by Jim Heskett
Footsteps echoed behind him, so Layne took off again. Wished he had time to grab the man’s M4 and destroy it, but the others were too close. Not a second to spare.
He rushed across the room, looking for an exit. When he leaped into a hallway leading out from the main exhibit, a grenade tumbled onto the floor, ten feet in front of him.
16
Jasmine noted the number of hostages left. The way they'd clustered made it impossible to count them. Many of them used each other as shields, hiding their bodies any time Red or one of the other men made a pass around the room.
Outside, the standoff between the cops and the invaders continued. The helicopter still swerved around. None of the soldiers outside did anything. Nobody came or left. A few minutes before, Red had taken a call on a satellite phone, but he’d walked away, and she hadn’t heard any of it. From time to time, he would near the window and then do something with his phone. Typing a text or making notes about something.
She had no information. They told her nothing. All she knew was that the number of hostages had dwindled. A few at a time, they’d be escorted into the elevators, and then never come back.
Jasmine heard grunts nearby. A low moan. She peered over to the other edge of the gift shop, among the white people. A woman was there, big pregnant belly sticking out. She was seated, leaning back, hand on her stomach. Grimacing as she pushed out labored breaths with closed eyes.
Jasmine scooted across floor in front of the gift shop and knelt next to the woman. “Ma’am, are you okay? Is it coming?”
The woman, gritting her teeth, shook her head. “No, it’s not that. I just can’t get comfortable, and I’ve had to use the bathroom for a half hour now.” Then, the woman looked up at Jasmine’s face. Her mouth dropped open. “You shouldn’t be here. Please. Go back over there with the others. If they see you…”
Red barked a laugh. Jasmine and her pregnant companion watched him cross the room. Hands on his hips, he glared down at the two of them. He lifted one of his hands and rested it on the butt of a pistol, jutting out from a side holster.
“Was I not clear about where the seating assignments would be?”
Jasmine lowered her face, avoiding his gaze. She said nothing, knowing it would do no good. Red would toy with her, then he would toss her to the wolves. Best not to give him anything to use against her.
“I’m not mad,” Red said, “I’m just disappointed. In fact, to show you how not mad I am, I’m going to bump you up in the line.”
“Me?” the pregnant woman said. “Please, I want to stay here. I’m not ready to go yet. Please. I didn’t do anything.”
Red shook his head. “No, not you.” Then, he leveled a finger at Jasmine. “You, my dear. You are next on the list for our great performance art piece.”
He took out the pistol and drew back the slide. “On your feet, darkie. My boys are going to take you for a little elevator ride.”
17
Layne had no time to run away from the grenade. He was next to a door, and muscle memory took over. He planted his feet and dove for it, reaching out to press the bar to open it. As his upper half entered the stairwell, the grenade exploded. The force of the blast drove him forward. He tumbled to the floor, scraping his face along the concrete. Breathless. Flipping like a ball rolling down a hill. Had he lost his legs? Had he pulled them through the door in time?
He twisted onto his back and craned his neck downward. Had to blink a few times to see in this darkened stairwell.
Both legs present and accounted for. He didn’t feel the slicing pain of shrapnel anywhere on his body. He’d survived, but the men were still there.
Any second now, they would be on him. What had Marketing Intern Sarah been doing there? Where had she come from?
He stood, weary and aching. His eyes wanted to shut. But he couldn’t do that yet. He popped fresh magazines into both Berettas and held them out. Then, he kicked open the door. Found smoke on the other side.
He staggered into the smoke. Chest burning, eyes red and scratchy. Barely thought he could manage to pull a trigger, let alone take on whatever was left of this army.
He lurched along the hallway, guns raised. The only thing left on his mind was shooting anyone and everyone he could. Doing whatever possible to stop these people.
As he wandered in the midst of the smoke and chaos, he didn’t hear any of the men who’d been pursuing him. Had they gone?
As he neared the lobby, the elevator doors dinged. In a flash, he backpedaled, hiding behind the nearest doorframe. He leaned around the edge to see two men dragging Jasmine from the elevator. She was kicking and screaming, fighting them.
Layne’s jaw dropped. She was on deck. The next person to destroy a piece of art and then take a bullet in the back of the head.
For a moment, they stood there, eying the smoke. Then, one of them barked a surprised gasp. They were standing only a few feet from the collection of corpses Layne had created after leaping in from the elevator shaft.
“Sir,” one of them said into his walkie-talkie. Layne couldn’t hear the scratchy reply. “There’s a situation on 4. Multiple men down. Also, we heard something in the elevator on the way up here. Looks like there’s been an explosion.” He paused, listening to a reply too garbled for Layne to make out. “Understood, sir. We’ll proceed as planned.”
They pushed forward, wrenching Jasmine along with them, struggling to break free. Layne wanted to rush out and snipe them from the side, but he couldn’t. They would do to Jasmine what they’d done to the other hostage from before, last time Layne had tried the impulsive rescue mission.
