She had, in the past months, hired the services of a private investigator, using her husband's money to pay for the services of the top-notch Paradise Investigations out of Key West. The guy wasn't cheap, but he was the best from what she had heard. She flew him up to get the goods on the Honorable Mayor Thorn.
And the goods he got, complete with pictures and video. If nothing else, she could sell the footage on the Internet as porn and make a tidy profit as the private eye had even gotten the smoking gun - her husband's tryst on the mayor's desk with a twenty-one-year-old intern named - wait for it - Monica. This stuff was too good to make up. Fact is truly stranger than fiction.
Mrs. Thorn wondered how the voters of Centertown would react to the knowledge their mayor was using his office for his own private bordello. She had planned, before his untimely death of course, to leak part of the footage to the web, you know, for those who were too busy to attend the court battle.
She had planned to wait until after the holidays to kick the bum out. Her lawyers had already authored the divorce papers and were only waiting for her go-ahead to file them with the court. His death, however, would mean there would be no nasty public assassination of the good mayor's character since he had been assassinated in the literal sense.
No, the poor widow would just have to settle for the half-million dollar life insurance policy she had taken out on him on the off chance one of his vixens would give him a coronary during a particularly intense romp. Her only regret was not getting to see his face when the papers were served or, better yet, when he was confronted with the evidence exposing him for the cheater he really was. Oh well, a girl can't have everything.
Oblivious to the fact there was someone in the arena just as devious as he was, Harold was keeping his mind focused on the mission at hand. He knew they just needed a few more hours and then it would be over. The people of Centertown would be free to go about their lives and would even be left with an incredible story they could tell their grandkids someday. Not everybody gets to be held hostage at a Christmas party while their town is cleaned out. Some of Centertown's residents, Harold was sure, would even be interviewed on national television. Maybe even Geraldo would come to town. Imagine that, Geraldo in Centertown. Whatever happened to Geraldo?
Ralph had just checked out from the Farmer's Bank, the third in the five he was to hit. He was actually ahead of schedule, the old man showing he still had it when it came to cracking any lock in existence.
Harold had always admired Ralph. His family knew the Carters who had lived just down the street from his childhood home. He recalled as a kid going into Carter's Lock Shop and being fascinated with the thousands of keys that hung on the walls. Ralph had always been kind to him and he was happy to have him on the team. He knew he could count on Ralph Carter.
The absence of Randy concerned Harold who had been a bit worried about including him in their group in the first place. There was something funny about Randy, something that made Harold uneasy. There was something in his eyes that was disconcerting. But, his expertise in explosives and weaponry were required for the plan to work so he had been included. Randy was a necessary evil.
Unlike Ralph, Harold didn't trust Randy. It wasn't anything Randy had done, it was more a feeling he had, an unsettling feeling. And, Randy's conduct during his time in the arena had worried him, especially the vicious attack on the police officer, a bit of overkill he thought. To Harold, Randy was a loose cannon and, in his book, the weak link in the five.
Harold had figured assigning Randy as lookout and heavy lifter would keep him out of trouble, limiting his time on guard duty. Actually, he had assigned Randy the outside duty for the safety of the hostages, as he didn't fully trust Randy with a live firearm among the crowd. He could envision a scenario where Randy, his authority perhaps challenged, would turn his gun on the crowd, slaughtering a large portion of Centertown's residents. He couldn't risk that. While he had an ax to grind with Centertown, he didn't want to see harm come to its citizens - if it could be avoided. What kind of trouble could Randy get in riding shotgun? No one should be on the streets anyway, leaving less chance of a run-in.
One of the best things about finishing the job was that Harold was planning to leave Centertown forever after it was done. He would take his twenty percent and get as far away as he could. There was nothing left for him in Centertown. With his share, he would be able to live the way he had always wanted to live before being saddled down with his mediocre small-town career. He would bust through the glass ceiling in his new life. The sky would be the limit, given the fact he would start out as a millionaire.
Actually, every member of the five was planning to leave Centertown, maybe not immediately. That would create suspicion if they all left town right after the big heist. They would bide their time and then sneak silently into the night once things had cooled down.
The night before the heist, as they sat around Ralph's card table playing their last hand before the job, Harold recalled their swapping plans for what they would do with their share of the money.
"Me and Linda always planned to retire to the beach," Ralph said, a faint smile crossing his face as he read his cards. "I'm going to buy that beach house. Then I'm going to sit on my porch and watch the sun set every night, just like me and Linda were going to do."
Ralph's touching plans were quickly soiled by the more sinister plans Doug had for his part of the money.
"I have some investments I'd like to make back in the city where I came from," Doug said. His statement obviously meant he was going back to organized crime from whence he came and likely pay off his substantial gambling debts. "I know some sure bets there."
Salvaging at least a shred of decency in the plans for his money, Doug continued.
"I'm also going to take part of it and donate it to the boy's home in the neighborhood where I grew up," Doug said, recalling the old woman he had mugged when he was a youth. "I think I owe that."
Jerry, always the oddball of the group, had a big grin on his face.
