Miller was standing, staring at the dead bodies when Dwyer approached.
"Where the hell are they going," Miller asked.
Dwyer looked at the paramedic.
"They're going to kill more," he said. "Kelly Paul's father, Tampa."
Dwyer slipped the knife back into its sheath. He twisted slightly and placed the weapon behind his back, tucked neatly between his pants and skin. He slammed the door and started walking to the chopper.
"What are you doing?" Miller yelled.
Dwyer ignored him, kept walking, but a little bit faster.
"I'm talking to you," Miller yelled again.
Dwyer was angry. Kept moving. He heard Miller curse him.
"You think you can go after them?" Miller shouted. "You think you can stop them?"
Dwyer turned around. Stared hard at Miller. His jaw was tight. He suddenly realized there was a woman he had to save. Turned his back to Miller and headed for the chopper.
Miller looked at the carnage. He was shook up with what he saw. He wasn't feeling good. He looked away. Started walking.
The helicopter was idling in the field. Dwyer was close to it.
People are scared of the twirling blades. There's no need to be. But they duck just the same. It's the downwash. The air forced down from the blades.
Miller was following behind Dwyer. He was watching him. Saw him duck. Heard the whomp of the blade as it spun above Dwyer's head.
Dwyer bent over. Never got used to the feeling of something spinning over your head. Especially after seeing someone get decapitated. He was landing on an aircraft carrier in the Sea of Japan. They had just touched down. The flight deck guy, dressed in a blue navy uniform, was talking into a head set. He was walking toward the chopper. He was leaning into the wind. The sea was rough. A gust caught the chopper. Kind of tilted it to one side. A blade hit him. There was a pink cloud. Head was gone. Split open. His body dropped to the deck. A flap of skin was hanging off his neck. His crushed skull was a few feet away. The brain flew out. Impact was massive. Dwyer didn't like choppers.
Dwyer was in the back by the time Miller stepped in. It was the same routine. They slipped the headsets on and Miller signaled the pilot to take her up.
Miller got on the phone to the office. Told them about the three bodies. The Sheriff’s Department was on its way.
It took twenty minutes to reach Tampa. Dwyer watched the traffic below and thought they could be anywhere down there. He felt defeated, tired. Felt like he was the only one keeping up the good fight. They flew over the downtown and banked to the left then the pilot guided the chopper down onto the roof of the FBI building.
They walked across the roof of the building to the entrance. They opened a double door leading into a staircase and walked down to the next floor. Dwyer stood next to Miller. They were silent. Waiting for the elevator. They stepped inside. They were quiet. Took it to the second floor. There were men and women moving quickly. They were hustling. The case had turned into a crisis.
Miller walked toward his office. Dwyer followed. They were silent.
The building itself was old. Had been refurbished the year before. The offices were modern, and so was the technology. Miller nodded to a few people. They were staring at him. They were staring at Dwyer. They pushed past them. Everyone knew what had gone down. Everyone knew about the dead.
"You think they went to the hotel?" Miller asked.
Dwyer didn't answer. He was too busy watching an FBI office in panic.
Miller asked him again. "You thinking about the hotel?"
Dwyer asked. "How's Kelly Paul?"
"She's on her way."
"When?"
Miller looked at him. "She'll be here in thirty, forty minutes."
Dwyer nodded.
"So now what?" Dwyer asked.
"You mean with you?"
"Are we working on this together?" Dwyer asked.
"Do I need to tell you the rules?"
"No," Dwyer said.
"You don't do anything stupid. You follow my lead and you back off when I tell you to."
"Thought you weren't going to tell me the rules," Dwyer smiled.
Miller smiled.
Agent Miller was standing by his desk. He opened a drawer. Stared into it for a moment. Thought about all things that can go wrong. Thought about his career. Thought about his men. What he was going to say to their wives. How do you tell children their father died on his watch? He stood still, debating, struggling with his choices. Logic, emotion, politics, the right decision and what he was trained to do. Logic lost. He came up with a standard issue Glock 22. It was a .40 caliber with fifteen rounds. Looked at Dwyer and passed it over. Dwyer held the gun in his right hand. Judged the weight, it felt heavy but comfortable. Popped the magazine. It was fully loaded. Then slammed it back in place. It snapped to attention.
