Trigger Warning

by William W. Johnstone

  “That madman is going to blow us all to kingdom come,” the professor said.

  “That’s what he wants us to believe,” Jake said. “That might not actually be the case, even though one explosion went off. That doesn’t mean there actually are more bombs.”

  “But surely the authorities won’t risk it—”

  Jake held up a hand to stop Montambault as he heard somebody moving up ahead of them. This corridor didn’t have any windows in it, so the light was dim here. The windows on the library’s upper floors weren’t as large and numerous as the ones on the ground floor, either, so not as much light filtered in from them.

  Jake spotted a door ahead of them on the left. A quick step brought him to it. He grasped the knob, turned it, and opened the door to a supply closet.

  “In here,” he whispered to Montambault.

  They crowded into the closet. Jake pulled the door in but didn’t quite close it all the way. With Montambault behind him, he waited to see what was going to happen.

  Slow, careful footsteps approached along the hall. Jake didn’t breathe, and as he heard Montambault’s nervous exhalations behind him, he moved his right elbow back until it prodded the professor’s midsection. Montambault seemed to get the idea. Jake couldn’t hear him breathing anymore.

  He was still a little flabbergasted by finding Montambault the way he had. He knew from the broken ceiling tile that Montambault had gotten up there into the crawl space somehow, and he claimed to have taken one man’s gun away from him and killed him. That seemed even more far-fetched to Jake than any book he had ever read about dragons or wizards or alien invaders. He would almost be more inclined to believe in those things than to accept the idea of Montambault performing such heroics.

  But Montambault had the gun, so Jake supposed he had to believe him. He had his doubts, though, that the professor would be that lucky in any future gunfights.

  Jake’s eye was close to the narrow gap he had left between the door and the jamb. He saw a man’s shape move past in the shadowy corridor. The guy had a gun, and he wasn’t wearing any sort of uniform, which meant the odds were he was one of Foster’s men. Jake wasn’t going to shoot him from behind in cold blood without knowing for sure, though.

  Instead, as the man eased along the corridor past the supply closet, Jake opened the door silently and stepped out behind him. The Glock rose and fell and came down hard on the back of the man’s head. He grunted, pitched forward onto his knees, and dropped his own gun. Jake hit him again and drove him facedown on the floor.

  He checked for a pulse and found one. The guy was just out cold, not dead. Jake knew he’d risked killing him by hitting him like that, but it was a chance he’d had to take.

  Montambault whispered, “Is . . . is he . . .”

  “He’s alive,” Jake said. “Come on out of there so I can drag him in.”

  He tore strips off the man’s shirt and used them to tie his wrists and ankles, then crammed another piece of shirt into the guy’s mouth and bound it in place. They left him in the closet. The cops could get him out later, assuming they hadn’t all been blown sky-high.

  A moment later, they reached the end of the corridor and the reception area for the Special Collections floor. Several desks sat behind a counter. On the floor around those desks were seven women and four men, lying facedown on the carpet.

  For a bad couple of seconds, Jake figured they were all dead, executed by the gunmen. But then he realized that he didn’t see any blood. In fact, one of the older women, with graying brown hair, lifted her head enough to look around, and when she spotted Jake and Montambault, she cried out, “Oh, God! Don’t kill us! We stayed right here where you—”

  She stopped short, stared, and then exclaimed, “Doctor Montambault?”

  The professor hurried past Jake and said, “Mrs. Taylor, are you all right?”

  Some of the other people had lifted their heads and were looking around now. Jake told them, “You can get up now. Those guys who threatened you won’t hurt anybody ever again.” He added quickly, “Did they leave just one man to guard you?”

  “That’s right,” one of the women said. She was young enough to be a student or maybe one of the library staff. All of them except the older woman fit that description. As she climbed to her feet, she went on, “When the other two didn’t come back, and then there was all that shooting, he told us to lie down and not look up, or someone would kill us. Then I guess he went to look for the others.”

  Jake didn’t take the time to explain that the last guard was now tied up in the supply closet. Instead he asked, “Is anybody hurt?”

  He got head shakes all around.

  “Just scared half to death,” one of the young men said. “What’s going on?”

  “Doctor Montambault can tell you. Right now, is there any place you can hole up, a fairly small room with only one entrance?”

  “The rare book room,” the older woman said.

  Jake nodded. It would have been good if he could have gotten these people completely out of the building. The cops probably had a perimeter set up outside. The hostages could have hurried behind that line to safety. But there was no way to reach the ground from the third floor without jumping, and that would likely result in some broken arms and legs, if not worse.

  Of course, that was better than getting blown up, but Jake still didn’t believe the situation had gotten that desperate yet.

  The gun Montambault held was also a 9mm. Jake took one of the loaded magazines from his pocket and extended it to the professor.

  “Hang on to that,” he said. “You may need it.”

  Montambault looked a little like Jake was trying to hand him a rattlesnake. But he took the magazine and asked, “Are you going to leave us here?”

  “Trying to get out of the building right now would be too risky. Better to get to someplace you can defend if you have to.” Jake looked at the others. “Does anybody else have any experience with firearms?”

