Capitol Danger

by J. D. Tyler

  Edward strode to the side of the room, closer to the side of the stage where there had been draperies set up to camouflage the server’s work. He pulled five bottles of water off a cart. Most of them were destroyed by the gunfire, water dripped in a constant stream, but there were enough intact that he was able to gather a double handful and go back to his patients.

  He handed them out as he went, reserving one for Samson. “Now drink that, and stay here.”

  “Got it, Doc.”

  “I’m not...” Edward gave up trying to explain. “Hydrate.”

  Looking around, he found Sara Hardinger. “I know you’re not Nurse Nancy, but could you get some people and pass out water bottles? There’s a bunch back there,” he waved at the stage curtains. “People need to stay hydrated. They’re all in shock and most have lost blood.”

  “Got it, Doc,” she said, moving off before he could say a word.

  “So you’re not a doctor, and you’re not a marine,” the Chameleon, Burke Chapman said and Edward jumped. He’d come up so softly, Edward hadn’t seen, or felt him, approach. “What are you? I missed the big reveal a few minutes ago.”

  “SARC,” Edward replied shortly. “I’m a...I was a US Navy Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman.”

  Chapman nodded. “A badass soc, then. And now a simple CEO.” Burke grinned and, unaccountably, Edward found himself grinning back. “We all have hidden talents, Doc,” Burke said. “And things we’d rather not talk about. Then something happens and we have to bring that shit out in the weirdest places.”

  “Yeah,” Edward agreed, warming to the Chameleon even more. Burke had his injured arm tucked into the unbuttoned, and bloody, front of his tuxedo shirt. “What’d you do?”

  “Dislocated my shoulder getting away from a woman.”

  “Seriously, dude?” Edward looked at him in shock. It was the last thing he expected, so either he was being punked to lighten the moment, or the man had one hell of a story to tell.

  “Totally serious. One of the worst...” Burke stopped whatever he’d been about to say as someone began to sob uncontrollably. “Scratch that. I’ll take the shoulder.”

  “If we manage to survive this shit, we’ll have to have a beer sometime and exchange weird “Oh, Hell no” stories,” Edward said. “Because this one,” he pointed at the shoulder, “I gotta hear.”

  To his surprise, Burke laughed. Like most soldiers, or former soldiers, they had to find some light in the darkness, and laugh even when things seemed their worst.

  “Damn straight. I’ve got stories that will make your hair curl, and I bet you do too.” He grinned, despite their surroundings. “Should be fun. We’ll drag O’Keefe with us. He’s got even better stories than I do.”

  Edward nodded, and he and Burke returned to the pow-wow by the service doors. Spotting Sara, Edward motioned her over as well.

  “We figure the building’s rigged somewhere. With explosives,” Rouse said. “We’ve been talking to everyone.”

  He motioned around the room at those who lay or sat, wounded or tending to others. “In putting together what people saw, what they heard, there’s got to be something more than a bunch of guys with guns.” Rouse laid out what they’d gleaned from Decker and what they were guessing at.

  “Yeah,” O’Keefe said, agreeing with Rouse. “Gotta be explosives.” “They’re satisfied with the carnage here, satisfied enough to check out, leave the work seemingly undone. Why?”

  Rouse’s frown was thunderous. “Profiling. I hate profiling. Okay, why?”

  “They know the work is going to finish itself,” Burke completed the thought, and O’Keefe nodded.

  “Timers?” JR asked.

  “Probably not,” O’Keefe jumped in. “They couldn’t know if their timing on tonight’s event would work to do whatever they planned. There was spontaneous fire. Something tripped the trigger, so to speak, before they were ready.”

  “They were focused on specific women, though,” Sara interjected. “They had people stationed not only at the exits, but next to key people.” She ticked the names off on her fingers. Secretary of the Treasury. Chair of the Joint Chiefs. Vice Admiral of the Coast Guard. CEOs. Movers and shakers in the Washington Scene.

  According to Sara, Roberts was a crack reporter from England’s New World News.

