Fire Point (25 page)

91

Lock moved around the door, his SIG up, his finger already on the trigger. Sweeping round the edge of the door, he fired a single shot in Krank’s direction.

It went wide, slamming into the fire door. Krank spun round without firing at the girl. Lock held his position. His head and upper body were visible from around the door frame so that he would draw fire.

Krank took aim. Lock ducked back inside, almost losing his balance as he moved his foot back. A shot slammed into the wooden door, blowing a six-inch hole in the center.

Retaining cover, Lock punched his gun hand out into the corridor and fired. His aim was way right to avoid any chance of hitting the girl.

Krank fired again. Then again. Two shots in quick succession. As the shots came in, sending wood and plaster everywhere, Lock dove for the floor. Lying flat on his stomach, he inched back round the door. Krank would be expecting him to reappear at standing level. He would be mistaken.

Lock took aim. He squeezed off two shots at Krank. Krank fired back but his shots went high. Lock’s first shot missed left by a few inches. His second hit Krank’s side. His body armor took the hit but the force of contact pushed him back, sending him off balance.

A slow-motion second passed between them. Lock could almost see the cogs turning as Krank decided what to do next. Whether he stood his ground, took another shot or fled, the girl was out of the equation for now. She was a number. Lock was a threat. A threat always trumped a notch on someone’s belt.

The rifle still raised, Krank backed toward the door. He lifted his foot and kicked back with his heel. Then he was gone.

Slowly, Lock got to his feet. Gun facing the fire door, he moved down the corridor toward the girl. He hunkered down next to her, his SIG aimed at the fire door lest Krank made another appearance.

‘You hit?’ Lock asked the girl.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Let me look, real quick.’

She made no move. Lock peeled her hands from her head, then checked her skull and neck for blood or signs of shrapnel. He helped her to her feet. She was banged up. In shock. She’d live.

He led her back to the nearest room and sat her down. He handed her his cell phone. He told her the number to call and what to say. He made her repeat it all back to him.

Back in the corridor, Lock exploded through the fire exit, gun drawn. He looked around. The fire had taken hold of one of the nearby buildings. Smoke poured thick and black from several windows. He could hear screaming overlaid with gunfire.

Lock pivoted around, eyes narrowed, his focus intense. That was when he saw it. A red Honda quad bike. Krank was swinging a leg over it.

Raising his SIG, Lock took aim. Too late. Krank gunned the engine and took off for the far side of the campus.

Lock tore after him as fire surged on all sides.

92

The big rig lay on a piece of ground to the side of the road as emergency vehicles poured through the barriered college entrance. The remainder of the LAPD SWAT team who hadn’t already moved through on foot led the way. Behind them came Malibu Sheriff’s Department and LA County Sheriff vehicles.

Further back there were more fire trucks, of six different fire departments from as close as Malibu and as far afield as Ventura, and Emergency Medical Support vehicles. Some of the fire crews had already set to work on either side of the entrance, beating back the flames to make sure the route to the Pacific Coast Highway would remain clear for the evacuation.

On the highway, ambulances were stacked up, awaiting the signal to head into campus to treat the wounded. Most of those were individuals suffering from the effects of smoke inhalation, as well as shock. First reports crackling over the radios spoke of few survivors from the actual shooting. Students who had been shot by one of the gunmen hadn’t made it.

Wearing a hastily borrowed blue windbreaker with ‘POLICE’ emblazoned on the back in yellow letters, Ty ran toward the center of the campus. He’d lost contact with Lock some time ago. It was not a good sign. He had a sick feeling in his stomach as he did his best to get one step ahead of the cops, who were swarming in every direction.

93

Running in the smoke and heat was hard. Seeing anyone, never mind a suspect fleeing on a quad bike, was harder. At any moment Lock expected to take a bullet from one of the SWAT team members he could hear moving through some of the nearby buildings, clearing and securing as they went to allow the paramedics and other medical personnel in to do their work. Most of the talk was about bodies found. From what he could tell from the shouting and crackle of radios there seemed to be few survivors.

