Precipice (22 page)

Dax closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He had not told Krieger and Sloan, but he’d expected to find Amadi here. Shannon had left a message on the secure line, explaining the captured agent.

The details were vague, a side effect of the code they devised, but she gave him plenty to work with. Yet even he was surprised she hadn’t mentioned what else they might find. The room adjacent to Amadi’s cell was home to another prisoner, this one a girl in her mid-twenties. She was unconscious, so unable to identify herself. Krieger knelt at her side, checking her wounds.

“She appears to be fine. Other than a nasty bump on her head, she seems to have escaped the treatment your agent received.” Krieger said.

“Then why is she still unconscious?” Dax asked.

“Probably a combination of dehydration and a concussion. Maybe even drugged.” He shrugged. “She’s already stirring a bit though, so I’d guess she’ll be waking up soon.”

“Good. Let’s get both of them to the car. We need to get moving.” He headed for the door, leaving Sloan and Krieger to carry their respective victims.

Both men turned and gaped. “Get moving?” Krieger responded. “We need to call an ambulance. Amadi needs proper medical care and we aren’t doctors.”

“No time. You just said they’ll be fine.”

“No time for what?” Krieger caught the director’s drift and slid his arms underneath the girl to lift, but Sloan missed it.

“I’ll fill you in on the way.” Dax groaned. “Now let’s go.”

It was time to let them in on the secret he’d run solo to this point. He needed their assistance at that vault. Until now, he’d managed to keep them in the dark, but after finding Amadi and learning about Yemi’s plans, he needed to expand the circle of secrecy. He’d never planned on a civilian knowing, but at this point, he had no choice but to include Krieger. Besides, with his military background, he might come in handy.

Lynch stood motionless, one step into an alley off the main road, near the end of the route, per his boss’s request. Floats, balloons, and local celebrities traversed the streets in front of him. It truly was a spectacle.

He found himself enjoying the festive celebration as he waited for the right moment. The mayor and other elected officials led the way on the first float, so when they completed the parade route, there would be a good 45 minutes of floats still behind them. Right as the mayor’s float reached the end of the route, Lynch was to raise his hand in a wave. That was the signal.

Up the hill at the capitol building, Yemi would put into motion his plans to break into the vault and walk away with millions—if not billions—in cash and gold. His signal, though, was two-fold in purpose.

At the same time as the heist, others at the parade would also take action, firing into the crowd, creating chaos. They were a distraction, to keep law enforcement away from the capitol, but if possible, they also aimed to pull off a coup of their own, one a little more daring. Kidnapping local dignitaries.

Lynch relished this role. He’d always craved power.
No, that wasn’t it
, he mused.
It was respect.
Even as a child, he’d craved respect. Attention. As the youngest of six born to a mother in and out of jail and a non-existent father, he was raised by his older siblings. They paid him little attention other than keeping him alive. He grew up street-smart, tough, and ruthless. But a drive and determination uncommon amongst the peers of his youth lifted him to a college education and a secure, high-paying job on Wall Street.

But he wasn’t satisfied with investment banking. The money opened doors, but it wasn’t enough. Many made it that far and were subsequently ignored, unknown. He needed respect from his colleagues and cohorts, from everyone. He enjoyed playing with power, stretching the line between legal and illegal to tempt fate.

Vandalism as a teenager led to cheating on exams in college. Pushing the envelope became a way of life, testing the limits of his capabilities, and he eventually made a name for himself—under an alias, anyway—from a handful of major banking frauds overseas.

When the opportunity to work for Olayemi Babalola presented itself, Lynch jumped at the chance. He impressed the boss from day one too. His hard work was culminating in this moment and he savored it. These events that would bring him untold renown and he cherished that privilege.

Time flew by as he reflected on his childhood and how far he’d risen since his days as a near-orphan on the street. The moment of truth was arriving with gusto. His moment of truth. The mayor’s float completed its route through the city and the local dignitaries began to disembark from the large craft. As the moment neared, Lynch felt his chest swell with importance. He basked in that aura of significance.

