Fire Point Page 22

  Standing there, trying to think of how to begin, Janet’s heart almost stopped beating as she saw one of the doors at the very top of the auditorium begin to open. She couldn’t see anyone, just the door slowly opening, half an inch at a time. She looked back at Gretchen, who was staring at her expectantly.

  ‘Do you want a general apology or one for how I treated you?’ she said to Gretchen.

  Gretchen smirked. She was clearly reveling in having the upper hand. ‘However you want to begin.’

  Janet cleared her throat as the door slowly swung shut. Gretchen’s head whipped round. There was no one there.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Gretchen said.

  Janet shrugged it off. ‘What?’

  Gretchen turned back round.

  Ryan Lock crawled on hands and knees along the back of the auditorium. As he’d been walking from the dorms he’d caught a glimpse of Janet being forced at gunpoint into the building by Gretchen. He’d already briefed LAPD dispatch about what he knew, and alerted them to the fact that he was also wandering campus with a Bushmaster assault rifle. The captain he’d spoken to had ordered him to drop the weapon and make his way out unarmed. Lock had politely declined. He had the feeling that, even if he survived this, Los Angeles might be off his list of places to stay for a while.

  Following Janet and Gretchen, and with no clear shot, he’d circled around, and found a way in through the rear entrance. At least this time he wasn’t outgunned.

  With the rifle in his hands, he crawled to the far end of the auditorium. The floor was carpeted, which cut down on the noise. He reached the far end. Ahead of him lay about twenty-five steps leading down. He scooted forward, and slowly began to crawl down.

  The rifle made it hard work. He had to use the edge of his hands, and his upper body and leg strength to stop himself losing control and tumbling forward.

  A short distance away now, he could hear Janet talking. From time to time Gretchen would interrupt her. It seemed to be some kind of enforced mea culpa.

  He tuned out the words and kept moving. He could hear the periodic crack of single shots from somewhere outside. He figured Krank, or someone else, was still out there wreaking havoc. He wanted to deal with Gretchen and get back out there. Though, from what the LAPD was saying, SWAT teams were close if not already on site, so maybe he’d be able to leave the mopping up to someone else.

  The decibel level between Janet and Gretchen began to rise. Lock tuned back in.

  ‘You really think this will change anything?’ Janet said.

  ‘You think I’d be doing this if I didn’t?’ Gretchen fired back.

  As they argued, Lock was reaching the front row. He stopped climbing down. He twisted his hips so that his body was lying directly across the step. He figured that if he moved fast enough he could have his rifle trained on Gretchen before she got to hers. He took a quick look, peering round the edge of the seating without putting his head over the top where he might be seen. Gretchen’s hands were at her sides. The rifle was lying on the desk.

  Moving into a squat, Lock held the rifle, ready to fire if he absolutely had to. He counted down in his head from three. As he counted he flicked the weapon to a three-round burst.

  On one, he stood up, swinging the barrel of the Bushmaster fractionally so that it was pointed it at her upper torso and head. Even with body armor, being hit at such close range would dump her on her ass.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he screamed.

  Janet started more than Gretchen did. While Janet let out an involuntary ‘Oh’, Gretchen stared at him, as if she had been expecting this sudden intervention all along.

  There was a long moment of silence. It was about to settle between them when Gretchen broke it: ‘What you gonna do if I move?’ she asked Lock.

  ‘Shoot you,’ he said, his tone completely flat. He wasn’t playing games. It was a statement of fact. ‘Raise your hands.’

  Gretchen turned her attention from Lock back to Janet. ‘This is on you, Professor,’ said Gretchen, as she reached down for the rifle.

  With the Bushmaster at his shoulder, Lock studied her face through the scope. ‘Don’t do it,’ he shouted at her.

  She picked up the rifle. Lock fired.

