Targeted (Hostage Rescue Team Series Book 2) (23 page)

Yet he’d done it anyway. Ken’s nostrils flared. “I think you ordered him to take that shot.”

“I didn’t, I promise you. But even so, I take full responsibility for what happened that day. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The lame apology meant less than nothing to Ken at this point. “Bullshit. And afterward you lied through your fucking teeth during the investigation so you and the other federal assholes could cover the truth up, to save his ass—and your own,” he spat, vaguely aware that he was shaking all over now. DeLuca’s part in the cover up was unforgivable. “You made sure the charges were dropped against him and that he was cleared to return to duty so you could put him on a security detail you were forming overseas.” Where he’d died. At least there was some karmic justice in that.

Still wasn’t enough. He wanted DeLuca to pay for everything Ken had endured. All of it. DeLuca’s wife had died a few years ago and he didn’t have any kids. His men, his career, were his life now. Ken wanted him to watch his men die, as he’d been forced to stand by while Carla and Eli had died, and for DeLuca to be helpless to save them.

“Look. What happened that day was a terrible tragedy and I’m sorry for all of it. All of us are. But this—this isn’t going to make it better. The folks you’ve taken hostage had nothing to do with what happened. They’re innocent and have families of their own.”

It wouldn’t make the situation better, no, Ken agreed, but it would make it better for
him
. Knowing he would die today was the only thing that gave him the strength to go through with this. He was so tired. Tired of the anger and the pain and the loneliness, the anxiety of the last few days. Only a few hours more remained at most. He would see this through.

“Let me put Agent Gunderson back on the line,” DeLuca said, his tone softer now, trying to sound reasonable. “She wants me to tell you she’s been on the phone with your parents. They’re worried about you and want to talk to you.”

Ken had nothing to say to either of them. He’d said everything he needed to when he’d visited them back at Christmas. The Feds were still stalling, wanting to try to defuse the situation, still thinking he could be talked down. Or they were hoping he could be.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

“Don’t bother, I’m done talking,” Ken snapped, his voice ringing with finality. He looked up, over the top of the counter. Met the security guard’s gaze. The man stared back at him, wary and tense.

This was it. The moment of truth. He had to make them act. Maybe he couldn’t kill DeLuca directly or take his family from him, but he could still inflict plenty of pain and grief on the man. Before he left this earth, Ken needed to know DeLuca would suffer for what he’d done.

His fingers clenched around the phone. “This time you’re gonna be the one standing on the perimeter, watching. Helpless to protect the people you care about.”

“Ken, hey—”

He dropped the receiver to the counter with a clatter and grabbed the Glock, leaving the line open so DeLuca could hear what was happening, and stalked around the end of the counter.

Still against the west wall, the guard scrambled to his feet, his face tight with fear as Ken came at him. He raised the pistol and the man’s eyes widened with terror. “Tell them your name,” he growled. “Tell them!” he yelled when the man didn’t comply right away.

“Mike Ippoliti,” he said.

“Louder, so they can hear you.”

“Mike Ippoliti!” he shouted.

Ken stalked toward him, pistol aimed center mass at the guy’s chest.

“No,” the guard rasped, shaking his head. “No,
don’t
.” Arms still secured behind his back, he was unable to do anything to protect himself except twist away. “Don’t do this—please!”

Ken kept coming, resolved in his course of action. There was no other way to make everything else happen.

The guard whirled and tried to run, his scream ripping through the hot, still air. “For God’s sake,
no
!” He took a single lunging step, a futile step toward escape.

Ken halted, took aim as he drew a steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger twice.

As the sounds of those gunshots echoed in her ears, everyone in the command trailer went totally, eerily still.

The victim’s final scream for mercy was cut off and a moment later the phone connection was severed. As if Spivey had yanked the line out of the wall.

Celida’s heart lodged in her throat in the sudden silence that enveloped the command trailer. Before anyone could move or speak, the radio on DeLuca’s hip squawked and the voice of someone on one of the sniper teams came through in the awful stillness. “Shots fired, shots fired.”

