Authors: Lewis Perdue
Tyrone took the laptop back and set it on the console between the two front seats so they could both see. He tickled the laptop's touch pad and used it to center the cursor over an icon. The mouseover text appeared on-screen.
"Security camera. If we click on the link, it gives details."
"This like a webcam?" Jasmine asked.
"Just like. They have lots of cameras hooked on an internal network. Lots of places
are going to IP-based systems because they're cheap to build and can be programmed and implemented quickly."
"IP?"
"Internet protocols." He bent over the screen, working the cursor and keyboard. A moment later, the image of a deserted hallway appeared. "There!" Tyrone said triumphantly as he clicked from one camera image to another. His triumph lasted only seconds as a jerky video showed Brad Stone and Jack Kilgore being escorted by armed guards.
"Oh, God!"
Once through the hole in the barrel-cave wall, Rex pulled a tiny LED light from his pocket and squeezed the sides to illuminate what appeared to be a stairway landing. Directly opposite the hole, steps led up. To the right, stairs led down. Rex looked around and saw recent footprints in the dust going left. As a noisy posse gathered in the barrel cave, Rex made footprints to the right and the left, then scuffed up both sets before climbing up the stairs after Gabriel and Harper.
For all the good it would do, he thought. But what the hell, there was nothing else to be done.
He climbed rapidly, trying once to raise somebody on the radio, but the surrounding rock made that impossible. Just as well, he thought. Braxton's men obviously had Stone and Kilgore's radios.
"Sorry, Miss Anabel," Rex said under his breath.
"Do you hear somebody behind us?" Harper asked in a ragged whisper. "Hard to tell," Gabriel whispered as he half-carried the old doctor up the steps.
The restrained professionalism of Clark Braxton's security men surprised me. The handcuffs at my back were secure but not too tight, the grip on my arm firm but not uncomfortable. We arrived at an elevator as the doors opened and disgorged a big, beefy man with the face of an angry bull. The people holding us visibly stood straighter.
"You are so far out of line this time, Jack, you will never, ever take another breath as a free man."
Kilgore remained silent as the man stood back and adjusted his tie. "Take them up to the cellar," the big man said. "The General wants a word with them."
"You want us to notify local law enforcement, sir?" asked the man holding on to my biceps.
"I'll handle the county mounties when the time comes."
"Sir?" a voice came from the rear. "Sanchez wants to know if you want to send a search party into that hole in the barrel-cave wall."
"Tell him to wait for Jim Clayton. He knows those old tunnels like the back of his hand."
I didn't like what I heard; I had learned too much. Names, other things I would not expect professionals to reveal in front of captives. Unless it wouldn't matter.
When the elevator doors closed, I imagined the sort of "accidents" that could happen when two soldiers as capable as Kilgore and I tried to escape.
"There they are." Tyrone pointed at the screen. "Heading to that elevator, which has a camera"—he cursored around, clicked on another icon—"right here."
Jasmine's fear transformed into abject sorrow as she watched Brad Stone step into the elevator and look right up at the camera.
"I love you," she whispered to his image.
* * * * *
Dan Gabriel stumbled up the pitch-dark stairs, half-dragging Frank Harper behind him. He stopped periodically to rest and to listen for sounds of pursuit. He pushed on upward in the dark until suddenly his face hit a barrier and he almost dropped Harper.
"What happened?" Harper whispered.
"Dead end," Gabriel replied. "Can you sit on a step?"
"Yes."
Gabriel closed his eyes against the despair, although he saw nothing less, no more,
with his lids open or shut, so complete was the darkness. Then, beyond the dead end, the sound of voices, footsteps. Gabriel ran his hand over the dead end, and under his fingers it felt like Sheetrock. Was there hope? He pressed his ear to the wallboard. Gabriel's hopes fell as he recognized the voice of Braxton's security chief. Then Jack Kilgore.
"We've got to do something," Gabriel whispered. "Even if it's a kamikaze charge, I can't just sit here and do nothing."
"Nothing—"
"Yes, Doctor, nothing is its own decision. They'll kill us if we sit here, so I might as well take somebody with me."
"What are you going to do? Charge through the wall like a madman and attack them with your bare hands?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"No," said Harper.
Then came an unknown voice in the darkness that sucker punched them both.
"I do."
"Oh, man, take a look at this."
The laptop screen showed rack after rack of wine.
"This must be the holy of holies," Tyrone said. "Millions of dollars' worth." "And he never drinks it." Jasmine shook her head. Tyrone clicked around. "There
must be ten… no, fourteen cameras in this room." Other than for different labels and neck capsules, most of the views looked mostly the same. The only ones different showed the elevator area and, the other, a brightly lit room with a view overlooking Napa Valley. The image showed the smoke rising from the hills behind them.
Jasmine looked over at the fire, then up at the window she figured must be the one on-screen.
Tyrone clicked back to the service elevator as the doors opened. He and Jasmine stared silently as guards escorted Stone and Kilgore out.
"Where's Rex?" Jasmine asked. Then a moment later: "I don't suppose you can save the video stream, can you?"
"I think maybe so. Why?"
