Active Shooter (2 page)

Beyond the bodies I see an open door. Its
swipe and cipher pad have been shot out. I walk toward it, rifle
pointed at the door, my eyes looking to and fro clearing the room
unnecessarily because I know shooter #3 has run into the jet way.
Outstretched hands silently beseech my help; I must ignore them. I
stop at the entrance of the jet way, unload the backpack, and unzip
it slowly. I should have checked its contents sooner, I tell
myself. For all I know, I could have been carrying a couple of
ticking bricks of C4. Instead I find ammunition and two flash-bang
grenades.

I leave the backpack, stuffing one flash-bang
grenade into my cargo pants' side pocket. Inching forward into the
jet way, I advance quietly until I see him around a bend, attaching
something to a plane's door which I'm guessing a quick-thinking
flight attendant latched closed. Another look at what he's doing,
and I note he's sticking dollops of putty and wiring them together.
He's setting up explosives. I shoot him in the back twice, and he
falls.

“And that's when you radio the police,”
Bridget said now in the bright and increasingly hot studio.

“Yes, I hail them on the radio, identifying
myself again. I tell them all three shooters are down.”

“You think it's over now.”

“I'm hoping it's over, but I suspect there's
a good chance it's not. Those guys whose job it is to hold the line
and keep the LAPD out of the terminal are probably still out
there.”

“Tell us what you do next.”

The dead shooter's phone is ringing. He's not
answering it, and they're going to figure out his buddy needs help,
that he probably didn't finish the job. They're going to fall in
and come to his aide. One, two, three explosions echo through the
terminal, a shock wave traveling from the outside in. I hear
shouting, the same word, or rather, I realize, a name, repeated
over and over again.

I rush out of the jet way and grab the
backpack. As soon as I get to the main walkway I unpin and toss a
grenade toward the front of the terminal, sight unseen. Then I see
them, three more gunmen, trying to take cover just before it goes
off a few feet from them.

I need to hold them until the LAPD and
whoever else with a gun and ability to use it makes it in here. I
unlock a kiosk's wheels and pull it into the middle of the walkway,
then I turn it over and it crashes down, my makeshift barricade. I
aim my rifle and look for movement, firing single shots as soon as
I see them. The first figure comes up and drops awkwardly after my
first shot, then the second. I shoot each, down where they fell
twice more between the legs, where they're not wearing any armor.
The third figure is out of view, maybe still reeling from the
flash-bang. For good measure, I toss the second grenade, and it
goes off just right where I felled the two shooters.

Now I wait, still aiming my rifle down the
walkway, seeking out the first sign of movement. Then I hear a
shot, followed by a second shot, not aimed at me, but at a door, I
think. He's shot another door and is going to make his way to the
plane via the tarmac, climb up to the jet way and finish rigging
the bomb. I realize I must run back to the jet way, but if the two
downed gunmen are only partially disabled and get up to rejoin the
fight, I could be trapped in there.

I wait a few seconds, looking for any signs
of life. Seeing none, I run back to the jet way, just in time to
hear more gunshots, this time coming from outside, getting closer,
until I hear one tear through the lock of the door giving entry
from below, right at the plane's own door.

I raise my handgun and steady my breath,
aiming at where I anticipate an average height man's head will
appear. But he's smart and pokes his head down low. I shoot it
anyway, twice, and he falls back outside.

That's when I hear it, heavy steps coming
fast. I turn, drop on my stomach and level my rifle at the jet
way's entrance.

“LAPD!” someone shouts at me. “Drop it!”

I spot their uniforms and SWAT gear and
comply, saying, “Don't shoot! I'm a passenger. I talked to your
dispatcher.”

Seconds later, they're kicking the rifle and
handgun away and handcuffing me roughly. Only now do I consider the
severity of what I've done, and that maybe I am in more trouble
after the shooting than I was during it.

“Is this why you haven't been willing to say
much about the matter, Mr. Esperanza?” Bridget asked me as the
camera over her shoulder lit up red, ready to capture my response.
“Are you concerned that while some people may see you as a hero,
the authorities may consider you a vigilante?”

