Billionaires, Bullets, Exploding Monkeys (A Brick Ransom Adventure)

by Mike Attebery

  He’d been watching them closely since the moment they’d taken control of the room, and he prided himself on the fact that their intrusion hadn’t taken him by surprise, not in the least. The explosions outside raised eyebrows and Raj had sent one of his lab workers out to investigate, but the young man didn’t come back alone. He’d returned moments later, shoved into the lab ahead of two men with guns. The momentum caused the young researcher to lose his footing and tumble to the floor in the middle of the lab. Jeff and David immediately stepped forward to help him to his feet, as roughly 10 other men, the ones in the uniforms, followed close behind. The last to enter the room was pushing an older gentleman ahead of him. Jeff heard Raj mutter “Michel” under his breath as the older man staggered inside. So that was Michel Renoir, the chair of the department. Jeff had read many of the man’s papers over the years. They’d never met, but in all his publications, and in all Jeff had heard of his career, the overwhelming impression he’d gotten was of professionalism and character. Now here he was — Renoir — hobbling into the room, his pant leg stained with blood, a stain that was spreading rapidly.

  Later, through whispered conversations in the corner, the group learned that a crane had come down — fallen across the road to the hospital’s parking garage. That was the sound they’d heard. The real fire department was busy outside, trying to get control of the fire that had weakened the crane’s base.

  Tim and Simon were standing off to the side now, discussing something in muffled, staccato bursts. They weren’t speaking any language Jeff could understand. He glanced at David and Nina, arching his eyebrows to ask, “Are you catching this?”

  David shook his head.

  Nina was straining to hear.

  Jeff kept watching the men in the corner; then he studied the armed men around them. He was used to entering boardrooms and immediately sizing up the crowd, determining who was in charge, who wanted to be, and who would do anything for leadership. Because of Jeff’s position, most people demurred to him automatically, which he found amusing, as his only qualification for such preordained hierarchy was his money. He’d been incredibly rich for the better part of his life, but it was only in the last decade that his business acumen and agility had caught up with the level of control his bank statements allowed him to flex in each of his financial associations. His assistants would scoff at what he truly felt had improved his powers of deduction, but he didn’t care. That was the reason he had David and Nina on his staff. They employed the Harvard/Wharton business school principles on behalf of the Foundation, while Jeff got to play the part of the impulsive billionaire, who acted on whims, and ran his business dealings according to the principles of his sensei, Mr. Morita. He tried to imagine how sensei would size up the situation now. Jeff’s eyes scanned the faces of the men around the room. The taller guy, with dark hair and the Jack Armstrong, all-American Boy look, that was clearly the leader. Tim was the name Jeff heard exchanged in the short mumblings among the group. What brief snippets of conversation Jeff picked up revealed a slight foreign accent, one he was still struggling to place.

  The other man was Simon. He was blond, and about a foot shorter than his counterpart, but he looked as though he had more muscle to back up his actions. He seemed to be losing his cool a bit now. He was worried, while Tim seemed unflappable. Jeff studied Simon’s eyes closely. The eyes were always the giveaway. Jeff knew where Simon’s weakness lay and he knew how he could use it later. He tucked the knowledge away and moved on.

  The rest of the room was another puzzle. Researchers, about a dozen of them, stood around the edges of the lab. None of them looked worried; they just looked irritated that their work had been interrupted. Their eyes gave up nothing.

  The same was true of Renoir, who was leaning in the corner, holding one hand on his bleeding leg. Beads of sweat had sprung to the man’s brow, but his expression showed no strain. His mouth was a relaxed, thin line. His eyes were clear. This was a man Jeff felt he could respect.

  He looked at his associates. Nina and David. Jeff had once heard the three of them referred to as “The Brain” of the Foundation. He supposed his cohorts were considered the left and right lobes, while he was, what? The primitive brain? The id-controlling idea portion of the operation? That was fine by him. That was probably fine by everyone else as well, just so long as he kept signing the checks.