He stopped for a moment. He hunkered down so that he was closer to the ground. He tried to catch his breath. While he did that, he thought about Krank. If he had wanted to make a final stand he would have done it. But as soon as Lock had given him an out, and a rationale for taking it, he had jumped at it. He was committed to escape. Unless he was cornered, of course.

The scale and nature of the attack told Lock that it hadn’t been arbitrary. It had been a while in the planning. The fires had been carefully set to encircle the campus, minimizing any possible escape route. Or, at least, an obvious one. But the study that would have required must have given Krank an intimate knowledge of the landscape.

That left Lock with one question. If he was Krank, and he wanted to escape, what path would he take?

Lock got back to his feet, and set a new course. He headed north and east, taking a wide loop round the dorm buildings. To his immediate left the grass was ablaze. But further up the fire had begun to burn out.

He kept moving. He could feel the heat through the soles of his boots. If the world ended, he had a feeling this was what witnessing it would be like. Black-charred earth, and a planet with barely enough air to sustain life.

Hitting a rise, he stopped. He could hear voices behind him. He couldn’t make out what was being said. He decided against turning back. To emerge from the smoke carrying a gun and no uniform would not have been the best of ideas. In any case, he had come this far. Now that he had gun-faced Krank, it seemed suddenly personal. When someone shot at you, no matter what anyone told you, it became about the two of you.

Lock’s left hand dropped to his thigh. He pushed down, forcing his body upwards and onwards. The smoke cleared for a fraction of a second and he saw a flash of red. By the time he took a closer look it was gone, taken by the glare of freshly ignited scrub as it raced toward the ocean, driven hard by the Santa Ana wind.

Looking behind him, Lock saw that even if he wanted to go back his path would be hard to navigate through the fires. He had climbed too high. His only hope now was to get to the highway and the man-made sliver of a fire break that the black top might offer.

That was when he saw the red flash for a second time. Except this time he could make out that the red was the quad bike Krank was riding, the Bushmaster slung over his shoulder. The engine was making a high-pitched whining noise. As Krank twisted the throttle, it inched forward. Looking at the tires, Lock could see that the treads had begun to melt in on themselves, making grip harder.

Krank was too busy struggling with the machine to notice that Lock was standing less than a hundred yards behind him. Lock stayed low and started toward him, ignoring the intense heat that was ripping up through the soles of his boots. He stopped. He drew his SIG, and took aim at the back of Krank’s head.

Some kind of sixth sense must have taken over for Krank. He gunned the quad bike. This time it did respond. It lurched forward enough that Lock’s shot, at the edge of his accurate range with a handgun, went wide. He had to duck for cover as Krank spun round, shouldering the rifle, and fired a burst of shots. The slope of the ground saved Lock from the bullets, but he could feel his clothes burning. It was like lying face down on a giant hotplate.

He rolled over, staying on his back for a second, before moving back onto his front. He saw Krank lower the rifle. Through the smoke, Lock was pretty sure he recognized the curve of the highway he’d come down.

That meant the culvert he’d used to get onto the campus was about fifty yards ahead and to the left of Krank’s current position. Quad bikes and culverts were a bad combo, especially culverts obscured by smoke.

Scrambling to his feet, Lock made a charge toward Krank. Krank twisted the throttle and took off as Lock ran in a wide loop, trying to force him left.

As he ran, Lock fired until his clip was empty. He ditched it and jammed in a fresh one, trying to stay on the move as he did so. He was fading. He could feel the heat and the smoke really starting to take a grip. His lungs felt squashed down into his chest cavity. Every breath was painful. He choked and coughed as he ran.

Krank was drawing clear. Lock dropped to his knee and fired three shots in quick succession to Krank’s right. Krank would be able to see the highway now. There were no flashing lights, no police vehicles. It looked to all the world like a clear route north up into the canyon.

Lock fired another two shots wide on Krank’s right. It had the desired effect. Krank kept bearing left. Lock continued to move as Krank drew away.

The next second the front wheels of the quad bike must have hit the edge of the culvert. It tipped forward. The momentum took Krank head first over the handlebars. There was a loud crash of metal and stone. Both the bike and Krank disappeared.

From behind him, Lock heard a man’s voice. ‘Police! Do not move!’

Lock froze. He didn’t move a muscle. In any case, he wasn’t sure that he had anything left in the tank.

