Twelve

by Dustin Stevens

  Twelve

  A Night Novel

  Dustin Stevens

  Twelve

  Copyright © 2012, Dustin Stevens

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  We stood side by side,

  Each one fighting for the other,

  And we knew until we died,

  We’d always be Blood Brothers…

  -Bruce Springsteen

  Prologue

  One

  Eric Winston leaned forward and pressed his palms hard into the mahogany table in front of him. Blood surged through his temples. Sweat creased his brow and armpits.

  Twelve.

  Twelve was the magic number.

  All the preparation, the months of planning, was predicated on the exact number twelve.

  “You do realize what this means?” he spat, staring at the tiny circle of sweat droplets on the table beneath him.

  “It means we go with what we have, right?” Bret Chester, Winston’s personal assistant responded.

  Winston’s eyes shut for a full moment, his head rotating at the neck to stare at Chester. “No, that’s not what this means. What this means is we have eleven.

  “Not twelve. Eleven.”

  “And that’s bad?” Chester asked.

  “Jesus Christ, where do you get these guys Eric?” Mark Rosner asked, seated on a leather couch across from them and wiping his glasses with a handkerchief.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” Winston muttered.

  “What this means,” Rosner said, his voice impassive, “is that months of careful planning have now fallen by the wayside. Our preparations were for twelve.

  "Trying to make do with less would be just that. Making do and nothing more.”

  “Not only that,” Winston said, “but we have been trying to host for quite some time now. Years. If the board hears about this...”

  “There won’t be another chance,” Rosner completed.

  Chester’s gaze fell to the floor. He remained silent.

  “How did this happen?” Winston asked.

  Chester rifled through a stack of papers in his arms. “One of the men failed their mandatory blood test. Tested positive for gonorrhea.”

  Rosner snorted, but said nothing.

  “Isn’t that great? Painstaking screening, and we lose one the night before because some guy was too damn stupid to wear a wrapper," Winston muttered. “Who was it?”

  Chester consulted the paperwork again. “Lucio Bruno, from Brazil.”

  “Capoeira,” Rosner said indifferently.

  Winston nodded in agreement.

  For a long moment, silence filled the room.

  “Leave us,” Winston said in a voice so sharp it caused Chester to flinch.

  He fled from the room without a sound.

  Winston peeled his hands up from the table in front of him and fell back into his leather desk chair. He raised his elbows onto the armrests and tugged at the studded cufflinks on his shirt.

  “We can’t just...”

  “Nope,” Rosner injected.

  “And there’s no way...”

  “None.”

  Winston paused for several long moments. “Well then, what the hell do we do now?”

  Two

  The first thing to hit him was the smoke. The acrid, putrid smell wafted through Will Honeycutt’s open truck window as he rounded through the deserted streets of Portland.

  It was just after three in the morning and the city had dimmed to a dull glow. The first streaks of dawn were still several hours away.

  Ahead in the distance, Will could see a single light rising above the backdrop of darkened buildings.

  “All units, all units, what is your position?” the dispatcher bellowed into the radio. The sound of her voice was just audible above the music blasting from his speakers.

  Will snatched the receiver up from the dashboard. "Honeycutt here. Inbound now, ETA three minutes.”

  “Honeycutt? You’re not on tonight. Where the hell did you come from? And what is that God awful racket?”

  Will ignored both questions and tossed the receiver on the seat beside him. He turned the radio up louder still as Guns ‘n Roses filled his ears. In the darkness his hands hammered out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

  A moment later his tires screeched to a stop in front of the St. Rita's Home for Children. Two fire trucks were already on site. A team of men was moving in and out, fighting a losing battle. Above them, flames climbed four stories high into the night.

  Will hopped from his truck and lifted his heavy suspenders over his shoulders. He snatched up his jacket and helmet and jogged towards the closest truck.

  Around him a sea of frightened children and nuns huddled in loose groups. Many cried out to one another while some just cried.

  Will cut a path straight towards the Chief, a ram-rod straight man still in his pajama bottoms. “Sir, what do you need?”

  The Chief glanced at him. “A hurricane right about now. Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Scanner stays by the bed sir, thought I’d come help.”

  The Chief looked past Will for a moment. “Explains that damn music.”

  “Sir, where do you need me?” A slight tinge of agitation had crept into his voice.

  “I’ve got men on both hoses, get inside and make sure everyone is out.”

  The words barely left the Chief's lips. He looked up to find Will already disappearing into the crowd.

  Three

  Sights and sounds melted away.

  Will sprinted through the crowd and up the front steps of the orphanage. He didn’t notice the black smoke swirling around his helmet or feel the spray of the hoses falling down onto his jacket.

  The steely voice of Axl Rose filled his head and his adrenaline surged. He burst through the open front doors and into the main foyer.

