Constant Fear (16 page)

CHAPTER 26

T
he six teenagers had been separated. Each occupied a different room in the main building, far enough away from each other, Fausto hoped, that they couldn’t hear any screams.

The interrogation would soon begin, and Fausto felt confident he could retrieve Soto’s money. Getting out would be another matter entirely. But first things first, Soto always preached. One of these kids had the digital key to access the missing $200 million. All it would take to get it was the proper incentive. And that had nothing to do with money.

Fausto would personally oversee the process, but he assigned a man to each kid. Efren would be with Andy—the strongest with the leader. Armando, with the many scars on his face, got the girl, Hilary, but with strict orders she was not to be violated. Not yet, anyway. El Cortador got a second chance and was assigned to the fat one, Solomon. Poor Solomon. That left Joaquin, “El Mata Padres”—which meant “The Father Killer,” so-named for good reason—to take the long-haired one, David. El Tornado, whose real name was Emmanuel, would interrogate the thin boy called Rafa, and Miguel, “Una Mano”—which meant “One Hand”—had the little one who went by the name of Pixie. Miguel had lost his right hand to a machete, and the substitute, an ugly hook, made a fearsome weapon.

Having a handle in a cartel was a sign of respect. It was like a personal brand. It meant that you mattered, you were someone of importance. The two men not assigned an interrogation had no handle. These were foot soldiers, as were two of the three men Fausto had murdered onstage. El Gallo was someone of importance, but incompetence trumped status in Fausto’s world.

Fausto’s handle had been given to him by Soto himself: “El Dorado”—“The Golden.” In keeping with tradition, Fausto had named his two chief lieutenants. Efren was called “El Toro” because of his size, and Armando, for obvious reasons, was “Scar Face”—the only nickname in English.

These computer types had taken up the naming practice, like The Lion, who’d helped Javier first and Fausto second. It amused Fausto that these kids also had handles. They had their own hierarchy, it seemed. He knew two of their handles so far—Pixie and Dark Matter—but soon he would learn the others. He would discover everything he needed to know about these kids, and they, in turn, would learn many things they didn’t know about themselves.

But first, Fausto had business to address. For now, the situation at Javier’s home was under control. It was one thing Fausto did not have to worry about. The Martinez family would live until Javier was no longer of any use to the cartel. Fausto spoke by phone with the man in charge of the Javier situation, the one he called Odio. The conversation had turned tense; one of the men Fausto murdered onstage was Odio’s cousin. But Odio’s anger came and quickly passed. No tears were shed. Life in the cartel was notoriously hard, and no one dared grieve the dead openly, lest he suffer the same fate.

Fausto was using the auditorium as his war room. It was there he summoned Efren to his side. The contingency plan he had mapped out was about to be put into action. It was time to make those who mattered aware of the stakes.

Efren had taken off his shirt and entered the auditorium wearing only his white cotton tank top. His massive arms were adorned with tattoos, many as intricate as the delicate designs cut into Fausto’s gold teeth.

“The boy Andy is being watched,” Efren said in Spanish. “I sent Pancho out to patrol the grounds and check for anybody in the surrounding buildings.”

“Good thinking, Efren,” Fausto said. “But why do you look concerned?”

“It’s the boy. He doesn’t look well to me. He tells me he’s diabetic.”

“And you believe him?” Fausto asked.

“I don’t think he’s faking.”

“If he has the key, he must not die.”

“You think I don’t know this? I brought his backpack to the room, but haven’t searched it. I wanted to check with you what to do.”

“We break him first. If he says he doesn’t have the key and you believe him, kill him and let’s move on.”

“Understood,” Efren said. “Now about our problem. You said at Javier’s house you had a plan if something went wrong. Well, I’d say something has gone very wrong.”

“I am prepared,” Fausto said. “But first, listen to me. This situation may not go well for us. I am telling this only to you because you, my friend, like me, are not afraid to die. I am not wrong, am I?”

Efren shrugged his indifference. “If I’m dead, will I even care?”

Fausto chuckled and put his arm around Efren’s broad shoulders. “You are a good man. We have two goals now. First, get the money to Soto. He will make sure some of it, a fair amount, goes to our families.”

“Do you think there’s any chance of getting out alive?”

“I think we will buy ourselves time. But if it looks like we are cornered here, our chances are not so good. Understand? For now, our objectives remain the same. Retrieve the money, and return to Mexico.”

“How do we buy time?” Efren asked.

“We are going to have to play a little game of chicken. And we’ll see who wins.” Fausto took out his cell phone, looked up a number on the Internet, and dialed.

A ring.

“Winston Police, Dispatcher Gavin, this call is being recorded,” a male voice said. “How can I help you?”

