by C. S. De Mel
Hachiuma handed his briefcase over to Tony. “Get these out of here right now. The police will be here momentarily.”
Tony ran over to Saul (one of Tony’s loyal grunts) and gave him the two briefcases and the bank door keys. “Go.” It was a game of hot potato. Saul took the briefcases and moved towards the entrance. He unlocked the doors and tossed the keys back to Tony.
Saul stepped out into bright daylight. He could hear cop sirens already approaching from some distance away. His eyes scoured the line of cars in front of the bank and spotted Turly. He moved as quickly as possible without breaking into a conspicuous run.
“Wells, this is stupid. We need to do something,” Brody muttered. Zerneck Wells and Brody Sasso were also parked outside the bank.
“Do what exactly? You saw the amount of men and firepower they had. The best thing we can do is wait. We’re gonna put our faith in the cops to handle this one. All we can do is hope that Mark and Lucas find a way to stay alive until then.” Zerneck ran his fingers along the steering wheel as he waited patiently. And then they saw the bank doors opening...and a man walking out with two briefcases...
“Those are our cases!” Brody yelled. “No chance in hell they’re getting those!” He opened the car door and rushed to intervene.
“No, you idiot, I said stay!” Zerneck Wells called after him, but he was already gone. Idiot’s going to ruin everything.
Brody was on the intercept path. There was a great deal of space between him and his target. Turly leaned over, unlocked the passenger-side door, and pushed it open. “C’mon, hurry up,” Turly muttered to himself, while watching Saul approach his vehicle. Brody sprinted forward; he had Saul in sight. Saul reached the vehicle just as Brody stopped to draw his silenced gun. He took aim and fired.
Turly watched in shock as Saul screamed out and dropped one of the briefcases. He staggered on the spot, holding his shoulder. “Get in!” Turly yelled. Saul stumbled and fell onto the sidewalk. He struggled to climb into the car. Another shot pierced Saul through the back. His hand was grazing the car seat when it began to go limp. Turly watched wide-eyed as Saul’s arm slowly slid out of the car and his body crumpled by the passenger-side door. Shit. There was only one thought on Turly’s mind. The briefcases. He scrambled over to the passenger side and reached out to pick up the cases.
Brody ran forward. “Leave it!” he roared. He fired wildly while running, trying to shoot Turly through the rear windshield. Turly ducked down just before the rear window was shattered by gunfire. With only his arm protruding out from the car, he loaded the two briefcases in. He then closed the door and stepped on the gas. Brody had reached the back of the car the moment the wheels began to peel out. Brody put an extra burst of effort into his running and fired at the passenger-side window. With a spectacular lunge, Brody managed to get his hand through the shattered window and hold on as the car took off.
Zerneck groaned. Goddammit. He had watched the entire scene unfold in front of him. He started his car and joined in the chase.
Turly looked to the passenger side to see Brody hanging from his car door. Brody managed to get both arms into the car, and one was aiming a pistol. With his left hand still on the steering wheel, Turly lunged and grabbed Brody by the wrist. Turly directed Brody’s gun upwards, forcing his shots into the car roof. Brody tried to work his way into the car, but Turly wouldn’t allow it. He kept his foot down on the accelerator. Turly swerved his car back and forth, attempting to shake off Brody, but he was firmly grasping on to the door handle from the inside. As Turly’s driving became increasingly more erratic, Brody quickly released the door handle and grabbed Turly’s thinning hair for grip instead. Turly screamed as his body lurched towards the passenger side. Turly looked Brody dead in the eye, baring his teeth and wearing an expression of utmost contempt. Brody was the stronger of the two and was forcing his gun down towards Turly, despite Turly’s resistance. Turly knew that in about a second he was going to be done in, and he had had just about enough of this slime contaminating his vehicle. He released the steering wheel and stomped down all the way on the accelerator pedal. Reaching into his suit pocket, he extracted his pen blade. With his teeth, Turly bit off the top of the pen and swiftly thrust the ceramic blade in and out of Brody’s hand. Another stab—this time, Turly forced the blade in as deep as he could. Brody cried out in agony and dropped his gun, but pulled on Turly’s hair even harder. In this instant, Turly let go of his pen and caught the gun by the handle before it landed on the seat. Still holding Brody by the wrist, with the pen stuck firmly through his hand, Turly pressed the silenced gun barrel into Brody’s cheek. Turly was nose to nose with Brody, staring him down with unfettered rage. “Get the hell out of my car.” Before the scream could escape Brody’s throat, Turly unloaded the entire clip into his face. Turly released Brody’s wrist and allowed his corpse to tumble out into the street. Zerneck, who had been following behind Turly’s car from the time it left the bank, slammed his brakes to avoid running over the body. He stared out the window at Brody’s corpse, and the slightest of smiles crossed Zerneck’s face. He rolled up his window and drove off. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, and his resolve was firm.
