He could hear moans from the crowd, their hope put on hold by his revelation.
"Once our demands are met, my partner, who is waiting outside, will disarm these devices remotely," Harold said. "You will be able to tell because the green lights will cease flashing. When that happens, you will be free to go."
Starting to move toward the exit, Harold was still being serenaded by those annoying phone rings.
"Oh, and by the way, please, don't try using the cellphones," Harold said, thinking to himself it would be quite the cluster once the people tried to find their own cellphones in the mountain of technology piled in the corner. "I would hate if one of them accidentally triggered our devices."
With his last warning, Harold headed for the side door but was unable to resist one last jab.
"And, again folks, thanks for your patience. It has been greatly appreciated," Harold concluded as he walked out the door, grabbing the chain that was already outside the player's entrance, locking it from the outside.
Harold headed into the bitter cold, not realizing how frigid it had gotten outside. The sweat next to his body was quickly freezing, leaving him chilled to the bone. Carefully looking around, more worried about Randy than any law enforcement assault, Harold headed to his motorcycle which had been left parked against the fence behind the civic center. He dreaded the feel of the wind chill as he mounted the bike but knew he had to take care of the loose end before the loose end took care of him.
Kick starting the bike to life, Harold drove out of the parking lot, leaving the civic center unguarded. But, much like a dog which has been trained by an invisible fence, the crowd stayed inside their prison, waiting for liberation
FROM THE BACKSEAT
Joe and Brittany remained hidden in the back of the patrol car, straining their eyes on the dark street in front of the police car, trying to make out the shape of the gunman who had walked out of their sight into the darkness. They could see the chief hadn’t moved since the gun battle and assumed he was dead. They were right.
What they weren't sure of was whether the gunman was coming back. They waited, talking in a low whisper to one another, for nearly ten minutes. Joe had already tried the door and found it was a standard police unit which automatically locked the back compartment since it was normally used to transport prisoners. Between the couple and the front seat was a metal cage, preventing them from crawling into the front seat and simply driving away, since the chief had left the keys in the ignition.
From the radio traffic they could hear, there was no backup coming. The other units were more concerned about what was happening at the arena and oblivious to the rookie policeman's daring mission which had led to his death. They would have to find their own way out. The car was getting colder by the minute. Joe knew the backseat would become their coffin soon if they didn't do something. Had the chief left the engine running, they could have stayed there indefinitely and at least thawed out. Unfortunately, the chief, working on automatic pilot, had turned off the engine as he always had done to save the taxpayers' gas. For a dirty cop, Doug was thrifty with the people's money.
Brittany, who had already been in a hypothermic state when they were pushed into the patrol car several minutes ago, was still shaking uncontrollably, her teeth chattering noticeably. Her condition worried Joe, leaving him to fear he could lose her before they made their way out of the back seat.
Raising up and trying to run his hand between the seat and the passenger-side front door, Joe struggled to force his hand forward and perhaps reach the front door latch. However, try as he might, his hand wouldn't fit as he was only able to barely reach to the edge of the front passenger seat. That's when he felt something soft lying on the seat's edge. He hooked it with his index finger and pulled it toward him into the backseat.
Holding it up between himself and the side window, Joe made out what it was - a ski mask. Sitting up, hooking his fingers through the cage that separated the front from the back of the car, Joe peered into the front seat, stunned by what he saw. In the passenger side laid a hat and coat, the same hat and coat worn by the gunmen at the arena, and a military-style rifle leaned up against the front door.
"He was one of them," Joe told Brittany."
"What?" she responded.
"The chief, he was in on this," he said directing her to look in the front seat. "Here's the mask and there's the hat and coat they were wearing."
Brittany sat silent, apparently shocked by the turn of events.
"We've got to get out of here," Joe announced. "We don't know who all is in on this. It could be anybody and it looks like they aren't planning on leaving behind any witnesses."
