A Triple Thriller Fest (20 page)

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It seemed as if he had just laid his head on his makeshift pillow when a sound startled Dan awake. The light was barely sufficient to see, but the rustling in the bushes and the stomping on the ground grew louder, bringing Dan to full consciousness. He sat up in his sleeping bag and looked around just as three men in various components of military field uniform emerged from the forest and entered the clearing. Dan quickly rose, shedding his sleeping bag. He glanced quickly at Jack’s bag, but his grandfather was not there.

“Morning,” Dan said as he sat on a log, rapidly pulling on and lacing up his boots. “Early maneuvers?”

“Who are you?” one of the men asked. All three were young, and Dan didn’t recognize any of them.

“Dan Rawlings,” he replied.

“I said ‘
who
are you?’ not ‘what’s your name.’ And what’re you doing here?”

“Camping,” Dan said.

The man who had been asking the questions grinned at his companions and laughed. “Don’t know much, does he?” Then he turned back to face Dan. “We’re on military exercises up on this here mountain, so’s you better just pack your gear and get off our territory before you get hurt.”

“I see,” Dan said, stalling and wishing he’d carried a weapon with him. “Is this a restricted area?”

“It is now,” the kid said. “So git.”

To Dan’s left, Jack suddenly emerged from the tree line and then held his ground about ten yards from the group. The trio of younger men quickly looked back and forth from Dan to Jack.

A quick burst of profanity was followed by, “Who are you, old man?”

“Jack.”

“Oh, another talker, eh? Well, join your buddy here and get your camp gear off our mountain.”

“Think we’ll fish a few days first,” Jack replied. “I kinda like it here.”

The spokesman for the trio stepped forward and pointed at Jack. “If I was you, I’d pack my gear and get out of here, old man. There’s no place to hide,” he said, reaching to his web belt and drawing a large knife from its sheath, “and this here K-Bar’ll pick your bones clean. You got the picture, Gramps?”

“Oh, I got the picture, sonny,” Jack said, stepping toward the campsite and nodding, a friendly smile on his face.

Dan slowly moved toward his grandfather, trying to place himself between Jack and the trio of what he could now see were unarmed men. The only weapons visible were the knives they each carried on his belt. One wore a military-style, web belt pistol holster, absent a weapon.

Angered by Jack’s refusal to comply, the spokesman moved menacingly toward Jack. “We ain’t foolin’ with ya, you dumb old man. I’m telling ya to git out, unless you want an new opening in your throat,” he said, waving the blade back and forth.

“Sonny,” Jack said calmly, slowly reaching beneath his down-filled vest and producing a silver-colored Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, “this here toy pistol will put a hole in your chest big enough for my fist to enter, and then,” he paused, spitting on the ground, “it will come out your back from a hole bigger than your mouth. And that’s a
big
hole.”

The kid stood dead in his tracks, staring at the pistol and then looking up at the broad smile on Jack’s face. For several moments, there was silence as all five men gauged the situation.

“I’ve a mind to take that pistol and shove it down your throat, Grandpa,” the kid said, his bluster returning in front of his companions.

“Well, sonny,” Jack said, spitting once again, “give it a try. I’m eighty-two years old and quite ready to die. Now you look to me to be about twenty-two or so, even if you are acting fourteen—you ready to die, too?”

Suddenly a voice rang out. “Johnson! Put away that knife,” it bellowed through the trees.

Dan turned quickly to spot two men in military dress coming through the clearing toward the group.

Dan recognized one of them instantly as a lieutenant from his National Guard unit—the one who had informed Dan of the brigade’s exercise and who had extended an invitation to Dan to join the militia unit.

“Captain Rawlings, I apologize for these men and their actions. We’ve got a group of new recruits up here, and discipline,” he said, glancing angrily at the young kid who had threatened Jack and Dan, “is sorely lacking. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you or your grandfather.”

“We’re fine, Lieutenant Hodgekiss. Thanks for your help,” Dan replied.

