by J. S. Carol
JJ reached down, flicked off her Jimmy Choos, then straightened up again with a shoe in each hand. The bomber moved to the side of the room and leant against the wall under one of the bright paint-splashed canvases.
‘One at a time, I want you to bring your shoes over here.’ He looked at Ed Richards. ‘Since you seem to be the head sheep, you can go first.’
Richards walked over and placed his shoes at the bomber’s feet, then walked back and sat down. His footsteps were even and steady, his face completely emotionless. If this had been a World War Two escape movie, he would have been the officer that the other prisoners looked up to for leadership. The problem was that this wasn’t a movie. If Richards didn’t work that out, and soon, then more people were going to die.
When it got to JJ’s turn, she walked as quickly as she dared, laid her shoes on the growing pile, then hurried back. The way the bomber was staring made her skin crawl. The last pair of shoes belonged to Tony. The restaurant owner squared his shoulders and walked over. The dried blood on his face made it look as though he’d been in a car wreck. JJ glanced over at Hayward, then looked back at Tony and thanked God he was still alive. It was only just sinking in how lucky he’d been. She caught his eye on the way back and chanced a quick, reassuring smile. She wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone, that they were in this together.
She wanted to know that she wasn’t alone.
Tony glanced over his shoulder to make sure the bomber wasn’t watching, then chanced a quick smile back. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. As usual, he’d read her mood perfectly and given her exactly what she’d needed.
The bomber moved a couple of yards left, away from the pile of shoes. ‘Take your clothes off. All of them. Pants, shirts, skirts. You can keep your underwear. Then I want you to bring your clothes over here and leave them on the floor.’ He clapped his hands and everyone winced. ‘Come on, folks, let’s move it.’
JJ hesitated, but managed to get moving before she drew any attention. She self-consciously slipped out of her clothes, her pants coming off last. Everyone else was stripping off, too. They no doubt felt as awkward and vulnerable as she did, but no one was arguing, not after what had happened to Hayward.
Being half-naked like this was so humiliating. JJ felt like the whole world was looking at her. That said, the indignity of being half-naked was preferable to being dead. It seemed wrong to be horse-trading with herself like this, but if that’s what it took to survive then so be it. It was all about putting the right spin on things. No matter how bad things got, there was always a way to spin things to your advantage. Out of all the things she’d learned from Johnny Wiesner, that was probably the biggest.
Richards went first again. He walked over to the bomber, dropped his clothes on the floor, then walked back. The bomber hunkered down and checked through the clothes, shaking them and patting pockets like he was looking for something. JJ saw his eyes widen with surprise.
‘Well, looky what we got here,’ he hollered. He straightened up and held the cell phone in the air. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear to you good folks?’
Everyone flinched and shrank back into the floor. There were some gasps and some sobs. Wherever JJ looked, all she saw was terror.
‘Am I speaking a foreign language here? I told you to hand over your cell phones. I made a big speech about it and everything. Would someone mind telling me what part of that was so hard to understand?’
The bomber crossed the room in half a dozen strides. JJ tried to close her eyes, but couldn’t. The messages were going out from her brain but they weren’t getting through. She glanced over and saw Elizabeth Hayward lying dead on the floor. Then she looked at Richards and wondered how he could have been so stupid.
‘Down on your knees.’
Richards didn’t move. Head down, he stared at the floor. Despite the air-conditioning there were beads of sweat dotting his forehead. The bomber grabbed him by the shoulder, threw him to the ground, then pressed the end of the silencer against his head. Richards was looking around at the other hostages, his desperate eyes moving from person to person. JJ closed hers and waited for the pneumatic psst that would mark the end of his life.
3
‘And in breaking news here at TRN, we have reports coming in of a terror attack at one of LA’s most exclusive restaurants.’
