by Blou Bryant
Chapter 7
Wyatt rubbed the wetness off of his face with hands covered in dark red blood. Golde was on tip-toes between the two gun-wielding officers whose weapons were pointed directly at each-other. “Drop it,” Lewis yelled at Frankie.
Frankie waved his gun back, and tried to avoid aiming it at Golde, who swung back and forth as Lewis yanked on his hand to keep him in place.
“You put it down, put it down,” Frankie yelled back, panicked.
Wyatt tried to push Wilbur off of him. He considered a kick at the brown-shirted officer’s legs, knowing that the man was close to doing something stupid, so frantic was the sound of his voice.
As he slid out from under Wilbur, he saw Lewis give a hard twist to Golde’s arm, leading to another scream and more cracking sounds. Frankie dropped his gun, his face white and he stepped back against the wall behind him. His shirt was drenched with sweat under the armpits and down his sides.
Wyatt pushed himself up onto his knees. It was difficult while still cuffed, but he managed to get up over Wilbur. He put both hands over the hole in Wilbur’s chest to stop the bleeding, except there didn’t seem to be any. How had this gone so bad so fast? If I’d only stayed home, he thought to himself as he gave CPR. Only a small amount of blood came out as he pushed down on the old man.
Wyatt counted out the beats as he pushed down hard on Wilbur’s chest again and again. He felt at least one rib snap under the pressure and winced, but kept going. He was at twenty-three when Lewis said, “Stop.”
Lewis, still held a sobbing Golde, said “It’s too late for him. Get up and get the back door.”
Wyatt ignored him, and continued to push down on Wilbur with mathematical rhythm, one beat, one beat, one beat. He leaned in to give mouth to mouth and stopped when he saw Wilbur’s eyes were blank, the spark was gone. The man who’d tried to help him, the man who listened to him, was dead. It’s because of me, Wyatt thought. I got in the way, I froze when it mattered, I cared more about myself than him, and I should have listened. Tears came to his eyes.
“Wyatt!” said Lewis, trying to break him out of his thoughts. Wyatt looked up at the big man who slowly moved to his right, keeping Golde between him and Frankie. “Stand up,” Lewis said.
“I got him killed. It’s my fault.”
“Get the backdoor.”
Wyatt looked up at Lewis, “I got him killed!” He started to say more and then stopped as the room began to whirl. Dizzy. He hiccupped and closed his eyes, putting his head down to try to stop the spinning. His breathing was quick, too quick.
“Wyatt, you’re having a panic attack. Stop breathing so fast. Focus.”
I can’t, he thought. He knew his breath was coming too fast and that he was in a state of shock. He should focus, control his breath, just as his coach trained to do, but he couldn’t, none of it mattered, and the cause prevented the cure. He almost passed out when jolted out of his thoughts by a hard kick to the side by Lewis. He fell to the floor.
As he got half-way back up, his stomach turned over. Wyatt leaned to the left. Rather than hold back, let go, and vomited under the counter. Deep breath, take one deep breath, he thought. He spat the last chunks out of his mouth as the smell of blood filled his nostrils. A second breath and he could talk again. “Thanks for the kick,” he said, and he meant it.
Lewis said, “Better?”
Wyatt focused. One, he counted and said, “Yes. I can get up.” Two, he stood up and let out the breath. Three, he glanced at the corpse of Wilbur and a hateful look at Golde, he walked to the backdoor. “Are we going to leave?”
“Yes, but not that way. Close the door and lock it.”
“Then we’re trapped.”
“We’re already trapped. We go out the front. I want to know nobody is behind us.”
Wyatt closed and locked the door and looked back at the room. Time for a new list. One, get Golde’s gun, two, shoot him. Three, drop it to the ground and let the police take him. If he was going to prison for murder anyway, why not kill someone who deserved it. He started to walk forward when the door to the kitchen opened and two police officers came through, guns drawn. Wyatt put his hands up instinctively.
Lewis had moved sufficiently to the right that both Frankie and Golde were between him and the door. “I have hostages, get out, get out,” Lewis shouted. The men froze in the entryway.
