Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Read online

  Nonchalantly he turned back toward the door and saw a man disappearing behind the large AC unit.

  Everett’s heart sank. It was the burly guy, Shakespeare, one of the security people from the arena. What could he possibly do?

  With a sudden bounce in his step, Zaher swept an arm toward the helicopter. “Move it! Let’s go.”

  As Everett looked back toward the AC unit, he saw the end of Shakespeare’s throwing motion, then heard something hit the ground near him.

  A silver metal canister … bouncing end over end … then rolling.

  Everett dropped to the cold concrete and buried his face in the crook of his arm. Even with his eyes shut and face buried, his mind lit up with the flash from whatever Shakespeare had thrown.

  Then the boom.

  The ground shook.

  Everett knew he had to move. This was his one shot.

  He looked up and got to his knees as a white cloud rolled up into the night sky. Shakespeare waved frantically for Everett to come to him, so he took off as fast as he could, praying for God to give him wings.

  Suddenly Shakespeare dropped to the ground with his rifle in front of him and, in a horrifying image, took dead aim at Everett.

  When Everett saw the repeated flash of his gun, he slowed, expecting to be riddled with bullets. But nothing hit him. He kept going, every step feeling like ten yards, hearing the explosions, sensing a barrage of hot bullets skimming by him, almost tripping, then feeling like an invisible man, ever so close to freedom.

  “Take cover!” Shakespeare yelled and continued firing on the hostiles, his rattling machine gun spitting lead and smoke.

  Everett got safely behind the AC unit, caught his breath, and peered around the corner.

  Four or five of the men were strewn dead or dying on the rooftop like black garbage bags blowing in the wind.

  The others were manhandling Sterling into the copter and diving in themselves as it lifted off the roof. Zaher was among them.

  Weapons flashed from the chopper, and gunfire burst all around Everett and Shakespeare with pings and sparks and holes torn in the AC unit.

  The chopper lifted five, ten, fifteen yards off the concrete. They stopped firing.

  It got higher.

  As Shakespeare took aim again, SWAT guys finally popped onto the roof through the door like black ghosts—one, two, three, four, five … and kept coming. Each set up on one knee, took aim, and fired on the helicopter.

  But it was lifting backward at an angle, quickly, quickly.

  Their shots were not hitting.

  Soon the bird was gone.

  And so was Ohio senator Martin Sterling.

  38

  “You go ahead, Jack. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Margaret said as she and Jack made their way from his car to the emergency room.

  “I’m not going without you.” Jack realized he should have dropped her off at the door. He had her by the arm, walking as fast as he could, but she was shuffling slowly.

  “Please go.” Margaret stopped and faced him. “I mean it. Pam needs you. I’ll find you. I’m a big girl.”

  Jack didn’t want to leave her. She was feeble, and her short-term memory wasn’t great. But they were fifty feet from the sliding doors leading to the emergency room, and other people were coming and going. Help was all around if she needed it.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” he said. “Ask for us when you get inside.” He gave her a squeeze and ran for the entrance.

  The waiting room was lined with blue plastic chairs packed with people of all ages, races, and genders. A man and woman were in front of him at the desk.

  “Excuse me.” He approached to their left and put a hand on the counter. “I’m looking for Pamela Crittendon. She was just brought in—having a baby.”

  “And you are?” said the skinny, gum-chewing receptionist.

  “Her husband. Jack Crittendon.”

  The short couple he’d interrupted gave him a frustrated look and mumbled something.

  The receptionist pointed with the clipboard in her hand. “Go halfway down and hang a right. She’s in surgery.”

  “Surgery? Don’t you mean labor and delivery?”

  “No, surgery, sir.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “She needed a C-section.”

  “C-section?” Jack was flabbergasted. He scanned the hallway for Margaret but didn’t see her. He interrupted the woman at the desk again. “My mother-in-law, Margaret Wagner, is coming in. Will you let her know where we are?”

