by Ty Patterson
‘These hikers I am supposed—’
The deputy pulled into a parking space and slammed the brake.
‘Not supposed to,’ he said, viciously, as he turned around. ‘Here.’ He fumbled in a pocket and brought out his cell.
He thumbed at it and played a video. A man speaking nervously, blood on his face.
‘This dude came from nowhere. Pointed a gun at us. Roughed Jake up. Killed him and my friends. There was a girl with him.’
‘Frazier, that’s enough. Let’s get to the station.’ Schwartz was edgy, uneasy. Worried that his officer would mishandle the biggest arrest of their lives.
Zeb ignored the byplay.
That’s Chuck. That drunk hiker.
‘How did you get that video? Chuck walked in?’
‘No,’ the deputy gloated. ‘It was handed to us.’
‘By whom?’
‘Another witness. You’re done, buddy,’ he chortled. ‘We have witnesses coming out of our ears.’
‘This witness has a name?’
‘Sure as hell he does,’ Frazier started the cruiser and pulled out. ‘He came last night. With this video. Told us everything about you. The chief sent some officers into the wilderness. To bring back the bodies.’
He met Zeb’s eyes in the mirror and smirked, ‘You walked right up to us. Talk about being stupid!’
‘Frazier, shut your lips and drive,’ Schwartz commanded.
‘This witness?’ Zeb tried again.
‘A Canadian businessman. John Leopard.’
Chapter Seventy-Two
Zeb fell back as if punched.
Leopard. That’s Namir.
He stared out blindly as the cruiser sped on the quiet streets.
He must have forced Chuck to make that video. After killing Jake and the others.
Chuck’s probably dead, too.
Fed some story to Schwartz and Frazier that I killed Ashland. And made off with Sara.
Why did they buy it?
The two officers were conferring quietly in the front.
Small-town cops. Drunks, petty thefts are all they have handled.
Zeb could see how it might have gone.
Namir walks in, probably with his face bruised, signs of escape. Comes up with a story and video.
Why wouldn’t they believe him?
What’s the terrorist’s angle? He’ll know his story won’t wash. Eventually.
Another urgent thought entered his mind.
Clare needs to know.
Tires squealed as Frazier Nascar-ed the vehicle through a turn and brought it up to a shuddering stop in front of a yellow, squat building: the police station.
Schwartz stepped out and came around to Zeb’s door, which was opened by the deputy.
Zeb struck.
He kicked the door as Frazier was opening it.
Thankful that he wasn’t cuffed.
Metal crashed into the deputy.
He howled and bent over, clutching his face.
Zeb sprang out.
Schwartz swore, his hand darting to his gun.
Zeb body-shoved Frazier at him, and the two men collided.
Ample flesh met a large mass.
Someone grunted. A string of curses as both men fell.
Zeb took off.
He ran in the direction of the wilderness, the route he and the girl had taken when entering town.
Heard shouting behind him.
A wild shot that smashed into a store window.
He threw himself into an alley just as another round chipped concrete.
Need a cellphone.
The alley was a dead-end. Trash cans lining its end. A boarded wall blocking it.
He leaped on top of a can. Right leg to lever himself up, right arm grabbing the top and pulling himself over.
A small yard. Leading to a park.
He cut around the park, heading back. Toward Pete Ashland’s house.
They won’t expect me to head there.
A dog walker approached in the distance.
Won’t be good if he spots my bloodied jacket and thigh.
Zeb leaped over a fence, into a back garden, down a narrow path, over a gate and back onto a street.
This runs parallel to Main Street, he visualized.
Not far from Farloe Street.
He slowed to a walk. Head bent down. Hands in pockets.
Turned into the grandfather’s street.
There were several parked cars. But no cruiser.
The pickup was still in the driveway.
No faces at windows.
He drifted to the side of the house, ducking through a hedge that separated the property from the neighbor’s.
And came to a wooden fence that surrounded the yard.
It was as tall as he was and required a few attempts to scale.
A stone path in a green lawn, leading to a glass door.
He tried it.
It opened without a sound.
He entered the warmth of the house.
Utility room. Washer. Laundry drying.
He went to the door and entered the dining room.
Seated himself at the empty table and was pouring himself a glass of water when Sara Ashland entered the room.
‘Zeb!’
Chapter Seventy-Three
A muffled voice came from inside the house.
Pete Ashland rushed into the room, a shotgun in his hand, trained squarely on the intruder.
Zeb emptied the glass and placed it back.
‘Sir, I didn’t kill your son. Or any of those campers.’
Blue eyes pinning him down. Unwavering. Examining him. The weapon not moving an inch.
One of those salt-of-the-earth kind of men, Zeb decided.
He didn’t say any more, letting the grandfather make his mind up.
A refrigerator hummed somewhere, a clock ticked.
And then Ashland moved.
He lowered the shotgun and placed it on the table.
