by Brian Drake
“You’re late, Interpol,” Hal Morgan said.
“And?”
The Homeland Security man glared as O’Brien, seated at the table, cleared his throat and flipped the page of a pocket notebook.
“Here’s where we stand almost four days into our search,” he said. We have found no bombs. We have seen no suspicious people. What we have found is one stolen car, some drugs in the bushes and various convention shenanigans, ie: people sneaking off to have sex where they shouldn’t. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Reisbach?”
“My people have come up empty as well.”
“Ain’t that peculiar?” Morgan said.
“Hal--”
“I’m only thinking out loud, Toby.” Morgan’s eyes didn’t leave Dane’s. Dane kept his face still. Now wasn’t the time to acknowledge the sweat suddenly creeping down his neck.
Footsteps behind him. Two more men appeared in the doorway but didn’t enter the office. They effectively sealed Dane in the room.
“Our friend is a phony, Toby,” Morgan said.
“What?”
“I did some checking. Interpol has never heard of nor acknowledges the existence of Mr. John Reisbach or any of his people.”
O’Brien said, “Well?”
“You wouldn’t have let me in if I said I was anything other than Interpol,” Dane said.
“What do you mean?”
“My real name is Steve Dane. Look me up.”
Morgan snapped his fingers and the two men in the doorway seized Dane’s arms, and then he felt the cool touch of steel handcuffs on his wrists. One of the agents patted him down, removed his cell phone, wallet, and pistol.
“Take him downstairs while we sort this out,” Morgan said.
“Who are you?” O’Brien said.
“I told you. Ask around. Call the CIA. I can’t very well say more than except I’m here to help.”
“Take him away.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“You made the mistake, pal. We’ll get to the bottom of this but I think you’re going to end up in a hole so deep you’ll never see the sun again.”
“What movie did you steal that from?”
The Homeland agents pulled Dane out of the room and gave him a shove down the hall. Being late evening, the conference attendees had vacated for their hotels for dinners out; nobody but a pair of floor security saw them as the Homeland agents pushed Dane into an elevator. The doors slid shut. The car descended to the basement level. Concrete walls and floor, lights burning near the ceiling, very chilly. The only thing missing were the screams of others locked in the dungeon-like bottom floor.
The agents pushed Dane into a janitor’s closet and shut the door, locked it.
Dane flicked on the lights with his nose and dropped into a squat, working his bound wrists over his bottom and legs and letting out a sigh when he had his hands in front of him again. The closet was crammed with cleaning supplies, mops, buckets, packages of micro-fiber towels. Dane found an open spot on the wall and sat. The floor was cold and immediately made his rear end sore.
At least they weren’t tying him to a chair to whack his balls with a carpet beater. There were worse things than spending time in the company of bleach and Simple Green.
They’d round up the others, too, unless Nina, McConn and Stone were a little faster on the uptake.
But why the closet? They should have had police standing by to take him to the station for holding. Would Morgan take the time to check his “real” story or just leave him there long enough for the cavalry to show up and drag him to Guantanamo?
He sat alone in the quiet of the closet for a while, then heard commotion in the hallway. Muted voices became louder. Nina, yelling and cursing in Russian.
Dane shook his head. “Not gonna help, honey.”
The struggling continued past his door and another door in the hallway slammed.
That left McConn and Stone.
But his hopes quickly faded. More noises in the hall but less talking. McConn voice broke through, though, something about the real bad guy still on the loose. The Homeland goons weren’t listening. They had their terrorists and now it was beer time. Two more slammed doors. How many rooms were in the hallway, anyway?
At least they were near each other and if Dane could get out, they’d be easy to find.
Nothing to do but wait and see.
Meanwhile, Graypoole had a bomb set to go off. Somewhere.
And Dane might be truly powerless to prevent the explosion.
He sat with his face a grim mask.
38
Toby O’Brien said, “And just how long do you intend to leave them down there?”
