by Chris Dolley
She heard her voice wavering. Anger, fear, trepidation.
“I can’t see through walls, Brenda. I have to visit each room in turn.”
Brenda took a deep breath. She had to stay calm. No amount of argument or histrionics would persuade him to send her back home. She was here. And she’d have to deal with it.
Another deep breath. Come on, Bren. People’s lives are at stake. You’ve got to stay calm.
She closed her eyes and offered up a prayer.
Then opened her eyes to a surprise, and not one she’d prayed for. Brian – still in his Jason guise – had lost his shirt. His lean torso glistened beneath the bare strip lighting. Muscles flexed.
“What ... where’s your shirt?”
He winked at her. “I thought you needed something to take your mind off the robbery.”
He stood there smiling – perfect teeth, taut abs, tight trousers. And was that sweat or oil glistening all over his upper body?
She shook her head. “I find this really unsettling. Can’t you change into someone else?”
Hunky Jason began to age in front of her eyes. And change. Radically.
Brenda blinked. It wasn’t?
It was.
“In nomine patri....”
It was the Pope, in full regalia, going through the motions of blessing her, his right hand moving from forehead to chest.
“Do you find this shape less unsettling?” he asked, raising both arms and turning slowly like a geriatric fashion model.
Brenda was about to answer with something cutting when he reached the midpoint of his twirl. His white cassock was split open at the back like a hospital gown.
“You are going straight to hell,” she said, looking away.
“What makes you think I don’t live there? Can’t you just smell the sulfur?”
“Only the bullshit. Change into someone else. Please!”
He morphed into Bruce Willis, disheveled, barefoot and straight out of Die Hard.
Brenda shook her head. But at least it was apt.
“I won’t be long,” he said. “I need to take a closer look downstairs. Remote viewing can only show you so much.”
And with that he vanished.
Seconds passed, long seconds which Brenda filled by listening and wishing she were somewhere else. What had possessed her to hook up with a crime-fighting demon? She could have said no. Or would he have ignored her answer and used her just the same – teleporting her into dangerous situations until she either agreed to help or died along the way?
More seconds passed – even longer ones. What was taking him so long? Had he lost one of the robbers? Was he frantically searching the rooms below, but not finding him because the cackling, demented, gun-toting psychopath had moved upstairs – maybe he was outside the door now, one hand on the door handle, the other cocking his gun...
Brenda held her breath, froze every muscle in her body and listened. Was someone out there? She couldn’t hear anything, but Brian might have soundproofed the room. The entire gang could be gathering out there now, signaling to each other. One to open the door, one to go high, one to go low...
Brenda! she mentally shouted at herself. She was being stupid, frightening herself for no reason.
No reason! Brenda’s internal voice – a woman of great perspicacity who tells it like it is and has known for a fact that the entire world has been participating in a conspiracy against Brenda since the age of four – couldn’t stay silent any longer.
You’re on your own, Brenda. In a bank. During a robbery! What if Brian doesn’t come back? What if this is the training exercise? Drop Brenda alone in the bank and see if she can come out alive? Die Hard 5 – No Bruce, just Brenda.
And you need to pee. What were you thinking? Allowing yourself to go undercover at a bank robbery – a potentially long bank robbery – on a nearly full bladder!
More seconds passed, maybe minutes. It wasn’t just her bladder now. She was sure she could feel a cold coming on – her throat had that dry feeling at the back and her sinuses didn’t feel right.
“And you look spotty,” said Brian, materializing in front of her, still in his Bruce Willis form. “Come on. Time to go. Lie down on your stomach. I’ll put you at the back. All the cameras have been disabled and I’ll make sure the gang are distracted.”
“Wait! Shouldn’t we have a plan?”
“We do. It’s called playing by ear. We go in. We observe. We look for a weakness in the gang, exploit it. Get creative. Have fun. Undermine them and persuade them to release the hostages. Your job is to keep the hostages alive and be my second pair of eyes.”
