Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

“Captain,” I said, and flinched away as those terrible fingers came for my shoulder again.

“Relax, son. I’m taking extra special care here. Nothing can go wrong. Just take it easy.” He leaned closer. I could see his teeth. Two of the front ones were slightly whiter than the others, obvious caps. “I got an observer circling the rooftops. He’s checking it all out, looking into every corner of the room from every angle. He’s not even going to use the radio, he’s coming right back to report to me in person.”

He gave a squeeze. His fingers put pressure on the exact same spot he’d been squeezing since I got there. I almost moaned. “You see, son? It’s all thought out. This is a family matter, and I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

I heard the soft patter of sneakers. Levine, a young cop I hardly knew, slid up beside Captain Spaulding. A pair of very good binoculars hung from around his neck. Levine was lean and intense and still idealistic and about as streetwise as a Shriners parade. He was the kind of cop who put in five years on the force and then left for law school.

“Captain,” he said softly, looking at me nervously.

“What’ve you got, Levine?” Spaulding said. The tone of his voice snapped Levine’s head back around to look at the captain.

“Sir. I checked them out from every angle.” He glanced at me again, out of the corner of his eye. “Red has a MAC Ten. He’s by the window. Uh, the hostages are fine, sir. The woman is in the corner. Blue is sitting on the floor with the kid. He’s got something in his lap, uh—”

“What kind of something?” the captain demanded.

“Uh—” Levine started, then broke off to collect himself. He didn’t want to look vague in front of Captain Spaulding. That would show up on his rating and screw up his chance at law school. “It’s a Walkman, sir. I could see the wire coming out the top.”

Spaulding nodded. “These guys always have to have music. Okay.” He turned to pick up the radio. “Spaulding,” he said. There was an answering crackle. “Mendez,” the bored voice answered.

Something was bothering me, and as I heard Spaulding say, “Ten—Twenty-three,” it hit me. I turned to Levine.

“How sure are you that was a Walkman?”

He glanced nervously over at Captain Spaulding. “I’m sure,” he said.

“Did you see headphones?”

“N-no—he was holding one in his right hand, I think—”

“You think? But you didn’t see for sure?”

He licked his upper lip. “Headphones had to be there. I saw the Walkman.”

Spaulding’s radio squacked. “Ready blue,” it said.

“What did the Walkman look like?” I said, coming to my feet now.

Levine was backing away a half-step at a time. “Just—you know. A Walkman. A black plastic box. Red wires coming out the top—”

The radio squacked again. “Ready red,” it said.

I lunged for Spaulding’s arm. “Captain, wait—” I started, but he was saying, “Do it!”

I was already running for the building. The shots came exactly together and sounded like only one shot. Like I say, those guys are good. I was through the front door and halfway up the steps when the explosion came.

It wasn’t all that big. Probably just a couple of sticks of dynamite wired to a thumb switch. Push the button down and it turns on; take your thumb off and boom. It’s called a dead man’s switch, since it turns on only when the man holding it is dead. It’s easily wired to any charge, big or small.

This one was pretty small. It was barely big enough to throw me backwards down the stairs and out into the street on my head. Just big enough to take out most of that corner of the building and all the windows in the building next door.

Plenty big enough, of course, to kill everybody in that small corner room of the Rossmore.

Chapter Four

I woke up in the quietest room I’ve ever been in. Everything was white. I had a bad taste in my mouth and I couldn’t hear anything except an annoying hum. My head hurt. I was lying down in some kind of bed. There was a stiff, crusty feeling on my left cheek. I raised a hand to touch it and felt bandages. My hand fell away all by itself and I was asleep before it hit the bed.

I woke up again. I still heard the hum, but I could hear other noises in the background now. A man in a three-piece suit was leaning over me. I decided he wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t look like a doctor. He looked like a hyena. That probably meant he was a lawyer.

He held up a sheaf of papers and moved his mouth in an exaggerated, overcareful way, like he was talking to a retarded foreigner. “Can you just sign here, please?” he said.