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3 April 2022
Michael
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The sound of the gunfire was deafening, but it was something for which Michael had trained, and his instincts took over. For all Dennis’s stodginess, he had emphasized to the entire security team the importance of keeping one’s eyes on one’s principal. And, in truth, if Michael had looked away, he would have missed it.
It being David’s disappearance. David and William weren’t lying bloody on the stage or fallen off the front, bleeding out. They had gone to Earth Two, if that was even possible.
Michael’s job now was to protect the people closest to him, namely Amelia, Livia, and Chad. He couldn’t have cared less about Owain Williams, who wasn’t in sight anyway, having dived away when the shooting started. With no thought for decorum or the women’s completely impractical high heels, Michael threw one arm around each of them, spun around, and ran with them towards the steps that led down from the stage.
Amelia kept saying, “My God! My God!”
Livia’s response was a more prosaic. “Damn these shoes.” But when they reached the steps, she said, “We’re good. You go.”
“Right.” Michael turned back for Chad, but he was behind them, William’s new translator friend Alex in tow, and they caught up before Livia and Amelia were down the steps. A moment later, Livia had pulled them all into the darkness of the warehouse, and they were heading as quickly as possible for the door. Michael was pleased, though not surprised, to see it was Livia who’d stepped up to protect the people around her.
Michael tapped his earpiece to unmute it and cut through the momentary chaos that still reigned among the security staff. “David and William are gone. Chad, Livia, Alex, and Amelia are headed for the exit.”
“Got ‘em.” Reg came out of the darkness to intercept them halfway across the floor to the door, and he put up a hand to Michael.
It was only now, after he sent them off, that Michael felt a pang of fear that this could have been what the gunmen wanted: to flush Chad into the open where he was less protected than usual.
Michael didn’t dismiss the thought, but he had to trust that the rest of his team knew what they were doing. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, and with the others moved out of the direct line of fire, Michael felt his job was to go back into it.
With David gone, he wasn’t a bodyguard anymore. But he was still a medic.
He touched his earpiece. “Headed back for any wounded.”
“Acknowledged.” Reg began checking in with the other security personnel by name, which Michael tuned out.
Though the gunfire had stopped, Michael couldn’t assume it wouldn’t start again. A heavy wooden desk had been placed near the back wall, close to the stage but not visible from the seats. Because of the curtain, Michael could see the rest of the warehouse just fine, however, so he ran towards the desk, slid across the top, scattering a few papers which had been left on it, and dropped off the other side. Using the bulky drawers as a shelter, he peered around the desk to take stock of the situation. He was tasting bile at what he would see, but he had no choice but to look at the carnage that had been created by the gunfire.
Except, nobody was dead. As far as Michael could see with his limited view, nobody was even bleeding, not even Owain Williams, who’d been fortunate enough to have moved away from David and William ten seconds before the shooting started and was now cowering behind his own desk on the stage, having done something similar to Michael to reach it.
Earlier that day, the host had pointed out with a superior sniff that he had his own security team, though at the moment Michael didn’t see any representatives from it. He would have thought Owain would have been grateful to be surrounded by the security team for one of the most powerful men in the world, but, as Mali, one of Chad’s other security officers, had said under her breath when she’d heard about it, to each his own.
The two men looked at each other, both breathing hard and hiding behind their respective desks thirty feet apart, and then Michael made a stay there motion with his hand.
Owain nodded vigorously, smart enough to know he was better off remaining where he was than trying to make a break for Michael’s desk, in case the shooter wasn’t done.
In truth, the shooting had probably lasted a few seconds beyond the moment David disappeared—just long enough for the gunman to realize his target was gone. The entire course of events had taken at most five seconds from start to finish, though those seconds had been some of the longest of Michael’s life, barring a few instances in Afghanistan. Michael’s ears still rang, more now because of the absence of gunfire. That, and from the screams of the civilians in the warehouse, the most agile of whom were racing for the exit in a shrieking scrum. They joined the already established crush at the door, made up of the non-audience members who’d been in the warehouse for the event, from catering staff to journalists. It was hard to believe a few minutes ago the warehouse had been glowing with happiness, well-being, and love.
Michael glanced up at the scaffolding above the stage. The bright lights still shone, and he held up one hand to block the glare, trying to make out human shapes behind them. As before, the brightness prevented him from seeing anybody or anything.
