ANGEL MEETS THE BADMAN

by Maggie Shayne

  But the kids would be safe either way. She would swallow that gun whole before she would let him harm them.

  "Of course it matters," she managed to say. "You were right, of course. I knew it all along. But killing me isn't going to solve a thing."

  "It will keep you from testifying."

  "Actually, it won't. The cops have my testimony on videotape."

  Trent's eyes widened; he stared at her in shock.

  "Well, hell, we knew you'd come after me. This isn't the first time I've had to deal with the likes of you, you know."

  She heard the vehicles moving outside and knew perfectly well they were not the sounds of school buses this time. These were other vehicles. Their doors were opening and closing, and feet were tapping over pavement.

  "You're lying. Come here."

  When she didn't move, he looked toward the children. "You want me to prove that I mean business, lady? Is that what you want?"

  "No, please … it's okay. I'll do what you want." She moved toward him and found herself spun around fast and clutched to his chest, with his arm like iron across her chest and his hand clamped to her opposite shoulder. "Now we'll just leave, nice and quiet. No one needs to get hurt. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. Fine. Just don't hurt the children."

  He moved toward the classroom door, opened it and stepped out into the hall. Five feet away was the front entrance, but he turned her in the other direction, heading down the full length of the hallway to the door in the back. But the moment he pushed it open, someone with a bullhorn yelled, "You're completely surrounded. Put the gun down and let her go!"

  Sara looked around frantically, but before she could spot more than one or two officers, she was yanked back inside. Even as Trent tugged her back toward the classroom, she prayed silently that Fiona had hustled the kids out of the building by now. But there had barely been any time at all. Mere moments had ticked past.

  They burst back into the classroom, Sara walking in front of Trent, his gun to her back. Fiona stood by the window, hoisting children through it.

  "Stop it!" the killer screamed. "Stop it now!" He shoved Sara to the floor, pointing his gun at the school nurse instead.

  Fiona shoved the little girl she held right on through and shouted at her to run. Then she spun around, putting her back to the window and facing the gunman as if she would physically block him from going after the child.

  With a low growl, Trent lifted the gun toward the windows, and Sara saw with horror the children running from the school just outside. She saw what he was going to do.

  "No!" she screamed, and leaped up, right in front of him, throwing herself at his chest. The gun went off as Trent toppled to the floor. Pain tore through Sara's entire upper body, but she didn't let go of him. She kicked, bit and clawed at his face. Then he hurled her off him, sending her sliding across the floor.

  She lay there, vaguely aware of pain in her chest and of warm wetness spreading there. Turning her head, she counted. Only three children remained huddled in the back of the room. Bubba was one of them.

  Trent was just getting to his feet, taking stock of the situation. He had an uninjured school nurse, three terrified kids, a wounded teacher, and he was completely surrounded. What could he possibly think was left for him to do but surrender?

  Trent glared out the window, and Fiona followed his gaze, her own face easing in relief. "They got away," she whispered, lowering her head as her shoulders began to quake. "They got away."

  "Thank God," Sara said. She struggled into a sitting position and managed to look down at herself. It wasn't an encouraging sight. Her blouse was entirely soaked in blood, which still pulsed from the upper part of her chest, just below her collar bone. She jammed the heel of her hand against the wound and pain flared anew, but the bleeding eased and slowed.

  "Miss Brand?" one of the kids cried. "Oh, Miss Brand!"

  "It's all right," she said, but she was afraid the pain was evident in her voice.

  Fiona went to the desk, got the first-aid kit that every classroom had in the bottom drawer of the teacher's desk and came back.

  Trent held up the gun, using it to block the nurse's path. "Don't even bother."

  "No? You're just going to let her—?" She didn't say the last word, obviously thinking of the students.

  "That's what I came here to do."

  "Why?" Fiona asked, her face incredulous.

  "She saw me … commit a crime."

  Bubba left the other kids. He knelt beside Sara now, stroking her hair as if he were a grown man. "You'll be all right, Sara," he told her. "I promise you will." His gaze dipped down to the blood-soaked blouse, and his tears finally spilled over. "It's not so bad. I'll bet Aunt Jessi could even patch that little cut up, and she's only a vet."

