Constant Fear (24 page)

CHAPTER 41

J
ake followed a branch off the main tunnel that terminated at a set of metal stairs. He took those stairs two at a time; and at the top landing, he unlocked a steel door, using his master key. He left every door he came through unlocked to facilitate a fast exit.

He made an in-and-out trip through the basement janitor’s closet and sprinted to the stairwell. Then, it was up a set of stairs to the first floor of the Academy Building; he clutched the AK-47 in both hands as he went. He proceeded without extreme caution. Time wouldn’t allow it. Twenty minutes had already ticked off the clock. Twenty minutes left to go. From here, Jake knew the quickest route to the Feldman Auditorium.

The end of the hallway spilled out into an open foyer with high ceilings. Jake stopped to poke his head around the corner. He could see the auditorium doors not more than thirty feet away. They weren’t being guarded. Why bother? They had the FBI held at bay with a bogus bomb threat. Maybe somebody was patrolling outside, but Jake thought it unlikely. It would leave them vulnerable to snipers. The action was happening inside the auditorium. And who didn’t want to be in on the action?

Jake emerged from his hiding place in a crouch, the AK-47 slung across his shoulder. His footsteps echoed softly as he inched his way toward the auditorium doors. When he got there, Jake reached over his shoulder and removed one of the steel rebar rods, which poked out the top of his backpack. The rod came free as though Jake had unsheathed a sword.

Behind the closed doors, Jake heard the voice of the man he believed to be Fausto addressing his captives. Jake did not stop to listen. He, instead, slid the rebar between the looped handle on each door with the dexterity of a bomb technician defusing a device. He released his grip and the rod dropped maybe a millimeter into place, just enough to make a small noise of metal on metal.

Jake’s hand went to the butt of his Glock. He waited for an alarm to sound. Shots to be fired. Men to come for him. He exhaled when nothing happened.

Jake checked over his work. The rebar was long enough to hold firm, no matter how many pushed against the door. He snuck around to the other side of the auditorium and created the same barricade, using a second rebar rod on a different set of auditorium doors. Two additional emergency exits were at the back of the auditorium, and Jake secured those doors in the same manner. Four exits, all secured using unbendable rebar.

Jake next padded down a hallway, AK-47 at the ready. He took the stairs back to the basement and from there worked his way into the tunnels. A check of his stopwatch showed ten additional minutes off the clock. Ten left to go.

On to phase two.

Jake shot down the tunnel, headed for the pit, running as though his body were on fire. He used the headlamp to light the way, but probably could have made it there blindfolded. All his senses worked on overdrive—every sound magnified, every touch internalized, every musty odor overpowering.

Jake’s heartbeat matched the pace and power of a jackhammer. He took in shallow, sharp breaths to try and slow it down, but gave up. It was impossible to control the adrenaline. The killer instinct, so natural to him on the mound, came back, but in an altered state and intensified. He, in no way, relished what was to come. The need to kill and a desire to do so are different beasts.

A check of the time: three more minutes gone.

Inside the pit, the headlamp lit the space well enough. He saw the three decomposing men in a heap on the floor, where he had left them—Big Red and his two mangled companions. The smell of blood hit him hard. If his stomach let go, he might give himself away. Now it was showtime. Even though he prepped like a trained soldier, Jake took inspiration from the only place where he did actual battle: the mound.

Jake moved the bodies and rolled the stairs back into place. Another three minutes off the clock.

Down to four.

“You are fast running out of time, little ones.
Efren y Armando, vengan aquí.
”

Efren, Armando, Fausto. How many more were there? Didn’t much matter. Jake had enough ammo to engage a small army.

With the stairs in place, Jake went to the back wall of the pit and shone his headlamp on the fuse box. He removed his backpack, opened the top, and fished out the light sticks. He had five of them. Plenty. He did the break-and-shake on each stick. They were glowing, but in infrared so that it didn’t really look like any chemical reaction had taken place. He checked the smoke grenades hitched to his chest rig. Fine there as well. The flares were also within easy reach.

“Many famous Mexicans have died by firing squad,” Fausto said, his voice amplified by Jake’s hearing protection. “You still have a little time left.”

One minute according to Jake’s timer.

“Please, please, none of us has it. Believe us.” That was Andy’s voice. He sounded strong, alert. And that was Hilary’s doing.

