Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files)

by Creston Mapes

  Any delay, and the reporters were all over him.

  Peek’s hands shook as he turned over the top page of his notes.

  “Thanks to the heroics of some very brave men and women, this situation turned out much better than it could have. Several arena and EventPros employees, as well as Senator Sterling’s personal bodyguards, were able to take up arms and confront Zaher and his men, and nine of them died here tonight. I repeat, nine of the insurgents were killed by gunfire.”

  The questions came like a colony of bats …

  “Who killed them?”

  “Where did they get the weapons?”

  “Where are Lester and Sterling now?”

  “What about Lester’s wife and son?”

  “How many civilians are dead?”

  Peek pursed his lips and shook his head. Then he began talking very softly so everyone had to shut up to hear.

  “I’m going to finish telling you how things unfolded. Then I’m going to give you an injury report, if you’ll let me talk.” Peek peered out at the many faces of those hanging on his every word and licked his cracked lips. “Zaher and approximately twelve to sixteen men took the stairs to the roof, where a helicopter met them. They had Everett Lester and Senator Sterling with them at the time and were going to … abduct them.”

  Peek turned aside and coughed, then adjusted his glasses, looking down, waiting for the reporters to calm.

  “One of the security staff members, whose name we are withholding right now—he is a former United States Marine—was able to get up to the roof. He used a flash-bang device and fired on the insurgents, killing four of them. The other five died earlier, inside the building.”

  Shakespeare. That dude is a beast!

  “At that point Everett Lester was able to escape uninjured. I regret to report that Senator Sterling was taken hostage by Zaher and his remaining men. They left via helicopter. As we speak, we at the FBI, in partnership with state and local agencies, are bringing every force to bear to bring Senator Sterling back alive and to bring these terrorists to justice.”

  Peek was pelted with a barrage of questions, but he took his notes in both hands and forged ahead. “I’m going to give you a report on injuries,” he said. “Unfortunately, one of Senator Sterling’s courageous bodyguards was killed in the line of duty. Two more of Senator Sterling’s bodyguards were shot multiple times and are in guarded condition at Mount Sinai Hospital. Names are being withheld at this time. They played a key role in providing gunfire against the terrorists so that the former marine security staff member could continue his quest to save as many people as he could. That former marine, by the way, was wounded but is fine. We have a report that another gentleman, a member of the media, was hit by gunfire but is also going to be fine.”

  Derrick wondered how they even knew about his wound. No one had interviewed him.

  Peek went on to tell about two SWAT team members who’d been knocked out and tied up in the Sky Zone, as well as the civilians who’d been hurt in the stampede when entering the building and were later treated for minor injuries and released.

  “Now, if you’ll be quiet, I am going to turn it over to Lieutenant Ed Wolfski with Columbus SWAT …”

  40

  “Jack, you need to go find Mom,” Pamela whispered. “She’s never going to find us.”

  It had been at least thirty minutes since the C-section, and they’d just been moved to a private room. Jack was talking to his parents on his cell. Pamela’s guardian angel, Lucy, had crept out to see if she could find out any more about the baby.

  Jack ended the call and sighed. He squeezed the back of his neck and closed the blinds. “I’ll look for her. I’m just … I don’t want you to be alone. I’m worried about the baby. I mean, why haven’t they brought him yet?”

  “Lucy’ll be back soon. I’m fine.”

  “How ’bout some juice or crushed ice? What can I get you?”

  “Just find Mom. I’m worried about her.”

  They exchanged tentative smiles.

  Pamela wasn’t about to tell him how worried she was about the baby, whose little body and face had been alarmingly blue. And there’d been no crying, no grimacing. The little guy had been so sluggish. Jack would have freaked out. That was why God had sent Lucy in his place.

  But even Lucy’s steady brown eyes had widened at the sight of the baby. And among the nurses it had been all business—there’d been no laughter or joking around, no letting mom hold the newborn.

  No.

  None of that.

  “Okay, you call my cell the second you hear anything.” Jack set the hospital phone next to her on the bed and pulled the covers up tight around her neck. “It’s all going to be okay, no matter what.” He started to go. “I’ll try to find you some hot tea. Does that sound good?”

  She nodded, then was suddenly overcome by emotion. She lurched up and reached for him. Jack came back, and she hugged him and buried her head against his chest. She was certain he had no idea that low Apgar scores, especially after five minutes, could indicate cerebral palsy.

  “It’s okay, baby. It’s gonna be okay,” he said. He patted her back, about to go, but she held on—tightly.

  “Pam, honey, we’re gonna be fine.” Jack held her close. “Whatever comes, we’ll manage, like we always do.”

  She hadn’t felt this close to him in months. She knew he was worried about their financial situation, all the bills. Yet he was hanging in there. He was strong. She needed that. But the truth was …

  Oh dear …

  She wept as they held each other.

  The baby’s brain might be impaired, his muscle coordination forever out of sync.

  And it was possibly her fault.

  She couldn’t look at Jack.

  She’d kept it hidden, assuring herself it had been nothing—just a slip.

  It was several months ago, stepping off the curb outside the nail salon; she’d twisted an ankle and gone down.

