Museum Attack Read online

  Layne held tight as the man sighed and then his footsteps clacked on the floor. Big boots echoing down the hall. Layne raised the knife high, trying to focus his thoughts and stay alert.

  And then the footsteps faded away.

  Layne leaned out into the hall and found it empty. He crossed to the Security door, then took a few breaths to steady himself. With a sigh, he dropped to one knee and set the knife on the floor. Fished the bobby pin out of his pocket and then snapped it in half. He inserted both halves into the lock. One, he used to dig around at the lock pins, the other, to apply pressure at the bottom of the lock. After fiddling with it for twenty seconds, it turned.

  He grinned. Layne was better with digital locks, most of the time. Old-school lock-picking was more Micah Reed’s specialty. His friend had taught him a thing or two, though.

  Knife in hand, Layne sneaked into the room and shut the door behind him. He hit the light switch to find a small room, not much bigger than a closet. Cramped, claustrophobic. Along one wall, a series of monitors and some desktop computers. On another, lockers. He opened each of the lockers to find clothes and paperback books and cell phones and other personal effects.

  But no weapons.

  If there were a weapon here, would security guards have hidden it somewhere? He checked the backs of the lockers for secret panels, checked underneath them. He lifted from the wall a laminated poster detailing the Colorado minimum wage standards. No secret weapon safe behind it. Nothing.

  Layne slumped into a chair across from the bank of monitors. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  He reached out and tapped the power button on the computer tower in front of him. Each of the monitors blazed to life, black and white grainy shots. Of the six monitors, three showed exterior views of the building.

  Layne leaned in closer, focused on the video feeds. He’d already seen the invader’s Humvees parked around the building with the steel barricades forming a complete circle. The armed men taking shelter behind those barricades. But what he also saw on those monitors were dozens of cops beyond that inner ring of terrorists. SWAT teams hiding behind their own barriers, sporting full body armor and automatic weapons. Also, a helicopter hovering overhead.

  Between the invaders and the cops, there were a hundred people and twenty vehicles outside. Enough to wage war. And Layne now grasped that in addition to the cops being unable to come inside, the invaders were also unable to leave. That much firepower was holding everyone in place.

  The bad guys had no intention of leaving here, which meant they had no incentive to keep the hostages alive for longer than necessary. They would complete their art-destruction project, and then probably rush outside in a hail of bullets. They’d kill the hostages first to clean up their loose ends.

  Layne flicked his eyes to a monitor overlooking the lobby. At the ragged collection of hostages huddled together in twos and threes as the men with their M4s strolled around the room.

  And at Jasmine, head in hands, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

  10

  Layne left the security office with one goal in mind: get a weapon. Now more than ever, he needed to do something to stop these people. What the “something” was, he couldn’t be too sure. His action hero days were long gone, swinging through the lobby on a tethered rope, dropping hand grenades, crashing the glass.

  But he couldn’t sit by and watch this death march happen. He couldn’t knowingly let everyone in that lobby die. Layne had to get one of them alone. Incapacitate him and steal his rifle. That wouldn’t level the playing field, but it was better than nothing.

  Voices carried from the far side of this floor. Knife out, he stayed close to the wall and slid through the hallway, toward the voices. He paused at the edge of a bend and listened. Heard two of them, talking back and forth.

  “He went up to 6,” said one.

  “He doesn’t have his walkie on him,” said the other. “You know Red is going to rip into him when he comes back. It’s the little things, bro. Red cares about the details so hard, like you can’t imagine.”

  Layne debated. He could possibly take two of them, but not without a significant amount of trouble. And, if either of them were able to squeeze their triggers, the whole building would know. They would send out search parties specifically to hunt him down if they hadn’t already.

  Layne needed his element of surprise.

  He turned around and headed for the stairs. The art exhibit these people craved was on the fourth floor, so probably a high concentration of them up there. Instead, he opted for the fifth floor. Maybe he’d find a straggler wandering around, appreciating the art. Maybe he’d find a lazy one, barely able to put up a fight.

  Not likely.

  At the fifth floor landing in the employee stairwell, he paused before opening the door. Voices on the other side. He dropped to the ground and pointed his ear at the open slit between the concrete and the bottom of the door. Closed his eyes and focused.

  “Did you hear about the op in Detroit?” one of them said.

  “Sounds like it’s going well. I heard all six of the bombs went off without any trouble.”

  Then, a third voice piped up. “Those dumb bastards. So smug and comfortable. You’d think they…”

  Layne didn’t catch the rest of the sentence because he moved away from the door. Absolutely no point in trying to intervene against three of them.

  He hustled up to the sixth floor, panting and out of breath. At the sixth floor landing, he sat on the top step and collected himself. “If I can find one of them alone, I’ll have to kill him. It’s my best chance.”

  He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to. Jasmine? His daughter Cameron? The two cherub tattoos on his forearms?

  After a few deep breaths, he continued. Layne listened at the door leading into the sixth floor and heard nothing, so he eased it open. Right away, he found himself standing opposite an artist’s rendering of King’s Landing, exactly as described in the novels.