Lifting his right arm, he gave a short, exaggerated wave to the Girl Scout troop parading in front of him. The corners of his mouth turned upward into a big smile. Then his world went black.

***

Will couldn’t believe his luck. Attempting to avoid the cheering crowds, he ducked down a narrow side street, where he nearly ran smack into the face of the devil himself. Sean Lynch leaned against the brick wall, a grin on his face and his mind elsewhere. The sudden appearance of the man he’d been hunting didn’t faze him. Will wasn’t even sure Lynch noticed his arrival.

Ducking a few steps away into a doorway, he mulled his options. This was exactly what he hoped for, but he never expected a chance to enact vengeance so soon. He didn’t feel prepared. Standing there, about ten feet behind Lynch, waves of anger surged inside Will. He didn’t bother trying to control them.

The ire clouded his vision as images of his dearly departed flashed before him. Allison Ricketts. Miles Curtis. Arthur Adair. Edward Booth. And lastly, Booth’s daughter…he never even got her name. He couldn’t let this opportunity to avenge their deaths slip away. Grabbing the only weapon in the vicinity, a two-by-four leaning against a trash can behind him, he strode forward. His body ached from hefting the weight of the beam and his cast groaned, but he didn’t care.

He’d played high school baseball and as he stepped into it, his sweet swing returned to him as though it’d never left. With one arm in a cast, he lacked the power he once had, but it would be enough. Lynch raised his hand to wave to someone in the parade as the heavy wooden beam whistled through the air behind him.

Thunk.
It connected solidly with the back of the head. The plank splintered upon impact, the result of a rotten core, and Lynch dropped. A second sickening smack sounded as his head hit the brick walk below.

The roar of the crowd muted the sound of the attack and no one took notice of the violent scene behind them. Will’s broken arm ached as he stood over Lynch, gazing down at what he’d done, but he savored the pain. Then instinct took over. He spun and staggered down the alley as fast as his aching frame allowed, the soft echoes of his footsteps chasing him as he went.

***

Olayemi didn’t wait for the culmination of Lynch’s signal. As soon as the man’s hand flinched skyward, he acted. It was time.

He stiffened as he turned to his left to face Roth, raising his hand in a mock salute.

Jill Roth had been leaning against a concrete column for the last half hour. It stood near the main gate of a fence that circumnavigated the capitol property. She posed as though resting, relaxed in a pair of tight jeans and a long jacket protecting her from the chilly breeze. Her extensive training allowed her to remain calm, every position precise and every move deliberate. But there was nothing casual about her work. She was a professional and took pride in that.

She kept close watch on her boss to her right. She hated the word “boss.” It implied she worked for him, like some lowly employee. He would sign her paycheck for this job, but she operated freelance. At any time, she could back out and be fine.

Heck, she could double-cross the man and collect the cash for herself. The temptation had flitted across her mind, but she always reconsidered. She may kill for a profession, but betrayal was beneath her, reserved for the scumbags of the crime world.

Yemi, on the other hand, she didn’t trust. She’d learned the hard way that men like him are greedy, unwilling to share with their own mother. They’ll kill their most trusted advisor if it benefited them. Every time she gazed into a mirror, a faint scar that ran from cheek to ear served as a constant reminder to trust no one. She never forgot that.

Only a few minutes had passed when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement. Recognizing Yemi’s ridiculous salute as their prearranged signal, she nodded. She waited for him and that goon of a bodyguard to disappear around the building. There, they’d meet with another gun-for-hire, a Scandinavian gorilla named Anders, “transporting” the man who could get them into the vault.

One of the computer gurus who helped develop, install, and maintain the current security system had been nabbed earlier that morning from his home. The poor man was one of the few individuals in the country whose finger and voice prints were coded to unlock the system.

