The Rook (25 page)
Authors: Steven James
55
7:25 p.m.
With his television tuned to Channel 11 news, Victor Drake watched Building B-14 crumble to the ground.
Hunter. It had to be Hunter.
But how did he know which building to torch?
Maybe Hunter had followed Geoff and the doctor last night, after they left the fire site and were returning the device to the base.
Victor could feel a migraine coming on. Not just any migraine either, a big one. Half an hour ago he’d gotten a message from Biscayne’s cronies that the Project Rukh Oversight Committee meeting was moved from Thursday at 2:00 p.m. to tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. A major league migraine.
His cell phone rang.
He answered it. “Yeah?”
Geoff’s voice. “Hunter’s dead.”
A glint of hope. “What?”
“I’m afraid he was killed in a tragic shoot-out. Suicide by cop.
Always hate to see that.”
Oh, this could be good. This could be very good. “Okay. Listen.
Make sure there’s nothing on his body that could tie him to the project. I’ll contact you later. We’ll need to meet again to clean up this mess.”
“I’m on my way to your place now.”
“What?”
“As a cop. They want someone to interview you. I volunteered.
So let’s practice: You don’t have any connection to this man Hunter, do you, Mr. Drake?”
A slight pause. “No, of course not, Officer.”
“Good. When my partner and I get there, just remember that.”
“Good work, Geoff. Thanks.”
A pause. “I’m putting in a lot of overtime for you this week.”
“I’ll give you an extra fifty grand.”
“One hundred.”
“What?” How did this underling dare to make demands of Victor Drake? “No.”
“I’m not doing this for humanitarian reasons, Drake. I only care about one thing: money. You give me a hundred grand in cash tomorrow and I’ll spend tonight making sure this little problem goes away. Otherwise, I bail.”
Victor felt his teeth grind, his head spin, his heart rate shoot through the roof. He hated himself for saying it, for doing it, for giving in, but at last he said, “All right. A hundred. But only if you can get this cleaned up before the general arrives in the morning.”
“Done.”
Lien-hua and I tried to back-trace any calls that might have been received on or dialed from Austin’s phone, but found that it was brand new. Never been used. The kidnappers must have left it somewhere for Austin. “Let’s hope he was still waiting for their call,” I said. Then a moment later I was startled when my own phone throbbed. I took a quick glance to see a text message from Tessa canceling supper. I was a little disappointed but also a little thankful since I couldn’t really get away right now anyway.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s forget the phone for a minute. It’s no good to us unless they call. What else do we have?”
“Some officers are going to talk to Drake, otherwise …” Lien-hua thought for a moment. “Ralph had an agent checking to see if the tank had been shipped to this part of the country. Did we ever hear anything from him?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
Then the alarm on my watch went off.
“What’s that for?” Lien-hua asked.
“Thirty minutes,” I said. “We only have thirty minutes left until Cassandra dies.”
“I’ll call Ralph.” She stepped away to make the call and while she did, I tried to think of any clues, any clues at all, that I was missing.
Anything that could lead us to Cassandra’s location.
Nothing.
Nothing came to mind.
Seconds, minutes passed by.
Nothing, nothing, nothing except the thought of Rickman’s shoe print. The impression patterns—
And that’s when Austin’s phone rang.
I flipped it open, held it to my ear. Waited, waited for whoever was on the other end to speak first. The silence was unsettling; maybe Austin was supposed to initiate the conversation.
Nothing.
I began to fear that the caller might hang up. “It’s done,” I said.
I spoke in a low voice and hoped he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t Austin.
“So, Austin.” An electronically altered voice. “You did find the phone.”
The kidnapper … and he doesn’t know Austin Hunter is dead.
“Yeah.”
“We weren’t sure you made it. You were supposed to check in over an hour ago.”
He said “we” … how many are there?
“Cops all over the place.”
A brief pause. “My name is Shade, and I have some instructions for you.”
Shade? A code name … Why is he introducing himself now? …
He must not have spoken with Austin before. Test it. Find out.
“Let me talk to the guy from before. I don’t know you.”
“He’s busy with Cassandra. I want to thank you for what you did. But now, it’s time for you to deliver the device.”
So, there are at least two of them … This one doesn’t know
Hunter’s voice, hasn’t spoken with him before … And there’s a device … What device?
I tried to think of something, anything to say in response, but there was too much at stake, and too little information. Too many wrong things I might say.
“Are you there?” Shade said.
“Yeah.”
“The deal was: the building and the device for the girl. So, do you have it?”
What device is he talking about?
“Yeah, I have it.” I had to say something. “Where do you want to make the exchange?”
“Same place you were told before. Be there in ten minutes.”
Oh no. Oh no.
“Can’t. Too many cops around there.”
A pause. Shade must have been considering what I’d said. Maybe he was on to me. For Cassandra’s sake I hoped not.
“I’m there right now,” said the person calling himself Shade. “There aren’t any cops. You just killed Cassandra Lillo, Dr. Bowers.”
7:39 p.m.
The line went dead.
No, no, no.
I’d killed her.
How did Shade know my name?
I’d killed Cassandra.
I spun, checked the sight lines. Did he see me? Was Shade here?
I saw no curtains quiver shut, no movement, no glint of a scope or binoculars. No one in the crowd of officers was on a cell.
I tried to redial, nothing. Tried Terry’s number for a trace. Busy.
Called Angela Knight: she would get on it, but it would take some time—the one thing we didn’t have.
“Pat.” Lien-hua came rushing toward me. “I think we caught a break. A big one.”
“The tank. They found the tank?”
