Flash and Fire

by Marie Ferrarella

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Pierce walked out of the assistant station manager’s office. Abrams’s accolades had barely registered. Pierce felt as if he hadn’t had any sleep in thirty-six hours.

  He glanced at his watch. Thirty-eight would have been closer to the truth. He could usually sleep on planes. The nature of his work had forced him to develop the knack of being able to fall asleep almost anywhere, anytime. But on this last trip, it hadn’t been so easy. Amanda had continued to prey on his mind like an elusive mathematical puzzle that couldn’t be solved.

  No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to block her image from his mind for more than a few minutes at a time. All through the flight home—hell, all through the flight to eastern Europe—he had thought about nothing except returning to Dallas and seeing her. Being with her. Making love with her.

  Five or six times, while still in Europe, he’d even pulled out his cell phone to call her.

  To say what?

  That she was haunting him? That he, who’d never allowed anything to cloud his thinking, couldn’t rid his mind of her? That she seemed to cling to him like a thin film he couldn’t rinse away?

  She would have laughed at him.

  He’d laugh himself if it wasn’t so damn annoying. So he’d hung up and hadn’t completed any of the calls. He had brooded instead.

  Always before, the anticipation of a liaison had far outweighed the pleasures of consummation. This time, it was different. There was no ensuing boredom or restlessness, no desire to move on. His gears were stuck in neutral.

  After having her, he only wanted her more.

  It was, of course, just an aberration. It was because she had turned out to be such a passionate lover. He’d be over her soon, just as he had gotten over all the other women. No one could lay claim to him; that was the way he wanted it.

  Pierce had stopped off at the studio first, going there instead of home just to see if there’d been any new developments on his story while he’d been in flight. Abrams had been more than satisfied with his material and his on-the-scene reporting. Pierce had been the first to break the story that the rumors were false and that the prime minister of the newly formed tiny country was to be retained, along with his cabinet. The rumor of a pending revolution was just that: a rumor.

  Tired, deciding that what he wanted more than a hot woman was a hot shower and a comfortable bed, he was heading for the exit and the parking lot when he collided with Paul in the hallway.

  The young cameraman was almost flying, his camcorder securely packed in the case at his side. Taller by a head and far more muscular, Pierce steadied the other man by grasping his shoulders. “Hey, what’s your hurry, Rodriguez?”

  “Welcome back, Pierce.” The affable grin was genuine. “Amanda called. Some nut’s trying to hold up a liquor store in the heart of the downtown area. He’s got hostages and everything. The whole shebang. Amanda wants me down there pronto before the other networks get wind of it.”

  Pierce thought of Amanda’s last piece of independent work and Grimsley’s reaction.

  “Did you tell Grimsley?”

  “Nope.” Paul didn’t care much for Grimsley, but he knew better than to buck the man. “Grimsley’s at lunch with the owners.” Two rows of perfectly white teeth flashed. “And I ain’t got the number. I left a note with Carmella for Abrams. His door was closed.”

  “He was with me,” Pierce said. “Or, I was with him, depending on your point of view.” He indicated the exit. “I’11 go along with you.”

  Paul was already hurrying out the door. Time was of the essence with all stories. Amanda had told him to come with only the news truck team. She usually meant what she said. “Okay, but Amanda’s not going to like it.”

  Pierce laughed. “Probably not.”

  “Why did you bring him?” Amanda demanded.

  The police were attempting to set up communications between the gunman and themselves. So far, though there was a telephone in the liquor store, no one was answering it when it rang. Word apparently hadn’t reached the other stations yet about the hostage situation and she wanted to go on the air, live, before anyone beat her to it. She’d been anxiously waiting for Paul to arrive. She hadn’t expected him to arrive with Pierce.

  Paul shrugged. He felt as if he were standing in the middle of an electrical storm with a lightning rod on his head. These two definitely had the hots for each other, he thought. What he didn’t understand was why they hadn’t done anything about it.

  Paul took his camcorder out of its case and handed Amanda the microphone. “I didn’t bring him. He just kind of tagged along.”

