Dead Man Switch

by Matthew Quirk

  “I’m going to get a little exercise before dinner,” Drew said. “Then I’ll get some pizza.”

  “Uh, okay,” Michael replied. “But I’m off cheese.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever."

  “All right,” Drew said, and he ran his hand through Michael’s hair while his son twisted away.

  Drew changed into a pair of board shorts, then walked past his truck and through the trees to the edge of the lake. The sun was setting. He slipped into the cold water and felt his skin contract. It was about sixty degrees, but he would be fine if he kept the pace up. He slid through the water.

  That conversation was progress. For a long time, Michael would barely talk to him, and Drew couldn’t blame him. He’d been gone for most of his life, popping in for two or three weeks like an uncle from another coast.

  Drew’s wife would tell him about the bad dreams and the angry speeches: Where is he? Why is he always leaving us behind? What if we need him?

  Michael pretended not to care about anything, but Drew saw otherwise on the football field, saw Michael’s red face and trembling hands after all-out sprints at practice. He’d seen a picture his son texted to his friends, a photo of the two of them fishing together, with Michael holding up a thirty-inch striper.

  It was a start.

  He slipped through the black water, going twenty feet under the surface at a time.

  On the shore, folded in his towel beside his sweatshirt, Drew’s phone rang and rang. Thirty miles away, Hayes hit redial and pressed the damp glass of his phone to his cheek.

  Chapter 26

  HYND WATCHED THE metal glow red beside the torch.

  “Olivares is set outside the house,” Vera said.

  “Good. Send them in.”

  “What’s the cover?”

  Working in the U.S. was dangerous, but it had one advantage: the flood of guns and everyday violence. Drug addiction and petty theft were rife in these mountains. As long as you took a few innocents along with your target, it was possible to blend in.

  “Home invasion,” Hynd said. “Raid the medicine chests, the valuables.”

  It was a thin cover, but it was all they needed to buy time with the local police before someone figured out that the victim wasn’t some suburban dad.

  “Rules of engagement?”

  This was the first move toward open war. The one-at-a-time murders had only been a prelude. The real violence was just beginning.

  “Kill everyone in the house.”

  Chapter 27

  IN THE BASEMENT of the vacation house, Michael Ochoa, Drew’s son, moved his thumb just slightly to the left on the game controller and stared at the sixty-inch TV. The surround-sound speakers pumped the rattle of automatic gunfire and the hiss of bullets through the room, while the screen showed the first-person perspective down a Remington combat shotgun as Michael sneaked up on a man on-screen.

  He blew his head off in a red cloud, and the boy beside Michael on the couch punched him in the arm and cried out, “Sick!”

  The sliding glass door to the right shattered into the room. Michael dropped the controller and froze as two men ran inside, looking down the sights of submachine guns. They checked the corners closest to the doors, then the lead man sprinted toward Michael and drove his elbow into the boy’s temple.

  The room turned into a red flash as the pain overwhelmed him, and they threw him onto his stomach and cinched his hands behind his back.

  “What are you doing!” he yelled, but there was no reply. They moved so quickly, so calmly, as they dragged him and Daniel up the stairs, his feet thudding over the steps. His slipper fell off, and he watched the tiles of the kitchen floor move by.

  In the living room, he heard more men shouting. They must have broken in through another door. Mr. Talley tried to calm them down, but then Michael heard him cry out in pain.

  They brought Michael upstairs, into the master bedroom, and threw him down on the bed. The bindings cut into his wrists, and he felt a small trickle of blood working its way through his hair. They dragged Mr. Talley and Daniel in next.

  One man aimed a pistol at Mr. Talley. The others were arguing in Spanish, and for the first time they seemed panicked.

  “Drew Ochoa. Where is he?” the lead man asked the father as he pointed the gun at Daniel’s face.

  Michael shook his head over and over in disbelief. Where was his dad? He left us here, Michael thought. He’s gone. He’s always gone.

  Chapter 28

  DREW HELD HIS hands, fingers laced, over his head as he caught his breath. The cold water and night air caused his skin to goose-pimple, but he had burned off some of the restlessness.

  As he walked toward his towel, he heard his phone ringing. He pulled it out and put on his sweatshirt as he picked his way through the stones.

  He saw there were half a dozen missed calls.

  Drew answered the phone. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “It’s Hayes. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I—what’s happening?”

  “We think someone’s going after Cold Harvest personnel in the States.”

  “Burke’s death?”

  “Yes. That was them. We tracked a couple phones that might be connected and they were near your house.”

  “No one’s there. I’m up at the lake.”

  “I know. I’m five minutes out. You have any contact?”

  “No—” He looked at the house and saw the blinds pulled upstairs, every light out.

  “I have to go, Hayes. I’ll—”

  Another call came in. It was Greg Talley’s number.

  “Hang on,” he said to Hayes and switched to the incoming call. “Is everything okay in the house, Greg? Have you seen anybody watching the place?”

  “Drew, where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m outside. What’s—”

  “Jesus, Drew, these guys busted in. They’ve got me and the kids.”