***
Two squad cars had arrived at the bank in response to the silent alarm being tripped. One by one, the officers exited their vehicles—four officers in total. They weren’t sure what to expect. For all they knew, this was a false alarm—it wouldn’t be the first time. But judging by the crowd gathered in front of the bank, something was definitely wrong. “Officer!” one of the bystanders called. “We can’t get into the bank!”
“The doors are locked and we can’t see inside. The windows have been covered up,” said another. The officers exchanged glances.
A panicked lady ran up to the officers. “There was a shooting! I saw someone firing a gun on the road, and then they just drove off!”
“When and where?” asked Sergeant Alden, the lead officer.
“Just before you all got here. It happened by the sidewalk there,” the lady informed, pointing to the strip in front of the bank. One of the officers walked over to where the woman indicated and examined the asphalt. He signalled the other officers to the spot. Broken glass from car windows littered the road. They drew their guns—this was definitely not a false alarm.
“Ladies and gentleman, I ask that you please step away from the bank doors for your own safety,” Sergeant Alden announced. The people cleared a path as the officers marched up the concrete steps. Alden suddenly froze and raised a hand to stop the other officers. The bank doors slowly creaked open. Tony Calzone slipped out and closed the door behind him.
“Ah, I thought I heard sirens!” Tony proclaimed to the police.
“Hands in the air where we can see them!” Alden ordered. All four officers had their guns directed at Tony. “Identify yourself!”
Tony’s hands were in the air, but he had no intention to surrender. He smiled at the police. “Okay, officers, let me lay out the situation for you. We have a bank full of hostages. Shoot me now and I can guarantee you that every last one of them will be executed. But don’t misunderstand me—we have no intention of harming anyone. As long as the police don’t do anything stupid, that is.” Tony looked from one officer’s face to the next. “But I suppose that stupidity is part of your job description. Is it safe to assume I can lower my hands?” Alden stared coldly at Tony and said nothing. Tony’s smile grew wider. He slowly lowered his hands to his side. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What do you want?” Alden demanded.
“What I want—is a news crew here in fifteen minutes...at which point, I’ll make my demands public. In the mean time, no one will be allowed in or out of the bank unless we okay it. I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if you try to force your way into the bank. That will be all for now. I’ll be back out in fifteen.” The officers watched helplessly while Tony turned his back to them and casually walked up the stairs. Tony paused on the top
step. “Oh, and one more thing—get in touch with Captain Bruce Kasparov. I know there isn’t an officer here in New York that doesn’t know his name. Make sure he’s watching the broadcast.” Tony retreated back inside the bank and closed the door behind him.
“Well, what now?” an officer asked.
Sergeant Alden sighed. “Let’s call it in.”
***
Queens, NYPD, 117th Precinct
Oswalt Fletcher was seated at his desk, absorbed in his computer screen. He was quickly adapting to typing with one hand. He took no heed when detectives Henry Schucker and Roy Cameron approached his desk. “Hey, Oswalt, how’s the arm?” Henry asked.
“Fine.”
“When does the cast come off?”
Oswalt shrugged. “Couple weeks?” Oswalt still hadn’t bothered to make eye contact with either detective or cease typing. Clack-clack-clack went the keys.
Roy scratched his head. “Seem pretty busy there, Fletcher. What are you working on?”
