“That is the biggest load of you-know-what I’ve ever heard, and yes, that’s the type of people from whom the hate mail flows in.”
“Let me just add this,” Derrick said. “It says, ‘Since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, religious and racial profiling has namely victimized Muslims, Arabs, Middle Easterners, and South Asians, all of whom have endured disproportionate scrutiny from law enforcement.’”
“See, Whittaker, what those people don’t want to admit, for whatever reason, is that there is a very real terror threat in America. Within the last year we’ve been made aware of increased incidents involving the stockpiling of explosives, the surveillance of targets, and an increasing number of significant plots and attack plans. Some of these come from—”
“Are we on the record?”
“Yes. Some of these initiatives come from homegrown terrorists, common criminals who set out on a path of radicalization toward jihadism. Many others come from people who’ve come to the US for the sole purpose of causing havoc and ruining the freedom we have in the West. I don’t care which they are; under my presidential leadership they will be ferreted out and brought to the severest justice. Call it whatever you want. Someone’s got to do something. My administration will do whatever it takes.”
“So—”
“If people have a problem with that”—Sterling raised his voice—“they shouldn’t put me on the ballot for president. But if they have a problem with bombs going off in our subways, I’m their man. They need to support me and encourage all their friends to do the same.”
Derrick scribbled furiously as Sterling walked around his desk to the door.
“I guess the next time we’ll see each other will be back in Columbus, eh?” the senator said. “I’m anxious to get home. See the family. Who knows, in another fifteen months we may be living over on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Hold on a sec, sir.” Derrick continued to write. When he finally had it all down, he eyed the senator. “Are you concerned for your safety at all? I noticed you have security guards.”
“Back off the record?” Sterling said.
“Okay.” Derrick gathered his things and went to the door.
“I feel like this is my calling. I truly believe my becoming president will be the best thing for this country. We’re at a turning point. It’s a crucible of sorts. Someone’s got to take the reins. And, yes, with that are going to be threats. I’m not afraid.” He shook his head. “I’ve never been afraid to die, especially not for my country.”
“You never had your own security detail before …”
“I’ve had to hire my own! You wouldn’t believe the threats. But that’s a story for another day. I’ve got to get busy.” Sterling opened the office door and stepped out. “Needless to say, I’m becoming close friends with old Parker out here.” Parker, the hefty security guard, nodded while staring straight ahead.
Derrick smiled and headed out. “I’ll see you back in Ohio, sir.”
“What was it the chaplain said at the prayer breakfast this morning?” Sterling said. “Don’t say, ‘Today or tomorrow I’ll go to this city or that—for you don’t even know what will happen tomorrow.’”
That was odd, Derrick thought. He never knew Sterling to be a religious man. In fact, behind closed doors with his cronies, the senator’s language could be vividly R-rated. But then again, when you had enemies like he did, foxhole religion might not be so out of the question.
11
Festival Arena, October 6
Shakespeare stood with his hands clasped behind his back in the far corner of the buzzing room, glad to be able to hear firsthand what was going on with the arena brain trust. All the key players were there, from Martin Sterling and Everett Lester to Reese Jenkins, Clarissa Dracone, and the head of the SWAT team.
Jenkins straightened his tie, took a swig of water, and raised a hand with a thick gold ring on his finger. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.”
The room immediately went silent, and all eyes turned to the arena CEO.
“By now we’ve all been made aware of the threat,” Jenkins said. “The very latest intel from Homeland mentions fifteen insurgents planning some kind of attack or takeover here tonight. Senator Sterling has been mentioned as a target.”
Sterling cleared his throat and held his head high.
“From what I am told, there is a 38.8 percent chance this could really happen.” Jenkins nodded to a husky, sour-faced man, fully armed and shielded from head to toe in navy fatigues and combat gear. “Lieutenant Wolfski here has a top-notch SWAT crew spread out across the arena. Columbus PD will be here shortly with at least twenty more officers with shields and combat gear.” Jenkins put his hands on his waist and strolled several steps. “Senator Sterling wants the show to go on. Mr. Lester, I believe, is awaiting a consensus from all of us—”
“Can I just say a few words?” Sterling gripped Jenkins’s shoulder.
“Please.” Jenkins swept a hand toward the others. “Go right ahead.”
The senator slowly ran a thumb across his lips before speaking. “Folks, since I began my campaign, we have had threats—all kinds of threats.” He paused. “Why is this happening almost everywhere we go? Why?”
Sterling walked several steps, intently examining each face in the room. Then he spoke almost in a whisper. “Freedom. It’s why we’re here tonight. I can guarantee you that the thousands of people lined up outside this building want this event to go on.” His volume increased with each word. “That’s why they’re here. That’s what our ticket is about—stopping these evil lunatics from scaring us to death, from threatening our liberties and stealing our American way of life.”
Jenny King’s broad shoulders straightened, and her chin went up proudly.
Static blurted in Shakespeare’s earpiece. “This is Steve Basheer to base, over.”
Clarissa blinked, looked down at her radio, and adjusted the dials.
