by R. J. Blain
The typical time delay on bank safes was fifteen minutes, and if five minutes angered him, another ten would shove him right over the edge, getting someone—or a lot of someones—killed.
I really didn’t want to die because of an idiot bank robber who couldn’t tell the difference between fishnet stockings and pantyhose. Cooperation might buy us time for help to come. With so many lives on the line, I foresaw the man’s death if he didn’t take the money and run. Even if he did make a run for it, unless he dropped the gun, I doubted things would work out in his favor.
Too bad, so sad.
Playing along with the whole paying off the bank robber thing left a bad taste in my mouth, but I went through the motions. Who kept much cash, anyway? Most cabbies took cards, and I didn’t take the bus. Either Dad drove me, I drove myself, or he found someone to give me a ride.
It was like he expected someone to kidnap me again or something.
Between all of us, there was five hundred dollars and a lot of deposit receipts to prove no one had withdrawn much money. Mr. Fishnet Stockings didn’t have the sense to isolate the wealthy or those with higher amounts of cash to withdraw. A couple of visits to the ATM would’ve made him thousands richer.
At the ten-minute mark, the rumble of engines and the flash of red and blue announced the arrival of the police. The lack of sirens didn’t surprise me, although many of my fellow hostages seemed startled by the quiet.
Sirens tripped triggers, and when armed bank robbers had their triggers tripped, people got hurt.
Mr. Fishnet Stockings turned to the window, lifted his rifle, and opened fire. The blast of gunfire echoed and was accompanied by the cracking of glass. The window resisted the first few rounds before it broke apart.
Idiot bank managers. Bulletproof glass decayed with exposure to sunlight. It needed to be replaced every year or so, or else it broke, not much stronger than regular glass.
Someone screamed, and others both inside and outside of the bank joined in.
“Quiet. Be quiet!” Mr. Fishnet Stockings shrieked. Firing off a few more rounds, he backed away from the window, turning his attention to the manager. “Open the safe.”
The woman flinched, her blue eyes focusing on the wall clock. “Five more minutes, sir.”
The robber cursed and pointed at three of the tellers. “You, you, and you. Get the bank cards and pull cash from their accounts.” His attention turned to the rest of us. “Give them your PINs. Hurry it up. Lie, and you won’t live to regret it.”
Maybe he wasn’t quite as stupid as I had thought or firing his gun had rattled something in his head or rubbed his only two brain cells together. As long as people cooperated, maybe we’d survive—if he didn’t realize we all knew exactly what he looked like. I wouldn’t say a word to bring that to his attention, and I hoped no one else would, either.
The tellers claimed a bank card from each of us, and with the man following, gun held at the ready, they headed for the ATM machines. He halted before reaching the windows, out of line of sight of anyone who might want to snipe him.
“Tell the cops if they try to talk, I’ll put a bullet in your heads.”
The three women exchanged looks, and the oldest of them, middle-aged with a hint of gray in her dark hair, relayed the man’s orders. Without the ability to negotiate, I had no idea what would happen. I suspected lethal force would be used the instant an opportunity presented itself.
“Tell them it’s ten thousand per hostage, non-negotiable. They have five hours. After that, I start killing someone every five minutes. Any attempts to talk, and I’ll kill someone. Mark the bills and someone dies. If anyone approaches without my cash or is armed, someone dies. Tell them!”
Great. Not only was he an idiot, he’d put enough thought into his plan to be an extremely dangerous idiot. I closed my eyes and let out a silent sigh.
I lived in America, the land of the free and the home of the brave. Unfortunately, it was also the land of the desperate, and desperate men did things like rob banks with a rifle and make threats to gain a great deal of wealth.
At least I could tell Dad my head was worth ten thousand. He’d lose his cool, and I’d enjoy watching the implosion. Then again, if I escaped alive, I expected he would lock me in his basement for the rest of my life to keep me safe.
