Against the Clock (20 page)

"Weapons hot!" Agent Kelly said, instructing them to have their weapons loaded and primed to go, safeties off. "Radio silence," he said, turning off his handset. The team followed his lead.

Ben challenged the handcuff secured around his wrist and fixed firmly to the front doorknob. He couldn't dislodge it or free himself. When he saw the agents readying their weapons, he felt a fear so complete it shook him to the edge of madness. Not for himself, but for the woman he loved. They were going to shoot her. They were going to kill her. The images of her hurt, bleeding, dead flashed into his mind, and he fought harder against the handcuff binding him.

"Katie!" he screamed. His voice panted in desperation, in rage. "Don't come in here! It's a trap! They have guns!" He maneuvered his face to the edge of the door and continued screaming as loud as he could, hoping his voice and his message would get through.

Agent Kelly nodded at the agent closest to Ben. The agent delivered a short jab with the end of his assault rifle to the side of Ben's face. Ben slumped, dazed and quiet, held off the floor by his secured arm.

"If he gives you any trouble, shoot him. Just don't kill him yet; we might need him for leverage." The men nodded their understanding. Returning to the computer technician, Agent Kelly spoke softly, "Report back to HQ, two men down, anticipate imminent conflict, backup requested urgently."

"Already done, sir," the young agent replied. "HQ confirm, two EMR teams are enroute and should arrive within fourteen minutes."

Now all we have to do is hold out and live that long
, Agent Kelly thought.

18:01:37

Shirin stood slowly, like an angel of death rising from the shadows. Agent Reece's firearm was in her left hand, Agent Berkley's in her right, her silenced Berretta tucked into her belt at the small of her back.

She was on Ben's balcony, four stories from ground level. The climb from the balcony below had been challenging but within her ability.

Ben was alive. It was a thought accompanied by feelings she didn't recognize. She didn't cry but felt she wanted to. She didn't remember smiling but knew she must have been. Happiness and relief were in there somewhere, but as quickly as they had come, they were gone. Replaced with a cold, determined mindset to kill them all for coming after him, for trying to hurt her through him.

The blinds had been pulled shut, and the glass sliding door between the balcony and the living room was locked. Light filtered through the drawn curtains; Shirin could see the locking mechanism clearly; a simple lever-action latch.

Standing on the outside of the closed curtains and the glass door, she was invisible to the men inside Ben's apartment. Her view of the room through the curtains was limited, but she could make out the dull shapes and movements of the men. There were five of them. Two by the front door, one by the dining table hunched over a laptop computer, one pacing―the leader, she guessed―and one standing two feet from the door where she prepared to enter. She couldn't see Ben. And for the moment, that was for the best; if she couldn't see him, he wouldn't see her kill these men, and he wouldn't get in the line of fire.

Shirin slid both guns into her back pockets. She needed both hands to delicately open the door without alerting the men on the other side. She knelt down under the locking chamber, inserting a thin, rectangular piece of polycarbonate into the space between the aluminum doorjamb and the frame of sliding door panel. She maneuvered it carefully, silently, until it bent around the curvature where the doorframe fit inside the jamb. The card was strong and flexible. She was able to manipulate it all the way through until it formed a horseshoe shape.

She pushed the card up slowly and felt it connect with the internal latch. If she pushed too hard, the latch would disengage, flick up, and the telltale
click
would alert the killers. She wanted to lift the latch just high enough to disengage the lock, silently slide the door open past the point of where the latch would hook onto, and then release the latch.

It took her a full forty-five seconds to unlock the sliding door. She stood, gripped her silenced Beretta, and quietly opened the door just enough to slip inside.

With the door open, the fresh night air wafted into the dining room, billowing the curtains out. Shirin followed the wave of air, stepped sideways, and fired twice from the hip as the agent closest to the door turned and started to draw his weapon. He stumbled forward as the bullets slammed into his chest. Before he reached the curtains, he fell to his knees, clutching his wounds, and Shirin was whirling out from behind the curtain, gun hand raised and delivering a volley of silenced gunfire.

Two to the leader, center mass. A double tap to the man closest the front door. A triple tap to the agent on the right of the front door. One to the man by the computer as he reached for a weapon. And a chase-up shot to the leader, who was still standing.

It was then she saw him.
Ben
. He was handcuffed to the doorknob, slumped down, his right arm pulled up by the cuffs. He seemed dazed, but alive.

She had one bullet left in the mag. Quickly she scanned the agents in the room. They were all down. Gunfights were never like in the movies. They were fast and deadly. Four seconds had passed, five men were dead.

The radio by the computer squawked alive. "Beta team, revised ETA six minutes. Report status."

Shirin looked at her watch. Fewer than six minutes before reinforcements arrived. She had to get herself and Ben out of there.

"Beta team. Come in," the voice over the radio repeated.

With no response, they would assume their men were down and come in hot. They would cordon off the block, cast a secure net around the building, and floor by floor hunt them down. Her options were quickly running out.

Shirin ran to Ben, tested the cuffs that bound him to the door handle. He was still dazed, his eyes rolling around, unable to focus, but apart from the swelling to the side of his head, he seemed uninjured.

She quickly frisked the two agents by the door, found the keys to the handcuffs, and released Ben from the awkward position.

He shook his head, rubbed his face. "Katie? What the hell is going on?" Shirin helped him to his feet while he spoke, her eyes checking him over. She confirmed, no visible injuries. "These guys came in here like a whirlwind saying you were in danger."

"I know, Ben. I'm very sorry."

"And why were they calling you Shirin?" he asked as he steadied himself against the closed door.

"Because that's my name, Ben. My name is Shirin Reyes."

