by L. T. Ryan
"Catch your breath," I said as I loosened his vest. I held out my hand. "Come on, get inside."
I waited for Reid to enter the house, and then followed him in. Harris and McKenzie were leading a man down the stairs. The guy's dark hair stood up in a dozen different directions, but he was more than alert after being jolted awake by trained killers and gunfire.
I went to the right, through the dining room where the man lay dead on the table, having bled out. There was a potted plant on the floor, near the window with a black box next to it. Some kind of watering system, I presumed. I walked into the kitchen, stopped in front of the men kneeling on the floor and aimed my gun at them. "Who's in charge?"
No one spoke.
I kicked one in the stomach. He bent over and fell forward onto his face.
"Who's in charge?" I said again.
A middle-aged guy with a dark full beard lined with gray pointed toward the dining room. "Him."
I looked at Frank, who shook his head.
"Dammit," I said. "OK, Thorpe and Lucero, you two secure these guys. Van's on the way. Load them up quickly once it's here."
"Got it," Thorpe said.
I walked to the other end of the kitchen and into a short hallway with two doors at the end. One led to the garage and one to the basement. I leaned against the first door and heard the sound of children crying. Although I knew this would likely be the scenario, a big part of me still didn't want to believe it, didn't want to face it. I began to reach for the handle, but stopped, deciding to address the group.
"Let's be quick, but gentle. These kids have been through a lot."
No one argued.
I started to turn back toward the door when it flung open and knocked me into the wall at the end of the hall. A barrage of gunfire tore through the small area, riddling Carmichael and Klein with bullets. The men flew backward into the wall. Their bodies were silhouetted by a mixture of each other's blood.
I kicked against the door, but could only get it to move a few inches. I raised my MP7 and aimed it at chest level. I couldn't fire, though. What if this lunatic held one of the kids? I grabbed the top of the door and pulled myself up. Before I reached the top I heard six bursts of three-round fire, telling me that my guys had taken care of the situation. The door moved freely now and I released it and pushed it as far as it would go. On the ground, a pool of blood formed and flowed under the gap between the door and floor. I made my way around and stood in front of the man that had murdered my men. He laid face down, head turned to the side, with his eyes wide open. I lifted my leg and drove the heel of my boot into his face.
"Jack," Frank said. "Let's get the kids before more of these guys show up."
My breathing was erratic and fast and heavy. My heart pounded like a snare drum. "Sabatino, watch the door," I said through labored breathing. I pointed at Harris and McKenzie. "Help us get the kids out."
Although I had braced myself for the worst possible scenario, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I reached the bottom of the basement stairs.
The far end of the basement had been dug out an additional eight feet into the ground, forming what looked to be a fifteen foot square pit, eight feet deep. A dozen kids huddled together in a corner. There were boys and girls. They looked like they ranged from five to twelve years old. All of them trapped like rats.
I'm a hardened man. I'd seen and done a lot in my time since joining the Marines at age eighteen, but that sight sent a rush of bile crawling up my throat. I brought a fist to my mouth, worried I was going to throw up. I didn't. Harris did, though, causing a reaction among the children below.
"Don't hurt us," one of them said.
"We're here to help you," I said. "We're the good guys."
Sobs riddled with fear quickly turned into tears of joy. Even the kids that hadn't been crying were now. I looked around the room and caught sight of the faces of the men I was with. Each man had tears in his eyes. Frank's cheeks were stained wet.
"How do they get you out of there?" I said.
A boy stepped forward. He looked to be the oldest. He had brown hair that hung past his eyebrows. His clothes were dirty and tattered. Hell, all of their clothes were. The boy said, "They use a ladder."
I turned and shined my light around the room. "Anyone see a ladder?"
"Over there," Harris said, crossing to the back of the room.
We extended the ladder and dropped it into the pit. I climbed down and asked the older boy to help me rush the kids up. There were twelve kids and four of us. I figured the best thing was to get them up and out in groups of three. I started with the two youngest, and what looked to be the next oldest.
"Harris," I said. "Get these three out of the house. Go through the back yard to the next street over."
Me and the older boy ushered the kids up the ladder. The littlest one was a young girl, maybe five or six years old. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
"I can't do it," she said.
"Yes you can," I said as I crouched down so I was eye level with her. I placed my hands on her shoulders. "The sooner you get up that ladder, the sooner you'll see your mommy and daddy."
"Are they up there? Waiting for me?"
I lied. "Yeah, now go."
Her little hands wrapped around the aluminum rungs. She pressed her chest tight to the ladder, stuck her butt out. I didn't care how she climbed it, as long as she got out. She reached the top and the next two kids followed without hesitation. I think they all heard me say that parents were waiting for them outside and that seemed to light a fire under them.
I started the next group up the ladder when Thorpe came running in shouting.
"Fire," he said. "There's a fire."
"What?" I said. "How?"
"No clue," he said. "It's upstairs and moving fast."
Now we really had to move. Calm and careful wasn't going to get us out of this alive. The terrified looks on the kids' faces nearly sent me into a panic.
"You," I said to the older boy. "Up the ladder."
He scurried up the ladder without questioning me.