  The description was dead on, however. Nina and David were the left and right regions of the organization’s central core. Just watching them now, Jeff could tell what each was thinking. Nina stood in her business suit, hair just so, clothes just so, legs just so... Never mind. He wouldn’t go there, not again. Maybe some day. She looked great, and the way her dark brown eyes were taking everything in, planning, strategizing, and extrapolating, well, it was quite appealing.

  David seemed itchy to move. Jeff could see his fingers twitching and flexing behind his lightly clenched fists. The grip was loose, there was no white on the knuckles, but David was clearly ready for action. Jeff knew nothing stupid would take place, but it gave him comfort to see that one of them was thinking of revenge, especially when so many in the room seemed completely and hopelessly resigned to their fates.

  Which brought him to Raj. Jeff had never liked the sound of the man. His personality had come through, even in his most technical project proposals, like the guy dotted every “I” and crossed every “T,” but he never found any heart or passion to put into the words on the page, and so, they simply read like cold, calculating requests for more money. Raj’s impersonal handshake was icing on a tasteless cake.

  Now he was just standing there, head cocked forward like a mindless coat hook. His face looked peeved, like someone had just stuck a chilled olive down the back of his shorts. The cold-fish handshake was the clincher, though. That was the deciding factor. Once they got out of this, Jeff was cutting the funding. He knew it immediately. The way the guy was standing, the angle of the melon on his pencil neck, the vacant irritation in his eyes, and the way one hand was clasping the wrist above the other, line a ten-year-old cowering in the corner during gym class, that was it.

  Jeff knew that look. Raj was someone who only looked out for himself. He was the kind of guy who never helped his buddies out in grade school. They might get tagged in the middle of a dodge ball match, and Raj might somehow survive, but he’d make no effort to help his friends out. He could be the only survivor, and he’d just stand there, all but closing his eyes, wishing the game was over, or daydreaming about his chemistry set back home. Well, now Jeff owned the man’s chemistry set, and he was ready to smash it, or barring that, take it and give it to the fat kid, Milton, the one who knew nothing, but would mix everything together and make it explode. Ah Milton, you old goof.

  Jeff’s mind was wandering.

  He looked back to Nina and David, who turned to him in unison, their eyes calm and engaged. They were working on a solution.

  Jeff walked over to them and leaned in an ear. Tim and Simon glanced over their shoulders at the three of them, then turned away. It was like the negotiating parties at a corporate merger. This would be interesting.

  Jeff looked at Renoir. This man could fill them in on their predicament. When they got a chance, Jeff was ready to pick his brain.

  * * *

  Sam’s men were treating victims at the scene of the explosion and trying to find out whether an operator had been in the crane’s control cab when it went down. That would be the next, potentially gruesome bit of work they’d need to get out of the way.

  The fact that the building was still at such an early stage of construction and free of landscaping had prevented the fire from spreading further than the reaches of its own fuel, but the breadth of the blaze was still massive. To someone just approaching the scene, the flames raging up through the clouds of thick smoke might have looked like some sort of gas-line explosion. The closest image Sam could conjure up was the long-ago news footage of the raging oil wells as Saddam’s soldiers had retreated
and set fire to drilling locations in the first Gulf War.

  Sam had moved his base of operations from the front of the hospital to the hill overlooking the construction site. They were still determining the situation inside the building, but now he needed to keep one eye on the the incident on the lower grounds as well.

  He raised a walkie-talkie and barked into the handset, “Any word on the crane operator?”

  The radio crackled and hissed, then a voice hollered through the din. “Nothing yet. Frasier and Parker are talking to the crew now.”

  “Ten four,” Sam responded.

  A noise rose up from the crowd behind Sam as the forward-most people parted ways for Mark Price, who stepped forward, a young girl beside him. It was Morgan. Sam nodded his head towards them.

  “What is it?”

  His friend looked grim.

  “We may have a different situation on our hands here.”

  “What do you mean?” Sam asked.

  “This young lady says she was in the building and saw two men with firearms sealing off doors between the wings.”

