Constant Fear (15 page)

“You don’t even know if he’s in there.”

Jake said nothing.

“He’s my son, Ellie.”

Jake turned and ran for his car. Ellie watched him go.

CHAPTER 24

I
nside the Feldman Auditorium, Fausto Garza had changed things up. The six members of The Shire occupied the auditorium’s front row. Behind each of them sat one cartel enforcer. They were there to keep watch, even though the kids weren’t going anywhere. The teens had their hands and feet bound with rope, but the gags were out and blindfolds off so their eyes could take in the full spectacle.

Onstage, in a perfect line, bodies rigid as if at attention, stood four members of Sangre Tierra:

The redheaded one.

A fat one.

And two tall ones, thin like Rafa.

They were the four who, per Fausto’s orders, had chased after a woman who had seen too much. Fausto was on the stage with them. He stood in front of the men and paced back and forth, eyeing each contemptuously, a cross between an irate stage director and a drill sergeant.

Minutes ago, in a fierce rage, Fausto had ripped off the arm of one of the auditorium chairs. He wielded the lacquered piece of rounded wood like a club. He slapped the armrest against his meaty palm with steady taps. Whimpers of the teens and the slapping of wood against skin were the only sounds inside the hall.

Fausto stopped pacing to glower once more at the men onstage with him. He turned around slowly, apparently ready to address his audience, those he had kidnapped and those he had employed. He spoke in English for the benefit of The Shire. This show was to be something for all of them to see and understand.

“Okay—okay—okay,” Fausto began. “We are here now to have a discussion about what happened.”

Hilary gasped for a breath and spat out a choked sob. In his cushy seat beside her, Solomon shook violently, as did David. Pixie, Andy, and Rafa might have been the most stoic of the bunch, but their eyes were wide and swimming with fright.

Fausto held up his hands theatrically and hoisted the makeshift club high as his head. He turned back around to communicate with the men onstage.

“So, who would like to tell me what
they
think has now happened?”

Nobody spoke up.

“Nobody has an idea?” he asked, his voice lengthened by an echo. Fausto paced in front of the four men, but stopped to address specifically the man with red hair. “You really have no idea what has just happened?”

“Perseguimos a la mujer, pero se nos escapó,”
the redheaded man said.

Fausto’s expression turned fierce as he sidestepped to his left to stand in front of the man who spoke. Without uttering a word, Fausto spat into the man’s face.

“In English, Gallo.
¡Idiota!
” Fausto screamed. “In English. Not all of your audience can understand you!”

“El Gallo” wiped the long trail of bubbly spittle from his face before it dribbled into his mouth. His nickname fit his appearance: his body type was squat, like that of a rooster, and his bright shock of dyed red hair looked like plumage. He took several ragged, readying breaths and said in a weak voice and very thick accent, “We run after a woman, but she get away.”

“‘We run after a woman,’” Fausto said mockingly, “‘but she get away.’” He felt the need to repeat himself, even louder and more unrestrained. “‘We run after a woman, but she get away!’”

“But we shot her,” El Gallo added. “I made the bullet. Or how you say, I did the shoot. We followed her to the woods and lost her there.”

Fausto turned to face his audience once more and raised his arms over his head almost triumphantly, as if all the answers to all the questions in the universe had just been revealed.

“‘Lost her there,’” Fausto repeated slowly, in a low, dramatic voice.

Without any shift in his expression, Fausto spun on his heels as he lowered the wooden armrest level with El Gallo’s head. With as much force as he could generate, Fausto connected the head of the club squarely with El Gallo’s ear. The blow instantly dropped the plump man to the stage floor.

Without a pause, Fausto pounced on the fallen man, straddling his round belly, and lifted the club over his head. He brought the weapon down in a wide arc. This time, it smashed in El Gallo’s nose. There was a horrible crunch, followed by a scream, and a gush of blood that seemed to defy gravity.

Fausto raised the club once more and brought it down again on El Gallo’s battered nose. And again. And again. With each strike, El Gallo’s face vanished more and more beneath a wash of red. The fifth strike completely destroyed El Gallo’s skull. For a few seconds, El Gallo’s legs kicked about spastically, but those movements soon abated and his legs went perfectly still. Even so, Fausto struck the man three more times, seemingly just for good measure.

Still straddling the dead man, Fausto slowly lifted his head to show the others onstage his blood-splattered face. El Gallo’s blood had turned Fausto’s fine silk shirt into a gruesome imitation of a Jackson Pollock. The killer’s eyes glowed in a satisfied way, like an animal having feasted on a carcass.

The other men onstage kept perfectly still. Not one stole a single glance at the pulpy remains of El Gallo’s face.

Breathing hard, Fausto climbed off El Gallo and again turned to face the audience. He tossed the bloody club onto the floor at Andy’s feet. It landed with a loud thud. Fausto gave a fractured smile that put his metal mouth on prominent display.