"This is a big deal," Miller said. "We don't give weapons out to civilians. I don't usually cross that line. But I've seen the way you handle yourself. I've seen the way you look at a dead body and not turn white. I might need you to do something."
Dwyer nodded.
Chapter 46
Minister Paul's hotel was near Tampa airport, southwest, overlooking the bay. His room was the penthouse suite. It was an old hotel but very well maintained. Hyatts are known for that. The fourteenth floor had a restaurant, expensive. Minister Paul was on the thirteenth floor, expensive. He had two rooms, a suite. Was comfortable, but a nervous wreck.
Benjamin Paul was in the second room furthest from the door. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. Staring into a suitcase. A suitcase full of money. Inside were one hundred dollar bills. Bank-strapped hundreds. Each bundle was wrapped tight. Dollar amount, ten thousand per bundle. He had two and half million in the suitcase. But he had two cases. Both large. Five million dollars, cash. The average dollar bill has a life span of eighteen to twenty-two months. These were older. Money tucked away, never reported. Easy money. Money from God.
He'd had the cases flown to Tampa on his private plane. One of his church elders escorting it. It was ransom money. The payoff to whoever kidnapped his daughter.
It was six o'clock in the evening. The sun was going down. The Minister moved forward, closed the top of the suitcase. Zippered it shut. Slid the case to the wall. Came back picked up the other case and placed it on top.
The Minister took his phone out of his pocket. A smart phone. Lots of apps, made by Apple. He selected the call.
"Where the hell have you been?" he said. "Where's my daughter? Is she okay? Where are you?"
"It got all messed up," Major Ore said. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Have you talked to the FBI?"
The Minister was walking the floor.
"Is Kelly alive?"
"Yes," Ore said. "Don't talk to anybody. The FBI has been compromised. There was a shootout. People died. There's a mole in their organization. I'll be there in just a minute. We need to have the money ready to go. I have a police officer with me. We're picking up the money and buying Kelly back. Alive."
Minister Paul relaxed. He trusted the major.
"Call the concierge," Ore said. "Tell them to send a bellhop to the room ASAP. Meet me in the lobby. We'll pull up to the front. Load the money, and go get Kelly. Need you to stay off the phone, okay?"
"This sounds screwed up," the Minister asked. "Where's Kelly?”
"These things are always screwed up. There is no blueprint for how they are supposed to go down," Ore said. "This one got complicated with the FBI fucking it up."
"Can you do this, sir?" Ore asked. "We're at the point where minutes are crucial. Can you do this?"
"Of course I can."
"Good. Now get to the lobby. We need to hurry."
Minister Paul closed his phone and slipped his shoes on. He walked to the desk and picked up the receiver. He pressed the button for the front desk. It rang. On the second ring a female voice answered.
"Good evening Mr. Paul, how may we assist you?" she
asked.
Minister Paul ignored her.
"Hello Minister?" she asked again.
Benjamin Paul didn't respond.
Something wasn't right. He was thinking. Deciding what to do. Pulled the phone away from his ear and placed it back down. Disconnected the call. He knew Major Ore's background. Knew where he had come from. A poor family, hard upbringing. Joined the military early in life. Had no other choices. That was his best option. He was a hard man, ruthless at times. He'd listened to the stories the major had told. War stories, bad things. He was capable of killing with no remorse.
The major had confided about a killing. He had a prisoner. One of many in the Gulf War. He was Red Guard, one of Hussein's men. Elite tough, the major had said. The guy kept talking. Putting down America. Wouldn't keep his mouth shut. He'd threatened him. The guy kept talking. Trying to intimidate the major. He was a big guy the major said. Two hundred pounds, maybe a bit more. Fit, muscular he was in good shape. Fighting shape. He didn't let up. The major warned him again. The guy didn't stop. He'd crossed the line. It went too far. He'd heard enough.
