Amber Morn

by Brandilyn Collins

  John glanced up toward Java Joint. No movement. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, waving his arms. The driver signaled to him. John jumped back inside the entry.

  The truck rumbled past the first block and swerved right onto First Street. John saw its rear bumper as it ground to a stop. The engine cut; a door slammed. Stan Seybert, a muscular logger in his thirties, appeared. He gawked at the broken glass across the street.

  John could see a cell phone clipped to the right side of his belt. “Hurry!”

  Stan sprinted toward him. Reached the entry and veered inside. “What’s going on?” He gawked down at Frank.

  John gulped air. “He’s been shot. Give me your phone.”

  NINETEEN

  Bailey’s ankles shook. Was this man going to kill her just because she didn’t have a cell phone?

  She turned to walk the length of the hostage lineup, prayers running through her head. Her heart pounded, blood whooshing in her ears. Tension vibrated from her friends. She saw clutched hands, trembling limbs. Leslie reached out to touch Bailey’s arm as she passed.

  “Stop!” The man cried. Leslie’s arm recoiled. “Nobody else move. And don’t talk.”

  Bailey rounded the counter and stopped. She stared at the man’s gun, unable to take another step.

  “I said here.” He pointed to the floor in front of him.

  Mitch jumped forward, grabbed her arm and shoved. “Go!”

  Bailey stumbled to the man in charge, only half sensing her feet against the floor. He backed up two steps, gun pointed at her chest. “Brad.”

  Brad strode to her, stopping within inches of her face. He stared down at her, blue eyes as deep and cold as a glacier lake.

  What did these people want?

  “Hold your arms up and out to your sides,” Man-in-Charge commanded.

  Bailey obeyed.

  With efficient movements Brad patted her down like a policeman looking for weapons. Bailey’s eyes squeezed shut at the violation, and she swayed. Someone in the line hissed in a breath.

  “She’s clean.” Brad stepped away.

  “All right. Get back where you were.” Man-in-Charge grazed Bailey with a glance.

  Bailey hurried to her place in line, pulled to her friends like a fugitive seeking shelter from a storm.

  Man-in-Charge curled his lip. “Anybody else say they don’t have a phone, they’re coming out here too. We find one on ya, you’re dead.” He looked to Angie. “You next. Hurry up.”

  Angie’s hands clutched each side of her face. “It’s in my purse. Over there.” She pointed toward a table in the center of the room.

  Brad yanked up the purse, pulled out a phone. He turned it off and threw it in the duffel bag.

  They went down the line, each person throwing in a phone except for Wilbur, who didn’t carry one. Brittany and Ali carried their phones in their jeans pockets. Bev, Leslie, and Carla had to pull their phones from purses that sat askew on the counter or had been knocked to the floor. Brad lined up all the handbags on the counter when they were done.

  Wilbur was ordered around front to be patted down. He stalked to Brad like a stubborn soldier caught by the enemy. Stared straight ahead, his mouth working as he was searched.

  Brad smirked at him. “Like your shirt.”

  Cell phones all taken, Brad zipped up the duffel bag and ran down the hall to throw it in the office. It landed on the floor with a muted clatter. He returned and went to the second bag, pulling out two large guns like the one he’d used outside.

  Bailey’s fingers clenched, her short nails cutting into her palms. Angie gasped. Ali burst into sobs, quickly muffled in Carla’s shoulder.

  Mitch grinned and stuck his handgun back in his pocket. “Yeehaw, I like this one much better.” He took the large gun from Brad. With Mitch’s new weapon trained on the group, Man-in-Charge slipped his handgun in his jacket and took the larger one. From the duffel bag Brad lifted out extra magazines of ammunition, each of the three stuffing them in their pockets.

  So many bullets. A shiver ran down Bailey’s spine. Did they plan to shoot the entire town?

  Leaving the duffel bag unzipped — for easy access to more ammunition? — Brad put it in the far corner, near the computer table.

  He grabbed his own gun and pointed it toward them. “All right. We’re in business.”

  The three men stepped into their own straight line, fanned out the length of the counter. All three guns pointed at Bailey and her friends.

  Now we die.

