by Quinn, Fiona
I patted my pocket to reassure myself I had an extra clip and slid through the door. Ruger aimed, I pushed my shoulder up to the wall and slunk along, maneuvering myself close enough to relieve this asshole of his gun when god-damned it! A woman screamed and pointed at me.
As the robber turned his head to look, he made a stupid mistake and dropped the sight on his Glock toward the floor. I had a split-second window. Trapping the top-slide of his gun with my left hand, forcing it backwards so he couldn’t fire, I aimed the pointed toe of my high heel and clipped him full-force between the legs. He sucked wind and collapsed to the floor, rolling over in fetal position to vomit. I kicked the Glock out of reach. The people in the hall cowered into balls with their arms protectively circling their heads.
I used the robber’s handcuffs from his utility belt to manacle his hands together, then used his duct tape on his ankles. I circled the tape several times around his mouth and head to keep him for shouting for back-up. I had been gagged like this once; it was terrifying, and dangerous.
The guy’s face glowed bright red; he floundered around like a freshly caught fish lying in the sun. I was pissed off and glad he was suffering. I reached for the robber’s gun — extended magazine, 40 caliber jacketed hollow points. This team wasn’t playing around. I dropped his clip and put it in my pocket. I popped his chambered bullet out and whispered to the people in front of me, “Take off your shoes and crawl toward the stairs. Help each other. You need to exit in complete silence.” As those closest to me heard, and followed my commands, others got the idea and did the same.
A man crawled toward me on his elbows and told me he was ex-military, what could he do to help? I had him and his buddy drag the robber into the nearest office and secure him to a chair.
The robber’s radio signaled. Shit. Shit. The call went out once, twice. I shoved the Ruger to the guy’s temple. “Behave or die.” My conviction echoed in my voice. Good. Using my knife, I sliced through the tape then roughly tore the gag off the guy’s mouth, and prodded him with my gun.
“I got me twenty-two hostages holed up here in the conference room.”
“Excellent!” came the response. “Start collecting their IDs and get the names of their next of kin.”
I decompressed his radio button and told my prisoner he was to make his partners think the radio was malfunctioning. I moved my gun from his temple to the middle of his forehead right between his eyes so he had a visual, visceral threat. I compressed his radio button, again.
“This damned r…’s n…wor…f…shit. Do…y…me?” He acted it out well. I yanked the old wad of tape from his head, tufts of hair coming with it, and gagged him again with more circles of tape. His eyes still streamed from the kick. He blew mucus globs out of his nostrils with force to keep his nose clear enough to breathe.
I left the phlegm dangling from his chin. I couldn’t be a nice-guy now. “As long as you behave, I’ll keep checking you have an airway. You give me grief? You can suffocate in your own snot.” I hoped the threat would be enough.
My helpers stood in front of me. Panting from adrenaline. Waiting for their next directive.
“You guys get out,” I ordered.
“But ma’am…” Soldier-boy stammered — reluctant to leave. I bet it was my high heels and lipstick – these guys thought they needed to protect me. I thought they were a liability.
“That’s an order, soldier.” I used Striker’s commander-voice and got the result I wanted. Military guy saluted and crawled out on his belly. His buddy tried to follow suit, but wasn’t nearly as coordinated.
What now?
I edged out into the corridor to the railing that overlooked the main lobby and lay flat against the balusters, wanting to give SWAT some intel. Suddenly, a robber ran toward a withered old woman — the only hostage on her feet. He ripped her cane from her hand and threw it, clattering across the pink marble floor. Thrust bodily up against the glass door, gun to her temple, I watched as she peed a wide yellow puddle. A bright burst of sound exploded. Brains sprayed out the side of the woman’s head, spattering the glass, leaving wet smears running down the pane with long strands of gray hair and bone fragments visible even from my distance. He let the woman’s lifeless body collapse like a heap of dirty laundry into the pool of urine. I never saw anyone shot in the head in front of me before. It was horrifying and suddenly this was all too real — not a computer simulation. Real.
