The Ex

by Margaret Ferguson

  “And hope they weren’t serious about shooting a hostage,” Thrash sighed.

  Foster looked at the growing list of names on the wall. Thirty-two, in all, that they knew of. Mothers and fathers, a few college kids, and a handful of grandparents. A blank page with a question mark on it, and the name Eddie written below it. “Anything from his house?”

  “Guy’s a big history buff. Lots of books on the Vietnam War,” Thrash said. “Lots, as in upwards of fifty or more.”

  The Incident Commander furrowed his brow. “Hmm,” he hummed, before looking around the room once more. “Okay, people. Let’s work this thing. Let’s get some answers and get these people out.” Foster tapped his finger on the file in front of him. “I promised my wife I’d be home for dinner with the family, and you know how the missus gets if I break my promises.” When everyone just stared at him, he gave them an expression that let them know he was done.

  A flurry of “yes sirs” filled the air as everyone scurried to do their assigned jobs, and then he found himself alone. Foster looked through the gaping hole in the front of the building across the street. “What are you up to, Benson?” He sucked at his teeth, working on the annoying piece of gristle that wouldn’t come out. “What exactly are you up to?”

  Chapter 22

  I felt the goose egg forming under my fingers as they gingerly danced over my skull, where he’d hit me. I stared up at the man standing over me, perplexed. In response, he jerked me up by my arm, wrenching it painfully. When I cried out, he silenced me with a flat-palmed slap of his free hand. I clenched my jaw, angrily fighting tears. My mother cowered on the other side of the room, holding her cheek where he’d slapped her mere moments before when she had dared to come to my defense.

  I continued glaring up at him defiantly.

  “What are you starin’ at, boy?” He spat, the foul stench of alcohol clinging to his breath, nauseating me, as he twisted my wrist harder.

  The more he tugged on my arm, the more I hated him. As my eyes filled with tears, my heart filled with rage. I didn’t even glance at my mother—that way, he couldn’t accuse me of expecting her to defend me. I think he liked that we were both small and helpless. It was at that moment that I first voiced what I’d felt since I was old enough to comprehend what pain was. When I turned, I kicked him hard in the shin. In response, he twisted my arm until I felt and heard a snap.

  I remembered the sudden wave of nausea and then feeling light-headed. I remembered looking up at him with confusion just before I lost consciousness.

  I awoke with a start—lying in the middle of the restaurant, pretty much where Arnold had knocked me out. I grabbed my uninjured wrist to massage it, still reeling from the memory. Then, I reached around the back of my head and felt the massive knot that throbbed with every heartbeat. Though I’d had worse—much worse—it hurt like hell.

  “Don’t move,” a gentle voice said from behind, just before something cold and wet was pressed to my scalp.

  I winced, rocking my head forward.

  “I need you to sit still,” Mary Beth insisted firmly, but sweetly.

  I glanced around, still slightly disoriented. Faint snapshots of the past muddled with vague remembrances of today. The second I spied Corbin cuffing another captive, I knew it wasn’t a dream. I knew where I was. A moment later, I looked up to find AJ still standing over me, a smug grin on his face.

  “What the hell are you smiling at?”

  “Absolute satisfaction,” he slowly breathed out. Then, his tone changed. “Back to work,” he ordered, then strode away, continuing his search for stray souls hidden in pockets throughout the restaurant.

  “How long was I out?” I asked without looking up.

  “Maybe ten minutes,” she whispered.

  “I was hoping I’d slept through the whole ordeal,” I said, slowly looking up into those damned entrancing eyes that had stolen my heart almost a year ago. “Oh—hello,” I added groggily when my eyes met hers.

  Mary Beth couldn’t help but grin. “Hello, there.” She sighed dramatically. “You sure have a way with people.”

  “What can I say?” I retorted. “It’s my sparkling personality.”

  “Mm-huh,” she murmured, chewing on her lips to keep from smiling.

  When she touched my head again, I flinched. “Ow!”