  Sam turned to Morgan. “Is that true?”

  She nodded back. “They were in fire department uniforms.”

  Sam felt a shiver. “Anyone else see this?”

  Mark nodded slightly, “A few folks have mentioned seeing men in fire gear inside the building before the alarms went off. Did you guys have any inspections going on today?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. And there were no calls to the station before then.”

  Mark put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Which area of the building were you in?”

  “The Health Sciences wing.”

  “No alarms were set off in that section,” Sam said.

  “So there are probably still a lot of people down there.” Mark pressed the transmitter on his radio. “This is Price. Tully, take a few men and check the entrance to the Health Sciences lobby.”

  “On our way.”

  Morgan’s eyes were wide now. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll see in a minute,” Mark barked.

  Sam took a deep breath, the air in his lungs catching for a moment, then wheezing out in a series of staggered gasps. He was feeling the pressure.

  Mark stood, two fingers lightly pressed against his chin. His eyes darted from side to side, a nervous tick, then they locked in place, and he turned to Morgan.

  “Do you know if there was anything unusual happening on campus today? Any speakers or events?”

  “Yeah-” Morgan started, her eyes opening wide. “Jeff Pepper was visiting the Department of Immunology.”

  “Jeff Pepper-” Mark glanced at Sam. “Why was he coming?”

  “He’s been funding some big project one of the research professors has been working on.”

  “What time was he supposed to arrive?” Sam asked.

  “Noon.”

  “The alarms went off at 12:15,” Sam said flatly.

  “Shit.”

  The radio on Sam’s shoulder crackled to life, “Chief, we have a situation here.”

  “What is it?”

  A pause, then the hollow voice shot through, “It looks like we have about two dozen people in a hostage situation. The doors to the lobby have been sealed, ‘bout a half dozen armed guys are standing guard.”

  “Oh my God!” Morgan exclaimed. “My boyfriend is in there.”

  Sam glanced at Morgan, then at Mark. “We have a VIP in a hostage situation, and armed gunmen in a government-funded research building... We’re gonna have to step things up a bit.”

  “What does that mean?” Mark asked.

  “I’m calling Ransom at the FBI.”

  * * *

  The chopper was circling in around the south end off the building, giving them a clear view of the fire down below. Whatever had set off the blaze was still churning out a thick cloud of black smoke. A construction crane was on its side, debris spread down the hill and across a roadway behind the hospital. Masses of people were spread out in the areas around the site.

  Brick Ransom sat by the window, the muscles in his arms and legs growing tense with anticipation. He was suited up in what he called his SWAT equipment, but where the movies always had the letters spread out across the back and chest of the outfit, his gear was plain black. Brick was 45 years old, and as they said in the movies, he should have been “too old for this shit,” but he loved it.

  The pilot’s voice came through Ransom’s earphones, “I’ll have to sweep around to the north and land on the highway. That smoke’s too thick on this side.”

  Ransom nodded his head.

  Twenty minutes ago he’d been at home in his kitchen, slicing onions for a tartlet he was making for dinner. Tonight was the night of the “big date” with the woman he’d been seeing. Victoria. It was seal-the-deal night, which called for his signature seal-the-deal onion tartlet. Why it worked, he didn’t know, but something about that dish, the flaky crust, the smell, the flavor. The fact that Brick, a muscular man’s man, could put together such an intricate dish, it just seemed to work. Onion tartlet was his aphrodisiac of choice, an awesome force of nature he only pulled out when he knew he was ready for the next step. No point bedding a woman he wasn’t looking to get serious with. That got too messy, and onion tartlet was just too complicated, no matter how hot the target. Plus, for a man like himself, there was always the risk of injury. Not to his heart, but to his hands. He worked fast, cutting and slicing, mincing and filleting. His hands and his eyes worked in sharp harmony, but on occasion, just as in his work, he would hit a bump and have an accident. His fingers were speckled with a series of small scars from long-ago wounds, mementos of dinners and work assignments gone by.

