Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller (35 page)

Rashid Raziq emerged from the trees. “Fatima,” he called. “Stop! Where are you going?”

Fatima yanked the door open and vanished inside the Primate Habitat.
 

"No, it's me," Raziq shouted. "Bring Ali back. Come here."

Lucy registered several things at once. Raziq was alone. No guards. And he had a semi-automatic pistol in his hand.
 

“It's Special Agent Guardino, Mr. Raziq. Lower your weapon,” she shouted, stepping out into the open.

Raziq stopped, staring at her in surprise. He could have shot her, he could have turned and escaped into the trees. But instead, he cut across the clearing, racing up the steps after Fatima and his son.

The helicopter blocked her path. She ran around it, following Raziq. “Stop,” she shouted. He didn’t even look back as he ran into the Primate Habitat.

Lucy clattered up the steps after him. She grabbed her radio. “Taylor, I’m pursuing Raziq into the Primate Habitat. He’s armed.”

“Armed? I thought he was our hostage.”

“We thought wrong.” All those contradictory impressions Lucy had about the man... damn, she should have listened to her instincts. Who else but Raziq would have targeted the hockey tournament where his daughter's illicit boyfriend was playing? Although he could just be in shock after escaping from Zapata. Either way, she needed to find him. “Give me a location on Fatima, she has my cell.”

“Hang on. She's moving to the west, northwest. I can give you GPS coordinates—”

“Not going to help.” She had no map. Lucy remembered that the primate exhibit featured a spiral walkway around the perimeter, climbing higher and higher into the jungle canopy allowing visitors to view the animals through glass walls. West meant Fatima was climbing it clockwise. “Keep an eye on her. I’m going in.”

She pushed the glass doors open. A pneumatic sliding door was on the other side. Beyond it an eerie darkness. The doors swished shut behind her and she could smell the ozone and pungent plant life of the jungle habitat. Birds and insects called to each other, mixed in with the chatter of chimps and monkeys.
 

Strangely shaped shadows crowded the path that twisted and turned so you wouldn’t realize you were on a simple curved ramp climbing into the heart of the jungle. The only lighting came from tiny red lights lining each side of the path.

She stepped into the shadows, pushing a large palm frond aside. This was madness. Raziq could be hiding anywhere and she’d never see him or hear him from the path. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, adjusting to the strange environment. What would she do if she were him? What did he want?

What he’d wanted all along. Same as she did: Fatima and the baby.
 

He wouldn’t hurt them. No, he’d eliminate the competition: Lucy.

She opened her eyes and instead of searching for Fatima, she scouted for the best place for an ambush.

<><><> 

Morgan stood beneath the roof overhang of the cinderblock building the men had taken Jenna to. There was an opening above—not even a window, more for ventilation than anything else. But it was large enough to allow her to hear Jenna’s screams.

Not that Morgan cared. Not in the traditional sense. She knew that. In fact, part of her brain was busy trying to figure out what techniques they might be using, anticipating when the next scream would come. But that didn’t mean Jenna didn’t matter to her, that she wasn’t concerned.
 

After all, Jenna was
hers.
It was as if these men had stolen from Morgan.

She didn’t like that. Not at all.

She was about to make her move on the two men guarding the door when a shotgun blast in the distance got their attention. They took off at a run and the coast was clear.
 

Morgan entered the building, quickly oriented herself. It was some kind of animal kennel, caged enclosures on either side of a long hallway. Jenna was inside a room at the front, behind a solid wooden door.
 

No more guards inside although there was a woman at the far end of the corridor near another exit. She was watching something inside one of the cages and didn’t even notice Morgan.

Morgan held her knife at the ready and knocked on the door. A man answered in Spanish. She knocked again, this time more urgently.

The door opened and a large Hispanic man looked out, his focus on the space above Morgan’s head. By the time he looked down, her blade had already pierced his heart.
 

