Active Shooter (11 page)

I did not so much think about what I had to
do next as I reacted into it. With my left hand I tossed the door
guardian the laptop satchel while with my right hand I retrieved
one of my Glock pistols. He lost sight of me just long enough for
me to press the gun against the flying satchel and put a bullet
through it and his head.

The satchel's neoprene material muffled the
gunshot to preserve the element of surprise long enough for me to
pull out my second Glock as I pointed the first one at the man
standing by Bridget.

The sound of the next gunshot boomed inside
the computer room. My opponent went down on one knee. I fired
again. He went down flat. With both guns pointed in orthogonal
directions, I scanned the room. No other opponents in here, I
decided.

I turned to the door and walked backwards
toward Bridget.

“It's me. Mr. Hope for America. Whatever you
do, don't say my name.”

I heard her sobbing behind me. Outside, I
heard screaming and the scrambling of frightened people.

“We need to go,” I said. “Now.” I looked at
the screen. “Is this our meet with your source?”

Bridget was shaking, in shock. I had to get
her to start thinking again.

“You're doing good,” I told her. “Let's
go.”

I was about to help her to her feet, but she
stood on her own. I nudged her away from the computer, and then I
placed the barrel of the gun against the front of the hard drive. I
pushed her back a little more and I squeezed off one shot.

When I turned to her, she was covering her
face with her hands.

I took her veil and used it to wipe the
keyboard and the table around the keyboard. It left a bloody smear.
I tried it again with a different part of the veil. It was a rush
job, the best I could do to blot out her fingerprints. We had to
move.

I turned to her, and she'd lowered her
hands.

“I have blood on me,” she said. “All over
me.”

At that moment I wanted to scold her. I
wanted to tell her this business seldom ended with gadgetry and
techno-trickery. Eventually, it came down to blood. Spilled blood.
Splattered blood. But that wouldn't help right now, and what good
would it do, anyway, to lecture her or lash her with clever
I-told-you-sos.

“I am not going to hurt you,” I told her.
“Just follow me, close to me, and we'll get through this, OK?”

Bridget nodded, but it looked more like
uncontrollable shivering.

“Put your hand on my back and never let go,”
I said. “Here we go.”

I felt her hand on my right shoulder blade.
We walked out of the room slowly. I held both guns, sweeping to and
fro looking for targets. I only saw a couple of figures cowering
behind tables and bookcases.

Down the stairs we went. We moved through the
reception area with brisk steps.

I opted to use a side, emergency exit door
instead of the front door. Now would come the fun part. The door's
alarm rang out as we stepped outside.

Sirens already sounded out in the distance.
And we were out in the open. I spotted them, two more of them, to
my right, by the front door, heading into the library.

Bridget followed my lead when I squatted down
to hide behind a concrete trash can holder. From there, I saw them
run into the library.

“Now, let's go,” I said.

I put the guns away, grabbed her by the arm,
and we ran to my SUV.

I opened the passenger door and helped --
really pushed -- her in. “Do you have anything in your car we
need?”

She shook her head, but it was the sort of
response that said she really didn't comprehend my question more
than the type that provided me with an unequivocal “no.” It didn't
matter. We didn't have time to deal with a "yes," anyway. I don't
know why I'd asked the question. Maybe I was responding to the
trained instinct to be thorough.

Eyeing the front entrance, I made my way
around the hood of the SUV and climbed in. With my left I took out
one of my pistols while with my right I started the car.

I drove out slowly and turned north. No one
followed us.

Halfway down the block, I saw a squad car
turn onto our street, heading right for us. I pulled to my right
and it sped by us.

“Are you OK?” I asked Bridget as I pulled
out.

“What the hell was that?”

“That, Bridget, is what we're into.”

“Who were those guys?”

“Who did they say they were?”

“Federal Agents. They said they were Federal
Agents.”

“Did they show any ID?”

“No.”