  Of course, they all just looked at him like he’d asked if they could flap their arms and fly to the moon. The typical Kelton College student not only had never fired a gun, the very idea would be abhorrent to them . . . at least until their lives were in danger.

  “Looks like you’re the only gunfighter around here, Doc,” Jake said to Montambault.

  That made the professor’s eyes widen in horror. He started to stammer something, but Jake cut him off.

  “I’m counting on you to keep these folks safe.”

  Montambault opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, swallowed hard, rubbed his free hand over his face, and said, “I . . . I’ll do my best, Mr. Rivers.”

  Jake nodded, clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, and said, “I knew I could depend on you.”

  He didn’t know that at all, but he didn’t figure it would hurt anything to say something positive to Montambault.

  “What are you going to do?” the professor asked.

  Jake smiled grimly.

  “Still rats to clean out of this nest,” he said.

  CHAPTER 35

  When the lights went out, the first instinct Pierce Conners felt was to stay right where he was, hunkered down on the floor, face pressed to the tiles. When the shooting and fighting started, he knew that was the right thing to do.

  But then something began nagging at him, and it wouldn’t let go.

  He was supposed to be an activist, somebody who believed in working to bring about change and make the world a better place. Nobody ever changed anything by curling up in a ball and whimpering in fear.

  All too often, he had listened to his fellow progressives complain about a situation, then conclude by saying, “Somebody needs to do something!”

  When he was feeling in a particularly contrary mood, instead of simply agreeing with them, Pierce would ask, “Who?”

  That always brought a blank stare and usually a question about what he meant.

  “Who should do something?” he would press.
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  And the answer was always, “Why . . . the government, of course.”

  Pierce believed in government and the power it could and should wield. But that didn’t mean individuals shouldn’t do their part, as well. Too many on his side were all talk, no action. Pierce didn’t want to be that way.

  With that thought prodding him, he started to crawl away from the other members of his study group. Fareed had finally gotten down on the floor with the others.

  Margery reached out and clutched Pierce’s arm as she whispered, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to see if I can hide and get away from them.” He pulled free of her hand. “Come with me.”

  “No! Are you crazy? They’ll kill us.”

  “They’ve got their hands full right now.” In the gloom, Pierce couldn’t tell exactly what was going on, but he was willing to bet that Jake Rivers was right in the middle of that violent commotion. “This may be our only chance to get away!” He looked over at Jenny and Clark. “Come on, you guys.”

  Jenny shook her head in wordless terror, so of course Clark said, “We’re not going anywhere, man. We’re gonna stay right here and not get shot.”

  Stay right here and die, Pierce thought, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good to say that. Instead he started crawling, staying as low to the floor as he could. He headed for the side of the room where the restrooms, the stairs, and the vending area were located. There might be somewhere over there he could hide.

  The idea of maybe fighting back against the men who had taken over the library hadn’t occurred to him when he started moving, but it did shortly thereafter. Problem was, he couldn’t see anyway of doing it.

  There were enough prisoners here on the library’s lower floor that if they all rose up at once and struck back at their captors, they would overwhelm the gunmen, no doubt about that. It was possible, even probable, that some of them would lose their lives, but that couldn’t be helped. The alternative was to remain hostages, at the mercy of people who might well be ruthless enough to slaughter them all.

  Pierce might have been willing to run that risk if he believed anyone would fight at his side. He suspected the only man here who would do that, however, was already battling the terrorists: Jake Rivers.

  A voice behind him suddenly cut through his thoughts by shouting, “Stop him! He’s trying to get away!”

  Surprise froze Pierce for a second. He had hoped all the gunmen were distracted enough they wouldn’t notice him crawling toward the stacks. Evidently, that was the case, because he recognized the voice of the man who had called out the warning.

  Moammar Fareed.

  The leader of his study group. A fellow student. Not really a friend, but a fairly close acquaintance and someone who claimed to share some of Pierce’s progressive beliefs.

  And yet he had betrayed Pierce without a moment’s hesitation. He had already tried to suck up to the leader. This was just more of the same, Pierce realized as he sprang to his feet. That made him more of a target, but he could move a lot faster.

  He had never sprinted faster during his high school track team days than he did now as he ran toward the stacks.

  “I’ll stop him!”

  Fareed again, on his feet and moving fast, too. He dived at Pierce from behind and tackled him around the knees. Pierce fell heavily. He tried to pull free from Fareed’s grip and got his right leg loose.

  He kicked out, felt the heel of his shoe slam against something. The impact was a satisfying one. Fareed grunted and let go of Pierce’s other leg. He groaned and rolled onto his side, clutching at his jaw where Pierce had kicked him.

  In the blink of an eye, Pierce was up and running again. He expected to hear rapid footsteps coming after him. His muscles were braced for the deadly impact of a bullet.

  Neither of those things happened. Pierce reached the stacks and ducked in among the close-set shelves. He guessed the gunmen had their hands too full dealing with Jake to worry about him.

  He hurried along the narrow aisle, wincing every time a shot rang out because he thought it was aimed at him. He reached the end of the aisle without being hit, though, and knew that the gunmen weren’t aiming at him. If they had been, they couldn’t have missed in such close quarters.