“Tell them to leave,” he said to Golde. When the man didn’t reply he twisted his hand hard enough to get a whimper. “Tell them,” he repeated.
Lewis gave another twist and was rewarded when Golde yelled, “Do as he says.” The two police officers backed out.
Wyatt focused on Lewis, trying to keep his equilibrium. “So, what’s the plan? We walk out the front door?”
“Sounds about right,” said Lewis. He waved the gun at Frankie. “Get to the door. Stay in front of us. Any quick moves and a bullet hits you.”
Golde had stopped whimpering and looked back, his face purple and contorted with hate, “Are you insane? Are you living in some dream world where you’ll get out of this alive? Any of these men would take a bullet for me.”
“I’ll make sure they don’t have to.”
“Shoot me and you’re dead. Surrender, I’ll make sure you get a trial. Run and every cop in the country will be on the hunt for you. Nobody will believe your story.”
“I’ll tell the truth.”
“You’re a fool, in what world does anyone trust a football star? You guys are all criminals, druggies and wife-beaters, every day another one of you is on the front page. I’ll say you shot first and that it was you that shot Wilbur and then panicked.”
“I’m a cop, they’ll believe me.”
Golde laughed, “Nobody trusts cops anymore either. That’s why I have the contracts I have.”
Lewis replied, “You’re a CEO, I don’t think you’ll win any popularity contests either.”
“No, but my lawyers and my spin doctors will make sure I do. We can still finish this without you dead, just leave me the kid, he can take the rap for both deaths. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of for life. Hell, I’ll make you a hero. If you don’t, you’ll be dead.”
“Dead is ok, right is right. And, Mr. Golde,” Lewis said, his voice cold, “If anyone tries to take us, the bullet that kills Frankie will go through you first.” He looked back and said, “Get in closer, behind me.”
Wyatt eyeballed the gun on the ground and started to bend over to pick it up, but stopped when Lewis said, “Leave it there,” without even a glance back at him. “Now, hug my ass like you’re about to take a hand-off on the one yard line.”
“What?”
Lewis said, “Are you the only American guy who doesn’t understand that? Just stay right behind me” He pointed to the door, and said to Frankie, “Walk, slow though, dead slow. If not…” With that, the group started forward.
Wyatt took one last look at the body on the floor. No, it’s not a body, he thought, it’s not a thing, it’s a person, it’s Wilbur, a kind man, a man with a long life cut short because I didn’t do good enough. He took in a deep breath and counted out his steps as the small group moved in a single line back into the main restaurant.
Lewis shouted as they passed through, “Don’t shoot, I’ve got a hostage. Golde, tell them!”
Golde didn’t hesitate this time and said, “Do what he says. Any man who gets me shot gets shot himself.”
Wyatt could see at least four men in the restaurant, all in brown uniforms, weapons drawn. The kitchen entrance was directly across from the main doors and the group inched forward. He saw movement out of the corner of his right eye and tapped Lewis on the back, “You’ve got incoming, four-o’clock.”
Wyatt heard a click, Lewis had cocked his weapon. “Hey, buddy,” he said with a glare at the guy, “Do you think you’ll save your boss by taking me out?”
The officer didn’t reply but froze in place.
“It’ll get him an automatic bullet unless you manage to hit me right
at the base of my brain. If you miss, I’ll automatically clench my finger and a bullet will go through his nice suit. You might have noticed my gun is pointed at his back, center of his spine, the fourth cervical vertebrae. It won’t kill him, but it’ll mess up his life bad. He won’t walk again and he won’t ever breath on his own either. Do you want to be the guy who got him shot?” The brown-suited officer lowered his weapon. “Good. Now, all of you, out. Get out.”
Two officers moved towards the exit and Lewis said, “No, not the door. The window,” he said and nodded at where he’d tossed the other man out. Slowly, all four exited the building.
With that, the group continued their slow trek. Wyatt counted three police cars out front and knew there were at least two out back. There was a crowd of former patrons on the right, next to the eighteen wheelers. Two officers watched them, now joined by the four who had been inside restaurant. He saw Jessica standing between her car and a vehicle stenciled with ‘Service Inc.’ on the side. One of the police cars. Jessica was on her phone.
