Hostage

by Robert Crais

  Kevin stopped in the door.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “I shouldn’t have told him about the money. Now he’s gonna keep it all for himself.”

  “He said that?”

  “I tried to cut him in. What the fuck, it’s a lot of cash, I thought we could buy our way out. See, that was my mistake. Once I told him how much money we had, he probably started thinking he could keep it for himself. Fuck that. If we don’t escape, I’m telling everybody. All three of us will tell them about the cash, so if Talley tries to keep it they’ll nail his ass.”

  Dennis pulled deeper at the bottle, his mouth numb to it, angry at that bastard, Talley, for stealing his money.

  “He’s gonna kill us, Kev. We’re fucked.”

  “That’s crazy. He’s not going to kill us.”

  Kevin was so fuckin’ stupid.

  “He’s got to kill us, you idiot. He can’t let us tell people about the money. The only way he can keep it is if nobody knows about it. He’s probably gonna cap all three of us before they even read our rights. He’s probably plannin’ how to do it right now.”

  Kevin came over and stood by the couch, crowding him.

  “It’s over, Dennis. We have to give up.”

  “Fuck it’s over! That money is mine!”

  Dennis felt his anger building, and drank more of the vodka. That had always been Kevin’s role in life, to hold him back, dragging behind him like an anchor, keeping him down.

  Kevin stepped closer.

  “You’re going to get us all killed for that money. Talley’s not playing games. The cops are going to get tired of waiting for us to give up, then we’ll all be fuckin’ killed!”

  Dennis raised the bottle, and shrugged.

  “Then we might as well die rich.”

  “No!”

  Kevin slapped the bottle from his hand, and then Dennis was off the couch. Dennis felt out of himself, his head a red blur of rage and frustration. He shoved Kevin over the coffee table and followed him down. Kevin grunted with the impact and tried to cover his face, but Dennis held him with his left hand and punched with his right, hitting his brother again and again.

  “Dennis, stop!”

  He hit Kevin as hard as he could.

  “Stop crying, goddamnit!” He hit Kevin harder.

  “Stop crying!”

  Kevin rolled into a ball, his face blotched red, sobbing. Dennis hated him. He hated their father and their mother, hated all the rathole apartments and the brutal assholes their mother had brought home, hated his shitty job and the Ant Farm and every day of their failed lives, but most of all he hated Kevin for reminding him of these things every time he looked at him.

  “You’re fuckin’ pathetic.”

  Dennis climbed to his feet, breathless and spent.

  “That money is mine. I’m not leaving without it, Kevin. Get that in your head. We’re not giving up.”

  Kevin crawled away, whimpering like a beaten dog.

  Dennis picked up the bottle, and saw Mars standing in the door, watching without expression. Dennis wanted to hit Mars, too, the sonofabitch.

  “What? You got something to say?”

  Mars did not respond, the shadows in the dim light masking his eyes.

  “What?”

  Mars responded somberly.

  “I like it here, Dennis. We’re not going to leave.”

  “Fuckin’ A we’re not.”

  The vague smile flickered at Mars’s lips, the only part of him that Dennis could see.

  “We’re going to be fine, Dennis. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Dennis turned away and sucked down another belt of the vodka.

  “You do that, Mars.”

  Mars melted into the darkness and disappeared.

  Dennis burped.

  Creepy bastard.

  TALLEY

  Quiet settled over York Estates. The traffic on Flanders Road had thinned; the line of cars filled with the morbid gawkers who wanted a brush with crime was gone, leaving the California Highway Patrol motor officers who were manning the barricades with nothing to do. Inside the development, the Sheriffs sat in their cars or at their posts. No one talked. Everyone waited.

