Twist and Turn

by Tim Tigner

  Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

  And so it went, lift by lift, rung by rung.

  We completed the remaining four crossbeam moves and a fifth onto the doorsill in a similar fashion and without incident.

  If Oz panicked at any point during the blind sixty-foot ascent, he didn’t show it. Then again, this was the easy part. The isolated, controlled, predictable part. Our next move would be none of those.

  I handed him one of my makeshift weapons, which consisted of a four-foot strip of sheet looped through a small dumbbell plate. I didn’t know if the resultant device was technically a bludgeon, club, flail or sling, but I was certain that it could wreak havoc in close-quarters combat—and soon would.

  37

  Misgivings

  Western Nevada

  BRUCE POUNDED the desk with his fist, startling his wife. Everything had started out fine, more or less, but instinct told him their situation was about to go south. Something wasn’t right. He knew it, but he couldn’t put a pin in it. The uncertainty was unbearably frustrating.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He stood and started to pace. “The banks close in an hour, and we’re not there yet.”

  Danica rolled her chair around to intercept him. She took his hands in hers and met his eye. “We’ve got ninety-two million dollars. Isn’t that enough?”

  Bruce had no doubt that it was enough. He had made the plans and done the math. He had the beach house, yacht and money manager picked out.

  But he wasn’t ready to calm down yet. Mentally or physically. He could feel his muscles twitching and his emotions boiling. The unrelenting stream of adrenaline and caffeine were taking a toll.

  He pulled his hands back from hers. “The plan is one hundred million dollars. Weren’t you just arguing that it should be two hundred million or more?”

  “You were very convincing,” she said with a soothing smile. “But seriously, I don’t see the problem. Seb and Webb say everything is fine.”

  The engineers had retrieved their earpieces from the safe at the start of this latest blackout and were back in radio contact. Per their reports, nerves were on edge but nothing was awry.

  Bruce gestured toward the front door. “Just because things are running under control in here doesn’t mean they’re going according to plan out there.”

  Danica didn’t waiver. “You’ve seen the news reports. The police are clueless.”

  “Just because they say they’re clueless, that doesn’t mean they actually are.”

  “They’re not here, so obviously they don’t know where we are. Our original trail is now stone cold, and there’s no new trail to follow.”

  “Maybe they’ve figured out who we are.”

  “You’re just tired, and that’s understandable. We’ve been at this for three days with lots of pressure and little sleep.”

  “So I should just take a nap?”

  “Why don’t you get on the microphone and warn our prisoners that the banks are closing. Let them know that they’ll be in for another night if they don’t pay the other eight million immediately. You don’t even have to turn the lights on. Talk to them in the dark. Maybe play the song first.”

  “The song, now that’s a good idea. Cue the music and put it on repeat this time. Let’s see if a few rounds of “Paint it Black” makes them crack. If not, I’ll give them the now-or-never warning.”

  Bruce sat back down, then immediately wheeled over and kissed his wife. He turned toward the screen as she hit PLAY. None of the prisoners jumped outright as the eerie guitar solo kicked in, but most started fidgeting. Everyone’s image began to glow brighter, their heads and chests transforming from dark yellow to white as pulses pounded and thoughts raced.

  Island life was going to be a shock after years of Silicon Valley stress and a culminating experience like this. He didn’t know if the thrill of properly putting a little white ball or hooking a big blue fish would serve as acceptable substitutes, but he was more than ready to try. If those hobbies didn’t prove sufficiently stimulating, he could always crank it up a notch. Perhaps a bit of polo or a poker club? Then there was mountain biking, rock climbing, scuba diving and sailing. Most importantly, he’d never again have to deal with the likes of Kai Basher.

  He had earned his retirement.

  Almost.

  He was almost there.

  What were those little yellow figures thinking?

  Riveted though he was by the monitor’s display and the cacophony of panicked subterranean conversations, Bruce’s heightened senses flashed a sudden warning. Something was awry.

  As if directed by a divine hand, he turned around—just in time.

  38

  Pounce

  Western Nevada

  IT WAS GAME TIME. The crux of our captivity. Do or die. If Oz and I managed to move the bookcase without attracting attention, we’d have a fair chance of taking down our antagonists without a protracted fight. On the other hand, if one of them saw the bookcase shift, we’d be sitting ducks. Although slings could be devastating in close quarters combat, they were useless at a distance and hopeless against guns.

  The pivotal question confronting us was how best to open the door. Very slowly, hoping to avoid the attention that perceptible motion would cause, or very quickly, seizing the advantages of shock and speed.

  While climbing the shaft, I’d concocted a plan that covered most contingencies. Unfortunately, it required putting Oz on point. My ego wasn’t comfortable with that arrangement, but I let logic rule.

  As I whispered, “You ready?” to Oz, music began playing in the room beyond the bookcase. It was the same song they’d played days ago to wake us up and set the mood. The Rolling Stones, “Paint it Black.”

  Something was happening. The right kind of something. A distraction. “This is good for us,” I said.

