Lisa Black: Takeover

His neck still burned where the gun’s barrel had pressed into the flesh. The slightest twitch of a fingertip, depending on what sensitivity the trigger pull had been set to, and a round would rip though his arteries and spine so thoroughly that he’d be dead before he hit the floor. He didn’t dare breathe.

Paul had a solid body and good muscle form; he was not, he would have flattered himself, a man easily subdued. But he had not moved-he had only to shift his weight and the guy might feel the gun at Paul’s hip. The guards could not fire, not with him in the way, and Paul knew it to be illogical but felt deeply ashamed.

So this is what it’s like to be a victim. They’re right. It all does happen so fast.

The tall suspect had carried a duffel bag and shouted instructions for filling it with cash, but no one had listened. The fourth security guy, who had been next to the doors, darted outside, a response Paul didn’t understand; the slender robber fired at him, leaving a hole and a series of spiderwebs in one of the glass doors and assaulting anew their already-numbed ears.

The other three guards were now kneeling between the solid reception desk and the row of hostages. Two of the guards had their hands on their heads and murderous expressions on their faces. The third, the K-9 officer, had both hands on his dog, as instructed by the blond robber. The blond guy seemed more afraid of the dog than of the guards, and the K-9 guy seemed more concerned about his dog than about the hostages.

Paul turned his head until he could count up the hostages out of the corner of his eye. Besides himself, the guy in the uniform, and the three security guards, he counted two. One man and one woman, each in neat office attire.

The tall one left the front door and faced them, holding the M4 at the ready. He nearly bounced as he walked, and Paul wondered if the manic energy came from adrenaline, drugs, or panic over a plan gone awry. Each source could be bad, all three together disastrous. “Bobby, go through and check both floors.”

“What?” The stocky blond didn’t care for the idea.

“There could be an army hiding in this place.” Paul could see his point. Two rows of teller cages faced each other in the south half of the lobby, and the area between the inner and outer lobby walls in the north half seemed to have been given over to educational displays. Past a sign reading THE LEARNING CENTER, Paul could see a tree stretching through both stories, with dollar bills attached to its branches. Both the educational area and the teller cages had a number of partitions, turning the place into a warren. Now Bobby’s partner used his M4 muzzle to gesture at the door in the north wall. “And make sure they can’t open that.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“Wedge it with something.” He spoke without taking his eyes off the people on the floor. Neither suspect had any particular accent. “And shoot first. Don’t bother with questions.”

That attitude did not bode well. Nor did using his partner’s name in front of the hostages. It sounded as if he didn’t expect any witnesses to survive the morning.

Paul pondered what to do. He didn’t care to sit there with his hands behind his head while Bobby shot a few secretaries. There were only two of them, against three officers and four civilians. We could take them.

And maybe get himself and a few other people killed in the process. That wouldn’t do for the department’s up-and-comer, the whiz kid whose clearance rate made his boss look not only good but great, the one who was supposed to have all the answers.

Funny, he had not yet thought about how the day would affect his career. Once upon a time, that had been all he thought of. Obsessing over his work had been the only way to stop obsessing over his wife’s death. But now he had Theresa.

Could he find an answer to this one, such a smart boy?

He heard muffled thuds as Bobby sped through the Learning Center. He would be passing by the clear outer windows… but no sniper’s bullet shattered the glass, not with his partner staying out of sight below, right outside the room with the money tree.

Bobby’s feet pounded downward into the southwestern section of the lobby.

Behind the grillwork labeled SAVINGS AND LOAN TRANSACTIONS, a woman screamed.

8: 5 7 A.M.

“Where the hell is Cavanaugh?” one of the SRT cops demanded to know. He paced through the aisles of the public library, glancing at the books as if they might be armed.

Frank Patrick shrugged. He had never even met the great Chris Cavanaugh; he certainly had no idea what kept the city’s best hostage negotiator from the most spectacular robbery they’d had in ten years. All Patrick knew was, if anything happened to his partner, Theresa would kill him. She’d absolutely kill him.

And he could certainly kiss the Homicide chief ’s slot good-bye.

The incident commanders had set themselves up on the History and Geography floor of the relatively new Louis Stokes Wing, directly across the street from the Federal Reserve, taking over the staff offices down to replacing the phone and moving the plants off the windowsills, which hadn’t pleased the librarians any. The snipers had already dispersed throughout the building, and Patrick hoped their services would not be needed.

He sought out a quiet corner for himself; as a mere detective, he would not be welcome in SRT’s insular bosom. At the south end of the floor, he found a cozy nook with painted ceilings and rows of books, though someone had beaten him to it.

Patrick didn’t know him. A skinny guy young enough to be his son, he seemed to be the calmest guy in the building. He wore a polo shirt and jeans, but with a vest that read POLICE on the back, and he’d set a telescope next to the floor-to-ceiling window in the east wall, aimed at the entrance to the Federal Reserve. “Who’re you?” Patrick asked.

“My name’s Jason. I’m Chris Cavanaugh’s researcher.”

“A what?” Some kind of egghead?That’s all we need .

“Researcher. Hostage rescue works as a team. Chris is the negotiator-”

“I know that,” Patrick snapped. “I mean, I know how SRT works. You have a negotiator to talk, a guy to keep track of the details, and a commander to make the decisions.”

“And me. I run back and forth looking stuff up and finding out what I can about these guys or what they want. The scribe writes down all the details-that would be Irene Hardstead over there, guiding all the bigwigs into the staff offices so they can figure out who’s going to be the commander. It’s usually the chief,” he added, meaning the chief of police, “though this is not a usual situation.”

“Why aren’t you in there with them?”

Jason unpacked a plastic crate onto one of the cleanly designed reading tables. The nook had been claimed. “We need a quiet area, and a large group of cops are never quiet.”

Patrick noted that the walls of the staff office area were silver metal topped with patterned glass, with a two-foot gap above that. “It might not be quiet anyway. What do you mean, usually the chief?”

“The police chief isn’t here. He’s at that luncheon address by the secretary of state. Going to sit right next to the lady. I think those guys across the street could have taken the entire Indians lineup hostage and the chief still ain’t going to give that up. We have the assistant chief, Viancourt.”

In his heart of hearts, Patrick let out a quiet moan. Through luck, amiability, and a complete lack of any law-enforcement skills whatsoever, Viancourt had been kicked upstairs over and over until he landed on the chief ’s doorstep, friendly as a puppy and about as effective. But even a puppy can outstay its welcome, and rumor had it that Viancourt would be replaced in the next year if he couldn’t learn to do more than interview well. “Crap.”