‘Okay,’ said the voice. ‘That’s good. Now drop your weapon.’

Lock kept his SIG by his side. He squatted down and laid it slowly on the burning ground, careful to point the hot end facing up the slope toward Krank and away from the cops behind him. He was betting they had to be cops. He figured that if they weren’t, if there was a fourth shooter, they would have shot him in the back by now.

Behind him, he could hear people rushing up behind him. To one side he caught flashes of black. SWAT officers wearing breathing equipment. Properly equipped. Unlike him.

He followed the rest of the instructions. He laced his hands behind his head and knelt down. The burning pain on his kneecaps was intense. But less intense than being shot at close range multiple times.

He felt the snap of cuffs. He was hauled to his feet. It was a blessed relief.

A fresh wave of fire was sweeping down toward the culvert. Since the bike had gone over the edge he had heard nothing. The SWAT team had obviously missed it.

‘Is it just you up here?’ one of the officers asked him.

The fire had reached the edge of the culvert near to where Krank must be lying. There would be no oxygen left in a few seconds. Assuming Krank was still alive. Lock thought it over. Krank might be dead. He might be alive. Right now he was the proverbial cat in a box, alive and dead. If he lived, and survived, he would be a living reminder of what Lock guessed was the nation’s biggest mass shooting. The survivors didn’t need that.

On the other hand, Lock wasn’t the law. Decision time. Lock closed his eyes. He did his best to clear his mind as a hand reached round and placed a breathing mask around him. He sucked in the first clean air he’d had in what seemed like years.

He nodded forward, indicating that he had something to say. The mask was lifted from his mouth and nose. With the air had come his answer. To hell with the asshole lying down there. He had shown no mercy to innocent people whose only crime was some imagined slight constructed in his sick mind.

‘No,’ said Lock. ‘It’s just me. I was going after the last shooter, but I lost him.’

94

Lock kept his hands steady as the Malibu sheriff’s deputy uncuffed them from behind his back. He rolled his neck. He guessed that the rear bench seat of a cop car had not been ergonomically designed for comfort. They tended to focus more on functionality so that, among other things, they could be wiped clean with a damp cloth and bleach.

In the hills above the college, the fires were still blazing. The northernmost tip of the wildfire had raced up the coast a mile. A state of emergency was in full effect, and already the politicians had set to work on advancing their particular agenda.

From behind the patrol car he had just stepped out of he heard a long, low, throaty laugh. He knew who it was without having to turn around.

‘What’s so amusing, Tyrone?’ Lock asked.

Ty stepped in front of him. He held his cell phone in the palm of one hand. On the screen was a picture of Lock cuffed in back. He had to admit he looked none too pleased.

‘So?’ said Lock.

‘Brother,’ Ty began, ‘if you can’t see the humor in you sitting in the back of a black and white while I’m strolling round in a jacket with “police” on the back, you don’t understand America.’

Lock held up his right fist, knuckles facing Ty, and used his left hand to slow-crank his middle finger up. Ty didn’t miss the opportunity to take another quick snap as his laughter threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Oh, man, Ryan, you kill me.’

A female LAPD patrol officer who was passing by shot Ty a dirty look. He ignored her. Lock didn’t blame him. He knew as well as Ty did that humor was what got you through stuff like this. The darker the event, the blacker the jokes.

Up on the hill above them, dozens of young people, most of them women, lay dead. Dozens more were injured. Those who hadn’t been physically injured would carry other scars. Scars that could run deeper, and prove more difficult to recover from, than a broken arm or even a gunshot wound.

After a time, Ty gathered himself. ‘What you want to do now?’

Lock nodded back toward the massed ranks of LAPD brass that had descended. ‘They’re going to want to talk to us.’

‘He would have killed more if you hadn’t been here,’ said Ty.

Lock smiled. ‘Maybe.’ He sure as hell wasn’t going to play that angle – with the cops or anyone else for that matter.

He would happily allow the authorities to take whatever credit they wanted. His only aim now was to duck the media. He had no interest in celebrity. His eyes narrowed as he took a final look back toward the blackened hills. The love of celebrity. The world’s unending need for fame and ego gratification had done enough damage already.