Holy Terror

by Graham Masterton

  A red light flashed and reflected off the revolving doors. Conor saw it and the Angel Gabriel must have seen it too, because he said, ‘What? What was that?’

  Another red light flashed, and then another.

  ‘Shit!’ said the Angel Gabriel. ‘There’s cops outside!’

  Conor thought: please God, no. But then he thought of the way in which he had put the phone down on Lacey, and what Lacey would have done next. Call the cops, of course. She was a trained TV reporter. It would have been her first instinct.

  He turned to the Angel Gabriel and said, ‘It’s nothing, it’s probably nothing. Just a passing ambulance. For God’s sake, whatever you do, for your own sake, don’t lose your cool.’

  ‘Don’t lose my cool?’ the Angel Gabriel raged. ‘Don’t lose my fucking cool? What else am I supposed to do?’

  Another red light flashed and this time Conor knew for sure that the store was surrounded.

  ‘You see that?’ said the Angel Gabriel. ‘That was no passing ambulance.’

  Conor said, ‘Don’t lose your cool! You want to survive this, put your guns on the floor and hold up your hands.’

  ‘Are you crazy? What? Are you totally crazy?’

  ‘I’m not just talking about you!’ Conor retorted. ‘There are innocent people here!’

  The Angel Gabriel pulled open his tunic and brandished his Uzi. ‘Who’s innocent? Who’s innocent? I don’t see anybody innocent!’ Doris gasped and put up her hands. Another woman screamed as if she’d been scalded. The Angel Gabriel pointed the gun within a quivering inch of Conor’s nose and said, ‘We’re walking out. You understand me? That’s all we’re doing. We’re walking out. You can’t stop me. The police can’t stop me. Even God can’t stop me.’

  But at that moment, everything began to unravel. Conor could see what was going to happen but he was powerless to stop it.

  Two SWAT officers in combat fatigues came jogging out from behind the stainless-steel escalator bank. Shoppers were still gliding up the stairs like ducks in a shooting gallery. One of the cops yelled ‘Police! Freeze! Drop your weapons!’ although he could hardly make himself heard over the muzak.

  Conor yelled, ‘Everybody down! Get down on the floor!’

  Most of the shoppers couldn’t understand what was happening, and continued to mill around the perfume counters in bewilderment.

  Four or five more cops burst in through the store’s main entrance. They were all wearing flak jackets and carrying M-16 assault rifles. Christ, thought Conor, what a way to deal with an armed robbery in a crowded Fifth Avenue store. He pulled his billfold out of his pocket and held it up, even though he didn’t have a badge in it any more. ‘Police officer! Don’t shoot!’

  ‘Hit the floor! a police sergeant shouted at him.

  But Conor called back, ‘Don’t shoot! Let these guys get out of here, OK? Let them get out!’

  ‘I said hit the fucking floor!’ the sergeant screamed, almost apoplectic. Conor recognized him: a big-bellied, thick-necked bully of an officer called Wexler, from the 21st Precinct.

  ‘Let them out of here!’ Conor insisted. ‘Let them get clear!’

  Sergeant Wexler squinted at him in disbelief. ‘Captain O’Neil? I might have fucking known.’

  ‘Use your head, Wexler. You can’t have a firefight in here. Take it outside.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You want me to walk out there in front of ten different TV stations and tell them that me and my SWAT team couldn’t arrest two sad little store thieves?’

  At that moment the Angel Gabriel glided right up behind Conor and clasped him tightly, almost amorously, around the waist. He pressed the Uzi’s muzzle to the side of Conor’s head and whispered in his ear, ‘Move. I said move. If you don’t get us out of here, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘You’re not going to get away with this one,’ Conor told him. ‘These guys want nothing more than to see me caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘Move,’ the Angel Gabriel urged him. ‘Come on, move.’

  Conor said, ‘Are you out of your mind? One step and these cops are going to drop us.’

  ‘Move, I said!’ Gabriel insisted, and pushed him forward.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Sergeant Wexler shouted. ‘Stay where you are and lay your weapons down on the floor! This is your last warning!’

  Conor tried to stop but the Angel Gabriel kept shoving him forward.

  ‘Ray, come here,’ the Angel Gabriel called to the black man, without turning around. ‘Stay real close, Ray. And you, lardass, don’t you stop pushing that trolley. That’s my pension in there. That’s my house in Acapulco.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ Conor told him.

