Shaw’s bird was the command post where everything wasbeing coordinated. Once more, he checked assignments, setting up the Huey’ssniper points. “Mitch, you’ll take starboard, and Ronnie, you set up on aft fora clear shot.” Shaw indicated Fred Wheeler, the negotiator, on the satellitephone to Professor Kate Martin, learning about Keller’s background and stresspoints. “Fred will try to talk him out of it, if he gets the chance. The restof you are assault, depending on how we unwrap this one.” Shaw switched fromthe chopper’s intercom to his team radio. “Roy, Doc! Call when you put down onthe cutter.”
As they passed over San Francisco’s shoreline, Shawwas called from the FBI’s office on Golden Gate Avenue with word that anotherbureau Huey, just in from L.A. on a maintenance run, was empty and available.Good, he wanted two more sniper teams picked up for a third angle. And he hadanother idea. “After getting my guys at Hamilton, pick up some task forcemembers on the house at Wintergreen. We could use them up here. Put a rush onit.”
FBI Agent Merle Rust took the relay call from Shaw tothe mobile command center at Keller’s house in Wintergreen, then requested theSFPD clear the park a block west of the house for a helicopter landing.
“Walt,” Rust told Sydowski, “they want us in the airas observers. A chopper will be here in fifteen minutes. You and me.”
“They spot anything out there yet?” Sydowski followed Rustout of the bus after they informed the others.
“No.” Rust shielded his eyes. “Chopper’s landing inthe park west of here.”
Tom Reed appeared before Rust and Sydowski, lookinglike hell.
“Take me with you.”
“What? How did you-?” Sydowski said.
“I was coming to the bus and I overheard. I want togo.”
“Impossible, Tom. I’m sorry,” Rust said. “It’s againstpolicy.”
“I have to know.” He was determined.
“Tom” — Sydowski softened his voice — “stay herewith Ann. She needs you. You can help the others. You should be together.”
“Ann overheard you, too. She wants me to go. We haveto know. Whatever happens. I have to know.”
“We’re sorry, Tom,” Rust said, walking quickly withSydowski to his car. “You will be told the minute we know anything.”
Reed walked with them. He was unrelenting. “I’m theonly one here who has seen Keller, talked with him. Please. I know this man.You could regret not having me there.”
The FBI’s Huey was in sight.
At the car, Rust and Sydowski looked at each other,saying nothing. The helicopter approached, blades whipping, slicing, descendingto the park as the news choppers reluctantly backed off. The press was going tobe out there anyway, Rust figured.
The ground plummeted beneath them and in minutes, Reedwas thundering over the Pacific, sitting knee to knee with FBI SWAT Teamsnipers. Seeing their weapons, their icy faces, and hearing their muted radiochatter, nearly smothered him. Someone passed him a radio with an earpiece sohe could listen, hear clearly the voices of unseen forces. Saviors. Planning arescue from the immaculate blue sky. If it wasn’t too late.
From the chopper, the Pacific seemed a universe ofchanging hues and eternally deceptive whitecaps that were, or were not, boats.How could they ever find anyone down there? His stomach lurched. It was futile.He was peering into an abyss.
Forgive me, Zach. Please forgive me.
Reed’s hands were clasped together as the chopperbanked hard for an immediate northwest heading.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Zach’s eyes adjusted to the dimness under the tarp.
The rumbling hum of the twin Mercuries pushing theboat, which leaped and skipped over the water’s surface, was deafening, rattlinghim alert.
That rotten taste was in his mouth again. His headhurt, his leg was throbbing, and he was hungry. Danny and Gabrielle were lyingon the deck with him, stirring, as the vibrations shook their bodies.
The boat was moving fast.
Ouch — something was sticking him in the groin — what?He reached into his underpants, remembering his pocketknife. He still had it.He tightened his fingers around it. Okay, he sniffed, don’t sit up, just take alook around, see what’s going on. What’s that? He looked down at what wascausing the painful pressure on his lower leg.
Heavy, yellow plastic rope was tied around his ankleand encased in a cast of silver duct tape. Zach followed the rope. It wascoiled in a nearby bundle, knotted and heavily taped to four cement cinderblocks. Danny and Gabrielle? It was the same with them; rope and tape aroundtheir ankles, tied to the blocks. Another line ran from the bundle away fromthe tarp. Holding his breath, Zack lifted the tarp slightly, following the linealong the deck to the front of the boat where it ended in a taped knot aroundthe creep’s ankle.
They were all connected. What was it for? Zachstruggled to understand. Suddenly, it hit him, harder than anything in hislife: The creep was going to kill them all!
Zach wanted his dad. Where was he? Don’t scream! Wherewere the police? Didn’t anyone care? Don’t move! Aren’t they looking for us?Think! Just think! Where are we going? Think! C’mon! He rubbed tears from hiseyes and felt — the knife! Yes! He felt the knife in his hand. Okay. He coulddo something.
He shifted closer to the rope and opened the blade. Itshrank next to the diameter of the heavy rope, like a steak knife against anoak tree. He sniffled and began sawing away. The tiny blade was sharp and cutinto the rope, but it was going to take forever. Damn! He might not have timeto cut Danny and Gabrielle free. He concentrated. He could stab the creep. No.The blade was too small. Panic washed over him. Think, Zach! Think!
Cut the rope and jump out? He could swim. For howlong? What about sharks? What about Danny and Gabrielle? He didn’t know. Hedidn’t know anything, only that he had to do something quick. If he tried hardenough, he could cut through one piece of rope. Which one? He moved closer tothe bundle, examining the coils. One line connected the cement blocks to thelines wrapped around the children’s ankles. Which one? He double-checked theweb of rope. Okay. Here goes.
He gestured to Danny and Gabrielle to keep still andquiet, then he gripped his knife and began slicing through the yellow rope.
SEVENTY-NINE
From a thousand feet up, through the Coast Guard spotter’s bubble, it looked like ameteor speeding across the heavens, cutting a southwest path across thesparkling sea, leaving a fading trail of white water. Another check through thebinoculars to be certain. Twin outboards. Mercs. Northcraft. Affirmative.
“Air C-351, sighted the craft! Copy?”
“Roger, C-351. Coordinates? Over?”
“Got him running hard at … standby…”
The guard’s C-130 Hercules had locked on to Keller’sboat in the gulf about seven miles off Point Reyes, bearing southwest to theislands at forty-three knots.
Within six minutes, the guard’s rescue chopper, atfive hundred feet, moved in behind the boat, hanging back about a quarter milewhile the cutter Point Brower, with two FBI sniper teams aboard, nowwithin a mile, was coming from the south to intercept.
“We’ve got a visual,” Langford Shaw acknowledged asthe bureau’s Huey, pounding at maximum speed, came up fast taking the lead. Itheld at two hundred yards behind Keller’s boat, stern portside. Altitude: threehundred feet.