Images flickered through Nick’s mind. Backpacks and laptops. An iPod smashed across the floor. He saw the lady from the lunch line slumped against a wall, her hands held to her face.
“There are mostly students, some of the people who work downstairs.”
“How many do you think they have?”
“Maybe a couple dozen.”
“Did anyone seem hurt?”
“Look, I’m sorry, I really can’t say.”
There was a long pause. Nick could hear muffled voices conferring on the other end of the line, then Phelps’ voice came back through.
“Nick, we may be asking you for a little help in a bit. Would you be able to do that for us?”
Nick felt sweat pop from his forehead. “I can try.”
“Good. Good.” Phelps paused a beat. “We’ve got someone here who’d like to talk to you now.”
“Okay.”
The sound paused again, then Morgan’s voice came through. “Baby, is that you? Are you all right?”
Nick’s heart started racing. “Yeah babe, I’m fine.”
* * *
Phelps walked away as the girl began speaking breathlessly into the telephone. Ransom was patting the camera guy on the back and pointing to the bottom of the hill. What in the hell was he up to?
“Ransom!” Phelps shouted. “We’ve got someone in the building.”
Ransom looked up and headed towards him. “Who?”
Phelps jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Girl’s boyfriend. He got to a phone inside.”
“What could he tell us?”
“Not much. I thought we might be able to use him though.”
Ransom nodded his head, thinking.
“What’s your friend doing?” Phelps motioned to Dub Taylor, who was staggering down the hillside with his camera in tow.
“I thought he might be able to get us some footage through the front of the building. Maybe get some shots to confirm who we’re dealing with.”
“You trying to get us brought up on charges of endangering civilians?”
“Relax,” Ransom sighed. “He’s a cameraman! This is what they do.”
Phelps started to speak, then stopped short as he saw the heavy-set guy setting his camera up on a set of steps that sat at an angle across from the building. The guy was in horrible shape, his belly swelling up over the top of his belt, his leg’s jiggly and soft, like packaged biscuit dough. Without his jeans, this guy had to look like the doughboy.
Wait, he wasn’t actually setting up the camera’s tripod, he was leaving it behind as he shouldered the camera and headed for the building.
“What is he doing?” Phelps hissed. He motioned at the guy and shouted, “Stay away from that building!”
Taylor either ignored him, or he was out of ear range. Nevertheless, he continued on, making his way down the length of the steps, then hanging close to the side of the building, where he shimmied down as best he could, his back pressed against the brick wall, and began filming. He played with the controls, trying to get the best angle and exposure. The sun was glinting off the glass face of the building. Through the entry way -- which was two automatic sliding doors, then a walking space, then two more doors -- he could almost, almost make out the silhouettes of people inside, but he couldn’t see if they were captives or hostages. Dub shielded his eyes from the light and glanced back at the group of agents clustered at the top of the hill by the street. Phelps threw up his hands, sweeping them back and forth in front of his face as he mouthed the word “No!” Ransom on the other hand stood behind his superior, his arms crossed, expression blank, and nodded once. Dub stood up and shuffled along the wall, moving closer to the building.
Phelps spun his head around, glaring at Ransom. “What did you tell him to do?”
“I just thought it might be in our best interest to get some footage of these guys. See if we can get a view into the rotunda to see what we’re dealing with.”
“So you sent an overweight camera guy from the local news station?! Are you out of your mind?”
“He’s got a better camera than us. Plus, he asked me if he could do it. He’s looking to win some press awards.”
Phelps shook his head. Un-believable.
Taylor was down to the corner of the building now, where the brick western wing butted up against the glass wall of the Health Sciences Building. Again, he looked up the hill, where the police, fire, and FBI stood in clusters, all watching him. Students and other civilians were spread out along the sidewalk by the street, hundreds of them. No one was talking or shouting, or spreading first-hand accounts of the events over their cell phones. Everyone was watching him.
Great.
What had he gotten himself into?
His palms were starting to sweat. Suddenly his grip on the camera and the controls seemed tenuous at best. He crouched to the ground and tried to catch his breath.
“Now or never Dubby Boy. Now or never.”
Leaning back on his heels, he pushed the record button on the camera, manually turning the focus ring as he looked through the viewfinder. At first he saw nothing, only sun glare and blurs; then he leaned into the shadows of the building, zoomed in past the glass and the outside light, and jostled the controls.
Pop.
He had a clear shot inside. Could see all the way through to the far side of the building, where four guys were standing watch. In the center of the rotunda were about two dozen tables, at which students and research staff sat in clusters. Some of them were crying, hunched over the tables as their companions put their hands on their backs and leaned down to talk to them. A row of students sat on the floor, their legs pulled up to their chests, heads fallen back against the wall. For a second it looked to Taylor like this last bunch might be dead, gunned down all in a row. Then one of them moved, rubbed his face, and leaned over to talk to his neighbor. This caught the gunmens’ attention. They looked back at the hostages, then over to three more men who stood along the front entrance.
