While preparations for the assault were finalized, Jack continued to argue against the attack. “You have to give us more time to formulate a rational response,” he badgered Stone. “We can’t just blunder in there, guns blazing.”
“We have two of the most important women in the free world trapped inside that building,” Stone replied, his patience obviously wearing thin. “We have limited communication with the single agent protecting them through a temporary land line that might be cut at any moment. There’s no time for negotiation.”
A member of Stone’s team interrupted them. “Deputy Chief Vetters and the men from the fire department are here, sir.”
Three firemen swathed in heavy gear and helmets, stepped forward. Captain Stone faced the oldest of them, a ruddy-faced man with a gray moustache.
“I understand you’ve performed fire drills with the Chamberlain’s management, that you can open these steel fire doors.” He gestured to the schematic on a monitor.
Chief Vetters nodded. “We have the codes to open those doors. They’re both designated fire department entry points. But there are twenty-four other steel fire doors we can’t open.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stone replied. “We only need two doors. Your men are coming with us to work the locks. Then my SWAT teams are going in.”
Vetters did not appear happy with the plan, but he said nothing. The Fire Chief huddled with his men, then all three firemen moved toward a pair of armored assault vehicles outside. Jack followed Vetters to the vehicles, pulled him aside.
“Chief, you have doubts about this, like I do,” said Jack by way of introduction.
The Chief looked over Bauer, as if sizing him up. “As a rule, I don’t like armchair quarterbacks, and I have the Mayor telling me to obey Stone’s orders.”
“But?” Jack sensed there was one in there.
“But I was a Ranger in the First Gulf War, and this smells like a trap to me.”
Rather than return to the crowded command center. Jack stood side-by-side with Vetters, waiting for the operation to begin. When the black armored assault vehicles rolled down a dark, deserted four-lane avenue toward the luminous auditorium, Jack pulled out his mini-binoculars to better observe the action.
One vehicle circled around the Chamberlain and out of sight. The second rolled right up to the glassfronted facade, crashed through it a moment later to reach the fire door and the theater entrance behind it.
“There they go,” Jack informed the Chief. “Your man is out, flanked by the SWAT team. He’s at the fire door…It’s opening.”
The chatter of automatic weapons reached their ears before Jack realized what had happened. “Dammit!” Jack cried. “The SWAT team’s getting slaughtered. Your man is down. Wounded. Not dead. A cop’s grabbing him, pulling him clear. No, the cop’s down too.”
“Christ,” muttered Vetters.
Jack was about to lower the binoculars when he saw two civilians moving through the chaos, dodging bullets. A man and a woman. The man wore a dark suit, the woman was clad in an ivory evening gown. They raced out of the auditorium, hand in hand, using the armored vehicle for cover. But as soon as they reached the rear of the assault vehicle, the pair was pinned down by the hail of gunfire that poured out of the auditorium.
“Two people just escaped. They’re trapped out there,” Jack told the Chief. Scanning the street, Jack spied a third armored assault vehicle parked behind the command center.
“Come on, let’s go.” Chief Vetters was right behind him. As they crawled into the vehicle, Vetters placed himself behind the wheel.
“I commanded a Bradley fighting vehicle in Desert Storm. Same damn thing,” said Vetters by way of explanation.
The engine roared to life and they were off. The vehicle rolled on giant puncture-proof tires which gave it a much smoother ride than the tracked fighting vehicles both men were accustomed to. And it was fast. They reached the auditorium in under a minute.
Vetters stopped the assault vehicle behind the shot up one near the fire door. Jack popped the side hatch, saw the formally dressed man and woman crouched behind the meager cover. Sporadic gunfire still erupted, but Jack could see the fight was over— everyone from the assault team had been massacred.
“Come on!” screamed Jack. The pair didn’t hesitate. They bolted the five feet to the hatch, the woman making good time on high heels, the man rushing her along. They leaped through the door and Jack slammed the hatch with a clang.
Vetters swung the vehicle around as bullets pinged off the armor. Jack faced the newcomers — a young, attractive Chinese-American woman, and a Japanese-American youth with a digital camera dangling around his neck.
“Who are you?” Jack asked.
“Christina Hong, entertainment reporter for KHTV, Seattle. This is—”
“Lon Nobunaga. I’m a photographer.”
“You were both inside the auditorium,” Jack prompted.
The pair nodded. “I got there late,” the man replied. “I was sneaking in through a side entrance when everything started to go bad. I tried to get out, got trapped in the lobby when the fire doors came down, so did Christina—”
“We both hid inside a storeroom. We watched the terrorists line up at the fire doors, waiting to fire on the police. They knew the cops were coming. It was an ambush!”
The man nodded, wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his evening coat. “In the middle of the firefight, I saw a path through the mess and grabbed Christina. We made our move, got outside.” Nobunaga paused, shook his head. “We were lucky. Those terrorists, or whoever they are — they’re crazy and they don’t care about anything or anyone. I saw them shoot people, beat women in the head with guns. Unless they’re stopped, they’re going to kill everyone in that place!”
17. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
In the rows nearest the stage, where the celebrity presenters had been instructed to sit, Hollywood publicist Sol Gunther shifted nervously in his seat. He opened his cell phone, saw there was still no signal. He tucked the phone away, whispered to his star client.
“What do you think they’ll do?”
“Like everybody in this town, they’ll make a deal,” Chip Manning replied. “You don’t think they’re nuts enough to kill themselves, do you?”
Sol shrugged. “Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.
But if they aren’t, then you don’t have a career unless the network cut away before you bolted off that stage and let your co-presenter take one to the head. It’s not exactly heroic to leave a woman behind.”
“Listen, Sol,” Chip whispered, propping his ostrich-skin boots on the back of the seat in front of him. “I’m not gonna die because some over-hyped bim can’t run on high heels.”
Sol rubbed his chin and sighed. “Why don’t the damn cell phones work?” He checked for a signal again. “I want to call my wife. I want to talk to her.”
Chip Manning didn’t respond to his publicist. The man had been chanting the same mantra since the hostage situation had begun. Bored, Chip’s gaze skipped around the nearby seats and settled on Abigail Heyer’s stunning profile — a far more interesting vision than the sight of documentary filmmaker Kevin Krock blubbering hysterically into the arms of his agent. The actress sat quietly, only a few seats away, her face expressionless, her manicured hands resting on her bulging stomach.
“She’s a cool one, eh?” Manning whispered to Sol. “I mean, look at her. Not even fazed. I wonder who knocked her up? Lucky bastard, that’s for sure.”