  ‘Test of strength,’ said the Angel Gabriel, holding him so close that Conor could feel his breath on the back of his neck. ‘Battle of wills!’

  ‘That’s far enough!’ shouted Sergeant Wexler. ‘You come one step closer and we’ll open fire.’

  They had reached the counter where Doris Fugazy was crouched. She looked up at Conor with her blotchy mascara and her bright red lipstick and she was shivering like a whippet. All around the perfume department, women were lying on the floor or crouching down behind pillars. Two or three of them were weeping, and one of them was babbling hysterically to her babysitter on her mobile phone. ‘If anything happens to me, make sure that she gets her shots.’

  Very slowly, the Angel Gabriel lifted his Uzi and pushed the muzzle under Conor’s chin. The machine-gun was so close that Conor could smell the oil on it. ‘If you bastards open fire,’ Gabriel called out to Sergeant Wexler, ‘you’re going to see the top of this guy’s head fly off.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Sergeant Wexler, as if he couldn’t wait. He kept his weapon aimed unerringly at Conor’s head.

  ‘Hold it!’ called Conor. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes, will you, and we can work this out!’

  ‘No – no,’ said the Angel Gabriel. ‘I’m not doing any deals.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Right now they’re itching to off the both of us.’

  The Angel Gabriel hesitated. He whistled tunelessly under his breath for a moment or two. Then, without warning, he shoved Conor with his left hand, right between the shoulder-blades. Conor staggered to one side, and struck his hip against the Chanel counter.

  There was a belligerent clatter as the police lifted and aimed their assault rifles but Gabriel ducked to one side and snatched at Doris Fugazy’s arm. She gasped, and tried to twist away, but he swung her around and lifted her right up onto her feet. He clutched her tight in front of him, his left arm around her throat.

  Conor, off balance, made a wild attempt to snatch the Angel Gabriel’s gun, but the Angel Gabriel backed away as smartly as a dance instructor. ‘I don’t want to kill you, man. I admire what you did. I like you. But I’ll kill you if I have to. I’ll kill anybody if I have to.’

  Conor lifted both hands. ‘OK – OK. Stay cool. Just don’t hurt her, all right?’

  ‘Put down your guns!’ Sergeant Wexler shouted at the Angel Gabriel. ‘You’re not going anyplace!’

  ‘You don’t think so? I’m prepared to shoot this lady’s face off right in front of you. You want to see that happen? You want to be responsible for that? You want to explain on TV news tonight why you allowed this lady to die?’

  The Angel Gabriel was so hyped up that he hadn’t noticed that the escalators had stopped. But Conor suddenly realized that they were silent and when he turned around he saw why. Two police snipers were kneeling on the metal treads, just below ceiling level. The narrow red laser beams from their high-powered rifles were already criss-crossing the perfume department floor.

  His hands still raised, Conor stepped back three or four paces, well away from their line of fire. He didn’t want to give the snipers any excuses. ‘How about some calm here?’ he suggested. ‘We can resolve this situation without anybody having to get hurt.’

  ‘Sorry, O’Neil,’ said Sergeant Wexler. ‘You should
know the tactical procedure better than anybody. At all costs prevent a perpetrator from taking a hostage away from the scene of the alleged offense.’

  ‘I wrote that goddamned protocol and you know it.’

  ‘Well, let’s see how it works in practice, shall we?’

  There was a glowing red spot of light hovering in the center of the Angel Gabriel’s forehead, like an Indian ruby. Conor said, very quietly, ‘They’re going to kill you,’ but the Angel Gabriel didn’t reply, and pressed the muzzle of his Uzi even harder against Doris’s head.

  ‘Oh, God,’ sobbed Doris. Instantly – as if Doris’s words were the signal that they had been waiting for – the SWAT team fired, and there was a sharp crackle of high-powered rifle fire.

  Conor dived behind the Chanel counter. Darrell dropped almost on top of him, wheezing with fright. The perfume department echoed with wails and cries.

  Ray ducked his head. A high-velocity 7.62 mm bullet hit Salvatore just behind the left ear and burst out of his right cheek. He flung up one arm in what looked like a ridiculous ballet posture, and threw himself to the floor. Ray was finely spattered in blood and he stared down at his tunic, shocked. ‘Shit, man.’ Another rifle-bullet pinged off the marble pillar close beside him. He stumbled, turned and fired two heavy-caliber shots up toward the escalator. The bangs were ear-splitting.

