The Ex

by Margaret Ferguson

  “Leave her out of this.” I glanced away once again to avoid his glare, to avoid her frightened eyes. Why was this so damned difficult? Answer the question! I swallowed hard, contemplating. Only—

  “Say it!” he bellowed emphatically, pressing the gun deeper, until the barrel cut red indentions into her skin. “Or say goodbye.”

  “Yes,” I said quickly, my eyes intentionally holding hers. “I love her.” I exhaled, adding a small shrug and shake of the head like a lame apology for my forced confession. Mere words, I told myself. Words without emotion, my having buried them deep inside not so long ago.

  He looked at her. “You hear that, sweetie? He loves you.”

  A tear escaped from her eye as she looked down, ashamed.

  “And what should be the punishment for your sin?”

  I stood upright, my eyes now determinedly on him, and smartly replied. “I don’t know. You’re the one holding the gun. You’re the one doling out punishments here. You tell me,” I barked, now fuming; angry that people had died. Angry that people might still die. Angry that he’d made me say the words. I took a step toward him.

  “You’re right,” he said flatly

  …and then he shot me.

  Chapter 33

  He introduced himself to the room as the VA COMSEC Communications Liaison.

  Odenweller chuckled. “That’s a lot of letters.”

  Foster sipped his coffee and nodded. “And to what do we owe this honor?”

  “I’m here to observe and offer my assistance as needed.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?

  “Look around. Do we look like we need any help?”

  “Well,” he exhaled, adjusting his waistline. “As a matter of fact, from out there, it looks like things might not be under control in here.”

  Chief Foster grasped the back of the chair and dropped his head, shaking it. As the Incident Commander, all he needed was some flunky, pencil-neck wannabe micromanaging him. He continued to shake his head, then turned and reached for the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the edge of the eight-foot conference table beside his coffee cup. God, he hated smoking. It was a nasty, filthy habit. But it was that or drinking, and he was six years sober. He inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine calm his nerves. When he exhaled, he stared through the smoke with one eye. “You do realize that we aren’t even four hours into this thing,” he stated flatly.

  “Really,” the man across from him retorted sarcastically. “So, you have a timetable in your little negotiator handbook that says, not ending a hostage situation in less than four hours is a good thing?”

  “Who are you again?” Foster asked, his face distorted with confusion.

  “Why haven’t you interrupted their ability to communicate with anyone other than your team? More pointedly, why haven’t you cut off their access to social media.”

  Foster narrowed his brow. “What? You don’t like what they are saying about you guys? From where I stand, nothing they have posted so far has been untrue—” he began.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “No, that’s a fact,” he stated.

  “Why, because you read it on their blog?” he snapped back.

  The side of Foster’s lip curled up in a smile, and he shook his cigarette laden fingers at the intruder. “Nah,” he rebutted. “You’re not here to help us. You’re here to look out for your own self-interests.”

  “I’m here to offer my services. To help in any way possible to bring this matter to a resolution.”

  “Thank you, but we have everything under control.”

  “Really? Because, to those of us watching from out there, it doesn’t look that way. The powers that be don’t see it that way.”

  Foster laughed out loud as though someone had just told a joke. “The powers that be?” He turned and walked to the window, glaring at the broken opening across the street. “The powers that be,” he said mockingly, shaking his head. “And who would that be?”

  The man breathed out. “Look, I’m not here to argue with you. There are simply concerns that this situation is out of control.”

  “Well, Mister Seersucker,” the chief said smartly, snuffing out his half-smoked cigarette in the metal ashtray before him. “I’m sure, you being as savvy as you are about how communications work, you understand that this is a process.”

  “You realize, there are people involved who believe that you have a vested interest in seeing that this thing continues.”

  “Really?”

  “Why are you allowing this to happen? Aren’t there protocols to prevent them from posting and getting messages out?” His face reddened with every spewed statement.

  “You know, I’ll take your concern under consideration. By the way, you haven’t asked once about the hostages.”

  His face suddenly flushed white as he stared at Chief Foster. No one spoke as the confrontation became a silent one. After a few moments, his expression softened. “Of course, we are much concerned about the safety of the hostages. But you of all people must understand that the more these men communicate with the outside world, and not just you, the more powerful they become. The more dangerous they become.”

  “To you?

  “To the hostages.” He glared across the table with all the hatred he could muster. “Right now, they are running the show. They are orchestrating this little fiasco and making fools of all of you,” he added, with audacity. “And until you cut them off from the outside world and make them talk to you, you are never going to end this,” he reasoned. “So, unless you start taking control of this little charade you call a negotiation, I will see that someone with more guts than you, does.”

  Thrash rushed into the room. “Boss, I think we have a countdown.”

  Foster stood, holding out his hand. “Well, Mister Communications Liaison of whatever. I’ll tell you what. I’ll bet right now, that they’d be interested in another trade. The rest of the hostages for, say—you.” Foster pointed his finger at the man standing directly across the table from him. “I’d say that’s a fair trade. Wouldn’t you? Considering. Twelve hostages for one VA representative.” The chief let that one hang in the air for a minute. Then, he forced a smug smile. “Why, you’d be doing your country a service, son. It sure as hell would go a long way in making things right, wouldn’t you say?” Foster looked around the room.

