by J. S. Carol
King slipped into the corridor, gently pulling the door closed behind him. His socks shushed against wood, making a whispering noise that seemed as loud as thunder. In the silence, he imagined he could hear his heart beating. When he reached the threshold to the restaurant’s lower level, he got down on his knees and crawled the last few yards. Every squeak and scrape sounded enormous. He’d never felt more exposed. For a second he sat with his back to the wall, eyes shut, willing his heart to calm. The greenery above his head swished gently in the currents created by the air-conditioning. He opened his eyes and glanced at the swaying leaves.
All he had to do was reach up and grab the camera. What could be simpler? He raised his arm and pushed his hand carefully into the thick forest of plants, slowly parting the foliage, fingers searching. He could feel the cold smoothness of the leaves brushing against his skin, but where the hell was the camera? His stomach was in his mouth and he felt sick. He was sure he was searching in the right place.
He moved a little higher and peered over the lip of the wall. Beyond the swaying leaves, he caught glimpses of bodies. The scared huddle of hostages on the upper level, and the blood-soaked corpses lying discarded around the room. The camera was off to his left, a couple of inches from where he’d been searching.
He reached for it, and the bomber suddenly stood up. King stopped dead with his hand frozen among the leaves. For a moment he just knelt there with the wooden floor digging into his knees and tried to keep as still as possible. It was like everything had gone into slow motion. An impression of the knife was burning into his thigh. King was expecting the bomber to turn towards him and start down the stairs. He didn’t. Instead, he walked over to the hostages.
‘On your feet, Tony.’
King didn’t recognise the restaurant owner at first because his face was so messed up. Both eyes were puffy and bruised, and it looked like his nose was broken. He let go of the breath he’d been holding onto and shrank behind the wall. His eyes were now level with the top. A fraction of an inch lower and he’d be staring at the brickwork. The upper level was a green blur, but he could just about make out what was happening up there, and he could hear every word.
‘You know what goes well with pizza?’ the bomber said. ‘A nice cold glass of cola. You’d think the all-seeing, all-knowing FBI might have thought of that, wouldn’t you? I can’t say I’m surprised, though. That’s the problem with the world today. Everybody’s too wrapped up in themselves. Where’s the giving? Where’s the love?’
‘I can get you a cola,’ Tony said. ‘It’s no problem.’
‘A regular cola? Sugar, caffeine, ice?’
Tony nodded.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The restaurant owner hurried towards the stairs, and King shrank back down behind the wall. He was about to race back to the restroom when he remembered why he was out here in the first place. He reached up, grabbed the camera and stuffed it into his pocket. There was no time for subtlety, no time to be careful. He just reached up and grabbed and hoped for the best.
Tony was on the stairs now, his naked feet padding heavily on wood. King glanced anxiously along the corridor. There was no way he’d make the restroom in time. The men’s or the women’s. The office was closer, but he probably wouldn’t reach that either. The kitchen was all the way at the end of the corridor, so that was a complete non-starter.
He hurried along the corridor anyway, moving as fast as he dared. Tony had already reached the lower level. He could hear his footsteps getting closer. The door to the women’s restroom was only a few feet away. King reached it and grabbed for the handle, knowing that it was already too late. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the restaurant owner turn into the corridor.
17
‘This better be good.’
Aaron Walters might have been smiling, but Rob wasn’t fooled. Walters was a PR man. He smiled when he was happy, he smiled when he was pissed, and his smile was just as broad and beaming when he was jamming a knife into your back. Tara made up the threesome. They were standing at the bottom of the Mobile Command Unit’s stairs, continually stepping aside to let people past like it was a new kind of dance.
‘Let’s move over there,’ Rob suggested, indicating an empty stretch of sidewalk.
‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Make time.’
Walters sighed heavily, then followed Rob over to the sidewalk.
‘You’ve got my complete and undivided attention for the next thirty seconds. Whatever you’ve got to say, make it quick.’
‘I know how we can get Alex King out.’
‘Okay, before we go any further, this conversation is most definitely off the record.’ Walters glanced at Tara. ‘If you have any recording devices currently activated, please turn them off.’
‘No recording devices.’ She smiled sweetly and put her hands up in mock surrender. ‘Promise and cross my heart.’
Rob opened his mouth to speak and Walters shushed him with the hand.
‘Furthermore, if you make any mention of Alex King before this situation is resolved then you will effectively be signing his death warrant. If King dies, I will have you arrested on every charge I can think of. Your thirty seconds starts now.’
‘This guy is smart,’ Rob said quickly. ‘You’ve only got to look at where he’s chosen to make his play to realise that. Alfie’s is basically a concrete bunker. There’s no way to storm it without a ton of collateral damage, and there’s no way that’s going to happen because of who’s inside. Can you imagine the fallout if the LAPD or FBI attempt a rescue and Ed Richards winds up dead? That would make Waco look like the PR coup of the century.’
‘If you’ve got a point, get there fast. You’ve got ten seconds.’
‘The fact he’s so smart is his Achilles’ heel. Each time he’s released a hostage, he’s wanted both doors in the camera shot. And each time there’s been at least a minute or two where nothing’s happened. We’ve basically had our camera trained on a blank wall.’