The tellers handled the situation far better than I thought they would, relaying Mr. Fishnet Stockings’ demands and withdrawing cash from the ATMs.
A woman in her mid-twenties scooted closer to me, her gaze locked on the bank robber turned mass kidnapper. “Who did you send those photos to?” she whispered.
“My mother,” I whispered back. “She’s friends with some cops.”
After a lifetime of living with Fenerec capable of telling the truth from lies when they paid attention to their noses, I’d gotten used to lying through omission. Every word I spoke was the truth.
Technically, she was even friends with Dad, although a lot more than friendship bound them together.
“Get the full layout of the bank?”
“As much as I could.”
“Smart kid. That’ll help.”
Something about the confidence in her whispered tone tipped me off she was more than she appeared. “Law enforcement?”
“Do I look like I’m in a uniform? Do you see a badge?” She snorted. “What do you think of him?”
Mr. Fishnet Stockings took care to stay out of the line of fire; he mostly kept close to us hostages, ensuring a single stray round would hit someone. Disliking the truth wouldn’t change anything.
“Shallow end of the gene pool, smart enough to watch television, too stupid to know the point of pantyhose during a heist. He’s handled a gun before but isn’t disciplined enough to be former or active military.” I clenched my teeth. “Could be a law enforcement washout, but I’d go with psychotic gun enthusiast in a corner. Maybe a druggie, but early in addiction.” I shut my mouth when he turned to face us, every muscle in my body tensing.
“Against the wall,” Mr. Fishnet Stockings barked, sweeping his gun over us.
A few cringed away from the weapon, and while his attention was focused on them, I got to my feet, shuffling backwards to hide my phone’s presence. The woman shielded me, keeping close during the move.
After another pass of his gun, he ordered us to sit.
I obeyed, wondering when the first hostage would decide to play hero and attempt to take out an armed lunatic. That someone hadn’t already tried offered me the illusion of hope. So far, no one in the bank had been killed. The standoff would continue until a sniper outside could take a shot, Mr. Fishnet Stockings surrendered, or the police judged the risk of assaulting the bank worth the lives they could save.
I doubted there’d be any ransom paid. Paying ransom only encouraged people to take hostages.
The woman made herself comfortable beside me, stretching out her legs. “He’s probably desperate and cornered in a situation he doesn’t think he can escape from. He’s smart enough to understand if he negotiates, he won’t get what he needs—cash. The drug angle could be right, but I think it’s more than just owing someone money or needing another hit. Doesn’t look like the type to have hundreds of thousands of drug debt. Medical debt is more likely, but for someone else, not him. Perhaps an expensive prescription for a wife, child, or other family member.”
“Or he’s just tired of being desperate. Maybe he has nothing to lose. If it’s medical debt, maybe his wife or child died,” I speculated. Why did we humanize someone who could easily kill us? “Giving him a story won’t change anything, not when he’ll start shooting if the cops attempt to negotiate. It won’t change what will happen if someone gets shot.”
“Negotiation is all about finding that story and using it to appeal to their better nature.”
“If he has one,” I muttered.
“That’s always a concern. Then it’s the negotiator’s job to save as many lives as possible.”
“Please tell m
e you aren’t a negotiator.”
“I’m the ‘go in with guns blazing’ woman. I’m also the one they like to send in because I’m a pretty girl. No one wants to shoot a pretty girl. In this case, I’d be the one they’d send in with the cash, expecting me to get an inside look.”
“Martial arts?”
“I attend the school of whatever works.” Her tone turned amused. “This is the calmest batch of hostages I’ve ever seen. Do they put sedatives in the water here or something?”
“Not from around here?”
“I’m from Tucson.”
“Just be happy there isn’t a Texan gunslinger in the crowd.”
She grimaced. “Trust me, I am. Good way to get shot. I don’t have a problem with smart, armed civilians, but too often, a good guy with a gun looks exactly the same as a bad guy with a gun. Wiser to keep the guns hidden.”
