Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (12 page)

24

Just before stepping into the concourse, Jack tugged Shakespeare’s jacket. “How many shots do I have in here?” His heart thundered.

Shakespeare didn’t even have to look at the gun. “Nine.”

Jack bounced the heavy weapon in his hand, determined to do whatever he had to do to keep Pam and his family alive. He tried to picture the hostiles in his mind … to mentally prepare for them.

“What about me?” Derrick held up his weapon.

“Nine also,” Shakespeare said.

Jack nodded at Derrick, whose face was resolute. Then he gathered Pam and the girls in his arms. “Father, put your angels around us. Get us out of here safely, we ask. In your name.”

“Amen,” Shakespeare said.

Pam looked up at Jack, holding back tears. Besides all the uproar, he could tell she was uncomfortable, possibly in even more pain than she was letting on.

He touched her face. “It’s gonna be okay, baby.”

He turned to Rebecca and Faye, trying to sound upbeat. “Are you ready to
run
, girls? As fast as you can?”

“What about MawMaw?” Faye reached toward Margaret.

“I’ll beat you there.” Margaret pinched Faye’s little nose. “I bet you a dollar.”

“Okay …” Shakespeare held up one, two, three fingers. “Rolling!”

Jack grabbed Faye’s hand. Margaret got Rebecca’s.

Other people rushed in front of them.

Jack nodded for Margaret and Jeanie and her kids to go next.

They were off.

It was all rushing footsteps, no words.

Entering the cool concourse, Jack squinted in surprise at the police spotlights shining in from outside, lighting up portions of the smoky hall. No people were in sight! Shakespeare bent over and hauled toward the food court. Jack could almost feel the eyes and anticipation of the crowd of onlookers who must be gathered outside.

Copying Shakespeare, everyone in the group, including the children, hunched over as they raced for their freedom, trying to make themselves as small as possible, invisible if they could.

Shakespeare waved dramatically for them to move it, move it, move it! Jack had never seen such animation and hope in his eyes. It was as if he was surprised that his ragtag underdog crew was having such success, so little opposition.

They were making it!

Margaret slowed … stopped.

“Mom, what is it?” Pam said.

“I …” She reached toward the ground.

Others bumped her, zigzagged around.

Jack spotted her pink gun on the carpet. “I’ll get it, Mom. Keep going!” he ordered, realizing that was the first time he’d ever called her Mom.

He shook Faye’s hand loose and snatched the gun, but Margaret hadn’t gone. She stood with her hand out and mouth agape. He gave it to her, grabbed Faye’s hand, and ran, urging Margaret to
move.

“Andre! Over here, over here!” The
voice came from a man running toward them, far left. Slender male. Black ski mask. Green cargo pants. Headset. Machine gun.

This was it! The enemy.

The sight ripped Jack’s breath away.

“This way!” The insurgent glanced behind, waving. Within forty feet of Shakespeare, he yelled, “Hold it! Stop right now—”

Bam.

A flash and smoke from Shakespeare’s rifle.

The hostile left the ground, flew backward, and bounced to the floor, apparently dead on impact.

“Keep moving!” Shakespeare waved them on with his rifle. “Almost there.
Move
.”

At the same split second, Jack spotted two more of the terrorists dashing toward them, one on the far left and one on the far right. The one on the left was yelling as he came, and Shakespeare was raising his rifle toward him. The one on the right wasn’t yelling—he was aiming at their group.

“Go with Mommy.” Jack pushed Rebecca and Faye ahead, stopped, lifted the gun with two hands, and took aim at midbody.

Bam.

The sound and kickback startled him, but only for an instant.

He’d missed.

The man was about to fire on the group.

Jack aimed and fired again.
Bam, bam, bam.

The man dropped, and his machine gun blistered an arc of smoke and bullets across the high ceiling.

Shakespeare put the other guy down. Then his eyes met Jack’s, and they both nodded.

“Let’s go!” Shakespeare said.

Everyone had hit the floor and now scrambled to their feet and ran.

Jack didn’t think of what he’d just done. Instead, he pulled his family along, racing, trying to hurry them faster than they could go, looking back all the while.

Pop.

The sound of the single shot echoed in his chest.

Derrick fell, writhing.

“Keep going!” Shakespeare yelled.

Another shot rang out. No one went down.

Jack scanned 360 degrees but saw no one.

Shakespeare was on one knee, pointing his rifle upward toward a railing several stories above.

He fired three shots and turned to the group. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. “I’ve got you covered.
Move
!”

“Keep going, Pam. Kids, keep going!” Jack dropped to his knees over Derrick, whose face was contorted in pain. His bloody right hand was clutching his side. The gun he’d been carrying was on the floor next to him. Jack grabbed it and stuck it in the back of his pants.

More gunfire exploded around them.

“Come on, man. Let’s get you out of here.” Jack took Derrick’s other hand, stood, and hoisted him to his feet. Derrick grimaced. They were the last ones, except for Shakespeare. Everyone else had passed. “Come on!” Jack urged him on.

