The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  He grabbed the carbine instead and fired three shots in quick succession. But his timing was thrown off as the driver took the van forward just as he pulled the trigger. The shots went wide, one clipping the officer’s shoulder and spinning him round. He dropped his gun but scooped it up with his other hand and resumed firing, letting off four shots that slammed into the rear door panels as the van tore away up the street.

  They raced out of town heading east on the US 64, leaving behind the noise of fire alarms and a pall of smoke as part of the jail began to burn. There were no signs of pursuit, and Salem wondered how long that would last. By now phone calls and radio alerts would be going out all over the state, and armed response teams would be converging on the area and setting up road blocks.

  “Five miles from here,” he said to the driver, “you will see a crossroads with three trees on the right. You can let me off there.”

  “You’re a fool, you know that?” the driver said, fighting to get the maximum possible speed out of the van. “They will catch you before you have gone ten miles. Stay with us and we stand a better chance of getting away on the major highways. Once we get to Oklahoma City we can lose ourselves and the brotherhood will provide sanctuary.”

  Salem ignored him. It was an argument he’d heard before when he’d first met up with these two men for the trip to Alva. He’d brought his own vehicle, an old pickup he’d acquired in a cheap car lot just outside Oklahoma City. It blended into this area like sand on a rock, and he’d left it parked in a turn-off along the US 64 where nobody would notice it. He planned on taking the network of back roads all the way south, and for the bales of straw he’d picked up along the way to be his cover. He had documents that would stand any scrutiny, and after months of attending night classes at the American School in Sana’a, Yemen, he could talk American English with sufficient ease to convince any cop in a hurry that he was an innocent seasonal farm worker doing his job.

  These two, however, seemed to think that this van carried some kind of magic cloak that would take them all the way to Oklahoma City and beyond without being noticed. More fools them.

  He checked the rear windows. Nothing yet. But it wouldn’t be long in coming. The one thing the Americans had going for them was organisation and response.

  “Slow down,” he said to the driver, as the nearside front wheel slammed into a small pothole in the blacktop. “You’re driving too fast for this part of the country; you’ll end up getting us noticed or killing us.”

  “Screw you,” the driver muttered, and pushed his foot down even harder. “My job is to get us out of here. Yours is to sit there and shut up!”

  Salem waited. The driver was too pepped up on adrenaline to register what he was doing, but he wouldn’t have to stay in this death trap much longer. He peered through the windscreen at the road ahead. The turning was coming up fast. Too fast—and the driver showed no signs of slowing down.

  “Here!” Salem said. “This is where you drop me.”

  “We don’t have time,” the driver replied, and swept a hand off the wheel to gesture at the road behind. “For all we know they could be marshalling their forces to hunt us down. You’ll have to sit there and watch our backs.”

  Salem sighed and put the tip of the Colt’s barrel against the driver’s neck. “Actually, you stupid pig, I don’t have to do anything. But I will blow your idiot head off if you don’t stop right now!”

  The driver yelled in alarm and slammed on the brakes, sending the van into a snaking skid across the road before he wrestled it back under control. Seconds later he was bumping along the grass verge and pulling to a stop at an intersection.

  The road they were on was little more than a track, but the one to the right was paved all the way. A clutch of trees stood nearby, just as Salem had said.

  Salem jumped out still holding the Colt carbine pointed at the driver’s head. The passenger was staying very still, eyes glued to the front, but he didn’t trust either of them not to try and stop him the moment he turned his back. He wasn’t going to allow them the pleasure.

  “Drive,” he commanded them. “And don’t stop until you are far away from here.”

  The driver swore, then stamped on the gas and swung the wheel hard. But instead of continuing along the highway, he turned right and took the back road Salem had planned on using.

  There was little he could do about it now, and on reflection it could play to his advantage. The van would be far more obvious out in the open country while he could lose himself pottering along at a steady pace, minding his own business.

  He watched as the van disappeared in the distance, dragging with it a plume of dust that rose in the air and hung there like a giant flag. Once the police got helicopters in the air, that dust trail would stand out for miles.

  He ran towards the trees, jumped into the pickup, and started the engine. He would take the 64 instead, then work his way south farther along. After all, what cop would suspect a farm hand in a fifteen-year-old, rusting pickup carrying a load of straw and time on his hands to be part of an attack on a county jail?

  He was just sorry this junker didn’t have a radio. He’d always had a liking for country and western music.

  forty-two

  The scene back at the jail was pandemonium. The front of the building crumpled, preventing access for rescue workers, but it was clear that the explosion had taken out the reception and security area and everybody in it. The bodies of three guards and civilian workers were evident among the rubble, along with the bodies of another guard and Agent Karina Wright outside. The policeman who had opened fire on the van was sitting in a state of shock, still clutching his weapon, blood oozing from the wound in his arm.

  People were flooding in from surrounding businesses, stores, and local administration buildings, and a harassed officer was shouting orders to get props under the sagging ceiling structure to reach people trapped under the fallen beams and brickwork.

