Jason Pinter - The Guilty

"You'll have to try it with broken arms. Look, there's a nice spot, go set up. Get away from here."

He walked away. Then I turned back to the building. That's when I heard the first siren. I could see the reflection in the doorway as half a dozen squad cars pulled up and a phalanx of uniformed officers filed out. Radios came out as the first cops to arrive called in reports. They circled the building's entrance.

One cop came closer. I heard him say, "We don't know what floor they're on."

"Ninth floor," I said.

"And who are you?"

"Henry Parker, I'm with the Gazette. My girlfriend is up there, she works here. Amanda Davies."

The guy waved his arms and another cop came over. This cop was tall, thin, with a handlebar mustache.

"Captain James O'Hurley."

"Henry Parker."

"You have knowledge of this situation?"

"I just know I was on the phone with my girlfriend, she's an employee who works on the ninth floor, when I heard a gunshot. Then the line went dead."

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"Her name is Amanda. Davies."

"Can you think of any reason why Miss Davies or her coworkers would be in danger?"

I took a breath. "William Henry Roberts. He's up there."

O'Hurley's face darkened. I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. The other cop looked at him.

"That's the guy killed Joe." O'Hurley nodded. "Roberts is supposed to be the grandson of Billy the Kid or something, right? Hey, kid," he said, clearly meaning me, "you work at the Gazette, didn't you write some stuff about this guy?"

"Yeah," I said. "I did."

"How much do you know about him?" O'Hurley asked.

I held up my hand, the stitches still embedded in my skin.

The cop whistled.

"Manners aren't his strong suit. Let's say I know Roberts a lot better than I'd like."

"He did that to you," O'Hurley said, "and that's your girlfriend up there, then…" He paused, realized what was going on. "Maybe you shouldn't be here."

"You try and drag me away," I said. "And it won't be pretty."

"Fine," O'Hurley said. "But stay out of the way. If we need your help we'll ask for it."

"No problem, but Roberts is in there and I know he's going to hurt Amanda. I know it. That's why he came here. That's why he called the press first. He wants people to see every second of this. You don't do that kind of thing if you're looking to steal a few grand and disappear to the Caribbean." I noticed the rest of the cops were hanging back. "Are you going in?"

"Not yet," O'Hurley said. "We need to assess the situation, take his demands if there are any, and then figure out a strategy. Rushing in there might cause panic, stress and force

Roberts's hand."

"This sick bastard killed one of our own," the other cop added. "He's either spending the rest of his life getting reamed up the ass in the shower or he's getting a one-way ticket to the juice chair."

"But what about Amanda?" I asked.

O'Hurley said, "We have no reason to believe she's in immediate danger. If she is the intended target, we have the hostage negotiation team en route."

"You might be negotiating for a body, Captain."

"Listen, Parker, I can imagine what you're going through.

Trust me, this freak will get what's coming to him. But we need to minimize collateral damage."

"By collateral damage you mean my girlfriend."

"That's right."

"You think he called the press just so he could try out his new stand-up routine? He's going to do something terrible, and if you guys don't do something soon it'll be too late."

"That's enough, Parker." O'Hurley pointed to where several cops were putting up blue sawhorses, stringing up yellow tape. "Wait behind the line with the rest of the press."

I watched as the cops herded several reporters behind the barricade. They put up a fight. They always did. But in the end they always moved back, docile.

Docile wasn't going to cut it today. Roberts was pure evil.

He wasn't going to wait for the cops to "strategize."

I waited until O'Hurley's back was turned, then I pushed the other cop aside and bolted toward the building.

I heard someone yell, "Stop that guy!" but it was too late.

I shoved the glass doors open, saw that the elevator was stuck on nine and not moving. Without hesitating I sprinted toward the end of the hallway, banged through the stairwell door and began my climb to the ninth floor.

When I got to five, my breath beginning to leave me, I looked down. Nobody was following me.

Four flights above was a man who was preparing to do something unspeakable to Amanda. Clenching my right fist, feeling the stitches threaten to pop, I continued climbing.

When I reached the ninth floor I stopped to catch my breath.

If we lived through this, I promised to use the StairMaster on a more frequent basis.

Guys like Roberts always looked like they would be a pushover in a fight. Not too big, not too heavy, but their muscles were trained. They were sleeping attack dogs waiting to be prodded. First fight I ever won was against Bruce Baumgarten in the sixth grade. Bruce was a hundred and ninety pounds, a Mack truck in seventh-grade weight. But I literally ran around him until he could barely see straight, then one punch to the stomach took away the last of his wind. He went down like I'd stepped on an empty bag of potato chips.

The first fight I ever lost was against Kevin MacGruder in the eleventh grade. I outweighed Kevin by twenty pounds. He was president of the Math club. He had freckles and acne and a rail-thin girlfriend we called Olive Oyl, and we mocked him mercilessly. What I didn't know is that to burn off the rage from our taunts Kevin hit the free weights five times a week. He dislocated my shoulder, and I pissed blood for two days after he kicked me in the kidney. I never messed with Kevin again.

In a strange way I was glad I knew this. William Roberts would tear me to pieces. Even if I was able to separate him from the Winchester-which seemed as doable as separating

Linus from his blanket-I had to deal with the fact that he could pound me into sirloin, expending less energy than it took me to climb the stairs.

I was prepared to fight dirty.

But that didn't mean I wasn't scared shitless.

Adrenaline was pumping through me. It was working, my rage concentrating.

I'd only visited Amanda at her office once. Actually I'd meant to come more, but I could never get away from the

Gazette during working hours. Or more accurately, I didn't want to get away from the Gazette.

I tried to recall the office layout, seemed to remember there being a conference room with a long, mahogany table, several long-backed chairs and a speakerphone. I remembered Amanda's desk. There was a picture of us in a silver frame. I'd had it engraved for her. Only Happiness Lies Ahead.

I stood in the stairwell, moved closer to the door and pressed my ear up against it. The stairwell was painted gray, dirt coated the steps, and the metal was rusted. I glanced around, couldn't see any security camera, so I was fairly confident Roberts wasn't aware of my presence. I couldn't hear anything inside the office, but the metal was likely muffling all sounds. But it couldn't muffle a gunshot. And I didn't hear any cops storming the stairs. Roberts hadn't killed anybody. Yet.

I gripped the doorknob, turned it ever so gently just to see if it was locked. For a moment panic gripped me. If it was locked from the inside, I wouldn't be able to get in unless our friendly neighborhood rifleman decided to let me join the party. And I knew the cops wouldn't greet me with open arms if I slunk back downstairs. But the knob turned. I stopped for a moment.

The last time I barged through a closed door unannounced and unwanted, a cop ended up dead and I ended up on the run for my life.