One of the burglars held a phone in his hand and was talking as he paced a small circle around his prisoners. “I have five hostages in here with me, Officer,” he said into the phone. “If you do anything I don’t like, they each get a bullet through the brain, you understand?” He paused, listening.
“Don’t tell me to stay calm!” he shouted. “Do exactly as I say and these five men live. Do anything different and you can hold yourself personally responsible to their grieving wives and children.” He paused again.
“Oh, the manager says there should be six guards? Yes, well, I’m afraid it’s too late for one of them.” He laughed coldly.
My stomach churned as I looked down the long hall and noticed the sixth guard lying facedown, a pool of blood spread around him.
I glanced around to make sure the coast was clear—the floor appeared to be vacant. I dashed over to the guard, arriving by his side in half a second. Carefully, I rolled the man to his back, dreading what I might find.
The bullet wound appeared to be in his upper abdomen, but not so high that it would have punctured his heart. I’d had only basic EMR training in a class I took last year in high school. Treating bullet wounds certainly wasn’t covered, but I at least knew how to find a pulse.
I put my fingers to his neck. Blessedly, there was still a faint rhythm there, but I knew it wouldn’t last long, not at the rate he was losing blood.
I glanced around, frantic. There was absolutely nothing nearby that I could use as a bandage. I looked down at my own clothes. I wore black pants, a black long-sleeve shirt, and a gray jacket. The jacket was covered in crap from the dumpster, but my shirt underneath might be relatively clean. I was no expert, but exposing an open wound to rotting fish didn’t seem like it would be advantageous to his health. I swiftly unzipped the jacket and pulled off my shirt. I put the jacket back on, zipping it up to my neck. The rose necklace I always wore was cold against my skin.
After a quick examination, I decided my shirt was clean enough that it probably wouldn’t cause any infection. Ultimately, I didn’t know if it would even matter at this point—he might be too far gone. I quickly wrapped my shirt around the man’s torso, pulling it as tightly as I could manage. I secured it with a knot and applied pressure over the wound as I continued to observe the men below.
“I want you to arrange a private flight out of the Denver airport to depart in 30 minutes, no pilot necessary—I have my own. I’ll also need an unmarked police SUV gassed and ready to go in fifteen minutes to get us there on time. After my team and I have safely entered the car, I’ll release three of the guards. Two of them stay with us as we ride to the airport to ensure you don’t try and stop us on our way. I’ll release them after we’ve successfully boarded our plane. I expect a call in ten minutes to confirm you have that all arranged. If you’re even a minute late, I will kill one of the guards. Another one dies every five minutes after that.” He hung up the phone, stuffing it into his pants’ pocket.
Fifteen minutes? This man did not have fifteen minutes left to live. Something had to be done.
I searched the pockets of the guard, finding what I was hoping for—his cell phone. I didn’t want to use mine because I fully intended to get out of this mess without anyone knowing I was here. Far too many questions would be asked with far too many answers I couldn’t provide without sounding like a crazy person or becoming the next microbe under a scientific microscope.
Making a phone call was too risky. Text-to-911 was the better option here so that I wasn’t overheard. I sent off a text that read, I’m the security guard at 25th Street Bank the burglars think is dead. Send me the number of the person in charge of the operation so that I can communicate with him.
The response was immediate. 467-555-2429, Police Chief Rollins
Chief Rollins, I wrote, I’m the security guard at 25th Street Bank the burglars think is dead. I’m injured and need assistance. What is your plan? How can I help?
We are currently working on a plan. What are the positions of the burglars and hostages? We can’t get a visual, Chief Rollins replied.
I checked the pulse of the guard. It was barely palpable. We didn’t have time for all this back and forth. If Chief Rollins didn’t have a plan, I’d come up with one myself.