“Until this situation is under control,” Morgan said.
“You aren’t even going to check his story?”
“What story? We’re looking for suspicious people. They fit the bill. They are contained. Now we just have to find their bomb.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve been around long enough,” O’Brien said, “to lose my hair doing this job. I think my instincts are pretty good.”
“Fine. You make some calls. I’m going to go look for a bomb.”
Morgan left the office and didn’t bother to close the door.
O’Brien sat at the table and shook his head. He took out his cell phone and started to call headquarters, then decided to dial somebody else. He had connections at CIA from his friendship with a former employee. Maybe he could ask them directly since Dane had made the suggestion.
The line answered on the fifth ring.
“Debra Sloane, please,” O’Brien said. “Extension 2408.”
It was a short wait and then Debra Sloane, number two at the counter-terrorism division, answered. “Yes?”
“Deb, it’s Toby O’Brien. I’m in Seattle and I got a question for you. . .”
Dane eventually dozed off but jerked awake when a key slipped into the closet lock.
He stood as the door opened. Toby O’Brien stood there with two agents behind him.
“I told you Morgan was a hard case,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I made a phone call. Does the name Debra Sloane mean anything to you?”
“Maybe.”
“I know her. I asked about you. She had to get permission from her boss, but she vouched for you.”
“Great.”
And Lukavina would never let him hear the end of it. Especially if Graypoole’s bomb went off.
O’Brien said, “I’m letting the four of you go. I’ll deal with Morgan. This stays between us. Let’s get your team out of here and back on the job.”
Kassandra Ramos peeked through the curtain and her heart sank.
The cat had not been outside the night before when she brought out the food dish and the food had dried out, untouched, overnight. She replaced it with fresh food after her morning shower and it still remained.
Where was the kitty?
She looked out the window for a while, hoping, and then she heard Ramos behind her.
“It’s time,” her husband said.
Ramos drove to SeaTac, parking the car in the short-term lot and lugged the suitcase containing the bomb to a shuttle stop at the edge of the parking lot. To make it look good, Kassandra carried her luggage as well. Jets roared overhead as they touched down; others climbed high as they took off. The overcast sky didn’t seem to bother the pilots, who broke through the clouds with practiced ease. Kassandra watched the planes and tried to get her mind off the cat. They wouldn’t be returning to the house. She hoped the next tenants would care for the kitty cat too.
The shuttle bus presently arrived, the young driver not saying hello as they boarded. The bench seat lining the side of the bus was hard molded plastic without a pad. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but also not where one wanted to sit for a long period.
They stowed their luggage under the seat.
The bus waited twenty m
inutes. Nobody else arrived.
Kassandra breathed a sigh of relief. They only had the driver to contend with. He looked like a college kid and had skinny arms showing no real muscle mass. He wouldn’t put up a fight.
The driver put the vehicle in gear and started off. He merged into city traffic as he left the airport property and then Ramos reached under his jacket for a pistol.
They neared a shopping center with a full parking lot. Ramos left the seat and went to the driver.
“Sit down, please,” the driver said.
Ramos jabbed the gun into his neck. “Pull into that parking lot and go behind the store.”
Kassandra took out her own gun and switched to the bench across from where she sat. The driver, shaking, complied, his lips pressed together. He slowed and followed the order, driving the bus behind a Safeway, passing the loading dock, and continuing almost to the other side of the property. Ramos told him to stop near a set of Dumpsters.
The driver stopped.
“Up.”
Ramos stepped back to allow the driver to stand. Ramos grabbed him by the shirt collar, pulled him back a few steps and smashed the pistol over his head. The driver collapsed in a heap in the back of the bus. Ramos handed Kassandra his gun and sat behind the wheel.
Ramos drove forward and turned right as the wheels touched the street.
Not much further now.
And nobody to stop them.