  Everyone’s eyes were on the man whose face was white as a ghost. When he didn’t respond, Foster continued. “Well, I guess I’ll just let you think on that awhile, and when you’re ready, you just let me know, and I’ll set it up. In the meantime, we want to thank you for coming and offering your assistance, but we have a job to do. And, unless you want to make that trade, or we call you, you can simply stay the hell out of our way.”

  The man blinked, not used to being dismissed.

  “Odenweller, will you show this gentleman out?”

  “My pleasure,” she offered, motioning toward the door and then holding it open for him.

  When the door was closed, the chief leaned on the table. “Talk to me.”

  “They think Roarck is giving us a countdown. You have to get in there, now!”

  Foster raced from the room, following his first in command. “I knew he had it in him,” he chuckled. “Never had a doubt.”

  Chapter 34

  Okay. So, I’ve been shot before. And this was relatively minor compared to the other times. Times—plural, as in multiple. However, it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like heck. I lay there for a minute, trying to regain my senses.

  Then, slowly, I stood, wavering, hands still cuffed. AJ had already meandered toward the north wall to keep his eye on the outside. At the same time, a frustrated Arnold tried to convince those watching that someone would pay if the electricity wasn’t turned back on, while he silently willed the computer power to last just a little longer.

  Five or six minutes is all I would have, that was if those listening understood my message. Slowly, painf
ully, I got to my knees, leaning against the bar. I felt someone touch my hand; then realized my restraints were being cut. I pulled them apart until they snapped, and I immediately rotated my shoulders to relieve the cramping. I glanced at Arnold, still tapping random keys, arguing with those responding on the computer as though they were standing there in front of him.

  “Under the counter.” I heard a whisper and looked behind me. Our waitress leaned nearer to me. “There’s a gun safe beneath the bar. The code is 1968.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “Under the switchboard. Behind the Crown Royal boxes.”

  I mouthed a thank you and proceeded to stand. I rounded the countertop, grimacing as I held onto it for support, walking behind it so that Arnold couldn’t see me in the computer reflection, as I made my way toward the other end. Toward AJ. Who, thankfully, was so focused on making sure no one was near the entrance that he didn’t even see me coming.

  I grabbed a bottle of Malibu Rum as I stumbled past, my legs shaky. The wound in my side felt like it was burning right through me, and yet, somehow, I needed to find the strength to do what needed to be done. End this thing now. I had to do it before the computer ran out of battery. I had to do it without falling, and most importantly, I had to do it without being seen.

  As I meandered over the rubber no-slip mats, feeling more than a little dizzy, a song started playing on a loop in my head. Tim McGraw crooned, and, whether I was delirious or just feeling ridiculously brave, I began to hum along. Out loud.

  AJ twisted around suddenly, surprised to see me alive, I’m sure. He took a step back, quickly turning the gun, aiming it directly at me.

  I ignored him as I ran my unbound hand across the polished cherry wood, grabbing two glasses before wobbling to within six feet of him. Of them. With only the counter between us.

  It wasn’t lost on him that I was free, so he took another step back, gripping Mary Beth tighter, his gun pressed against her temple. I casually glanced at my watch. Four minutes.

  It was time to end this thing… before the computer ran out of battery—before Mary Beth or anyone else got shot. And, most importantly, before I lost consciousness.

  I arrived at the switchboard, brushing it aside. “We don’t need that anymore.”

  “Well, well. You’re still here,” AJ said, dryly.

  “I think you’ll find I’m hard to kill,” I replied, with a smirk.

  “I won’t make that mistake again.” He aimed the Glock my direction.

  “Aww,” I moaned, falling against the counter for support. “Come on. You wouldn’t deny a dying man one last drink, would you?” I asked, setting both glasses on the counter and pouring a splash into each one. I looked up at him, then added a little more to his. And, a little more. Then I leaned back, grabbing my side, my shirt soaked with blood. I looked down. “See what you did to me, man?”

  He eyed me, warily.

  “It’s all right,” I said like I was fading fast. “I forgive you.”

  AJ laughed aloud as I rested against the hard wood, tapped my glass against his, and tossed the liquid down my throat. I gasped like I’d just taken a swig of Nyquil.

  “You forgive me?” he chortled.

  “You shot me!” I exclaimed, a little loudly. I slowly turned to see if Arnold were looking in our direction; the computer still illuminating his face. Foolishly, he was so preoccupied with trying to keep the feed live that he didn’t look away. Didn’t see me still alive. Didn’t yet see that the hostages had all moved and were now hunkered down behind the bar, having followed me to the other end.

  I poured myself another splash, then poured more into his glass. I tapped his again, then smiled as I drank down my second shot. I furrowed my brow. “What? You can shoot me, but you can’t drink with me?” I slurred my words, maybe exaggerating my circumstances a little. For effect. When I looked up at Mary Beth, her face wore a look of concern. AJ stepped to the bar with hesitation. He would either have to set the gun down or let her go to pick up the glass. I was counting on the latter.