So, he waited until they had cleared the lobby, and then he left his hiding spot. Guns raised, he sneaked over until he was directly behind them. They marched her forward into the art room. They paused at the edge of the room, staring at the body of their comrade, who Layne had killed not three minutes ago. Blood was still seeping out of his corpse.
One of them let go of Jasmine and took a few steps toward the dead body on the floor.
Layne closed one eye and pulled the trigger. The invader on the right took a bullet to the back of the head and sunk to the floor immediately.
The other one tried to turn, and Layne could see his intent to put Jasmine between himself and Layne.
But he didn’t let that happen. Layne shot him in the arm, then added two more bullets to his chest. The invader staggered back, and Layne fired one more time, a bullet into the man’s right eye. He fell backward, knocking over a framed canvas painting of a sunset looming over a barbed wire fence.
Jasmine, her mouth curled open in horror, stared at the dead bodies on the floor. She vibrated, like a bomb about to explode. Then, her weary eyes drifted up to Layne, and her shoulders slumped. Her eyelids fluttered like she would faint. Still, frozen in place, but now wobbling, her knees about to buckle underneath her.
Layne rushed to her and grabbed her before she could topple to the floor. He held her upright and wrapped his arms around her to support her weight.
“You’re here,” she said, croaking out a whisper.
“I’m here. You’re okay.”
He pulled back to make eye contact, and she nodded, a fraction of an inch. “Is that blood on your face?”
She reached out and touched his cheek. He hadn’t even realized it, but he could now feel the wetness. She pulled her hand back, examining the red spot on her finger pad.
“We have to go now,” he said.
“Where? Where are we supposed to go? They’ve got the building completely sealed off.”
“I know. I have a plan.”
She eyed him. Maybe she knew he was fibbing about having a plan, but it didn’t matter. On the edge of going into shock, she needed to hear something. He needed to say something. Needed to believe he could come up with a plan when the time came.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll go.”
He aided her over to the elevator, and they shuffled inside it. The listed buttons on the
panel ranged from 7 to 1 and then B, but when he pressed the B button, nothing happened. It didn’t light up.
He studied a bank of controls to the right of the buttons. A series of locks to override the elevator. When he found one labeled Maintenance Override, he removed the bobby pin pieces from his pocket and jabbed them inside it. Fiddled with it for fifteen seconds to make it turn, then he pressed the B button. This time, it did light up.
They rode the elevator down to the basement, both of them breathing heavily. Jasmine wavered on the edge of consciousness.
In the basement, Layne escorted Jasmine off the elevator and into the kitchen. He removed a steak knife from the magnetic strip on the wall, then he handed it to her. Pointed to a space underneath the food prep table.
She shook her head. “I want to stay with you.”
“You can’t. I have to go deal with this, and I can’t keep you safe anywhere up there.”
She winced, tears dotting the corners of her eyes. “I don’t want you to leave me. What if they come down here?”
He took her face in his hands, leaning close enough so his eyes were within a few inches of hers. “I am going to come back for you. I promise. If anyone comes down here, hide. The cops will have yellow or white lettering across their chests. Big and obvious. Anyone else, you don’t show your face. If you have to, there is a garbage bin in the next room you can hide in.”
She stood, clutching the knife, chest heaving. He wasn’t sure if she’d ingested everything he’d said or not.
“I’ll come for you,” he said as he backpedaled away from her. “I’m going to come back for you when this is done.”
18
The elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor. Layne stepped out, with the M4 raised. Two invaders, both with backs turned, were investigating the ones Layne had shot a few minutes earlier.
He pressed the trigger and cut them both down where they stood. Squinting, he'd aimed for their necklines, above the body armor. He was getting better at targeting around it. Only took him a couple of quick taps of the trigger to kill them both.
And, he noted, killing had once again become easy. Muscle memory. Aside from the adrenaline, he no longer felt the jolt of uneasiness he’d experienced when stabbing the man in the neck. Killing used to feel like slipping on a warm sweater on a cold night. Now it was like a foreign movie with subtitles.
Once they’d both fallen, he drew the Beretta and approached them. Put a bullet in each of their heads, just to be sure. Then, he waited for the ringing in his ears to subside. Heard no other voices on this floor. He debated searching the smaller rooms but decided against it. With all the chaos, they’d been front and center. Talking to each other. Running around. Making noise and giving away their positions.
He stepped back into the elevator and rode it to the fifth floor. No one there. Same on the sixth floor and the seventh floor. Not likely for them to be hiding. And, if they were, they wouldn’t be much of a threat.
So, he then worked his way back down. On the third floor, he left the elevator to see an invader sitting against the far wall in the lobby, a knife jutting from his neck. He was still alive, trying to bat at it. Legs quivering, blood pouring from his mouth. The life draining out of him. After a few seconds, his attempts to remove the knife slowed and then stopped.
Odd. Layne hadn’t done this.
“Layne?”
He spun, raising the rifle. Sarah was there, leaning around the corner, holding her hands out in front of her face.
Layne pointed at the dying man. “You did this?”
She nodded and then crossed the room and lifted the M4 strap over his head. “I ran because I heard the elevator. But,” she hefted the M4, “I came back for this. Tried to take a weapon off one of the dead on 4, but couldn’t get to them before the others came in after.”
