Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  I shook my head in wonder. We were a couple of mismatched bookends, he and I, but damned if we didn’t somehow hold up a bunch of great stories. We needed each other, and right now he needed me to protect him. I pushed the old memories away. He took his hand out of mine, and I heard him rummaging through his pack. A beam of light suddenly stabbed me in the eyes, blinding me. I threw an arm up to block it, and nearly cried out in pain.

  The light turned away. “Sorry, Grandpa. Are you okay?”

  “Shine the light over here again,” I gasped. He raised the flashlight until it illuminated my hand, which I pointed at my other arm. He moved the beam a little, and I inspected the tear in my windbreaker. A bullet had plowed through the sleeve, gouging a furrow in the flesh on my upper arm. The sleeve was soaked in blood. I didn’t have time to fashion a bandage.

  “Grandpa, you’re hurt!”

  “I’ll be okay, kiddo. Promise. It’s just a scrape. I’ll get it fixed later. First, we need to get out of here and get away from Joe. Turn the light toward the door.”

  Some elevators had a hole high up on the door that released it when a rod was inserted. This one disappointed me. Someone had cut power to the building, but I figured the Archives must have an emergency generator for all the humidity- and temperature-controlled rooms where fragile documents were stored. It would have to kick in soon. With a rumble from somewhere deep beneath us and a whir of a fan, it did. The doors opened softly, letting in a dim glow from the emergency lights in the hallway.

  Reminding myself not to touch him, I moved forward and murmured, “Let’s go, Preston. Quickly, now.”

  He seemed to pick up on both my urgency and the need to be quiet, keeping pace in silence. The dim light thrown off by the exit signs over the doors to stairwells and the sparsely spaced emergency lights made the hallway navigable. We didn’t have too many choices. The stairs were out. To our left was a café, dark and silent. Too early for it to have opened before the power went out. Halfway down the corridor was an entrance to a theater. I turned into the lobby and Preston followed obediently. If there was a way in, there had to be another way out.

  I pushed through a door that swung open on silent hinges into a large theater with plush, velvet stadium seating such a deep blood red it appeared almost black in the dimness. Twin aisles along the walls arrowed steeply down to a small stage at the front. Doors flanked both sides of the stage, but neither sported a sign indicating it was an exit. I scanned the entire room as I trotted down the steps. A nearly three-hundred-seat underground theater had to rely on more than the two doors at the top emptying into a lobby with a single entrance. The fire hazard was too great. And there had to be a way for presenters of performers to reach the stage without walking through the theater. Which meant an exit behind one of the doors next to the stage.

  The memories of Cù Chi triggered the instinct that had kept me alive back then. I sensed that “Joe” was close. The burning ache in my arm reminded me what the stakes were. He’d stolen my identity, and now he was coming for more. I stopped abruptly and bent to one knee. Preston halted and eyed me curiously.

  “Joe is coming for us,” I said evenly in low tones. “Do you understand?”

  “Is he going to shoot us?”

  “Not if I can help it, but he’ll try. I need you to hide, Preston, while I look for a way out of here. If Joe finds me, stay quiet and don’t move. No matter what he does to me, don’t let him know where you are. I’ll try to lead him away from here. If I do, you count to a hundred after we’re gone then run. Get out of the building. Okay?”

  He looked around. “Where should I hide?”

  I followed his gaze. “Can you squeeze in under the seats? Maybe at the end of that row?”

  He nodded and shuffled down the curved row to the other side.

  “Hurry, kiddo,” I said in a loud whisper.

  He ducked out of sight. Without waiting, I skipped down the remaining steps to the first door and tried the handle—locked. I hurried around the front of the stage and tried the other door, but found it locked, too. I looked around frantically in the near darkness. At the back of the theater, level with the entrances, several large glass rectangles hid the black interior of the sound and lighting room. That would undoubtedly be locked. The black gap between the proscenium and the curtain caught my eye. I hopped up onto the stage and started to cross, when a shift in the air and a soft chuffing sound brought my head up. I listened intently and turned as I saw movement up at the entrance.

