Multiplayer (40 page)

Hector turned to Deion. “You’re in the best shape from all that soccer. Do you think you could run to the far side of that thing?” he pointed to the jumble of gantries, catwalks, and massive containers that made up the ten-story concrete mixer. “Make some noise? Draw them off and keep drawing them off?”

He nodded in the darkness. “Yeah, I can do that, Hector. I can do that.”

Hector gazed skyward toward the ruby beacon, flexing his hands with his stomach doing little flips. “We could hide until morning and hope they don’t find us.”

Flashlight beams stabbed out of the darkness and they heard something fall over on the far side of the small building behind which they were cowering. A string of foreign swearing defiled the clean night air.

“Shut up, you idiot!” hissed a voice that had to be Mal-X.

“Bad plan,” said Deion.

Sanjar stuck his hand into his pocket and fished out his phone. He pressed it into Hector’s trembling hand. “Good luck. May Allah be with you.”

Deion headed out first, crouched over, shuffling quickly across the dark, open ground between their hiding place and the concrete mixer only a few dozen yards away. Seconds later, they heard a pipe clatter on concrete and Deion swearing, exactly as planned. And exactly as expected, three figures ran toward the noise. Hector had to remind himself to breathe. More noises followed from deeper within the girders.

“Go!” Hector blurted and Sanjar took off toward the motor pool. Hector followed a short distance then broke off at the edge of the plant where a ladder hung some seven feet above the ground. He jumped and missed. On his second leap, his fingers curled around the cool, damp metal and he pulled himself up. The ladder seemed to disappear into darkness, though high above, the red light glinted in the night. He swallowed hard and started to climb.

If Hector could get a signal, he’d report their location. Sanjar would get a concrete truck ready to start. He’d mumbled something about glow plugs needing to warm up on a diesel. Meanwhile Deion would draw the terrorists after him, toward the low mountain behind the plant, then double back to the motor pool where he would meet Hector. Sanjar would start the concrete truck and bust through the gate – hopefully as the cops arrived to arrest Mal-X and his comrades. The whole plan shouldn’t take more than about five minutes. The only real difficulty was the cell signal. If they didn’t get a signal, the whole exercise was moot. Mal-X would get away. Hector and his friends might get away in the concrete truck but who would believe them?

The ladder Hector was climbing terminated at a steel-floored platform some twenty feet above the ground. Hector emerged, dizzily clutching the rail, a stiff breeze now sweeping across him. He listened intently for sounds from below, but heard nothing. With any luck Deion had already lured them into the darkness toward the blasted plug of rock. Leaning over the rail, Hector scanned the darkened ground between the concrete mixing facility and the motor pool, looking for Sanjar but did not see him. Given the time Hector had been on the ladder, Sanjar should already be in the parking lot, if he hadn’t been captured.

A sudden fear welled up inside Hector. This was no game. These were the people who’d murdered Chaz. People with whom he should have never come into contact. The kind of people who had killed his father. People from a far away, thousand year-old war, now being played out in the streets of his hometown. His friends were counting on him. He was counting on them.

Hector took out Sanjar’s cell phone. Still no signal. He’d have to go higher, but would it be high enough?

He found the next ladder, this one bolted to the side of the cement silo, looming a hundred feet above him, at least. Pushing down the butterflies in his stomach, he began the second, much longer climb.

With each rung, Hector’s dread multiplied. The ladder was cold and the rungs damp and slippery from the rain and space widely. The higher he ascended, the stronger the wind blew. Glancing down at the slowly shrinking world only made his palms sweat until he clutched the ladder so tightly his knuckles turned white. Real life was nothing like a video game, but somehow the video game had sprung to life and he was trapped inside.

Every dozen rungs or so Hector stopped and wrapped his arms and legs around the ladder to stop himself from shaking. When he felt secure, he carefully brought out Sanjar’s phone and checked for a signal, taking care not to drop it. And each time it came up with no bars. Then he’d scan below him for any signs of his friends or of Mal-X but saw only motionless darkness.

But as Hector climbed the last dozen rungs, a smile slowly grew on his lips and he climbed more quickly, forgetting about the growing chasm beneath his feet. From behind the top of the naked stone hill emerged a flashing, white beacon. A cell tower, hidden behind the shrinking mountain!

