Deadly Shore, page 7
Amazingly, they arrived at Sara's condo accident-free. Marcus parked in a visitor's spot in the virtually empty parking lot. Word had already gotten out and the residents were trying their luck at the supermarkets. Sara's truck, now devoid of her storage belongings, was the only other vehicle.
Sara met them at the bottom of a set of stairs that led to a second floor containing three units. She was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless top, and was barefoot. It looked like she was ready for a day at the beach. She had her shoulder-length sand-colored hair pulled up, loosely held together by a large clip. For the first time, Marcus could really study her, and for the first time in a very long time he felt the stirrings of desire. It wasn't just that she was physically attractive, she had an air of confidence about her—a confidence based on experience. She could probably handle herself in almost any situation and Marcus appreciated that quality. There had been numerous women over the years he'd been attracted to physically, but they had always lacked the strength he found so important. All except one.
A few months earlier, in a rare moment of reflection, he realized that he had never actually been in a real relationship. Mostly, he had only ever had a series of one-night stands. Just once did he ever feel that things were becoming serious with a woman. In his previous profession, he had worked with a woman named Skyler on three consecutive missions. By the third, they both knew that a strong attachment had been formed between them, but neither had a clue as to what to do with it. They couldn't very well settle down to a peaceful life in the suburbs. They were both too high-strung and intense for that. They also both realized that they had become too suspicious—not suspicious of each other, but of the world and the people around them. They were both meant to be operatives and clearly saw that a real relationship was out of the question. So when they parted after that third mission, it was with the understanding that what they had was the best it would ever be—a few intense nights together once or twice a year.
That never happened, however. Eight months later Skyler was dead, assassinated in Turkey by a contract operative for a foreign government. A laptop containing the names of American spies had been stolen from a section head. Even though the list was coded, it was easy enough to hack. Two of the operatives, one being Skyler, were assassinated and the rest were in imminent danger. Marcus's name was on that list. Of course, he wasn't known as Marcus back then. It was decided for his own safety that his time in the agency was finished. He was offered a desk job, but they knew as well as he did that he would never be happy sitting at a desk. So he left.
In all honesty, Skyler's death had affected him more than he thought possible. Even though it was the only job he had known for most of his adult life, he was ready to leave. Using contacts he had formed over the years, he started his P.I. business. That was ten years ago. He didn't miss his old life at all. In times of loneliness though, of which there were many, he thought about Skyler and the closest he had ever come to being in love.
"We appreciate this," said Marcus. He didn't know if Seth appreciated it or not, as he hadn't said a word since getting in the car at the hotel. But he really didn't care what Seth thought.
"My pleasure," answered Sara. "It'll be a bit tight. One of you can have the couch and the other the air mattress, but we'll make it work."
"What have you heard?"
"It was just the bridges at first, but the latest report just a few minutes ago indicated that the ferry docks might have been hit. That would correspond with the explosions I heard from the direction of the harbor."
As she was bringing them up to date, a series of explosions shattered the relative quiet—if you discounted the constant police and fire vehicle sirens—and immediately after that a plume of black smoke could be seen rising above the rooftops.
"And that would be the airport," she said with a calm she wasn't at all feeling.
"Bridges, ferries, and airport," said Marcus. "That pretty much completes the picture. For whatever reason, these people want to keep everyone here."
"The ferries and the airport are overkill," said Sara. "They couldn't get anywhere near enough of the people off the Cape anyway. The bridges were the best way off for the majority of the population. I wonder why they went that route."
"Fear," said Marcus. "You're right, it would hardly make a dent in getting people off, at first anyway. Given a few weeks it might, but I doubt if the terrorists mean for this to go on that long. No, I think the purpose in getting the ferries and airport was fear, plain and simple. They want the panic to be heightened. They want people to feel that there is no way off. They want to instill total fear."
"Well, it's working," said Sara.
Chapter 15
And working, it was. A few hours earlier, it was a normal crazy Sunday on Cape Cod. Those who were leaving were in the usual end-of-vacation grouchy moods, enhanced by the rain and the anticipation of many hours on the highway crawling to the bridge. Now, with the realization that no one was going anyplace for a long time, the craziness was no longer normal. Any semblance of civility had disappeared. Looting had begun in earnest, but unlike the riots in so many cities over the years, the looting wasn't done by thugs. These were normal people, who, hours before were living normal lives. They were just trying to think ahead and gather anything that might help them survive. At first they felt bad for the owners of the hardware stores and corner markets that were being cleaned out, but over time the survival mentality kicked in and they just did what they had to do. They knew that by nightfall there wouldn't be a loaf of bread or gallon jug of water left on the Cape. They didn't like being looters, but they had no choice. They rationalized their behavior with the assumption that the store-owners would be reimbursed by their insurance companies. Whether that was true or not didn't matter. As long as they didn't dig too deeply into the thought, they were satisfied.
