“It’s the boy. He doesn’t look well to me. He tells me he’s diabetic.”
“And you believe him?” Fausto asked.
“I don’t think he’s faking.”
“If he has the key, he must not die.”
“You think I don’t know this? I brought his backpack to the room, but haven’t searched it. I wanted to check with you what to do.”
“We break him first. If he says he doesn’t have the key and you believe him, kill him and let’s move on.”
“Understood,” Efren said. “Now about our problem. You said at Javier’s house you had a plan if something went wrong. Well, I’d say something has gone very wrong.”
“I am prepared,” Fausto said. “But first, listen to me. This situation may not go well for us. I am telling this only to you because you, my friend, like me, are not afraid to die. I am not wrong, am I?”
Efren shrugged his indifference. “If I’m dead, will I even care?”
Fausto chuckled and put his arm around Efren’s broad shoulders. “You are a good man. We have two goals now. First, get the money to Soto. He will make sure some of it, a fair amount, goes to our families.”
“Do you think there’s any chance of getting out alive?”
“I think we will buy ourselves time. But if it looks like we are cornered here, our chances are not so good. Understand? For now, our objectives remain the same. Retrieve the money, and return to Mexico.”
“How do we buy time?” Efren asked.
“We are going to have to play a little game of chicken. And we’ll see who wins.” Fausto took out his cell phone, looked up a number on the Internet, and dialed.
A ring.
“Winston Police, Dispatcher Gavin, this call is being recorded,” a male voice said. “How can I help you?”
“Yes, I am calling to report a situation at Pepperell Academy,” Fausto said in English.
Fausto heard the sound of clicking.
“The school has been evacuated. Are you calling about the odor or something else?”
“Well, I am the one who caused all of the problem,” Fausto said calmly. “Including a woman we shot. Have you met her? Seen her? Did she live? Just curious. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I have caused the problem-the truck, the spill, the chemical-and now the hostages. All of it is me. Please now, listen very carefully.”
“Who is this?”
“My English is not perfect, but I do not believe what you are doing is listening. I think that is talking, no? We try again, okay? Listen to me. Just to be clear, you may respond you understood.”
“Okay-okay. I’m listening.”
“Good. My name does not matter. What does is that I am in possession of a weapon of great destruction. I will send you a picture. What is your e-mail address?”
“My e-mail?”
“You want to see this device, no?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” the man said.
Fausto enjoyed the man’s hard breathing as he spelled out his e-mail address. From his photo library, Fausto accessed all the pictures of the oil drums hooked together with wires that Carlos had sent to him from Mexico. Carlos knew enough to strip the images of GPS location information, so Fausto was free to send whichever pictures he wanted. He selected the image that best displayed the lime-green drum, the one with the special tags, and sent it as an e-mail attachment through a wireless network.
“Did you get it?” Fausto asked.
After a pause, “Yeah, I got it. It’s here.”
“Do you know what this is?” Fausto asked.
“No,” said the dispatcher.
“This is a very ugly bomb,” Fausto said. “It’s what you call a dirty bomb.”
“Who is this? What is it you want?”
Fausto ignored the question. “There was a theft in Mexico not long ago, five months or so. A truck transporting cobalt-60 taken from an old-how do you say in English?-aparato de rayos x, X-ray machine, was hijacked. We did this. And we used the stolen material in the bomb.”
This was partially true. One of Soto’s affiliates had hijacked the truck and discovered inside the cargo hold several of these radioactive containers. Soto was not sure what to do with the cargo, but he kept it hidden because the theft had caused quite the stir in both Mexico and the United States. Both governments worried about such material ending up in the hands of a terrorist. Soto figured the cobalt-60 could be of value to the right buyer, but at the time these pictures were taken, a buyer had yet to come forward. The oil drums had been mostly forgotten, with their radioactive material sealed inside.
Fausto had personally coordinated the transport of the cobalt-60 to an abandoned airfield some fifty kilometers outside Ciudad Juárez. Those oil drums were still fresh in Fausto’s memory when he thought to use them as part of his contingency plan. He had foreseen the need to have a significant threat that would hold any potential rescue team at bay.
Fausto knew the plan would not guarantee his escape. He’d make a demand for transport back to Mexico; but if that plan failed, Fausto was fully prepared to die and he’d gladly take others down with him. If it succeeded, Efren and Armando would thank him for his foresight once the three friends were enjoying margaritas and women on the beaches of Cabo San Lucas again.
“There’s a tag on one of the oil drums. Read it,” Fausto told the dispatcher. “It will be a match for the stolen material. This is not a bluff. The other drums in the picture are filled with a high-powered explosive, and the vehicle holding the device is parked where there are many people. I can set off this bomb with a phone call. The explosion will mix cobalt-60 pellets and make a very big problem wherever the boom may be. If anybody comes near this school, I detonate the device.”
“What is it you want? Your demands.”
“You heard them already!” Fausto snapped. “What is it with you people and listening? I said fall back. Retreat. Give me the space I want. Two kilometers. If I see so much as a single police officer, SWAT, FBI, any chemical cleanup people, a maldito janitor, I detonate the device. Ask somebody who knows what happens then.”
CHAPTER 27
A series of hanging lights illuminated the tunnel like the shaft of some forgotten coal mine. The numerous ways into the tunnel system were well hidden. Jake didn’t worry about anybody being down here with him. All his thoughts were centered on what was happening aboveground.
The FBI was mobilizing its big guns-the Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT-but there was no indication of an imminent assault. Jake kept the volume on his portable police scanner low as he listened. There was some discussion of a new threat, but all related conversation was directed to a secure channel Jake couldn’t access. The mission was now clearly defined: ensure his son was here, alive, and get him his medication. If Jake could extract Andy and the others safely, he would do so. Otherwise, he could relay critical information back to the FBI as needed.
The tunnel between the field house and the Society Building went straight for about a hundred yards and terminated at a set of crumbling cement stairs. Jake climbed those stairs, pulled his hearing protection to one side, and placed his ear to the rust-speckled door at the top of the landing. He listened. All was quiet. He powered down the scanner and turned the doorknob with caution.
Jake entered a dark closet, about eight feet by eight feet, with a ceiling high enough for him to stand upright. Buckets, mops, and cleaning supplies were in his way, but Jake got to the front of the closet without knocking anything over.
Holding his assault rifle with one hand, Jake reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The worst mistake he could make would be to move too quickly. He had to maintain a pace that would allow him to shoot with accuracy. He opened the closet door and stepped quickly to the side.
He trained the barrel of his AK-47 into the sliver of hallway he could see. His head, cocooned inside his tactical helmet, heated up. Jake took small steps as he worked his way incrementally from the closet wall to stand in front of the open door. He brought the weapon up to nose level, but knew not to get so focused looking down the barrel that he’d forget to scan the space in front of him, floor to the ceiling. Hiding places could be anywhere.