First Strike (49 page)

“He's moving from the window, Dewey.”

“Where's the near guy?”

“Directly in front of you, moving left. Get ready. Far gunman is almost there. He's at the door in three, two, one…”

“Rob, go when you hear screams. Your guys will probably flood into the area directly in front of you.”

He turned the knob.

“
Now, Dewey!
” said Igor.

Dewey ripped open the door, swinging the pistol up in the air just as the terrorist heard the door open, turned, and leveled his Uzi, firing; the slugs from the terrorist were unmuted. The first screams pierced the quiet. A deadly slash of bullets ripped across the door and wall, closing in on Dewey. Dewey lurched right and down, then fired the Colt with his left hand. The first bullet nicked the terrorist in the cheek, and he stumbled. Dewey fired again, the slug hitting him dead center in the forehead, splattering brains and blood.

As screams erupted, Dewey moved calmly—dropping the Colt, kneeling on his right knee, lifting the MP7 to his shoulder, aiming down the corridor, looking through the scope at the far end.

“Everybody,
get down now!
” he barked to the fear-stricken students.

The screams turned desperate: pandemonium. But Dewey remained calm. Several people were standing, despite his order, but there was no time to warn them again. He looked through the powerful scope. Four or five people were running down the hallway, away from Dewey.

Somewhere below, from the tenth floor, Dewey heard gunfire.

Another terrorist came into view, a lone figure at the far end of the corridor. He screamed something in Arabic. Dewey studied him through the scope. He was bald, dressed in black, and he emerged from the bedroom on the left with his weapon raised, turning down the hallway. Dewey locked him in just as he raised his rifle. The sound of the gunman's unmuted carbine echoed down the hall, and the muzzle flash made the scope momentarily light up. Pandemonium turned into terror.

Dewey fired.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Three dull metallic thuds which, though suppressed, seemed somehow to cut through the screams and the chaos and the terrorist's unmuted rifle fire. Dewey watched through the scope as the wall behind the terrorist went abruptly red in the same instant the slug caught the man in the forehead, blowing off the top of his skull.

“Twelve is moving,” said Igor.

*   *   *

Sullivan was seated in the hallway when he heard the noise. It was a loud thud followed by a female voice. She was crying.

Had they thrown another?

He went to the window and looked down. The sidewalk in front of Carman was covered in blood, but no bodies. The last student thrown had been removed. That was twenty minutes ago.

He looked for the grandmother, finding her in a bedroom down the hall. She was hidden beneath an unmade bed. When he tried to ask her how she was doing, she said, “
Sssshhhh,
” and waved him away.

Sullivan went through every room, searching for the source of the crying. She wasn't anywhere on the floor. Rifle in hand, he went to the stairs. He made sure no one was there and moved quietly down to the second floor. He went through every room.

He heard her again, more clearly this time.

He walked to the elevators and stopped. He listened for at least a minute. Then he heard the woman's soft cry once more.

Sullivan put the gun against the wall. He scanned the floor for something to pry open the doors. He ran into the nearest bedroom and threw open a box. Inside were books, framed photographs, bedding. He found a small plastic case near the bottom and opened it. Inside was a glass pipe, several lighters, and a bottle opener.

He took the bottle opener and ran to the elevator, jamming it in the seam between the doors and twisting until he could get his fingers in between. He pulled the doors apart with all of his strength, his face turning red with effort. Finally, as if giving up, the doors slid open.

The elevator shaft was dark. But still, he could see a figure. There, on the roof of the elevator car, was a woman. She had blond hair and was dressed in some sort of black paramilitary gear.

“Help,” she whispered.

“I'm right here,” said Sullivan. “I'm going to get you. Don't you worry. Can you move?”

The woman didn't answer.

Sullivan ran back to the room and grabbed a lighter from the box. He lit it and held it out into the shaft. Below the elevator cars, he could make out the basement floor twenty-five or thirty feet below.