DeLuca pounded a fist on the table, shattering the silence. “Fuck!” He threw the now useless phone receiver onto the desk with so much force it bounced and hit the window beside Gunderson.

Without pause he whirled and stalked toward the rear doors, his boots thudding on the steel floor. He and Travers shared a long look. Then Travers gave a nod and Celida’s stomach sank like a lead weight because she knew exactly what it meant. Tuck and his boys were about to get the call. Mike Ippoliti had been the security guard on duty at the bank today. He had a wife and infant daughter. Now he was dead.

As DeLuca exited the trailer into the brilliant sunshine, Travers turned to Gunderson. “Keep trying. See if you can still reach him on one of the other phones in there.”

Celida didn’t say anything. They all knew it would be futile, but they had to try. Without eyes or ears inside, at least one hostage likely dead and no way to communicate with the suspect, they were rapidly running out of options to end this thing peacefully.

Every cop and federal agent on scene knew what that meant.

At this point there was jack shit Celida or anyone else in here could do to stop the situation from continuing its downward spiral. There was no point looking up more friends or relatives of Spivey’s to see if they’d make the difference in forcing him to reconsider and stand down, and they couldn’t communicate with Spivey anyhow.

She curled her hands into fists as she awaited Travers’s next order. As the officer in charge on scene, what happened now was his call. He was already on the phone, presumably talking to the assistant director of the FBI or maybe the director himself.

As he ended the call his gaze landed on Celida, his face set in grim lines. “Move everyone back. Secure a new perimeter fifteen yards further out.”

Even though she’d known it would come to this, she couldn’t shake the terrible dread expanding inside her. She wished she’d come clean last night and told him how she really felt about him, rather than just show him. “I’m on it.” She dumped her headset on the desk and rose.

Tuck’s face swam through her mind. Tense, focused and full of possessiveness as he’d taken her on the kitchen table last night. Soft with tenderness and affection this morning when he’d seen her off to work. A lump settled in her throat. She couldn’t lose him. She’d just found him again, wanted him to be a big part of her life.

As she headed out the doors to start coordinating everything, she saw DeLuca standing near the rear of the trailer with two other heavily armed agents, big men dressed in cargo pants and FBI windbreakers. Two more members of the HRT.

DeLuca was on his phone. When she stepped off the bottom step of the trailer he ended one call, then dialed someone else. She passed by him, close enough to catch him say “That’s affirm, the director’s okayed it. You’ve got a green light”, there was no doubt who he was talking to.

Feeling sick to her stomach Celida quickly walked away, her phone to her ear to call the chief of police and get everything in motion. Moving this many people and vehicles back that far, and fast, was going to take a combined effort of every law enforcement agency here.

While she waited for the call to connect she called out to the people closest to her—clusters of federal agents and uniformed cops standing at edge of the marked perimeter. “All right, listen up—I need everyone to move back fifty feet, now. Spread the word. Everyone report to your superiors once you’re in position.”

People started moving immediately. Celida hustled to get the word out all along the perimeter, struggling to focus on the task at hand when her attention kept straying back to the bank behind her.

Unless a miracle occurred in the immediate future, an assault was imminent, but few people here would know when it was about to happen. Whether Tuck and his men were on their way here or already in place, they would be going in at any time and there was nothing she or anyone else here could do to help from the outside now.

Other than securing the area right now, all she could do at the moment was pray that whatever plan they’d come up with would keep them safe from the asshole barricaded in that bank.

****

Crouched in the darkness of the tunnel beneath the bank’s floor, Tuck aimed his Maglite at the steel roof above him and studied the weld marks around the edge of the two-by-three foot rectangle in it, a sense of urgency driving him. Ten feet above them right now, things were critical.

Spivey had fired another two rounds twelve minutes ago, presumably meaning he’d killed another hostage in addition to the security guard. With the way things were deteriorating, the chances of saving the remaining hostages were dwindling with every passing minute. They had to find a way inside the bank, and fast.

