Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (14 page)

28

Shakespeare led the men quickly around the club-level corridor to the stairwell nearest section 115. Quietly they shuffled down the stairwell single file. Close behind him was one of Sterling’s bodyguards, followed by Everett, then the bald bodyguard, then Sterling and the third of his men.

Many lives were depending on Shakespeare.

Not an unfamiliar feeling.

He and the bodyguards had their guns drawn. As they worked their way downward, Shakespeare mentally prepared to enter the concourse and respond instantly to any individuals they might encounter. The challenge was deciphering the good guys from the bad in a split second and not killing innocent people.

They got to the brown metal door leading to the concourse, and Shakespeare peered through the glass. Seeing no one, he turned to his group.

“I want the bodyguards to enter the concourse with me,” he whispered. “Everett and Senator, you wait here till we signal for you. Once we do, get into the bowl quickly through the double doors and make your way to the stage.”

He checked his watch. They had one minute.

Everett’s head dropped. Shakespeare knew he was scared, but he was brave to go without his family.

Sterling peered at Shakespeare with an unusually cold stare. Instead of fear, anger and hatred blazed in his eyes. He really did loathe the terrorists and what they were doing to America.

“After we get Everett and the senator inside, I’d like you guys to come with me.” Shakespeare nodded to the bodyguards. “We’ll make sure Hedgwick and his team have a clear entry point.”

He reached out to Everett and Sterling. “Remember, once you get to the stage, stall. Be agreeable. Tell them what they want to hear. The more you can make the clock tick, the better our chances.”

They nodded. Everett was breathing hard.

Shakespeare took a deep breath and set his shoulders back. “Let’s do it.”

He gently pushed the door open and dashed to a wide white column. The bodyguards were with him like glue. Eighty yards to the left was a heavyset masked guard standing at a bank of doors.

“You guys stay here,” Shakespeare told the bodyguards. “I’m going to that kiosk.” He pointed toward a coffee station twenty feet to the right. “If it’s clear, I’ll give you the sign, and you wave them into the bowl.”

Shakespeare made sure the hostile to his left wasn’t looking, took off, and slid behind the kiosk. At the glass doors outside section 115, it was as Hedgwick had said—a lone masked insurgent meandering back and forth, head down.

Shakespeare signaled, and the bodyguards waved for Everett and Sterling to go. The two men walked rapidly to the double doors and entered the arena.

Okay, we got them in on time.

But Shakespeare was worried about a violent response from Zaher when he realized Everett hadn’t brought Karen and Cole. All the more reason to hurry up and get SWAT into the building—

The glass case two feet from Shakespeare’s head exploded, followed by more shots blistering all around him. He rolled left through broken glass, scrambled, and took cover within the entrance to a restroom.

The shots had come from above.

The gunman on the far left sprinted toward them. One of the bodyguards popped out from behind the pillar, took a knee, and fired two shots.

The hostile dropped.

More rounds exploded all around Shakespeare, echoing loudly off the concrete and tile, bits of which rained down on him.

He crawled back into the restroom, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted to the other entrance thirty feet away. Peeking around the corner, he spotted four masked men—all pointing right at him. A blinding mass of gunfire tore the walls to shambles and sent him reeling back inside in a rush of heat and smoke.

He dashed back to the other entrance, knowing he couldn’t stay in there a second longer or they’d have him. More gunfire rang out in the concourse. He peered around the corner to see the bald bodyguard down cold, bleeding badly, possibly dead. His colleagues were leaning around the pillar, squared off in a gun battle with the hostiles, whose machine-gun fire had shredded parts of the drywall column the bodyguards hid behind.

His phone vibrated.

He had to get out or he’d be trapped.

He checked around the corner. There were five masked men now, all blasting away at the bodyguards. He had to abort the plan to get those doors open.

It was Hedgwick on the phone; he’d have to wait.

Zaher’s loud voice ranted over the PA, but Shakespeare couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Where to?

He couldn’t try to make it to the bowl, or they’d gun him down.