‘So what?’
Rob sighed. He couldn’t believe he was having to spell out something that was so obvious. Either Walters was a complete idiot, or he was being purposefully obtuse.
‘So, we have film footage of a wall and two doors and nothing much happening. The next time any hostages are released we broadcast that footage instead of broadcasting live. That’ll give your people time to get the kitchen door open and get King out. As soon as the front doors are about to open we switch to the live feed and the bomber’s none the wiser. It could work.’
‘It could,’ Walters agreed. ‘Except for one thing. We’ve lost contact with King.’
‘What do you mean you’ve lost contact? How?’
‘We think his cell phone battery has died. We know it was running low, so hopefully that’s the case.’
‘And if it’s not the battery, then the bomber has found him.’
Walters didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. If the bomber had found him then he was probably already dead.
‘Shit,’ Rob said.
‘Look, it’s a good idea. And if we manage to get in touch with King again, it’s definitely something that’s worth pursuing.’
Walters reached out but stopped short of patting Rob on the shoulder. He turned and headed back to the Mobile Command Unit. Rob watched him go.
‘He might still be alive,’ Tara said.
Rob answered with a cynical look.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she added. ‘Chances are he’s dead. Has Baker got back to you with the bomber’s name yet?’
Rob took out his cell and switched it on. No missed calls, no voicemails, no texts. He shook his head. ‘No, nothing yet.’
He pulled up Baker’s number and connected the call. It rang five times then went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. The cop would see his number and know why he was calling. That would be enough to hurry him along. Baker would be in as much of a hurry to get the n
ame as he was. The dollar signs flashing in front of his eyes would ensure that.
‘So what now?’ Tara asked.
‘Now I guess we just wait for something to happen.’
18
The restaurant owner kept on coming towards King. ‘TONY’ was scribbled on his forehead in big red capitals, and his enormous gut was hanging over his silk boxer shorts. He was heading straight towards him like he wasn’t there, calm and self-assured, one foot following the other. He must have seen him. How could he miss him when he was stood here like a deer pinned in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler Mack?
Then he got it. The bomber would be listening. Any hesitation, any change in the sound of Tony’s footsteps, and he would come to investigate. The restaurant owner’s quick thinking had probably saved his life. Tony met his eye and placed a finger on his lips. He pointed to the kitchen door as he breezed past, and King fell in step behind him.
The sound of the kitchen door clattering open was shocking because he’d got so used to opening it quietly. He glanced over his shoulder, then realised it was okay. The bomber would be expecting to hear certain noises, and Tony was delivering in line with those expectations. That’s why he wasn’t tiptoeing around like the world was made from eggshells. The door swung shut on its spring hinge, locking them into a bubble of silence.
‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to,’ Tony whispered. His voice was muffled as a result of his busted nose, and his accent had changed dramatically, a seismic shift from affected camp to the rough growl of a blue-collar worker from the tri-state area. New York or New Jersey, somewhere up there on the Eastern seaboard. This came as no great surprise. King knew better than anyone that everyone had a past they wanted to bury.
‘The FBI have been in contact,’ he whispered back.
‘Are they going to get us out?’
‘I don’t know. They say they’re working on it, but they’re all talk. I’m not seeing much in the way of action.’
Tony rummaged around in a drawer for a bottle opener, then went over to the refrigerator, pulled out a Coke and flipped the top off. ‘You’ve got to tell them to hurry up. There’s a whole bunch of scared people in there.’
‘I’m with you on that one, man. The problem is that my cell’s died.’
The restaurant owner stopped what he was doing and faced him. ‘Shit.’
‘I know, I know. It’s a disaster. I’m going crazy back here. I keep expecting to be discovered at any second.’
Tony grabbed a glass, threw in a few ice cubes, and poured the Coke. He glanced around the kitchen like he was just seeing the mess for the first time. ‘What the hell happened here?’
‘I’m sorry. I was looking for the back door key.’
Without a word, Tony walked over to the drawers nearest the door.
‘It’s not in there. I checked it like a dozen times.’
Tony ignored him, pulled the top drawer open, then reached underneath. There was a tearing sound of tape coming away from wood. He walked back over and handed King the key.
‘Here you go. Not that it’s going to do any good.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘Next time the grilles go up, you’re going to make a run for it? That’s the plan, right?’
King remembered what the journalist had said about the TV crew keeping both doors in the shot, and realised where Tony was going with this. ‘The bomber’s watching the news?’
Tony nodded. ‘If you try to escape, he’ll see you.’
‘So why give me the key?’
‘Because it’s always best to have options. Who knows what’s going to happen next?’
‘I guess.’
‘Look, I need to go before I’m missed.’
Tony patted him on the shoulder then turned to leave. He reached the door and turned back.
‘Good luck, Alex.’
The door crashed open, then swung closed, and Tony was gone.
15:30-16:00
1
JJ forced herself to sit still. It wasn’t easy. The tsunami of nervous energy crashing through her body had no outlet. It just kept building and building and building. She resisted the urge to chew her fingernails and twist her hair around her finger, two nervous habits she hadn’t indulged in since she was a kid.