  “Truth!” Pierce raised one hand solemnly as if he were taking an oath. He dropped his hand and looked at her. “Aren’t you going to say welcome back, Mandy?”

  Amanda was already walking away from him. “Welcome back, Mandy,” she tossed over her shoulder. Then her attention switched to Paul. She couldn’t afford the luxury of having personal emotions get in the way of her work. “Paul, I want you to get some footage of the area and then tell me when you’re ready. I’m going to go on with Mr. Anselmo. He wants to go on the air. He’s the owner,” Amanda added when Paul raised a quizzical brow at her mention of the man’s name.

  Paul looked around the crowd and saw Anselmo. “That guy who looks like his whole world’s been wiped out?” Paul prided himself on being tough as nails, but his heart had never been hardened to grief.

  Paul’s description brought a pang of guilt. She’d had second thoughts about going on the air with the man, but Anselmo wanted to make a plea to the gunman. There was a tiny TV inside the liquor store and it was always turned on.

  “That’s him. His wife’s inside.” Amanda realized that Pierce was right behind her but didn’t turn around.

  “She the hostage?” Paul asked.

  Amanda set her mouth grimly. “Yes.”

  Pierce moved forward, studying the situation. As yet, there weren’t too many policemen on the scene. Just a throng of gawkers trying to kill an afternoon with someone else’s misery.

  “Has the gunman made any demands?” Pierce asked.

  Amanda shook her head. “Not yet. But he shot into the crowd once.”

  Pierce squinted, trying to make out a form inside the store. The sun had shifted and it was impossible to see. “Could just be a psycho.”

  That had already occurred to her. “Yes, I know.” She laid a hand on Paul’s arm. “All right, let’s get started. I think I just saw Channel Seven’s mobile unit trying to pull up. We want to scoop them, remember?”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.” Lifting the camcorder that was like an extension of his soul, Paul panned the area. When he trained it on Amanda, she quickly recapped the details of the city’s latest drama.

  Behind her were the police barricades, holding back the crowd; beside her, the grief-stricken store owner, pleading with a man he’d never met to spare his wife. The liquor store with its bullet-shattered window was the eye of the hurricane.

  It looked like a scene out of a B movie, she thought as she told the public what it felt entitled to know. Except that for those involved, it was all too real.

  Anselmo was becoming incoherent, his grief, guilt, and fears mixing together to wipe out his ability to speak coherently. Amanda quickly wound up the broadcast, promising more details as they occurred. She did what she could to comfort the man.

  “Here.” She thrust the microphone at Paul. She wasn’t going to be needing it any longer. “Film anything you think is newsworthy.”

  “Where are you going?” Paul wanted to know.

  “Maybe to make a deal.”

  Forging through the crowd, Amanda made her way to the front and the policeman she had spoken to earlier. Any attempt at communicating with the gunman had failed so far, but even he had to be getting edgy with a possibly hysterical pregnant woman on his hands.

  Pierce watched Amanda gesturing as she spoke animatedly with the policeman. The man wore a reso
lute expression as he shook his head.

  “Looks like our girl is making enemies again. Can’t seem to get the knack of getting along,” Pierce muttered to Paul. “Keep filming,” he ordered just before he left.

  Pierce came up behind Amanda just as the policeman shouted, “No!”

  No was not an answer that Amanda was willing to accept. “Look, if I’m inside, maybe I can talk him into giving himself up,” she insisted.

  “He’s already got one hostage—“

  “That’s the whole point.” He wasn’t paying attention to her, she thought in frustration. Amanda looked toward the store again, thinking of the woman inside. Mrs. Anselmo had to be hysterical by now. “If I—“

  Pierce nodded at the policeman as he wrapped his hand around Amanda’s arm. “Excuse me.” He pulled her none too gently to the side. She was so flabbergasted, she couldn’t say anything in protest. “You wouldn’t be trying to switch places with the hostage, now, would you?”

  She yanked her arm free. “And what damn business is it of yours if I were?”