The hostiles were yelling back and forth.

Shakespeare remained planted like a statue of a war hero, exchanging fire with a growing number of insurgents above. “Move it, guys!” he yelled. “Get the others out. Go!”

As Jack and Derrick raced past him, Jack noticed Shakespeare’s arm was covered in blood. The group was almost out of range of the hostiles, but not quite. Jack stopped, took aim, and fired two shots at one of the masked men above, but missed.

More were coming on the ground.

“Shakespeare.” Jack pointed at one, two of them rounding the corner.

“Go, guys. I’ve got this!”

Derrick ran for it. Jack hesitated at first but then ran too. He got to the food court and spotted the group filing through a glass door leading to the patio.

“They’re out!” Derrick said as they sprinted for it.

The door must’ve been clear, because the group was already on the smoking porch, climbing over the fence like desperate fleeing prisoners of war.

But no … there was a hostile sprawled out on the ground! Ski mask. Machine gun lying five feet from his bloody, bullet-riddled body.

Margaret stood over him, out of breath, the pink gun locked in front of her as she watched the backs of everyone in the group filing over the metal railing and down into the parking garage.

Jack’s heart soared.

Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined this—his fearful mother-in-law standing there like G.I. Jane, sacrificing herself for the lives of others.

Jack kissed her and gently pushed her outside. “Go.”

Pam was still out there, holding her tummy with one hand and helping people over the railing with the other. Jack was surprised and annoyed that none of the men had helped her get over the fence. He rushed to her. “Go, Pam,
now
. Come on, girls!”

The gunfire continued in the concourse.

Jack prayed Shakespeare would make it out alive. What a rock he was.

He lifted Faye over the fence.

Daniel had gotten over and was shooting photos of the group from the parking garage as he backed away before finally turning and running. With blood soaking through his coat, Derrick helped others get their kids over the fence.

“Come with me, Faye!” Jeanie called from below, her son and daughter at her side.

Faye dashed to her as Jack lifted Rebecca over. She, too, hurried to Jeanie.

It sounded like a fireworks show in the concourse. No way Shakespeare could make it through that.

“Go, Jeanie!” Jack yelled. “Follow the exit signs. They’ll lead you outside.”

He turned to Pam. “You’re next. Hurry.”

“I don’t think I can make it over. I’m hurting, Jack. I’m hurting bad.”

He stuffed his gun in his pants, bent down, and swept her up, his arms behind her knees and shoulders.

“Stop! Stop right now!”

A deafening blast of machine-gun fire made Jack drop to the concrete. Pam screamed as he threw his body over hers. Debris and dust from ceiling tiles rained down on them.

Silence. Smoke. The smell of gunpowder.

Jack squinted at the parking level below them, beyond the railing. Thank God. Jeanie had taken all four of the kids, and they were out of sight.

Derrick was on his knees. So was Margaret, hands over her ears, her gun not in sight.

“Give us your weapons—now!” a voice screamed.

No one moved.

Another burst of gunfire.

Derrick took his gun from Jack, slid it toward the voices, and clutched his side.

Margaret’s face was etched with fear. Jack nodded for her to give them her gun, but she didn’t move. Jack got his gun out and set it on the floor.

“Come!” a different man ordered. “Come with us, now!”

Margaret must’ve holstered her gun beneath her coat.
Good.

“To your feet. All of you!”

“Please.” Jack faced the two masked men, who were breathing hard, eyes huge, machine guns leveled right at him. “My wife’s pregnant … Please, just let her—”

“Silence!” one screamed.

The other motioned with his weapon. “Come.
Now
.”

25

After spraying the insurgents with almost a full clip of rapid-fire rifle rounds, Shakespeare had rolled and sprinted for the concession stand, slid over the counter, and dropped behind it—hoping he’d not been seen.

Burning up and bleeding profusely from a shot he’d taken in the left bicep, he reloaded the rifle and quietly set it aside. Wiping sweat from his eyes with his shirt, he caught his breath and peeked over the counter as two insurgents ordered Jack, Pam, Margaret, and Derrick from the terrace back into the building. He assumed they would be led into the bowl with everyone else.

Police spotlights shone brightly into the concourse, where smoke wafted in the air from the gun battle and tear gas. He debated whether to try to pick off the two men but realized he had to think about more than just his small group of friends; he had to think about the two thousand people inside the bowl.

He closed his eyes and sighed. At least they’d gotten almost the whole group out—especially Jack’s girls. He would miss the two guns he’d given Jack and Derrick. He chuckled silently, almost certain Margaret still had the nine-millimeter pink Taurus she told him she’d ordered via the Internet. He just hoped they didn’t find it on her.

“Your attention. Your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” came a booming voice over the PA. “I am Shareek Zaher, head of the valiant band of brothers who have taken control of the Columbus Festival Arena.”