  Sara smiled at his courage. Dear little man, lying to her that way. Trying so hard to comfort.

  Bubba then turned his head, so he could stare up at Trent, and angrily swiped at his nose. "You are gonna be some kind of sorry when my dad finds out what you did, mister."

  "Bubba." Sara clasped the boy's hand. "Honey, I need you to take care of the other kids. Billy is so scared he can't move, and little Amy can't stop crying. I need you to take care of them for me, keep them calm and quiet. It's my job, but I can't do it right now, so…"

  "I'll do it." He nodded hard. "I can do it."

  "Thank you, Bubba."

  He looked again at her blood-soaked blouse. "Be okay, Sara. Please?"

  "I'll be okay," she said. "I promise."

  Bubba dashed away his tears and went back to the other side of the room, where he began speaking softly, earnestly, to the other two who remained. Sara returned her attention to Trent and Fiona, who stood nose to chest with him.

  "You aren't going to make it out of here alone, mister … whoever you are," Fiona said. "You know that. We are the only reason you're not dead already. Those men outside would blast their way in here without a moment's hesitation, and there would be nothing left of you, if not for us."

  "I have you," he said. "I have three kids. It'll be enough."

  She kept her voice very low. "You let her die and those kids are going to be hysterical. You just try managing to get out of this mess if that happens. You won't be able to hold on to them and that gun of yours at the same time, and I sure as hell won't lift a finger to help you."

  "If you don't, I'll blow you away."

  "Right. And deal with the kids all by yourself?"

  He stared at Fiona, lifting an eyebrow and his gun. He pointed his gun right at her.

  "I'm going to help her," Fiona said, her voice firm. "If you want to stop me, I guess you'll just have to shoot me. Then you'll have no one to help keep those kids calm."

  She pushed past him, marching firmly toward where Sara lay.

  Behind her, Trent lifted the gun, pointed it at her back and worked the action. The children began to scream.

  Jake had only been minutes behind Trent. Minutes!

  He'd figured it out on his last day in jail. Because he'd had a visit from the pretty boy who'd been making out with Vivienne at the jazz club that day.

  His name was Gregg, he said, and Trent had been drinking, had come to his house, had threatened to kill him. Until then, Gregg said, he didn't think Trent had known about his affaire with Vivienne. But it was obvious then that Trent had found out.

  And Jake started thinking back, to a conversation when he'd asked Trent why, if he didn't love his wife, he didn't just leave her. And Trent's odd reply. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Jake?"

  It had made no sense then. But now Jake knew what he hadn't before. Trent must have known that Flossie and Bert had changed their will, leaving Sugar Keep to both Vivienne and Jake. With Vivienne gone, and Jake in prison for killing her, Trent would inherit everything.

  He was supposed to have been out of town that night … but Jake wondered if anyone had checked his alibi. Probably not, when they had a scapegoat ready to do the time. Why look further?r />
  Trent. God, he could barely grasp it. Hadn't been able to even then, not fully. He'd wanted proof … because Trent had been his friend. He couldn't accuse him. He knew how it felt to be accused when you were innocent. And he also knew that, as Viv's husband, Trent would be the next-most-likely suspect. He would be investigated. Jake knew that would happen the moment word came that he'd been cleared and could go home. And he made sure of it, by insisting on talking to a cop—not Kendall, but his partner—and telling him of his suspicions.

  All Jake had to do was go home and watch Trent like a hawk until he was behind bars. He didn't imagine it would take the cops more than a day to piece it all together.

  So he'd returned to Sugar Keep. And Trent had seemed happier to see him than anyone else as they sat down to a celebratory meal. He wanted to call Sara. Had been wanting to call her since he'd been put behind bars.

  God, her letters, every day, were full of encouragement, assurances, promises that it was going to work out. So much so that she'd practically had him believing it. But he couldn't call her. Kendall had seen to it that he couldn't make a single call the entire time he'd been inside. And though he'd written letters to Sara, he doubted the nasty cop would have allowed them to be mailed.