  For two cents, he’d shake her just to hear her head rattle. “Just what land of stupid grandstanding theatrics are you into?” Pierce demanded angrily.

  She clenched her hands together to keep from swinging at him. “No grandstanding. That might be your field, but it’s not mine. But there’s a pregnant woman in there.” She pointed angrily at the liquor store. “She’s got enough to contend with without some nut case waving a gun at her. I want to switch places with her before she gets so frightened that she goes into premature labor.”

  It had been that way with her, Amanda remembered. In the middle of an emotional tirade, Jeff had hit her. She’d fallen and her water had broken. Christopher was born six hours later. One month early.

  Pierce’s eyes were flat. “Very noble of you, but you’ve got a son to think about.”

  He wasn’t going to cloud the issue by using Christopher. “What does Christopher have to do with it?”

  She turned away from him, but Pierce caught her arm again and swung her around so that she was facing him. “Where’s Christopher going to be if his mom gets blown away?”

  He had no right to dictate decisions for her, even if they had been to bed together. “Let me worry about my son.”

  He looked at her with barely restrained disgust. “You haven’t got the sense of a gnat. Me, I haven’t got anyone to worry about, or to worry about me.”

  Pierce strode past her toward the front of the crowd. Toward the liquor store. He knew better than to try to reason with the police officer. The man would just tell him to keep his nose out of it. Amanda had had a good idea; she’d just had the wrong player in mind for the little drama.

  “Hey, you in there.” Pierce cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the store. “How about a switch? Me for the pregnant woman. I promise I won’t faint on you or get hysterical. I’m with Channel Eight. You can tell me your story. How about it?”

  Amanda grabbed his arm, her fingers surprisingly strong as they dug in. “You can’t—“

  Pierce turned, surprised at the horror in her voice. Was it because he was stealing her thunder? Or was there some other reason she sounded so upset?

  “Why can’t I, Mandy?” The question, despite the din, was low, sizzling over her skin. ‘Why can’t I?’ he repeated. “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental on me.”

  He saw the anger reach her eyes. But he saw something else as well. He wasn’t sure exactly what, he only knew that it made him more nervous than the prospect of facing the gunman.

  “I’ll let you interview me after it’s all over.” He leaped over the sawhorse, then looked over his shoulder at her. “Exclusively.”

  “Newsmen give lousy interviews,” she spat. Nerves were knitting together within her in an intricate tapestry of fear.

  “We’ll work it out.” Pierce made his way slowly toward the store, aware that any sudden movements might be his last. His hands were raised high.

  Amanda turned toward the policeman, who’d materialized at her side. “Aren’t you going to stop him?” she demanded hotly.

  The man shook his head slowly. It was against regulations, and he knew he would get hell for this from the detective at the precinct, but sometimes, unorthodox methods worked a hell of a lot faster than methods that went by the book.

  “He’s too fast for us,” the sergeant said, watching Pierce. And praying. His daughter was pregnant with her second, and he’d been picturing Dana inside that store in place of the owner’s wife.

  “Hey, you in there,” Pierce called toward the store, “I’m coming in. Send Mrs. Anselmo out. And don’t break any liquor bottles. I’d hate to see the waste.” He grinned, knowing the gunman could see him plainly now. “I’m partial to scotch if you’re pouring.”

  Amanda held her breath as she watched the door open. Mrs. Anselmo edged her way out, obviously terrified. The gunman was right behind her, his arm wrapped tightly around her just beneath her breasts.

  They seemed to be fused together, like grotesque Siamese twins.

  “Hey, this is great stuff,” Paul said from behind the camcorder.

  Amanda jumped. She hadn’t even realized that he was standing next to her.

  “Yeah.” Her mouth was utterly dry as she watched Pierce move closer, inch by slow inch. The gunman and his hostage remained in the doorway, waiting. Not too far to her left, she heard another policeman grumbling over this newest development. Pierce was a civilian, butting in where he didn’t belong. “Great stuff.”

  God damn him, she thought, what if he got killed?

