Jake emerged from his hiding place in a crouch, the AK-47 slung across his shoulder. His footsteps echoed softly as he inched his way toward the auditorium doors. When he got there, Jake reached over his shoulder and removed one of the steel rebar rods, which poked out the top of his backpack. The rod came free as though Jake had unsheathed a sword.
Behind the closed doors, Jake heard the voice of the man he believed to be Fausto addressing his captives. Jake did not stop to listen. He, instead, slid the rebar between the looped handle on each door with the dexterity of a bomb technician defusing a device. He released his grip and the rod dropped maybe a millimeter into place, just enough to make a small noise of metal on metal.
Jake’s hand went to the butt of his Glock. He waited for an alarm to sound. Shots to be fired. Men to come for him. He exhaled when nothing happened.
Jake checked over his work. The rebar was long enough to hold firm, no matter how many pushed against the door. He snuck around to the other side of the auditorium and created the same barricade, using a second rebar rod on a different set of auditorium doors. Two additional emergency exits were at the back of the auditorium, and Jake secured those doors in the same manner. Four exits, all secured using unbendable rebar.
Jake next padded down a hallway, AK-47 at the ready. He took the stairs back to the basement and from there worked his way into the tunnels. A check of his stopwatch showed ten additional minutes off the clock. Ten left to go.
On to phase two.
Jake shot down the tunnel, headed for the pit, running as though his body were on fire. He used the headlamp to light the way, but probably could have made it there blindfolded. All his senses worked on overdrive-every sound magnified, every touch internalized, every musty odor overpowering.
Jake’s heartbeat matched the pace and power of a jackhammer. He took in shallow, sharp breaths to try and slow it down, but gave up. It was impossible to control the adrenaline. The killer instinct, so natural to him on the mound, came back, but in an altered state and intensified. He, in no way, relished what was to come. The need to kill and a desire to do so are different beasts.
A check of the time: three more minutes gone.
Inside the pit, the headlamp lit the space well enough. He saw the three decomposing men in a heap on the floor, where he had left them-Big Red and his two mangled companions. The smell of blood hit him hard. If his stomach let go, he might give himself away. Now it was showtime. Even though he prepped like a trained soldier, Jake took inspiration from the only place where he did actual battle: the mound.
Be the aggressor. Attack and don’t ever let up. Show no weakness.
Jake moved the bodies and rolled the stairs back into place. Another three minutes off the clock.
Down to four.
“You are fast running out of time, little ones. Efren y Armando, vengan aquí.”
Efren, Armando, Fausto. How many more were there? Didn’t much matter. Jake had enough ammo to engage a small army.
With the stairs in place, Jake went to the back wall of the pit and shone his headlamp on the fuse box. He removed his backpack, opened the top, and fished out the light sticks. He had five of them. Plenty. He did the break-and-shake on each stick. They were glowing, but in infrared so that it didn’t really look like any chemical reaction had taken place. He checked the smoke grenades hitched to his chest rig. Fine there as well. The flares were also within easy reach.
“Many famous Mexicans have died by firing squad,” Fausto said, his voice amplified by Jake’s hearing protection. “You still have a little time left.”
One minute according to Jake’s timer.
“Please, please, none of us has it. Believe us.” That was Andy’s voice. He sounded strong, alert. And that was Hilary’s doing.
Jake opened the fuse box. There were circuit breakers for different sections of the auditorium, but his only interest was the red master switch. Jake held the light stick in one hand. He looked at the stairs. It would take only a few seconds to cross the pit, get up the stairs, open the trapdoor, and start shooting. Three seconds. Maybe four. Fausto could open fire on the kids during that time. It was a possibility. A serious risk. The blackout should be a big-enough distraction, Jake thought. He wouldn’t need them frozen for long. His other option was to listen to six gunshots.
Jake sucked down a breath and closed his eyes. He visualized exactly what was about to happen. Focused his thoughts, his intentions. This was the windup.
Now for the pitch.
CHAPTER 42
Jake shut off his headlamp. The pit area became a canvas of black. He lowered his night vision optical, and the dark pit was awash in a green glow. Every detail showed in high definition, including the dead bodies strewn about the concrete floor. He put his left hand on the red power switch. In his right hand, he held the IR light sticks that powered his night vision.
He hoped the kids would take cover on the floor.
He counted in his head.
One.
He heard Fausto say from the auditorium, “I’d prepare your last words.”
The whimpers became sobs.
Two.
Jake bent his knees to get into a sprinter’s stance.
“No? Nothing?” Fausto said. “Well, as you wish.”
Three.
Jake pulled the switch down and cut the power to the auditorium. At the same instant, he bolted forward.
“¿Qué pasó?” The voice sounded angry and surprised. Chatter interspersed with other commotion, like the sound of auditorium seats folding closed.
Jake bounded across the pit, navigating with the help of his optics. He got his foot on the first step, and it was easy from there to get all the way up.
Using his back, Jake forced open the trapdoor. He emerged into the dark. Nobody in the auditorium could see him on the stage. Jake gently lowered the trapdoor to the floor so it remained open. That was to be the way out. Light from cell phones waved about in the dark as if they were levitated. The chatter continued. There was movement toward the doors.
Jake rolled across the stage to get some distance from the pit opening. An accidental tumble would be disastrous. He tossed one light stick toward the back of the auditorium with the arm strength of an outfielder. The chem light bounced over several rows of seats and settled at the back of the room. He sent three more light sticks flying.
The noise they made upon landing might have given Jake away. For safety, he sank deeper into the darkness of the stage. As he did, he rolled to his left.
Sure enough, bullets came at Jake from multiple directions. Shots peppered the stage, but missed him by a wide margin. Jake peered into his night vision optical. The world was green, and well lit from the scattering of infrared glow sticks.
He could see the kids cowering on the floor. Some used their hands to shield their heads. They were still in their school uniforms. Jake counted six hostages in total, including Andy at the end of the row, hands over his head like the others. His boy. There might be additional hostages, but Jake doubted it. These six were all connected.
Flashes in the dark auditorium announced the bullets to come. They hit everywhere but where it mattered. They were firing blind, and it was highly ineffective. In the second row, Jake sighted a thin guy aiming a sizable shotgun. Even though his aim was off target, a shotgun blast covered a wide area. “Thin Man” got off a single shot that made a powerful blast and added to the overwhelming stench of gunpowder.