Authors: James Grippando
“I knew it, I knew it, I
knew
it!” Repo pounded the steering wheel as he spoke, his breath steaming inside the chilly parked car. Steady traffic cruised by in both directions on the wide city street, though no one could see in through the tinted windows.
“I knew I shouldn’t have put you on the line. You talked so long even Barney Fife could have traced that call.”
Kristen sank in the passenger seat, near tears, but she acted tough. “So sorry,” she snapped. “But my mom was crying. I couldn’t just hang up on her.”
He took a deep breath, then spoke in a softer but urgent tone. “It’s okay, forget it. It’s not your fault.”
“I want to go home.”
“You will. Just a few more days.”
“I want to go
now.
”
“You can’t. We gotta go—like
now.
”
“
You
go. I just want to go home.”
He grimaced, frustrated, then pushed the power lock button to unlock her door. “You want to go? Go. You’ll be dead before the election, I guarantee it. It’s like I said, the cops can’t protect you. They’ll tell you with a straight face they can, but they can’t. I got a dead family to prove it. My mother had her throat slashed. My sister was shot
six times, twice in the head. You want to end up like them, then go. Be my guest.”
She grabbed the door handle, thinking.
“Just remember one thing,” he said. “I may be no saint, but yesterday was the first time I’ve ever killed anybody. I did it to save you. Your own grandfather won’t even cough up a ransom.”
Her grip on the handle tightened. “You really think he’s involved, don’t you?”
“Whoever it is,
you
are far less important than the White House.”
She swallowed hard. Part of her said run, the other said stay. For the first time, she looked Repo squarely in the eye. It unnerved her at first, but he had familiar-looking eyes. Eyes she could trust. Eyes like Reggie Miles.
She took a deep breath, then released the handle. “We’d better get out of here.”
He started the engine. A quick check in the rearview mirror showed a police car round the corner just a block behind them.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Definitely not far. In five minutes they’ll have this city surrounded, probably set up roadblocks. We just need a place to hide out for a while.” He shifted into gear and merged into a wide, busy boulevard. “Duck down, Kristen.”
“Why? Nobody can see in through these windows.”
“Just get down.”
She slowly slid from her seat to the floor. Repo reached over the seat, popped open the glove compartment, and grabbed an extra ammunition clip. Kristen looked up nervously as he tucked it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, next to the black pistol handle.
He watched his speedometer, staying just below the limit. His heart pounded as he rechecked the rearview mirror. The squad car was gaining steadily, though it was traveling too slowly to be in pursuit. No siren, no emergency flashers.
No need to panic.
Not yet.
He slowed the car as they neared the intersection, praying the red light would change. It flashed green. He accelerated through a six-lane cross street. The squad car pulled even in the left lane. Repo reached for his gun.
“Don’t!” Kristen shrieked.
He let his hand slide past the pistol and into his lap. The squad car was passing, pulling away. Repo sighed. “Looks like we may have lucked out.”
He glanced in the mirror. Three cars back was a white sedan, possibly an unmarked police car. “Then again, maybe not.”
In fifteen minutes, Harley was cruising in a Jay-hawk helicopter above the old neighborhoods near Vanderbilt University. The orange setting sun hovered before him, its sharp glare cut by the tinted Plexiglas bubble. Below, a tangle of commercial and residential streets fed into increasingly residential areas as the chopper sped away from downtown Nashville. The rolling landscape had a bemusing schizophrenia, a contrast of wintry bare trees and lush green lawns that had been raked of fallen leaves.
Harley’s conference call with his unit chief and both the special agent in charge and the assistant special agent in charge of the Critical Incident Response Group had taken only minutes. Kris
ten’s hometown of Nashville was one of a handful of cities in which a squad from the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team was on ready-alert. The decision to deploy them was quick and unanimous.
From his copilot seat in the cockpit, Harley glanced over his shoulder at five specially trained HRT members in the compartment behind him. All were dressed in full SWAT regalia with Kevlar helmets and flak jackets. Four were armed with fully automated M-16 rifles. The fifth, a sniper, touted a 308 sniper rifle. Harley’s gaze drifted back toward the setting sun, which was now little more than a half circle on the horizon. He spoke into the microphone attached to his flight helmet.
“Not much daylight left,” said Harley.
“We have night vision,” came the team leader’s reply.
Harley drew a deep breath. He knew the FBI was prepared, but he was more concerned about what a panicked kidnapper might do in the darkness when the bullets started flying.
