by Ethan Cross
Nic panned back to the shooter, who was raising the shotgun.
Dropping the remote, he took off in a sprint.
Stromberg looked up in confusion, but Nic was already on top of him.
He didn’t bother to try anything fancy. He only had time to realize that he needed to get Strom out of the line of fire. He hit the big man full speed and barreled him over.
Nic heard the blast of the shotgun. He heard the glass shatter and felt it sting his face. Then he felt a terrible bone-jarring impact that stole his breath and sent him flying through the air.
Before the darkness came for him, Nic heard more shooting and screaming, then Strom yelling for someone to get down on the ground.
And then Nic heard nothing.
Chapter 8
The back half of the GoBox facility held the customers’ private lounge, four private viewing rooms, the manager’s office, and the vault room and its conveyor system, which retrieved the personal vaults and brought them up from the branch’s primary vault, which was made from steel-reinforced concrete and rated as Class 1 by Underwriter Laboratories, the standard vault certification agency. Kruger knew that it was also stored underground and only accessible through the company’s automated retrieval system. Not even GoBox employees could enter the vault. It was inaccessible and impenetrable. The only way to retrieve one of the personal vaults or large bullion storage units that the company offered and stored inside the ultra-secure vault was to provide a thumbprint analysis scan, retinal scan, an eight-digit pin code, and have your photo verified by GoBox security.
Fortunately for Kruger, his mission wasn’t to steal what was inside the GoBox vault.
But before he could steal anything, he would have to get past a manned security checkpoint encased in four inches of bullet-and explosive-resistant clear polycarbonate material.
“Sparks, make the call and activate the communication jammers,” Kruger said.
Franklin, following the plan, grabbed the telephone receiver off the top of the reception desk and dialed 911.
“We have taken over the Henderson, Nevada GoBox location,” he said. “We have hostages, and we are heavily armed with assault rifles and explosives. Our instructions are as follows. Number one, don’t come near the building or everyone dies. Number two, after this call is terminated, we will be disabling all communication in and out of the building. You will be contacted with further instructions. Number three, we will only negotiate with an FBI Supervisory Special Agent or above. We will not speak to local police. If these instructions are not followed, then everyone dies.”
Franklin had done well and relayed the instructions just as he had been told. With a smile beneath his ski mask, Kruger said, “Nice job, Sparks.”
Kruger and Franklin gathered the four hostages from the front of the building.
“Watch them,” Kruger said to the Doc.
Then he moved to the thumbprint and retinal scanner mounted beside a steel security door just past the reception desk. This part was easy. All he needed to gain access was to have his prints and retinal scans on file in GoBox’s system, and all it took to accomplish that was a form, a photo, and five dollars. GoBox didn’t require ID, Social Security card, or anything that proved that a person was truly who he or she claimed. As long as you had a thumb and an eye to scan and the monthly fee paid three months in advance, GoBox would rent you a vault. So that’s what Kruger had done, and then, of course, before the mission was complete, he would delete his scans from the GoBox computer system.
With his prints and retina in their computers, Kruger simply walked up to the scanner and gained access to the secure door like any other customer. He slid his hand into the reader and stuck his eye up to lens, and the steel door clicked open.
Kruger stepped into the small secure room and looked to his left, where a wide-eyed security guard manned the station. But the rent-a-cop wasn’t alone. The manager of this GoBox branch also occupied the space beyond the glass. The manager leaned down to a long, skinny microphone on the desk. When he spoke, his words came through a speaker mounted somewhere in the ceiling.
In a pretentious British accent, the manager said, “My name is Quentin Yarborough. I’m the manager of this facility. The police are on their way, and there is no way to make it any farther into the building. I would suggest to you that it’s time to make your escape, posthaste.”
Kruger laughed and said, “You know what the problem is with any security system. The human element. Until we can figure out a way to take ourselves out of the equation, there is no such thing as security.”
As planned, he motioned for Franklin to bring him the two women: the bronzed beauty and the white-haired lady. As was almost always the case in Kruger’s experience, people couldn’t be told anything. They had to be shown. And Quentin Yarborough was about to receive a demonstration of exactly how helpless he was in this situation and learn precisely to what lengths Kruger would go to achieve his mission.
“I’m going to ask you nicely just once,” Kruger said. “Open the door.”
Quentin Yarborough narrowed his eyes and held Kruger’s gaze. He could see the white aristocratic self-importance and arrogance oozing from the man. As always, Yarborough needed a demonstration.
Franklin shoved both women inside the ten-by-ten secure checkpoint, and Kruger positioned them so that they faced the glass. Then he retrieved a .44 Magnum revolver from a holster nestled into the small of his back. As he opened the gun’s cylinder and removed the bullets, he started whistling the tune to Vader Jakob, a nursery rhyme his mother had hummed to him often when he was a boy.
He left one bullet in the chamber and put the others in the pocket of his long, black coat. Then he spun the cylinder and snapped it back shut into the gun.
“I assume you’re familiar with Russian roulette?” he said.
