Robert Crais - Hostage

Martin spun slowly into the smoke as Talley drew his weapon and fired.

Saturday, 2:41 A.M.

TALLEY

The heavy bullet from Talley’s combat pistol bounced Dennis Rooney off the wall, leaving a gory smear of blood. Talley planted a knee in Rooney’s chest and knocked away his gun, but this time Rooney was dead. Talley listened for the sound of Jones’s team coming up the stairs, but he couldn’t hear anything over the crackling, snapping sound of the fire.

He radioed Mikkelson.

“You got the kids?”

“We heard shots!”

“Do you have the kids?”

“Yes, sir. They’re safe.”

“The FBI agents took out a wounded man. Three of them went to their van.”

“Ah, roger. We saw that.”

Talley’s mind raced. He had taken the offensive, and now he had to finish the assault. Time was his enemy. He had to take the fight to the Watchman and press his advantage.

“Get Jorgenson and Cooper. If Larry’s back, get him, too. Arrest them. Strip their radios and cell phones, cuff them, and don’t let them communicate with anyone.”

“Ah, arrest the FBI?”

“They’re not FBI. Arrest them, Mikki. They are armed and dangerous, so you watch your ass. Have someone bring them to the jail, but do not-I repeat, do not -let them talk to anyone: no phone calls, no press, no lawyers, nothing. Don’t tell anyone about this. Do you understand?”

“Ah, sure, Chief.”

“Stand by.”

Everything now depended on speed. The Watchman might learn that his people were being arrested, but his information would be spotty and incomplete; he wouldn’t know what had happened or why, so he wouldn’t act against Jane and Amanda until he knew the details. Talley was counting on that. He was betting his family on it. If Talley had any hope of saving his family, he had to do it before the Watchman knew what he was doing.

Talley pushed the disks under his vest and ran to the stairwell. The fire in the entry had jumped to the stairs and was climbing the walls. The smoke was a twisting orange haze. Talley crept down the stairs with his eyes on the office, then crossed to the door just as one of Jones’s men stepped out. Talley aimed at his face, touching his own lips to motion the man quiet, then stripped his pistol and MP5. Talley handcuffed him and pushed him into the office.

Jones was frantically searching the floor around the desk, his flashlight beam dim in the haze; the drawers had been pulled, their contents scattered. The second man was stripping books from the shelves. They both looked up when Talley pushed the first man to the floor.

Talley trained his gun on them. He no longer felt the fire’s heat; he was so amped on adrenaline and fear that he was totally focused on the two men in front of him.

“Hands on your heads, lace your fingers, turn around with your backs to me.”

Jones said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

The second man swung his MP5, but Talley squared him with a round, the heavy .45 punching through his vest. Talley had fired ten thousand practice rounds a year every year on the LAPD’s combat training range when he was with SWAT. He didn’t have to think about it.

Talley brought his gun back to Jones.

“Lace your fingers. Now!”

Jones raised his hands, then slowly turned. He laced his fingers over the top of his head.

“You’re fucking up, Talley. They’ve got your family.”

Talley stripped the second man of his weapons, never taking his gun from Jones. He tossed the weapons to the side, checked the pulse in the man’s neck, then went to Jones. He took his pistol and MP5, tossed them with the others, then ripped the power cord from Smith’s computer. He forced Jones onto his belly, then pulled his hands behind his back. He pressed the gun to Jones’s neck.

“Move, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Talley planted his knee in the small of Jones’s back, then tied his wrists. He wanted to get Jones out of the house, but he didn’t want to do it on television. He keyed his radio.

“Mikki?”

“Jesus, Chief, are you all right? We heard more shots.”

“Have the firemen move in, then roll your car to the back of the house on Flanders Road. Meet me there.”

Talley knew that the television cameras would be trained on the firefighters. He wanted everyone’s attention on the front of the house, not the rear. He didn’t want the Watchman seeing this on television.

“What’s going on?”

“Do it!”

Talley pushed Jones and the surviving man to the rear of the house. The fire was consuming the house; wallpaper was peeling off the walls and chunks of drywall fell from the hall ceiling. When they reached the French doors, Talley changed his radio to the Sheriff’s command frequency and told the officers on the back wall to kill their lights. The backyard plunged into darkness. Talley pushed the two men outside and hustled them straight to the wall. When the Sheriff’s sergeant-supervisor saw that Talley had two FBI agents bound, he said, “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Help me get these guys over.”

Mikkelson and Dreyer were climbing out of their car by the time Talley jumped to the ground.

The SWAT officers stared at Jones and the other man. Here they were, the backs of their vests blazoned with a huge white FBI, cuffed and dragged over the wall. The sergeant again asked Talley what was happening, but Talley ignored him.

“Martin’s inside. The second floor. She’s been shot.”

Talley got the response he wanted. The SWAT cops poured over the wall and rushed toward the house.

Talley shoved his prisoners toward Mikkelson’s car.

Jones said, “You’re finished, Talley.”

“I’m not the guy with his hands tied.”

“You know what he’s going to do, don’t you? You understand that?”

“I’ve got the disks, you motherfucker. We’ll see how much your boss wants them now.”

When Mikkelson saw the two FBI agents, she pooched out her lips in confusion.

“Jesus. Did I miss something here?”

“These people aren’t FBI.”

Talley pushed the first man into the backseat of their car, then shoved Jones against the fender.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I’m not part of that.”

“Then where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s his name?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Talley. He’s a voice on the phone.”

Talley searched Jones’s pockets as he spoke, and found Jones’s cell phone. He pressed star 69, but nothing happened.

“Shit!”

He pushed the cell phone in Jones’s face.

“What’s his number?”

“I don’t know any more than you.”

Talley kneed him in the stomach.

Dreyer said, “Holy shit.”

Talley slammed Jones into the car.

“You fucking well know his number!”

“I want to talk to an attorney.”

Talley kneed him again, doubling Jones over. Mikkelson and Dreyer squirmed uneasily.

“Ah, Chief …”

“These bastards have my family.”

Talley cocked the .45 and pressed it into Jones’s cheek.

“We’re talking about my wife and daughter, you sonofabitch. You think I won’t kill you?”

Talley wasn’t on Flanders Road anymore; he had stepped into the Zone. It was a place of white noise where emotions reigned and reason was meager. Anger and rage were nonstop tickets; panic was an express. He had been all day coming to this, and here he was: The SWAT guys used to talk about it. You went to the Zone, you lost your edge. You’d lose your career; you’d get yourself killed, or, worse, somebody else.

Talley bent Jones backward across the trunk of the car. He had to reach the Watchman, and this man knew how. He didn’t have time to wait for the Watchman to call. He needed the Watchman off guard. Time was his enemy.