“I'm not a hero. The men and women of the
LAPD and FBI risk their lives every day. They are the heroes. Just
because I step in to fill in the gap for a few minutes, just like
any citizen should do, that doesn't make me a hero.”

“Well, I think you're a hero, Mr. Esperanza,
along with millions of Americans.”

I smiled at her and nodded.

“One last question many are speculating
about,” she said. “Some are saying you displayed skills and poise
that only trained military or law enforcement personnel could
demonstrate. What do you say to that?”

“I can't say much at all, I guess.” I
recalled my pre-canned response. “Given the ongoing investigation,
I must refrain from discussing sensitive details of the case.”

Bridget smiled at me, pausing for effect,
letting her audience know there was more to the story. Or maybe she
meant to pause for me, with the implicit promise that she would dig
deeper and bring it all to light. She thanked me for coming all the
way from L.A., and the cameras went off. Someone back in the main
part of the studio was congratulating Bridget for a great
interview. Here in our little corner, Bridget started digging
deeper.

She leaned in and whispered, “Are you up for
lunch?”

“I was planning to stay in,” I replied.

The twinkle in her eye told me she got
it.

Though I had briefly envisioned doing some
sight-seeing in this grand city, given my instant celebrity and the
crowds I saw coming in this morning, I should probably slink back
to my hotel and live on room service until my flight the following
morning.

Bridget grinned as she tapped on her
smartphone. “Check it out,” she said, showing me the screen and
coming so close her hair tickled my ear. “Hashtag Esperanza is
getting some crushing traffic. Here's my favorite: 'Esperanza means
hope for America'.”

“Sources of hope must be scarce.”

“We're set for lunch, then? I'll have my
driver pick you up.”

“I never said yes,” I replied.

“An oversight, no doubt,” she said with a
wink.

I took in Bridget's appearance again, once
more noting first how neither her blond hair nor her blue eyes nor
her fine features coincided with stereotypical notions for what
someone named Suarez should look like. Then I admitted to myself
why I really agreed to do the interview: I wanted to at least toy
with the notion I might have a chance with someone this beautiful,
this glamorous, this successful.

“You like Cuban?” she asked with a smirk.

“Every time I look in the mirror.”

She giggled. “Just do me a favor. Leave your
phone in your room. Leave it on, plugged into your charger and
connected to the hotel's Wi-Fi network. Go ahead and order a movie,
preferably one that lasts at least two hours, and leave it playing
when you leave.”

I felt my brow fold into a frown.

“In case someone asks hotel staff whether
you're in your room,” she said. But her tone and wry smile told me
I should know better than believe so simple an answer.

After hedging for a couple of minutes, I
agreed, electing to play along to see where this led. Bridget had
her assistant escort me to a back entrance and usher me out to an
awaiting black sedan, but not before she handed me a NY Mets cap
and aviator sunglasses. She didn't say, and I didn't ask. But I
understood the implied suggestion to also wear these items later in
the morning, 11:30 sharp, per our agreement, when I was to walk out
of my Hotel and step into the same black sedan, in disguise, while
back in my room two electronic data streams indicated my continued
presence there.

The drive to the hotel frustrated me. On foot
I would have made it there in half the time. This is a big turn off
for me, traffic. I hate how it traps you and sucks your time, your
very life, really. I told myself what I usually tell myself: I
couldn't do anything about it unless you stay at point A, so just
go along and put up until I get to point B.

I sank into the plush leather seat and let my
mind wander. It kept going back to the traffic. I noted that in
contrast to L.A. traffic, where you sit atop wide concrete
conduits, here it felt more intimate, close-up, in your face,
louder, certainly since horns served as frequent a function as
steering wheels, brakes and accelerators.

Then we were there, my driver opening the
door, a bellman asking me if I had some luggage for him to carry. I
waved him off and scurried inside to find an elevator and make it
into my room before anyone recognized me.