“On work,” Oswalt stated flatly.
Henry glanced at Roy, then directed his attention back to Fletcher. “You okay, Oswalt?”
“I’m fine.” The rhythmic key clacking continued.
Henry wasn’t satisfied. He continued to press the subject. “Are you sure? The last few weeks you’ve kept to yourself mostly.”
“And by that he means you’re normally an annoying little git that doesn’t shut his mouth,” Roy added.
Oswalt stopped typing and scowled at the two of them. “I said I’m fine. Don’t you two have some work you should be doing?”
Roy thought for a moment. “I suppose...well, see you around then, I guess.”
The pair walked off. “Something’s eating him,” Henry muttered to Roy, once out of earshot. “I just don’t know what. He doesn’t seem to be himself.”
“What are you, his mother? You heard him, he said he’s fine,” Roy replied. “He’s probably just busy like he said and finds it difficult to cope with the stress. No need to read into it.”
Henry glanced back at Oswalt, who was once again furiously typing away with one hand. “Yeah—maybe...”
Captain Morring stormed out of his office. He was in his fifties, with grizzled hair and a stern demeanor. “Alright, listen up, people. We got a hell of a situation brewing.” All the officers turned their attention over to the captain. “First Bank’s been taken over. Possible robbery in progress, numerous hostages…”
Oswalt’s eyes went wide while listening to the captain’s briefing. Oswalt knew that the Solly brothers were planning to make a deposit at the First Bank today. Were they caught up in the middle of this? Maybe even involved with it? Oswalt’s mind was racing as he contemplated possible scenarios.
“…I need all available units to get down there now. Form a perimeter around the bank and wait for further instructions.” On that note, officers began to make their way towards the doors. Captain Morring intercepted Roy and Henry before they could leave. “Not so fast, you two—I need a word.”
“What’s up, Captain?” Roy asked.
“You two are close with Kasparov, right? You keep in touch and whatnot?”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess... Where are you going with this?”
“I need you to get in contact with him. These guys holding up the bank—they got a hard-on for Kasparov, apparently. They requested a news station to give them a speaking platform. Kasparov’s gonna want to hear this. You two are going to make sure he does.”
“Well, it’s not like we keep tabs on him, but yeah, we can try to give him a ring,” Roy replied.
Captain Morring nodded. “Good. Now get the hell outta here.”
***
Henry and Roy pulled up in front of the bank. The street had been cordoned off, and several cruisers had formed a line in front of the building. Roy had already managed to contact Bruce by cell and advised him to tune-in to the news. News crews were set up by the bank, but were kept behind the police blockades. “Press was already here before the blockades were even set up!” one officer was telling another. “Goddamn vultures.”
Captain Morring had arrived on the scene. He stepped out of his car and glanced down at his watch. “Any minute now, people.” Right on cue, Tony Calzone opened the bank door—exactly fifteen minutes since his last encounter with the police. Morring approached him with a look of disgust on his face. “Tony Calzone...why am I not surprised to see you in the middle of this mess?”
“Where—is my reporter?” Tony was not in the mood to exchange pleasantries. Morring looked over to the news crew the department had arranged and beckoned them forward with a finger. Susan Oaks, a blonde news reporter in her thirties, approached with her cameraman.
“Make it quick, Ms. Oaks,” Morring whispered to the reporter. “I don’t want this joker on the air any longer than he needs to be.” Susan nodded in agreement, then took her place beside Tony. She signalled her cameraman to start rolling.
“This is Susan Oaks, reporting live for channel one news. Breaking news: I am standing in front of the New York City First Bank, where—”
“Give me that mic, you dolt!” Tony snapped, snatching the microphone from Susan’s hand. “Listen up! This message here is for Bruce Kasparov. I know you’re watching…” Tony smiled malevolently. “You’d better be watching, or else every death inside this bank will be on your head. It’s this simple: you come to the bank, and you come inside alone. You hand yourself over to us, and all the hostages go free. Refuse to comply and they’re all dead. No one else can save them but you.” Tony stared darkly into the camera. “Do what you do best Bruce Kasparov, and play the hero. You have three hours.” Tony stretched out his hand and dropped the mic on the ground. The news crew and police stared in stunned silence as Tony walked back up the stairs and returned to the bank.
