Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  The Minister sat down at his desk. Looked at one of his bank accounts on line.

  "Listen Ken," he said. "I did what you suggested. I've got five million. You hear me. Five million ready to go. If these are the guys, make a deal. I saw what they did to my grandson."

  There was silence on the phone.

  "I'm thinking of going in," Ore said. "The FBI is waiting around too much. I'd like to make contact with someone in there. See what the fuck they're up to."

  The Minister thought for a moment.

  "Don't do that," he said. "Let the FBI make contact. We need to let them check out this Big Red guy first."

  "Okay, but I'm going to push Agent Miller," Ore said. "Don't like the idea of waiting around."

  "Just get my daughter," the Minister said. "Alive."

  Major Ore stood up, moved away from the tree and walked back to the group. He kept them in sight, as he got closer. They were lined up in a row watching the farm. Agent Miller was on his stomach. He twisted around when he heard the major approaching. Gave him a hard stare.

  "You want to tell me to whom you were talking?" Miller asked.

  Major Ore sat down against the tree. Took his sunglasses off. His eyes focused on the farm.

  "Who do you think?" he said. "A father concerned you’re not doing enough."

  Miller stared at him. Cold eyes, angry eyes.

  "You got a phone line established yet?" Major Ore asked.

  "We've got the area secure. Haven't seen the hostage yet and we're setting up contact with someone in the house," Agent Miller said.

  Miller and his team did what first responders do. Assess the situation, secure the area, understand the threat to hostages and civilians and have backup on call if needed.

  The negotiation team was five and a half miles away. They were in a mobile trailer, far from the activity. The team consisted of three negotiators. The lead negotiator, John Bingham, would be the voice the terrorists would hear. One of the support negotiators was working the phones talking to family and friends of Big Red. The third guy was offering advice and keeping notes. His fingers were flying over the keyboard of a computer.

  The phone company had been contacted. Family lines were blocked from receiving calls from the farm. This would keep Big Red from knowing what the police were doing. Also, the phones in the farmhouse, if picked up, would have no dial tone. They were being systematically cut off. They wouldn't be able to talk to friends, or the press. A new line was being set up that the negotiators would use to establish communication.

  Agent Miller put a headset on with a mouthpiece that he swiveled into place. He raised his fist in the air, notifying his team to listen up.

  "They've got the phone line. It's going live," he said. "Negotiations is placing a call."

  Everyone was watching Miller. He pointed to two of his men. They took the US-made AK-47s from their case and opened the bipod legs. They were on the ground. Laid the rifles out in front, opened the legs, and slid into position. Both men slammed the drum magazines into place. They each had three more drums beside their rifles, each drum holding seventy-five rounds.

  There are five basic shooting positions. Number one, standing but unstable. Two, hip fire, also unstable. Three, kneeling, good position for accuracy. Four, sitting, an easy target and five, prone, the most stable position. Agent Miller's shooters chose the prone position because it was easy to maintain for a long period of shooting.

  They put the folding stock against their shoulders. Put their left hands around the lower hand guard and curled their right hand around the pistol grip slipping the trigger finger into place. They peered thorough the sniper's scope. Adjusted it to the house. They were on their stomachs, legs out flat behind him. Elbows bent and shoulders curved forward giving them a solid upper body position. The assault rifle was designed for the 7.62x39 cartridges. They were using the Winchester Super-X Rifle Ammo for maximum knock down power. The soft-nose jacketed bullets would deliver maximum force on impact. They aimed, teased the trigger, feeling its tension. Both of them controlled their breathing and were ready to shoot.

  "They're dialing the number," Miller announced.

  He slid onto his stomach and stared at the farmhouse.

  "It's ringing."

  Chapter 34

  Benjamin Paul's Gulfstream flew straight from Dallas east to Tampa. Off the right side of the plane, Ron Walker could see New Orleans and a few minutes after that they were over the Gulf. Blue water, sparkling white-capped waves, peaceful. Moving with a sense of urgency was the Minister's way, Walker had done everything according to plan. He was going to land at Tampa International where a limo was waiting for him. The ride to the Hyatt would be quick, ten maybe fifteen minutes. Then he was to bring the two cases straight up to the room, after that he was turning around and going right back. The Minister wanted to keep everyone out of this, didn't want their names on the news.

