Midnight Hero (15 page)

“What?”
Shock echoed in Aidan's sharp question. “
Repeat.
Over.”

“Tony is wearing Dad's watch. The one he had on when he was killed. My gut says this crew has been pulling the string of unsolved bank jobs and home invasions. I know it's a long shot, but get somebody on the computers and see if the name and MO pops. Will advise next move. Stand by. Over.”

“Ten-four.” Aidan paused. “Nutcracker?” The low admonition belonged to the big brother, not the cop. “Watch your back.”

“Always do.” The emotion layered beneath the carefree words was the younger brother's. “Don't worry about me. Just nail this scumbag's butt to the wall. Over and out.”

No matter how many times she witnessed it, the heart connection Con and his brothers shared never failed to awe her. “Why did you say you were the Nutcracker?”

“Never use names over the airwaves. You don't know who might be listening in.” He studied her. “Think you can handle tossing a Molotov cocktail or three?”

“If I have to.” Queasiness roiled her insides. “Do you want me to throw them at someone?” She wasn't sure she could force herself to do that.

“No, just create a diversion while I plant the walkie-talkie.”

“I can manage a diversion.”

“We've got to move. I'll fill you in on the details as we head downstairs.”

One more quick trip to the camping store to fill emptied water bottles with kerosene. Torn strips of cammo pants twisted into fuses. A waterproof lighter completed the deadly kit.

They scuttled to the escalators, her rapid breaths loud in her ears.

Con rolled his wrist and checked the time. “Ten minutes. Ready?”

She nodded.

He kissed her, hard and fast. “Let's rock.”

9:00 p.m.

M
olotov cocktails at the ready, Bailey kept a nerve-racked vigil in front of Footloose Footwear. Her shaking hands were cold and clammy. Her blood beat fast and thick in her veins. She, who had never broken the law—heck, she hadn't received even a parking ticket—was about to bomb the shoe store.

Well, the six-foot tall 3-D advertising kiosk next to it, anyway. The acrylic triangle sat in the middle of murky no-man's-land between the bank and the shoe store, touting the multiplex's latest action flick. She muffled a nervous snort. When it came to action, Vin Diesel had nothing on Officer Sexy.

Who was, at this moment, a silent shadow, slipping up the corridor toward Santa's downed sleigh across from the bank.

He'd said the robbers would watch for their approach after issuing the ultimatum. His objective was to plant a walkie-talkie near the bank, without being caught. At least that was the plan.

They had eight minutes before Con had to contact the team and abort the dynamic entry. He'd explained on the jog down the escalator that an aggressive assault was the last thing they wanted. SWAT storming in, guns blazing, was a worst-case scenario, used only when hostages were in imminent danger. No matter how careful the team, no matter how fast they hit, loss of hostage lives was a huge risk. Con thought they could still bargain.

If they could establish contact in time.

She clutched the slippery bottles of kerosene and slick lighter, and tried to slow her ragged breaths. She couldn't afford to panic and miss Con's signal over the headset plugged into her left ear. His life and the lives of her friends depended on her.

Con had pinpointed the advertising triangle as a soft target. Isolated in the middle of acres of faux marble, the fire wouldn't spread. The kiosk wasn't tall enough for flames to reach the upper floors. Everything was still waterlogged, and the fire would probably die of its own accord. He didn't figure the crooks would stop to analyze that. They'd instinctively react to the threat, giving him enough time to plant the radio and hightail it out.

She watched the dim, backlit windows of the bank, thirty feet across no-man's-land. The robbers had pulled the shades. Bulky silhouettes moved back and forth, loading what she assumed were bundles of money into what looked like a cart. They'd picked a great time for a robbery—surely not by accident. On paydays, the bank carried plenty of extra dough. Since mall employees had been unable to cash their paychecks due to the electrical malfunction that she now knew the robbers had caused, all that money was sitting in the vault. Not to mention every store had deposited their tills for safekeeping, per emergency procedure. The crooks had done their homework, crippled the system and would net a small fortune.

Bailey's nervous glance roamed the desolate mall. If the robbers were busy loading money and—thanks to SWAT—revising their getaway, would they still be on the hunt? She hoped not.

“Sugarplum Fairy, this is the Nutcracker,” Con's voice murmured in her earpiece. “In position?”

In spite of her anxiety, she grinned. Leave it to him to diffuse a terrifying situation. “Yes. I mean ten-four.”

“About to deliver Santa's package. On three, light 'em up.”

