Dana.
Of course Dana. It had to be Dana, and even though the video is blurry, void of detail, Gabriel is certain it is she. The way he was certain the moment Vladimir said the kids were deaf.
He looks at her on this monitor, thankful she cannot see him. Thankful that she does not know he is here, his part in all this.
Fuck the Uzbek and his bomb, Gabriel Fuller thinks. Fuck him, his plan, his devil master, fuck them all. We are done, we are getting out.
“Hey,” Vladimir says, emerging from the tunnel, the other side, where the cars would exit were the ride in operation. He’s got the submachine gun slung, but his pistol is in his hand, and for a second Gabriel wonders if old loyalties count more than new ones, if Vladimir will be with him or against him.
“We lost the command post,” Gabriel says. “We’re down to eight men now, including you and me.”
“Sonny said.”
“Sonny?” It takes a half second before Gabriel understands that Vladimir is talking about Betsy. “He tell you anything else?”
Vladimir digs around in his pockets, finds his pack of cigarettes. Unlike Betsy, he doesn’t bother to offer Gabriel one. He gets his smoke lit, exhales. When he speaks again, he uses Russian.
“That it’s going wrong, badly wrong. That there are shooters in the park, at least two and maybe more. That the Uzbek fucker is maybe hanging us out to dry.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too.” Gabriel slips into Russian, finds the language stiff and old on his tongue. “I’m thinking he was planning on doing it all along. These shooters, they knew we were coming, Vladimir.”
“You think the Uzbek warned them? Why would he warn them?”
“Fuck me if I know. Does any of this make sense to you? He keeps saying there is a plan, but he never tells me what the plan is. I don’t even know why we’re here. Take the park, hold the park, plant a bomb but don’t arm the bomb. Nothing makes sense.”
“He said—”
“I know what he said. But he told me little more than he told you.” Gabriel turns to face the man full-on, meets his eyes. “Who are you with? Are you with me or are you with him?”
Vladimir blows smoke, eyes Gabriel. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple. We stay here, we die here.”
Another jet of smoke. “You don’t know. The Shadow Man has a long reach and a long memory, Matias. You left and the Uzbek moved in, some of our boys, they got ideas, tried to do their own thing. And the Uzbek, he said that sure, they could do that, good luck with that.
“And they all died, Matias. Not all at once and not fast, but all of them ended up dead. Adam Nikoleyavich, you remember him? You were gone two years, maybe, he got a wife and new baby boy, they found them all dead. What they had done to the baby not even I want to talk about. That is what this Shadow Man does to those who break with him.”
“And you are willing to die for him? For a man who maybe doesn’t exist?”
“You tell me if he doesn’t exist. You were picked by him, that was what the Uzbek said. You were picked to do his work.” Vladimir takes a last pull, flicks the butt away.
Gabriel shakes his head. “I have never seen him, never heard him. Only ever was it the Uzbek. For all these years, only ever the Uzbek.”
Vladimir’s mouth works, lips together, frowning as he thinks. Looking out along the pathways again, and from the corner of Gabriel’s eye, he sees the man’s fingers open and close around the grip of his pistol.
“We betray these men, we will die.”
“We stay here,” Gabriel says, “we will die sooner.”
Vladimir grunts, perhaps in agreement.
“So what do we do?”
“We make a deal,” Gabriel says.
Chapter Twenty-four
THE SOUTHERNMOST wall on the Pooch Tunnel makes a noise like a soft clap, then almost immediately makes another, much louder. There’s a blast of rock and concrete dust, the roar of the detonation all the more deafening in the enclosed space, and even with his hands clapped over them, it’s enough to make Bell’s ears ring, to make his head begin aching all over again. Debris sprays and falls, leaving a cloud of mist and dust.
Cardboard steps through the breach. He’s geared, rig and harness over his blue jeans, top of an AC/DC T-shirt just visible above his vest, M4 in his hands, light from one of the fixtures kicking glare off his shaved head. Bonebreaker flows through right behind him, similarly heavy, his jeans black and his shirt the same color, moving like he’s following the steps of a dance. Both men give Bell
a nod, and he returns it, then pivots and begins leading them back north, quick-stepping, not quite running.
“Always picking the best vacation spots, Top,” Bone says. He’s as tall as Bell, thinner, and about as white-boy as they come, blond and blue-eyed.
“Yeah, I know how to treat my crew right. Where were you?”
“Orlando.”