Tall men were the easiest; her short stature put her at the perfect angle to stab up below their ribcage, give the blade a little wig-wag to slice the ventricle, and pull it back out, releasing only the tiniest drop of blood on the surface.
 

He blinked, dropped something to the floor behind the door, and staggered back a step. Morgan shoved him the rest of the way inside the room. He fell to the floor. The other man in the room, a man in a suit, leapt to his feet, swearing in Spanish, reaching for a gun inside his jacket.

Too little, too slow. Morgan used the stun gun on the man. He slumped back into the chair. She took his pistol, stunned him again for good measure, then used her wire to tie him to his chair.

She closed the door, picked up the item the big guy had dropped—a small blowtorch—and finally turned to Jenna.

“You look a mess,” she told Jenna as she cut through the zipties holding Jenna to the chair. It wasn’t a lie. Jenna’s one eye was swollen shut and already turning purple. Her nose was bleeding and more blood came from her mouth.

But that was the least of her injuries. They’d used the blowtorch. Not on Jenna’s skin, no, that would be too predictable.
 

They’d burned off Jenna’s hair—the shoulder length, thick, auburn hair that Morgan had always envied. The stench of burnt hair saturated the room and blackened locks curled around Jenna’s feet and clung to her clothing.

They hadn’t done more than to raise a few blisters on Jenna’s scalp. Morgan tried to imagine what it would have been like: painful and terrifying, fire so close to your face yet out of sight, unable to anticipate when they’d put it out, where they’d start it next. For a woman, a most effective technique, she decided.
 

“Morgan,” Jenna opened her good eye and gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to save you.” Morgan surprised herself, the pride that came with those words. She had to admit, it did feel good. Felt right, somehow. Better than she’d ever felt with her father.

She sliced through the final ziptie restraining Jenna. “Can you walk?”

Jenna bobbed her head in a nod. She raised a hand to her scalp, grimaced in pain as it touched a particularly angry red area. “Is it bad?”

“Better than being dead.”

“Why’d you let him live?” Jenna stared at the man in the suit who was starting to stir.

“We might need a bargaining chip. Who is he?”

“Victor Zapata.”
 

Morgan had thought as much.
 

Jenna pushed herself out of the chair and stood wobbling. “Give me your knife.”

“We need him alive to get out of here.” This was how emotions got you in trouble.
 

“Give me the knife, Morgan. Make sure the coast is clear,” Jenna ordered. Morgan glared at her, but handed her the switchblade.

Morgan turned and cracked the door open. Black smoke billowed in. “Jenna, we've got to go.”

A man’s shriek, high-pitched like an animal’s, cut her off. Morgan whirled to see Jenna pulling the knife blade from Victor Zapata’s left eye. Blood and fluid gushed from it and he kept screaming and screaming.

Morgan felt torn between approval—the man deserved everything he got—and disapproval—Jenna was supposed to be one of the good guys, not someone like Morgan. More smoke pushed into the room. Morgan coughed. Jenna raised the knife, considering her next target.

“The place is on fire, Jenna.” Morgan grabbed Jenna’s arm. Why was it that Morgan always had to be the sensible one?

Together they made it out the door and to the hallway. The temperature had risen dramatically in the few minutes since Morgan had entered. The whole building was like one big brick oven.
 

They’d only staggered a few feet when Jenna collapsed, gasping for air. Morgan dropped to the ground as well, hoping there’d be fresh air down low.

“Giselle,” a man called, his voice bouncing off the cinderblock walls.

“Help,” Morgan shouted. “Help us.”

She pushed Jenna along the floor, trying to crawl to the door. Were they going in the right direction? How far was it?

Just as she was sure they were hopelessly lost in the thick smoke, a man reached down and grabbed her.
 

“Jenna,” she gasped, surprising even herself. Being a hero didn’t mean going all soft and sentimental, did it? “Help Jenna.”