“Armed?”
“I wish. I’m good enough to take the shot. Unfortunately, I’m on vacation outside of my jurisdiction. I left my other wallet at home.”
I understood. “Not much we can do other than wait, then.”
“Right. Got a name, kid?”
“Dustin. You?”
“Holly.” She nodded down the line to a young man near the end. “That’s my boyfriend, Barry. He’s the negotiator, and he’s also my partner.”
“Oh, great. The force is just going to love this. Two off-duty cops are hostages?”
“Four. A pair who came with us is here, too.”
“How wonderful. None of you are armed?”
“We weren’t expecting a bank robbery today, sorry. We were expecting to go to the casino, catch a few shows, and eat dinner.”
“I’m thinking about liberating something from Dad’s liquor cabinet while pretending I’m over the age of twenty-one tonight.”
At least a hangover would distract me from reality. Then again I’d be lucky to steal a single shot, knowing how overprotective Dad would get—assuming I survived.
Again.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Appreciated. Assuming you did try something, what would you do?”
“Disarm and restrain him. With a gun that powerful, we’d have to get the perfect chance. I’m not counting on it. They’ll likely go for a sniper shot if he doesn’t decide to start talking.” Holly sighed. “What’s your story, Dustin?”
“I was depositing a check so I could pay for schoolbooks.”
“Ah. College?”
“Apparently.” I pointed at my sling. “I’m slated to redo a semester thanks to this. I withdrew this week. At least I got first crack at course selection for next semester.”
“Tough luck. What are you taking?”
“Criminal law,” I murmured. “I’ve been informed I’ll pursue a minor in Forensic Sciences if I know what’s good for me.” I grimaced a little at the annoyance in my tone. “I’m going along with it since it’s useful for trying cases in court.”
“Lawyer?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Tough job. Expensive degree, too.”
One advantage of contracting a serious case of witchcraft was full payment of my tuition. The Inquisition needed witches in all parts of government, especially where Fenerec served. They, my parents included, wanted me on the force.
I wanted to serve in court, and I wasn’t ready to yield to their wishes quite yet.
Tacking on a Forensic Sciences minor made them think they had the upper hand while I used their money to pay for my education. Dad probably understood it’d take a lot more than money to change my mind.
Holly nodded towards Mr. Fishnet Stockings. “And if you were asked to defend him in a court of law?”
“That’s the wrong question,” I countered.
“Oh?”
“Everyone knows he’s guilty. I wouldn’t be defending his innocence. I would be working to ensure the punishment fit the crime. We live in a society where thieves can face years in prison, sometimes over something worth less than a thousand dollars. We live in a society where killers walk free after a year. On the defense, my job isn’t just to prove guilt or innocence, but to ensure my client has the best chance possible of a life after prison. That’s hard work.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Why become a lawyer?”
“You cops do the heavy lifting. Us lawyer types just want to finish the job—and get paid better while we do it.”
“You’ve got a smart mouth on you.”
“You should hear me when I’m pissed.”
“You’re not?”
“No point in it right now. I’ll wait to get pissed later when I can do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“I figure I’ll take it out on a punching bag or on Dad. He likes it when I’m stupid enough to hit the mat with him.”
“With that arm?”
“I’ve got feet.”
“What sort of martial arts?”
“I like calling mine the school of self-preservation. I practice to avoid a beatdown from Dad.”
“Belt?”
“Black and blue.”
Holly laughed.
Four hours went by without anyone getting shot. Mr. Fishnet Stockings paced like a caged animal, clutching his rifle like a lifeline. The murmur of conversation among the other hostages worried me. Someone among us was likely plotting something reckless, insane, and sure to get us all killed.