Audience more like it. He needed someone to see how clever he was. It had to be galling – saving people every week, performing incredible feats, but never being able to claim the credit.
“You’re more than an audience, Brenda.”
She didn’t reply. Grudgingly, she lay down, trying to find a comfortable way to lie on her stomach. Should she keep her head down or propped up on her elbows to get a better view?
“Where will you be?”
“Around. See if you can spot me.”
She lay there, waiting. She felt the light touch of his hand on her head and then everything began to shake. Including her bladder.
“Wait! I need to go....”
She didn’t have time to finish the sentence. The floor began to fall away, forming a funnel beneath her that stretched through the ceiling into the large lobby below. She could see the hostages spread out beneath her. Men in black with guns. And then a spire of tiled floor shot up to meet her and dragged her down.
She braced herself. Even though there was no sense of falling or motion whatsoever she couldn’t help herself. Her eyes told her she was falling twenty feet. She closed them.
And felt the soft carpet replaced by hard, cold tile. And there was a shout. A man’s voice. “What was that?”
Brenda flattened herself against the floor. Had someone seen her beam in? Brian said he’d create a diversion, but Brian said a lot of things. She closed her eyes and counted through the seconds. She couldn’t hear footsteps running towards her. Maybe she’d got away with it.
“It’s okay,” said another male voice. “It’s only a box. It must have fallen off the desk back here.”
Brenda opened her eyes and raised her head. She was at the back of a group of hostages – about twenty in all – lying in a haphazard group on the lobby floor. She slid her forearms beneath her and pushed up to get a better view. The teller line was in front of her – about thirty feet distant – and there was an open door to an office on the right-hand side of the lobby. Behind her and to the right were double doors to the street. Wooden doors with glass panels.
And there were four – no, five – men in black with guns. Three were in the lobby and two were in the back office behind the teller lines. One carried a heavy duffel bag and hoisted it next to three others already positioned on the teller counter. They’d obviously had time to clear the vault.
‘Brian?’ Brenda formed the word as a thought and fired it into the ether. ‘Where are you?’
He didn’t answer. She looked from face to face. Had he beamed in with her? None of the hostages returned her look. Most were staring at the ground. Some had their eyes closed. Others appeared terrified or shell-shocked. An elderly woman was whimpering nearby.
“Shut up!” shouted one of the gang members, striding towards the old woman. He wore a black ski mask, a baggy black top and black sweat pants. Only his eyes were visible. And he carried a shotgun. “I said shut up!”
He kicked her. He actually kicked her! Not hard, but the woman must have been over seventy and frail. She didn’t even have the strength to scream. Or cry. She just folded in upon herself, clasping a bony hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the whimpers she couldn’t stop.
Brenda had to bite her tongue. Why hadn’t Brian stopped that?
The thug stood over the old woman, menacing, looking around, daring any
of the hostages to speak up. I’m in control. Don’t forget it.
Come on, Brian! Intervene. Do your stuff.
Silence. Brenda took a longer look at the old woman. Could she be Brian? She couldn’t see Bruce Willis or any prominent members of the Catholic hierarchy lurking in the lobby, so becoming an old woman would fit his modus operandi – the little she’d seen of it. Become the weakest person in the room, the one no one would suspect, and turn that weakness to his own advantage. Push, prod and finally gross everyone out.
A phone on the teller counter rang.
One of the gang – the granny kicker – moved gingerly towards it.
“It’ll be the cops,” said another. “What do we do?”
“Shut up! I’m thinking.” He hovered by the phone. Several times his hand moved to lift the receiver, several times he pulled it back.
Then he snatched at the phone. “What do you want?”
Somehow he must have switched the phone’s loudspeaker on as everyone heard the reply.
“This is the FBI Hostage Negotiations Service. Press one if you wish to surrender. Press two for a getaway car. Press three for a helicopter. Press four for a pizza.”