‘I am sorry, Mr. Carter,’ he replied formally. ‘Sara told me everything. Once the cops had gone. I was planning to come to the station. See what was happening. Bail you out if necessary.’
‘They released you?’ the girl couldn’t contain herself.
‘I released myself.’
‘Well,’ Pete Ashland fingered his beard, his eyes crinkling. ‘Looks like you’ll definitely need my help.’
Zeb forestalled any more questions. ‘Sir, I need a phone.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t ask why. Dug into his pocket and withdrew one.
He sent a text message to a number.
Isambard.
The message let the recipient know that he was using an unsecure phone. And that there were civilians around.
The cell rang promptly.
‘Where are you? What happened?’
Clare, his boss, didn’t beat about the bush. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. There would be time for questions. Such as why his sat phone had gone off the radar. Why his GPS trackers weren’t online.
Now wasn’t the time.
‘Erilyn, ma’am.’
He heard her fingers click.
‘Idaho?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Namir is here.’
He heard an indrawn breath. She listened without interruption as he briefed her rapidly. He didn’t tell her about Joachim Tavez.
That, too, could wait.
He could feel Ashland and Sara’s eyes on him. Questions on their faces. Amazement. Worry.
‘Our team is scattered. I’ll organize SWAT. State police. I’ll get back to you.’
‘One more favor, ma’am.’
‘Ask.’
‘Pete Ashland,’ he smiled slightly when the grandfather’s bushy eyebrows twitched. ‘He still has some doubts.’
‘Give him the phone.’
‘My boss,’ Zeb explained and handed the cell over.
‘Hello?’ Ashland s
poke uncertainly.
He turned sideways, looking at the back yard, hugging Sara as she tried to overhear.
‘You are, ma’am?’
‘The president, ma’am?’ His voice rose.
He stood straight. Meeting the girl’s eyes when her mouth rounded in an O.
‘No, ma’am. That won’t be necessary. I am sure he’s a busy man.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied drily, this time looking over Zeb. ‘He’s bleeding. Shoulder. Thigh. But he seems to be functioning.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I can see that. Thank you, ma’am. It is an honor.’
He ended the call and pocketed his cell.
His eyes were still wondering.
‘She said she could get the president to call me. If I still needed convincing. She can do that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How can I help?’
A siren wailed as a cruiser rolled up the driveway.
Zeb thumbed towards the front of the house.
‘With that, for starters.’
Chapter Seventy-Four
‘For Christ’s sake, Terry! You got to wake the neighborhood?’ Zeb heard Ashland growling at the visitors. ‘What happened to your face?’
The police chief replied indistinctly.
‘He escaped? How?’ The grandfather, astonished.
More mumbled responses.
‘Well, he’s not here. Don’t stand there, jawing. Find him. Beats me how the heck he could get away from you.’
He slammed the door shut and returned, rubbing his hands in glee.
‘He’s gone. I’ve got to admit, I enjoyed that.’
‘What did he tell you about Namir? This dude, Leopard?’
Ashland put the coffee pot to boil. ‘Not much. That he turned up at night. With a few other men. Had this video. Told us his story. That he found my son dead. He sent several deputies to the wilderness. In the night. To bring back his body.’
For a few moments, his shoulders stooped. His age showed.
He poured the brew into three cups and handed them out.
‘What was he doing in the wilderness? Leopard.’
‘Camping.’
‘Why didn’t the chief believe Sara?’
‘Terry’s got a big ego. Thinks a lot of himself,’ Ashland grimaced. ‘Is easily impressed by fancy clothes and words. Stockholm syndrome, he said, when she wasn’t listening.’
Sara swore, looked apologetic when her grandfather looked sternly at her.
‘Where’s Leopard staying?’
‘The Downtown Hotel.’ He pointed toward Main Street. ‘That’s really a hotel.’
Why would Namir still be hanging around? Why wouldn’t he flee to the Canadian border?
Zeb closed his eyes when the coffee went down in him.
Strong, bitter, bringing every sense alive.
A bell tolled in the distance.
Another sip.
Bell.
Something about it.
He pored through his memory, trying to pin down the elusive thought.
Sara was talking to Ashland, her voice breaking.
Zeb not paying attention. Just hearing the occasional word.
‘Dad … Sunday Service ... back in time.’
Church.
What about it?
Namir has a thing about churches.
The chair clattered back when Zeb rose in a flash.
‘The church. What time is the service?’
Ashland gaped at him for a moment.
‘Eight,’ he said, recovering under Zeb’s intense gaze.
‘How many go to it?’
‘About fifty. But today’s special. The high school choir is singing. We’re expecting double.’
‘Of course.’ Sara cupped her hand to her mouth.
‘It’s Beirut again. He will kill them.’
Chapter Seventy-Five
Zeb reached out silently for Ashland’s phone.
‘Ma’am, Namir will attack the church.’ He glanced at a wall clock.
Seven thirty-five am.
‘At eight. Hold up a second. Does it start exactly on time?’ he fired at Ashland.