“Okay,” she whispered back, mentally counting.
One.
Bailey shifted the lighter from left hand to right.
Two.
She thumbed the lighter and a tiny spark sprang to life.
Three.
She touched flame to wicks and fire flared along the kerosene-soaked rags. Holding her breath, she hurled the bottles at the base of the acrylic triangle. They exploded in a spectacular red fireball. Golden-red tongues licked up the sides of the kiosk. The charred smell of sizzling plastic stung her nostrils.

She stood mesmerized in horror. No wonder her father had dedicated his life to firefighting. Fire was a powerful, brutal foe.
She'd seen the toll the dragon took on humans…in her dad's scarred face, and in the disfigured bodies of the children on the burn ward. But she'd never had firsthand experience with the beast. Her heart stuttered. Her father had been braver than she knew, again riding into battle after being burned.

Shouting erupted from the bank. Bailey shook off the memories, pivoted and ran.

She sprinted past the shoe store, Quality Leather Goods and Death by Chocolate, then veered across the walkway. Gasping, she sped toward the Bedroom Furniture Emporium to meet Con. Was he behind her? She didn't hear him, but that didn't mean anything. His fluid movements were like a tiger's, silent and deadly. He could be directly on her heels and she wouldn't know.

Inside the store, she bent double, panting for air. Con didn't appear. Her pulse geared down from a gallop to a trot, and finally slowed to near normal. She peered anxiously around the doorway. Saw nothing but spooky shadows in the echoing gloom.

Fear clutched at her throat. Where was he? In spite of her successful distraction, had the robbers caught him?

“Yo, Bailey,” Con said quietly from behind her.

She nearly leaped across the corridor. She whirled with her hand over her rocketing heart. “I'm either going to have to hang a bell around your neck or risk a coronary before the night is over. How did you get behind me?”

“I did a fast recon to the end of the mall and doubled back. Wanted to make sure none of the bad guys were around. All clear.” His mischievous smile of approval made her tingle all over. “They're probably occupied battling the bonfire.”

She squelched the relieved impulse to fling herself into his arms and never let go. Instead, she adjusted the heavy pack on her shoulders. “So, what now?”

“We need to establish contact before SWAT executes their dynamic entry.”

“Is there time to check on Syrone, first?” She glanced around the dark, ominously silent store as they moved farther inside. If he were okay, wouldn't he call out? “I'm worried sick about him.”

He consulted his watch. “Me, too. But we've only got four minutes. Listen up. I want you to talk to the suspects.”

“Me?” Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Why me?”

“As far as they're concerned, they're chasing a frightened, but surprisingly resourceful bookstore clerk. I don't want to clue them in unless they force my hand.”

“Wh—what do I say?”

“Ask for their demands. No matter what they request—unless it's to turn yourself in to them—hesitate, then bargain. See if you can gain concessions. Tell 'em you'll do your best to acquire it. Be careful not to give away any intel.”

She sank her teeth into her lip and fidgeted with the cold metal handle on the wardrobe looming beside her. “If I mess up?”

He tugged her close and enfolded her in his embrace. “You can do it. You're great at handling people.”

She inhaled his scent. It wrapped around her, as warm and reassuring as a fleece blanket. Normally, she
was
good with people, even cranky customers and scared, sick kids. Nothing about tonight was normal. “What if I say something wrong?” She swallowed hard. “What if I get our friends hurt?”

“Don't worry, darlin', your sharp brain will handle everything just fine. And I'll be right here.” He cupped her face and planted a soft, confident kiss on her mouth, then looked her squarely in the eye. “We're out of time, with no options.”

Her friends needed her. She firmed her chin, stepped back and tugged a tablet and marker from her pack. She handed them to him. “For coaching.”

“Great idea.” He looked at her. “Ready?”

She swallowed again. Nodded. “How will you let the robbers know about the walkie-talkie you stashed in Santa's sleigh?”

He grinned. “Like this.” He switched on the blue unit and began to whistle.

It took her a second before she recognized the tune. “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Impressed by Con's agile imagination, she waited for a response.

A long, too-silent minute passed. He checked his watch and held up three fingers. Three minutes.

Another sixty seconds. No response. Oppressive cold and darkness pressed in on her from every side. Anxiety sat in a lead weight on her chest. Con frowned and held up two fingers. Anxiousness turned to dread. Looked like SWAT would have to break in and attempt a perilous rescue.

Con held up his index finger. One minute. She tensed. Then her earpiece hummed. The hard, Bronx-accented voice she recognized as Tony's sounded in her ear. “Hey, Santa's little elf.”

Con turned aside and spoke in a low, rapid tone into the red unit. “SWAT Command, this is the Nutcracker. Have established contact with the suspects. Abort entry. Repeat, abort entry.” He paused to listen, then turned back and gave her a thumbs up.

