Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

of the drone. He had an unobstructed view across the bay, to San Francisco. There were no boats or ships in the path—no doubt the waters surrounding Alcatraz had been closed off to maritime traffic.

He flew the craft at a height of twenty to thirty feet above the water. He didn’t think the authorities had any radar system in place that could detect and track the drone, but flying it low was prudent, nonetheless.

Five minutes after launch, the real-time video showed the piers along the north shore. He slowed the drone and increased altitude, flying between the upper floors of the many skyscrapers populating the financial district.

A couple minutes later, he was following the rising terrain, with Coit Tower looming directly ahead. That was his landmark, and he slowed the drone even more. Flying at about the speed of a brisk walk, he brought the hexcopter over Pioneer Park. A large lawn stretched in all directions beneath the aircraft. People were enjoying the park—some playing catch and flying discs. Others stretched out on the turf, reading a book or conversing with friends.

He held it in a hover while Leonard watched the video over his shoulder.

Leonard said, “Hold there while I call the police.”

“Battery power is good for another twenty-five minutes of flight,” Vernon said.

Leonard dialed 911 while he walked to the water’s edge. He was gazing across the bay, imagining the events about to take place.

“I’m calling from Alcatraz,” he said. “And I have a very important message for the mayor and the chief of police.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Never mind that. Listen carefully.

“Sir—”

“Shut up. As we speak, a helicopter drone is hovering over Pioneer Park. The drone is carrying a nasty payload of radioactive dust. So unless you want a lot of people to begin glowing, you’d best get the police to clear the park and secure the drone.”

“Sir—”

Leonard ended the call, then strode back to Vernon.

“Keep it in a hover for five minutes, then land it on the lawn. And try not to hit anyone when you bring it down.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Vernon wore a sly grin.

“Just follow my order. We need to appear reasonable and rational for this to work. If the police and the feds think we’re crazy red Jihadists, they’ll storm the island, and that will be game over.”

“You really think they’d do that, and risk killing the hostages?”

“I have no doubt. The math is easy—sacrifice a hundred to save a thousand.”

s

Danya approached the bend in the hall. As far as she could tell, the third floor was deserted. But as she reached the corner, she heard murmurs, distant and muffled. Maybe the hostages?

She stole a glance around the corner. The path was clear. Midway down the long corridor was a stairway. Is that where the voices are coming from?

With silent footsteps, and hugging the wall, she crept toward the stairway. The voices grew in volume as she closed the distance. She paused at the landing. A worn oak railing twisted up to the fourth and fourth fifth floors. It also extended down to the first floor. She cocked her head—the voices were louder, and definitely coming from below.

With a firm grip on the MP5, and the stock against her shoulder, she descended one step at a time. Fearing creaky treads from the aged construction, she gently applied her weight with each footstep and planted her feet along the edge of the oak treads where they were more likely to be secured to the framing.

Following the voices, she descended to the midpoint landing without any issues. As she turned to traverse the final flight of steps, she saw the staircase terminated in what appeared to be a small room on the ground floor. She tiptoed downward. Opposite the base of the stairs was a door with the universal male-female symbol indicating it was a restroom. To the right was a second door. Maybe that opens onto the room where they’re keeping the tourists hostage?

She eased up to the door and placed her ear close, confirming voices on the other side. Gently, she tested the door latch. It turned freely.

Opening the door, even just a crack, was risky if one or more terrorists was near the door, or in a location where they would see the door open. But there was no avoiding that she’d have to pass through the passage if she was to have a chance of freeing the hostages. While she considered the best tactic, she took in the small space. Leading with her weapon, she checked the restroom. Empty.

There was a third unmarked door tucked away under the staircase landing. A quick inspection revealed it to be a janitorial closet, complete with a variety of cleaning fluids, mops, brooms, rags, paper products, and a laundry sink.

Feeling slightly more secure in her space, she returned to the door she was now certain adjoined the holding area for the prisoners. She put her ear to the door again. The voices were muffled, rendering only occasional words understandable.

Suddenly, a male voice sounded distinct and close.

“Clear the way.”

The general chatter ceased. The door latch turned, and then the door opened just a crack. As it did, voices became more distinct.

“If there aren’t any tissues in the storeroom, bring out a case of paper towels,” someone called, from the distance.

Danya was already moving up the staircase, two steps at a time. If she didn’t round the turn at the landing, she’d be spotted for sure.

“Roger that.” The guard pushed the door open and strode for the janitor closet.

Peering around the newel post on the landing, Danya was able to snatch a glimpse into the large room through the open door before it swung closed, confirming her suspicions. Although she had less than two seconds to survey the room, she saw several dozen people sitting in groups and talking. She didn’t see any of the terrorists, other than the man who’d been tasked with retrieving supplies from the storeroom. He was focused on his errand and