Up in Mission Control, Seth Allen watched his anchorwoman deliver the news on the main monitor. Caroline Bradley was poetry in motion. Her timing was perfect, the concern on her face absolutely appropriate for the gravity of the situation. It didn’t hurt that she had Homecoming Queen genes and was drop-dead gorgeous. Her dark hair was styled into a bob, and the cut and colour of her jacket showed off her curves in a way that was sexy without causing offence to the less liberal-minded viewers.
Caroline touched her ear like she was getting an up-to-date newsflash and Seth had to smile. Boy, she was good. Most of what she said was flashed up on the autocue, even the ad-libs. The last thing you wanted was a news anchor who thought for themselves. Do that and they’d start believing they were real journalists.
Seth was a real journalist and proud of it. He’d started in newspapers and progressed to radio before ending up in TV. Some of his print buddies called him a sell-out, but they weren’t earning a six-figure salary, so they could go to hell. He was sixty and wore every single year. There were dark pouches under his eyes, and his lines and wrinkles ran deep. His skin had a yellow tinge caused by too many cigarettes, too much booze, and the fact that he never saw the sun because most of his waking hours were spent in the womb-like gloom of Mission Control.
He was currently on wife number three and had four kids, two of them teenage girls who were hormonal nightmares. He liked to joke that this was the reason he was bald. Whenever he said this he was only half-joking. Seth wasn’t physically big, but he had presence. Someone had once described him as a six-foot-four, 280-pound linebacker trapped in a five-foot-three body, and he thought that just about covered it.
‘Where the hell is Rob?’ he shouted.
‘He’s only a couple of minutes away.’
This came from one of his assistants. There were three in total, all kids, two boys and a girl. One Asian, one black, one white lesbian. Political correctness was a bitch. Back in the good old days he could have had three leggy, silicon-enhanced blondes and it wouldn’t have raised a single eyebrow. All three of the current batch were in their early twenties, fresh from college, and scared half to death of what he might say or do next, which was the way he preferred things. Fear was the best motivator known to man. If you thought you might lose your job at any given moment, it figured that you were going to go that extra mile. In addition to the assistants, he had half-a-dozen technicians to ensure that the constant stream of pictures and sound TRN served up to its viewers kept flowing.
‘A couple of minutes!’ Seth hollered. ‘I need him there yesterday! I want you to get hold of him and tell him that if he doesn’t haul ass then I’m going to take away that precious Harley he loves so much and give him a bicycle.’
Seth glanced at his monitors. The one at the top-left of the main screen showed the feed from TRN’s Eye in the Sky traffic helicopter. This was currently hovering as close to Alfie’s as the LAPD were allowing, which was nowhere near close enough. The pilot was ex-military and had flown missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, so a little explosion in an LA restaurant wasn’t exactly going to faze him. But, no, the cops had ordered him to stay at least three blocks back.
The top-right monitor showed a frozen picture from Natasha Lovett’s cell phone. When the footage had arrived at TRN, Seth had thought it was a joke. Then he’d seen who’d sent it and realised it wasn’t. Natasha Lovett might have been many things, but practical joker was not on that list.
He’d watched the footage through twice, back to back. It was only fifteen seconds long from start to finish, so it didn’t take long. He’d had to watch it a second time because he couldn’t believe what
he was seeing the first time. By the time it finished all his journalistic senses were twitching. This story wasn’t just big, it was possibly the biggest of his career.
Seth had played the footage a third time, and thought about the journalistic Big Five. Who, why, what, where, when. He went for the where first. It was Caroline who’d come through on that one. She’d eaten at Alfie’s a couple of times and recognised the decor. One call was all it took to confirm that Natasha Lovett was indeed having lunch at Alfie’s today, which answered the when.
What was the next of the Big Five, and that one was obvious. A masked terrorist wearing an explosive vest had taken a bunch of Hollywood’s movers and shakers hostage. ISIS was the logical explanation. Why was easy, too. Those lunatics hated America and everything she stood for. What better way to strike a blow against the infidel than to target Hollywood?
In this case, who was the least important of the Big Five. There were camps full of kids in Syria and Afghanistan and Pakistan, all of them queuing up for the opportunity to blow themselves to kingdom come and claim their quota of virgins.