  89

  In the skies above Barnes College, several helicopters circled over the scene. The big rig truck was still parked at the bottom of the hill, completely blocking the main access to the college. Dersh’s dead body lay to one side of the cab. A Malibu sheriff’s deputy was talking to the driver, trying to keep him calm as they waited for a trained LAPD negotiator to arrive and take over supervision of the scene. Meanwhile, a small convoy of medical, firefighting and law-enforcement vehicles sat in a bottleneck, waiting.

  There was not only the matter of the explosives collar around the driver’s neck. The last person who had tried to approach the cab had been taken down by a sniper who had since fallen silent. Members of an LAPD SWAT team scoured the nearby hills with field glasses, trying to get a glimpse of the sniper, but the smoke and fire made it a thankless task.

  A hulking African-American man was shouldering his way through the crowd. Dressed in jeans, boots, a black tactical vest and a light jacket, he pushed his way to the front.

  Moments later, he was walking toward the cab of the truck. A couple of deputies screamed at him to stop. Eyes shielded by Oakley sunglasses, he dutifully ignored them as he hopped up onto the running board of the cab. One of the deputies ran after him.

  Ty Johnson stopped and looked at him. The sweep of his gaze took in the deputy and everything around him.

  The deputy flipped open a pouch and took out his Taser. ‘I told you to stop,’ he barked.

  Ty lowered his Oakleys. He peered over the top of them with the look of a weary college professor. ‘Officer, this here’s Malibu not Missouri. You shoot a black man here, the white folks will lynch you. And, in any case, I’m about to save your ass. Now why don’t you put away that little stun gun and help me move this thing so we can get those kids up there out before they burn to death?’

  The deputy lowered the Taser. ‘We can’t move it. The driver’s booby-trapped.’

  ‘I seriously doubt those are explosives, but it ain’t my head about to get blown off so let’s err on the side of caution,’ Ty said. He waved one huge hand toward the big rig. ‘This here is a tractor-trailer. Correct? Clue’s in the freaking name.’

  Ty opened the cab door.

  Quickly taking in the jerry-rigged nature of the cell phone taped to the dash, the explosives collar confirmed his first thought. There was no way this was a credible IED. He’d seen enough of them overseas to know. But law enforcement couldn’t risk it. Ty wasn’t law enforcement.

  Judging by the state of the driver, ripping the collar straight off might kill him with a heart attack, even if the collar didn’t blow his head from his shoulders.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said to the driver. ‘Don’t move. Don’t do shit unless I tell you. You’re going to be fine. And if you ain’t then I’m going with you. You feel me?’

  The driver, who looked on the point of collapse, nodded.

  ‘What’s your name, partner?’ Ty asked.

  ‘Bill.’

  ‘Okay, Bill. My name’s Tyrone. Now, first step, I want you to look at me.’

  The driver turned his head to look at Ty. Ty could see a couple of wires poking out from the padding of the collar. Two straps were keeping it in place.

  ‘Bill, do I look like a man with a death wish?’ Ty said.

  ‘You’re in here,’ said Bill.

  Ty smiled. ‘That’s good. You have a sense of humor. That’s an excellent start. But, let me tell you, I have absolutely no desire to die today. You don’t either. But if we can’t move this big rig and let these good folks through properly then a lot of kids up on that hill there aren’t going to see tomorrow.’

  Ty reached a hand up and started to loosen one of the straps.

  ‘
What are you doing?’ said Bill. He reached his free hand over to push Ty away. It didn’t work. Ty was solid muscle.

  ‘Bill, I’m doing what the cops can’t,’ said Ty, working on the second strap. ‘I don’t think there are any explosives here.’

  He freed the second strap. The collar was loose around the driver’s neck. Ty reached both hands up to pull it apart. If it was going to go, it would probably be now.

  Either end of the collar was separated. As gently as he could, he began to lift it away from around Bill’s neck. Bill had closed his eyes.

  Ty held the collar in his hands. He looked down at it. So far, so good. He reached over and laid it on the seat next to Bill. Digging out his Gerber knife, he set to work freeing the driver’s hand, which had been duct-taped to the wheel.