  “Kirk,” O’Keefe said with a grimace. “I knew her. She’s a ...was a powerful financial guru. Probably would have been next up for Federal Reserve.”

  “Shots out there,” Rouse said suddenly, and waved toward the blocked doors to the main lobby. “Out in the upper lobby or one of the other ballrooms. That was the first thing I heard. Somebody screwed up.”

  “Yeah. Then, waiters in here started pulling out guns,” Burke said. “I took one out before he could finish drawing, which is why I’m still alive.”

  “The light-and-sound board for the DJ,” Retta said, walking up and ducking under Edward’s arm. “That’s where I saw the first movement. The guy at the board did something. That’s when everybody’s earpieces went wonky.”

  “Of course!” Edward hugged her. “They must have some form of communication that isn’t affected by the jamming signal they set up for us.” He kissed her. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Hey, I’m the profiler, don’t I get a kiss?” O’Keefe said irreverently.

  “If you know how to run a mixer’s light-and-sound board, or know something about communications and can get us some freakin’ help in here,” Retta said, “I’ll kiss you twice.”

  “Hot damn,” Burke said. “Kisses for me then, because I know electronics. Maybe I can figure it out.”

  “You know how to boost them,” Rouse muttered, but it was with a smile. “Go for it.” Rouse stepped around the injured by the stage and said, loudly, “Anyone know electronics?”

  A lone woman, battered and bruised with a half a tablecloth wrapped around her thigh, raised her hand. “I do, but I can’t walk.”

  “I’m on it,” O’Keefe said. He hustled back to her position and lifted her easily into his arms. He carried her to the electronics board, where Burke was already working slide levers and dials, a pair of headphones held to one ear.

  O’Keefe set the woman down on a chair Burke hastily righted for her. Together they got her settled, her leg propped up on another chair, the headphones being passed back and forth.

  “Okay, so how are we going to get out of here?” Rouse said as Sara Hardinger joined them. “I think we’re going to have to self-extract. With no communications, we have no way to know what’s going on outside, but I’m thinking from Decker’s reactions that there are explosives somewhere. If the whole building is mined, even without the possibility of timers, which we can’t rule out, then we have to evacuate. He was so self-satisfied about the ambulances, as Edward pointed out. I think that it’s about a breach. Maybe, if anyone breaches the building, it could go and take all of us with it.”

  Sara was shaking her head. “We have too many wounded for that. Maybe ten people in here are still mobile enough to get out, much less up and down any significant stairs. A walk down several flights to the sub-basements is beyond them. Down the main stairs to the lobby, maybe, but anything that’s strenuous for healthy people, they can’t do. Nor can they crawl through any debris. Also, hate to say it, but barring that explosion, most of them are enough on the edge, that they shouldn’t see any more bodies.” She paused, surveyed the room, shook her head again.

  “We’ve got ninety survivors out of around two hundred and ten who were in this room when the shooting started,” she continued. “There were several hundred more scattered throughout this floor, and that doesn’t count auxiliary personnel, press, and wait staff who weren’t working with the terrorists. Kitchen staff and security below and in other ballrooms. And people in the sleeping rooms above us.”

  “Hotel was full,” Rouse said. “We tried to get a room for some VIPs here, last minute. Every room booked. Every floor full. That’s potentially several hund
red more people in rooms upstairs, not to mention the hopefully surviving two or three hundred you’re talking about on this floor in various ballrooms.” He nodded at Sara, to thank her for the input.

  “We know there’s other activity,” JR spoke up. “Castello and McCoy were working some kind of op with the Edgars guy. With the model, Abigail what’s-her-name.”

  “Strickland,” Retta said. Then paused. “One of the waiters spilled something on her bodyguard.” She closed her eyes. Edward knew she was using that brilliant artist’s brain of hers to capture the scene. Her lids snapped back up and her mouth made an oh of surprise. “The waiter, he was so angry. He had to be one of the bad guys. He bumped her and spilled something on her date-slash-bodyguard guy. Instead of being, like, oh, I’m sorry sir, he was angry. Really pissed.”