"I've got my eye on a computer business across the state," Jerry said, throwing down his cards and folding, still with a grin on his face.
"Oh, tell me you're not going to ..." Harold began.
"Yep, going to move to the same town where my ex-wife lives," Harold continued. "Going to do everything I can to make her life a living hell. Actually, I won't have to lift a finger. The fact I'll be richer than that skin doctor she married will be enough to drive her absolutely insane."
Jerry's answer sent the table erupting in laughter. His outside-the-box thinking was always a refreshing breath of air to Harold.
"What about you Randy?" Harold asked, noticing he had remained quiet during the conversation.
"I don't know, but whatever I do, it won't be here," Randy began in a deliberate tone. "I've never felt comfortable here. Think I'll just drift for a while. See what's out there."
Something about Randy's answer didn't feel right to Harold but then, who was he to say what he was to do with his portion of the loot?
Harold's thoughts of the night before were interrupted by Doug's voice coming across his headset, talking from his station near the player's door.
"The police are reporting the sound of shots fired!" Doug revealed as he monitored the police frequency. "There's a unit heading over to check it out. It's in the Windwood section so that won't take him through downtown."
Harold realized that despite the lack of electricity and phone service, people would be busy on their cellphones and that they could be used to contact the cellphones of the officers on the outside. Actually, the reason for the confiscation of cellphones inside the arena was simply to prevent those outside from finding out what was going on inside. The longer they could keep the outside in the dark, the better chance the plan had of working. In the end, the success of their plan depended on the outside world finding out about the capture of the civic center. The conspirators wanted the outside world to know - or to at least t
hink they know - what was going on in Centertown.
The fact Randy was out of contact and shots had been fired gave Harold an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps Randy's communicator was out of order, Harold told himself, explaining his radio silence. But that thought was soon replaced with a concern that Randy had encountered someone, perhaps a policeman or overzealous citizen. The plan was to keep the killing to only those necessary for the operation to succeed.
"Keep me informed," Harold ordered in a concerned voice.
"Will do," he responded, turning his attention back to scanning the crowd.
The trio who were guarding the hostages knew vigilance was key to everything. Even a threat of an uprising could mean the end for them. The people in the arena had the ability to force their way out of the center at any time. They just didn't realize it.
"Out at four," Ralph's voice sounded over the team's headsets, indicating he was going into the City Bank branch. "Where's Randy? That sorry jerk is going to owe me a case of beer for all the lifting I'm doing. I'm getting too old for this."
Doing some quick math, Harold realized Ralph's part would be done in less than two hours if the schedule stayed constant. That meant by about one in the morning things could wind down. The way Harold had figured it, they would have to be clear by three in the morning. After that, all hell could break loose.
SHALL WE GATHER AT THE RIVER
The hell Harold was thinking of was massing on the other side of the river even as Ralph was continuing his methodical collection of the town's wealth. Plans were being formulated amongst the rapidly growing numbers of law enforcement officers about how to best proceed.
Scanning the West Bridge through his night vision binoculars, Sheriff Dale Randolph watched the lone gunman on the opposite hill. The hooded man he was watching was dressed in camo and carried what appeared to be an automatic weapon. In the foreground, a green blinking light could be seen on the fuel tank of the jackknifed tractor trailer clogging the four-lane bridge, which was the largest bridge leading into Centertown proper.
The other three bridges were all of the two-lane variety. From intelligence gathered from officers by cellphone from the other side of the river, they knew the truck was likely set to explode by remote, a remote the sheriff figured the gunman on top of the opposite hill was carrying. Still a mystery was what the truck contained. Was it empty or did it contain something that could drop the bridge into the freezing waters below? Regardless, Sheriff Randolph was not about to lead his men on a suicide charge across the bridge into town with no telling how many armed thugs. Nor was he going to try to cross the frozen river like George Washington crossing the Delaware. Plus, the risks associated with storming the civic center guarded by an unknown number of well-armed gunmen, along with the suspicion that the entire building was wired to explode, made a rescue mission a bad proposition.
The sheriff, along with the state police that had poured into New Town just across the bridge was going to hold steady until experts arrived. He would see to it that no more bad guys got in and that no bad guys got out. They were drawing the line at the river. Downtown Centertown, Sheriff Randolph had decided, was going to become Alcatraz to the armed terrorists inside.
Troopers and deputies were also stationed at the other three bridges, all conducting surveillance and watching for any movement. The town was completely surrounded. The fires in the city had long since subsided. The police that were left on the other side of the river were giving constant cellphone updates as to any movement they could see since the police frequencies were being monitored by the "bad guys." So far, according to sources inside the town, everything was quiet except for a report of shots fired somewhere in the city.
All available officers had been in their positions around the town since about an hour following the takeover. They had been drawn into quick action following desperate calls for backup coming from officers in the town, reporting armed terrorists had taken control of the civic center. Despite arriving at the four-lane bridge just fifteen minutes after the attack, slowed by the slick roads, the sheriff was too late as he found the bridge blocked and the green light flashing.
