Amber Morn

by Brandilyn Collins

  He punched the off button.

  Vince exchanged a tense look with Justin, then checked the monitor. Down on Lakeshore, Roger had the TV on its stand. Two CRT members were running up Second.

  They were getting into position. It wouldn’t be long.

  A sound behind him reminded Vince of the doctor’s presence. He looked over his shoulder, gave her a stiff nod. She nodded back, her eyes round, fingers curled around the underside of her chair. Vince felt a pang of understanding. Doctors were summoned after the trauma. They weren’t used to watching it unfold while all too aware of what might go wrong — and helpless to stop it.

  He looked back to the phone in his hand. His fingers itched to redial Java Joint, but in Wicksell’s fragile state of mind, calling before everything was set would probably just tick the man off more.

  Vince set the receiver on his desk.

  Don’t let anything go wrong, God. Please don’t let anything go wrong.

  FIFTY

  Ali tipped up the plastic bottle and drank until half the water was gone.

  She plunked it down, breathing hard. Every passing second seemed like an eternity. She just wanted out of here. And the closer the chance came, the more scared she got that something would happen and they wouldn’t be able to go.

  She looked across the table. Brittany stared back. They didn’t dare talk. But they sent friend messages with their eyes.

  Ali, I’m so scared.

  Me too.

  I’m sorry I opened my mouth.

  It wasn’t your fault. I’d want my mom out of here too.

  Ali’s throat tightened. She couldn’t imagine being in Brittany’s shoes, having to leave her mother behind in this horrible place.

  Ali despised Kent Wicksell. And Brad and Mitch. Just wait till she got out of here. She’d tell the world how awful they were.

  “All right.” Kent was still at his front table, where he’d been talking on the phone. Ali couldn’t see him without turning around in her seat. “Time to get in place. Brad, you come two steps from the counter and angle in. But I don’t want your back to the door. And, Mitch — over there even with the computer, angled the same way.”

  Mitch strode out of Ali’s sight, over toward Bailey. Ali watched Brad push to his feet, aiming black looks at Kent, like he hated being told what to do. He planted his feet apart and turned his gun straight at Ali’s head. Just for spite.

  Her heart thumped.

  Ali heard Kent walk to the center of the room. She kept her eyes on her water bottle, glad she couldn’t see his face.

  “Listen up, people.” His voice sounded hard. “We’re going to do this exchange soon, and everyone’s going to do exactly what I say.”

  Heavy footsteps, coming toward their table. Ali tensed.

  Kent grabbed Ali’s arm. She gasped. “Get up.”

  She half slid, half fell out of her chair. Her legs trembled. Kent jerked her upright. “Walk to three feet in front of the door and stop.”

  Ali glanced back at Carla. Her face looked like bleached cotton. She mouthed, “Go.” Ali stumbled to the door.

  She heard sounds behind her and turned. Kent had pulled Brittany from her chair. “Get over there behind your friend.” Kent gestured with his head.

  Brittany’s shoulders hunched, her chin lowering. She started to cry.

  “Move!” Kent shoved her. She heaved two sideways steps and nearly fell.

  “Stop it — she’ll go!” Carla half rose, her hands balled into fists.

  Carla, no!

  Kent leaned over the table, grabbed her forearm, and twisted.

  “Aahh!” She doubled over.

  Brittany swiveled back toward Kent. “Leave her alone!”

  Brad leapt forward and seized her by the hair. Yanked her away from Kent. Her face twisted in fear and pain.

  “I don’t need you telling me what to do understand?” Kent thrust his face in Carla’s. He pushed her back, and she fell into her chair.

  Kent swung around toward Brittany and Brad. “Get her to the door.”

  Brad pulled her over to Ali. Brittany sobbed. “Please let my mom go with me!”

  “Shut. Up.” Brad shoved her behind Ali. “Now just stand there.”

  Brad stalked back to his place and stood, legs apart, his blue eyes like steel. He moved the barrel of his gun to aim at the second table. “Brittany. I got this gun aimed at your mom. You want her to live to see another day, you’ll stop crying right now.”