I clicked on the TV because that's the first
thing that you do when alone in a hotel room, hungry for electronic
companionship. One of the local morning talk shows was replaying
bits of my interview. I checked my smartphone, too. Where normally
I would have killed for a blazing hot Twitter feed, now I moaned
when I saw it. They weren't Tweeting about my epic-awesome
photography. They were going on about Andre Esperanza the
killer.

In my mind I replayed the image of Bridget
grinning at me, almost bragging about how hot she'd made my
hashtag. I wondered what else that grin meant.

I spent the better part of the next two hours
anticipating how much of my past up-and-coming, hard-driving
investigative reporter Bridget Suarez knew. I told myself not to
get paranoid. Unless she had in-deep sources, she could know little
beyond my past career as an information security and assurance
specialist who might have worked on a defense contract or two. She
would have no way of knowing what jewels of the kingdom I had
designed or deployed. She would not know how I'd come to know my
way around guns and flash-bangs. She would not know my body count
exceeded six terrorists in LAX by a factor of two. Nevertheless,
the seeming familiarity with which she suggested I conceal my
movements with the movie, the disguise, and a left-behind cellphone
gave me an unshakable uneasy feeling.

I went into the bathroom and washed my face,
as if that could refresh away my unease. When I came out, my phone
buzzed once. The screen lit up with an incoming message
notification from “Withheld.”

“Play along,” it said.

I noticed I had stopped breathing.

Push ups and deep breathing usually helped
with the type of panic attack I felt coming on. Twenty push ups
later, I rose to my feet to do the breathing thing, and I went over
to my phone to delete the message.

There. Like it never happened.

***

Three hours later, with the three hour long
Lord of the Rings movie rolling the opening sequence, I walked out
of my room. I took the elevator down to the third floor, then used
the stairs to descend to a less central and visible spot in the
lobby. From there, I scanned my surroundings for surveillance
operatives and elected the most efficient pathway to the front of
the hotel. Timing my steps and movements, I walked out the front
door at 11:30 sharp. As promised, the same black sedan and driver
awaited me.

Not entirely familiar with New York, I
nonetheless noted the drive to our final destination did not follow
the most direct route. Normally, I would have questioned a taxi
driver who wound his way through town that way. This time, as I
watched him check his mirrors, I knew my driver didn't do so to pad
my cab fare.

The Cuban restaurant turned out to be
Guantanamera,
not far from Central Park, one of the spots on
my to-see-and-do list before my celebrity changed my mind about
meandering my way around the city. I walked in, transitioning from
brightness into the dim interior. Without having to say who I was
meeting, the young lady at the entrance gestured toward the back.
Past the bar, I saw Bridget, deep into the restaurant, waiving at
me from a booth.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to sit facing
the entrance,” I told her when I reached the table.

She raised an eyebrow and shot me a knowing
smile. “Sure. You're probably better about situational awareness
than I am.”

We switched seats. I removed the baseball cap
and sun glasses. Beneath me, I felt the warmth she'd left behind.
The sensation sent a shiver through me.

“I'm guessing this is the post-interview,” I
said.

“So direct.”

“I like it that way.”

“That's no fun. Why not just take the time to
enjoy a bit of social interaction and see where it leads?”

I smiled while my eyes scanned the front of
the restaurant. A tall, lean man wearing a powder blue
Guayabera
shirt entered and took a seat at the bar. In his
right ear I saw the sort of earpiece that looks like it pairs with
a cellphone, but from which dangled a thin, translucent fiber not
required for commercial versions of such devices.

I turned my gaze to Bridget and said, “Here's
more direct for you. Unless this is strictly social, unless a
successful gal like you wants to be charmed off her feet by an
intriguing, hash-tagged hero, I'm not interested.”

“It's all or nothing with you, isn't it?” she
said. “What if a girl just wants to say thanks by taking a guy out
to lunch?”

“You really expect me to believe that someone
in your strata would take an interest in a guy like me?”