Up high.

Yes, he had to get back to the stairs.

He caught the attention of the bodyguard closest to him, who was sweating profusely and trembling under the hail of gunfire.

“Cover me!” Shakespeare yelled, pointing to the stairwell. “I’m going for the stairs.”

The bodyguards dropped back behind the pillar, and the shooting came to a temporary halt. With their backs to the column, the bodyguards looked at each other, spoke, and wiped their faces. One changed clips. The other reached out tentatively to retrieve the dead colleague’s weapon, but an onslaught of bullets sent him flinching back. He shook his head and said something to his partner.

They raised their guns at the same time, looked at Shakespeare, nodded, and then bent around the pillar, opening fire with all they had.

Shakespeare made a run for it.

29

“What time you got?” Derrick whispered. He was still pressing hard at the wound on his side.

Jack checked his watch. “It’s time. 8:24. You gonna make it?”

Derrick nodded. They both scanned the bowl high and low, as did the other frightened faces around them.

“Five minutes … five minutes is up!” Zaher appeared from the shadows onstage, machine gun held high.

Pam’s fingers dug into Jack’s arm.

“Wait!” a voice called from high atop the steps on a side aisle. “We’re here.”

It was Senator Sterling, one flap of his dress shirt untucked, tie crooked. He looked down as he took each step, his hands in the air. “Take it easy.”

He was followed by Everett Lester, who towered over Sterling with his hands in the air. Karen and Cole were not with him.

That took guts,
Jack thought.
Zaher will be furious.

“Aha.” Zaher’s voice projected loudly over the PA. “Hurry up. Make way for them … We haven’t got all day.”

Sterling and Everett got to the floor and zigzagged their way toward the stage.

“To the left,” Zaher pointed. “Up the steps. Hurry along.”

They disappeared in the darkness for what seemed like forever, then walked into the light onstage, squinting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Martin Sterling and recording artist Everett Lester!” Theatrically, Zaher swept a hand toward them as if introducing an act.

But the crowd did not applaud. Many of the hostages could be heard crying, speaking to one another in panicked voices.

“What’s wrong?” Zaher walked to the front of the stage. “This is your man, is it not? This is who you want to run the great West, is it not? Where is all your loud, repugnant talk now? Senator …” He turned and crossed to Sterling, who stood with his shoulders back, next to Everett. “What’s happened to your supporters? They seem to have lost a good deal of their enthusiasm.” He laughed.

Sterling, with his hands behind his back, said something and glared at Zaher.

Zaher ran over to him, comically, and held the mic to his mouth. “What did you say?”

“I said, they are not used to being coerced by bullies and terrorists.” Sterling swallowed hard and looked straight ahead.

Zaher’s head dropped, and so did his hand holding the mic. He bit his bottom lip, sneered, and flung the back of his hand across Sterling’s face. The sound of the slap was sharp and crisp.

Everett looked down.

Sterling grimaced, then said something more. Zaher held the mic to his mouth again and told him to repeat it.

“Why don’t you just let these people go?” Sterling nodded toward Clarissa and the others sitting on the stage. “Everyone else, too.” He lifted his head toward the people in the bowl. “You can keep me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To get rid of me before I get elected president and we put you and the rest of your psychotic friends out of business.”

Zaher stuffed both hands on his waist and paced. Head dropped back, lips pursed, he looked up to the ceiling, at the hostages, at Sterling, at the crowd. The anticipation was sickening, and Jack feared the maniac might go ballistic and start executing people one by one.

Zaher crossed to Everett and Sterling and squared up directly in front of them. One of his henchman, a stocky oaf with dark skin showing behind the mask at his eyes and mouth, nodded and took several steps closer. The other hostile did the same, as if something was about to flare up.

“I thought I asked you to bring your wife and son.” Zaher held the microphone with his elbow high in the air. “Did you not hear me, Mr. Lester?”