  Tom Brasher grabbed Ruth and pushed her towards the rear of the building while Vaslik made his way to the front to see if he could help. He passed two guards carrying an injured woman and saw two men lying unconscious against a wall, covered in dust. The air out here was thick with smoke, and he grabbed a fire extinguisher and sprayed a lick of flame coming from a demolished section of wall leading to the front lobby.

  Amazingly one of the security guards who’d checked them in was standing in a corner where a section of wall had left him completely untouched. He was blinking in shock and looked at Vaslik as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “You okay?” Vaslik said, and shook his arm.

  The guard nodded. “I think … I guess so. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I think it was a rocket launcher. My colleague and I checked in our weapons and phones when we arrived. Where are they?”

  “Over here.” The guard stumbled to a bank of secure lockers and opened one then let Vaslik help himself. He stared uncomprehendingly at Vaslik and said, “What the hell do we do now?”

  “Make sure the building’s secure and help your buddies.”

  He left the man and ran down a corridor, where he found a fire door standing open and ran outside, heading towards the front entrance. The sound of gunfire had stopped, so he didn’t expect to find anybody. In any case he figured that with all the confusion, there would be few armed officers or guards out here to do anything if the attackers launched another assault.

  He skidded to a stop among the ruins of the entrance. It was as if a giant can opener had torn open the building, exposing the inner structure along with electrical wiring, water pipes gushing fluid, and workers trying to clear rubble to reach the injured.

  He recognised Karina Wright’s body, but she was beyond help, so he ran over to an officer with blood on his arm who was being tended to by a civilian on the front grass.

  “Where did they go?” he asked.


  The officer pointed, his eyes dulled by shock. “They headed south, then turned east … a white van with side doors … and one of those plastic windows on the roof.” He sucked in air at a sudden movement of his injured arm. “Christ, man, it came out of nowhere. They had a rocket launcher and fully automatic weapons … and they just … they just hosed us down!”

  “How many men?”

  “I saw two but there had to be a driver, too. The launcher was in the back.” He pointed to a tube lying in the street. “That’s it there. I returned fire and scored some hits but it didn’t slow them down any. They didn’t give a damn about who they hit … are you going after them?”

  “I might just do that.” Vaslik punched in Dave Proust’s number. The former FBI man answered immediately.

  “What’s going on there?” Dave demanded.

  “The jail’s been hit,” Vaslik told him. “Three guys in a white van. There’s no way the locals can get a response in the air in time, so we’ll have to do it. Can you get here and pick me up? I’m right outside the jail. Look for the smoke—there’s enough space to land on the intersection nearby.”

  “On my way. Three minutes.”

  Moments later Tom Brasher and Ruth arrived and Vaslik gave them a summary of the situation.

  “What are you going to do?” said Brasher.

  “Stop them if we can. Dave’s on his way in and the attackers are heading east. It shouldn’t take long to catch up with them.” He checked his gun and handed Ruth her weapon and cell phone.

  They soon heard the throb of rotors, and turned to see Dave’s helicopter appear over the rooftops. It hovered for a few seconds to clear the intersection beneath, flattening the trees and scattering dust and smoke farther over the surrounding buildings before settling on the asphalt.

  “I’ll clear it with the local force and state police,” Brasher said, “Just don’t go getting yourselves killed. I’d come with you but I need to talk to a few people in Washington before this gets out of hand. We can’t afford to have law enforcement all over the Altus area, but the White House needs to know what the situation is. Call it in when you find them.” He nodded at Vaslik and clapped Ruth on the arm, then ducked back towards the building.

  Ruth and Vaslik ran across to the helicopter and jumped on board.

  “Those guys must be suicide jockeys,” Dave shouted over the noise of the rotors as they belted themselves in and the machine rose in the air. “They have nowhere to go but open country. That means they could be looking for hostages. If we’re quick maybe we can stop that happening. You guys ready for this?”

  They both nodded.

  “Armed and ready,” said Vaslik.

  forty-three

  “I can’t see them.” Dave was looking down on the US 64, flying at five hundred feet and studying the traffic heading directly east. With his experience of flying, he’d told them he would be able to discount anything but white vans in an instant. Other than the highway, they could see only a thin network of narrow roads sprouting away north and south into open countryside, with few buildings and even fewer moving vehicles.

  Earlier, as they were heading out from Alva and leaving behind a growing pall of smoke from the burning front section of the jail, he had described the road layout in the area and where the attackers might be headed. “If they keep going east on the six-four, they’ll clip the Salt Plains Wildlife Refuge and State Park. Then it’s a long road to nothing.”

  “Is the park big enough to hide in?” Ruth asked.

  “For a while, I guess. But it’s pretty open and there’s a lot of water and trees to navigate. In a van, I wouldn’t rate their chances on staying there forever or not coming to grief with a busted axle or a flat.”

  “Where else could they go from here?”