  She’d laughed as she helped herself up and went on her way.

  But that night, she’d googled “falls during pregnancy” and read all kinds of horror stories.

  And now her face burned with the memory of it, the guilt.

  “Oh my gosh.” She sat up. “Jack, get me a trash can. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  41

  Shakespeare was worn out after rehashing the night’s events again, this time with FBI special agent Rufus Peek and three of his men, who’d just filed out of the FBI’s makeshift interrogation room in the bowels of the arena.

  The room was small and cold, with glossy, white cinder-block walls and dark-maroon carpet. There were two more just like it next door, where others were being questioned, everyone from Everett and Karen to EventPros and civilians. They’d also pulled Derrick back inside for questioning and were going to need to talk to Margaret, Jack, Pam, and Lucy as soon as possible.

  Peek turned off the video cam, pulled his plastic chair close to Shakespeare’s, and plunked down with a huff. The man was rail thin with a baggy white shirt that ballooned out the sides of his tight gray suspenders. Shakespeare wondered if he was fighting cancer or something; his face had a ghostly yellowish tone, and he had a pack of Camels stuffed in his shirt pocket.

  “How’s the arm?” Peek said.

  “Fine.” Shakespeare looked down at the clean white gauze and tape the EMTs had applied to his upper left bicep after cutting his sleeve away. “Better than I thought it’d be by now. Must be the Tylenol; they gave me a triple dose.”

  Peek shook his head. “It’s a darn good thing you had that bag with you. What’d you call it?”

  “Get Home Bag.”

  “You saved lives—a lot of lives.”

  “I can’t believe we didn’t have choppers up there,” Shakespeare said. “We could have taken them al
l.”

  Peek raised his gray eyebrows. “Believe me, the press isn’t going to let that die. There was a miscommunication between Wolfski and Hedgwick.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Fortunately there were two TV choppers nearby. One followed them a little ways, until they took gunfire. We’ll find them.”

  “Which direction were they going?”

  “East.”

  Shakespeare’s phone vibrated, and he checked it. Sheena, wanting an update. That reminded him that he needed to contact Jack to see if they’d had the baby. Maybe something good could still come out of this day.

  “What’ve you found out about the bad guys?” Shakespeare said.

  “The corpses have been transported to Columbus Medical Center and officially pronounced dead.” Peek checked his phone as he spoke. “Now the medical examiner determines cause of death. Once that’s done we’ll be able to find out who they were.”

  “Why the fake bombs?” Shakespeare couldn’t get it out of his head.

  Peek blew his nose into a white handkerchief, stuffed it into his pants pocket, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I have no idea, but the bottom line is they wanted Sterling out of the picture.”

  “Out of the race.”

  Peek nodded. “What the rest of it was, who knows? Who thinks like these people? We’ll find out. We’ve got a team from Homeland down the hall, reviewing every photo and video taken by anyone who captured anything tonight. They’re scouring every lead. Even just that one name you heard, Franco—that’ll lead to something.”

  “Why would they want Everett Lester?”

  Peek looked down and shook his head. “Not sure. He wasn’t their main objective.”

  Peek’s phone buzzed. While he took the call, Shakespeare got his phone out and texted Jack.

  Well do we have a baby yet?

  “That was one of my men over at Mount Sinai Hospital,” Peek said. “One of Sterling’s bodyguards is out of ICU; he’s gonna make it. The other’s still touch and go.” He stood, reached for his pack of smokes, and threw his head toward the door. “You want to get some fresh air?”

  Shakespeare stood. “Sounds good.” He needed a breath of cool night air—though he didn’t know how fresh it would be with a Camel burning next to him. But he liked Peek and felt he’d built a rapport with him.

  As they went through the door and down the hallway, Shakespeare thought about Sheena. Maybe tonight’s events would show her he wasn’t crazy. Regardless, she needed to be treated like a lady. He needed to give her more attention, more care. Maybe now they could find a happy medium. He needed to lighten up on the survivalist stuff. Jack had helped him see that it had become more than a hobby; it was an obsession. If he stopped doing everything right now, he would still be more prepared than 99 percent of Americans.

  Peek led them around a corner and toward an exit he’d obviously frequented before. He acknowledged a tall officer standing at a side door. “We’re catching some fresh air. Back in five.”

  Peek pushed his way outside, and Shakespeare followed.

  Oddly, instead of making Shakespeare want to pursue more survivalist tactics, the night’s attack had made him melancholy. It had been sobering. He’d stared his mortality in the face. He felt extremely humbled, as if he might want to clear the house of all that junk and live more simply, live for each moment with his family.

  When this was over, he and Sheena were going to meet with Jack and Pam. That guy had something Shakespeare had never found in all his years of travel, reading, learning, or fighting in combat. It was peace. Contentment. Knowing that even when trials came, everything was ultimately going to be okay.

  “Cigarette?” Peek extended the pack to Shakespeare.

  Shakespeare shook his head. “Do I look like a smoker?”