He hurtled over the top and stood erect, clutching the heavy rail that encircled the top. The wind hissed through his hair as he surveyed the site from above. He could see everything from here: the lights of town twinkling in the distance, neighborhoods sprinkled among the dark vales, and nearer at hand, pools of light down below. Closest was the truck parking area beyond the far end of the mixing plant. Had Sanjar made any progress? Beyond that was a small building just inside the fence at the entrance to the plant from the road. A little farther away was another parking area stuffed with excavators, loaders, and other heavy equipment. Everywhere lay squat cones of dirt and rock with snake-like roads threading between them. And somewhere down there, Deion was leading their foes on a merry chase. He watched in silence as a car drove past on the main road, its headlights extended before it like twin lances. That could have been Mr. Zahedi and Pappous.

Hector scanned carefully, looking for any sign of movement when his breath caught with a hitch. Down at the parking area, two figures moved stealthily through the trucks lined up side by side. Was it Deion and Sanjar, or two terrorists looking for them?

His heart froze and he pulled out the cell phone. As he expected, the signal strength was now at maximum. He kept one eye on the parking lot and another on the phone as he navigated Sanjar’s menus, hoping that Mr. Zahedi had already caught the GPS signal. But Hector thought that probably wouldn’t really work anyway. It was just something parents told their kids. The sound of a phone ringing came through the tiny speaker and he crouched down to shield it from the wind.

Down below, the tiny, dark figures stopped at one of the trucks. Hector watched in horror as they struck the cab with something heavy. By the time the metallic
clunk
reached his ears, they had jerked the door open and dragged someone out. Then another tumbled to the ground.

“Hello! Sanjar?” came a frantic voice over the phone.

Hector had to force himself to speak, watching the two terrorists stand over Deion and Sanjar who were now lying on the ground. “Mr. Zahedi?”

“Sanjar? Who is this?”

“It’s Hector,” he stammered, barely able to form words, his lips strangely numb and tongue suddenly like putty. “Uh, West. Sanjar and Deion,” he stumbled, and followed it with an unintelligible string of nothing.

“Slow down, Hector,” came a suddenly calm voice. “Where are you and what is happening?”

“At a concrete plant,” he said more slowly, concentrating on each word. “On that road to your mosque.”

“I know the place,” came Mr. Zahedi. “We’re not far.”

Hector watched in paralyzed horror as one of the terrorists raised a… club or stick or something over his head. It hovered for an instant and then flashed down on one of the prone figures. An instant later, the ghost of a scream found his ears. “Oh my God, no…” he whispered.

“Hector! Hector!” cried Mr. Zahedi into the phone. “What’s happening?”

Hector swiped tears from his eyes. “I… Don’t… They’re…” On the other end of the line Mr. Zahedi yelled aloud. A cry of infinite anguish and frustration. The very evil from which he’d fled had followed him here, Hector suddenly realized, and was now being visited upon his very son. His own flesh and blood. The thought steeled Hector. He could either stand here in safety and watch his friends be beaten to death, or go try to stop it. At the very least, he would be killed with them. Not a bad way to die all in all. And to think, just a few hours ago he’d been fighting Sanjar in the ditch near their school. How quickly things could change when you realized what was important. And what wasn’t. Now he understood; dying wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to you. It wasn’t even close.

“Mr. Zahedi, I got to go,” said Hector. His voice still shook but for an altogether different reason. “I’m going to leave Sanjar’s phone here, turned on, so I won’t be able to talk to you. Just home in on the signal.” He lay down the phone, and when he mounted the ladder he could hear Mr. Zahedi calling his name through the tiny speaker.

It had taken forever to climb the ladder. A torturous, frightened eternity. But now his friends needed him and he moved like Chaz doing backflips. In less than a minute, his feet rang on the steel platform. Seconds later, he let go of the bottom ladder ten feet off the ground. He hit the dirt and rolled smoothly to his feet. He found a three-foot section of two-by-four, and hefted the wooden club in his hand. “Whatever it takes,” Hector whispered to himself.

