by J. S. Carol
The restaurant’s lower level was straight ahead, about ten yards away. Meals had been left half-eaten on the tables, chairs had been hurriedly pushed back and abandoned. A couple of candles were still burning. King saw all this, but it barely registered. All his attention was focused on the dead guy draped across one of the chairs. He’d never seen a dead body before. At least, he’d never seen one for real.
This guy was definitely dead, though. No two ways about it. The only other place he’d seen this amount of blood was on set. This was totally different. It was much darker than the Hollywood stuff. Shinier, too. The man’s shirt was drenched, and a puddle of dark crimson had formed around the chair legs, staining the wooden floor. From here it looked like the man was staring straight at him.
For a moment King just stood there feeling sicker than ever. His starter was sitting heavily in his stomach, threatening to make a reappearance. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. How could doing the right thing make him feel so shitty? How the hell did that one work? Got to get moving. Got to get moving. Got to get moving. The words went around and around in his head, and still his feet remained glued to the floor. If he didn’t move soon then he never would, and that would mean the camera wouldn’t get planted, and those people out there would die, and it would be all his fault.
He managed to take a step forward, and immediately froze. The squeak of his leather-soled shoes on the wooden floor was deafening. How could he have been such a dumbass? His heart was racing faster than ever. It felt like it was about to burst through his chest. Any second now the bomber was going to come charging around the corner, all guns blazing.
Nothing happened.
Another dozen heartbeats passed and still nothing happened.
From here, he could hear the bomber talking to the hostages. His tone was casual and relaxed. He didn’t sound like he was about to charge anywhere. King unlaced his shoes and slipped them off. Carefully. Quietly. Then he laid them on the floor and made his way along the corridor. The wood felt cold through his socks, but at least he wasn’t making so much noise.
At the end of the corridor was a low wall that jutted into the restaurant’s lower level, and on top of the wall was a small jungle of green, leafy plants. King crawled behind it, then raised his head until his eyes were level with the top of it. The thick foliage made it difficult to see, but he could just about make out the upper level. All the tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides and the hostages were sitting in their underwear on the floor. Their shoes and clothing had been arranged in two piles near a table that had a laptop set up on it.
The bomber was dressed entirely in black, a balaclava hiding his face. There were three round holes in it. Two for his eyes and a slightly larger one for his mouth. He wasn’t small, but he was shorter and less muscled than King had imagined, somewhere around the six-foot mark. In his mind, the guy had been at least seven feet tall and built like a mountain.
King glanced over at the hostages. Their names had been inked in red on their foreheads and they all looked terrified. Simone was near the back in lacy black, hiding behind one of the staff. JJ was on the side nearest him. Her underwear was also black, but it was a lot more substantial than the supermodel’s. Ed Richards was sitting near JJ. The actor’s chest was rising and falling quickly, and there were beads of sweat on his tanned skin. His grey silk boxers had a dark, wet stain on the front. He looked nothing like the Ed Richards that King had seen in the movies.
The body of an old woman was lying in the space between the hostages and the bomber. King shut his eyes and rubbed his face like this might somehow make her disappear. It didn’t work. When he opened his eyes, the body was still there. The way it was lying there brought home how messed up this whole situation was. Before he lost it completely, he took the camera out and pushed it between the plants. Carter had briefed him on how to position it. He double-checked to make sure he’d got it right, then checked again just to be sure.
The bomber suddenly turned around and looked down towards the lower level. For a heart-stopping moment King was convinced he’d been seen. He pressed his back against the wall, then crawled quickly towards the restroom, grabbing his shoes on the way and moving as fast as he dared. All his attention was focused on what was happening behind him. The next thing he’d hear would be quick footsteps heading in his direction. Then he’d hear the psst of the silenced gun. And then nothing.
He reached the restroom door and glanced over his shoulder. No one was there. He let himself in and eased the door shut behind him. For a few moments he just sat there, feeling like he was going insane. There was a scream trapped in his chest, more screams trapped inside his head. Gradually, his breathing steadied and his heart slowed. No way was he ever going to do anything like this again. He didn’t care what Carter said, it wasn’t going to happen.
6
‘Yes, I’ll hold,’ Rob said, ‘but I’m not going to hold forever. And another thing. When you speak to Mr Walters, tell him that Seth Allen hasn’t forgotten.’
‘Hasn’t forgotten what?’ the LAPD operator asked.
‘“Seth Allen hasn’t forgotten”, that’s the whole message. Just pass it on, okay?’
Aaron Walters was on the line less than thirty seconds later. He sounded as bright and breezy as a car salesman. He didn’t sound like a man who was stuck in the middle of a major hostage incident.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Taylor?’
‘I want an exclusive interview.’
Walters laughed. ‘I’d love to accommodate you, but the thing is, I’m a little busy here right now.’
‘Seth thought you might say that.’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. A deep breath. ‘Okay, you’ve got your interview, but you tell Seth Allen that we’re quits.’
The line went dead and Rob stared at his cell phone.