Shakespeare presumed Zaher was speaking into a microphone onstage, in view of the crowd inside the bowl. “Everyone … sit down,” Zaher said. “You may not leave the building. We have armed guards at every door. Take your seats right now … right where you are.”

Avoiding the growing puddle of blood on the floor, Shakespeare took one last peek around the side of the counter, wincing from the pain deep in his arm. The men with the machine guns swung open several doors leading into the blackened arena and pushed Jack and the others inside. Shakespeare noticed a spot of blood on the carpet the size of a basketball where he’d opened fire.

Okay, he had to be smart now. Every second counted. Every move was critical.

There were holes in front and back of his arm, but he couldn’t tell if the bullet had gone all the way through or if he’d been shot twice. He undid the holster on his thigh, snatched a towel from under the counter, put it on his wound, and yanked the holster strap with his teeth and hands as tightly as he could over the wounds. He’d had worse.

His mind flipped back to the Red Horse unit in Iraq. Scorching heat blanketed the sandy horizon in mirage-type fumes. He was in the third of four Humvees. A mangy black-and-brown dog crossed their path. The first vehicle stopped. There was a deafening explosion. Blood and smoke and shrapnel and body parts everywhere. He lost two of his best friends that day. And as far as he was concerned, Shareek Zaher was responsible.

Nothing was coming over the radio. He had to assume Clarissa, Tab, and the other EventPros had been overtaken. Either that or they’d realized the radios were being monitored and had gone dark. He wasn’t about to speak and let the hostiles know he was still out there, although the ones who’d been shooting at him knew he’d disappeared.

His phone vibrated. A text from Sheena.

R u ok? News says terrorists in control. No one can get in. Gunshots heard inside. Tell me latest. B careful.

He punched in a quick note, sweat dripping from his face onto the screen.

Im ok and armed. They hv 2000 in bowl. They hv guns at all doors so no way out.Jack, pam, marg here. Kids got out. Ill b ok. Pray.

The power on his phone was down to 17 percent.
Not good.

He dialed 911 and concisely told the operator his location and situation, then asked to be patched through to Hedgwick with Columbus PD. He crawled to the drink cabinet, grabbed two bottles of water, and went back to his spot.

“This is Officer Hedgwick. Go ahead.”

“This is Brian Shakespeare.” He spoke quietly, clearly. “I’m an usher at the arena, inside right now—”

“Shakespeare, we talked to the people you got out. Good work. We’ve got the perimeter covered,” Hedgwick said. “There’s no way out for the hostiles. Where are you?”

That’s exactly what scared Shakespeare—that there was no way out for them. That could only mean they intended to die.

“Food court.” He looked up at the sign. “Behind the counter of the Buckeye Grille.” He attached his Bluetooth to his ear, put his phone in his pocket, and told Hedgwick about Shareek Zaher and everything he knew about the situation.

“Someone said you have a rifle and you’re a sharpshooter,” Hedgwick said.

“That’s right.” Shakespeare unsnapped the metal scope from his utility belt and screwed it onto the rifle. “I’m going to try to work my way up to the Sky Zone. Find a spot up there where I can be helpful—”

“That might be good, but hold up—”

“Why? What’s your plan?”

“Your intel changes the plan. I’m gonna need to call you right back,” Hedgwick said.

“Text me first. By the way, the battery on my phone is low. So if you can’t reach me …”

“You have an EventPros-issued radio, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“Every ten minutes we’re touching base with Lieutenant Wolfski and Clarissa Dracone—”

“Wait, they’re still active?”

“Roger. They’re holed up with two more EventPros.”

“Where?” Shakespeare opened a bottle of water and guzzled.

“First-aid room, mezzanine level,” Hedgwick said. “One of them saw the hostiles check the room; then they moved in and set up shop there. It’s pitch-black. No one’s armed except Wolfski. Every ten minutes on the hour we’re switching to a different radio frequency, counting by threes. So at 8:10 we’ll be on channel fifteen. At 8:20, channel eighteen.”

“What’s the status on Wolfski’s team?”

“Most of them got blindsided at the main entrance.”

“I know, but where are they? If I could get to them—”

“They’re not in the building. Nine were kicked out a side door at gunpoint,” Hedgwick said.

Shakespeare deflated. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No. So that leaves Wolfski and two others—”

“Who got taken out up in the Sky Zone—I know. Did they just throw them out too?”

“No, they’re not out—”

“I was kidding.” Shakespeare dropped his head, marveling at the incompetence of the supposed professionals. “Look, that’s another reason I want to get up high, so I can figure out where everybody is. They’ve got two EventPros, too, you know, the ones the two SWAT guys went up to find. Maybe they’re all inside with Zaher. Have you guys figured out how many hostiles there are?”

“Homeland is saying seventeen to eighteen.”

“Seems like more.”

Hedgwick continued to talk, but Shakespeare knew what he needed to do.

He was going up top.

He had to get a look into the bowl.