Unable to sit there any longer, she boarded the elevator for her solitary ride to the forty-second floor. When the door opened, she saw a flurry of activity, but Amanda couldn’t become part of that. Her colleagues were accustomed to the unflappable Amanda Martin, the one who could handle the toughest question from the harshest reporter. Not the woman standing outside the office with mascara running down her face.
Inside the ladies room, Amanda stared at her reflection. Her normally porcelain skin was gray, her hazel eyes were bloodshot and her carefully applied makeup was gone. Before Roland’s call, she was an average ambitious businesswoman who was dating, or maybe just sleeping with, her CFO. She felt untouchable as one of the highest-ranked executives at the firm. Now, she just saw a haggard-looking criminal. Her eyes fell to the brown roots fading into her straight blond hair flawlessly twisted back. No need to keep her hair appointment for that afternoon. Chances were there would be no salon services in the federal penitentiary.
Leaning against the bathroom wall, she heard the elevators on the other side whooshing past her. The mechanical whir of the motors and the hum of the cables put her in a trance only interrupted when a ding sounded on her floor. “Josh. Finally,” she whispered as she hurried to catch him.
Amanda stepped through the heavy glass door of her office lobby just as she heard a man ask for her. Instead of Josh, she saw the back of an older gentleman, clad in khaki pants and a windbreaker standing in front of the receptionist. With a backpack slung over one shoulder and a baseball cap covering his white hair, he looked as though he should be heading to college instead of a retirement home. The woman motioned to Amanda’s office as she tried to answer the constantly ringing phones.
He thanked the receptionist, pulled a pistol from inside his backpack and shot her in the head. The phones continued ringing as though nothing happened. Some of the traders in the cubicle area stood up at the sound of the gunshot, and he emptied his magazine on them as though they were ducks in a video game.
Amanda’s office door swung open and Liz froze in the threshold.
“Amanda Martin?” the man asked, casually reloading his gun.
Amanda could see the fear in Liz’s eyes ten feet away. Liz shook her head, “I have a son.” Her voice was soft and weak.
The man was unflinching. “I have a wife who is very sick. My retirement fund was going to make her better, until some greedy bastards stole it all. She’s going to die and so are you.”
“I’m Amanda Martin,” Amanda shouted at the man’s back, but her voice vanished in the thunder of his gunshot. She watched Liz crumple to the floor. Amanda felt her own body go numb as she released the death grip on her purse and phone. She covered her mouth to stifle her scream.
The man reached into his backpack and pulled out a grenade.
“A few weeks ago, I called Williams about cashing out my retirement fund to pay for my wife’s cancer treatment. He gave me the runaround: forms, taxes, bullshit. I knew something was fishy, and I was on my way down here to have a little chat with Mr. Williams when, guess what, my wife called to tell me he’s been indicted for stealing people’s money,” his commanding voice presided over the screams. “I’m not here to hurt everyone. I want Josh Williams and Keith Cooper. If you can point me in their direction, I’ll finish what I came to do and leave.” While he said this, he tossed the grenade up and down in his hand, toying with it like a tennis ball.
Liz’s outstretched hand beckoned Amanda, but she would be shot if she moved in plain sight. She edged over to the receptionist desk and sought cover under the heavy brown wood.
The man quizzed her colleagues as to the whereabouts of her co-conspirators, but she couldn’t register what he said. With each blast from his gun, her ears rang louder, muffling his voice. She didn’t see him pace the office; instead she focused solely on the body of her friend.
Please be alive, please be alive … Amanda mouthed silently.
“It’s clear you are all in this together and therefore, all guilty. You have until the count of five to tell me where they are, or we’re all going up together. I’ve got a bag full of grenades, and I’m not afraid to use them all. Got that?” the man bellowed over the startled silence of the office.
Amanda got up on her haunches to make her way to Liz, but a rush of blood to her head made her dizzy. No matter how much Amanda commanded her body to take deeper, slower breaths, it wouldn’t comply. She steadied herself.
“Ten…nine…eight…,” her quivering lips barely moved.
The man began his count much louder. “One,” he boomed, the pin of the grenade clicked out of place. “Two… three…”
They reached "five" at the same time. When the grenade went off, it knocked her backwards against the swinging glass door. A second blast forced her against the door again and this time pushed her all the way through. When she opened her eyes, fire blazed through what used to be her office, and a heavy breeze blew through the blown-out windows of the forty-second floor. Papers floated like soft snowflakes. The piercing screech of the fire alarm joined the ringing in her ears. Her hand automatically felt her body, acting purely on instinct to make sure she was still in one piece. When her right hand moved over the breast of her coat, the envelope inside gave a little jab signaling it was okay. Amanda decided to move.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my husband, Colby, for not thinking I needed a straitjacket when I’d start giggling over something Elaina or Seth “said.” To my wonderful critique partners, Christine Brodersen, Chris Crawford, Vanessa Foster, Sarah Hamilton, Susan Sheehey and C.A. Szarek, thank you for always pushing me to be better (and for helping me deal with my pronoun allergy. I’m starting shots soon…promise!).
To my parents, sister and brother-in-law, there’s no way I could ever adequately thank you for your love and support.
To Carol Barreyre, for being my wing-woman and sharing laughs and tables at book signings.
To Lisa Van Gemert and Veronica Garza, for helping me brainstorm on that drive back from Austin.
To Alexandra Sokoloff and my awesome classmates at West Texas Writers’ Academy - Jolene Navarro, Linda Fry, Linda Trout (Trout-Fry!), Carl Kjar, Melody Robinette, Vaun Murphree…and gosh I hope I didn’t forget anyone. You guys were there in the very beginning and helped me shape this idea into a story.
And, finally, to my grandfather, Dennis Dodson, for showing me my very first tornado.
About the Author
Kimberly Packard is an award-winning author of edgy women’s fiction. She began visiting her spot on the shelves at libraries and bookstores at a young age, gazing between the Os and the Qs.
When she isn’t writing, she can be found running, doing a poor imitation of yoga or curled up with a book. She resides in Texas with her husband Colby, a clever cat named Oliver and a yellow lab named Charlie.
Her debut novel, Phoenix, was awarded as Best General Fiction of 2013 by the Texas Association of Authors. She is also the author of a Christmas novella, The Crazy Yates, and the sequels to Phoenix, Pardon Falls and Prospera Pass. Her latest novel, Vortex, was released in early 2019.
Also by Kimberly Packard
The Phoenix Series
Phoenix (Phoenix Series Book 1)
Pardon Falls (Phoenix Series Book 2)
Prospera Pass (Phoenix Series Book 3)
Standalone Titles
The Crazy Yates | A Christmas Novella
Vortex Page 28