Dane and his team checked in with O’Brien at nine a.m. sharp. Hal Morgan didn’t say a word to him. Dane ignored him. He split the team up to cover the four sides of the convention center. Nina took the front, McConn and Stone the sides of the building and Dane scouted the rear.
Ignoring the No Smoking signs, Dane lit a Montecristo and made his rounds leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The closet conundrum he hadn’t needed. What did they miss because Morgan had an attitude? He told himself to relax. He wasn’t the only one looking.
He wandered around the rear the building, checking the loading dock, where the cafeteria crew hustled to unload semis with the day’s supply of fresh food.
The sidewalk and street behind the building, not barricaded, looked normal. Dane smiled at a lady who held at least six dogs of various size and breeds on many leashes. The dogs seemed perfectly happy.
As he dropped the finished Montecristo in the street, Nina’s voice came over his ear bud:
“Eyes on target.”
Dane ran for the rear entrance. “What do you see?”
“Jose and Kassandra Ramos. They’re crossing the street and continuing west away from the conference center. Heading for 7th Street, other side of the movie theater.”
“Don’t engage till we get there. Guys, do you copy?”
McConn and Stone acknowledged as Dane pulled open one of the rear entrance doors and started running. He dialed O’Brien on his cell and gave him the update.
“Two suspects in the vicinity, get everyone you have checking the perimeter!”
“Where are the suspects?”
“Crossing the street in front of the building heading west. My people are closing in.”
“On it. Back-up coming behind you.”
39
The Sketchers Nina wore made running a breeze. She let Ramos and Kassandra get across the street, then hustled after them, hidden in a flow of convention guests heading for the corner coffee shops on that side. Ramos and Kassandra cut between the ACE Theater and a coin and stamp shop. Seventh Street lay beyond, with a quick right taking them to Pike Street where they might have a car. Nina ran a little faster, stopping and starting as she found cover to let the targets keep a little ahead.
McConn’s voice in her ear: “Nina, I’m opposite of you, Pike and Seventh.”
“They’re heading your way.” Nina moved from an alcove and back onto the pavement as Ramos and Kassandra indeed made the right and started for 7th Street.
Nina reached 7th where McConn joined her and they watched the suspects walk down Pike. Holding hands, no less.
“What’s ahead?” Nina said.
McConn consulted a map on his cell phone. “Variety of shops and Westgate Park.”
Dane and Stone chimed in. “Across the street, you two.”
Nina and McConn looked. Dane and Stone waved. They began moving parallel to each other with Ramos and Kassandra directly ahead.
Dane’s cell chirped.
“What is it, Toby?” Dane huffed as he talked and walked.
“We found a stray airport shuttle that shouldn’t be here. The dogs are—”
The ground shook with tremendous force. Dane and Stone landed hard as the air around them seemed to vanish, leaving them not only gasping, but feeling the shockwave of a bomb blast lighting the sky. A towering cloud of smoke filled the air where the convention center stood, the ever-widening plume spewing chucks of debris all around. Dane rolled onto his back, still gasping, and gazed at the smoke.
“Up!” he shouted. He didn’t even know if the team could hear him. “Take ‘em now!”
Dane broke into a sprint. Stone followed behind. They cut across the street, dodging stopped cars, the drivers’ horrified expressions focused on the explosion.
Nina and McConn caught up as Dane and Stone reached the sidewalk and that’s when Ramos and Kassandra started running, too. The couple split up, Kassandra rushing across the street. Nina said she’d follow the woman and crossed after her. Dane, McConn and Stone stayed with Ramos as he cut left on 6th Street and ran headlong through the confused pedestrians either running away or running toward the blast location. He did not appear to have a weapon in hand, Dane noticed as he drew the Colt Gold Cup .45 auto.
McConn and Stone cut through an alley to try and get ahead of Ramos. Dane remained in pursuit. O’Brien’s back-up wouldn’t be coming, he knew. It was all up to them. Had O’Brien survived the blast?
