36: A Novel (19 page)

There was a slight sensation of falling, like stepping onto a thickly cushioned surface, and I realized I’d appeared or materialized, or whatever the correct term is, about an inch above the floor.  Then gravity had taken over.  But looking down, I was able to make out a thick carpet, so perhaps I’d just shown up and my weight had compressed it and the padding beneath.

It was only another moment before my body reminded me how badly I needed to pee.  Looking around frantically, I spotted a narrow hall that led past a cramped kitchen.  Snatching a flashlight out of a pocket on the vest I was wearing over my body armor, I clicked it on as I dashed across the small room.

I’d guessed right.  The hall led to a bedroom, passing a bathroom which I ran into and nearly wet myself as I tried to get my pants open.  The gloves I was wearing to prevent leaving fingerprints hampered my efforts slightly, but thankfully I made it.  That wonderful feeling of relief passed over me as urine began splashing into the toilet.  Then it hit me.  I wasn’t disoriented.

In fact, I felt energized.  Certainly nothing like I’d seen described by the other assets who’d come before me.  Finished relieving myself, I zipped and buttoned up and reached out to flush the toilet, pausing with my hand hovering over the handle.  This was a vacant apartment.  The neighbors almost certainly knew that.  Would they hear the sound of the water rushing in the pipes?  Call the office and alert the manager that someone was in an apartment that shouldn’t be?  Not worth taking the chance.

Leaving the bathroom, I quickly toured the apartment.  It came with cheap, well worn furniture, so at least I’d have somewhere to sit while I waited.  Using my small light, I checked all the closets, under the bed and sofa and opened and gently closed every cabinet door in the kitchen.  The place was empty, and other than the musty smell I’d noticed when I first arrived, it was actually pretty clean.

An old landline phone rested on top of a well used phone book on the kitchen counter, plugged into a phone jack that was designed for wall mounting.  I quietly lifted the handset and held it to my ear, more than a little surprised when I heard a dial tone.  Why would a vacant apartment have a working phone?  Realizing that was a question I couldn’t answer, I replaced the handset and remembered I was supposed to start a series of timers.

Taking a seat on the sagging sofa, I brought out the iPad.  It had already locked onto a cell network signal and adjusted its clock to the current, local time.  Opening an app that I’d been taught to use, I pressed a couple of icons and multiple countdown clocks appeared.

The first one showed I had just under two hours to the start of the event point.  The second displayed the time to the end of the event point.  Three and four kept track of what I thought of as my fall back.  The secondary event point in the parking lot adjacent to the school. 

Then there was the one with the second most time on it, which would zero out at the moment the first terrorist walked through the doors at the school.  Finally, the countdown to my return to real time.  Twenty-three hours, forty-one minutes and some odd seconds.

I sat staring at the tablet for almost a minute, watching the seconds tick off.  Trying to figure out why I hadn’t experienced the vertigo and disorientation the others had.  Not that I was complaining, but it would have been nice to know.  I was sure when I got back and reported the results, I’d spend a couple of days being subjected to a whole battery of tests.

Leaving the tablet on the scarred coffee table, I stood and took a slower tour of the apartment.  I stopped in each room, listening carefully for the sounds of any neighbors.  It was a weekday afternoon and this didn’t seem to be the type of place people lived if they didn’t have to go to work, so other than muted traffic noise from outside the building, it was quiet.

Pausing at the front door, which was the only entrance or exit, I pressed my ear against the cool metal surface.  Just more traffic noise.  Putting my eye to the peephole, I looked outside the door.  Other than able to tell it was a sunny day, I couldn’t see anything except the walkway railing directly in front of the door.

Moving back to the sofa, I pulled up the diagram of the complex and ensured I was remembering the path I’d take when it was time to move.  And I’d need to move fast.  I was going to be dressed like GI Joe with weapons bristling.  If any of the residents were outside, or happened to look out a window, it was a good bet they’d be dialing 9-1-1 as soon as they got a glimpse of me.

