Edge

Chapter 62

PAUSING TO LISTEN, on the second-floor landing.

Faint noises, the source impossible to guess, came from unknown directions. Taps, clicks, water dripping? The air here was raw with the scent of mold and very chill. I knew that interrogators regularly use underheated interview rooms.

The door to the second floor was locked and we continued to the third floor, the top. At the far end of this corridor we could see illumination, about fifty feet ahead. We moved quickly along the shabby linoleum to the doorway from which the light filtered. We paused outside and glanced in. The door opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the second floor, a very large room, seventy-five by a hundred feet or so. The place was a control room of some sort, filled with gray desks, partitions and metal electronics consoles from which the guts had been removed. The smell of musty paper joined that of the mold. The overhead lights were off but at the far end, on the other side of high partitions, were pools of illumination.

I pointed and, with Pogue now covering me, we went in the direction of the light, crouching, practically on our knees. We came to a stairwell heading down to the main floor but stayed on the balcony. Soon we could hear voices rising and falling softly from the far end of the room, in the direction in which we were headed. Men’s voices, I couldn’t make out the words. But there were some tones of impatience, followed by a calm utterance, perhaps reassurance.

If Amanda was there, she wasn’t speaking.

We continued farther down the balcony, moving slowly. There was a lot of trash up here, including broken glass and scraps of sheet metal, which we had to avoid. The men were speaking softly; they would easily hear the sound made by a careless footfall.

Finally we got to the end of the balcony. Below us were the pools of light we’d seen. I rose slowly and peeked over the edge. The light, I saw, was cast by two cheap, mismatched lamps sitting on desks. Incongruously, one sported a Disney shade, torn and stained. Nemo, I noted.

Only ten feet from it sat Amanda Kessler.

In dusty jeans and dark blue sweatshirt the girl huddled in a gray metal office chair, face grim and defiant. Her knees were drawn up. Her wrists were duct taped but they’d let her keep her bear purse with its silly grin.

Her captors were underneath us, obscured by the overhanging balcony. Loving and the three others. If we could get the four of them into the open, out from under the balcony, we’d be in an excellent shooting position. I raised two fingers and drew my hand across my throat. Two more raised fingers, then the letter L, to indicate Loving, and I pointed to my shoulder.

I wanted two dead and Loving and one other wounded, to keep them alive for interrogation. A shattered clavicle or scapula will completely disable a hostile, unlike a leg shot.

Pogue acknowledged my message while I looked around the floor to find something to fling into the shadows to draw them out-as Pogue himself had done at the safe house just hours before.

One of the kidnappers entered our line of sight below, walking toward the girl. He paused before he got to Amanda, who watched him with narrowed eyes. He picked up a coffee cup. The bulky man was in a suit. He sipped and looked around the room. “They fired missiles from here?”

“I don’t know,” came another voice. Not Loving’s.

“It was Nikes.”

“What, like the shoe?”

“Like the Greek god.”

The voices had no Southern drawl.

“There are silos around here someplace. In Clifton. In case the Russians attacked.”

“The Russians? Why would they attack us?”

“Jesus.”

I picked up a few bits of broken glass. Pogue saw and silently took a second magazine for the Beretta out of his holster and set it on the floor in front of him. I kept my second in my pocket. I only had one extra, unlike Pogue, who seemed to have about a hundred rounds on him, and if the operation became one of pursuit or escape under fire I didn’t want to leave any ammunition behind.

“Where is he?” another voice called.

“Be patient.”

I felt a chill, hearing the calm voice of Henry Loving.

“You think they know?”

“That we have her? Not yet. McCall would’ve let us know.”

The girl said suddenly, “You’re going to get arrested. All of you. Or shot.” Amanda Kessler was not, unlike the others, whispering. Her voice was strident.

The man with the coffee glanced at her but said nothing.

Neither did anybody else.

“My father’s a policeman.”

“We know,” came another voice.

But Loving shushed him. “Chat’s inefficient. Be quiet.”

I glanced at Pogue. From his pocket he withdrew earplugs. I was familiar with them. They block out the high decibels and pitch of gunfire but allow human voices through. He handed a pair to me. I shoved them in. I took a deep breath and let fly the piece of glass, which landed with a tink in the far corner of the room.

The hostile in view set down the coffee and drew his pistol. “Fuck was that?”

Two others appeared from below the balcony, one with a dark automatic in his hand, moving forward slowly.

That was three. We needed the fourth to make our plan work. Where was Loving?

Come on…

From directly underneath us, the lifter calmly ordered, “Call out front.”

As the three men in front of us looked around, one lifted a radio. “Jamie, what’s up? Is he here yet? We heard something inside.”

Receiving no response, he looked back uncertainly.

I let fly another bit of glass and it skidded across the floor.

Both of the armed men below us lifted their weapons.

“Shut the radio off,” Loving commanded.

And stepped into view.

We now had all four targets in front of us, bracketing Amanda. Loving and the man with the radio were to the right of her and the two armed captors on the left.

Pogue pointed to the two with the weapons and drew his finger over his throat, then to himself.

He was, after all, a professional killer and I was, in effect, the opposite. I prepared to shoot into the shoulder of the man on the right and Henry Loving.

I aimed. Pogue held up three fingers of his left hand and began counting down.

I trained my sights on Loving. The image in my mind was Abe Fallow.

Two…

It was then that Amanda gave a gasp and jerked back. “Oh, shit.” She screamed, “No!” She was staring down. The men crouched and separated and we momentarily lost our targets. One stepped back, just out of view.

Pogue and I froze.

The girl said, “A rat. There’s a rat under the chair! Get it away!”

“A-”

The captor nearest her muttered, “Fuck, scared the shit out of me.” He stood and stepped forward, close to Amanda, looking under the chair.

Pogue and I started to aim once more.

Which was when the girl’s bound hands lifted the bear purse to her mouth. She unzipped it with her teeth and manage to pull out a small black canister. She aimed awkwardly but fired a stream of orange pepper spray directly into the startled face of her captor. From two feet away it shot straight into his eyes. He screamed and dropped his gun, which Amanda dove for. The man beside him swung his gun toward her.

Loving shouted, “No!”

Pogue and I simultaneously shot the man who was about to fire at Amanda.

Henry Loving knew instantly what had happened and, as we turned our guns toward him and the others, he swept his arm into the lamps, which shattered on the floor, plunging the room into darkness. The only illumination now was the ruddy glow from the three exit signs.

Pogue and I stared down into the murky scene, where I had a vague image of Amanda scrabbling away from the men into the obstacle course of the room.

Then, beneath me, I heard the whispers of the three remaining captors as they planned their strategy.