Museum Attack Page 3

  Layne continued on to the second floor and pressed his ear against the door. Heard nothing but the vibration of the building coming back. He pressed the bar to open the door as gently as possible. A rush of air flew in when the door creaked open. He peeked out, saw no one to the right. Leaned his head through and discovered no one to the left, either.

  Out onto the second floor, he found himself among a collection of paintings in a large room. American West, mostly. Cowboys watching over herds of cattle, rivers rushing through canyons. A few sculptures on lighted pedestals.

  And he could hear the people in the lobby from here. To his left was the open atrium overlooking the first floor. Red was barking orders at someone, but Layne couldn’t make out the words. A desire to creep over there and steal a look at Jasmine burned at him, but it wasn’t worth it. No sense exposing himself.

  Instead, he opted to go right. He had to be quick about his next move. Sooner or later, they would figure out he wasn’t among the crowd. To these people, the tattooed white guy with the black woman for a date would be someone they’d remember.

  To his right, past the paintings, Layne followed a hallway. He dimly remembered seeing a balcony on the exterior of the building before the chaos had erupted. From his vantage on the ground, it had looked like it was on either the second or third floor. If he could access that balcony, he could signal the police. Somehow. He would have to figure that part out when he got there.

  As he crept down the hallway, he neared a bend. Voices up ahead. He froze behind a bronze statue of a buffalo. His fingers clutched the knife.

  “Is he ready yet down there, or what?” said a man around the corner.

  “Nope,” said a second man.

  “What’s he waiting for?”

  “Hell if I know. You know how he is, dude. Half of the fun for him is the theater of it. Walking around with that big, shit-eating grin on his face. Making everyone poop their pants and then have to sit in it.”

  “Keep your voice down. If he hears you calling his grin ‘shit-eating,’ then that’s your ass.”

  The second man scoffed. “Please. He’s a little too busy in the lobby to worry about what we’re doing.”

  “Whatever. Should we go up to 4 and start collecting the pieces?”

  Layne’s brow creased, and he tilted his head, puzzled. They were art thieves?

  “No,” said the second guy. “Not ’til Red says it’s okay.”

  “I don’t get it. Why don’t we just burn the whole damn building and be done with it? Why do we have to go through all this?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Destroying the pieces isn’t the main plan. We need video of the hostages doing it.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I don’t get why.”

  “It’s the whole point, dumbass. For them to destroy the stuff. We bring them up in small groups, they destroy a painting or two, then they each get a bullet in the head. Rinse and repeat until we’re out of art or out of hostages.”

  7

  The two chatty invaders around the bend of the hallway finished their conversation. Footsteps echoed. Layne retreated back toward the stairs since he couldn’t tell where the guards were headed. He slipped into a side room near the elevators to put a safe distance between him and the immediate threat.

  In this room was a single art installation. A hundred or so baby doll heads hanging from the ceiling by strings. Below them, on the floor, a mountain of diapers.

  “What the hell?” he whispered. Art never had, and never would, make any sense to Layne Parrish. He liked rivers and trees and mountains. Not baby doll heads hanging from the ceiling.

  The footsteps edged closer, and Layne backed up to the wall. Held the knife at waist level, primed to jab it when necessary. He stilled his breathing and focused on keeping his muscles loose and relaxed. Ready to jump.

  But, above all, he had to stay quiet. No sense in giving his position away before they entered the room. He waited.

  But they didn’t enter this diaper exhibit room. The footsteps peaked and then trailed off.

  Layne paused another minute and then crept back into the hallway. Clear in both directions. He pushed along the hallway leading out from the elevators, toward the south side of the building. He thought he’d seen a balcony in that area when he’d been outside.

  As he crossed an open archway along the hall, he caught a whiff of black clothing in the room. Layne jerked back, hiding against the other side of the wall.

  Boots thumped on the floor, in his direction.

  Layne reversed course and darted into the next room on the opposite side of the hallway. A darker room, with spotlights above illuminating only a handful of paintings in the room. The footsteps still tapped on the floor in the hall behind him.

  There was no other way out of this room.

  Layne hid next to the doorway, meager knife out and ready. He prepared himself to jab it into the first bit of flesh he saw. Heart thumping, palms sweaty. His mouth was so dry he didn’t think he could swallow. Out of practice for the scale of an operation like this.

  The footsteps continued to grow louder until Layne could tell the invader was right outside the room. He heard gears shifting. The squeak of leather, probably the man’s gloves. Layne assumed he’d gripped his rifle.

  Layne breathed in his nose and out his mouth, careful to make no sound. The boots in the hallway shifted. He could still hear the man breathing out there, a slight whistle in his nose.

  Right outside the room.

  Something in Layne told him to jump out into the hall and attack. To take him head-on. But that was crazy. Going directly against these people would be a suicide mission. At least, until Layne had a better sense of his enemy.

  The footsteps halted for another moment and then continued yet again. They grew softer. The man was moving in the other direction. In another few seconds, Layne could barely hear him.

