Night Hush (25 page)

 

Chapter Forty

T
O GET TO
the parking lot on the west side of the rec center, Heather either had to drive all the way around the south side, past the outdoor pool, and back north, or she could drive past the back end and turn into the parking lot.

“They don't know this car,” Heather said. Trevor's face was white as a sheet. Truth was, he barely looked conscious. “Are you up for this, soldier?”

She couldn't do it without him. She didn't know anything about biochemical weapons. Neither did she know what to look for.

“Yes.” He took her phone, dialing with his good hand. “Colonel Granville? Major Carswell. I need you to listen closely and disseminate this as far as it needs to go.” He listened for a moment. “We're at the community center. There's both an indoor and outdoor pool.”

Heather turned her head. “The indoor pool's closed for maintenance. That's a mercy, anyway. Fewer ­people.”

For some reason, this news made Trevor close his eyes and thunk his head against the back of the seat. “We need to hurry. The oil truck may or may not be carrying explosives, but it is absolutely carrying phosgene gas. A great deal of it.”

Heather turned the car toward the back end of the recreation center. With a little luck, she could just drive past as though she were any other resident and turn into the back lot. What they would do once there was beyond her. Neither of them had firearms, and Trevor was badly injured. Against how many men with weapons, what chance did they stand?

She had to try.

She didn't intend to slow down, didn't intend to look for the gas truck as she drove past. Certainly had not intended to meet the eyes of one of the men near the truck. Recognition flashed through the man's eyes, then alarm. He grabbed for something near the back wheel of the truck, brought it up to his shoulder . . . the AK-­47 spat a stream of bullets, and Heather yanked the wheel, hard, in the opposite direction. Her foot slammed down on the accelerator. The car slewed around, fishtailed. Leaped forward. Plowed, nose first, into the ditch at the edge of the pavement.

The airbag punched her hard. Dizzy, disoriented, Heather pushed at it, trying to get it to deflate. Trying to get it out of her face so she could see.

“Trevor?”

There was no answer. The bag finally flattened enough for her to look across to where Trevor slumped against the door. He had blood on his face. Heather fought her seat belt free, leaning across to see if she could find a pulse.

Her door was yanked open. A hostile face filled her vision. Rough hands grabbed her, dragging her away from Trevor, who still had not moved. Oh, God, don't let him be dead.

“You stupid son of a camel!” roared a voice from far away. In Arabic. “Someone might have heard the shots. Do that again, and I'll kill you myself.”

It was the convoy all over again. Someone wrenched her out of her seat and shoved her to the pavement. The rough cement ground against her cheek as the terrorist searched her. Another went around to the other side of the car, listing sideways in the ditch. The door wouldn't open. The man, dressed incongruously in jeans and a T-­shirt, pressed his face against the window and said, in Arabic, “He's dead. Leave him.”

A despairing cry ripped from Heather's throat. “No!”

She kicked and twisted as they yanked her arms up behind her and half dragged, half carried her over to the building, up the stairs, and through the open bay door. The sudden dimness had her blinking. It was clearly a shipment area. Trucks could simply back up to the concrete platform and offload their deliveries. A man waited just inside the door.

Zaahir al-­Farouk.

He held a wicked-­looking handgun. It was the very distinctive PHP VM-­17 pistol, a Croatian-­made firearm. As Heather was yanked to a stop in front of him, he raised the pistol, thumbed back the hammer, and pressed the barrel against her forehead.

 

Chapter Forty-­One

September 11. 3:25
P.M.

Recreation Center, Dogwood Beach Housing Area

J
ACE ARRIVED AT
the recreation center just behind the military police. Two cars. Two cops. Jesus. Where was the cavalry? He sprinted across the parking lot to them.

“Get these ­people out of here!” he shouted.

As one, they took a step back from him, hands dropping to the butts of their weapons. Jace realized what he must look like to them, a madman running full tilt at the cops. He skidded to a stop, hands spread to show he had no weapon. No visible weapon, that is.

“I'm Captain Reed,” he said, moving much more slowly but with no less purpose. “There's a bomb on the premises, somewhere. I have to find it. You need to get these ­people evacuated.”

The more senior of the two, a buck sergeant, dropped his hand away from his handgun and saluted, despite Jace not being in uniform. “Yes, sir. We spotted the gas tanker back behind this building. We were just heading . . .”

Jace interrupted him. He had no time for this. “Do either of you have experience disarming bombs or handling biochemical weapons? No? Then the best way you can help is to get these ­people the hell away from here, without causing a panic.”

“We'll take care of it, sir.” The younger cop headed toward the crowded pool area. “But you need to be aware there's a car back there, too, in the ditch. There's an ambulance on its way.”

Fuck and double fuck. Jace turned and sprinted for the rear of the building. Please let it not be Heather. Please let her be all right.

Please let her be alive.

There was no movement of any kind at the loading dock. Jace didn't bother with stealth; he simply raced at top speed to the car. The driver's side door was wide open. There was only one person inside. It was Trevor. Jace simply slid over the top of the hood to get to the other side. The door was jammed. Trevor slumped against it; but, as Jace yanked at the door handle, he began to stir.