Hector, used the deep shadow beneath the concrete plant to work his way unseen toward where his friends were being held captive. The darkness, so frightening before, had become his friend. As he leapt over and swung silently past girders and heavy equipment, memories peppered Hector’s mind. Flashes of
Omega Wars
with Izaak doing what Hector was doing now. Thoughts of being up at the school with Chaz and Sabrah. Playing
Omega Wars
with his father. He had become Izaak. Or Izaak had become him. Maybe the difference wasn’t even that important anymore. The only thing that mattered now was getting to his friends before it was too late.

As Hector drew closer to the parking lot, the screams of his friends grew louder and the growling interrogation reached him as well. “Where is the other one?” “Which one are you?” “Don’t you care that you are about to die?” Whoever was asking the questions wasn’t Mal-X, and Hector didn’t hear any answers. And each cry that followed was like a hook tearing out part of his soul, but he forced himself to go forward until he stood at the rear of one of the trucks, panting and steeling himself for the final challenge. The smell of diesel fuel and gear oil filled his nose and gravel crunched under his tennis shoes.

Hector hefted the two-by-four. The end was a bit too fat for a good grip. But it was heavy and swung well. A two handed-grip worked best, his hands placed a few inches apart. He held his breath and listened intently for any sound other than the relentless questions, the thud, and the cries that followed. Nothing. No one was coming, and he couldn’t wait any longer.

Creeping from one truck to the next, Hector drew closer until he was on the other side of the very truck from which they’d been pulled. But the cries had grown quieter. He had to act now. A quick glance under the truck showed his friends lying motionless on the ground and two terrorists standing over them. Which meant one was still out there. Probably looking for him.

“Who knows of operation Scimitar? Answer me, infidel!”

“I’m not an infidel,” groaned a voice. “And you’re not a Muslim.”

That one was Sanjar, Hector realized.

“I follow the seven pillars,” the terrorist growled in the darkness.

“Does that include torturing kids, jerk-off?” came another voice.

And that one was Deion.

“Why don’t you ask Allah!” The terrorist raised the stick over his head and Hector leapt forward. As the stick came down, Hector blocked it with his club, sending it spinning into the darkness. Both terrorists froze in surprise and Hector used the moment to his advantage. He swung hard and hit the interrogator in the head. There was a crunching thud and a cry of pain. Hector turned instantly toward the other and cocked the club for another strike when there was a tremendous bang. At the same time, something rammed into his shoulder like a sledgehammer. The force spun him around and he spiraled down to the ground, suddenly breathless and staring into a dark sky with cement trucks crowded around. Pain seared into him, as he realized he’d been shot.

“What’d you do that for?” moaned Sanjar, and Hector realized he was lying on top of his friend.

“I don’t know,” Hector gasped, wracked with pain and a sudden, overpowering nausea, “but it hurt really bad.” He tried to roll off of Sanjar but couldn’t move. The momentary pain was gone, and his entire left side was numb.

“Hector, you idiot!” groaned Deion from a few feet away. “You could have got away.”

“I made the call,” Hector hissed. “They’re on the way.”

“Somebody wants to be a hero!” laughed Mal-X, trotting into the circle of light. “Let me guess, Izaak Ersatz.” He leaned over Hector.

“Mal-X!” Hector grunted, eyeing the pistol in Mal-X’s hand. “You can go to hell!” Even in the darkness, he could see the heavy beard, the pale skin, and the ice blue eyes peering like cold gems from the man’s face. It was the American-looking gravedigger.

“I’m honored you remember me, but I am sorry to disappoint. It is you and your friends who will be visiting Hell. In just a few minutes, in fact.”

“Why are you doing this?” Hector asked. “You’re an American.”

“America!” Mal-X spat. “Do you have any idea what that word means outside the borders of this prison? Oppressor of the world. The whore who rapes the planet. The Great Satan.”

Hector was about to fire back a litany of virtues when he realized just a few short hours ago he had been acting exactly like Mal-X. His lip was still swollen. “Just let it go, Mal-X” Hector muttered. “Whatever it is that has made you so angry, just let it go, man. Killing us, killing the President, it won’t make the hate go away.”

“Hatred!” he screamed. “America must be punished for her sins. It isn’t hatred. It’s justice.”

“Be done with it,” said one of the other men. “Before the police arrive.”