“We could use a layout of this place,” Kealey said. “See if you can pull one off its Web site.”
She nodded and tapped the screen with her thumbs. Waiting, watching for anyone who might emerge-an escaped hostage was his main concern-Ryan heard screams below him and then the rattle of an automatic weapon. It was the third peal of gunfire since he’d taken out the two masked gunmen.
Any one of them could have involved Colin.
“Okay,” Allison said now. Her voice was cracked, her hand trembling as she passed him the phone. Kealey took a moment to hold her hand as he took the phone. She hadn’t lived through Bosnia and other hotbeds of genocide. If he couldn’t block out the violence, how could she be expected to handle it?
Kealey studied the display. There were separate diagrams for each level of the building, all viewable as PDF files and nearly as detailed as architectural blueprints. A glance at the third floor immediately showed where to find the food area and the block of conference rooms. Better yet, it gave the individual locations and door numbers.
“The room where they brought Colin is on the southeast side of the building,” he said and touched a finger to the display. “Right across from that church we passed. What was the name of it?”
“Old Otterbein,” Allison said.
For her own sake, he needed to keep her involved in this. He held the floor plan out to her now, pointing at the long block of conference rooms on the floor above them.
“Looks like there’s a public space, then a hall running off it to the conference rooms,” he said. “It’s going to be guarded. The hostages, too, as Colin said.”
“How do we get by them?”
“There are elevators running up there, but we have no way of knowing if they’re working. That leaves the escalators and stairs about midway down the length of the mezzanine.”
He pointed them out, and she nodded.
“We’re going to need a distraction,” Kealey said. “Something to draw their attention from us.”
“I can-”
“Inside,” Kealey said. “We need to draw the guards in. ”
She looked up at him. “No,” she said as she realized what he was saying. “I won’t ask my nephew to risk his life.”
“It’s already at risk. The hostages are going to be killed if nothing’s done.”
“Maybe not. They haven’t, yet-”
“It’s a tactic,” Kealey said. “I’ve been timing the shots. They’re killing people every three minutes. If I’m keeping track, the police are, too. The killers are trying to rush the rescue effort, give the police less time to get organized.”
“Ryan, who… what kind of creature thinks like that?” She realized what she had said a moment later. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I didn’t mean that you-”
“Not important,” he said. “Twitter updates. Can any account holder read them?”
“Unless I block somebody, they’re public.”
“Is there a quick way to track updates on a particular subject?”
Allison nodded. “There are hashtags-number signs before a word that categorize the tweet.”
“So if you tag the words ‘Baltimore Convention Center,’ then somebody looking for updates about it would see them?”
She nodded again.
Kealey paused thoughtfully. “I want you to send Colin a post. Tag it the way you described.”
“But if someone hears-”
“I want them to,” Kealey said. “Trust me, Allison.”
They heard another spurt of gunfire down below. It dramatically underscored the need for haste.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s the message?”
After reviewing it in his mind-and aware of the trigger he was about to pull-he gave it to her.
Colin Dearborn was sitting against a wall, in a corner, surrounded by sobbing, dust-covered, terrified fellow hostages. The air was thick, and the mood was even heavier.
They had all heard the shots and the screams. They knew those weren’t SWAT teams giving or receiving.
Colin’s cell phone was on vibrate, hidden down the front of his boxers. When he felt the rhythmic buzz of a push notification, he knew there was only a small chance that it was something important. More than likely, it was one of his friends checking to see if he was all right.
But it could also be his aunt Allison with important information.
He passed his eyes around the room. The guard who’d entered with his group had turned almost entirely toward the open door to converse with another masked lunatic in the hallway. If he was quick, Colin believed he could reach for the phone without being seen. He’d done it once already, albeit when they were still standing.
There were walls behind him and to his right. To the left, no one was paying him any attention. The young man quickly unbuttoned his waistband and slipped his hand into his trousers.
Grabbing the cell, he worked it awkwardly from his undershorts and tucked it between his bent legs. He huddled down, as though he were resting his head on his knees. That would also help to conceal the glow of the screen. Then he focused his eyes on the display and scrolled down his timeline with his thumb. At the top of his feed, he read the words:
Leave yr phone somewhere w/vol LOUD. In 5 min. it will ring, DO NOT answer. #BaltimoreConventionCenter // Stand by.
Colin felt his stomach drop. He clutched the phone for several seconds more, rereading the message.
Pressure, he thought.
There was no way of knowing what their captors would do if they heard the cell.
Shoot into the group of twenty-odd souls? Take him out and execute him as an example to the others?
She wouldn’t have sent that message without good reason, he reflected. And it wasn’t a stretch to conclude that it had something- no, everything — to do with Ryan Kealey. It was no secret on the university campus that the visiting prof was former CIA, and even that didn’t begin to define what set him apart from the other academicians there. Colin had read news articles about his role in preventing a terrorist incident near the United Nations a few years back. From the day they met, Colin had gotten the sense he had seen things most people hadn’t, and was capable of doing things most others weren’t.
But there was always a price for action.
Colin exhaled until his lungs felt entirely deflated. He estimated a full minute had passed since her tweet. Four minutes left to figure this out. Allie had hashtagged the words Baltimore Convention Center. That told Colin she-or rather, Kealey-believed the tweets were being monitored. Obviously, Kealey had given this some thought. He had a plan. He knew what he was doing.
Or so Colin needed to believe, if he was going to disobey the commands of his seriously unbalanced keepers.
He looked around him. The spare decor didn’t afford many places of concealment, even for a small object, but he thought he saw one that might do the trick.
Making certain the guard was still turned toward the door, Colin made his move.
CHAPTER 8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Facing the Pentagon from the green, tree-clustered slopes above Bolling Air Force Base, the Department of Homeland Security’s vast new 4,500,000-square-foot facility occupied federal land on the west campus of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington, D.C. All bald concrete and glass, it housed more than sixty DHS offices, which had been previously scattered across Washington, Virginia, and Maryland, though the vast majority had been relocated from the department’s original temporary headquarters at the historic Nebraska Avenue naval complex across town.
