“I’m scared.”
I breathed it all in. Her words. The fear. Along with the dust and the dirt. Allowing it to empower me, willing me to not give up. To not quit.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Perhaps it was pity. Or possibly arrogance. But, suddenly, I was steadfast in my resolve. “It’s going to be okay,” I exhaled again. Tentatively, calmly, she nodded, and closed her eyes, as though drifting off to sleep.
I twisted the other direction, still sandwiched between the girl and the disoriented portly fellow. I felt the phone start vibrating in my pocket. Crap! What if It was Emily? She hadn’t answered when I called earlier. Though the message I left had been simple, I had tried not to sound as desperate as I felt. “I’m sorry. I need to talk to you. I need to see you. I’ll call you back in a while. I love you.” She had no idea where I was. I closed my eyes.
Sirens drew nearer with every second that ticked away. Whatever relief I felt, quickly disappeared when gunfire erupted in the kitchen. Then screams. And painful cries for help. Several people ran through the doorway, only to be met by the alpha, ready to herd them toward the others, so they didn’t accidentally run past him and set off a mine.
“Move this way,” he yelled, motioning to his left, firing a round into the ceiling. “Lay face down on the ground, or you will be shot.” He culled the new-found hostages into the corner, while still keeping his eye on the exterior.
I managed to roll to my side as Corbin, and another prisoner ran out. Again, I maintained my breathing. Just because Mary Beth and the children weren’t with the group didn’t mean anything had happened to them. I winced, feeling utterly helpless, trying not to let my imagination run away with me as I wrestled with my restraints. To no avail. “Damn it,” I said under my breath.
“AJ,” his partner exclaimed, pressing his finger to his earbud. “Confirm kitchen secure.” When he didn’t receive an immediate response, he angrily repeated, “AJ. Confirm secure!”
His reply was a single, deafening shot, startling all of us. Those around me whimpered softly; most of those not lying flat on the floor quickly drew their knees into their chests, assuming a fetal position.
“AJ!” he hollered.
A moment later, four uniformed employees stumbled and tumbled through the doorway, AJ a step behind, gun trained on the newest captives. The biggest one wore a uniform that didn’t quite fit right, and Crocs that were obviously two sizes too big. However, thankfully, neither of the gunmen seemed to notice.
“AJ,” the alpha reprimanded, glancing at the growing collection of hostages while keeping his eyes on the gaping hole in the front of the building.
AJ turned, eyes wildly darting about, his breathing accelerated.
“Soldier!” the alpha barked, walking to his younger companion.
Soldier? I glanced at AJ. He was young, but I guess he could have served. His eyes met mine. Probably drummed out for a narcissistic personality disorder, I surmised.
AJ’s eyes held mine as the man took him by the shoulder.
“Son,” I heard him say, more calmly, in a way that made me believe it wasn’t a generic reference. “You okay?” He waited until the anxious young shooter looked him in the eyes. “I need you to be okay, or we can’t make this work.”
AJ nodded, his father mimicking the gesture and then patting him on his back.”
Suddenly, a bullhorn screeched, much like nails on a chalkboard. “This is Officer Kelly, with the Killeen Police Department. I’m here to inform you that the building is completely surrounded.” There was a brief pause followed by, “We heard gunfire. We need to know that everyone inside is okay.”
Heads perked up all around the room, a few yelling for help until they found rifles pointed their direction.
“Is everyone okay inside? Please respond.”
The two armed-men glanced at each other and then at the first responders beyond what used to be the front of the building.
The phone at the bar, just above my head, began to ring. I stared first at AJ and then at his father. When neither said anything, I rolled onto my side again and asked, “You want me to get that?”
Chapter 17
He threw open the door of the conference room and strode confidently to the floor-to-ceiling windows that had a direct view of the crime scene. Within twenty minutes of the initial attack, his support team had secured entry into the building and permission to use the sparsely furnished room on the second floor directly across the street from Franklin’s.
He slid the reflective sunglasses up until they rested comfortably atop his perfectly combed hair.
“Chief Foster?”
Foster turned to his next in command, who handed him a sheet of paper.
“Says here a report was filed six weeks ago by a Leo Miller, owner of the Cricket’s Bar downtown. Seems our perp was waving around a revolver.”
Foster wagged his finger. “That’s a big no-no in Texas.”
“So’s turning a restaurant into a drive-thru,” Odenweller smirked. She pointed over her shoulder and nodded toward the street below.
Foster didn’t crack a smile. “Anyone hurt?”
“Nah. And, I just got off the phone with Miller. Seems Benson was upset about something he saw on TV. He started ranting about the government, pulled out a gun, started yelling, fired a few rounds, then just took off.”
“Anything else?” the chief asked.”
“Yeah. He says our guy wasn’t a big talker. Said he seemed to have a ‘big old chip on his shoulder’, though. Like he was a powder keg waiting to explode.”
“Did he happen to mention if Benson drank alone?” Foster asked.
The sergeant nodded. “He always drank alone.”
“Of course. That would make our job too easy, right?” Foster smirked.
