Amber Morn (29 page)

“Oh!” Her hands flew up, and she almost fell over against the building.

Was she hallucinating? All the pain, and her wobbly legs, and the sun was so
very bright
…

“Police.” One of the men ran toward her. “We’re getting you out of here.” He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away. He was
strong
. Her feet hardly touched the pavement.

Next thing she knew, they’d stumbled around the corner building and turned down Second Street. A van idled in the middle of the road, pointed toward Lakeshore. The man steered Angie toward it. She heard hard steps behind them.
Kent?
She threw a wild look backward.

No. The second policeman, running backward, his gun aimed toward Main.

They reached the van. The first man pushed her into the backseat and crawled in after her. The door slammed. The second man jumped in front.

“Go!”

A third man behind the wheel sped the van down the street.

Angie fell back against the seat, her eyes closing. Oh, she
hurt
. “Where are we going? I want to see David.”

“We’re going to get you to an ambulance. You still in pain?”

“Yes. Which hospital? What about my friends? I want to see David.”

She prattled on. Angie knew she sounded like a fool, but she couldn’t stop herself. She gripped her left arm, massaging. Wanting the pain to
go away
. Wishing she could just fall asleep, wake up on another day.

“Where are we — which —?”

“Just stay calm now.” Angie felt a hand on her shoulder.

The van stopped. Doors opened. Angie kept her eyes closed. The pain was too much, and all the
commotion
. Her brain couldn’t handle it.

Other voices. Footfalls. A hard metal
snap
.

Gurney?

“Ma’am, come on, let me help you get out.”

Then she was sliding over… on her feet for two seconds… hands helping her down. The sun was bright, turning the insides of her eyelids mottled red. She was lifted, slid into the ambulance. She felt someone climb in behind her. Doors closed.

The ambulance moved.

“Which hospital are we going to?”

“Kootenai Medical Center.” A woman’s voice. “Just be still now.”

A blood pressure cuff around her arm. Tightening. “Please. You have to tell David.”

“Is David your husband?”

The
pain
. Angie’s breath came in puffs. “No. But. Soon. Maybe. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, huh?” A smile in the woman’s tone. “Well then, we better get you fixed up quick.”

SEVENTY

Angie had gotten to safety.

Vince lowered the phone, relieved for her. But the feeling was short-lived.

Justin put down his pen and sat back.

One hour.

Briefly, Vince focused on the pictures of the hostages, envisioning their positions within the café.

Tactical wouldn’t need an hour. While he’d been negotiating, Vince knew Jack and his men had been doing their homework. Thanks to the building plans, they knew every inch of Java Joint’s layout by now. What kind of front door it had, the lock system. They’d studied the photos of the hostages and HTs. Each CRT member would know his exact job. Who would go in first. Who would be last. Who carried the shields, who wielded the gun with frangible ammunition to breach the door.

In the meantime, Vince would try to keep Kent Wicksell on the phone, despite his unwillingness to talk. Vince would call until he answered. Distracting him was important. One, he was the one most likely to storm out the door or harm someone inside. Two, according to Brittany’s information, he tended to sit at a certain spot when he was on the phone. The more Tactical knew about the HTs’ positions upon entry, the better.

Vince needed to get Brittany’s diagram down to Jack immediately.

He picked up the radio, prepared to speak the words he’d so hoped to avoid. The CRT commander would be expecting this. With the gunfire, the HTs had left Vince with no other choice.

“Jack, this is Vince.”

“Yeah, Vince.”

“I’m giving you the green light to go tactical.”

SEVENTY-ONE

“
They
get to decide who goes first.”

Pastor Hank watched, nearly numb with shock, as Kent punched off the call and smirked at the phone.

Leslie gasped. She eased away from Hank into Ted’s arms. Bev and Bailey clung to each other, shivering. Wilbur cussed under his breath.

Hank thought of Janet.
Dear Lord, thank you that she’s not here.

If God had ever used sickness for good, it was now. Janet would be in Java Joint right now if their youngest daughter wasn’t fighting mono.

But she and all three daughters must have heard the news by now. Hank’s heart squeezed, thinking of their terror.

Lord, help them be strong. And surround us in here. Protect us with your angels
…

Hank knew his church members were praying at this very minute. The prayers of everyone combined were what had kept them all alive until now.

Except Frank.

Hank looked to Paige. Her face was white, her blue-green eyes lifeless. She held on to Jared.

Kent laid the phone on the table with a firm
clack
. He turned evil eyes on the group. “Everybody, go sit down where you were.”

Brad and Mitch backed up, their weapons following the hostages’ movements. No one spoke, the only sounds their footsteps and chair legs scraping into place.

All hope had fled the room.

Hank sat down at his table across from Wilbur. The older man looked ready to bite somebody’s head off.

Two tables over, Jared dragged his chair into place, facing Bev. Angie’s seat between them screamed its emptiness. Anger and fear welled in Hank, and he curled his fingers, fighting the emotion. Did anyone out there even know Angie was on the sidewalk? Surely she’d been rescued. The thought of her lying on the hot pavement in the sun, in such pain…

Lord, please. No.

The phone rang. Hank started at the sound.

Kent swore and threw a black look at the receiver. He grabbed it, punched it on, then off.

The clock ticked.

Sweat ran down Mitch’s temple. He jerked his shoulder up and wiped it away.

Kent glowered at the hostages, his large nostrils flaring. “What’re you all so quiet for?
You
don’t decide who I shoot first, I’ll do it for ya.” He pointed to Bailey. “And it’ll be
her
.”