Whew.
Too close for comfort. Bailey sucked in a shaky breath and strove for a calm demeanor. “Call me the Sugarplum Fairy.”

A short, shocked silence later, Tony responded. “Ah. The spider rescue squad.”

He knew who she was? Bright panic flared, and she sent a wild, silent plea to Con.
Help!

He stroked a finger down her cheek, then wrote on his tablet,
Have faith. Work him.

She straightened her shoulders. Nan, Letty and Mike's welfare was riding on her ability to pull this off. She
could
do it. “I imagine you're ready to get out of here. I sure am.”

“Who's with you, cupcake?”

“I'm alone.”

Tony guffawed. “No way.”

She borrowed a leaf from Syrone's playbook. “I was a Marine.”

“And I'm a one-legged ballerina.” Tony barked out a gruff laugh. “I'm supposed to believe a dainty bookstore babe not only used to be a Marine, but also took out two of my best men, set off the sprinklers, summoned SWAT, and jury-rigged Molotov cocktails?”

“Listen buster, don't underestimate a woman who reads.” She'd wager brains over brawn any day. She sounded composed, even nonchalant. Amazing, considering all the saliva in her mouth had dried up. “So, you want to chitchat all night, or you want to tell me what it will take to be rid of you? I'm ready to
go home,
Tony.
” She emphasized his name to let him know he wasn't anonymous to either her, or the police. “How about you?”

Con's grin bounced back.

“You're too smart for your own good,” the robber growled.

“Maybe, considering I'm not the one giving a not-so-impressive performance of Custer's last stand…in a mall.”

Con's grin spread, white and wicked in his stubbled face.

“I can think of a dozen better ways you can put that sassy mouth to good use, cupcake.”

A scowl wiped out Con's grin. Uh-oh. He went into guard dog mode whenever anyone disrespected her. She patted his arm. He was right about her doing just fine. She might be useless in a fist-fight, but she had plenty of ammo for verbal jousting. “Even with a vault full of money, you couldn't pay me enough. We're wasting time. What do you really want?”

“My missing crew members back. Assuming they're still alive?”

Con wrote on his tablet,
Don't be too agreeable. Keep him off balance.

“Maybe. I might tell you where to find them after the hostages are safe. Anything else?”

“A chopper. Thirty minutes or less.”

Con nodded and wrote,
Multiplex parking lot. More time. Free a hostage.

“I might be able to arrange that. The multiplex lot is the only place big enough for it to land, but it'll take longer than thirty minutes. Delivering a helicopter is a skosh more complicated than sending out for pizza.” She drew on the research she'd conducted about Con's job for the correct terminology. “Show me some good will. Release the pregnant woman.”

“
Way
too smart for your own good. No can do.”

She looked to Con for guidance.
Chopper big order. Try again.

“Come on, Tony.” She used the soothing tone she applied when her boss went on one of his frequent rampages. “I'm sure you're a reasonable man. Let's compromise, work this out. We're all anxious to get out of here. If I'm going to order up something as big as a chopper, I need a hostage.”

“How about a dead hostage, cupcake?”

Fear jabbed, swift and deep. Her startled gaze locked on Con's. His eyes narrowed, the deep brown irises lethal twin lasers. He scribbled,
Futile, no profit.

She took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “That would be suicide, and I don't think you went to all this trouble to steal that money only to waste it. You don't want to hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, I do. Starting with you.”

Con's scowl grew black and murderous. She tamped down her fear, even as she watched Con ruthlessly harness his rage. Control, one of his many formidable talents. One hundred and ten percent focused on the job. His resolute focus would save them. And their friends. “Threatening me won't gain you anything.”

“Satisfaction, cupcake. Worth almost as much as money. I hope I have a chance to personally demonstrate.”

Con's words slashed across the paper, but his hands were rock-solid steady.
Everyone safe, or no chopper.

Had Tony reaped his diseased brand of satisfaction after Brian O'Rourke's murder…by stealing his victim's watch? If so, he'd already wounded the man she loved. She wasn't about to let him damage anyone else she cared about. Bailey clenched her jaw. “Promise you won't hurt any of the hostages.” She adjusted her headset mic with sweaty hands. “Or no dice on the chopper.”

A long heart-shaking pause ticked past. Finally, Tony replied, “For now. Get that bird in a hurry, or all bets are off.”

She switched the blue walkie-talkie into standby mode. Now that the crisis moment had passed, her knees went wobbly.

Con hugged her to his broad chest. “Great job, slugger. If you ever get tired of the bookstore, you could have a long and lucrative career as a hostage negotiator.”