“You wouldn’t dare. You’re bluffing. The police will be here any moment, and there’s nothing to steal beyond our wallets. All of our customers’ assets are locked safely away in our vault, and not even I can give you access.”
Kruger cocked back the hammer of the massive pistol.
“In his autobiography, Malcolm X stated that he once played Russian roulette and pulled the trigger three times in a row to convince his partners that he was not afraid to die.” He raised the gun to the head of the white-haired woman and whispered in her ear, “Are you afraid to die?”
Tears streamed down the woman’s face. She trembled uncontrollably and clenched her eyes shut.
He squeezed the trigger, and the gun clicked on an empty chamber.
The terrified woman jumped and screamed at the small sound of the hammer falling.
Kruger opened the cylinder again and gave it a spin. This time, he placed the gun against the beautiful young Indian woman’s head.
“What’s your name, my lovely?” he said.
“Gabi Deshpande.”
He ran his fingers through her hair. She didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Her shoulder-length hair was black like obsidian and silky and reminded him of feathers against his skin. She even smelled exotic, like jasmine tea.
Kruger wrapped his massive hand around her neck and lifted her slender body from the floor. He placed the gun against her head and cocked back the hammer.
“Ask your boss very nicely, very sweetly if he will put aside his own ego in order to save your life. Mr. Yarborough doesn’t believe that I would kill every one of you, but he doesn’t know me very well.”
The young beauty could only release a strained choking sound from her constricted throat. He squeezed tighter to ring out another choked gasp from her and make her eyes bulge.
The door didn’t open, and Yarborough didn’t say a word.
Kruger pulled the trigger.
Everyone except for Kruger jumped. Gabi shook with fear and looked like she could pass out at any moment.
Dropping Gabi to the floor, he stuck the gun to the white-haired woman’s head and cocked back the hammer. He didn�
�t even bother to spin the cylinder this time.
He met Yarborough’s gaze. “You’re going to open the door. It’s an inevitability that you would be better off accepting.”
Quentin Yarborough’s eyes bored a hole right through Kruger’s skull, but with a snarl of disgust falling across his lined and pale features, the facility’s manager ordered, “Open the door.”
Chapter 9
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Samuel Carter threw the rubber stress ball against the wall of his office. It bounced back, and he caught it. He then repeated this over and over, seeing how many he could catch in a row and how fast. With a sigh, he put the ball away and booted up his computer. On paper, this new promotion had seemed great. But they didn’t tell him how boring it was sitting in the office all day. He was a field agent. He wasn’t built to sit on his ass, filing requisition forms and conducting performance reviews. Sam Carter should have been out there on the streets, investigating and catching bad guys.
When his phone rang, he snatched up the receiver like it was a low-hanging branch and he was drowning in quick sand. He could see from the indicator light that it was his secretary. “Hello.”
“Sir, three gunmen in Henderson took over the GoBox building and have hostages. The locals are requesting FBI assistance.”
“SWAT?”
“No, that’s the strange thing. The hostage takers specifically demanded an FBI SSA or higher. I was calling to find out who you want to send.”
“That sounds serious. I had better handle it myself.”
“Sir?”
“Please phone Dr. Burke and let him know that I’ll pick him up on the way.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir? That he’s ready? He hasn’t been out in the field yet, and he doesn’t do great with crowds. Or people in general.”
“He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes. And tell him to wear something presentable. Tell him to pretend he’s going to church.”
Chapter 10
By the time Officer Dominic Juliano arrived on scene, the uniforms had already set up the barricades, and Taz had strategically positioned the SWAT team and squad cars around the perimeter. But now that the full unit was here, Sgt. Rafael “Taz” Ortiz would probably replace the uniforms with his own SWAT guys. The entire GoBox building was surrounded, and the mobile communication van was in place. All of Taz’s drills and training exercises of late were apparently paying off. Even with their forces divided, they were at the top of their game.
Nic hopped down from the back of the BearCat and walked toward the Mobile Communication Facility, which on the inside was basically a big RV, like the one from the Robin Williams movie. Except that this RV was loaded with state-of-the-art communication and monitoring capabilities. As far as Nic Juliano was concerned, though, it was just a place to get coffee and plan your attack where the reporters and nosy grandmothers in the crowd couldn’t hear.
Nic looked over his shoulder at his team’s personal command center. The BearCat armored transport vehicle had been designed for a wide range of missions and uses: SWAT, Military, Rescue. With its standard NIJ IV armor and four-wheel drive system, it could carry up to ten people over and through nearly any terrain or obstacle. The BearCat had been embraced by several security forces and law enforcement agencies because of its affordability, low maintenance, ease of use, and superior armor level. To Nic, it looked like a UPS truck designed to deliver packages to Hell, but it was also a wonderful tool that had saved more lives than he could count, even in their relatively small department.
The only problem was the color.
It was some shade of army green that made it seem like the HPD was becoming militarized, which was far from the truth. The BearCat was a rescue vehicle designed for saving lives, not an offensive military transport. Nic thought of it as more of an armored ambulance than a mini-tank.
