by J. S. Carol
The bomber scanned faces and JJ looked at the floor, avoiding eye contact. One gun, one bullet, five out of six people going home. It was clear where this was headed. She wanted to be wrong, but she wasn’t. Choosing to opt out might just be the best decision she’d ever made.
‘I’ll take that as a “no”. Well, let’s just say that it gets pretty messy.’
The last two words were drawn out. The bomber grinned, then held the gun and the bullet out to Dan Stone. The agent just stood there with his arms at his side, uncertainty written all over his face.
‘Go on,’ the bomber prompted.
Stone took the gun and the bullet.
‘Can you confirm that these are real?’
Stone glanced down. The revolver was in his left hand, the bullet in his right. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.
The bomber cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Sorry, Dan. I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Yes, they’re real.’
‘Thank you very much, you’ve been a big help. Okay let’s have a round of applause for Dan.’
Nobody moved.
‘I said, let’s have a round of applause. Don’t make me ask again.’
The sound of weak, embarrassed clapping drifted around the room. It died almost as soon as it started. The bomber held out his hand, and Dan gave him the revolver and the bullet.
‘Go and sit down.’
Stone didn’t need asking twice. He hurried across the room and crashed to the floor. The bomber flipped the gun open and slotted the bullet into a chamber. Carefully, reverentially. Then he flicked the gun closed and spun the cylinder. Once, twice, three times. The mechanical clicking sent a shiver crawling across JJ’s skin. The bomber walked over to the circle of hostages and tapped the gun barrel against his watch.
‘In case anyone is tempted to shoot me, just remember that if my heart stops, then the vest goes bang.’
He turned the revolver around and offered it handle-first to Hailey.
‘I think you know how the game works.’
Hailey took the gun and pressed it to her temple. The barrel was juddering like it had a life of its own, marking her skin with little red lines. She lowered the revolver.
‘I can’t do this.’
‘Sure you can, honey. Just press the gun against your head and squeeze the trigger. It couldn’t be simpler.’
‘But I don’t want to die.’
‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re all going to die. It might happen today, it might happen twenty years from now. The thing is, it is going to happen. That you can guarantee.’
‘I’ve got kids, a husband.’
‘And you’ve also got a five in six chance of seeing them again real soon, a chance you paid a million bucks for. In this game, those odds are as good as it gets.’
Hailey raised the revolver, hesitated, then pushed it against her head and pulled the trigger. The dull click sounded much louder than it should have done. The gun tumbled into her lap and she started to sob.
‘Hush now,’ the bomber soothed. ‘It’s over. You’re going to get to go home.’
5
Alex King wiped the knife blade on his shirt, removing the fingerprint smudges and making the metal shine, then he wedged it into the waistband of his jeans and arranged the shirt to hide the handle. He walked across to the door and peered through the small porthole window. The corridor appeared empty. He cracked open the door and listened through the gap. The bomber was talking in a calm voice. King could pick out the odd word, but what he was hearing didn’t make sense.
He pushed the door open inch by slow inch. The occasional microscopic squeaks and creaks sounded over-loud in the stark silence, but he kept going. He opened it as far as he dared, then squeezed through the gap and closed it behind him, only letting go when it had settled snugly back in the frame. Up ahead, beyond the end of the corridor, he could see the dead man draped across the chair. The lake of blood congealing around the chair legs turned his stomach.
‘Go on,’ he heard the bomber say.
‘No.’
A sigh, then, ‘When are you people going to realise that passive resistance just won’t cut it?’
King frowned. The person the bomber was talking to had only said one word, but that one word was enough to give him a vivid picture of what they were like. Self-assured, confident, someone used to calling the shots. The voice was deep and male. Curiosity got the better of him and he tiptoed along the corridor to get a better look. It was risky, but he wanted to see what a real hero looked like. He ducked down behind the wall that jutted into the lower level of the restaurant, then raised his head until his eyes were level with the top and peered through the thick foliage.
He could see the camera he’d hidden for Brad Carter, and, beyond that, he could see the bomber pressing the barrel of a big handgun into the back of a black dude’s bald head. King remembered the black guy coming in. He hadn’t recognised him, but Simone had. He racked his brains for a name. DeAndre Alexander, that was it. The guy was some hotshot record producer. Simone had dated him, and from the way she spoke, it was clear she still liked him. What’s more, judging by the way Alexander had kept looking over at her before the bomber had come in, the feeling was mutual.
Why did relationships in this town have to be so complicated? King would have given anything to be back with his ex, and Simone would rather be with Alexander, yet she was with him. And the reason for that was that this town was all about how things appeared. Looks were everything. When you thought about it like that, it was insane.
The bomber increased the pressure on the trigger and King’s breath caught halfway into an exhale. This was wrong on so many levels. It was wrong on every level. The hammer flew forward, but there was no bang, just a dull click. What the hell was going on? He didn’t get it. Really didn’t get it. The record producer should be dead by now, his brains and blood splattered all over the floor. But that hadn’t happened. There he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands on thighs and staring straight ahead.