Tuck double checked the coordinates on the map he’d pulled from his pocket and the pedometer they’d used to calculate the distance they’d traveled underground. Their vehicles were almost a quarter mile behind them and they’d had to carry all their weapons and equipment on their backs. Not an easy feat, considering how narrow the ancient tunnel was in spots and all the refuse they’d had to scramble through. A few sections must have caved in over the years because even though crews had obviously patched them up and cleaned it out somewhat, piles of brick and stone still littered the tunnel.

He tapped his earpiece, wiped at the sweat that beaded his face. Beneath all his gear, he was soaked with it. By comparison it was much cooler underground than it was on street level but it had been a hell of a trek getting everything here through the confined space. His beat-up, already twice-scoped knees were aching; they’d likely be flared up for a few days after this op. “Grant, you copy? We’re in position.”

“Loud and clear,” the backup team leader responded. “We’re in position as well, standing by.”

The other assault team was in place near the newly defined interior perimeter, sequestered from everyone else, and would act if necessary. “Roger.”

Tuck looked over his shoulder. Bauer crouched behind him, his huge frame filling the tunnel. Evers was next, then Schroder, the team medic and former PJ. Blackwell and Cruz were behind them, and Vance brought up the rear. Each man carried a different piece of equipment for the op, on top of their regular load of tools, weapons and ammo. “You guys ready?” he asked them.

Every team member answered in the affirmative. Tuck tapped his earpiece again, this time contacting DeLuca, who would have received his orders on the assault from the director by now. “Dagger one’s in place, standing by for your order.”

“We’ve got you on GPS, Dagger one, everything looks good. No change up here. Still no viz, no comms with the suspect,” DeLuca said. “Op’s a go. Execute at your discretion.”

“Roger that. Dagger one actual, out.” He tapped the earpiece again, looked back down the line of men to Blackwell. “Give me the ladder.”

The men passed the extendable aluminum assault ladder up the line. Tuck and Bauer got it in position, wedged between the low ceiling and the uneven floor. Bauer braced it and Tuck slung his MP5 across his chest, pulling the most critical weapon out of one of the pockets on his web gear. The hand-held EMP device was around the same size as a pistol and fit in his hand easily. Its range was debatable, but supposedly effective up to about thirty feet. The pulse it emitted wasn’t especially powerful but it was precise, and it was all they had to take care of the dead man’s switch.

If
Spivey didn’t just blow the whole building in response to the breach, and
if
Tuck could get within range to fire the thing.

He wiped at his upper lip with the back of one hand, focused on the welded trap door above him. There were so many unknowns about this op—more than they usually had to contend with—and the chances of everything turning to shit were too damn high. No one knew whether Spivey was even aware of the trap door in the manager’s office, or whether he’d booby trapped it.

Even if the team managed to cut through the welding without Spivey hearing and coming to investigate, there was no telling what they’d find above it. More steel, concrete, marble, no one they’d talked to was sure. Could be they’d have to blow a charge to open up a hole in the floor for entry, and that risked Spivey blowing the entire building to hell, along with everyone in it.

Their job was to get everyone out of that bank alive—including Spivey. Based on what he’d done so far, there was no way he was going to give himself up willingly.

Tuck didn’t plan on dying today, and he sure as hell wasn’t losing any of his men on this op.

He stepped back and nodded at Evers, who’d carried the blowtorch and tanks. Not only was Tuck team leader, he was also the smallest guy here, so there was no question that he’d be the first one through whatever hole they made. Bauer would hold the ladder for everyone and come up last, but his big frame put him at a definite disadvantage for this one.

Evers climbed the ladder while Cruz slid past Tuck to balance the tanks. “Here’s hoping Spivey doesn’t have microphones in this room,” Evers muttered, and lit the torch. The brilliant, hot flame shot out and Evers got busy cutting through the hundred and fifty year old steel. It was slow, painstaking work to cut all the way through the half inch thick steel, the torch throwing sparks as it cut a molten orange line in the roof.