But it was an expensive piece of hardware, and the only way that their department had been able to afford one was through the 1033 Program, which supplied DOD surplus to civilian law enforcement. His department had initially been reluctant to take advantage of the controversial program, but Nic had convinced his superiors that just because some Texas sheriff had amassed enough equipment to invade Mexico—including 64 armored vehicles and 17 helicopters—that didn’t mean that they shouldn’t reap the benefits of the program. And save more lives as a result.
Still, Nic thought they could have at least painted the equipment they received black. When the BearCat arrived, he had offered to go grab a can of black spray paint, but Deputy Chief Edgar had looked at him like he had spit on the Pope. Nic explained that he used to do a little tagging, that he could probably make it shine like it just came out of the factory. Especially out here with the Southern Nevada sun to bake the paint nice and pretty. Still, they shot him down.
As Nic approached the comm center, Taz stepped down the stairs of the big black RV and walked out to meet him halfway.
“What are you doing here, pendejo?” the five-foot-four Puerto Rican said.
“What? Was I not invited to the party?”
“No, the water’s warm. Come on in, cupcake. Grab a Miami Vice from the pool bar. But I heard you were almost ventilated. Why aren’t you in the hospital or at home, resting, clearing your head? We’ve talked about this.”
“Yeah, I got it, Ma. I’m fine. Seriously.” Nic held out his left hand between them and said, “See. Steady as a rock.”
Taz shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Well, let me see your shooting hand then cowboy.”
Nic held up his right arm with the hand and arm flopping around like he had a fish out of water attached at his joint.
Taz shook his head and chomped his gum. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a regular Gene Wilder. Only he was charming. And funny. And people liked him. On second thought, you’re not much like him at all.”
Nic cocked his head to the side as if in deep thought. “Blazing Saddles came out in 1974, so would that have made you like forty at the time, grandpa?”
Taz looked and acted like he was in his late twenties, but in reality, Nic knew his sergeant was almost twenty years his senior.
The little bundle of muscle and fire said, “Grandpa could still put you on your ass. Don’t forget that, pendejo.”
Nic raised his hands. “I surrender. First question, where do you want my guys?”
“Have them check in on the perimeter. But I want you to come with me.”
Nic relayed the orders and followed Sgt. Ortiz into the comm center. There were a couple of communications technicians manning the terminals—which occupied the space where a normal RV held a fridge and stove—and a small conference room occupied the back section, where the master bedroom would have been in a motorhome.
The interior was all gray and hexagonal, plastic and futuristic-looking, like they were stepping onto a spaceship. It was a new rig with some cool new toys, but it didn’t have that new car smell. Instead, it carried the odors of sweaty cops and sizzling coffee, just like their old comm center.
Taz took a seat at the conference table. Deputy Chief Mike Edgar was already seated. Chief Edgar wore his uniform to perfection, not a line out of place. Nic knew that Edgar was a West Point graduate. Edgar brought it up not-so-casually anytime he had more than two beers in him. Edgar had pale skin, honey-colored hair, and a thin brown mustache sitting on a slender face. But when he spoke, he had a deep narrator’s voice. Nic always thought the guy should be doing voiceovers for penguin documentaries or Capital One commercials.
“Have a seat, Officer Juliano,” Edgar said.
Nic pulled out a chair. “I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.”
Edgar leaned forward and said, “You see the look on my face.”
“It’s a very serious look.”
“Multiply that by ten, and that’s what the chief looked like this morning when he called me into his office. He told me that he got a call from some politi
cian who said it was a matter of national security that we extend every courtesy to a ‘representative’ who would be stopping by the scene.”
Nic raised his eyebrows. “We thinking CIA? From the politician’s office? Or what?”
Edgar shrugged. “I don’t know. But it obviously means that this thing is a lot more than a couple of whack jobs with their daddy’s shotguns.”
“Still no word from inside?”
“Nothing since the phone call where they told us that they had explosives and assault rifles and hostages.”
“But have we verified any of that?” Nic said. “Maybe I should walk up to the door and try to make contact. I could determine the condition of the hostages and what the bad guys are actually packing.”
Taz laughed. “Your brilliant plan is to go knock? First of all, that’s dumb. We’ll use the thermal cams and—”
“That’s a no-go,” Edgar said. “The walls of the GoBox facility are resistant to thermal imaging.”
“Well that’s just great. But either way, we can’t waltz up there and say hola. In case you’ve forgotten, you haven’t passed your hostage negotiations training yet,” Taz said.
“No, mother, I haven’t forgotten. I would just ask if they want pizza or something and do a quick recon.”
“They only want to speak to the FBI,” Edgar said. “They were quite clear on that. The negotiator is on his way, and if they call before that, I’ll handle the communications.”
Nic raised his hands. “You’re the man.”
Edgar leaned back in his seat and gave a sideways glance to Taz. He said, “Sergeant Ortiz …”
Taz sighed and said, “Listen, Nic, I know you don’t like to talk about your family life and the world you grew up in, but your expertise and firsthand knowledge here could help save lives.”
Nic said, “You’re thinking that this robbery could be connected with organized crime. The Mafia. Someone like my father.”
