William Bernhardt - Death Row

He heard Hoppes barking in his ear. “Can you see him? Are you in a position to shoot him?”

“No,” Mike murmured. “I don’t have a weapon.”

“You-what? Why in hell not?”

“Because I gave him my word.”

The man with the gun had barricaded himself between two large trash receptacles. His gun was out and his hand was shaking. He was a thin, long-haired man. Couldn’t be more than twenty. He was wearing a solid black T-shirt and had a few scruffy hairs on his chin passing for a goatee. He was drenched in sweat. His eyes were red and worried; they never seemed to stay in one place for more than a second.

“My name’s Mike.” He kept a good ten feet away. “What’s yours?”

The young man whipped around, pointing his gun in Mike’s direction. “Why do you want to know my name?”

Mike tried to keep his voice even. This guy was worse than on edge. He was already in the midst of a major meltdown. “No reason. Just so I know what to call you.”

“You don’t need to know my name!”

“All right. Then I’ll just make one up. How about… Elmer?”

“That’s a stupid name!” the kid shouted, waving his gun around. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Of course not. How about… Bob?”

The young man inhaled deep and long, like a diver with a bad case of the bends. “I can live with that.”

Great. They’d made progress. “What is it you want, Bob?”

“I want my goddamn job back, that’s what I want.”

Mike’s lips parted. “You used to work here?”

“Damn straight. For almost two years. Till that son-of-a-bitch manager fired me. He said I was screwing around, not getting my work done. Made other people carry the slack. But he was full of it!” Watching the gun bob and weave in all directions made Mike sick, but there was nothing he could do about it at present. “I worked hard. Every day, hard. Not like some manager who sits on his fat ass and watches other people work. I didn’t deserve to lose my job. And I want it back!”

And you thought the smart way to get it would be to run in with a gun and take hostages? Was he utterly insane? Or was Mike’s friend Ben’s theory right-that people of the modern world suffer from a societal illness more endemic than the Black Plague. Terminal stupidity.

“So, Bob… if I was able to get your job back, would you stand down? Let these nice people go?”

“Why should I?”

“Well… they didn’t take your job. You have no grudge against them. Why don’t we let some of them go. Like maybe the children?” Out the corner of his eye, through the windows that surrounded the restaurant on three sides, Mike spotted the SOT snipers positioning themselves. Damn Hoppes, anyway! Why didn’t he keep them out of sight? Those rifles had a thousand-foot range. Why did they have to get right under the man’s nose?

“I guess that’d be all right. But no tricks.”

“I promise you, Bob. No tricks. Let’s start with those two over by the door, okay?”

The children didn’t want to leave their parents. Mom and Dad both pushed them toward the door, but they wouldn’t go.

Mike bit down on his lower lip. “Maybe if I escorted them. Okay?”

“All right, but I’ll be- damn !”

Mike knew what had happened. As Bob turned his head to look at the children, he’d spotted a khaki-clad SOT officer positioning himself by the south entrance.

“Bob, listen to me. Those men will not harm you.”

“Then why are they here?” He was bouncing back and forth, bellowing. “Why are they here?”

“They’re just trying to protect everyone. They won’t hurt you.”

“Make them go away! Make them go away!”

Mike spoke into his wire. “Hoppes! What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking charge, Morelli.”

“Hoppes, I am ordering-”

“Screw you.”

“I am your commanding officer-”

“You are a goddamn hostage! Out of commission. Therefore, I am forced to take over.”

“Make ’em go away,” Bob shouted, waving his gun every which way at once. “Make them stop or I’m gonna kill someone!”

“Back off!” Mike shouted into the wire.

The first shot cracked through the glass window on the south side. Everyone in the restaurant hit the floor, including Bob. Several screamed as panic spread through the room. Men and women and children cried and clutched at one another. An elderly man in the rear began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

The next shot came from the east. It ricocheted off one of the trash receptacles. Close, but not close enough to do any good.

The third shot came from the south again, and a split second after Mike heard the report, he heard Bob cry out in pain. He’d been hit-but not incapacitated.

Bob pushed himself back to his feet, bleeding from his right leg. “You lying sons of bitches! You’re just like all the others. Just like all the others!”

He raised his gun and fired, spinning around in a circle. Mike dove behind the condiments counter and hugged the tile floor. The gunfire continued to rain down all around them.

Mike crawled around the edge of the table area to see what was happening. Bob had snatched up a baby with his right arm and held him close against his head to shield himself. He wrapped his gun arm around the neck of the baby’s mother. With hostages flanking him on both sides, it would be all but impossible for the snipers to get a clear shot.

“Where are you?” Bob shouted. “You lied to me! You told me they wouldn’t hurt me!”

I was misinformed, Mike thought ruefully.

“Where are you, you lying bastard?”

Bob whirled around the restaurant, dragging the mother and baby with him. The baby was crying; the mother was screaming. None of it fazed him.

The situation had gone from grim to dire. Ben knew the snipers wouldn’t shoot as long as he was moving and had hostages all around him. The brick walls beneath the windows prevented them from shooting below the chest, and a head shot, even if it hit Bob first, could easily travel on to one of the hostages.

“What’s happening in there?” Hoppes was shouting into Mike’s earpiece. “Fill me in!”

Mike didn’t say a word. He couldn’t take the risk.

“You can’t hide from me!” Bob cried.

Maybe not, Mike thought, but I can damn sure try. He crawled to the other end of the condiment counter, hoping he could flank Bob and get behind him.

“Can you get him to drop the hostages?” Hoppes’s voice crackled. “Or force him closer to the windows?”

“No,” Mike whispered. “I can’t.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Just stay put and keep your men out of sight. There’s still a chance I can-”

“All right,” Bob shouted, “you won’t show yourself? Fine. I’ll kill someone else!”

Mike cried out, “No!” But it was too late. A second later, the gun fired and the elderly woman who had opened the door for him crumpled to the floor.

“What’s going on?” Hoppes asked. “What should I do?”

“Take him out,” Mike growled.

“Still won’t show yourself?” Bob said. “Fine. Here comes victim number two!”

“We can’t get a clear shot,” Hoppes said.

Mike sprang forward, snatching the baby away and shoving the mother to the floor. “Now!” he barked.

A nanosecond later, five rifles fired at once. Three of the bullets hit Bob, making him twitch like a dissected frog. The mother crawled to safety, and as soon as she did, bullets rained down on Bob. He looked like a wind sock caught in a tornado. He was torn one way then another, twitching as if suffering from some uncontrollable spasm, until finally, mercifully, his body crumpled lifelessly to the floor.