Constant Fear

CHAPTER 41

Jake followed a branch off the main tunnel that terminated at a set of metal stairs. He took those stairs two at a time; and at the top landing, he unlocked a steel door, using his master key. He left every door he came through unlocked to facilitate a fast exit.

He made an in-and-out trip through the basement janitor’s closet and sprinted to the stairwell. Then, it was up a set of stairs to the first floor of the Academy Building; he clutched the AK-47 in both hands as he went. He proceeded without extreme caution. Time wouldn’t allow it. Twenty minutes had already ticked off the clock. Twenty minutes left to go. From here, Jake knew the quickest route to the Feldman Auditorium.

The end of the hallway spilled out into an open foyer with high ceilings. Jake stopped to poke his head around the corner. He could see the auditorium doors not more than thirty feet away. They weren’t being guarded. Why bother? They had the FBI held at bay with a bogus bomb threat. Maybe somebody was patrolling outside, but Jake thought it unlikely. It would leave them vulnerable to snipers. The action was happening inside the auditorium. And who didn’t want to be in on the action?

Jake emerged from his hiding place in a crouch, the AK-47 slung across his shoulder. His footsteps echoed softly as he inched his way toward the auditorium doors. When he got there, Jake reached over his shoulder and removed one of the steel rebar rods, which poked out the top of his backpack. The rod came free as though Jake had unsheathed a sword.

Behind the closed doors, Jake heard the voice of the man he believed to be Fausto addressing his captives. Jake did not stop to listen. He, instead, slid the rebar between the looped handle on each door with the dexterity of a bomb technician defusing a device. He released his grip and the rod dropped maybe a millimeter into place, just enough to make a small noise of metal on metal.

Jake’s hand went to the butt of his Glock. He waited for an alarm to sound. Shots to be fired. Men to come for him. He exhaled when nothing happened.

Jake checked over his work. The rebar was long enough to hold firm, no matter how many pushed against the door. He snuck around to the other side of the auditorium and created the same barricade, using a second rebar rod on a different set of auditorium doors. Two additional emergency exits were at the back of the auditorium, and Jake secured those doors in the same manner. Four exits, all secured using unbendable rebar.

Jake next padded down a hallway, AK-47 at the ready. He took the stairs back to the basement and from there worked his way into the tunnels. A check of his stopwatch showed ten additional minutes off the clock. Ten left to go.

On to phase two.

Jake shot down the tunnel, headed for the pit, running as though his body were on fire. He used the headlamp to light the way, but probably could have made it there blindfolded. All his senses worked on overdrive-every sound magnified, every touch internalized, every musty odor overpowering.

Jake’s heartbeat matched the pace and power of a jackhammer. He took in shallow, sharp breaths to try and slow it down, but gave up. It was impossible to control the adrenaline. The killer instinct, so natural to him on the mound, came back, but in an altered state and intensified. He, in no way, relished what was to come. The need to kill and a desire to do so are different beasts.

A check of the time: three more minutes gone.

Inside the pit, the headlamp lit the space well enough. He saw the three decomposing men in a heap on the floor, where he had left them-Big Red and his two mangled companions. The smell of blood hit him hard. If his stomach let go, he might give himself away. Now it was showtime. Even though he prepped like a trained soldier, Jake took inspiration from the only place where he did actual battle: the mound.

Be the aggressor. Attack and don’t ever let up. Show no weakness.

Jake moved the bodies and rolled the stairs back into place. Another three minutes off the clock.

Down to four.

“You are fast running out of time, little ones. Efren y Armando, vengan aquí.”

Efren, Armando, Fausto. How many more were there? Didn’t much matter. Jake had enough ammo to engage a small army.

With the stairs in place, Jake went to the back wall of the pit and shone his headlamp on the fuse box. He removed his backpack, opened the top, and fished out the light sticks. He had five of them. Plenty. He did the break-and-shake on each stick. They were glowing, but in infrared so that it didn’t really look like any chemical reaction had taken place. He checked the smoke grenades hitched to his chest rig. Fine there as well. The flares were also within easy reach.

“Many famous Mexicans have died by firing squad,” Fausto said, his voice amplified by Jake’s hearing protection. “You still have a little time left.”

One minute according to Jake’s timer.

“Please, please, none of us has it. Believe us.” That was Andy’s voice. He sounded strong, alert. And that was Hilary’s doing.

Jake opened the fuse box. There were circuit breakers for different sections of the auditorium, but his only interest was the red master switch. Jake held the light stick in one hand. He looked at the stairs. It would take only a few seconds to cross the pit, get up the stairs, open the trapdoor, and start shooting. Three seconds. Maybe four. Fausto could open fire on the kids during that time. It was a possibility. A serious risk. The blackout should be a big-enough distraction, Jake thought. He wouldn’t need them frozen for long. His other option was to listen to six gunshots.

Jake sucked down a breath and closed his eyes. He visualized exactly what was about to happen. Focused his thoughts, his intentions. This was the windup.

Now for the pitch.