“Go ahead, Steve,” Tab said from base.
“I’m just getting up to the Sky Zone …”
There was a clattering sound. Clarissa’s head jerked up, and her eyes burned into Shakespeare’s.
“Steve?” Tab said. “Steve Basheer, go ahead from the Sky Zone.”
Nothing.
That was it.
Something was wrong up there.
Clarissa turned her back on the group in the room and walked to the corner opposite Shakespeare. “Base, this is Clarissa. What about Charlie? Any word? Has he turned up? Over.”
“Negative. Over.”
Sterling continued his speech, but Shakespeare was listening to Tab in his earpiece, pleading for Steve Basheer to answer his radio but getting nothing.
Clarissa checked her watch and weaved her way to the front of the room next to Jenkins. She whispered in his ear, and he looked down at her, his face darkening.
He spoke up. “Excuse me, Senator. We have a development.”
All heads turned to the CEO of the arena.
“One of our security people is … he’s not been heard from in a few minutes.”
The room fell even more quiet.
“We sent a man up to find him at the top of the arena, what’s known as the Sky Zone.” Jenkins turned to Clarissa, then back to those in the room. “The man we sent up made it to the Sky Zone, but we’ve lost contact with him.”
If this had been a normal group of spectators, gasps would have rung out. But these were professionals, security guards, SWAT. People stared straight ahead, jaws clenched.
Just then Karen entered the room with a sheepish look, followed by Cole. They made their way to Everett and stood next to him.
“Sir, doors are scheduled to open in exactly three minutes,” said Clarissa. “As the senator said, we have a huge crowd outside. Many, many more than expected. We could have ten or twelve thousand he
re tonight—many women and children, many elderly. We need to make a decision. I’m 95 percent sure that I can speak for my boss, Keefer O’Dell, who’s en route from Cleveland, when I say we should not let one guest inside this building when there are one, possibly two EventPros missing.”
Jenkins pursed his lips and nodded respectfully.
Sterling rolled his eyes as Jenny King whispered in his ear. The senator ripped his coat off and stuffed it in Jenny’s arms.
“From what I’m told, the man missing is elderly, with a history of heart issues,” Sterling said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions and go into panic mode without concrete reason to think something is amiss.”
“Sir, with all due respect, if I may …” Shakespeare couldn’t keep quiet a second longer.
Sterling scowled. “And you are?”
Clarissa spoke up. “This is Brian Shakespeare, former US marine, sharpshooter, and Desert Storm veteran.”
Shakespeare was pleasantly surprised by Clarissa’s accolades.
Sterling raised his eyebrows.
“Go ahead, Brian,” Everett said. “Give us your take.”
“Why risk it?” Shakespeare’s hands remained behind his back. “I mean, I’m with you, Senator. No one’s more against terror on our soil than I am—”
“If that’s true, you would agree this event must go on!” Sterling said.
“Sir, in my eyes, the only real defense we have in this building right now is Lieutenant Wolfski’s SWAT team. It’s just not enough—”
“More are on the way,” Sterling argued. “Plus, we have your team.”
Shakespeare chuckled. “Sir, again with respect, the EventPros staff is unarmed and untrained in the type of event we’re talking about. Why not at least wait until Columbus PD arrives before opening the doors? And also, find our two people. I’m not saying cancel the event, but get more armed people in place and make sure our people are okay.”
“I agree,” Everett said. Karen looped her arms around him and nodded.
Clarissa’s shoulders slumped in relief.
Jenkins nodded, looked at Clarissa, and tapped his watch.
The SWAT leader looked at Sterling as if awaiting the final verdict.
Sterling rubbed his forehead and leaned backward as if in pain. “You people forget we are the ones footing the bill for this venue.”
Jenny whispered something to Sterling.
“Oh, all right, all right,” he conceded. “Delay it fifteen minutes. But we’re opening at six forty-five. Not a minute later.”
“Thank you, Senator.” Clarissa hustled for the door.
Jenkins called to her. “Let me know the minute O’Dell gets here.”
“Yes, sir.” Clarissa ran out.
Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
“Urgent, urgent. This is Clarissa to base and all EventPros.”
Shakespeare listened intently on his radio for her announcement while looking at his watch, then his cell phone. Both read 6:33 p.m.
“Doors are being postponed fifteen minutes,” Clarissa said.
Several shots of static sounded.
“I repeat, doors are delayed fifteen minutes!” Clarissa spoke as if a volcano were erupting. “Doors will now open at six forty-five—I repeat, six forty-five. But even then, wait for my go-ahead.”
Bursts of static continued to interrupt her.
“Who is talking while I’m talking?” she demanded.
“Clarissa, this is Tab.” There was commotion in the background.
Shakespeare knew immediately what was happening.
His countenance fell.
“We opened the doors already!” Tab yelled over what Shakespeare envisioned was a stampede in the lobby. “We opened at six thirty on the nose. Didn’t you hear the call?”
Shakespeare closed his eyes and waited for the bomb to drop.
