James Grippando - The Abduction

She tweaked her microphone. “Harley, I’m going back inside.”

“Allison, don’t!”

He said something more, but Allison couldn’t hear. She adjusted the microphone to improve the reception-then someone grabbed her arm.

It was a cop. “Lady, you can’t stand here.”

“Please, I’m the attorney general.”

“Yeah, and I’m the Duke of Earl.”

“Let go,” she said, wrestling free. Static rattled in her ear. She pressed her earpiece again. “Damn it, Harley, I don’t want to go inside without radio contact, but I can’t hear you!”

The cop grabbed her again. “You’re with the press, aren’t you?”

She ignored him. “Harley, are you there?”

“Damn media sharks,” the cop groaned. “Get your bony reporter’s ass behind the police tape.” He ripped the microphone from her ear. The radio went completely dead.

“You idiot!” she screamed.

He grabbed her with one hand. His walkie-talkie was in the other. It squawked, giving Allison an idea. She wrestled free and grabbed his walkie-talkie.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Allison ran off.

“Lady, stop!”

She kept going, disappearing into the crowd. She pushed against the flow and made it back into the lobby. The smoke was beginning to clear below, but it was still clouding from the second floor. She pushed the button on her walkie-talkie.

“I don’t know who I’m talking to, but this is Attorney General Allison Leahy. I need to reach Special Agent Harley Abrams of the FBI immediately.” She left it on, hoping for a response.

Firefighters in full gear had replaced the hysterical guests in the lobby. Black soot and cinders covered the walls and floor. The chandeliers were dark. Emergency spotlights were the only source of light. Traces of smoke irritated her eyes, even though the fire was under control and the smoke had diminished. Most of the firefighters were wearing masks, but it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Allison could breathe without one.

She hurried inside and stopped at the base of the stairwell. The lighting was spotty, but she could see up to the mezzanine and the charred Independence Bar. A lone fireman was crouched by the table where she’d left the money. He wore a complete set of firefighting gear, including a self-contained breathing apparatus, like a scuba diver. Dressed like that, he could walk through any cloud of smoke. And, she realized, he could walk right out of the building without being detected.

As he rose from his crouch, Allison could see it-he had the money in hand. Their eyes met briefly at a distance, him from above and her from below. The man froze. Allison didn’t flinch. His face was barely visible behind the clear fireproof mask, but Allison could have sworn she saw him smile. In one swift motion, he snatched the briefcase and ran for the guest rooms.

Allison charged up the stairs, past the bar, heading at full speed toward the guest rooms. The smoke was thicker upstairs, though not impenetrable. The carpeting had completely burned away. The exposed floorboards were still hot from the flames.

Allison turned down the hall to the second-floor rooms. Glass crunched beneath her feet. The windows facing the inner courtyard had shattered in the explosion. Some interior walls had burned away completely. Others were charred but still standing. An emergency light shined through the smoke like a lone headlight beaming through fog. She was closing on the man in the fire suit. He was struggling beneath the weight of his gear.

He stopped suddenly, turned, and pointed his gun. On impulse, Allison ducked into an open room just as the bullet whizzed by her. She took her pistol from inside her jacket and peered out the doorway. He was running down the hall again. She ran after him.

He fired another shot on the run, but it was erratic. He seemed to be having trouble shooting with the thick fireproof gloves on his hands. Allison kept coming, though the floor was getting weaker. Some boards were completely burned away. She watched her step but refused to stop. She was just twenty feet behind him when the floor gave way beneath his feet.

Allison stopped as he plunged up to his waist in the fire-eaten floor. In his struggle to save the briefcase his gun fell through the opening in the floor. Allison assumed the police stance and pointed her gun at him from behind.

“Freeze!” she shouted.

He kept struggling. He was like a man who’d fallen through the ice and couldn’t pull himself up. Each time he groped for a firm piece of flooring, it broke away beneath him. Flames from below were lapping at his heels. He was barely hanging on-but he was getting away.

“Freeze!” she said again.

He kept inching away from her, though the heavy equipment and air tank were clearly slowing his movement. Finally he reached firm flooring, leaving a gaping hole in the floor between him and Allison. He wobbled to his feet. He started to run, but he’d hurt his leg in the fall. He limped away with the money.

Allison took aim, but she couldn’t shoot. Not without answers about Emily. She aimed lower, for his legs, but under the smoky conditions she feared her shot would come in high. An erratic bullet in the compressed air tank strapped to his back would unleash an explosion that would silence him forever-particularly with tanks that had been heated by the raging fire. She lowered her gun and charged forward, stopping at the hole. It was like gazing into hell-a long way down, nothing but flames.

The hole was slightly off-center. She walked along the intact ridge of flooring near the wall. The charred boards creaked beneath her feet, but she knew she weighed less than the man in all that gear. Her feet slid an inch at a time, one step at a time. Heat shot up from the open hole; it was like standing over a volcano. She moved faster, then leaped the last three feet to more secure flooring.

The kidnapper was just ducking into a room at the end of the hall-unarmed, she assumed, though she couldn’t be certain he didn’t have another weapon. She raced down the hall, gun in hand. The floor was still weak in spots, but she didn’t slow down. If he could make it wearing all that gear, she could surely make it. She stopped in the doorway and pointed her gun.

The man leaped from behind the door and knocked her backward, across the hall. She crashed through the remnants of a charred French door, but she fell only ten inches before the balcony caught her. Behind and below her was the hotel’s central courtyard. Staring at her from across the hall was Vincent Gambrelli.

Still on her back, she aimed her gun. “Stop right there,” she said.

He was framed in the doorway across the hall, fifteen feet away. He pulled off his mask and tossed it aside. He looked huge in his gear, especially with the breathing tank bulging behind him.

“Stop the charade,” he scoffed. “I know you’re not going to shoot me.”

She rose to her feet and stood on the balcony, aiming right at his face. She glanced at the courtyard behind her, fifty feet below. It was a maze of English gardens surrounded by wrought-iron fences with sharp-pointed pickets. The fear of falling forced her forward, but only a step. “I’ll kill you if you come any closer.”

“And where would that leave you? Peter is dead. I’m the only man alive who knows where Emily is.”

“You son of a bitch. Where is she?”

The walkie-talkie crackled in her coat. This time, the voice was familiar. “Allison, it’s Harley Abrams. Where are you?”

“Don’t you dare answer that,” said Gambrelli.

She had two hands on the gun, taking aim.

Gambrelli said, “I’m in control here, Allison. Not you. Not Abrams. Only I know where Emily is. You can’t kill me. You know you can’t kill me.”