She shook her head. “No.” She was running toward the car now, and I was hurrying to keep up with her. “There’s a woman named Randi who says a guy drove her to a warehouse by the shipyards last night and started talking about how he was supposed to pick up some other woman. That the plans had changed and it was time to get her. Things like that. Then he left Randi there.”
We climbed in. “That’s not enough.” I said. “It could refer to anything.”
Lien-hua started the engine. “Somehow Channel 11 found out about Cassandra’s disappearance, and an unnamed police officer gave them Hunter’s name. A few minutes ago they did a news flash,
and listed Austin Hunter and Cassandra Lillo as persons of interest in the terrorist attack at the base—they’re calling it a terrorist attack—and asked for people to call in with any information.” She backed up the car, then pulled into the street.
“I still don’t see the connection.” The nightscape of San Diego flashed past us in swirls of blurred light, street lamps, and restless palm trees.
“Randi phoned the station, and Ralph followed up with her.
Apparently, she took the wrong phone and someone named Shade called her this afternoon and mentioned the fire at Building B-14
before she could say a word.”
“What! Where is she?”
“Shade is probably one of the—”
“That’s who I just talked to.”
“Someone called the phone?” she gasped. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I would have, it’s just—listen, I’ll tell you on the way. Where are we heading?”
“Randi gave Ralph the address. It’s by the shipyards. She’s not there though, she’s scared.”
Maybe, just maybe, we could still save Cassandra. “Drive like you mean it.”
And in reply, she did.
7:56 p.m.
Ralph was waiting for us in a neglected parking lot that sprawled between two abandoned warehouses.
“This is the address, but I don’t know which building it is,” he shouted as Lien-hua and I rushed out of the car. “I called SDPD; they’re sending some cars. But we’ve got less than five minutes, there’s no time to wait.” He scanned the buildings. “It could be either building, there’s no way to tell.”
“Yes, there is,” I said. “Remember the video? Natural light. Second-or third-story windows. Shadows appeared on Cassandra’s right side, so based on the sun’s position at the time of day—”
Ralph pointed. “That one’s only got first floor windows.” All three of us turned to the remaining warehouse, saw the rows of third-story windows, and began sprinting across the parking lot.
Ralph drew his gun. “Pat, you take the right side, Lien-hua, go left. I’ll take the front.”
We flared out. I ran along the west end of the building but found only one steel door, and that was chained shut. The graffiti-cov-ered building straddled nearly an entire city block, so there wasn’t time to backtrack. Rusted pipes and gray air ducts stuck out of the warehouse’s side at odd angles, and I had no idea what most of them would ever have been used for. All of the windows high above me were cracked and splintered and reminded me of great, bloodshot eyes.
Time, time, running out of time.
I glanced up at the windows again. They were maybe eight meters
up. A few pipes snaked out of the building and then curled around the edge of the warehouse. I saw that one of the air ducts terminated within a meter and a half of the windowsill.
You got it, Pat. It’s the only way in.
I jumped up, snagged a handhold, and heaved myself up.
A small ledge to my left gave me just enough of a foothold so that I was able to stretch across the wall, slide my fingertips between two strips of metal, do an undercling with my left hand, and then swing myself over a thick vent. Hundreds of thousands of pull-ups paying off.
Handhold. Foothold.
Now halfway up to the window, I studied the wall above me, searching for fingerholds, finding my rhythm again. All the time smearing my shoes against the gritty exterior of the building and clinging to ridges in the wall with my fingertips. Smoothing out my moves. Finger jam. Feel the rhythm. Foothold. The vertical dance.
There.
The window.
I looked inside and caught sight of a catwalk that skirted the inside of the warehouse. Most of the window’s broken glass still clung to the frame like great serrated teeth. I punched out some of the knife-like projections, pulled out my SIG, and leapt onto the catwalk.
Looked at my watch.
8:00 p.m.
Apart from the smear of city lights seeping through the windows, the interior of the warehouse was only a dark pool stretching before me. I pulled out my Mini Maglite and swept the cavernous room.
My light didn’t reach the far wall, but it did reach a metal staircase about thirty meters away that descended into the black cavity of the warehouse.
In the video there was a concrete floor; the tank is on the first
level.
I raced toward the staircase, trying to keep my light steady as I ran.
At the top of the stairs my circle of light glanced across an industrial-sized light switch. We didn’t have any time left for sneaking around. We needed to find Cassandra now. I clicked on the lights as I clanged past the switch and then flew down the steps three at a time. A few stray fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling high above me flickered to life but then winked on and off, creating an eerie strobe-like effect.
Ground floor.
Dust-covered manufacturing machines, tools, and broken conveyer belts littered the main section of the warehouse. I didn’t hear either Lien-hua or Ralph. Maybe they were still outside the building.
Or maybe they’d found Cassandra.
“Hello?” I called. I checked my watch.
8:02.
I heard a thunderous
crack
and guessed it was the sound of Ralph busting down a door. “Ralph?”
“It’s me!” called Lien-hua. I threw my light toward her. She’d kicked the door down. “Got anything?”
“No.” I swung my flashlight, but the beam hardly made a dent in the darkness. “Wait …” The fluorescent lights blinked on, off, on. Dim light washing around me. Off, on. I caught the sight of something, a glint of glass. I started bolting across the void. “Over here.” Yes, yes. I did see something.
The tank.
Off, on. Off, on.
I’d found it.
It lay twenty-five meters ahead of me near the corner of the warehouse. Faintly, in the hesitant light, I saw a body in the tank.
Cassandra!
I couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead.