Chief Eriksson snaps around to something—something over at Whicher's left.
The marshal whips the Ruger around—a red faced man is standing at the side of a house.
“Get back,” the sheriff shouts, “get back in your house...”
Shock is in the man's face, he stands, frozen.
Whicher aims at the Jeep, starts to run toward the sheriff.
The man at the house is still rooted.
The sheriff shifts along the side of the SUV, making a space.
“Are they in the vehicle?” Whicher says.
“Can't tell...”
The marshal puts away the Ruger, takes out the Glock from the holster at his hip. He grips the semi-automatic between both hands, runs forward, past Sergeant Hooper. “Cover me,” he says.
Eyes on the windows of the Jeep, his heart is pounding.
The motor’s running, but there's no seeing inside.
At the front-end, the windshield is crazed, shattered, a single hole punched through.
The man at the house calls out, “They're gone...”
Kinawa runs from the Crown Vic, crouched low, following in Whicher's footsteps.
Sheriff Colton calls to the man at the house, “Get back—get back inside.”
The door opens at another house, a woman in a bath robe steps out. “I saw them,” she calls out, “a man and a woman.” She points up the street. “They ran up there.”
The marshal sees footmarks in the snow on the sidewalk. He turns to Kinawa. “Come on, you and me...”
In the rear trunk of the Jeep, Anthony hears the voices above the thrum of the motor running—people are shouting, the sound sears through the pain in his head.
Lauren is gone.
The man is gone.
He needs to get out.
He twists his body in the cramped space.
Raising his arms, he gets his cuffed hands on the back of the seat. He hooks his fingernails into the cloth, summons all his strength, grips hard.
A wave of nausea breaks in him as he starts to pull himself up.
His grip fails, he falls back, strikes his head against the wheel-arch.
Pain splits his skull, he feels a tear form in the edge of his eye.
He draws up his legs, gets his feet beneath him—he can push himself over.
Sweating now in the thick clothes, he heaves, launches his head across the top of the seat.
He's halfway—but he’s stuck, he can’t fit, he can’t make it over.
He can't move forward, can’t get back.
Two shots crack out in the frigid air.
Whicher stops, spins in his tracks.
He stares back down the street at Sergeant Hooper—gun arm locked on the Jeep.
Kinawa and Sheriff Colton are braced to fire; everybody rigid, their weapons trained on the stricken vehicle.
Through the rear side-window, he sees something—hair, a mess of yellow hair. His heart comes up in his mouth.
Hooper squeezes off another round.
“Cease fire,” Whicher yells. “Hold your fire...”
“There's somebody in there,” Sheriff Colton shouts back.
Whicher moves toward the Jeep, willing himself to see inside.
Eriksson calls from behind the black and white; “What the hell are you doing?”
The marshal feels the energy spiraling, spinning out of control.
He raises the Glock, holds it out front, reaches the vehicle—steps to the door.
Heart hammering, he grabs the handle.
The kid from the logging road is looking at him.
Anthony.
Eyes like his sister.
Looking back at him.
Alive.
He’s alive.
Chapter Forty-Four
The parking lot of the college campus is covered in crisp, white snow, the buildings unlit, their windows dark. Nobody coming in, nobody going out. Belaski eyes the handful of vehicles—they’re bunched near a stone-faced building at the side of a broad, brick tower.
He tightens his grip on the arm of Lauren's coat.
She pulls away, yanking against him.
“If I drop you right here,” Belaski says, “I still get paid.” He smacks the flat of the gun against her forehead, barrel hard against the bone. “If I kill you right in the lot...”
Her legs buckle, a thin line of blood races from her nose.
“Quit,” he spits. “You slow me down, I'll shoot you.” He raises the gun, points it at her face.
She flinches, turns her head away.
He pulls her off-balance, stumbling—gets her running, drags her on across the lot.
A set of stone steps leads to a double-height door inset with long panes of glass. He heaves her up the stairway, pushes open the door.
Inside is a lobby—a polished floor, a reception counter—a glass atrium to the side.
A woman in a white blouse appears, she takes a step back, eyes fixed on the gun he’s holding.
She lifts a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God...”
Belaski pushes Lauren forward, leveling the SIG on the woman.
“I want a car...”
The woman shakes her head.
“I want a God damn car,” Belaski shouts.
“I don’t have one...” Her voice trembles. “I don't have a car...”
Lauren pulls away again—he whips the base of the gun into the back of her head.
She cries out, falls forward.
He catches hold of her, keeps her upright on her feet.
A door at one side of the lobby opens, a suited man steps out.
Belaski swings the gun around on to him. “I need a car—now.”
The man swallows, pats down his suit, reaches into a pocket. He pulls out a set of vehicle keys.
“Where?” Belaski says.
“In the lot,” the man gestures with his head, holding the keys at arm’s length. “A blue Ford Windstar.”
“Put them on the counter.”
The man steps across the polished floor, puts down the keys on the countertop.