Smoke and dust from the explosion drifted over-head, filling the street, as Dane continued his pursuit, Ramos slowing a little as he dodged obstacles. Ramos tripped on a pothole and fell. Dane finally reached him as the man rolled onto his back. That’s when Dane saw the pistol. Dane didn’t stop running and instead leaped over Ramos, tumbling to the ground on the other side and going into a roll. As he came up, Ramos was running the other way, heading for an alley. Dane bolted after him. Ramos entered the alley, but now McConn and Stone were entering from the other side, guns up. Ramos raised his weapon and braced to fire. Dane fired twice. Both shots punched through Ramos’ back. He screamed, arching, head going back and arms going high as he fell. His pistol landed first.
Dane and his partners rushed to the body. Dane felt for a pulse. None. Ramos’ eyes, however, remained opened.
When Nina saw Kassandra Ramos was leading her toward the Nordstrom shop, she figured they could fight and do some shopping at the same time. Or fight while shopping. A tussle over a purse maybe. Or shoes. Everybody would understand women fighting over shoes.
Kassandra Ramos kept snapping her head back to check the pursuit, unintentionally slowing her down. Eventually Kassandra ducked behind a car and fired a string of rounds at Nina, all going wide and bouncing off the asphalt. Nina heard people screaming around her, but her eyes stayed on Kassandra. She held her fire, taking cover behind a car as well. Staying low, she moved in a crouch along the sidewalk. Kassandra was still watching the street. She raised her head just enough to look around and that’s when Nina rushed forward and leaped over the hood of the car Kassandra hid behind. As they collided, Nina grabbed for the woman’s neck.
They rolled into the street. Kassandra continued the roll, breaking Nina’s grasp. As Nina tried to get up, Kassandra lashed out with a kick, connecting with Nina’s mouth. Nina fell back and rolled away. Rising, she spat blood and launched a series of kicks and punches at the other woman, who expertly blocked and dodged and lashed out with a return roundhouse snapping Nina’s body in a full circle. Her face met the pavement again. Kassandra ran off. Nina spat more blood and this time a curse. She
rose to continue the pursuit, but there was now no sign of Kassandra.
There were, however, plenty of sirens wailing in the air.
Kassandra ran.
She wasn’t alone as other pedestrians were either running to the explosion or away from it. Police and emergency vehicles screamed along Pike Street, up ahead. She took refuge in a dress shop, breathing hard as she leaned against the wall beside the door. The frightened clerk rushed from behind the desk.
“Are you okay? What happened out there?”
“Building blew up,” Kassandra said, trying to catch her breath. Her sides hurt. She slid down the wall to the floor.
The clerk, a young girl around sixteen, brought her some water. Kassandra took a long drink.
“I need to find my husband,” she said, starting to get up.
“You’re hurt, stay here. I’ll call an ambulance.”
Kassandra pushed away the girl’s offered hand and stood. “I need to find my husband,” she said again, and went out the door.
She followed 6th Avenue south, intersecting with Pike Street, the last place they had been together. She stood at the corner. Smoke still hung in the air; the cloud from the convention center had yet to dissipate. The closer she got, the louder the sirens and assorted chaos of the recovery. They’d seal off and evacuate surrounding streets soon.
She leaned against the corner of a building and tried to settle down. Think. She had to find Jose but she also had to report to their employer. She felt around her pockets for her cell phone and pulled it from the left side. The screen was cracked from the fight, but it still functioned. She dialed a number.
“Yes?”
“Mission accomplished,” she said.
“Very good,” said Mason Graypoole. “Where are you?”
“Near the scene, I need to find Jose before we reach the rendezvous.”
“Where is Jose?”
“We got separated.”
“Follow the protocol, Kassandra. He’ll find you.”
“I need to find my husband!”
“Do not screw around, Kassandra. We’re at the island. I’m sending you the coordinates. Get here as soon as you can.”