by Steven James
Aina picked up on my train of thought. “The building’s main air-conditioning vents blew directly on the fire, feeding it a steady stream of air, here-”
“Creating a giant blowtorch that shot the fire through the building’s air ducts. Building B-14 didn’t have a chance.”
“You think like an arsonist,” she said.
“No,” I said, turning to face the fire. “If I did, I’d know why he chose this building.”
Creighton Melice grabbed the new cell phone he’d bought half an hour ago. Time to leave the warehouse and meet with Hunter to make the exchange.
Well, to be more accurate: to get the device. There wasn’t going to be any exchange. There was only going to be a dead ex-SEAL.
He didn’t want to worry about Cassandra somehow escaping, so he double-checked the security of the cotter pins that locked the metal bars in place at the top of the tank. The pipes passed through holes drilled into the glass, and since the cotter pins that secured the pipes were outside the glass, there was no way for her to get out, even if she were able to break the chain.
“See you soon, Cassandra,” he called. “I hope I make it back in time to say good-bye.”
The water was up to her chest. Cassandra shouted at him, a muted, hollow cry, and spit at the glass. Creighton waited a moment to watch the saliva slide into the water, and then he left her, locked the warehouse door behind him, and stepped into the cool San Diego night.
While Lien-hua went to speak to some base personnel about the nature of the bomb threat used to clear the building, I met with Aina and Ralph to try and narrow down where Hunter might be hiding.
“He could be in the crowd,” Ralph said.
“We thought of that,” said Aina. “We’re checking on everyone who’s here.”
“No,” I said. “Not this guy. He leaves. Remember? The trolley system. He likes to disappear fast, and he knows how to do it.
He’s not going to stick around. Besides, he needs to get to shore.
He wants to save Cassandra.”
I tried to figure out what the best entrance and exit routes would be. How would I get off Coronado Island?
Obvious choice: drive. Either the Coronado Bridge or the Silver Strand, the narrow strip of land that leads from the island to Impe-rial Beach. Aina seemed to read my mind. “The military is treating this as domestic terrorism,” she said. “They’re stopping all traffic leaving the island.”
“Boats?” I asked her.
“Already on it. We took a few people in for questioning. It doesn’t look like anything though.”
I heard the sound of a chopper and noticed a news helicopter hovering above the shore of the mainland. Hmm. It was possible.
“See if there’s been any base air traffic in the last hour. Choppers especially.”
“You serious, Pat?” said Ralph. “You think he flew out?”
“Just trying to eliminate the possibility.”
Aina spoke into her walkie-talkie. “No air traffic,” she said.
“Not in the last two hours.”
“Then there’s only one option left,” I said.
“What’s that?” she asked.
I pointed to the dark ocean. “He swam.”
Austin Hunter threw his arm out of the water and grabbed the edge of the dock. It had taken him longer than he expected to get to shore, but he knew there would be too much attention drawn to this fire to get off the island any other way.
After he’d hoisted himself onto the dock, he slipped out of his swim fins and then yanked off his face mask and snorkel. Normally he would have used a scuba tank and a rebreather to eliminate bubbles, but tonight he’d needed to pull something with him.
In his black hybrid wet suit he doubted anyone passing by could see him, but he needed to make sure. He gave the area a quick visual.
OK.
Clear.
Austin glanced at his waterproof watch: 1839 hours.
He needed to hurry; he was supposed to have checked in nine minutes ago.
The rope that was tied around his waist tugged at him, telling him that the five-foot-long inflatable sack containing the device was floating past him toward shore. Before it could bump into any of the dock’s pilings, he pulled the floating waterproof bag toward him, and carefully lifted it onto the dock.
49
I spent a minute studying the water, gauging the wind. The currents.
“Ralph, how far do you think it is to shore?”
He surveyed the distance. “I’d say about a mile, mile and a half.”
“You were in the special forces; how long would it take a Navy SEAL to swim that far?”
“A SEAL, with this wind… maybe thirty-five, forty minutes.”
As I stepped toward Aina I heard him mumble, “Take a Ranger twenty-five.” I took a moment to compare the swim time with the time of the fire’s origination.
“He’s on the mainland,” I said. “Aina, we need to send out an APB, have officers start sweeping the shore. Get some. Wait-” As I stared at the shoreline I saw the news helicopter again. This time I could read the writing on the side: Channel 11. “They’re filming this. Ralph, see if you can get us a feed. Pull some strings if you have to. I want to see if they’ve caught our guy on camera.” I saw Lien-hua coming toward us, picking her way through the crowd.
“Maybe we could have the helicopter crew help look for him,”
Aina suggested.
“No good,” I said. “I don’t trust the media, and the more control they have, the worse off we are. We need to get in the air ourselves.”
Lien-hua arrived, and while Aina and Ralph made the calls, I ran with her toward the amphib base’s landing pad.
The man on the phone had been very clear that if the device was not intact they would kill Cassandra. So, before delivering it, Austin decided to take a quick look and make sure it hadn’t been damaged during his swim across the bay.