Belaski shoves Lauren forward, snatches up the keys. He digs his fingers into her arm, turns her around, pushes her back toward the main door.
He pauses, stares through one of the long, glass panes.
Two black and white police cars are out in the lot—one at the far end, blocking the exit, the other slowing to approach the building.
A cop in black uniform is crouching by an ornamental clock.
Belaski pulls back from the glass pane, turns to the man at the counter. “Get over here.” He points the gun. “Get over here and lock the door.” He raises the muzzle in line with the man’s chest.
The man hurries across the lobby, lifts a sliding latch on the door—he presses down on a button.
Belaski grabs at the handle, it won't open. “Where's another way out?”
The man turns, points to the lobby space beneath the glass-roofed atrium. “Past those stairs, down the side, down the corridor. There's an exit door at the rear.”
“Alright,” Belaski says. “The pair of you; get walking.”
The woman’s eyes are wild—she steps from behind the counter into the lobby.
Lauren pulls away again.
Belaski jams the gun into her belly, doubling her over. “I pull the trigger on this you'll die screaming.”
“Please,” the man says, “it’s just here, it’s right down here...”
The woman in the white blouse stares at Belaski. “Don’t hurt her,” she says. “Just don't hurt her.”
Whicher picks a path through the trees at the back of the building—Kinawa, Sheriff Colton and an officer from the Redwood PD in line behind him.
Through the gaps in the trees, the marshal sees a door at the far end—windows are set at regular intervals along the wall, all the rooms unlit.
He holds up a hand to stop, turns to the patrolman. “Let me use your radio...”
The officer un-clips the transc
eiver from his jacket, stretches out the coiled lead.
The marshal presses to call; “Chief, this is Whicher, what’s happening around the front?”
The radio crackles into life. “The door's locked—but dispatch say they definitely received an alarm signal from here, it’s the main building on campus.”
“We're almost at the back entrance,” the marshal says.
“We need to clear the building,” Eriksson says.
“Y’all don't force the front. We’ll go in here. How many people are in there?”
A static burst.
“Chief?”
“We don't know.”
“Get on every exit, cover the windows,” Whicher says. “I'm going in.”
He hands back the radio to the patrolman.
Sixty yards off, a rear door is opening.
A face appears.
The sheriff calls out, “Police—stop, don’t move.”
The man at the door is the shooter from the logging road—his arm comes up.
“Drop your weapon...”
The PD officer opens fire.
The face disappears.
The door slams shut.
Belaski points his SIG at the man in the suit. “Give me another way out.”
The man stares back, white-faced. “There's a fire escape...”
“Where?”
He angles his head. “Along the front side of the building.”
“What else?” Belaski snaps.
“An emergency exit. At the far end of the east wing.” The man hesitates. “Or windows...”
“The windows open?”
“They’re locked from the inside, but they’ll open.”
“Turn around,” Belaski says. “We’re going back the way we came.”
Lauren looks at him. “You're never getting out of here.”
He raises the gun, holds it in her eye-line. “Then neither are you.” To the suited man; “Lock this, lock the door.”
The woman in the white blouse holds her hands to her head. “The janitor has the key...”
Belaski flicks the gun at her.
Feels the cold rage rising, rippling inside.
Whicher crouches, runs the last yards to the building bent double—no cover beyond the trees. He reaches the door, flattens himself against the stone-block surround.
Kinawa, a yard back, runs for the opposite side of the doorway. Leaning in against the wall, he holds his pistol upright against his Kevlar vest.
Whicher holds the Glock 19 out in his right hand, reaches over with his left. He tries the door handle. It turns, clicks down. The door’s unlocked.
The marshal glances at Kinawa. He pulls the door sharp, lets go.
Momentum swings it wide as he steps away from the wall.
Both men lean back, brace.
They strain to hear.
Silence.
One beat following after another.
Whicher pushes the Resistol onto his head. He gestures forward with the Glock.
Kinawa nods.
The marshal takes a two-handed grip on the gun, steps around the door, edging into the corridor from an angle.
He sweeps left to right.
Doors lead off at either side—the visible space is empty—thirty yards in, the corridor turns a corner, no way of seeing more.
He takes a pace inside, then another.
Kinawa moves in behind.
The marshal keeps the turn in the corridor dead ahead. He reaches the door to the first room, stops.
The walls feel solid, will they stop a bullet?
He steps past the door, to the far-edge of the frame.
Kinawa sets up in place.
The marshal tries the handle, the door’s locked—locked solid.
Maybe they're in there, maybe not.
There's no time—he waves the FBI man on with his free hand.
Move on. Move up to the next door.
Back in the reception lobby, Belaski stares at the suited man. “Open this, open up the front.”
The man stares back at him, uncomprehending.
“Unlock it,” Belaski says. “Open it. You're going out.”
The man takes a half-step, then turns. “What about...” he gestures to the woman in the white blouse, “Miss Robertson.”
“You get to walk. She stays.”