  Talley pulled his car to the curb outside Mrs. Peña’s home and cut the engine. He looked at the command van. With nothing going on at the house, Maddox and Ellison would have pulled back to the van to alternate shifts on the phone, the off negotiator catching a catnap in the van’s bunk or the backseat of a car. Talley was tired. The center of his back between his shoulder blades was knotted with a pronounced pain that cut into his spine. His head felt cloudy from more than fatigue, leaving him to mistrust his thinking. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

  Talley went inside for a cup of black coffee, but returned to his car. Three of the CHiPs and two sheriffs were in Mrs. Peña’s kitchen, but he didn’t want to talk. He sat on the curb with the Nokia and his own phone beside him. He sipped the coffee, thinking about Amanda and Jane, seeing them seated together on a couch in the anonymous room where they were held, seeing them alive, seeing them unharmed, seeing them safe. Imagining them that way helped.

  Talley’s radio popped at his waist.

  “Chief, Cooper.”

  “Go, Coop.”

  “Ah, I’m here at the south gate. We got some FBI guys asking for you.” Talley didn’t answer. He worked at breathing. He stared at the Sheriff’s command van and the line of police cars lining the street and the officers moving among them, feeling frightened and unsure. He was about to lie to them. It would be like letting the enemy into the camp. It would be lying to these people who were here to help him and help the people in that house.

  “Chief? They say you’re expecting them.”

  “Let them in.”

  Talley walked up the street to the corner. He didn’t know what to expect and wanted to meet them alone, away from everyone else. He stood beneath a street lamp so they would stop in its light. He wanted to see them.

  Two gray Econoline vans eased to the corner, four men in the lead van, two in the rear. Talley raised his hand, stopping them. Both vans pulled to the curb and cut their engines. The men inside had short haircuts and were wearing black tactical fatigues, standard issue for FBI tactical units. One of the men in the back wore a ball cap that read FBI.

  The driver said, “You Talley?”

  “Yes.”

  The man on the passenger side of the lead van got out and came around the nose of the van. He was taller than Talley and muscular. He looked the part: black tac fatigues, jump boots, buzzed hair. A black pistol hung beneath his left arm in a ballistic holster.

  He stopped in front of Talley, glanced up the street at the Sheriffs, then turned back to Talley.

  “Okay, Chief, let me see some ID. I want to be sure who I’m talking to.”

  Talley lifted his sweatshirt enough to show his badge.

  “I don’t give a shit about that. Show me a picture.”

  Talley took out his wallet and showed the photo ID. When he was satisfied, he took out his own badge case and opened it for Talley to see.

  “Okay, here’s mine. My name is Special Agent Jones.”

  Talley inspected an FBI credential that identified the man as William F. Jones, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It showed a photograph of Jones. It looked real.

  “Don’t sweat anyone asking for our papers. Every man in my group has the ID.”

  “Are you all named Jones?”

  Jones snapped the case closed and put it away.

  “Don’t be funny, Chief. You can’t afford it.”

  He slapped the nose of the lead van, nodding at the driver. The doors of both vans opened. The remaining five men stepped out, moving to the rear of the second van. Like Jones, they looked the part down to the haircuts. They strapped into armored vests with FBI emblazoned on the back.

  Jones said, “In a few minutes your phone is going to ring. You know the phone I mean
. So let’s get some stuff straight before that. Are you paying attention?”

  Talley was watching the men. They strapped on the vests, then snapped on new thigh guards with practiced efficiency. Someone at the rear of the second van passed out black knit masks, flash-bang grenades, and helmets. Each man folded the mask twice and tucked it under his left shoulder strap where he could reach it easily later. They clipped the grenades to their harnesses without fumbling and tossed their helmets into the seats or balanced them atop the van. Talley knew the moves, because he had practiced them himself when he worked SWAT Tactical. These men had done this before.

  “I’m paying attention. You used to be a cop.”

  “Don’t worry about what I used to be. You’ve got other stuff to worry about.”

  Talley looked at him.

  “How can you people expect this to work? The Sheriffs have a full crisis response team here. They’re going to be pissed off and they’re going to have questions.”

