Shot Clock

by Mark Parragh

  That left this stairwell as the only other way out, and so Crane listened. After thirty seconds of silence, he readied the MP7 in one hand and slowly opened the door with the other. He stepped into the stairwell, letting the door close behind him. He heard footsteps above. They sounded like a woman’s shoes hurrying up the stairs. Then Crane heard the metal clang of a crash bar being hit hard. A door opened and gradually swung shut again. Then all was still again.

  Crane crouched in the corner with the MP7 ready in case the noise drew someone. But no one came. Finally, he stood and carefully made his way down the stairs.

  He was surprised to find the stairs unguarded. He would have put a team in each stairwell to keep people locked down on individual floors and then work his way up a floor at a time. Perhaps they didn’t have enough manpower to do that. It was a hopeful sign, at least.

  Approaching the second floor, he found a large bloodstain on the gray-painted steps. The blood was still tacky to the touch, recent. A bloody trail disappeared through the closed fire door. From the amount of blood, Crane guessed it would end at a corpse.

  Continuing down, he saw the fire door on the ground floor was blocked open with a stacking chair. Crane moved slowly, listening for any movement. He peered around the doorframe and realized he was looking into a lounge off the main lobby on the far side from the elevators. It was mostly intact. Modern couches and tables were arranged in small conversation groups. On the far side of the space were high-top bar tables with metal and leather stools.

  Then something moved in the corner of his eye. He jerked back and then glanced warily around the edge of the doorframe. A soldier moved slowly through the lounge. He carried an MP7 at the ready, the muzzle sweeping across the furniture, following his line of sight.

  He was patrolling. This was more evidence that they were short of manpower. Even if he couldn’t fully cover the stairwell, Crane would have been damn sure to put a team here to cover the back way into the lobby. Instead, they had one man periodically sweeping it and checking the stairs.

  Crane edged back into the stairwell and swept his surroundings, the cement stairs, the round metal railings, the labeled water pipes rising up the wall with valves and marker tags. He could hear the man’s footsteps now, coming closer. Gunshots would bring the others in the lobby. It had to be fast and quiet. Crane set his gun down on the floor and uncapped the icepick he’d taken from the kitchen. Then he pressed himself back against the wall, holding his breath, waiting.

  The moment the gun’s barrel appeared around the edge of the doorframe, Crane grabbed it with one hand and yanked it toward him while he swung the ice pick at eye level with all his strength.

  The soldier stumbled off balance through the doorway but somehow twisted his head out of the way, and the icepick scraped a bright scar in the brown paint of the fire door. He threw a punch to Crane’s temple and struggled to get his finger inside the trigger guard of his weapon. But Crane kept moving, hauling him in a circle by the sling. In a moment, Crane was in the doorway, the soldier’s back to the stairs. He gave a brutal kick to Crane’s leg that stopped Crane’s momentum and nearly knocked him over. Then he pushed Crane and quickly thrust backward, breaking Crane’s grip on the gun.

  The soldier fell backward and scrambled up the stairs as Crane flipped his grip on the ice pick and sprang at him before he could bring the gun to bear. They hit the cement hard, and the soldier cried out in pain as Crane’s ice pick sank into his torso. But Crane knew it was just a minor flesh wound. A moment later, he lost his grip on the ice pick entirely as they rolled on the stairs. Crane clawed at the man’s eyes, and grunted as his enemy’s knee sank into his groin.

  The soldier broke free and rolled away. He slid down a couple steps, his boots finding purchase on the stairs, and his momentum brought him partway to his feet. But then Crane launched a thrusting kick to his knee, and he slipped. He grabbed at the railing as he fell, and then Crane collided with him, driving his head and chest between the two rails. For a moment, he teetered there, about to fall through to the floor a few feet below. But Crane leaned over the top railing and grabbed the sling. He dropped his weight onto the soldier’s legs to keep him in place, and pulled back as hard as he could.

  The soldier’s legs buckled and his hands clawed back at Crane, but he was pressed against the railing, unable to move or breathe. Crane pulled the sling back with all his strength, holding it as the soldier’s struggles grew weaker beneath him and finally stopped. Still, he held it nearly another minute until he was sure. Then he let go and let the body flop forward and hang from the edge of the stairs.

  Crane retrieved his gun and sat back against the wall, breathing hard. After another minute, no one else had appeared. He walked around the bottom of the stairs, detached the second MP7 from the body, and slung it over his shoulder.

  Clipped to the soldier’s belt was a ruggedized smartphone. Crane recognized it. It was called an Android Tactical Assault Kit. An ATAK. The military used them. His training at the Hurricane Group had covered them, though they used considerably more advanced gear themselves. He took it and slipped it into his pocket to examine in more detail later.

  The dead soldier’s face looked vaguely familiar, which disturbed Crane for a moment. Was this someone he’d known in some long-vanished past? No, he decided. This was just someone he’d killed. He wished it didn’t have to be that way, but that was the extent of his regret. He wasn’t wasting sympathy on a mercenary who’d come here to slaughter innocent people.

  On the far side of the lounge, Crane found another alcove with an unlocked door that led to a short connecting hallway, and this led to the hotel’s office wing. He’d found the route to the security section.