‘TRN has managed to get exclusive film shot by one of the hostages at Alfie’s.’ Caroline’s delivery was fast and breathless. ‘Some viewers may find this disturbing.’
Hopefully, thought Seth.
‘And cut to the cell phone footage on my mark,’ he said. ‘Three, two, one.’
The main screen switched from the studio to the fifteen-second clip that Lovett had shot. The camerawork was shaky, which was understandable, given the circumstances. It actually worked to their advantage since it gave the clip a level of authenticity that would otherwise have been missing. Each time he watched that fifteen-second clip, he was struck by the risk Lovett had taken. The director had bigger balls than he’d given her credit for.
The film opened with a sneaked glimpse of the bomber’s back. The silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 slung carelessly across his shoulder was scary enough, but that explosive vest was one of the most terrifying things Seth had ever seen. Considering how long he’d been in this business, that was saying something.
The terrorist was dressed entirely in black. Balaclava, shirt, trousers, boots. He looked like a shadow. The picture jerked away from him, a quick sweep across the hostages, cut to black. Seth already had a team of researchers tasked with putting names to faces.
‘And cut to Caroline on my mark,’ he said. ‘Three, two, one.’
The main screen filled with a close-up of the anchorwoman sitting behind her desk looking suitably grim-faced.
‘And now we’re going across to Brian Hannigan, TRN’s Eye in the Sky,’ she said. ‘Brian, can you tell us what’s happening over there at Alfie’s?’
‘Cut to the ’copter,’ said Seth.
The picture changed to show the view from the camera strapped below the helicopter. The police had cordoned off the street at both ends and crowds were already forming behind the barricades. In addition, there were half a dozen ambulances and a couple of fire trucks.
‘The police have managed to evacuate the area around Alfie’s.’ Brian was shouting to be heard over the roar of the helicopter, but he still sounded like he was gargling warm honey. ‘At the moment nobody knows how big the bomb is, so the police are taking no chances and are keeping everyone well back.’
The camera zoomed in and picked out a small, low, L-shaped building with a flat roof. The building was a nondescript concrete structure. It could have dated back to the fifties, or it could have been built yesterday. There were tens of thousands of buildings like this scattered throughout the country, a hundred thousand. The parking lot at the rear of the restaurant was a different story. It was filled with high-end vehicles. Ferraris, a Bentley, even a Rolls. A couple of million dollars’ worth, easy.
‘The phones are going mad,’ the white lesbian called out. ‘We’ve got CNN, Fox and ABC all wanting to buy Lovett’s cell phone footage. They’re offering silly money.’
‘Tell them we’re not selling.’
Seth had to smile. These were the moments he lived for, the adrenalin-filled fury of a breaking story. But this was more than that. He’d been in this game long enough to know that he was riding the back of that once-in-a-lifetime story that every journalist lived and prayed for. This story was a monster.
4
The bomber hovered above Ed Richards, legs apart in a combat stance, his gun aimed at the back of the actor’s head. Richards was on his knees. He was trembling all over and whispering silently to himself. JJ watched the shapes his lips were making and realised he was reciting the Lord’s prayer. It had worked for Natasha Lovett, maybe it would work for him as well. She wasn’t holding out much hope, though. Not after the way the bomber had dealt with Elizabeth Hayward.
This was madness. There were twenty-four of them, and only one of him, yet he had all the power. If they worked together, they could take him. But that would take organisation, and organisation required words, and right now everyone was too terrified to say anything. A move like that would also require sacrifice. How many people would get shot before the bomber was taken down? How many would die? These were soft people who were used to a soft way of life. A life they were in no hurry to give up.
Then there was the bomb.
The risks were too great. Twenty-four of them, one of him, and no matter how JJ analysed the situation, the bomber came out the winner every single time. She’d known Richards for years. They weren’t particularly close, but she didn’t want to see him die like this. A bullet in the back of the head and left to bleed out on a cold restaurant floor. Nobody should have to die like that.
