During the grisly chore of covering the bodies, an idea came to Danya. There were only two ways off the island, and flying was not an option. That left only one possibility—watercraft. She’d noticed the Jet Capsule bobbing alongside the floating dock. With luck, the ignition key would still be in place. And assuming it had a radio, she could call for help. Eventually, some of the tourists would recover their phones, confiscated when the terrorists seized the island. But that would take time.
She dashed across the courtyard, still carrying the submachine gun she’d taken. The floating dock was two feet below the level of the ferry landing. She jumped down and was at the Jet Capsule in four strides. The screech of fiberglass rubbing against the dock assaulted her ears with the same effect as grating fingernails across a chalkboard.
She untied the bow and stern lines, then entered through the aft bulkhead hatch and hurried to the instrument cluster and wheel. A polished chrome key was inserted into the panel. She lowered her weapon to the deck and took the solitary seat centered in front of the large bubble-like canopy. She turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life with a throaty growl. The instruments were basic. Gauges indicated engine temperature, oil pressure, and fuel level. Plus, there was a T-handle at the side that she assumed was the throttle. She pushed it forward and the craft began to accelerate, rubbing the dock as it moved. She turned the wheel to port, and the Jet Capsule moved in the same direction.
Once clear of the dock, and with the island receding behind, she turned on the in-dash radio. She knew the marine VHF international distress frequency was 156.8 MHz, more commonly known as channel 16. The Coast Guard constantly monitored channel 16, as did the San Francisco Police.
She pointed the small launch southwest, aiming straight for the middle of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, and ran up the throttle to the stop. With the water jet propelling the boat at its maximum speed of thirty-five knots, she keyed the radio and spoke into the microphone.
“Pan-pan. Pan-pan. Pan-pan. Coast Guard Station San Francisco.”
She released the mic button, ready to repeat the call if it wasn’t immediately answered. But it was.
“This is Coast Guard Station San Francisco. Over.”
She keyed the mic. “Coast Guard, the hostage situation on Alcatraz is over. Hostages are free. I repeat. Hostages are free.”
“This is Coast Guard. Who the hell is on this frequency? This is for emergencies only.”
“The threat is clear, Coast Guard. Send in some boats. You have a couple hundred people who really want to go home.”
“This is Coast Guard. Who’s on this frequency? Over.”
“A concerned citizen.”
“Are you calling from Alcatraz? Are you one of the hostages?”
She paused to organize her thoughts. She was still figuring out her plan, trying to anticipate and stay ahead of the unfolding events.
Yes, this could work to my favor. “Yes. I’m one of the prisoners. I’m on the island.”
“Are you okay? Is anyone harmed?”
“I don’t…”
Images flashed in her mind of the three children in the courtyard, their tender bodies ripped by gunfire. Then she recalled other images, scenes of small bodies, burned and torn by a tremendous explosion. The burned-out hulk of a school bus.
“Yes. Some school children were shot by the terrorists. Also, an elderly woman. I don’t know about anyone else.”
“Roger that. Can you provide the location of the terrorists? Are they still armed?”
She knew that as long as the authorities believed the island was well-defended, they wouldn’t approach directly. Eventually, they’d come up with a plan to insert a military special ops team, probably by submersible, and certainly at night. But it could take hours, maybe even a couple days to get the men and equipment together, and approval for the strike. The children needed medical help immediately. Maybe others, too.
“Listen, Coast Guard. The threat has been neutralized. The tangos have been eliminated. Hostages are free. Medical help is urgently needed. Over.”
“This is Coast Guard. Message received. What is your name, ma’am? Are you military?”
“Never mind who I am. Just send help.”
She turned off the radio. She had more important things to do, and she needed to focus.
The Bay Bridge was rapidly receding behind her, and the Oakland Inner Harbor opened up before her. The channel was about five-hundred-feet wide—plenty of room for passing ferries, blue-water freighters, and private yachts. The Alameda Main Street Ferry Terminal was about a quarter-mile ahead on the right. She angled in close to shore and eased back a little on the throttle.
Earlier in the day, she had parked her truck alongside Main Street, next to a dog park, since the terminal parking lot was full when she and Toby had boarded the ferry for San Francisco. Now, she was grateful for that stroke of luck.
She pointed the launch directly to the bank. Maintaining full engine throttle, the fiberglass hull shot up onto the shallow, rocky bank before coming to rest. After turning off the engine, she looped the sling of the MP5 over her shoulder and departed through the stern hatch, traversing to the bow, and then hopped onto dry land. A hundred feet across a vacant lot was her pickup, and she covered that distance in record time. She didn’t know if law enforcement had spotted the Jet Capsule leaving Alcatraz. But if they had, it would be easy to follow it.
The traffic flowing by on Main Street was light, and no one seemed to notice her weapon. She unlocked the extended-cab truck and stashed the submachine gun behind the rear seat next to her combat tomahawk and SIG Sauer P226 pistol. The extra MP5 magazines were secured in a pouch on the seatback.
She took a deep breath as she sat behind the wheel. She wasn’t free and clear yet, and she needed to quickly melt away into the traffic. If a drone or manned aircraft was overhead surveilling her, she could still be cornered by police cars.