The lieutenant turned to Jack. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Rumsey,” he said. Hodgekiss looked toward his recruit and pointed his arm at Jack. “This man and his family settled this valley, you stupid boy. It’s people like him we’re bound to defend, not attack. When the time comes, he’ll be the staunchest Californian among us. Now get back to the HQ tent and put yourself on report for inappropriate behavior.”

“Yes, sir,” the younger man mumbled, and all three quickly vanished into the woods.

“Again, Captain Rawlings, Mr. Rumsey, my sincere apologies. You can see, sir, why the brigade could use a few more good officers like yourself to train these boys right. A good day to you both. I’ll place the lake off-limits for the weekend, and you should have no further trouble.”

When Hodgekiss and his companion were gone, Jack replaced the pistol in his belt beneath his vest.

“Jack, where the heck did you go? I thought they’d taken you while I was sleeping.”

“A man’s gotta answer the call of nature, son.” He smiled.

“With a .357 magnum?”

“Never can tell what varmints you might encounter up in these mountains.”

“True enough,” Dan said, shaking his head and laughing at his grandfather, his adrenaline beginning to subside. “Better stir the fire if we’re going to have any breakfast.”

“You do that. As for me, I hear another Rainbow calling my name.”

Chapter 15

Wells Fargo Bank, Natomas Branch
Sacramento, California
September, 2011

The Natomas Branch of the Wells Fargo Bank, located in the northwestern part of Sacramento, was more likely than most banks to be robbed. In addition to being close to the intersection of two major Interstate highways, it was situated on its own pad, in front of a busy strip mall. Nearby stood a large Safeway grocery store, a drop-in health clinic, and about a dozen smaller establishments. The parking lot was full, and the sidewalks were bustling with shoppers when two white vans slowly drove through the area.

Three weeks earlier, when Otto Krueger had canvassed the place, he quickly saw that it met the criteria Commander Shaw had described, especially the multiple exit routes in the event of trouble. Today the decision seemed even more correct. Hundreds of people would scurry like rabbits at the first shots, and their escape would be all the easier in the melee.

Krueger nodded across the lane to the second van, and the driver exited the parking lot, turning onto El Camino and heading toward the main intersection. As the light turned yellow for the opposite traffic, the usual group of vehicles raced to make their crossing before the light turned red. He gunned his engine, aiming for the back of a station wagon that was trying to be the last car to beat the changing light. The crash brought cross traffic to a standstill, and horns began honking, with other vehicles and pedestrians stopping to observe the commotion.

Immediately following the crash, the driver of the van tripped a fifteen-second timer, jumped out of the damaged vehicle, and ran to the side of the road, melding with the foot traffic that was heading toward the mall. The van suddenly erupted in a fireball, also setting fire to the damaged station wagon, whose two occupants quickly exited their vehicle. The instant confusion in the intersection was followed by the sound of sirens, and within moments, two police cars had blocked off the intersection with their emergency lights flashing.

Krueger smiled at the success of the diversionary tactic and directed his driver to pull up and stop directly in front of the bank. He and two other men in the back of the van pulled balaclavas over their faces, exited the side door of the vehicle, and quickly pushed their way through the front door of the bank. The lobby was crowded with people waiting to use the automatic teller, plus four lines of customers standing in front of teller windows running the length of the main counter.

As soon as he entered the building, Otto pulled a shotgun from beneath his overcoat and fired a blast into the ceiling of the bank, then two more shots in quick succession aimed at the security cameras strategically placed in the corners of the interior walls.

“Everyone, down on your face.
Now!”
he bellowed.

Women began to scream, but paralyzed by the suddenness of the violence, people didn’t immediately respond. Otto repeated his demand, his voice even louder, and many people began to drop to the floor, husbands covering wives as best they could and mothers embracing their children. The two men with Krueger took up positions at either end of the main counter, their weapons drawn and aimed at the customers.

Krueger quickly approached the leftmost teller window. “We’ll have it all, young lady,” he said to the terrified woman, his voice calm. He dropped the barrel of his shotgun on the counter top, the metal clattering against the marble facing. Krueger shoved the weapon through the window opening until the front of the barrel was pressed against the young teller’s stomach. “Just keep calm, and you’ll live to enjoy a long and healthy life.”