  “I can handle the Sheriffs and anything else that comes up. What’s my name?”

  Talley didn’t know what in hell he wanted.

  “What?”

  “I asked you my name. You just saw my commission slip. What’s my fucking name?”

  “Jones.”

  “All right. I’m Special Agent Jones. Think of me that way and you won’t fuck up. I can lift my end, you got a wife and kid praying you can lift yours.”

  Talley’s head throbbed. His neck was so tight that it burned, but he managed a nod.

  Jones turned so that they both faced the line of vehicles.

  “Who’s in charge there?”

  “Martin. She’s a captain.”

  “You told her about us yet?”

  “No. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Good, that’s better for us. The less time she has to ask questions, the better. Now, the man on the phone, you know who I mean, did he tell you how we’re going to cover this?”

  “Smith is in witness protection.”

  “Right, Smith is in the program so we have a proprietary interest. What’s my name again?”

  Tally flashed with anger and fought to control it. Everything seemed out of control and surreal, standing there in the purple street light, moths ticking and snapping into the glass, with these cops who weren’t cops.

  “Jones. Your name is Jones. I wish I knew your fucking real name.”

  “Keep it tight, Chief. We gotta work together here. I’m in charge of a special operations unit that was working training exercises on the border with the Customs Service when Washington learned what was happening here. The D.C. office called you, explained the situation, and asked for your cooperation. We owe Smith, we’re obligated to protect him and his cover, so you agreed. I’m going to explain all this to Captain Martin, and all you’re going to do is sit there and nod. You got that?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Martin won’t like it, having us here, but she’ll go along because what we’re telling her makes sense.”

  “What if she checks? What if she knows people in the LA office?”

  “It’s after midnight on a Friday night. She phones LA, all she’ll get is a duty agent, and he’ll have to check with someone else, which he won’t want to do. Even if she calls the agent in charge in Los Angeles and wakes him, he’ll wait until tomorrow to call D.C., because none of these people, not one, will have any reason to doubt us. We’re not gonna be here that long.”

  Jones handed Talley a white business card with the FBI seal pressed into the left corner and a phone number with a Washington, D.C., area code.

  “If she gets it into her head to call someone, tell her that this is the guy back there who called you. She can talk to him until she’s blue.”

  Talley put the card in his pocket, wondering if the name on the card was a real agent, and thought that he probably was. Thinking that scared him. It was like a warning, this is how much power we have.

  Talley glanced at the men. They were geared up now. A man in the second van was passing out MP5s, CAR-15s, and loaded magazines.

  “What are you people going to do?”

  “You and I are going to straighten this out with the Sheriffs. Two of my people are going to reconnoiter the house, see what we have. After that, we’ll deploy in a secure position and wait for the man to call. You’ve got your phone, I have mine. When he gives the word, we move. If something happens in the house that provokes a launch beforehand, we’ll do it. But we will control the scene until we’ve recovered our target. After that, the house is yours.”

  Talley thought about the man’s words, thought he might have done this in the military, for the Rangers or Special Forces.

  “I won’t be able to keep the others out. You know that. The Sheriffs will come in, and I’m going, too.” Jones met Talley’s eyes and shook his head.

  “Listen, man, if it helps you get through this, we don’t want to kill anyone, not even the three dicks who started this mess. We just want the stuff in the house. But we know what’s required when we breach that house. We’ll have to secure the scene before we can recover what we want. We’ll do that, Talley. We’re professionals.”

  The phone in Talley’s pocket chirped. He had a phone in his left pocket and a phone in his right, and didn’t remember which was which. Talley pulled out the phone in his left pocket. It was the Nokia. It chirped again.

  “Answer it, Chief.”

  Talley pressed the button to answer the call.

  “Talley.”

  “Is Mr. Jones with you?”

  “Yes, he’s here.”

  “Put him on.”

