Suddenly, from up on the balcony above us, a rifle barked! The flat crack of the weapon echoed off the train station’s thick walls. This was a shooting gallery with human targets.
A woman screamed inside the America restaurant. I saw her go down hard as if she’d slipped on ice. Then there were lots of moans from inside the cafi
The firing stopped again. What the hell was he doing up there?
“Let’s take him out before he goes off again,” I whispered to Sampson. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter 11
OUR LEGS pumping in unison, our breath coming in harsh rasps, Sampson and I climbed a dark marble stairway to the overhanging balcony. Uniformed officers and a couple of detectives were crouched in shooting positions up there.
I saw a detective from the train-station detail, which is normally a small-crimes unit. Nothing like this, nothing even close to dealing with a sharpshooting sniper.
“What do you know so far?” I asked. I thought the detective’s name was Vincent Mazzeo, but I wasn’t sure. He was pushing fifty and this was supposed to be a soft detail for him. I vaguely remembered that Mazzeo was supposed to be a pretty good guy.
“He’s inside one of those anterooms. See that door over there? The space he secured has no roof cover. Maybe we can get at him from above. What do you think?”
I glanced up toward the high gilded ceiling. I remembered that Union Station was supposed to be the largest covered colonnade in the United States. It sure looked it. Gary Soneji had always liked a big canvas. He had another one now.
The detective took something out of his shirt pocket. “I got a master key. This gets us into some of the antechambers. Maybe the room he’s in.”
I took the key. He wasn’t going to use it. He wasn’t going to play the hero. He didn’t want to meet up with Gary Soneji and his sharpshooter’s rifle this morning.
Another burst of gunfire suddenly came from the anteroom.
I counted. There were six-just like the last time.
Like a lot of psychos, Soneji was into codes, magical words, numbers. I wondered about sixes. Six, six, six? The number hadn’t come up in the past with him.
The shooting abruptly stopped again. Once more it was quiet in the station. My nerves were on edge, badly strained. There were too many people at risk here, too many to protect.
Sampson and I moved ahead. We were less than twenty feet from the anteroom where he was shooting. We pressed against the wall, Glocks out.
“You okay?” I whispered. We had been here before, similar bad situation, but that didn’t make it any better.
“This is fun shit, huh, Alex? First thing in the morning too. Haven’t even had my coffee and doughnut.”
“Next time he fires,” I said, “we go get him. He’s been firing six shots each time.”
“I noticed,” Sampson said without looking at me. He patted my leg. We took in big sips of air.
We didn’t have to wait long. Soneji began another volley of shots. Six shots. Why six shots each time?
He knew we’d be coming for him. Hell, he’d invited me to his shooting spree.
“Here we go,” I said.
We ran across the marble-and-stone corridor. I took out the key to the anteroom, squeezed it between my index finger and thumb.
I turned the key.
Click!
The door wouldn’t open! I jiggled the handle. Nothing.
“What the hell?” Sampson said behind me, anger in his voice. “What’s wrong with the door?”
“I just locked it,” I told him. “Soneji left it open for us.”
Chapter 12
DOWNSTAIRS, a couple and two small children started to run. They rushed toward the glass doors and possible freedom. One of the kids tripped and went down hard on his knee. The mother dragged him forward. It was terrifying to watch, but they made it.
The firing started again!
Sampson and I burst into the anteroom, both of us crouched low, our guns drawn.
I caught a glimpse of a dark gray trap straight ahead.
A sniper rifle pointed out from the cover and camouflage of the trap. Soneji was underneath, hidden from view.
Sampson and I fired. Half a dozen gunshots thundered in the close quarters. Holes opened in the tarp. The rifle was silent.
I rushed across the small anteroom and ripped away the trap. I groaned-a deep, gut-wrenching sound.
No one was underneath the tarp. No Gary Soneji!
A Browning automatic rifle was strapped on a metal tripod. A timing device was attached to a rod and the trigger. The whole thing was customized. The rifle would fire at a programmed interval. Six shots, then a pause, then six more shots. No Gary Soneji.
I was already moving again. There were metal doors on the north and south walls of the small room. I yanked open the one closest to me. I expected a trap.
But the connecting space was empty. There was another gray metal door on the opposing wall. The door was shut. Gary Soneji still loved to play games. His favorite trick: He was the only one with the rules.
I rushed across the second room and opened door number two. Was that the game? A surprise? A booby prize behind either door one, two, or three?
I found myself peering inside another small space, another empty chamber. No Soneji. Not a sign of him anywhere.
The room had a metal stairway-it looked as if it went to another floor. Or maybe a crawl space above us.
I climbed the stairs, stopping and starting so he wouldn’t get a clear shot from above. My heart was pounding, my legs trembling. I hoped that Sampson was close behind. I needed cover.
At the top of the stairway, a hatchway was open. No Gary Soneji here either. I had been lured deeper and deeper into some kind of trap, into his web.
My stomach was rolling. I felt a sharp pain building up behind my eyes. Soneji was still somewhere in Union Station. He had to be. He’d said he wanted to see me.
Chapter 13
SONEJI SAT as calm as a small-town banker, pretending to read the Washington Post on the 8:45 A.M. Metroliner to Penn Station in New York. His heart was still palpitating, but none of the excitement showed on his face. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, striped blue tie-he looked just like all the rest of the commuter assholes.
He had just tripped the light fantastic, hadn’t he? He had gone where few others ever would have dared. He had just outdone the legendary Charles Whitman, and this was only the beginning of his prime-time exposure. There was a saying he liked a lot. Victory belongs to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake.
Soneji drifted in and out of a reverie in which he returned to his beloved woods around Princeton, New Jersey.