Damn but she looked good in the swirling red and blues lights of the cars, thought Wyatt, before wincing in disgust at his reaction. He searched for Ford but didn’t see him, or Hannah for that matter. He turned his attention back to the girl in the strobe lights. “Jessica,” he yelled.
She turned and looked at the group. “Daddy,” she cried out, ignored Wyatt’s shout, and ran forward but stopped when Lewis raised his gun so she could see it, pointed at her father’s head.
Wyatt said, “Don’t come any closer. We have your father, this police officer has arrested him,” he lied.
She still didn’t pay him any attention. “Daddy, are you all-right?”
Golde winced and nodded. “I’ll be fine. But, honey,”
“Yes?”
“Next time you want to kidnap someone, tell me first?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, demurely.
Wyatt stepped out from behind Lewis. “Where is Ford?”
Jessica finally noticed him. “Hi, Ford is in the car,” she said, in her sing-song voice. “How are you?” Her smile filled her face, corner to corner.
He ignored her. With difficulty, he looked away and took in their situation. The officers all had their weapons drawn and were behind the cover of their vehicles. The two who had guarded the crowd now pointed their weapons at him and Lewis. The only reason the two were still alive was the gun pointed at Golde’s back.
“You’re surrounded; do you believe you’ll get out of this?” asked the CEO.
Lewis ignored him. “Wyatt, pull in close,” he said and at the same time pulled Golde back up against him, “Don’t give them an easy target.”
He didn’t like the guns aimed at him and quickly complied. “What do we do?” he whispered.
Lewis turned his head just a bit and whispered back, “I don’t know. Any thoughts?”
Wyatt took one more long breath and then felt a calm come over him. He no longer needed to focus on his breath. Wilbur’s blood not yet dry on his hands, at least six guns pointed at him, and yet he was at peace in the moment. He was able to visualize everyone around him, the restaurant behind, could feel the heat of the still-running police cars, and the energy of the crowd, who watched in the hope of blood.
He closed his eyes and visualized the situation, examined the players like he would pieces on a chess board. He weighed option after option, and mentally moved the pieces towards a solution again and again, but discarded each one just as quickly as they appeared. Run? No, that led to quick death. Shoot it out? That wasn’t in his hands and no matter how fast Lewis was, they were in the open. Take the hostages and pull an O.J.? Wyatt was no longer under the illusion that truth would win out. Money was power and influence trumped honest words.
His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it. Lewis poked him with his left elbow. “Take the radio off of my belt, we’ll call this in and get the Sheriff to sort things out.”
He didn’t respond at first and rejected that option as well, the Sheriff had already made his decision when he’d left the scene, in his own county, to Golde and his deputies. Finally, he decided on a course of action, opened his eyes, and whispered, “No, we can’t call this in yet, not from here, not now. Your Sheriff won’t believe you or me against Golde and his men. I have an idea, but I need you to stay calm and don’t make any movements, it may get crazy.”
He let go of Lewis’ belt, took a step back and looked to the gathered crowd of truck drivers, night workers and local insomniacs. They were working class, to a man, all wearing jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps. Their eyes were wide as they watched the scene, several with their phones out, recording every minute of the confrontation for posterity and the internet.
“Record this,” Wyatt yelled out. “Cops are shaking down this American hero for money.”
“What are you doing?” asked Lewis under his breath.
“Quiet,” said Wyatt. “You said to trust you and I will. Now it’s your turn to trust me.” He addressed the crowd again. “They shot Wilbur when he got in the way.”
Two people shouted out, “No!” Most of the others looked stricken, some angry. Wilbur had obviously been well liked.
The man that Lewis had thrown through the window stepped forward, “What hero?”
“Don’t you recognize him,” asked Wyatt in a loud voice, and pointed at Lewis.
Another man, further back in the crowd, shouted out, “I know him, he’s Lewis Stanhope.”
