Blink of an Eye

by Roy Johansen

  “Someone new,” Lynch said. “Perhaps an introduction is in order?”

  “We’ll become quite well acquainted later. Just make the turn.”

  Lynch turned left onto Fifth Street. Police officers were attempting to keep a wide perimeter between onlookers and Lynch, but groups of people were gathering on the opposite side of the street. “I’ve already started attracting a crowd,” he said quietly.

  “Not a surprise, Mr. Lynch. Just hold on to that bag.”

  Lynch looked up as helicopters roared overhead. “And I’m guessing the news stations are giving you a good look at me.”

  “Again, all part of the plan.”

  Lynch walked past the Biltmore Hotel and crossed Grand Avenue. “Care to give me a hint where I’m headed?”

  “Turn left again, Mr. Lynch.”

  Lynch stopped. He was standing in front of the Los Angeles Central Library. “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the library isn’t open yet.”

  “Never mind that. Walk across the main plaza. Ever been to this library, Mr. Lynch?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Pity. It’s quite beautiful.”

  Lynch looked up as another helicopter buzzed overhead. “Where are we going?”

  “Step around to the left. You’ll walk down a short flight of steps running down the side of the building. See them?”

  “Yes.” Lynch walked across the plaza and took the red brick stairs down, under cover of a row of cedar trees.

  “You’ll see a black door on your right. Step inside, Mr. Lynch. It’s unlocked.”

  He pushed open the door and strained to see beyond. Only darkness.

  The voice grew more insistent. “Step inside, Mr. Lynch.”

  He walked through the doorway.

  “Tear the tape off the doorjamb and close the door behind you.”

  Lynch saw a slender piece of duct tape stretched over the doorjamb’s locking mechanism. He tore it off and pulled the door shut. It locked behind him with a loud click.

  Lynch took two steps forward and a light flicked on. He whirled around. He was in what appeared to be a landscaper’s workroom, with several electric edgers, tree trimmers, yard shears, and a power mower neatly arranged against the wall.

  “It’s a motion-activated light,” the voice told him. “You’re still quite alone.”

  Lynch looked around. “I’m leaving the money here?”

  “Oh, no. We’re just getting started. Look for a dark nylon bag on the floor. Pick it up and look inside.”

  Lynch spotted the bag crumpled up in the corner. It was a medium-sized gym bag with a long shoulder strap. He lifted it and peered into the unzipped main compartment.

  “You’ll find a windbreaker and a baseball cap in there.”

  “I see them.”

  “Take them out and put them on.”

  Lynch put on the navy-blue windbreaker and matching hat. “Done. Not quite my style, of course.”

  “I’m sure those broad shoulders of yours fill it out quite nicely.”

  “How kind of you to notice.”

  “I’m not the only one. I think CNN’s morning anchor has a bit of a crush on you. Now, Mr. Lynch, take the money out of your satchel and place it into the bag.”

  He transferred the bills into the gym bag, keeping the stacks piled neatly. He tossed aside the leather satchel. “Okay.”

  “It’s time to go now. But not the way you came in. There’s a metal door in the back of the room. See it?”

  He walked toward the rear door, which was adorned by a rusty metal sign that read MUNICIPAL ACCESS ONLY.

  “Grab the handle and give it a good pull. It will open. There’s another piece of tape there on the doorjamb. Rip off the tape, step through the door, and close it behind you.”

  He pulled open the door, which groaned on its hinges. He tore off the tape and walked through the door. After it closed and locked behind him, Lynch froze. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “That’s why there’s a small flashlight in the right pocket of that jacket. You’ll need it.”

  Lynch fished out the flashlight and turned it on. A set of stairs descended into the darkness in front of him. “Where does this go?”

  “Down. Way, way down. But you must hurry, Mr. Lynch. You have quite a bit of ground to cover.”

  * * *

  “Where in the hell is he?” Kendra looked frantically from one monitor to the other in the makeshift command center.

  “We lost him after he left the library plaza,” one of the techs said, still staring at his monitor.

  A female tech, who was monitoring the news networks, pulled off her headphones. “MSNBC says Lynch went into a side door.”

  Kelland cursed. “Putting aside the fact that we’re getting our surveillance info from cable news stations when we have half the freakin’ law-enforcement officers in the city on the job…We think he’s in the library?”

  Jessie nodded. “Looks like it to me. He headed down those stairs and never came out the other side.”

  Kendra’s eyes darted from one monitor to the next. “That explains why the kidnapper wanted this to be so public.”

  “What do you mean?” Kelland said.

  “You said it yourself. Who needs the resources of the FBI and the LAPD when you can have half a dozen TV stations following him in real time? He’s able to track every step Lynch makes.”

  “Well, we still have something the kidnapper probably doesn’t,” Metcalf said. “Infrared. Kelland, do you have a scope on that building yet?”

  “Our helicopter is moving into position now,” one of the techs said. “We should see any and all body heat signatures in the library. I should be able to superimpose it over building blueprints I just downloaded from the city planner’s office. I’ll put it up on monitor four.”

