Against the Clock (14 page)

"You're not dead yet, Fairley," Shirin said firmly. "Help is on the way." She paused, waiting for a sign of recognition that he understood her. Looking at the young technical officer, she said, "Stay with him. Do not let up the pressure until help arrives. Got it?"

The young man, still high on fear, merely nodded, unwilling to meet her eyes.

Moving through the dead agent's clothing, Shirin searched quickly for anything of use. Anything that could help her escape, or anything she could use to link this back to Zelig.

She found a small matchbox-sized plastic container, sealed on all sides. A high-powered magnet.

Positioned correctly, it could create interference of electrical recording equipment and perhaps disrupt the video feed from Barratt's interrogation. She left it behind. The police would find it and eventually might start unraveling what really happened here.

16:13:41

Barratt finished tucking the loose-fitting shirt into his pants. The unconscious security guard lay prone on the cold floor. Undressing him without tearing the fabric had been difficult, and he was sweating now from the exertion.

Moving as quickly as he could, he dragged the smaller security guard into the interrogation room then started searching the dead federal agent's pockets.

Shirin rushed back into the room. "Find anything?" she glanced quickly at the guards on the floor and made her way to the dead agent.

"Nothing," Barratt said simply. Looking up at her, he asked, “I’m assuming you have a plan to get us out of here?"

Shirin knelt beside him."I do."She said looking down at the dead agent. Blood and brain matter continued to ooze from the exit wound at the back of his head. She reached down with her free hand and scooped up a handful of the bloody grey matter. "But you're not going to like it."

chapter 5

"action is never without consequence."

the book of seekay

16:13:52

Smith left the van and the two dead bodies inside it without a backward glance. He walked with purpose, a small bounce in his step. He had taken out the first team quickly and quietly. Adjusting the collar of his shirt, he walked toward the front entry of the police station and contemplated how he would deal with the second team.

They were well positioned, to the side of the entrance, continuing their charade of repacking and sorting a large delivery. As far as he could tell, they were not yet aware of their colleagues' fate.

As he walked past their line of sight, he could feel their seasoned eyes watching him, assessing him.

He couldn't know their protocols, but he had to assume that sooner rather than later they would perform a communications check. When the four men he had taken out of play did not respond, his window of opportunity to help Shirin and Barratt escape would be closed.

Their positions were too visible for a direct assault. Any actions would surely attract unwanted attention and unwanted interference.

Smith cleared it from his mind. He would have to deal with them another time.

At the front counter, the desk sergeant continued to be inundated with the questions and demands of the overwhelming members of both community and media.

Smith walked past the melee, invisible.

To the side of the foyer, he paused, flicked through the wallet of the dead officer he was now impersonating, and produced a swipe card to the side access door. He dragged it through the scanning pad, then pushed himself through the doorway.

At that same moment, a loud, piercing alarm shrieked from the overhead speakers.

Smith looked around rapidly. In front of him, thirty police officers all froze, turned their heads to a digital display located on an adjacent wall, and then, like an explosion, they jumped from their positions and started running to the side elevator bay and the emergency stairwell.

Instinctively, Smith followed them. He belonged there, after all. And as he ran after them, he glanced at the digital display on the wall: LEVEL B DURESS.

It was Shirin.

According to the schematics secured by Zelig, Smith knew Level B would be where the holding cells were. Where Shirin and Barratt were, and where Zelig's two agents must also be. Whatever was happening, thirty armed police officers were now racing toward them.

Smith buried himself among them, running down the stairwell. He, the double agent, the assassin, was in the middle of a rushing herd of police officers, coming to the rescue of two federal fugitives. The irony was not lost on Smith as he rounded the last dogleg of the stairwell and raced headlong into the anteroom for the holding cells.

16:14:58

Smith found himself propelled forward, just behind the first responders. The security door was wide open; the guard manning the monitoring station had just turned the corner, rushing into the long corridor.

Smith turned the corner moments later. The guard reached a young lady sitting on the ground cradling a wounded security officer, his head bloodied. She looked visibly stricken, scared, shouting, "He's got a gun! He's got a gun!"and pointing to the interrogation room.

The chaos was overwhelming. The shrieking alarm was louder in the confined space than sanity could tolerate. Several officers checked the door to the interrogation room. It was locked. They stood on each side of it, sidearms drawn, faces alert and nervous. One of the officers by the door started barking orders, pointing to get the injured man and the woman out of the corridor.

Smith reached the frantic woman. It was Shirin, he knew instantly. She was brilliant. She clutched at the injured guard, felled across the floor. His face and head looked a mash of blood and brain, and his body remained still.

"He's been shot! He shot him!" she screamed. "Someone please help!"

Two officers nearest to her leaned in closer to assess the guard's condition. They both reeled sideways, one of them vomiting, the other gagging, neither of them able to get close enough to touch him. The smell of blood was thick.

Smith took the initiative and reached around Shirin's shoulder, trying to guide her out of the corridor. "Ma'am, we have to get you out of here. We have paramedics on the way. Please, ma'am, let me help you." Smith's voice was a mix of genuine concern and trustworthy authority.

"I'm not leaving him! He's been shot! He's still alive! I can feel his heart beating!" she screamed with her hand on the downed officer's chest.

It didn't make sense to Smith, but in the chaos around him, he understood. Shirin was using the injured man as a mechanism of distraction and escape. He didn't know why Barratt had locked himself in the interrogation room, didn't care; he was beyond help now. He had to focus on getting Shirin out. For whatever reason, the old man wanted her alive and in play.