  The Game of Thrones exhibit.

  “Wow,” he whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

  A silly urge to explore the exhibit tugged at him. If only he had time to appreciate it right now. He pushed past the painting to find hallways on either side of the main exhibit room in front of him. He chose left. Foot over foot, careful to keep his breaths even and his knees slightly bent. Knife out, ready to drive the point into anything that looked threatening.

  He visualized himself doing it. Visualized gaining the upper hand and not making any careless mistakes. Funny how quickly all those old training tips came back to him.

  Up ahead, he heard a man whistling. Layne paused. He waited for other voices, but heard none. He inched closer until he came to the edge of the hallway, then he stilled his breathing and focused. In front of him was a lobby with elevators. And standing next to those elevators, a single man wearing body armor and carrying an M4 carbine rifle. Attachments on his belt and vest jutting out like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

  Twenty feet away.

  Layne raised the knife and calculated his throw. At this distance, he didn’t feel good about it. With the body armor and other gear, Layne would have to hit the man in the head, hard enough to puncture bone. Not good odds.

  He reversed back the way he’d come and searched around for any small object he could throw. A series of pedestals in the main room displayed King’s Landing military helmets over the years. He picked up a gold one, belonging to Cersei’s personal guard, The Mountain. It was heavy, shiny, the size of a basketball.

  “Sorry about this,” he whispered to the helmet.

  He escorted it back toward the edge of the hall and gripped it in one hand. Knife in the other. With a hard swing, he lobbed the helmet toward the elevator, aiming a little past the invader.

  The helmet clunked onto the floor, and the man’s head turned to follow as it rolled past him. Layne, blade out, sprinted across the open space. Teeth gritted, eyes wide, a blur of motion stamping across th
e floor.

  He hoisted the knife as the man pivoted his body back in the other direction. Raised his M4. His eyes were wide, full of surprise.

  Before he could wrap a finger around the trigger, Layne was on him. He tried to stab toward the neck, but the man shifted, away from Layne’s knife. They crashed, Layne knocking him back into the closed elevator doors. Then, he whipped the knife up, aiming for the neck again. He drove the blade into soft flesh as the man’s eyes shot wide open. He continued to push until the hilt bumped into the man’s chin and Layne couldn’t push any further.

  It was like slicing into cooked chicken.

  Layne stepped back as the man’s hands skittered up to his neck, feebly attempting to pull out the knife. He swatted at it, staggering. Blood leaked out onto his hands and down his neck. Layne snatched the M4 and tried to lift it over the man’s head, but the strap was pinned under the man’s arms. The guy tried to scramble free, to back away from Layne.

  Layne grabbed him by the belt and swung him away from the elevators. The man teetered and then fell to the floor. He wriggled for a few seconds and then his hands fell away from his neck. Knife hilt protruding from the side. Blood lining his palms, as his fingers fluttered, like little spasms.

  He became still.

  Layne, panting, gazed down at the blood on his arms. The adrenaline rushing through him made him lightheaded. His knees tried to buckle, but he braced a hand against the elevator and took a few deep breaths.

  This wasn’t the first person Layne Parrish had ever killed. Not even the first in the last few years. But every time Layne had done it lately, he’d found a way to convince himself this lifestyle was behind him. This time, he couldn’t tell himself that same lie. There would be more killing before the day was done. If he intended to live until tomorrow and help the hostages, that was.

  After a moment, he snapped out of his adrenaline shock. He stripped the dead man of his rifle, his extra magazines, his body armor, and his tactical knife.

  Layne considered searching the man’s pockets for a wallet to see his license. But, Layne shucked that idea. He didn’t want to know the guy’s name. Didn’t matter. He was nothing but a target if he was in league with these people. This guy would just as easily have shot Layne full of bullets if Layne hadn’t gotten him first.

  After he’d slid all the gear on, he wiped the blood from his hands on the vest and then shook his head to clear out the cobwebs.

  Time to get to work.

  11

  Jasmine huddled with the other non-white people, next to the edge of the gift shop. A few feet away from the female, white hostages. They stared at each other. She could see the looks on their faces, the terror lingering there. They knew being white and non-Jewish would not save them.

  Red and his people had taken several of them into the elevator, starting with the Jews and then moving onto the non-white men. Maybe ten in total. When the elevators returned, the guards were alone. Said not a word about the hostages they’d taken upstairs. Not about what they were doing up there. Not a word about why the hostages hadn’t returned with them.

  The helicopter outside buzzed the building again. Some of the hostages gazed longingly at it when it passed. When the first SWAT team members had arrived, some cheered.

  Jasmine knew better. She knew there was no way they would breach this museum building’s barrier. Red’s people had set up big steel barricades, with three or four men behind each barricade. A solid ring of defense around the building. And Red had passed along a message that if they tear gassed the building or sent smoke bombs through the windows, the hostages would die immediately.

  No one was going anywhere.

  Jasmine observed one of the SWAT team trucks, parked close to a barrier. And the men behind that barrier, their weapons trained on it. A standoff, no one making any moves.

  And then, something happened.