Closing the diagram, I opened the floor plan of the target apartment.  Unlike the unit I was in, it had three bedrooms and two bathrooms.  Several small rooms and two hallways.  A fucking maze for one man to clear, and all potential hiding spots for the terrorists.

Part of my training on the oil rig had been CQB or Close Quarters Battle.  Much of that involved how to move quickly, yet safely, through an unsecured building or residence.  A former Army Delta Force operator had been my instructor, and he had been brutal.  Mistakes had been cause to stop each session immediately so he could scream in my face and tell me what an idiot I was. 

I’d finally graduated to the phase where he didn’t stop me.  He just popped up from around a corner and shot me with a rubber bullet.  If anyone ever tells you those little things don’t hurt, they are full of shit.  Take my word for it.  I’ve got the bruises on my body as evidence.

But, I learned and improved steadily.  There was still a lot of training for me to go through when I got back, but at least I had a few months of working in the “kill house” under my belt.  Maybe he’d cut me some slack if I pulled this off.  Yeah, and maybe I was going to get wildly screwed by a busload of NFL cheerleaders.  Hey, there’s always hope!

I checked the iPad’s timers.  One hour to go.  Pulling weapons off my body, I stacked them on the table and spent half of that time making sure they were ready.  Checked the loads in every magazine, tapping them against the sole of my shoe to ensure the rounds were fully seated and would feed properly.  Then put everything back on.

The sound of running feet outside the door made me catch my breath, but as quickly as my heart rate had increased I recognized the short, fast steps of a child.  Two more quickly followed and I cursed when I realized there would be families coming home from school and work.  Parents trying to prepare dinner and sending the kids out to play until it was on the table.

I worried about the possibility of a stray round, either mine or the target’s, finding one of those children.  It’s not possible to fire a weapon in an urban environment without some risk to innocent bystanders.  How would I feel if that happened?  Were the dead at the school more important than one child who might die here if I made a mistake?

With a shake of my head I shut down that line of thinking.  It wasn’t helping.  If I didn’t do my job, it was certain that well over 100 people were going to die tomorrow morning.  It wasn’t a certainty that anyone other than the terrorists would die tonight. 

Glancing at the clock, I stood and began to pace as the timer approached ten minutes.  Ten more minutes and all eight of the fuckers would be in the same place.  All I had to do was walk in and start shooting.  Acquire my target and pull the trigger.  Over and over until they were all down.

But what were they doing in there?  Going over their master plan?  Praying to their God for success?  Maybe they’d brought a goat along and were taking turns getting their rocks off.  Who the hell knew?  Then I remembered something.

In the video of the leader arriving in the parking lot, he’d had all of their weapons in his van.  They had each walked over and picked up a rifle,
after
he arrived.  Did that mean they didn’t keep the AKs with them?  Perhaps not.  Maybe the boss had decided there was too great of a risk of being exposed. 

Eight men who fit the profile of terrorist.  Male, middle eastern appearance, military age.  Was that it?  Worry over a cop seeing one of them and deciding to check them out?  Sure, the police aren’t supposed to racially profile the general public.  And the President isn’t supposed to get a blow job in the oval office from an intern, then lie about it on national television.  People will do what they do.

Things were starting to become clearer in my inexperienced mind.  The apartment wasn’t just where they met to make plans, it was their armory.  A nice, discreet location to store their weapons until it was time to use them.  Eliminate the chance of one of them being caught with an illegal firearm and putting the authorities on high alert.

It made sense to me, and it changed my plan.  If I was right, and the more I thought about things I was pretty sure I was, then as they arrived they were probably picking up a rifle and doing what I’d just done with mine.  That meant all eight of them would have a weapon in their hands if I busted through the door in… six and a half minutes, I confirmed from the iPad.

Wheels turning, I looked at the second timer.  It would reach zero when the first one walked out of the door.  At that point, I couldn’t get the whole group in one location until the following morning outside the school.  There had been discussion about finding where each of them went, and me moving from location to location and taking them out individually.

Agent Johnson had vetoed that.  He felt there was too great a chance that they might have a method of sending an alert out to the others.  That meant if I didn’t take each one down instantly, before he even had an idea of what was happening, the rest could melt away to continue their plotting at a later date.