Everett’s head lifted slowly. His face was red. He spoke, but not into the mic. All Jack could hear were the words, “I heard you …”

“Oh!” Zaher took an exaggerated step backward and stuck the mic to Everett’s mouth. “Tell the people again …”

Everett hesitated. “I couldn’t bring them. I didn’t want them to be harmed.”

“Oh, so you protect your family but don’t care about any of these people.” Zaher swept a hand toward the hostages on the stage. “Or them?” He did the same toward the people in the seats.

“Jack.” Pam tugged at his arm, her face pale, her eyes sunken. She shook her head. “It’s getting really bad. I need to get to the hospital.”

Her mom leaned over Pam and reached out for Jack’s arm. “We’ve got to do something, Jack. I’ll ask if we can leave. I’m not afraid.”

“Wait. Just wait!” Jack needed to think …
think.

Zaher was still ranting. “That’s the problem with you Christians. You are all talk, but you have no backbone. You cave in at the slightest threats. You are the ones who serve a false god!”

Jack could give Derrick the gun, stand, and tell Zaher he needed to get his wife to the hospital—that she was about to have a baby.

How would Zaher respond?

He could shoot Jack on the spot … He could do nothing … He could actually let them go—

“Ohhhh.” Pam’s entire body stiffened, her fingers digging into the armrests. Her neck was arched back, eyes shut tight. “Oh, oh, oh.” Her head shot forward. “It’s gonna come. Oh dear God, I can’t believe this.”

“Hold on, honey.” Jack put a cool hand on her forehead. The heat of her skin alarmed him even more. Margaret’s eyes were the size of quarters, and she looked as if she was about to stand up. “Don’t do anything, Margaret. Let me handle this.”

“If he doesn’t want to let you go, Jack, I’ll take her,” Margaret said. “Tell him that.”

Zaher’s voice rose: “I need you to get your wife and your son down on this stage
right now
!”

Jack nudged Derrick, told him he had to make a move, and slipped the gun into his friend’s hands.

“Dude.” Derrick swallowed hard, looking faint. “Are you sure?”

“Look at her.”

Pam was frozen, breathing in repeated short blows, trying to overcome the pain.

“The contractions are almost constant,” Jack said.

“She’s got to be close,” Margaret whispered. “We’ve got to get her out of here.”

Derrick nodded.

Jack was about to stand—

“What did you say?” Zaher whipped the mic to Everett’s mouth.

Everett paused. “I won’t do it. I’m sorry.” He lowered his head.

“That’s it!” Zaher whirled around like a madman, stopped with his legs spread wide, and shot both hands in the air toward the Sky Zone. “Lower them!”

Everyone looked up to the black rafters high above—and gasped.

Jack spotted a neon-orange jacket on the catwalk to the left, and another to the far right. Men in masks knelt over each orange jacket, leaning, stretching, gently letting down as if they were lowering enormous fish back into water—

It was Charlie Clearwater! Dangling upside down, dropping toward the seats, held only by a rope that the men were feeding toward the ground. He was as still as a corpse, and his arms were crossed in front of him.

At the same time, across the arena, Steve Basheer dropped upside down toward the crowd. He, too, appeared alive but frozen, with his arms braced across his chest.

“Ho!” Zaher yelled.

Charlie’s body jolted to a stop and swayed twelve feet above the crowd, which gasped in horror. Poor Charlie. His face was scarlet red from the blood rushing to it.

“Keep going on number two,” Zaher ordered as Steve’s body jerked and began zipping quickly toward the seats below.

“Halt!” Zaher shouted.

Steve’s body bounced, then twisted in circles some twelve feet above another portion of the occupied seats.

“There’s a bomb!” A man in the section of seats below pointed at Steve.

Pandemonium broke out in the bowl.

“Silence!” Zaher screamed.

Wrapped generously around Steve’s stomach were layers of shiny black duct tape.

At his stomach, beneath the tape, was a pouch of what looked like sticks of dynamite taped together.

Sticking out from it were green, blue, and white wires.

And on top of all that was a small white box.

With red illuminated numbers.

Counting downward.