"What do we do?" Brittany asked, blowing into her hands, trying to get warm. Joe instinctively put his arms around her, trying to provide her some heat.
"I've got an idea," Joe said, sitting up in his seat. "Put your back to my back and face toward your side of the door."
Doing as Joe said, Brittany put her back to his, facing the opposite direction.
"Now, together we begin kicking at the windows, using each other for leverage," Joe said. "Maybe we can pop out one of the windows."
"No wonder you're such a good coach. You're not only good looking but you're smart, too," Brittany said, encouraged by the game plan.
Together they started kicking the windows. The thick glass didn't budge at first, despite their best efforts.
"Well, at least this is a good way to keep warm," Brittany said trying to put on a cheerful voice, the movement actually arresting her slide into hypothermia.
"Yes, any kind of physical exercise can get the blood circulating and raise the body temperature," Joe said as they continued to pound the windows with their feet. "I was going to suggest we have sex to get our body temperature up, but I can't feel my extremities so that wouldn't work too well."
Despite the dire circumstances, Brittany burst into laughter. Joe again knew what to say to make a hopeless situation bearable.
"That's what a lot of guys say," Brittany quipped back, her comment tickling Joe, the couple roaring with laughter in the freezing backseat, their feet slamming the windows with all their might.
"You know what they say," Joe choked out through his laughter. "If the car is rocking, don't come knocking."
"Joe Williams, you're too much," Brittany said, a gleam in her eye. She knew deep down she had found her Prince Charming. "If we ever get out of here I'm going to give you such a kiss."
Harold was freezing as his motorcycle cut through the biting wind, his spiked tires barely able to dig in through the snow which had now piled up over the sheet of ice covering the roads. While the snow had all but stopped falling, the wind still blew the fresh powder across the landscape and onto Harold's ski mask. He had neglected to strap on a helmet in his haste to leave the civic center. He now wished he had taken the time, sensing his lips and nose were already frostbitten.
He had no idea where Randy was and he didn't want to linger outside the arena to make himself an easy mark for his angry associate. Plus, should the hostages try a jailbreak, he would be a sitting duck. It would be one versus two thousand.
One thing he did know, Randy was likely working his way back to the civic center, and given his monitoring of the police radio traffic, he had a good idea Randy had visited the Archer house earlier in the evening. Arriving there and finding no signs of life, everyone still cowering inside their homes in the well-to-do neighborhood, Harold decided to follow the only set of car tracks in the snow, seeing where they would lead.
Despite his fear of Randy, he knew the loose end had to be sewn up. Therefore, he pushed himself on, winding along the treacherous city street, wiping the snow from his mask as he followed the tire tracks.
Harold hoped to not come face-to-face with Randy. If he was lucky, he would get the drop on him from behind. A mono y mono meeting would mean certain death, Harold knew, so he wanted to stack the cards in his favor any way he could.
Topping the hi
ll to Dawes' house, Harold turned off his headlamp and slowly idled toward a pair of police units parked in the road looking for any sign of Randy's motorbike. Harold slammed on the brakes, seeing the cycle sitting a few feet away from the patrol cars, his cycle nearly sliding out from under him. Reaching around to grab his rifle, Harold could hear a pounding from nearby. He quickly dismounted his bike, letting it fall to the snow-covered pavement. He then crouched down, slowly working his way toward the squad cars. The pounding was getting louder.
Using what little light there was from the glow of the moon, Harold scanned the scene in front of him, looking for the source of the pounding. Then he saw it. One of the patrol units was moving, rocking almost, the source of the movement coming from a constant pounding from the back of the vehicle. Creeping closer, his head on a swivel looking for any signs of his psychotic partner in crime, Harold heard the last thing he expected to hear on this night - it was the sound of laughter and the sound coming from inside the patrol car. Then came a loud crash from the back seat of the patrol car. A pair of feet emerged from the side window which had just been kicked out.