  Walker had closed his eyes. The pilot announcing the approach into Tampa startled him. He sat up and tightened his seatbelt.

  The plane came to a stop by a hangar and Walker could see the black limo not more than eight feet away. The Minister had everything arranged. He shook hands with the pilot and walked down the stairs to the tarmac.

  Walker waited as his driver took the two suitcases from a baggage handler. Walker gave the guy ten dollars and stood by as the driver hoisted the cases into the trunk.

  He didn't wait for his man to open the back door for him. He was in a hurry and feeling anxious. He felt the trunk slam shut. Then the driver got in.

  "How are you Mr. Walker?" he asked.

  Walker nodded.

  "Do you know where we're going?" Walker asked.

  "Hyatt, sir."

  The driver turned around in his seat and drove away from the hangar.

  When they were out of the airport Walker pulled out his phone and dialed the Minister. He answered on the first ring.

  "I'm here, just landed," Walker said.

  "Good job. I'll phone down and have a bellhop meet you at the front doors," Benjamin Paul said. "We need this for bargaining."

  "Anything more on Kelly?" Walker asked.

  The Minister's voice changed.

  "We're watching a farm," he said. "Major Ore is out there now with the FBI. We expect to be in contact with them any moment."

  "Well, that's great news."

  "Maybe," the Minister said.

  Benjamin Paul was hoping for the best but knew they weren't out of the woods yet. He knew enough that these things could go wrong in a heartbeat. Finding the kidnappers was good news. But these guys were killers, maniacs, and they haven't asked for money yet. That was troubling. It wasn't making sense to the Minister.

  A couple of miles along the highway and Walker saw the hotel. He was nervous. Looked behind to see if anyone was following them. Then peeked out each side window.

  It reminded him of the good guy; bad guy movies, something he'd seen not too long ago. A car pulls up, window goes down, a gun appears. Shots are fired; the tires are hit. They swerve onto the shoulder, go off the road. Bullets dent the vehicle, short bursts, and multiple shooters aiming at him. He was waiting for a car to pull up. Didn't happen, he had God on his side.

  Walker saw the hotel off to the left.

  The driver turned in, steered the limo to the front doors and put the vehicle in park. Then popped the trunk.

  Walker saw the bellhop dressed in a blue uniform approach the car.

  "Everything is taken care of sir," the driver said.

  Walker nodded and got out.

  The bellhop was lifting the second case onto a cart when Walker realized how easy this had been. He walked beside the young kid as they entered the hotel.

  "Right to the elevator," Walker said.

  Nobody noticed them, not even the two young women at the counter. Neither did the people in the lobby, seemed like everyone was busy in their own world.

  Took them only a few seconds to reach the elevators. The Ministe
r was on the fourteenth floor. The bellman got in first; Walker followed and pressed a button on the panel.

  His mind drifted to the news. The violence on TV, the violence in the world. The Minister was the most important person in religious circles, maybe the most important in the country. His recent announcement to run for the Presidency had turned up the volume. Lots of interviews, speculation and now this. The media would be all over it. He was worried about what this would mean. The cable news companies would exploit it; they were all about ratings. They would look into his finances, look for a scandal, look at Walker. But he would protect the Minister at all costs and God would protect both of them.

  The fourteenth floor, the doors opened, they stepped out and turned right. The corridor was dark, long walk to the end. Walker reached for his wallet, jacket pocket inside. The bellman noticed the black thick belt around Walker's waist. He saw the gun, glanced up at Walker. Confused, he didn't look like the type to be carrying.

  Walker stopped him at the Minister's door.

  "I'll take it from here," he said.

  The bellman hesitated for a moment and shrugged.

  "Yes, sir," he said.

  Walker folded a twenty in half and handed it to the bellman.