The major was walking beside him, to his right. Had him by the elbow. The guy's hands were cuffed behind his back. Uncomfortable, intended to be painful. It was just the two of them. It was middle of the day. They were outside. The major was walking him to a vehicle. It was about eighty feet away. Not far, should have taken them a minute or two. The guy kept saying things. The major had described it as the point of no return. He reached for his holster with his right hand. Tapping the handle of his military issue Glock. He'd had enough. Pulled the pistol out. Held it down by his leg, kind of hidden. Had the guy stop walking. Then he moved fast, stuck the barrel into the guy's face, right cheek.
"I told you to be quiet," the major threatened.
If anyone was watching they would have seen the guy talking, rambling. Might have thought he was begging for his life. But he wasn't, he was pushing the major. Trying to break him. He thought Americans were weak.
The major yanked him off balance. Pulling on the cuffs. The guy staggered a bit. Grimaced, it was painful. Made some sort of sound, Arabic. The major applied pressure. Pushing the barrel into his face. He described it as having the guy’s attention. The guy stopped running his mouth. He could see the major was angry. He could see the flared nostrils, the mean eyes. But the guy wasn't afraid. He stared hard at the major.
Killing people never bother the major. He had killed before. Most people couldn't do it. Couldn't put a gun to someone's head and pull the trigger. It's not like on TV. Blood splatters, people die.
The major's finger was against the trigger. He slowed his breathing down. He was calm. He held the gun tight. His balance was solid. Feet a little further than shoulder distance. He braced his leg muscles, his thighs. Leaned forward, into the gun. Backed his upper torso way from the prisoner. Didn't want splatter on his clothes. He pushed harder against the guys face. His arm was fully extended. The guy knew what was about to happen. He was looking at the major from the corner of his eyes. His forehead was wet, sweaty.
The major cocked his head. Turning it to the right. Clenched his jaw tight. He was holding the gun steady. Had it wedged under the guy's cheekbone. He could feel the nose of the barrel against something hard, the guy's teeth. He breathed out. Squeezed the trigger. It moved, squeezed harder. The pistol recoiled up. There was a loud clap. The bullet penetrated the guy's skin, shattering his teeth. Molars are big. They deflected the bullet. It shot up through the roof of the guy's mouth. A lot of blood. The guy's head reacted. It wobbled to the left. The lump of lead entered his brain. Sinuses crushed, fluid leaked out the nose. The slug flattened out, got wider. Bore a bigger hole through his brain. The impact cracked his skull and a quarter size piece of white shell flew off. A pink cloud. Blood and liquid followed. The guy dropped like a rock. Eyes closed. Dead.
Then the Minister's phone rang.
Chapter 47
Dwyer slipped the Glock into a holster. The belt was ballistic material, black about two and a half inches wide. He wrapped it around his waist. Felt like he was back in the military. Felt like he was finally doing something important. He tugged at it. The gun was heavy.
Agent Miller reached for a blue windbreaker. One with a zipper up the front. It was hanging on a coat rack. He handed it to Dwyer. It fit Dwyer loosely, hiding the Glock.
Dwyer still had his knife. He slipped it into the ballistic belt. A Velcro loop secured it in place.
Miller watched him handle the blade. But didn't say anything. He had given him a gun. The knife was secondary.
"Anything else we need is in the car," Miller said.
Dwyer nodded.
They walked out of the office at a quick pace. Miller in front. A woman came running up to them from the side. She had been waiting for them to exit the office. Papers in her hand, she was holding them like they were important. She wanted Miller to look at them. She was talking fast, something about the casualties. Miller kept walking. Went to the elevator and pressed the button. The woman was still talking, her voice was frantic. The doors opened, they got in. Miller pressed a button, stared at her, didn't say a word. The doors closed and they rode it to the parking level. The door opened. It was warm. Humid. Must have been thirty to forty cars sitting there. Some were diesel. Dwyer could smell it in the air. They walked to a dark blue sedan, unmarked. Miller pressed the key and popped the trunk. Inside were two shotguns in a rack. Lots of ammunition, radios, first aid kit, two handguns, more ammunition and a duffel bag, with FBI written in big white letters.