Jake opened the fuse box. There were circuit breakers for different sections of the auditorium, but his only interest was the red master switch. Jake held the light stick in one hand. He looked at the stairs. It would take only a few seconds to cross the pit, get up the stairs, open the trapdoor, and start shooting. Three seconds. Maybe four. Fausto could open fire on the kids during that time. It was a possibility. A serious risk. The blackout should be a big-enough distraction, Jake thought. He wouldn’t need them frozen for long. His other option was to listen to six gunshots.

Jake sucked down a breath and closed his eyes. He visualized exactly what was about to happen. Focused his thoughts, his intentions. This was the windup.

Now for the pitch.

CHAPTER 42

J
ake shut off his headlamp. The pit area became a canvas of black. He lowered his night vision optical, and the dark pit was awash in a green glow. Every detail showed in high definition, including the dead bodies strewn about the concrete floor. He put his left hand on the red power switch. In his right hand, he held the IR light sticks that powered his night vision.

He hoped the kids would take cover on the floor.

He counted in his head.

He heard Fausto say from the auditorium, “I’d prepare your last words.”

The whimpers became sobs.

Jake bent his knees to get into a sprinter’s stance.

“No? Nothing?” Fausto said. “Well, as you wish.”

Jake pulled the switch down and cut the power to the auditorium. At the same instant, he bolted forward.

“¿Qué pasó?”
The voice sounded angry and surprised. Chatter interspersed with other commotion, like the sound of auditorium seats folding closed.

Jake bounded across the pit, navigating with the help of his optics. He got his foot on the first step, and it was easy from there to get all the way up.

Using his back, Jake forced open the trapdoor. He emerged into the dark. Nobody in the auditorium could see him on the stage. Jake gently lowered the trapdoor to the floor so it remained open. That was to be the way out. Light from cell phones waved about in the dark as if they were levitated. The chatter continued. There was movement toward the doors.

Jake rolled across the stage to get some distance from the pit opening. An accidental tumble would be disastrous. He tossed one light stick toward the back of the auditorium with the arm strength of an outfielder. The chem light bounced over several rows of seats and settled at the back of the room. He sent three more light sticks flying.

The noise they made upon landing might have given Jake away. For safety, he sank deeper into the darkness of the stage. As he did, he rolled to his left.

Sure enough, bullets came at Jake from multiple directions. Shots peppered the stage, but missed him by a wide margin. Jake peered into his night vision optical. The world was green, and well lit from the scattering of infrared glow sticks.

He could see the kids cowering on the floor. Some used their hands to shield their heads. They were still in their school uniforms. Jake counted six hostages in total, including Andy at the end of the row, hands over his head like the others. His boy. There might be additional hostages, but Jake doubted it. These six were all connected.

Flashes in the dark auditorium announced the bullets to come. They hit everywhere but where it mattered. They were firing blind, and it was highly ineffective. In the second row, Jake sighted a thin guy aiming a sizable shotgun. Even though his aim was off target, a shotgun blast covered a wide area. “Thin Man” got off a single shot that made a powerful blast and added to the overwhelming stench of gunpowder.

A fraction of a second after the shotgun blast, Jake pulled the trigger on his rifle. A quick succession of pops followed and three bullets exploded the thin guy’s chest. The sticky collision caused the man to crumple over the auditorium chairs. His legs bent at an unnatural angle, and his feet pointed skyward but didn’t move.

Now that he could see where to shoot and what to avoid, Jake laid down heavy suppressive fire. Bullets spit from his rifle barrel like hornets fleeing an aggravated nest. Gas-operated weapons were efficient at ejecting spent cartridges and loading another. Jake could get off about forty rounds a minute, including time to change magazines, chamber the first round, and clear any jams.

Unfortunately, so could the other guys, and they had more guns. Eventually one of them would get lucky. Then again, they didn’t know how many people had infiltrated the auditorium, so they were shooting everywhere. For now, the kids were safe as long as they stayed on the floor. The bullets were going way over their heads, so the kids were in the best possible location.

Movement drew Jake’s gaze to the auditorium doors on his right. Somebody was trying to get out. Through the optics, Jake targeted a heavyset man as he pushed against the doors with his substantial weight.

Jake rolled onto his stomach and took aim. He let go a burst. One bullet struck the back of the man’s head, splitting it open like a watermelon dropped from a height. Two other bullets pierced him in the back near the shoulder blades. The rifle in the man’s hand dropped to the floor and landed just before his lifeless body did the same.