Another officer came to Smith's aid and started to help drag Shirin and the injured guard down the corridor and away from the interrogation room door.

More armed officers rushed past them. Smith could hear orders being hurriedly disseminated through the ranks and knew what was coming. The SWAT team would be there within minutes. They'd break the door down and kill Barratt without hesitation.

Smith reached the anteroom. The other officer helping him kept looking down the corridor, not wanting to miss the action. This was his chance.

"I got this," Smith said to the officer. "Go help them."

The other officer hesitated only a moment, nodded, and left in a hurry. Huddled at Shirin's feet, the injured guard started groaning and moving his legs and arms. He curled up in a reflexive ball and dry retched, but his stomach was empty. The action was genuine; the attempt to hide it was not. Suddenly Smith understood what was really happening. The injured guard was not really injured. He was Barratt.

Smith hesitated, chastising himself for underestimating Shirin. He marveled at her ability and found himself thinking again how interesting it would be if he had to kill her.

Kneeling down beside her, their eyes leveled at each other. Smith spoke slowly, calmly, "Shirin. A friend sent me. I'm here to help."

His caring tone was now gone and replaced with a mechanical monotone, and in that moment, he caught her surprise. It felt good.

16:15:06

Shirin baulked at the sound of her name. Instinct coiled deep inside her, ready to pounce. She saw it unfold in her mind in slow motion: a sharp open-hand jab to the officer's throat, then a head-butt to the soft part of his nose while lunging for the sidearm conveniently unclipped in its holster, and if he was still conscious, a crippling blow to his sternum. It would all happen within the blink of an eye.

"I'm here to get you and Barratt out," he said indifferently, interrupting her before her thoughts turned to deadly action. "Then you're on your own."

She didn't trust him. Didn't trust anyone. But she believed him. She didn't really have a choice.

He glanced around quickly to be sure no one was watching him, then leaned in close. Shielded by their bodies, he withdrew a small Walther 9mm pistol from the folds of his uniform jacket and handed it to her.

She nodded curtly, taking the weapon. "Let's go."

"Stairs," the mysterious officer said, and led them through the emergency stairwell door. More officers could be heard entering the void via multiple doors on other levels.

The officer held Barratt under the arm, seemingly taking the bulk of his weight as they made their way up the stairs. Shirin continued to play her part; she appeared an admirable mix of scared and brave, and above all, her performance looked convincing.

The office spoke loudly with practiced authority, "Clear a path! He's been injured." With his free hand, he waved the approaching officers out of their way and pointed to the farthest officer, telling him to hold the door to the ground floor open while they navigated the last of the steps

16:16:43

Barratt fought another round of nausea. The dead agent's blood and brain matter smeared in chunks across his face clung to him and bounced with his every step. He could smell it with each breath. He felt a white-hot rage at Shirin that she had slapped it over his face without discussing it first, but more at himself for vomiting in front of her.

The police officer now helping them to escape had cleared a path through the steady stream of police, emergency personnel, and senior staff rushing to the apparent standoff two floors below.

Locked in the interrogation room, the two security guards would be found, cuffed but alive. They would also find one dead would-be assassin. Barratt knew it would be only minutes before they had a surveillance camera snuck into the room and breached the door.

Leaving the stairwell, they walked out onto the ground floor, the main entrance only seconds away. They were nearly free. Shirin's plan was working.

Huddled together, the three of them navigated their way past empty workstations. From the stairwell door to the entrance, to the front foyer, the ruse of Barratt being injured slipped fluidly away. While they moved through the emptying precinct ground floor quickly, they no longer carried Barratt's weight, opting instead for a quicker exit.

Shirin swiped a box of tissues off one of the desks as they skirted around the last of the workstations, passing it to Barratt. It felt good to finally wipe away some of the smeared blood and brain from his face.

The foyer had been effectively cleared of civilians, making way for emergency response teams. As Shirin and Barratt neared the exit door leading to the outside, the officer spoke in a clipped, unreadable tone. "The delivery van. Ten o'clock on exit. They're armed. I'll get the front, you two get in the back."

Neither of them replied. There was nothing to say. The sunlight hit them brightly in the face as they walked out of the police station. To the left, the barn doors of the delivery van were open, a driver behind the wheel, two men standing ready to rush forward at the sight of their prey.

People ran everywhere. An emergency response truck screeched to a stop at the entrance of the police station, and before the truck stopped skidding, the back doors flew open and eight armed men jumped out, charged forward in military formation, rushing past them without a glance.

Rushing crowds filled the courtyard, trying to get a better look at what was happening, helpless officers trying to keep them back. It was chaos. It was perfect for their escape.

16:16:53

Moving quickly away from the police station, Shirin caught the movement instinctively. The two men from the van rushed forward. She could sense them reaching for concealed weapons. The mysterious police officer helping them pulled a remote device from his pocket and pressed the button.

The air, sucked out of their lungs; silence, hanging; then, a loud explosion bellowed to their right. The force of the blast pushed them sideways. He walked undisturbed, pulled his sidearm, shot the two men moving toward them with quick double taps to the chest, and kept walking to the open rear of the van.

Shirin and Barratt were only steps behind him. Two more shots, and as Barratt closed the rear doors of the van behind him, their mysterious helper pushed the dead driver out the door and stomped on the accelerator. The van took off.