  Oz had his sling wrapped for action, but held the dumbbell plate in his hand so it wouldn’t clunk around. “I’m ready,” he replied.

  I did my stiffen and fall forward trick, catching the far side of the shaft. Even with my experience and training, it was a frightful experience, allowing myself to fall in that way, face forward into complete darkness, knowing the ground was a breakneck distance down.

  But, of course, I hit the opposite wall. It hadn’t moved in the dark.

  I climbed up until my butt touched the ceiling of the shaft, at which point I began feeling around, knowing there had to be a pulley assembly up there, and most likely an accompanying motor. Objects to which I could cling and hide. I found more or less what I’d expected and quickly wedged myself into position.

  “I’m ready,” I whispered.

  Oz began moving the bookcase, millimeter by millimeter, using the hand-bracing technique I’d shown him. After a few seconds, light started streaming through. I watched as he slowly wedged himself into the crack and crept toward the opening edge.

  This was it, the moment of truth. If he was seen, he’d surrender. Then it would be up to me to swoop in to the rescue with my best Batman impression. If not, I’d join him on the doorsill and we’d both breach the room, either hard and fast or sneaky and slow, depending on what he saw.

  I got the signal. A finger beckon.

  A few seconds later, I dropped silently to his side.

  He whispered, “A man and a woman at a desk about fifteen feet from the bookcase. They’re facing the other direction.”

  “See any guns?”

  “No.”

  “We take it slow until we’re clear of the door, then we rush. I’ll take the man. You take the woman. Remember to swing for the stomach or a joint—a shoulder, knee or elbow.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Three, two, one.” We slipped free of the door and charged.

  Engrossed though they were in the monitor and despite having their backs to us, the man turned as we pounced. He met my eye, then his hands began to move. Was he going for a gun? An alarm? No. His eyes held too much panic, sorrow and
fear.

  He couldn’t get out of his chair.

  I couldn’t get past his sorrow.

  He raised his arms.

  I adjusted my swing, slowing the acceleration and shortening the angle. The kilogram of chromium steel cruised beneath his upheld hands and crashed into his gut, expelling air and interrupting all neurological function without puncturing flesh or pulverizing rib.

  As he doubled over and toppled out of his chair, the gruesome crunch of cracking bone coming from behind caused me to turn my head. I caught sight of the woman clutching her elbow as she wailed in agony and rolled onto the floor.

  I gave the room a quick 360-degree inspection to see if anyone was responding to the noise.

  Nobody appeared, but that didn’t mean nobody was there. Between the screaming and the song it was hard to hear.

  Where were the weapons? The H&K MP7s they’d used in the restaurant? Had they stashed them out of sight or gotten rid of the evidence? “Keep an eye on these two,” I told Oz. “They need to be facedown on the floor. I’m going to check the house.”

  Oz reached for the iPod playing Paint it Black on repeat.

  “Leave it on for now,” I cautioned him. “We don’t want to do anything to raise suspicion below.”

  Oz gave me an odd look, but withdrew his hand.

  I cleared the first floor quickly, noting the location of the circuit breaker panel and picking up a couple of kitchen knives along the way. Bladed instruments have always fascinated me. They somehow resonate with the warrior in my soul. They are, in my opinion, the proper replacement for the teeth and claws that evolution has systematically phased out of our biology. Despite that affinity, and even though I knew a circus-style trick or two, I didn’t relish the idea of taking one to a gun fight.

  Having seen no cars outdoors on the drive, I checked the garage before ascending the stairs. Just a single sedan, a black Dodge Charger, and two dusty cross-country motorbikes, both red and white. The kind with knobby tires and hand guards. That indicated four people, max. It was a good sign, but I saw an even better one.

  The area closest to the door was piled high with electronics, guns and ammunition. Handguns, long guns, submachine guns, and four fully automatic .50 caliber machine guns complete with tripods. One for each corner of the house, no doubt. I’d probably find corresponding hardened positions if I looked upstairs.

  The nearest weapons were two H&K MP7s. Presumably the ones that had been used at the restaurant. I grabbed one and popped the magazine to be sure I wouldn’t come up empty. What I saw shocked me. It was loaded with blank rounds. They’d deliver bang, but no bullet. I checked the other gun and found the same setup. That was something worth contemplating, but later.

  Setting the MP7s aside, I picked a Glock 19 from the pile, popped the magazine, and quickly pumped in fifteen 9mm rounds. I racked the slide, then grabbed a thick roll of duct tape off a pegboard rack. Since I didn’t have a suitable pocket, I hung it around my waist on an improvised duct tape belt.

  Feeling fully capable of dealing with whatever came my way, I left the garage and crept upstairs.

  The bedrooms and bathrooms all looked empty and felt empty.

  Returning to the study on the first floor, I found that Oz had the scene under complete control. Both prisoners were still on their bellies, but the woman now appeared unconscious. She had a set of big white headphones over her ears.

  I caught the tail end of the man’s sentence. “—usually just a few minutes.”

  Oz glanced over as I walked in. “We were just discussing the knockout system he used on us. No side effects beyond a few minutes of memory loss. I put a pair on the woman and she went out like a light.”

