Gupta hesitated, then pressed his hand against the door and swung it closed. Jeff glowered at him through the thick glass.
Then, the phone started ringing...
* * *
Tim lifted the receiver from its cradle on the wall. He said nothing, simply held it to his ear. There was an ever-so-soft click on the end of the line, then a voice came on, a sort of older brother, commanding, yet jovial voice, one with an oh-so-subtle southern lilt at the end of each word.
“Hello,” the voice said.
The tumblers in Tim’s brain skittered softly as he looked around the room.
At the moment he had two businessmen, a woman, two professors, and three lab techs held captive. Three of his men: two gunmen and his second in command, Simon, were placed at the doors and pacing the room. Upstairs, from what Simon had just told him, there were a dozen more hostages, and almost as many of his own men holding them and guarding the main rotunda.
Their exit was now blocked. They needed to find another way out.
Of course, there was also that wall of canisters on the far side of the room. Each was the size of a beer bottle, white, with a small blue rocker switch on the side. One click, a few electric pings, and everything would be different.
Those canisters were the wild card.
He contemplated them. Which would be the easiest to lift? Where would he hide it? Were they heavy? The variables made his heart stutter, but only once. His eyes darted to the side and he saw Professor Renoir looking right at him, his expression set, his mouth a thin line. Their eyes locked, then Renoir looked away.
“Is this the man in charge?” the voice on the phone continued.
“Yes it is,” Tim answered softly.
“Can I get your name?” The voice questioned.
“You can call me Tim.”
“Tim, this is agent Phelps, from the Washington State FBI.”
“Yes?” Tim waited.
A moment of silence as Phelps undoubtedly consulted with his cohorts as to what he should say next.
“Do you have a moment to talk, Tim?”
“Only if you can help me.”
“We’re here to help. That’s why I’m calling,” Phelps said. “You’ve obviously got something underway here. I don’t know what, so I need you to fill me in on some things.”
Again, Tim sat silently.
“It might help us if you’d explain why you’re doing this, what you’re after.”
“Just doing an errand, picking up a few things.”
“Uh huh...”
He could hear Phelps’ brain churning.
“Well Tim, it looks like while you were in the store, getting the milk or whatever it was you were after, something blew up in the store parking lot, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I’ve been made aware of that,” Tim said coolly.
“Does that affect your plans at all?”
“I’m working on that.”
“That’s what I was figuring,” Phelps drawled back. “Thought we might be able to help you out with that.”
“Look, agent-“
“Phelps.”
“Look agent Phelps, I’ve got your number here. Perhaps I’ll get back to you in a little bit-”
“Fine.”
“-and you know where you can get ahold of me now.”
“Yes I do,” the voice said flatly. “One more thing.”
Tim waited. He heard Phelps take in a shallow breath.
“Does this have something to do with Jeff Pepper? Is he all right?”
Tim’s eyes settled on the man standing on the opposite side of the glass.
Son of a bitch.
He heard another breath on the end of the line, “- — -.”
Then he hung up the phone.
* * *
“Well good job buddy,” Ransom patted Phelps on the back. “You either saved my friend’s life, or signed his death certificate with that last comment.”
Phelps ignored him. He glanced at Murray, who stood over a field computer waiting for results. A green “Fantasia” voice line danced on the screen as Tim’s muffled voice was replayed through the machine’s tiny speakers.
“You get anything yet?” Phelps asked.
“We’ve got a couple possible matches. Narrowing it down as we speak.”
Ransom was getting worked up. “What do we do now?”
“You know what we do now. You’ve been through one or two of these before.” Phelps continued. “This is where we wait.”
“Where we wait.” Ransom flexed his hands. “Wait to find out if we’re calling the bio cleanup crew, going in to do something ourselves, or standing out here with our respective thumbs up our asses? That kind of waiting?”
Phelps nodded, “We do work for the U.S. government, son.”
Brick had no comeback.
They waited.
The fire department was slowly getting the fire at the construction site under control. Three hoses were spraying at the base of the flames as steam rolfed up into the air in thick, white plumes. An ambulance squawked its siren as it made its way from the accident site to the far end of the hospital.
“That’s convenient,” Phelps observed as the vehicle drove past.
“Okay,” Murray said. “We’ve got a couple of possibilities, but one with a 90 percent match.” He pointed at a couple of spikes in the line chart.
“And who is that?” Ransom asked.
Murray’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he pulled up a series of windows. Then he tapped the keyboard once and a voice came through the speakers:
“I believe our negotiations are wrapping up now. Perhaps next time you’ll try harder to make this work for both of us-”
The recording cut off abruptly.
“What happened there?” Phelps asked.
Murray made a mushroom cloud gesture with his hands, “Boom.”
“When was that?”
“U.S. Embassy bombing in one of our pet countries. Three years ago. He and his crew took control of the building with 33 Americans inside. Made their demands, got half of them filled, then got restless. Wiped out half of his own guys in the process. He and the main group escaped through the parking garage, slipped into the crowd during the explosion.”
“What kind of an explosion?” Phelps asked.
“A big one.”
Ransom looked at his boss, his face a virtual question mark.
Phelps shrugged his shoulders and turned to Murray. “It’s not a stupid question.”
“Well, it wasn’t a dirty bomb, but it was strong. Turned a five-story building to pancake mix in about 15 seconds.”
“Who is he?” Ransom asked.
“Last name’s Griffin. First name they don’t know. Initials on file are H. K.”
“What group is he with?”
“Near as we can tell, he’s a free agent. All his tags are for weapons connections. He seems to set the bad guys up with their nasty little toys, but he’s got that mean streak. There are three big events in here, and all of them ended with him killing the hostages despite the result.”
“So he’s spiteful?” Phelps said. “Great.”
“How sure are you on this match?” said Ransom.
“I’d love visual confirmation.” Murray turned the computer to show a picture of an average looking guy with a close-cropped haircut on screen. “But even without it, I’m pretty sure this is him.”
“So, we won’t expect negotiations to play out in good faith.”
“Don’t let him think that, though!” Phelps grumbled. “Jesus.”
“But this is who we believe we’re dealing with?” Ransom asked.
Phelps nodded.
“Okay then.” Brick turned to Murray. “Talk to your guys, get me everything you can find on this guy. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
“What we’re dealing with, Ransom,” Phelps muttered. “What we’re dealing with is-”
His words were wasted. Ransom was already hea
ded for the squad car, returning to the spread-out building plans.
* * *
Jeff was still standing in the middle of the glass-enclosed room.
He looked bored.
It was a façade.
His mind was racing. He looked at Tim, who had just hung up the phone. He couldn’t hear a word that had been said. Nina and David’s expressions showed mutual confusion.
Who had this guy been talking to?
More of his cohorts? The police?
What would happen now? Were they about to see Raj’s project in action? On himself?? Jesus.
Tim’s hand still rested on the phone receiver as it sat in its cradle on the wall. He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezed the skin between his eyes, massaging it sharply. Then, just as casually, Tim approached the glass and pulled the door open.
“Mr. Pepper, please make yourself comfortable.”
Then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving his men behind to stand watch.
The group sat, bewildered, as Jeff walked out of the chamber and back across the room. He shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what to do next.
Then he realized.
The guy knew who he was now.
That could only be a bad thing.
Inside Story
The news vans were starting to arrive at the scene. Brick watched as they hopped the curb and pulled up alongside the police and fire department vehicles.
What made the media folks feel they were just as important as the people trying to handle every crisis?
The van for KOMO News was the first to open its doors, and a heavyset guy in a Hawaiian shirt emerged from within, carrying a camera in his left hand. He lurched his legs out, one then the next, and stumbled onto the sidewalk, where he sort of teetered backwards as he closed the doors behind him.
A blond-haired woman in her early thirties sat in the front seat, poking at her hair with a pick. Brick leaned forward, getting a better look to confirm his suspicions.
Yep.
Hot.
The guy in the shirt looked over at him.
“Hey man! What’s happening?”
Brick shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me.”
“Come on man, look at you. You’re wearing the gear; you know what’s up.”
Brick shook his head slightly, but smirked.
The fat guy put out his hand. “Dub Taylor, KOMO News.”
“Brick Ransom, FBI.”
“FBI huh?”
“I still can’t tell you anything,” Brick replied.
“Well, can you at least suggest a good spot to shoot from? I need to get this thing rolling so they can cut to us from the studio.”
Brick studied the camera, then turned to the bay of windows along the second floor of the Health Sciences Building.
“Hey, what kind of range does that camera have?”
“Let me put it this way. With the zoom on this thing, I could make a fortune selling videos of the sorority girls here on campus, and I live way up on Queen Anne.”
Brick nodded. “Follow me.”
* * *
Nick’s eyes popped open.
His chin shot up from his chest and the back of his head thumped against the door. He’d fallen asleep, just for a moment. A moment, or an hour, he couldn’t tell. The room was pitch black. He blinked and looked around. A thin band of pale light glowed at the base of the door. The details of the room began moving forward through the darkness as his eyes adjusted. He wanted to turn on a light, but he didn’t dare.
A hollow, metallic rumbling grumbled overhead. The ventilation ducts were shifting as the air came on. Maybe he could climb through those to safety.
Nah, that only worked in the movies.
In real life it would be like The Breakfast Club -- even if he could wedge himself in there, the whole damn thing would come tumbling down as soon as he crawled out over the hallway. What good would that do him? He’d get shot up like a fish in a barrel.
Nick lowered his head to the floor, listening for noises from down the corridor.
Silence.
What the hell had he gotten himself into here?
Yeah, he’d run away, but run away to a private prison cell in the basement of the building. There were no ways out of here. No windows. No escape hatches. Just an empty room, with a locked door, and an unscrewed light bulb. He stood up, feeling his way though the darkness, his hands skimming over the painted cinder-block walls. Maybe there was a fire axe or a broom or something.
Then he felt it. He almost knocked it off the wall as his hands swept up and down like a blind man’s.
Screw the light bulb.
He had a telephone.
* * *
The phone rang again.
Phelps answered and walked to the side of the curb, covering one ear from the sounds of the people around him.
The scene was growing more carnival-like by the second. The news vans from several TV station were set up now. Every 10 yards, a young, blond reporter was delivering a similar shpeel. Morgan watched from a distance as the woman from KOMO News rattled off her variation on the events of the afternoon.
“This is Rebecca Frasier, live at the scene of a bizarre police, fire, and state law enforcement operation at the University campus here in Seattle. No word yet on what exactly has taken place, but we’ll be sure to keep you posted. In the meantime, check out this shot of a burning tanker truck and a construction site engulfed in flames.”
The camera guy, Dub, quickly panned the camera over to the slowly dying fire at the base of the hill as Ms. Frasier lifted her hand to her ear, no doubt catching the entrancing insight of the anchors back at the station.
Rebecca nodded her head, “Yes, fire. Lots and lots of fire. Mmm-hmmm... mm-hmmmm, well, no word on the situation at the school itself, but yes, the FBI is here, and there are individuals in what appear to be SWAT uniforms arriving on the scene.”
As if on cue, three black vans came roaring down the street. They came to a stop in front of the building, and three dozen men in dark assault gear came bursting out onto the sidewalk. Morgan watched, agog, as the men swarmed the scene, two of them rushing toward Phelps, who waved them away with his hand. Morgan stepped closer to see what the FBI lead was discussing. The other guy, Brick Ransom, (what a hottie, and what a name!), he too was watching Phelps closely as the man spoke into the handset.
“Are we sure this isn’t some type of practical joke? The news guys are showing this place from every angle at the moment. This could be some asshole with too much time on his hands between Jerry Springer and his daily Girls Gone Wild video fix.”
Phelps nodded his head.
“Okay then, patch him through.”
Phelps looked at Ransom.
“What is it?” Ransom asked.
“911 just got a call from a man claiming to be inside the building.”
Morgan’s head shot up.
“They’re patching the call through to me now,” Phelps continued.
Ransom spun towards Aftab and Murray, snapping his fingers and motioning for them to record the call. Murray nodded and turned to his computer.
There was a pause as Phelps stood there with his mouth hanging open slightly, waiting to speak, “- — -.”
The phone clicked audibly.
“Hello. This is Agent Phelps from the FBI. Who am I talking to?”
Morgan held her hands to her chest, afraid to breathe. Ransom glanced over, seeing the expectant expression on her face.
“Nick King?” Phelps asked.
Morgan let out a sigh of relief.
“That your boyfriend?” Ransom asked.
Morgan nodded.
Brick didn’t know why, but he was sort of pissed off.
“Okay Nick, first of all, are you all right?” Phelps nodded his head. “Good. Good. Then we’re gonna need to get some information from you.”
Morgan shivered as her arms and legs started trembling. She sat down on the curb and look
ed over at Ransom, who had turned and was now walking over to the KOMO cameraman. She looked up at Phelps, who was looking off into the distance as he spoke into the phone.
“First of all, lets start with where in the building you are right now.”
* * *
“I’m in the utility tunnel on the first floor.”
Without realizing it, Nick had pressed his back into the corner of the room, trying to squeeze himself into the tightest, most protected place he could find. He held the phone against his mouth, speaking into the mouthpiece with a hushed hiss.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, man, but there are gunmen in this building.”
“We’re aware of that, son.” Phelps said.
“I was in another part of the building when the alarms went off. My girlfriend was with me. Her name is Morgan Phillips.”
There was a pause.
“Morgan is here with us, Nick.”
Nick’s breath caught in his throat. “She is?” He exhaled in a series of stammering gasps. “Thank God.”
Phelps continued, his southern drawl dripping through the handset. “Son, we’re not sure what the hell is going on, but we’re hoping you might be able to give us a little more information about what’s happened in there.”
“I’ll try.”
“We don’t know who these people are, or what they want. We don’t have a clue, so we don’t know how to deal with them yet. If they’ll negotiate. If they just want to get out. If they’re there to take lives.”
“There was blood,” Nick said.
Phelps stopped short, “Blood-?”
“In the Immunology Department office.”
“Did you see any victims?” Phelps asked. “Any bodies?”
“No.”
“Have you seen anyone?”
“Yeah. I had to run from two men. They saw me as I was heading downstairs to get out of the building.”
“So, you’re near the front rotunda?”
“I was. I’m a little ways away from there now.”
“Can you hear anything?”
“Not really.”
Nick was trying to slow his breathing. He strained his ears, listening, trying to picture the corridor in his mind, mentally walking through the halls and out to the rotunda where he had seen the men with their guns, and the hostages.
“We know these people have hostages in that part of the building. Were you able to get a look at them? Could you see who they have with them?”
Billionaires, Bullets, Exploding Monkeys (A Brick Ransom Adventure) Page 9