  Kendall really had it in for him.

  Back at the plantation that night, phoning Sara was topmost on his mind. But every time he went for the phone, Trent would vanish—either into another room or outside. Anywhere out of sight.

  Jake figured he would have to wait until Trent was asleep to call her. But it damn near killed him to wait.

  Problem was, Trent didn't go to sleep. He kept Jake up very late, talking, acting like the best friend Jake now knew he wasn't. And sometime early the next morning Trent had managed to slip away.

  Jake thought he'd only been minutes behind his cousin-in-law.

  Too long. It was too long. By the time Jake crossed the Texas state line, he was deathly afraid Trent was going after Sara, just as Jake had feared he would. And he knew what was happening the second the country song on the car radio got cut off in mid-moan by a grim-voiced newsman talking about a hostage situation unfolding at Quinn Elementary.

  "Sara…"

  Everything inside Jake crystalized into perfect clarity at that moment. He knew. All of a sudden he knew exactly what he had to do. Save Sara at any cost. Nothing else mattered. He pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  Jake's borrowed car skidded to a stop a good distance from the Quinn Elementary School building. Then he got out of the car and made his way through the gathering crowds. Cops were already stretching yellow ribbon, ordering people back. Snipers were belly down atop the bus garage, and kids were crying and hugging their parents everywhere.

  For fifty feet around the school building, though, there was nothing. No movement. No bodies, thank God. No sound. He homed in, seeking information, his entire body attuned for the slightest clue.

  Then he heard a little girl, sobbing between broken words as she told a cop her story, "…and Miz Fiona pushed me out the window and told me to run, and then the bad man tried to shoot me!"

  "But you're okay," the cop said. And when Jake looked toward the voice, he saw why it sounded familiar. The cop was Garrett Brand, and a woman who must be his wife, Chelsea, was standing nearby, looking red-eyed and shocky. The rest of the Brand family were making their way through the crowd even now.

  "I think … I think he shot Miss Brand," the little girl said. "I looked back when I heard it … and I saw her fall down."

  Jake closed his eyes and felt as if a fist had plowed him in the belly. He couldn't even breathe for a minute. He heard Chelsea Brand's involuntary sob, heard other Brands swearing softly.

  "Who else was still in the classroom, besides Miss Brand and Fiona?" Garrett asked the little girl, his voice gentle.

  "Just some of the kids," the little girl said, wiping her nose with her sleeve, sniffling loudly. "Two boys and a girl, I think."

  "And do you know their names?"

  It seemed to Jake, even from this distance, that the Brands held their breath as they awaited the reply.

  The little girl bit her little lip. "Amy … an' Billy, I think. And the other boy said his name was Ethan but Miss Brand kep' calling him Bubba all day long."

  Chelsea Brand was on her knees then, back bowed, sobs ripping through her like chainsaws. Some woman came running through the crowd, to scoop the little girl up and hug her tight. And Garrett Brand bent to fold his wife into his arms as the rest of the crowd gathered around him.

  Bubba must be Garrett and Chelsea's son. Jake thought Sara had mentioned him during one of her endless talks about her family.

  Her family. She loved them so much. There wasn't a doubt in Jake's mind that Sara would step in front of a bullet for any one of them. Or for any of those kids in there with her.

  He hoped to God that hadn't happened. But a grim feeling in his belly told him otherwise. He slipped away as quietly as he could. He'd seen Garrett's pickup, and he figured if he needed weapons—which he did—that would be the most likely place to get them.

  He found it unlocked, but he didn't see any guns lying around. Then he spotted a box on the floor and leaned in to reach for it.

  A hand closed on his shoulder from behind. A big hand. Jake straightened, raising his own hands slowly.

  "What do you think you're doing?" It was the mean one. Had to be, didn't it?

  Jake drew a breath, let it out slow. "I'm going in there to get Sara, and if you want to stop me, you'll damn well have to kill me right where I stand."