Dub continued filming. He was a dozen or so yards from the northern entrance. The gunmen seemed more interested in watching the people in the rotunda than they were in seeing what was happening outside. Then, as Dub continued filming, the movements in the room changed suddenly. The gunman near his entrance stood at attention, as did the men at the other end of the building. The hostages looked around quickly, some huddled up against each other. Dub pulled the zoom back, sweeping the camera’s angle around the interior of the building, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening. He swept back and forth. Back and forth. Then he stopped. A group of three men came walking into the rotunda from a side corridor. From the way they moved, these were clearly the brains of the operation, the guys in charge of all this. One of the men, an average looking guy with dark hair and a thick, furrowed brow, was clearly the leader. He came in, looked around the room, then turned and started for the guards near Dub’s end of the building. Holy shit! Dub rocked the zoom all the way forward as he turned the focus ring. Fuck. His knees were killing him. He tried to shift his weight. Ouch. Keep filming, Dub, keep filming! He got a couple more seconds of footage, then paused and moved forward a bit. No sooner did he shift his weight, than he knew it was a mistake. The lens crept out of the shadows, the ones that were helping him get the shot he wanted, and tilted out into the sunlight, sunlight that ever so briefly flashed off the glass and reflected into the building. Dub caught his balance as he looked through the lens again and into the room. The guy in charge was looking up now — furious. He was pointing towards the front of the room now. At the windows! At him!
Rattatatatatata!
Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!
Dub grabbed his camera by the handle and took off running.
The glass around him exploded into a wall of twirling glass shards. He could see pieces of pavement and chunks of dirt rippling up off the ground as a barrage of bullets skittered back and forth. He fell backwards and heard the camera hit the ground with a
hollow chunking noise.
Shit, that would cost him. But not as much as if one of those bullets hit him.
“Gah!”
He crawled behind a concrete planter that ran along the front of the adjoining building. He pulled his arms and legs behind the cover and looked down at his side. A plume of blood was seeping through his shirt.
Ransom looked down on the action, caught off guard by how quickly all hell had broken loose. He motioned to the SWAT team that had moved in on the front of the building the minute the gunfire rang out.
The men swarmed down the hill, moving in single file along the edge of the front lawn, then fanning out at the bottom, each officer falling to one knee behind the bike lockers and utility boxes in front of the building. They opened fire on the gunmen who were shooting out into the crowd. The hostages inside the building started screaming. The crowd outside the building echoed the shouts of terror as they scattered down the street, away from the chaos.
Ransom ran down the hillside, his feet nearly losing their footing as they tried to keep up with his body. He got to the bottom and dove for the ground, rolling over the concrete walkway and slamming into the side of the concrete planter, about fifteen feet from where Dub was lying. He looked up at the heavy-set man, whose mouth was starting to quiver as he threatened to go into shock.
“Hang in there, Dub!” Ransom shouted at him.
Dub looked back at him weakly.
Brick started crawling on his elbows and knees, holding his head down low as bullets tore into the concrete above him, chunks of mortar exploding and flying around his head. He got to Dub, took a quick look at the man’s side, then shot his head up over the side for a moment. He got to his feet and pulled the cameraman’s beefy arm over his shoulder.
Dub screamed in pain, “Oh! Jesus Christ!”
“Ignore it! “Ignore it! We gotta go,” Ransom screamed into his ear as they took off running.
The SWAT guys continued firing into the building, strategically picking out gunmen and directing the fire towards them. The men inside ran for cover, several of them falling to the ground with muffled cries of pain. Then the shooting stopped, as the gunmen inside pulled the hostages to their feet, headed out of the rotunda, and disappeared from sight.
Dub and Brick stumbled past the corner of the hospital wing. After stealing a fleeting glance over his shoulder, Brick left Dub lying behind the cover of the building and ran over to where Sam Ballard and his men were huddled.
“I need an ambulance over here! I need an ambulance!”
Sam nodded at him, and a group of his men ran over to Dub.
Phelps stepped forward. “Good plan, Ransom. Excellent work.”
Ransom hesitated, then turned and headed back to where the injured cameraman was lying.
* * *
The noise was deafening and came without warning.
Nick had been sitting on the floor, still in the darkness, holding his knees against his chest. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
He weighed the options in his mind; they were few and far between.
Best-case scenario, he snuck down the corridor, found another way out of the building, and made his escape completely undetected. Next case, he waited in the building for the FBI or the SWAT team to raid the building, scavenge the corridors, and rescue his cowering ass. The alternate version of that scenario was that he waited, and he waited, before the FBI decided it was a no-win situation, and either the gunmen found him, or they took a bomb and blew the place sky high, with him in it. That was, by no means, a best-case scenario.
Then there were the worst-case scenarios. He waited, and he hid, only to be found, and turned into a hostage himself, another chip on the bargaining table. Or worst of all, he snuck out of this room, tried to make a run for it, and was either shot and killed, or was tortured, and then shot and killed.
Each was a sunshiny option, but the worst was waiting in the room, wondering if he would be rescued. Whether he would live or die. He had no idea how to carry out an escape, but he was starting to see the coward’s death as an inevitability, while the hero’s death was a fifty-fifty gamble. After pushing his luck with Morgan for the better part of a year, he was getting more comfortable with splitting the difference.
