Jake arrived, undetected, at the hilly field behind the school. Here he used his binoculars to scope the campus for any guards or safety workers. It appeared deserted. Any plans to send air-quality testers to the area were probably dashed when the situation turned to a potential hostage crisis. The campus was utterly deserted. Jake sniffed the air, but picked up no foul odor. Maybe the call about the ammonia-like smell at the school was part of somebody’s plan. But who was somebody?
For a few gut-wrenching moments, Jake envisioned Laura’s frantic sprint across The Quad as she fled for her life. Did they shoot her before she got to the woods or after? He didn’t know. What do these people want, anyway? Who are they? And why would they take kids as hostages? The answers, Jake believed, would be revealed soon as he got inside the school.
Jake was about to make his final push when he noticed movement in the tree line to his right. Focusing his binoculars on that particular patch of woods, Jake got a clear visual of a SWAT team member in tactical gear. He was motioning to someone nearby, and sure enough another member came out of the shadows to take up position behind a massive tree. The woods probably held a dozen SWAT forces, if not more, but Jake had the advantage. They were looking for people coming out of the school, not anybody trying to get in.
Jake took to the tall grasses. Forest animals moved without causing a stir by keeping close to the ground and walking with a steady rhythm. Random sounds were more noticeable. After he got into a crouch, Jake used his knees to absorb the weight of his body as he crawled forward. Every muscle was engaged. The shortest path to the door was a straight line, but Jake needed the cover of the field, so he took time to reach his destination. On the way, he kept a lookout for any puddles, sticks, and gravel-anything that could make a sound.
He controlled his breathing. Hyperventilation negatively affected most every critical function, but most especially motion, balance, and coordination. This was something Jake had perfected on the mound. A pitcher had to pay attention to the “when” of breathing and the “where.” It was easy to forget proper breathing in the heat of battle. It took mindfulness to maintain focus, inning after inning. Jake never lost the skill.
At the fieldstone structure, Jake took cover behind the building to observe the woods, which were now fairly far away. This section of school grounds was not where SWAT or the local police would concentrate manpower, so Jake felt relatively confident he could enter the building unseen.
After he removed the loose stone, Jake retrieved the hidden key, unlocked the door, and was soon descending into the tunnels, which were his home away from home. He marched right past his retreat, remembering he had changed the locks so the bug-out location wouldn’t stand out if the tunnels had to be tested for air quality. Jake dug out the new key and was ready to go exploring fifteen minutes later.
“Ready” included an AK-47 and a chest rig with a battle belt. Jake stuffed the rig with as many 7.62x39 mags as he could fit: three on his chest, two on his belt, and two pistol mags as well. He slipped another mag in his back pocket, just in case. Beneath the chest rig, Jake’s Kevlar vest felt heavy, but he’d rather the discomfort than the alternative. He grabbed a syringe and several vials of insulin from the refrigerator, which he kept at a constant forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. He also took the spare glucagon emergency kit and glucose tablets. If the hostage takers gave Andy food, his insulin would help balance out his blood sugar. If they denied him nourishment, the glucagon injection might save his life. Jake’s Peltor tactical hearing protection, compatible with his tactical helmet, reduced the hazardous impulse noise from amplified sounds, such as firearms, to harmless levels. Built-in stereo microphones would equip Jake with enhanced sound detection. Jake had water, binoculars, his Glock, two Bushman Series knives, with ten-inch blades made of SK-5 high-carbon steel, a portable Bearcat handheld scanner, and a map of the school’s numerous tunnels and passageways.
He was ready to go looking for his son.
CHAPTER 26
The six teenagers had been separated. Each occupied a different room in the main building, far enough away from each other, Fausto hoped, that they couldn’t hear any screams.
The interrogation would soon begin, and Fausto felt confident he could retrieve Soto’s money. Getting out would be another matter entirely. But first things first, Soto always preached. One of these kids had the digital key to access the missing $200 million. All it would take to get it was the proper incentive. And that had nothing to do with money.
Fausto would personally oversee the process, but he assigned a man to each kid. Efren would be with Andy-the strongest with the leader. Armando, with the many scars on his face, got the girl, Hilary, but with strict orders she was not to be violated. Not yet, anyway. El Cortador got a second chance and was assigned to the fat one, Solomon. Poor Solomon. That left Joaquin, “El Mata Padres”-which meant “The Father Killer,” so-named for good reason-to take the long-haired one, David. El Tornado, whose real name was Emmanuel, would interrogate the thin boy called Rafa, and Miguel, “Una Mano”-which meant “One Hand”-had the little one who went by the name of Pixie. Miguel had lost his right hand to a machete, and the substitute, an ugly hook, made a fearsome weapon.
Having a handle in a cartel was a sign of respect. It was like a personal brand. It meant that you mattered, you were someone of importance. The two men not assigned an interrogation had no handle. These were foot soldiers, as were two of the three men Fausto had murdered onstage. El Gallo was someone of importance, but incompetence trumped status in Fausto’s world.
Fausto’s handle had been given to him by Soto himself: “El Dorado”-“The Golden.” In keeping with tradition, Fausto had named his two chief lieutenants. Efren was called “El Toro” because of his size, and Armando, for obvious reasons, was “Scar Face”-the only nickname in English.
These computer types had taken up the naming practice, like The Lion, who’d helped Javier first and Fausto second. It amused Fausto that these kids also had handles. They had their own hierarchy, it seemed. He knew two of their handles so far-Pixie and Dark Matter-but soon he would learn the others. He would discover everything he needed to know about these kids, and they, in turn, would learn many things they didn’t know about themselves.
But first, Fausto had business to address. For now, the situation at Javier’s home was under control. It was one thing Fausto did not have to worry about. The Martinez family would live until Javier was no longer of any use to the cartel. Fausto spoke by phone with the man in charge of the Javier situation, the one he called Odio. The conversation had turned tense; one of the men Fausto murdered onstage was Odio’s cousin. But Odio’s anger came and quickly passed. No tears were shed. Life in the cartel was notoriously hard, and no one dared grieve the dead openly, lest he suffer the same fate.
Fausto was using the auditorium as his war room. It was there he summoned Efren to his side. The contingency plan he had mapped out was about to be put into action. It was time to make those who mattered aware of the stakes.
Efren had taken off his shirt and entered the auditorium wearing only his white cotton tank top. His massive arms were adorned with tattoos, many as intricate as the delicate designs cut into Fausto’s gold teeth.
“The boy Andy is being watched,” Efren said in Spanish. “I sent Pancho out to patrol the grounds and check for anybody in the surrounding buildings.”
“Good thinking, Efren,” Fausto said. “But why do you look concerned?”