Taken Hostage

by Ranae Rose

  Taken Hostage

  Ranae Rose

  Taken Hostage

  Ranae Rose

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright © 2011 Ranae Rose

  Cover Design by Ranae Rose

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names and events are products of the author’s imagination and are in no way real. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Tiffany strode through the bank’s double front doors and into a cloud of pungent smoke. She held her breath and began to step more briskly, eager to leave the offensive fumes behind. She hated it when customers stood outside the doors and smoked. It was so inconsiderate. Resisting the urge to let out an irritated breath, she began to descend the short flight of brick steps. She would’ve given the offender a piece of her mind, if only she hadn’t been a bank employee.

  ‘Nice day.’ A voice called to her through the cancerous haze. She stopped in her tracks, surprised, and turned to see who had spoken.

  It was the smoker.

  Whatever she had expected, he was not it. His blue eyes were nearly the same shade as the cotton button-up shirt she wore beneath her lightweight sweater. The color flattered him much more than it did her, and she’d always considered blue to be one of her better colors. His azure eyes sparkled with hints of amusement above his high cheekbones.

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘It is nice.’

  It was true. Early spring sunshine beamed down on the New York countryside, which was visible in the distance, not far beyond the outskirts of the small town she called home. It was unseasonably warm, so much so that she was uncomfortable beneath her sweater.

  He tossed his head lightly, causing the forelock of golden-brown hair that had fallen into his eyes to retreat temporarily. Tiffany watched as he flicked ash onto the step, where it blazed red-hot for a moment, and then winked out.

  ‘In fact, it’d be a nice day for a drive,’ he commented.

  She followed his gaze across the parking lot, where it rested on a cherry-red Mustang. The car shone in the sun, as spotless and gleaming as any showroom model. With its cheerful paint and polished chrome wheels, it seemed to beg to be driven. She’d never owned, or even test-driven anything like it. Maybe he was right – it would be a nice day for a drive.

  Who was she kidding? She didn’t even know how to drive a stick. She chuckled softly at the thought of driving the Mustang. Those sorts of cars weren’t made for people like her – women who didn’t mind that they’d never gotten above eighty miles per hour in their automatic Escorts, and had never even meant to drive that quickly. They were made for people like the man who stood smoking – in every sense of the word – beside her, leaning against the bank wall in his T-shirt, unzipped grey-green jacket and boots with a little bit of mud crusted on the bottom.

  ‘Something funny?’ he asked.

  Tiffany shook her head. ‘No, not really.’ It didn’t seem a good idea to tell him that the mere thought of driving the car he was admiring made her laugh. ‘Is it yours?’ She gestured toward the Mustang, eager to change the subject.

  ‘Nah.’ He shook his head, causing that tantalizing lock of golden-brown hair to fall into his eyes again.

  She scanned the parking lot. Which of the vehicles belonged to him, if not the Mustang? Perhaps the dark Jeep a few spaces down? Its tires, like his boots, were splattered with dried mud. It looked like it belonged to someone adventurous.

  She coughed, caught off guard by a shift in the wind that sent a fresh puff of smoke directly into her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ the handsome stranger said, dropping his cigarette, which had been smoked down to little more than a butt, and grinding it beneath his boot.

  ‘That’s OK.’ She looked away from his sky-blue eyes embarrassedly, suppressing a tickling feeling in the back of her throat. He was easy to forgive.

  It was as if her coughing fit had broken the spell of their conversation. Tiffany suddenly remembered why she’d come outside in the first place, which was, of course, to take her lunch break. Her heart sunk down to her toes, which were housed in a pair of sensible not-too-high heels. She’d never seen the handsome stranger at the bank before, not in her seven years of employment. And she’d already let her mind conjure up a fantasy that was hardly less embarrassing than her coughing fit – a fantasy that began with her opening a new account for him.

  Damn it. Alicia or Cindy would get to open his account, and when she returned from lunch, she’d have to hear all about it. He’d be the highlight of their day. She scowled.

  He arched a finely-shaped eyebrow. ‘You OK? I didn’t mean to make you feel sick.’

  She blushed, half because of his concern, and half because her fantasy had progressed to the point where he asked her to join him for dinner after her shift at the bank ended. ‘I’m fine. I just have to go.’ She clutched her purse and scuttled off across the parking lot before she could get to the after-dinner phase of her fantasy and embarrass herself further.

  When she’d settled into the driver’s seat of her Escort and secured her seatbelt, she searched for his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He hadn’t moved. She watched as he lit up another cigarette and felt mildly ashamed when she had to repress a smile. She could hit a drive-through. Maybe, if he smoked the whole pack, he’d still be there when she got back.

  ****

  Miraculously, the smoking stranger was still there when Tiffany got back. He was leaning against the brick wall, another lit cigarette in one hand, though he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. Instead, he was staring across the parking lot at the red mustang.

  Tiffany hurriedly ran the small brush she kept in her purse through her shoulder-length brown waves. She didn’t want to look like crap when she came face to face with the mystery man again, but no way was she going to dawdle and risk not being behind the counter, ready to help him when he came in. Tucking the brush away, she smeared a little gloss onto her lips before stepping out of her car, wishing she’d worn mascara.