"Great evidence."
Tyrone pecked at the keyboard.
"I'd like to make sure if anything happens… " Her voice cracked. "If something happens, I will nail that bastard's butt to a tree."
"Uh-huhmm," Tyrone said slowly "Please remind me not to get on your bad side."
Jack Kilgore and I sat cross-legged on the cool tiles of General Braxton's wine cellar. Giant, polished wooden racks reached halfway to the twenty-foot ceiling. They stretched the length of the space like library shelves, organized into rows and aisles running from the elevators at the back to a set of double glass doors at the front.
Two security guards stood behind us, and a third stood by the double glass entry doors guarding our walkie-talkies, firearms, and the rest of our gear piled on the floor. They all had semi-automatic pistols drawn.
We waited in the silence, listening to our own breathing and scanning the priceless wine I doubted I would ever taste.
Suddenly, a loud hammering and crashing rocked the side of the wine cellar to my right, somewhere beyond the carefully crafted, lovingly oiled tropical-hardwood racks.
"Damn!" Rex cursed amid the rattling of wine bottles; the rack to our right shuddered. From beyond the rack came the dull breaking noises of full wine bottles smashing on the tile floor.
The guard in front of us raised his pistol and followed the noise.
Then from behind: "What the hell?" Kilgore and I turned at the same time and saw one of our guards, pistol drawn, running toward the source of the noise. He disappeared around the far end of the racks nearest the elevators.
Then came a faint hiss and profound screams. Two wild gunshots followed. Above my head, geysers of red wine and glass erupted. I hit the floor; bottles exploded to my left. The guard behind us looked toward his partner. Kilgore struggled to his feet.
"Hold it!" The guard aimed his pistol at Kilgore. I seized his moment of distraction to swing my right leg around. I caught the guard's ankle in midstride, cutting his feet out from under him. He careened into the rack, snapping the neck off a wine bottle with the side of his head.
Amid a cascade of other bottles dislodged by his impact, the guard fired a single shot, then hit the floor hard. His shot hit the tile; the slug shattered and seeded the air with shrapnel. An instant later, the glass doors developed a web of spider cracks; to the right of the door, blood appeared on the guard's forehead. His hand went up instantly to explore the wound as the blood trickled down into his eyes.
I wrestled myself up as Kilgore kicked the fallen guard's pistol away.
"Brad!" Rex's voice sounded from beyond the wine racks.
"Rex?"
"Over here!"
Kilgore and I ran toward Rex as well as anyone can run with their hands cuffed at the small of their back. We bypassed the stunned guard on the floor, came around the corner, and nearly tripped over a guard on his knees, swaying back and forth as he screamed and rubbed at his face. The smell of bear repellent surrounded him and brought tears to our eyes. His gun lay on the floor and I kicked it.
At the far end of the long wine rack, Rex and Dan Gabriel manhandled the guard with the wounded forehead to the floor and bound him with his own cuffs. Rex then squatted dawn, using the wine racks as cover, and peered toward the double glass doors. Gabriel picked up the man's pistol and ran toward us.
About halfway between me and Rex, I saw an old man I assumed was Frank Harper holding unsteadily to the sides of a jagged hole in the wall. He looked back and forth, following the action, smiling broadly and making deep approving nods. The head movements made him look like an elderly bobblehead.
"Jack!" Gabriel said as he slapped Kilgore on the shoulder, then me. You must be the Stone guy who started it all. Let's get you out of those cuffs." Swiftly, he grabbed the cuffs from the bear-sprayed guard and ratcheted them on the man's wrists. Then, without taking his eyes off the end of the long wine rack, he dug through the guard's pockets, retrieved the cuff key, and handed it to me.
"Unlock Jack for me, will you?"
I quickly unlocked Kilgore's cuffs, and he returned the favor.
"Bogey at your end!" Rex yelled. Then we heard him fire his pistol. Bottles exploded beside me. I lunged for the fallen guard's nearby pistol faster than Kilgore and came up with it at the ready. I fired a shot through the rack of wine at a shadow on the other side. More red wine and shattered glass.
I ducked as the man fired back. I was close enough to read the label on a bottle of 1897 Chateau Margaux when it erupted like a grenade. The air hung thick with the pricey aroma of collectible claret laced with the acrid notes of smokeless gunpowder. I'm pretty sure it's not a wine nose ever described by
The Wine Speculator.
Then more wine bottles went off like roadside bombs as the man fired wildly at us.
Kilgore moved to the end of the rack nearest the elevators. He pulled a bottle from the rack and pantomimed that he would throw it over the top as a distraction. He motioned me to join Gabriel at the other end. I ran carefully, to avoid slipping on the spilled wine and glass. My running steps drew more shots; more classified first-growth Bordeaux wine turned to glassy slush.
As soon as I joined Gabriel, Kilgore lobbed the bottle over the top.
When it hit the floor, Gabriel and I came around and saw the third guard, his face covered with blood, whirling toward the shattering of the wine bottle.
"Drop it! We don't want to hurt you," Gabriel shouted.
The guard froze, but did not drop his gun.