He walked over to the door, pressed his weight against the wooden face, and turned the handle ever so slowly. The latch pulled silently from its metal pocket in the doorframe, and clicked into place at the end of its rotation. Nick took a slow breath, held it, and started pulling the door towards himself as he pressed his left hand against the wooden frame. He peered out into the empty corridor, and was just about to sweep the door the rest of the way open, when a sharp cracking noise echoed through the building. It was followed by a thundering volley of quick, staccato gunfire, and then the ricocheting sounds of shattering glass. He nearly slammed the door shut in his panic, but caught himself, and slowly pressed it closed.
He could hear himself breathing.
“Fuck,” he thought. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
The gunfire continued. He closed his eyes. Better to know what was happening than sit in this room like a caged dog. He again opened the door, paused, and stepped out into the short, darkened hallway that led out to the corridor. He legs grew stiff with each explosion of glass. He could hear people screaming in terror. Then came the yelling. Someone had been hit. A man. One of the attackers.
Nick clenched his hands, gritted his teeth, and walked to the end of the hall, his arms and legs loose. If he got shot, he got fucking shot. He peered around the corner just as things started happening.
Two men were walking past the end of the hall. They appeared to be in no hurry. Their body language was angry, but not panicked. They were followed a moment later by a third man, who seemed more on the defensive, like his duty was to guard his comrades. This man held his gun at attention, and glanced behind him as he hurried away. Then the tide started moving. Another gunman, this one cursing and yelling, came down the hall. He was followed by about a half dozen civilians — students, nurses, and cafeteria workers — who jumped or held their hands to their heads every time shots were heard.
“Shut the fuck up!” one of the men yelled. “Keep moving!”
Two more gunmen walked past the end of the hallway. Then another half dozen hostages followed behind. One of the men glanced down the hall as he went by. Nick pulled his head back.
Goddammit. Had he seen him?
Nick waited.
Then the rushing of feet. Clamoring.
“Leave them!” one of the men yelled.
More men came rushing past. They were yelling to each other.
Then something big went off.
BoOoOooom!
The lights flickered, and the floor shook. A bomb? The sound rumbled the air. Nick threw his hands to his head instinctively, as though he’d been hit. The first boom was followed by the sounds of twisting metal and crumbling concrete, which continued for several moments, then slowly stopped.
Nick leaned his head towards the corner again, sliding one eye past the edge of the wall until he had a clear view. The air was filled with dust and smoke. Two more men ran past, the last one stopping to look behind him. Then the sounds of heavy fire doors being closed, and a solid kajunking noise as something was slammed against metal.
“Is that thing secure? Check it,” the guy yelled.
His comrade grunted back at him. “It’s good.”
Then the second man rushed past, and the two of them were gone.
The gunfire had stopped. The sounds of the people leaving the area died down.
What had happened?
How did it stand now?
Nick waited to see if any of the men would be coming back.
All he could hear were the sounds of sizzling wires. Then somewhere, far off in the building, a fire alarm started going off. But there was no sound of anyone returning.
He was just about to run down the hall to investigate, when the phone in the n
ext room starting ringing. He ran inside, caught it at the start of the next ring, and clasped the handset in his hands. He waited. Listened to see if the phone had drawn attention.
Nothing.
His hands were sweating.
He raised the receiver to his ear, took a breath, and whispered, “Hello?”
* * *
They brought the new group of hostages in. From the looks of them, they were mostly students and lab workers. Jeff watched as they were led into the lab and directed towards the back of the room, where he and the rest of the group sat on the floor, their backs against the wall, literally and figuratively. Jesus. It didn’t look like any of them had been injured, but that didn’t mean there weren’t dead or dying people around the building. They’d probably just been left upstairs. After the commotion they’d heard just a few moments ago, Jeff and the rest of the group, Renoir, Nina, David, and Raj, were certain that the cavalry had arrived. Unfortunately, the job wasn’t finished. Tim and his men were losing ground, getting pushed back inside the hospital, which meant their options would only be getting more desperate.
“What happens now?” Jeff whispered to Nina.
His friend, advisor, and occasional flame, Nina Parker was known in the business world for her unshakeable calm. At the Foundation, her unflappable, detached reasoning on nearly every business matter had earned her an icy, merciless reputation, mostly because her determinations usually led her to reorganize and regroup, which meant people were let go. Jeff never liked to do that, which was why he left that part of the management to his leadership team, but he had to admit, when Nina made a decision, it usually straightened things out, and quickly. She was a skilled surgeon, scanning the body, looking for the problems, and removing them piece by piece with infinite precision. Still, that wasn’t necessarily an endearing quality.
Nina cleared her throat. Her eyes scanned the room calmly.
“Whatever just happened upstairs, our friend with the gun came out one notch down.”
Jeff waited for her to continue.
Billionaires, Bullets, Exploding Monkeys (A Brick Ransom Adventure) Page 10