But I had a better idea.  Hit them at the last moment before their little group hug broke up.  It would be later, after dark, and there should be less people out and moving.  Less potential for unintended casualties.  And the rifles should have been put away for the night.  Safely stored, waiting for the leader to load them into the van the next day.

And that meant they’d probably be in crates or boxed and more difficult to get to when the shooting started!  Yes!  He couldn’t just openly carry eight AK-74s out the front door and across the parking lot.  They had to be concealed, which meant the terrorists wouldn’t be holding them when I walked in.

Smiling, proud of myself, I moved back to the sofa and sat down after removing the rifle and shotgun.  The iPad began beeping to tell me the first timer had ended.  Silencing it, I looked at the second one and leaned back to wait for the right moment.

24

It was approaching six pm, local time, when the sound of a woman’s high heels caught my attention.  She was walking fast, taking short steps.  And they were coming closer, loud on the poured concrete walkway that ran in front of the apartment door.  When they stopped directly in front, I leapt up, snatched the iPad and my weapons off the coffee table and dashed for the bedroom.

As I was running down the hall, I heard the faint jingle of keys then the scrape of the lock as she turned the deadbolt.  The door creaked open as I disappeared into the bedroom.  What the hell?  This place was supposed to be vacant.  Who the hell was this?  Please don’t be the manager showing the apartment.

Quietly, I tucked the iPad away and carefully slung the shotgun and rifle.  Then I remembered the stocking cap in my pocket.  Grabbing it, I pulled it on my head and unfolded the cuff and stretched the mask over my face.  Everything was concealed other than my eyes, nose and mouth.  Making sure the shotgun was tight against my back, I pulled the rifle around and raised it to my shoulder.

I didn’t want to shoot an innocent person.  In fact, I wouldn’t shoot an innocent person.  But a rifle pointed at her face would be a great intimidator if I needed it.  Hoping I didn’t, I pressed my back against the wall next to the bedroom door and listened, trying to figure out what was going on.

The front door hadn’t been closed.  I could easily hear the voices of children playing from outside the apartment.  Then I heard the muted thud of feet walking across the carpet.  Barefoot?  She’d taken her shoes off?  A moment later there was a rattle of plastic grocery bags being placed on the kitchen counter.

More rapid thuds as she walked back across the carpeted floor, then bumps and scrapes as she dragged something through the open door.  Now it closed with a solid bang, followed by the click of the deadbolt being engaged.  A rubbing sound started up that I couldn’t identify.  A weak light in the hall was flipped on and the steps approached my hiding place.

I slid away from the door, placing myself into a corner of the room.  I’d be to her right when she stepped in, and hopefully she wouldn’t see me early enough to make a break for the front door and start screaming for help.  My rifle was up, trained on the point where I expected her head to be when she crossed the threshold.

An instant later, a young woman dragging a large suitcase walked into the bedroom.  She was moving fast, looking to her left to find a light switch.  This brought her another step in, but the switch was to her right, and when she turned she saw me and froze.  Her mouth was open in a large, silent “O”.

“Don’t make a sound,” I said softly, moving a step closer to her.  “I will not hurt you if you stay quiet and do what I say.”

The rifle’s muzzle was only feet from her face and there was just enough light for me to tell her eyes were focused on the round hole that probably looked as large as anything she’d ever seen.  I had her.  Caught completely unprepared for a large, scary man with a gun waiting in her bedroom.  But now that I had her, what the hell did I do with her?

I wasn’t going to shoot her.  I’d already decided that.  She hadn’t done anything to anyone, at least that I knew of.  But if I wasn’t going to shoot her, what the hell did I do?  I didn’t have any way to keep her quiet other than pointing a gun at her, and that wasn’t a practical solution for more than a few minutes.

What did I do with her when it was time to go take out the terrorists?  Leave her to call the police and tell them a crazy man was running around with a whole arsenal on his back?  The cops would show up before I was able to complete my mission and get away.  Sure, all that would happen would be I’d get arrested, then a short time later I’d just disappear back to real time.