Schibl puffed out his chest—the most he could do in the present company to show his intense displeasure at being ordered around by a woman, and not even a cop at that—and gave her both barrels.
“We need to take him down at the first opportunity,” he shot back. “End of story. He’s an ex-Marine with a history of violence. I’ve dealt with siege situations before where the hostage-taker is a soldier with PTSD. He might as well be high on meth. The outcome’s always the same anyway. The grunt ends up dead one way or another. So how about we put an end to this as soon as we can and avoid any additional casualties.”
He turned to Lupo, as though Zacharia didn’t exist.
“I hear you,” the incident commander told him, “but there’s a bigger picture here. This perp’s right in the middle of a major federal case and he’s the only witness to several major crimes, crimes in which at least ten people have lost their lives. If there’s any way we can talk to him, we need to take it. So I’m afraid I have to agree with Belinda here. Tell your men to hold their fire unless one of the hostages is in immediate danger.”
Schibl grimaced. He had obviously hoped that Lupo would back him up, but instead, the ranking cop had told him in no uncertain terms to do what he was told. It was my turn to shoot a quick smile at Villaverde, who finally took the opportunity to say something.
“Before the day is out,” Villaverde told Schibl, “there’s a good chance we’re going to need you to ask your men to take that shot. But right now, I think we do need to balance the need for action with the benefits of restraint.” He turned to the hostage negotiator. “Hand me the comms link, will you? Let’s try calling him again.”
Edwards dialed the number then held out the handset to Villaverde, who gestured toward me.
“You want to take this?”
I nodded and took the handset. After about twelve rings, someone picked up. Edwards’s face lit up with anticipation, and the comms operator nodded to signal that the call was being recorded.
“Ricky,” I spoke into the silence, “my name’s Reilly. I’m with the FBI.”
“Are you one of them, too?”
It was Torres. He sounded agitated, desperate, and absolutely terrified.
“One of who, Ricky?”
“Those things.”
“What things? I’m with the FBI, Ricky. Is everyone okay in there?”
“Just keep those things away from me, man. I saw them outside the entrance. I won’t let them take me, whatever they do, you hear me? Any of them come near me, I’ll blow their fucking heads off.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. He was obviously having a bad trip, and was far more scared than someone who still had the chance to give themselves up before the shooting started. It was pretty obvious which tack I needed to try.
“Listen to me, Ricky. Whatever it is you’re scared of, we can protect you. We wanted to protect Wook, but they got to him before we did. We know who you and the rest of the Eagles were working for. Guru told us. We just need you to help us find them. Then we can lock them up and keep you safe.”
“Guru?” he blurted. “Guru’s gone, man. How’d you talk to him? You’re lying. You’re one of them, aren’t you? You want me to come out so you can sink your claws into me. Well fuck you, man. Fuck you all to hell.” Then he hung up.
“The guy’s totally lost it,” Schibl said.
I had to agree. Which didn’t bode well for Torres. Not with a SWAT sergeant who was itching to fast-track him to join up with the rest of his biker buddies.
I, on the other hand, wanted him alive and talking. But I didn’t think I was going to get that chance.
At the westernmost edge of the parking lot, under cover of a line of trees, Navarro and his two surviving pistolerossat in the air-conditioned cool of their Toyota Land Cruiser. They had doubled back after releasing Torres into the wild and taken up their surveillance point just as he had disappeared through the mall’s main entrance.
Navarro had a pair of binoculars trained on the area of the parking lot that had been overrun by the police, and a slight grin tugged at his cheek as he tried to imagine what kind of hell Torres was probably going through. The drug, a gray powder that he’d rubbed into Torres’s open wound, was a particularly insidious one. He’d been taught it in Vanuatu, in the South Pacific, by a shaman with a fully tattooed body who was referred to as the Black Vulture. Navarro had used it on several captives over the years, and it had never disappointed him. It would scour its victims’ unconsciousness, dredge up their deepest fears and paranoias, and bring them bursting to life in heightened, surreal ways, turning the most mundane settings into the stuff of Wes Craven movies. Left unchecked, it had the uncanny ability to send one’s soul spiraling into self-destruction in the most unexpected ways, something that never failed to entertain Navarro, although this was one implosion he knew he wouldn’t be able to enjoy in person.
He watched Reilly and Villaverde dash out of their car and into the melee, and the sight caused him further disappointment. He’d been expecting them to arrive separately. This was a twist he’d thought possible, but he’d been hoping things would work out differently.
Still, he knew that they had a good opportunity to put the rest of his plan into action. It was obvious from the spectacle that was now unfolding at the other end of the parking lot that the first half of his plan had gone exactly as he had imagined it would. That was another thing the blind Peruvian’s drug had taught him. What was real in the imagination—whether under the effect of drugs or not—was just as real as what you held in your hand or put in your mouth. Maybe more so. He had imagined himself as the sole dispenser of a drug that no one would be able to turn down. And soon—after years of waiting—it would be true. The thought didn’t excite him unduly, as he’d known that this moment would come, sooner or later. He had imagined it, and soon it would be happening, for real. Indeed, who could say that the imagining was not as real as the events that it brought about?
He inclined his head toward the gunman in the back, who was watching live coverage of the siege on a 3G-enabled tablet.
He nodded to the man.
The pistolero nodded back, set the tablet down, and climbed out of the car.
53
Torres waited nervously as the pharmacist hunted through the meds behind the counter. He’d already given Torres a couple of codeine-laced painkillers, but they only seemed to have made things worse, and he was now hunting for some antibiotics.
Torres raked his eyes back and forth across the store. He knew the place was far too big for him to control for any length of time. He just had to hope that the rest of his unit would come and rescue him before the creatures tore him to pieces. He felt lost and confused, unsure about whether the insurgents were being controlled by the monsters, or if they were simply one and the same. His head felt like it was going to burst open, and his skin was so itchy he wanted to slice it off. The pain in his stomach had eased off a bit, but his shoulder was now hurting so bad it felt like he’d only just been shot.