When the lights went out, the first instinct Donald Montecristo felt was to stay right where he was, hunkered down on the floor, face pressed to the tiles. When the shooting and fighting started, he knew that was the right thing to do.
But then something began nagging at him, and it wouldn't let go.
He was supposed to be an activist, someone who believed in working to bring about change and make the world a better place. Nobody ever changed anything by curling up in a ball and whimpering in fear.
All too often, he'd listened to his fellow progressives complain about a situation, then conclude in saying, "Somebody needs to do something!"
When he was feeling in a particularly contrary mood, instead of simply agreeing with them, Donald would ask, "Who?"
That always brought a blank stare and usually a question about what he meant.
"Who should do something?" he'd press.
And the answer was always, "The government, of course."
Donald believed in government and the power it could and should wield. But that didn't mean individuals shouldn't do their part, as well. Too many on his side were all talk, no action. Donald didn't want to be that way.
With that thought prodding him, he began to crawl away from the other members of his study group. Taaj had finally gotten down on the floor with the others.
Mary reached out and clutched Donald's arm as she whispered, "Where the hell are you going?"
"I'm going to see if I can hide and get away from them." He pulled free of her hand. "Come with me."
"No! Are you crazy! They'll kill us!"
"They've got their hands full right now." In the gloom, Donald couldn't tell just what was going on, but he was willing to bet that Calhoun Weaver was right in the middle of that violent commotion. "This may be our only chance to get away!" He looked over at Nancy and Jerry. "Come on, you guys!"
Nancy shook her head in wordless terror, so if course Jerry said, "We're not going anywhere, man. We're gonna stay right here and not get shot."
Stay right here and die, Donald thought, but he knew it wouldn't do any good to say that. Instead, he started crawling, staying as low to the floor as he could. He headed for the side of the room where the restrooms, the stairs, and the vending area were located. There might be somewhere over there he could hide.
The idea of maybe fighting back against the men who had taken over the library hadn't occurred to him when he began moving, but it did shortly thereafter. Trouble was, he couldn't see any way of doing it.
There were enough prisoners here on the library's lower floor that if they all rose up at once and struck back at their captors, they would overwhelm the gunmen, no doubt about that. It was possible, even probable, that some of them would die, but that couldn't be avoided. The alternative was to remain hostages, at the mercy of people who might well be ruthless enough to slaughter them all.
Donald might have been willing to run that risk if he thought anyone would fight at his side. He suspected the only man here who'd do that, however, was already battling the terrorists: Calhoun Weaver.
A voice behind him suddenly cut through his thoughts by shouting, "Stop him! He's trying to get away!"
Surprise froze Donald for a second. He had hoped all the gunmen were distracted enough they wouldn't notice him crawling toward the stacks. Evidently, that was the case, for he recognized the voice of the man who had called out the warning.
Taaj al-Jamil!
The leader of his study group. A fellow student. Not really a friend, but a fairly close acquaintance and someone who claimed to share some of Donald's progressive beliefs.
And yet he had betrayed Donald without a moment's hesitation! He had already tried to suck up to the leader. This was just more of the same, Donald realized as he sprang to his feet. That made him more of a target, but he could move a lot faster.
He had never sprinted faster during his high school track team days than he did now as he ran toward the stacks.
"I'll stop him!"
Taaj again, on his feet and moving fast, too. He dived at Donald from behind and tackled him around the knees. Donald fell heavily. He tried to pull free from Taaj's grip and got his right leg loose.
He kicked out, felt the heel of his shoe slam against something. The impact was a tantalizing one. Taaj grunted and let go of Donald's other leg. He groaned and rolled onto his side, clutching at his jaw where Donald had kicked him.
In the blink of an eye Donald was up and running again. He expected to hear rapid footseps coming after him. His muscles were braced for the death impact of a bullet.
Neither of these things happened. Donald reached the stacks and ducked in among the close-set shelves. He guessed the gunmen had their hands too full dealing with Calhoun to worry about him.
He hurried along the narrow aisle, wincing every time a shot rang out because he thought it was aimed at him. He reached the end of the aisle without being hit, though, and knew that the gunmen weren't aiming at him. If they had been, they couldn't have missed in such close quarters.
Then more shots blasted somewhere close by, close enough for Donald to catch a whiff of the cordite tang. He pressed his back against the set of shelves to his left for a few moments, then risked a look around the end of them.
He was just in time to see Calhoun Weaver disappear into the stairwell. The big man had a gun in his hand, and since there were two bloody corpses lying sprawled on the floor, Donald had a good idea where Calhoun had gotten the weapons.
Calhoun had escaped, which meant that the surviving terrorists would now try to regain control of the hostages on this level. Donald had no doubt at all that Taaj would try to curry favor with their captors by ratting him out. If he stayed where he was, they would find him, probably sooner rather than later.
As soon as that realization hit him, he knew what he had to do. Wherever Calhoun Weaver was, there would be trouble---but that was better than here. Donald might have at least a fighting chance to live.
He took a deep breath, ran to the stairwell door, and shoved it open. The stairwell was dark, but Donald didn't hesitate. He started up after Calhoun.363Please respect copyright.PENANANobbBkQs2K
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It hadn't taken as long as Marsh estimated to get the power shut down. Neil Holt spoke to Gibbs over the radio and confirmed that the electricity was off, then asked the FBI agent, "What do you want me to do now?"