Fighting the temptation to floor the gas pedal and get away as fast as possible, she instead eased onto Main Street and merged in with the flow of traffic. The GPS app on her phone was set to guide her back to Hatfield, on the Oregon-California border. Although that wasn’t her immediate destination, it would suffice to get her out of the Bay Area. Once on the interstate, she could think and refine her plan—which wasn’t much of a plan at all.
She focused on being anonymous, blending in with the other drivers as she followed the GPS directions. From Main Street, she turned left onto Ralph M. Appezzato Memorial Parkway. She was frequently checking the rearview mirror, but so far, she’d not seen a single police car. The parkway was a major thoroughfare, with two lanes in each direction and few traffic lights, and she made good time. The GPS chimed, and a feminine voice instructed her to turn left onto Webster, a quarter-mile ahead.
Just as she made the turn, her pulse quickened. A police roadblock was set up ahead, and both lanes of traffic were being directed into a turnout normally designated for buses. If she did a U-turn, her red truck would certainly draw unwanted attention.
With no good alternative, she stayed the course and followed the cars in front of her. Hopefully, the traffic cops would be operating with little specific information about who they were looking for. Maybe the action didn’t even have anything to do with finding her—the suspected driver of the launch. She decided to play it cool, willing her body to calm and her pulse to slow. She could talk her way out if the cops were suspicious.
The line of cars crept forward, merging to a single queue on the right. Ahead, she watched as a uniformed police officer questioned each driver, checking ID and vehicle registration. A second cop on the right side of the cars peered in through the windows. The process was only taking a minute or so for each vehicle.
In front of her was a top-of-the-line Mercedes sedan, and the officer waved it through. Apparently, luxury cars don’t fit the profile.
The officer held up his hand, and she slowed to a stop before shifting the transmission into park. The policeman had short brown hair and a boyish face. She estimated he was in his late twenties, probably only a few years on the force. The shoulder patch on his uniform indicated he worked for the Alameda Police Department.
She lowered her window and smiled. “Hello.”
The officer nodded once. “Driver’s license and vehicle registration, please.” He sounded uncertain, maybe even nervous.
She kept her left hand on the steering wheel while reaching to open the glove box. Through her peripheral vision, she noticed the other cop was peering in the passenger window, checking the contents of the glove box. His right hand was obscured from her view, and she imagined it was resting on his service weapon.
She handed over the registration and insurance documents.
“My ID is in my pack.” She indicated the passenger seat.
Although it was forged with one of her many aliases, she was confident it would pass the scrutiny of a traffic cop.
“Is it okay if I get it out?” she said.
He nodded again, staring as she unzipped a front pouch and produced the license.
“You’re from Oregon?” he said.
“Yes. I’m visiting a friend. Well, really, my niece.”
A careless slipup. She hoped he didn’t notice.
“Just a minute.” He walked around the truck to his partner, and then radioed in her license and vehicle plates.
The two cops exchange words, but she wasn’t able to overhear them.
Stay calm. Just relax.
After a long two minutes, the officer returned to her window.
“Does your niece live in Alameda?”
“No. She’s a student at UC Berkeley. But I wanted to visit the old naval air station. I’m a big fan of the original Myth Busters TV show. You know, they filmed a lot of the episodes there.”
A quick lie. But like all good deceits, it was built on elements of truth.
“What happened to your face? Did someone assault you?”
She touched her fingers to the scrape on her cheek. It stung.
“Oh, this. No. I slipped and fell down a short flight of stairs. Wrenched my shoulder at the same time.” She grimaced and rubbed her hand over the injury.
Truth was, it did ache. When she got further up the highway, she planned to take three or four ibuprofens before the shoulder stiffened up too much. There was still a long way to drive before she could rest.
The officer nodded, but he looked skeptical.
“You sure a boyfriend, or maybe your husband, didn’t hit you?”
“I’m not married. And no, I wasn’t assaulted. Just clumsy.” She flashed a quick smile.
He’d already noted she wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Still, he narrowed his eyes, searching her countenance for an unspoken message, an indication she wasn’t being completely forthcoming. But all he saw as an attractive smiling face.
“You headed back to Berkeley?” he said.
“Yes, tonight. But first, I’m meeting my sister and niece at Trader Vic’s in Emeryville.”
“Were you on the ferry today?”
“No. I don’t understand. What’s this about?”
“Security cameras showed a red pickup leaving the Alameda Ferry Terminal. The driver may be a person of interest.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, my. What did he do?”
It was a subtle ploy, but often a successful one. Usually, one thought of the male gender as the perpetrator of violent crimes, unless there was direct evidence indicating otherwise, such as an eyewitness or video. She was gambling that any eyewitness reports from the hostages on Alcatraz had not filtered down yet to patrol-cop level.
Still, for the police to be searching for vehicles that had recently left the ferry terminal meant that the launch must have been discovered, and someone was piecing together the clues, and quickly. She doubted that was the local police. More likely, the FBI. They would be in charge of the operation. All the more reason to put distance between herself and the Bay Area.
The cop ignored the question and returned her documents.
“Have a safe trip. The traffic can be pretty bad this time of day.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how people deal with it every day.” She shifted into drive and eased forward, then merged back onto the parkway.
The young patrol cop said to his partner, “I thought that might be the one. But dispatch said everything checked. No warrants.”
“Come on.” His partner scoffed. “She looked more like a soccer mom than a terrorist.”