“Then, they could have been anyone. Remember
that in case some sharp investigator connects you with that blood
bath and brings you in for questioning. You were abducted,
kidnapped, a victim.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your cover story. You wanted to know about
Ops. Well, you just saw one. And here's an important ingredient for
these little games. How to deny you were involved. The cover
story.”

I drove out to Atlantic and turned south. We
drove in silence, eventually joining Imperial Highway traffic. As
we traveled east, I eyed Bridget. Her composure seemed to return
with every passing mile.

“Where are we going?”

“Bellflower.”

“What's in Bellflower?”

“Our next ride. Are you up for a little
off-roading?”

***

Bridget didn't say much the rest of the way.
After I'd wiped the steering wheel and dashboard, we left the SUV a
few blocks from the intended destination. We made our way on foot
until we arrived at a Self-storage facility. Once inside, we found
my unit. I unlocked it and rolled up the metal door to reveal a
modified VW Baja Bug, painted in dull gray. Its exposed Porsche
engine stared back at us. Cardboard boxes and mounds of my worldly
possessions surrounded it.

I told Bridget to stand to the side, and I
went in to start the engine. It had sat for a couple of months, and
it took three attempts to get it started. An initial sputter gave
way to a satisfying rumble. I backed it out, parked it against the
fence and left it idling as I climbed out.

“I hope we're not planning to stay in there,”
Bridget said.

I smiled at her. It was good to hear her
cynical humor return. “I just need to get a few things,” I
said.

I left it up to her, and she followed me in.
Inside I dug out a couple of sleeping bags, a hiking backpack and a
tent, along with some rope. Outside I mounted these items atop the
Baja Bug's roof rack and used the rope to secure them.

Bridget watched me from inside the storage
unit, and I rejoined her there.

“What's the plan?” she asked me as I rummaged
for a large backpack.

“You tell me. I didn't open Pandora's
box.”

“What are we doing, Andre?”

“Treading water and swimming away from the
sharks. No plan. Just action and reaction.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bridget's
face tighten with frustration and anger. I went on with my search.
I unzipped the backpack to expose and old set of lenses and one
DSLR body. For sentimental reasons I'd never talked myself into
selling this, my first professional kit. Now, unable to return to
my apartment to retrieve my newer equipment, I was glad to have it.
Whatever else we took with us, I wanted to have a camera with
me.

I looked up at Bridget. She shot me back a
puzzled look.

Next, I made my way to a freezer, which
unplugged, I'd adapted to use as a safe. I spun the dials on two
padlocks and opened it. From it I took out a duffel bag and
unzipped it to reveal several stacks of hundred dollar bills.

I looked up at Bridget again. This time she
didn't look puzzled.

“Put these in your purse,” I said handing her
one stack.

“What are we doing, Andre?”

I didn't answer. Instead I returned the
duffel bag to the safe. I needed two more items from the safe, and
I took them out now.

“Burner phones?” Bridget asked.

“Good eye.”

I opened one of the boxes, took out the car
charger that came with the phone and went outside to plug it into
the Bug's cigarette lighter.

“Anything else you can think of?” I asked her
as I reentered the storage unit.

Bridget shrugged. I grinned at her and knelt
by a cardboard box. From it I took out two sets of thick canvas
cargo pants, a fleece jacket, and a pair of hiking boots.

“We'll have to get you some of these,” I
said.

Bridget stared at the clothing, turned to
look at the Baja Bug, then returned her attention to me. Her face
creased into a frown of many questions, and I wondered which one
she'd toss me first.

“Who were those guys?” she asked.

“Cross-strappers,” I said. “I remember a
clever reporter knowing all about them.”

A replay of her telling me about them in a
New York City restaurant ran through my mind, as I figured it did
through hers.

“How did they know I was meeting my source?”
she asked.

“Inter-agency cooperation and
cross-jurisdictional empowerment, of course. You know all about
that, too, remember? Whatever information and surveillance my
handlers have access to, the cross-strappers can tap into as
well.”

She shook her head.