‘Your little act of resistance has just cost you your chance of getting out of here.’ The bomber clicked his fingers. ‘A million bucks gone, just like that. You know, that’s got to ruin your day.’
JJ suddenly turned and looked towards the lower level, and King ducked behind the wall, convinced she’d spotted him. He could hear the bomber talking, but what he was saying wasn’t registering. He did a slow count to ten then put his head up again. The scene had changed, and the new picture made even less sense.
Carrie Preston now had the gun. The actress’s long red hair was her trademark. Whole magazine articles had been written about that hair. Usually there wasn’t so much as a single strand out of place, but today it was a total mess. CARRIE was scrawled on her forehead in bright red ink.
She suddenly raised the gun and pressed the barrel against the side of her head. Her face was expressionless, her eyes blank. She reminded King of a mannequin. She squeezed the trigger, but the gun didn’t go off. It was only when she passed it to the man on her left that he finally worked it out.
6
Three chambers left. Two empty, one containing a bullet. The three people still to go were Natasha Lovett, Gary Thompson and Harry, a middle-aged guy JJ had never seen until today, but whose haggard face was now permanently etched into her memory. Carrie Preston was shaking all over and weeping silent tears. The overriding emotion that JJ was seeing was relief, but this was tempered with guilt, which was completely understandable. The woman had tallied up the cost of her survival and it had come to a lot more than a million dollars. She’d survived, which meant someone else was going to die.
JJ glanced around at the people sitting beside her. Everyone was looking as horrified as she felt. The horror was mixed with relief, though. They were staring at the gun and no doubt thinking the same thing. Thank God it’s not me. Next up was Gary Thompson. He was staring at the gun too, the difference being that it was cradled in his hands.
�
�In your own time,’ the bomber said. ‘And remember what I said about passive resistance.’
The movie exec glared at the bomber. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Do you really need to ask?’
‘Yeah, I think I do. If I’m going to die, I’d like to know why.’
‘Fair point. Although the reason should be obvious, since I’m now six million dollars richer.’
Thompson held up the gun. ‘If this is just about money, why all this bullshit? There are a lot easier ways to make money.’
‘Maybe for you, Gary. But what you’ve got to bear in mind here is that you’ve got your own unique skill set and I’ve got mine. It’s all about playing to your strengths, right? You can make six million bucks by screwing over the little guy, whereas someone like me, well, the only way I’m going to make six million bucks is by doing something like this.’
‘You realise that most hostage situations end up with the hostage-taker dead or in prison? If you do manage get out of here alive, then the only thing you’ve got to look forward to is the lethal injection.’
‘And I’m starting to think you talk too much, Gary.’
Thompson looked at the gun, then aimed it at the bomber. His finger was on the trigger, his hand rock steady. JJ couldn’t believe what she was seeing. What the hell was he thinking? It was suicidal, not to mention crazy. Was he trying to get them all killed? All around her people were holding their breath. Everything had gone still.
‘And I’m starting to think that you’ve got no intentions of letting any of us go. You know what I think? I think you’re full of bullshit.’
‘Shoot me if you want, but know this. If you do that then you’ll be condemning every single person in this room to death. It’s like I said earlier, there are consequences to every action.’ The bomber paused a moment to let that one sink in. ‘Anyway, we both know you’re not going to shoot me. You’re someone who lives for the bottom line, and the bottom line is that you’ve got a two in three chance of getting out of here alive, and you’ll take those odds because right now you’ll do anything to save your sorry excuse of an ass. Now, are we going to play ball or not?’
Thompson pushed the gun into his temple and pulled the trigger.
Another dull click.
‘Like pulling teeth from a hen. Okay, pass the gun to Nat.’
Thompson handed the gun over. Like Hailey and Carrie, the main emotion that JJ was seeing was relief. Unlike them, his relief was tempered with anger, and there were no signs of survivor’s guilt. Thompson was a real hothead on the outside world, someone used to getting his own way. She hoped he’d keep his rage in check. For all their sakes.
‘And then there were two,’ the bomber said. ‘Okay, you’re up next, Nat.’
Natasha was staring into the middle distance, not really focusing on anything. It was heart-wrenching. She looked like she’d had some sort of breakdown. She lifted the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation, no emotion. The sound of the gunshot was enormous.
JJ saw the side of the director’s head explode in a shower of blood, brains and bone, and even though she was witnessing this with her own two eyes, she still couldn’t reconcile what she was seeing with what was happening. Natasha tipped to the side and the gun tumbled from her fingers. All signs of life were gone and there was so much blood. It poured from her shattered skull, collecting into a crimson halo that crept slowly across the floor.
‘Congratulations, Harry,’ the bomber said. ‘Looks like you get to go home.’
Harry was gazing at Natasha’s motionless body without really seeing it. One of his hands came up and he absent-mindedly wiped some of the splatter from his face. Then the other hand came up to join it. He started to scrub manically with both hands, trying to get rid of the blood and gore. It wasn’t working. He was just smearing the blood deeper into his skin, turning it a sickly brown-yellow colour.