"I'm gonna hoist the kids up. You four get ready for them. If each of you pulls up two, we're out of here without a problem."
I gestured for the kids to step forward. They lined up in an orderly fashion. I was impressed with how calm they had remained in the face of danger. One by one, starting with the littlest, I handed them up to the waiting hands of my team. After the seventh had been pulled out of the pit, I noticed the last child had retreated to the corner and was sitting with his knees pulled tight to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, blond hair covering his kneecaps.
"Let's go," I said.
The boy didn't move. Didn't seem to care that I was there offering him a chance at freedom.
"Jack," Frank yelled. "Fire's almost to the door. Hand him up."
I grabbed the boy and carried him across the pit.
"Stairs are catching fire," Frank said.
"Go," I said. "I got him."
"Give him here," Frank said.
I had the boy across one shoulder with my hand wrapped around his waist. My other hand was on the ladder. I started climbing. "We'll be faster if each of us is carrying one."
Frank turned and disappeared up the stairs without another word.
I reached the top of the ladder and sprinted toward the burning stairs. I made it halfway up when an explosion ripped through the house, sending a fireball down the stairs and knocking me off my feet. I lay on the floor of the basement. Flames danced all around me. Panic set in. I couldn't see the boy. Where was he? I had him over my shoulder, and now he was gone.
The faint sound of crying penetrated through the maniacal crackling of the flames. I sat up and saw the outline of the boy on the other side of a wall of fire. To my right was a sink and a bunch of towels. They looked like they had been thrown down to the kids from time to time to clean themselves off. Or wipe themselves. It didn't matter. They were all I had. I turned the fau
cet on and doused the towels, then draped them over my head and shoulders and torso. I leapt through the fire, grabbed the kid and covered him with the remaining towels. I picked him up and held him across my body, close to my chest.
By this time, the stairs had been on fire for several minutes. I didn't know how safe the wood would be, but we didn't have much of a choice. It was the stairs or the pit. The pit might not burn, and would keep us from inhaling the smoke that sought to violate and render our lungs devoid of oxygen. If the house came down, there'd be nothing to stop it from crushing us.
I backed up as fast as I could and sprinted toward the stairs. My thought was that the less time I spent on a step, the lower the chance of it breaking under my weight. It was a good idea, in theory. My legs pumped high and fast and I hit the stairs at full speed, taking them three at a time. Two broke under me when I reached the top. I twisted my body to the side as I fell, so as not to crush the child.
A heavy veil of smoke surrounded me. The walls and ceiling were covered in muted oranges and reds, engulfed in flames. The fire winked and flashed an evil grin at me. It had me. Here we were, so close to the door, yet so far from freedom. A few more feet and we'd be out of the house. Instead, I was down with my legs dangling, and my stomach and chest on the hallway floor. The fall knocked the wind out of me. I was unable to get to my feet. The only way out of the house had been swallowed up in a wall of fire.
Then I heard a loud collective hiss, like steam escaping a kettle. Soon after, water pelted my body.
"Come on, Jack," the voice sounded tinny, far away. It was Frank. I felt his hands grab my chest. They tried to pull the boy away, but I wouldn't let go. Finally, they pulled me to my feet. My thighs and calves scraped against jagged wood. Splinters larger than fingers embedded themselves in my flesh. The pain they caused only served to push me forward. I moved past the men who rescued me and carried the boy through the smoldering doorway. I ran as fast as my legs would carry us.
Flashes from the edge of the yard blinded me and I stumbled. Again, I fell to the ground, making sure to turn so I received the brunt of the fall.
"Let me take him," Frank said.
I relented and let go of the boy. Someone pulled me up from behind and ushered me across the joined backyards of the burning house and its rear neighbor. I managed to keep my legs going until we reached the street, and the safety of our van, where my body collapsed.
CHAPTER 8
Frank had recognized the fire department battalion chief and convinced him to let us take the kids to the station house. The main part of the building was older and largely unchanged from the picture on the wall that had been taken during the twenties. They had added on a few years back, and the station provided more than enough room for our agents and the kids.
Two FBI agents met us at the station and began the process of gathering information from the kids and contacting parents. I sat close enough that I could hear the elation of the mothers and fathers through the phone as they were told their children had been found. I couldn't help but think of the dozens, maybe hundreds of parents of those kids who had already been sent away.
A couple firefighters made their way to our area shortly after the trucks and ambulances arrived. I pulled a gray wool blanket tight around my shoulders and across my chest. I thought that maybe I could hide by doing so. All it did was draw their attention.
"Sir, are you OK?"
It took a moment for my eyes to drift right and focus on her. She wore blue pants and a white shirt, which was smudged with soot. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that reached past her shoulder blades. Dark brown eyes stood out against her pale skin. She had attractive features, and I couldn't help but wonder what she'd look like dressed up and with makeup on.
I nodded and let my eyes drift past her, hoping she'd move on. When she didn't, I spoke. "What's your name?"
"Sarah Parkerson." She pointed to a nametag above her breast.
"I'm OK, Sarah. Check on someone else. We had a couple guys shot."