Leaning her head back against the pillar, she began preparations. She closed her eyes and took three slow, deep breaths, a tactic she learned from her mother who’d coached softball. It calmed her, relaxed her nerves, and gave her confidence to step up to the plate and get a hit. She led the league in hitting throughout high school. And though she’d moved on to bigger things since her sporting days, the principle remained the same.

Mentally, she reviewed the situation. Five guards were on duty at the capitol today. It was generous to call them guards…they were Rent-a-Cops with guns. Two were stationed at the front gate. A third monitored the smaller back gate. Number four patrolled the main foyer, and a final one stood at the door to the vault.

She was ready. In the blink of an eye, her hands dropped to her belt, and two silenced pistols emerged from their holsters. She twirled them in her palms as she rolled out from behind the pillar. Catching the pistols again partway through the spin, she pulled the triggers in one fluid motion. She only needed one shot from each.

The two gatekeepers who lounged at the entrance fell lifeless to the ground. One more bullet shattered the lock mechanism and it swung open with ease. She shed her coat, used to conceal weaponry, in one motion for better mobility.

Her brisk strides carried her through the open entrance and to the guard on the right. Roth bent down to borrow his security card, snapping the string it was attached to with a swift jerk. She glanced down at the card.
Romeo Montoya, Senior Security
.

Heh
, she chuckled.
Ironic…Shakespeare’s ended up dead too.

She slid the card inside the cleavage of her black V-neck tank top and straightened. From here, she spied the front door, but the angle made it impossible to see inside. This worked in her favor. If she couldn’t see inside, the guard in the foyer couldn’t see her outside either. She thrived on invisibility.

Stepping inside the small, one-room gatehouse, she found the security console, one of three on the property. The capitol had two inside the building, but this third one at the outdoor guard house was a recent addition.

Six TV monitors broadcasted alternating images from a few dozen video cameras positioned on the surrounding grounds and inside the building. Pretty standard technology for a government building. A control mainframe was in front of the monitors, smothered with a wide variety of drab gray and unlabeled buttons, dials, and switches.

She smiled. A problem she knew she could handle. The most interesting, or perhaps ill-conceived, aspect of the security system was that any change made to the internal system at one site caused the others to sync, making the change permanent within the entire network.

With the correct password, of course. A series of letters and numbers she didn’t possess. But what she had was better.

Bending and coming to rest on one knee, she twisted around to see underneath the panel. Dozens of colored wires dangled above her head, but it only took a few seconds to locate the right cable, which carried the signal from the hallway outside the vault. She slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out a small device. She’d used this tiny piece of equipment a half dozen times in the last year alone, but it amazed her every time.

No thicker than a cigar and about the length of a standard house key, the technological achievement she held in her hand cost prospective buyers several thousand dollars on the market, but she had cooked up this specimen herself.

Its concept was simple enough. Tap into an audiovisual cable, record up to twenty seconds of video and play the recording over the actual footage, looping it on repeat ad nauseam. The real footage entering the camera was being replaced with this repetitive video feed. This was one of her favorite scams, a twist on a con popularized in the
Ocean’s Eleven
remake. Using it made her feel like more than a bone-headed killer. She was a true assassin and con artist.

She deftly sliced the insulation surrounding the cable with a small pocketknife and affixed the gadget into place. She glanced above the desk at the video feed of the vault to make sure the monitors were clear of activity before activating the device.

Thirty seconds later, a small beep notified her when the looped recording began playing over any real footage. Ten seconds after that, another beep indicated the feed’s successful synchronization with the entire system. Now any security personnel that might decide to check the monitors would be watching a tape and not live footage. At the second beep, she reached into her pocket again and, finding the other tiny radio device, depressed a small button on its side.

Her task complete, she exited the guardhouse and strode up the walk toward the front of the building. She plotted her path to stay out of view of the foyer windows as long as possible, to retain the element of surprise when she reached guard number three.