“Yes, I am calling to report a situation at Pepperell Academy,” Fausto said in English.

Fausto heard the sound of clicking.

“The school has been evacuated. Are you calling about the odor or something else?”

“Well, I am the one who caused all of the problem,” Fausto said calmly. “Including a woman we shot. Have you met her? Seen her? Did she live? Just curious. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I have
caused
the problem—the truck, the spill, the chemical—and now the hostages. All of it is me. Please now, listen very carefully.”

“Who is this?”

“My English is not perfect, but I do not believe what you are doing is listening. I think that is talking, no? We try again, okay? Listen to me. Just to be clear, you may respond you understood.”

“Okay—okay. I’m listening.”

“Good. My name does not matter. What does is that I am in possession of a weapon of great destruction. I will send you a picture. What is your e-mail address?”

“My e-mail?”

“You want to see this device, no?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” the man said.

Fausto enjoyed the man’s hard breathing as he spelled out his e-mail address. From his photo library, Fausto accessed all the pictures of the oil drums hooked together with wires that Carlos had sent to him from Mexico. Carlos knew enough to strip the images of GPS location information, so Fausto was free to send whichever pictures he wanted. He selected the image that best displayed the lime-green drum, the one with the special tags, and sent it as an e-mail attachment through a wireless network.

“Did you get it?” Fausto asked.

After a pause, “Yeah, I got it. It’s here.”

“Do you know what this is?” Fausto asked.

“No,” said the dispatcher.

“This is a very ugly bomb,” Fausto said. “It’s what you call a dirty bomb.”

“Who is this? What is it you want?”

Fausto ignored the question. “There was a theft in Mexico not long ago, five months or so. A truck transporting cobalt-60 taken from an old—how do you say in English?—
aparato de rayos x,
X-ray machine, was hijacked. We did this. And we used the stolen material in the bomb.”

This was partially true. One of Soto’s affiliates had hijacked the truck and discovered inside the cargo hold several of these radioactive containers. Soto was not sure what to do with the cargo, but he kept it hidden because the theft had caused quite the stir in both Mexico and the United States. Both governments worried about such material ending up in the hands of a terrorist. Soto figured the cobalt-60 could be of value to the right buyer, but at the time these pictures were taken, a buyer had yet to come forward. The oil drums had been mostly forgotten, with their radioactive material sealed inside.

Fausto had personally coordinated the transport of the cobalt-60 to an abandoned airfield some fifty kilometers outside Ciudad Juárez. Those oil drums were still fresh in Fausto’s memory when he thought to use them as part of his contingency plan. He had foreseen the need to have a significant threat that would hold any potential rescue team at bay.

Fausto knew the plan would not guarantee his escape. He’d make a demand for transport back to Mexico; but if that plan failed, Fausto was fully prepared to die and he’d gladly take others down with him. If it succeeded, Efren and Armando would thank him for his foresight once the three friends were enjoying margaritas and women on the beaches of Cabo San Lucas again.

“There’s a tag on one of the oil drums. Read it,” Fausto told the dispatcher. “It will be a match for the stolen material. This is not a bluff. The other drums in the picture are filled with a high-powered explosive, and the vehicle holding the device is parked where there are many people. I can set off this bomb with a phone call. The explosion will mix cobalt-60 pellets and make a very big problem wherever the boom may be. If anybody comes near this school, I detonate the device.”

“What is it you want? Your demands.”

“You heard them already!” Fausto snapped. “What is it with you people and listening? I said fall back. Retreat. Give me the space I want. Two kilometers. If I see so much as a single police officer, SWAT, FBI, any chemical cleanup people, a
maldito
janitor, I detonate the device. Ask somebody who knows what happens then.”

CHAPTER 27

A
series of hanging lights illuminated the tunnel like the shaft of some forgotten coal mine. The numerous ways into the tunnel system were well hidden. Jake didn’t worry about anybody being down here with him. All his thoughts were centered on what was happening aboveground.

The FBI was mobilizing its big guns—the Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT—but there was no indication of an imminent assault. Jake kept the volume on his portable police scanner low as he listened. There was some discussion of a new threat, but all related conversation was directed to a secure channel Jake couldn’t access. The mission was now clearly defined: ensure his son was here, alive, and get him his medication. If Jake could extract Andy and the others safely, he would do so. Otherwise, he could relay critical information back to the FBI as needed.

The tunnel between the field house and the Society Building went straight for about a hundred yards and terminated at a set of crumbling cement stairs. Jake climbed those stairs, pulled his hearing protection to one side, and placed his ear to the rust-speckled door at the top of the landing. He listened. All was quiet. He powered down the scanner and turned the doorknob with caution.