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Amanda watched, frozen, as Pierce walked slowly up to the front of the liquor store. The noise from the crowd behind her seemed to fade away. She heard nothing but Pierce, saw nothing but Pierce. Everything else ceased to exist.

  His hands were raised only to his chest now, though his fingers were comfortably spread toward the sky.

  He looked as if he was enjoying this, she thought, resenting him for what he was putting her through. No, what she was stupidly putting herself through, she amended. He wasn’t supposed to mean anything to her.

  “Get going, lady,” Pierce ordered the pregnant woman pleasantly, as if he were just coming by to pass the time of day. But his eyes never left the gunman’s face—what he could see of it. The man was only half a head taller than the woman he was using as a shield.

  “She ain’t going anywhere. Not until you get in here!” The gunman tightened his grip on Mrs. Anselmo and she cried out in pain.

  “Easy, now, easy,” Pierce soothed.

  He was hardly more than a kid, Pierce thought, disgusted. The weapon he was brandishing about didn’t transform him into a man. The gun was shaking in his hand.

  “Looks like you and I are going to be spending some time together, sport. Why don’t you just let the lady go?” Pierce suggested easily. “She’s as big as a house and that’s a small store. There’s not enough room for the three of us in there.”

  The conversation was agitating the gunman. His eyes took on a wild look. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and get in here!”

  His voice bordered on hysteria as he barked the order; his eyes darted everywhere in an attempt to keep track of Pierce and the police at the same time. He stood with his back inside the store, and only the smallest part of him was visible.

  Any second now, Pierce thought, he was going to break.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Leroy. Leroy Smith,” the teenager barked importantly, as if the name should mean something to Pierce.

  Pierce stopped walking when he was about two feet away from the front of the store. He could yank the woman aside, he judged, but the kid might shoot her and then it would all have been for nothing.

  “Well, Leroy, you’re going to have to clean up your act if you want me to hang out with you. I don’t take to such foul language.” Pierce’s smile was easy, his eyes never leaving the
youth’s angry eyes.

  He saw the perspiration beading on the kid’s forehead, the anxiety radiating from his eyes. Leroy Smith was a powder keg waiting to blow.

  “Shut up before I shoot your fucking head clean off right here!”

  “In front of all these witnesses, Leroy?” Pierce shook his head. “Won’t look good. Besides, I’m the one who’s going to make you famous. You want to be famous, don’t you, Leroy? Everyone wants to be famous.” Pierce took another half step forward. “Didn’t go as planned, did it, Leroy?” He let sympathy he didn’t feel dribble into his voice. “Just some easy pocket money, that’s all you wanted, wasn’t it? Not the whole DPD breathing down your neck and a pregnant woman on your hands.” His voice was singsong, lulling. But it didn’t work.

  “What the hell do you know about it?” Without realizing it, the gunman loosened his hold on Mrs. Anselmo.

  “You’re sweating,” Pierce told him mildly.

  Pierce saw the gunman’s breathing become labored, as if he were a steam engine building up momentum. The gun he held stopped waving as he jerked it into position, aiming straight at Pierce.

  “And you’re dead!”

  Less than a foot away now, Pierce dropped and rolled as the gun went off. He heard someone scream. Pierce rolled himself straight into the gunman and the pregnant woman, knocking them over. Stunned, Leroy let go of Mrs. Anselmo. She cried out as she fell on top of Pierce.

  Gunfire erupted. Unprotected, the would-be robber fell as police bullets struck him from three sides.

  It was all over in less than five minutes.

  Mrs. Anselmo was trembling and sobbing. Pierce was on his knees next to her, holding her to him, when Amanda rushed up. Police were swarming around the gunman. He was alive, but just barely. Amanda had looked at him as she passed. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

  Ambulances that had been standing by all this time moved in. There were two, one for the gunman and one for Mrs. Anselmo.

  Mr. Anselmo stumbled through the crowd, pushing people aside. “Let me through, let me through!” Paul was beside him, helping the man cut through the throng. The man threw his arms around his wife as he fell to his knees. “Oh God, Doris, are you all right?” He showered her with kisses and checked her over and over again, sobbing his relief.