“Get everyone out of the lobby and grab the other responding officers to help. Kingston and I will cover the lobby exits,” he said, slapping one of the officers on the back.
“Who the fuck hit that alarm!” he screeched at the front desk clerk.
“I’m trying to figure that out!” she yelled back at him, clearly becoming unglued.
“This is about to become a fucking nightmare for us,” he said to Kingston.
“Shit. I think our best position will be to the right of the front desk. We’ll have good cover and an angle on the elevator lobby. The stairwell door is right in front of us,” Officer Kingston said.
“That’s about all we can do. We’ll put more officers on the service elevator and rear stairs as they arrive. Let’s go.”
They jogged over to the front desk as the crowd of new checkins started to pull their luggage toward the double lobby doors.
“Leave your luggage!” he yelled at them.
His order emboldened the other officers, who actively corralled and hustled them to the door, enforcing Anthony’s impromptu “no luggage” rule. Of course, he’d be relieved of this temporary command as soon as their shift’s senior patrol officer or one of the sergeants arrived, which should be any minute now. The sooner the better. The prospect of facing automatic weapons with his Smith and Wesson .40 S&W semiautomatic pistol didn’t appeal to him. Anthony and his partner would be hopelessly outgunned, and their bulletproof vests would offer little resistance to the new breed of high-velocity calibers they were seeing on the streets.
As the first responding officer, he felt compelled to remain in the lobby and offer what little firepower he had available to protect hotel guests. It wasn’t the best idea, but there was little doubt that it was the right one. If his sergeant wanted to pull everyone out and wait for SWAT, that was his call. Until then, they’d try to cover four approaches with two guns. He turned to the terrified front desk staff.
“Get out of here with the rest of them. Where’s your manager’s office?”
One of the women pointed behind the desk to the right at an open doorway before scrambling around the side of the counter and running for the exit. The guest services manager reappeared in the doorway.
“The alarm was set off on the ninth floor,” she said, eyeing her staff as they disappeared with the crowd into the front parking lot.
“Did you send the message to all of the rooms?” he said, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and the four possible approaches to their position.
“No. I can’t do that with a fire alarm. Someone reported an explosion up there. The entire hotel might be on fire.”
“Fuck,” he hissed.
She was right. If the gun battle on the eighteenth had started a fire, the message might confuse guests and keep them in their rooms. Then again, a general exodus down the stairwells could lead to a massacre or a hostage situation. He had run out of good options for handling the hotel’s guests, so he sent the guest manager on her way to the exit. He would hold this position with Kingston until they were given different orders. All he could do was continue to move guests out of the hotel. He’d already started that. When the first wave of evacuees arrived, he’d help them onto the street, keeping a close eye out for the shooters.
He grabbed his handheld shoulder-mounted microphone to pass this plan onto the other officers, but something hit the stairwell door hard and caused him to stop. He heard some yelling on the other side, then pounding. Was it locked? He looked at Kingston, who raised her shoulders. The yelling intensified, along with the pounding. The guests pouring out of the Lobby Bar started to push and shove to get through to the hotel’s front entrance. Several turned for the hallway containing the shops and an escape through the side entrance onto Peachtree Road.
The lobby would be clear in a few moments, giving him the opportunity to open the door without exposing guests to automatic gunfire. He had no idea who was knocking on that door, and he didn’t want to unleash a bigger problem. The pounding beckoned him as the last of the guests cleared the front lobby door. Two police officers from his precinct pushed through the doors with their service pistols drawn, focused on the stairwell door. They took cover behind the sturdier pieces of lobby furniture as the pounding continued.
Officer Anthony slid past the corner of the front desk, pointing his pistol in the direction of the service elevator to the left. He approached the stairwell door cautiously, expecting it to burst open at any moment. Based on the location of the door handle, he could tell that the door would hinge open in his direction, providing him momentary concealment from any shooters that might emerge. He’d have time to duck into the elevator lobby and return fire. Unfortunately, the elevator lobby was a dead end if they pursued him, though he might be able to use one of the elevators for further cover.
He wouldn’t be able to escape without a fire service key. He knew from experience that a hotel fire alarm would automatically engage the elevator system’s fire service mode and send all of the elevators to the Fire Recall Floor, where they would remain until the alarms were reset or bypassed by a fire service key. He might not be able to use the elevators to escape, but at least he could rule out the possibility of surprises from the elevator lobby.
He spun into the rectangular-shaped area, leading with his pistol. He quickly confirmed that one of the guest elevators was open and empty. The second elevator’s doors remained closed, and he had no way to tell where the elevator car might be. God forbid the Ritz Carlton disturb the precious, polished mahogany wood interior to install a floor indicator. He could barely find the buttons that activated the elevators. Maybe you had to be rich to see them. He edged forward, aiming at the open door across from the guest elevators. He “sliced the pie,” moving slowly to his right, gradually exposing more of the parking garage elevator car to the sight picture over the barrel of his pistol. Empty.
He rushed back to the elevator lobby opening and nodded to his partner, who concentrated her pistol on the stairwell door. He heard frantic screaming from behind the door and decided that he had no choice but to open the door.