He bypassed the zipper and instead tore open the waterproof bag and pulled out the black duffel bag inside. He didn’t rip this open, though, but unzipped it carefully. The device was enclosed in a protective foam wrap, which he gently unfolded.
The device looked a bit like a video camera supported on an extendable tripod base. The unit’s body had a laser focus and a satellite dish the size of Austin’s hand. An eight-inch video screen was mounted in the front, and a large removable battery pack with radioactive warning labels hung from its belly. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was some kind of laser tracking unit or remote listening device, or maybe a high-tech thermal imager. But he did know better; he’d seen those two men use it the previous night.
Austin thought this thing might have something to do with the research Cassandra was doing, but he couldn’t be certain. One time she’d mentioned a project she was working on for the government, but he hadn’t pried. After fourteen years as a SEAL, he knew that keeping secrets meant keeping your job. Now, he wished he’d asked her more about it. In any case, the device didn’t seem to have retained any damage from its trip across the bay. No way to tell for sure, but it looked intact. He folded the foam around it and zippered the duffel shut.
Time: 1844 hours.
Cassandra would be dead in seventy-six minutes unless he delivered this device.
Austin pulled his combat knife out of its sheath, cut the rope off his waist, and tossed his snorkeling gear into the ocean. Then he strapped the device to his back using two elasticized ropes as shoulder straps and sprinted up the pier.
I smacked my hand against the stucco siding of the air transport building.
Two stern MPs blocked my path. “I’m sorry, sir,” one of them said, “orders from the admiral.”
Ralph appeared beside me. “Aina sent out an APB, they’re scouring the shipyards-” Then he saw the expression on my face.
“What’s the problem here?”
“They won’t get us a bird,” I said. “We’re on a military base, not civilian soil, so they said they w
ould take care of this themselves.”
“What?” He glared at the MPs. “Let me talk to your superior officer.”
“Wait,” said Lien-hua. “Time’s not on our side anymore. Finding the right person, going through the right channels, getting clearance, we don’t have that kind of time. What did Channel 11 give you?”
Ralph shook his head. “We got nothing,” he said. “They were filming the fire, not the shore…” He looked toward the sky.
“What the-”
I followed his gaze. The news chopper had changed direction and was heading back along the beach of the mainland. “Oh no,”
I said. “They’re going for an exclusive. They’ll spook him. Ralph, can you-”
“I’m on it,” he snarled, pulling out his phone again. Before speaking into his phone, though, he told Lien-hua and me, “You two get to the mainland. Now.”
Catching up to Hunter was the key to finding Cassandra, and we had just over an hour to do it. Lien-hua and I hurried to the car.
I pulled out the car keys, but she grabbed them from my hand.
“I’ll drive.”
50
As far as Austin Hunter knew, he’d never killed anyone. Never eliminated any targets.
That’s how they put it in the special forces-eliminating targets.
His friends had. Some of them had made a career out of it. But not Austin Hunter.
How had this happened?
How had he dragged Cassandra into this?
Oh, if they hurt her in any way.
If they do anything to her.
It was because of the fire last night. He knew they were doing this because he hadn’t started the fire last night.
Austin had investigated each of the fire locations to make sure there were no occupants in the buildings. All were empty. No people. No casualties. No targets.
After the first six fires, he’d started to think that Drake was just a rich pyro who was too much of a coward to start his little recreational fires himself. And that’s what Austin told himself for the next eight fires.
But then last night came, and everything changed.
Once again Drake had told him to come at the specified time-that was always part of the deal; he wouldn’t get paid if he arrived early. But last night Austin had gotten a bad feeling after talking to Drake. The billionaire sounded really torqued about something, and Austin didn’t want to be a part of any job that went sour. So he decided to arrive an hour early to check things out.
And that’s when he saw what those two men did.
And in that moment, Austin realized that he’d gotten himself in way over his head. The men had probably used the device at each site before he arrived. That’s why he’d been brought in to start the fires.
And that’s why he’d been told not to arrive early-so he wouldn’t see them in the act.
Now they could set him up for everything.
Austin figured Drake’s men would come after him, but he never thought they’d go after Cassandra.
The news chopper rotated toward him, and Austin dashed past a marina and slipped into a gap between two buildings. He needed to avoid the sight lines of the chopper, but all the evasiveness was slowing him down and he didn’t have time for that.
Victor Drake was behind this. He had to be.
But Drake had messed with the wrong man.
Austin waited a moment for the chopper to pass, then edged into the street and ran toward the primary rendezvous point.
Earlier in the day, when he first saw the video of Cassandra in the tank, he’d thought about going after Drake, doing whatever it took to get him to talk, but he was afraid that if he did, Drake’s hired guns would find out and kill Cassandra before he could save her. And, of course, Austin couldn’t go to the authorities because the kidnappers would definitely kill Cassandra then, and afterward Drake would turn him in for starting the fires.
Really, Austin had no bargaining chips-except for his skills.
So. Mission objectives: burn down the building, retrieve the device, save Cassandra.
Then when it was all over: deal with Drake.
Yes, as far as Austin Hunter knew, he’d never killed anyone.
