Robert Crais - Hostage

Benza decided to pack. In case things didn’t.

Saturday, 3:37 A.M.

Santa Clarita, California

TALLEY

Talley drove without lights, swerving far onto the shoulder whenever he passed an oncoming vehicle. He pulled off the road a hundred yards before the motel and left his car in the weeds, thankful for the black sweatshirt he had pulled on earlier. He tied a roll of duct tape to a belt loop, then shoved a handful of plastic restraints into his pocket. He rubbed dirt on his face and hands to kill their shine, then drew his pistol and trotted toward the motel. The moon was up, bright like a blue pearl, giving him light.

Talley guessed that Howell would post observers to warn him if the police were approaching. He worked his way to the edge of the motel property and froze beside a spiky-leafed manzanita bush, searching the shadows at the edge of the light for some bit of movement or blackness that did not fit. Talley had approached a thousand armed houses when he was on SWAT; this time was no different. The motel was a long two-story barn surrounded by a parking lot. A smattering of cars were sleeping outside the ground-floor rooms. Two huge tractor-trailer trucks sat at the rear; a third was parked near the street. Talley worked his way around the perimeter of the grounds, moving outside the field of light, pausing every two paces to look and listen.

He spotted one observer on the east side parking lot, sitting between the wheels of an eighteen-wheeler that had been docked for the night. A few minutes later, he found the second man hunkered beneath a pepper tree across the street on the west side. Talley looked carefully for others, but only two men were posted.

DUANE MANELLI

Manelli lay belly-down in the hard dirt at the base of a pepper tree, watching LJ Ruiz move between the wheels of the eighteen-wheeler. They were hooked up by cell phone. If either saw an oncoming vehicle or anything suspicious, they could alert the other, and then Glen Howell. Manelli didn’t like it that he could see movement. This meant that LJ was bored, and bored men made mistakes.

He whispered into his phone.

“LJ, you in position?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Settle in and stop moving around.”

“Fuck yourself. I’m not moving.”

Manelli didn’t respond. LJ had stopped moving, so Manelli let it go. Duane Manelli had spent enough time on night recon training exercises when he was in the army to respect radio silence.

Manelli settled into the dirt.

Ruiz said something, but Manelli didn’t understand.

“Say again.”

Ruiz didn’t answer.

“I didn’t hear you, LJ. What’d you say?”

Nothing came back.

“LJ?”

Manelli heard the rocks crunch behind him, then his head exploded with rainbow light.

TALLEY

Talley bound Manelli’s wrists behind the man’s back with the plastic restraints, pulling the leads tight. He secured Manelli’s ankles the same way, then rolled the man over.

Talley slapped Manelli’s face.

“Wake up.”

Talley slapped harder.

“Wake up, goddamnit. You’re under arrest.”

Manelli’s eyes fluttered. Talley waited until the eyes focused, then pressed the gun into Manelli’s neck.

“You know who I am?”

“Talley.”

“Which room are they in?”

“They’re not. Howell sent them away.”

Talley cursed under his breath. He didn’t expect that Howell would have kept them with him, but he had hoped.

“All right. Where are they?”

“I don’t know. Clewes took them.”

Talley had not heard that name before, Clewes, but it didn’t matter. He had not heard of any of these people.

“Where did Clewes take them?”

“I don’t know. In the car. Howell is gonna call him. I don’t know what they’re gonna do. That was between Clewes and Howell.”

Talley glanced at the motel, fighting down his panic. The passing seconds loaded onto his back like bags of sand. He was wasting time, and he needed a plan. He told himself to think. He chanted the SWAT mantra: Panic kills. If Jane and Amanda were being held somewhere else, he would have to force Howell to bring them back.

He looked back at Manelli.

“How many people does Howell have?”

“Five here at the motel, plus Clewes.”

“You and the asshole at the truck, leaves three inside?”

“That’s right, plus Clewes. He has more people, but I don’t know where they are. They could show up here anytime.”

Talley thought it through. Three in the room. Three against one, with more on the way. None of it mattered. He had no other choice.

“Which room?”

Manelli hesitated.

Talley pushed the .45 harder into Manelli’s throat. The sweat and dirt from his face dripped onto Manelli like muddy rain.

“Which room?” Manelli sighed.

“One twenty-four. Let me ask you a question, Talley?” Talley hesitated. He didn’t have time for questions.

“What?”

“You’re not just some hick cop?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

Talley covered Manelli’s mouth with duct tape, then slipped across the road and returned to the parking lot, searching for room 124. He found the green Mustang on the far side of the motel, parked one parking place down from 124. A man in a blue knit shirt was standing by it, smoking. This man outside left two more men in the room. Talley saw a silver wristwatch on his left arm; this man wasn’t Glen Howell.

Talley worked his way as close to the Mustang as possible. The man finished his cigarette, then leaned against the car. He was less than fifteen yards away. Forty-five feet. Talley told himself that it wasn’t very far.

The door to room 124 opened, and a man with a dark tan stepped out.

“Keep your eyes open. He should’ve been here.”

Talley saw a gold Rolex on his wrist, and recognized the voice. Howell.

Talley released the safety on his pistol, and readied himself to move.

The Mustang man complained to Howell.

“This is bullshit. That chickenfuck ain’t gonna come. We should get outta this shithole while we still can.”

“He’ll come. There’s nothing else he can do.”

Howell went back into the room, closing the door.

The Mustang man lit a fresh cigarette. When he turned away, Talley rushed forward.

The Mustang man startled at the sound, but he was too late. Talley hit him hard on the side of the head, using the .45 as a club. The Mustang man staggered sideways. Talley grabbed him around the neck from behind in a choke hold, and pushed him toward the room. He didn’t want the Mustang man unconscious; he wanted him as a shield.

Talley moved fast now; he kicked the door next to the knob, busting the jamb, and shoved the Mustang man through, screaming his identification.

“Police! You’re under arrest!”

Talley didn’t think they would shoot him until they had the disks. He was counting on that.

Glen Howell brought up a pistol as he dropped into a crouch, shouting at a man with a big head seated by the window. The man rolled out of his chair and also came up with a gun, aiming from the floor in a two-handed grip as Howell shouted not to fire.

“Don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot!”

Talley shifted his aim between the two men, making himself as small as possible behind the Mustang man. Insects spiraled in from the night, hungry for the light.

Talley shouted, “Where’s my family?”

They sucked air like freight engines. No one was shooting, but if one person fired, everyone would fire. They each had something the other wanted. Talley knew it. He knew that Howell knew it. It was the only thing holding them back.