by Stacy Green
Nathan gritted his teeth but didn’t take the bait. “Joe, I’m going to talk to my boss now and see what I can do about getting you out of there. I’ll call back in twenty minutes. Will you answer the phone?”
“Maybe. I might be busy with Red.”
“That definitely wouldn’t help your cause, man.” He barely managed to keep his voice even. “Gotta think about the future here, Joe.”
“Just get me out of here.”
The line went dead. Nathan spoke into his shoulder mic. “We’ve got to get eyes in there now. This guy’s a loose cannon, and I want to know how bad the branch manager’s hurt.”
“Tech says five minutes,” Johnson said. “Sounds like Joe busted her one. What’s your plan?”
“Keep him talking. He’s edgy and impatient. I don’t think he’s made for the long haul.”
“What about the partner?”
“He’s the one I’m worried about.”
2
CRAZY JOE HUNG up the phone and resumed his pacing. His footsteps ground the shards of security camera glass into the expensive tile floor.
Cheek throbbing and blood oozing on her already swelling lip, Emilie drew her knees to her chest. The creepy, silent partner had bolted to his feet as soon as Joe leveled her, practically dragging her back to sit next to him.
None of this made sense. Crazy Joe had rushed around, trying to get the money and get out, while this man hovered, as if the police wouldn’t be here any second. The men had to have expected authorities would be alerted. Why had he stalled? Did he want to be trapped inside? With her?
She swallowed back the scream and kept her eyes on the floor, trying not to be hyperaware of the quiet man’s steady, almost serene breathing. Trying not to cry, she stretched her cheek and jaw. She didn’t think it was broken.
Why had she brought up Otis? Her landlord knew she had the cat. Someone would take care of him if the worst happened. She’d wasted the negotiator’s time and paid for it.
Joe stomped across the lobby. The sole of one of his boots had come loose and flapped against the floor as he walked. Creepy turned to watch him. Emilie studied her captor. His nondescript black boots were new, and the scent of floral fabric softener clung to his clothes. Completely relaxed, he hummed a soulful tune, moving his head to the beat. He was nothing like his fidgety colleague, who looked and smelled like he’d just crawled out of a dumpster.
Creepy caught her staring. He held her gaze. “I’m sorry he struck you.”
She said nothing.
“Did you like the flowers?”
Shock exploded in her head and slithered down to her feet. “Excuse me?”
“The lilies, did you like them?” His looked at the vase sitting on the kiosk. “Casablanca lilies mean ‘celebration.’ A perfect flower for today’s occasion.” His carefully controlled voice slipped, and Emilie heard the slightest of accents. She couldn’t place it.
“You sent those lilies?” Nausea built in Emilie’s stomach. Casablancas meant only death to her. And now, unrelenting terror.
“Yes. Did you like them?”
A scream clawed its way up her throat. The flowers weren’t a mistake. This man, this freak posing as some kind of old-fashioned gentleman, had sent them to her. How had he known of her love for William Blake?
Emilie swallowed her building panic. She had to stay calm. “They were lovely.”
His eyes turned up—he was definitely smiling. “I knew you would. Those were just the beginning, Miss Emilie. Just the beginning.”
* * * *
“WE’VE GOT EYES,” Chris said.
Nathan flipped his mic back on. “What do you see?”
“Hostages are in front of the teller counter. Joe’s pacing the lobby. Looks like he’s packing a standard nine mil. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. Might have another weapon stashed.”
“What about the other guy?”
“He and Davis are separated from the others. This feed sucks. Looks like she’s got a little blood on her face, but she’s conscious.”
“You sure it’s her?”
“Got a copy of her driver’s license right here.”
Johnson’s voice came over the radio. “You think she’s in on this?”
“I don’t think so,” Chris said. “She’s got her head in her hands, rocks back and forth sometimes. Looks like she’s pretty scared. Unless she’s a damned good actress and doesn’t mind getting whaled on.”