  There had been a battle here, he realized. Crane stepped over shell casings, saw blood spatter and bullet scars on the walls. It looked like someone had tried to barricade the hallway with office furniture, but someone else had torn that apart and the way was clear.

  He found the first bodies at the doorway into the security offices, a man and a woman in hotel uniform. The man still clutched a collapsible baton. Against automatic weapons. Crane shook his head. They’d taken multiple hits. It had been quick, at least.

  There were more bodies inside the second doorway. Again, they’d tried to barricade the doorway with desks for cover. Nothing had done them any good. These people didn’t deserve this. They’d tried to protect the hotel’s guests. They’d fought back with nothing more than office furniture and a couple shotguns from the emergency locker on the far wall. Beside it was the medical locker he was looking for. The key was in the door handle beside a wash of blood streaking down toward the floor.

  They hadn’t even managed to get it open.

  Crane stood in the main space, listening. It was quiet except for the soft wail of a jammer over the dispatch radio. Nothing moved. Crane opened the medical locker and found the trauma kit he was looking for. He filtered through the rest of the supplies, but everything that would be helpful was already in the kit. He slung it over his shoulder alongside the gun he’d taken from the dead soldier.

  As he walked out, some impulse made him turn and enter Horton’s office. Horton was there, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall beside his desk. A window looked out across the lake at the mountains. A beam of sunlight fell on Horton, and his open eyes gave Crane a glassy stare.

  Crane looked down and nodded in quiet salute. Horton and his people had done their best. But he couldn’t expect any more help from them.

  He glanced around the office. On the desk were photos of Horton’s family, a pair of binoculars, and a stack of binders with dry procedural titles. On the far wall was a bulletin board covered entirely by a detailed floor plan of the hotel. Crane took it down, spread it on Horton’s desk, and folded it neatly until it fit in the mesh pocket on the outside of the trauma kit.

  The bookcases held more binders, along with a couple books on management style. Crane turned to the desk drawers. They prove
d uninteresting until he reached the bottom drawer on the side. This turned out not to be a drawer at all but a cabinet door that pivoted down to reveal a metal strongbox with a combination keypad. Crane considered it for a moment.

  “Crane…”

  A wheezing whisper, as much exhalation as spoken word. Crane whirled and saw Horton staring at him, fighting to raise his arm.

  “Jesus, Horton!”

  Crane sprang to him, dumping the trauma kit from his shoulder as he knelt at Horton’s side. He was automatically scanning wounds, deciding what needed to be treated first.

  But Horton pointed one shaking finger at his desk, at the lockbox behind the door. He fought to speak.

  “Birthday…” he said. “Birth…” The word collapsed into a long, rattling breath, and then Horton was still again. Crane checked his pulse and swore quietly.

  He glanced back at the keypad and then rolled Horton gently onto his side and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He searched it for Horton’s driver’s license, and there was his date of birth. Year, three letters for the month, day.

  It took him a couple tries; the year turned out to be unimportant. But 0427 for April twenty-seventh did it. The lock clicked, and Crane slid the box open.

  Inside, on top of a stack of papers, was a set of color-coded keycards with mag stripes. A legend was taped to the side of the drawer beside them. White was customer service staff, blue was housekeeping, green facilities, purple security. The red card was labeled simply “override.” The notes told Crane it would open any lock in the hotel.

  “Thank you,” Crane whispered to Horton’s body. He pocketed the cards, slung the trauma kit over his shoulder once again, and was preparing to leave when he heard something outside. In a moment, the sound resolved into the distinctive beating of helicopter blades.

  Crane went to the window and saw two twin-rotor Chinooks descending over the lake. For a moment, he thought it was over. The military had arrived and would soon take charge. All he and the others had to do was sit tight until the clean-up reached them.

  But then he realized the Chinooks weren’t landing on the hotel grounds. They were descending toward the glacier halfway up the mountain on the far side of the lake.

  He grabbed the binoculars from Horton’s desk and trained them on the glacier. He saw figures on the ice waving flags to guide the helicopters in.

  Not the military, then. More ACM mercenaries. So much for their lack of manpower.

  This just kept getting better and better.

  Chapter 21

  Shani Abera stood on the flagstone plaza behind the shopping concourse and watched the helicopters landing on the glacier. Each carried thirty armed soldiers. That was what she needed. This had gone from a rapid strike operation to a search and destroy mission. Even more than the time she’d bought by dynamiting the highway, she needed manpower to lock down the hotel and sweep it floor by floor. Now she had it.

  But there was a price. There was always a price. Turnstone would have been told that she’d activated Redoubt, the contingency plan. He would know things hadn’t gone as planned, and he’d want to know why.

  She signaled the jamming team to temporarily open a channel for her satellite phone. After a few moments, she saw the phone handshake with the satellite. There was only one number stored in its memory. She hit connect and waited. She heard him answer, but then just silence. They both knew why she was calling. And it was one of Turnstone’s little power games to make her speak first. “I have a situation report,” she said.

  “You were supposed to be out by now,” said Turnstone, and she could hear the irritation in his voice. “Why did you activate Redoubt? Is Redpoll dead or not?”