She ejected the magazine and peered at it, then shoved it back in. Without a word, she retracted the charging handle, shoved it forward, and then tossed the shoulder strap over her head. She held the weapon against her chest, with a finger alongside the trigger.
Layne raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a marketing intern, are you?”
“I am now, yes. But I was an Army Ranger before that, in another life.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that when I met you earlier?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t trust you then. Plus, I figured you wouldn’t live long enough for me to need to tell you.”
He offered a sarcastic grin. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re not telling me who you are, so I don’t feel too bad about it.”
“True,” he said, “but you know I have combat experience.”
“I do. We’re both armed now, but we’re still outnumbered. Do you have a plan?”
“Not really. I’ve checked the floors above us, and they’re all clear. I was going to take the elevator down to the second floor, and then the first.”
“There’s no one on the second floor. They’re all gathered in the lobby. Going to take all the hostages up to 4 now, since they know we’re hunting for them. You’ve caused quite a bit of havoc in the last few minutes. They’re feeling it.”
“How many have you killed?” he asked.
“Just this one. Was hard without a weapon. You?”
“I’m not sure. Five or six. I think there are still eight or nine left. Inside, I mean. I have no idea how many there are outside.”
She nodded at the elevator. “You take that. I’ll take the stairs. I don’t know if you are who I think you are, but I can see you know how to handle yourself. Just try not to shoot me in the lobby.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
She didn’t seem to think his joke was funny. He didn’t either and had no idea why he’d said it. She made no reply, but it didn’t matter because she turned and raced toward the stairs.
He found himself standing alone. Just him and the dead terrorist. And no time left to figure out a plan.
This was it.
Layne faced the elevator. Then, he noted the space below the rifle’s barrel for a grenade. He fished around the belt he’d stolen from the dead man and found one. It was like a fat bullet, gold tipped. He inserted it into the grenade launcher and then pressed the elevator button. He stood back and waited for it to arrive.
The floor indicator dinged, and it opened to an empty elevator car. He stepped inside, pressed the 1 button, and then waited. Watched his reflection in the mirror lining the ceiling. He looked like a grunt, like the person he used to be when he was a shadow soldier in a government agency that bore no name. Droplets of blood dotted his face like freckles. He could trace the line of the smear from Jasmine’s finger. Like war paint across his brow.
He thought of Cameron, his perfect three-year-old daughter. How she was probably sitting on the floor at his ex-wife’s house right now, squeezing pink and purple Play-Doh through the Play-Doh factory contraption, giggling all the while.
The elevator descended. His stomach shifted as it sped up and then slowed. He felt himself rising from his feet, a fraction of an inch. His guts squirmed.
Then the doors opened into the ground floor lobby.
He arrived just in time to see Sarah come screaming down the stairs, spraying her M4 in every direction. Controlled bursts, peppering the area with chaos. The invaders were trying to take cover, struggling to get their bearings and return fire.
Layne burst out into the lobby. He raised the M4 and surveyed the room. The hostages had all been swept over to one side, near the gift shop. A cluster of men standing in front of them.
Layne aimed and fired at one invader who was unprotected. Layne nailed him in the arm, and the man lowered his rifle. Stared at the hole in his shirt sleeve. Layne shot him again, tagging him in the armpit. He dropped and crawled around on the floor, trying to get away.
A few of the others noticed Layne and changed from firing at Sarah to targeting him. She tagged two of them as soon as they turned
their heads.
Layne dove behind a concrete platform housing one of those furniture warrior sculptures. Bullets blew chunks of the pedestal into the air. Nothing hit him, but he was trapped by their continuous gunfire. Bullets whizzed by on either side of the pedestal.
The firing ceased a second later, and Layne popped up to take more shots. Sarah streamed into the middle of the room, and Layne could see she was aiming for the base of another statue to use as cover. Her short legs took quick strides, her face screwed up and her arms swinging the M4 back and forth as she ran.
But she never made it. A line of bullets cut up the middle of her body, punching holes in her stomach, then chest, then head. As her little frame twisted, Layne wondered why she hadn’t taken body armor from the dead guy.
The last shot made her slip backward, the M4 flying out of her hands as she crumpled to the ground. She raised an arm into the air, grasping at it. Another round of bullets pelted her, and the arm dropped to her side.
Layne was all alone now.
And the invaders knew it. A half dozen of them turned to face him, rifles raised.
19
“Get him!” screamed one invader.
Layne ducked back down as shots peppered the pedestal and the statue above him. The statue came crashing down, bits of broom handles and mops and pieces of wicker chairs spreading out like rain. He closed his eyes as wood splinters pelted the top of his head.
He had to move. They would close in on him in a matter of seconds. He leaned around the right side of the statue to see advancing men. Then, back around to the left side of the statue, something odd caught his eye. He was looking at a large glass window. Through it was one of the invaders’ barricades, that large steel plate. Except, instead of the standard three men positioned behind the steel plate, as the others had, there was only one behind this one.