  “Never know.” The old guy flipped a Camel into the corner of his mouth, cupped his hands around a lighter to block the breeze, flicked it several times, and took an enormous drag, making the tip glow. He looked at it and sighed as he exhaled.

  “This country’s going to the dogs.” Peek turned his back, took several steps, and stretched. “Can’t imagine what it’ll be like in ten years, five even. I won’t be around for it, glad to say.”

  “You hanging up your badge?” Shakespeare took a seat on a bench next to the sidewalk.

  “Later rather than sooner.” Peek turned to face him. “I need to work as long as I can. Need the insurance. My wife’s been sick.”

  Maybe that explained his gaunt appearance. Shakespeare felt bad for the guy, who was getting run ragged at work and probably at home, too.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Peek sucked on that cigarette as if he were siphoning water from a hose. He exhaled through his nose and mouth as he spoke. “The day I dread is when these nut jobs start blowing themselves to pieces along with our citizens on buses and subways. You know. You see what’s coming.”

  Suddenly Shakespeare was overcome by a haunting homesick feeling, and he longed to be with Sheena and the children. “How much longer do you need me to stick around?” he said.

  Peek held the Camel between the very tips of two fingers and checked his watch. “Once we start ID’ing these creeps and finding who they’re associated with, we’re gonna need you to pore over mug shots and video clips of suspects to find Zaher—or whoever he is—and the other hostiles at large.”

  “They all had masks on, you know. I told you that.”

  “Yes, but we have archives—tons of videos and images of the world’s most notorious terrorists. You might recognize someone even by their mannerisms.”

  Peek stood, took one last giant drag on his cigarette, dropped it, and mashed it with his black shoe. “You ready to head back in?”

  Did he think that cigarette butt was going to disintegrate?

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Shakespeare needed to talk to Sheena. “I’ve got a few calls to make.”

  “I’ll see if there’s some coffee around.” Peek headed back toward the door.

  Shakespeare’s phone vibrated just as he was reaching for it. A text message from Jack.

  It’s a boy. Had c-section. There r complications. Please pray.

  Whoa.

  Complications?

  Shakespeare was immediately transported back to when he and Sheena found out one of their two boys, Will, was diagnosed with autism. Then the same thing happened with their next one, Tyler. The anguish. The fear. The troubling powerlessness. It was something no one could ever understand or comprehend until they went through it.

  Peek’s phone rang as he was going back inside. He stopped, turned around, and took the call.

  Shakespeare read the message from Jack again. Complications with the baby or with Pam?

  He’d asked Shakespeare to pray.

  Now that was a true friend. Jack knew Shakespeare wasn’t some fanatic Christian, in church every time the doors opened, but he’d thought enough of him to request his prayers.

  Peek covered one ear and clamped the phone to his head with the other. He glanced at Shakespeare, then back to the building, and barked a question.

  “God …” Shakespeare looked up at the night sky. “Whatever’s wrong with the baby or Pam, please, let it all be okay,” he whispered. “As I look up to you right this second, please look down on them and heal.”

  Peek clapped his phone shut, grabbed the door, and looked back at Shakespeare. “They found the chopper—Sterling’s alive!”

  42

  Jack closed the door to Pam’s hospital room and stood with his back to it, his hand still on the handle, trying to catch his breath and keep himself composed. Pam had just confessed she’d stumbled off a curb during her pregnancy but hadn’t told him.

  The nurses hadn’t brought the baby back.

  No doctors h
ad returned.

  His mind fizzled to gray.

  Too much …

  He needed to find something to eat, some fruit or protein—and his lost mother-in-law. Where could she possibly be?

  He headed toward the nurses’ station and slowed when he saw Lucy walking toward him. She was on her phone, and when they made eye contact she turned and walked to the wall, where she stopped with her back to him. Looking down as if trying to concentrate, she covered her free ear. “Stop. Just stop, okay? This is insane. I told you the truth.” She lowered her voice. “No, don’t. Don’t. Please … I’ve told you … You’re going to make a fool of yourself—”

  Suddenly the conversation must’ve ended, because she lifted her head and just stood there with her back to Jack. The hand holding the phone dropped to her side. She set her narrow shoulders back, took in an audible breath, slipped the phone into her pocket, and turned around.

  “Hey.” She forced a smile.

  Jack approached, trying to act as if he hadn’t heard anything. “Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  She nodded and took in another giant breath.

  “You sure?”

  Her sunken eyes closed, and she repeated the nod. “Yeah.”

  “What’s happening? Did you find out anything?”

  “They didn’t let me see the baby,” she said. “Dr. Shapiro is supposed to come talk to you and Pam.”

  “What’s happening? Did they tell you anything?”

  She looked down and rubbed her forehead, as if she was struggling with something. “They had to do some physical stimulation to get his heart beating at a healthy clip. He’s on oxygen now. The doctor is going to come talk to you and Pam—”

  Jack was suddenly sweating … light-headed.

  “What was the second Apgar? Because the first was three, and that’s ‘critically low.’ I looked it up on my phone.” Jack’s ears were ringing from the stress.

  “The five-minute Apgar was a four.” She stared at him, her head tilting as if she wanted to encourage him but had nothing good to offer.