  Brad’s lips curved in a chilling smile. His eyes traveled up and down the line and fell on Brittany with satisfaction. Bailey’s limbs flushed cold. She could see the girl tense. Carla’s arm tightened around her daughter.

  Bailey’s mind numbed. Her bleary eyes drifted back to the men, then up to the clock on the opposite wall. Twelve minutes after eight — that was all. Everything had happened — her whole life had changed — in less than twelve minutes.

  Man-in-Charge took a deep breath, and his nostrils flared. “Suppose we should introduce ourselves. My name’s Kent Wick-sell. My oldest son, Mitch. Second son, Brad.”

  Wicksell. Where had Bailey heard that name?

  “You’re looking at three desperate men. Nobody listened to reason, so here we are. We want one thing. We get it, you all go free — if you do what you’re told until then. We don’t get it — you die.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “It don’t get much simpler than that.”

  TWENTY

  Kanner Lake Police Chief Vince Edwards punched off the last call on his cell phone, calculating his next moves. Five minutes ago he’d been reading the paper in his kitchen and enjoying a second cup of coffee on his day off. Now he sprang into action. No time to let his emotions run. No time to mourn for a deputy down or hostages taken.

  He grabbed his gun and a backup weapon and ran outside.

  A few months ago Vince had earned a national certification in hostage negotiation. Three phases of training in Las Vegas and Scottsdale, each forty hours. Lessons in the psychology of negotiating and the personality types of hostage takers. Acting out scenarios. The final phase included an intense eight-hour drill of being taken hostage himself.

  Never had he expected to use the training in his own town.

  From his police vehicle Vince grabbed his body armor and slipped into it. By Idaho law the Kevlar vest was with a chief of police at all times. The vest was a level III-A with side panels plus two trauma plates — one each covering the center of mass on the front and back of the body. While the vest alone would stop a bullet, the impact could still inflict serious injuries such as broken ribs. The plates served as protection against those injuries. At a lightweight and comfortable 1.6 pounds, the vest was designed to wear under clothing if needed.

  With each second counting, Vince put it on over his shirt and jumped into his vehicle.

  Lights flashing, he screeched out of the driveway and headed for downtown, less than a mile away. Vince had already phoned two of his remaining deputies. One was Jim Tentley, a Kanner Lake officer for over six years. Late forties, six feet and stocky, Jim had been out aiming radar on the west side of the Lake. He’d now be flying toward their meeting point — Lakeshore and Hanley, one block down from the beginning of Main.

  Vince had also talked to Al Newman, aka Charlie Brown, thanks to his round, bald head. Al had been off duty but was now on his way to block off Main above Java Joint. Vince had given Al the task of calling the fourth officer, Roger Waitman. Crusty, opinionated Roger had been with the Kanner Lake Police almost fifteen years. He was lean but strong, an often humorless, no-nonsense cop. He lived just three blocks from the downtown area and should be at their meeting point by the time Vince arrived.

  Dispatch had told Stan Seybert and John Truitt to stay where they were, and someone would come get them. The maneuver was called a “sneak and snatch.” A victim down, in line of fire, rescued under temporary cover.

  The area would need to be cordoned off for a go
od five blocks in all directions — and that took a fair amount of people. The Idaho State Police — ISP — were sending officers and three snipers from their Crisis Response Team. The CRT, another term for the often-used SWAT acronym (Special Weapons and Tactics), was based in Coeur d’Alene, with many of its members living between that town and Spirit Lake. CRT response time to Kanner Lake — one hour.

  Vince took a circular route toward downtown, since it was unsafe to drive past Main. He hit Lakeshore two blocks to the west, hung a hard left, and carved to a halt opposite the bottom of Hanley. Roger was already getting out of his vehicle. As Vince slid from the car, Jim pulled up. The three met on the sidewalk in front of the hotel construction site. Jim and Roger both wore Kevlar vests.

  “Let’s go over this again.” Vince launched into details.

  Via cell phone he’d talked to Stan and John, who’d told him the location of all cars on their side of Main Street, up to their position at the bait and tackle shop. There were quite a few. Thank God for Kanner Lake’s wide sidewalks.