  “He was wounded,” she said, “but his supporters were able to extract him from the conference hall. They’ve gone to ground somewhere in the hotel. He may well be dead, but I can’t confirm that at this time.”

  That was the most likely scenario, in her opinion. He was an old man shot by at least one high-powered bullet. Possibly two—witness reports differed. He’d gone more than an hour now without any substantive medical treatment. He was probably dead. But by concealing the body, they tied her down, prevented her from pulling her forces out. They were hoping to keep her bogged down here until outside help arrived.

  “I activated Redoubt because I need time to verify Redpoll’s death, sir,” she told him. “And I need the reserve troops to lock down the hotel and conduct a floor-to-floor search.”

  “What about the secondary targets?”

  With her free hand, she pulled her ATAK from her belt and checked the screen. “Twenty-two dead,” she said. That left seven unaccounted for in addition to Redpoll. That was good, at least. Turnstone’s simulations predicted they’d get less than twenty from the Kill List in a strike scenario.

  “That’s another benefit of bringing in the reserve,” she said. “We can be much more thorough. We should be able to eliminate the entire list.”

  “Send me what you’ve got,” he said.

  She paired the device to the satellite phone and uploaded the Kill List. “This is good,” he said after a moment, “but I don’t want this going on much longer. It’s going to get harder for me to keep the outside world off your back.”

  “I understand,” she said. “We’re moving as fast as we can.”

  “I would have given up all the secondary list if it meant taking Redpoll out. If it comes down to it, nothing else matters. Is that clear? Redpoll has to die there, if nothing else.”

  “Very clear, sir,” she said. And it was clear. Until she could confirm Redpoll’s death, nothing else mattered. Until she had a body, the mission had failed, and the price of failure was something she didn’t want to face.

  Josh checked his watch. Crane had been gone more than an hour. Redpoll had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Josh sat on the floor with his back against the wall beside the window. Across the room, Swift sat in an overstuffed barrel chair with her feet up on the bed, watching. They hadn’t spoken in the fifteen minutes since she’d come in.

  That woman right there is a piece of work. She kills people like you say “good morning.” Your own bodyguard pulled a gun on you once. He was like a church social next to this one.

  What does she want? She tells Crane she’s been plotting to escape him all her life. He gets shot, and suddenly she’d slaughter us in a second if it would help her save him.

  He’s her father.

  He bought her in a refugee camp! He spent all her life programming her to be his personal sexy murder robot.

  Okay, really shitty father. Still, only one she’s got. She wants to hate him, but she really wants his approval too.

  So now she doesn’t know what she wants anymore. And that’s what makes her dangerous. Keep an eye on her.

  Like that will make any difference when she decides to kill us. Underneath, she’s a hyperalloy combat chassis, microprocessor-controlled, fully armored. She can’t be reasoned with, she can’t be bargained with, she doesn’t feel pity or remorse.

  Well, keep your distance and be ready to run. At least that way you’ll get it in the back and you won’t have to see it coming.

  Redpoll stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at Swift. His eyes looked unfocused, glassy.

  “Call Turnstone,” he said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Turnstone!” Her feet dropped to the floor as she leaned forward. “He’s behind this! Who do you think’s out there trying to kill us? Those are Turnstone’s soldiers!”

  Redpoll looked confused. “He wouldn’t.”

  Swift turned suddenly to Josh and hissed, “Cool washcloth, go!” Then she stood and leaned over Redpoll. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s all right. I’m here.” She waved one hand frantically toward the bathroom.

  Josh went and ran some cool water into a washcloth and brought it back out to her. She snatched it and wiped Redpoll’s forehead with it.

  “Turnstone can help,” he murmured, and then he faded
out again.

  Swift stood there for a long moment, tenderly wiping sweat from him with the cloth. Then she folded it into a strip and laid it across his forehead.

  “Where the hell is Crane with that kit?” she whispered.

  “He’ll be here,” said Josh.

  “If he’s not dead out there somewhere.”

  “He’ll be here. Who’s Turnstone?” Josh had heard the name from Crane. He gathered Turnstone was another pseudonym for another member of Team Kilo, a powerful player and someone Swift had a major grudge against. But other than that, he knew nothing.

  Swift looked at him for a moment, and he saw her breathing slowly as she calmed herself.

  “One of the Sector Leads,” she said. “We’re organized into parallel structures by continent. Turnstone runs North America. He’s been part of it from the beginning. Longer than me.” She nodded toward the unconscious figure on the bed. “Everyone knows he can’t run it forever.”

  “So this is this Turnstone’s bid for the throne? What are you guys, Klingons? You get promoted by killing your superior and taking his place?”

  Yeah, antagonize her. That’s smart.

  Can’t help it sometimes.

  She took a breath. “They have a philosophical disagreement,” she said after a moment. “He still can’t quite understand that.”

  Something Machiavellian, no doubt. Whether it’s better to be loved than to be feared.

  I didn’t say that out loud, did I?

  No, you’re good.

  “I told you how he’s waiting for the world to end,” Swift continued. “He thinks his plan can shorten the dark ages, rebuild civilization faster.”