I rolled into the nearest office and shut the door so no one could hear as I vomited up this morning’s coffee and a good amount of stomach bile. Squatting in the corner, I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket. I wasn’t supposed to be on assignments with a high risk-factor. I was the Puzzler; a sleight-of-hand girl who planted transmitters. This was way above my pay grade. I didn’t think there was a pay grade high enough for me to want to be here.
“Lynx,” I whispered into my communicator. A vibration came in response. They were listening, but didn’t want to put me in danger by speaking. “One hostage fatality. Three tangoes visible in the lobby. I have one in custody on the second floor. Over.” The robbers were talking over my prisoner’s radio; I let my team listen. I counted voices. I heard five. I had visual on three in the lobby; I had one who wasn’t functioning, so there had originally been at least six — bad odds for Striker, Deep, and me. Huh. Well one way to figure this out…
I crawled back to my prisoner. He wasn’t doing well. He was definitely low on oxygen; his skin was blue and clammy.
“Now’s the time to cooperate.” I sliced then yanked the tape roughly from his mouth, the Ruger pushed to his temple, my thumb on my communicator. “How many of you in the building?”
“Eight.” He gasped, opening his mouth wide, desperately searching for oxygen. Blood dripped from his raw lips.
“Where are they?”
“Three are on the first floor with the hostages, two emptying the security boxes, I’m here, and two drifting - making sure everything’s going according to plan.”
“Are they all dressed like you?”
“No, only the ones who are in charge of the hostages and the boxes - the drifters are dressed in suits.”
“How can we recognize them?”
He paused, so I moved the Ruger under his chin. “You won’t be able to,” he said. “Except they’re wearing bullet proof vests.”
I focused on not letting my hands shake. “What’s the end game here?”
“Rob the bank safety deposit boxes of precious metals, coins and jewelry, whatever we can get that’s untraceable; get gold for the hostages; get flown to safety by taking hostages with us.” His eyelids stretched wide exposing the whites of his eyes. His focus swept from me to the tape on the desk.
“They shot an old woman,” I pulled his attention back.
“They’ll shoot one hostage every hour on the hour.” His voice didn’t hold the defiance I would have expected. He sounded deflated.
I twisted around to see the wall clock – this took me a second — my mind was muted under gauzy layers of shock. “Out,” I said into the communicator and got a confirmation buzz. “Okay, we’re going to work together to keep you alive. I want you to blow your nose hard.” I held tissues up for him to clear his nose. Disgusting. As I rewrapped his mouth and head with the tape, I noticed the pink color had returned to his skin. “Be good,” I told him and edged back out to the overlook.
People, lying face down, peppered the bank lobby. I counted them off. From my vantage point, I got twenty-two. Many were crying. They lay in various protective positions, curled around themselves, covering their heads. A mother lay across her children, using her body as their last defense.
The same three robbers were visible. They stood in front of the glass walls of the bank lobby. I assumed, since the SWAT snipers weren’t taking these men out, that there was some kind of dire threat that had been communicated to the police.
Time froze. I sat with my prisoner, waiting for instructions, praying for Striker and Deep.
Where were they?
A shriek sliced the air. I scuttled out to the baluster. I located all three robbers in the lobby. One stood in front of the door, holding a pregnant woman in front of him, his hand clamped on her jaw. The woman wrenched and snaked her head, trying to get away from the semi-automatic pushed up against her temple. Her sobs rose up toward me, grabbing at my throat, making it hard for me to breathe. Had an hour passed already? Certainly if they were trying to make a point of their ruthlessness, killing a pregnant woman would do it.
I crouched back on my heel, posting one knee to use as a support for my gun hand. My Ruger felt slippery in my sweaty palms. I wanted to wipe my hands off on my skirt, but I couldn’t take my aim off of the guy holding the woman. My mouth went completely dry. My lips stuck to my teeth.
I gazed down the gun barrel, lining up the sight window with the man’s head. What the hell were the snipers thinking? Why hadn’t they taken this guy out? I wasn’t equipped for this – in any sense of the word.
