Guilty Minds

I returned to the safe room and looped the power cable around the door lever and looped that up to the mount for the CCTV camera. Pretty quickly I’d knotted the cables securely.

He wasn’t going to get out of that safe room any time soon, and not without help.

I turned and raced back down the hall in the general direction of the front door. I flung open door after door, finding closets and bedrooms and bathrooms.

And finally the right one. The basement. I dropped the empty Glock and descended the stairs.

The air felt cooler. I smelled a dank odor as I descended the dimly lit wooden stairway. Lights were on downstairs. I heard low voices.

The basement appeared, on first glance, to have roughly the same footprint as the floor above. Bare concrete walls segmented it into a number of open rooms. It seemed to go on forever. It was, for a basement, relatively high-ceilinged: around nine feet. On the ceiling were soundproofing tiles.

The voices were a little louder, and I could tell they were coming from a TV in one of the open rooms. In the closest alcove were steel shelves that held white boxes marked with dates and letters. The Centurions’ client files, probably. All along one wall were garden tools, neatly hanging from hooks on a long expanse of pegboard.

I sidled along the wall of tools toward the source of the TV noise, which seemed to be coming from the next alcove. There I saw what at first looked like chain-link fence. When I got closer-though still about twenty-five feet away-I realized I was looking at a holding cell. A twelve-by-twelve-foot standalone cell whose walls and ceiling were made of welded wire mesh. The sort of cage you might see in a small police detention unit. In one corner, a bare steel commode. In another, a sleeping bag on the floor and a steel bench.

And on that bench sat Mandy Seeger.

She was slumped, in a hooded sweatshirt, and looked weary and alone. She didn’t see me.

About ten feet from the holding cell sat a very large guy in a chair staring dully at a TV mounted on the ceiling. He wore a white short-sleeved polo shirt and a shoulder holster. He looked to be around three hundred pounds, much of it fat.

He didn’t see me either. He was watching some reality show about deep-sea fishing.

The basement was soundproofed, and he was watching TV, but he still must have heard the bomb. And the shot I’d taken at Vogel. But he must have been ordered not to leave his post. He had a prisoner to watch.

“Yo!” I shouted, walking toward the fat guy. “Vogel sent me down here.”

The fat guy turned to look at me, a guy in a brown UPS uniform. He whipped a Glock out of his shoulder holster and aimed it in my direction. “Who the hell are you?”

“Man, there’s eighteen feds with windbreakers upstairs. You want to get out of this, follow me.” I came closer. “Get her out of there and let’s go.”

“Huh? Feds? Where?”

Then a cell phone began ringing.

His.

With his free left hand he pulled out a phone. Then, with the thumb of his gun hand, he hit the answer button, a neat little move. He must have done it before.

He answered it. “Yes, sir.”

I knew who it was.

Slowly I drew the Ruger out from under my shirt and held it at my side.

As he listened, his eyes roamed the basement.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

Mandy, in the cage, was watching me, frightened.

“Got it,” he said.

Then he pocketed the phone.

“Stop right where you are,” he said. His gun was trained on me. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Okay.” I took another step.

“I said, freeze,” the fat guy said.

In one fluid motion I pulled the Glock up directly in front of my chest.

But the fat guy leveled his Glock and fired first.

Directly at me, from around twelve feet away.

Mandy screamed.

It felt like someone had slammed me in the gut with a baseball bat. I doubled over. The pain was immense. The wind was knocked out of me. I tumbled backward, against the wall of tools, grabbing my chest, gasping, as the Ruger flew out of my hands and went skittering across the floor toward the fat guy. All around me tools clattered to the floor. Something had gashed my neck.

The light body armor I was wearing was only 6.5 millimeters thick, weighing less than two kilograms, and it had saved my life. But it sure felt like I’d broken a few ribs.

I sprung to my feet, and I saw the fat man reaching down to grab the Ruger.

A stupid move. Maybe he thought I’d been seriously wounded or was even dead. But it gave me a couple of seconds that I needed.

I reached for the closest tool at hand, a long-handled pair of garden shears with its jaws open. Grabbing it by one handle, I hurled it at the fat man like some ninja hurling a throwing star.

He yelped as one blade of the shears sank into the side of his neck. He fell to his knees, reaching for the shears, and I grabbed a large garden spade.