  Then, the elevator dinged. Layne was now alone.

  Twice in the last three minutes, he’d almost been discovered. There were too many of these invaders for him to slink around unnoticed. They seemed to be everywhere. How was Layne supposed to thread the needle and avoid all of them?

  The fact that they had guards sweeping the area meant they were still looking for stragglers. Maybe if they found him, they’d only grab him and take him back to the lobby. They might need everyone for whatever this art-destroying project was.

  He glanced down at the blade in his hand. No, if they saw him with this, they’d shoot him on the spot.

  He had to acquire a better weapon than this puny steak knife. No way would he allow himself to be captured again and made a hostage.

  That meant, at some point, he would have to face one of them.

  He continued back on his original path, passing more small rooms with various sculptures, paintings, and other odd things, and then he stumbled upon a set of double doors leading out to what looked like an exterior patio on this second floor.

  Except heavy chains had sealed the door, joined together with a thick lock. Layne leaned down to study it. He was good with most types, except this one was a combination lock. His skills wouldn’t do much with that. It didn’t even have a failsafe keyhole for him to explore.

  And then, when he peered through the window, he realized it wouldn’t matter. The air outside had cleared, no more smoke billowing everywhere. And now he could see what those huge metal plates were on top of the Humvees the armed men had driven to the museum. Barricades. A series of them had been set up to form a perimeter around the building. More of the same armed guards stationed behind them, with assault rifles loaded and ready to go.

  They were prepared for a prolonged siege.

  8

  Layne doubled back and began to explore some of the individual rooms. He had to find a weapon. If leaving wasn’t an option because of the barricades and soldiers, then he had to do something internally. But how to take on a crew of
heavily armed and well-coordinated terrorists?

  He spent a few minutes poking his head into various rooms. Maybe a sculpture would provide something to use as a sword or a similar blunt object. He discovered lots of paint splatters on canvas and one room with thousands of little origami swans hanging from hooks, but no swords.

  At each turn, he hesitated, tense. No telling when any of these people would pop up from around a corner or an open door. The tension had wormed its way from his neck and shoulders down to his spine. Head pounding.

  These sorts of days were supposed to be behind him.

  An archway near the elevator caught his eye. He readied his knife and eased through it, when something darkened his vision. An object swerved through the air, directly at his face.

  Instinct took over. He threw up a hand and grabbed the object in midair. A cylinder of some kind, heavy and cold to the touch. He jerked it to the right, shifting the attacker off balance. And then, he shoved it forward, to topple the disadvantaged person.

  The attacker flipped and somersaulted onto the floor. Small, not one of the armed men.

  Layne got a good look. On the floor was a white woman, long blond hair wrapped up in a ponytail flopping over her neck. A tiny thing. No bigger than 5’3”.

  “Ahh, crap,” she said, hands underneath her back. Then, she squinted up at Layne. “You’re not one of them.”

  “Yeah, no, I’m not. Who are you?”

  She grunted and pushed herself up to a sit. “Sarah.”

  “What are you doing here, Sarah?”

  “I’m an intern in the marketing department for the DAM.”

  He considered the object in his hands, stolen from her. It was a long metal tube, with a weighted base and a clip at the top. One of those things used to anchor velvet rope barriers. It was called a stanchion, maybe?

  He set it on the ground. She eyed it but didn’t reach out to grab it.

  “I’m Layne. How come you’re up here and not down in the lobby with all the other hostages?”

  “I’m good at hiding.”

  “That’s a dangerous hobby at the moment.”

  “Agreed. Are you a cop, by chance?”

  She had a hard face, pock-marked, and Layne guessed she’d had years of teenage acne. She looked at least a decade past her teenage years now, though. Despite the hard face, she had gooey brown eyes and a gymnast’s physique. Compact and lean.

  He shook his head. “Not a cop, sorry.”

  “Army? Marines?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “I don’t really have time to explain it right now, man. I don’t know if you’ve seen what’s going on outside, but we’re in a lot of trouble.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. I’ve been around a few of the floors above this one, and it’s all locked down. You know who these people are, right?”

  “No clue.”

  “They’re The Disciples of the True America.”

  “Never heard of them. Some kind of militant group, as far as I can tell. I figured that much out already.”

  She groaned as she rose to her feet. Layne noted that for such a tiny woman, she was more than lean. Muscular. Her biceps bulged against the arms of her blouse. Her back formed a V.

  “They hit a trio of synagogues in Sacramento, about an hour ago. That’s the only one I know of for sure, but I think there’ve been other attacks already today.”

  “Sarah, do you know what these people want?”

  “I overheard them talking. There’s an exhibit on the fourth floor, for Jewish History Week. That’s their focus.”

  Layne put his hands on his hips. “Why?”

  “The exhibit is art smuggled out of concentration camps.”

  He tapped his lips together as the gears in his brain chugged. The prior conversation from the two guards now made sense to Layne. They wanted to force the hostages to destroy this art on camera, to make their political statement.

  “There are people on the first floor,” he said. “People in danger.”