“So why does the other guy have her separated from the rest? Just because she’s the manager, or are we missing something?” Nathan stared at the bank’s front windows. He couldn’t stop thinking about Joe’s complaints of the partner hovering around Emilie. Instinct told him to move quickly. “We need to get a hostage out, find out exactly what’s going on.”
“Madigan, get back on the phone. Holt, you got audio yet?”
“Working on it.”
“Get it done.”
* * * *
CRAZY JOE STOOD with the phone jammed against his ear shouting into it. “I ain’t releasing no hostage. They’re all we got to work with.”
Emilie shifted, her tailbone hurting from the tile floor. The man beside her moved as well, as if he thought they needed to be in sync. He’d never allow her to be released.
Did he intend to waltz out of the bank with her as his personal hostage? She’d seen things like that on television. The victim’s story never ended well.
“Did you know Las Vegas was founded as a city on May 15, 1905? Before then, this whole area was agricultural. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
Emilie stared at him. What kind of game was he playing?
“But the railroad came and changed everything, as it often did. One hundred ten acres of land between Main Street and Fifth Street—which is now Las Vegas Boulevard—were auctioned off.” He fiddled with his gloved left hand, turning what must be a ring.
Emilie focused on the tile floor and counted the blue flecks in the pattern. She thought back to the books she’d read about serial killers. The unimaginable fear the victims must have felt had always struck her, and she thought she’d have just died of fright on the spot. But it wasn’t that kind of fright. It didn’t shock her heart or quell her breath. It wound itself through her body like a boa constrictor, slowly squeezing out her will to stay calm.
“One of the city’s original buildings sat on this very spot: the Wildwood Hotel. Fifty rooms, a huge parlor, and a breakfast room. Very popular among the travelers riding the new rails.”
“Listen to me.” He laughed. “You must think I’m a boring well of facts. But I do love history. It’s such a vital part of who we are as a people and as a culture. Don’t you agree, Miss Emilie?”
Her lips pursed, fighting an inner battle. Common sense said to keep her mouth shut and not play his games, but her quick-tempered, irrational side wanted to demand answers.
“Miss Emilie, are you listening?”
“How could I not?” She chewed the inside of her cheek, pain shooting through her face into her eye. Talking to this man was stupid. It would only fuel his rambling nonsense.
“It’s fascinating, no?” He sounded pleased. Emilie finally peeked at the man.
Of course, he still regarded her like she was something to worship. “Now, after World War II, the Wildwood fell behind the times,” Creepy Guy continued. “It resurged in the eighties with new owners but just wasn’t glamorous enough. The hotel sat empty for several years before it was purchased by your bank.”
He messed with the ring again. “It’s a shame the city didn’t refurbish it. The Fremont Street Experience is nearby. The old hotel would have fit perfectly into the antiquated theme.”
Emilie wet her dry lips. If Creepy Guy wanted to talk, she’d oblige. Maybe she’d stay alive longer. “The place was falling down. It was an eyesore with cracked windows, rotting floorboards, and faded paint. Millions would have gone into repairing the place. Nobody wanted the burden.”
He leaned toward her. His hot breath leaked from the tiny pores of the facemask. “We know all about burdens, don’t we, Miss Emilie?”
She couldn’t speak. His tone was too familiar, kind. As if he felt sorry for her.
As if he knew.
“Now you listen to me,” Joe’s shouting turned deadly calm. “You want a hostage, you got one option.”
Nathan ended the call and turned to Sergeant Johnson.
Grim lines aged the man’s face. “What?”
“He says the only way he’ll release a hostage is if I come to the door and get him myself.”
Johnson snapped his head back and forth. “No chance. You know he’s going to try something.”
“We need a hostage.”
“We can go in without them,” Johnson said. “Done it before.”
“Not in a situation like this,” Nathan pushed the issue. “We’ve got too many people inside and out.” He gestured to the onlookers barely kept at bay by the uniforms. “This guy is volatile. If we can’t get him out peacefully soon, he’s liable to come out shooting.”