Looking around to make sure Randy wasn't waiting somewhere to ambush him, Harold rose up and ran to the patrol car as he saw the feet go back in and a hand extend outside, popping open the back door.
"Hold it right there," Harold growled, the gun trained on who he immediately recognized as Coach Williams, the coach's eyes wide upon seeing a gun stuck in his face.
Inside the backseat along with the coach sat the mayor's assistant Brittany Jones, the same woman who had escaped the same fate as her boss earlier. It must have been the coach who played hero earlier in the evening, Harold realized.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" Harold said, his gun still trained on the pair. "We meet again. What's the chances?"
"Yes. What's the chances?" Joe said in a disappointed tone as he looked at the masked gunman, resigned they were again hostages.
Turning back to the mission at hand, Harold questioned the pair.
"Where is the man on the motorcycle?" Harold asked in a threatening manner, pushing the barrel of his gun toward Joe's face.
"He went that way," Brittany spoke up, pointing down the street in front of them. "About ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago."
That's when Harold saw the blood, lots of blood, leading down the street into the darkness. He also saw the carnage in the front yard, the young patrolman and Doug, both lying dead in the yard.
"He's on foot," Joe spoke up. "If you hurry you can catch him."
The masked gunman was not impressed by Joe's little attempt at humor.
"If I want your advice, I'll ask for it," Harold barked, pushing Joe back into the backseat, closing the door. "If you open this door, you're both dead."
With that, Harold ran over to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and turned on the ignition to the police unit. Then, he slowly headed down the road, tracking the blood trail in the headlights. Joe put his arm around Brittany, the pair watching the masked man as he tracked his prey down the street.
Creeping along at a snail's pace, Harold drove for about a block before slamming on the brakes. The car slid sideways on the slick street, stopping just short of going into a ditch. There, bathed in the headlights stood Randy, propped up against a utility pole, shotgun tucked under his arm, his gaze locked on the patrol car.
"Get down!" Joe yelled, pushing Brittany's head down into the floorboard, certain they were about to see another fire fight.
Harold, terrified by the sudden appearance of his adversary, grabbed for his rifle determined to go down fighting. Throwing open the door, Harold dove out onto the street, hoping to avoid the first volley of buckshot from Randy's gun. However, much to his surprise, none came.
Prone on the street, Harold took aim at Randy. The war veteran wasn’t moving a muscle. Why was he waiting?
"Why did you do it?" Harold screamed, wanting an answer before he opened fire on his former partner.
Randy remained quiet and motionless. That's when Harold realized why.
Boldly standing up, his gun still trained on Randy, he cautiously made his way toward the pole where Randy stood, his finger wrapped around the trigger of his rifle, the headlights still bathing Randy in their beam. Slipping on the pavement as he walked to the street corner where Randy stood, Harold extended his rifle barrel, poking him. He was stiff, frozen solid, his eyes still open, fixed straight in front of him with the shotgun frozen to his hands.
He was dead. The blood loss from the chief's lucky shot claimed him about a block away from where he was shot. With another poke from Harold’s gun, Randy's frozen body fell to the ground, the sound of Brittany's scream coming from the back of the patrol car as she saw the lifeless body fall to the icy ground. Now there were only three of the five left.
Turning back to the patrol car, Harold walked back and got in.
"Hope you don't mind, but I have a stop to make," Harold said as he continued down the street. He was heading toward Ralph's place.
Not passing another vehicle in what had become an icy ghost town, Harold motored slowly, given the dangerous roads toward Ralph's house. The quiet in the car was disconcerting to Joe so he spoke up.
"Who are you?" Joe asked. "Why are you doing this?"
No longer needing to play the part of some splinter isolationist group and knowing he planned to eliminate his passengers, Harold laid his cards on the table.
"Money," he said gruffly from behind his mask. "Cold, hard cash."
The answer angered Joe when he thought of the price that had been paid.