‘No,’ the grandfather replied quickly, ‘eight-fifteen is when it starts. That’s when everyone arrives. However, before that, there’s choir. Singing. Actual service is when everyone comes. Eight-fifteen.’
‘Eight-fifteen, ma’am.’
‘This is Namir. He will fire then. For maximum impact. He would have done his homework.’
‘Agreed, ma’am.’
‘SWAT’s at least forty-five minutes away. The State Police, too. They are dealing with several unrelated incidents. What about local police?’
‘Incompetent, ma’am. And just …’
‘Two of them,’ Ashland completed for him. ‘The rest have gone into the forest.’
‘You heard, ma’am.’ A thought struck him. ‘There’s something you can do. Call Terry Schwartz. He’s the chief. Drill some sense into him.’
‘Yes. He has to call Namir and tell him you are in custody?’
‘Yes, ma’am. And then go about his business as normal. Stay away from the church. No sirens. No fast moves. That might trigger the killing.’
‘You are going in?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Your sat phone? Vest?’
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
She didn’t dissuade him.
‘Carry a cell.’
‘I’ll have Ashland’s with me.’
‘Forty-five minutes, Zeb. You need to stall them for that much time. Whatever it takes.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
A hundred people could be dead in that interval. He didn’t say that. Clare knew. Just like she knew stalling wouldn’t be his strategy.
‘Sir, the church’s layout? Can you describe it?’ he asked the white-haired man when he had hung up.
‘I can do better,’ Ashland grabbed a sheet of paper, a pencil, and drew swiftly.
Strong, straight lines. Shadowing for walls.
‘Main doors,’ he pointed to the front of the church.
‘Parking to the sides.
The church was a simple long rectangle, the short ends at the front and the back.
‘A rear exit. More parking there.’
‘Gramps, the side entrance,’ Sara prompted.
‘Yes. Nearly forgot that.’ He drew a small door on the right side, while the girl scurried to a drawer and brought out a key on a chain.
‘That’s to the staircase that goes to the balcony. An outside entrance. You can enter the church that way, too. It’s hardly used. Most people think it’s boarded up. It’s like a secret exit. People can go up or down, or in and out. There’s inside access to the balcony, too. Which is how everyone climbs up. We have a key. A few other families have one.’
He tapped the sheet and raised his head. ‘Not many people know of it. Maybe, just maybe, this terrorist doesn’t, either.’
The elevated section was at the front of the church. Looking down on the pews and facing the altar.
‘Hanging lights from the ceiling. Several of them. Two smaller balconies. One on each side. No real access to them. The first one was erected by mistake. The other … well, that went in just to complement.’
The smaller elevations were at the same height as the larger balcony.
‘Wooden rails.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Confession booth to one side. A small room behind the altar. Access from the rear, as well as from the inside of the church. Nothing else.’
‘What are the opening times?’
Ashland looked up quickly.
‘This is a small town, Zeb. The church never shuts.’
‘You got any weapons, sir? Not the shotgun.’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
Ashland went to an inner room and returned with a Sig Sauer and several mags. A wicked-looking knife as well.
‘Kenton’s,’ he indicated at the gun. ‘He kept a spa
re here. For self-defense.’
‘Sir, is there anyone you can call? Warn?’
‘That’s the problem, Zeb. The church. It is in a dead zone. No signal.’
‘Call your neighbors. Friends. But be careful. If Namir suspects something, he’ll start shooting.’
‘They should act like nothing’s happening? But stay away from church?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll come with you. Sara can make the calls.’
‘No, sir. You need to be here. With her.’
Because she’s the sole witness to her father’s murder.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Zeb took Ashland’s Ford pickup. Borrowed his jacket to change his appearance.
A Bass Pro cap on his head.
He drove in the direction of the church, keeping a lookout for Schwartz or any cruiser.
He had one Sig and six mags.
And was going up against ten terrorists.
The balcony. That’s where most of Namir’s men will be. It will give them the firing angle.
Some at the front and rear entrance. To finish the job.
The building came into view.
Men and women, families, hurrying inside, all of them dressed formally.
The choir was easy to spot.
Bright-eyed girls and boys. Neatly turned out. Walking in a group.
Zeb didn’t spot any Middle-Eastern looking men.
He wasn’t looking hard.
He drove past the church and parked in the driveway of an empty-looking house.
Walked back casually, hands in his pockets, trying not to let his limp show.
I won’t be doing any running.
Only killing.
Or dying.
He walked past the church, cut a wide loop, and returned.
By then, there was hardly anyone outside.
A family hurried inside and the doors shut behind them.
They’ll have getaway vehicles. Namir is not a suicide bomber.
Zeb scanned the parked cars and trucks in the front. All of them empty. No engines running.
May not be here. Too obvious.
He pulled his cell out.
Made a show of speaking to an imaginary caller, while he walked the length of the church.
Noted the side entrance Sara had pointed out: a wooden door, set flush in the concrete wall.
The first car came into view.