“What are you basing that on?”
“Gut instinct.” That wasn’t going to be enough, and he knew it.
“I don’t make decisions based on stomach acid,” Johnson said. “It’s too risky.”
“I’ve got armor on,” Nathan said. “We’ve got snipers, Chris has decent eyes on the door. I won’t get close enough for him to grab me. But if I can get face to face, maybe I can make progress. And we’ll have the hostage.”
“If it’s not a ploy.” Johnson looked away, sucking on the meaty part of his cheek. “Everything about this stinks, Madigan.”
He was giving in. Nathan saw it in the resigned set of his jaw. “Listen, boss. Something is off about this whole thing. Joe says the partner basically abandoned the plan as soon as they went inside. Why? They clearly knew they had very little time. It’s almost as if the partner wanted to get trapped inside.”
“That makes no sense.”
“That’s why we need a hostage. Find out what’s been going on.”
Johnson’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, all right. But we take all precautions necessary. And under no circumstances are you to get close enough for him to get his hands on you. Make sure he knows you’re the go between. That’s it. Got it?”
“Absolutely.”
Sweat trickled down the back of Nathan’s neck as he approached the bank, hands in the air. His Kevlar protected everything but his head. He should have worn the helmet too, but he needed to make eye contact with Joe.
“He’s walking to the door with a male hostage.” Chris’s voice steadied Nathan’s nerves. “He’s got the guy in front of him, using him as a shield.”
Nathan stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, blocking out the noise of the city and the chattering in his head. He stared at the glass door, squinting at the reflecting sunset and wishing he could see inside.
“He’s sending the hostage to open the door,” Chris said. “We’ve got two guys on the roof. If he raises his weapon and they have a shot, they’ll take it. You doing all right?”
“Copy that.”
One of the glass doors cracked open. “Madigan,” Joe shouted. “You got guts, I’ll give you that.” The hostage was tall enough Nathan couldn’t see Joe’s face. His collar drenched in sweat, the pale hostage stared at Nathan with large, frightened eyes.
Nathan gave the man an encouraging nod. “I’m just trying to put an end to this situation, Joe. Why don’t you send this man out, and you and I can talk, face to face?”
Joe barked a laugh. The hostage winced. “So I’m in the line of fire, right?”
“Nope. You can stay right there, with the door cracked.”
“You know I can shoot you.”
“You could. And I guarantee you’ll never get out of this. But it’s your call.”
“This is all bullshit,” Joe’s voice carried over the hot gust of wind. “We were supposed to be in and out of here. Easy. That’s what he said. Now I’m stuck dealing with you because he screwed up.”
“I get it,” Nathan said. “Just let this man go, and we’ll figure it out.”
“Isn’t going to be that easy.”
The hostage went rigid. His eyes looked wide enough to explode out of his head. A large, tattooed hand appeared on his elbow, turning him enough so Nathan saw the gun pressed against the hostage’s skull.
“Joe, don’t do something stupid.”
“Not stupid. Smart. I’ll let the guy go. If you take his place.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Sure I do. You’re worth more to your buddies out there than this jackoff. They’ll move heaven and earth to get their cop friend out alive.”
“If I come in there, then there’s no one to speak for you.”
“You’ll speak from inside.”
“I can’t.”
The gun dug deeper into the hostage’s head, and Nathan caught the silhouette of Joe in the glass. “You switch places with him, or I kill him.”
“Please,” the hostage spoke for the first time. “My name is Tom. I have a wife and kid. They need me. My little boy’s only three.”
“Shut up.” Joe hit him with the butt of the gun. Tom stumbled and swayed but remained on his feet. “I’m not playing, Madigan. It’s you or this man’s death on your conscience. Can you live with that?”
Nathan had been living with that for over ten years. He’d be damned if he added to it.
“Give me a second, Joe.” Nathan reached for his shoulder mic. “Chris. I’m about to do something the boss won’t like.”
“What? No. You’re going to stick to the plan.”