"Don't do anything stupid!" Rex yelled from across the cellar, where he had run to get out of our line of fire.
Kilgore motioned me around. I followed his direction and positioned myself so I had a third clean line of sight.
"Come on," Kilgore said more calmly now. "You are totally triangulated. Any one of us has a clear shot. Don't do anything foolish you might regret."
During his indecisive moment of silence, I felt my heart beating and listened to the dripping of wine. Then like lightning from a clear sky, came a voice I had heard many times on television.
"One might say the same of you, Jack!"
Clark Braxton's voice preceded a soft-crepe thunder that filled the cellar with the shuffling of SWAT-clad troops with M16s, soft-rubbersoled boots, and perfectly secured gear that had made no sound at all.
"Let's play our cards," Jasmine said as she turned away from the laptop screen. Tyrone hesitated, transfixed at the vision of Braxton and his body-armored security guards. Jasmine grabbed his sleeve and dragged him out of the pickup's cab. "Let's get airborne."
Tyrone and Jasmine connected the auxiliary wires and quickly got the first small aircraft off the ground. With her eyes on the small plane and her hands on the control joysticks, Jasmine sidled back to the cab of the truck.
"Now get the camera that looks out the window," Jasmine said. "The one which almost showed us." She looked up at the small aircraft. "Let me know when you see the airplane on the camera, then guide me in."
Dressed in a tuxedo and patent-leather shoes that threw off light like a mirror, Clark Braxton's face twisted itself deep and red with a fury rolling off him like a shock wave. His hands trembled at his side as he surveyed the enological carnage.
Braxton's big security chief stood at his side, silhouetted against the last orange hues of the smoke-stained sunset bleeding through the distant window. I had no doubt he and Braxton would use this as the escape attempt they needed as an excuse to kill us.
Braxton's fists and arms trembled as he surveyed the wreckage. His eyes passed through anger and fury, then began to reflect light in a manner that grew truly frightening.
Unaware of his boss's gathering rage, the big security chief barked orders at his men. At the corner of my eye, I saw Rex duck around the corner of the wine rack,
"Stop!" The security chief yelled after Rex and directed two of his men to pursue him. As the other troops fanned out and took our weapons, I heard Rex and Harper.
"Come on!" Rex said "Quick."
"No. You go."
"Move, Doc!"
"I'm too slow. You go."
"Hell!"
I heard the report of Rex's 9mm pistol followed by a three-round burst from one of the M16s, Then another 9mm shot.
"Damn! I'm hit," cried a voice. Not Rex's.
The security chief directed another man toward the action. "It's okay," called the wounded man. "My vest caught it."
Then another voice: "There's a hole in the wall. Shall I pursue?"
"Negative!" yelled the security chief. "It leads to the barrel cellar. We've got a man posted there. Stay here; make sure nobody comes out."
"Sir!"
Braxton knelt on one knee to examine a broken wine bottle as a guard dragged Frank Harper around the corner. Braxton stood slowly, looking at the broken wine bottle like a mother holding her dead child. His entire body pulsed with barely restrained power. Then he dropped the bottle and leveled a killing gaze at Harper.
"You lame, worthless, feeble piece of dog shit." Braxton's voice started faint and low like the preamble to a prayer, then rose in pitch and volume as Harper and his captor grew closer. "You traitorous old fool!"
"Yes, I am an old fool," Harper said. Braxton nodded and the guard halted next to the wine rack. "And I am a traitor for saving your life."
Braxton flew apart. "You damned fool! Look at the damage you have done!" The General swept an outstretched arm around the cellar. He turned then and pulled his security chief's sidearm from its holster.
The guard holding Harper leaped to the side as Braxton shot the old man in the face, slamming him back against the wine racks. The crack-shot former general shot Harper again as he slumped toward the tile. Harper died before he hit the floor.
Shock and disapproval registered in the eyes of the SWAT-clad men holding the rest of us. Killing innocent people was not part of a professional soldier's charter. The grip on my arm loosened.
"And you!" Braxton stepped away from his big security chief and leveled the man's own gun at his chest. "You were supposed to prevent this!" Dried spittle stuck like cotton to one corner of Braxton's mouth.
"But you let these amateurs ruin the perfection of the world's greatest wine collection! Just look at it now! It was complete and now… " Braxton trembled. Around the room, the security troops were stunned by the sight of the General and the security chief locked in mortal combat. Their training had never prepared them for this
"You ruined it, ruined it!"
When Braxton shot his security chief, Gabriel, Kilgore, and I broke for the hole in the wall. As we turned the corner, the two guards who had not seen the shootings raised their weapons. We ducked back around the end of the wine racks and saw Braxton standing over the head of his security detail as the man struggled to sit up.
Two of the guards moved toward the General as he aimed the gun down at the fallen man's head and pulled the trigger again. Behind us, we heard one of the guards move away from the hole in the wall, his boots crunching on the broken glass.
Then, from beyond the window, out where the sun had begun surrendering to darkness, a toy airplane bobbed toward us. I turned and took shelter at the base of the wine rack along with Gabriel and Kilgore.
The explosion rocked the cellar and filled the enclosed space with glass and wine.