Jake entered a dark closet, about eight feet by eight feet, with a ceiling high enough for him to stand upright. Buckets, mops, and cleaning supplies were in his way, but Jake got to the front of the closet without knocking anything over.

Holding his assault rifle with one hand, Jake reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The worst mistake he could make would be to move too quickly. He had to maintain a pace that would allow him to shoot with accuracy. He opened the closet door and stepped quickly to the side.

He trained the barrel of his AK-47 into the sliver of hallway he could see. His head, cocooned inside his tactical helmet, heated up. Jake took small steps as he worked his way incrementally from the closet wall to stand in front of the open door. He brought the weapon up to nose level, but knew not to get so focused looking down the barrel that he’d forget to scan the space in front of him, floor to the ceiling. Hiding places could be anywhere.

Self-discipline had always been one of Jake’s strengths, and pitching had bolstered that innate ability. There was a right way to do things and a wrong way, and practice and repetitions locked methods into memory. After seeing how long it took just to open a closet door, however, Jake debated trading caution for speed. Andy’s condition could be deteriorating by the minute.

Jake stepped out into the hallway, committed, and aimed the gun to cover only what his eyes could see. Mounted to his rifle was a SureFire light, activated by a hand switch. The light didn’t eliminate all shadows, but it did a damn fine job illuminating the dim corridor.

Jake assessed his environment. Classroom doors ran along both sides of the hall. Some of the doors were closed, but others had been left open. As he cleared each room, Jake would have an increasingly difficult time keeping an eye down the hall. But he needed to get to the stairwell at the far end of the corridor to go up a level.

From higher ground, Jake would be able to see the Academy Building and he’d also have a partial view of the Terry Science Center. He’d have limited sight lines to Gibson Hall or the library, but one thing at a time.

Jake imagined a scenario in which Laura encountered hostage takers inside the Academy Building. From there, she would have sprinted across The Quad, run right past the Society Building, where he now was, and made it to the woods. Probably bleeding. Probably dying. Or maybe she’d found her killers in this very building. The campus had always felt small to Jake, but now it seemed vast as an ocean.

Jake had done several room-clearing exercises before. Clearing a house alone was an absolute worst-case scenario, so practicing it was an important part of his preparedness training. He had no backup—nobody to take a zone for him. The situation stank. No other way to put it. His enemy had every conceivable advantage. Jake needed to commit to each room, and he would have to clear them all.

After one final check down the hall, Jake moved quickly into the adjacent classroom to his right and swept it. His gun barrel canvassed every corner of the room, moving high to low and covering everything in between. Nothing. Jake ventured into the hall once again, with his rifle ready: nose level, eye looking right down the barrel, finger hovering over the trigger. His pulse accelerated, but his breathing stayed steady. At one time, with ice in his veins, he had stared down plenty of batters facing a three-two count.

The classroom across from him was next. He crossed the hallway as if he were walking a tightrope, each step careful, quiet. His ears were attuned to any sound. The slightest scrape could mean a gunman, a burst of gunfire.

Fortunately for Jake, half the classrooms put him on the strong side of the door. He could reach over, open the door, and step back without exposing himself to any threat inside. Jake cleared the next classroom, same as the other. The desks were all in neat rows, suggesting the students had evacuated in an orderly fashion.

At the classroom door, Jake paused to collect his thoughts and refocus. Stress decreased situational awareness and could result in tunnel vision. A few deep breaths and Jake’s mind felt sharp again, except for the constant pangs about Andy. Those wouldn’t go away.

Jake slipped back into the hallway, keeping his eyes peeled for signs of danger. He cleared the next classroom, and the next, until he had done them all. Eleven classrooms in total, and not a single threat encountered. No moving doors. No unusual shadows. No signs of life. The effort took seven minutes. Seven minutes for Andy to get sicker. Seven minutes for whoever took his son to do something dreadful.

At the end of the hall stood the door to the stairwell. Jake stopped and listened. He might have heard something. A scraping sound? He tossed open the door and leveled his weapon into the darkness. It was a mistake. He had moved too quickly, but he wanted an answer. He wanted Andy. The stairwell was concrete and sound traveled. But the door had opened silently; and if somebody was above or below, they probably heard nothing.

Jake listened. Nothing at first, but then, his ears picked up the faint click of a door closing shut. Not his door, of course. It came from the door above him. One floor up. The floor where Jake was headed. Jake hesitated, waiting for footsteps, his gun trained on the spot where a body could appear. Nothing. He checked his weapon and undid the snap, securing his Bushman knife to his ankle holster.

After one readying breath, Jake headed up the stairs.