But if they hurt Cassandra at all, if they even touched her, that was going to change.
Creighton Melice waited anxiously by the docks for the call from Shade. According to the plan Shade had emailed him, Hunter should have found the cell phone taped beneath the park bench over twenty minutes ago. Shade was supposed to call Hunter first and then contact Melice to finalize where the exchange would take place.
But so far, nothing. Creighton didn’t like it when things didn’t go according to schedule.
A thought crawled into his mind. An awkward, uncomfortable itch.
What if Hunter had retrieved the device and decided to keep it for himself?
No. He wouldn’t do that. He loved Cassandra. That was the key to everything-his love for her. He wouldn’t leave her alone at the deadline. He wasn’t that kind of a man.
But then again, maybe Shade had read him wrong. Maybe Hunter loved something else more than his girlfriend.
Creighton decided to give Shade five more minutes and then, if he didn’t call, return to the warehouse and switch to Plan B.
7:05 p.m.
Austin heard the phone ringing and sprinted the last sixty yards at full speed to the park bench, but by the time he arrived, the ringing had stopped.
He scoured the bench, found the phone, and snatched it up.
But when he opened it all he found was dead air.
No.
Too late.
They’d been very specific about the time, and he was too late.
No, he couldn’t be too late. He couldn’t be. He slammed a fist against the bench.
Maybe they were here, somewhere close by. He looked rapidly in every direction.
No one.
No!
And that’s when he heard the sirens coming his way.
51
7:11 p.m.
I braced my hand against the car’s ceiling as Lien-hua swerved around a corner and jammed on the brakes at the edge of a semi-circle of spinning lights. In the middle of the road, surrounded by more than a dozen police officers, stood a lone man wearing one of the new breed of Kevlar-sewn body armor that doubles as a wet suit. He wielded a jagged combat knife and was turning in a cautious circle so the officers wouldn’t rush him.
Austin Hunter.
They had him cornered.
And I had to assume that they didn’t know about Cassandra.
Lien-hua and I jumped out of the car and rushed past the ambulance parked behind one of the police cars.
“Drop the knife!” one of the officers yelled. “Hands above your head!”
Hunter began to slowly raise his hands, and then in one light-ning-swift motion yanked a Kimber Tactical Custom II. 45 out of a holster slung around his chest and aimed the weapon at his own head before anyone could react.
There he stood. Knife in one hand, gun in the other.
This guy was brilliant. If he would’ve aimed the gun anywhere else-anywhere at all-the cops would have fired. And if he turned himself in, his abductors would think he’d gone to the authorities and would undoubtedly kill Cassandra. The only way to save himself and his girlfriend was to buy time by threatening to take his own life right now. Maybe get the authorities to listen to him.
To help him.
“Drop the gun!” hollered one of the officers. “Now. Drop it!”
“They’ve got her,” Hunter yelled. “They’re gonna kill her.”
I whipped out my ID, showed it to a sergeant who seemed to be the site commander. “We’re federal agents,” I said. “Stand down.”
Hunter swiveled and looked at me, the gun still aimed at his own head. “They made me do it. I didn’t want to. I need to find her.”
I heard another officer shout, “Put down the gun!”
“They’re gonna kill her,” Hu
nter yelled.
“Relax, Austin,” I said. “We’re here to help.”
The sergeant, whose badge read “Newson,” was hesitating. Something you can’t do at a time like that. This was rolling downhill fast, and there was only one outcome in sight.
Think fast. Think fast.
“Drop the gun!” someone hollered.
“Sergeant Newson,” I said. “The field office sent us.” I pointed to Lien-hua. “She’s a negotiator.” It wasn’t quite true, but she was the best hope we had of reining this in. “Let her talk to him, now, before someone gets trigger-happy.”
“FBI field office sent you?” Newson asked.
“Lieutenant Graysmith requested it,” said Lien-hua.
Yes. Good thinking, Lien-hua.
“Graysmith?” Then he shrugged. “OK. It’s his butt, not mine.”
He seemed relieved to hand the situation off to us. “Hold your fire,” he shouted into his vehicle’s built-in PA system. “Hold positions, but hold your fire.”
“OK,” I said to Lien-hua. “You’re on.”
In the tense silence, Hunter scrutinized Lien-hua and then me.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
She slowly set her gun on the pavement. “I know.”
“I just want to save her. We don’t have much time. She dies at eight o’clock.”
She stepped toward him. “We know about Cassandra,” she said.
“We want to help. Do you have any idea where she is?” Lien-hua had wisely kept the conversation on Cassandra’s situation, rather than Hunter’s, focusing on the one thing that mattered most to him.
He shook his head, the gun still aimed at his temple. “They’re gonna kill her. Drake is gonna kill her.”
Drake?
Victor Drake?
Lien-hua raised her hands, palms up, and took a gentle step toward him. “How will you get in touch with them, Austin? Can we contact them-”
“No. It has to be me. They contact me. They’re watching. They’ll kill her.”
“Drop the gun!” blared one of the cops.
“Quiet,” Lien-hua yelled. She took another step toward Hunter, her hands still open, showing she meant no harm.