He turned off the intercom on his headset and switched to cellular capability. He’d already told Allison about the successful tracing, and she’d insisted on being kept apprised of further developments. He connected his phone and dialed her emergency number.
“Allison, it’s Harley. We’ve got a possible positive ID on a suspect.”
She was backstage at a rally. She pressed the phone to one ear and plugged the other with a finger, blocking out a long-winded introduction by a Florida congressman on stage. “Already? How?”
“We narrowed the trace on the cellular phone to less than a square mile. Our voice analyst identi
fied the disguised voice as that of a white male, so we issued a be-on-the-lookout broadcast on police radio for any white male traveling in the area with a young black female.”
“And you got a hit?”
“A Davidson County deputy sheriff responded. Says he saw a white male with a black female in a sedan headed west out of downtown Nashville. He gave silent chase for about six miles to a private residence.”
“Whose residence?”
“Not clear yet. It’s leased. We can’t reach the landlord, so we’re not sure who the tenants are. I’m headed there now.”
The helicopter dipped to the right in its initial descent. The open green space of Centennial Park came into view. Harley noticed the makeshift heliport and staging area near the imposing Parthenon, a to-scale remake of the ancient Greek ruin.
“We’re landing,” said Harley. “I have to hang up and clear the airwaves.”
“Call me when you get down. Make whatever contact as a negotiator that’s appropriate, but I want to be fully briefed before any paramilitary offensive is launched.”
“Roger,” he said, then switched off the phone.
The helicopter hovered over the park. Gusts from its whirling blade stripped nearby trees of the last vestiges of autumn color. The final fifty feet were slow and straight down, until the runners settled in the grass less than thirty yards from the stone Parthenon. Five HRT squad members quickly unbuckled their seat straps, pushed open the door, and jumped to the ground. Harley sprinted with them to the unmarked van waiting in the parking lot. He took the front passenger
seat. An agent was behind the wheel with the motor running.
“Let’s go!” Harley shouted.
The van shot from the lot, speeding down West End Avenue until they passed beneath the interstate. After a few quick turns through quiet side streets, they came to an abrupt stop in a parking lot atop the hill. A recreational vehicle was parked at one end. A large antenna protruded from the roof. Loaded with high-tech equipment, the RV would serve as the FBI’s on-site command center. Three other vans loaded with FBI SWAT from the field offices were unloading simultaneously. Another van marked
DAVIDSON COUNTY SHERIFF
squealed into the parking lot, nearly flattening Harley. A SWAT team jumped out, led by the county sheriff. He had the neck of an Olympic wrestler and the mustache of a walrus, an imposing man in a Paul Bunyan sort of way—neither fat nor muscular, just large.
Harley hurried toward him. “Evening, Sheriff. I’m Harley Abrams, FBI.”
The sheriff shook his hand firmly—too firmly, as if showing off his strength. “Thanks for coming, boys. Good to have the backup.”
Wonderful,
thought Harley.
A turf war.
“We’re not here as backup, Sheriff. This is what we do.”
“It’s what we do, too. Got a SWAT team of our own.”
“Doesn’t everybody? Pretty soon the Neighborhood Crime Watch is gonna get one.”
His eyes narrowed, shooting daggers at the FBI. “We know what we’re doing, and we have every reason to be here. It was
my
deputy who spotted the suspect.”
Harley nodded, shifting to a more conciliatory
tone. “That’s true. And that was good work. I’d like to talk to him. How positive is he on the ID?”
“Not a hundred percent, but it looks very good. He spotted the vehicle well within the area you described in the broadcast. Never once lost sight of it.”
“Any chance the suspect knew he was being followed?”
The sheriff made a face. “We’re talking about one of my most experienced deputies here. Never turned on his lights or siren, nothing to cause alarm. Pretty heads-up on his part. We still have the element of surprise.”
Harley sighed, as if wary of surprises. “Sheriff, you and your men can be of greatest assistance by helping us seal off the neighborhood at both ends of the street. I’ll position our snipers on rooftops across the street and behind the house. If anybody is going into the house, it will be my squad from the Hostage Rescue Team. But first, we’re bringing in floodlights and a loudspeaker. We’ll give a verbal warning, try to start a dialogue. I want to do everything possible to reach a peaceful solution.”
The sheriff shook his head, grumbling as he placed his hands on his hips. “Well, damn it. That means we lose the element of surprise.”
“I’d rather lose that than lose the girl. Let’s be a little patient. And in the meantime, let’s be damn sure nobody gets trigger happy. Got it?”