“You have eyes on?” Cardboard asks. Of the four, he’s the smallest, a barrel top on lean legs that seem too long for his body. “No change?”
“Situation is dynamic,” Bell says. “They’re taking out the cameras where they can. We have two of their radios, but they’ve cut commo, no traffic.”
“Moving the hostages?” Bone asks.
“What I’d do.”
“What we’d all do,” Cardboard says. “Need to move fast, then.”
“Like our asses are on fire,” Bell says.
They enter the command post, coming through the tunnel at the back of the Sheriff’s Office, then up the stairs. Amy is standing by the door when they enter, and both Board and Bone greet her by name. Bonebreaker moves immediately to the Spartan, but Cardboard stops in front of her, offers an apologetic smile.
“Been a while,” Cardboard says.
“You’ll forgive me, Freddie,” Amy says. “Not long enough.”
“Roger that,” Bonebreaker murmurs.
Bell puts a hand on his ex-wife’s arm. “You stay in this room, you need to stay quiet.”
“Don’t waste time.” She glares.
“I don’t waste time.” Bell turns to Nuri. “Where are we on the Spartan?”
“Just got it recalibrated.” Nuri has stepped out of Bonebreaker’s way, now bends past him, working the keyboard on the biochem monitor. “Sampling for radioactive material, but if it’s a dirty bomb, if they shielded the payload when it was assembled, it’s going to come back negative.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Gets worse,” Chain says. “Tangos have wised up. We’re losing our eyes fast.”
It’s not good news, but it was the news Bell expected. Whoever is calling the hostiles’ shots in the park, he’s not being stupid and he’s not planning on making things easy.
Bonebreaker moves from the Spartan to where Chain is sitting. “Isaiah.”
“Hey, Jorge.”
“Shoshana Nuri, Angel,” Bell says. “Sergeants Freddie Cooper and Jorge Velez, Cardboard and Bonebreaker, respectively. Now we’re done with the pleasantries. Let’s break this down.”
Bell steps to one of the terminals beside the surveillance bank, taps the keyboard, brings up the park map on-screen. Slides his index finger from their position to the northwestern quadrant of the park, settling on Fort Royal.
“Group One consists of seven hostages and two Tangos. Isaiah, show them.”
“Right here,” Chain says, swiveling in his chair to bring up another monitor, a paused video. He clicks and the image springs into motion, two men armed with MP5Ks pacing around a cluster of seven men and women, none of them children, thankfully, all seated in a bunch at the heart of the open courtyard. “They’re in sunlight, getting hot and tired and bored, from the look of it.”
Cardboard nods, almost imperceptibly.
“Group Two,” Bell says, moving his index finger south and even further west, almost to the border of the park. “Flashman Ranch, six hostages, two Tangos. Almost an identical setup.”
“You can see it here.” Chain taps keys, the video changing to show the interior of the Flashman Corral. “The approach here is harder, but there’s tunnel access, and before we lost the cameras it looked like they didn’t even know it was there.”
“Last group, Group Three.” Bell indicates Hendar’s Lair on the map. “Seven hostages, two Tangos. This one is mine.”
Bonebreaker clears his throat. “Top—”
“This one is mine,” Bell repeats. “We have identified eight hostiles at this time; we have three groups, and we have five shooters. There’s no way this breaks into even numbers. One of us is flying solo, that’ll be me.”
“Wait,” Nuri says. “Five shooters?”
Bell turns to her as the phone at the coms desk begins to ring. “You’re coming to the party, Angel.”
She shakes her head, grabs the phone.
“Jad,” Cardboard says. “Athena’s in Group Three, maybe you ought to let me and Chain take that one.”
“You think I’m going to miss?”
“Never on purpose.”
“Then state your objection, Sergeant.”
“If it was my little girl—”
“You’d be on point, Freddie, don’t bullshit me.”
Cardboard shrugs, and Nuri says, “Warlock?”
“I’m not arguing this,” Bell says to Cardboard, then turns to glare at Nuri. “If that’s Brickyard, you tell him we’re about to move.”
“It’s not Brickyard.” Nuri is holding out the handset to him, one hand over the mouthpiece. “He won’t identify himself. He’s asking for you by name.”
Bell stares at her.
“He says he knows where the bomb is,” Nuri says.
“This is Bell.”
The voice that answers is American, soft-spoken, male. Of the men he’s seen on the monitors, Bell wonders which it could be, if any of them. “Hello, Mr. Bell.”
“You know who I am.”
“I was in your office. You don’t really work for WilsonVille, do you?”