  ‘The hot guy’, as Tiffany had come to think of him, nodded at her as she neared the steps. Her heart skipped a beat when he reached out to open the door for her. She smiled at him as she stepped through it, and he responded with a heart-melting half-smile of his own. Her heart skipped another beat and sped up dramatically as she forced herself to look away, to return to the counter.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re back,’ Alicia greeted Tiffany as she stepped behind the counter.

  ‘You’re free to go to lunch,’ Tiffany said, plunking her purse down beneath her little section of counter-space. ‘Are you going to try out that new Mexican place today?’ She herself had planned to, but in her eagerness to see the hot guy again, she’d opted for a drive through.

  Alicia didn’t answer.

  ‘Alicia?’ Tiffany looked up to see her staring wide-eyed across the counter.

  ‘Cindy,’ Alicia hissed under her breath, ‘look.’

  Cindy turned in the direction Alicia was staring, and Tiffany did too. Even before she laid eyes on him, a fluttering in the pit of her stomach told her who’d just entered the bank.


  She was right. The handsome stranger had finally abandoned his cigarettes and entered the building. He stood in the lobby, back-lit by the light that streamed through the window panes. It highlighted the natural golden tones in his hair.

  ‘Oooh,’ Cindy crooned. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Alicia said. ‘He must be a new customer.’ Her voice had climbed several octaves with excitement.

  They burst into whispered speculations about his marital status and whether or not he was a local. Perhaps he’d just moved into town, Alicia suggested. Cindy burst into a fit of anticipatory giggles. They both ignored Tiffany.

  Their behavior was not out of the ordinary. After all, Tiffany was Tiffany; practical, down-to-earth Tiffany, who didn’t drive sports cars or date ridiculously handsome men. Heck, she rarely dated, period. Alicia and Cindy both knew she wasn’t one who could be counted on to share their wild enthusiasm and suppositions on an occasion such as this. Normally, anyway. Tiffany smiled in smug satisfaction as they craned their necks in an effort to get a look at the man’s left hand, which he’d buried deep in his jacket pocket. Tiffany had already checked – he wore no ring.

  As if on cue, he stepped forward. He withdrew his left hand from his pocket, and something glinted in the window-light.

  Definitely not a ring.

  Cindy screamed. Several customers cried out in alarm and dropped to the floor. Alicia cursed.

  Tiffany’s mouth went suddenly dry, and her freshly-glossed lips cracked apart as her jaw dropped. The man strode forward purposefully, with the gun raised and pointed directly at her.

  He didn’t stop until he stood directly across the counter from Tiffany, just as he would have done to open a new account. The gun’s dark barrel seemed cavernous, even more magnetic than his gaze. Tiffany stared into it, unable to look away while her mouth worked desperately, trying to force out a protest, or a plea for mercy.

  He reached into one of his jacket’s cargo pockets with his right hand and pulled out something white. ‘Fill it with cash,’ he said, dropping it on the counter. Her hands trembled as she reached down and picked up the pillow case. ‘Fill it!’ he demanded again, his voice suddenly fierce. There was no trace of the smile he’d flashed her just a few minutes ago.

  ‘D-d-do it, Tiffany,’ a voice instructed feebly from somewhere behind the counter, down near the floor. She didn’t have to look to know it was Mark, the branch manager, who had spoken. By a stroke of ill-luck, he’d ventured out of his office and behind the counter to speak to Alicia just before the gunman had entered. A sudden ray of hope struck Tiffany. Where was Cathy, the loan officer? Maybe somewhere else in the building, calling the police?

  But no – she was at lunch. Of course she was. Cathy took lunch at noon, just as Tiffany herself did. Only she had come back early hoping to catch another glimpse of the man who now held her at gunpoint. Her knees wobbled alarmingly, but she gripped the counter and forced herself to stand up straight. If she looked like she was going to run, he might shoot.

  Hands trembling, she opened her register and began to stuff the pillowcase with cash as quickly as she could. She seemed to notice everything at once, even as panic bubbled inside her. The pillowcase, for instance – a faint musky scent was rising from it. Could it be the scent of the man who held her at gunpoint – could this be an actual pillowcase from his bed? The thought left her feeling strangely giddy, a sensation that didn’t go over well with her tight knot of a stomach.

  The gunman followed her with his weapon as she moved over to Alicia’s register, and then Cindy’s, stripping each of them of their contents. When they were all empty, he barked an order at Mark, who opened the vault for Tiffany, sweating and murmuring under his breath as he punched in the code. Once inside, the gunman stood behind Tiffany, watching as she bent over to seize stacks of bills. She was awkwardly conscious of the fact that she was jutting her ass at him, and that he stood only a couple of feet away, as she hefted money into the bag. Close enough to reach out and touch her. Or to shoot her point-blank.

  ‘That’s enough!’ he snapped when the pillowcase was almost full.