It wasn't only food supplies, gas, and large items like generators. Guns were high on the list. There was only one gun store of any significance on the Cape, The Shoot Zone in Hyannis. When the crowds arrived at the store, they found it closed and barred, but that didn't stop them. Some welder's equipment was found and an attempt was made to melt through the bars of steel. However, haste led to carelessness and the building caught on fire. Within minutes, thousands of rounds of ammunition were exploding and the building was engulfed in flames. An hour later, it was a pile of rubble. Unbeknownst to everyone, the body of Rodney Sinclair, the owner who was just trying to follow the law, lay at the bottom of the rubble, having made the wrong decision for the right purpose.
Add to that the underlying fear felt by most: What was next? Could it be that all of this was preparation for setting off a nuclear device? Was all of their running around and law-breaking for naught? Were they all going to die anyway?
Those who didn't get off the highways leading to the bridges right after the bridges went down were now going nowhere. Major accidents in a dozen places on the westbound lanes stopped the retreat of traffic. People abandoned their cars and began to walk—most having no idea where they were going. Frantic cell phone calls were placed to hotels and motels all over the Cape in the useless attempt to find a room. An hour after the attacks the hotels had stopped answering their phones altogether. People were stuck. Word of the schools used for hurricane shelters started to get around. Maybe they would open for this disaster as well. There was no indication that they had opened, but it at least gave people something to aim for. Parents carried their crying children, trying to reassure them that everything would be okay, when even the parents themselves weren't so sure.
Emergency vehicles were no longer seen. It wasn't because they weren't working—they were working as hard as ever—but because things had gotten so bogged down, they were just as stuck as the people they were trying to help. Six ambulances were in line at the Cape Cod Hospital ER to deliver victims from the various bombings. But with the ER already bursting at the seams with patients, there was nowhere to put everybody. Finally a tent was hastily set-up in an empty space behind the hospital and the paramedics were able to deposit their patients and attempt to go for more victims.
Further hampering rescue missions, and attempts by displaced tourists to find shelter, was the rain. By mid-afternoon, what had been a drizzle in the morning was now a steady downpour. The rain was a system totally unrelated to Hurricane Chad, but the timing of it couldn't be worse. It only helped to fuel the pervading fear and frustration.
*****
Near the site of the former Sagamore Bridge, Gloria had had enough of her book club friends. Her house was small, and the thought of housing all eight additional women for an indefinite time was already taking its toll. The bridge had fallen only seven hours earlier, but between those who were crying incessantly and those who were talking incessantly, she was ready to throw them all out. A couple of the women were good friends, but the others were once-a-month acquaintances who showed up just to talk books (which they never did) and consume vast quantities of wine and food (which they always did). Gloria was quickly seeing the other side of some of these women. And they were all ready to kill octogenarian Claire, who was boring them all with her theories of who was responsible and how the U.S. was going to "kick their butts" as soon as some group claimed responsibility.
The problem was, none of these women had anywhere to go. Five of the eight lived on the other side of the now nonexistent bridge, and the other three lived down the choked highways in Falmouth and Hyannis. These women weren't going anywhere for a long time. If something didn't change soon and she couldn't figure out how to get rid of them, Gloria just might have to slash her wrists and call it quits. Anything would be better than this.
*****
Only seven hours into the ordeal and the resources of the Barnstable Police Department were already at their breaking point. Captain Chandler looked around at what was once an orderly station and he wanted to throw up again. The men and women under him had never dealt with anything like this. Hell, he never had either. Every year they all participated in terrorist drills and emergency preparation exercises, but they were nothing like the real thing. The real thing involved seriously panicked citizens, many more incidents—criminal and accidental—than the department could handle with their limited manpower, and the officers themselves worried about their own families. Many of the families had been brought to the station for their own safety, but they all knew that it was a short-term solution. In a couple of days the reserves of food and water in the station would run out and they would be in the same boat as the rest of the citizens.
The crowds outside had diminished significantly once they realized they'd get no help standing there. But those who were still camped out in the parking lot were a vocal crowd—an angry vocal crowd—and Chandler was afraid they were going to get out of hand and he would have to deploy tactics that could result in many injuries or deaths. Why couldn't they just go and prepare like everyone else was doing? He asked them that over the bullhorn, only to get back a jumbled mess of rants, threats, whining, and pleading.
"It's your responsibility to take care of us…"
"Where do you want us to go?..."
"Do your job…"
A few left when he announced the locations of the shelters and informed them that the shelters would be open by morning. He didn't really know if this was true. Yes, it was definite that they would open, but he didn't know how many supplies were available or how many volunteers would be manning the shelters. This wasn't like a hurricane—Shit, that might be on its way, too, he thought—where they had days to prepare. This was unprecedented and he was way out of his league.