  I looked up and past him as I saw a red dot dancing on the wall just a foot behind him. Suddenly, my strength was renewed. Then, my eyes returned to AJ as I lay forward onto the counter, my hand reaching below for the gun safe.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” he motioned with his weapon. “Hands where I can see them.”

  I slapped my bloody hand on the wood countertop as I pushed myself up. I poured another shot and held it up to Mary Beth. “Here’s to you,” I tossed it into the back of my throat, then poured me another. I stumbled toward the gap at the end of the counter, the bottle still in hand.

  Four feet.

  AJ holstered his gun, reached for his glass, then stepped back again. He held it for a moment, observing me carefully before he drank, throwing back his head.

  I quickly winked at Mary Beth. “I believe you have something of mine,” I said to her, taking a step forward.

  Three feet.

  “I’d like to get it back. I mean, if this is it, I’d really like to have it. It means a lot to me.” Still holding the counter for support, I rounded the end, causing AJ to take another step backwards for precaution.

  “What’s he talking about?”

  Mary Beth tilted her head, furrowing her dark brow as her hand moved to her neck. When her fingers found the chain, AJ grabbed it from her, yanking it roughly from her throat.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Have some respect,” I continued, stumbling forward as I rounded the counter, glass in hand.

  Two feet.

  AJ inspected the jewelry, surprised. Then, suddenly, he looked up. “Edward Roarck?”

  I held out my arms. “In the flesh.”

  “But—” he stammered.

  “But what?” I asked. “I’m not who you thought I was?” I stood upright before him, towering over him by several inches.

  AJ was visibly shaken. And, when I looked down into his eyes, I saw confusion and indecision. I saw fear. In an instant, he released Mary Beth and fumbled for a grenade from his bandolier.

  I promptly grabbed her, throwing her behind the bar, away from the danger. She yelped as she fell against the cabinets in the corner. Then, I turned back to AJ, who now held a grenade in one palm, his finger around the pull ring.

  I reached for the grenade, grabbing it from his hand. Then, I shoved him backwards, knocking him off balance, the pin dangling from his finger. The seeking red dot found his forehead, just before the bullet hit him. Just before he fell to the ground. Dead.

  Immediately, I tossed the grenade toward where Arnold sat in front of the computer, hoping to save the world from people whom he considered far worse than himself. I hollered ‘grenade!’ just before throwing myself over Mary Beth, protecting her from the blast.

  The sound was deafening, and those behind us screamed. Debris landed on everything and everyone as we cowered behind the bar until, once again, there was silence. Then, I pushed the hostages past me and toward the window. “Stay low. Make sure your hands are up or on your heads when you run out there. And don’t stop running for anything,” I encouraged. I counted the hostages as they ran by. Two were missing. Corbin and our waitress. “Go,” I told Mary Beth.

  “I’m not leaving without you,” she insisted.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m not leaving you again.” Mary Beth held my stare.

  I shook my head and growled. “Fine! But you stay right here. Don’t move.”

  She nodded as I turned and rushed to the other end of the bar. Carefully, I looked around the corner where I saw Arnold laying still on the ground. I stood. “Corbin?” I called out.

  “Over here,” he yelled from behind the kitchen door where they’d been hiding. He promptly ran out, pulling the young girl behind him.

  “Come on,” I ordered, hurriedly pushing him past me and taking up the rear. “I thought we’d lost you two.”

  Seconds later, we arrived near Mary Beth on the northeast corner of the bar
. I could see through the smoke and the broken window beyond, first responders helping the freed captives outside, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was finally over. As I rounded the corner, Mary Beth looked back at me and then up. What I saw in her eyes was telling. And, I knew in that instant, it was far from over.

  Chapter 35

  Arnold had clocked me good, using the same stupid bottle of Malibu Rum that I had shared with his son—just before he was shot. Carefully, I sat up, wincing from the pain. I lay back against the wall, slowly looking to my right. “Arnold. You look like hell,” I remarked, staring at the man, almost unrecognizable, covered in debris from the blast, his face smeared with blood from the deep gash in his head. He held his weapon in one hand and our waitress in the other.

  “You killed my son,” he said deliberately, coughing deeply.

  Gradually, I shook my head and made a face, feeling light-headed. “No, I didn’t. You did,” I clarified. God, I felt like crap. I rolled my head to the left to find Mary Beth and Corbin clinging to one another just a yard away in the corner. I forced a small smile before turning back to Arnold. “So, what now?” I asked.

  Arnold warily wiped the dust and dirt and blood from his eyes. “I kill you,” he added with a shrug, then coughed again.

  I nodded over my shoulder at Mary Beth and Corbin. “Let them go,” I suggested. “This is between you and me now. Let them all go.” I motioned to the woman in his arms.

  Arnold’s head lolled forward as blood continued to run into his eyes. His coughing became harder, obviously more painful, until he spat up blood. He quickly sat upright, looking up into nowhere through startled eyes, confused like he’d been woken from a dream.

  A few moments later, his hand slowly slid to the floor, the gun lying limp in it. “I think it’s time.” Then, he breathed out, almost in a whisper, “go.”

  I watched him for many moments until he raised the gun, pointing it at Corbin and Mary Beth.