by J. S. Carol
Alison finished telling the viewers a whole bunch of facts they already knew about Ed Richards, and the actor’s picture disappeared from the screen behind her. A second later it was replaced by a picture of a bald-headed black guy. There were diamond studs in both his ears and a diamond pinkie ring on his finger. The jewel-encrusted watch he was wearing had to be worth a cool quarter of a million bucks, easy.
‘Music mogul DeAndre Alexander is also being held hostage,’ Alison said.
Just the sound of her voice was enough to get Seth fuming all over again. It was all wrong for a story of this magnitude. If the brightness was dialled all the way down it would still be completely wrong. It might be fine for trading gossip, but this was a hard news story, goddamn it!
‘What can you say about DeAndre Alexander that hasn’t already been said?’ she continued. ‘Alexander has been called the Angel of the Bronx for his charity work. Every year he donates millions to help the kids from his old neighbourhood. There are hundreds of kids out there today who owe their futures to him.’
Jesus, thought Seth, pass me a sick bag. The guy wasn’t a saint, he was just someone who’d got lucky.
‘Kill the sound before I kill her,’ he hollered.
One of the technicians hit a button and Mission Control fell silent. He didn’t know who’d jumped to it. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that he didn’t have to listen to that woman massacring his story. He stared at the screen, the vein in his temple throbbing unpleasantly, coffee sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach. A strained silence had fallen across the room. There was a sense of people biting their tongues in case they said the wrong thing, a sense of people not daring to breathe in case they breathed the wrong way. Underpinning this was the electric hum of the machines and the gentle brrr of the air-conditioning.
‘So, how close are we to naming the bomber?’
The question was fielded by the black kid. ‘We’re working on it, sir.’
‘Which is another way of saying that the three of you are a bunch of incompetent screw-ups.’
‘We’ve got a couple of leads we’re chasing.’
‘Well, chase harder. I want that name. And someone get Rob on the phone.’
Seth adjusted his headset and positioned the mike in front of his mouth. Rob answered on the first ring.
‘Hey, Seth.’
‘If we’re going to prove Tara’s theory, we need to ID the bomber.’
‘No problem. Let me go grab my crystal ball.’
‘Shut up and listen, Rob. The bomber’s car is in Alfie’s parking lot, which means the cops will have run the plate, which means they know who he is. I want you to lean on Aaron Walters and get that name.’
‘What if the car’s stolen?’
‘If it’s stolen then we try something else. Go do some leaning, Rob. I want that name.’
9
Eight down, two to go.
‘Camptown Races’ had been replaced by ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. Same annoying singer. Same annoying sound that made JJ think of horror movies. The nursery rhyme was eating into her brain and driving her insane. The singer’s voice was too bright. It hit all the wrong frequencies.
JJ was one of the last two standing. She’d wanted to bail out at number four, and number three, but hadn’t been able to. The music had stopped and she’d just stood there, rooted to the spot, images of Frank’s death swirling through her mind. Dan Stone had been the fourth person out, and then DeAndre Alexander. Now it was just her and Bev left dancing.
Bev was the same age as her, and a couple of inches shorter. She had brunette hair, hazel eyes and expensive white underwear. They were facing one another and trying to psych each other out. JJ had glimpsed a faint reflection of the two of them in one of the picture frames, and the way they were moving reminded her of two boxers rather than two dancers. Bev would make a move and she would match it, then she would do something and it would be Bev’s turn to match her.
JJ still hadn’t decided if she wanted to win, because she still couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be a catch. Then again, she didn’t want to lose either, because she didn’t want to know what the runner-up prize was. This was the ultimate rock and a hard place. To make matters worse, it was her fault that she’d ended up in this situation. She could have bailed out earlier. She should have bailed out.
Bev didn’t have the same dilemma. She was going all-out to win. It was only after Frank had been shot that JJ had started taking notice of her. Since then she’d been paying very close attention indeed. Bev was a born winner, that much was obvious. Here was someone who always had to be first, whatever the cost. She had the same look of grim determination that you saw on sprinters when they took their positions at the start line. In Bev’s world, all that mattered was winning. There were no prizes for second place.
The music stopped.
JJ stood dead still. No movement whatsoever. She held her breath and waited. The lack of oxygen was making her head spin. Bev was standing directly in front of her, no more than half a foot away. A stray hair had fallen over her eye and JJ could sense her irritation. She was trying to keep still, but that hair must have been driving her mad. Time stretched out and JJ battled to keep still. She had no idea how much longer she could keep this up for. She’d finally made a decision. She wanted out. Yes, this might be a trick, but if there was even an outside chance of escaping this nightmare, she was willing to take the risk.
Beads of sweat burst out on Bev’s forehead. That stray hair was still there, tickling and niggling and making her crazy. JJ could see the bomber out of the corner of her eye. His head was moving between her and Bev, like he was watching a tennis match. All she had to do was hold on for a few more seconds.
‘And we have a winner,’ he suddenly announced.
JJ let go of the breath she’d been holding onto. Her shoulders slumped as a wave of relief washed over her. Just before the bomber spoke, she’d seen Bev’s fingers move. She hadn’t imagined it. Her fingertips had twitched and then he’d announced that they had a winner.