‘Tony,’ the bomber called out. ‘Please escort these four lucky people to the door. DeAndre, you get to go sit back with the others.’
Tony walked over to the circle of hostages and helped them to their feet. He was whispering soft words of encouragement under his breath, assurances that everything was going to be okay. He led them in single file towards the foyer. JJ caught one last glimpse of their broken, haunted faces, and then they were gone.
The bomber picked up the telephone. While he waited for his call to connect, he scanned the faces of the remaining hostages. When he reached DeAndre Alexander, he lingered for a while. JJ was glad she wasn’t in the record producer’s shoes. Stay invisible, she reminded herself.
‘Hey there, Louise. How’s it going? You know, we’ve been having ourselves some real fun and games back here.’
7
Rob watched the grilles go up for the second time. By his reckoning twenty-five minutes had passed since the first batch of hostages had come out. His interview with Chester had happened twenty minutes ago and since then they’d been hanging around just waiting for something to happen. Those twenty-five minutes had been long minutes. That was the downside to what he did. For every minute of adrenalin-soaked activity, there would be an hour of boredom so mind-numbing that watching paint dry would be a mercy.
Aaron Walters had contacted him just in time. He’d been driving Tara mad and it was only a matter of time before she took a swing at him, probably with the camera, and those things were heavy. The message from the PR guy was short and sweet. Four more hostages were coming out and the bomber wanted TRN to cover the handover.
Rob was standing side-on to the main entrance of Alfie’s, while Tara stood front-on. She had positioned herself far enough back so she could get both Rob and the doors in the shot. Helicopters buzzed behind them. The loudest was about a block and a half away, while the rest were swarming about three blocks away. The closest one belonged to the LAPD. The rest belonged to the news channels. TRN’s pilot would be jockeying for the best position, pushing right up to the edge of the exclusion zone. If he hadn’t had at least three warnings to get back then you could bet that Seth would have ripped him a new asshole.
Rob was talking with no real awareness of what he was saying. His full attention was focused on the main entrance, and he was just waiting for something to happen. He thought he saw a shadow pass behind the door, but it was difficult to say for sure because of the smoked glass. Maybe this was it. Maybe it wasn’t. They’d already had two false alarms.
In case this was the real thing, Rob started to wind things up. He was choosing his words more carefully now, so he could make the link as seamless as possible. Sunlight flashed on the glass panel of the door as it swung open.
‘We’re just waiting for our next hostage to come out,’ Rob said. ‘We should be seeing them any second now.’
Right on cue, a woman stepped out of the door. Her hand was up to shield her tear-stained eyes from the sun. Rob didn’t recognise her, and the position of her hand meant he couldn’t see what the bomber had written on her forehead. He thought there might be an ‘H’ in there, a ‘Y’, too. The woman broke into a stumbling run. Her stride was uneven, her balance all over the place. Two cops in full body armour and helmets ran out and met her halfway across the lot. The one on the left grabbed her before she fell, while his partner wrapped a blanket around her. They wasted no time in whisking her away to safety.
Next out was Gary Thompson. Rob recognised him immediately. He was one of the high-ups at Dreamworks, a top-level player who was a top-level asshole. Rob didn’t have any first-hand experience, but he’d heard the stories. Thompson didn’t run, he strode. He was walking across the lot like walking through LA in a pair of black silk briefs was something he did every day. There were no tears from Thompson. His face was grim, his mouth tight. He looked like he was getting ready to punch someone out. A couple of cops rushed out to meet him and he shrugged them away. He grabbed the blanket, threw it around his shoulders and strode off in the direction the first woman had disappeared.
Thirty seconds later, a woman wearing a red bra and panties came out. CARRIE was written on her forehead. The trademark red hair was a mess and the make-up was smudged, so it took Rob a second to place the face.
‘And that’s Carrie Preston, the Emmy Award-winning actress who first found fame in the TV sitcom All About Me. Her last film was the box-office hit, Heartriders.’
Carrie crossed the parking lot quickly, glancing back a couple of times at the front door like she was waiting for someone to come after her. The haunted look on her face was light years away from the infectious smile that had made her famous. She fell dramatically into the arms of the first cop who reached her. A second cop wasn’t far behind. He swirled a blanket around the actress, covering her up. Carrie was petite, five-two at a rough guess, and the blanket touched her feet. Her eyes were filled with tears and her chest was hitching like she was having an asthma attack.
The last person out was some guy called Harry. Rob didn’t have a clue who he was, which meant the viewers wouldn’t have a clue, either. It would have made much better viewing if Carrie had come out last. That way they could have ended on a high instead of an anticlimax. Ten seconds later the metal grilles came back down. Tara repositioned herself and zoomed in on Rob.
‘More incredible developments here at Alfie’s. Back to you in the studio, Caroline.’
8
Seth lit another Marlboro and got a dirty look from the Asian kid.
‘Is there a problem?’
