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

pilots to fly drones to the north, over San Rafael. South to San Francisco. East to Richmond, Berkeley, and Oakland. Or I could order the drones to fly en mass to the target of my choice. Do you know how hard it is to defeat a swarm of drones?”

Although she didn’t expect an answer from the politician, she waited through a moment of silence for theatrical effect.

“The point is, you will have no idea if my drones are in the air or not, because you can’t detect them. They fly too close to the water, and are too small to be picked up by radar. You’ll never know where they are flying, or when. So save your bluster. It only serves to demonstrate your ignorance.”

“The Coast Guardsmen onboard their helicopters will search visually,” Webster said. “They’re really good at that, you know. Comes with rescuing fishermen bobbing in a stormy sea.”

“Plucking a stationary seaman from the ocean is one thing. They are usually wearing an orange life vest and waving their arms. My drones will be moving fast, on an unpredictable course, and are painted blue-gray to match the bay water. But it’s your call. I’m simply trying to give you a reasonable alternative. A way to avoid a tragedy of epic proportions. After we’ve dusted the Greater Bay Area with enough radioactive powder to render it uninhabitable for a century, I’ll call the San Francisco Chronicle and tell them how you steadfastly refused my request—a simple request, actually—to have the FBI send their special agent in charge here for a face-to-face meeting. Following the meeting, he is free to leave with the ten children. Maybe in fifty years they’ll bring daring tourists to the irradiated wastelands, just like they do at Chernobyl. I’ll bet they’ll even have a tour named for you. Something like, The Mayor Webster Night Tour. No flashlights needed—the place glows after dark. Kinda catchy, don’t you think?”

The mayor knew he had no leverage, and it galled him to concede, even something so minor as to suggest the FBI agree to the meeting.

“I’ll pass along your invitation,” he grumbled. “Anything else you’d like for me to share with the feds when I speak with them?”

“Yes, there is. Make sure they only send the SAC and the pilot. No one else. After all, they need to be able to carry the children back. Is that clear?”

“Abundantly.”

“Good. Remember, one hour. And trust me, what I have to show them is worth their time.”

“And the children?”

“Like I promised, they will be released unharmed. Although the FBI may not report directly to your office, I know you have influence over their actions. I suggest you put your charm and diplomacy to good use.”

“You haven’t given me much time. What if they don’t have a chopper fueled up nearby, ready to go?”

She exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “I believe that with all the creative minds working this problem, someone can figure out a solution. Now time’s wasting, and you have a job to complete. Thank you, Mayor Webster. It was a pleasure talking with you.”

She ended the call, confident the authorities would acquiesce to her demand. The offer to set free a group of children was irresistible bait.

Chapter 19

At the base of the staircase, Danya again leaned in close to the door to complete an audio check of the room beyond. She heard nothing alarming, only the muffled voices of many people carrying on normal conversations. She slid the MP5 from her shoulder and stashed it in the storage closet behind the door. Put the extra ammunition magazines inside her pack before placing it next to the submachine gun. Anyone entering the closet would not see the weapon unless they closed the door—possible, but not likely.

The folding knife she’d taken from the big man at the rocket launcher was tucked into a back pocket of her jeans, while the portable radio was clipped to her waistband at the middle of her back after ensuring it was turned off. The oversized sweatshirt easily covered the items, allowing her to blend in with the hostages.

Once again, she leaned in close to the door for one last check. And as before, all she heard was the indistinct chatter of muffled voices. She squatted and delicately turned the doorknob to crack the door open enough for a quick visual survey. All clear except for two armed guards conversing across the large room. Even the nearest clusters of civilians paid no attention to the door opening just a bit.

She pushed it open further. Still squatting, she slid through the opening and closed the door behind her. Thirty feet away, a middle-aged woman sat cross-legged with a group of children. The youngsters were completely occupied, entertaining themselves by playing a card game, seemingly oblivious to the looming threat of harm. The woman, however, raised her head just as Danya was closing the door. She opened her mouth to speak, but Danya pre-empted her with a finger held to her lips. The woman accepted the message, her glare punctuated by a raised eyebrow.

Danya scooted over to the group and squeezed between a giggly adolescent girl and the woman, who learned toward the newcomer.

“Who are you?”

“The one who got away.” Danya said, furtively angling her gaze to take in the room.

“Huh? I don’t understand. Why did you come in through that door? Is that a way out?”

“Maybe. Probably not.”

The kids paid her no heed as they continued to play the game, which required each to throw cards from their hand, face up, onto a communal pile, which other players would randomly and frantically grab, inevitably resulting in a chorus of laughter.

“Are they going to let us go?”

Although Danya knew the answer, she didn’t want to voice it. Since every hostage was a potential witness, no way the terrorists would allow them to walk away. But it was important that the hostages did not give up hope.

“I’m Danya. What’s your name?”

“Sue. Sue Kincaid. I teach at an elementary school in