“Son, you have a terrorist incident developing in your park,” Ruiz says. “What you need to do is bring me to Matthew Marcelin, and you goddamn need to do it now.”
Ruiz starts toward the entrance of the building, not quite running, but strides that force the guard into a jog to catch up, then keep pace. The man falls in, glancing his way, but doesn’t speak, and at the doors he’s there first, pushing them open and then running ahead, clearing the way. There’s a mural of the Flower Sisters looking sweet on the wall, cavorting with friends, and there’s a crowd in the lobby, executives milling around. Ruiz suspects that the building is being cleared, security protocol, perhaps, fear of another attack or a response to the biotoxin threat.
A threat that is unequivocally false, Ruiz is now certain. The security guard is holding an elevator for him, and he steps in, finds Jerome Wallford inside on his phone, sport coat and slacks and mop of blond hair, looking ten years younger than Ruiz knows he is. Wallford acknowledges him with something like a nod, the guard reaches around, presses a floor, then backs out. Doors close.
Wallford covers the mouthpiece of the phone, still at his ear, with a hand. “You confirm mobile in the park?”
“I have two shooters in the open, they have engaged and neutralized one element. The botulinum-”
“Bullshit, yeah.”
“They lost contact with your girl.”
“
“Shooting down the balloon.”
Wallford lowers the phone, scowling. “Twitter, Facebook, everyfuckingthing.”
“This won’t stay quiet.”
“It’s already not quiet, it’s already being shouted from the mountain. Media is en route both here and to the park.”
“My man says they’re taking hostages. Means something else is coming.”
“Something else is most definitely coming,” Wallford agrees. “The question is what.”
For a man trying to ride chaos, Ruiz thinks Matthew Marcelin is doing a damn fine job of not losing his head. He’s standing in his outer office, tie loosened and collar open, a Bluetooth in his left ear and a landline held to his right. When Ruiz and Wallford enter, he cuts off midsentence, staring at them.
“You I know,” Marcelin says to Wallford. “Him I don’t.”
“Colonel Daniel Ruiz. Master Sergeant Jonathan Bell belongs to me.”
There’s a heartbeat’s pause, and then Marcelin says the same thing to each of his phones, “Call you back.” The landline goes to one of the assistants standing in the room, the Bluetooth comes out of his ear, and Marcelin gestures to his office, moves to enter without waiting for them to follow.
Wallford shuts the door behind them once they’re inside.
“You bastards knew this would happen?” are the first words out of Marcelin’s mouth. “You
“If we knew it was going to happen, we’d have stopped it before it could start,” Wallford says. “Believe me.”
“You placed your man in my organization.” Marcelin points at Ruiz. “You knew something was coming.”
“Sir,” Ruiz says. “What we suspect and what we know at any given time are often, regrettably, radically different things. We suspected some sort of incident, and our analysis showed that in such an event, WilsonVille would be a priority target. How seriously we took the threat is measured by the presence of two of my very best people in your park, not to mention one of Mr. Wallford’s.”
Marcelin’s jaw clenches, as if to literally keep himself silent, and this lasts for several seconds as he processes what they’ve just told him, what he already knows, what he must now conclude. Outside the office, phones are ringing, voices overlapping.
“Doesn’t matter, not now,” Marcelin says, finally. “What can you tell me?”
“Bell confirms that the botulinum alarm was faked, we don’t know how yet.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruiz agrees. “However, he further confirms the presence of hostiles in the park, and that they are taking hostages.”
Any relief Marcelin feels vanishes. “How many? Do we know?”
“We do not.”
“What do they want?”
“Unknown. What I require from you is an accounting of your personnel working in the park today, and some means of confirming if they’re out or not.”
“What about the guests?”
“Personnel is the priority.”
“You think someone’s on the inside?”
Before Ruiz can answer, Wallford snorts. “Something like this? At least one, maybe more.”
That gives Marcelin pause, forces him to look aside as he digests the implications. He draws a breath, again bringing himself back to point, asks Wallford, “And where’s Porter in all this? He in on this with you?”
“Eric Porter is not part of my operation,” Wallford says.
“Operation.” Marcelin echoes the word, displeased by it, then moves to his desk, where he lifts the handset to his phone. Dials with an index finger, then adjusts his glasses with his thumb. “I need someone in personnel.”
Wallford takes the moment, turns half away from Marcelin, leaning in to Ruiz, says in a lowered voice, “The hit on this is going to be massive. This is minutes away from blowing wide. There’s not a corner of the globe isn’t going to hear about this.”
“Which is the only reason to do it. Why do it
Wallford glances to where Marcelin is still on the phone. “It was always the question. Unless there are an incredibly large number of hostages inside, suicide run at the front gates would’ve pulled a bigger body count. So it ain’t about the body count.”
“Someone’s making a statement.”
“A suicide bomb is a statement. And on American soil? What this is, this is a
Two-tone beep, and Ruiz puts a hand to his earbud, and even before he does, Wallford’s phone is demanding his attention, too. Coincidence is no longer in the offing, and Ruiz knows as he answers that whatever bad news is coming his way, Wallford is getting the same from a different source.
“Charlie Foxtrot,” the duty sergeant says with the same complacent calm as ever. “Hit the BBC first, but it’s spreading, CNN just got it. Video uploaded to YouTube, NSA is already onto it.”
“Tell me.” Ruiz picks up the remote control resting on the edge of Marcelin’s desk, points it to the flat screen on the wall. The television flicks on to the WilsonEnt channel-WE! — an animated sword fight between some rough-and-tumble pirate and a host of shambling one-eyed beasts. Begins flicking channels quickly, the line still open in his ear.
“Hostages, ultimatum, and demands,” the duty sergeant says. “Hostage numbers are unknown. Demands, as follows, quoting, ‘the release of all unlawfully imprisoned soldiers of God held at Bagram, Guantanamo, and those secret installations around the world.’”
“Soldiers of God?” He doesn’t look away from the screen, wondering just how many goddamn channels he’ll have to wade through before he can find anything like information. Marcelin has hung up his own phone, coming around the desk to his right.
“That’s the line, yes, sir.”
“Or else?”
“They claim to have a radiological device they will detonate if their demands are not met within twelve hours.”
“Direct quote?”
“Affirm. They’re giving us until just before midnight.”
The flicking pays off, a ticker running beneath a talking head who stands in front of a glowing world map, and