The frightened woman took the canvas bag Krueger handed her and began clumsily filling it with the contents of her cash drawer. When her drawer was empty, Krueger motioned with the shotgun toward the next window in line and stepped along the outside of the counter in that direction. From behind the counter, the young woman paralleled his movement, her eyes wide with fear. They repeated the process through two more windows, emptying each cash drawer. At the last window, Krueger again smiled at her.

“You’ve done well … Sara,” he said, reading her nametag. “Now, back away from the counter and keep your hands in sight, and you won’t get hurt.” He turned toward his accomplice stationed at the far end of the lobby and jerked his head toward the door. “Time to leave,” Krueger said to his closest associate, and the two men began to step over the prostrate customers scattered on the floor. The third man, at the far end of the counter, made his way toward the door, also.

“FBI! Drop your weapons and hit the floor!” a voice shouted from within the teller cages.

Krueger spun around to face the main counter, his shotgun swiveling in the same direction, as he sought to identify the source of the voice.

“I said drop it!” the female voice repeated in a commanding, Quantico tone.

Krueger spotted a dark-haired young woman standing behind one of the tellers’ windows, her pistol extended toward him in a double-handed stance.

A husky male voice from the far end of the bank lobby joined the chorus. “This is the FBI. The police have the bank surrounded, and there’s no escape. Now drop your weapons, get on your knees, and raise your hands.”

His gaze still riveted on the female teller, Krueger stole a quick glance at the new voice and observed a man dressed in a business suit, kneeling on the floor with a pistol drawn and leveled directly at him. For several moments, the stalemate continued, then one of Krueger’s companions turned and fired a shotgun blast at the kneeling man. Several of the customers screamed hysterically, and one woman jumped to her feet, bolting for the front door. She caught the brunt of a second blast full in the chest and sprawled backward, landing on another woman and her child who were cowering on the floor.

Reacting instantly, the female teller redirected her aim and fired two quick shots at the man who had discharged his weapon. Krueger took that opportunity to level a hurried blast toward the teller window, but his aim was low, and the pellets imbedded themselves in the front of the counter. He reached down and grabbed a female customer who was lying at his feet. Jerking her roughly upright, he locked his arm around her throat and began backing toward the entrance, still clutching the moneybag and his weapon. As he reached the door, he could see his associate lying on his back. Blood had saturated his hood and was pooling under his head, and his unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling out of the eye holes of his mask.

Krueger motioned to his second companion, who quickly joined him, and together they exited the front door. They ran around the side of the bank and dragged the hostage with them into the van, which then began to weave its way between the parked cars. Krueger stuck the shotgun out the open van door and fired into the fuel tank of a parked car, which immediately erupted in a ball of flame. Pedestrians in the parking lot began screaming and running away from the flames, hysteria spreading quickly throughout the mob of shoppers.

Four police cars, two of which had been parked near the bank on standby alert for the anticipated robbery, were now gathered at the site of the traffic accident, where the officers were busy keeping traffic away from the burning vehicles. At the sound of gunfire, seeing they had no ability to move their patrol cars through the intersection, the four officers drew their weapons and began running toward the bank.

The escaping van bounced off several cars in the driver’s frantic attempt to clear traffic and make his way to El Camino Real and the freeway entrance. Before the officers could reach the scene, the careening vehicle had negotiated the congestion and disappeared onto the freeway, the hostage still inside.

As soon as the gunmen cleared the front door, FBI Agent Nicole Bentley, who had been posing as a teller for two days, ran the length of the main counter toward where she had last seen her partner, Al Samuels. Using her arm as a fulcrum, she leaped over the locked, waist-high swinging door beside the main counter and ran toward the front door.

“Al, c’mon, if they get into the crowd, we’ll never catch them,” she shouted, glancing to where her partner had last been. Then she saw him on the floor, slumped awkwardly against the base of the customer counter, bleeding profusely from a wound in the side of his neck. She halted her pursuit and ran to him, sidestepping several customers who were trying to regain their feet now that the shooters had departed. She knelt down next to her partner.