To have bullets flying during war was to be expected. This was different. The only battles that should occur on a stage like this were between Owain and David, and even those had turned out, in retrospect, to be relatively amicable.
Michael put one hand above the desk, testing to see if the shooter was still in evidence, and wasn’t really surprised when no response came. If the shooter was smart, he was long gone by now or, at the very least, hiding among the people heading for the door. Michael looked again to where Owain Williams was crouched but saw he had disappeared through a trapdoor beneath his desk. Michael gave an internal grunt. He, personally, would have liked to have known the door was there before this moment.
Having informed Reg through the earpiece that Owain was safe under the stage, Michael crouched low and made for the edge of the curtain which hid the wings from the audience, hoping the gunman really couldn’t see through the one-way fabric. At the very least, once the interview had started, all the lights in the wings had been extinguished, so Michael remained shrouded in darkness.
From the conversation in his ear, Michael knew Chad, Livia, and the other members of his staff were safe, watched over by Joe and a few others, except for Terence, the agent who’d been charged with guarding the car park entrance. He’d missed his call in, and nobody had seen him.
With no more shots being fired, the audience in the stands—those who hadn’t already fled—started raising their heads from where they’d taken cover. Those in the back rows had thrown themselves to the floor, hiding behind the seats in front of them. Most of the people in the front row, whatever their age or size, had either flung themselves off to one side or climbed over their seats to join the other audience members cowering in the row behind them.
People began moving out of the stands, many stumbling or hobbling on stiff knees. Earlier that evening, as the crowd had been arriving, more than one person had had to be helped up the steps to a seat, but fear was a powerful motivator—as was empathy—and those with ambulatory difficulties were being aided by their neighbors. Michael moved off the stage to help an elderly man to his feet.
Reg spoke to his team, urging everyone to spread out throughout the warehouse. Michael replied with, “Where are we putting the wounded?”
“There aren’t any,” Reg said.
Michael hesitated, stunned to hear it. “None?”
“No.”
Michael thought about that for a second as a half-dozen former audience members took off at a run for the warehouse door, following the red carpet that had been laid out before the show started to guide the people through the warehouse. Michael remembered one of Amelia’s underlings saying over and over again, “Please stay on the red carpet. Ladies and gentlemen, the red carpet is your guide. Please stay on the red carpet.”
“Has anyone gone after the shooter?” Or shooters, come to think on it. He remembered hearing two different discharge sounds: one from a rifle and one from a pistol.
“No.” Reg switched Michael to a private channel exclusively for the two of them. “We have our hands full just dealing with the audience.”
Michael looked up towards the catwalk again. “You’re saying nobody has gone up there yet?”
“We’re security,” Reg said, patience in his voice, “not police. And though we’re all qualified on firearms, most of us have never fired a weapon anywhere but at the range—or if we have, it’s been a long time.”
“Then I’ll go.”
It wasn’t a request for permission, and Reg didn’t treat it as one or try to dissuade him. “Likely there’s nobody up there. Whoever did this planned very carefully in not a lot of time. If they were good enough to arrange the shooting, they’re good enough to be long gone by now.” Reg’s tone darkened. “Thank God nobody was killed.”
“You didn’t see anyone suspicious?”
“I think everyone looks suspicious. But with hundreds of people here, from every walk of life, who should have been detained?” Reg switched the setting back, so Michael could hear the general conversation among the rest of the security force. “Wait for Mali. She’s on her way.”
Now that Michael was on the floor of the warehouse, he could look up to the scaffolding without being blinded, but he still didn’t see anybody on the lights platform. It was where the shooters had been, however, and thus it was where Michael needed to go. Since his first job had vanished to Earth Two, and job number two, seeing to the wounded, appeared to be unnecessary, finding the culprit would be job number three.
If the police had arrived, he would have left it to them, but he knew guns better than any run-of-the-mill policeman from Conwy. The worst crime any of them had probably ever investigated was the theft of a bicycle left out front of a corner shop. SIS could handle this, but there weren’t any teams in north Wales, and the Wales counterterrorism unit was based out of Holyhead, at least an hour away.
The approach to the catwalk and the scaffolding was on the far wall, fifty feet from where Michael stood, and consisted of a louvered metal staircase. As he crossed the warehouse, he glanced at the giant screens, which now showed only an empty stage. Eight billion people had just seen David and William time travel, and if the networks were true to form, by now a national personality had come on to explain what had happened to the televised audience.