Solomon started to sob. “I want to go home,” he muttered. “I want my mom. I just want to go home.”

This caused a chain reaction of sorts and soon all of the kids were openly crying. Fausto ignored their terror.

“Correction,” he announced, holding up one of his blood-covered fingers for all to see. “We did not just shoot a woman and then lose her in the woods. We have lost
everything.
Our advantage now is gone. Do you know what this means?”

Fausto drew a pistol with a pearl-inlaid handle from the waistband of his jeans and spun around again. This time, he marched over to the man standing closest to the remains of El Gallo. Fausto put his arm around the frightened man as if to suggest they were close friends, bosom buddies. Fausto summoned a flat smile, while the man appeared utterly terrified.

“This is Tony, ‘El Cortador,’” Fausto proclaimed in a booming voice. “
El Cortador
means ‘cutter’ in Spanish, because Tony loves to work slowly and he uses many sharp objects. Tony, can you please—for the benefit of everyone, but especially our new young friends here—explain the significance of what has happened?”

Tony’s mouth opened. For a moment, no sound came out. He managed to expel a wheezing breath, which eventually gave way to actual words.
“Podría estar viva,”
Tony said.

Fausto’s face turned crimson. “In English!” he screamed.

Tony cowered. “She could be alive!” he shouted, using his arms and hands reflexively to shield his head. “She could still be alive!”

Fausto stepped to the side and nodded approvingly. His expression darkened again as he seized El Cortador by the shoulder and shoved him forward hard. As El Cortador stumbled, Fausto raised his pistol and fired. The bullet exploded the skull of the man standing to the left of El Cortador. But as that bullet exited one skull, it entered another; and thus two men dropped to the floor. Looking jubilant, and more than a little surprised, Fausto raised his arms in triumph.

Sprawled on the floor, El Cortador crawled to the edge of the stage like a commando going under razor wire. Fausto ambled over to him and placed his boot on his back to hold him in place. El Cortador began to weep inconsolably.

“You see, now it is possible the police will be coming. If this woman lived long enough to say anything, then you must believe that we soon will have company. And this, my friends, is a very big problem. They will have more men and more guns and smoke bombs and many tricks to kill us and save you.”

Fausto pointed at all six hostages with his pistol, indicating the “you” to whom he had referred. El Cortador convulsed and squirmed with Fausto’s foot on the small of his back.

Fausto placed his gun against El Cortador’s head and pulled the trigger. There was an audible
click
, but no bang, no flash, and no blood except the few drops belonging to El Gallo that dribbled from Fausto’s hand onto El Cortador’s neck.

Tony sobbed louder. Fausto examined the gun, nonplussed, as if something was wrong with its mechanics. He shrugged and his expression was slightly bemused.

“Pensé que tenía otra bala. ¡Qué suerte la tuya!”
Fausto said.

Fausto made eye contact with the six panic-stricken teenagers seated in the front row. “I said to him, ‘I thought I had another bullet left. Looks like it was El Cortador’s lucky day.’”

Efren stood, towering over Pixie, and showed genuine concern.
“Pero usted dijo que la policía va a venir por nosotros ahora. ¿Qué hacemos?”

Fausto nodded, seeming unbothered by the Spanish spoken. “It’s true,” he said in English, “we assume we are known and the police will come. We assume this. Okay, that’s fine. Well, not fine, but it is what it is. But your pal Fausto has a plan for everything, including the mess these four have caused us.”

The barrel of Fausto’s gun pointed out three dead men and El Cortador. “So, from this moment on, my friends, we are no longer drug dealers. We are something else, and that something is going to change the game for everyone.”

CHAPTER 25

J
ake did some reconnaissance work, checking police barricades and access roads, getting a sense of how the command and control operation was established. Then he drove home to get ready.

About halfway to his house, he picked up the tail. The car was a nondescript silver Ford Focus, but he got the feeling its two occupants were involved in some manner of law enforcement. Jake took a left down a dirt road that any local would know looped back to the main road, and the Focus followed. It was a sure bet they had at least one oscillating colored light that could be mounted on top of the vehicle.

For a moment, Jake bristled with fury at Ellie. How dare she put the cops on him! But quick as it came, Jake’s anger left him. Ellie was just doing her job. Jake had given her every reason not to trust him. She cared for him, and this was probably her way of showing it. He would have done the same, had their roles been reversed.

On the pitcher’s mound, Jake had excelled at keeping an even keel. His highs never got too high, and his lows never too low. He tried to present an image of steadiness that often unnerved opponents who would rather see him rattled. Regrettably, Jake had broadcast his intentions to Ellie in high definition. He would not make the same mistake again. Communication between them was over for now. Jake would be on his own.