  Then more shots blasted somewhere close by, close enough for Pierce to catch a whiff of the cordite tang. He pressed his back against the set of shelves to his left for a few moments, then risked a look around the end of them.

  He was just in time to see Jake Rivers disappear into the stairwell. The big man had a gun in his hand, and since there were a couple of bloody bodies lying sprawled on the floor, Pierce had a pretty good idea where Jake had gotten the weapon.

  Jake had escaped, which meant that the surviving terrorists would try now to regain control of the hostages on this level. Pierce had no doubt at all that Fareed would try to curry favor with their captors by ratting him out. If he stayed where he was, they would find him, probably sooner rather than later.

  As soon as that realization hit him, he knew what he had to do. Wherever Jake Rivers was, there would be trouble . . . but that was better than here. Pierce might have at least a fighting chance to survive.

  He took a deep breath, ran to the stairwell door, and shoved it open. The stairwell was dark, but Pierce didn’t hesitate. He started up after Jake.

  * * *

  It hadn’t taken as long as Dietrich estimated to get the power shut down. Frank McRainey spoke to Graham over the radio and confirmed that the electricity was out, then asked the FBI agent, “What do you want me to do now?”

  “It might be a good idea for you and any of your department who are still there to go ahead and evacuate, Chief,” Graham replied. “I lean toward thinking that the bomb threat is mostly a bluff, despite that explosion earlier, but there’s no point in taking chances. Besides, you’ve been wounded and need more medical attention.”

  McRainey glanced at his bandaged hand. It hurt, but he didn’t see any blood seeping through the dressing.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “The safety of this campus is still my responsibility.”

  “Then join Chief Hartwell at the command post just off campus. My men will need to call on both of you for advice before this is over.”

  McRainey didn’t like the idea of leaving the station. It seemed too much like running away. But Graham might be right: the command post might be where he could do the most good from here on out.

  Anyway, Doris would probably refuse to evacuate the station until he left, too, and he didn’t want anything happening to her. It would be partially on his head if it did.

  “All right, Agent Graham,” he said as he held down the microphone button. “If you need me, that’s where I’ll be.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to try to make landline contact with the suspects now.”

  The connection broke. McRainey sighed, stood up, and put the radio in his pocket. He was about to go out and tell Doris they were leaving when she appeared in the doorway. Frowning, she said, “Chief, there’s a man here—”

  A figure came up behind her and moved her aside without seeming to put any effort into it. His actions were gentle, though, not the least bit rough. He smiled at McRainey and said, “Chief, I need to talk to you.”

  McRainey had never seen the man before. He was older, from the looks of his weathered face and the silver in his hair that had once been dark and still bore traces of that. He moved and carried himself like a younger man, though. McRainey had seen guys like that before, men who took such good care of themselves—and who were blessed with good genes, to boot—that it was difficult to tell if they were forty or seventy. This lean, medium-sized stranger fit right into that category.

  He was dressed casually in boots, jeans, a faded blue work shirt, and a lightweight gray jacket. McRainey couldn’t see any overt signs that the stranger was armed, but something about the man told him that he was. In fact, he seemed like the sort of man who would seldom if ever go anywhere wit
hout being armed.

  McRainey said, “You shouldn’t be here, Mister . . . ?” When the stranger ignored that hint for his name, McRainey went on, “The campus has been evacuated and is on lockdown. All civilians need to leave as quickly as possible. It’s dangerous here.”

  “I’ve never worried that much about being in dangerous places,” the stranger replied with a faint smile. “I suppose I wouldn’t know what to do if I found myself somewhere that wasn’t dangerous.”

  “What are you doing here on campus, anyway?” McRainey demanded. “Were you visiting somebody when the trouble broke out?”

  “Actually, I wasn’t here when the trouble broke out . . . but I got here as quickly as I could. There are a lot of rumors flying around all over the media, Chief. I need you to tell me what’s actually going on.”

  McRainey was getting even more confused. He said, “That doesn’t make any sense. The campus is closed off. You couldn’t have gotten here once it went on lockdown.”

  The man just shrugged slightly and said, “I can usually get in wherever I need to be.” He turned to smile at Doris and went on, “You really should leave, ma’am. Like the chief says, it isn’t safe here.”

  She glared back at him defiantly.

  “I’m not going anywhere until Chief McRainey does,” she declared.

  “Then you’d better tell me what I need to know, Chief.” The stranger gestured toward the map on the wall. “Where’s the library? That’s where the ringleader has established his headquarters, isn’t it?”

  “Damn it!” McRainey burst out. This guy didn’t exude even an ounce of arrogance or even smugness, but McRainey wasn’t sure he had ever run into anybody with more self-confidence. “You’re some sort of federal agent, aren’t you? If you’re FBI, I was just talking to your boss—”

  “I’m not FBI,” the man broke in. “Or Homeland Security, either. But I have done a few chores for the government in the past.”

  A chill went through McRainey. He had never met an actual spook before, at least that he knew of, but something told him that’s what this man was. A killer, pure and simple, if he needed to be in order to get the job done.