‘It’s been a closely fought contest, folks. A contest that’s seen its share of drama.’ The bomber glanced over at Frank’s body as he said this, and everyone followed his lead. ‘But there can only be one winner. Jody, please step forward.’
JJ stepped forward. She was standing close enough to smell the bomber’s aftershave again, to smell the base animal stink that it hid.
‘Sorry, but you’re not going home.’
Bev let out a small whispered, ‘Yes,’ and JJ felt the hope inside her die. The bomber aimed the gun at her. Maybe he was going to pull the trigger. Maybe he wasn’t. She didn’t care anymore. A bullet would be a mercy right now. Anything to escape from this hell.
‘Bang,’ he whispered.
The bastard was grinning again.
10
Rob sprinted towards Alfie’s parking lot. He was doing his best to keep up with Tara, but the camerawoman was already five yards in front, the gap widening. Her legs were longer, and she was a damn sight fitter than he was. They reached the parking lot as the grilles were coming up. Tara pointed her camera at the blank white face of the building, positioning herself so she could get both doors in. The bloodstain left by the valet looked blacker than ever.
Aaron Walters was waiting for them. He started to say something and Rob put a hand up. Give me a second. He placed his other hand on the hood of a brand new Ferrari and quickly pulled it back. The metal had been cooked under the fierce sun and was hotter than a barbecue. He took a couple of deep breaths, a stitch niggling at his side. Tara wasn’t even breathing hard.
‘I want the name of the bomber,’ Rob said.
‘Not going to happen.’
‘I want that name.’
‘And you can have it when this is over and the hostages are all safely out. Just like everyone else.’
‘Give me the name.’
‘Or what? You’re going to walk away from this? I don’t think
so.’
‘The bomber specifically asked for me.’
‘Mr Taylor, a word of advice. A threat is only effective if the person issuing the threat is willing to follow through, or the person being threatened thinks that’s going to happen. Neither of those scenarios is appropriate to what’s happening here.’ Walters smiled. ‘And one more thing, Mr Taylor. Tell Seth to quit with the stalling tactics. The feed goes through to the other networks immediately. Understand? Immediately. I’ve got enough on my plate right now without having to deal with his bullshit games.’
Rob watched the PR guy walk away, happy to let him go. He was smiling, too, although his smile was more subtle, just a slight turning up at the corners of his mouth. It was an expression that could have meant anything. He’d known before he’d asked that Walters would never give up the name. It just wasn’t going to happen. But that wasn’t what he’d been angling for.
‘You ready, Rob?’ Tara called over.
‘One second.’
Rob wiped the sweat from his forehead, then ran a hand through his hair to try and tame it a little. The sun was burning down hotter than ever and there wasn’t a scrap of shade. He glanced over at Walters. The PR guy was standing next to a Bentley, watching him. The junker that the bomber had turned up in was beside the Bentley. It was an old Ford Taurus with rust-streaked silver bodywork and dents in both front fenders. It looked a hundred years old and probably had 200,000 miles on the clock.
Walters smiled and tipped him a wink, and Rob resisted the urge to fire a sunny one right back at him. Instead, he frowned and did his best to look annoyed. The PR guy seemed blissfully unaware of the fact that he’d royally screwed up. Rob was now in possession of one crucial piece of information that he hadn’t had thirty seconds ago. He now knew for certain that the cops had identified the bomber.
11
Alex King sat on the tiled restroom floor playing sad face, smiley face with the knife. He hadn’t started talking to it yet, but if this went on much longer then he probably would. He wasn’t sure if that made him crazy or just plain lonely. He wasn’t sure if there was much difference. The bomber had stormed into Alfie’s two hours ago, two hours that already felt like a lifetime. He could barely remember his life from before. It was like it had ceased to exist.
Luck. That word had been thrown at him so much lately, and the people doing the throwing were right. He was lucky. Basically, he was one of the Chosen Few. Give it another couple of years and he would be richer and more famous than he’d ever imagined. Yes, sir, he was one of the luckiest people on the planet.
Unfortunately, all the money and fame in the world didn’t mean a damn thing if you were dead. Because the truth was that his luck was about to run out. He could feel that the same way you could feel a coming storm. At some point one of the hostages would need to take a piss, and when that happened he would be discovered. It was only a matter of time. The only real surprise was that it hadn’t happened already.
Just thinking about this made him want to go. There was no way he was going to do that, though, because it would make too much noise. That would be a hell of a way to go. Shot in the head while your dick was in your hands. In a weird-ass sort of way it would be kind of fitting. Most of his life had been lacking in any real sort of dignity, why should his death be any different? And maybe that was the reason everyone was sat out there with their legs crossed. An aching bladder had to be better than a bullet in the head any day
King heard the distant rumble of thunder. Except that couldn’t be right. The sky had been a cloudless blue when he arrived, and he hadn’t heard any news reports of bad weather on the way. No, not thunder, the grilles were going up again. He pushed the knife into his waistband, then moved quickly to the door and cracked it open. Everything was quiet out there. Nothing from the bomber. Nothing from the hostages. He slipped into the corridor and hurried to the kitchen, socks gliding over the wooden floor. He’d given up with his shoes. They were hidden beneath a pile of handtowels on one of the restroom shelves.
