Echo of War (14 page)

Erbs Mill,
Pennsylvania

Oliver had been on the phone to FBI headquarters for much of the afternoon. McBride had little trouble guessing the topic: Did they negotiate with Selmani or attempt a rescue? Having come to know his temporary partner fairly well over the past week, McBride assumed Collin was arguing for the former. It would be in vain, McBride feared.

Selmani was a foreign national, ostensibly Albanian but probably Bosnian; his apartment in Westphalia was obviously a safehouse/maildrop; his connection to the attack on the Root estate was clear; and finally, he'd murdered four U.S. citizens and kidnapped the wife of a former DCI. In Washington's eyes, Hekuran Selmani was a terrorist. There would be no negotiation.

At five in the afternoon, a red-eyed Oliver wandered into the break room at the Erbs Mill police station, where McBride and Nester were sharing a cup of coffee. He plopped down in a chair and sighed. “They want to go,” he announced. “As soon as it's dark.”

McBride nodded. “I know.”

Thirty minutes after nightfall, with Oliver and McBride watching on and waiting for their turn, Scanlon and his team waded back across the inlet and began moving into position around the shack. Oliver and McBride were crawling toward Scanlon's command post when a red flare arced into the sky above their heads. They froze. The flare hung in the dark sky for a few seconds, then sputtered and died. They hurried into the command post.

Scanlon crouched over the monitor, earphones pressed to his head. McBride snatched up his own pair and put them on. “Command, Sierra One … Subject is at window … I have a shot. Request permission to—disregard, disregard, he's gone.”

“Roger,” Scanlon replied. “All units hold position. Report any movement.” He slipped a headphone off one ear and turned to Oliver and McBride. ‘Trip wire,” he explained. “He must've done it during the day. One of the scouts stumbled over it.”

“Can anyone see Mrs. Root?” McBride asked.

“No, he dragged her away from the window and doused his lantern. We've got shadows, but nothing else. He won't go near the window again.”

If Selmani was going to press the button, it would happen now, McBride knew.

“Command, we've got movement … the front door is opening.”

“Anyone have a shot?” Scanlon called.

“Sierra One, negative … two, negative … three, negative.”

Then, from the direction of the cabin: “I know you are out there! Do not come any closer!” The voice was heavily accented—Slavic or .Eastern European, McBride thought. “If you come any closer, the woman is dead! Do you hear me?”

Oliver glanced at McBride. “Not much choice now. Whether Washington likes it or not, you're on.”

McBride nodded. As he stood up, he could hear Scan-Ion on the radio: “All units, negotiator is in play. I say again, negotiator in play. Stay sharp.”

McBride was surprised to feel his knees trembling. He took a deep breath, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called out, “We hear you. No one will come any closer without your permission.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Joe. I'm here with the FBI. May I come closer so we can talk?”

There were ten seconds of silence.

“Yes, but only you—anyone else and she dies. Come forward carrying a flashlight. Hold it in your left hand and shine it on your right. No weapons.”

“I understand. I'm coming now.”

McBride accepted a flashlight from Scanlon, who said, “Okay, listen: We're working on the clock system. Approach from the front; keep the door at your twelve o'clock. Stay on that line and don't stray. I'll have snipers at your seven and five. If there's any shooting, drop to your belly and don't move. You'll be covered.”

“Christ, Gene, lemme talk to the guy first. Maybe we can—”

“I've got my orders. If we get a clear shot, I'm taking it.”

“On my call,” Oliver said. Scanlon started to shake his head. “On my call, Gene. Give him an earpiece.”

Scanlon grabbed an earpiece and portable radio, set the channel, then handed it to McBride, who fit it into his ear and clipped the radio onto the waistband at the small of his back. Scanlon keyed his microphone, “Hear me?”

McBride nodded.

Oliver said, “Nice and easy, Joe. No chances.”

McBride tried to smile; his mouth was so dry his lips stuck to his teeth. “Yeah, sure. Do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“If you call for the shot, don't warn me.”