The incident commander stared out the window at the staged site below. So far, they had three cars pulled back to help lock down the immediate scene. No one was allowed within the kill zone—one hundred feet of the entrance. Forty-five patrons had managed to escape, most with minor injuries. The team hadn’t finished interrogating all of those who were lucky enough to get out. Yet, now they had conflicting reports. Some say there were only two shooters. Others, claiming as many as four.
“We found a wino passed out in the alleyway behind Franklin’s.”
“Oh, yeah?” Chief Foster stood upright. “Did he see anything?”
“Well, after they finally got some food and coffee in him, he thought he remembered seeing some guys with orange vests doing some work behind the building. Seems one of the cooks feeds him pretty regularly, and our perps just happened to block his meal ticket.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, studying the jagged mouth of the building across the street.
“We made some calls, and there was no one scheduled to do anything to that street at any time recently,” he explained. “Especially on a Sunday and a holiday.”
Foster crossed his arms then looked up as two helicopters hovered nearby—one, theirs, another belonging to a local television station.
“How many?”
“How many what?” he queried, confused.
“Men in the alley,” he clarified.
The officer scratched his head. “Two, he thinks.”
“He thinks?”
The man shrugged. “He was three sheets to the wind when we found him. And that was just thirty minutes ago. Started as a whole work crew of six or more. Ended on two.”
Foster rubbed his unshaven chin. “So, let’s get some more coffee down him and another sandwich if you have to. Whatever it takes to clear up his vision.” He looked back out of the windows and nodded upwards. “And do something about them, would you?” When he turned, his threat management team containment officer quickly interjected.
“Already on it, sir. We’ve left three messages for the station manager. Said he’s in a meeting and—”
“Well. Leave another message, but make sure to leave it wi
th someone who understands the urgency. Tell him if he doesn’t get his damned bird out of the sky in the next fifteen minutes, we’ll take it down,” Foster barked.
“Got it.”
“Oh, and radio that same exact message to the pilot, too.”
A small smile crept up onto the officer’s face. “Right away, sir.” He quickly turned and began dialing his cell phone.
Foster drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. So many questions, so few answers. He was handed information in real-time, about every five minutes. They were now forty minutes in, and, yet, sadly, they didn’t have much more to go on than when they started. He washed his hands over his face.
Foster glared down at the tailgate of the weapon that Benson had used to ram the building. “Thrash,” he called over his shoulder to the tough-as-nails, de-facto crisis Intervention team leader.
“Yeah, boss?” the blonde bombshell called back.
Foster glanced at her when she arrived by his side. Thrash had been the CIT leader for almost five years, and they’d worked together multiple times. She was one of the sweetest, kindest people he’d ever known. But, she was tenacious. A female alpha. Many a man, himself included, had tried and failed to bed her. Until one day she up and married a six-foot-four fireman she’d been dating for a few weeks, crushing hearts all over Central Texas, especially in their precinct. Foster looked back down at the crime scene.
“The man drives a three-quarter-ton pickup through the front of a restaurant. His own truck, mind you. Doesn’t even hide that fact.”
“Uh-huh,” she agreed, studying the scene as well.
“He seals and wires both back exits. Wires the front. Hasn’t made any demands.”
“Yet,” she interjected.
“Yet,” he agreed.
“They are working on getting eyes and ears in there so that we’ll know just who we’re dealing with.”
“Still no firm number of perps?”
Foster shook his head. “I’m thinking three,” he shrugged. “But, that’s not confirmed.”
“I heard someone say he has a son.”
Overhead a helicopter flew quickly away from the scene. Foster grinned.
“Have they found him yet?” Thrash queried.
“No, but, Odenweller’s working on it,” he replied.
“Could be the second shooter, she said.
“Could be the second shooter.” Foster noted two officers pressed against the side of the restaurant, quickly disappearing from sight on their way to the alley. Hostage Rescue was now carefully examining every nook and cranny of the building, inside and out, to find any possible point of entry and exit. They had already secured the streets for two square blocks in every direction to assure no one got in, and absolutely no one got out.
As if on cue, the sergeant walked in with the most recent one-page update and a picture, handing them to her boss. “We are still debriefing and sorting to the trauma team, but it looks like we got a break.”
Foster took the sheet from Odenweller’s hands, reading it.
“Several of the diners that ran out were able to describe both shooters.”
“Both, as in two?” Thrash asked.
“Yes, we think it’s only two. There are still a few who say there were more. But when we line up the testimonies side by side, it’s looking good for the kid being the other perp.”
Foster studied the second page and then sketches of their suspects, paperclipped to whatever information they had pulled off the internet on both men. What they needed were the perps service record files. He compared the picture to the description and sketch a couple of times. “Pretty damned close,” he agreed.
“Pretty damned close,” Odenweller concurred.
“Okay. I want everything we can get on the kid. Work, friends, complete service record, if any. Doctor’s notes. What kind of toothpaste he uses,” Foster growled. “And check Benson. Betting he’s ex-military, too. And, that he’s the mastermind behind this little show.”