The rest of the way home, Jake drove the speed limit. He glanced in the rearview mirror after turning down the access road to his trailer home. The Ford Focus was still there.

In his driveway, Jake pulled the car to a quick stop, cut the engine, and strolled over to the silver car, which was parked on the side of the public road. The driver lowered his window as Jake approached. He was younger, maybe thirty, with nut-brown hair cut short, a well-scrubbed and clean-shaven face. Five more years at this job and he’d look fifteen years older, but he’d probably have on the same suit, still wear the same sunglasses, even on cloudy days like this one. His partner, also wearing shades and a suit, could have passed for a brother.

“Can I help you guys?” Jake asked in a friendly voice.

“No,” the man said.

Jake backed away. “You always follow people?”

The man’s sullen expression conveyed much to Jake, but he said nothing. Guess he had nothing to say. It was obvious to Jake that this guy did not want to be tailing anybody to a trailer home. All of the action was happening by the school, not watching over some anxious dad who might try to do something ill-advised.

“Can you at least show me your badges?” Jake asked. “If you’re going to stake out my home, it seems only fair.”

The man in the driver’s seat held up a billfold with a silver badge, about three inches by three inches. Jake could make out the words “Mass State Police” spelled out across the top of the badge. These two were detectives, not troopers.

Jake shrugged. What else would he do? “I’m just going inside to wait until I hear from my son or the police,” Jake said. “It’s been an eventful day. Look, you fellas have fun staking out my home. I’m sure this is what you dreamed of doing when you signed up for the academy.”

Jake was distraught, but tried not to let it show. Better to downplay his grieving and terror than give the police real cause for concern. Inside his home, Jake lowered the window shades. It made sense he’d want some privacy.

Pacing, Jake went from room to room dialing Andy’s cell phone. When he got no answer, he dialed the numbers of his friends. He rubbed his hands nervously together, until he became aware of what he was doing.

After he drank some water, Jake went to the living-room window, pried back the shade a speck, and watched the detectives watching him. That was the job. If Jake drove off, they would follow. Which meant he had the woods all to himself. But he still had much to prepare.

To vanish inside a forest, Jake had to become his surroundings. He retrieved his camouflage paint from a box he kept underneath his bed and retreated to the bathroom. He took out a tube of the dark green paint first and used that to color the high points on his face: nose, cheeks, and forehead. He mixed in some darker tan, but was careful in the application not to make any patterns. Objects in the background tended to show shadows, while those in the foreground were generally lighter. The goal of camouflage was simply to trick the eye and reverse the optics. Jake did up the sides of his face and neck in lighter colors, but he kept everything irregular. The approach was not to be fancy, but just knock down the shine. The Marine Corps had camo figured out.

Every part of him had to be hidden. That meant his hands, neck, and ears as well. Eventually his skin oil would wash away the paint, but by then Jake would be inside the school.

Examining himself in the mirror, Jake put on a hunting shirt and pants. The tan-and-green color scheme formed irregular patterns that worked well with the woods at this time of year. The barren trees offered little protection, so Jake’s best bet was to blend in with the dead leaves and other vegetation closer to the forest floor. Jake’s boots matched the rest of his attire. Inside, he looked a hunter; outside, he would look like the wild.

Jake went to the kitchen and filled his canteen. He glanced over at his GOOD pack, thought about grabbing it, but decided to leave it behind. Everything he needed was already at the bug-out location. Jake’s weapons weren’t necessary, at least for now. This mission was about evasion, not stalking.

With nothing left to do, Jake opened the back door and got on the path he and Andy could have navigated blindfolded. Jake made it about fifteen feet when he heard a car door slam shut. The agents had probably gotten tired of waiting. Maybe one of them had to take a leak.

A nearby patch of ferns offered Jake the best cover. He sank into the vegetation and maneuvered to where the shadows were the deepest. If they came looking, their eyes would tire quickly, trying to see through so many layers of masking vegetation. Jake kept his body still and waited patiently. Movement of any kind, even while camouflaged, attracted the most attention. Snapping twigs, rustling leaves—those things might as well be a bullhorn in the quiet woodland. He was going to wait it out, a few minutes at most. If nobody showed, he’d get back on the move.

It was not long before Jake heard footsteps. Seconds later, a detective came into view. He walked cautiously, as if he were an uninvited guest. Jake in full camouflage would certainly give cause to detain him for questioning. Getting through the woods and into the school was going to take long enough. Who knew what the hostage takers might be doing to his son and the others? Jake could hardly fathom the possibilities. But hours being questioned by the police would be a death sentence for Andy if his son’s blood sugar levels dropped.