Without access to my painkillers, my arm throbbed. I’d end up battling a worsened infection, as I’d already missed one dose of my antibiotics and would miss the next one, too. To make matters worse, I hadn’t taken the little white pill the Inquisition prescribed to keep my budding witchcraft in check. I’d already manifested a few times at home during the worst parts of my fever, and I recognized trouble brewing.
I could hear the water in the pipes overhead, as well as the faint drip of something leaking in the wall behind me. So much sweat on skin nearby made me shudder. Some part of me, the same part responsible for my awareness of sharks, recognized the fear pumping through those around me.
According to the other witches, I wasn’t supposed to be sensing anything at all yet, but I did. Without the Inquisition’s little white pill, my head hurt from the constant barrage of noise only I could hear. Worse, other things slipped through, things I didn’t want to know about.
While Holly seemed calm on the outside, her rage boiled inside her, and she fought herself along with the urge to put an end to the hostage situation with her own hands—no, her own claws.
I sat beside a Fenerec, and if something didn’t change soon she would lose control. If she did, the Inquisition would be forced to act. Mr. Fishnet Stockings remained a threat, but the woman beside me could kill us all if she lost control over her wolf.
Before the little white pills, I had sensed my father’s wolf, too, as though he and my father existed as more than two beings trapped in one body. They didn’t fight each other, not the way Holly struggled against hers.
Great. Just great. A bank robbery was one thing, but what the hell could I do to keep a lid on an infuriated werewolf? Fenerec from other packs often visited Vegas, but Dad made a point of being very careful about which bitches I met.
He had one rule: no sleeping with Fenerec bitches until I was twenty-one. I found the rule ridiculous, but Dad often took things to the extreme. Some rules were meant to be broken, and if he thought I’d say no when a pretty girl was saying yes, he was crazy.
At least I had the whole condom thing figured out. I had plans, and they didn’t include a wife or kids yet. One day they would, but I had dreams to catch first. Then again, my plans hadn’t included developing my mother’s witchcraft, either.
I reined in my thoughts and reevaluated my priorities. First, I needed to survive the bank robbery, then I’d become a lawyer, and then I’d find a nice girl and have all the kids she wanted. If I could find a way, I’d toss ‘become a Fenerec’ into the lineup too, but
that one would take work.
The Inquisition really didn’t want witches to become werewolves. Finding a way without getting executed for it would be a challenge for another day.
I turned my attention to Holly. How could I cool—or focus—her temper without setting her off or drawing Mr. Fishnet Stockings’s ire? A Fenerec stood a good chance of surviving a rifle round. I didn’t. I also lacked a general immunity to the brute strength Fenerec possessed when they called on their wolves.
“What do you think?” I whispered, giving a subtle nod to the clock.
“I think the cops out there are going to get a lot of people killed,” she growled through clenched teeth.
If I emerged with so much as a single scratch, Dad would need to be sedated. Mom would try to burn the whole place down. Nothing would protect Holly if either one of them thought she held any responsibility for the situation.
I really didn’t need more problems to worry about. I had enough without worrying my father would kill a Fenerec for sitting next to me during a bank heist. Of all the things to obsess over, couldn’t I have picked something a bit more relevant?
Figuring out how to stop Mr. Fishnet Stockings without getting shot would be a good start.
“Don’t underestimate the Vegas cops. They’re good guys. They’re good guys being really careful right now.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It has something to do with my mother being married to the Chief of Police. They get a little oversensitive about those sorts of things. Mr. Fishnet Stockings over there likely has them flustered over how someone so stupid could be so dangerous, but hey, that’s not my fault. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Playing the cop kid card doused Holly’s rage, and a different emotion took over. It took me a few moments to recognize the sensation as a blend of surprise and growing worry. Then, something clicked, and her Fenerec instincts took over, her need to protect rising to the surface.
I could deal with overprotective. As long as I stayed safe, she’d hover. Being classified as a puppy by the bitch annoyed me, but I’d use it to my advantage. Then again, to her, I seemed that young. When it came to Fenerec, age meant little.