  She closed her eyes and gave a nod. “I’ll try my best.”

  “Thank you.” He took off down the hallway, made a right, and found the swinging doors leading to surgery. An Authorized Personnel Only sign was posted on the door, but there was no one to ask, so Jack pushed open the door and walked in.

  The large white room smelled like rubbing alcohol and bustled with activity. At the oval counter in the center, nurses in dark-blue scrubs were talking to doctors wearing white coats. A muted TV up in the corner showed the crowd and emergency vehicles outside the arena.

  A male nurse with bright-orange hair, standing at the water cooler, noticed him. “I’m sorry, sir. This is hospital personnel only.”

  “My wife’s here. Pamela Crittendon. She’s having a C-section. I just got here.”

  The nurse finished his water, dropped the cup in the trash, and approached Jack. “She’s in D, this way. I’m Freddie, by the way.” He walked around the nurses’ station.

  Jack followed, worrying Margaret would never find them.

  “The team that brought your wife in was on the ball.” Freddie didn’t look back as he walked silently in his yellow Nikes. “They noticed the baby’s heart rate wasn’t what it should be and called ahead so we’d be ready.”

  “What does that mean, about the heart rate? Is something wrong?”

  “Probably nothing serious. The baby might have been experiencing some distress—”

  That’s an understatement.

  “It’s early. The baby’s early by a month,” Jack said.

  “Okay, well, that’s another reason it’s good they got your wife right in. Best to get the baby out and get it cranked up. Is it a boy or girl?” The redhead smiled.

  He didn’t seem overly concerned, so Jack breathed a sigh of relief. “We don’t know,” he said.

  “Okay, just wait here a sec.” Freddie entered the scuffed double doors marked with a black D. Jack spotted a nurse with gloves and a mask on unfolding a light-blue blanket, and several other people walking about, but that was all he could see. None of them looked as if they were in any rush or as if anything serious was happening.

  He didn’t hear a baby crying.

  Had they done the C-section yet?

  He was so nervous he had chills.

  “God, please, please take care of Pam and the baby,” he whispered. “Let this go smoothly. Let them be fine … ”

  He looked back at the TV in the nurses’ station. It didn’t look as if the bombs had exploded. He wondered how Shakespeare was and where on earth Zaher could have gone with Sterling and Lester. They had nowhere to go.

  Suddenly Jack’s mind rewound to the sulfury smell of gunpowder and the recoil of the gun in his hands and the masked man crumpling to the ground. Had the man died? Jack couldn’t believe he might have committed murder.

  On the way to the hospital he’d gotten a call from an agitated federal investigator who was beside himself that Jack and Margaret had left the arena before being interrogated. Jack explained they were in the middle of having a baby, and the man insisted they meet for an interview as early as possible the next day.

  Jack scanned the busy room. There was no sign of Margaret yet. He hoped she wasn’t lost.

  How were he and Pam ever going to pay for all this?


  But really, none of that mattered. All that mattered was that Pam and the baby were okay. If they had to take out a loan or borrow from Margaret, so be it. His heart sparked for a moment when he remembered the prospect of becoming an editor at the Gazette. But just as quickly he deflated as it dawned on him that if anything happened to Martin Sterling, there would be no job for him at Derrick’s paper.

  One of the doors swung toward him.

  Freddie came out, followed by a pale-faced doctor with a spotty, brown beard.

  “Mr. Crittendon, this is Dr. Shapiro,” Freddie said. “He did the C-section, and he’s going to fill you in—”

  “It’s done? Where’s the baby?” Jack looked beyond them toward the swinging doors. “Is it a boy or a girl?” He reached for the door.

  Shapiro took a step in front of the door and shifted the white mask from his mouth to the top of his balding head. “It’s a boy, Mr. Crittendon, and your wife is fine.”

