“You tell me if he doesn’t exist. You were picked by him, that was what the Uzbek said. You were picked to do his work.” Vladimir takes a last pull, flicks the butt away.
Gabriel shakes his head. “I have never seen him, never heard him. Only ever was it the Uzbek. For all these years, only ever the Uzbek.”
Vladimir’s mouth works, lips together, frowning as he thinks. Looking out along the pathways again, and from the corner of Gabriel’s eye, he sees the man’s fingers open and close around the grip of his pistol.
“We betray these men, we will die.”
“We stay here,” Gabriel says, “we will die sooner.”
Vladimir grunts, perhaps in agreement.
“So what do we do?”
“We make a deal,” Gabriel says.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Southernmost wall on the Pooch Tunnel makes a noise like a soft clap, then almost immediately makes another, much louder. There’s a blast of rock and concrete dust, the roar of the detonation all the more deafening in the enclosed space, and even with his hands clapped over them, it’s enough to make Bell’s ears ring, to make his head begin aching all over again. Debris sprays and falls, leaving a cloud of mist and dust.
Cardboard steps through the breach. He’s geared, rig and harness over his blue jeans, top of an AC/DC T- shirt just visible above his vest, M4 in his hands, light from one of the fixtures kicking glare off his shaved head. Bonebreaker flows through right behind him, similarly heavy, his jeans black and his shirt the same color, moving like he’s following the steps of a dance. Both men give Bell a nod, and he returns it, then pivots and begins leading them back north, quick-stepping, not quite running.
“Always picking the best vacation spots, Top,” Bone says. He’s as tall as Bell, thinner, and about as white- boy as they come, blond and blue-eyed.
“Yeah, I know how to treat my crew right. Where were you?”
“Orlando.”
“You have eyes on?” Cardboard asks. Of the four, he’s the smallest, a barrel top on lean legs that seem too long for his body. “No change?”
“Situation is dynamic,” Bell says. “They’re taking out the cameras where they can. We have two of their radios, but they’ve cut commo, no traffic.”
“Moving the hostages?” Bone asks.
“What I’d do.”
“What we’d all do,” Cardboard says. “Need to move fast, then.”
“Like our asses are on fire,” Bell says.
They enter the command post, coming through the tunnel at the back of the Sheriff’s Office, then up the stairs. Amy is standing by the door when they enter, and both Board and Bone greet her by name. Bonebreaker moves immediately to the Spartan, but Cardboard stops in front of her, offers an apologetic smile.
“Been a while,” Cardboard says.
“You’ll forgive me, Freddie,” Amy says. “Not long enough.”
“Roger that,” Bonebreaker murmurs.
Bell puts a hand on his ex-wife’s arm. “You stay in this room, you need to stay quiet.”
“Don’t waste time.” She glares.
“I don’t waste time.” Bell turns to Nuri. “Where are we on the Spartan?”
“Just got it recalibrated.” Nuri has stepped out of Bonebreaker’s way, now bends past him, working the keyboard on the biochem monitor. “Sampling for radioactive material, but if it’s a dirty bomb, if they shielded the payload when it was assembled, it’s going to come back negative.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Gets worse,” Chain says. “Tangos have wised up. We’re losing our eyes fast.”
It’s not good news, but it was the news Bell expected. Whoever is calling the hostiles’ shots in the park, he’s not being stupid and he’s not planning on making things easy.
Bonebreaker moves from the Spartan to where Chain is sitting. “Isaiah.”
“Hey, Jorge.”
“Shoshana Nuri, Angel,” Bell says. “Sergeants Freddie Cooper and Jorge Velez, Cardboard and Bonebreaker, respectively. Now we’re done with the pleasantries. Let’s break this down.”
Bell steps to one of the terminals beside the surveillance bank, taps the keyboard, brings up the park map on-screen. Slides his index finger from their position to the northwestern quadrant of the park, settling on Fort Royal.
“Group One consists of seven hostages and two Tangos. Isaiah, show them.”
“Right here,” Chain says, swiveling in his chair to bring up another monitor, a paused video. He clicks and the image springs into motion, two men armed with MP5Ks pacing around a cluster of seven men and women, none of them children, thankfully, all seated in a bunch at the heart of the open courtyard. “They’re in sunlight, getting hot and tired and bored, from the look of it.”
Cardboard nods, almost imperceptibly.
“Group Two,” Bell says, moving his index finger south and even further west, almost to the border of the park. “Flashman Ranch, six hostages, two Tangos. Almost an identical setup.”
“You can see it here.” Chain taps keys, the video changing to show the interior of the Flashman Corral. “The approach here is harder, but there’s tunnel access, and before we lost the cameras it looked like they didn’t even know it was there.”
“Last group, Group Three.” Bell indicates Hendar’s Lair on the map. “Seven hostages, two Tangos. This one is mine.”
Bonebreaker clears his throat. “Top-”
“This one is mine,” Bell repeats. “We have identified eight hostiles at this time; we have three groups, and we have five shooters. There’s no way this breaks into even numbers. One of us is flying solo, that’ll be me.”
“Wait,” Nuri says. “Five shooters?”
Bell turns to her as the phone at the coms desk begins to ring. “You’re coming to the party, Angel.”
She shakes her head, grabs the phone.
“Jad,” Cardboard says. “Athena’s in Group Three, maybe you ought to let me and Chain take that one.”
“You think I’m going to miss?”
“Never on purpose.”
“Then state your objection, Sergeant.”
“If it was my little girl-”
“You’d be on point, Freddie, don’t bullshit me.”
Cardboard shrugs, and Nuri says, “Warlock?”
“I’m not arguing this,” Bell says to Cardboard, then turns to glare at Nuri. “If that’s Brickyard, you tell him we’re about to move.”
“It’s not Brickyard.” Nuri is holding out the handset to him, one hand over the mouthpiece. “He won’t identify himself. He’s asking for you by name.”
Bell stares at her.
“He says he knows where the bomb is,” Nuri says.
“This is Bell.”
The voice that answers is American, soft-spoken, male. Of the men he’s seen on the monitors, Bell wonders which it could be, if any of them. “Hello, Mr. Bell.”
“You know who I am.”
“I was in your office. You don’t really work for WilsonVille, do you?”
“No,” Bell says.
“I didn’t think so. Special Forces, maybe? Are you a SEAL, Mr. Bell? A Navy SEAL?”