  Large staircases curved up from the foyer to the left and right, each climbing to the second floor. Flames licked at the banisters lining them and tore through the heavy curtains along the windows.

  Will scanned each side. The flames on the right were much higher than the left.

  “Start there, it’s gonna go first,” Will muttered and ran forward, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

  Two hallways extended from the top landing. Without thinking he burst down the first, ignoring the immense heat as he dashed through the bedrooms.

  Nothing.

  Without stopping he hurtled down the hall and onto the next.

  Sitting in the corner of the third bedroom was a large white blob, trembling. Without ceremony he stepped forward and ripped back the edge of the white blanket. Six frightened, red-rimmed eyes stared back at him.

  His sudden presence scared the three young boys and one of them cried out in fear.

  “I’m a fireman, I’m here to help. You boys alright?”

  The three heads bobbed in unison.

  “Sit down on the blanket and hug each other real tight.”

  The boys did as they were told.

  Will brought the four corners of the blanket together and hefted the makeshift pack onto his back. He could feel the boys struggle for a moment before settling in against him.

  The combined weight of them was nearly two hundred pounds. Will didn’t even notice as he sprinted the length of the hallway and down
the stairwell.

  A third hose team had arrived and was spraying the interior of the great building. Still, it was readily apparent the structure was being read its last rites.

  As he burst through the main door and down the front steps a cool wave of clean night air washed over Will. He carried the boys to a gathered mass of children and nuns, lowered the pack and allowed them to climb free.

  The boys turned and smiled at him before the crowd engulfed them.

  Will picked the blanket back up from the ground and carried it the curb where a steady stream of water ran from the building to a nearby storm drain. He soaked the heavy cotton in it and ran back towards the building, excess water dripping between his fingers.

  “That building’s going down any minute Honeycutt!” the Chief roared. “I can’t let you go back in there!”

  “I didn’t ask,” Will grunted, breaking into a run for the door.

  Four

  Will was going the wrong direction. The third hose team was already pulling back as Will crossed the threshold and headed for the left stairwell.

  Flames shot from both hallways on the right and dark smoke hung through much of the orphanage.

  Covering his mouth and nose with the wet blanket, Will sped up the staircase and down the first corridor. Smoke and flames climbed the walls around him. His visibility was cut to nearly nothing.

  “Anybody here?”

  His voice was almost inaudible. No response.

  "Is anybody here!?" Will called again.

  “Help! Come quick!” a tiny voice called.

  Will wheeled on his heel to see a small silhouette standing at the end of the hallway.

  Charging hard he covered the hall in several steps and scooped the girl up and out onto the landing.

  “Are you alone?” Will asked.

  “No! My sister is still back there. She’s trapped under the bed and can’t get out!”

  Her tiny voice was riddled with hysterics.

  Will tore away a chunk of the blanket and pressed it over her face. “Do you see that front door?”

  The girl nodded.

  “I want you to keep this over your face and run as fast as you can for it. I’ll stand here to make sure you get there. I’m going to get your sister. Okay?”

  The girl again nodded.

  “Which room is she in?”

  The little girl held up four fingers, then pointed to the right.

  “Fourth door on the right. Got it. Now go!”

  The girl sprinted across the landing and down the stairs. Will waited long enough for her to disappear out the front door, turned and darted down the hall.

  The fourth door was half blocked by a beam sprawled diagonally from the far corner, cutting the room in half. Its bulk lay smashed over a portion of a small bed, crushing it into the floor.

  Will grabbed hold of the end of the beam and tried pulling it into the hallway. He could feel the heat of the wood through his heavy gloves.

  It refused to give.

  Flames licked at the woodwork around the top of the room and smoke hung stagnant in the air.

  Hurtling over the beam Will came across the bed and pressed himself flat against the floor. The whites of two large, frightened eyes stared back at him.

  “I’m a fireman. I’m here to help. Can you move at all?”

  A twist of the head was the only response.

  Will stood and again tried lifting the beam to no avail. It was wedged into the room at an angle, one end buried into the corner.

  Will studied the situation for a moment, tracing the path of the beam with his eyes. Again he fell flat to the floor.

  “I’m going to have to break the beam to get you out. I want you to curl up as tight as you can. It will all be over soon, okay?”

  This time a head bob.

  Will stood and studied the beam. He closed his eyes and let Welcome to the Jungle return to his head.

  Just as Slash began wailing into a guitar solo, Will popped his eyes open and shuffle stepped forward. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg above his head and smashed it straight down onto the beam.

  A vicious snap filled the room as the beam splintered apart at a jagged angle.

  Will kicked aside the pieces of beam and hoisted the bed up off the floor. The little girl remained stunned for a moment before scrambling from beneath it.