  “Keator!” Joe glided down the stairs, glancing around the empty theater, a pistol in his hand pointed at me.

  I might have made it into the wings before he could get a bead on me. But I didn’t know the layout back there. If I wanted to save Preston, I had to lead Joe away from there, take my chances that he’d let his guard down at some point. The weapons Dickie had sent me were for close quarters only, useless against his gun. I raised my arms over my head, biting my lip in an effort not to cry out. I wasn’t going to give this bastard the satisfaction. He reached the bottom, climbed the two steps to the stage and approached me slowly. I could make out his features now, evident anger turning a small smile cruel under the sharp nose.

  “Where is he?” His voice was calm but he punctuated the question with a fist in my gut.

  I doubled over in pain and tried to suck in air. “Gone,” I wheezed. “Ran off. You must have missed him.”

  He stepped back and appraised me. “So, you’re the man who has caused me so much trouble.”

  “You took my name,” I said. “I’m taking it back.”

  “You took my son,” he said matter-of-factly. Again, he accompanied it with a blow, this time swinging his empty fist from down next to his thigh up into my jaw, stepping into it so my head snapped sideways. My vision exploded in a shower of white stars. Stumbling, I nearly fell.

  “What did you do with the explosive?”

  I barely heard the words over the ringing in my ears, but managed to get the message.

  “I’ll take you to it.”

  He hit me again, and for a moment the world went all black, but the dimly lit theater slowly came back into focus, and the copper taste of blood filled my mouth.

  “Just tell me,” he said.

  “Can’t,” I mumbled through a split and swollen lip. “I’ll show you.”

  He roughly grabbed the collar of my windbreaker and yanked me toward him, stepping aside to march me off the stage. He jammed the barrel of the pistol into my ribs to remind me not to try anything stupid.

  “You have very little time,” he said. “Make the most of it.”

  I wiped off the blood from my mouth with the back of my sleeve and shuffled two steps toward the stairs leading up to the exit. A soft expulsion of breath froze us both in our tracks.

  87

  Roberts blinked in the sudden darkness and put her hand out in search of the wall. Finding it, she continued down the stairs, pistol in her other hand. The sounds of shouting and occasional scream of fright floated into the stairwell from above and below, and she heard the scuffling sounds of shoes trying to negotiate the steps. Almost running into a group of teens stumbling in the dark, she checked to make sure they were okay, turned them around and sent them up where the guard could guide them out of the building. When she reached the ground floor, she paused at the door and peered through the glass. Exit signs and a couple of pools of light from recessed emergency ceiling lights provided the only illumination.

  Pandemonium reigned in the dimness on the other side of the door. Dark shapes moved in all directions as people ran, screaming and yelling, colliding with each other. More shapes lay on the floor unmoving, and those running would trample on or trip over the prostrate bodies. How she’d find the shooter in that chaos she didn’t know, but she had to try. She pushed the door open and eased around a group of teens huddled in fear, finger held to her lips to keep them quiet. The one person who wasn’t in a panic would be the one she and Hunt sought, and she kept her
head in constant motion as she scanned back and forth. But she saw no sign of a cop—real or fake—only guards who shouted directions in vain, trying to guide people toward the exits.

  The first person not cowering or running in terror turned out not to be al-Qadir, but Hunt, approaching from the opposite direction in almost exactly the same manner as her, gun held out in front of him in a two-handed grip, head swiveling back and forth. They met in the middle of the hallway and turned in unison toward the small rotunda in the orientation plaza to watch the stampede of people trying to squeeze back through the security measures, some of the dark forms scrambling over the x-ray machine in their haste to get out of the building and away from the shooter. A guard spotted them and raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  Hunt held his ID aloft and called out, “FBI.”

  The guard nodded and lowered the radio, then turned to herd people out.

  Hunt leaned toward Roberts. “Let’s clear the gift shop, then the gallery.”

