by Mandie Tepe
When the gunman and the girl moved to the door, Jimi realized the little guy had been tasked with keeping an eye on her using the knife to control her. It appeared they discovered the coast was clear when they peeked out because they moved carefully out the door and left it cracked so the others could hear if they were confronted. Jimi began praying like crazy that somehow Mrs. Wilson—and Roscoe too—had gotten out of the building.
A distraction in the form of Jimi’s own ringtone occurred. At first she wondered who would be calling her at that hour of the morning.
The hooded guy checked the display where her phone sat on the dining table. “It’s the police,” he said in a dread-filled voice. “What do we do?”
“Nothing,” the other one said. It was clear to Jimi that even though he was small, he was definitely the leader’s consigliere. “It’s like in the movies,” he continued with relish, “when they have some loser hostage negotiator call.”
Jimi shivered at the realization that the little guy with the Napoleon complex was enjoying this. Or maybe not, she thought. The freckles on his exposed nose popped out in sharp contrast, his complexion seeming to pale, as the entire building began to rumble. She knew that feeling—that sound—very well. It appeared her Vagabonds family had arrived en masse. She imagined the entirety of the CPD personnel gathered outside would not be happy to see that. Not at all. Neither was this little gang.
The two reconnaissance agents returned even more agitated than before . . . if that were possible. They reported the back lawn was crawling with cops. Their leader turned out the light over the stove and the only lamp lit in the living room before creeping over to Jimi’s living room window and peeking out.
Flashing red and blue lights from the police vehicles and ambulances played over the walls of the room. A siren screamed off, a few of the Harleys roaring off behind. That was a good sign—right? Axel must still be alive.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Shad watched the ambulance tear out of there with several bikes behind it. He took in the wary looks the cops sent the remaining bikers’ way. Those badasses were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, grim expressions on their faces and bulked up arms folded across barrel-shaped chests.
A panel van squealed around the corner and shrieked to a stop at the curb a little way up the street. River—Chance Loughlin’s brother, the closest to an actual rock star this little town had ever seen—exploded from the passenger side door. Three other guys slid out and took his back as he stalked across the street to the lawn. River stopped for a moment and zeroed in on a well-kept but haggard-looking middle-aged couple standing apart from everyone else. He headed toward them. The woman cried out when she saw him, launching herself at him with a hug. The older man and River gave each other awkward handshakes. The River’s Edge guys and the older couple settled in to wait together . . . like everyone else.
Shad’s gaze continued to sweep the activity of the residents huddled together . . . the police grouped around what was obviously a hastily set up “headquarters” . . . other cops moving around the various groups trying to get information. It was information that no one was able to provide about who was responsible for whatever was going on.
Then he realized that one person—only one—had that information. Him. He dug a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it with a shaking hand. He’d known for a long time that he should be distancing himself from the crew. He just hadn’t had the nerve or ambition to do it. And now it was too late and he was the one who had set this in motion, even if it had been against his will.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and glanced around for a cop he could approach. He didn’t know what characteristics he was looking for, but he honed in on a female officer that was just moving away from the residents’ group. She seemed to be heading back to the honchos in charge, so Shad worked his way toward her to cut her off. He didn’t know what it was about her that made him choose her to trust. When he got to her he looked at the nametag pinned above her badge. Her name was Officer L. Riley.
“Umm . . . excuse me, Officer Riley,” Shad greeted her huskily. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure,” she responded—almost distractedly.
“I know the people in there.”
That got her full attention. “Excuse me?”
“The ones who did the burglary and have Jimi,” he clarified miserably.
“You know those people in there?” she asked surprise.
“Yeah. Can I make a statement or something?”
Riley looked him over. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Your parents will need to be there when you do. Are they around?”
He motioned toward his father still conferring with the police. “My dad is Ben Tyler . . . the building manager.”
Officer Riley noticed the man was deep in conversation with her supervisor. “Where is your mother?”
Shad shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He jerked his head toward where she sat on the grass next to—but somewhat removed from—the rest of the other residents. She appeared pretty jittery and unbalanced as she chewed on a thumbnail and gazed around uneasily.
“She’s over there. Sh-she’s not feeling very well,” he hedged.
Riley studied him knowingly. She’d spoken to Anita Tyler a little earlier and had noticed she’d been drinking. Anita seemed to be entering that phase where she was beginning to feel the need for another drink to keep her going.
“What’s your name?” Riley asked him.
“Shad Tyler, ma’am.”
“Okay, Shad.” She tried to give him an encouraging look. “Come with me.”
She led him toward his father and her boss.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Things in the apartment were still manic, but the crew had realized that the building was empty and that made them feel a little less trapped. They had found that the fire escape from Mrs. Wilson’s was being staked out, so that was not an escape option.
Of course, sneaking downstairs to one of the bottom apartments’ windows was out of the question because they’d have to trek right past the front door where they’d be seen and exposed to the police outside.
