Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (10 page)

19

Festival Arena, October 6

Shakespeare counted the number of people in the Sterling party for whom he and Chico were about to become responsible. Not including Derrick, Daniel, or Reese Jenkins, there were nine of them.

His cell phone vibrated, and he looked down to find a text from Sheena.

Breaking news on tv from arena. Copter overhead. Thousands mad outside cuz only some were let in. Whats going on? B careful.

He was grateful she still cared.

Maybe they could work this thing out after all. Maybe there was more he could do to be flexible, not to be such a know-it-all. Sheena had been a tried-and-true partner. And Brian knew deep down that he could be a self-righteous jerk at times.

He shot a quick text back.

Nothing happening yet. I’m guarding Sterling. Don’t worry and thanks.

He took in a deep breath and walked to the front of the room.

Sterling was in an intense powwow with Wolfski, Clarissa, Jenkins, Jenny, and his three security guards. The senator circled his open hands like peddling a bike, then swept his arms like a referee calling a player out of bounds.

“Okay, folks.” Shakespeare lifted both hands and waited for quiet. “I need your attention. It’s been appointed to me and my partner, Chico, to escort you upstairs to the club level, where we have a nice suite prepared for you. I’m going to lead the way, and Chico will bring up the rear. So far
we’re not aware
of any incidents in the building.” He eyeballed Wolfski. “It’s a bit crazy, with people wanting to get inside, but we can work with that.”

Shakespeare knew very well that something was going down. But he had an assignment, and he was going to treat these people like happy kids on a field trip until he got it done.

“If anything should happen, please do
exactly
as I say. Don’t hesitate. Don’t second-guess. Just follow orders. Okay? Let’s move out.”

Shakespeare gave Chico a thumbs-up, pushed open the door, and led the way down the long white hallway. Sterling, Clarissa, and Jenkins were arguing heatedly but quietly about whether there should be another delay in opening the doors.

Shakespeare’s radio sounded. “This is Gordy Cavelli to base.” The background noise almost drowned out his voice.

“Go, Gordy,” Clarissa said.

“It’s really bad up here on doors.”

Shakespeare unplugged his headset so everyone could hear Gordy.

“The people outside were told six forty-five, then seven. They’re furious. They’re packed so deep and strong, it’s like an ocean wall,” Gordy shouted above the bedlam. “The people up front are getting smashed against the glass … They’re pounding, screaming. We need to get more staff or police outside … Over.”

“Open those doors before someone gets hurt!” Sterling yelled.

Shakespeare pressed on, leading the group into a plush reception area and a set of double elevators. Pushing the Up button and stopping to face the group, he knew full well they didn’t have any more EventPros to station outside. Even if they did, it was too late. Only the police or SWAT or National Guard could get any order out there at this point.

“It’s seven o’clock,” Gordy called. “Are we opening or not? People are expecting to come in.”

“I just got word, my men are almost done sweeping the Sky Zone,” Wolfski told the group. “Probably two more minutes. My men on doors are confirming the chaos up there. We need more backup.”

“Okay, this is not good.” Gordy’s radio shot static two, three, four times. “An EventPro opened a door to … Hold on. Oh boy. They’re coming in!”

Static. Static.

Gordy again. “She opened her door to tell someone something, I don’t know why, but … Oh, it’s wide open! They’re pouring in. They can’t get it shut … Falling … Someone just fell … Oh my gosh. It’s a stampede! Oh no … We’re gonna need medics up here!”

20

Festival Arena, October 6

Pamela was relieved they were finally inside the arena where it was warmer, but something was definitely not right. The crowd outside was huge, and it had been chaotic trying to get inside when the doors opened at six thirty. In fact, in somewhat of a panic, ushers had shut the doors only moments after Pamela and the others had gotten through. They’d ducked in to get a glimpse of the stage and to take a quick look for Jack, and then they went back out into the concourse to buy the kids a treat.