‘Is it a go?’ Tara asked.
‘Yeah, it’s a go.’
‘So why the what-the-hell expression?’
‘I didn’t think it would be that easy. Christ knows what Jonah’s got, but it must be good.’
‘Child porn?’ Tara suggested.
‘Child murder at the very least.’
Tara laughed and grabbed her camera. ‘Let’s get moving.’
‘Yeah, “remember who makes the news”.’
The impression of Seth was pretty good, but that was because he’d had plenty of practice.
7
Even though Major Tom Gleeson was hitting seventy, he still looked more than capable of kicking some serious ass. Here was someone who did a hundred push-ups, a hundred stomach crunches and a five-mile run every single day without fail. And all before breakfast, thought Seth. The major was ex-Delta Force, and an expert on siege situations. He had medals coming out of his wazoo. A Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, a Congressional Medal of Honour. The guy had served in Vietnam and the first Gulf War and was a bona fide war hero.
All of which paled into insignificance when placed against the fact that he looked great on TV. With his weather-worn face, neat grey flat-top and piercing blue eyes, it was easy to imagine him leading the troops into battle. Today he was dressed in an immaculate dress uniform, every crease perfect. His feet were hidden by the desk, but Seth had no doubt that he’d be able to see his reflection in the major’s boots. Caroline Bradley looked tiny beside him, like a little girl.
‘Thank you for joining us, Major Gleeson.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘The police and the FBI have secured the area. What do you think their next move will be?’
‘If it hasn’t happened already, the next logical step is to establish contact with the bomber.’ Gleeson’s voice was as wide as it was deep. It was a voice that would easily carry from one end of a parade ground to the other. ‘Getting information is crucial. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the streets of Baghdad or the streets of LA, you want to know what you’re dealing with. You need to know your enemy. Once that’s don
e, you need to decide whether you’re going to play the long or the short game.’
‘How would you decide that?’
‘By weighing up the pros and cons, whilst keeping the primary objective in sight. In a situation like this, the primary objective is to get as many people out alive as possible.’
‘So you’re anticipating casualties?’
‘Unfortunately, some collateral damage is inevitable. The aim is to keep that to an absolute minimum.’
‘You mentioned the long and the short game, is one better than the other?’
‘Generally speaking, the long game is better. With the short game you’re talking about going in fast and hard. The problem with this strategy is that it would increase the risk of civilian casualties. If I was in charge, the question I’d be asking is why that bomb hasn’t been detonated. Has the bomber lost his nerve, or is he working to an agenda we don’t know about? Either way, if he’s backed into a corner, how do you think he’s going to react?’
The major let the question hang in the air for a second before continuing. ‘If the police and the FBI go for the short game, they need to neutralise the bomber before he can trigger the bomb. That’s a massive risk when so many lives are at stake.’
‘How does the long game work?’
‘That’s a war of attrition. Psych-Ops, if you will. You’re looking to wear the bomber down. The longer this siege goes on, the more likely it is that he’ll start to personalise the victims, which will make it harder for him to kill them. He’ll also start to tire, both physically and mentally. The negotiator’s job is to persuade the bomber that the only solution is a peaceful solution.’
‘A tall order.’ Caroline’s face was serious, eyes searching.
‘It is,’ Gleeson agreed. ‘But that’s what these guys are trained to do.’
‘When it comes to a rescue operation, the set-up of Alfie’s creates a number of problems, doesn’t it?’
Up in Mission Control, Seth said, ‘Go to the graphic on three.’ He counted down with his voice and fingers. The main screen changed to show a 3D computer representation of Alfie’s.
The restaurant was housed in an L-shaped single-storey building that bordered onto the street. In the stem of the L there was a split-level seating area with three tables in the upper section and two on the lower. The kitchen occupied the largest space in the base of the L and was reached by a corridor that passed the restrooms and an office. There were no windows and only two external doors. One led directly from the parking lot to the kitchen, the other led to a reception foyer.
‘From a tactical point of view the set-up poses a number of challenges,’ Gleeson said. ‘We know from the video clip that the hostages are being held in the upper level of the restaurant.’
On screen, the upper level flashed.
‘With an assault through the main door, the bomber will be alerted straightaway. This can be ruled out since the risk of civilian casualties is too high. An assault via the kitchen can be ruled out for the same reason. Again, there’s too high a likelihood that the bomber will be alerted before the SWAT boys can do their thing. The lack of windows means there’s no way for a sharpshooter to take out the bomber.’
‘What about using gas?’ Caroline suggested.
‘As was seen during the Moscow theatre siege back in 2002, this is another high-risk strategy. It’s believed that weaponised fentanyl was used in that case. Fentanyl is an opioid analgesic that’s eighty times more potent than morphine. The rescue attempt was an unmitigated disaster that resulted in the deaths of 133 of the hostages.’
Seth got the camera operator to zoom in on Gleeson’s face.
‘The situation at Alfie’s is just too volatile to use gas. If the bomber feels he’s being backed into a corner, he’s going to panic. And if that happens, he will detonate his bomb.’