Chapter 41

Nick hoped the Gangsta was making an empty threat when he said he’d shoot the children first, but Tee-Bo’s body language and expression appeared truthful.

The people who hadn’t made it into the van gathered around Sister Patrice as if she had an invisible shield activated by the rosary beads in her hand. The van was filled with the youngest children and their mothers. Even Patrice’s seat was taken up by two little girls, faces pressed against the front window, crying, pointing to an elderly man in the crowd.

More Terrace residents had come to their doors, watching warily. Nick turned to the people, seeking out the two teenagers. “You all know what he wants and where it is. We don’t have much time.”

“Ain’t no snitches,” one of the teens said angrily. The elderly woman beside him elbowed him in the stomach. Hard.

“The Rippers will know it was us,” one of the men said. “We can’t risk that.”

“They won’t know who talked,” Nick argued. “I’m not even sure they’ll be back at all. After what they did tonight, the police, FBI, DEA, you name it, are going to be after them.”

“Hah.” A woman in her thirties spat at Nick’s feet. “Police. Not like they fuckin' cared before. Why bother now?”

He glanced at Patrice. She helped, saying, “The Rippers went too far. They attacked the police. Killed some. The police aren’t going to let that go unpunished.”

“So as usual, we’re the ones paying the price.”

“This is your only chance. We’re running out of time.”

The crowd shifted, grumbled, but no one made eye contact with Nick.

“All I need is the unit number. Won’t you give me that to save the lives of your children, your grandchildren?”

The elderly man belonging to the girls in the van spoke up. “1778. That’s the one you want.”

The others looked at him in surprise, the teenage boys with anger. Nick walked back to Tee-Bo. “I have the location. You let this van full of people drive off safely—a gesture of good will—and I’ll give it to you.”

“Nah, man. You give it to me now and we’ll see how much good will I have after.”

“You gave me your word of honor. As a gentleman. Wouldn’t want to let all these people know your word isn’t worth anything.” Nick held his ground, meeting the Gangsta’s gaze. "I expect a business man like yourself protects his reputation above all else."

Finally Tee-Bo relented. “Okay, okay.” He laughed as if this were all a joke, not innocent lives they were gambling with. “You pretty hard-assed for a white boy. You win. We play it your way.”

<><><> 

When the smoke and heat first hit Andre, it felt as if his windpipe had squeezed shut. Eyes watering, vision useless in the haze, he wheezed and gasped. He flailed from one side of the hall to the other, banging against the cage doors, trying to find Giselle. Where the hell had she gone?

No sign of Giselle. Instead, he tripped over two bodies near the front of the building. A woman and a girl. He tried to gulp in a breath but couldn’t. His vision danced with red spots as he grabbed the girl’s arm.

“Help Jenna,” she whispered.
 

Jenna? The sexy redhead? Had those been her screams he’d heard, not Giselle's?

Andre wasn’t sure he could get his own body to the door, which seemed an impossible distance away.
Move it, Sarge,
his men called to him.
Show them what makes a Dog Company Marine.

He dragged the girl and Jenna with him to the door. One foot forward, then the other, one more, and again… Lungs burning, head spinning, he heaved against the door. It didn’t open.

He wanted to quit. But then he heard his old drill sergeant.
Only time a Marine quits is when he’s dead.

Right. And he wasn’t dead yet. He dropped the girl’s arm to pull the door open instead of pushing against it then grabbed her again. He stumbled out into the night, dragging them with him.

The cool night air was like a woman’s caress. Soothing his irritated airways, he was able to relax and breathe in. Another breath and his vision cleared. His chest still felt tight, but it was as if his asthma had closed his throat in time to protect him from inhaling too much of the smoke. He heaved in a few more breaths then pushed himself to his feet. Smoke roiled through the open door, flames licked at the top of the doorjamb, reaching for the fake thatching. The girl was coughing but sitting up. She couldn’t speak, but motioned to him to help her with Jenna.