I shoved the guard’s phone into my pocket and left his side, creeping over to the banisters to get a better view. Obviously, the best option was to disarm the burglars, but my telekinesis wasn’t strong enough to rip an object out of someone’s hand. Somehow, I had to incapacitate them, preferably all at once. If only Dad was here. He was so much better at using his telekinesis than I was—an advantage of having actually grown up in Cyrus.
Without any kind of actual plan in place, I slipped into an office and made a call to the Chief. He picked up before the first ring ended.
“Chief Rollins speaking.”
I did my best to sound manly and like I was in pain. It was a rather pathetic effort. “This is the guard you’ve been texting. Send your men into the building in exactly two minutes. There are five burglars as far as I’ve seen. They are in the main lobby with the hostages bound and sitting on the ground. I am on the second level. The burglars will be unarmed for your men to come in.”
“Now hang on a minute,” Chief Rollins said. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you’re not one of them, laying some trap for my guys. I’m not going in there blind.”
“You’re just going to have to trust me,” I wheezed. “All our lives depend on it. Two minutes, starting now.” I hung up and turned the phone off, not wanting him to call me back.
I opened the office door and was met by two thugs. Oh boy!
“Told you there was a girl in here!” one of the oafs exclaimed. “I saw her earlier.”
“Shut up and grab her already!” the other one demanded.
He lunged for me, but I dodged out of the way, moving much quicker than he anticipated. “What in the—?” he said, confused.
The other burglar wasted no time and shot at me. I hoped that wouldn’t cause Chief Rollins to come storming in here. Please wait two minutes!
I used my telekinesis to redirect the bullet. It lodged in the ceiling. Both thieves looked up at it, confused. I used their momentary distraction to rip a handgun out of the nearest thug’s hand. Fortunately, Dad and I often spent our weekends at the shooting range. I directed a shot at the other man’s thigh, hitting him right on target—Dad would be proud. The man doubled over, gasping in pain as he clutched the bleeding spot. The other burglar took his cohort’s gun and began firing again. I moved swiftly in the small space in a zigzagging pattern, avoiding the spray of bullets.
The thieves blocked my path to the door, so that was not an exit option. Deciding to trust my faulty abilities, I launched myself directly at the wall, hoping my powers would work for me. To my intense relief, they did. I melted through the wall with ease, circling back around and shutting the office door from the hallway. I took a chair which sat next to the door and wedged it underneath the door handle like I’d seen done in the movies. I had no idea if it would actually work, but judging by the banging at the door and the fact that the two thugs didn’t come tumbling out after me, it appeared to.
Evidently, our altercation had not gone unnoticed. A shout down the hall drew my attention to another burglar headed directly for me. I searched around frantically, grateful he hadn’t decided to shoot—yet. His malicious grin grew wider as he closed the distance between us.
Out of other options, I decided to do the obvious. I used my telekinesis to pick up a large vase which stood slightly behind the charging man. I hurled it forward. As the vase came in contact with the unsuspecting thief, it cracked over his head. The man staggered, his eyes rolling back, as he fell into the pile of shattered porcelain, a grisly wound issuing a fair amount of blood from the back of his head.
“How did you do that?” one of the two remaining burglars shouted from the first floor. The other didn’t seem to care. He b
egan firing at me immediately. I dove behind one of the large pillars, desperate for a plan. My two minutes had to be about gone.
My brain—flaky as it was—seemed to be moving in slow motion right when I needed it most. How was I going to disarm the two guards below? The bullets continued to hammer the other side of the pillar. I desperately wanted to get a visual of beneath but didn’t dare peek around with the bullets flying as they were.
I made a split-second decision to run for it, hoping a new vantage point would allow me to see below. I sprung up from my crouch and darted around half of the upper balcony.
“She’s moving!” one of the thieves shouted. “Did you see that? Where’d she go, Lars?”
“I don’t know,” growled the man who had been on the phone earlier, “but she’s fast.”