SEVENTY-TWO

Vince perched in his chair, phone pressed to his ear. Wicksell kept disconnecting the line.
What’s going on in there?
Vince’s focus glued to the monitor, even though he hadn’t yet heard from CRT. The screen froze on the empty second block of Main, Java Joint in the center. The scene looked like a movie set, waiting for action to begin.

If only this were a movie.

The line jangled in his ear. Vince’s nerves thrummed.

Larry, Justin, Roger, Wiley, Tranning, and Judge Hadkin all crowded around the desk, their attention fixed on the screen. Roger rubbed the side of his face, back and forth, back and forth. A nervous, helpless gesture after running on all four cylinders only to be brought to a screeching halt. Wiley stood with fat legs apart and arms crossed. Hadkin pushed his lower lip up against the top one, plucking at loose skin on his Adam’s apple. Larry gripped the black marker from the situation board. He’d marked “RELEASED” across Angie Brendt’s photo. No need now, but it gave him something to do.

Another ring.

They spoke little. Nothing left to say. All the activity — the negotiating and information gathering; logbook and situation board maintenance; the discussion between attorneys and judge, once so important — cut to the ground like a sword through the knees. All for nothing.

If Vince had learned one thing in his training, it was that incidents like this were unpredictable. And fluid, never static. One idea might work — like the TV/hostage exchange. The next could fail.

The station line jangled. Roger answered it and walked across the room, facing the situation board. He spoke in low tones. Vince couldn’t hear the words.

In his ear, the Java Joint phone rang again.

The line connected, then cut off.

Vince exhaled in frustration. He lowered the receiver.

“What’s the use?” Tranning held up his hands. “They won’t answer.”

Vince ignored him, punched the
talk
button again.

Roger turned around, relief on his face. “Great news from Al. Channel 2’s reporting Frank’s out of surgery. He’s still in critical condition, but everything went well. Unless some complications come up, looks like he’ll make it.”

“Yeah.”
Justin raised a fist.

Vince’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank You, Lord.”

Now, save the hostages
…

“One more thing,” Roger said. “Al’s asking if you know anything about John Truitt going to Kent Wicksell’s house to talk to his wife. A Channel 4 reporter was there, and they got it all on film. She let him in the house but then threw him out, yelling at him to not come back.”

John
. Vince blinked at Roger, the implications sinking in. That’s why Kent was in such a rage. “They air that footage?”

“Apparently so. Not too long ago.”

“Oh man.” Wiley ran a hand across his forehead. “Kent saw it on TV.”

Tranning nodded. “Yeah. Bet so.”

No wonder he wasn’t answering the phone.

Too late to fix it now. Too late.

Vince checked the monitor. Still no movement. Suddenly he registered that the Java Joint phone hadn’t rung for some time. Kent had disconnected again.

Stubbornness rose in Vince. He clicked off the dead line and pushed
talk
once more.

SEVENTY-THREE

“Okay, let’s go over the lineup one more time.” Jack Little wiped sweat off his brow as he grouped with his six men on Lakeshore. The three snipers remained at their posts. Adrenaline knocked through Jack’s veins. It was always that way at gear-up, no matter how many times he and his team were called out. And
this
time — it wasn’t every day they did a frontal assault facing three hostiles holding nine hostages. “Harley’s breaching the door. Dust-up’s rolling in the flash-bang, followed by tear gas. Then we go in stacked. Swank’s point, followed by Dust-up, me, Goose, Frenchie, and Lightning. Harley’s covering rear. Questions?”

The men shook their heads. Dust-up scratched the underside of his chin — his gesture of impatience. Harley’s deep-set blue eyes squinted in the sun, his lips in a thin line.

“Let’s do it.” Frenchie tapped his mask against his leg.

Swank’s face was set in that calm-and-cool expression of his that made the girls swoon, his square chin jutting forward, eyes narrowed. “Good to go.”

Full gear for their dynamic entry called for masks to protect them from the tear gas, and eye and ear protection against the M84 stun grenade, or flash-bang. The gas masks were a necessity in this situation, even though they carried the downside of diminished visibility. Not a good thing with three hostiles spread out in the room, but each CRT member had his area to cover. And after the flash-bang went off — with a blinding light of one million candela and deafening 180-decibel blast — every person in that building would be stunned and most likely on the floor. The bright light in a flash-bang rendered blindness for about five seconds. In those seconds the eyes would continue sending the same message to the brain, causing each person to see a freeze-frame effect until normal sight returned. It revved Jack’s blood, thinking the frozen picture the hostiles would see was their locked and bolted door blowing open. Meanwhile, the loud blast would disturb inner ear fluid, sending each person reeling.

Unfortunately, the hostages would be stunned too, but the effects would soon wear off.

“All right.” Jack nodded once. “Mask up.”

SEVENTY-FOUR

Wilbur stuck his tongue under his top lip and drilled Kent Wick-sell with a look to kill.

If only he was a soldier again.

He tried to guess Kent’s age. The man was probably young enough to have squeaked out of the Vietnam draft. Just as well. His kind would have run to Canada for sure with the rest of the cowards.

Kent and his sons. What a lowly bunch of humanity. God was supposed to love everybody. Looking at these pieces of scum, Wilbur found that hard to believe.

He looked at Bailey. Poor thing, sitting over there all by herself. Best little woman in the world after his Trudy. Now her café was shot up, and they’d told her
she
was to blame for them even coming here.

Rage burned through Wilbur’s limbs.

The phone started ringing again. Kent smacked it on and off.