  Bill had opened his eyes. His body was still rigid with fear. Ty finished stripping out the tape. He reached back over and picked up the collar. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take this outside, and when I’m a hundred yards away, I need you to move this big rig so that the road’s clear. Think you can do that for me?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bill, his eyes still focused on the collar.

  ‘Attaboy,’ said Ty. He pushed the cab door open with one foot. Holding the collar in both hands, like it was a precious Ming vase, he slowly began to climb out.

  His feet hit the running board. He stepped back down, the collar in his hands. He could see that the cops surrounding the big rig had lowered their weapons. It was a small mercy.

  One step at a time, Ty began to walk toward the grassy slope. Behind him he could hear the rumble of the big rig’s engine turn over.

  As he walked, he counted out his steps. When he hit eighty, he squatted down, and laid the collar gently on the grass in front of him. He turned to see the big rig back up, and swing round.

  Ty stood up and walked back toward the nearest patrol car, his hands raised, palms open. He had just reached it when there was an explosion behind him. The blast wave pushed him forward onto the hood of the patrol car. Dirt and debris flew into the air. Ty rolled over the hood. He came to rest, face down, kissing the blacktop.

  Getting back to his feet, he did a quick visual inspection. Everything was there. Arms and legs were all accounted for. He didn’t appear to be bleeding. His left knee was sore, but that was about it.

  The explosion had punched a hole in the side of the trailer. Deputies ran toward it, helping the driver down from the cab. One of them took over, inching the big rig away.

  Ty stood up, a little shaky on his feet. He looked at the hole in the ground where the collar had been. Where, only a few moments ago, he’d been standing. There was a ringing in his ears from the explosion. His legs felt shaky. He kept staring at the hole. After another few seconds he opened his mouth to speak: ‘Motherfu––’

  90

  Krank stalked down the wide, carpeted corridor. A sudden flash of movement in a doorway stopped him cold. He brought the Bushmaster, freshly reloaded with a new clip, to his shoulder. His finger settled on the trigger.

  He had lost contact with Loser and Gretchen. He assumed they were dead. That left him as the last man standing. It felt good, though he had yet to meet any real resistance. In one classroom a male professor, a man in his sixties, had charged at him with a pocket knife. The old guy had balls. Krank admired him. But when the moment came, he still shot him dead. Then he had killed the half-dozen young women hiding in a supply cupboard at the back of the class.

  Edging slowly down the corridor, Krank listened carefully for sounds of movement behind the door. It was rare that he had entered a completely silent room. There was usually at least one person whispering into their cell phone, or just plain crying.

  He reached the door where he thought he had seen someone a few moments before. It was partially open. He took a step back, raised his foot and kicked it.

  The room was smaller than the other classrooms. It held four low tables arranged in a rectangle. There was an electronic whiteboard and a desk at the front. He didn’t see anyone at first. Then, as he walked in and looked round, he saw someone’s leg poking out from behind the desk.

  Krank walked slowly to the other side of the desk. A young African-American woman with corn-rows was lying behind it with another young woman. The other woman had sandy-blonde hair that was cut short and spiked with gel.

  Pointing the gun at them, Krank ordered them to stand up. They looked at him blankly. Fear seemed to have paralyzed them. It didn’t look like willful disobedience but, as far as he was concerned, the result was the same.

  He took aim and shot the white girl with the short blonde hair in the chest. The African-American girl screamed. The blood spattered across her face. From nowhere, she launched herself at him.

  Before he had a chance to react, her long nails had raked across his face, almost catching one of his eyes. He jabbed the barrel of the gun forward as hard as he could. It hit her in the throat. She stumbled backwards, choking and gasping for air.

  Krank flipped the rifle around, and hit her in the face with the butt. He heard a crunch as the blow fractured her cheekbone. She fell to her knees.

  He was still holding the hot end of the gun with gloved hands as a figure appeared in the doorway. The man standing there was white, a little over six feet, with a muscular build. Unlike everyone else Krank had encountered, he didn’t look scared – far from it. He was staring at Krank with a cold, calculating hunger. In his hands, he held the exact same Bushmaster rifle that Krank had. He raised it, and aimed straight at Krank.