  The team huddled around and waited for the helicopter to lock in on its position. After a moment, the color HD image of the library was replaced by a black-and-white image peppered with occasional bursts of orange and red.

  “Those are lighting fixtures,” Kelland said. “But, dammit, where’s Lynch?”

  “He’s not there,” the tech said, his eyes darting over the monitor.

  Kendra joined him in studying the image. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. No one’s in that building.”

  “That’s crazy. He has to be there,” Kendra said.

  A heavyset man in a white short-sleeved shirt stood up from another table. He was holding a large book. “Excuse me. I think I know.”

  Kelland stepped aside for the man. “This is Ken Delano, the city planner.”

  Delano held up the book. “He’s in the pit.”

  “The pit?” Kendra said.

  “An underground system of tunnels that allows access for electrical, plumbing, and traffic light maintenance in the greater downtown area. They run from the convention center on the south end up to the Music Center on the north and as far east as Union Station.”

  “What makes you think Lynch is in there?” Jessie said.

  Delano pointed to a diagram in his book. “There’s an access point on the east side of the library. Right where Mr. Lynch entered.”

  “Where are they taking him?” Kendra said.

  “Anybody’s guess.” Delano pointed toward the pathways extending from the library. “It could be anywhere along the system.”

  Kelland turned back to his techs in front of the computer monitors. “I need you to put maps of these passageways onscreen. We’ll redistribute our people along those routes. Now!”

  * * *

  Lynch played the beam of his flashlight off the concrete walls of the subterranean tunnel. “I see lighting fixtures down here. You planned everything else…Couldn’t you have flicked a few on for me?”

  “So sorry,” the voice said in his ear. “Not possible without alerting your friends to your location. You should be approaching an intersectio
n any time now.”

  “I see it. But I can only go straight or turn right.”

  “Take the turn. You’ll find a gift.”

  “For me? Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

  He turned right and almost ran into a bicycle. It was leaning against the wall of the passageway.

  “See it?”

  “The bike? Yes. The handlebars almost buried themselves into my groin.”

  “It has an electric motor. It’s very fast and very quiet. Climb on and switch on the headlight.”

  Lynch swung a leg over the bike frame and settled onto the narrow seat. He powered on the headlight and rotated the handle grip back toward him. The bike lurched forward and moved almost silently down the narrow corridor.

  “I see some light ahead,” Lynch said.

  “It’s just daylight filtering down from sidewalk gratings. No one will see you.”

  “Still no hint about where I’m going?”

  “Still no hint. But if it’s any consolation, you’ll make far better time down here than you would at street level.”

  “I have no doubt.” He sniffed as he passed the patches of daylight filtering down. “Hey, I wouldn’t be in Chinatown, would I? I think I just caught a whiff of the spring rolls from Plum Tree Inn. Just heavenly.”

  “We’re not going to Chinatown, Mr. Lynch.”

  “Too bad. There are very few disputes that couldn’t be solved over a large platter of bok choy.”

  “We’ll settle for the contents of that gym bag.”

  “Point taken. How much farther do I have to go?”

  “I’ll tell you when you’re finished.”

  In the next nine minutes, Lynch tried to keep his bearings, but he was only certain of his location when he saw access signs for the Grand Avenue Music Center complex.

  Soon the voice shouted out one last command.

  “Stop!”

  Lynch eased off on the throttle and rested his feet on the passageway’s concrete floor. “What now?”

  “Welcome, Mr. Lynch.” This time the voice came from behind him, different from the one from his phone.

  Lynch threw down the bike and spun around. Two men stepped from the shadows, wearing black tactical suits and face masks. Both men carried guns, and one walked with a distinct limp.

  Lynch smiled. “You wouldn’t have gotten that limp on Desert Route 19 a couple days ago, would you? Because if so, I know the young women who gave it to you. And neither of them is the least bit sorry.”

  Lynch could tell that he’d provoked a strong reaction. The man leaned forward and balled up his free hand. His tightening jaw was visible even through the mask.

  Excellent, Lynch thought. The man was already having trouble controlling his anger. That would make him easier to take down if the situation demanded it.

  The other man was still a question mark. He was tall, and he moved with steady, more deliberate motions. He bent over and picked up a large electronic wand.

  “I’m not carrying a weapon,” Lynch said.

  “I’m not worried about weapons. We need to make sure you’re not being tracked.”

  “I’m not.”

  “We’ll see.” The man switched on the wand and waved it in Lynch’s direction. After a moment he put down the wand. “It appears you’re telling us the truth.”

  The limping man pointed toward the gym bag Lynch was holding. “You have something that belongs to us.”

  “And you still have Delilah Winter. I was hoping to see her here.”

  “That was never a part of the deal.”

  Lynch shrugged. “Twenty million dollars is an awful lot to give away on faith.”

  The tall man chuckled. “You’re talking as if it’s your money.”

  “I just want to see an innocent young woman returned safely.”

  “She will be.”

  “Where? When?”

  “When and where we decide.”

  The limping man stepped forward and snatched the gym bag. He unzipped it and shone his flashlight inside at the stacks of currency.