The sheriff shot him a cold glare, not so much as blinking. “Got it,” he muttered.
Kristen sat on the bare hardwood floor with her knees up and her back against the wall. Repo sat on the floor in the corner, near the window with no drapes. The empty living room was dark, but there was nothing to see anyway. No pictures on the walls. No rugs or furniture. They’d tried to turn on a light, but the power had been cut off. The house was growing colder as night settled in.
Kristen drew her knees closer to her chest, trying to get warmer. “How did you know this house would be empty?” Her voice echoed in the empty room.
Repo shifted his eyes from the window. “The sign out front.”
“Oh, you mean the one that says, ‘This house is empty’?”
“No, smarty-pants. Back in high school, whenever me and my buddies wanted a place to party, we used to drive around looking for the houses with the ‘for sale’ signs out front. If you see one that says ‘price reduced,’ nine times out of ten it means the owners are desperate to sell because they’ve already moved out. Empty house. Party time.”
She nodded, thinking how her mother would kill her if she broke into somebody’s house. Her toes were getting cold. She scrunched them in her shoes, finding warmth in the friction.
“By the way,” she said. “Thanks for letting me call my mom. I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”
“Not a problem.” Repo kept staring out the window.
“I was kind of wondering, you know, why you’re so careless.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “Well, you let me see your face. You let me call home and talk too long. You don’t even wear a goofy wig or a hat for disguise. I have friends who are more careful when they cut class.”
“You watch too many detective shows.”
“Do I? Or have you, like, just become totally fatalistic about this whole thing?”
He winced, confused. “Totally
what
?”
“Fatalistic. Do you think your fate is sealed? No matter what you do—hide your face, wear a disguise—you can’t change the outcome.”
He smiled weakly. “Fatalistic, huh? That’s a fancy word. Where I grew up, we used to just say your ass is grass.”
“Okay, then. Do you think your ass is grass?”
“Definitely.”
“And who’s the lawn mower?”
“You don’t really want to know.”
“You don’t really want to tell me.”
He shook his head, smirking. “For a kid, you’re not too dumb.”
“And you’re not too smart,” she said in deep, affected voice. “I like that in a man.”
He shot a funny look. “Huh?”
“Just kidding. That was my Kathleen Turner imitation. Didn’t you see
Body Heat
?”
“Uh, no.”
“It’s, like, my mom’s favorite movie. We have it on tape. You really should rent it.”
“For sure,” he scoffed. “Maybe we can all go see it sometime.”
They sat in silence. Kristen glanced out the window. It was completely dark now, inside and out, but her eyes had adjusted. “I’m kind of hungry.”
“I’d make you a sandwich, but the meat’s all gone.”
“Yuck. I hate bologna anyway. Got any more Froot Loops?”
“I bet Kathleen Turner doesn’t eat Froot Loops.”
“I bet she doesn’t eat bologna, either.”
They both smiled this time. A noise rumbled outside the house, loud enough to be in the yard. Kristen stirred. “What was that?”
He raised a hand, hushing her. He listened, but all was still. “Wait here.” Staying low, he cautiously approached the window, kneeling on one knee as he peered out over the sill.
A silent projectile hit the window, shattering it, raining glass upon them. Kristen screamed. Repo dove toward her, wrapping himself around her like a protective shield and covering her mouth.
“Quiet!” he whispered. They waited. All was still. He released her from his arms.
“What’s happening?” Her voice was hushed but racing with panic.
“Somebody’s shooting at us. With silencers.” He pulled his gun from his jacket and quickly slid on his knees to the other window. Slowly he raised his head above the sill. It was brighter outside the house than in, which enabled him to see clear across the lawn. He looked toward the driveway but saw nothing. The sidewalk was clear. He rose higher in his crouch, still on his knees. He
kept his head behind the wall as he strained to see the front porch.
The glass shattered, again in silence. Repo was knocked to the floor, landing on his shoulder with a heavy thud.
Kristen screamed as she cowered in the corner. Repo scrambled toward her. His left arm protruded like a broken wing. He slammed against the wall beside her, groaning with pain.
Tears streamed down Kristen’s face. “Why are they shooting?”
Repo stretched his shoulder, fighting the pain. “Doorbell must be broken.”
His humor landed flat. Then she saw the blood. “You’re shot!”
He bit his lip. The pain was excruciating. “Hollow point ammunition,” he said, speaking more to himself. “These bastards mean business.”
Kristen curled into a tight little ball, quivering as she spoke. “They’re going to kill us. We gotta get out of here!”
