by J. S. Carol
He turned back to Natasha and the accountant.
‘Now, to keep this fair, I’m going to give each of you thirty seconds to persuade Mr Head Sheep here that you deserve to live.’ The bomber looked at the accountant. ‘Okay, you’re up first.’
‘Please don’t kill me,’ he whispered.
‘It’s not me you need to convince. It’s Mr Head Sheep over there.’
The accountant glanced guiltily at Natasha, then looked at Richards.
‘I have a wife and two children.’ His voice was shaking, the words as fragile as eggshells. ‘My little boy’s only three months old. I want to see him grow up. I want to see both my kids grow up. Please, I’m begging you here, don’t kill me.’
The bomber did a slow handclap. ‘I’m impressed. Playing the kid card was a nice touch. Our director friend here is going to have to come up with something very special to beat that.’ He turned to Natasha. ‘Okay, your turn.’
Natasha pulled herself up to her full height and stared at the bomber. Her cheeks were wet and shiny and her arms hung loosely by her sides. ‘No.’
The bomber stepped closer and cocked his head to one side. Natasha flinched, but stood her ground.
‘I’m not doing this,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not playing your games.’
‘And that’s where you’re wrong. Whether you like it or not, you’re already playing. Darling, right now you’re dancing to whatever tune I decide you’re going to dance to. Say something or don’t say anything, it makes no difference to me.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Now, is there anything you want to say to Mr Head Sheep?’
Natasha stared straight ahead. No words, no gestures, not even a nod or a shake of the head.
‘Okay, then.’ The bomber turned his attention to Richards. ‘It’s decision time. Who lives and who dies?’
‘Please don’t make me do this,’ Richards whispered.
‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Please. I can’t do this.’
‘Fine, I’ll shoot them both.’ The gun rocked back and forth between Natasha and the accountant, like a pendulum. Tick tock, tick tock. ‘If it helps, look at this as an opportunity to save one of them.’
‘Wait,’ Richards called out.
‘You’ve made a decision?’
The actor nodded and closed his eyes. ‘Natasha,’ he said quietly.
‘And just so we’re absolutely clear. You want her to live?’
Richards nodded again, then glanced at the accountant and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’ He looked like he wanted to say more but just didn’t have the words. He dipped his head and closed his eyes. His face was soaked with tears. The way he did this made JJ think of a scared child. If you can’t see the bad thing, then the bad thing can’t see you.
The accountant sprang suddenly to his feet and made a run for the stairs that led down to the lower level. His legs and arms were pumping, his eyes wild and desperate. The bomber slowly raised his gun, taking his time. JJ couldn’t bear to watch. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
The bullet slammed into the accountant’s back, bursting through his chest in a bloody shower of tissue and gore. His arms flew up in the air and he crashed into a table, sending plates and glasses tumbling onto the parquet floor. The candle fell, too, extinguishing itself before it hit the ground. The accountant lay balanced on the table for a moment, then slid slowly downwards before finally coming to rest draped across a chair.
JJ stared in disbelief, an irrational swirl of guilt burning through her gut. Crazy though it was, she felt responsible, like she’d pulled the trigger. This was someone she didn’t know, someone she’d written off as not worth knowing, but that didn’t mean his life hadn’t been worth anything. This guy had been a father and a husband. He’d been loved and he would be mourned. But the biggest tragedy of all was that there was a little boy out there who would never get to know his daddy.
5
Alex King closed the door then sank down to the floor and tried to work out what the hell he was going to do now. The bomber had started killing people. So far there were two dead and counting. King had seen enough hostage films to know that they’d moved up to the next level. When the killing started, that changed everything.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he was not going to die in this restroom. He was the nine-life cat. He redefined the whole concept of lucky. He hadn’t survived his shitty childhood to end up dying here. Right now he hated JJ more than he’d ever hated anyone. Even more than he’d hated his mom, and that was saying something. This was all JJ’s fault. He hadn’t wanted to come to Alfie’s, but she’d insisted. She’d told him to jump and he’d jumped right to it. Well, she was going to get those front pages she wanted so badly. Only he doubted this was how she’d imagined things playing out.
King had celebrated New Year’s on Saint Kitts, sitting by the pool, welcoming in the New Year with a drink in his hand, while he’d stared into a future that was so bright it was blinding. Man, that had been one hell of a party. The holiday was supposed to mark the start of his new life, the one he’d been dreaming about ever since he’d escaped from Ohio. And up until now, everything had been cool. Killing Time had been a blockbuster and the offers had come flooding in. In a word, life was awesome.
And now this. It was just so messed up, and so freaking unfair. How could things be going so amazingly well one second, and so shittily the next? Not. Freaking. Fair. He could feel the dark thoughts pushing in on him again, crushing him. Everything in his world was either black or white. There were no shades of grey. When things were going well, everything was golden. And when things turned to shit, well, all he saw was darkness.