  “Stay calm. All right. Put me on the phone with them.”

  A loud crack came from the earpiece. Drew leaned his head away. “Greg? Greg!”

  There was yelling in the background, and then someone screaming.

  “Greg!” Drew shouted.

  Nothing. Four deep breaths in, four out; he tried to steady his hammering pulse.

  “Hello!”

  He heard someone breathing on the line. “We have your son and the other boy and his father. We only want you. Come to the house and give yourself up and they will live.” The voice was calm. The speaker had done this before.

  “If you so much as—”

  “I explained the situation. The doors are rigged with explosives. If there is any attempt to assault the building, they will all die.”

  There was a rustling on the phone.

  “Dad?”

  “Michael. Thank God. Are you okay?”

  “Dad. There are guys here with guns and they hurt Mr. Talley. Where are you?”

  “I’m coming, Michael. I’m close. It’ll be okay. Is your mother there?” He didn’t see her car.

  “No.” He heard a rustling at the end of the phone, then a slap and a cry.

  “You have two minutes,” the first speaker said. “We have two kilos of PETN in the room. It will blow if you or anyone else attempts a rescue.”

  The English was fluent, but Drew picked up a trace of an accent, Mexican or Central American.

  PETN was one of the most powerful plastic explosives known. Two kilos would take off the top story of that house. They’d said it would blow if anyone attempted a rescue. That might mean a dead man switch.

  It was a type of detonator that worked similarly to a grenade after the pin was pulled. If the bomber let the device go, either intentionally or because he was injured or killed, it would set off the explosive.

  “Come to the front door. Hands on your head. Try anything and they die. We only want you. We’ll let them go. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. If you
tell me—”

  The call ended.

  “Hayes?” Drew said after his phone switched back to the initial call.

  “I’m here.”

  “They have my boy in the house, along with two other hostages. They want me inside in exchange for them. They say they have the entrances wired with explosives, and there’s a charge in the room with the kids that will blow if we try anything.”

  “Did they give you a deadline?”

  “Two minutes. Do you have a team?”

  “I called it in, but that’ll take at least a half hour. It’s just me.”

  “I’m going in.”

  “Drew. They’re not going to let them go. I have my breaching kit and frags. We can take them. I’m coming up the street now.”

  “No, Hayes. We don’t know enough. They want me.”

  “The MO of these guys is bad. They’ve been making these murders seem like accidents. They’ll kill all of you to avoid having it look like a targeted assassination.”

  “We don’t have time or men for an assault. It’s my son, John. I was never around for him. I can’t leave him in there. Even if they kill me.”

  “Don’t do it, Drew.”

  “I can give you ears inside. I’ll keep the phone call live as I go in. That’s the best I can do.”

  Drew held the phone away from him and went to the settings. There were options for visually impaired people to change the brightness and contrast of the screen, and with those he could also disable the screen completely. He’d used it before to turn a phone into an ad hoc listening device.

  “You still there?” Hayes asked.

  “Yes. I have the screen off and the call running. Mute your phone.”

  “Drew. Wait.”

  “I can’t. I’ll see if I can give you some info from the inside. When—”

  Three shots shattered the quiet of the empty valley. From a high window, a man’s body fell; it landed on the roof below and slid down a foot.

  “I’m going in,” Drew said. “Mute it.”

  “Okay,” Hayes replied.

  Drew put the phone in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

  “I’ll give you as much as I can,” Drew said. “Don’t come for the kids unless you have them one hundred percent.” He repeated it, slowly. “One hundred percent.”

  Hayes brought the truck to a stop, then jumped out, slinging his bag on his shoulder as the vehicle rocked on its springs. The bug was working. Through the earbud attached to his phone, he could hear the rustling of wind and Drew’s breath as he approached the house.

  Hayes slipped through the woods and took cover at the tree line. He could see a figure moving toward the house. It was Drew.

  “Approaching the doors,” Drew said. “The south windows look clear. That’s a good entrance, but wait for my word.”

  There was silence, then Hayes heard the creak of the front door opening.

  “Keep your hands up,” Hayes heard someone say.

  “You seem like a good man,” Drew replied. “Where are the rest of them?”

  “Quiet!”

  Hayes concentrated on the voices in his ear. Drew was signaling information to him. You seem like a good man. Where are the rest of them? There was only one guard on the ground floor. There should have been at least two on watch and two handling Drew. These men were unprepared. This was on the fly.

  Hayes heard footsteps, muffled. He sprinted for the bushes along a low wall, noting where the power and telephone lines entered the house. He looked at the window, which was secured with only a sash lock.

  He saw shadows moving past the window at the rear of the house and heard the tempo of the steps double; the guard was taking Drew upstairs. Someone shouted, “Dad!” And then the voices all joined together until someone barked them down.

  “Please,” Drew said. “Take me. Let them go. Like you said.”

  There was no response. Hayes’s muscles tensed and it was all he could do not to go in. He hated standing still, losing initiative. Movement is life.

  But it wasn’t his call. It wasn’t his kid.