“No! Close them down!” Clarissa screamed. “Shut them all down. Now, now, now!”
12
The Crittendons’ house, three weeks earlier
Pamela pulled her car into the garage, turned it off, and sat there dazed. Resting both hands on her hard tummy, she longed for a quiet moment to herself, to switch hats from administrative assistant to mommy and wife. But she knew Rebecca and Faye would be out to greet her any second.
If no one was home, she would sit there and cry her eyes out.
This was not the way it was supposed to be—not what God intended. She was seven months pregnant, much heavier than she’d been with either of the girls. Her feet were killing her. She was so tired … so very tired.
Back when the girls were born, Jack had a good job and she’d had the luxury of staying home. Her only job during those pregnancies had been to remain healthy and rested. She walked three miles a day, did exercise videos, and gladly did the cooking and laundry and kept the house clean. Now Jack did most of those things, and the backwardness of it was tearing her down—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
“Mommy!” Faye was the first one out the door, followed by Rebecca. They dashed around to her car door and reached in for hugs as they jabbered away about school. Pamela smiled and kissed them and gave them all the joy she could muster while her mom stood leaning in the doorway. The girls carried Pamela’s purse and laptop into the house.
“Where have you been?” Margaret said. “I didn’t even see you leave.”
Pamela stared at her, waiting for her to come to her senses. But Margaret just looked at her, waiting for an answer.
“Mom, really? Think about it.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Margaret snapped her fingers. “Work. I knew that. How was it today? I bet you’re dead tired.”
And she was retrieving the girls from the bus stop? Watching them after school while Jack worked on the job search?
“Same old thing.” Pamela got her coat off, ran to the bathroom, then made her way to the pantry to get a snack for the girls.
“Come see what came in the mail today,” Margaret called from the dining room.
“Just a minute.” Pamela set the girls up at the kitchen table with chocolate graham crackers and milk.
“I ordered this through one of the websites Shakespeare recommended.” Margaret entered the kitchen carrying a package the size of a shoebox.
Pamela could only imagine what she’d bought now. Margaret had already filled two huge plastic bins with dry food and rations.
“It’s a water filter.” Margaret put on the reading glasses hanging from her neck and read the box. “With the Max Two-Zero portable filter, turbid and heavily biologically contaminated water can be transformed into safe drinking water. Self-disinfecting. Chemical-free. Da da, da da, da da … Ideal for expeditions, extended journeys, civil-defense usage, and disaster-relief operations.”
Pamela stared at the box, dumbfounded. “That’s great, Mom.”
“That’s going to save our lives when the big one hits,” Faye said with her mouth full.
The girls looked at each other and giggled.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to the girls about that stuff,” Pamela said.
“Only making them aware of the possibilities, so they won’t go into shock when it happens. We’ve all got to prepare mentally for anything.”
“Okay, girls, that is all in-family talk. Not a word about any of that to your friends.”
“Oops!” Faye put a hand over her mouth and continued in a muffled voice. “I told Rachel and Larissa.”
Pamela rolled her eyes. She just didn’t have the energy to address it any further. “Well, no more,” she said. “Where’s Daddy?” Jack usually greeted her when she got home.
“He’s been shut in his office for the last hour. On the phone,” Margaret said. “I’m hoping it’s a hot job lead.”
If only! If Jack got a job, Pamela would turn in her notice in a heartbeat—the very next day! Not that she wasn’t grateful or dedicated, but she would be going on maternity leave anyway. Whoever replaced her could have the job as far as she was concerned.
She went back to the den, knocked, then opened the door and started to say hello.
“Hold on—” Jack said, but he wasn’t on the phone. His head was buried in his hands at the desk.
“Sorry.” Pamela’s heart stopped. Was he crying? She closed the door and stood in the hallway, frozen.
“What is it?” Margaret came up behind her. “Did he get something?”
Pamela’s face flushed. Every time Pamela turned around, her mother was there.
“He didn’t get the job?” Margaret pried.
“Mom, I don’t know! He wants to be alone. Please, just give us a little space.”
“Well, excuse me.” Margaret walked away curtly.
Pamela immediately regretted losing her patience.
There had been a lot of regrets lately. Words that shouldn’t have been spoken. Frustration. Stress.
What was wrong with Jack?
The door opened, and Jack looked at Pamela, his eyes red. “Can you talk for a minute?”
“Of course.” She went in and sat on the ottoman.
“How was your day?” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. What’s wrong, honey?”
He plunked down in the chair, his head dropping to his chest. “I’ve been on the phone with the bank. We missed our house payment last month. I didn’t tell you because I thought there was a grace period, and I was due to get a check from EventPros.”
“Okay …”
“The grace period was only five days. We’re late.”
“Jack.” She got on her knees and slid over to him, putting her arms around his waist. “Honey, it’s okay—”
“It’s not okay! It’s not okay on many fronts. It’s not okay with the bank. It’s not okay for our credit. And it’s not okay for me to keep letting you down. Look at you. You’re seven months pregnant. You should be home!”
Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 6