8
Almost an hour had passed since the bomber burst into Alfie’s, but to JJ it felt much longer. It was like her whole life had happened in this restaurant. There was no before, no after, only now. Each breath could be her last. There was no way of knowing what was going through the bomber’s mind right now, and absolutely nothing she could do to stop him from just hitting the switch.
The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a weird emotional state that fluctuated between terror and numbness. One second she was more scared than she’d ever been, the next she felt completely detached from reality, like her soul had been injected with Novocaine.
She kept drifting into memories from her life with Tom. The first time they met, their wedding day, the time Tom had arranged a surprise trip to New York for their anniversary. Memories both big and small. There were darker, more dangerous memories as well, and whenever one of those threatened to appear, she did her best to push it away.
To survive this thing she was going to have to dig deep. She’d done it before, she could do it again. Focus on the good rather than the bad, the light instead of the dark. When you let the darkness get to you, that was when the real problems began. It had taken a lot of therapy to reach that conclusion, but it was so true.
She glanced sideways at the bomber, being careful not to draw any attention. After talking to the hostage negotiator, he’d sat down in front of the laptop and zoned out. He was still sitting there now, just staring into the middle distance, saying nothing, doing nothing. The laptop wasn’t even switched on. It was like he’d powered down. The way he was acting was creepy. JJ didn’t know what was worse. Having him marching around giving orders and scaring everyone half to death, or seeing him like this.
She looked across at Elizabeth Hayward and wished she hadn’t. The Cartier watch she’d sacrificed herself for was glittering in the light. That as much as anything just seemed to underline how precarious their situation was. It could be any of them lying there. Because the truth of the matter was that the bomber hadn’t cared who he’d killed. All he’d wanted was to show them who was in charge. The way he’d executed Hayward had been so cold. He’d brought the gun up, squeezed the trigger, and blown her brains out. There had been no hesitation, no second thoughts, and that scared JJ as much as anything else that had happened. If he could kill a defenceless old woman, then he could kill any of them.
She checked the bomber wasn’t looking, then glanced quickly at the other hostages. Everyone was just about holding it together, some better than others. A couple of the women had wet cheeks. Some of the men, too. Almost everyone had that thousand-yard stare that she’d seen so many times on the news. It was an expression that combined shock, terror and disbelief in equal measures. If she could see herself now, she’d no doubt be wearing an identical expression.
Ed Richards was still a concern. The actor looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. If anyone was a prime candidate for doing something dumb, it was him. She could see him making a run for it like the accountant, and ending up just as dead. The actor had a wife and kids at home, too. JJ had met Catherine a couple of times and she seemed nice enough. The one thing that had come shining through was how much she loved her husband. JJ hoped Richards found the strength to hold it together. For Catherine and the kids, if nothing else.
Kevin Donahue worried her as well. The movie producer looked worse than ever. He was so pale, all skin and bones and as insubstantial as a ghost. Maybe he was on medication and had missed a dose. Keeping him in here seemed unnecessarily cruel. The guy was clearly suffering. JJ had never had any dealings with him, so didn’t know much about him. He had a reputation for being hard but fair, which was as close as you got to integrity in this town. She hadn’t heard any horror stories. That didn’t mean there weren’t skeletons in his closet, but if there were, they probably weren’t that big.
And what about Alex King? Had he somehow managed to escape? There were no windows in the restrooms, but there was always the kitchen door. Maybe he’d got lucky and had managed to sneak out before the grilles went down. It was a long shot, but it was possible. There had been nothing on the news abou
t him escaping, but that would make sense. If he had got out, the cops would want to keep it quiet. They could be debriefing him right now, picking his brain for anything he might have seen or heard.
JJ hoped that he had escaped. The more information the FBI and police had, the more likely it was that they’d resolve this situation before anyone else died. She glanced over at the bomber. Bad move. He’d come out of his trance and was looking straight at her.
How long had he been staring for? And why was he staring?
The second question was easier to answer than the first. He must have seen her studying the other hostages. She looked away, heart thumping, lungs frozen. She’d screwed up big time. You don’t do anything to make the bad guy notice you. That was the golden rule here. The only way to play this situation was to merge into the background. But had she done that? No. And now she was going to pay for that mistake. JJ stared at the parquet, convinced her next breath would be her last. She wondered if she would hear the gunshot.
9
Being escorted by a cop past the slack-jawed reporters from CNN and Fox was pretty cool. They looked totally pissed, and Rob didn’t blame them one little bit. If their roles had been reversed, he would have been pissed, too. He felt them shooting daggers into the back of his head and had to smile. Yeah, you’d better watch out because I’m after your jobs, losers.
Chasing stories around LA on the Harley was fun, but he definitely had his eye on the bigger prize. And what was wrong with that? He was ambitious. He’d never made any secret of the fact. He wanted the big house, the fast cars, and a wife who turned heads just by walking into a room. Most of all, though, he wanted to tell his father to go screw himself.