  “I’ve got to take off.” Freddie touched Jack’s shoulder. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Mr. Crittendon.” Shapiro snapped off his rubber gloves. “Your baby’s one-minute Apgar was a three, which is quite low, so he’s getting a little extra attention in progressive care right now.”

  Jack flushed. The baby had been whisked away from Pam? How normal was that?

  “Is that like intensive care?” Jack said.

  “A step down from ICU,” Shapiro said.

  Jack felt suddenly weak; his forehead broke out in sweat. “The Apgar is what again?” He’d heard of it when the girls were born, but it had never been an issue.

  “It was a three out of ten.”

  “And what’s the Apgar again?”

  “It’s a quick test done one minute after birth to determine how well the baby tolerated the delivery,” Shapiro said soberly. He looked at his watch. “They will have done another at five minutes. We’ll see how that went.”

  “Was he breathing okay? I mean, was he getting enough oxygen and everything?”

  “He was having a little bit of difficulty. His extremities were a bit blue, and his response to stimulation and muscle tone were somewhat flat. But really, Mr. Crittendon, it’s very early.”

  Flat?

  All Jack could picture was a limp, white baby with something very wrong. He could hardly breathe. “Where is he now?”

  “They will be doting on him in progressive care, I can assure you,” Shapiro said. “Let’s get you and Pamela into a private room and let you see your baby as soon as possible. How does that sound? In the meantime, go on in and see your wife.” Shapiro stepped aside and lifted a hand toward the door.

  “Is there any more you can tell me?” Jack pleaded. “Anything wrong that you’re aware of?”

  The doctor blinked and shook his head. “Not at this point. Just know that some babies take a bit longer to get used to the real world than others. He may’ve had some fluid in his lungs. They’ll clear that out, give him oxygen if he needs it, maybe some physical stimulation to get his heart clicking at a healthy rate. We hope to see the five-minute Apgar rise significantly. Let’s give it another look in a few minutes, shall we?”

  But all that work sounded so abnormal.

  Pam had gotten to hold Rebecca and Faye right after they were born. They had photos …

  Okay, he needed to see Pam.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Just please let us know as soon as possible.”

  “We will indeed.”

  “Where is progressive care?”

  “It’s just adjacent to us here.” He pointed. “Your private room will be close to it.”

  “Okay. Thank you again.”

  They parted ways, and Jack went through the double doors.

  “There you are,” Pam said, lying on the operating table, shivering beneath a bunch of blankets. Her face was pale, but she’d put on lipstick. Her blonde hair was dark around the edges from sweat. Lucy sat in a chair pulled right up close to her. “Where’s Mom?” Pam looked past him.

  “She’s coming.” Although she should have been there by now. “I’ve been talking to Dr. Shapiro. How are you? Are you okay?”

  “What did he say?” She held both arms out to him. “Is the baby okay? Just tell me he’s okay, Jack. Right now. Tell me he’s fine …”

  39

  Derrick cursed himself again for his blunder. Just minutes after he’d left the arena with Jack and Pam, he realized he had made a terrible mistake by walking out of the building—they would never allow him back in. Now he and Daniel were packed like sardines at a metal barricade along with every other journalist and cameraman in Ohio, and more from news sources across the nation, who were descending on the arena like vultures.

  There was a chill in the air, and emergency spotlights lit up the night. Police were bustling around beyond the barricade, setting up a table and podium, running wires and cables and a gazillion microphones for the press conference that was supposed to have begun twenty minutes earlier.

  The second Derrick had left Jack and Pam, a nearby paramedic flagged him down. She’d spotted the blood that had soaked through his shirt and insisted on treating him. The bullet had taken a small chunk of skin from his waist but had not lodged. The paramedic doused the wound with something that stung like alcohol, then bandaged and taped it nicely, but he was protecting it with his arm, afraid it was going to get nudged amid the elbowing crowd of reporters.