  “Aww, poor baby. Am I hurting you?” she asked, with mock concern.

  I narrowed my eyes as I gave her a sharp, playful glare.

  “Maybe you should draw back that sparkling personality, just a tad.”

  I made a face as I tried to stand. I was still dizzy, so it took a second to find my balance.

  “Anything happen while I was out?”

  “Medical supplies were just delivered.”

  “And the TV crew?” I asked.

  Mary Beth shrugged.

  I looked at my watch. The deadline Arnold had set was in less than twenty minutes. I shook my head and made a face. “They aren’t working on anything but getting us out of here.”

  “But—”

  “They will never send someone else in here to become the next potential hostage,” I explained.

  Mary Beth looked around nervously. “So—they’re just going to let them kill one of us?” She shook her head in disbelief. “No. I can’t believe they would do that. Would they? Can they?”

  I turned to find Corbin securing another man whom AJ had just discovered. I scanned the sea of faces. There were a couple of new ones, but not a single soldier amongst those handcuffed by the bar. Good. That meant I had help, whenever I figured out how we were going to get out of here. Or rather, they’d have my help, if they’d already hatched a plan to escape.

  “Do you think everyone is accounted for?”

  I slowly shook my head. “Did you find any—?” I began. “I mean, is everyone—?” I stammered.

  “Alive?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes. So far. Five or six, barely,” Mary Beth added, sadness in her voice. “So, what happens now?”

  The phone began ringing behind us, and I glanced at my watch again. Nineteen minutes. I looked around as I pondered our situation. Benson had released his death grip on the girl, and she now lay uncomfortably beside him, her back to him. Her hands were bound with the white plastic cuffs. Arnold turned his attention to me. I looked up at the phone, and he shook his head. Then his eyes began to scan the room, probably watching out for any stragglers that his son hadn’t caught yet that might try to charge and disarm him.

  When AJ walked past, Arnold took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and looked at the contents. I was too far away to read it, but when he finally turned it over, I could see that it was typewritten. Probably, not a personal note. Perhaps it was what he wanted to say when the imaginary television crew arrived.

  “Okay,” I breathed out.

  “Okay, what?” she asked, confused.

  I continued leaning against the table for stability. “I think it’s time we find out just why we are in here.” Then, I added under my breath, “and maybe that will help us figure a way out.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mary Beth asked, her hand gently touching my arm. A simple gesture that was meant to comfort me, now only made me uncomfortable.

  I stood upright. “No,” I breathed out, looking into her eyes. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.” I started toward the alpha. “Benson!” I called out, raising my hands as I walked in his direction.

  “That’s far enough,” he announced, when I arrived about three yards away.

  I leaned against the wall beside me and slid down it, still holding the ice pack that Mary Beth had wrapped in a wet—now bloodied—rag to my head. “Still think you’re going to get your TV crew?”

  Arnold checked his watch, then stared right through me. “They still have sixteen minutes.”

  When I moved to get comfortable, he immediately drew his Glock, keeping it trained on me until I held up my hands again. I glanced outside, kno
wing that from where I sat, I was fully visible to anyone watching. “Do you really think they’re going to send someone else in here?”

  “They will unless they want someone to die,” he said nonchalantly, looking away.

  “But what if they don’t?” I asked again. “Do you have a back-up plan?”

  He turned his attention to me, tilting his head curiously.

  “None of us wants to die, but if they refuse, eventually you’ll run out of hostages, and you still won’t have a crew.”

  “They’ll deliver,” he replied calmly. “They have to. No police force wants blood on its hands.”

  “But—if they don’t,” I stressed. When Benson didn’t respond, I continued. “I know it seems like it’s none of my business, but if you were on this side of the conversation, you’d probably be worrying about the same things I am.” I looked at those who were privy to our discussion. “Am I right?” I asked the cowboy with dried blood on his face from where AJ had rifle butted him earlier. “Are you prepared to die if the cops back out on their deal?”