Okay. I needed to think this through. A shot to his core was of no consequence. I traded my 9mm for my prisoner’s Glock. I needed a one-and-done bullet if I was going to pull this off. This was a Hail Mary moment. I’d be foolish to take it. No. I wouldn’t take it. This woman stood too close in height to the assailant. If she and her baby were going to die today, it wasn’t going to be my hand that took their lives.
Loud phone negotiations carried up from the lobby, but I only caught a word or two. Things weren’t going well. The robber jerked the woman this way and that to punctuate his demands. Wait. I recognized this scenario from one of Spyder’s 3D computer teaching games. Okay, if I could get a shot off on the one holding the pregnant woman, I’d have shock on my side. I’d have what? About seven seconds where the other two robbers couldn’t respond. I think that might be enough. I shifted my attention to the other two bad guys. They weren’t pointing their guns at anyone in particular. They were focused on what was going on outside the windows.
My gun sight glued to the center of the man’s head by his ear. The pregnant woman grabbed her belly and doubled over. At that moment, I pulled the trigger. One, two, three, four, five-times I shot in quick succession.
The robber holding the woman went down immediately. So did the pregnant woman. I didn’t know why. It couldn’t have been me. Could it? She was on all fours now. The other bad guys sprawled on the ground, unmoving.
I yelled down at the hostages, “RUN. RUN. RUN.”
A few of hostages lifted themselves — zombie-like, in shock, and uncoordinated — they ran-stumbled toward the door. I watched them slipping on brain-matter and blood, grasping at each other as they climbed over the attacker’s and the old lady’s bodies that lay in their path. My heart squeezed like a tight fist. I went tingly-numb from lack of blood circulation. A man grabbed hold of the pregnant woman’s arm and dragged her behind him as she scrambled her legs under her, trying to stand up. Some of the hostages crawled in the direction of the door, some lay as if petrified - not yet able to move. Shoes, bags, and coats were strewn everywhere.
A flash of Deep and Striker raced back toward the vault area. More shots blasted the air and echoed off the marble. I pinched my nostrils almost closed to stop myself from hyperventilating. Nothing. Silence. What? What?
Shivering, sweat-covered, ripped stockings, nose running, puke-stained, I crawled back into the office with my prisoner. The buzz of my communicator snapped me back to operative mode.
“Lynx here. Five shots fired, Three tangoes down. One tango in custody. Striker and Deep in the vaults. Additional shots fired. No further information.”
This time Jack came over the line. “We’re coming to get you. Sit tight. Out.”
I sat tight. It was a miserable wait. I wouldn’t let my mind go where it wanted to go. I had to stay professional. I’d allow myself all of the scary feelings later, in private.
My communicator buzzed. “We’re outside your door coming at you. Out.” Jack said.
I stood to one side of the door jamb and aimed my Ruger just to be sure. Jack opened the door slowly and walked in. He nodded at me. I lowered my weapon.
Jack dropped Striker and me off at my house. I went up, showered, and changed clothes to go back to Iniquus for our debriefing and mental health check. Apparently, I was the only one who needed a shower - no one else had puked. When I went down the stairs, my hair hung wet, and back to blond; my brown contacts were stowed in their case. Striker sat pensively on my couch.
“I want combat pay.” I plopped into a chair beside him, rubbing my hair with a towel. “Daring deeds of do or die aren’t part of my contract. As a matter of fact, I think it specifically says I don’t do that.”
“That was a random crime we happened on. You weren’t acting as an Iniquus operative.” Striker’s tone was flat, his face unreadable.
I narrowed my eyes and looked at him sideways. I didn’t like it when Striker acted impermeable. “Oh, yeah. You’re right. Well, I don’t want to happen on any more crimes. That sucked.” I tried to smile but my lips wouldn’t cooperate.
“You ignored my order.” He pitched his voice glacial and low.
“How do you mean?”
“I told you to get the people out the back door.”