  His phone vibrated—a text from Zenia. She was still on pins and needles, even though he’d assured her when he got out that he was fine. He wanted to call her, but he’d never be able to hear her in that crowd. And if he stepped aside to get away from the noise, he would lose his place. He shot her a quick reply and said he’d call as soon as he could.

  Suddenly two doors opened at the front of the arena, which looked like a movie set with all the broken glass and smoke still wafting in the breezy night air. Electronic flashes fired like strobe lights. Large media lights popped on throughout the crowd, flooding the scene in blinding white.

  A white-haired man in a dark, baggy suit led the way. Behind him came Lieutenant Wolfski, Phil Hedgwick, and Reese Jenkins. They filed up to the podium; the white-haired guy took center stage. Also coming through the glass doors—but stationing themselves well back from the podium—were Keefer O’Dell and Clarissa Dracone, who was white as a sheet.

  “My name is Rufus Peek, special agent, FBI. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but we needed to get our facts in order for you.” Peek put on reading glasses, checked his notes, and introduced each of the men behind him. “Earlier today, Homeland Security learned of a possible terrorist threat here at Columbus Festival Arena. As you know, Ohio senator Martin Sterling was scheduled to appear for a campaign rally, along with recording artist Everett Lester—”

  “Have Lester and Sterling been kidnapped?” yelled a reporter.

  “Is Everett dead?” asked another.

  “How many civilians are dead?”

  “Tell us about the bombs!”

  “If you will … if you will, please.” Peek held up both hands and patted the air. “I’m going to start from the beginning and get to where we are now, but you are going to have to be quiet. Please. This is difficult enough. I will give you all the information I have, but please don’t bark out questions. I will not answer them.

  “Before the show began, local police and SWAT teams were called in because of the threat,” Peek continued. “At that point, Homeland told arena officials there was a 38.8 percent chance the threat was real—”

  “Why didn’t they cancel right then?” a reporter shouted, and others chimed in.

  “However”—Peek scowled—“due to traffic problems, only a small SWAT team was able to assemble inside the venue before the events started unfolding.” Peek sighed
and looked down at his notes. The special agent was thin, probably sixty-five, with sunken, red-ringed eyes and a hint of gray stubble on his gaunt face. He didn’t look healthy and probably could well have done without a case of this magnitude so close to what was likely his approaching retirement.

  “Doors were scheduled to open at six thirty p.m., but due to the threat, the opening was delayed. However, there was some confusion among arena staff, and the doors did open for a brief time, letting in hundreds of people before the doors were closed again.”

  Reporters shouted questions, and camera motors zinged. Peek held up a hand and bounced on his toes.

  “At that time members of a terrorist group, led by a man calling himself Shareek Zaher, took over the main entrance of the arena by surprising and subduing SWAT forces. This was followed by the deployment of smoke bombs or tear gas at various points around the perimeter of the facility in an effort to get people inside to the seating and performance area.

  “We believe Zaher had a team of some seventeen to twenty-one hostiles in the building and that they likely embedded themselves in the facility the night before, following a sporting event here.” The crowd erupted, but he continued to speak above the noise. “All of the terrorists were masked and armed. They took over all entry points and the stage, eventually holding Senator Sterling and Everett Lester hostage, along with employees of the arena and its security company.”

  One reporter yelled a question about the bombs, another about Sterling’s whereabouts. Peek frowned, took a deep breath, and moved forward with his statement.

  “We do not know what the group’s motives were,” Peek said. “They obviously intended to stir up terror. They took two security people hostage, strapped them with fake bombs, and lowered them by rope, upside down, over the crowd from walkways that cross over the top of the arena—”

  It was bedlam. Derrick could barely hear Peek, but the agent kept going.

  “Fortunately … fortunately, those two men are fine. A bomb squad got them down and took precautionary measures, but as I said, those bombs were bogus. They were a combination of wires, duct tape, and emergency road flares. Those employees are still being questioned. Now …”