Self-discipline had always been one of Jake’s strengths, and pitching had bolstered that innate ability. There was a right way to do things and a wrong way, and practice and repetitions locked methods into memory. After seeing how long it took just to open a closet door, however, Jake debated trading caution for speed. Andy’s condition could be deteriorating by the minute.
Slow it down. Do it right.
Jake stepped out into the hallway, committed, and aimed the gun to cover only what his eyes could see. Mounted to his rifle was a SureFire light, activated by a hand switch. The light didn’t eliminate all shadows, but it did a damn fine job illuminating the dim corridor.
Jake assessed his environment. Classroom doors ran along both sides of the hall. Some of the doors were closed, but others had been left open. As he cleared each room, Jake would have an increasingly difficult time keeping an eye down the hall. But he needed to get to the stairwell at the far end of the corridor to go up a level.
From higher ground, Jake would be able to see the Academy Building and he’d also have a partial view of the Terry Science Center. He’d have limited sight lines to Gibson Hall or the library, but one thing at a time.
Jake imagined a scenario in which Laura encountered hostage takers inside the Academy Building. From there, she would have sprinted across The Quad, run right past the Society Building, where he now was, and made it to the woods. Probably bleeding. Probably dying. Or maybe she’d found her killers in this very building. The campus had always felt small to Jake, but now it seemed vast as an ocean.
Jake had done several room-clearing exercises before. Clearing a house alone was an absolute worst-case scenario, so practicing it was an important part of his preparedness training. He had no backup-nobody to take a zone for him. The situation stank. No other way to put it. His enemy had every conceivable advantage. Jake needed to commit to each room, and he would have to clear them all.
After one final check down the hall, Jake moved quickly into the adjacent classroom to his right and swept it. His gun barrel canvassed every corner of the room, moving high to low and covering everything in between. Nothing. Jake ventured into the hall once again, with his rifle ready: nose level, eye looking right down the barrel, finger hovering over the trigger. His pulse accelerated, but his breathing stayed steady. At one time, with ice in his veins, he had stared down plenty of batters facing a three-two count.
The classroom across from him was next. He crossed the hallway as if he were walking a tightrope, each step careful, quiet. His ears were attuned to any sound. The slightest scrape could mean a gunman, a burst of gunfire.
Fortunately for Jake, half the classrooms put him on the strong side of the door. He could reach over, open the door, and step back without exposing himself to any threat inside. Jake cleared the next classroom, same as the other. The desks were all in neat rows, suggesting the students had evacuated in an orderly fashion.
At the classroom door, Jake paused to collect his thoughts and refocus. Stress decreased situational awareness and could result in tunnel vision. A few deep breaths and Jake’s mind felt sharp again, except for the constant pangs about Andy. Those wouldn’t go away.
Jake slipped back into the hallway, keeping his eyes peeled for signs of danger. He cleared the next classroom, and the next, until he had done them all. Eleven classrooms in total, and not a single threat encountered. No moving doors. No unusual shadows. No signs of life. The effort took seven minutes. Seven minutes for Andy to get sicker. Seven minutes for whoever took his son to do something dreadful.
At the end of the hall stood the door to the stairwell. Jake stopped and listened. He might have heard something. A scraping sound? He tossed open the door and leveled his weapon into the darkness. It was a mistake. He had moved too quickly, but he wanted an answer. He wanted Andy. The stairwell was concrete and sound traveled. But the door had opened silently; and if somebody was above or below, they probably heard nothing.
Jake listened. Nothing at first, but then, his ears picked up the faint click of a door closing shut. Not his door, of course. It came from the door above him. One floor up. The floor where Jake was headed. Jake hesitated, waiting for footsteps, his gun trained on the spot where a body could appear. Nothing. He checked his weapon and undid the snap, securing his Bushman knife to his ankle holster.
After one readying breath, Jake headed up the stairs.
CHAPTER 28
Andy was in trouble when his vision blurred. It was a sign, and he knew them all. The effects of low blood sugar could be sudden and disastrous.
A moment earlier, Efren had been in sharp focus. Andy could see the huge man’s many tattoos clearly. Then the bull of a man went fuzzy, and it became an effort for Andy to refocus. Andy needed his backpack. Efren had left it within Andy’s view on the large oval table that took up much of what he thought was a history classroom. Andy begged Efren to give him his glucose tablets. In response, Efren tightened Andy’s rope restraints and held up the backpack as a taunt.
At some point, Efren left the room and a different monster came to guard Andy. This one had a hint of a mustache over mocha-colored skin, short, coarse hair, and dark, nervous eyes that darted about like a ferret’s. One moment, the Latin Thor was here; the next, Andy had this whippet of a man watching over him. When did that happen? Andy had known he was losing his concentration, but the extent was alarming.
Sign number three happened a few minutes later, when Andy’s mouth went cottony dry. It was only a matter of time before these symptoms got worse and new ones arose.
Andy watched “Whippet” pace anxiously in front of the classroom. The thin man said nothing. Did nothing. He just paced, armed with an assault rifle, an AR-15, a gun Andy knew well. Fired one at the range with his dad. Dad. The thought of his father ripped Andy’s heart and brought tears to his eyes.
Whippet made frequent checks of the hallway. He seemed eager for a changing of the guard. Inevitably, nobody would be outside, and Whippet would resume his pacing. Whippet’s dark eyes would occasionally fall on Andy, which sent shivers of fear through his body. Andy still wore his school uniform, but the button-down shirt was soaked with sweat and his tie hung askew. The sweat gave off a musty, somewhat rancid odor. Who knew terror had its unique scent?
Andy’s vision blurred once more, in and out of focus, like the camera in his phone.
He thought of his father. Tough as things had been between them lately, Andy was more grateful than ever for the long hours of prepping that gave him skills to survive and had toughened his exterior. But no amount of training could keep his body from shutting down.
Again, Andy’s eyes went to the backpack on the Harkness table. He never had a class that used the Harkness method, but it was part of Pepperell Academy’s teaching philosophy. The large oval table replaced traditional desks, and was thought to encourage a more open and informal exchange of ideas with instructors. Andy suspected there would be no free-flowing exchange of ideas with Whippet.
“Do you speak English?” Andy asked. His voice came at him like an echo scattered in the darkness. His body thrummed out a warning: not enough sugar. He needed food. Or his tablets. If things got really bad, he’d need the injection. How long did he have? Andy couldn’t say. But a storm was brewing inside him.