James Grippando - When Darkness Falls

More silence, and then he heard the approaching footfalls. He could almost feel her standing right before him, looking into his face. He wanted to reach out to her, but he wasn’t sure what she wanted, and something inside him wouldn’t let him take the risk. Then her arms went around his shoulders, and instinctively his hands found their way around the curve of her back, locking the two of them in a tight embrace. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, and it was beyond even what he had hoped for. It felt so good.

“Vince, I’m glad you’re sharing this with me.” She was trying to control it, but there was real emotion in her whisper as she released him and took a step back.

He smiled a little, trying to put her at ease. “Hey, I didn’t bring this up so that we get all sloppy on each other.”

“Your timing is kind of weird,” she said.

“I actually have a point.”

“What is it?”

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that my feelings for you haven’t changed, but-pardon the pun-that doesn’t make me blind.”

“I don’t follow you.”

All traces of a smile ran away from his face, and he summoned up his most serious expression. “Don’t be offended by what I’m about to tell you. And please don’t say that I’m losing my mind.”

“Tell me,” she said, concerned.

“I think I’m only beginning to understand why I’ve been put in charge in here.”

T heo was counting bullets. Again.

He’d been trying to keep track of spent ammunition since Falcon’s first shot had shattered Jack’s sunroof. At some point Falcon would need to reload his pistol. That was any gunman’s most vulnerable moment. Theo still had to figure out a way to loosen the cord around his hands and ankles. Assuming he could get that done, he would ideally make his move when Falcon was out of bullets and searching frantically for another magazine. Thirteen rounds would be standard. Some guys loaded only twelve to prevent misfeeds. Counting the number of rounds already fired, however, was not as easy as it might seem. Falcon’s second shot had hit the girl in the bathroom. One to each of the downed officers made four. Another had taken out the police searchlight. Or was that two shots? Theo couldn’t remember, couldn’t distinguish Falcon’s shots from the return fire by police.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” said Theo.

Falcon stepped away from the draperies. “None of your damn business.”

“What is that you got, anyway? A Browning?” A Browning Hi-Power, was Theo’s guess-a long-standing favorite with military forces around the world.

Falcon didn’t answer.

“Pretty efficient use of ammunition so far,” said Theo. “The girl, two cops, a searchlight. What’d it take you-five bullets, four bullets?”

Falcon only smiled, as if amused by Theo’s transparency. “Don’t worry. Pretty sure I got one in here with your name on it. But let’s go ahead and remove all doubt.”

For a split second, Theo thought he was about to be shot. Instead, Falcon hit the pistol’s slide-release button with his right thumb, dropping the magazine to the floor, while pulling a new magazine from his coat pocket with his left hand. He inserted the new magazine and finished with a quick slap to its bottom, ensuring that thirteen new rounds were locked in place. A complete tactical reload in about two seconds.

The guy was definitely no stranger to a sidearm.

“You can start counting all over again,” said Falcon as he picked up the old magazine.

A loud thud at the door startled everyone in the room.

“What was that?” said the weatherman.

“Quiet!” said Falcon. He pulled the weatherman up off the floor and held him as a human shield. If SWAT came flying through the door, guns firing, the weatherman would be the first to get it.

“Don’t use me, use the big guy,” the weatherman said in a quaking voice. “You can hide behind him better.”

Theo made a mental note to nominate this jackass for Profiles in Courage, loser’s edition.

Falcon said, “Be still, everybody.” No one moved, except for Falcon himself, who couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether to aim the pistol at the door or the weatherman’s brain. They listened for another thud, any sound at all that might explain the intrusion.

A moment of loud electronic feedback resonated from somewhere in the parking lot, and the public address system clicked on. Paulo’s voice followed. “Falcon, there’s a knot of rope outside your door. Pull it, and it will draw a wagon toward you. There’s food in the wagon.”

Theo watched as Falcon calculated his next move. Not a thought passed through the guy’s head without an exaggerated blink of the eye or twitch of the mouth, as if some kind of facial contortion were part of his normal brain function.

The PA system keyed again. Paulo said, “Your necklace is in there, too.”

That clinched it.

“You,” Falcon said to the weatherman. He pressed the gun against the man’s right temple. “I want you to open the door.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“You’re going to open the door and pull the rope. Take what’s in the wagon and grab the rope, too. Leave the wagon outside. If you try to run, I’ll shoot smart-ass here in the head and you in the back.”

“You won’t have to shoot anyone. Just save your bullets, okay?”

“I got plenty of bullets. Now don’t move until I tell you to.” He went quickly to the bathroom door and said, “I don’t want to hear a peep from you girls.”

“You don’t have to worry about her,” said Natalia, speaking of her injured friend.

“Good.” Falcon closed the door, then turned his gun toward Theo. “You. Face down on the floor, over against that wall, away from the door.”

His ankles and wrists still bound, Theo rose up on his knees and crawled to the other side of the room. He lay on his belly, but he cocked his head to the left, so that he could still see what was going on.

Falcon cleared away the furniture that was piled up against the door. He untied the electrical cord that bound the weatherman’s wrists, and then he stepped back against the far wall, having searched out a spot that would be outside the line of SWAT sniper fire once the door opened. His gun moved back and forth from Theo’s head to the weatherman’s back. “Now open the door,” he told the weatherman, “and do exactly what I told you to do.”

The weatherman didn’t immediately comply. It seemed less an act of disobedience and more the paralysis of fear.

“Do it!” said Falcon.

The weatherman drew a breath, then let it out, clearly unaware of just how loud his breathing was. The bindings around his ankles forced him to shuffle rather than walk to the door. He turned the deadbolt, reached for the doorknob, and then stopped. “Let me go, please.”

Falcon didn’t answer.

“I have a wife. Kids, too.” The words caught in his throat, perhaps out of fear, perhaps because he was in a hotel room with two young prostitutes.

“I don’t give a shit,” said Falcon.

“Please. I want to see my family.”

“Then do as I say. If you run, hop, or try to roll yourself to safety, you and your big-mouth buddy die. Now open the damn door.”

Theo could see the man’s hand shaking as he turned the knob and pulled the door open. The room brightened, but not as much as Theo had expected. He’d either miscalculated the time of day, or it was completely overcast.

“Pull the rope,” said Falcon.

The weatherman bent over, grabbed the knot of rope at the doorstep, and started pulling.

“Faster!” said Falcon.

Hand over fist, he pulled, and Theo could hear the wagon wheels rolling on the pavement. The whirring grew louder until the wagon was at the door, and the weatherman stopped pulling.