Upstairs, almost all the patrons had been located and seized. They were crammed into one storage room and ordered to get down on their knees, hands in front of them.
“Shut up. Cooperate. Then no one dies,” the leader warned them.
Instantly, their captives did as they’d been commanded, lowering themselves to the floor and flattening their hands in front of them, keeping their heads down.
Cell phones were confiscated, together with any items that could be used as weapons. The gunmen removed valuable pieces of jewelry from their captives and stuffed them into their duffel bags—Patek Philippe and Rolex watches from the men, and diamond rings, bracelets, and earrings from the women.
After that, the victims were shoved back against the wall and forced into a sitting position. Flex-Cufs were used to immobilize their hands.
The gunmen scanned the room. Almost all the patrons were there.
Wallace Johnson was not.
Infuriated, they zeroed in on a group of men who were whispering among themselves. The Albanians demanded to be told where Johnson was. Most of the men didn’t know. Their captors didn’t care. They used whatever means necessary to learn Johnson’s whereabouts. One profusely sweating hostage who kept averting his gaze became their target. A punishing blow with the stock of an MP5K to his groin produced the necessary information.
Johnson was in the central viewing room, admiring Innocence.
The leader barked out for the other Black Eagles to follow him, pointing toward a concentric circular hall leading to the inner exhibition space.
In the hallway, the four gunmen spoke rapidly in Albanian. Each team member checked his walkie-talkie. Assured they were picking up one another’s signals, they pocketed the communication devices, locked the storage room door, and split up into groups of two. One group raced off to locate and collect the paintings they’d been ordered to steal. The other group, which included the leader, rushed straight to the central viewing room.
Sloane was pacing near Derek’s car.
As soon as she saw the catering employee burst out of the museum and start running down the street, Sloane rushed forward and grabbed her arm.
The young woman whipped around like a frightened deer.
“It’s all right. I’m with the FBI.” Sloane wasn’t wasting any time playing semantics. “What’s happening in there? Two of my agents are inside. Did you see them?”
The young woman glanced fearfully behind her. Then, she blurted out that the security guard was dead, that four armed men had taken everyone hostage, and that the two FBI agents had saved her life and were on their way to capture the killers.
With deliberate calm, Sloane asked her name, thanked her, and let her go.
With that same deliberate calm, she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands.
Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out the Glock 27 that was her personal weapon. Slowly, cautiously, she eased her way toward the museum entrance, using the line of parked vehicles as cover.
Derek and Rich kicked open the storage room door.
Assault rifle raised, Derek burst inside, his gaze and weapon quickly sweeping the room. “Clear,” he called out to Rich. He turned his attention to the frightened hostages. “FBI. You’re safe now,” he told them as Rich crossed over to begin offering assistance.
As Rich snipped the Flex-Cufs on the first few victims, Derek spotted the small group of men trying, despite their bound hands, to do what they could for their friend, who was doubled over and vomiting from the trauma he’d endured.
“We’ll get you medical attention,” Derek assured him, squatting down and cutting his Flex-Cufs to free his wrists. Quickly moving on to free the other four men, Derek asked about the gunmen.
“They’re after Wallace Johnson,” one man told him. “They went to the central exhibition room to find him.”
Leaving the freed victims to help the others and make their escape, Derek and Rich moved cautiously toward the center of the museum—until they heard Wallace’s screams of agony. Then they rushed the room, taking cover behind a larger, decorative column.
Wallace was tied to a chair. One of the gunmen was gripping his hair at the scalp, yanking back his head with punishing force. Wallace’s face had been beaten practically to a pulp. The other gunman was taking photos with a digital camera, purposely documenting the torture for someone’s pleasure. It didn’t take a scholar to figure out that that someone was Johnny Liu.
Spotting the FBI agents, the leader dropped his grip on Wallace and reached for his gun. “Behind you!” he shouted in Albanian, warning his accomplice.
In one motion, the second gunman dropped his camera, grabbed the subgun slung across his chest, and pivoted around to the agents.
Before he’d completed the semicircle, Rich fired a blast from his shotgun at point-blank range, ripping a hole in the assailant’s chest and sending his mangled body flying.
The leader had squatted down behind Wallace, using him as a human shield while preparing to fire. During those brief seconds, Derek was quickly sizing up the situation to determine how to deliver a lethal shot without hitting Wallace. It was virtually impossible.