My breathing was heavy—not because of the running, I could do that with ease—but because of the adrenaline. I chanced a glance around the new pillar where I ducked. Just as I hoped, the men were facing the other direction, looking around the area I’d been hiding before. They didn’t expect me to be on the other side of the building already.
After a momentary pause to try and calm my racing heart, I sprinted back down the staircase to the main floor, where I threw myself behind the reception desk. Slowly, I stood, peering over the edge of the counter. The men were no more than fifteen feet from where I stood. Both were still looking around the upper balcony, their backs to me.
Hurriedly, I scanned the contents of the front desk. The only weapon was a pair of scissors. Though they’d be painful to be stabbed with, they would hardly incapacitate either thief. Besides, I was exhausted and unsure my telekinesis would still work to hurl them forward. Everything except my speed tended to wear out easily. Officers would soon be storming this building, and I couldn’t bear the thought of one of them taking a bullet after I said the burglars would be unarmed. I decided to trust my purely human abilities with the handgun rather than risk using my telekinesis and failing.
Taking a chance, I stood up swiftly, aiming one shot at the back of Lars’ thigh. It hit him perfectly, causing him to collapse forward at the unsuspecting pain. I sprinted forward and grabbed the rifle as he dropped it in favor of holding the back of his bleeding thigh. He fell sideways to the ground, gasping.
An intense pain ripped through my left side just as every door on all four sides of the bank burst open. At least fifty officers in full gear stormed the lobby, guns at the ready.
“Someone get to the guard on the second floor!” A portly man shouted as he emerged from the crowd of officers. I assumed that would be Chief Rollins.
Using every ounce of strength I had left, I willed myself to run. I didn’t know where. I had no plan. All I knew is that I couldn’t be found here. Too many questions.
I reached the outskirts of the main floor before the pain in my side became unbearable. I gasped as I gripped the area that hurt. I felt wetness—blood, spilling out of me.
I’d been shot.
I stumbled backward, the pain crippling me, until I landed on the floor with a thud. Everything from that point was a blur as I faded out of consciousness.
I heard someone shouting commands I couldn’t comprehend.
I felt hands grab my shoulders tightly—too tightly. It hurt.
And then I was gone.
Chapter 2
Busted
I woke up to a pounding headache but no confusion. Well, some confusion. I remembered the events from the bank perfectly clear, right up to being shot and passing out. Everything from that point was completely gone from my memory.
And I had no clue how I got where I was.
I sat up from the dirt strewn ground where I’d been lying, looking up into the curtain of tree leaves above. This wooded area was familiar—it was on the west side of my house.
Sure enough, through the thinning trees to my right, I could see my small, yellow home, Dad’s car still parked in the driveway.
It seemed to be early morning. The air was crisp after a long night’s rest from the sun. I could see my breath as I exhaled.
A noise caught my attention. A few yards away, deeper into the woods, a boy stood, peering out at me from behind a tree. I recognized him. At least I thought I did.
“Hey, you’re the guy who let me out of the dumpster last night, aren’t you?” I said, standing up quickly—too quickly. A wave of nausea washed over me. I grabbed a nearby tree trunk for support.
The boy stepped out from behind the tree. “You should be careful,” he said. “You lost a lot of blood last night.” Then, without any further explanation, he took off into the woods.
“Hey, wait!” I called. “What happened to me? Who are you? How did I get here?” I stumbled after him but couldn’t follow at my usual fast speed. I felt incredibly weak as nausea turned my stomach.
After a few minutes of pointless searching, I gave up. The boy was nowhere to be found.
I gave myself a quick once-over. I was wearing the same disgusting, seafood-drenched jacket I had been last night. I realized the entire left side was soaked in a deep red—my blood. Not caring that it was likely only thirty degrees out and I wore nothing but my bra underneath, I unzipped the jacket to investigate my wound.
I gasped, clutching my side, pulling at the skin. There was nothing there. No wound. No bandages. Not even a scar. Except for the large bloodstain on my clothes, there was no indication that I had ever been shot.
