Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“We’re sorry, Tom,” Rust said, walking quickly withSydowski to his car. “You will be told the minute we know anything.”

Reed walked with them. He was unrelenting. “I’m theonly one here who has seen Keller, talked with him. Please. I know this man.You could regret not having me there.”

The FBI’s Huey was in sight.

At the car, Rust and Sydowski looked at each other,saying nothing. The helicopter approached, blades whipping, slicing, descendingto the park as the news choppers reluctantly backed off. The press was going tobe out there anyway, Rust figured.

The ground plummeted beneath them and in minutes, Reedwas thundering over the Pacific, sitting knee to knee with FBI SWAT Teamsnipers. Seeing their weapons, their icy faces, and hearing their muted radiochatter, nearly smothered him. Someone passed him a radio with an earpiece sohe could listen, hear clearly the voices of unseen forces. Saviors. Planning arescue from the immaculate blue sky. If it wasn’t too late.

From the chopper, the Pacific seemed a universe ofchanging hues and eternally deceptive whitecaps that were, or were not, boats.How could they ever find anyone down there? His stomach lurched. It was futile.He was peering into an abyss.

Forgive me, Zach. Please forgive me.

Reed’s hands were clasped together as the chopperbanked hard for an immediate northwest heading.

Zach’s eyes adjusted to the dimness under the tarp.

The rumbling hum of the twin Mercuries pushing theboat, which leaped and skipped over the water’s surface, was deafening, rattlinghim alert.

That rotten taste was in his mouth again. His headhurt, his leg was throbbing, and he was hungry. Danny and Gabrielle were lyingon the deck with him, stirring, as the vibrations shook their bodies.

The boat was moving fast.

Ouch — something was sticking him in the groin — what?He reached into his underpants, remembering his pocketknife. He still had it.He tightened his fingers around it. Okay, he sniffed, don’t sit up, just take alook around, see what’s going on. What’s that? He looked down at what wascausing the painful pressure on his lower leg.

Heavy, yellow plastic rope was tied around his ankleand encased in a cast of silver duct tape. Zach followed the rope. It wascoiled in a nearby bundle, knotted and heavily taped to four cement cinderblocks. Danny and Gabrielle? It was the same with them; rope and tape aroundtheir ankles, tied to the blocks. Another line ran from the bundle away fromthe tarp. Holding his breath, Zack lifted the tarp slightly, following the linealong the deck to the front of the boat where it ended in a taped knot aroundthe creep’s ankle.

They were all connected. What was it for? Zachstruggled to understand. Suddenly, it hit him, harder than anything in hislife: The creep was going to kill them all!

Zach wanted his dad. Where was he? Don’t scream! Wherewere the police? Didn’t anyone care? Don’t move! Aren’t they looking for us?Think! Just think! Where are we going? Think! C’mon! He rubbed tears from hiseyes and felt — the knife! Yes! He felt the knife in his hand. Okay. He coulddo something.

He shifted closer to the rope and opened the blade. Itshrank next to the diameter of the heavy rope, like a steak knife against anoak tree. He sniffled and began sawing away. The tiny blade was sharp and cutinto the rope, but it was going to take forever. Damn! He might not have timeto cut Danny and Gabrielle free. He concentrated. He could stab the creep. No.The blade was too small. Panic washed over him. Think, Zach! Think!

Cut the rope and jump out? He could swim. For howlong? What about sharks? What about Danny and Gabrielle? He didn’t know. Hedidn’t know anything, only that he had to do something quick. If he tried hardenough, he could cut through one piece of rope. Which one? He moved closer tothe bundle, examining the coils. One line connected the cement blocks to thelines wrapped around the children’s ankles. Which one? He double-checked theweb of rope. Okay. Here goes.

He gestured to Danny and Gabrielle to keep still andquiet, then he gripped his knife and began slicing through the yellow rope.

From a thousand feet up, through the Coast Guard spotter’s bubble, it looked like ameteor speeding across the heavens, cutting a southwest path across thesparkling sea, leaving a fading trail of white water. Another check through thebinoculars to be certain. Twin outboards. Mercs. Northcraft. Affirmative.

“Air C-351, sighted the craft! Copy?”

“Roger, C-351. Coordinates? Over?”

“Got him running hard at … standby…”

The guard’s C-130 Hercules had locked on to Keller’sboat in the gulf about seven miles off Point Reyes, bearing southwest to theislands at forty-three knots.

Within six minutes, the guard’s rescue chopper, atfive hundred feet, moved in behind the boat, hanging back about a quarter milewhile the cutter Point Brower , with two FBI sniper teams aboard, nowwithin a mile, was coming from the south to intercept.

“We’ve got a visual,” Langford Shaw acknowledged asthe bureau’s Huey, pounding at maximum speed, came up fast taking the lead. Itheld at two hundred yards behind Keller’s boat, stern portside. Altitude: threehundred feet.

Through binoculars, Shaw and his chief observerchecked the suspect and the boat against enhanced photos from the hobby storesecurity camera and the buy and trade magazine.

“Move up another hundred yards,” Shaw told the pilotas he and the observer continued comparing pictures. “It’s Keller,” Shawconcluded. “And that’s the boat. Pull back a hundred.”

“No hostages,” the observer said, “Wait, I see — ”

“Sir,” blurted one of the snipers looking through hisscope, “edge of the tarp at eight o’clock!”

Part of a child’s sneaker was sticking out from underit.

The second FBI helicopter arrived, taking a mirrorpoint to Shaw’s chopper at Keller’s starboard stern. Listening to the radiodispatches, Reed requested and was given a pair of high-powered binoculars.Focusing on the tarp, he glimpsed Zach’s shoe!

His shoe moved. Didn’t it?

“That’s my son’s foot. That’s Zach!”

The sniper team in Reed’s chopper also locked on toKeller his head bouncing in the scope’s cross-hairs.

Why was a rope tied to Keller’s ankle?

A Navy ship? No. Keller saw the markings. U.S. CoastGuard. The cutter appeared out of nowhere a few hundred yards ahead. Turningbroadside. To block him!

“Edward Keller!” His name boomed out — a bullhorn?

He eased up on the throttle.

“FBI, Mr. Keller. Stop your craft now! I repeat, thisis…”

***

‘Movement under the tarp, sir,” a sniper reported toShaw.

“Drop him a line, Fred,” Shaw ordered the negotiator.

The chopper tracked directly above Keller, matchinghis speed.

“Mr. Keller, we’re dropping a phone to you now.”

A line with a padded bag at the end of it was paid outfrom the chopper, landing safely on Keller’s deck. The rope slackened,collapsing on him like netting. Keller shrugged it off, then tossed the baginto the ocean.

The noise was frightening, hurting his ears, but Zachrealized police were trying to save them, and worked even harder at the rope.Gabrielle and Danny watched frozen in fear, hands over their ears.

Come on! Zach’s fingers and wrist ached as he sawed.

Keller vanished from the sniper’s scopes.

Slamming the throttle down, twin engines growling, theboat veered south, cutting a magnificent white-capped swath as crosswinds sweptthe tarp back revealing everything: the children, the ropes, the cinder blocks.