Two feet from the entrance to the stairway, Mali appeared at Michael’s side, having snaked through a cluster of two dozen civilians to reach him. Her dark eyes flashed, revealing stress but also a level of determination that encouraged him too. At first she stepped so close he was disconcerted by her violation of his personal space, but then she moved her arm out from under her jacket and revealed a Glock 22 sidearm. Guns were rare enough in modern Britain that he gaped at it for a second.
“What’s this?”
“You know what it is.”
“Where’d you get it?” Michael knew guns, but he was reluctant to take the firearm. He had hoped his days of carrying a weapon were behind him.
Mali’s brows drew together, and her tone implied he was an idiot for asking, since the answer was obvious. “We work for Chad Treadman.” Then she tapped her earpiece, seemingly to mute it since then she said, “Dennis told Reg he doesn’t want any of us pursuing the shooter, but Reg gave that to me to give to you on the chance you didn’t get the memo. As it is, you didn’t get it from me.”
“Right.” He took in a breath, accepting the gun and checking the ammunition and safety in quick, efficient movements. Reg wasn’t wrong that it would be irresponsible and dangerous for him to go after an armed man or men without a weapon himself.
“I’m off. Keep your comm open.” Mali glanced towards the people behind her. A few in the back were actually pushing at those in front of them as if that would get them through the door faster. “Be careful.”
“Always.”
Michael had spent thirty seconds talking to Mali, and it was still fewer than ten minutes since the shooting stopped. The last of the stragglers were finally away from the seats and headed towards the door. The sound proofing inside the warehouse was good enough that Michael couldn’t hear anything going on outside, but the police and ambulances had to be arriving soon. They would find a car park full of people desperate to leave immediately, none of whom could be allowed to. Honestly, Michael didn’t envy Mali. He’d take tracking a gunman over appeasing a crowd of hysterical people any day.
He went up the stairs, the gun held in two hands in front of him, muzzle pointed down. By keeping his back to the wall of the warehouse, Michael could see in all directions at the same time. As a medic, he’d been embedded in a unit that had been charged with clearing buildings and villages of enemy combatants. He knew how it was done. To the British public, all overt military operations in Afghanistan had ended in 2014, but that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been told the lie was a necessary fiction.
The catwalk structure was reached by two sets of stairs: the one he was currently going up and a second located in the opposite corner, to the left of and behind the stage. From the top of the stairs, he could follow the catwalk all the way around the inside wall of the warehouse or head along an extension that went directly across the middle, where it met another catwalk running perpendicular to it, one which was connected to the front and back walls.
The entire structure was screwed into the walls of the warehouse and supported by a dozen or so giant pillars coming up from the floor. Heavy wire from the ceiling spaced every six feet also helped maintain the integrity of the structure. If nothing else, Michael didn’t think it was going to collapse at any moment.
The lights for the stage had been affixed to an extension to the central catwalk, in what amounted to a loft, wide enough for technicians to move around without risk of falling off or running into one another. Thick cables descending from the ceiling held it in place.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, the bad feeling that had formed in his belly coalesced into a hard rock. Two unmoving forms lay ahead of him on the lights platform. Not entirely throwing caution to the winds, but at least putting it temporarily aside, he ran along the central catwalk towards them, at the same time speaking into his earpiece, “I have two people down.”
Reg was there immediately with an answer. “Medical personnel have been called. They are on their way.”
“Send them to the lights platform.”
Each step rang out metallically until he reached the extension to the catwalk, at which point they became muffled. He understood instantly what had happened: the movie people who’d used the warehouse didn’t want the technicians to disrupt the show on the stage with the sound of footfalls on metal.
The first body was that of a woman who lay on her belly on the floor, her head turned to one side. He held his breath as he put his fingers to her neck and let it out when he felt a strong pulse. He didn’t have his medical bag with him, but the hand he placed on her back rose and fell with her steady breathing. He moved on to the second person, a man who lay unmoving a few feet away. He was also breathing.
“Let the medical personnel know both are alive but unconscious.”
“Copy that.”
Michael stayed where he was for a moment, crouched between the two people, surveying the small space while his mind puzzled over the problem. Guns had been fired, but nobody had died.
Why?
How?
And what, if anything, could he do about it now?