“And here's the shocker,” I added. “I have a
feeling there was no meet at all. Maybe not even a source. Maybe
they've been playing you all along.”

“That doesn't make any sense. She's given me
real stuff.”

I fought the urge to snicker at her naivete.
“Maybe. But they sure played us now, didn't they? Maybe they
figured out how she was communicating with you, and they spoofed
her. Maybe she helped them do it.” I paused to let her absorb this
for a moment. “As part of a cooperation deal. Or, maybe there's no
she
and there never has been.”

“No, that's not it. They wanted me to contact
her. That's what they were forcing me to do.”

“Or they wanted you to corroborate your
guilt.”

“I'm not going to argue with you. But that's
stupid.”

Now I shrugged. I knew it was stupid,
especially since Bridget did have that fancy scanner. “Whatever.
It's irrelevant, anyway. We're screwed at least three ways, so we
best focus on unraveling this mess.”

“And we're doing that by going camping.”

“Nah. The camping part is to make sure we
don't end up dead.”

“Splendid.”

“I think so.”

I finished packing the car. We drove away,
and stayed on streets all the way to La Habra. There, at the local
Costco, I used the first of my one hundred dollar bills to purchase
some supplies.

From there we drove through the local
mountains until we connected with Interstate-10. I aimed east,
toward San Bernardino and beyond. At the 15 freeway we veered
north, and stopped at the Bass outdoor store where we spent a few
more of the hundred dollar bills to outfit ourselves with thick
canvas cargo pants, shirts and fleece lined jackets, along with
whatever hiking gear I could think of.

A few minutes later, heading north on the 15
freeway, as we passed Hesperia, I used the fully charged burner
phone to dial Walter.

“What happened to the secured cell?” he
asked.

“Technical difficulties. Speaking of which,
you got a cross-strapper problem. They're spoofing and bird-dogging
your Op.”

“What?”

“What I said. Clean it up. Text me on this
number when you can guarantee they're off my trail.”

I hung up. I turned off the phone, handed it
to Bridget and asked her to take off the battery and plug in the
other burner to recharge.

She did as instructed and asked, “Won’t they
know where we are now?”

I gave her a sideways glance as I pulled off
at the last exit into Hesperia. I made a left turn and took the
onramp to head south. A few minutes later we rejoined I-10 to
resume our eastbound trek.

My watch read a few minutes past three
o’clock when we sped past Palm Springs. Still wearing our
disguises, we drove another twenty minutes and turned off to enter
Joshua Tree National Park.

At the visitor center, I requested a one week
pass, but not before I confessed we’d been in the park for one day.
I admitted we’d camped the night before. I was confused about where
and how to get a pass, you see. The ranger gave me a suspicious
look, or maybe one of annoyance because of the extra work he’d have
to do. In her computer, she typed a little bit more than usual so
that the resulting pass she handed me would have the post-dated
park access period.

“Clever,” Bridget said on the way out.
“Clever you are, my handsome shooter.”

“The alibi isn’t for us,” I replied. “It’s
easy enough to undo. But if the powers that be deign us worthy,
they can use it to justify their mercy.”

As we climbed back in the car, I promised
Bridget we'd get up the following morning to see Joshua trees
back-lit by the sunrise.

“That sounds lovely,” she said with a soft
smile.

I drove us to my favorite camping site and
set up camp.

My aching back woke me up first. I shifted my
weight in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position, and
Bridget stirred. Inside the joint sleeping bags we'd zipped
together to share warmth during the cold desert night, she clung to
me. I no longer felt entangled. If anything, I found comfort in her
wanting to remain closer. The horror of a killer dispatching two
men with cold precision that spilled their blood onto her had not
turned her off her after all.

“I am sorry,” she whispered to me.

I felt her breath against my neck. I saw it
rise in a plume toward the tent's ceiling.

“Good morning,” I replied.

“I didn't know.”

No, she didn't. No matter how much I'd warned
her or how threatening a picture I could have painted for her, some
things you have to experience to believe.