  She stopped and stood silently, trembling as she clutched the neck of the heavy sack and inhaled the mixed scents of her attacker’s pillowcase and fresh currency.

  He didn’t take it from her. Instead, he seized her in a tight but rough embrace, holding her from behind with one arm around her neck and the other pressing the gun to her temple. She churned out a silent prayer for mercy. Please don’t let him shoot me, please don’t let him shoot me.

  They emerged from the vault, Tiffany still clutched tightly against his chest while she held onto the bag of money for dear life.

  ‘I’m leaving now,’ he announced to the bank at large. ‘If anyone tries to stop me, I’ll shoot her. If anyone calls the police, I’ll shoot her. If anyone follows us, I’ll blow her brains out.’

  He jerked Tiffany toward the door, and she stumbled along across the floor tiles, helpless as several customers stared after her, wide-eyed.

  A middle-aged woman, one of the bank’s regular customers, was huddled on the lobby floor. The gunman stopped when they reached her, and the woman shook as his shadow fell over her. ‘Give her your purse,’ he commanded. The woman dared to stare up at him. ‘Now! Give her your purse!’ Clearly terrified, she obeyed, and added the weight of her leather handbag to Tiffany’s burden, forcing the strap into her hands before returning to her balled-up position on the floor tiles.

  Tiffany and her captor burst through the doors and onto the brick staircase, where the stink of his cigarette smoke still lingered in the air.

  He pushed against her from behind, causing her to stumble as they descended the steps. His hold around her neck kept her from falling. She fought the urge to drop the money and reach up to massage her aching throat. It would have been impossible anyway, since his thick forearm easily filled the space between her chin and collarbones.

  They stopped at the red mustang. He slammed Tiffany against its side and abandoned his hold around her neck, keeping her pinned against the car with his body weight instead. He was at least six feet tall, and well-muscled – a combination which made him twice as heavy as Tiffany, who was relatively petite. The position forced her to acknowledge something she’d been trying to ignore since he’d first seized her in the vault – a hardness that pressed against the small of her back, grinding slightly against her each time he made even the smallest of movements.

  She had a sudden vision of being raped in front of her co-workers and customers in the parking lot, trapped between the bank robber and the sports car he lusted for. The thought was enough to send hot tears streaming from her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks and dripped onto the glossy red paint of the Mustang, forming little puddles. Her calm exterior had finally cracked.

  He ripped the purse out of her hands, breaking one of her nails. She hadn’t realized she’d been clutching it with all of her strength, bracing herself for the impending assault. A jingling sound came from behind as he dug around in the handbag, apparently in search of something. A moment later, he swung the car door open.

  He seized her arm and shoved her inside. She collapsed onto the passenger seat, trembling with relief that she was finally out from under his body.

  He jumped into the driver’s seat and shoved the key into the ignition. Though her vision was blurred by tears, Tiffany could clearly see the chunky keychain that hung from the keys. It was a plastic frame with a picture of a woman – the woman whose purse the gunman had forced her to take – and her husband standing in front of a waterfall, smiling. Clearly, the mustang had been hers. The robber must have seen her drive up in it as he stood on the steps, smoking.

  The engine roared to life, and Tiffany’s head bounced against the window as the gunman carelessly reversed the car out of its parking space. She was thrown back into the seat as he accelerated and tore out of the parking lot. The buildings that blurred together as they raced by ha
d been replaced by trees by the time the wail of sirens began in the distance. Somebody had finally called the police. She remembered his promise that he would ‘blow her brains out’ and flinched.

  He caught the movement from the corner of his eye. ‘I’m not going to shoot you. I just said that to buy some time.’ The dangerous edge was gone from his voice. How did he manage to sound so calm? God, had he done this before?

  A few tears were still making their way down Tiffany’s face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and resolved not to let any more escape. It was OK. He wasn’t going to shoot her. At least, not yet.

  She risked a glance at the speedometer and discovered that they were traveling at eighty-three miles per hour. The speed limit was only fifty-five. She scrambled to fasten her seatbelt and clutched the edges of the leather seat in a death-grip, breaking another of her nails in the process.

  Her nervous anticipation of a car wreck only lasted so long. Eventually, sitting still and listening to the dull roar of the engine while straining to hear police sirens that had yet to catch up with them became maddening. She had to say something. ‘You chose a really conspicuous getaway vehicle.’ It was the first thing that came to mind, and she blurted it out.

  He laughed. It was a surprisingly rich sound, and for a second, it was almost as if they were back on the bank steps again, making small talk. ‘It’s just a temp,’ he said. ‘It’s fast – that’s what counts. I thought I’d have some fun throwing them off my trail.’

  As if on cue, he veered off of the road in a spray of gravel, pulling into a private drive that was swallowed up after the first few yards by tall, aged pines. It was a bumpy ride, but it lasted for less than a minute. When he stopped, they were in the driveway of a large log cabin, nestled in the secluded forest. There was a dark blue Saturn in the driveway.

  ‘Is this your house?’ Tiffany asked, bewildered. It was a beautiful building – not exactly how she imagined a bank-robber’s den.