Her eyes widened, and I realized what I had said. This woman had no idea who we were. I could only image what thoughts were racing through her mind at that moment.
That was the first sign that something was wrong with me.
"No, you're not," she said, brushing aside my last comment. "Let me check you out." She pulled at the blanket until I relented. First, she checked me for a concussion. Then checked my blood pressure and listened to my lungs. "Sounds like you took in quite a bit of smoke. Concussion. Mild, though. You got a couple nasty cuts on you. We should get you to a hospital and get those stitched up. They'll want to observe you for the night. Come on."
I ignored her outstretched hand and tried to wave her off like I was swatting at a fly that had annoyed me. "I'll be all right. Check on the kids."
She smiled and squatted until she reached eye level. "We've already got guys checking on the kids. I was sent to check on you."
"I'm not going to the hospital."
"Yes, you are."
I sighed. There was no getting rid of her, it seemed.
"No, he's not," Frank said. "We have the ability to take care of him."
Sarah shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. It's not on my conscience." She stood and turned and walked away, stopping to look back over her shoulder. "I'll be checking on the other guys. Shout if you need me."
I watched as she walked toward Harris and McKenzie, who were sitting on a bench, their backs against a table. She tended to Harris in a matter-of-fact manner, then moved on to McKenzie.
Frank returned with a chair and placed it in front of me, backward. He kicked one leg over and placed his forearms across the chrome railing that outlined the chair back.
"What?" I said, now annoyed with Frank that he'd blocked my view of Sarah as she bent over to work on McKenzie. I leaned to the left to in an attempt to reestablish line of sight, but she'd moved on.
Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Lit it and didn't offer me one. "Want me to see if I can get her number for you?"
"Hey," Sarah said. "You can't smoke in here."
Frank waved her off without looking back. "Well?"
"Go to hell." My head pounded in retaliation with every word that came out of my mouth.
"Jack, I got bad news." Frank's right hand dropped. His cigarette dangled from in between his index and middle fingers. The smoke twisted around his arm and continued upward, creating a withering fog between us. "We lost Klein." He paused to take a drag. "And Carmichael."
The scene outside the basement entrance replayed in my mind. Both men shot at point blank range with an automatic weapon. I remembered how Klein's eyes focused on me as he collapsed to the ground.
"I know," I said, casting my eyes downward.
"We're gonna have to answer questions about that."
"Christ, Frank. They've been dead two hours and that's all you're worried about?"
Frank leaned back. Had he worried I would strike him? "I'm hurting too, Jack. We lost two guys. Don't think for a second that doesn't affect me."
My ears burned with anger, but I pushed the conversation forward. I saw the night in bits and pieces, but couldn't find the thread to stitch it all together. It was like I was looking at a giant jigsaw puzzle I had completed hours early, only to find that someone had come in and scooped up half the pieces and run off with them. Now I needed answers to put it all back in place.
"What about the guys in the kitchen?" I said.
Frank glanced around, then said, "They're on the way back to the office. Our office," he added as if it needed clarification. "We'll get plenty of cracks at 'em to figure out what the hell is going on. I'm probably going to get the other team on them as well." He took a drag and then made an explosion gesture with his hands. "Any evidence in the house is gone. Burned in the fire."
"How'd the fire start?"
Frank shrugged. "I'm hoping these guys can answer that for us at some point."
I closed my
eyes and leaned my head back. I felt the room start to spin, forcing me to reopen my eyes. I shook my head rapidly.
"You OK?" Frank said.
"Yeah." I lied. That was the second sign something was wrong with me.
"Anyway," he continued, "with all the bullets flying around, we could have shorted out something that set it off."
I replayed scenes from the night in my head. They were distorted and disjointed, but I wasn't trying to play the movie in sequential order. I needed something that danced behind a thin curtain, out of reach. Then, I saw it.
"Frank," I said as I reached out for his arm. "In the dining room there was a potted plant in the corner. A big palm looking thing. There was a black box on the floor next to it. I thought it was some kind of watering device. And… damn, I saw one in the kitchen, too."
"What kind of box?"
"Plain. A black box, square, nothing discernible about it."
"So what about it?"
I swallowed hard and leaned in to whisper. "Someone started the fire from outside of the house."
Frank cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "You think-"
"The boxes were detonators."
"There weren't any explosions, though."
"Yeah, think of flares. They sparked and leaked gasoline or some kind of flammable mixture. Caught the plant on fire. The one in the kitchen, ah hell, I can't remember what that was next to, but I'd bet money it was something flammable."
"We missed one." Frank lowered his eyes. "We let one of those bastards get out."
"Impossible," I said. "We had guys on the roofs across the street. They would have neutralized them. It's more likely someone pulled up while we were inside. If they remained in their car, our guys across the street wouldn't have gotten a good look at them."
Frank nodded. Said nothing.
A quick flash lit up the area in front of me and I blinked hard as I recalled someone taking pictures as we escaped the house. "Photographers. Frank, was someone taking pictures?"
"Yeah. Backyard as we got out. Some neighbors. A couple of them stayed. A couple ran off."
"You don't think the same person that set the fire snapped pictures of us, do you?" Panic filled my voice.