  Brittany’s head came up, her eyes wide. She stuttered in air, trying to stop the tears.

  Carla hunched in her seat, holding her arm, pain creasing her face. She nodded at Brittany and tried to smile. It came out all warped.

  Kent strode over to Ali and Brittany, dark-faced and anxious. He turned to point his gun at the hostages.

  “Nobody moves, hear? Any minute now I’m going to get a phone call that they’re coming. After that things will happen fast. We’ll hear a knock. When we do” — he glared at Ali — “I’ll open the door and check outside first. When I give you the word, you two run out. Got that?”

  She and Brittany nodded.

  Seconds passed. Nobody said anything.

  Ali’s throat got so tight she couldn’t breathe. She held on to Brittany, drinking in the sight of the people they were leaving behind. Everyone’s face was stretched and bleak. Angie and Carla were crying. Pastor Hank looked tense. Ted and Leslie gripped hands. Leslie caught Ali’s eye and tried not to look scared. Leslie raised her chin. You’ll be okay.

  Ali tried to nod but couldn’t. She clung to Brittany.

  Kent stood one foot away, holding his gun so hard his knuckles went white. His anxiety made Ali feel all the more terrified.

  Brad swore. “This better work. Some cop coming here, no telling what’ll happen.”

  Kent’s face turned dark. “It’ll work.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Brad, so shut up.”

  “If you’d just —”

  “Shut up!”

  Ali looked at Mitch. His face was hard, jaw set. The end of his gun barrel was four feet from Bailey’s head.

  More time passed. Ali started to shake. Brittany and Carla were staring at each other like they’d never be together again. Ali’s heart cracked, seeing that.

  “You two, turn around!” Kent spat.

  Ali jumped. She shuffled around until she could see nothing but the door. Brittany stood right behind, clinging to her shirt.

  The room fell silent except for hard breathing and gulped tears. And the faint sound of the ticking clock.

  Kent paced over to his table. “Come on, Edwards, come on.”

  They waited.

  FIFTY-ONE

  In civilian clothes concealing his Kevlar vest, Roger stood on Lakeshore behind the building that cornered Second. The distant whap-whap of the ISP helicopter sounded from above. Stan Seybert and his friend Bud Halloway were unloading the television and table from the back of Bud’s truck. They’d been escorted into the inner circle by an ISP officer, who stood by to escort them out as soon as their task was done. Milling about in the street were the seven men from CRT, each in gear, all forty-five pounds apiece of it. Fairchild’s APC hulked in the middle of the street, a fortified monster ready to protect everyone involved from possible fire. Behind it sat the CRT van. CRT’s mobile command post was parked at the curb, leaving room for the other two vehicles to maneuver.

  Adrenaline already pumped through Roger. His brain beat the steady drum of his mission: Get the girls to safety. The face of his own stepdaughter hovered in the background. What if it was Tracey in that café? The desperation he and his wife would feel. Camille would be wild with terror.

  Get the girls to safety.

  Stan and Bud set the TV on the table. Roger checked the TV’s stability. Stan secured its cord to the table with masking tape.

  “All set?”

  Stan stepped back. Sweat dripped down his temple. “Re
ady.”

  Roger laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done a lot today. We appreciate it.”

  Surprise tinged Stan’s expression. Roger understood. The gesture was out of character for him. Something Chief would have done.

  “Thanks.” Stan wiped his face. “Be safe, man.”

  Roger straightened his back. “No worries.” He looked to Bud, and they exchanged nods. Roger gestured toward the ISP officer. “He’ll take you two back.”

  Bud’s eyes roamed over the Tactical team, their vehicles, before landing on Roger. “Go get ’em.”

  It hit Roger then — the task he was about to undertake. Walk up to a café guarded by men loaded with firepower. Unarmed. Yes, he had a vest on under his shirt, but all Wicksell had to do was stick a gun barrel out that door, aim at his head, and pull the trigger. Some Tactical member might pick Wicksell off, but not before he pumped out plenty of bullets. He’d already shot one officer today. Why not a second?