“Stay down,” he said. He struggled to his knees, then maneuvered back toward the window. He gripped his pistol tightly. “I have twenty-one bullets in here. I’m going to fire them off, almost like a machine gun. As soon as I start shooting, you crawl as fast as you can on your hands and knees for the back door. No matter what happens, just keep on going and don’t look back.”
She looked up. Her face was frozen with fear.
“You hear me?” he said. “Just keep on going.”
She took quick and shallow breaths, on the verge of hyperventilation. “Okay,” she nodded.
Repo nodded back. “On three,” he said. “One. Two. Three.”
He hurled a leather bag through the window
to shatter the remaining glass, then jumped to his feet and started firing like a gunslinger. The shots cracked in quick succession from his semiautomatic pistol. Kristen sprinted on hands and knees toward the kitchen, glancing back only once to see Repo tumbling back and his gun flying in the air. He hit the floor hard and grabbed his bloody hand.
“Repo!”
He rolled toward her, grimacing in pain. “Just go!”
His right hand was a shattered mess. He grabbed the gun with his left hand and cleared away a hunk of his own flesh and bone from the trigger hole. He jumped back to the window, firing again in rapid succession. As the shots rang out, Kristen got up from her knees and sprinted for the back door, too frightened to look back.
Another precision shot hit Repo in the left hand. He cried out as the gun flew from his hand and skidded on the floor. It landed in the middle of the room. Repo looked toward the kitchen. The back door was open and there was no sign of Kristen. He checked his bloody hands. They were useless, both of them. He kicked his leg out like a hook, trying to curl the gun toward him. Another shot from nowhere hit him in the foot. He recoiled as two more quick shots hit the gun in quick succession, sending it skidding across the room, well out of his reach. Repo shuddered. The shooter was a pro.
He rolled to the corner, leaving a thick trail of hot blood. The pain from each of his four hits was coalescing into a full-body numbness. He lay flat on his back, helplessly staring at the ceiling.
He heard footsteps pounding on the wood floor, but he lacked the strength or the will to turn his
head and look. Suddenly the marksman was standing over him, a black silhouette in the darkness. His deep voice echoed in the empty room.
“Did you really think you could run away, Repo—that I would never find you?”
Struggling, Repo raised his head an inch from the floor. He could barely see, but he knew the voice.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes, bracing for the worst.
Harley Abrams gave a hand signal from the field across the street. With a flip of the switch, a battery of fifteen-hundred-watt floods lit up the yard and the front of the house. Patchy fog sparkled in refracted light, giving the scene a mystical shroud.
The porch light switched on, but there was no other sign of motion from within the house.
Snipers readied themselves in trees and on rooftops surrounding the house. SWAT members lay in the grassy ditch across the street and in the back, behind the hedge. Harley picked up the microphone and switched on the loudspeaker.
“This is the FBI,” he said, his voicing blaring at the brightly lit house. “You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
Trigger fingers twitched in the edgy silence. Generators hummed with power for the lights, the only sound in the neighborhood. Fog swirled up from the ground in slow motion, making the wait seem even longer.
Harley reached for the microphone, then stopped. The front door opened. Harley announced, “Keep your hands above your head.”
A man came out first. He stepped tentatively onto the porch, nervously thrusting his arms in
the air. A woman followed with a young girl at her side.
The SWAT team raced across the lawn, pointing their automated rifles. “Down, down, everybody down!” they ordered. The petrified family fell to their knees, then flat on their stomachs in the dew-covered grass. The SWAT leader put a gun to the man’s head and another grabbed the girl. Five others burst through the front door and into the house. Another team raced in the back. Harley ran to the suspect in the lawn. Up close, it was plain to see the man wasn’t white.
“Where’s the white guy?” the SWAT leader demanded.
The man was shaking. “There ain’t no white guy.”
“Where is he?!”
Another man in SWAT gear rushed from the house, bounding down the front steps. “House is clear. No suspect.”
Harley glanced at the young girl. She was African American and probably twelve or thirteen. But she definitely wasn’t Kristen Howe. He took a closer look at the man in the grass. He, too, was African American, but his skin was lighter than his wife’s and daughter’s. The deputy sheriff had obviously mistaken him for white.
“It’s not them. We’ve got the wrong place.”
The man lifted his face from the lawn and looked up angrily. “Damn straight you got the wrong house. I’m gonna sue your Nazi asses.”
Harley looked away, running a hand through his hair with exasperation. “Just what I need,” he said, groaning.