Brad stared at her. The clock ticked. Mitch clomped.
Kent clicked the mouse and cursed.
Clicked and cursed.
Mitch paced.
Brad fingered his weapon.
One of them was going to blow here. Soon.
Mitch jerked to a halt. His dark eyes burned. “It’s taking too long.”
“Yeah,” Brad spat. “I say we shoot another one.”
TWENTY-THREE
Vince reverse-rounded the corner from Hanley onto Main and backed straight up the first block. The seconds played out, sights and sounds bombarding his senses. Shops whizzing by, glass shot out of almost every one on his right. His back tires eating up asphalt, the roar of his engine. The distant sound of a siren.
Ambulance.
Any minute the door to Java Joint could burst open, bullets flying down the street. His weapons were ready for a shoot-out, but he didn’t want that — not here, not now. Any gunman who survived would only be harder to reach in negotiations, his adrenaline and anger pumping, likely spilling out to his hostages…
Vince’s vehicle hit the intersection of Main and First.
Now.
He cranked the wheel hard, veering backward onto First, passing Stan’s truck at an angle, then straightened even with the sidewalk. Stepped on the gas to jump the curb.
His rear tires hit, and the car jounced. Vince’s right hand hung tightly to the back of his seat. He shot backward, gripping the wheel, no room for error. His car barely squeezed between buildings and cars parked at the curb. He passed the bait shop, hoping Stan and John were ready with Frank. No time to look. After speeding by he hit his brakes, head whipping front to back to gauge his stop.
He slid to a halt one car length above the bait shop. If the gunmen burst out of Java Joint, they’d have to shoot right through his vehicle to get to the rescue team.
Jim braked in front of Vince’s vehicle, his back door lined up with the recessed entry.
Perfect.
Vince’s hand wouldn’t loose from the steering wheel. He checked over his shoulder. All clear.
Jim leapt from his car, flung open its back door. The edge of the door’s frame disappeared into the recessed entry.
Come on, come on!
Stan and John ran forward with Frank, one holding his legs, the other carrying his torso. Jim helped support Frank while Stan dove onto the backseat.
Vince cast another look toward Java Joint. Still clear.
His eyes caught a flash of dark at the café. He jerked. A man?
No. The windows. They were covered in black.
These men had come prepared.
Vince twisted back toward Jim’s vehicle.
Stan gripped Frank’s shoulders and slid across the seat, pulling the officer with him. John and Stan loaded Frank’s legs onto the seat. John jumped in last, crouching on the backseat floor. Jim slammed their door and threw himself behind the wheel. His car surged down the sidewalk and onto the street at First. Vince followed.
They swerved left around the corner onto Hanley and to a stop one block down at Lakeshore. An ambulance stood ready, EMTs pulling out a gurney. Jim waved them over to his car and leapt out, opening the back door for them.
Vince checked his watch. They’d done the sneak and snatch in two minutes.
He sucked in a long breath. Only then did he feel the heavy pump-pump of his heart. He lifted his hands from the wheel, fingers stiff from their hard clutch. Thank You, God.
He slid out of his car, gave a quick nod to Jim. “Good job.”
Jim wiped his forehead. “You too.”
John Truitt leaned against the front of Jim’s vehicle, out of the EMTs’ way. The man looked mighty haggard. Stan stood next to him, a comforting hand on his arm. Vince pointed at them. “Be right with you.”
The EMTs lifted Frank onto their gurney and began checking his vitals as they rushed toward the ambulance. Vince jogged over as they started to load him in and took a long — last? — look at Frank’s face. The kid was ghostly pale. Emotion flooded Vince, and he steeled himself. Frank was only a few years older than his own son, Tim, who’d died serving in Iraq. Vince studied Frank’s wounds. The two bullet holes in his chest had bled little. Could be a good sign. The one in his stomach was a little bloodier, but no apparent hemorrhage. Question was — what was happening on the inside?
Gently, he patted his deputy’s arm. “Frank, it’s Vince. Can you hear me?”
One EMT shook his head.