  One of the SWAT team members poked his head up, and the invader took a shot. Smacked the SWAT guy in the chest. He stumbled backward, into his buddies. Must have been wearing a bulletproof vest or something.

  The other SWAT members waved their arms, pointed their weapons at the ground. They didn’t want a full-on confrontation. And, just as quickly as it had started, the conflict outside fizzled. Any hope it might lead to SWAT storming the building ended there.

  Were the cops outside waiting for some master negotiator to arrive? There had to be something they could do to end this standoff while still keeping everyone safe.

  Because, if the cops couldn’t, then they would all die in here.

  Jasmine had watched Layne’s large, muscular frame dive through the garbage chute on the men’s side of the room fifteen minutes ago. Maybe twenty. It was hard to keep track of time since she didn’t wear a watch and the guards had confiscated all the phones right after splitting them up by gender.

  There had been a few gunshots inside the building. No way to know if Layne had been on the wrong end of those blasts. Hard to imagine Layne doing anything to help their situation. He wasn’t a green beret; he was just a beefy guy who liked Game of Thrones.

  Across the room, a white guy, sitting among the privileged Caucasians, vibrated. He was sweating, chewing on his thumbnail. He knelt and started bouncing up and down on his knees.

  Red sent another group up the elevator, and then he turned and frowned at the agitated white man.

  “Something wrong?” Red said, from across the room.

  “How long are you going to keep us here?”

  Red slipped his walkie-talkie into a holster on his belt and strutted through the lobby. His footfalls were like gunshots on the tile. Big, smarmy grin on his face and hands on his hips.

  “How long are we going to keep you here?” Red said.

  The man nodded. “Please. I have a family. Whatever it is you’re doing upstairs, I don’t have any problem with you. I have no association with these people.” The man flicked his eyes toward Jasmine and her non-white clique.

  Red followed the man’s gaze and then dropped to a knee. He met the man’s eyes, adopting a sympathetic expression on his face. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. I’m not with them. I’m more like you.”

  Red drew his pistol but kept it pointed at the ground. “If that’s true, then why are you in this museum with them, and not on the front lines with us? Why are you begging for your life with the rest of these dogs?”

  The man stared at the pistol. Shaking. “Please. Please let me go. I want to go home. I’m here on my day off work, and my wife and I are supposed to have date night tonight.”

  Red tilted his head back and forth, as if considering. Jasmine knew better. Red was toying with the poor man, torturing him. She could see on his face how much Red relished the act of holding this sad guy’s life in his hands.

  Red stood up. “I don’t think so.”

  And, he turned to leave. The man’s face transformed into rage. Teeth bared, eyes wide, he leaped from his spot. He reached out to grab Red’s gun. He missed, and his arms tried to wrap around Red’s legs. The attacker bumped into a statue, making it rock on the pedestal.

  Red scurried out of the way. Drove his boot down on the man’s head, slamming his face into the floor. Jasmine heard the crack from her spot next to the gift shop.

  “This is how you act?” Red bellowed. “You don’t get what you want, so you behave like a petulant child?”

  The man raised his head. Blood smearing his lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but Red didn’t let him. He aimed the pistol and pressed the trigger, blasting a hole in the top of the man’s head. Blood sprayed as chunks of his skull ejected in several directions. Little splatters settled on the ground around them, turning the area polka-dotted.

  People around the room screamed. Pulled close to each other, huddling like animals. For a few seconds, the entire room went silent. Outside, the terrorists behind their barricades didn’t even turn around to check it out. They sat, silent, keeping the SWAT teams at bay.

&nbs
p; Red holstered his pistol and wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing the spots of blood on his forehead. He let out a quick chirp of a chuckle. “Well. I really hope that was the last outburst we’re going to have to endure today.”

  Red opened his mouth to say something else and then paused. He eyed Jasmine, his brow scrunched. Then, his eyes traveled from her over to the group of men. He pursed his lips, curiosity in his eyes as he inventoried them.

  Her heart pounded. She could almost see the realization developing in his mind.

  Red strolled closer to the men, counting them off with a pointed finger. He gazed back at Jasmine, and then again at the male group. A sneer cracked his lips.

  Hands on hips, he strutted over toward her. “We’re missing one,” Red said. “Where is the white guy you came in here with? The sandy-haired bodybuilder with the tattoos all over his arms.”

  Jasmine shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her own voice sounded meek in her ears.

  Red clicked his tongue a few times, shaking his head. He lifted the walkie-talkie and said something in German as he marched away.

  12

  Moving from the sixth floor down to the fourth floor in all the gear proved to be a challenge. Not that Layne couldn’t handle the extra weight. And, not that he wasn’t comfortable holding a weapon. He’d held and fired many in his life, mostly before settling into the mountains of Southern Colorado after his retirement. But, he’d had to pull triggers a few times since then.

  No, what bothered him was the previous owner of the equipment. That someone so steeped in hate had donned this gear to terrorize and kill people for these sick reasons. How could a person fall into such a misguided belief system?

  Before he opened the door, he checked his weapons. M4 loaded and ready to go.