“You bet.”

Five years earlier in Minneapolis McBride had been staring into the eyes of a knife-wielding crackhead when a sniper put a bullet into the man's left eye. Not knowing any better, McBride had asked for a pre-shot warning; instead of making it easier, the foreknowledge had made the event unimaginably worse.

Scanlon said, “You and I are the only ones on the channel.”

“Okay.”

McBride stood up, clicked on the flashlight, and walked out of the bushes.

He followed the path to the front of the shack and stepped into the clearing. He stopped. It was eerily quiet. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and he realized he was holding his breath. He let it out and gradually became aware of the sounds around him: the scratching of crickets; the croaking of frogs; the crunch of the sandy soil beneath his feet.

Directly ahead of him lay the shack's porch. Its overhang, long ago rotted through, sat canted to one side on tilting columns. McBride could just make out the dark rectangle of the door. As he watched, a sliver of light appeared around its edges. The door swung inward a few inches and stopped. Through the gap Joe could see a man-shaped shadow.

Scanlon's voice: “Movement at the door, Joe.”

McBride felt his vision tunneling, constricting until all he saw was the door … the gap … Hekuran Selmani … Amelia Root. Nothing else.

Give him the power,
McBride thought.
He's overwhelmed,
surrounded.
Give him some choice,
something small.
It's you and him against them
…
Frightened men look for allies. Selmani would know McBride was the enemy, but the fear in him would win out.
Put out your hand,
he'll take it
…

Taking care to align himself as Scanlon instructed, McBride started forward.

A hand, ghostly white in the darkness, emerged from the door's gap and waved him forward.

McBride kept coming. He was ten feet from the steps when a voice called, “Stop there. No closer.”

McBride stopped.

The door swung open, revealing the figure. It started forward. There was something odd about the gait—unsteady, shambling. McBride looked down at the legs; there were four of them. Walking in lock step, his left forearm wrapped around her waist, Selmani and Mrs. Root stepped onto the porch.

Smart,
McBride thought.
Very damned smart.

Selmani had fitted his hostage with a hood large enough to cover both of their heads. Joined with her, Selmani had made himself an impossible target. His right hand, resting on Mrs. Root's shoulder, held a semiautomatic pistol. The barrel was pressed into what McBride guessed was the side of her head.

“You are Joe?” Selmani said, his voice muffled by the fabric.

“Yes, I'm Joe. What should I call you?”

“No games. You already know my name.”

“You're right, I apologize.”

“How many men are with you?”

McBride offered a sheepish smile. “Too many for my comfort. Listen, Hekuran, I'm not going to lie to you. You're in a tough situation. There's a lot of nervous folks out there. I'm hoping you and I can figure out something that doesn't get anyone hurt.”

“Such as?”

“First of all, do you have enough water? Food?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need medical attention? Are either of you hurt?”

“No.”

“Good. Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“I'd like your permission to speak to Mrs. Root. Her husband is very worried. If I could tell him I'd heard her voice—”

“No.”

“It would mean a lot to—”

“I said
no
!”

McBride held up his hands. “Okay, okay. This can't be easy for you. What can I do to help?”

Selmani was silent for few seconds; his feet shuffled. “Help me? You're FBI.”

“Actually, no, I'm a civilian. Truth is, all these guns scare the heck out of me. I'm sure you feel the same way. You're out here alone, God knows where your friends are … Maybe if you and I can talk, we can figure something out.”

“You want this woman back, I want something in return.”

“What's that?”

“Five million dollars in bearer bonds and transportation out of the country.”

Interesting,
McBride thought. Ransom demands this late in a kidnapping were rare; moreover, Selmani's profile—all the factors that made him a terrorist in Washington's eyes—suggested money was an unlikely motivation.

“Is that what you want,” McBride said, “or is that what you've been instructed to ask for?”

Selmani didn't answer.

“The way I see it, you're the one taking all the risks here. We know there were others at the Root house. Why aren't they here now?”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe you should start thinking about what's best for you. I can help you. I can talk to the FBI. I think they'll listen to me.”