  “I know.”

  “One of them is someone I care about. I need to help her.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but what can we do? We’re at a serious disadvantage here.”

  “I need a weapon,” he said. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

  She sighed, an exasperated rush of air. “There’s an office the security guards use on the floor above us. I have no idea if you’re going to find a weapons locker there. In fact, I highly doubt it. But, if you have to try, then that’s your best bet.”

  “Do you have keys?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. They don’t trust me with things like that. If they did, I’d have checked it out already.”

  “You don’t happen to have a bobby pin, do you?”

  She raised an eyebrow but nodded anyway. Reached up into her hair and leaned closer to hand it to him. Then, she sniffed the air, her nose curling.

  “Sorry about that. It’s me. I was in a dumpster a few minutes ago.”

  She pursed her lips. “I see.”

  Standing there, the conversation had taken an awkward turn. Part of him was still shocked to see another person. A person willing to swing a stanchion at one of them to defend herself. Also, there was something about her manner he didn’t trust. She had secrets.

  “You okay?” she said.

  “I’m a bit discombobulated. I only came for the Game of Thrones exhibit.”

  “Yeah. That’s a really good one.”

  “I’ll bet.” He hesitated, looking through the archway. Layne knew she was lying about who she was and why she was here, but he figured they were better off together. “Come with me.”

  “No. I want to stay here. I have a good hiding spot in this room.” She picked up the stanchion and clutched it to her chest. “I know what to do if they come for me.”

  “I think that’s a mistake.”

  “It’s not your decision.”

  “Fine,” he said. “It is what it is. When I’m armed, I’ll come back this way. Please don’t brain me with your velvet rope pole.”

  He turned to leave, but she reached out and touched his arm. “Layne?”

  “Yes?”

  “What makes you think you can stop these people by going up against them? I mean, even if you find a gun, there’s still one of you against a ton of them.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “And you’re not a cop? No professional training at all?”

  He shook his head and drew the steak knife from his belt. “Maybe, maybe not, but I’ve taken out people a lot nastier than these pieces of shit, so I think I’ll be okay. I know what I’m doing.”

  Her brow creased. He tossed her a wink and then left the room.

  9

  Layne stayed low, making his footfalls as light as possible. The floors and walls in this building seemed designed to echo. Not the best surfaces for being sneaky.

  As he made his way along the second floor toward the stairs, the bank of elevators to his left vibrated, so he sprinted past them. The light above blinked on. He didn’t wait around to see who would step out of the elevator doors.

  The employee stairs, though, were unoccupied. He pulled the stairwell door behind him and held it closed for a few seconds. No one came. An absent-minded hand reached down into his pocket and retrieved the tube of nicotine lozenges. When he popped one in his mouth, instant relief followed.

  As he ascended the stairs, he thought of Jasmine in the lobby, two floors below. They barely knew each other. A few online conversations, a couple of phone calls, and then they’d met when Layne had come down from his house in the mountains of Southern Colorado. A simple daytime jaunt to a museum, to feel each other out. To get a sense for the real-life version of the other. But, Layne knew he still wouldn’t see the real version of her. In the early stages of a relationship, everyone is on their best behavior. One reason Layne hated dating and
always wished he could skip ahead five or six months. Because of his daughter, he rarely even attempted a first date.

  The fact that Jasmine kept appearing in his thoughts probably had more to do with the guilt he felt than his attraction to her. Coming to this museum had been his idea. They were in this mess because Layne escorted her into the courtyard outside just before the bombs had exploded. And, not only that, he’d insisted they should flee into the building.

  He had to make this right before it was too late.

  The door opened to a hallway, painted a different color than the floor below it. Pale pink, like a hospital. If the color was supposed to calm him, then this shit wasn’t working.

  Layne located a map of the third floor next to the stairs. There was the main exhibit space in the middle surrounded by some smaller rooms around the edges of the floor. Nothing indicated a security guard office, but there were spaces marked as “admin suites.” Layne studied the route and then unsheathed his knife.

  He crept through the main room toward the far side, stepping around an exhibit made from soup cans painted bright orange. In one spot, a collection of personal items were strewn about the floor: tissues, car keys, a tube of lipstick, a cigarette lighter. Had the invaders snatched some poor woman in this room as her purse exploded everywhere? Or maybe, it was only another weird exhibit.

  Through the doorway at the edge of the room, Layne noted a series of doors lining the wall in the outer hallway. One read Security.

  Before he exited the room into the hall, he paused. Heard a throat clearing.

  “Hey,” a voice said from out in the hall. “It’s me.”

  Layne slid to the side of the doorway leading out of this room, holding the knife high. He gripped the hilt. This newest episode equaled the third time he’d been in this situation in the last ten minutes. Or maybe even the fourth?

  “Yeah, I know,” the voice continued. “No, I’m not going to be home for dinner. I’m not even in town. I told you that already.” He paused, making small grunts of acknowledgment. “Fine. Do whatever you want. It’s not like you’ve ever listened to me, anyway.”