At first trying to cross on foot, the sheriff was warned away by a patrolman who called telling him of the explosive devices. It wasn't until that moment, finding out through his deputies that all bridges were blocked into the city, that Sheriff Randolph realized the town was a virtual island. He had lived in Henderson County all his life and had served as sheriff for the past twenty years and it had never occurred to him that the old town was surrounded by its own moat.
After assessing the gravity of the situation, the sheriff called for backup. The state police arrived in force in less than an hour despite the deplorable road conditions. From there, given the hostage situation and numerous lives in peril, federal agencies had been alerted. Professional hostage negotiators along with rescue teams were to arrive by two in the morning. Their arrival was delayed by the hazardous travel conditions which left aircraft grounded, meaning they would have to make their way to Centertown on the snow-slick highways. Bomb disposal experts were also on their way and were expected to beat federal authorities to the scene.
Regardless, before dawn, Sheriff Randolph's side of the bridge would soon become much more crowded, taking the shape of an invasion force ready to storm Centertown. However, by that time, the five planned to be sleeping snugly in their beds, dreaming of sunny beaches and swimming pools filled with money.
Sheriff Randolph's cellphone rang, interrupting his surveillance of the gunman who still stood about a quarter-mile from him on the opposite side of the river. The lawman handed the binoculars to a nearby deputy, ordering him not to let the gunman out of his sight.
"We've got more problems," came the voice of Patrolman Eddie Jenkins with a tone of deep concern. "We're at the home of the Centertown Bank president and it's like a slaughter house over here. Both he and his wife are dead. Looks to be from the wound pattern that it was probably a shotgun."
The patrolman's revelation explained the report of shots fired and suggested that members of the armed group had perhaps fanned out around the city. The town could become a Hogan's Alley once the decision was made to move in if the hostage-takers were in any force outside the arena.
"Neighbors said they heard screaming and shots about fifteen or twenty minutes ago and then saw a guy, fitting the description of our terrorists, leaving on a motorcycle. They’ve been coming and going from the civic center on motorcycle all night," Jenkins continued. "We have some bloody footprints outside the house and there’s a faint trail of motorcycle tracks leading off but I'm afraid those may get covered up if it keeps snowing."
Knowing any actions could jeopardize, not only the officer, but also those in the arena, Sheriff Randolph was about to suggest that the officer hold tight where he was when the young lawman’s phone battery went dead. All the use since the takeover had sapped the patrolman's battery, leaving him unable to receive the sheriff's warning. A quick dial by the sheriff to Chief Bouldin also got no answer.
Deep in thought for a moment, the sheriff wrestled with his options before picking up his radio and tuning in to the city police frequency.
"This is Sheriff Dale Randolph calling for the leader of the group inside the arena. Respond please," the sheriff said.
He was finally breaking his radio silence with the hostage takers, something he had planned not to do until hostage negotiators arrived. The shooting had left him no option.
On the other end, Doug heard the call and worked his way over to Harold at the front of the room.
"It's the sheriff," Doug said, handing the police radio to Harold.
While contact from the sheriff wasn't a complete surprise given that this was his county, the long silence had suggested to Harold that Sheriff Randolph was waiting for members of the FBI to arrive before establishing dialog. Harold had figured, correctly, that Sheriff Randolph had been waiting just across the river since shortly
after the takeover.
"Go ahead," Harold said in a gruff voice on the radio.
"I thought there was an understanding," the sheriff began. "I was told that no one would be hurt as long as we all cooperated and, as far as I know, we've been very cooperative."
That feeling in the pit of his stomach again hitting him, Harold slowly responded.
"We are keeping our word," Harold said. "Are you suggesting I'm a lair?"
Unable to be diplomatic about the issue, since he wasn’t normally the diplomatic type anyway, Sheriff Randolph cut to the chase.
"We have two people dead over in Windwood, a couple shot to death," the sheriff said. "I don't know where you come from, but that's not a normal night in Centertown."
Almost afraid to ask, Harold, keeping his voice gruff, questioned the sheriff.
"Who are you talking about?" Harold barked into the mic.
"Mr. and Mrs. Archer. He is the bank president here," the sheriff responded, his answer causing Harold to catch his breath, knowing they now had a loose end in their operation.
"My men have been ordered not to fire unless fired on themselves," Harold responded.
His response was quickly countered by the sheriff with a threat of his own.
"Whether you have hostages or not, we can't just sit over here and allow your men to murder the citizens of Centertown," the sheriff began. "Any more violence and we will be forced to cross the river to protect the public."
An incursion by law enforcement before it was time would spoil their plans, plus it would mean life in prison or possibly even the death penalty for those involved in the conspiracy. While Harold dreaded the thought of life behind bars, he preferred it to eating the barrel of his own gun.
"Crossing the river will bring dire consequences for your citizens in the arena," Harold threatened.
He hoped to stave off any attack. He knew it would be painfully simple for law enforcement to cross any of the bridges. And, once they did span the blocked bridges, the jig would be up. They would realize everything was a ruse.
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