Targeted (Hostage Rescue Team Series Book 2) (18 page)

“Video shows him walking right up to it with a backpack, then dumping it inside,” Travers told her as they waited for the team leader to approach them.

The balding man was somewhere in his early forties if she had to guess. He showed them a handheld monitor displaying what the camera was looking at in the trash. “Standard C4,” he said. “No blasting caps, no wires. You say this guy’s former EOD?”

“That’s right,” Travers said.

The guy blinked at them in surprise. “Why the hell is he going around planting duds like this then?”

Exactly. He was either toying with them, amusing himself at their expense, or successfully drawing their attention elsewhere while he hit his real target. Whatever his plan so far and the relative lack of casualties, Celida knew in her bones there was something far worse coming in the next few hours.

Rather than answer, Travers changed the topic. “Anything else in there? Anything attached to it?”

Using a toggle on the handheld device, the tech manipulated the camera to a different angle, showing a lighter color material attached to the fake bomb. “Something right here.”

“Looks like the same kind of paper he used on the other one,” Celida remarked.

It took another critical fifteen minutes for the techs to assert the bomb was inert and remove it from the trashcan. One of them carried it over, note side up. The name of the bank jumped out at Celida.

A federal bank here in the capitol. She looked at Travers. “Just like the one his wife and kid were at.”

The answering flash of concern on Travers’s face, the certainty that this was Spivey’s true target, was like a punch to the gut. “Get everybody over there now and evacuate that bank,” he growled, then spun on his heel to run down the hallway to the stairs.

Heart pounding, Celida chased after him, the slap of their shoes echoing off the empty stairwell as they raced for the lobby. With every running step the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach got worse.

While they’d been running around town chasing the trail of breadcrumbs Spivey had left them, he’d had ample time to set up whatever attack he’d been planning all along.

When he finally arrived at the target, Ken’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the two bright yellow school buses parked in the bank parking lot. A fucking
field trip
? Today?

You gotta be kidding me.

His heart rate doubled, sweat gathering under his arms and across his lower lip. He’d planned this so carefully, taken great pains to set things up bit by bit so as not to draw attention to himself, only to come up flat against a brick wall. There was no way he was taking children hostage for this. Just none.

A sick feeling took hold as he continued driving past the bank. It was almost ten. The Feds didn’t appear to have figured out yet that this was his target, but he couldn’t afford to give them any lead time. He pulled over at a playground a few blocks away and shut off the engine, mind working frantically. Everything hinged on him taking
this
bank. There was no going back now. He either executed the plan as he’d envisioned it, or he walked right now.

And go where?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He hadn’t considered a field trip at this point in time. Most schools were already out for the summer, so it must be either a camp or some kind of child care group that had organized it.

He pulled off his ball cap and ran a hand across his skull trim. Fuck, was this a sign? Were Carla and Eli trying to tell him something? He’d already get one hell of a federal sentence for the things he’d done. He wasn’t going to jail. He wanted this to end and for his suffering to be over. To finally join his wife and son.

For nearly half an hour he sat and watched the kids playing on the playground, then couldn’t stand it anymore and drove back to the bank. The restrictive band around his chest loosened when he saw the line of kids crossing the lot to board the buses.

Thank God.

A strange feeling of peace settled inside him. The op was still a go.

Circling the block once, twice, he saw the first bus pull out of the lot, and the second one pull away from the curb.
All clear.

He parked a half block north of the bank and got out of the vehicle he’d stolen from another run-down neighborhood an hour earlier. He paused for just a moment to peer through the window at Eli’s toy giraffe where he’d left it on the passenger seat. Raffi wasn’t coming along this time. He called Eli’s face to mind, the tumble of dark hair and the brilliant blue eyes so like his own.

I’ll see you soon, buddy.

“I hope,” he muttered under his breath and turned away.

His backpack was heavy, filled with the last few items he needed. Beneath the vest he’d hidden under his black hoodie, he was already soaked with sweat. His shoes were quiet against the sidewalk, his feet moving without conscious thought, body already on autopilot as he mentally reviewed what he was about to do.

Enter the bank. Take stock. Lock it down. Secure the perimeter. Trap the hostages.

Then it was out of his hands. He’d done everything he could to ensure the plan would bring his target to him, but in all honesty he couldn’t guarantee it. His best hope now lay with whichever FBI negotiator they sent in.

As he headed up the sidewalk the June sunshine seemed overly bright despite the brim of the ball cap and the shades he wore. Maybe because it was the last time he would ever see the sun. The air smelled sweeter too. In fact, all his senses were heightened, as if they were starved for sensory input since his body knew his time was running out.

The bank loomed ahead of him, an imposing structure made of stone built back in the mid-eighteen hundreds. It had been upgraded slightly over the years, but had very few windows and a solid door. That and the fact it was a federal bank were the reasons he’d chosen it.

His pulse drummed in his ears as he approached the front door. Were his wires still in place? Had anyone reported that they’d found something suspicious? He’d worked as a janitor here on and off for the past few weeks using an extremely well-made fake ID, allowing him ample time to come in after hours and not only case the building, but work out his ideal setup.

At the door he paused to let an elderly woman exit. She faltered slightly when she saw him and Ken guessed she could see the way he was sweating. But she merely gave him a hesitant smile and hurried away from the building. His hand curled around the metal edge of the door for a moment. He didn’t doubt his decision to go through with this, only felt anxiety that it wouldn’t work out the way he’d planned or that his target wouldn’t show up in the end.

Go. Get it over with. Carla and Eli are waiting.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out and forced himself to enter the bank. Immediately his gaze swept the room. Nine customers and two tellers, probably a few more staff in the back. Around fifteen hostages total. Good.