“No, no. I would go to jail.”

Atta boy
…
think about it.
“I won't lie to you: You're right, you'll probably have to spend some time in jail. But there's no reason you should pay for all this yourself. Hey, I've made plenty of mistakes in my life, so I know what it's like. Let me help you. Let Mrs. Root go and I'll do everything I can to help you.”

Selmani was silent for five seconds. Then, abruptly, his arm tightened around Mrs. Root's waist and he took a step backward. “You are lying. You don't want to help me. Without this hood, they would have already shot me. I know they are out there, I know they are!”

“No one wants to see you hurt. Let her go, give up, and you'll be fine. You have my word.”

“You're lying!” Selmani backed up another step.

“No, Hekuran, I'm—”

“No more! Five million dollars in bearer bonds and a helicopter! You have two hours—”

“Two hours isn't long enough—”

“Two hours!”

“Please, at least let Mrs. Root talk—”

“Go away! Two hours!”

Dragging Mrs. Root along, Selmani backed through the door and kicked it shut.

Back at the command post, McBride lowered himself to the ground and plucked the earpiece from his ear. His hair dripped with sweat. He accepted a bottle of water from Oliver and downed half of it.

“He's thinking about it, Collin.”

“I know.”

“He's scared. He wants out. Give me a little—”

“I can't, Joe.”

“He'll give up, I guarantee it.”

“That's not how Washington sees it. We're going in.”

“The hell with them. You're here, you saw it.”

Oliver frowned, looked away.

McBride opened his mouth to speak again, then stopped. Oliver had no choice. If he refused to give the order, he'd be relieved and Scanlon would be given the go-ahead anyway. Oliver's career would be over.

McBride turned to Scanlon. “You saw the hood?”

“Yes.”

“You won't get a shot.”

“Not a head shot, no. But if we can get him back out on the porch, we can—”

“You mean if
I
can get him on the porch.”

“—one of my guys can put a bullet under his armpit. It'll take out his spine and heart. He'll be dead before he hits the ground.”

“Jesus Christ. And if you miss?”

“We won't.”

Fearing that Selmani had laid more trip wires, the snipers took their time getting into their new positions. Their aiming point on Selmani's torso would be the diameter of a coffee cup, the HRT commander explained. The right shot would be instantly fatal; anything else might give Selmani a chance to kill Mrs. Root before the rest of the team was able to rush him.

Two snipers were stationed thirty yards on either side of the porch, while a third, covered in a camouflage ghillie suit, lay in the brush in line with the front door. He would be McBride's cover should Selmani turn the gun in his direction.

Small comfort,
McBride thought,
measuring your life by fractions of a second
…
praying your guy is faster on the draw.
On this point, his sniper seemed supremely confident: “If he even twitches the gun in your direction, I'll take his arm off at the elbow.”

Once his shooters were happy with their positions and lines, Scanlon ordered a scout to the shack's rear wall. One of the snipers had spotted a loose plank through which Scanlon hoped to snake a flexi-cam. Though Selmani had not carried the detonator during his meeting with McBride, Scanlon wanted to be doubly certain he left it behind when he stepped onto the porch this time.

Covering the scout, one of the reserve snipers transmitted images from his scope to Scanlon's monitor. Oliver and McBride watched the screen as the man inched his way through the brush toward the wall. Ten feet from it he stopped, dug in his pack momentarily, then started forward again.

The radio crackled to life: “HRT, this is comms,” the voice said. Scanlon's communication people were parked in a van on the dirt road across the inlet.

“Go ahead.”

“We're getting a signal on your bearing. Your boy's making a call.”

Like most cell phones, Selmani's likely had hundreds of frequencies from which to choose, so the chances of their tuning into his conversations was slim. Even so, the remoteness of the shack and Selmani's fixed position made detecting individual transmissions—which generally ranged between 0.6 and 2.2 watts—much easier.