“Crap. Where the hell did he put the keys?”
“You looking for these?” Flynn held a set of keys at eye level, and had a pistol in his other hand. “No one is going anywhere.”
Danya sighed. “Where’d you get the gun?”
“Under the seat in the pickup. Found it when I sent out an emergency call on the citizen’s band radio. And before you go getting any crazy ideas, I want you to know it’s loaded. One in the chamber, and a full magazine. I’ve been in the Bureau for almost thirty years, and I didn’t get this far by being stupid.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, good news. That airplane that crashed had a GPS tracking device. Standard precaution against theft. Suspected as much when Sacheen and Leonard stole it. To tell you the truth, I was surprised they didn’t think to disable it.”
“Lucky for us,” Danya said.
“Anyway, a team from the FBI office in Las Vegas is already en route, and should be here in a few minutes. Would’ve been here sooner, but it took some time for the plane theft report to work through the bureaucracy.”
Toby had come forward, uncertain why the FBI agent seemed to be threatening Danya.
“What does any of that have to do with us?” she said.
“For starters, I need statements from both of you.”
“Sure. No problem,” Toby replied.
“I’m happy to comply as well. But I’d like to retrieve my truck before someone vandalizes or steals it. You know, we,” Danya pointed between Toby and herself, “were both victims here. I was kidnapped this morning by men working for Sacheen and Leonard.”
“That’s a good point,” Flynn said. “Where is Leonard?”
Danya rolled her eyes, sensing where this was going.
“He’s, um…he’s at his house. Dead.”
She noticed Flynn’s grip tighten on the pistol, and he edged back a half-step, opening up more space between the two of them. A wise defensive move.
As the tension escalated, the sound of helicopter rotors beating the dry air drew everyone’s attention. The helicopter cut a tight circle around the hangar and then settled down in the middle of the runway. The rotor wash bathed Toby, Flynn, and Danya in dust and grit.
Four men sporting aviator sunglasses disembarked as the engine spun down. They spread apart, each armed with an M4 Carbine, and approached the trio. In Toby’s opinion, they could have been extras from The Matrix trilogy. Except, instead of being clad in ankle-length leather dusters, they were wearing dark-blue nylon windbreakers emblazoned with the letters FBI—just like the one Flynn was wearing.
“Hands up!” the nearest shouted. “Drop the weapon.”
They all complied. Flynn tossed the pistol to the side and then shouted back to be heard over the idling helicopter.
“My name is Andrew Flynn. Special agent in charge out of the San Francisco office. It was my team that tipped you off on the stolen Malibu Mirage.”
“Got any ID?”
“Inside my jacket.” He kept his hands elevated.
Staring into the business end of the military rifles was unnerving, to say the least.
“Left hand. Nice and slow. Take it out and toss it over here.”
Flynn followed the directions with meticulous care, and plopped the leather ID wallet in the dirt only a couple feet from the lead agent, who reached down and retrieved the wallet without lowering his weapon.
After examination, he said to Flynn, “Sorry, sir. I’m agent Harrison.” He extended the ID in his free hand.
Flynn lowered his hands and approached the agent. Toby and Danya interpreted the greeting as a thawing of tension, and lowered their hands, too, but remained in place. The other three FBI men kept their guns trained on the women.
“I don’t think there are any more threats here,” Flynn said to Harrison. “We need an army of technicians to scour this site for evidence. And a hazmat team out at the crash site. Probable radioactive material. Make sure they know so they take the proper precautions in securing the site once the fire is out.”
Harrison turned. “Did you get that, Davidson? You’ll need to call it in from the radio. No cell coverage here. While you’re at it, you and Kolinsky have the pilot fly out to the wreckage. Do a few circles and report on the situation. Especially if you see any survivors.” Then he turned back to the SAC. “How many were on that plane?”
“Only one. A woman. Sacheen Crow Dog. She was one of the leaders of the terrorist group that took over Alcatraz yesterday.”
Davidson and Kolinsky had climbed aboard the helicopter. As the engine powered up, Harrison issued another order.
“Sweeny. Check out the hangar, just in case the SAC missed any threats.” Harrison returned a lopsided smirk to Flynn.
Flynn ignored the good-natured jab. He was relieved to still be alive, and free of his captors. He’d been involved in several kidnapping cases during his multi-decade career with the Bureau. The victim was usually a child or a young woman. Less than half of those cases had a positive outcome. He’d always thought he could relate to the relief and joy the victims experienced upon being rescued. Only now did he truly understand.
“What’s the status on Alcatraz?” Flynn said. “I’ve been cutoff ever since they took me and Toby Riddle.”
Harrison looked past the SAC, to the vehicle.
“Which one is Riddle?”
“I am.” Toby raised her hand, earning a nod from the FBI agent.
He returned his attention to the senior agent.
“You missed the good news, then. Two hundred and seven civilians rescued. Only one was killed—an elderly woman. Shot by the terrorists. After you and Miss Riddle were taken away in the helicopter, someone cleaned house. The Coast Guard went in first, ready to kick some serious ass. But all the terrorists were dead. Don’t know who the shooter was, but some of the hostages reported it was a woman. Can you believe that? I mean, a woman? Really?”
“Yeah, I believe it. If I’m not mistaken, she’s sitting over there.” Flynn pointed