  She tipped her head, and they turned around and swam against the tide of bodies still spilling out of the stairwells and the exhibit gallery. Roberts quickly moved behind the pillar to the left of the first gift shop entrance and covered Hunt as he ran in a low crouch into the store, looking left and right as he went. A kid cowered by the racks of books and magazines against the wall on Hunt’s left. Hunt pulled up behind a display rack and held his hand up palm out to signal the kid to stay put. Then Roberts saw him give her a nod, indicating he wanted her to go left, and as she ran into the shop, he stood to cover her, swinging his gun in an arc away from her. Roberts murmured some words to the kid, and he skedaddled out of the store without looking back.

  Hunt advanced on the cashier’s station. “Clear,” he said, peering over the counter.

  Roberts nodded, and headed out the door. Hunt caught up, and the two of them moved next door to the exhibit gallery. In less than thirty seconds, they worked their way through the now empty gallery and met back at the entrance.

  “Shooter slipped past us,” Roberts said. “Not sure how. We responded pretty quick.”

  Before Hunt could respond, they both stiffened at the muffled crackle of automatic weapons fire from outside. Instinctively, they turned up the volume on their comm units.

  “Machowski!” Hunt barked into his mic. “Report!”

  “Found them, boss!” Machowski yelled over the chatter of gunfire in the background. “Three groups, two men each, around the perimeter. SWAT’s helping us take ‘em out. Gotta go.”

  Hunt looked at Roberts. “Nothing we can do. Let’s get that bastard al-Qadir. He’s here somewhere. I know it.”

  “Downstairs.” Roberts said.

  “Same as before,” Hunt said.

  They split up, each taking a staircase. The silence took Roberts by surprise when she entered the stairwell. The sound of gunfire outside couldn’t penetrate this far into the building, and at this point, most of people in the exhibit areas had already gotten out. Roberts wondered about people in the research libraries and other spaces throughout the building. She took the stairs two at a time, concentrating on maintaining her footing in the limited light and moving as quietly as possible. She was convinced the shooter was al-Qadir, and now she wanted him as badly as Hunt did. She wondered if Keator and his grandson had gotten out. They’d seen no sign of victims.

  Silently, she pushed through the door on the lower level and looked both ways. She stepped into the corridor and peered down the hall. Compared to the cacophony they’d encountered on the floor above, this level was silent as a tomb. Hunt appeared abruptly from the other stairwell, and again they met in the middle of the hall.

  “Café is closed,” she said quietly.

  “Then the theater is the only place left,” Hunt said.

  They walked into the foyer together, guns ready, moving silently. Hunt motioned toward the door on the left, and Roberts veered off in that direction. Hunt went right and paused at the door, looking across the lobby at her. He held up three fingers, and her heart beat faster as Hunt counted down—two…one….

  88

  Preston felt the shift in air currents against his cheek and the soft whoosh of a door opening. He heard a voice—Joe’s voice—say, “Keator,” and he froze. Then he remembered his grandpa was a Keator, too, and realized that Joe was talking to his grandpa and hadn’t seen Preston yet. He pressed his body even farther under the folding seats. The floor was covered with thin, industrial carpet, and he could feel the hard concrete beneath it against his bony hip. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the sounds of the footsteps descending the stairs to the stage.

  Joe had a gun, and he’d tried to shoot Preston with it. Preston didn’t like Joe anymore, he decided. And now he was frightened. In his cramped hiding place, he couldn’t rock, and that made him even more tense. He could barely contain the anxiety building up inside, and he had to press his lips together so hard it hurt to keep from moaning or crying out. Joe had a gun, and he was walking toward Grandpa. But Grandpa Zane had promised him that he would get Joe away from Preston.

  Preston strained to hear what was happening, and felt his heart flutter and bang against his ribs when Joe asked his grandpa where he was. But to Preston’s relief, Grandpa kept his promise and told Joe that he’d run off. His solace was short-lived as he heard the sound of blows and his grandpa’s gasps of pain. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath each time, then grew even more frightened as he heard footsteps climbing the steps again, getting closer.

  Squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, he concentrated on a mental image of the theater. Silently moving his lips, he started counting the seats in the rows, making a mark appear on each one in his mind to note that he’d accounted for it. His nose wrinkled at the smell of dust and a touch of mildew in the carpet next to his cheek, and suddenly he felt a tickle that he knew he couldn’t stop. Counting even more furiously, he held his breath, pinched his nostrils shut with his fingers, all to no avail. The dust that had gotten into his nose irritated the nasal mucosa enough to trigger his body’s most natural reaction.

  Trying to keep it as quiet as possible, Preston sneezed.

  89

  “You lied to me,” Joe snarled.

  He shoved me roughly into the wall, sending a wave of searing pain through my arm, and bounded up the steps toward the sound of Preston’s small sneeze. I staggered to my feet, pulling up the sleeve of my windbreaker. My claustrophobia, my fear, had fled in the face of anger that coursed through my veins. I yanked the carbon fiber knife from the sheath strapped to my forearm with my left hand. Gritting my teeth against the pain in my arm, I reached for the gun at the small of my back with my right hand. The knife wasn’t meant for throwing—it didn’t have the weight of mine—but the pistol wasn’t an option until I got close. I needed to slow him down.

  He’d found the right row and now crabbed his way across the room until he stood a few yards from the spot where Preston had ducked down.

  “Come out of there, Preston,” he said. “Don’t make me shoot.”

  He raised the gun. Only halfway up the steps, I stopped to steady my aim and cocked my arm to throw. The door above burst open, startling us both. Time slowed to a crawl as events unfolded rapid-fire in milliseconds.

  “FBI!” a man shouted as he came through the door.

  Joe turned his head, and swung his gun arm around.

  I threw the knife and kept running as I heard a woman’s voice shout from the other side, “Drop your weapon! FBI!”

  Joe grunted just before the gun in his hand fired. The man went down, and Joe turned the other direction, toward the voice that still shouted from the opposite side of the theater. He brought the gun around. I didn’t look to see the woman he was aiming at. I heard gunshots, but all I saw was my target, the man who had caused all this, the monster who had kidnapped and threatened my grandson. His body jerked in time with some shots, but he didn’t go down, just returned fire. He had to be wearing a vest. I sprinted toward
his back, praying to avoid friendly fire from the female FBI agent. By the time he heard me coming up behind him, it was too late.

  I jammed the gun Dickie had messengered to me up against the base of his skull and pulled the trigger.

  90

  Sunlight poured out of a clear blue sky and slanted through the tree branches, setting the remaining fall leaves aflame with reds, oranges and ochres. It warmed the crisp, still air just enough to prevent those of us with older bones from getting chilled too quickly as long as we wore sweaters and jackets. Wisps of blue-white smoke drifted across the yard, redolent of charcoal and sputtering fat and roasting meat, a perfect complement to the smell of crackling leaves underfoot. The peaceful quiet of a Sunday with no traffic and no hustle and bustle allowed the soft murmur of conversation and gentle laughter to float over the ground in dancing waves.

  It was the kind of day that made me glad to be alive. The only thing prettier stood next to me as I turned the burgers and chicken breasts cooking on the grill.

  “Do you know what they’ll do to you?” Janice asked.

  I shook my head. Pending charges still hung over my head in three states and the District of Columbia, not to mention the federal ones.

  “Doug seems to think they’ll all go away, except maybe the traffic citations down in Ohio. State Patrol is pretty pissed I wrecked and shot up a cruiser, he says. Not to mention putting one of their guys on sick leave. I might end up having to pay for the cruiser as restitution.”

  “That’s a lot of money. Doesn’t sound fair.”

  “If it keeps me out of jail, it is. Anyway, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Doug says the federal stuff is easy.”

  “I should hope so.” Janice looked indignant. “You did save the lives of two FBI agents. Not to mention helping stop terrorist attacks across the country.”