She closed her eyes, but that just made things worse. With her eyes closed the smells got sharper. Food, cordite, that horrific stench of death. JJ opened them again. Richards’ head was bowed and he was staring at the floor. His eyes were filled with tears and his cheeks were soaked. There was no acting involved, not this time. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. All she could do was watch helplessly and wait for the gunshot that would end his life.
‘Bang!’ the bomber shouted.
Everyone jerked involuntarily, and a spreading wet patch appeared on the front of Richards’ grey silk boxer shorts. The bomber snapped his gun up and stepped back. He was grinning behind the balaclava again. A cell phone rang and JJ followed the sound to Natasha Lovett’s orange canvas bag. Within seconds a confused mix of tunes, buzzes and chirps filled the air.
‘Looks like we just made it onto the news, folks.’
The bomber reached into the bag, selected a phone at random, held it up so everyone could get a good look, switched it off, then casually tossed it back in the bag. He plucked out another, held it up, then switched it off. He kept going until all the phones were off. There was something very deliberate about the way he did this. It was like he was driving home the point that they were now completely cut off from the outside world.
‘Okay, folks, change of plan. Now, I could have shot Mr Head Sheep, but what does that actually achieve?’ He nodded towards Elizabeth Hayward’s body. ‘A mess on this nice floor is what.’
JJ looked over at Richards again. The actor was still on his knees. His face was buried in his hands and he was biting back his sobs. Even though it was one of the most pathetic sights she’d ever seen, it was still a hundred times better than the alternative.
‘Now, I’m thinking that maybe I can use this as an opportunity to educate you people. Do you remember doing Show and Tell when you were kids?’
Nobody answered. Everyone was staring blankly at random spots around the room. Anywhere, so long as they weren’t looking at the bomber.
‘Of course you do. Well, this is going to be my little Show and Tell.’
The bomber did a slow scan of the hostages, his gaze settling on each person before moving to the next. When it got to JJ’s turn, she sat completely still and stared at a scratch on the parquet. He only looked at her for a second, but it felt like a year.
‘You and you, come he
re.’
JJ stole a quick glance and saw Natasha Lovett stand up. She’d never spent any time with the director, but anyone who followed the news knew plenty about her. Natasha was married to David Wills, one of the few black actors to have won an Oscar. The couple were Hollywood’s number one black power-couple. They were in the news all the time, particularly at the moment, with diversity being such a hot topic. They might have had matching Oscars on their mantelpiece, but they were all too aware that they were the exception to the rule.
JJ vaguely recognised the man standing beside Natasha. He was in his mid-forties, slightly overweight, with a receding hairline. If she was thinking of the right guy, then he was some sort of accountant. He definitely had the fussy look of someone who wanted to make sure all the columns added up properly. He was standing there in his white boxers and black socks, staring at the floor. His head was bowed and he’d hunched himself up to appear smaller. Natasha looked just as vulnerable. She was wearing a pair of simple cotton burgundy underpants and a matching bra. Her hands were crossed over her little pot belly.
‘Don’t be shy. Come on, let’s have you both over here.’
Natasha and the accountant started walking. Their faces were filled with fear and their legs moved woodenly. The bomber pointed to a spot on the floor in front of Richards.
‘On your knees in front of Mr Head Sheep.’
They knelt down.
‘Now, we’re going have ourselves a little chat about consequences. You see, when you do something there will always be consequences. You put the dinner on the stove and forget about it, then it’s going to burn. That’s a consequence. You go out and get drunk and drive your car and end up crashing and killing someone, well, that’s a consequence, too. Now, if I tell you to do something and you don’t do it, then you’d better believe that there will be consequences.’
The bomber turned to Richards. ‘I’ve decided to let you live. However, that decision has consequences. See, if I let you disrespect me and don’t do anything about it, what’s to stop you doing it again? So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to choose which one of these good people is going to die for your sins. Now, in case you’re thinking that all you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut, think again. Do that and I’ll shoot them both.’