“What the hell’s that?” said one of the gang.
Granny Kicker shrugged. “They must have one of those automated switchboards.”
“Let’s take the helicopter,” said a third member of the gang, eagerly rushing over to join his colleague by the phone.
“Can you fly a helicopter?” asked Granny Kicker.
“Well, no,” said Eager.
“Then shut the fuck up. They’d have to supply a pilot and he’d trick us somehow. We’ll take the car.”
He pressed two.
“You have selected the getaway car. Press one for an SUV. Press two for a sports model.”
“Sports,” said Eager.
“Are you an idiot?” asked Granny Kicker. “We need room for us, the money, and a couple of hostages. We’ll take the SUV.”
A tone sounded as another button was pressed.
“Good choice. You have selected the SUV. Press one for a black SUV. Press two for powder blue. Press three for bright orange with the ‘caution: bank robber on board’ bumper sticker.”
“What?”
Granny Kicker stared at Eager, who shrugged.
“You have selected the bright orange–”
“No!” shouted Granny Kicker. “I didn’t! I didn’t press anything!”
He stabbed his index finger at the phone pad, repeatedly hammering down on one of the numbers. The loudspeaker tone rang out with each depression.
“Good choice. You have selected the orange SUV with the tracking device–”
“No! I pressed one! I pressed one!”
“Excellent choice. You have now selected the model with the nearly empty gas tank. Less weight for a faster, smoother ride.”
Granny Kicker slammed the phone down. “What the fuck was that?”
He walked away, angry. Swung back. Shook his head. “What are they playing at? Don’t they know we’ve got hostages? We’ve got guns!”
He emphasized the point by holding his shotgun aloft and shaking it.
Brenda watched, wondering if Brian had pushed Granny Kicker too far. She loved the idea of an automated hostage negotiator, but ... an orange SUV with a ‘bank robber on board’ bumper sticker? Had Brian’s sense of humor gotten the better of him?
“It’s gotta be a mistake,” said Eager. “Try it again. There’s gotta be a button for talking to a person.”
Granny Kicker hesitated. He stared at the phone. He walked away. He came back. He kicked at the wooden panel that ran along the base of the teller counter.
Then snatched up the phone.
“We want an SUV with a full tank outside the bank in thirty minutes. Get that?”
“Press one if you wish to speak to a negotiator.”
Brenda waited. Was he going to bite, or slam the phone down? It was difficult to tell, not being able to see his face.
He pressed one.
“Please hold.”
There was a long pause, and then music blared out of the phone’s loudspeaker: The Clash belting out I Fought The Law And The ... Law Won.
Granny Kicker shook his head. He turned to Eager. “Are they fucking with us? Why are they fucking with us?”
Eager shrugged. “I like The Clash.”
The music stopped and an Indian voice answered. “Hello, Sanjay here, how may I be helping you?”
“We want a car out front in thirty minutes. An SUV.”
“Okay, name please?”
“Ji .... Do you want me to shoot one of the hostages?” Granny Kicker snapped. “I got twenty here. I don’t need them all.”
“No! No shooting please. I am apologizing if there is any misunderstanding. My job is to keep everyone alive and happy. Now, let me see.” There was a rustling of paper on the other end of the line. “Ah, yes, would you be liking food? I can send out for pizza if you release three hostages. Four hostages will get you extra topping.”
“We don’t want any food! We want a car out front.”
“Very good, sir. We will be sending SUV to you straight away. Now, tell me please, on my screen it say Second National Bank, Main Street, Greensboro. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Now, is this Greensboro in the North or the South America?”
Brian was pushing it again. There was a pause while Granny Kicker shook his head.
“It’s in Ohio,” said Eager, leaning forward to speak into the phone.
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Sanjay. Then there was a pause. “And is Ohio in the North or the South America.”