The moment he cleared the threshold, he reached one hand into the kangaroo pocket on his hoodie and activated the dead man’s switch with his thumb. No way out now, for any of them. Only forward.

As the door swung shut behind him he reached up for the dead bolt and locked it. Then he armed the security system using the keypad beside the door and the combination he’d used as a janitor, which automatically activated all the locks on the exterior doors and windows. The blackout blinds began to slide down, blotting out the sun. A fitting metaphor for the sunset of his life.

People stopped to look at him, one or two taking a step back in alarm. The two bank tellers at the front desk stood frozen, staring at him in uncertainty. The lower halves of their bodies were hidden by the granite-topped counter but he knew they wouldn’t be armed.

Ken pulled the Glock from his waistband, aimed it at the chest of the teller on the right. “Everyone move toward the counter.
Now.
”

His voice held enough menace that, even though he only held one pistol, people gasped and instantly began backing away. He kept his line of sight clear, his attention on the tellers, who would have hit the silent alarm by now.

Didn’t matter. He was ready.

To drive the seriousness of the threat home and to prevent anyone from trying something stupid, he pulled out the dead man’s switch, held it up. “Nobody try anything. I’m wearing a suicide vest and I’ve got all the doors and windows rigged. Anyone tampers with anything and this whole place will go up. Try to take me and this failsafe will detonate the vest, then all the other bombs with it.”

The hostages started grabbing onto each other, cowering as they backed away from him. At movement in his peripheral vision he caught sight of the security agent creeping into the doorway that led to the back offices.

Without pause Ken raised the pistol and fired one round into the wall right where the officer was hidden. Gasps and cries of fear echoed in the resounding silence.

“Slide your weapons to me,” he commanded the man. A moment later a service pistol slid across the polished marble floor. Ken stepped forward to take it. “Your backup too,” he snarled.

A curse answered him, then the second pistol slid his way. After putting it in his pocket he motioned at the man to come out. “Hands up. Against the far wall with the others.”

The guard emerged from behind the wall, hands up, his expression a mixture of fear and hatred. Ken didn’t blame him one bit. But he had to make it clear he wasn’t fucking around. “I was bomb squad for over six years, so believe me when I tell you there’s no way out of here. Stay by the wall and be quiet.”

One of the hostages, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, glared at him balefully. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded, voice shaking.

“That’s none of your business,” he snarled, thumb pressed tight to the trigger on the switch. He really didn’t want to have to use it. Not yet, not until he’d eliminated his target. But he would if he had to avoid being taken alive. He’d made his mind up about that months ago.

He stalked forward toward the front desk, ready to take his final position to endure the wait when he saw more movement from the back of the bank. Automatically he twisted and aimed his weapon in the doorway.

He froze, his heart stuttering in his chest when he saw the young woman standing there, her dark eyes wide with terror, her body half-turned away to shield the little girl she had her arms wrapped around.

For a few endless heartbeats all Ken could hear was the roaring of his own blood in his ears. Denial slammed into him like a sucker punch to the gut.

No. Goddamn, it
, no!

The young woman stayed frozen in place, staring back at him in absolute terror while the little girl huddled in her arms. She had to be no older than five or so, her long, dark hair tied into pigtails that trailed down to her shoulders.

The look in her big blue eyes seared him bone-deep. The naked fear on her face, the way her little mouth trembled as she looked at him made his resolve waver.

But he couldn’t. Besides the dead man’s switch in his right hand, disabling the wiring around the door would screw with his timeline.

Steeling his resolve, he lowered the weapon slightly and waved it impatiently from the woman toward where the others were gathered along the wall. “Get over there and wait. Go,” he snapped when she hesitated.

The woman’s throat moved visibly as she swallowed, her steps jerky as she towed the little girl toward the wall.

“Mommy, no,” the girl cried, burrowing into the woman’s hold. “Please, take me away from the bad man!”

Ken’s heart slammed sickeningly against his sternum.
The bad man.

A man appeared in the doorway where the woman and child had been. Late thirties if Ken had to guess, hands raised, face pale. A younger woman stood behind him, her hands also in the air.

“I’m the manager,” the man told him, voice surprisingly calm as he gestured to the woman. “This is my assistant manager. Please don’t hurt anyone. Just tell me what you want and I’ll help you.”

“I want you to get your ass over against the wall with the others,” he growled, raising the pistol as an added threat.

The manager waved his hands slightly. “I’m going, I’m going. Don’t shoot anyone.”

“Shut up and move. Both of you.”

He kept an eye on the managers as they joined the others. When they were safely against the wall with everyone else, he set the backpack down and opened it, taking out a handful of flex cuffs.

“Everyone slide your phones over to me. I’m starting at the front of the line over there,” he said, jerking his chin at the elderly woman on the far right of the wall. Once he had them all subdued with their hands behind their backs, he could breathe a little easier. Then he had other things to take care of.

Refusing to let himself look back at the mother and child, Ken got to work securing his collateral.

****

Celida ended the call to the D.C. police commissioner and threw a hand out to brace herself against the passenger door when Travers took a hard right, tires squealing and skidding as the back end of the SUV fishtailed around the corner. They’d only gotten the call about the hostage taking fifteen minutes ago.

“Cops are already on scene, our bomb techs are en route but I still can’t get hold of DeLuca or Tuck, though I assume DeLuca’s already on his way here,” she said.

Travers’s direct boss had alerted the HRT commanding officer about the situation just prior to her and Travers leaving the office. Right now the team was assembling at Quantico and gearing up.

They needed to speak directly to DeLuca about the Denver op where Spivey’s wife and son had been killed. Since she and Travers were going to be the ones heading up the situation on the ground at the bank, they were responsible for keeping DeLuca apprised of what was happening while he was en route and once he arrived on scene.

Only they couldn’t get through to him because his fucking phone was continually busy.