  ‘Course, knives weren’t the only utensils known to cause him harm. He’d jammed his fingers in guns. Blasted his skin with handgun discharge. And he’d shot more than a few guys, all bad, and in each case, the slip of his finger on the trigger had seemed almost serendipitous, like he’d read the culprit’s mind and known the exact instant when he planned to turn the gun on the hostage, or open fire on the crowd below, and somehow he, Ransom, had popped off a round, hitting the bad guy, missing the good guys, and saving the day. No one ever suspected that he suffered from a sweaty trigger finger, but that was the case. He was working on that, but it always made him nervous. His greatest fear was being nicknamed Agent Butterfingers.

  Victoria. He licked his lips, half for the woman, and half for the onion tartlet. God those things were good. One way or the other, he’d be home for dinner.

  Back to the business at hand. The chopper was coming in for the approach. The pilot was scanning the area for power lines, carefully setting up the landing location.

  “I’ll have you on the ground in a minute.”

  Ransom glanced back at the other passengers onboard. There was Phelps, the top man at the Seattle FBI branch, perpetually dressed in a little plaid hat, with a John Waters moustache and Ed Harris features. Beside Phelps were Aftab and Murray, two guys similar to himself, dressed in the gear, ready to go into action. They were the action men, G-men with muscles and cool clothes. Then there was Brick Ransom himself, part action man, part negotiator, part improvisational decision maker. He liked to think of himself as MacGyver. He didn’t tell people that. They’d laugh.

  Then they were on the ground. A group of police officers headed up the lawn to greet them as the FBI contingent disembarked. The first officer stepped up, shouting over the spinning rotor blades.

  “I’m Officer Gridley! Which one of you is in charge here?”

  Phelps came forward. “Agent Phelps, Seattle FBI.”

  The officer looked at Phelps blankly.

  “Which one of you is Brick Ransom?”

  “I’m Agent Ransom.”

  “Follow me please, sir!”

  Brick stared straight ahead, avoiding any sideways glances from Phelps, who was undoubtedly pissed off. The group headed down the sloping grass to the courtyard in front of the
Research Sciences Building. Crowds of people, students and staff, stood in clusters everywhere.

  Ransom knew there was a reason the police had asked for him and not Phelps. Actually, in this case there were several reasons. He was sort of the go-to guy for the Seattle Police Department. He was known to do good work with minimal hassle and maximum payoff. He was easy to deal with and made solid decisions. In this case there was another reason: He was good friends with Jeff Pepper. Jeff and the other fella, Mister Big Shot Computer Guy, they’d all gone to school together. Those two had been the computer guys, while Brick was the ladies man. At any rate, they were all kinda tight still. Brick had also helped each of them out in a number of delicate situations, the type that can only happen to two of the top-five richest men in the world. Kidnapping threats, ransom, extortion, all were scenarios both men had had to address at one stage or another over the last 10 years. They’d always come out on top.

  When the police realized Jeff Pepper might in fact be in the middle of this particular crisis, they’d no doubt known there was only one man for the job: Agent Butterfingers.

  * * *

  The crane was blocking the exit. That’s what Renoir was telling them:

  “The whole fucking thing came down.”

  Those were the words coming out of his mouth.

  That was the situation.

  These guys were trapped!

  Jeff and the rest of the group stood huddled around Renoir, as the older man sat slumped in a chair in the corner, his hands clasped around his leg. Jeff squeezed his hand down on the old man’s shoulder as David rolled up a blood-soaked pant leg to examine the wound. Renoir caught his breath between clenched teeth.

  “Hold on,” Jeff murmured to him.

  Renoir turned away as David exposed the bullet wound. Blood was caking into a red and black plug, but a trickle of crimson swirled out and down the knee the moment the pant leg brushed against the wound. Nina caught her breath and pulled a scarf from around her neck. Jeff recognized it as the $600 Hermes he’d given her last Christmas.

  “Here,” Nina said. “Keep pressure on that.”