If Brenda hadn’t been lying on a cold dirty floor in a bank full of armed raiders, she’d probably have giggled. But she was, so she didn’t. But she had to applaud Brian’s comic timing. The pauses. The deadpan delivery. The use of an Indian call center. It was inspired.
If it worked and Granny Kicker didn’t slam the phone down and start shooting people.
“Ask to speak to an American,” said Eager.
“I was about to!” snapped Granny Kicker, cupping his hand over the receiver.
“I want to speak to an American,” he said.
“Very good, sir. Please hold.”
Back came The Clash – still fighting, still losing.
“Hello, I am American,” said a voice which sounded suspiciously like Sanjay. “How may I be helping?”
“Are you Sanjay?”
“No, I am entirely different person. Very American. I am knowing the Tom Cruise like my own brothers.”
“Then you’ll know where Greensboro is. And you can tell Tom if I don’t see a truck outside this door in thirty minutes, I’m going to start filling the street with dead hostages.”
He slammed the phone down.
“Do you think they’ll give us a car?” asked Eager.
“They’d better.”
Granny Kicker strutted across the lobby towards the hostages and stopped a few feet in front of the group. He just stood there, glaring at them, his head turning as he looked from one frightened face to another.
Brenda tensed. Was he going to pull one of the hostages out? Prepare for his threat to fill the street with dead hostages? She could feel the tension rise. Twenty terrified hostages bracing themselves for the worst.
And then a little red dot danced onto Granny Kicker’s chest. He couldn’t see it. None of the gang could. They were all behind him.
“Who wants to be first?” he said.
No one answered. No one was even looking at his face. Everyone was staring at the tiny red dot. And then another. And another. Soon his chest was alive with dancing lights.
Brenda fought the desire to glance over her shoulder. Were the lasers real, or something Brian had dreamed up? She couldn’t remember if there were windows at the front or not. Or what the field of view was like from the door.
“What about you?” said Gr
anny Kicker, pointing his gun at a uniformed security guard. “Do you want to go out a hero?”
The security guard didn’t answer. And the red lights stopped dancing ... they formed a pattern. A large X on his chest.
Then the telephone loudspeaker crackled into life.
“Where are we going to find getaway SUV this time of night, Sanjay? It is midnight here in Mumbai. No one is open.”
Granny Kicker swung round. Eager shrugged. “It wasn’t me. I never touched the phone.”
“Relax, Radhesh. Number one rule for hostage negotiation is never give them what they want. Number two rule is keep fool talking long enough for SWAT sniper to get bead on him. You watch. I expect fool standing by big window this very minute with little red dot on his chest.”
There was a long pause while Granny Kicker digested what Sanjay had said. A tilt of the head as his little masked grey cells thought, ‘no, surely not....’
Then a glance down at his chest, his chin jutting forward in shock. A long bug-eyed stare and...
Panic. He threw himself backwards, swatting wildly at the lights on his chest as though somehow they had a physical presence that he could bat away with his hands.
Cue gravity. In his haste to lean back and protect his chest, he began to lose balance. His legs made a valiant effort to catch up with his toppling shoulders, but failed, succeeding only in propelling him backwards faster in a series of stuttering steps until...
Splat. He toppled backwards, slid along the floor on his back, discharged his weapon and shot the ceiling directly above him.
Cue gravity again. White plaster descended like a personal snowstorm covering his head and torso. He coughed, spluttered and swatted at the plaster which, no doubt with Brian’s considerable help, continued to fall in prodigious quantities.
One of the hostages laughed, then quickly covered his face as panic replaced hilarity. Brenda wasn’t laughing either. Suddenly her bladder felt very tight.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed into the ether. ‘You told me you’d disabled all their guns!’
Brian didn’t answer.
The other four gang members rushed over to help, but Granny Kicker shrugged them off, tossing his gun aside as he staggered to his feet, brushing and beating at his chest, head and arms.
Until he suddenly froze. “Get back!” he yelled, shouting at his gang. “All of you.”