Jace went back around to the driver's side and leaned in. “Trevor. Trev.” He shook the other man's shoulder. Trevor groaned.

Checking him for injuries, Jace found the splinted wrist and a gash on the man's forehead. Trevor groaned again. His eyes fluttered and opened. Jace turned the man's head toward him. His eyes glazed.

“Trevor,” he tried again. The SAS major's gaze began to focus. Jace knew the exact instant clarity returned; Trevor jerked and looked around. “Where's Heather?”

“Shite. I don't know. She was driving. Someone started shooting at us, and next thing I knew, we ended up in the trench.” He touched his head gingerly. “I must've bounced off the window.”

Jace tried to calm his racing heart. Despite his overwhelming need to find her, she wasn't his primary concern. She couldn't be.

He had to trust she could take care of herself.

Groaning, Jace thunked his head against the steering wheel, then pushed himself out of the car. “She wouldn't have run off and left you unless she had no choice.”

“No,” Trevor agreed. “We have to presume she is in the hands of the imbeciles shooting at us.”

“Yeah.” He helped Trevor over the center console and out of the car. “Stay here and wait for the medics.”

Trevor looked at him like he'd grown two heads. “Like hell. You need me to disarm the bomb.”

Jace glanced pointedly at Trevor's ribs, which the other man clutched. “I can take care of the bomb.”

“And the chemical weapon? Are you equipped to handle that as well?” The SAS major knew the answer because he moved, albeit shakily, toward the loading dock. “We need to stop them from mixing the phosgene and the chlorine, at all costs.”

Jace didn't waste any more time arguing. Drawing his Sig Sauer, he sprinted to the loading dock and up the stairs. Trevor was right behind him, which jacked his respect for the man into high gear. Broken ribs hurt like a bitch and a half; the man must be in agony. But there was nothing on his face except grim determination.

Jace risked a quick look into the bay itself.

It was fifty feet across, double that in length. Support girders crisscrossed the ceilings. Pipes ran down the length of the building at the fifteen-­foot mark. The faintly purplish epoxy floor was stained from years of dirt and spills. Two blue doors stood across from him.

The bay was empty.

“I'm figuring the left door will lead to the pool area,” said Trevor. “That's where we need to get to.”

Sweeping his head from side to side, Jace ran in a half crouch across the floor to the first blue door. Flattening himself against the wall to the left of the door, he nodded to Trevor, who had done the same thing to the right. Trevor reached out and gingerly turned the knob. The door was unlocked, which was a mercy, since he didn't have his tools with him. Trevor held up three fingers, lowering them one at a time.

Three. Two. One.

Trevor pushed the door open, and Jace darted inside, weapon out and searching for targets. Left, right, in quick succession.

The hallway was empty.

It was a repeat of the bay—­epoxy floor, cinder block walls, and a ceiling crisscrossed with pipes and support beams. A fire extinguisher was strapped to the wall just to the left of the door. Jace handed his weapon to Trevor and unfastened the extinguisher, hefting it like the weapon it could be.

They turned left and crept in tandem past the door to the electrical room, past light switches and electrical outlets. At each switch, Jace flipped the lights off until the hallway was dark. They passed under a large, empty doorframe and followed the hallway as it turned sharply right. An arrow on the wall pointed the way to the pool.

Halfway down the long hallway were two more doors, one on each side of the hall. The helpful arrow told Jace they wanted the door to their right. As they reached it, Trevor and Jace deployed themselves on either side of the door as though they'd done it a million times. Again, Trevor counted down. This time, Trevor eased the door open a few millimeters at a time.

The room beyond was a twenty-­by-­thirty storage area. Crates and pallets lines the walls. Several boxes had been pulled out into the middle of the floor. Two men dressed in jeans and T-­shirts, the ones Jace recognized as Rami and Aa'idah's brother Shukri, struggled to haul huge buckets across the floor. Jace and Trevor looked at one another, completely in sync. As one, they burst through the door, throwing themselves onto the men.

Trevor barreled into Shukri, catching him by surprise. The man smashed into a crate and bounced, already swinging as he launched himself back at Trevor. A quick fist to the ribs and an elbow to the back of his head, and the terrorist went down.

The second man, Rami, shouted a warning. Jace let loose with a stream of carbon dioxide from the nozzle of the fire extinguisher, straight into the man's face. The man howled and clawed at his eyes. Jace slammed his fist into the man's gut. He doubled over.

“Stop!”

The command came from beyond the storage room, into the pool area itself. A figure appeared in the doorway.

Zaahir al-­Farouk.

And he was not alone. Held by her hair, gun pressed to her temple.

Heather.

 

Chapter Forty-­Two

J
ACE FROZE.
P
ROBABLY
for the first time in his career, his brain froze, too. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Couldn't focus. All he could do was stare at Heather, and think, “Don't die. Don't die. Don't die.”