As he was walking back into the station, he was hit in the back of the head by a rock. Another one caught him in the shoulder. He got in the station and closed the door just as another rock shattered the front window. It was time. Leaving one man on guard, the rest of the officers followed him to the gun locker. He opened it and passed out riot gear and automatic weapons. They all solemnly put on the bullet-proof vests and helmets, loaded their weapons, and made their way back to the lobby.
Chandler hoped to God that the sight of the riot gear would be enough to calm the crowd, but if not, he was ready. In fact, he was becoming angry. People were supposed to be helping others, not becoming troublemakers. Well, desperate times called for desperate measures, or so the old saying went. If it meant that he had to pick off a few of the leaders to disperse the crowd, then so be it.
The situation had just been knocked up a notch.
Chapter 16
They were idiots, thought Mason. How he had been able to mastermind such an elaborate plan with morons was beyond him. Maybe it just gave credence to the assumption—his assumption anyway—that he was a genius. Nobody else would have been able to accomplish all of this with the group he had. He was definitely a genius. Some might have said that a real genius would have picked men who weren't morons, but they'd be wrong. He knew that he needed men who would be easily led, and men who had more passion than brains. That's why he picked them from survivalist groups. Passion was what they were all about. There was danger in picking people with too many smarts. You ran into the possibility of someone wanting to take over the group. He needed people he could keep in line with stirring anti-government speeches and the promise of riches in the end.
Finding them hadn't been hard. Tanner had ties to survivalist groups all over the country, so they visited a few of them to pick their men. There were dozens of willing bodies, all of them insisting that they were the perfect choices. They smelled blood and were anxious to be a part of something violent. Tanner and Mason only hinted at the job, but they knew how to sell it. Their problem was picking the right people. They had made a decision not to pick two people from the same group. The last thing they needed was a palace coup down the line. They also had to be loyal and hard-working, but not especially bright—men who would do what they were asked without needing too much explanation. They had to be men who had been off the grid for a while—and who didn't have police records. They absolutely would not tolerate any drug use. Those last two items narrowed down the choices drastically, but they were able to find four men from four different areas of the country. He wasn't much older than the four, but he had a maturity far beyond any of them.
The only intelligent ones in the group—besides himself—were the two explosives guys, Danielson and Packer, as well as the late Tanner. He didn't actually know that Tanner was dead, but it didn't matter. Dead, hurt, or in jail, it made no difference. Tanner was gone, and all the better for it. He had recruited Danielson and Packer through a network of disaffected former soldiers he belonged to. He needed men he could rely on for this part of the job, and they came highly recommended. Unbeknownst to the other members of the crew, Danielson and Packer were being paid for their work—a small advance with the promise of a big paycheck from a secret fund when completed, a fund that didn't really exist. But he wouldn't have to deal with the fallout when they came looking for their non-existent paychecks, they'd be dead in a couple of days with the others.
The idiot part of the rest of his crew was on full display, and he was about to put a stop to it. He showed up at an apartment that had been rented for two members of his crew, only to find four of them there. Yet another breach of protocol. Only Mason could call them all together, and he always found private, out of the way places for his meetings. He looked around as he walked in the door. Holt and the rest of his survivalist buddies were having a grand old time, drinking beer and celebrating their success. Luckily, Danielson and Packer weren't a part of it. Those two took the job seriously and were back at their own apartment waiting for orders. Well, it didn't matter. He only had to keep these four in line for another couple of days.
They saw Mason come in and raised their beer cans to the air in salute.
"Hail the conquering hero," said Holt.
The group took one look at Mason's face and went silent.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Celebrating, boss," said Holt.
"Celebrating what?"
"Our success."
"What success?"
Holt hesitated. "The bridges and ferries?" He said it as a question.
"So you think we're done?" asked Mason. "We can go home now?"
"Well … no. But this was big. Look what we just did."
"You morons get any louder and all of your neighbors will know what you did." Mason brought his voice down to a near-whisper. "This is only the beginning. The next few days will be the crucial time. This is not the time to party."
Seeing their crestfallen faces, Mason thought, what a bunch of children. He backed off a little. The last thing he needed was for his crew to lose their confidence.
"Look," he said more softly. "What you guys did today was monumental. You did something no one else has ever done. You've been able to hold a whole island—which is essentially what it is now—hostage. Other than private boats and small planes on private airstrips, there is no way off. These people are stuck here. They are terrified and they are panicking. This is exactly what we wanted. You should all be commended."
He saw them perk up and knew he had them where he wanted them.
"But we're not finished. The first set of demands were already emailed out. Tomorrow, we will follow-up those demands with ultimatums and we will bring this government to its knees." Well, not really, he thought. He just needed them to think so. Even Danielson and Packer, the demolition guys, didn't know what it was really all about, but they didn't care. As long as they got paid big money, they would just do their job.