Although there was an expected buzz in the air, it was not one of joyful anticipation. It was something else. The crowd was frenzied. There was a hint of hostility or defensiveness—as if something was happening behind the scenes, but no one knew what.

“What is going on?” Margaret said. “I don’t like this.”

“Let’s move over this way, out of the flow.” Jeanie led them past an escalator that was being guarded by a white-haired female EventPro.

Pamela kept one hand tight around Rebecca and the other around Faye.

She could hear faint yelling toward the doors.

There was a sudden rush of cool air.

People were craning their necks and standing on their tiptoes, looking back toward the main lobby. A mass of people came toward them like a herd of cattle, just coming in out of the cold.

“This is craziness,” said Jeanie, who was squeezing her son’s and daughter’s hands. In their free hands they clutched big soft pretzels.

Some of the people coming toward them were straightening their coats and brushing themselves off. Several were red faced, even crying.

What had gone on out there?

Pamela and Jeanie scooted Margaret and the children farther out of the way, past an ATM machine and between several kiosks.

“We need to find Jack.” Pamela rubbed her tummy, already wishing they hadn’t come. She’d just had a strong Braxton-Hicks contraction. It was cold. It was dark. She and the girls were tired—and she was frightened. This had been a bad idea. But she had to stay calm for her mom and the girls. “He’ll know what’s going on.”

“Check to see if you’ve heard back from him with his section,” Margaret said.

Pamela dug in the outside pocket of her purse, pulled out the phone, and examined the screen. “Shoot, I missed a call from him.”

“Can you call him?” Jeanie sounded panicked.

“I’m not supposed to. Let me text him again. We’re okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried, Mommy,” said Rebecca.

“Me, either,” said Faye. “We’re big girls. We’re not worried.”

Jeanie’s children chimed in about how they weren’t scared either, and Pamela told herself to relax.

She punched in a quick text message to Jack.

Surprise. We r here at arena! Jeanie drove us. I cdnt miss everett. What section are you in? Is something going on?

“Maybe we should just leave,” Jeanie said. “I mean, don’t you guys feel like something’s wrong?”

“I do,” Margaret said, her arms crossed and hands buried in her armpits.

“Why, Mommy? Why are we going to leave?” said Jeanie’s son, Jake.

“I’m not sure we’re going to, son. Let’s wait until we hear from Mr. Jack. He’ll know what we should do.”

Shakespeare eyed the Up elevator button, which was lit in orange, and checked his watch. This was what he’d feared. The elevator was taking way too long to arrive. There were no numbers to show what floor it was on, but he’d taken that elevator enough to know that something wasn’t right.

Had the terrorists stopped it somehow?

He listened as Gordy described the bedlam unfolding in the main lobby. Although the SWAT team had managed to get the door closed again and locked, it wasn’t before hundreds more had poured into the building. Several had fallen down at the entryway and were being treated by medics. One would be transported to the hospital with possible broken ribs, if they could get the ambulance anywhere near the building.

“What is taking so long? For crying out loud.” Sterling rubbed his mouth with the back of his shaky wrist like an alcoholic struggling to avoid a glass of scotch.

Jenny patted his arm and whispered something, trying to calm him.

“This elevator’s not working.” Shakespeare nodded toward the stairwell.

“You think?” Sterling said.

“We’re going to take the stairs,” Shakespeare said. “Everyone, follow me in a single-file line with Chico last.” He opened the door, shifted the weight of the backpack on his shoulder, and started up the concrete steps.

He just had to focus. His only job right now was to get the group safely to suite 227. Once that was done, he would have Chico keep an eye on Sterling’s party while he found out what was really going on.

The only noise was the shuffling of everyone’s shoes moving up the steps. They passed the door leading to the third floor without a word. The main concourse was on the next level, four, where all the chaos was. They needed to go all the way up to six to reach the club level and the suites, which were supposed to be blocked off to the general public.