“Plans change. I’m not going to let this man die.”
“Joe’s bluffing.”
“No way to know that. I’ll be fine. Tell the boss I’m sorry. I’m out.” Nathan turned the mic off. “I’m taking my vest and everything off.”
“You got any weapons hidden?”
“No.” Nathan let the vest fall on the ground and then raised his shirt, followed by each pant leg. “Nothing.” Sweat tracked down Tom’s face as he watched, knees bent, ready to bolt.
“Okay,” Joe said from behind him. “Madigan, you get up here and block the door. I’ll let Tom go, and you can come in and join the party.”
Nathan walked forward. “Keep your hands up,” Joe said.
Tom’s neck bulged against his shirt. Nathan stepped close enough to smell the man’s fear. Inches away from the partially opened door, he finally saw Joe’s face. Leathery, with a spotty, graying beard and small eyes that reminded Nathan of a great white shark’s.
Joe pointed the gun at Nathan. “Come inside.”
“Release him first.”
“You gotta have some faith in me, boy.”
He didn’t have a choice if he wanted to save Tom’s life. Joe might be bluffing, but the risk was too high. Slowly, hands in the air, Nathan slipped between Landry and the door.
Inside, the bank steamed, the heat combined with the smell of sweating, frightened bodies. Joe shoved Landry out the door and then slammed it shut, quickly locking it.
Nathan’s eyes took a minute to adjust from the glaring sunset. Finally, he saw two women sitting together at one end of the tellers’ counter. The young blonde’s nametag read Mollie, and she comforted a shaking customer. Both women looked at him in shock.
At the other end of the counter were the partner and Emilie Davis. Her dark-red hair fell around her face, and her pale complexion made the bruise on her cheek stand out like a purple stain. They locked eyes, her mouth open in astonishment. Nathan nodded once, hoping she understood why he was here.
Blinking, she cocked her head, as if she were trying to read his churning thoughts. Then she nodded, her high, tensed shoulders sinking away from her ears.
The man next to her—the silent partner dressed in black—didn’t move and didn’t question Joe’s motivation. Through his facemask, he glared at
Nathan with the fire of a madman.
Joe clapped a heavy hand onto Nathan’s shoulder. “You’re with me.” The gun pressed into his ribs, Joe’s stale breath on his face.
“Whatever you say.”
Joe sat down in an overstuffed, grey chair across the lobby. He pointed the gun at the chair beside him. Nathan sat.
“So what’s your plan, Joe?”
He stretched out his legs, his bony right knee coming through a worn patch. He kept the gun on Nathan. “To get the hell out of here.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“Woulda been if he hadn’t screwed up.” Joe cast a hateful glance at the silent man, whose eyes remained on them. His body, however, leaned toward Emilie with the familiarity of a lover. She leaned away, looking sick.
“What exactly happened?” If he could establish some trust with Joe, Nathan might be able to end this thing peacefully.
“I told you already.” Joe pulled a wrinkled packet of sunflower seeds out of his shirt pocket and jammed a handful in his mouth.
“Why’d your friend take so much time? Panic?”
Joe spit shells onto the gleaming floor. “Ain’t my friend. And I don’t think he’s capable of panic. Or anything that takes energy. He’s on the same level all the time.”
“Makes for a good bank robbing partner.”
“You’d think. But Red’s got him all screwed up. Look at him guarding her like some rabid pit. If he thinks we’re leaving here with her, he’s got another think coming. I ain’t taking no hostage along.” He spit more shells out. A few landed on Nathan’s boot.
He shook them off, grinding them into the tile with his toe. “That’s definitely extra baggage to take along.”
Joe wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Why the hell you here?”
“You didn’t give me any choice.”
“Always a choice.”
“Not when someone’s life is on the line.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have shot him.” Joe’s mouth twisted in a mocking grin.
“Maybe not. But that’s a risk I couldn’t take.”
“Hero complex.” Joe spit out the rest of his shells. “You got a lot to learn.”
