“Good work. Do it.” It took everything in him not to say something more to her…but it was an open channel. And the mission was all that mattered in this moment.
Still nothing worthwhile on the screen, just jostling in the dark, the image shaking. “Audio’s coming through loud and clear,” he observed, glancing up the ladder to where Thomas had disappeared, a maintenance access.
“Isn’t that just peachy?” came the voice again.
A single gunshot echoed from deep within the theatre and Harry felt his breath catch, waiting for the one to be followed by more.
Nothing. Relief washed over him, followed by guilt at the very thought of it. Another of the hostages was dead…but only one.
It was math, he told himself — just that simple. That clear-cut. That cold. Don’t think of the lives, just the numbers.
Keep it all locked away.
“EAGLE SIX, we have a problem.” Harry turned back from the ladder at the sound of Tex’s voice, keying his mike.
“Go for it. What are we looking at?” He’d dispatched the former Marine explosives expert to the main entrance of the theatre, along with Han — scoping out their tactical options.
“The doors are wired to blow,” came the reply. “Same deal with the balcony entrance, up the escalator.”
That effectively ruled out a frontal assault. “Any way to disarm the bombs?”
“No.” He’d known the answer, but he had to hear it. “What’s thermal giving you?” The LVMPD had managed to scrounge up more than a bit of gear for them. And ammunition.
“No one close to the main entrance doors,” Han’s voice interjected. “Judging from the blurred image I’m getting, I’d say they’re grouped together well inside.”
That wasn’t going to be enough. “We’re going to need those blueprints,” Harry said. Agent Altmann was supposed to be getting them. The main door backstage was no doubt guarded as well by now, but there had to be dozens of access points for maintenance. It was just finding the right one — getting inside without being observed.
“Eyes up, EAGLE SIX.” He glanced down at the screen in his hand, the picture swaying slightly as Thomas fixed the cam more securely in position.
Tapping in a command on the small keypad, he watched as the wireless camera panned right, swinging across the seats of the theatre until the first group of hostages…and their guards.
It wasn’t a perfect image, but it gave them something to work with. Enough to pick out faces. “Come on back — we’ve got a twenty on the subjects. Looks like Cohen is still alive.”
A look at his watch reminded him of the grim reality. Sixteen minutes — another would die.
It wasn’t going to be enough.
“Altmann,” he barked into his radio, “are the Metro snipers in position yet?”
“The service elevator will take you directly to the top floor of the Augustus Tower, sergeant,” the concierge said, leading the way down a back hallway. “The roof access is behind the door with the Employees Only sign.”
“Locked?” Sergeant Wayne Zimmerman asked, extending his left hand to the concierge.
A nod as the man reached into his pocket. “Keycard. Here, take it. And, sergeant…”
Zimmerman paused at the door of the elevator, the hard polymer case containing his sniper rifle clutched in his right hand. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
The sergeant acknowledged the thanks with a silent nod, turning into the elevator. Building materials were piled on top of a stack of pallets in one corner of the service elevator, detritus from one of the Palace’s renovation projects. He remembered seeing an article about it in the Review-Journal, two weeks before.
It had only been scant hours ago that he’d left home, heading out for another day at the “office”. Seemed like a lifetime.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” he’d told his wife with a laugh, as they had moved the stash of presents for a fifth(and final) time. And then he had gone out the door.
The LVMPD trained for terrorism. But this…he felt the rage build within him. Too many of his brothers in the Zebra units were already dead — fourteen at the last report coming from Winchester. As many incapacitated.
It felt surreal, almost numbing.
Zimmerman looked up, only then noticing that the wire running from the security camera in one corner of the elevator had been torn away from the wall.
Movement behind him, searing pain as a curved janbiya stabbed into his side, just below the edge of his tactical vest. A hand clamping down over his mouth.
He tried to scream, tried to turn — his hand clawing at the butt of his Smith & Wesson 659, but the retention holster held it in place, even as the dagger plunged into his body again and again.
Darkness…
It was the same for all of them — going to their deaths, begging for mercy. As had his brother.
Jamal walked along the platform, his fingers slick against the hard plastic grip of the Kalashnikov, watching as their leader pulled another hostage from the crowd…a young woman this time, early twenties, no older. She reminded him of a blonde girl in his class at University of Michigan, a fellow chemistry major. Her smile. Her laugh — the way she dressed on a spring morning. Seductive.
He had nearly slipped once, he thought, anger building within him at the memory of his weakness.
Allah had kept his feet from falling, but the woman had never paid the price of her indiscretions. He saw her in the girl on her knees before their leader, the fear in her eyes.
Motivated by a sudden impulse, he moved closer to their leader — extending his hand for the Glock. “Let me.”
A moment of hesitation…and the pistol was placed in his outstretched hand, butt-first, the polymer cool beneath his fingers.
The girl’s slender body shook with sobs, tears streaking down her face as his fingers curled around the Glock’s grip — his breath coming faster at the power of it.
A heady feeling. Life and death…in his hands. “Who is your Lord?” he murmured, beginning to circle the girl as he recited the words of the Questioners. “Who is His Prophet?”
“We can use the service door there — work our way down the hallway backstage and out…here, onto the balcony.”
Tex shook his head at Thomas, drawing a thick finger across the floor plans. “No go, I mirrored the door. They’ve got it rigged with grenades. Even assuming we could detonate them remotely with a breaching charge of our own, there’s too much ground to cover — at least fifty feet before you’d have a clear shot. No time to set up, your aim would be off from the run.”
He was right, Harry realized, looking back at the images taken from their covert camera. “Most of them would be dead before we arrived.”
Another shot rang out from the theatre, this time accompanied by a muffled scream. Harry’s hand stole toward the Colt on his hip…but there was nothing after it. Just silence. The knowledge of death.
He could see it in the eyes of his men.
Reaching out, Han tapped one of the images with his index finger. “They’re still wearing their coats…do these guys have s-vests?”