  “Unmarked and nonsequential serial numbers,” Lynch said. “Per your request.”

  The tall man adjusted his sensor wand and waved it over the bag. The device emitted a low-pitched tone.

  The man inhaled sharply, every muscle tensing. “What are you trying to pull here?”

  “It’s your bag,” Lynch said. “There’s nothing in it but the cash.”

  The man pulled out a stack of bills and checked it with the wand. Again it emitted a tone. He rifled through the bills, then tore off the paper band. He held the band up and waved it past his wand.

  Another low-pitched tone.

  “You scumbag,” the man said. “There are tracking chips in these paper bands.” He glanced around. “Your friends could be here any second.”

  “You’ve got to be wrong. Check it again.” Lynch stepped back warily as the two men turned on him. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Like hell you don’t. Your friends just signed that songbird’s death warrant.”

  The other man smiled through the opening in his mask. “And yours.”

  BLAM!

  Lynch ducked just in time to avoid the bullet as it whizzed by him and ricocheted around the passageway’s concrete walls.

  Lynch rolled.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  Two more misses.

  Gotta put something between himself and these guys. Fast.

  The bike. Lynch grabbed it and hurled it at the men, knocking them off balance. Before they could recover, Lynch punched the taller man and knocked the gun from his hand. He grabbed the man by the back of his neck and rammed his skull against the wall. Lynch spun toward the other man.

  Too late. The guy was ready with his gun.

  BLAM!

  Lynch’s ears buzzed and his vision blurred. He’d been hit. Maybe on the forehead, maybe on the temple. But in either case, why was he still conscious?

  BLAM!

  He flew backward as another bullet struck his protective jacket. It may have shielded his vital organs, but his insides still felt like they were exploding. He rolled into the darkness and moved his hands across the floor.

  The gun.

  Gotta find that gun. It was here somewhere.

  But a fog was creeping over his forehead, matched by the warm stickiness in his hair.

  Blood.

  The fog was thicker now.

  Fight it.

  Stay awake.

  Stay alive.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Both men fired indiscriminately into the dark passageway, but they were flying blind and none of the bullets found their mark. Lynch rolled over to hug the passageway’s inside wall.

  The gunfire stopped.

  “Let’s go,” one of the men said to the other. Lynch was too woozy to know which one was speaking. “And leave the money.”

  “Leave it?”

  “It isn’t safe. It will lead them straight to us. Hurry!”

  Their two sets of footsteps pounded away, echoing in the concrete corridor.

  Lynch forced himself to stand.

  His head buzzed even louder. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to die in this hole.

  Gotta get to the surface. There at least he had a chance.

  He cocked his head. There was another sound, behind the buzzing. A distinctive clattering of steel wheels on rails. Trains.

  Trains?

  He staggered forward. He heard a P.A. system, blaring announcements of some kind.

  He was beneath a train station. Of course. Union Station.

  The sound was filtering down from a grate. He grabbed a rusty iron rung protruding from the wall and pulled himself up.

  Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  He climbed another step as blood drizzled over his forehead and eyes.

  His head throbbed, but his bruised ribs pained him more.

  Dammit!

  Pain. Sharp, stabbing pain.

  He
tasted blood on his lips. Ignore it. Fight through it.

  He climbed a few more feet. The announcements were now louder and more distinct. The Amtrak Pacific Surfliner was now boarding…

  One more rung. Then another. And another after that.

  He stopped. Everything was spinning, and he felt his grip loosening.

  No. He couldn’t pass out now. Not when he was so damn close…

  He looked up and focused on the grating. Busy commuters walked back and forth over it. A luggage cart rolled over and momentarily darkened the narrow passageway.

  Focus. Climb.

  He pushed himself upward, racing against his receding consciousness.

  Just a few more feet…

  Made it.

  No time to celebrate. He still had to get topside.

  With his left hand gripping the rung, he shoved the fingers of his right hand through the crosshatch grating and pushed upward.

  It didn’t budge.

  The iron grating was heavy, and his ribs weren’t making things any easier.

  Again.

  He grunted and pushed with everything he had.

  It was happening. He cleared the rim and pushed the grating over just enough for him to squeeze through.

  He lifted himself up the three remaining rungs and emerged in the bustling art deco main terminal.

  Success!

  A woman screamed. Not that he blamed her. He knew he must’ve been a bloody mess.

  He collapsed onto the floor. As consciousness left him, he was vaguely aware of two cops rushing in his direction.

  CHAPTER

  8

  What the hell happened, Kelland?” Lynch shook his head to clear it and was barely able to make out the figures of Jessie and Kendra standing behind the agent. At the moment he was seeing two of each of them, and he had to keep his head still or risk blacking out again. “That ransom was supposed to be clean. Noah promised us it would be.”

  “I know he did,” Kelland bit out. “And I can’t tell you why it wasn’t. All I know is that when I bolted up to that conference room to ask him all he could do was yell that it wasn’t his fault and he wouldn’t take the blame. I didn’t have time to get anything else out of him before I ran here to see how badly you were hurt.” He frowned. “You were unconscious when we got here. We should get you to the ER.”