He fished the small Ziploc bag from his jeans and looked at it for a moment. In places, the plastic had gone white and rough from having been inside his pocket for so long. It would be so easy. One snort and he would immediately feel better. But he wasn’t going to do that.
Forty-three days and counting.
The first thing he’d done after deciding to go clean was to measure out enough coke for one decent-sized hit. That’s what was in the bag. The rest of his stash had gone down the toilet. Since that day, he’d taken the bag out plenty of times and just stared at it, like he was doing now, but he’d never opened it. Not once. And he had no intention of opening it now. That little bag of powder might promise answers, but the reality was that those answers were built from lies.
He put the bag back into his pocket. Rehab might work for some people, but it wouldn’t have worked for him. This way did work. Every time the bag went back into his pocket it reconfirmed the promise he’d made to himself forty-three days ago that he was never going to touch this shit ever again.
King shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. Observing the length of the inhale, observing the exhale, just like his yoga instructor had taught him. While he did this he repeated the words ‘nine-life cat’ in his head, turning it into a mantra. Until this was over he needed to find a place where he could park all his anger and negativity. He needed to keep hold of the positives. That was how he was going to survive this.
He let out a long sigh and opened his eyes. Then he took out his cell phone. There were ten missed calls from his agent, and another three from a number he didn’t recognise. He considered calling it, then decided not to. No doubt it was a fan who’d got hold of his number. It was a total bummer when that happened. King had lost count of how many cell numbers he’d gone through.
He brought up his contacts list, then scrolled through the names. One jumped out. He hadn’t spoken to this person in years. The truth was that they’d probably never want to speak to him again, which was nothing less than he deserved. Even so, whenever he got a new phone he made sure this number was on it.
King hesitated, then pulled up the text box and typed: love u. alex x. Before he could change his mind, he hit send. He knew he was acting impulsively, that he wasn’t playing fair, but he needed to reach out to someone, anyone.
If the worst happened, then it wouldn’t matter. And if he did survive, he’d deal with the fallout then.
He shut his eyes and a picture of his ex jumped into his mind. It was a lazy Sunday morning and they’d just made love. The sun was creeping around the edges of the cheap drapes and the world on the other side of the bedroom door had ceased to exist.
Gold light painting skin.
The smell of coffee and toast.
A perfect moment.
King put his cell away, cracked the door open and tried to tune in to whatever was happening out there. Everything seemed quiet for now. He shut the door, then slid down to the floor and went back to work on the question he’d asked himself earlier.
What the hell was he going to do now?
6
News of the hostage situation had just broken but there was already a crowd of more than fifty people outside Alfie’s. Thirty or so pushing up against the barrier at Rob’s end of the street, and at least another twenty at the other end. And this was just the start. Within an hour the crowd would have trebled, perhaps even quadrupled. There was nothing like a disaster in the making to get the ghouls and the rubberneckers crawling from the woodwork, and there was nothing like a twenty-four-hour news channel to encourage them. The fact that there were celebrities involved made the story even more alluring.
The demographics of the crowd were interesting. Almost every single category was represented. White, black, yellow, red. Old and young and everything in-between. Kids with skateboards and piercings and attitude, who should have been at school, rubbed shoulders with old folks who should have been at home watching their daytime soaps. The only reason they’d all ended up here was because they could smell the blood.
Rob and Tara were the first news team on the scene. The big advantage with the bikes was that they could get quickly to wherever they needed to go. Unfortunately, now the story had broken, the big boys wouldn’t be far behind.
‘Shall we?’ Tara’s camera was slung on her back like a rocket launcher. She looked fearsome, a warrior ready to go into battle.
‘After you. But let’s hustle, eh?’
Tara headed towards the police barrier. ‘Media coming through!’ she called out, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
The two cops manning the barrier looked pissed at having pulled such a bum detail, which was understandable. All the action was happening further down the street and they were stuck here like glorified babysitters. Rob ducked under the barrier and the cops descended as a pair, stepping up to block his way. The guy calling the shots was five-eight with a worn-out face and a droopy moustache. He had the look of someone who’d been there and done it. His buddy was barely out of college.
‘Sir,’ the older cop said. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to please get back behind the barrier.’
Rob ignored the request and held out his hand. ‘Rob Taylor, TRN.’
The cop eyed Rob’s hand, then reached out and shook it. Rob felt the hundred-dollar bill slide away. The cop slipped his hand into his pocket, and when it came out it was empty and open. His buddy watched without saying a word.
‘You’ve got two minutes to take your pictures. Then I want you back behind that barrier. And you stay within ten yards of me at all times. Got it?’
‘I’m hearing you loud and clear.’
Rob stepped around the barrier, Tara following close behind. She hoisted the camera onto her shoulder and began filming. The view wasn’t brilliant, but it was better than it had been on the other side of the barrier. Alfie’s was three blocks away. There wasn’t much to look at, just a blank white concrete wall facing the sidewalk. No doors, no windows, no signs advertising the place. A narrow access road on the left-hand side of the building led to the parking lot at the rear where the entrance was. The celebs would pull right up to the canopied door and a couple of steps later they were inside, anonymity guaranteed. The paparazzi couldn’t get anywhere near them.