Jake moved his leg to stave off a cramp. The leaves underneath him made a slight rustling sound. Jake went rigid. The detective turned to face the noise and his gaze fell directly on Jake. He took one step toward Jake’s hiding place, and then another. He stopped and listened. The only sound was the pitter-patter of the misty rain falling on dead leaves. The detective took another step in Jake’s direction. If it came to it, Jake would try to lose the agent in a footrace.

The detective scanned the area once more and his entire demeanor changed. Instead of encountering a threat situation, he looked frustrated for chasing a squirrel or something similar. Jake exhaled as the detective worked his way back to the front of the house. Soon he’d be telling his partner nothing was going on, and they’d go back to complaining about getting a bunk assignment in what could be the biggest case of the year.

Jake got to his feet and set off for the school. His walk became a trot, which soon quickened into a jog. Cloud cover lengthened the shadows and would have helped conceal him, had anybody been in these woods. But the chemical spill and the rain were good deterrents and kept folks indoors. There was a chance the detectives might get bored enough to go knock on Jake’s door. If so, they would either break it down, or call it in. Either way, by the time they noticed Jake had snuck away, he’d already be inside the school.

When the path became a road, Jake slipped into the wood line and continued his march north. He could hear sirens in the distance; and if he walked about two thousand yards from his current location, Jake would probably run into Ellie and her friends on the Winston PD.

Jake arrived, undetected, at the hilly field behind the school. Here he used his binoculars to scope the campus for any guards or safety workers. It appeared deserted. Any plans to send air-quality testers to the area were probably dashed when the situation turned to a potential hostage crisis. The campus was utterly deserted. Jake sniffed the air, but picked up no foul odor. Maybe the call about the ammonia-like smell at the school was part of somebody’s plan. But who was somebody?

For a few gut-wrenching moments, Jake envisioned Laura’s frantic sprint across The Quad as she fled for her life.
Did they shoot her before she got to the woods or after?
He didn’t know.
What do these people want, anyway? Who are they? And why would they take kids as hostages?
The answers, Jake believed, would be revealed soon as he got inside the school.

Jake was about to make his final push when he noticed movement in the tree line to his right. Focusing his binoculars on that particular patch of woods, Jake got a clear visual of a SWAT team member in tactical gear. He was motioning to someone nearby, and sure enough another member came out of the shadows to take up position behind a massive tree. The woods probably held a dozen SWAT forces, if not more, but Jake had the advantage. They were looking for people coming out of the school, not anybody trying to get in.

Jake took to the tall grasses. Forest animals moved without causing a stir by keeping close to the ground and walking with a steady rhythm. Random sounds were more noticeable. After he got into a crouch, Jake used his knees to absorb the weight of his body as he crawled forward. Every muscle was engaged. The shortest path to the door was a straight line, but Jake needed the cover of the field, so he took time to reach his destination. On the way, he kept a lookout for any puddles, sticks, and gravel—anything that could make a sound.

He controlled his breathing. Hyperventilation negatively affected most every critical function, but most especially motion, balance, and coordination. This was something Jake had perfected on the mound. A pitcher had to pay attention to the “when” of breathing and the “where.” It was easy to forget proper breathing in the heat of battle. It took mindfulness to maintain focus, inning after inning. Jake never lost the skill.

At the fieldstone structure, Jake took cover behind the building to observe the woods, which were now fairly far away. This section of school grounds was not where SWAT or the local police would concentrate manpower, so Jake felt relatively confident he could enter the building unseen.

After he removed the loose stone, Jake retrieved the hidden key, unlocked the door, and was soon descending into the tunnels, which were his home away from home. He marched right past his retreat, remembering he had changed the locks so the bug-out location wouldn’t stand out if the tunnels had to be tested for air quality. Jake dug out the new key and was ready to go exploring fifteen minutes later.

“Ready” included an AK-47 and a chest rig with a battle belt. Jake stuffed the rig with as many 7.62x39 mags as he could fit: three on his chest, two on his belt, and two pistol mags as well. He slipped another mag in his back pocket, just in case. Beneath the chest rig, Jake’s Kevlar vest felt heavy, but he’d rather the discomfort than the alternative. He grabbed a syringe and several vials of insulin from the refrigerator, which he kept at a constant forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. He also took the spare glucagon emergency kit and glucose tablets. If the hostage takers gave Andy food, his insulin would help balance out his blood sugar. If they denied him nourishment, the glucagon injection might save his life. Jake’s Peltor tactical hearing protection, compatible with his tactical helmet, reduced the hazardous impulse noise from amplified sounds, such as firearms, to harmless levels. Built-in stereo microphones would equip Jake with enhanced sound detection. Jake had water, binoculars, his Glock, two Bushman Series knives, with ten-inch blades made of SK-5 high-carbon steel, a portable Bearcat handheld scanner, and a map of the school’s numerous tunnels and passageways.

He was ready to go looking for his son.