The color drains from the woman’s face.
“What if they shoot me?” the man says. “Out there, the police...”
“Hold your hands high,” Belaski answers. “Tell them I've got two hostages—one of them’s a witness in a major trial.”
The man's eyes shift to Lauren DeLuca.
“Tell them I’ll deal,” Belaski says. “I’ve got a federal witness, plus an innocent woman here.” He points at Miss Robertson.
The man gives the faintest nod.
“I can be a witness myself—for the right price, a government witness...you hear what I’m telling you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then step out.”
“I walk out? I walk out now?”
Belaski flicks the muzzle, “Get moving.”
The man unlocks the mechanism. Pulls back the door.
Voices are up ahead.
Whicher touches Kinawa’s arm, stopping him.
The sound of a man’s voice echoes down the corridor—one man talking.
Whicher leans in close to Kinawa. “The chief and the sheriff need to know...”
The FBI man shakes his head.
“Go,” Whicher breathes. “The sheriff's out there, let him know the position.” He listens a moment—there’s only silence now, under the hum of overhead lights.
Kinawa whispers. “What if they move?”
The marshal nods. “They move, I move.”
Chief Eriksson holds his thumb down on the radio mic—free hand raised into the air. “All units, hold fire...”
The man walking down the steps in front of the main door is Vice-Principal Gillespie—Walt Gillespie. He’s holding up both hands, his suit jacket splayed open, flapping in the wind.
The front door’s already closing behind him.
Eriksson checks along the line of his men, their weapons trained at the doors and windows of the building, none of them aiming at Gillespie, they all know him.
“Let him come down,” the chief says, “don't go out...”
The vice-principal walks on, unsteady.
Last thing they need is an officer shot responding.
Gillespie reaches the foot of the steps, starts to walk out across the snow-covered lot.
Eriksson waves to him. “Here. Over here.”
At the far-end of the building, Sheriff Colton’s moving in a wide arc, skirting the edge of the lot, behind a line of leafless birch.
Gillespie walks past the few parked vehicles.
He makes his way toward the chief at the back of the black and white.
“Paula Robertson’s in there,” he says.
“Who else?”
The man just looks at him, eyes bulging.
Eriksson hustles him into cover behind the police vehicle. “There's five cars parked here,” the chief says, “who do they belong to?”
Gillespie peers out. “Apart from mine,” he says, “there’s Brian Thanet, the janitor, Terry Woodson, one of the lab technicians.” He stares at the other vehicles. “Peter Carlsen from I.T. The Toyota belongs to a student, I think, I don't think it's staff...”
“What about Paula?”
“No, no, she walks in, she walks to work...”
“Five people in the building?”
“It's the holidays.”
“That’s all there is?”
“From tomorrow, there’ll just be Brian.”
“You need to call everybody, get them on their cells,” the chief says. “Tell them to stay where they are, lock themselves in their rooms, if they can.”
Gillespie stares back at him. “That man in there is armed with a pistol.”
&nb
sp; “A pistol—did you see anything else?”
Sheriff Colton arrives at the back of the lot, behind Eriksson’s car. “Walt,” he says. “Jeez, are you okay?”
“He’s got Paula Robertson and another woman in there,” Gillespie says to the chief. “He’s talking about negotiating, he says the woman in there is a federal witness.”
Eriksson looks at Sheriff Colton.
“Horseshit,” Colton mutters.
“That's what he told me to tell you.”
The sheriff shakes his head.
Gillespie lets his hands fall away at his sides.
“No way that's happening.” Sheriff Colton rubs his chin against the collar of his sheepskin coat. “That FBI agent, Kinawa, just came out the back of the building—he said the marshal's got himself right with them, right in there, just off of the main corridor—he can hear them.”
Gillespie fishes for his cell, lights it up, starts to scroll the list of numbers.
“Hooper went in,” the sheriff says, “I told him to head up the stairs in the back—see if he could get behind them, reach the front of the building from the upper floor.”
The vice-principal finds the number to make the first call.
“Maybe we can take ‘em by surprise,” Sheriff Colton says.
Gillespie lifts the cell to his hear, takes it away again. “What about Paula?”
Neither the chief nor the sheriff meet his eye.
Whicher hears footsteps—somebody is in the corridor.
Kinawa steps around the turn.
The marshal lowers the Glock.
“They know we're here,” Kinawa breathes. “The chief and the sheriff; they know.”
For a moment neither man speaks.
There’s been no more talk up ahead, no more voices.
Time is almost up, it’s running out; Whicher feels it, senses it. “We have to go in.”
Kinawa dips his head.
“They don't know we're behind them, we just get one shot.”
The FBI man adjusts his grip on the semi-automatic.
Whicher moves off the wall, Glock out at shoulder-height. “Ready?”
The two men step to the end of the corridor.
Daylight is streaming from a glass roof—lighting up an open space, some form of lobby.
A staircase of concrete and steel blocks the line of sight.
An American Bullet Page 22