  Slowly he turned around, and he saw Wes Brand facing him. Dark, mean looking, narrow-eyed. He'd done time, Wes had. Jake recalled Sara's stories. "Listen to me, Brand," Jake said slowly. "If the cops rush this guy, he's gonna freak out and kill everyone in there. Including Sara and your little nephew. One man would have a better chance."

  "You don't know that."

  "I know Trent. Up until a month ago, I thought he was my best friend. Part of my family."

  "Shows just how little you did know him, then."

  "Yeah, well, even with that, I know him better than these guys do."

  Wes's lips thinned.

  "I have to get in there."

  The other man still said nothing.

  "I'm the best chance Sara has, and dammit, we're wasting time out here arguing about it. I'm going in. If I feel a bullet in my back, I'll know you decided not to let me."

  Something came and went in Wes's eyes. He closed his hand around the small woven pouch that hung from a belt loop, held it for a moment, then sighed deeply. "You're right. You are the best chance she has."

  Jake frowned.

  "I think … she's been hurt, Nash. W…we don't have a hell of a lot of time here."

  "How do you know that?"

  Wes just shook his head. "There's a locked case in the back seat. Take it out and let's go."

  "But if it's locked—"

  "I got Garrett's keys." Wes held them up, then shrugged. "Hell, I had to learn something in prison. My cell mate was a pickpocket. Now, will you hurry up already?"

  Jake reached into the pickup, grabbed the case and followed Wes through the crowd. They moved quickly, into the woodlot beyond the playground. Then they crouched down, and Wes opened the case. It held a handgun, a stun gun, some cuffs, ammunition and a walkie-talkie.

  Wes looked at the handgun, looked at Jake.

  Jake said, "I'm not carrying that thing into a school, Brand."

  "No, I got the same feeling." Wes took the stun gun and handcuffs out, closed the case, locked it and hid it well. "Shall we?" Wes rose and eyed the open expanse of lawn between where they crouched and the school's rear entrance.

  "We?" Jake said. "As I recall, you have a pregnant wife somewhere, don't you?"

  "I've got a woman who loves me, pal. Same as you. Mine's safe and sound. Yours is in there with a gun to her hea
d. Now, are you coming to get her or not?"

  Jake swallowed hard but got to his feet. Wes yanked the walkie-talkie up, keyed it and said, "Garrett, tell your men to hold their fire or you'll be short a brother. And I do mean now."

  Wes clipped the thing to his belt, gave Jake a nod. And they both lunged out of their cover and into the open, running full tilt.

  "Don't shoot!" Garrett yelled as the two forms burst from the woodlot into the open, racing across the lawn to the building. He keyed the microphone of his two-way radio and yelled into it again and again. "Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Don't shoot!"

  Then they were gone again. But not before Garrett had seen who they were. His own stupid, stubborn, bad-assed, born-again shaman of a brother, Wes, and that Jake Nash character Sara had been making herself miserable over. They were both damned lucky they hadn't been picked off by snipers.

  Shoot, he didn't know what to think.

  Then there was static, followed by Wes's voice over the radio. "Give us some time, Garrett."

  Stupid, stubborn or otherwise, Garrett trusted his brother. "I'll do what I can, Wes, but it's gonna be out of my hands when the Feds arrive—and they're on their way."

  "How long?" came the crackling reply.

  "Ten minutes," Garrett said.

  Sara lay on the floor and tried to keep her focus. She couldn't die so long as she kept her focus. If she started to lose it, her vision fading around the edges or her head getting fuzzy and dizzy or her body starting to go numb, she would just shake herself and force herself to focus harder. To be. To go on being. Even if that meant feeling the intense pain every time Fiona touched the wound.

  The school nurse was as ruthless in her ministrations as she'd been with Trent. She tore Sara's blouse open down the front, wadded up every gauze pad in the kit, soaked them in iodine and stuffed them hard into the wound. Then she used the roll of medical tape to hold them there. It slowed the bleeding, Sara thought. Didn't stop it, but slowed it.

  She wished it would stop. She was feeling very weak and light-headed.