“Relinquish your weapons,” Zaahir said, in surprisingly good English. “Or I will blow her brains all over this very clean floor.”

Trevor groaned, clutching his ribs and head, and slowly slumped to the floor. He seemed to lapse into unconsciousness. Both terrorists struggled to their feet and eyed Jace warily. At a sharp command from Zaahir, one pressed his fingers to Trevor's throat and shrugged.

“He's not dead. Shall I kill him?”

“No. We must hurry.” Zaahir snapped out a stream of commands that Jace could not follow. Shukri snagged the Sig, half-­buried under Trevor's bulk. Jace tightened his grip on the fire extinguisher. Zaahir sneered at him and yanked Heather's hair, jamming the handgun up under her chin. Pain flitted across Heather's face, but not a sound passed her lips.

If he surrendered, he was dead. He knew it. They all were. Every fiber of his being rebelled against the notion.

Jace loosened his grip. Forced his body to relax.

He let the extinguisher swing toward the floor. He wasn't going to risk Heather.

Behind him, Rami reached across and grabbed it, growling something in Arabic. He shoved against Jace's back, pushing him toward Zaahir.

Maybe he could use it to his advantage. He let his momentum carry him forward.

But Zaahir backed away, dragging Heather with him, using her to shield his body. She had fastened her gaze on Jace's face, trying to communicate something to him, but his attention was on Zaahir, waiting for the slightest hesitation, the slightest opening. Zaahir didn't give it to him.

He backed all the way into the main indoor pool area and jerked the handgun, indicating Jace should follow him. “Over there. By the stairs.”

Jace glanced over to the ladder leading down into the water. It was foul, green, and reeked. Something had caused the filters to stop working. A perfect excuse to close the pool and allow these men to execute their plan.

The pool was a standard-­sized lap pool, four feet deep, six lanes. Two lines of triangular flags, even with the lifeguard's elevated seat, trisected the pool. Old Glory hung on the wall opposite him, along with a poster with the words “al-­Zadr Field Recreation Division” on it. The leaf skimmer mounted on the opposite wall caught his attention. It would be a bit light and the net would make it unwieldy, but it would make a decent weapon in a pinch.

Not that he would have the opportunity to grab it.

Rami and Shukri came into the main area, dragging Trevor's limp body between them. Zaahir al-­Farouk snapped an order. They heaved him close to the nearest starting block and let him drop. His head smacked against the concrete. Was he conscious? Playing 'possum?

Dying?

“Lie facedown on the floor,” said Zaahir. “Rami will tie your hands. If you resist in any way, I will kill this whore.”

Rami sidled toward Jace, his eyes red and watery from the fire-­suppressant chemicals, clearly reluctant to come within range of his fists. Glaring daggers at him, Jace slowly knelt, then lowered himself to the floor. He stretched his arms out in front of him; Zaahir laughed.

“Do you think me a fool, infidel? Put your hands behind your back.”

Reluctantly, Jace obeyed. He couldn't keep his gaze from returning to Heather. She was thinking, plotting, waiting. If Zaahir gave her half an inch, she'd take the mile. Jace felt a chill. If she calculated wrong, Zaahir would pull the trigger, and her vibrant light would be snuffed out.

That was unacceptable.

“Come here,” barked Rami. Jace allowed the man to wrap his wrists with some sort of thin twine and move him to the starting block where Trevor lay. Heather looked close to tears. He sent her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. They hadn't searched him. Their mistake. He no longer had his Sig Sauer, but he was far from helpless.

Zaahir marched Heather over to the block of concrete, and Rami tied her hands as well. Jace frowned. She had a bruise forming on her cheekbone; Zaahir had hit her. He would pay for that.

“Are you all right?” she asked him.

“Just fine. You?”

She gave him a shaky smile. “Never better. How's Trevor? He has broken ribs and a broken wrist. Did they knock him out?”

Rami tried to tie Trevor's hands, as well. The SAS major hadn't moved. The terrorist had a tough time wrangling the dead weight up behind Trevor's back, particularly with the broken edges of hard plastic acting as a splint; his arms kept flopping to the cement. Something inside Jace relaxed minutely. The Brit was conscious, after all.

Rami finally gave up and tied Trevor's arms over his head, wrapping the twine through the plastic. He hurried back to Zaahir.

As Jace watched, Trevor's eyes cracked open, just a sliver.

“Three tangos,” Jace reported quietly. Three terrorists. Trevor did not so much as twitch to indicate he'd heard, but Jace knew he listened. He described their surroundings, the entrances and exits, the tangos' activities. Two of them now dragged the huge buckets close to the edge of the water, while Zaahir supervised. “They're bringing the chlorine to the pool.”

Zaahir roared at them to hurry up and issued a spate of directions Jace couldn't follow.

“He's telling them to hurry up and finish,” said Heather. “And then to go out and attach the hose to the tanker for dispersal.” She listened for a moment, becoming even more grim. “The explosives are attached to the tanker. Underneath the chassis. He told them to take them out and bring them in here.” She looked from one to the other. “What are we going to do?”