  Talley passed the Nokia to Jones without a word. Jones put it to his ear, saying his name to let the caller know he was on. Talley watched Jones. His eyes were pale blue or gray, Talley couldn’t tell which in the dim light. A man in his mid-forties, maybe, who kept himself in good shape and could be hard when he had to be. As Jones spoke, his eyes flicked nervously to the Sheriffs in the distance. Talley thought that he was probably scared. Any sane man would be scared, doing what he was doing. Talley wondered what the Watchman had on this man, or if Jones was doing it for money.

  Jones ended the call and passed the phone back to Talley.

  “Let’s go, Chief. Time to get it done.”

  “What does he have on you?”

  Jones stared at him, then looked away without answering.

  “I know why I’m doing this. What does he have on you?” Jones cinched down his vest, tighter than necessary, so tight the straps cut.

  “You don’t know shit.”

  Jones started up the street.

  Talley followed him.

  KEVIN

  The stink of gasoline was so thick in the closed space of the entry hall that it burned Kevin’s eyes and filled his throat with the taste of metal. He gagged, acid washing the back of his throat, then he couldn’t hold back and vomited, puke splashing the wall. Dennis, in the den with his vodka, was too far gone to have heard.

  They were going to die.

  Kevin remembered a story from elementary school that explained how coastal Africans caught the tiny monkeys that lived at the edge of the water. The Africans would bore a hole in a coconut just big enough so that the monkey could squeeze its hand inside. They would put a peanut touched with honey into the coconut. The monkey would reach inside to grab the peanut, only with the peanut in its hand and its hand balled into a fist, the monkey’s hand would no longer fit through the hole. As long as it held on to the peanut, the monkey couldn’t take its hand out of the coconut. These monkeys wanted the honey-coated peanuts so badly that they would not let go even as the monkey-hunters walked up to cover them with nets. Dennis was the monkey in this house, surrounded by police but unwilling to let go of his peanut.

  Kevin stumbled into the little bathroom off the entry and splashed his face with water. His lip and eye were swelling from the beating Dennis had given him. He washed out his mouth, then washed his face, rubbing
the water through his hair and around his neck. After the shootings, the fear, the running, the nightmare terror of the day, he finally knew what he had to do, and why: He was not willing to die with his brother; no matter their childhood, no matter Dennis taking the old man’s belt for him, no matter the horrors they had endured. Dennis was willing to die for money he couldn’t have, and Kevin refused to die with him. He would take the girl and her brother, and the three of them would get the hell out of here. Let Dennis and Mars do what they want.

  Kevin dried his face, then went back to the den to see if Dennis was still there. Kevin expected that Dennis and Mars would try to stop him from leaving. He knew that they could, so he wanted to get the kids out of the house without being seen. Dennis’s feet sprouted up over the end of the couch, still flat on his back. Kevin peeked into the office, checking for Mars, but Mars wasn’t there. Kevin thought that he might be back in the family room by the French doors, but suddenly he had the prickly feeling that Mars was watching him on the monitors. Kevin slipped past the den back along the hall to the master bedroom. If Mars was in the security room, he was going to tell Mars that Dennis wanted him to watch the front of the house again, but the master bedroom was empty and so were the closets and security room. Kevin stared at the monitors, seeing the police outside, seeing his brother in the den and the girl in her room, but he didn’t see Mars. He thought maybe he should break the monitors or figure out a way to turn off the security system, but if he moved quickly enough it wouldn’t matter; once he had the kids, they would be out of the house in seconds or they wouldn’t be out at all.

  Kevin hurried back through the house to the entry, and then up the stairs. He knocked twice softly on the girl’s door, pulled the nail from the door, and let himself inside. The girl was curled into a ball on her bed, her eyes open, the lights full on. She swung her feet out and stood as the door opened.

  “What do you want?”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down.”

  Kevin was scared. Here he was a grown man, and he felt like a child whenever he crossed wills with his brother. Sometimes he felt such a strong mix of fear and a desperate need to please Dennis that he couldn’t move.