  “I guess a city would be their main aim. If they keep heading east until they hit the US three-five, they could turn south towards Oklahoma City or Wichita in the north.”

  “Unless they plan on joining up with Malak at Altus.”

  He nodded. “There is that. But that’s close on two hundred miles. That’s a lot of driving on open roads and they must know they’ll be on every local and state cop’s radar by now. Frankly, I’m not sure these guys figured things out too well. They’re either crazy or dumb. Attacking a county jail in this territory, they were putting themselves way out on a limb.”

  “Maybe that’s what Malak wanted,” said Ruth. “I got the impression from what Donny said that he’s a one-man show and doesn’t care much for the people he uses. They were a useful diversion while he disappeared.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,” said Dave. “But if you ask me, wild as it seemed, it still took some planning. He had to get the men and the weapons together, and I doubt he’d have gone to the trouble unless he had something to gain by it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dave turned his head and looked at her. Suddenly she gained an insight to the FBI agent and man-hunter he had once been, focussing instinctively on understanding and interpreting the situation that had unfolded. “Think about the timing: he can’t have been interested solely in busting Donny out of the jail because he wouldn’t have had time to get this team together. If we were in the middle of a big city, sure—he’d have had men on tap and ready to go. But out here?” He shook his head. “It’s too big and open. They were already on their way when Donny got arrested.”

  “So why, then?” Ruth asked the question, but deep in her heart knew the answer already.

  “I think he was after you. This guy’s a thinker, we know that. He knew you were out there and that you must have come all the way from London to find Chadwick. That probably shook him; it showed personal commitment. So he figured you’d hear about Donny being captured and that you’d want to talk to him. Wherever he was taken would be the best place to stop you.”

  “Killing two birds with one stone,” Vaslik agreed. “Getting Ruth was one; shutting Donny up would be a bonus.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Ruth stared down at the distant fields and roads below and felt a shiver of apprehension. It was hard to imagine any one man being so committed that he would go after a single person this way when he or she wasn’t his primary target. But then, Malak was just that; he was committed to striking a blow against the United States. A man with that level of self-belief and determination would have seen any threat to his plans as one worth dealing with, even at great risk to the men sent to do the job.

  She looked up to find Vaslik watching her. He fluttered his eyebrows at her and smiled.

  “What?” she said.

  “Sounds like he’s got the hots for you.” He smirked and looked away, and Ruth dug him in the ribs with her elbow. She knew he was only trying to lighten the atmosphere, and appreciated it. But the thought that she had become a specific target was unsettling.

  “There,” Dave said. “One o’clock heading south—a dust cloud. Hold tight.”

  He took the helicopter down, aiming at a distant plume of white visible along a narrow road through a patchwork of vast fields. It quickly became obvious that the vehicle creating the dust was larger than a car but smaller than a semi truck and travelling very fast. Seconds later they had more detail: it was a white van.

  “It’s them—see the roof vent?” said Vaslik.

  Dave nodded. “Got it. What do you want me to do—track them while we call backup?”

  “No way.” Ruth didn’t hesitate. “We have to stop them before they find hostages.”

  “Attagirl.” He grinned and took the machine to within a couple hundred feet of the van. At that height they could see that the rear doors had been peppered with holes and one of the glass panels was missing. As they watched, a head appeared briefly out of the passenger side window and looked up at them in obvious shock before ducking back out of sight. The van
wobbled in response before the driver got it back on track, narrowly missing a line of potholes along the verge.

  “Well, now they know we’re here,” Dave commented, “we’d better get ready to duck. This could get heavy.”

  As he spoke, the rear doors of the van flew open and the same man appeared. He stared up at them for a few seconds then turned and brought something out from the interior of the van.

  “Assault rifle!” Dave shouted and took the helicopter away to the left and up, the engine howling in response. Ruth and Vaslik held on tight as behind them they heard the brief stutter of shots being fired. None came anywhere near them.

  Dave levelled out and stayed a quarter mile out to one side, where the gunmen couldn’t reach them with any accuracy unless they stopped the van to take careful aim. “We need to get in front of them,” Dave said and increased speed, leaving the van behind.

  After a few minutes he brought the helicopter round on a long curving course until they were facing back along the road towards the speeding van, now nearly a mile away but closing fast.

  Ruth caught a flicker of movement to one side. Instinct told her there should have been nothing there, and when she glanced over she felt her gut go tight. A track was bisecting the road the van was on, and driving along it towards the junction was a pickup truck.

  A pickup with three children in the back, waving at them.

  “Dave!” She pointed. If the pickup continued at its present speed, it would meet the men in the van. And that could only have one outcome.

  Hostages.

  But Dave had seen them. He nodded and took the machine down fast. The airframe rattled as the wind battered the fuselage, and it seemed to Ruth that the helicopter was standing on its nose with the ground below coming up much too quickly. Then he levelled off and the tail dipped before the skids touched the ground with a thump alongside the junction.