  Krank ducked down. He heard the bullet whizz over his head and smash the window behind him. Glass flew everywhere.

  Raising the rifle above his head, Krank fired blind toward the doorway. The covering fire gave him enough time to drop onto all fours and start to crawl toward the girl he’d just hit with the rifle.

  Reaching her, he grabbed her hair, and dragged her back toward him. She screamed in pain. His hand tightened around her hair and he pulled her on top of him. He dropped his rifle onto the ground, and went for his Glock.

  He unholstered it, and pressed the barrel into the side of her head as the man in the doorway appeared again. The man walked toward them. He stopped when he saw the gun pressed to the girl’s temple.

  ‘Back off,’ said Krank.

  The man lowered the barrel of his rifle. His finger stayed on the trigger. He stepped off to one side. He was closing the angle between them, making it hard for Krank to whip round and take him out with the Glock.

  ‘Further than that,’ said Krank. ‘And put that rifle down on the floor.’

  The man stared at him. Krank didn’t think he had blinked since they had first made eye contact. The one person Krank could recall with the ability to look at someone like that was Gretchen. There were chips of blue ice in the man’s eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ said the man. ‘I’ll step out into the corridor and then I’ll slide the rifle back through the doorway. I’ll let you get out of here, and I won’t fire. You have my word.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Krank asked.

  ‘You don’t,’ said the man. ‘But the longer you sit here the less chance you have of getting out. The more cops arrive, the lower your odds. The fires and the general mayhem actually give you a pretty good chance. Better than most shooters have had. What’s the point of making history if you don’t have a while to enjoy it?’

  Escape was not something that Krank had countenanced before. It had never been discussed. But with the others probably dead, it suddenly held an appeal. Even if Krank didn’t escape properly, he could spend years in the prison system. There would be intense media interest. He would be famous. That much was true.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Back out. Push the rifle and whatever else you got through.’

  The man nodded. ‘You got it.’

  ‘But I’m taking her with me,’ he said, pressing the barrel into her temple hard enough to make the g
irl squeal with pain.

  ‘Understood,’ said the man.

  ‘Okay,’ said Krank. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Still facing Krank, the man backed away to the door. He disappeared into the corridor. A few moments later, the rifle skidded its way across the floor, minus the clip.

  As a show of trust, it was good enough. Tightening his grip on the girl, Krank pushed her to the door. Despite her earlier resistance, she was too terrified to struggle.

  They reached the doorway. Krank made sure she was ahead of him as they inched out. He looked in both directions, expecting to see the man, but the corridor was empty.

  Ryan Lock stood inside a room three doors down from the classroom where he had found Krank. If he had been Krank, his first move after exiting the room would have been simple – use the girl for cover. Shoot Lock dead. Lock had something different in mind.

  He flattened himself against the hinge side of the door. He listened for Krank to exit the room with his hostage.

  Under ten seconds later, he heard movement. The girl was gasping for air. It sounded to Lock more like she was hyperventilating than being choked. Through the gap between the hinges and the door frame, he watched as Krank pushed her ahead of him to a fire-exit door. At the end of the corridor.

  Lock stayed where he was. Right now saving the girl with the corn-rows trumped his desire to kill Krank. Not that he didn’t want to kill him. He did. More than he’d wanted to kill many people who were already dead at his hand.

  That changed rapidly as Krank let go of the girl. He pushed her off to one side. She fell against the corridor wall. She slid down the wall, her hands covering her head.

  Krank raised his Glock and pointed it at her.

  91

  Lock moved around the door, his SIG up, his finger already on the trigger. Sweeping round the edge of the door, he fired a single shot in Krank’s direction.

  It went wide, slamming into the fire door. Krank spun round without firing at the girl. Lock held his position. His head and upper body were visible from around the door frame so that he would draw fire.