Robert Crais - Hostage

“Dennis, stop!”

He hit Kevin as hard as he could.

“Stop crying, goddamnit!” He hit Kevin harder.

“Stop crying!”

Kevin rolled into a ball, his face blotched red, sobbing. Dennis hated him. He hated their father and their mother, hated all the rathole apartments and the brutal assholes their mother had brought home, hated his shitty job and the Ant Farm and every day of their failed lives, but most of all he hated Kevin for reminding him of these things every time he looked at him.

“You’re fuckin’ pathetic.”

Dennis climbed to his feet, breathless and spent.

“That money is mine. I’m not leaving without it, Kevin. Get that in your head. We’re not giving up.”

Kevin crawled away, whimpering like a beaten dog.

Dennis picked up the bottle, and saw Mars standing in the door, watching without expression. Dennis wanted to hit Mars, too, the sonofabitch.

“What? You got something to say?”

Mars did not respond, the shadows in the dim light masking his eyes.

“What?”

Mars responded somberly.

“I like it here, Dennis. We’re not going to leave.”

“Fuckin’ A we’re not.”

The vague smile flickered at Mars’s lips, the only part of him that Dennis could see.

“We’re going to be fine, Dennis. I’ll take care of everything.”

Dennis turned away and sucked down another belt of the vodka.

“You do that, Mars.”

Mars melted into the darkness and disappeared.

Dennis burped.

Creepy bastard.

TALLEY

Quiet settled over York Estates. The traffic on Flanders Road had thinned; the line of cars filled with the morbid gawkers who wanted a brush with crime was gone, leaving the California Highway Patrol motor officers who were manning the barricades with nothing to do. Inside the development, the Sheriffs sat in their cars or at their posts. No one talked. Everyone waited.

Talley pulled his car to the curb outside Mrs. Pena’s home and cut the engine. He looked at the command van. With nothing going on at the house, Maddox and Ellison would have pulled back to the van to alternate shifts on the phone, the off negotiator catching a catnap in the van’s bunk or the backseat of a car. Talley was tired. The center of his back between his shoulder blades was knotted with a pronounced pain that cut into his spine. His head felt cloudy from more than fatigue, leaving him to mistrust his thinking. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

Talley went inside for a cup of black coffee, but returned to his car. Three of the CHiPs and two sheriffs were in Mrs. Pena’s kitchen, but he didn’t want to talk. He sat on the curb with the Nokia and his own phone beside him. He sipped the coffee, thinking about Amanda and Jane, seeing them seated together on a couch in the anonymous room where they were held, seeing them alive, seeing them unharmed, seeing them safe. Imagining them that way helped.

Talley’s radio popped at his waist.

“Chief, Cooper.”

“Go, Coop.”

“Ah, I’m here at the south gate. We got some FBI guys asking for you.” Talley didn’t answer. He worked at breathing. He stared at the Sheriff’s command van and the line of police cars lining the street and the officers moving among them, feeling frightened and unsure. He was about to lie to them. It would be like letting the enemy into the camp. It would be lying to these people who were here to help him and help the people in that house.

“Chief? They say you’re expecting them.”

“Let them in.”

Talley walked up the street to the corner. He didn’t know what to expect and wanted to meet them alone, away from everyone else. He stood beneath a street lamp so they would stop in its light. He wanted to see them.

Two gray Econoline vans eased to the corner, four men in the lead van, two in the rear. Talley raised his hand, stopping them. Both vans pulled to the curb and cut their engines. The men inside had short haircuts and were wearing black tactical fatigues, standard issue for FBI tactical units. One of the men in the back wore a ball cap that read FBI.

The driver said, “You Talley?”

“Yes.”

The man on the passenger side of the lead van got out and came around the nose of the van. He was taller than Talley and muscular. He looked the part: black tac fatigues, jump boots, buzzed hair. A black pistol hung beneath his left arm in a ballistic holster.

He stopped in front of Talley, glanced up the street at the Sheriffs, then turned back to Talley.

“Okay, Chief, let me see some ID. I want to be sure who I’m talking to.”

Talley lifted his sweatshirt enough to show his badge.

“I don’t give a shit about that. Show me a picture.”

Talley took out his wallet and showed the photo ID. When he was satisfied, he took out his own badge case and opened it for Talley to see.

“Okay, here’s mine. My name is Special Agent Jones.”

Talley inspected an FBI credential that identified the man as William F. Jones, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It showed a photograph of Jones. It looked real.

“Don’t sweat anyone asking for our papers. Every man in my group has the ID.”

“Are you all named Jones?”

Jones snapped the case closed and put it away.

“Don’t be funny, Chief. You can’t afford it.”

He slapped the nose of the lead van, nodding at the driver. The doors of both vans opened. The remaining five men stepped out, moving to the rear of the second van. Like Jones, they looked the part down to the haircuts. They strapped into armored vests with FBI emblazoned on the back.

Jones said, “In a few minutes your phone is going to ring. You know the phone I mean. So let’s get some stuff straight before that. Are you paying attention?”

Talley was watching the men. They strapped on the vests, then snapped on new thigh guards with practiced efficiency. Someone at the rear of the second van passed out black knit masks, flash-bang grenades, and helmets. Each man folded the mask twice and tucked it under his left shoulder strap where he could reach it easily later. They clipped the grenades to their harnesses without fumbling and tossed their helmets into the seats or balanced them atop the van. Talley knew the moves, because he had practiced them himself when he worked SWAT Tactical. These men had done this before.

“I’m paying attention. You used to be a cop.”

“Don’t worry about what I used to be. You’ve got other stuff to worry about.”

Talley looked at him.

“How can you people expect this to work? The Sheriffs have a full crisis response team here. They’re going to be pissed off and they’re going to have questions.”

“I can handle the Sheriffs and anything else that comes up. What’s my name?”

Talley didn’t know what in hell he wanted.

“What?”

“I asked you my name. You just saw my commission slip. What’s my fucking name?”

“Jones.”

“All right. I’m Special Agent Jones. Think of me that way and you won’t fuck up. I can lift my end, you got a wife and kid praying you can lift yours.”

Talley’s head throbbed. His neck was so tight that it burned, but he managed a nod.

Jones turned so that they both faced the line of vehicles.

“Who’s in charge there?”

“Martin. She’s a captain.”

“You told her about us yet?”

“No. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Good, that’s better for us. The less time she has to ask questions, the better. Now, the man on the phone, you know who I mean, did he tell you how we’re going to cover this?”

“Smith is in witness protection.”

“Right, Smith is in the program so we have a proprietary interest. What’s my name again?”