He could easily step onto the roof of the car, but the woman was perched precariously. Her head and chest were dangling over the edge. The slightest jostle and she'd drop several floors to the concrete floor of the basement.

Suddenly, the elevator car shook.

Sullivan held the lighter out and flicked it, illuminating the shaft above. He saw a vague silhouette several floors above.

“
Stop!
” Sullivan said. “Who are you?”

“FBI.”

“
Don't move any closer!
” Sullivan implored in a loud whisper. “She's going to fall if you do!”

“Okay,” said the FBI agent. “I got it.”

Then the words, in a whisper from above, “Are you Sullivan?”

Sullivan nodded. “Yeah.”

“I'm Damon Smith. Okay, I can see what you mean. She's barely on there.”

“I know,” said Sullivan.

“Do you still have the rifle?”

“Yes.”

“Does it have a strap?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that's good. I want you to remove the strap and get to the roof of the car to your right. Then hook the strap to her vest. She's wearing a tactical vest that has various places you can attach it. Go ahead.”

“What do I do with the other end?”

“You hold it. Then I can come down.”

“Got it.”

Sullivan removed the strap from the rifle, then went back to the elevator doors. The car the woman was perched on was directly in front of him. He didn't want to so much as look at it. He looked at the wall immediately to his right and then the roof of the next car. He leapt out and landed on that car. Then he got to his hands and knees and crawled to the far corner, near Katie. She was at the very edge, her hand wrapped like a vise around a carriage bolt on the roof. Gently, he ran his hands along her back until he found a loop. He fastened the metal clasp on the rifle strap to the loop. He then wrapped the other end of the strap tightly around his wrist and pulled slowly but firmly back.

“Okay,” he said, looking up. “She's secure.”

Smith rappelled swiftly down from above.

He felt her neck for a pulse. Then he shone a light into her eyes, pulling back each eyelid.

“She's alive. Good pulse. Looks like she has brain activity too.”

He waved the light down her body. The positioning looked awkward.

“Her legs are fractured,” Smith continued. “Let's hope not her neck.”

He removed carabiners and ropes from his backpack and quickly built a system that would allow them to lower her to the bottommost level of the elevator shaft. He started by securing her in three places: at her feet, her waist, and her upper torso, using rope and tension to replicate the stabilizing effects of a stretcher. Each section had steel heavy-duty carabiners, which Smith put ropes through. The ropes were wrapped around the cable housing on top of the elevator car; this would provide the counterweight as they lowered themselves and her to the ground.

Smith removed his gloves and handed them to Sullivan.

“What are these for?”

“Climbing. You're going to climb down there and we're going to lower her down together.”

With a separate rope, Smith improvised a harness around Sullivan's legs and torso, then wrapped the rope around the cable housing atop the car. He handed the rope to Sullivan.

“Hold this end. Let the rope out as you go. Don't let go and don't go too fast.”

“What about the gun?” asked Sullivan.

Smith grinned. “You don't need it. If you do, I'll give you one.”

“Okay.”

“Is that what you killed the guy with?”

“Yeah.”

“If we get out of here alive, I'm going to have it gold-plated for you.”

Sullivan descended slowly, aided by Smith, who governed the flow of the rope. When he was on the floor at the very bottom of the elevator shaft, Smith lowered Katie's body down through the dim light, using the ropes and the leverage of his body weight against hers, with the steel cable housing as a sort of down-and-dirty pulley, to bring her down gently. When she was down, Smith tied off the top of one of the ropes and quickly rappelled down.

Smith looked for a door and found it. He and Sullivan lifted her and walked toward the subbasement, then up one flight. As they got to the top of the stairs, they heard voices. A team of FBI EMTs was charging toward them, wheeling a gurney. Behind them, another crew was cutting apart the students, freeing them.

After Katie was secure, the EMTs moved quickly toward the tunnel beyond the students.

“Coming through!”

Smith turned to Sullivan. “Contractor?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Mostly kitchens.”

Smith nodded. He put his hand on Sullivan's shoulder.