“Already on it, sir,” the sergeant commented. Her cell phone began ringing.
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” the chief teased.
Odenweller answered her phone, holding up a finger as she spoke. “Are you sure?” She held her hand over the microphone.
“Sir, we have eyes from two angles, so we can see some of what’s going on. It is confirmed we’re now the only line in and out of the restaurant. They’re still working on getting us inside, though.”
Foster tapped on the window. “Tell ‘em we need to know what’s going on in there and we needed to know five minutes ago. Got it?” The chief turned and walked to the center of the room. Leaving Odenweller to convey his instructions to the voice on the other end of the line. “Okay, everyone. Listen up,” He looked around at the faces of his team, crossing his arms as he paced “We think we have two shooters. Father and son. We’re all set up now, so we’re going to start this clock over.”
“Do we know how many are still in there, sir? Or what condition they are in?”
“Not yet,” Foster expressed. “But, through those that got out, we’re slowly accounting for missing employees, family members, friends, etcetera. Then we’ll start piecing together those who aren’t attached to anyone who made it out. I want a separate line for anyone who calls into the station to check on missing family members. Man it with whoever we have. Overtime approved and holiday pay. That should get a few in.” He rolled his head back and closed his eyes, thinking. When he faced them again, he drew in a deep breath. “Let’s work this and get these people out.”
Everyone immediately scattered to fulfill their responsibilities, except Odenweller and Thrash.
Sergeant Odenweller crossed her arms. “The media’s going nuts out there. They want us to keep them updated every five minutes, on what’s going on.”
“Ah, hell,” Foster scoffed. “They know the routine,” he crossed his arms defiantly. “I’ll talk to them when I’m damned good and ready.”
Thrash stepped beside them. “They’re going to be royally ticked at you.”
The chief laughed. “Won’t be the first time,” he added, walking once more to the bank of windows and staring down at the hole in the building. He exhaled as his gaze crossed the sea of faces waiting expectantly for his lead. “Right now, folks, we’re going to see what they want, and we’re going to do whatever it takes until we get every single hostage out. Safe and sound,” he added confidently. “So, let’s work this thing. Okay, people?”
All eyes were on him, awaiting his instructions.
He slid the tip of one arm of his sunglasses into his mouth and slowly shook his head as he thought. Then he turned around, pushing his glasses atop his dark well-groomed head, and clapped his hands together. “Okay, folks. Let’s make a phone call.”
Chapter 18
AJ’s glare was his sharp reply. As the phone continued to ring, his eyes studied me. He motioned with the gun toward me. “Your jacket says Brandon E.”
I felt my face flush. Crap!
“You said your name was Eddie.”
Our waitress wore a name tag. Corbin wore a name tag. It hadn’t occurred to me, nor did I notice that some of the chef coats might be embroidered. I swallowed hard. “That’s right, Brandon Edwards. My friends call me Eddie.” I glared at him. “You, however—”
“You know, you have a real smart mouth, for being in the position you are in,” he chuckled sarcastically, accepting the lie.
“Yeah,” I smirked. “Story of my life.”
I looked around, once again, assessing. Contemplating our options. It’s not like I couldn’t take this guy out. I could. I’m trained to get in and out of situations just like this, usually after disposing of my targets. But, here, the likelihood was high that there would be casualties. In battle, no matter how much you plan, no matter how hard you try, it’s almost impossible not to have collateral damage. Though this wasn’t technically war, they had turned the restaurant into a war zone. Inn
ocent people had suffered. And, somehow, I had to figure a way out without getting anyone killed. Without getting myself killed, or Mary Beth and the children.
I had to believe that she was okay. However, there were others to be concerned for. I couldn’t let my worry for her distract me from figuring a way out of this mess.
An injured patron yelled out from another side of the room, his cries competing with The Skyliners, and the sirens. Not to mention the wailing of those bound throughout the building. I contemplated my next move as the voice called out painfully.
The Alpha turned to Corbin, who had ducked behind the bar during the last barrage of gunfire. “Here,” he gasped, sweat dripping from his face as he handed the gunman a red suitcase-sized emergency kit.
“Do you know any first aid?” he asked Corbin.
The young cook shook his head. “No way. I can’t deal with the sight of blood,” he confessed.
“Arnold Benson. This is the Killeen Police Department. Please respond,” the voice echoed.
Ignoring them, and the persistently ringing phone, the gunman called out. “Does anyone here have any medical training?” He looked amongst the still sobbing hostages. “This could be your get out of jail free card,” he offered. When no one responded, he turned. His gaze resolvedly settled on me. “You. Get up.” When I looked at him strangely, he added, “You said you knew first aid. So, get up. Now we’ll see if that mouth of yours told the truth or gets you killed.”
I’m confident that I wasn’t his first choice. But, he knew that as long as he held the weapon, I was probably less of a threat. I rolled to my side, then onto my knees. With little effort, I rocked to my feet and stood, hands still cuffed behind me. I twisted slightly, extending my arms behind me. He contemplated, then removed his knife and sliced the thick cuffs in one swift motion before handing me the medical kit.
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