  ‘That’s it!’ shouted Sergeant Wexler. ‘Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!’

  ‘Stay back!’ The Angel Gabriel dropped to his knees, dragging Doris down with him. He lifted his Uzi over his head and fired a five-second burst into the ceiling. The chandelier shattered and sparkling glass and plaster came down like a blizzard. Conor shouted, ‘Drop it! Throw it down!’ but the Angel Gabriel grabbed Doris even more tightly around the neck and screamed out at Darrell, ‘We’re going for it! We’re going for it! Come on!’

  Darrell was crouched next to Conor with his eyes shut and his hands over his ears. The Angel Gabriel screamed at him again. ‘Lardass! We’re going for it! Move!’

  Furiously Darrell shook his head. ‘Lardass!’ the Angel Gabriel insisted. ‘Can you hear me, lardass! We’re going for it!’

  Three or four more rifle shots echoed across the perfume department. Counters shattered, mirrors burst apart, display bottles of perfume exploded. A huge Lalique statue of a woman combing her hair blew up like a bomb, and scattered fragments everywhere.

  ‘Hold fire!’ yelled Conor. ‘For God’s sake, this is insane!’

  Ray hunkered down next to them, still panting and still sweating. ‘Holy shit, man, this is a massacre!’

  Conor ducked between the counters. He came right up to the Angel Gabriel and said, ‘Give this up! In the name of the Lord thy God, give up!’

  ‘Come on, man,’ said Ray. ‘We don’t have any goddamned choice!’

  Doris mewled in terror and kicked her feet. The Angel Gabriel jabbed the Uzi’s muzzle even harder into the side of her head and whispered, ‘I’ll kill her. I swear on the Holy Bible that I’ll kill her.’

  Ray was babbling, ‘Save my ass, Jesus whatever you do, save my ass Virgin Mary, don’t let me die here today.’ Abruptly he stopped babbling and fell forward, his arm flopping across Conor’s legs. As Conor turned, blood sprayed all over the side of the counter. Half of Ray’s head was missing and a piece of skull like a coconut shell was rocking backward and forward on the floor.

  The Angel Gabriel was screaming something at Sergeant Wexler. While his attention was distracted, Conor pried open Ray’s bloodied fingers and took his .44. He unfastened the bottom two buttons of his uniform shirt and shoved the gun into his belt. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. Then he shouted, ‘Sergeant Wexler! Do you hear me, Sergeant Wexler?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘I’m coming out! Do you hear me? Our friend here wants to make a deal.’

  Gabriel hissed, ‘Deal? What the fuck are you talking about, deal? I’m not making any goddamned deal. Either they let me out of here, or the woman gets it. That’s all.’

  But Conor pressed his finger to his lips. ‘Trust me, OK? I want to get you out of here as much as you want to leave.’

  He cautiously stood up, with his hands half raised. ‘Come on, then,’ said Wexler, beckoning him forward.

  Conor made his way between the counters. Sergeant Wexler holstered his gun as he approached and said, ‘Get this straight. I’m not going to be making any concessions here, O’Neil.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I just want to take this firefight out of the store before any more civilians get hurt.’

  ‘So what’s the proposition?’

  Conor leaned forward as if he were going to say something quietly; and Sergeant Wexler leaned forward too. Without warning, Conor seized him around the neck and dragged Ray’s gun out of his waistband. He jammed the muzzle into Wexler’s love-handles. The surrounding officers swung their rifles around and screamed out hysterically, ‘Drop it!’ but Conor kept so close behind Sergeant Wexler that none of them dared to shoot.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, O’Neil?’ Wexler raged, in a strangled voice. Til have your guts for this!’

  ‘I’ll be having your guts first. Tell your guys to back off.’

  ‘The hell I will. You won’t shoot me and you know it.’

  ‘Try me. When did you ever know me to make a threat and not carry it out? I mean, ever?’

  Sweat was glistening between the prickly folds of Sergeant Wexler’s neck. He was panting as if he had just run up and down a fire escape.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I swear on my mother’s life that you’re not going to get away with this.’ He took a deep breath, and then ordered, ‘Everybody lower your weapons and hold fire. Miskowtec – that means you, too!’