He eased the kitchen door open and slid inside, then used both hands to ease it closed again. The kitchen looked like a tornado had ripped through it after his search for the door key. One glance and the bomber would know someone had been back here. There weren’t that many places to hide, so it would take all of ten seconds to find him. A millisecond to pull the trigger and his life would be over.
Who would mourn him? His agent would, but only because of all the money he’d lose. And his fans would miss him for the whole five seconds it would take until they moved on to someone new. And that was about it. As for accomplishments, Killing Time was the only thing of note that he’d done. Yes, it had been a blockbuster, and yes, it had earned big bucks, but, at the end of the day, it was just another action movie. There had been a thousand movies like it in the past, and there would be another thousand movies like it in the future. A couple of years from now no one would remember it.
King ran to the back door and pulled out his cell phone. Brad Carter answered on the first ring, like he was sitting there with his phone in his hand.
‘Hi, Alex.’
‘You’ve got to get me out of here, man.’ His voice was just a hiss, like air escaping from a tyre.
‘I wish I could, I really do. But that would mean compromising the safety of the other hostages. We’ve talked about this, buddy.’
‘What about my safety? Doesn’t it bother you that that’s being compromised? And how about this? The longer I’m stuck in here, the more it’s being compromised. Have you thought about that? You could save me. You know that. Blow this door and I’ll be out in seconds.’
‘Alex, we’re doing everything possible to get you out. To get all of you out. And our strategy’s working. That’s another hostage just about to be released. You’ve just got to hang on in there.’
King laid his hand against the warm wood. A couple of inches lay between him and freedom. Two goddamn inches. The panic grew until there was only one thought in his head. Got to get out. He looked around for something he could use as a battering ram. Everything was either too big and heavy, or too small to even dent the wood. He spotted the fire-extinguisher. Big, red, heavy. It could work.
‘Break the door down or I’ll break it down,’ he said.
‘Alex, listen to me. Whatever you’re planning, I’m begging you, please don’t do it.
‘Either break it down, or I swear to God, I will.’
‘Listen to me. That door is solid wood. There’s no way you’re going to break through it. All you’re going to do is make a noise, which will alert the bomber. If you do that, we cannot protect you. Are you listening? We cannot protect you. Four people have died already, do you want to be the fifth?’
‘Four dead. By my count there’s only three.’
‘Another hostage was shot a couple of minutes ago. And that’s my point, Alex. This situation is too volatile. I’m pleading with you here. Do not do anything rash. Your best chance of getting out is to sit tight and let us do our job.’
‘Are you going to break down this door or not?’
‘Please, Alex, just let us do our jobs.’
‘I’ll take that as a “no”.’
King killed the call and shoved the cell phone back into his pocket. He glanced around the trashed kitchen. He had to get out. Had to get out now. He pulled the fire extinguisher off the wall and walked over to the door. It was heavier than he’d imagined, but was it heavy enough? He took a couple of deep breaths, filling his lungs. He could do this. He could make this work.
But what if it didn’t work? What if the door refused to open? What if he just made a whole lot of noise? If that was the case then he might as well just walk into the next room and ask the bomber to shoot him. King stood there, indecision pulling him every which way. Being this close to freedom made him want to scream. In the end the decision was taken out of his hands. A motor hummed, metal rattled, and the steel grille started to descend.
12
> The latest hostage to be released was someone named Bev. Rob had never seen her before, and doubted he’d ever see again. A producer or executive, he guessed. She looked the type, a real ball-breaker. He’d been hoping for a face the viewers would recognise. Still, any hostage was better than none. Anything that kept the story with him rather than Caroline Bradley was okay with him. CNN was watching.
The actual handover had gone smoothly enough. The front door had opened and a cop dressed in a Kevlar vest and helmet had walked over and placed the pizza boxes in the doorway. Thirty seconds later a shadowy arm had pulled them into the building, and thirty seconds after that Bev had come out. Rob’s first thought was that the arm must have belonged to the bomber, but that would have been dumb. Why put himself at risk like that? No, it must have been one of the hostages. And if that was the case, then they had more self-discipline than he did. If it had been him looking out of that open door, there was no way he would have been able to stop himself from making a run for it.
Rob sidled up alongside Tara. ‘We need to get out of here, and fast,’ he whispered.
‘What’s the hurry?’
He didn’t have time to reply because Aaron Walters was stalking towards them. The PR guy came to a halt in front of him. He was smiling, but there was no joy in it.
‘This guy has a real hard-on for you. Maybe you should stay close by for when he lets out the next hostage.’
‘No can do.’
Rob had positioned himself so Walters wouldn’t be able to see Tara’s face. He had his back to her but he could imagine her expression. Her jaw would be hitting the floor right about now. She’d be staring like he’d lost his mind. He understood exactly where she was coming from. All the other reporters were stuck on the wrong side of the barrier, while they had the equivalent of front row seats, and here he was saying thanks but no thanks.