“Right.” I considered him for a minute. I had curled up in my chair with my dogs at my feet - their eyes unwaveringly on Striker, on guard. I guessed I was too. When Striker brandished his hard edge, it was intimidating as hell. “I was following your order when I heard more people in the corridor. I hoped to get them moved out, as well,” I said. “Unfortunately, a guy with a gun blocked their path. Once I had him secured, I found him useful for getting information. I stayed in constant communication, and I never got a subsequent order. Things change during a mission. Obviously.”
We stared at each other. A long moment passed before either of us moved or spoke.
Striker exhaled, letting go of some of his tension. “I know this about you, Lynx — you’re clever. Trained. Effective.” He leaned back into the couch and crossed his arms over his chest, sticking one long leg out in front of him to resemble nonchalance.
I wasn’t buying it.
“I remember vividly my first impression of you, well my first impression when I met you as Lexi after the Wilson attack. Even though you were in bad shape, you were still level-headed, and smart — you once told me that you use this sweet, girl-next-door looks, your girly, innocent-sexiness to your advantage. It confuses and disarms people. Sometimes, I forget who I’m dealing with.”
We sat some more. I wasn’t sure what reaction I was supposed to have here. I’m not really sure what this conversation was about. Striker was clearly working through something in his own mind.
“Sometimes, being with you is confusing,” He shook his head as if he was trying to line up his thoughts. “I want to protect you, and you don’t really need me to do that. It screws with my mind a little bit.” Striker pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, taking me in from a different angle. “Deep had a lipstick mark on his mouth and collar. It’s your color.”
“Are you jealous?” I batted my eyelashes.
“Curious is a better word.”
I told him about the embrace in Neaman’s office, and how Deep had put up with my kiss as a sacrifice ‘in the line of duty.’ That got me a half-smile. Striker stood. “We had better head in to the office. They’ll have a team pulled together to assess us. How’re you doing - you okay?”
“I saw a lot of gray matter and blood today. I think it might be a good idea to get some strategies for how to deal with that. I’d like to talk it over with Spyder, but you said that’s off the table.” I worked my jaw. It ticked me off that they were keeping me from Spyder, especially after I rearranged my life to saddle up for their mission.
“Completely off,” Commander Striker said.
“I got it already,” I shouted. I could hear the throaty leopard growl victoriously in my head. The thought brushed through my
mind that Command might be keeping me away from Spyder for some reason other than his safety.
Nine
I curled up in front of my picture window with a steaming cup of ginger tea. Knee-deep snow blanketed the city last night, leaving my view crystalline. Serenity painted the scene as I watched the sun breaking through the clouds at dawn, but now the neighborhood kids, sausaged in their winter gear, waddled out to play. Soon their calls and laughter punctuated the still and hush. Their feet churned up the smooth white perfection as they rolled out their snowmen and built their forts.
I woke up early this morning after a difficult night; adrenaline factored largely in my discomfort. My dreams weren’t about gun shots, banks, and blood, though; they were about the rake of long, sharp claws down my back and gleaming white fangs.
The psychiatrist at Iniquus told me in our de-briefing that it might take a few days for me to get back on even kilter — if I had trouble I should head in and have a chat. The person I needed to talk with, though, was off-limits to me. God, Spyder, get better already. Tell me what to do.
Manny headed around the corner of his house with a shovel in his hands. I opened my door and called him over. He stomped up my steps, kicking his boots to dislodge the snow.
“What’s the word?” he asked.
“The word is ‘winter’ apparently. Can you come in for a coffee? I wanted to ask you about something.”
“And get out of shoveling the walk a little longer? I’ll gladly take a cup of joe.”
Manny took off his coat by the door, and I went back to put a K-cup in the brewer. Manny stands about five-ten and stocky. And while his hair had started to recede, his eyebrows valiantly tried to make up for it. His dark eyes were always unreadable, unless he was talking about his sons then they filled with affection.
“You hungry?” I called from the kitchen.
“Nah, I just got done eating pancakes with the boys.”