I had been shot, hadn’t I?
Nothing about this situation made sense. I’d woken up in the woods fifteen miles from where I’d lost consciousness. A stranger was (rather creepily) watching over me. And I had no bullet wound—or a wound of any kind, for that matter—yet my jacket was clearly soaked in blood. Had that boy saved me? He obviously had something to do with my present condition.
Exasperated, I decided it was best to head inside and confront my dad. He was sure to be furious. It might be early morning, but I had no doubt he was already awake and had noticed my empty bed. I stomped through the woods, hesitating only slightly before opening the front door.
The TV in the kitchen was on with the local news blaring—they were talking about a bank robbery in downtown Denver. Crap.
Dad sat in his red plaid bathrobe at the far end of the kitchen table, facing the front door, a bowl of untouched cereal in front of him. His head snapped up as I walked in. I watched as a mixture of relief and fury warred on his face. Fortunately, for the time being, relief seemed to be winning out.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, walking forward cautiously. He stood from his chair slowly. Then he rushed forward, scooping me up into an enormous bear hug.
“Oh, sugar bean! I am so glad you’re safe! I’ve been so worried.”
“Sorry, Dad. I know I should have told you what I was doing.”
He released me, grabbing the tops of my shoulders instead. He bent his neck so he could look me in the eye. “Avalon Rosaline Tanner,” he began. Uh oh. Full name—never good. “If you ever sneak out of the house again, you will be grounded until the day you move out. No friends, no fun, no social life. Nothing but school and home. Do you understand?”
“I understand, loud and clear,” I affirmed.
Dad’s face crinkled in disgust as he sniffed in. “You smell, sweetie. Really badly.” He stepped back to take a better look at me.
Oh boy. His mouth dropped in horror as he took in the large bloodstain smeared across my gray jacket.
“Oh my heavens, Ava, you’re hurt. We need to get you to a hospital! How did this happen?”
“Believe me, Dad, it looks a lot worse than it is. I’m fine, I promise. I just… caught my side on something sharp and got a little cut. No big deal,” I lied. He raised his eyebrows skeptically.
The sound of gunshots and screaming emanated from the TV, catching both our attention for a moment. I glanced over to see video of the robbery last night taken with a bystander’s phone. A reporter’s voice picked up. “There were five burglars total,
each of whom have been apprehended and are in police custody. There were six security guards in the bank at the time. One of the six guards on duty was harmed; he received a bullet wound to the upper abdomen. His condition is critical but stable. Doctors estimate he will make a full recovery with time.
“Many questions about the attack remain. To shed some light on the circumstances, we now turn to our team member, Brett, who stands by with Police Chief Rollins.”
“Hello, Amanda. I’m here with Chief Rollins who led the law enforcement officers dealing with last night’s burglary at 25th Street Bank in downtown Denver. He has agreed to answer a few questions for us this morning, to the best of his knowledge at this time.
“Good morning, Chief Rollins,” the reporter said, gesturing for Chief Rollins to take a step closer to the camera.
“You’ve already said that,” the Chief answered grumpily as he reluctantly stepped into better view of the camera. Brett laughed uncomfortably.
“Right. Um, can you provide any additional insight into how your team successfully extracted the hostages from this dangerous situation while also managing to apprehend all five suspects?”
“Well, the credit goes to my team of officers, of course, for their diligence and presence during this crisis situation. Each one of them carried out their duties as assigned and were well equipped to deal with the crisis at hand. We also received help from an unidentified individual inside the bank at the time of the incident.”
Uh oh. This wasn't good. I tried to hide the stress from my face as Dad and I continued to listen.
“There are consistent reports from security guards, one of our officers, and some of the thieves that there was a teenage girl, approximately 16 to 18 years of age, who was present in the bank last night. Reports from our witnesses indicate she is likely between five foot four and five foot seven, 115 to 135 pounds with brown hair that is medium length.”
The Cyrun Page 2