  The lack of side effects was good to know, but not my immediate concern. “Who else is here?” I asked the man.

  “My wife needs a hospital,” he said.

  “Answer his question,” Oz said.

  I tucked the Glock into the small of my back and pulled the duct tape off my makeshift belt.

  “It’s just us,” the man replied.

  The lie stopped me in my tracks and prompted me to take another precaution. I found the bone conduction microphone console on the desk and pulled the plug in front of our captive’s face. “I know you’re lying. Do that again, and this could get ugly.”

  “Up here, it’s just us. I swear.”

  I bound his wrists behind his back, then moved on to tape her ankles.

  39

  Ninety-Eight Percent

  Western Nevada

  WITH THE CABIN SECURE and our captors bound, I wanted to rejoice. I wanted to pound my chest and shout at the sky, but we weren’t out of the woods yet. Katya, Sabrina and forty-six other innocents were still locked in a cell with two spies and, presumably, their guns. Guns with real bullets. If I didn’t play this right, we’d be trading a kidnapping scenario for a hostage crisis.

  Worst of all, the spies would know they could get whatever they wanted by threatening Katya and Sabrina.

  “How long will she be unconscious?” I asked, referencing the woman.

  “Until the headphones are removed or the battery dies in about eight hours.”

  Satisfied that I had full command of the threat, I grabbed an iPhone off the desk. It was plugged in but powered off. Our captors didn’t want their location tracked. I held the power button and then, in a supremely satisfying reversal of roles, asked the man for his password.

  “2-4-6-8-10,” he replied.

  The phone awoke. I handed it to Oz. “Call 911. Give them our map coordinates. You’ll find them in the Maps app.”

  He studied the screen. “One bar. I’ll see if there’s a better signal outside.”

  While Oz called the cavalry, I turned my attention back to our captive. “What’s your name?”

  “Bruce Devlin. I run the company that invented the anesthetic device you see on my wife’s ears. Kai Basher, the bunker’s owner, sabotaged our commercialization effort. This is payback. I’m sorry you got caught up in the crossfire.”

  The need to be understood is one of those odd, universal human traits that strikes hard in situations like these. It’s why so many captured criminals confess. The police interrogation handbook is full of tactics for evoking the reflex. But I couldn’t care less about my captor’s cathartic needs or his legal status for that matter. My driving concern was rescuing Katya. “What’s in the safe downstairs?”

  Bruce blinked a few times while his mind shifted gears. “Two handguns and a large supply of ketamine.”

  That made sense.

  “How did you know I had spies with bone-mics?” Bruce asked.

  Although anxious to move on, I knew it would be wise to spend sixty seconds establishing rapport. “That’s just what you do in such situations—if you’re smart. As anyone who did what you did would have to be.”

  His face grew even more miserable. “You played us. You got my guys to remove their mics so they wouldn’t be discovered. But then you didn’t attempt to find them…” He was talking to himself, thinking out loud. “Which means you already knew who they were.”

  “I knew any spies would be disguised so we couldn’t later identify them. So all I had to do was look for altered appearances.”

  Bruce shook his head. “Was I stupid or unlucky?”

  “Your plan worked with forty-nine out of fifty.” Technically it was forty-seven out of forty-eight, but that didn’t have the same ring to it. “That’s a ninety-eight percent success rate.”

  “And a two percent failure rate,” Bruce said, still shaking his head. Then he stopped and looked up. “But only if all people are created equal, which of course they’re not. I snared an Olympian.”

  “And a governor. And a couple of dozen multimillionaires. It was a good plan. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Why are you being nice?”

  “Trey used up all my venom. How do I enable the elevator?”

  “He is a real prick, isn’t he? You don’t enable the el
evator, not unless you’re also an electrician. I pulled the circuit boards on both ends. None too gently. The manual lift is the only way to go. Speaking of which, how did you ascend?”

  “I climbed.”

  “Climbed what? I greased the rail and there was nothing else to grip.”

  “I’ll refer you to my previous answer about forty-nine out of fifty.”

  Oz returned wearing a satisfied smile. “They’re on the way. Police and paramedics.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up but kept my eyes on Bruce. “Where’s the money?”

  “It’s in cryptocurrency on the red flash drive.”

  I’d suspected as much. “What’s the password?”

  “Payback$100MM, capital P, capital Ms.”

  40

  Cranking Away

  Western Nevada

  I WANTED to get Sabrina and Katya out of the bunker before the police arrived, on the off-chance that the officer in charge would be a moron. From what Kai had told me about our location in relation to Reno, I figured that gave me about twenty minutes.

  Oz clearly had the same idea. “We should get the women out now.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Should we turn the power on?”

  “No. Our concern is the spies. With the lights off, they’re less likely to act.”

  I turned to our conscious captive. “Bruce, how do I talk to the bunker in the robot voice?”

  He didn’t respond right away. He was off in his own deep thoughts.

  “Bruce! How do I talk to the bunker in the robot voice?”

  “It’s automatic. Just press the TALK button on the screen and speak through the computer microphone.”