“Hold your fire. No shooting!” he yelled.
The three officers in the lobby nodded, though he didn’t get the sense that the order registered. He edged up to the door and reached across the mahogany panel to grip the thick metal handle. The door swung open easily, which almost surprised him more than the thick volume of smoke that immediately billowed from the open doorway and swirled toward the front lobby exits. At least a dozen people initially poured out into the lobby, pushing each other out of the way, coughing and hacking. This group was followed by another surge of guests, assisting each other and yelling. Anthony didn’t see any weapons evident, though he admittedly couldn’t see very effectively through the thick acrid smoke. He holstered his weapon and rushed in to stabilize an elderly woman, who looked confused.
“Where was the fire?” he asked.
She looked up at him, coughing and squinting. “I don’t know. Where’s my husband?”
“We’ll find him, ma’am,” he replied. “Head out the door to get some fresh air.”
He singled out a young couple that appeared to be under control. They were headed toward the far right exit, helping another man with a smashed nose. Needing some basic information about the situation, he approached them. As their features became clearer through the smoky haze, he noticed the woman had short brown hair and deep blue eyes, resembling a movie star that he thought he recognized. She was dressed in a black turtleneck dress. Her shoes were missing, but she had probably ditched them in the stairwell. He imagined she’d worn high heels with this outfit. She grasped hands with a serious-looking, well-heeled gentleman with jet-black hair, who supported a slightly taller, equally well-dressed injured man.
The taller man had brown hair and leaned heavily on the other man, unable to put weight on his left leg. His nose was clearly broken, with the bright crimson evidence still pouring down his face and chin onto
his crisp white shirt. They were all coughing as they trudged toward the exit. He stepped in front of the group. Nothing about this group set off any internal alarms for Anthony.
“What happened to him?” he said.
They stopped, and the black-haired man leaned his friend against the wall.
“He fell on the stairs and hit his face. We couldn’t see a fucking thing in there, Officer. We were waiting for the elevator on five when the fire alarm went off. We hit the stairs, but they were already filled with smoke,” he said, coughing into his elbow.
When the man raised his right arm to cough, his suit coat opened, briefly exposing a gun tucked into his right waistline. Officer Paul Anthony instantly felt sick as an incredible surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He fought against every panicky instinct telling him to pull his weapon. The man’s steely gaze told him that he’d probably never clear the pistol from his holster. He wasn’t some brash mafia hit man or wild-eyed gang-banger. Anthony was staring at the real deal. Something he had never seen before. He didn’t know how he knew this, but the sudden realization saved his life.
“Officer Anthony?” the woman said, no longer holding the man’s hand.
He barely nodded and muttered, “Yes?”
“We’re going to walk past you now to seek medical attention. That’s really all you should remember about us. Does that sound like a fair assessment of the situation?” she said, smiling.
“What happened up there?” he automatically replied, now scared that he might have signed his own death warrant.
“Nothing worth the life of a police officer. You should help some of the guests now.”
He glanced at the mayhem through the thinning smoke and saw several people lying on the tan marble floor, coughing and wheezing.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, betraying a hint of regret in his decision.
He heard his sergeant’s voice and watched the uniformed police officer push his way through the leftmost lobby entrance, along with two plain-clothed officers, both armed with short-barreled M-4 Carbines. The sergeant spotted Anthony immediately and started walking over. He now had three police officers focused on his gathering. He detected a shift in intensity from the couple standing in front of him. The man previously leaning against the wall now stood on both feet, his leg wound suddenly healed. Anthony made a decision that he’d professionally regret, but personally cherish. He extended his right hand and placed it on the woman’s shoulder, raising his voice over the din of confusion that seemed to envelop the whole lobby.
“Head out into the parking lot and check in with a paramedic,” he said, patting her on the back to move them along and through the doors.
He never looked back at them.
“What are you doing?” the sergeant asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m screening the guests. We have no information about the shooters. They could be up on any of the floors or trying to sneak out in the stampede!” he yelled over the noise.
“Nice job, Paul. I need you to head outside and organize the rest of the officers as they arrive. I want teams of three or four on each exit screening guests. I’ll get you some tactical support assets to beef up your presence.” The sergeant turned to the first response tactical officers, not waiting for Anthony’s acknowledgement.
He issued orders to the two tactical officers and jogged into the smoky chaos to try to gain control of the situation. Anthony turned to the door, surprised to see that his mystery guests were no longer in sight and had been replaced by several other desperate hotel guests. He made his way through the people, careful not to jostle anyone, and emerged under the roof of the guest drop-off area. He glanced around, relieved to discover that they had already disappeared. Unless the hotel crashed down on all of them, he’d make it home in time for the morning ritual. He’d kiss his wife goodbye before work and walk his two boys to the bus stop for school. Priceless moments like those left him with no regrets about letting those three vanish.