The street was deserted now, the stop lights stuck on red. Evacuating the area had been the number one priority. Homes, restaurants, stores, everyone in a three-block radius. The cops had set up their base of operations a block and a half from Alfie’s. All the action was centred around a big white truck with ‘LAPD MOBILE COMMAND UNIT’ on the side in big letters.
A dozen ambulances were parked half a block back from the LAPD truck, engines running, ready to roll. A couple of fire trucks were parked beside them. Rob counted a couple of dozen cops wearing bulletproof vests. They were hovering around, trying to look busy, but not actually doing anything. The scene was static for now, but there was a sense of controlled energy, like everyone was just itching to spring into action.
A large news truck pulled up behind the barrier at the other end of the street. The CNN logo was painted on the side and its satellite dishes were pointed skyward. Looked like the first of the big boys had arrived, which meant the rest wouldn’t be far behind.
‘What’s your name?’ Rob asked the older cop.
‘Jim Baker.’
‘What do people call you? Jim or Baker?’
‘My buddies call me Baker.’
‘And what does your wife call you?’
Baker laughed. ‘You don’t want to know.’
Rob didn’t smoke, but he carried a pack of Lucky Strikes for situations like this. Empathy was the secret to being a good journalist. Have a tissue ready for the mother whose son has just been killed in a drive-by shooting, and have a cigarette to hand for the bored cop who might just have that vital piece of information that could make or break a story. He offered the pack to Baker. The cop hesitated, but only for a second. A glance down towards the action, a shrug, then he plucked a cigarette from the pack. Rob was quick with his lighter. He flicked up a flame and held it out.
‘My wife would kill me if she knew I was smoking again.’
Like your wife doesn’t know. ‘So what’s actually going on here?’ asked Rob.
Baker took a long drag. ‘This is off the record, right?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s going to cost you more than a cigarette. Let’s say a couple of hundred bucks.’
Rob palmed the money to Baker.
‘We’ve got a suicide bomber who’s holding twenty-five people hostage. Customers and staff. What I heard is that al-Qaeda has claimed responsibility.’
‘Not ISIS?’
Baker shook his head. ‘Not this time. Looks like they’ve had enough of ISIS getting all the headlines.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘You can take that one to the bank. Here’s something else you might not know. There’s been one person injured so far. The parking valet.’
‘Have you got a name?’
‘Victor Comaneci. He’s an ex-Marine. In addition to parking the cars, he deals with security. What I heard was that he approached the bomber wanting to know what he was doing there. By all accounts there was no warning. The guy just pulled his gun, shot him in the leg, then headed on into the restaurant.’
‘How seriously was he injured?’
‘His thigh was shattered and he lost a lot of blood, but he’s going to live.’
‘What else have you got?’
Baker hesitated. His face betrayed the fact there was something, and that he wasn’t sure how far he should go. Rob kept very still. A wrong move now would shut him up for good. Baker held his hand out and Rob found another couple of hundred bucks.
‘A friend told me there’s someone trapped in the restroom, and the bomber doesn’t know they’re in there.’
This nugget of information was delivered in a confidential whisper. Rob felt his heart accelerate. Now they were getting to the really good stuff. ‘Did your friend mention names?’
‘Alex King.’
‘The actor?’
‘One and the same.’
‘Your friend, how reliable are they?’
‘I’ve known her for twenty years, so you don’t have anything to worry about on that score.’<
br />
Her instead of him. Interesting. The LAPD didn’t have that many women in the upper levels, so Baker’s contact was probably closer to ground level. A secretary or a telephone operator, perhaps.
‘I’ve got a favour to ask,’ Rob said. ‘A big one. Before long this place is going to be crawling with reporters. How about we keep this information between the two of us?’
Baker took a final drag on his cigarette and crushed the butt out under his heel. ‘Sure. But it’s gonna cost you.’
7
Alex King pulled out his cell and checked the screen. The little envelope in the top left corner was lit up and that got his heart hammering. His first thought was that it might be a reply from his ex. He navigated to the inbox, and when he saw the text was from the same unknown number as before, his excitement turned to disappointment. He brought the message up on the screen. His eyes widened as he read it.
My name is Brad Carter. I’m the Special Agent in charge of the FBI’s LA field office and I need to talk to you urgently. Call me on this number as soon as you can. If you can’t talk then text me.
King stared at the screen. This was more like it. The FBI would come up with a plan to get them out. They had to. They were the FBI for Christ’s sake. That’s what they did. He cracked the door open an inch and listened. Still all quiet out there. He closed it, then tiptoed into the cubicle and pulled the door shut behind him. He hit the button to connect the call and the FBI man answered on the first ring. The voice coming through the earpiece was relaxed and laid-back, more California surf-bum than G-Man.