Miller got in the driver's side, Dwyer slid across the leather seat, passenger side.
They backed out and went up the ramp. Burst into the sunlight. The sun was low in the sky.
Orange sky, someone will die, Dwyer thought.
It would be dark soon. Florida is like that. The sun drops and it gets dark fast.
They were downtown Tampa. On Franklin Street. They would head north for three blocks. Turn west into the sun and take the ramp onto I-4 toward the airport. In twelve minutes they'd exit. They would merge left toward the Courtney Campbell Expressway. One exit before the airport. They were going to the Hyatt.
On I-4 Agent Miller swiped his cell phone and selected Minister Paul's number. He had a habit of programming phone numbers into his phone, especially people with a high probability of calling. The Minister was key. He was at the center of the hostage taking. His daughter was safe, but the focus had turned. Miller and Dwyer had talked about it. They both sensed it. The suspects were headed to Minister Benjamin Paul.
Miller and Dwyer had the same qualities. Hunter. They were ex-military. Brave men, seen action, seen death. They were hardened, but balanced. Likable guys who didn't have chips on their shoulders.
Miller trusted Dwyer. Believed in him. Almost like a partner, an unspoken bond, they could count on one another. Dwyer was thinking the same thing. He was surprised when Miller gave him the Glock. He didn't show it. But knew it was not the norm. That gesture sealed it for Dwyer. When a man gives you a gun, he trusts you. In his mind they were working together, they were partners.
Miller dialed the Minister. It rang, no answer. He let it ring three more times. No answer. Miller felt tense. He took the phone away from his ear. Worried. Glanced to his right at Dwyer, gave him a worried look. Raised his eyebrows and shook his head. His thumb was ready to select end call when the ringing stopped.
"Hello," the Minister said.
Miller sat upright in the driver's seat.
"It's Agent Miller. You okay?"
"Where's my daughter?"
Miller relaxed.
"We've got her, she's safe," he said. "Hammons has her."
"Why should I believe you?" Paul asked.
Miller took charge.
"'Cause we're the God damn FBI, that's why," Miller responded. "Who have you been talking to?"
Minister Paul hesitated.
Miller waited. Knew better than to say anything. Didn'
t let him off the hook. The silence was uncomfortable.
More silence.
"Major Ore," Paul said.
"What did he say?"
The Minister held up for a moment.
"Said you couldn't be trusted," Paul said. "Told me things got ugly. You guys were on the take. I shouldn't be talking to you."
Miller shook his head.
"Something hit you wrong about that or you wouldn't be talking to me," Miller said. "I've got Jack Dwyer sitting beside me, the guy who saved Kelly."
"Let me talk to him," Paul interrupted.
Miller smiled, handed the phone to Dwyer.
Dwyer paused, stared at Miller for a beat.
"She's safe. We were held in a farm north of the city."
"I've got resources if you're lying to me, I'll have you killed," Paul said.
"I would expect no less. If I were her father I'd do the same," Dwyer said. "She's a great woman."
Dwyer could hear the Minister breathing in the phone.
"I saw Ore with one of the bad guys," Dwyer said. "They’re headed your way. It gets worse. They killed a couple of guys on the highway."
The Minister's voice changed.
"They want me to bring the ransom money down to the lobby," he said.
"Don't do it." Dwyer's voice changed. "We're a few miles out. Be there in minutes. Stay in your room."
"Major Ore is a tough son of a bitch," the Minister said.
Dwyer grinned.
"So am I."
He ended the call.
Agent Miller and Dwyer raced along the Interstate. Miller called ahead for back up. Tampa police, airport police.
Suddenly a black cloud of smoke billowed up in front of them. Maybe a mile a head. Then an explosion. Dwyer could see flames shooting into the sky.
"Pipe bomb," he said.
Miller swerved the car to the right. He was driving on the shoulder. They bounced. The pavement was uneven at best. Wasn't made for eighty mile an hour driving. Brake lights everywhere. Cars colliding into one another. People being hurt.
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