  He waited until the guy turned and walked away before knocking on the door. He was being cautious; the bellman didn't need to see the Minister, not at a time like this.

  Walker knocked hard three times. He was looking at the peephole and saw a shadow move across it. Saw the door handle move and the door opened. The Minister look tired. Dark eyes, bags under them like small balloons. They shook hands, and then the Minister hugged him. Before closing the door the Minister looked down the hall. He wasn't ready for the media, knew this was going to be tricky. They would be looking at how he handled a crisis, looking at how a candidate dealt with stress.

  Walker placed both cases in the room. Lifted them one at a time onto the bed and laid them on their side for the Minister to open.

  "Let's pray," Minister Paul said.

  Chapter 35

  Kelly Paul had faith. The family business was faith. Her father had instilled in her the belief that things happen for a just cause. It was her faith passed down from hundreds of years of Christianity that had her convinced God would send someone to save her. She knelt down on her knees. Looked up and closed her eyes for a moment. She drew a line in the dirt floor. Maybe ten inches long. Then another at a right angle. She placed her hands together in front of her chest. Looked down at the cross. Took a deep breath and let the air out slowly counting to seven. Then prayed.

  She believed someone was coming for her. Someone her father would send, someone to take her away from this hell and back to safety. Back to Texas. Maybe Jack Dwyer had been sent to save her. She knew her father would be working his connections. Probably getting the major involved. She knew that if she stayed alive, she'd make it out okay. She had the faith.

  She knew better than try to escape. They would kill her. She'd spent enough time in the room while Dwyer was gone to see there was no way out. The windows were boarded up with thick wood. If they used the benches to smash the wood, the noise would be loud. Then there was the camera, watching, always blinking its red eye.

  Jack Dwyer believed in himself. His family had taught him, if you want to get it done, do it yourself. Wait for no man. It was basic survival passed down from hundreds of years of evolution that convinced him he was on his own. Responsible for his own survival.

  Kelly Paul dragged herself to her feet. Brushed herself off. Her eyes tired, strained from crying were powerfully sad. Dwyer was cuffed into the chair. It was uncomfortable. He had to think. Had to do something. He looked around the room. Taking in everything. Looking at everything, studying everything. Observing, analyzing, calculating his options.

  "The toilet pail," he said.

  Kelly Paul hesitated. She was having difficulty. She glanced at it. It was overwhelming to look at. She could smell it. She turned and faced Dwyer.

  "Don't," she said. "Don't ask."

  Dwyer forced a smile. He liked the pretty girl. His eyes roamed the room and stopped at the pail. Kelly Paul followed his line of sight.

  "Have you used it?" he asked.

  She nodded. Embarrassed. Lowering her head.

  "I'm going to ask you to do something," he said. "Trust me. Can you do that? Can you trust me?"

  She looked up. Soft eyes, loving eyes, willing eyes.

  "There's a bench in the corner. Don't look at it yet. I want you to get up and slowly wonder around the room. Above the bench there is a florescent light. Four feet long. I want you to walk over to it."

  She looked at him, puzzled, curious. Began walking in an arching circle, away from the center of the room. Into the darkness and shadows of the corner. The camera followed her. She reached the bench. Turned back and looked at Dwyer. He motioned with his head. She glanced at the camera. It was on Dwyer.

  "Take it out," he said. "Turn in clockwise. It will drop down."

  She looked above her head. Then at Dwyer. She was having a difficult time understanding.

  "Do it," he said.

  She stepped onto the bench and reached up. Turn the tube. One side came out. She turned more. The other side popped out. It weighed nothing. She lifted it down. Held it with both hands. Turned and faced him. Shrugged her shoulders.

  "Break it," he said. "Step on it. Shatter it."

  She held still for a moment. Staring at Dwyer, trusting him. Wanting to believe, she had faith. Then dropped the tube on the ground. It didn't break. She turned to Dwyer.

  "Step on it."

  She raised her right foot. Slammed it down hard. The tube shattered into a billion pieces.