  The CRT members gathered around. The temperature was around 85°, and they were sweating already in their heavy gear. They wore thick Kevlar vests, boots, and helmets, carrying M4s with backup .45 Glocks strapped to their thighs. Their faces were calm, but their jaws were set. Missions were what they lived and trained for. But the stakes weren’t usually this high, Roger knew. Often they went out on search warrants for drugs, faced down gun-wielding perps holed up in some building. Two teenage girls’ lives on the line — that was enough to blanket the team with grim determination. Most of these guys had kids of their own.

  Bud and Stan returned to Bud’s truck and drove away, following the ISP vehicle.

  Roger cleared his throat. “Okay, Jack. Ready on our end.”

  He stood back, out of the men’s way. They were a well-oiled team, that he could see. He’d picked up on some of their nicknames. Apparently every man except Jack had one.

  “All right.” Jack trailed a hand across his wide forehead. “Dust-up, get the APC going. Swank and Frenchie, proceed to the rear door of the building. Harley, in the van. But let’s get the APC set before you move. Lightning and Goose, wait till I’m in the command post to move out with Roger.”

  Guns in hand, Swank and Frenchie ran with amazing agility for all the weight they carried. Roger watched them disappear around the corner and up Second. From there they would veer left into the alley that ran in back of Java Joint. Dust-up climbed in the bulky APC, drove forward on Lakeshore past the intersection, then reversed around the corner and up Second. On the curb to Roger’s right up near Main sat the Wicksells’ parked pickup truck — a barrier they’d had to plan around. The APC stopped about four feet from the left curb and just below the truck.

  Jack signaled for Harley to go. He reversed the van up Second along the right curb and stopped within inches of the Wicksell truck’s rear bumper. The APC now provided cover for occupants of the van should anyone run out of Java Joint and fire diagonally down Second.

  With the two vehicles in place, Jack headed for the mobile command post. From inside he would watch all points of action on multiple monitors, communicating with his men via radio. The three snipers remained in their rooftop positions.

  Jack disappeared into the mobile unit, then radioed. “Everybody set?”

  Lightning radioed back. “Goose and Lightning ready.” “Swank and Frenchie ready.”

  “Dust-up ready.”

  “Harley ready.”

  “Okay,” Jack answered. “Chief Edwards, we’re set.”

  “Got your vehicles on Second in sight.” Vince’s voice filtered back. “I’ll tell Wicksell you’re coming.”

  Roger looked to the two men who would follow him, providing cover. Lightning’s helmeted head wagged back and forth, black-gloved hands cradling his M4. Goose — surely called that because of his beaklike nose and beady eyes, pointed up Lake-shore. “Heave ho.”

  Roger placed his hands on the TV table and began to push.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Lenora Wicksell peeked through the dusty blinds she’d yanked down over the kitchen windows. The reporter was still there — in her backyard. How dare he trespass on her property! But what could she do — call the police? As if they’d care.

  No need to look through the shades on the front windows — she already knew two other reporters had set up camp practically on her porch. Another man and a woman. They’d called her name, rung her doorbell who knew how many times. And phoned her. Over and over. Every time she’d answered, then banged down the receiver.

  She couldn’t afford not to answer. What if it was Kent calling?

  Her pail of dirty water, brush, and cloths stood where she’d left them by the baseboards. No desire to touch them now. Even with the blinds closed, she imagined the TV camera somehow filming right through the slats, catching her on both knees, scrubbing. She could hear the lead-in to the story now: Wife cleans kitchen while her husband holds a dozen people hostage.

  They would never understand.

  As if sensing her presence, the backyard reporter turned, caught her eye. “Mrs. Wicksell, Mrs. Wicksell!” He lurched toward the window, thrusting out his microphone. She jerked back and dropped the blind.

  Lenora stood before the dirty dishes in her sink, palms together, fingers pressed to her mouth. Nowhere to go. No one to turn to. A prisoner in her own home.

  The sound of a car out front. Her shoulders slumped. Another reporter come to torment her.