“I'm going back in. I want you to walk through that tunnel. I'll tell them you're coming. You can get a cup of coffee, see how your kid's doing. What do you have, daughter or son?”

“Daughter.”

“Go see how your daughter's doing.”

“Thanks.”

“No, Jack. Thank you.”

“Mr. Smith,” said Sullivan, “there's a woman on the third floor. She's in the last room on the right, hiding beneath the bed.”

“I'll make sure we get her out safely.”

*   *   *

Tacoma stood at the east stairwell, back against the steel door. He was breathing quickly and drenched in sweat. His left side was pressed against the door, left hand on the knob. In his right hand was a SIG Sauer P226 .45 caliber semiautomatic, silver silencer threaded to the muzzle.

He waited, listening.

Strapped across his back was an HK MP7A1, the same submachine gun as Dewey's. The retractable butt was folded, the fire selector set to full-auto: Tacoma didn't like to fuck around.

“
Rob, go when you hear screams.
”

Tacoma turned the knob but didn't open the door.

He heard Igor. “
Now, Dewey!
”

Dewey was moving.

Tacoma took a deep breath, turned the knob a little farther, and spoke: “Give me positioning, Igor.”

Screams from the floor above.

“Rob, you have a guy in the room immediately to your right. The terrorist at the far end of the hallway is on the left side. Both men are moving to the hallway.”

Tacoma pulled the door open and stepped in, back against the wall, SIG P226 clutched in his right hand, aimed at the door to the right.

Several gasps came from students in the hallway. Tacoma put his left index finger to his mouth, telling the students to be quiet as he slid silently along the wall until he was in the corner, parallel to the door.

Tacoma saw the short steel end of the Uzi first as the terrorist charged into the hall. The terrorist didn't notice him. Tacoma triggered the gun. The slug spat from the pistol, ripping the terrorist in the temple. A red cloud of bloody mist sprayed the door as students screamed. The terrorist crumpled, his face turned toward Tacoma, lifeless.

Tacoma holstered the SIG as he stepped into the hall. In one fluid motion, he swept the MP7 from across his back, unfolded it, raised it, and looked quickly through the optic.

Contingency.

Plan for the worst.

But what he saw startled him, even causing him to momentarily lower the gun and lose the target.

The terrorist was in the hallway. He held a young female student in one hand and had his gun pressed to her skull. The hall was silent. Slowly, the terrorist looked at Tacoma.

Tacoma fired without aiming—a three-burst spray of slugs that flew down the hallway just as the terrorist pressed his trigger. The man kicked violently as slugs ripped his back, neck, and skull. He dropped in a contorted heap, facefirst.

The girl screamed as she held her bloody cheek, nicked by the gunman's bullet.

“I'm clear on ten,” he said.

Tacoma pointed the MP7 at the ceiling. He stepped toward the first cluster of students, seated several feet away.

“Stay where you are,” he said. “I'm American. We're here to rescue you. But we're not out of this yet. I repeat:
Stay where you are!
”

*   *   *

Sirhan heard the screams from below. He ran to the stairs and started to charge down. Halfway to eleven, he heard the deep baritone of a foreign voice. American.

He sprinted back up the stairs and down the hallway. His eyes were drawn right, to the south side of the building. He saw the two black specters in the same moment he heard the deep whirr of the helicopters slashing the air.

Sirhan stopped.

*   *   *

The din of the FBI choppers grew louder.

Dewey picked up his .45 from the carpet and was already moving when Igor came over commo, urgency—even panic—in his voice.

“He heard something,” yelled Igor. “
He's running to the stairs!
”

Screams from the tenth floor suddenly echoed up from below.

“Which side of the building?” Dewey asked as he charged toward the stairs that would deliver him up to the twelfth floor.

“East side. He's coming to see—no wait, he's going up!
He's going for the roof!
”

A female voice startled him: “
Dewey!
”

He stopped and looked down the hallway, scanning the swarm of students and parents now looking at him. Standing in a doorway was Daisy. He paused for several moments, looking at her. He didn't speak.