Constant Fear

CHAPTER 27

A series of hanging lights illuminated the tunnel like the shaft of some forgotten coal mine. The numerous ways into the tunnel system were well hidden. Jake didn’t worry about anybody being down here with him. All his thoughts were centered on what was happening aboveground.

The FBI was mobilizing its big guns-the Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT-but there was no indication of an imminent assault. Jake kept the volume on his portable police scanner low as he listened. There was some discussion of a new threat, but all related conversation was directed to a secure channel Jake couldn’t access. The mission was now clearly defined: ensure his son was here, alive, and get him his medication. If Jake could extract Andy and the others safely, he would do so. Otherwise, he could relay critical information back to the FBI as needed.

The tunnel between the field house and the Society Building went straight for about a hundred yards and terminated at a set of crumbling cement stairs. Jake climbed those stairs, pulled his hearing protection to one side, and placed his ear to the rust-speckled door at the top of the landing. He listened. All was quiet. He powered down the scanner and turned the doorknob with caution.

Jake entered a dark closet, about eight feet by eight feet, with a ceiling high enough for him to stand upright. Buckets, mops, and cleaning supplies were in his way, but Jake got to the front of the closet without knocking anything over.

Holding his assault rifle with one hand, Jake reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The worst mistake he could make would be to move too quickly. He had to maintain a pace that would allow him to shoot with accuracy. He opened the closet door and stepped quickly to the side.

He trained the barrel of his AK-47 into the sliver of hallway he could see. His head, cocooned inside his tactical helmet, heated up. Jake took small steps as he worked his way incrementally from the closet wall to stand in front of the open door. He brought the weapon up to nose level, but knew not to get so focused looking down the barrel that he’d forget to scan the space in front of him, floor to the ceiling. Hiding places could be anywhere.

Self-discipline had always been one of Jake’s strengths, and pitching had bolstered that innate ability. There was a right way to do things and a wrong way, and practice and repetitions locked methods into memory. After seeing how long it took just to open a closet door, however, Jake debated trading caution for speed. Andy’s condition could be deteriorating by the minute.

Slow it down. Do it right.

Jake stepped out into the hallway, committed, and aimed the gun to cover only what his eyes could see. Mounted to his rifle was a SureFire light, activated by a hand switch. The light didn’t eliminate all shadows, but it did a damn fine job illuminating the dim corridor.

Jake assessed his environment. Classroom doors ran along both sides of the hall. Some of the doors were closed, but others had been left open. As he cleared each room, Jake would have an increasingly difficult time keeping an eye down the hall. But he needed to get to the stairwell at the far end of the corridor to go up a level.

From higher ground, Jake would be able to see the Academy Building and he’d also have a partial view of the Terry Science Center. He’d have limited sight lines to Gibson Hall or the library, but one thing at a time.

Jake imagined a scenario in which Laura encountered hostage takers inside the Academy Building. From there, she would have sprinted across The Quad, run right past the Society Building, where he now was, and made it to the woods. Probably bleeding. Probably dying. Or maybe she’d found her killers in this very building. The campus had always felt small to Jake, but now it seemed vast as an ocean.

Jake had done several room-clearing exercises before. Clearing a house alone was an absolute worst-case scenario, so practicing it was an important part of his preparedness training. He had no backup-nobody to take a zone for him. The situation stank. No other way to put it. His enemy had every conceivable advantage. Jake needed to commit to each room, and he would have to clear them all.

After one final check down the hall, Jake moved quickly into the adjacent classroom to his right and swept it. His gun barrel canvassed every corner of the room, moving high to low and covering everything in between. Nothing. Jake ventured into the hall once again, with his rifle ready: nose level, eye looking right down the barrel, finger hovering over the trigger. His pulse accelerated, but his breathing stayed steady. At one time, with ice in his veins, he had stared down plenty of batters facing a three-two count.

The classroom across from him was next. He crossed the hallway as if he were walking a tightrope, each step careful, quiet. His ears were attuned to any sound. The slightest scrape could mean a gunman, a burst of gunfire.

Fortunately for Jake, half the classrooms put him on the strong side of the door. He could reach over, open the door, and step back without exposing himself to any threat inside. Jake cleared the next classroom, same as the other. The desks were all in neat rows, suggesting the students had evacuated in an orderly fashion.

At the classroom door, Jake paused to collect his thoughts and refocus. Stress decreased situational awareness and could result in tunnel vision. A few deep breaths and Jake’s mind felt sharp again, except for the constant pangs about Andy. Those wouldn’t go away.

Jake slipped back into the hallway, keeping his eyes peeled for signs of danger. He cleared the next classroom, and the next, until he had done them all. Eleven classrooms in total, and not a single threat encountered. No moving doors. No unusual shadows. No signs of life. The effort took seven minutes. Seven minutes for Andy to get sicker. Seven minutes for whoever took his son to do something dreadful.

At the end of the hall stood the door to the stairwell. Jake stopped and listened. He might have heard something. A scraping sound? He tossed open the door and leveled his weapon into the darkness. It was a mistake. He had moved too quickly, but he wanted an answer. He wanted Andy. The stairwell was concrete and sound traveled. But the door had opened silently; and if somebody was above or below, they probably heard nothing.

Jake listened. Nothing at first, but then, his ears picked up the faint click of a door closing shut. Not his door, of course. It came from the door above him. One floor up. The floor where Jake was headed. Jake hesitated, waiting for footsteps, his gun trained on the spot where a body could appear. Nothing. He checked his weapon and undid the snap, securing his Bushman knife to his ankle holster.

After one readying breath, Jake headed up the stairs.