Roy Cameron watched it all unfold while having his cell phone to his ear. “You get all that?”
“Yeah. I got all that. I’ll take care of it.” Bruce hung up his phone. He, along with Varick and Santos were in the living room of Kasparov Manor. They had tuned-in to the broadcast after getting the heads up from Roy.
“Well, it looks like you’ve really pissed them off this time,” Varick muttered.
“What’s the plan here?” Santos asked.
Bruce shrugged. “Guess I get to play the hero.”
“Going in alone?”
“Seems that way.”
Varick stared at the television screen with his arms folded in front of him. “Tony was sounding pretty confident in front of that camera, and normally he’s a pushover. You know Scorcher’s waiting inside that bank, and we have no idea what else he has in store for you,” Varick warned.
Bruce nodded. “True. But I’m not expected for another three hours, so we have a little bit of prep time…”
***
Chapter 13 – Pincer
Heavy footsteps approached first bank...
It was one hour before Bruce’s deadline. Police continued to keep a tight lock around the bank and SWAT teams were on standby, ready to be deployed. “What’s the move, Captain? My men and I are ready to storm the building. Just give the word.” There was a hint of irritation in SWAT Commander Carter’s tone. This wasn’t the first time he had requested to enter the bank.
Captain Morring shook his head. “No, not yet. Go in there now and it’ll be a blood bath.”
Carter spat on the ground in frustration. “We’re going to just sit on the sidelines and wait for Kasparov to show up?!” This is absurd—to put our faith in one man over an entire police force.”
“Maybe so. But right now, he’s our best chance at getting those hostages out alive.”
“Assuming he shows up…”
There was a sudden buzzing of talk amongst the officers. Something had drawn their attention. Somebody was coming. Oswalt Fletcher was among the officers on the scene. He stared. He couldn’t believe it. “It’s him…” Wild, flaming-pink hair. A devilish smile. And
a face worthy of a paper bag. His massive boots thumped down the sidewalk as he approached.
“Oh Christ,” Captain Morring muttered. “This is just what I need.” Scorcher stopped in his tracks once a slew of officers had their guns pointed at him.
Scorcher smiled. “Let me be the first to say that you’re all doing an outstanding job providing security for my bank. Keeping all the pesky hooligans off my premises!”
“Hands in the air!” an officer demanded.
Scorcher laughed. “Oh, really now. For those that don’t know who I am, shame—on—you. I’m actually good friends with the gentlemen holding up the bank. Scorcher’s the name, and I’m kind of a big deal. And if you haven’t noticed—” Scorcher puffed out his shoulders to let the rich purple fabric draped down his back billow out. “I have a new cape.”
“I knew something looked different about him...” Roy whispered to Henry.
“As much as I want to shoot the breeze with the friendly porcine here, I do have pressing business to attend to inside, so if you’ll excuse me...” But Carter had other plans. He and his SWAT team were quick to surround Scorcher, blocking his path up the bank steps. Several officers followed their lead.
“You’re going to rot in jail for the rest of your unholy life, Scorcher,” Carter threatened.
Scorcher looked around at his captors, thoroughly amused. “You’re not going to arrest me. You’re not going to shoot me. Not here—not now. Not when I hold all the cards.” Carter refused to lower his gun. Scorcher smiled as he cautiously walked up to him, as if trying to get close to a deer without spooking it. Well over six feet, Scorcher towered over Carter and loomed directly in front of him. Slowly, he bent forward. The SWAT commander’s hand trembled as Scorcher pressed his forehead against the barrel of his gun. Beads of sweat trickled down Carter’s temple; he was now face to face with Scorcher and had his finger on the trigger. Oswalt was one of the officers behind Carter. He watched the standoff in anticipation. Part of Oswalt wanted Carter to pull that trigger. More than anything. To rid the world of this plague on society. But he could not come to terms with trading this scumbag’s miserable life for a bank full of hostages.