"It might be a good idea for you and any of your department who are still there to go ahead and evacuate, Chief," Boone replied. "I lean toward thinking that the bomb threat is mostly a bluff, despite that explosion earlier, but there's no point in taking chances. Besides, you've been wounded and need more medical attention."
Holt glanced at his bandaged hand. It hurt, but he saw no evidence of any bleeding through the dressing.
"I'm fine," he said. "The safety of this campus is still my responsibility."
"Then join Chief Wallace at the command post just off campus. My men will need to call on both of you for advice before this over."
Holt didn't like the idea of leaving the station. It seemed too much like running away. But Boone had a point: the command post might be where he could do the most good from now on.
Anyway, Jenda would likely refuse to evacuate the station until he left, too, and he didn't want anything happening to her. It'd be partially on his head if it did.
"All right, Agent Boone," he said as he held down the microphone button. "If you need me, that's where I'll be."
"Thanks. I'm going to try to make landline contact with the suspects now."
The connection broke. Holt sighed, stood up, and put the radio in his pocket. He was about to head out and tell Jenda they were leaving when she appeared in the doorway. Frowning, she said, "Chief, there's a man here..."
A figure came up behind her and moved her aside without seeming to put any effort into it. His actions were gentle, though, not the least bit rough. He smiled at Holt and said, "Chief, I need to talk to you."
Holt had never seen that man before. He was older, from the looks of his weathered face and the silver in his hair that had once been dark and still bore traces of that. He moved and carried himself like a younger man, though. Holt had had seen guns like that before, men who took such took such good care of themselves---and were blessed with good genes, to boot---that it was tough to tell if they were forty or seventy. This lean, medium-sized stranger might fit into that category.
He was dressed casually in boots, jeans, a faded blue work shirt, and a lightweight gray jacket. Holt couldn't see any overt signs that the stranger was armed, but something about the man told him that he was. In fact, he seemed like the kind of man who would seldom if ever go anywhere without being armed.
Holt said, "You shouldn't be here, Mister.....?" When the stranger ignored that hint for his name, Holt went on, "The campus has been evacuated and is on lockdown. All civilians have to leave as soon as possible. It's too dangerous here."
"I've never worried that much about being in dangerous places," the stranger replied with a faint smile. "I suppose I wouldn't know what to do if I found myself somewhere that wasn't dangerous."
"What're you doing here on campus, anyway?" Holt demanded. "Were you visiting someone when all hell broke loose?"
"To be honest, I wasn't here when all hell broke loose----but I got here as soon as I could. There are a lot of rumors flying around all over the media, Chief. I need you to tell me what's really going on."
Holt was getting even more confused. He said, "That doesn't make any sense. The campus is closed off. You couldn't have gotten here once it went on lockdown."
The man just shrugged slightly and said, "I can usually get in whenever I need to be." He turned to smile at Jenda and went on: "You really should leave, ma'am. Like the chief says, it's not safe here."
She glared back at him defiantly.
"I'm not going anywhere until Chief Holt does," she declared.
"Then you better tell me what I need to know, Chief." The stranger gestured toward the map on the wall. "Where's the library? That's where the ringleader has established his H.Q., right?"
"Dammit!" Holt burst out. This guy didn't even exude even an ounce of arrogance or smugness, but Holt wasn't sure he'd ever run into anybody with more self-confidence. "You're some kind of federal agent, aren't you? If you're Bureau, I was just talking to your boss...."
"I'm not Bureau," the man broke in. "Or Homeland Defense, either. But I have done a few chores for the government in the past."
A chill went through Holt. He had never met an actual spook before, at least that he knew of, but something told him that's what this guy was. A killer, pure and simple, if he needed to be in order to get the job done.
"Who sent you here? Or is it a death sentence just to ask the question?"
The stranger shook his head and said, "You've got me all wrong, Chief. Nobody sent me. I've got a personal reason for being here. I just want to help."
"The situation is under control," Holt said heavily. "The only way civilians can help is by staying out of the way."
"Well...." another faint smile and a shake of the head..."that's not gonna happen, so you might as well go ahead and tell me what I wanna know."
"There's the map," Holt snapped. "If you're such a dang hotshot, read it yourself. You'll be able to figure out everything, I'm sure."
"All right."
The man stepped over to the map and gazed at it for a long time while Jenda stood just outside the office doorway and looked worriedly at Holt. Then the stranger nodded as if satisfied and turned away from the map.
"Thanks, Chief. I really do think you should leave now. I don't believe that Barlow really intends to blow up the whole campus, but in circumstances like this, accidents do happen."
Holt didn't question how the stranger knew Lark Barlow's name. He probably had some pretty highly placed sources in the government.
"Just what is it you intend to do."
"Whatever I can to end this with as little loss of life as possible." The stranger paused, then added, "I'm sure you know the old saying about cutting off the head of a snake...."
With that, he turned and started toward the door.
"By God, at least have the decency to tell me your name!" Holt exploded.
The stranger paused and looked back.
"It won't do you any good," he said, "but it's Charlie. Charlie Zavala. But you can call me Jaguar. Just Jaguar.
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