Greg Rucka - Alpha

“You did, didn’t you? Had to be you.”

“We’re not talking about me, this is not a confession. You want to listen to me. Get your people up on the Lunar Platform. You have fourteen minutes.”

“No,” Bell says.

“You don’t want to fuck around.”

“You’ve got to give me something here. A good faith gesture, something.”

“I’m going to give you the bomb.”

“Not enough. I let all of you walk, that’s me having a very bad day, here. You’re asking me to fail. You’ve got to give me something.”

“What I have is your daughter,” Gabriel says. “And that’s what I’ll give you if you do what I say.”

He shuts off his radio before he can hear the response, stuffs it back inside the front of his Pooch costume, hooking it onto his belt. Carefully, he climbs out the open door at the side of the giant baseball, makes his way down the steps, feeling naked and exposed, his eyes on Dana in the Betsy costume the whole time. Her back is to the attraction, to him, and he wills her not to turn, not to see him. He’s almost at the bottom when the giant head begins to swivel, and there is a horrible moment when Gabriel thinks it’s all lost, it’s all for nothing.

Then her head tilts, dips, and even in the costume, Gabriel can see her fatigue and her fear, and that is almost worse.

Almost.

He drops off the stairs, recovers his headpiece and the gloves. Vladimir as Kurkur looks his way, and Gabriel gives him a nod. Vladimir, and Sonny in a Gordo costume and Oscar in an original Clip Flashman outfit, nudge the rest of the group forward, and together, they begin making their way toward Wilson Town.

Gabriel pulls his headpiece back on, tucks the gloves into his costume, falls into line at the back. He’s behind Bell’s daughter, dressed up as Agent Rose. She’s walking beside the Dread Flashman with the bandanna over his face. Gabriel can feel his submachine gun pressed against his side, where it’s hanging from its strap over his shoulder, feel it digging into his hip, trapped by Pooch’s ample padding. Dread Flashman is walking a little slowly, and Jonathan Bell’s deaf daughter now puts a hand out to help him, and Gabriel opens his mouth to tell her not to do that, to keep her hands hidden, but stops himself. She’s deaf, she wouldn’t hear him anyway.

But Dana can. Dana could.

He moves up between them, forcing them apart. His ungloved left hand settles on Bell’s daughter, her shoulder, and she looks at him from behind her own mask and beneath her fedora. He can see her eyes, and the hatred in them, and he doesn’t care. Uses his other hand to push Dread Flashman along, forcing both kids to keep pace.

If everything works right, if everything works the way he has envisioned it, then Bell and his people will be forty feet off the ground and almost three hundred feet from where Gabriel and the others will line up. Three hundred feet and no long guns, anybody takes a shot, they’ll have to be damn sure and damn lucky. Bell and his others will be out of play. He’ll send Dana up in the first group, to keep her safe, then the rest of the hostages, leave Bell’s daughter for last. Then it will be just his people, Vladimir and all the rest.

Then Gabriel will shut down the ride, trapping Bell and the hostages up top for as long as it takes them to make their way down the ladders. By the time they’ve done that, Gabriel will have his own people out of there, into the tunnels. He’ll do a head check, tell them to get out of the costumes. When they’re all doing that, he’ll take the submachine gun digging into his side, and he’ll shoot each and every one of them dead.

He’ll ditch the Pooch costume with the bodies, leave it behind for the last time, and head north. Even if Bell is telling the truth about his team and how they entered and their vehicle and all of it, Gabriel isn’t interested. Too risky, too easy to be tricked, and Bell lied, anyway, Gabriel is sure of it. So Gabriel will head north, and come out near Lion’s Safari, and he’ll wait until it’s clear, and then he’ll just walk out of the park much the same way the others walked in. Exit to the northeast employee lot, and get as far away as fast as he can.

That’s his plan, and he believes in it. Despite everything, he believes in it.

He still believes in his dream.

“Can you take them?” Ruiz is asking.

“Not once we’re on that platform,” Bell says.

“Shit,” Wallford mutters. “They made all of you?”

“Not sure. He knows we’re at least three, maybe four. Don’t think he knows about our Angel.”

Wallford raises his head to look across the conference table to Ruiz, over the speakerphone between them. “Cue HRT? Try to flank them?”

“Same problem.” Ruiz is leaning, hands on the table. “Warlock? Nothing about the device?”

“Presumably he’s holding that back.”

“How do you want to proceed?”

“We go up there, they can do whatever they want,” Bell says. “They can kill the hostages, anything, and we won’t be able to stop them.”

“They see you’re not there, they’ll do it anyway,” Wallford says.

“Know your targets, Warlock,” Ruiz says.

“Sniper one-oh-one.” Bell’s voice drops, almost muttering, perhaps only to himself now. “Costumes. Costumes, costumes, the key is the costumes.…”

The conference room door opens, a harried and excited Matthew Marcelin entering. From the looks of him, he’s been dancing for the media again, but now he’s loosening his tie with one hand, holding a sheet of paper up for them to see in the other. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it without a word as Ruiz looks a warning to him.

“Warlock?” he asks.

Bell doesn’t respond, and Ruiz realizes the line has gone dead. Whatever witchcraft Warlock is planning, he’s already casting the spell. Wallford reaches out, closes the call.

“You know who takes the hit on this if the hostages die, right?” he asks.

Ruiz nods. He takes the hit. Takes it hard and straight, and goes down from it, too.

“No different from any other day at the office,” Ruiz says. “Mr. Marcelin?”

“Personnel finished their list.”

Wallford checks his watch, purses his lips, impressed. “Fast. Thought it would take until tomorrow, at least.”

“They were motivated.” Marcelin lays the sheet on the table, starts reading off the names. “There are five park employees unaccounted for. One of them, Sarah Koos, was assigned to play Xi-Xi today. We think she was the woman who was murdered. There are two more who were in costume: Gabriel Fuller was playing Pooch, and Steven De Rosario was playing Hendar. Cassie Zurrer was on concessions at the Tropical Treats stand at Wacky Wharf. Last one is Dana Kincaid, she was called in late, to act as an ASL interpreter for a special-needs group.”

“Only two men,” Wallford says.

“Do you have personnel files on Fuller and De Rosario?” Ruiz asks.

“I can bring them up.” Marcelin moves down the table to its head, sits, and opens the laptop sitting there. Ruiz looks to Wallford, who nods, takes out his phone.

“Wallford,” he says. “Word of the day is ‘buzzsaw.’ Run the following, do it fast. Fuller, Gabriel, and De Rosario-two words-Steven. Call me back.”

Ruiz is watching as Marcelin seems to assault the laptop’s keyboard with his fingers. The stress of the day is taking its toll, and he hunches as he works, shoves his glasses back up his nose with an angry thumb, typing again, faster, clumsily. Swears, retypes.

“Here they are,” Marcelin finally says. “Fuller has been with us since the beginning of summer, hired on near the end of May. Qualified for Pooch, passed his security screening, student at UCLA. Prior job experience, U.S. Army.