  Will wrapped the blanket around her and carried her into the hallway. One by one he poked his head into each of the rooms as he sprinted towards the stairs.

  Unable to see through the thick cloud of smoke, Will felt the heat begin to reach an unbearable level. He descended the stairs in quick strides with the little girl tucked in his arms.

  Halfway across the foyer he discovered the source of the added heat.

  The heavy wooden front doors had collapsed inward on themselves. A thick jumble of oak now filled the doorway, blotting out any light and keeping the smoke and heat bottled inside.

  Will slid to a stop just inches from the doors, his rubber shoes gliding over the soaked tile floor. Smoke filled the air and made it impossible to see. Flames crept inward at them from all sides.

  Will set the girl on the floor. “Stay right here, I’ll be back in one second.”

  The girl stood motionless as Will walked forward and pushed on the heavy wooden mass.

  Nothing.

  Will paused and took a few steps back, lunged forward and thrust his shoulder into the door. A tiny nudge at best.

  “Damn.”

  Will stepped back a few feet and turned his body perpendicular to the doors. He rested his weight on his left foot, slid two quick steps and shot a vicious side kick into the blistered oak.

  An audible pop was heard as the doors sagged open a foot or so.

  Inhaling a deep breath Will stepped back and turned to the other side, this time driving his left heel deep into the scorched wood. The power of his kick snapped the right door in half, revealing a two foot gap.

  A current of cool air flooded in as smoke forced its way out.

  Will picked up the little girl and cradled her in his arms. He held her tight against his body and slid through and out into the night.

  Cool air washed over them as he descended the concrete steps.

  A mighty cheer erupted from the crowd as the pair emerged. Overhead helicopters bearing insignia from various news stations hovered about, beaming bright lights down in elongated orbs.

  On the sidewalk, teams of firemen stood in forced resignation and watched the fire consume the orphanage.

  Will walked forward into the crowd and lowered the little girl to the ground. She unwrapped the wet and sooty blanket from around herself and gave him a tight hug.

  Will returned the hug for a moment, then watched as she disappeared to find her sister.

  Not more than a second later a short black woman approached and shoved a microphone in his face. “Monica Heyburn, Channel 7 News. Tell us sir, how does it feel to be a hero this evening?”

  Five

  The text arrived on Thursday evening at eight o’clock.

  Tomorrow. IAD, United 4758. Business casual attire.

  All parties had been informed that they would be given twenty-four hours notice and nothing more.

  By ten o’clock an entire team was assembled around a conference table. This was their chance.

  Printouts and coffee mugs littered the room, all strewn haphazardly around the FBI insignia stamped into the table.

  “Flight 4758 is a one way from Washington Dulles to Chicago O’Hare airport. That’s got to be our location,” an analyst named Briggs said.

  “Why?” barked Mike Manus, Special Agent in Charge on the project.

  Briggs pursed his lips for a moment. “Makes sense. Central location. Very accessible. Lots of possible sites along Lake Michigan.”

  “Thoughts?” Manus offered to the room.

  “He’s got a point," an agent named Henderly responded. "We’ve never seen one of these take place in th
e same spot twice. Chicago hasn’t been hit yet.”

  Each time someone spoke, a flurry of writing and shuffling paper erupted around the table.

  “Come on. These guys have been top-notch secretive on this from the word go. Always have been. No way it’s that easy,” agent Byrd challenged.

  “Why?” Manus asked..

  Byrd flipped a stack of papers onto the table. “Months of surveillance. Almost two years to score an invite. These guys don’t even order lunch unless it’s in code. You telling me they just handed this to us? No way.”

  “Going to need more than hunches and conjecture here,” Manus snapped.

  Heads shot downward and the paper shuffling continued.

  “Talk to me here, what else have we got?” Manus said. “We’ve been on this for two years and tomorrow’s the big dance. Don’t blow this now people!”

  A young woman with thick glasses made eye contact before looking away.

  It was enough to get Manus's attention. “What have you got Heller?”

  “Well, sir...”

  “Out with it already.”

  “Flight 4758 is a United flight.”

  “Point being?”

  “Chicago O’Hare is a United hub airport," Heller said. "Odds are they’re just routing our guy through there to another location.”

  The flurry of activity slowed for a moment as several pairs of eyes searched Manus.

  “Shit," Manus conceded. "How many cities does United fly to from Chicago?”

  “At least thirty.”

  “No way we can alert agents in every one of those cities without alerting suspicion,” Briggs said.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Manus said. “The minute we arrive, they’ll do a full body search and jam any chance for outside communication. Either we track them from the airport or we don’t track them at all.”

  A few heavy moments of silence filled the room.

  “I’ll get on the horn with our field offices in the Southwest,” Briggs offered. “Tell them to get personnel at every airport United flies to.”