Robert Browne: Kiss Her Goodbye

A voice crackled in response. “Roger, Big Daddy. Already in position.”

“Thirty seconds and counting,” Gunderson said, then returned his attention to the hostages. “Everybody on your feet.”

The hostages, still facedown on the floor, glanced at each other as if the command had been too much for their minuscule brains to comprehend. Fucking morons.

“Come on, come on,” Gunderson snapped. “Hop to it.”

One by one they started to rise, still looking at each other, fear in their eyes. Some of the women broke into tears.

When they were all on their feet, he said, “Okay. I’m gonna start counting. When I get to three, I want you to run your asses straight into the street. The last one out those doors gets a bullet to the back of the brain. Understand?”

Wide stares. More tears.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Here we go: one… two…”

Before he could finish, a beefy boy in a three-piece suit cut loose and beelined it for the doors. The room filled with shouts and screams as the rest of the hostages scrambled after him.

Gunderson watched the stampede in slow motion and smiled. “Three.”

The bank doors flew open without warning. A fat man in a three-piece suit stumbled out, fell to his hands and knees, and was nearly trampled by a dozen or more hostages as they clawed their way past the bottleneck and spilled into the street. It was as if someone had fired a starter pistol in the middle of a herd of buffalo. Not exactly the orderly hostage release Donovan had envisioned.

As he watched them pile out, their faces tight with panic, all at once he realized what this was.

Gunderson’s angle.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered, turning to his men. Sledgehammer or no sledgehammer, Gunderson was going out the back. “He’s using them for cover. Get in there-now!”

Donovan vaulted the hood of a patrol car and bolted. Yanking his government-issue Glock from its holster, he plowed through the exiting crowd and fought his way toward the entrance.

Something hissed past his head-something from inside the bank-and hit the ground nearby, smoke billowing. A smoke bomb, courtesy of Gunderson’s well-stocked arsenal. Judging by the explosion they’d heard earlier, that arsenal included a significant amount of C-4 or possibly Semtex. Donovan had to get inside that bank before Gunderson could put it to further use.

But just as he reached the doors, another explosion rocked the building, its message rumbling in the pit of his stomach.

He was too late.

The deed was already done.

The cop named Randy was staring at her tits, asking her, “Who the hell is Big Daddy?” when the second explosion blew a hole the size of a freight wagon through the rear wall of the bank building. Chunks of cement flew everywhere, taking a couple of blue boys with them.

“Holy shit,” the cop said, and as he spun toward the building, Tina put a bullet in his ear.

How’s that for an exclusive?

She had the van in gear before his body hit the pavement. Behind her, in the well of the van, her partner, Gabriel, popped a grenade into the breech of an M203 launcher, then rolled open the side door and fired.

The charge pounded the gas tank of the nearest patrol car, sending up a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke and debris.

“Hold on!” Tina shouted.

Punching the accelerator, she slammed through a wooden barrier and blew past the flaming patrol car.

Cops were running everywhere, dazed, weapons drawn, looking to each other for direction and getting none. Tina heard Gabe pop another charge into the breech and fire.

A second patrol car exploded, noxious smoke and fumes billowing, giving them cover from any potential sharpshooters stationed above. Tina held her breath, feeling the heat of the flames as she roared past the patrol cars and angled the van toward the ragged hole in the building.

The chatter of Colt Commando fire came from inside the bank. Out on the street, one cop went down in a burst of blood, followed by another and another, as Alex and crew stepped out into the open, bulging duffel bags in hand.

Woo-hoo, Tina thought. We are gold.

“Come on! Come on!” Alex shouted, gesturing with his weapon. He kept looking over his shoulder into the bank. Someone or something was coming and they didn’t have a moment to spare.

Tina swung around next to them, screeched to a halt. As Luther and Nemo tossed in their duffel bags, Alex helped Sara climb inside. “Easy, baby. Get up front and strap yourself in.”

Luther and Nemo jumped in after her. Alex was about to follow when Tina heard a shout from inside the building.

“Freeze, Gunderson!”

Tina swiveled her head. A guy in a navy blue flak jacket stood in a haze of smoke inside the bank, his weapon pointed directly at Alex’s back.

The Fed. Jackass Donovan.

Tina had been telling Alex for weeks to get rid of the motherfucker, but Alex had repeatedly blown her off. “In due time,” he’d said, in typical Alex fashion, as if the world could wait until he was good and ready to give it his attention.

Tina figured that nasty piece of hardware in the Fed’s hands was enough to make him reconsider. She looked at Alex, remembering the only motivational phrase her dear departed prick of a father had ever uttered in her presence. The old bastard had been sucking crack for two days straight when he offered her a hit off his pipe. “What’s it gonna be, hot stuff? Shit or get off the pot.”

Those words never seemed more appropriate than they did right now.

Donovan kept his Glock leveled at Gunderson, finger resting against the trigger. “I mean it, Alex! Don’t you move!”

Smoke stung his eyes. Gunderson wasn’t much more than a silhouette in the haze, but Donovan’s aim was good. If he pulled the trigger, the man would go down and go down hard. This was the closest Donovan had ever been to collaring the prick and he wasn’t about to let him slip away.

Gunderson froze for a split second as he stood outside the van door. For a moment it looked as if he might actually turn and give himself up.

Then Donovan spotted the remote detonator clutched in Gunderson’s right hand.

Sweet Jesus.

He hadn’t counted on a third explosion.

Before Donovan had time to react, A.J., Sidney, and a handful of SWAT sharpshooters burst into the room behind him and fanned out.

Donovan immediately threw his hands in the air. “Down! Everybody down!”

But it was too late.

With a deafening roar, the teller windows erupted. Plaster, Plexiglas, and chunks of cement and linoleum rocketed past Donovan’s head as he tackled A.J. and Sidney and knocked them to the floor.

More smoke filled the room, along with the pungent odor of cyclonite and burning flesh. Beneath the agonized wails of the injured SWAT team, Donovan heard gunfire and the faint squeal of tires.

Gunderson’s van, digging out.

Move, Jack, move.

Donovan looked into the dazed faces of Sidney and A.J., checked to make sure they were still in one piece, then jumped to his feet and raced to the hole in the wall.

The carnage out back mirrored the scene behind him. It was a war zone. Patrol cars in flames. Smoke everywhere. Uniformed cops dead on the blacktop, others wearing the same dazed expression as A.J. and Sidney.

Down the street, tires squealed as the Channel Four news van smashed through a row of police barriers and shot toward an intersection, a few shell-shocked cops firing after it.

Donovan scanned the area, sprinted toward an undamaged patrol car. Halfway there, pain stabbed his leg. A dark red stain spread across his right thigh, blood bubbling up through a tear in his slacks.

Shit. He hadn’t realized he was hurt.

Reaching the cruiser, he threw the door open and jumped in. His thigh throbbed mercilessly now, but there was no time to think about it. No time to think, period. The news van was still in sight, but it wouldn’t be for long.