At the back of the auditorium, Jake spotted two other targets pushing against the emergency exit doors. One had long, frizzy hair; the other guy’s hair was short. Both had thin builds, a little harder to hit. But they were less than forty-five meters away. Jake was a fine shot at twice that distance. He pulled the trigger, and a fraction of a second later, there were no guys at that door.

Four hostiles down in less than thirty seconds.

“Get up here!” Jake screamed at the kids between shots. “Get up here now.”

The remainder of the crew had spread out and took up cover behind different seats in different rows. Jake saw them come up from time to time like prairie dogs out to have a look around. They didn’t stay up for long. Jake sighted them quickly and decorated their seats with bullets. Maybe he struck gold. Probably not. The goal wasn’t annihilation. It was rescue.

Jake’s constant stream of bullets pinned the hostage takers down and kept them from returning fire. This gave the kids a short window to make their move, but Jake wanted them fully concealed from view. From a prone position, he unclipped one of the four smoke grenades on his chest rig. He fired the AK-47 without aiming, using one hand. With his teeth, he pulled the pin on the grenade and gave it a toss. The projectile flew with a tall arc and a smoky tail. As soon as it hit, thick smoke billowed into the pitch-black room.

“Move! Move!” Jake shouted.

Grenade two was up and away. Bullets whizzed by Jake’s head, and he returned fire with his rifle. The smoke was doing its job, but Jake launched one more grenade for good measure and went back to two-handed firing.

Pixie was the first kid to take initiative. He commando-crawled across the gap between the first row of seats and the stage. With the smoke and the dark, the flash of Jake’s gun barrel would help navigate him to the stage like airport runway lights.

A thick curtain of smoke rose up behind Pixie. Only Jake could see the boy on the move. Pixie reached the front of the stage and hauled himself up. Jake never let up with the gunfire. He shifted position several times to make targeting him even harder. First he rolled right, then to the left, and back right again.

When his ammo ran low, Jake took out a new magazine from his battle belt and activated the rifle’s magazine catch with his thumb. He rotated the new magazine forward to the correct angle for insertion. Total time without shooting never went more than a couple of seconds. He thought he had enough bullets with him to get all six kids through the trapdoor.

By this point, the kids’ ears must have been ringing, but Jake kept his finger on the trigger. They could sustain worse injuries than hearing loss. Return fire came at Jake through the fog in spurts, and some of it splintered the stage floor, not more than five feet away. A little too close for comfort.

Jake sighted a target through his optics and fired at him through the haze. His bullets turned the auditorium chairs into Swiss cheese and flushed a shooter out of hiding. Jake tracked the man to the front door, where another man’s body already lay. The smoke was still pretty thin over there and Jake had no trouble tracking him. It looked to Jake like the man at the door had a claw for a hand. He could have ten clawed hands. That door wasn’t going to budge.

Jake let a burst of bullets fly that put plenty of holes into his target. Liquid exploded from the man’s midsection and blended with the gathering smoke.

Jake kept up the suppressive fire. At some point, someone would shoot blindly at the front of the stage and hit one of the slow-moving kids. Jake had to hurry them along. He yelled, “Move now or you’ll be shot.”

Hilary had her hands over her eyes, and a scream fell from her mouth, which was mostly drowned out by gunfire. At least she was on the move. David and Rafa followed, and next came Andy, who looked a bit disoriented. Solomon brought up the rear. All of them crawled toward the stage. Ten feet felt more like ten miles. They were going too slow. Jake screamed, “Move it! Move it!”

The kids needed better protection, so Jake stood up. It put him in a vulnerable position, but he improved his vantage point. He peppered the auditorium seats with as many bullets as his gun could spit out, sweeping the barrel from right to left and back again. He changed magazines three times. This happened as more smoke poured out of the canisters and turned the visibility nearly to zero. Return gunfire came at Jake through the smog, but it was way off the mark.

One by one, the kids crawled onto the stage. He kept up the gunfire until he again ran out of ammo. This time, he changed magazines, using the new cartridge to release the old. It was a skill Ellie had taught him at the range.

“Down in the hole!” Jake yelled. “The pit door is open. Get down in it!”

Jake turned his head in time to see Pixie feel his way across the stage in the dark and drop into the pit. One by one, like lemmings on the march, they all went down into the hole. Andy said nothing as he crept along. Chances were, he didn’t even know it was Jake doing the shooting.

As Jake had calculated, the return fire was nonexistent. In this environment, he had all the advantage. He could target better than they could. He had won the first round. But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Whoever had taken the kids hostage would follow them into the tunnels.