**
They fast walked toward Peachtree Road, hoping to catch a taxi within the next minute, before the Atlanta Police Department threw the full weight of their resources into the containment effort at the Ritz Carlton. Daniel could hear multiple sirens in the distance as they approached the crowded six-lane city street. They needed to get as far away from Atlanta as possible. Normally, he fled toward crowds, but tonight was different and their evening was far from over. It would take them a while to find a secondary location safe enough from the public eye to sit down and have an earnest chat with Mr. Young. He sensed that Young would give them everything, but they had to be sure he didn’t play them. Sometimes that could get messy, or at least a little loud. Either way, he didn’t expect to be on a plane headed back to the South Carolina coast tonight.
“That was beautiful! Who the fuck are you people? You just stared down a police officer. I’ve never seen anything like that. He saw your gun. You know that, right?” Benjamin Young said.
Daniel flipped his right hand back and slapped Young directly in the face, connecting with his broken nose. The man howled and cursed, stopping in his tracks before Jessica moved slightly behind him to provide a razor-sharp reason to keep moving.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” Young mumbled.
“To remind you that we’re not friends,” Daniel said.
“Now shut the fuck up and keep walking. I don’t want to hear another word out of you unless I ask a question. Got it?”
“Yes or no works for us,” Jessica said.
Young simply nodded, clearly struggling to walk after his focused strike. Daniel saw several taxis pass in the minute it took them to arrive at Lenox. His cell phone vibrated, and he hoped it was good news from Munoz and Melendez. They had poured out of the smoke-filled stairwell a few people back from Daniel’s group, prepared to run interference if the police had already locked down the lobby. He’d watched them slither past the sergeant and his two heavily armed police escorts, just as Officer Anthony made a decision in everyone’s best interest. One wrong move by Anthony might have led to a bloodbath that no presidential amnesty could forgive and an even bigger rip in his soul that could never be mended.
“Where are you guys?” he said in greeting.
“Headed northeast on Lenox. Looking to pick up a cab. What’s the rendezvous point?” Munoz said.
“I think we should circle the city on the two-eighty-five and meet up at Hartsfield-Jackson. We can grab a rental at the terminal and head east into South Carolina. Find somewhere outside of Columbia to stop and have a chat with our friend here.”
“All right. I’ll call Sanderson with an update. I don’t know what Jessica said to that cop, but it avoided a messy situation.”
“Tell me about it. I’ll pass that on to her. We’ll meet you at the baggage claim inside the north terminal,” Daniel said.
“See you there,” Munoz replied, ending the call.
Daniel held out his hand to hail a cab, hoping the growing number of blue police lights wouldn’t scare off their easiest and most secure form of transportation to the airport. They could always walk down Peachtree Road for about ten minutes to Buckhead Station and take the MARTA to the airport, but one glance at Young’s bloodied face and scarlet-stained collar shelved that idea. They would need to clean him up before arriving at the airport. Their best course of action might be to head into the side entrance of another hotel along Peachtree Road and take him to a bathroom.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said, staring down the street at an illuminated “Westin” marquee sign.
Several police cars converged on the intersection of Peachtree and Lenox, screeching around the corner toward the main drive-up entrance to the Ritz Carlton. Two of the cars remained in the intersection, blocking traffic from reaching the main entrance to the hotel. It wouldn’t be long before they started expanding their cordon. He turned southeast on Peachtree Road and started walking.
Chapter 36
&nbs
p; 10:20 PM
Interstate 81 North
Hazelton, Pennsylvania
Jackson Greely’s Chevy Suburban hummed past the faint glow of Hazelton. The Chevy’s cruise control was set at 70 MPH, which experience had taught him was a safe speed to avoid unwanted attention from the Pennsylvania State Police. Anything over 70 MPH was a complete crapshoot, especially on a Friday night. He hit the deceleration switch once and tucked the speed just under 70. He couldn’t afford to have his whereabouts recorded in state police databanks. He’d left Harrisburg after a quiet dinner engagement with local political supporters and headed north for Lake Wallenpaupack. It was time for Greely and Harding to disappear, while events transpired that would change the course of American history.
He and Harding would be arriving at the lake house ahead of schedule, thanks to an unknown entity. Greely agreed with the rest of the council—the FBI hadn’t taken custody of Miguel Estrada. They had enough contacts at the bureau and local law enforcement offices to know that Estrada hadn’t surfaced in any of the New York City precincts, hospitals or federal offices. He’d simply vanished into thin air, carried away by two Arab-looking thieves in the night. None of it made any sense, but his coconspirators agreed that they needed to bump up the timeline.
Jason Carnes, head of laboratory operations at their secret facility, had protested, but reluctantly admitted that they could speed up the cultivation process. They would start injecting the virus into the bottle caps late tomorrow, with the intention of transporting the first crates of infected bottled water to the distribution hub the day after that. From there, the convoys would be loaded, assigned drivers, and sent to their destinations. Once the convoys hit the roads, the entire organization would go to ground and wait, leaving nothing for the feds to investigate.
His cell phone illuminated and started to buzz. He pressed a button on the steering wheel, which activated the Bluetooth system. “How are we doing?”
“Not good,” Brown replied.
“Now what?”
Black Flagged Apex Page 33