Vince’s gaze met the medical technician’s — Will he make it?
The EMT lifted his shoulders. “We got vitals. Weak, but they’re there.”
Vince flexed his jaw. “Take good care of him.” His voice sounded gruff.
As soon as the ambulance drove away, another arrived, this one responding to a call from Sarah Wray at Simple Pleasures. Apparently shot in the arm.
Sarah? Vince had thought she was among the hostages. Relief that she was safe dissolved into concern about her wound. He gazed up Hanley, calculating the line of fire from Java Joint.
“See that alley, one block north of Main?” He pointed it out to the ambulance driver. “It runs between the rear of the buildings that front Main and Baxter — the next street over. It’s narrow, but you can get in there.”
A similar alley ran between the buildings fronting the south side of Main and those on Lakeshore. It dead-ended at Third Street into a long building that stretched the entire block between Main and Lakeshore, then picked up again at the beginning of Fourth. The back door of Java Joint opened onto the first section of that alley — a fact Vince was already calculating.
“Go up and around, come down Hanley, and turn into the alley past Baxter. You’re far enough up to be out of harm’s way, and once you’re in the alley you’ve got the buildings for protection. Sarah’s got a back door into her shop.”
“Right.” The ambulance driver climbed back into his vehicle.
Vince glanced up and down Lakeshore. ISP officers were arriving, Jim giving them orders for cordoning off streets.
The envelope. Vince hustled to his car, extracted a pair of latex gloves from his kit, and hurried back to John and Stan.
He pulled up before the two men. “I can’t say thank you enough. You’ve given Frank a chance to fight for his life. Especially you, John. You risked your own life.”
John lifted a shoulder. “I just… did what needed to be done.”
Vince studied his face. “You’re not looking too good. Want someone to drive you to the hospital to get checked out?”
“I’m fine.” John waved a hand. “Started some new medicine this morning, that’s all. I’ll be all right.” He swallowed hard, his expression crumbling. “Vince, you got to get them out of there.”
Vince gave his shoulder a squeeze. “We will, John. I’ll do everything humanly possible; you know that.”
John opened his mouth, but no more words came. He managed a nod.
“Can you tell me who all’s in there?”
John swallowed. “I couldn’t notice everybody in those few seconds I passed the window. But it was supposed to be all the Scenes and Beans bloggers except for Janet Detcher and Jake Tremaine. They’re out of town. Plus Bailey said Carla was bringing her daughter and Ali.”
Vince’s gut twisted. Multiple adults were bad enough. But two teenage girls in such a frightening situation…
John reached into his pocket for the envelope, held it out. “Sorry about my fingerprints.”
“You had a few other things to worry about.” Vince pulled on his gloves and took the envelope from John’s fingers. “I need to go read this. An officer will take both of you home. I’m afraid your vehicles are stuck in this cordoned-off area for now.”
John dragged a hand across his cheek. “I need to take some medication soon, but… can’t I come back here and wait? Bailey’s in there, Vince.”
The man’s fear pierced Vince, and his mind flashed to his own wife. Nancy was on her nursing shi
ft at Deaconess Hospital in Spokane. If she passed a television running breaking news, if somebody coming on shift had heard a bulletin… He needed to call her as soon as possible, tell her he was okay.
He clasped John’s shoulder. “You can’t be at this location, John. It’s now open only to law enforcement and emergency vehicles. I’ll set an outer perimeter a few blocks down Lakeshore. You can go there if you like. It’ll be the closest you can get.”
John nodded. Despite his terror over Bailey, he seemed too weak to argue. Saving Frank’s life plus all the stress must have drained the energy right out of him.
Vince called to an officer to take the men home. Then, amid the swarming police and vehicles, a dozen people calling his name, he blocked out all else to focus on the envelope. The message’s contents would determine what happened from here. How Vince would negotiate with the three hostage takers. And maybe it would give an inkling as to how long this situation could last.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled out a pocketknife, slid the blade under the envelope flap, and slit it open.