"What?" he said in disbelief. "What do you mean, Shirin Reyes is your name? You've been lying to me? Who
are
you?"

Ben turned from her, and for the first time saw the carnage of dead bodies strewn through his apartment.

"You did this?" he asked incredulously.

Shirin searched each man one by one, pilfering whatever ammunition and supplies she could. She didn't respond to his last question.

"They were federal agents! They're going to arrest us!"

"It was them or you," she said calmly, "and they're crooked feds. They weren't here to help me―or you! They were here to get information out of you and then kill you."

"But what information? What could I possibly know that they would want?"

"You know me. They were going to use you to get to me."

Shirin grabbed a duffel bag, threw the secured weapons inside, and moved quickly past Ben toward the balcony. "Ben, I give you my word, I will tell you everything! But there are more of these guys coming, and we need to get out of here now!" She looked over the balcony. The streets below looked normal. They hadn't arrived yet.

"How do you feel? Are you injured? Can you run?"

"Uhh…" Ben patted himself down, moved, jumped up and down on the spot. "Yeah, I'm okay"

"Good. Let's go!"

18:03:21

Barratt held himself against Robyn Mills' bedroom wall. He could hear her calling him, trying to wrestle his attention toward her, to free her from her restraints. But everything outside his mind's struggle seemed a blur.

He closed his eyes to concentrate, to focus, to fight off the inevitable shock his body demanded. He had to keep his mind focused, if he was going to get out of here. His life depended on it, and so did Robyn's.

Barratt opened his eyes, set them at a specific point across the room, and waited for the periphery of his vision to stop swaying. His breathing was shallow, in short bursts, his body reverting to primal instinct, protecting itself. He made a conscious effort to breathe deeper to test his injury. It hurt, but he was able to do it. The knife had missed the lower lobe of his lung. He was lucky.

He moved his left foot, propped himself against the wall with his left hand, then moved his right foot. The dizziness subsided, and with each small movement, he gained some measure of confidence that his body was not destroyed. He was not dead―yet.

"Robyn," he said haltingly. It hurt to talk. "It's okay, please, stop screaming. You're going to be okay." He moved closer to her, his movements short and labored, but at least he could still move. He reached the bed, stumbled slightly, and righted himself by the headboard.

Robyn flinched sideways as his hand pressed against the bloodied mattress beside her for support.

"It's okay. I'll get you out of here," he said, lifting the bed sheet up and over her naked body. It covered only half her exposed flesh, but the act alone seemed to restore some sense of dignity to her. "Did you see where he put the keys to the handcuffs?"

"On the counter, by the door," she cried.

Barratt walked painfully over to the counter. The keys were there in full view. Smith had wanted her to see them while he tortured her. So close, yet so far. Barratt wished so badly he had killed that man.

He shuffled back to Robyn's side. With his left hand, he reached up tenderly to her restrained hands, trying not to move the knife in his side too much. He fumbled the key into position, turned it a few times before the key found purchase, clicked, unlocked, and the cuffs fell from the iron headboard.

Robyn quickly freed her arms, worked the latch on the cuff still attached to her wrist, her excitement and adrenalin pitched at a nervous, frantic energy as she threw the cuffs away, clanging off the wall in disgust.

Barratt watched her run to the closet, then turned away and headed toward the window. He peered through the blinds, out into the street.

"Robyn. We have to go." His voice had less strength than he wanted, and he wondered if his words had gotten through to her. When he turned around, she had slipped on a long sleep pullover and was buttoning a pair of jeans. "Robyn," he said again, "you're not safe here. We have to go…now…"

Barratt took a step forward, forgetting for a moment the knife still stuck in his side, felt a searing pain, and dropped to one knee.

"Oh my God!" Robyn gasped and ran around the bed to check on him. "Oh my God! The knife! It's so deep!"

"Robyn," he said struggling for control over his breathing, "My back pocket…my wallet…take it."

Hesitantly, she reached around him and took it. She opened it. There was cash and a driver's license. The name said John Jones.

"Your name is John?" she asked.

"No. That's fake. My name is Trent, Trent Barratt." He was dying. They were trying to kill her. There wasn't much point in lying to her. Knowing his real name might even save her if she was captured by the police. "I won't be able to make it out of here with you. You have to do as I say. Do you understand?"

Robyn didn't seem to comprehend what he was saying. She looked at his license, looked at the other ID in the wallet, shaking her head. She couldn't believe what was happening. "I… I…don't…"

"Robyn!" he said with as much force as he could. "I work for a friend of your brother's. You are both in danger! Don't trust anyone! Not even cops! Do you understand?"

"No! I don't. What the hell is going on?" she screamed.

"I'm not going to make it…" he said, ignoring her last comment. "Take the credit card. Go to Glorietta Plaza, buy new clothes, take out some cash, and wait there. Shirin will find you…"

"Who's Shirin?" she asked. "And what about Ben? You said he was in danger, too? But why? What do they want with us?"

"Shirin is a friend of Ben's. She's gone to get him now. Just do it. Go to the Plaza. Use my card. She'll find you. Go. Now."

Robyn baulked at the idea. She didn't know who this man was, but he had saved her life, and in doing so, was about to die. The fear was strong, but her guilt and compassion were stronger. She couldn't just leave him there. Leave him there to die, alone.

She knelt down beside him, propped his left arm over her shoulder, then struggled to help him back to his feet. "We go there together!" she said with forced confidence.

Barratt didn't argue. He didn't have the strength. With Robyn taking most of his weight, they hobbled out of the bedroom and headed for the street.

18:04:17

"Stay on the outside edge," Shirin called over her shoulder as they ran down the enclosed stairwell. Their hurried footsteps echoed through the concrete structure.