  The officers reluctantly did what they were told. Conor recognized some of them – Kosherick, Caploe, Farbar and Murray. They used to think that he was some kind of god. Now they were looking at him all pouchy-mouthed as if they were summoning up enough saliva to spit on him.

  Conor turned to the Angel Gabriel. ‘Let’s go! And make it quick!’

  The Angel Gabriel dragged Doris onto her feet. He said to Darrell, ‘You too, lardass. And the boxes, for Christ’s sake! Don’t leave the boxes behind!’

  Conor waited until the Angel Gabriel and Doris and Darrell were assembled all around him. Then he started to edge his way toward the doors. He held Sergeant Wexler so close that he could smell his Gillette deodorant.

  They pushed their way through the swing doors and emerged into the heat and the glare of Fifth Avenue. The street had been cordoned off for two blocks in both directions, and there were squad cars and ambulances and TV trucks everywhere. Bright lights shone in their eyes and cables snaked across the sidewalk.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ shouted Sergeant Wexler. ‘Everything’s OK! Everything’s under control!’

  ‘Drop your weapons!’ bellowed a distorted voice through a loud-hailer. Conor recognized it immediately, and thought: it just had to be, didn’t it? Lieutenant Drew Slyman, suspected of being one of the three leading hit men of the Forty-Ninth Street Golf Club – the ‘umpires’, they called themselves. Lieutenant Slyman had been implicated in seven Golf Club executions, but Conor had never been able to gather enough evidence to bring him to court.

  ‘Drop your weapons!’ Lieutenant Slyman repeated. ‘Hit the sidewalk! Now!’

  Darrell whimpered in fright, but Conor said, ‘Ignore them. Just keep going.’

  The Brinks-Mat truck was still parked at the curb, as well as a white Camaro. Conor could see that the police had deflated the Camaro’s tires, presumably thinking that it was the getaway vehicle, but they hadn’t disabled the security truck.

  ‘This is your last warning!’ said Lieutenant Slyman. But Conor kept on shuffling across the sidewalk until he reached the truck. The Angel Gabriel backed up to it, too, and let go of Doris for long enough to open the side door. Doris looked wide-eyed at Conor as if she were thinking of making a run for
it, but Conor frowned at her and shook his head and mouthed, ‘Don’t.’

  Puffing and sweating, Darrell loaded the safety deposit boxes into the truck. Then the Angel Gabriel opened the cab door and told him to get in.

  ‘Me? What for?’ Darrell protested.

  ‘You’re driving, that’s what for.’

  ‘But I can’t!’

  ‘Ray was going to drive. But Ray just bought the farm. Now, you’re driving. Got it?’

  Darrell climbed up into the cab and sat round-shouldered and miserable behind the wheel. Before the Angel Gabriel climbed in, he took two or three steps forward and yelled out, ‘Listen up! If I see one police vehicle following us – if I see one vehicle that I even think is a police vehicle – if I see a police motorcycle or a helicopter – if I see a goddamned horse – the woman gets it in the head!’

  He waited to make sure that his warning had sunk in. Then he climbed up into the cab, pulling Doris after him, hiking up her skirt to show her stocking top and dropping one of her shoes.

  ‘If you hurt those people …’ Conor cautioned him.

  ‘You’re a civilized man, Chief O’Neil,’ said the Angel Gabriel, and actually grinned. ‘No wonder you had to quit the police department.’ Just before he slid the door shut, Conor heard him say to Darrell, ‘Cut across to Eighth Avenue. Then head uptown. Move!’

  Darrell started the engine. Several police officers stood up from behind their cars and took aim with their rifles, but Lieutenant Slyman shouted, ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ Conor could guess why: the Brinks-Mat truck was heavily armored and there was far too high a risk of ricochets. It pulled away and started to head downtown, leaving a black cloud of diesel exhaust.

  ‘Satisfied, you piece of shit?’ spat Sergeant Wexler.

  Chapter 5

  Car doors slammed like a cannon volley as the police prepared to set off in hot pursuit, but Lieutenant Slyman called out, ‘Hold it, hold it, hold it!’ and two senior officers stepped out into the street and waved at the squad cars to stay where they were. One siren gave a single mournful whoop and died away. Engines were switched off and doors were opened again. Above their heads, a police helicopter flackered around and around in deafening, frustrated circles.