PART TWO
Seige
TWENTY-FOUR
Chief Vince Edwards,
This is Kent Wicksell, father of T.J. Wicksell, who got sent to prison two months ago for SOMETHING HE DIDN’T DO. I got my oldest son, Mitch, with me.
T.J. was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s never seen a stranger. Ask anyone — they’ll tell you how much people like him. He’d never hurt anybody. In fact, he’s small for his age. Always has been. Because of that we’ve always watched out for him. Kids used to beat him up on the playground when he was young. Now T.J.’s in prison BECAUSE OF A LYING PROSECUTOR AND A NO-GOOD DEFENSE LAWYER. Even before the trial was over, he was CONVICTED IN THE MEDIA. You saw all the stories that ran about him and what he supposedly did to Marya Whitbey. Once those stories started running, NO ONE WOULD LISTEN to us.
There is evidence that should have come out in court and never did. We tried and TRIED to talk to the lawyers, but no one would listen. T.J. is in prison for TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. He’s only eighteen. AND NOW HE’S BEEN BEAT UP. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW SCARED HE IS? HOW SCARED WE ARE FOR HIM?
We want one thing: T.J. gets out of prison NOW.
Part of getting him out means you have to make the prosecutor listen to us and the evidence we have to tell him, and you get that defense lawyer to do his job — INSTEAD OF SHOWING UP TO COURT WITH A HANGOVER. And the judge will have to promise that T.J. gets a new trial so he can prove his innocence.
We wrote this letter to YOU because we’ve read in the papers what you’ve done for your town when things went wrong. You help sort things out. If anybody can make this happen, it’s you.
Blame all this on the two lawyers. This is OUR ONLY CHOICE. We will let our hostages go only when we get what we want. We will kill anybody we have to in order to get it. You can see we mean business. So DON’T take long to answer this letter, or more people will die.
We have taken everybody’s cell phone and disconnected the phones in Java Joint. The only way we will talk to you is through the comments on Scenes and Beans. Write us first and tell us you’re ready to talk. We will answer. The reason for using the blog is simple. Lots of people read it. WE WANT EVERYONE ACROSS THE COUNTRY TO LISTEN TO WHAT WE HAVE TO SAY. Everybody heard about this trial and my son’s supposed guilt. Now they’re going to hear the TRUTH.
We DO NOT CARE what happens to any of the hostages. We ONLY CARE about T.J. If we don’t get what we want, THE PEOPLE WE HAVE WILL DIE.
TWENTY-FIVE
“I say we shoot another one.” Brad’s words vibrated in Bailey’s ears.
“Don’t tell me what to do, either of you!” Kent shoved his chair back from the computer, face flushing purple-red.
Bailey’s heart rattled against her ribs. It took every ounce of will she possessed not to shrink from his rage. But something told her she dared not show her fear.
Brad planted his feet apart, blue eyes flaming. “So — what? You gonna stare at that computer all day?”
Kent pushed to his feet, snatched his gun off the floor, and stomped around the other side of the table. “We planned it this way, remember?”
Angie whimpered. Mitch whipped his gun in her direction. “Stuff it!” She melted into her chair, drew her hands across her chest.
Brittany’s lips trembled. She mashed a hand against her mouth as if to keep herself quiet.
Brad turned a hard look on his father. “Maybe I don’t like your plans now that I’m here. We got all these people —”
“So what you want to do?” Kent kept his weapon and eyes on the hostages, his words thrown at his son. “We’ve been here forty-five minutes. You want to kill somebody every half hour?”
“Why not, we got enough of ’em.”
“Fine,” Kent spat. “At that rate we run out of people in six and a half hours. Then what?”
“You got a better idea?” Brad’s knuckles whitened against his weapon. Bailey’s blood ran cold. She pressed back in her chair, prayers streaming through her head. This wasn’t going to work. These men were too crazy, and with all their ammunition…
“Yeah, I got a better idea!” Kent’s shout bounced against the walls. He grasped his gun in his right hand, waving it for effect. “We keep with the plan. They’ll contact us soon.”