  “Luke Edgars,” JR said. “The bodyguard. He’s one of ours. I saw the bump, but not the waiter’s face.”

  “Oh, okay,” Retta acknowledged with a bit of puzzlement that, okay, the bodyguard was undercover. He could all but see her processing that tidbit. “But I saw her--Abigail’s face--too,” Retta went on. “I could tell, she recognized the waiter. Somehow. And he followed them out when they left the room.”

  Rouse looked faintly skeptical, but Edward slipped his arm around Retta’s shoulders. “We were people-watching. I saw it too. And you’re right,” he said, nodding to Retta. “That guy did follow them out.”

  “Okay, but--”

  Before they could finish that line of discussion, O’Keefe shouted from the DJ’s sound and lighting board.

  “You better come over here, Rouse, Doc, Sara,” he called, waving at them.

  “Everyone, this is Hayden McGhee,” O’Keefe introduced the woman he’d carried to the soundboard to join Burke. “She’s a VP of IT at Hughes. She’s tuned in a frequency. We think it’s the bad guys.”

  “Are they really Red Mantle?” Rouse said, leaning in. “What are they saying?”

  “Something about explosives, and the tunnels under the streets.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Retta looked dumbstruck. “There are tunnels under DC?”

  “Steam tunnels, Metro access tunnels, old slave-escape tunnels. The place is catacombed with them,” O’Keefe answered absently. “Most original US cities have them. European cities are worse.” To Hayden and Burke, he said, “Can you figure if they’re gonna blow them, or if they’re just using them for access and escape?”

  “Can’t tell,” Burke answered. There’s a lot of cross-chatter.” The woman, Hayden, nodded.

  “And they seem to have two frequencies,” she added. “One is for leaders, someone called Methan keeps directing things, but I can’t seem to keep that channel instream,” she said, glaring at the mixing board as if she could make it do something it wasn’t built for.

  “The other frequency seems to be teams. There’s one following some people to the rooms. Another lone guy is following a group down to the basement.”

  “There’s a team on the seventh floor. Something about...” Hayden’s face paled as she listened. “Explosives.”

  “Seventh floor?”

  They all looked at one another. Blank stares all around. “We need someone who knows the hotel.”

  “I’ll see if I can find a real waiter or waitress,” Retta said, moving away at a trot.

  “Try the bartender down on the floor,” Edward called after her. “Shaved head, tall. Shoulder’s busted up, and he’s got a bullet through the leg.”

  “Got it!”

  Rouse was shaking his head, even as Riley O’Keefe and Hayden McGhee repeated what little chatter they could get via the jury-rigged and very damaged music sound-and-lighting board.

  “Not enough people,” he said. “Not enough weapons or ammo, for that matter.”

  “To do what?” Edward asked.

  “Anything. Not enough able-bodied to fight our way out, and no way to know what we’ll find if we do. Everything could be rigged, or nothing. We have no idea. And whatever they were planning for the seventh floor, that’s got to be bad.”

  They all pivoted to look at Retta as she came jogging back to them. She still wore her heels, and jogged in them as easily as if she were wearing sneakers. She’d told him once that she’d learned to jog in every type of footwear, most of it with heels, because being short sucked, and sometimes you needed to run, no matter what you were wearing.

  She looked like a goddess to him, and he was grateful they were both alive. For right now.

  When she got back to them, he wrapped her in his arms and hugged her tightly. She returned it, with interest.

  Everyone seemed to understand because no one said a word.

  “So, Deshawn said that the seventh floor is VIP suites and one big meeting room. They hold parties up there, small events.”

  “Oooookay,” Edward drew out the word. “Why would that be an objective?”

  O’Keefe frowned. “Why would VIP suites be a target? Were any of the women staying on the seventh floor? All of them? None of them? What’s important?”

  “Let’s ask,” Edward said. Reluctantly, he let go of Retta and boosted himself onto the stage again. After doing it so many times, he had to agree with Retta, he needed to work on his upper-body strength.

  Edward knelt between Madeline Arrsworthy and Cheryl Parkerston. “Ladies, do either of you have rooms in the hotel?”