Jimi’s living room window looked out over the parking lot which was packed full of official personnel and bikers. Even if they felt comfortable dropping two floors to the grass under the window, they’d be seen. Her bedroom windows both looked out at the front lawn, which teemed with people waiting for the situation to be over.
The crew’s leader kicked in Roscoe’s door and discovered his living room window—like Jimi’s—looked out over the parking lot. His bedroom windows were positioned near the fire escape, so it was too conspicuous.
They went back over to Chance’s place to check out his window situation. The door was still ajar so it was just a matter of pushing the door open. Boss man toyed with the idea of spending more time trying to get the gun safe open, but he was about to have a mutiny on his hands. Some of the crew had visions of SWAT teams bursting in with guns blazing if the situation went on much longer. Besides, they couldn’t figure out how to get away themselves, much less burdened down with loot as well. Chance’s windows opened on the front lawn and the side lawn that was still too near to the front.
Finally, they explored Axel’s apartment. He’d left his door cracked open, so it was easy to gain access. His windows were to the side and back. The side yard near the back was far enough from the action on the front lawn and there were high bushes growing right next to the brick exterior. The security lighting at the front and back of the building didn’t reach the area below his bedroom window. The leaves of the bushes had thinned considerably by that first week of November but, if they dropped from the window positioned just right, the bushes should cushion their fall, although they might get a little scraped up. The leader and the girl watched for several minutes, but it app
eared that there were no cops watching that back corner of the building. They scoped out the bumper-to-bumper cars (most of which belonged to neighbors of the Crosswinds Apartments) parallel parked on the dimly lit side street.
The plan was made for them to drop from the window into the bushes then dart across the narrow bit of lawn to hide between the parked cars. From there it would only be a matter of fading into the darkness. They’d had a lot of experience stealthily making their way through the neighborhood after curfew and knew a few places they could wait out the patrols if they had to. It was the best option they had and much better than waiting around for the cops to get either frustrated or gutsy enough to come in after them.
The two of them went back into Jimi’s apartment to let the others in on the plan. After it was discussed and the hooded minion boy talked down from his hysterics over dropping from a second story window—not that the stories in the old mid-twentieth century building were very high—they prepared to leave. But not before hiding Jimi’s cell phone.
The gang’s leader squatted in front of Jimi and put the gun’s muzzle to her cheek menacingly. “You don’t move from that spot,” he growled. “You wait for fifteen minutes, then you can find your phone and call the cops out there and let them know we’re gone.” He paused. “I wouldn’t go running out the front door without calling them. They might think it’s me with the gun and shoot you.”
Jimi looked into the dark lenses of his glasses and saw her eyes wide in her pale face. She didn’t recognize the terrified woman staring back at her. She nodded jerkily.
“You gonna do what I say, or do I have to tie you up and leave you in a closet somewhere? Or maybe I should just take you with us,” he mused as new inspiration struck him.
“N-no. No, I’ll do what you say. I’ll wait the fifteen minutes. I-I pr-promise.”
His face was still covered, so she didn’t know how she knew he smirked, but she sensed it. He gave one abrupt nod. “I’ll leave the door propped open and when I go out last, I’ll call out a signal. Start timing then. If you don’t do exactly as I said, I’ll come back for you. I know your name and I know where you live . . . obviously.”
“O-okay.”
The gang of four moved out the door. Jimi wanted to breathe easy, but it wasn’t over yet. They were still in the building and could change their minds about what to do with her. She looked at the glowing blue LED display showing the time on her stove. She zoned in on it. 4:12.
She heard their low harsh voices but couldn’t make out their words. It was probably over the hooded guy balking at the window. Then came some shuffling. Someone cried out softly. She hoped they’d be caught because they deserved to be and because she wouldn’t be left to sit there and wait for what seemed like hours. More shuffling. Then a faint, “We’re gone,” meant for her she knew.
The clock had switched over to read 4:14 by then. Jimi began her wait until it would read 4:29. She only made it to 4:16 before she decided it was ridiculous. Surely they were long gone by now. Hopefully with broken limbs from the jump, she thought nastily.
She didn’t waste time hunting for her cell. Mrs. Wilson had a landline and her door was already busted open, so Jimi took off at a dead run to call 911 a rebellious thirteen minutes earlier than instructed.
CHAPTER 17
Suzanne stood under a towering elm on the front lawn of her son’s apartment building. She fidgeted . . . she paced . . . she worried. What must Jimi be going through in there? Her fidgeting must have escalated because River stepped closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Mom,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry,” she said on an exhale that sounded more like a sob. “I’m sure she’s fine—right?”
River gave her a grim smile. “No one’s storming the building, so I’m gonna take that as a good sign.”
“Right,” Suzanne agreed.
She glanced over to see Clark standing still as a statue watching them. They’d said maybe six words to one another, but at least they were both there. To stand in Chance’s stead. It shocked even her that she’d thought to include him in the text she sent to River after she heard about the hostage situation via a local radio station’s text alert. She was even more surprised when he showed up. River appeared to be flummoxed at the sight of them both standing under that tree by the time he’d arrived with the rest of his bandmates.