“What if they don’t, though?” Mitch threw out. “We never thought it would take them this long.”
Kent sliced the air with his left hand.” Then we start shooting, okay? Tell you what, Brad, I’ll let you take the first one, since apparently that’s what you came for.”
Brad’s features twisted. “I came for T.J., and you know it.”
Kent snorted. “Then start acting like it.”
“Yeah, okay, fine.” Mitch wagged his head side to side. “We wait a little longer.”
Brad threw him a look. “Now you got patience all of a sudden.”
“Cork it, Brad. You’re not even supposed to be here.”
“I didn’t see you fighting that this morning.”
“Yeah, like you —”
Kent cursed and kicked a chair with all his might. It scudded across the floor and slammed into the windowsill. Gasps rose from the hostages. “Both of you shut your traps!” His wide nostrils flared. “I swear, you don’t stop arguing right now, I’ll put you both outside and do this myself.”
Anger pulled at Brad’s mouth, but he said no more. He backed up to Wilbur’s stool and sat down.
Kent swiveled toward Bailey. “Don’t just stare at me! Are you checking?”
She dug her fingers into her legs. “I… sure.” She leaned over to reach for the mouse. Clicked out of the comments box and back in. No change.
Bailey lifted her eyes to Kent. Shook her head.
He pierced her with a look to kill. “Keep checking.”
The three men fell silent. Kent stepped back and leaned a hip on one of the tables shoved against the right wall. Mitch and Brad exchanged heated glances, then turned their black stares on the group. Mitch’s eyebrows jammed together, and his gaunt face and beady eyes gave him the look of a rat sniffing cheese.
Bailey checked the comments page. Nothing.
She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes before nine. Was it just an hour ago she’d been making espressos?
Where was John? He would be so worried. And what about Sarah? Bailey was scared to death she’d been in Simple Pleasures when Brad did all the shooting. And Frank. She could hardly bear to think of him. Over and over in her head — the vision of him jerking back at the impact of the bullets, crumpling to the floor…
Kent lifted his chin and gave her a hate-filled look.
She focused on the monitor and clicked the comments. Still nothing.
Down a few tables, a throat cleared. Wilbur. Bailey slid her gaze in his direction. He heaved an impatient sigh at Kent. “I have to use the bathroom.”
Kent glared at him. “Too bad.”
Wilbur mushe
d his lips and considered Kent as he would a cockroach on the counter. “You got a lot of people trapped in here, and we’re all going to need to go sooner or later. You make us all go in our pants, it ain’t gonna smell too good.”
“Maybe you go when we tell you.” Mitch laughed.
Kent ignored his son. “You Wilbur Hucks, ain’t you?”
“That’s me.”
He sniffed. “Think you own this place, huh? Mr. I-duh-ho shirt.”
“Naw, he just owns this stool I’m sittin’ on.” Brad laughed.
Wilbur’s eyes narrowed.
Jared raised his hand. “I need to go too.”
“Oh, for —” Kent spat a curse. He pushed off the table. “Fine, go. One at a time. Brad, take ’em.”
Wilbur hauled himself to his feet. “Key’s on the counter.” He pointed. Brad picked up the key, walked over to Wibur, and pointed the gun at his chest. “Move.” He jerked his chin toward the hall. “Don’t forget I’m right behind you, old man.”
The look Wilbur gave him could have withered cement. “I ain’t gonna forget you sat on my stool.”
Mitch guffawed.
Brad gestured with his head. “Go.”
Bailey held her breath as they started down the hall. Please, Wilbur, don’t —
“Hey!” Kent aimed his gun at her. “Check the computer.”
Bailey jumped, clicked on the comments. The box popped up.
Nothing.
She shook her head at Kent. He clenched his teeth and spewed back curses, calling her vile names. The words withered her spirit. From the corner of her eye, Bailey saw Ali’s posture crumble. She swayed over toward Carla. Brittany leaned in too. Carla let go of their hands, put her arms around both of their shoulders. The three huddled together, the girls’ heads buried on each side of her neck.
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