30

Shakespeare was winded by the time he made it up to the Sky Zone, and his injured arm was burning. Once through the door with the M14 drawn, he treaded slowly along the walkway that served as the very narrow upper rim overlooking the bowl of the arena.

“This is what happens, America, when you attempt to suppress us.” Zaher’s voice was muffled and distant. “When you embrace leaders who promote our extinction rather than brotherhood.”

Shakespeare took a knee at what would be the end zone if it were a football field. He was about six stories up. This level was strictly for maintenance, and everything was black, from the walls and ceiling to the floors and railings. Black curtains blew like waves in the breeze.

He got his phone out to call Hedgwick, then stopped cold as he peered at the scene below. Those were orange jackets … coworkers … Charlie and Steve! Swinging by their ankles just above the occupied seats.

“Let this be a message to your fellow countrymen today.” Zaher paced. “Do not try to stop our movement. We will take over the West. We will build our places of worship wherever we want, and we will move into your neighborhoods. We will enroll in your schools and practice Sharia and worship the only true god, Allah. And if you attempt to stop us …” He pointed to Steve, then Charlie. “This is what you will get. Fear. Terror. And ultimately, death.”

The people below Steve and Charlie were cringing, arms and elbows covering their heads.

Shakespeare’s stomach turned.

Almost frantically he hoisted the M14, peered through the scope, and found Charlie—and the apparatus. He scanned to Steve …

He jerked the gun down.

Dropped his head.

Calm … stay calm.

His phone vibrated. Hedgwick.

“Sorry,” Shakespeare answered. “We took fire at 115. Had to abort. I’m in the Sky Zone. South end—”

“Everywhere we go, they stack men at the doors. They must have eyes outside,” Hedgwick said. “Did Sterling and Lester make it into the bowl on time?”

“Yeah, but hold up. Bad news.”

“What?”

“They have two EventPros hanging upside down above the crowd, strapped with what look like explosives. They’re hooked to one of four catwalks that crisscross up here in the Sky Zone.”

Long pause.

“All right … I need specifics.”

At that moment, something clamped Shakespeare’s mouth. A hand!

He ripped the hostile’s arm, flipped him, and slammed his neck to the floor, choking, choking, choking. The man’s eyes grew enormous behind his black mask.

And he was out.

Shakespeare grabbed the man’s machine gun and strapped it around his neck. Then he got the man’s radio and headset and put it on with trembling hands. He found his phone.

“Hedgwick, you still there?”

“What the heck’s going on?”

“Just got one of their radios.” Shakespeare wiped the sweat from his eyes with his shirt. “Let me check it out, and I’ll get back to you.”

“What’s your battery level?”

He checked it. “Eight percent.”

“Tell me exactly where you see each hostile right now, and where the explosives are. I’m afraid I’m gonna lose you.”

Shakespeare did so, then Hedgwick told him to find out anything he could about the bombs, whether they were set to go off at a certain time, or if Zaher had some kind of remote-control device.

“Listen, just in case I lose you. We’re gonna storm the place. When you see us coming, I want you to try to take out Zaher. After that, I want you to get out on that catwalk as fast as you can and lower the two guys with the explosives—gently. Copy that?”

“Copy.”

Just as he hung up, his phone vibrated with an incoming text from Sheena.

I’m worried. All over news. U ok? Love u.

The battery dropped to 7 percent. He wrote back:

I’m fine. Battery almost dead so last txt. Love u. Give kids hugs. C u soon.

Then he paused, and added two more lines.

We’ll work things out. I promise.

And he meant it. There was junk in the world, downright evil and wrong and filth, but what he had in Sheena and the kids—that was true meaning and life. She’d been right. He’d gone way overboard. He needed to learn to live again, to simply deal with things as they came—as he was right now.

He hoped God would give him a second chance.

His closest shot at Zaher would be directly from the side of the arena. He peered through his scope and panned over that way. Two of five huge canister lights were on. Getting behind one of those bright boys would be perfect. For the bad guys, it would be like looking directly into a searchlight.