  “No way, man,” he exclaimed. “You don’t think they’d really do that to us, do you?”

  I shrugged, then nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think they’re gonna send in more potential hostages.”

  Suddenly, the captives began to chatter amongst themselves. Some of the women started crying again. Hell, I’d gone and done it now. I rested my elbows on my knees, hiding my smile behind my clenched hands.

  “Hey!” Arnold hollered. “That’s enough.” Then he glared at me, trying to figure my angle, I’m sure.

  “Why’s it so important that you need a TV crew, anyway?” I looked around casually before my eyes landed back on him. “I mean if we’re going to die in here, at least tell us what it’s all for.”

  I could see him contemplating whether to answer. He glanced at AJ, who was continuing to walk the building from one end to the other. Staying just out of sniper range, by moving in and out of the shadows, foraging for stragglers. Arnold’s eyes fell on me once more. “Did you ever serve?”

  “No,” I promptly lied.

  “Well, I did. Army. Twenty years. As did my dad and his father before him.

  I nodded toward AJ. “And him?”

  Arnold looked away.

  I noted his response, or rather the lack thereof. Thanking him for his service didn’t feel appropriate at this juncture, considering where I was sitting, so I said nothing.

  “Granddad served in World War II, my dad in Vietnam,” he rambled. “They’re the reason I enlisted.” He stared off into nowhere before looking back down between his knees. “Dad served in Vietnam. 65-71. USS Bexar.”

  “Battleship?” I asked.

  “Attack transport. Spent his entire service on the water.” He grinned slightly at the memory, as though we were old friends, out sharing a brew. “Mom used to say he grew up afraid of the water, and yet, he spent twenty years on it.” Arnold shook his head, staring up into the ceiling. “You know, I can still remember the stories my dad used to tell, the way he used to tell them.” Slowly, his smile faded. “But, then, he started getting sick. I mean, he never smoked anything, ever, and yet, he was always hacking and coughing up stuff, like he had been smoking all his life. I distinctly remember the first time I saw him cough up blood. I was nine. And, I can still see the expression on his face.”

  I studied Arnold’s features as he spoke, dissecting his mannerisms, looking for that edge that would help me know where and when and how to strike. He looked back down, his eyes meeting mine.

  “He died six months to the day after that.” He stared upwards again. “It wasn’t until the funeral that some of Dad’s friends talked to my mom. They told her that some of his other shipmates had been sick, too. That others had died.”

  I slowly began nodding as the pieces fell into place.

  “And they kept dying. And Mom started talking to doctors and lawyers, and soon she became part of this huge class-action suit.” Arnold breathed out. “And then she died.”

  “Let me guess. You became part of the suit as well.”

  “Do you know it took the US government almost twenty-five years before they ever admitted that Agent Orange had hurt its own people? Twenty-five damned years!” He stared upwards into the dark ceiling. “They spray twenty million gallons of this stuff all over the place to kill the foliage so that they can spot the enemy, but they don’t consider it poisonous enough to kill human beings?” Arnold sneered. “Right.”

  “So, I’m confused. I thought Agent Orange benefits were paid to those affected back in the eighties.”

  “My dad served on the water. That was a whole other battle—the good old VA; they fought the Blue Water veterans, every inch of the way. And, just like the original lawsuit, it went almost all the way to the Supreme Court. They served, and they died, and most of them never knew that the fight would take them forty plus years to win. But what did they win?” He laughed maniacally. “Just this year, the VA was finally ordered to pay the Blue Water Veterans by a Federal Court. They were scolded for making excuses. And what do they do? They say they are going to appeal!” He shook his head angrily and coughed. “Bastards!”

  I listened intently until he stopped. After a moment, I couldn’t help but ask. “What does this have to do with us?”

  Arnold’s expression changed immediately as he glared at me. “The citizens of the United States of America have every right to know the truth. Don’t you see?” He began to cough harder. “This is just one example of how our government says it’s going to take care of us, and then discards us and pushes us aside like we’re nothing,” he hollered. Then he started coughing violently, non-stop.