“No,” Bell says.
“I didn’t think so. Special Forces, maybe? Are you a SEAL, Mr. Bell? A Navy SEAL?”
“You know where the bomb is.”
The man laughs, and it’s bitter, and sparse. “I do.”
“I’m not sure I believe there even is a bomb.”
“That’s a dangerous mistake, but if you want to make it, you go right ahead. How many people do you think will die if it goes off? I mean, beyond the immediate panic. The cancer cases. Fifty thousand? Twice that? Five times?”
“Maybe. Could be. You tell me where it is, could be no one.”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? No one else dying. Be nice if we could arrange that. Let WilsonVille live. That’s the real damage, isn’t it? If it detonates? It’ll kill WilsonVille, maybe kill Wilson Entertainment. They’d have to turn this place into one big parking lot, wouldn’t they? Could scrub and sandblast it for a year and a day, they’d never get people to come here again, bring their children here again. That’s billions, maybe hundreds of billions of dollars. That’s an economic crisis right there. And here we are, struggling out of a recession.”
Here we are, Bell thinks. You’re American. “Yes, it would,” he says. “You think maybe we can arrange something?”
There is a long pause. “What I want,” the man says, finally, “is out. Get on the line to someone with pull. FBI, whoever. You get them on the line, and you tell them this: I’ll give you the hostages and the bomb, but we walk.”
“You want them to just let you go.”
“There are two employee lots north of the park, northwest and northeast. There’s the main lot southwest of the gates. I want a van waiting in each of those lots, identical vans, and nobody in sight of them. Me and my people will walk the hostages out to the vehicles, we’ll leave them there, and we’ll go. Once I’m satisfied we’re clear, I’ll call and tell you where to find the bomb.”
Now it’s Bell’s turn to be silent. Nuri, listening in on the coms headset, is watching him, frowning. He sees Amy at the back of the room, holding her elbow in one hand, looking like she’s gnawing her fingers, and she’s watching him, too.
“No can do,” Bell says.
“Maybe you don’t understand me,” the man says. “I’m offering you an end to this, a walkaway.”
“I understand. It won’t work. What you’re asking for, it won’t work, not like you’re asking. I get on the line to FBI, whoever, you’ve got to know they’ll never let you go clean. They’ll say sure, whatever you like, they’ll give you t
he vans, they’ll stay clear. But they’ll bug the vehicles, they’ll follow you on the ground, put a bird in the air, but they’ll never let you get away. You know that. And you know I’m not FBI. So between you and me, let’s make this work.”
“How?”
“My team is in the park,” Bell says. “We’re here and staged, you understand me? We are here and we are staged. Our vehicle is parked off-site; the rest of my unit made entry through the tunnels, via the sewer. The keys are still in the truck, passenger-side visor. That’s our vehicle, you understand? You take it, no one will follow.”
“I am not going into the tunnels. That’s a kill zone.”
“I’ll give you a free run. You turn the hostages loose, we stay above ground.”
Another pause as the man considers. “You keep your people clear?”
“In exchange for the hostages. You release the hostages, we’ll move in to collect them, you’ll have a free run.”
“You have two of our radios.”
“We do.”
“Keep one with you. Thirty minutes.”
The line goes dead.
Bell sets the handset down.
“We’ve got twenty-nine minutes to free the hostages and find that device,” he says.
Chapter Twenty-five
RUIZ IS still in the conference room, staring out the window. Directly below, the media circus is at a full three rings. There are clown cars with satellite antennae and competing ringmasters strutting and gesticulating in front of camera crews. It’s blown wide, global news, and the political repercussions are already beginning to be felt. Multiple pundits all singing variations on a theme. Is this a state-sponsored act of terrorism, and if so, will the Global War on Terror be opening yet another front in another country? More boots on the ground in Yemen, perhaps? If this is Pakistani in origin, will this be the last straw? Or perhaps somewhere even more problematic—one of the CIS, perhaps, or Southeast Asia?
Speculation only, but not one of the options makes Ruiz happy, and if it’s giving him dark thoughts, he can only imagine what’s being said in the White House Situation Room or the Pentagon. The same White House Situation Room he just finished speaking with, listening as orders have been relayed, from Washington back across the country to California, to the FBI HRT, now staged at the southernmost of WilsonVille’s parking lots and holding, down to the SWAT commander standing with his men less than a mile away. Everyone ready to move on WilsonVille; everyone all dressed up for a party nobody really wants to attend.