None of them talked much, but she and River carried on a semblance of conversation while his friends murmured amongst themselves. Clark seemed to take in every word. After debating whether they should try to reach Sparta Corp in hopes of getting word to Chance in South America they decided it probably wouldn’t do any good. He’d either not get the message, or worse, he’d get it and be stuck down there without the ability to get home. If that happened, his concentration would be split and the distraction could compromise his safety.
Clark seemed to be getting a lot of texts that he was mostly blowing off. It became clear what that was about when he eventually answered a call and explained to someone that he was dealing with a medical emergency. Please. Of course he was lying. Suzanne knew the signs. How many times had she lied to Donald when she’d meet her boys for dinner? Evidence pointed to Clark’s wife being opposed to him investing time in his own sons . . . just as Donald had been to her doing the same.
How had either of them let that happen for so many years? Observing him still doing that sent waves of guilt over her as it shone light back on her past behavior. Squaring her shoulders, she thought about how glad she was that she was able to work on building her relationships with her boys now. She was almost grateful that Donald had been such a faithless husband and betrayed her so cruelly. What she was building with Chance and River was world’s better than what she had lost with her husband.
Suzanne laid her head on River’s shoulder. “Nothing can happen to Jimi,” she declared. “I don’t want to think about how heartbroken Chance would be.”
“Me neither. I’ve never seen him like this about any woman,” he confided.
She soaked that in because she’d missed so much about her boys for so long. “Really? He never had a serious girl before Jimi?”
River shook his head and stared up in the direction of Jimi’s apartment. “I don’t think he let himself even look for anyone because of his job.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Suzanne commented.
River looked down at her with a small grin. “Not really. Not now that we know Jimi. What would have been sad is if he’d missed out on her.”
Suzanne smiled back. “It would have been. I like her.”
“Me too.”
“You knew her back in school?”
“Not really. Carrefour isn’t that big a town and the high school wasn’t either . . . so I knew of her. But we didn’t hang out in the same crowd. She was a year ahead of me. I remember she had a cute younger sister.”
“Yeah? Tell me more,” Suzanne urged.
“Nothing to tell. I didn’t know her either. She was artsy—kind of bohemian— and had bright red hair.”
“I haven’t met her yet.”
“I think Jimi said she moved away,” River informed her.
As if on cue, another member of Jimi’s family came running across the lawn. Nova skidded to a stop right in their space and wrapped her arms around both Suzanne and River in a group hug. “Oh, Suzy! River!” she cried. “Thank you so much for being here. I just noticed that you were here.”
Clark gawked at the middle-aged bodacious biker babe hugging his ex-wife and calling her Suzy. He’d never heard anyone call her that. Ever. He’d have expected Suzanne to cut the woman down to size with her sharp tongue that he knew so well.
What he saw instead was Suzanne returning the squeeze. “We saw you arriving, but I didn’t want to intrude,” she said. “How are you holding up?”
“Not too good,” Nova admitted. “The only thing that’s keeping me from storming up those stairs is all these cops.” She gave a humo
rless laugh. “Well . . . that and keeping these dudes,” she gestured toward the bikers standing sentry along the sidewalk, “from storming up those stairs. If they got in, someone would end up dead and I don’t have time in my schedule to be making weekly visits to all of ‘em after they end up incarcerated.”
“No, that wouldn’t be good,” River smirked. “It’s probably not such a bad thing that Chance isn’t here. He’d probably come up with the plan and lead the charge.”
Nova nodded seriously. “Ain’t that the truth?”
Suzanne steered the subject away from possibilities of mayhem. “Is there anything I can do for you, Nova?”
“Nah, hon. If these boys get too riled, I might need you to help me distract them, but nothing for now.”
One of those boys came stalking across the leaf-littered grass. He marched right up to Suzanne and bent to kiss her cheek. “Suzy,” he greeted her gruffly.
“Jock,” she answered. “You doing alright?”
“Nope,” he bit out.
“You keeping it together?” she stressed.
“Barely, but I promised my old lady I won’t go off half-cocked.”
“That’s a good promise,” Suzanne praised. “I have faith in you.”
Jock shot her a bad boy grin. “Least someone does,” he cracked. He noticed Clark standing several feet removed.
Suzanne performed the introductions. “This is Chance’s father—Clark Loughlin. Clark . . . these are Jimi’s parents—Jock and Nova Alexander.”
They shook hands all around and made the bare minimum of small talk before Jock took his wife’s hand and they left the Loughlin/Reynolds and River’s Edge under the elm tree.
Clark studied his ex-wife closely and wondered who she had become. He liked the changes he saw in her and wondered what it would take for him to loosen up like that. As long as he was with Alissa, he couldn’t see it happening.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Something big was happening. As Officer Riley led Shad and Ben toward her cruiser some sort of electricity seemed to spark over the area. Riley instructed them to wait in the back seat of her car and turned to hurry back toward the command post.