***

Inside, everything started smoothly for Yemi, the burly Nichols, and their companions. Their hostage resisted handing over his ID badge, but it was three large, muscular men against one spindly, pubescent computer geek. They wrenched the card from his feeble grip with no difficulty. Under the invisible power of the hologrammed badge’s magnetic stripe, the door opened without any trouble. The vault would require more effort than this exterior service entrance, but that was exactly why they kept the pipsqueak alive rather than simply pilfer the badge from his corpse.

              The opening of the door coincided perfectly with the appearance of a small indicator light on the pin at Yemi’s lapel. The lovely Jillian had succeeded. Their coast was clear. Yemi waved the group forward.

The hallway they entered was part of the staff quarters. Mostly burned-out bulbs failed to light the dirt-covered concrete floors and cracked plaster walls. No signs or arrows guided them, but Yemi had spent hours studying the floor plans and blueprints.

The stairwell behind the first door on the left led three stories down to the correct level. From there, a maze of hallways, unmarked doors, and dead ends stretched out beneath the entirety of the capitol grounds. It would have been long and cumbersome to navigate, but he’d discovered a loophole, the key to the maze.

It lay hidden, known to only a select few, but he knew it must exist. Studying the floor plans hadn’t revealed much, frustrating him. But then he committed a very valuable mistake.

The fire in the fireplace had almost died, but he was still awake. His night began at the office desk, his weary eyes poring over a virtual floor plan of the capitol he found online. It was a maze of hallways he’d have to traverse. It didn’t include the secret vault, but his source had tipped him off, so he knew where it was.

But hours passed and he found himself still struggling to find that hidden loophole to the maze. In a fit of frustration, he’d yanked the mouse out by its cord and hurled it across the room. Cursing his temper, he watched in horror as it smashed against the wall, falling to the floor in pieces. He’d always possessed an uncontrollable temper, and his vexing inability to keep it in check angered him even more.

Forced then to go rummaging through a crowded closet to find his old, backup mouse, he came across an idea that lit the light bulb over his head. Hidden deep in the recesses of his closet, behind all of the junk he’d hoarded, was an air vent that set him thinking.

He smiled thinly. His instincts upon seeing that vent had sent him down a rewarding path. He’d returned to his computer and pulled up a different set of plans, a drawing more detailed and inclusive than a basic account of the door and window locations.

Using older, original blueprints from early copies of the building plans, he finally discovered the passage he needed. As part of the ventilation system, many air ducts crisscrossed this basement level. He’d seen enough American television to recognize this potential. It didn’t take long to spot an entrance point from one such duct into the same hallway housing the bank vault. As he traced out paths from that location, he came across a much shorter path from that vent to a stairwell bordering the outside wall.

He led the way into the stairwell where they’d find the duct, but they soon encountered an unanticipated problem. As soon as he saw it, he knew it wasn’t going to work. All that research for naught.

Not only did the vent appear much smaller in person than the blueprints suggested, which would require them to crawl belly down to squeeze through the pipes anyway, but it was bolted to the wall, not screwed on as expected.

A trickle of sweat formed on his brow and his countenance darkened. He bent closer to examine the vent, noticing that in addition to the bolts, the frame had been soldered to the wall.

He straightened, cursing aloud, and spun to face his companions. His pitch-black eyes, framed with narrowed eyebrows, flared enough to start firing lightning bolts. The other three backed away a pace.

“We’ll need to go the long way. Nichols, you brought the plans, right?” he growled.

The beefy man reached his thick hand into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small electronic device. Yemi snatched it away and flicked the switch, glad to see the small screen buzz to life. He hadn’t expected to need this, not until their getaway, but it was going to be a lifesaver. He’d loaded the hallway maze from the floor plans onto the mini computer, giving them a portable map to follow as they made their way through the twisted labyrinth.

Furious at the delay, he shoved past Nichols and the other two men, knocking the computer geek against the wall, and stormed out of the stairwell. This was going to take a while.