It seemed like Tony had been gone ages, but it was only a couple of minutes. What was he doing back there? Nothing stupid, she hoped. If he was cooking up some crazy scheme with King, chances were it would probably end in failure and result in even more deaths. JJ looked over at the bomber. If he was concerned about how long Tony was taking, it didn’t show. He’d powered down again. Even though he was looking at the laptop screen, he wasn’t really seeing it. She was more convinced than ever that he’d been a soldier. It was like he was conserving his energy, ready to spring into action at any moment.
A distant door banged shut. The kitchen door, judging from the way it was flapping back and forth. Out of the banging came the sound of bare feet padding along the corridor that lay beyond the lower level. A couple of seconds later Tony walked around the corner. His face looked worse than ever, the bruises turning all the shades of purple. He was carrying a tall glass of cola and there was a slight tremble in his hand. He walked up the stairs and stopped in front of the bomber. Everything went still, like the pause button had been hit, then the bomber suddenly stood up.
‘Tony, you’re back. It’s real good to see you.’
Tony just stood there with the glass trembling at the end of his outstretched arm, ice cubes tinkling. The bomber took the glass and put it down on the nearest table.
‘Turn around.’
Tony turned around and the bomber patted his boxer shorts. JJ felt her stomach drop. He was going to find a knife hidden in there. She was sure of it. The bomber stepped back and she breathed again.
‘Open your mouth.’
Tony hesitated and JJ’s stomach plummeted yet again. The idiot was hiding something in his mouth. But what sort of weapon could you hide in your mouth? The restaurant owner opened wide and the bomber peered inside, gazing intently through the slits of the balaclava.
‘Always best to be careful, that’s what my momma used to tell me. Measure twice, cut once. Okay, sit down.’
Instead of going back to where he’d been sitting, Tony came and sat beside her. Eyes down, she stared at the grain in the wood. She was aware of him settling alongside her, shifting his massive bulk to get comfortable. He was breathing through his mouth rather than through his broken nose. Low, wheezing gasps. The bomber smacked his lips together and JJ glanced over. His balaclava was rolled up to reveal his mouth and he was staring at his glass like it contained an expensive Bordeaux. He sipped the drink, smacked his lips together again, then let out a satisfied, ‘Ah.’ He looked up. ‘Now, that really hit the spot. Anyone thirsty? It’s got to be a couple of hours since you last had a drink.’
JJ was parched, but there was no way she was going to admit that. Stay invisible. Chances were, she wasn’t the only one feeling thirsty, and chances were she wasn’t the only one sat here biting her tongue.
‘I’ll take that as a no. I’ve got to tell you, though, you don’t know what you’re missing.’
JJ heard the grin in his voice. The sick bastard was getting a kick out of taunting them. She just didn’t get it. The entertainment industry was cut-throat, but nothing she’d seen in Hollywood came close to this. This guy made the sharks that swam around this town look as threatening as minnows. She figured that was the difference between real violence and the posturing, pretend variety.
‘So, do any of you good folks need to take a piss?’
JJ’s bladder suddenly felt fuller than it had ever felt. Judging by the way everyone was shuffling around, she wasn’t the only one suffering. The bomber wiped his hands on his pants, then pulled a pack of adult diapers from his backpack. He held them up for everyone to see.
‘You need to piss, you use one of these. Understand? Anyone makes a pu
ddle on this nice floor and I will not be happy.’
He moved around the hostages, dropping diapers. One landed next to JJ. She pulled it closer and wedged it under her leg. She was working hard to keep her disgust from showing. This was just another way to screw with them. The bomber stopped when he reached Tony. He hesitated, then dropped a diaper in his lap.
‘It’s one size fits all, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to do the best you can.’
He finished distributing the diapers then grabbed another slice of pizza. Everyone was glancing uncertainly at each other, but no one was putting on their diaper. JJ reckoned she could hold on for a while longer. She had to. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. The bomber folded the pizza slice in two, took a large bite, chewed for a while, then chased it down with a swallow of Coke. His chin was square and stubble free. It was a strong chin. The pulsing heart on his big jogger’s watch was flashing well within the safe limit.
‘King’s back there. He seems to be holding up okay.’ Tony was leaning against JJ’s shoulder. His lips were so close she felt the whisper rather than heard it. She wanted to reply, but couldn’t without turning around. She couldn’t take that risk. Any movement would alert the bomber. She’d already had one strike. Two and she’d be out.
‘He’s been talking to the FBI, but his cell phone’s died.’
JJ glanced over at Natasha Lovett’s orange canvas bag, then went back to staring at the floor. There had to be thirty cell phones in that bag. It was crazy. This was the age of communication. You took it for granted that you could connect to anyone in the world in seconds, by computer or phone. And the thing was, most of those communications were meaningless, a waste of breath and words. Then, that one time when you really needed to contact someone, the technology let you down. The signal died or the computer crashed. Or the battery ran out. If that didn’t define irony, JJ didn’t know what did.