  She heard the voices of the two reporters who’d already staked out their territory. And a new man: “Is Lenora Wicksell in there?”

  “Yes.” The male reporter. “But she’s not talking to us. Who are you?”

  “A friend? Relative?” The woman.

  “What can you tell us about Lenora Wicksell?”

  “Sorry, I can’t talk to you now,” the new arrival said. “I’m here to see Lenora.”

  Who was this? One of Kent’s friends? She didn’t recognize the voice.

  Lenora slipped into the den and muted the TV, then sidled toward the front door. Cocked her head, listening. Rapid footsteps climbed the porch steps. Stopped.

  Loud banging on the door. She jumped.

  “Lenora Wicksell! Please let me in!” The voice sounded desperate, driven. “Please. I’m not a reporter. I need to talk to you about your husband.”

  He knew something about Kent?

  Was this a trick? What if she opened the door and the reporters barreled inside?

  “Lenora, please.” The voice muffled, as if he cupped his hands around the door to keep the reporters from hearing. “I was there this morning. I saw Kent and your sons. Please let me in.”

  Before she knew it, Lenora found herself at the door. She threw back the bolt, stood aside, hidden from any outside cameras, and opened the door a few feet. The man hurried through. On the porch the reporters clamored. Lenora slammed the door and rebolted it.

  She and the man faced each other, breathing hard, in the dingy entryway.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Vince focused on the monitor as he connected to Wicksell. The helicopter camera fixed downward on a waiting Main Street and the CRT members on Second and Lakeshore. The view seemed surreal, as if Vince were playing some video game.

  If only.

  Tension bunched his shoulders, hardened the muscles in his neck. Five minutes, that was all. Five minutes, and those two girls could be right there in the station, safe.

  Justin leaned forward in his chair across the desk, headphones on, pen and notebook ready. His gaze, like Vince’s, was glued to the aerial shot. He looked as nervous as Vince felt. Larry stood four feet away, arms crossed, chewing on his lip.

  The tac radio sat nearby on the desk, ready to grab if needed. Its volume was turned low so Wicksell couldn’t hear any CRT communications through the phone.

  Wicksell answered on the first ring. “Yeah.” His voice sounded tight. Anxious.

  “We’re set. TV’s just started on its way. You’ll hear the knock in about two minutes.”

 
“’Bout time.”

  “I’ll stay on the phone with you.” “Whatever.”

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “Yeah, now it is. We just got a lot goin’ on.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No. Just get your man here.”

  “Understood.”

  Vince watched Roger pushing the TV as the camera panned in on him a third of the way up Second Street. Two CRT members escorted him, one in front, one in back.

  “It won’t be long until the reporters read T.J.’s story, right? That’s what you said.” Wicksell’s tone had hardened.

  “Right. As soon as you’re ready and we give them the go-ahead.”

  Wicksell heaved a sigh.

  “You all right, Kent?”

  “I’m fine — stop bugging me. Just want this to be done with.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You’d better come through on this, Edwards. You’d better come through, or things are gonna get real bad around here.”

  “I’ll come through, Kent. I don’t want anyone in there getting hurt.”

  Roger passed the alley, midway up Second, then pushed on, the APC and waiting van on his right.

  Wicksell made a sound in his throat. “Cops ain’t exactly been our friends, know what I mean? They’re the ones arrested T.J. Cops, lawyers — we ain’t been able to trust any one of them.”

  Vince had the impression Wicksell was talking just to fill dead air. “You wrote your letter to me, Kent. You reached out to me. You must have thought I could be trusted.”

  “Who else would I talk to? You’re the head of this town. I seen what you done for it in the last two years. Figured you could make things happen for my son.”

  “And that’s what I’m trying to do right now.”

  The CRT member in front of Roger reached the corner of Second and Main. He checked around the building, then signaled to Roger an all clear. Roger turned left — alone. The CRT members hung back, just beyond the corner of the building. Vince could see the two frontal snipers on rooftops, covering Roger.

  Wicksell exhaled. “Just know I got my gun in my hand. I see anything through that door I shouldn’t see, we’re gonna have trouble.”