He turned to Allison, who was still crouched with him in the walkway. Her eyes looked glazed.
“You with me?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Okay. Once we’re out of here, run straight across the mezzanine to those conference rooms. It shouldn’t take us more than fifteen seconds-half a minute, tops.”
Allison looked at him. “That’s going to leave me a moving target, Ryan.”
Kealey regarded her steadfastly. “No, it isn’t.” He shrugged a shoulder, slipped off one of the MP5Ks he’d taken from a fallen gunman. He tugged open its folding stock. “You see how I’m holding this?”
She nodded slowly.
“Once the stock’s extended, it locks into place. If you have to fire, brace it against yourself, like so.” He demonstrated, pushing the stock against his upper arm. ”Keep one hand around the grip, the other around the foregrip. Your fingers should be rigid, but don’t squeeze. It’ll help prevent the gun from jerking.”
She nodded slowly as he gave the weapon to her. She held it as he’d shown. “Is this right?”
“Yeah,” Kealey said, his eyes intent.
He was thinking that Allison appeared to be in good shape, certainly strong enough to handle the weapon. Other than with the M60 machine gun, he’d never found kickback to be a major consideration, and even that hadn’t been too bad. She would have no chance to get used to the weapon’s feel and was apt to miss a lot. The advantage of an assault weapon was that it would give her more opportunities of not missing than a pistol.
“You’ve got a full magazine,” he went on. “That’s thirty rounds. The selector’s set for three-round bursts. If you have to fire, pull the trigger with your fingertip. Don’t wrap your finger around it like you’re scratching. You want to maintain a light touch, and you want to keep the weapon as steady as possible.”
Allison nodded again. She had already slipped the MP5K’s strap over her shoulder, in a practiced motion that made it seem like a handbag. Now she was looking over the gun with what appeared to be rapt revulsion. It was a strange expression.
“Guess I should have taken some firearms training,” she said.
“You can start tomorrow,” Kealey said. He was checking the dial of his watch again. The second hand had just crossed the one-minute mark. “Last thing, Allison. When we move, bend as low as you can. In any case, keep your head down. That’s coming out of the walkway and on the mezzanine. Got it?”
Allison nodded. She looked down at the phone, which she held in her left hand. Even knowing that both the cell and his watch were set by radio transmitter, Kealey had made sure they were in time-standard sync. Every moment would be crucial.
He started counting down at a whisper. “Five, four, three, two
…”
At the zero mark Allison touched her finger to Colin’s one-touch call listing, raised the phone to her ear, and listened for the first ring. Then she dropped the phone into her purse, the connection with her nephew left open.
They sprang to their feet, Kealey sidling his MP5K with his right hand and gripping Allison’s forearm with the other as they launched themselves onto the mezzanine and went racing over the wide-open hell of the exhibition hall.
Colin Dearborn had scuttled to his right, still crouching, and thrust his phone deep in the pot of an artificial silk Ruscus tree. It was the nearest of the four trees that lined the wall. Then he scuttled back, putting as much distance between himself and the ceramic container as possible. He froze as soon as the guard at the door turned back to look across the room. It was a routine pass, nothing suspicious in the set of the man’s head, shoulders, or weapon.
No one had moved for as long as they had been here, not even when Colin made his little crab move. Most of the people were either sobbing or praying, aware of nothing but their own immediate space and the disposition of the guards at the door.
The first power chords of “London Calling” by the Clash chopped rhythmically from his cell phone, the bass line sliding into them as their volume swelled and the vocals broke through on a heavy, crashing downbeat:
London calling to the faraway towns,
Now that war is declared-and battle come down…
His assault weapon snapping upward in his hands, the guard inside the room vaulted from the door toward the mass of prisoners huddled toward the back of the room. There was a surprised, befuddled expression on his face. His gaze darted across the sea of mostly bowed heads, swept over them, settled on the tree even as the door flew wide open and a second masked killer came charging in from the hallway.
The music went on for thirty seconds before it cut off and his aunt’s incoming call was transferred to voice mail. By then the masked guards had pushed through the group and were pulling up the fake Spanish moss in the pots, flinging it madly across the room. It took them just seconds to find the phone-not long, but long enough he hoped. Kealey certainly couldn’t have expected more. He had to know Colin’s options were limited.
Now that he thought of it, though, Colin realized it was more than just the few seconds he’d bought. It was the time it took for the guards to come through the crowd, find the phone, look at it, and start to try and figure out who it belonged to. During that entire time, he, Colin, had taken four eyeballs off the corridor to help enable whatever Kealey was planning.
His heart was pounding hard. Sweat rolled down his pants legs. Each instant seemed stretched-not taut but loose, drooping, like Silly Putty-as he wondered if this… no, this… no this was going to be the last second of his life.
The first guard whipped around and held the cell phone aloft to show it to the gathered hostages.
“To who this belong?” he shouted in broken English. “Who?”
His stomach a band of tension, Colin remained squatting in fearful silence. His brain ticked off the added seconds he was buying Kealey.
“ Who? ” repeated the masked man. Gripping the phone hard, waving it in the air, shaking it furiously in the air. “ Tell me! ”
If anyone had a suspicion, they were too afraid to voice it. Or maybe it was courage, a last act of defiance. Colin didn’t know.
Jesus, he thought. You’re writing tweets in your head.
With a gruff oath, the other guard said something to the man with the phone. It was in a language Colin did not understand. He didn’t have to. He knew what they were doing. The men were to his right. Colin rolled his head slowly in that direction.
They were pressing buttons on the phone. The men might not be able to read the tweets or figure out real names from Twitter accounts, but there was one language he knew they would understand.
They were going through his photos. Colin estimated there were two dozen pictures of him stored in the album, shots in which he was posing with a smile, which might as well be a giant bull’s-eye.
More seconds were passing. Each one was a small triumph for Colin, but he knew they were running out. He pulled in a breath, hoping it would settle him, but he was beyond any semblance of calm. His legs were shaking, barely able to support him. He shifted to his knees. The men were so intent on the phone, they didn’t notice. He looked at the door, wondered what his chances were of getting there, over and around his fellow hostages, before the guards could fire. The likelihood was probably real small, but he knew he did not want to die here, doing nothing except perspiring into his Nikes.
He was wondering how much longer he could hold himself together when he heard the commotion, a sudden uproar in the corridor. The noise was like fresh air blowing into the room. He heard a radio crackle on one of the men, heard the masked men move, saw them step on hands and bags on their way to the door, bringing their guns around with them.
It was only as the shooting started that he realized he still hadn’t exhaled.
Kealey saw the stairs leading to the third floor as they emerged from the walkway. They were straight ahead. He ran with his shoulders rolled forward, his chin tucked into his chest, and his legs working like pistons, the way he’d once run through simulated cross fire on the training courses at Fort Bragg; the way he’d run through the war-blasted streets of Kosovo, loaded down with weapons and 150 pounds of combat gear, dodging sniper rounds