  Madeline looked puzzled, and blinked repeatedly. “I’m sorry, what are you asking?”

  “She’s been in and out,” Cheryl said, her face white and strained. “Even when she’s in, she’s not very coherent.”

  “Okay,” he patted Madeline’s hand. “It’s all right. Just rest. Help will be here soon.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” the woman replied and closed her eyes again.

  Edward checked her pulse, just out of habit. Thready. Weak. But still beating. Not much else he could do, but pray.

  He turned to Cheryl. “Do you have a room in the hotel?”

  “I’m not inviting you up to my room,” she joked feebly. “You may have bandaged me up, but you haven’t even bought me dinner.”

  He grinned. “Okay, I’ll buy you dinner first, I promise.”

  “That’s more like it,” she said, then bit her lip. “Man, I feel like shit.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “I have a room, ninth floor, great view.”

  The view. Shit.

  “Shit. What’s the view from the ninth floor? Where is your room?”

  “Looking down K Street. I can see the planes coming into Reagan National. Other than that, buildings, rooftops. Not a really great view, why?”

  “So you’re looking out on K. Toward Farragut North?” he said, knowing she’d know the Metro station as a landmark.

  “Yes, that corner, but the hotel’s a bit higher than the other block, so you can see...”

  “What?” Edward pressed her. Something about what you could see from the hotel was important.

  “Shit. Ouch.” She shifted minutely, and bit back another groan. “If I look back toward 14th, and crane my neck, I could see the White House and the Washington Monument.”

  “Can you see it from seven?” he pressed. Shit. The White House.

  She shook her head, looking puzzled, then winced. “I’m on nine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Do these idiots have the hotel? Is that why there’s no help yet?”

  “As far as we know, and we’re afraid it’s rigged to blow,” he said. She was a warrior in her own field, and he respected her. She wouldn’t panic and she had a right to know.

  “Fuckers,” she said with considerable heat. “Who the hell are they?”

  “Some group called Red Mantle,” he said. “Does that mean anything to you?” he asked when he saw her eyes narrow.

  “Hate mail,” she said, clenching her fists. “Some of the most vile, disgusting hate mail I ever got was from that group. And I mean vile.”

  She looked faintly green, and her pulse had jumped to be
at a faster rhythm. He took her wrist, even as he saw the tick-tick-tick of her pulse against the skin of her neck.

  “Okay, okay, shh,” he soothed. “They’re dead. At least the ones in here, okay? Keep that blood pressure down, young lady,” he scolded, pretending to look over non-existent spectacles.

  “Yeah, yeah, Doc,” she said faintly, closing her eyes and leaning her head back onto the speakers where she and Madeline were propped. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Well then, you should listen,” he said mendaciously.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sometimes you gotta live a little, right?”

  This time he smiled at her when she opened her eyes. “Yes, you do,” he said. If they survived this, he was going to propose again to Retta. Maybe after this...

  “You’re a good man, Edward Millner,” Cheryl said. “I guess sometimes the apple does fall pretty far from the tree.”

  Hearing her say it was a stab. But it was true. Edward had done everything he possibly could to not be like his father. He’d succeeded, for most of his adult life.

  And yet, here he was, CEO of a branch of the family business, attending banquets and galas, and...

  And saving lives.

  That, at least, was something his father had never done, never considered doing.

  She squeezed his hand. “What’s important? The White House?”

  “No idea, but they want something on the seventh floor.”

  “Wait,” she said, gripping his arm. “Seventh floor. There’s a big party room up there,” she said. “Rented it for an event last month, right when they opened. My little sister’s sweet sixteen.”

  Edward tried to disguise his surprise. “You have a sixteen-year-old sister?”

  A wry smile twisted Cheryl’s features. “Yeah, crazy, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, wishing he had something more he could do to ease her pain. There were faint spots of red on the cloths wrapping her arms. She was still losing blood. Not much, and not fast, but he was going to lose another half of his patients if they didn’t get some real help soon.

  “What can you see from the windows?”