  When Vince finished, Jim’s face was grim. “Is Frank going to make it?”

  From what Vince had heard, it didn’t look good. He glanced from one man to the other. “Better be praying.”

  Roger shook his head. Vince and Jim locked eyes. Vince could feel Jim’s adrenaline vibrating the air, mixing with his own.

  “Let’s go.”

  He and Jim threw themselves back into their cars. Vince gunned his vehicle forward on Lakeshore past the intersection, then reversed around the corner onto Hanley. He idled, foot on the brake, while Jim followed and lined up with his car single file, stopping within four feet of his front bumper. Al remained on Lakeshore, awaiting the ambulance.

  Vince half turned, laid his right arm across the seat. In his peripheral vision he saw Jim doing the same. The sequence that would follow strung out in his mind. In a few minutes he could have John, Stan, and Frank to safety. Or he could get them all killed.

  Vince took a deep breath. Into his radio he said, “Ready to reverse?”

  “Ready.”

  Vince’s fingers dug into the back of the seat. “On the count of three.” His left hand curled around the steering wheel. “One. Two. Three. Go!“

  He hit the accelerator.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sarah Wray awoke to the sound of her own groaning.

  Her weighted eyes fought to open, her gaze landing on the lighting tracks along the Simple Pleasures ceiling. Some of the bulbs were gone. Shattered. Like the windows.

  The nerves in Sarah’s left arm writhed with pain. She rolled to her right side and pushed halfway to a sitting position. Her stomach roiled and her head pounded. Broken glass surrounded her. Blood stained the carpet where she had lain.

  Telephone.

  She had to make it back to her office, call 911. Something terrible had happened at Java Joint. And she’d been shot. The whole town had been shot.

  Could she stand? Her legs felt weak, her gut churning.

  She had to get on her feet. Couldn’t crawl. Too much glass.

  “Jesus, help me get up.”

  Sarah could use only her right arm. The left hung useless, screaming at its wound.

  She pulled in two deep breaths. Managed to get on her knees. Then pushed to a tentative, swaying hunch. Dizziness clawed at her. She forced it back, lifted one foot in front of the other. Step by slow step, moaning and praying aloud, she picked her way through the battered store. Soft blankets, glittery bracelets and purses, sets of wine glasses, flower arrangements, and knickknacks — so many on the floor, broken to bits. Her beloved store, tattered and ruined. Sobs rose within her — for her store, for the pain, for whatever was happening in the now ghost-silent town.

  She veered into the back wall and bounced off. Shook her head. Closed her eyes against the light and felt the familiar way with her good hand. Into the short hall, right into her office. Across the floor to her desk and phone.

  Sarah sank into her chair, fumbled the receiver off its base. Laid it down, forefinger extended, searching for the right buttons. For a moment her mind froze, unable to recall the three digits.

  Her finger moved of its own accord. She raised the phone to her right ear.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  Words meshed on her tongue. How to describe it?

  “This is 911. Caller, are you there?”

  “Yes. I… somebody’s shooting up Kanner Lake. And I think they got me.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  In Java Joint, Leslie sat at a table with Ted and Paige, their arms visible on the tabletop as all the hostages had been commanded. Leslie’s insides boiled and seethed, and that’s just the way she wanted it. Cut through the outrage and she’d reach her terror. And that ran so deep and strong she didn’t dare face it.

  Wicksell. All too well she knew that name. Had covered the trial not long ago for the Kanner Lake Times. She’d recognized the three faces the minute they stormed through the door.

  Wound around her anger — prayers. First for Frank, then for herself and the other hostages. Frank. Leslie had once been crazy about him, until she started dating Ted. Now Frank and Paige were so much in love. Leslie sneaked a sideways glance at her roommate. Paige pressed back in her chair, eyes downcast, her beautiful features carved from ice. Leslie’s heart clutched. She knew her friend all too well. Paige had retreated deep within herself — her ancient method of survival. Nearly two years of slow healing in Kanner Lake, and in two minutes and three gunshots, it had all been torn away.

  Dear God, I can’t believe Frank is dead.