Checkered shirt looked at Lewis, then back at the crowd, “No way, are you kidding me? “Man, I saw him take a return from his own five-yard line last year, all the way, won’t ever forget that. I got beat up and arrested by Lewis Stanhope? That’s awesome, my buddies will lose it when they hear.”
“You’re not arrested anymore,” replied Lewis.
The trucker replied, “Cops took cuffs off. Told me to get on my way but I decided to stay, glad I did. What’s up, Stanhope?”
Another man shouted out, “He’s a war hero too, why are cops on him?”
Lewis whispered, “I’m not a war hero,” over his shoulder to Wyatt, who touched him on the back, a gesture to suggest that he keep quiet.
Wyatt yelled, “That’s right, he’s a hero. Cops wanted money.”
Golde twisted under Lewis’s grip and whimpered as the big man tightened his hold on the other mans twisted arm. “I don’t need money, I’m rich,” he shouted to the crowd.
“Rich people always want more,” someone shouted back. “I saw on a website that you guys are government, trying to take the kid because he knows you’re crooked. It’s just posted.”
It wasn’t a surprise to Wyatt. Joe was helping him, publishing information to the internet. He knew how people felt about the rich and the police and yelled, “How many of you have been pulled over by cops looking to make some cash? You know they do, they take your car for one joint, and they take the cash you don’t trust the banks to keep, and say you didn’t earn it.”
Others in the crowd were nodding agreement, Wyatt could see they believed him. Authorities had frittered away the trust of the people through scandal after scandal. People had been lied to so often that the truth wasn’t something they believed in anymore. More phones had come out to record the scene.
Now he needed to push it over the line. “Record it all, watch as they shoot him because he knows they’re crooked. Show the world how we died.” The private police force looked back and forth from Wyatt to Golde and the crowd, clearly scared and out of their depth.
Golde himself was pale and drenched with sweat and looked incredulous at the turn of events. “What the…” he started and then loudly said to his men, “Just shoot all these bastards, shoot anyone who gets in the way.” His officers didn’t respond, there were simply too many people, too many threats, and their boss had a gun to his back.
Wyatt heard a distinct click to his right and saw the trucker wearing the checkered shirt had drawn his gun. He pointed it at the office
rs and said, “Shouldn’t have given me my gun back, but I know my rights and you won’t to shoot an American hero while I’m still standing. Government needs to learn it’s our country. People needed to stand up.”
The police officers watching the crowd appeared terrified. They lowered their weapons in surrender. None of them were going to be the one who shot first. Golde looked at the trucker with hate in his eyes. “Fine you can die too.”
Two more clicks, further back in the crowd. “Going to kill me too, you dirty bastard?” someone yelled. Another voice said, “Are you going to kill us all? I’m streaming this, even you dirty cops can’t cover it up.”
Golde’s face was red, “I’m the authority here, I’m in charge.”
Another man stepped up, a large ‘American Made’ shirt filled out by a broad belly, sweat stains under his arms that extended in half-moons under his chest. “Authority comes from the people. And we’re the people, rich guy.” He had a gun holstered on his hip. “We know our rights,” he said as he pulled the weapon and clicked back the hammer.
Several others had pulled their own weapons, and the crowd and had spread out, excitement on most of their faces. A few people retreated behind a truck, but most looked like they were ready for violence.
As Wyatt tried to figure out where to go from there, Jessica stepped back. “This is fun, but I have somewhere to be.” She walked around the cruiser on the right side and gently pushed the officer away from the door and opened it.
“You can’t leave, they won’t let you” Wyatt said, but it was an empty threat and he knew it.
“Of course I can. They won’t shoot a girl, will you, boys?” she asked the crowd, with a flip of her hair and a broad grin.
“No ma’am,” not a small number of voices answered from the crowd.
“I didn’t think so, sweeties. Daddy, I’m so sorry for this mess, but I do need to go. I hope this works out for you, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
Wyatt stood still, cautious not to make any sudden movements with all the drawn weapons around him. He saw Hannah in the back-seat of Jessica’s car, her mouth was open as if she was shouting, but the car was secure enough that he couldn’t hear a word.