“This is Tab, this is Tab.” The nervous voice came over Shakespeare’s headset, which he had plugged back in. “We’ve got reports of smoke in the concourse, sections 112 and 117. I’m on my way there now. Over.”

Static.

It was starting.

They needed to evacuate the building.

But until he was given the order, Shakespeare would do what he was told and get his party up to six.

They made it to four, the main concourse.

“Hold up.” He raised a hand, and everyone came to a halt at the landing in the stairwell. “Wait here. I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna take a quick look.”

He dashed to the metal door and peered through the vertical window.

The EventPro in the enclosed glass area stood facing the crowded concourse with his left hand outstretched high in the air and his radio pinned to his mouth. Shakespeare heard his frantic voice in his earpiece the exact second he saw the white smoke swirling in the concourse.

“We’ve got smoke at the double elevators outside section 105!” The staffer coughed and stuck his face in the crease of his arm, then to the radio again. “It’s not fire … It’s coming from a canister on the ground!” He buried his face again.

They had to get people out!
Out!

Shakespeare looked back at Chico, raised a finger signaling for him to hold tight, opened the door, and hurried into the glass-enclosed area at the elevators. Three steps in, he knew from the odor and sting in his eyes that it was tear gas.

“Everyone … give me your attention, this instant.” The loud, heavily accented male voice echoed over the PA system. “You will move
inside
the arena and be seated, immediately. I repeat, you will move
inside
the arena this instant, be seated, and you will
not
be hurt. If you attempt to leave the building, you will be shot. I repeat, do not leave the building or you will be executed.”

Screams rang out, giving Shakespeare chills. He knew that couldn’t possibly be true, because they couldn’t have men at every exit. It was a scare tactic. But people would believe it. He grabbed the EventPro by the lapel of his windbreaker. “You need to open these doors and get people out!” He pulled the man to the glass doors leading outside and punched one of them open. “Keep going in and out for fresh air.”

Shakespeare stepped into the cold night and dropped his backpack to the ground, taking deep breaths of clean air.

“Open all these doors!” he ordered the EventPro as he reached into the backpack, found his gas mask, and quickly put it on. Next he dug around, yanked out his .45, and racked it. Then he dashed inside to the double glass doors leading to the concourse, took a deep breath, and threw them open.

Horrific screams and sour, toxic smoke.

Children on the ground, crawling, screaming, burying their little faces in their arms. Parents covering them, dragging them away from the smoke. People running, slamming into one another.

“This way!” Shakespeare lifted the mask and yelled as loudly as he could. “This way! Outside! Outside!” He realized he probably looked like a terrorist with the gas mask and the waving gun.

He grabbed a woman in a yellow coat. “This way, outside!”

“My father …” She gasped and cried. “He’s in there!” She ripped away from his grasp and disappeared into the smoke.

“Chico,” he called into his mic. “It’s Shakespeare. Continue on. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” He didn’t want to mention the suite in case the terrorists were listening.

“This way!” he shouted, grabbing people, pushing them into the enclosed glass area. “Outside … get outside!”

His mind whirled.

What else could he do? What were the terrorists’ plans?

“Shakespeare, I want you with Sterling!” It was Clarissa, screaming into her radio. “That’s an order. Right now, get back with Sterling! Do you read me? Over.”

The other EventPro was spending more time outside, gasping for air, than he was in. But people were coming now. They were catching on that this was a safe exit. They were filing out now.

Good!

“Okay. This is Shakespeare.” He clutched his radio. “I’ll catch up with them now. Over.”

He took a deep breath, removed the gas mask, and covered the EventPro’s face with it momentarily. “Come on, man, do your best. Get people out.”

Shakespeare took one last look into the concourse before ducking back into the stairwell.

That’s when Jack’s wife, Pamela, caught his eye.

Her stomach was the size of a medicine ball.

She was on her knees, screaming for help.

Leaning over her passed-out mother.