  AJ suddenly ran into the room, his rifle slung over his back, a grenade in one hand, the other hand grasping the pin. He slid to his knees beside his father. “Dad! Dad!” he exclaimed. Then he turned to me. “What did you do to him?”

  “He was talking, then he started coughing,” the woman beside Arnold told him, as she edged further away.

  “Dad!” AJ yelled. Then he looked around the room. “You!” He hollered at Corbin, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Get him a drink of water and bring me those towels!” He turned back to me. “What did you do to him?!”

  I held up my hands. “Hey, man. I didn’t do anything. It’s just like she said. He was talking, and then he started coughing. That’s all.”

  “You liar! I know you did something to him!” AJ was so angry, he was shaking.

  Corbin rushed to the bar while the older man continued to cough. Blood ran from Arnold’s mouth, and nose as his son tried to sit him upright, and the gun slid from his fingers. I contemplated making my move at that moment, if not for the grenade still grasped warily in AJ’s hand. Corbin arrived moments later with the water and towel; then he backed away quickly after the delivery.

  Arnold wobbled as his son managed to force him to drink some of the water. AJ then gently wiped the blood from his father’s face. When Arnold finally stopped coughing, he gasped and sat upright.

  “You did this. I know you did,” AJ spat as he picked up the gun and placed it back in his father’s hand. “It’s okay, Dad. You’re going to be okay.” He looked back at me, red-faced. “Anything happens to him, and you’re going to pay,” he threatened. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  And, then the phone began to ring again.

  Arnold sat upright and then stood, red-faced, himself. “Answer the phone,” he barked, to no one in particular.

  AJ looked around. The only ones unbound were me, Mary Beth and Corbin. Mary Beth was still tending to the wounded, and Corbin had moved as far away from us as he could get. AJ narrowed his eyes as they settled on me. “Answer it!” he demanded. “But no funny business,” he warned.

  Slowly, I stood and strode to the phone. I picked up the receiver and hit speaker.

  “Arnold Benson?”

  “Eddie,” I clarified.

  “Is Arnold Benson there?”

>   No, he’s running an errand. Can I tell him you called?

  “He can hear you,” I replied, flatly.

  Arnold stood upright, his gun hanging limply in his hand.

  “Arnold. This is Special Agent Ryan. How’s everyone holding up in there?”

  When Arnold didn’t reply, I did. “We’re just peachy.”

  I guess he caught the sarcasm; because he responded promptly. “I promise you we’re still working on the crew, but—”

  Here it comes.

  Arnold’s eyes met mine.

  “We’d appreciate it if you gave us just a little bit longer,” Ryan continued.

  “No!” AJ snapped. “Not another minute!”

  Arnold motioned for his son to calm down, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “How long do you need?” I asked.

  “Another hour?” he said, more as a question.

  “No, Dad. They don’t think we’re serious. Tell them no.” AJ quickly grabbed the young girl who had made an effort to move away from his father and pulled her up beside him. She began to scream and plead for him to let her go.

  “What’s happening?” Ryan asked, heightened concern in his voice.

  AJ deliberately squeezed her arm tighter, causing her to cry louder.

  “Please, Arnold,” the negotiator pleaded. “Don’t hurt anyone. I promise we’re working on your media crew.”

  “You’re liars. All of you!” AJ hollered as he walked toward the supply closet, the girl trying to pull away.

  “We will get them for you,” Ryan said louder. “Just please don’t—”

  And then suddenly, Arnold raised the Glock and fired.

  The Reckoning

  Chapter 23

  “What’s happening?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked. “Arnold? AJ? Eddie? Someone, please answer me. Is everyone okay in there?”

  Arnold walked up to the phone, picked up the receiver, took the phone off speaker and simply said, “You now have one hour.” Then he hung up.

  AJ stood in the doorway to the supply closet, completely baffled, while the young girl still sobbed in his grip, her pants soaked from fear.