  The attackers had herded everyone out from behind the counter and told them to drag enough of the small, round tables toward the back wall of the café so they all could sit jammed together, at least partially facing the street. The rest of the tables and chairs were pushed against the wall on the right. Which left the center clear for pacing.

  Well, Mitch paced. And jerked and sweated. Guy had to be high as a kite, probably on meth. Three steps toward the counter, three steps the other direction. Back and forth, back and forth. Torso twisted so his gun pointed at his hostages. And a twitchy finger near the trigger of a weapon that could blow them all to smithereens in seconds.

  At Leslie’s table, Ted faced the front door with Paige on his left, Leslie on his right. Leslie had a good view of the counter, where Bad Boy Brad had positioned himself. Behind Leslie sat the corner table that held Java Joint’s computer. A glance over her shoulder caught Kent perched in front of the monitor, his gun on the floor to his right, within a second’s reach. Lucky Bailey got to sit on his left, between him and Leslie.

  Brad had moved their duffel bag of extra ammunition behind the counter.

  Leslie focused on Brad. He stood in front of Wilbur’s stool, feet apart, gun aimed at their group. A fox in a henhouse.

  Frank. Revenge slimed through Leslie. She didn’t want to see Kent and his two sons go to prison for this. She wanted to see them die.

  Brad caught her eye and glared. If his father was stone, this guy was steel. He had an overconfident air about him that read, Yeah, I’m younger, but I’m meaner and smarter, so don’t push me. His finger, too, edged a trigger. Like he’d pull it just to prove a point.

  Leslie looked away.

  Oh, for pen and paper. Her reporter’s mind catalogued the position of every other hostage in the room. Farthest away, at the table closest to the hall, were Bev, facing her, Angie in the middle, and Jared, with his back to Leslie. Next table, Carla, sitting between Brittany on her left and Ali on her right. Carla held hands with both girls. One thing Leslie knew — if any of the Wicksells touched those girls, mama bear Carla would launch a full-on attack — and get her head blown off in the process. Leslie wouldn’t be far behind. She was too close to Ali to sit back and watch something terrible happen to the girl.

  Leslie surveyed Brittany. How was she holding up? Only eight months ago her entire life had turned upside down. The only father she’d kno
wn was a U.S. senator from Washington, on his way to the White House. Now his political career lay in tatters. Given his history, the media would jump on this story even more when they learned Brittany was among the hostages.

  Leslie’s gaze moved to the third and closest table — where Wilbur and Pastor Hank sat. Wilbur faced her, but she could see only Pastor Hank’s back. Wilbur was studying Meth Mitch with the venom of a cobra.

  Ted inched his hand over and laid it on top of Leslie’s. Tears bit her eyes. Her wonderful S-Man, trying to comfort.

  How can I leave him in two weeks?

  She swallowed hard. Hey, who said she’d live till then?

  Behind her, Kent cursed. “Come on, what’s taking him so long?”

  Mitch yanked to a stop. “How long’s it been since we got here?”

  Brad’s eyes flicked to the wall clock. “Twenty-five minutes. Dad, let me take over the computer. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Stay at the counter and shut up! This was my job before you decided to tag along.”

  Brad’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  Great, can’t even get along with each other. Where’s that leave us?

  Of all things, Kent was waiting for a comment to appear on the current Scenes and Beans blog post. He’d drafted Bailey to show him how it worked. Leslie listened as Bailey popped the comments box up on-screen, then showed him how to close out of it and get back in, checking for a new comment. The man had to be clicking the thing a good three times a minute. Every time he apparently found no change, he cursed louder. Before long he’d bust right out of his skin.

  Leslie looked at Ted. If only she could lean against him, feel him hold her. But they were not to move their arms from the tables, were not to talk.

  Mitch scratched his cheek and went back to pacing.

  Minutes dragged by. The clock ticked. In the hundreds of times Leslie had been in Java Joint, she’d never noticed the faint sound of its second hand. Java Joint usually bustled with talk and laughter, the stutter of chair legs against the floor, the gurgle of the espresso machine. The café’s smell was an inviting blend of coffee and pastries and milk. Now the place stank with sweat, some of it her own.