"Is it worth all this?" Joe asked, the masked man glancing up toward his rearview mirror to look at Joe through the cage.
"You're damn right it is," Harold said with conviction.
Turning onto Ralph's block, Harold could see the van parked in front of the house. He knew that meant the loot had been delivered to its hiding place. Harold was officially rich.
Pulling up to the curb, Harold stopped the car and grabbed his gun. He walked back to the backseat and ordered Brittany out of the car. Joe protested, not wanting to be separated from Brittany.
"I'm just going to be a minute," Harold began. "If you're not here when I get back, your little honey bunny gets it right between the eyes. And just to be sure ..."
That was when Harold, grabbing a pair of handcuffs, ordered Joe to extend his hands, chaining them around the back window Joe had broken out minutes earlier, leaving him standing in the cold air, secured to the car door.
The threat to kill Brittany in and of itself was enough to ensure Joe's compliance as he watched Harold lead her toward the house.
Throwing the rifle over his shoulder, Harold took out his sidearm from his shoulder holster and held it on his hostage. He walked past the van to the front door and knocked lightly, not wanting to attract the attention of the neighbors. There was no answer. Again he knocked, this time louder, waiting to hear footfalls or the shining of a flashlight from inside. Still nothing. What was going on?
"Ralph," Harold said into his communicator. "Ralph. Where are you?"
Waiting for a minute and hearing no response, Harold called for Jerry.
"Have you heard from Ralph?" Harold asked.
"Not a peep," Jerry quickly responded, noting the hired help was mostly rounded up and were going to their extraction point.
"Okay. I'll be right over," Harold said, still wondering what had become of Ralph, the person he felt was the most dependable of the whole group.
The van was there and that meant he had completed his mission and returned home.
Walking toward the van, pushing Brittany along in front of him, he wondered to himself, trying to solve the mystery.
His thoughts were cut off suddenly by the terrified gasp of his hostage who stopped short next to the van. Inside, still behind the wheel, sat Ralph. Dead.
Ralph had gone to be with Linda. His heart stopped shortly after he pulled into his driveway, his mission
accomplished.
It had been his mission that had made him ignore the tightness in his chest which struck him in the third bank, leaving him short of breath. However, ever a man of his word, Ralph would not be the weak link in the five. He pressed forward despite his chest pains, hoping they would go away as they always had before.
It had been the stress and the physical exertion which combined to kill Ralph, his heart not strong enough for all the heavy lifting and excitement the night had brought. Harold had realized Ralph's heart issues. That's one reason Randy had been sent with him, to help in the lifting. Randy, inadvertently, had killed Ralph by neglecting his responsibilities to the team, leaving Ralph to go above and beyond the call of his duty.
And he had truly gone above and beyond, rounding up what would prove to be just short of nine million dollars’ worth of cash and jewelry in less than five hours. The take was less than the ten million they expected because he had to pass on the last bank and the safes at the jewelry stores due to the breakdown in their plan. Ralph had died a rich man, the stress of hauling the take into the group's hiding place finishing him off. His heart attack was in full swing even as he drove home.
Harold was sad to see Ralph gone. He had respected and liked the old locksmith and he knew, without him, there would have been no five, no plan, no riches. But that was that. Now there were just two and Harold, standing there looking into the face of his dead friend, had just come up with a new plan.
"Get to the car," Harold ordered. "Nothing I can do for him now."
Harold pushed Brittany ahead of him as they walked back to the car. The gunman quickly untethered Joe from the door before rudely pushing him down in the seat and slamming the door closed behind him.
Sliding into the car next to Joe, Brittany whispered to him what she had seen, the lifeless body of the town locksmith inside the van, apparently dead of natural causes.
The revelation made Joe think to himself that natural causes was the least likely way to die in Centertown that night. He was also thinking about their own demise, realizing the masked man driving the patrol car might decide to cut down on the number of witnesses and eliminate him and Brittany. Joe had to come up with a plan - and fast.
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