  “Ayúdame a cubrirlo.” Help me cover him. He heard them talk back and forth in Spanish. Drew was six two and 220 pounds. They needed a man downstairs but also another to cover him. They were shorthanded.

  “What about the trigger?” another asked in Spanish, and then Hayes heard shouting: “Stay still!”

  “Fine,” Drew said. “You’re in charge. One hundred percent. One hundred percent.”

  Hayes rose up. That was all he needed, a coded green light. Drew had warned him that the room might blow if a rescue was attempted, but either that had been a bluff or Drew thought he could handle the explosives. There was no one Hayes trusted more on demolition.

  Or it was the worst case: Drew had concluded that the gunmen were going to kill them all anyway.

  Hayes drove his knife between the two window rails and levered them apart until the lock disengaged. He eased the window up, then slashed the screen along the bottom and side, put his hands on the sill, and pulled himself through.

  As he came down in a crouch, he drew his pistol, covering the close corner and then the room. He moved down the main hall toward the back stairs.

  Hayes heard footsteps above him, one of the men coming back down to post security. He ducked under the stairs, holstered his gun, pulled his knife from its chest sheath, and waited. Someone banged down the treads just above his head. The man reached the floor and turned around the end of the banister; Hayes could see his boots. He held still for an instant in the dark, then launched at him, covered his mouth, stabbed him in the side, and dragged him under the stairs.

  He took the man’s radio and climbed to the second floor. He heard more shouting in Spanish, and then Drew’s voice.

  “Please, I’m begging you—all three of you seem like honorable men. Take me and let the kids go.”

  Three of them.

  “Do you want them to see you die? Or do you want to watch them?”

  “No. Just take me in the closet, away from the children.”

  The closet was clear, a point of entry.

  Hayes looked in the open doors along the hallway as he advanced. He could hear the muffled shouting and then caught it a half a second later with the delay in his earpiece.

  He stopped fifteen feet from the door Drew and the boys were behind and looked into the next room, a bathroom. It was shaped like an L, a long rectangle of tile and then the shower on the left. The space for the shower projected into what Hayes assumed must be the master bedroom, where the shooters were, probably leaving an area in that room for a large closet.

  Entering a hostage situation through the only door, alone, was a suicidal move. Doors were known as fatal funnels, because they were where the enemy concentrated fire. The best bet was to make your own entry, known as a mousehole in close-quarters combat.

  Hayes stepped into the bathroom and from his bag pulled a length of detonation cord. It was high explosive wrapped in a cover and it looked like clothesline. The blast ran along the cord at four miles per second and was powerful enough on its own to cut through most interior walls.

  “Please, just take me,” Drew said.

  “You don’t have the stomach to watch, do you?” There was screaming in the background.

  “No, just me. Please. I’m the one you want.”

  Hayes slapped a length of cord against the wall in a long upside-down U about his height and wide enough for him to go through, then secured it with duct tape.

  “This one is your son?”

  “No!”

  “Stand him up!”

  Hayes could hear the voice coming muffled through the wall.

  He tightened his primer at the end of the cord and ran out the thin wire that led to the detonator in his left hand.

  “This is your father. He is a murderer and a coward. And he lied to you your whole life. This is his fault.”

  As Hayes took cover just outside the shower stall, he heard someone cry
out. He triggered the det cord. The overpressure hit him like a baseball bat, but he sprinted despite the disorientation, first taking a long breath before entering the hot, choking smoke. Hayes threw himself through the gap, tearing a piece of wiring, and flew through the breach into an empty closet.

  The blast dazed the others. Hayes kept going into the room as a short man in a Mets cap stumbled and clasped an adolescent boy to his chest.

  Hayes fell back on his training, ignoring the noise and smoke and cuing on every weapon, every hostage and threat, calculating his course through the room as if by instinct. He saw the primed charge of plastic explosive but there was no trigger in view.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hayes watched as Drew rolled on his back, tucked his knees to his chest, and brought the flex cuffs from behind him to his front. He held his palms together as if in prayer and then slammed them back against his chest, using his ribs as a wedge to drive his forearms apart and snap the flex cuffs.

  At the same time, Hayes put the front sight on the head of the man in the cap and pulled the trigger twice, sending a bullet within inches of the boy’s face and dropping his captor.

  He turned to the other man and scanned his hands for a detonator but saw only a gun barrel swinging toward him. He put two bullets in his heart and, tracking him as he fell, one in his head. He turned back to see Drew was already in motion; his old teammate seized a coffee mug off the low table, snapped it against the wall, shattering the ceramic, then launched himself at the last man as he dove behind the bed.

  As Hayes was coming around the bed and closing on them, a flash blinded him and he heard Drew grunt in pain. Moving forward despite the shots, Drew drove the sharp edge of the mug into the man’s chest where it met his arm, at the brachial plexus, severing multiple nerves. The man’s arm dropped, and as Drew collapsed to the side, Hayes fired into the man’s forehead and eye. He slumped down, releasing the detonator from his limp fingers. Hayes braced for the blast, but there was none. He picked up the trigger, then went to the explosives and pulled out the primer, disabling the charge.