  "Now pick up the glass," he said. Scoop it up. Be careful, don't cut yourself."

  Kelly Paul was puzzled. She looked at Dwyer.

  "Why?" she asked. "What are we doing?"

  Dwyer was smiling.

  "Do you have faith?" he said, "Trust me."

  She bent down and scooped up dirt and glass. Lots of glass.

  "Now walk over to the pail and dump it in."

  Kelly Paul did what she was told.

  "More," he said.

  After three trips, most of the glass was in the pail.

  "Now the hard part," Dwyer said. "Dump some of the blood from the cooler into the pail."

  Kelly froze.

  "Don't make me do that," she said.

  "Pick up the pail," Dwyer said.

  "No way."

  Dwyer stared at her. Their eyes held each other. He nodded toward the cooler.

  She moved slowly, bending over and picking it up. She eyed the cooler. Took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She looked at Dwyer. She had faith.

  "Walk to the cooler," he said.

  She stood tall. Took a few steps. Turned her head to the side. Hesitated for a beat. Tears ran down her face. She was moaning. Then she took a few more steps and picked up the cooler. She was trembling, crying. Holding her breath. She tilted the corner toward the pail and poured the blood and festering liquid. It was wet syrup, thick, terrible smell and red.

  "Good girl," Dwyer said.

  Kelly Paul slid the lid back on the cooler. She never looked into it. Never glanced at her son's head. However, she could smell him, the blood and the distinct odor of cadaver. She picked up the pail and moved away from the cooler, closer to Dwyer.

  "Put the pail down. Stay close to it," he said.

  Kelly was sitting three to four feet away from the pail.

  "Why did you have me do this?" she begged.

  Dwyer nodded. Glanced at the cooler and a trail of blood to the pail.

  "Cover that up. Scrape some dirt on it with your foot," he said.

  Kelly Paul got up and rubbed the blood drops into the earth.

  "You didn't answer me," she said.

  "When the time comes, this is what I want you to do," Dwyer said.

  There was the sound of feet outside. Then the barn door
opened. Light billowed in. Fresh air, sunlight, heat. Dwyer turned to his left and saw the young kid. Kelly Paul sat up.

  Dwyer could sense something was different. The kid was stiff, not smiling, looked tense. Dwyer watched him, thought about it. He would be tense too. Holding two people hostage. Dwyer figured the FBI, police or Minister Paul's men would be searching. Dwyer saw an opening, decided to poke at him.

  The kid sat on the bench. Had a shotgun and leaned it against him. He sat ten feet from Dwyer, maybe fifteen from Kelly. Dwyer saw the gun. Started looking at him from head to toe. No pocket on his shirt. His pant pockets looked flat, nothing. He moved down his thighs and saw his knife strapped to the kid's leg. Dwyer leaned forward in the chair. The cuffs made a noise. The kid glanced his way.

  "What do they call you?" Dwyer asked.

  The kid looked at Dwyer, then Kelly Paul, then glanced up at the camera.

  "Don," he said.

  "Nice to meet you," Dwyer said.

  Dwyer glanced at Kelly, raised his eyebrow and motioned his head towards Don.

  "I'm Kelly, nice to meet you Don," she said.

  He nodded, kind of smiled.

  "So what do you think Don," Dwyer said. "How long they gonna hold us?"

  Don was nervous he glanced up at the camera.

  "I don't know," he said. "Redell told me sit tight with you guys."

  Dwyer smiled and nodded.

  "Why is the FBI out there?" Dwyer said.

  Don shot Dwyer a quick look of panic and shook his head.

  "What are you going to do when the FBI busts in here?" Dwyer asked him.

  Don stood up.

  "Quit talking about the FBI," he said.

  Dwyer looked at Kelly Paul then Don.

  "You know they shoot to kill?"

  Don took a step closer to Dwyer. Left his gun behind.

  "Quit talking."

  "They'll be a couple of shooters. They won’t ask questions," Dwyer said. "They probably already know who you are. I think we're looking at a dead man."