Kay David - The Negotiator

Beck leapt from his desk and peered out into the night. It was completely dark now and the outline of the window was nothing more than a square of blackness. He fumbled for the night vision binoculars that had been sitting on the desk but Lena had already grabbed them and brought them to her eyes. “Tamirisa? What’s going on? Can you see?”

“He’s coming to the window and he’s got the teacher with him. Oh, man…I don’t frigging believe this!”

“What? What is it?”

“A kid…a little boy…he’s just run up to both of them—” His voice turned deep. “Don’t do it, you son of a bitch, don’t do it—” Randy’s voice broke off abruptly.

Beck yanked the binoculars out of Lena’s hands but before he could even focus, the horrible sound of glass shattering split the humid night air. A second later, a scream followed, the kind of scream he knew would be replayed in his dreams for months to come. When it stopped, Beck heard nothing beyond the beating of his heart.

Another second passed, then that stopped, too.

JENNIFER HAD ALWAYS heard time slowed in a moment of crisis.

Not true.

One minute she was standing beside the window, Howard’s hand painfully gripping her arm, and the next instant Juan’s sturdy ten-year-old frame was flying through the air to knock her unexpectedly to the ground. In less time than could be counted, the two of them pitched to the linoleum, a shower of breaking glass somehow accompanying their fall. Jennifer could think of only one thing: the child in her arms. She had to protect him.

The impact between the hard floor and her shoulder sent pain streaking up her arm then down her spine, but she barely felt it. She forced it away so she could deal with everything else. Raining glass, screaming children, a strange pop she couldn’t identify at all.

Jennifer lifted her head and stared at Howard. He was standing, exactly where they’d been a second before, but something wasn’t right. A small red circle had appeared at the base of his throat. Above this spot, their gazes collided violently then he began to sway. A second later, his mouth became a silent O of surprised betrayal. The rest of his face simply collapsed—a balloon with the air suddenly released. He fell to the floor beside them, and as he landed with a heavy, dull thud, the back of his head disappeared in an exploding red mist.

Jennifer screamed and covered Juan’s face with both her hands, but the movement was useless. The child had seen it just as she had—the moment of Howard’s death.

She told herself to move, to get up, to do something but the odor of cordite hung in the air, sharp and biting, pinning her down. She wanted to gag, but she couldn’t do that, either. She couldn’t do anything. He’d promised, was all she could think. He’d promised no one would be hurt….

Juan’s urgent voice, crying out in Spanish from somewhere beneath her, finally jarred her. “Señorita Barclay? ¿Qué pasa? ¿Cómo está usted? Are you okay?”

She rolled off the child and he jumped up, his shocked gaze going instantly to Howard. He covered his mouth with his hand and pointed toward the man, still clutching his rifle. “¡M-madre de Dios!”

Jennifer scrambled to her feet. Maybe he wasn’t really dead. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could do something…. Before she could think of what, the door to the classroom opened with a loud bang. Adrenaline surged and she grabbed Juan again. Shoving him behind her red-flecked skirt, she faced the door.

Men spilled into the room. They were dressed in black, a barrage of noise and brutal action coming with them as they surged inside. They divided by some prearranged, silent signal; one group fanned across the classroom, obviously searching for more danger. Their guns held out before them, they quickly covered every corner and empty space. A second, smaller group raced toward Jennifer and Juan while a third team rushed to the back where the children were screaming.

“Are you all right? You weren’t hit, were you? The kids okay?”

A black-garbed figure paused at Jennifer’s feet, putting a hand on Howard’s neck. Only when she spoke, quickly but with composure, did Jennifer realize the officer was a woman. “W-we’re fine,” Jennifer answered.

Standing up, the woman nodded then pulled Juan from behind Jennifer and pushed him toward a man waiting behind her. Holding Howard’s rifle, he quickly turned away from the body to lead Juan to the back of the room.

“I-is he?”

Though lean and muscular, the woman in black had soft gray eyes and a sweet face. She looked out of place, especially when she said calmly, “He’s dead.”

A thick fog descended over Jennifer, blanketing all her emotions but two. Disbelief and betrayal. “He’s dead,” she repeated numbly.

The woman nodded again, then barked an order to the men surrounding them. To Jennifer, what she said didn’t even register but it was obviously an all-clear sign. The words passed through the group like a wave, and in its wake, another figure pushed to the front.

In a daze, Jennifer stared as the man approached. Everything was over—the damage had been done—why now, she thought almost trancelike. Why did time stop now?

He was huge, well over six feet, his chest a blur of black as he moved, his legs so long they covered the distance between the door and the window in three strides. Adults always looked bigger in the classroom where everything was reduced in scale, but this man absolutely towered over the child-size desks and bookcases. Reaching Jennifer’s side, he ripped off a black helmet to reveal thick blond hair. It was plastered to his scalp, but the pale strands gleamed, and she realized—illogically at that moment—that the lights were back on. He was intimidating and all at once, she understood the true definition of authority. It was none of this, however, that made her feel the clock had stopped.

His eyes did that.

In the fluorescent glare overhead, his cold blue stare leapt out at her. She might have thought the color unnatural, it was so disturbing, but she knew immediately it wasn’t. No one in their right mind would actually buy contacts that shade. The color was too unnerving, too strange.

His eerie gaze swept over her bloody clothing then came to a stop on her face. She forced herself into stillness and looked directly at him. When he spoke her name, she recognized his voice.

She knew without asking that this was Beck Winters.

SHE WAS COVERED in blood and bits and pieces of something else Beck noted but didn’t need to analyze. For one inane moment, he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he’d be lying if he did. It wouldn’t be all right. Not for a very long time—if ever. Not for her, not for the kids, certainly not for Howard French. For the survivors, a hostage incident didn’t end when the team busted in.

In fact, Jennifer Barclay’s wide brown eyes told him shock had inched its way in, leeching the color from her face and forcing into her eyes the kind of glazed disbelief he’d seen too many times. She’d been stronger than most, but that was over.

It was a mistake of monumental proportions and he knew it, but Beck decided he didn’t care. He reached out for her.

She stepped back so quickly she almost slipped and fell. Grabbing the windowsill behind her, her eyes blazing, she spoke from between gritted teeth. “You bastard!”

Immediately Beck’s mask fell into place. Her words weren’t what he’d expected, but different people reacted in different ways. He’d once rescued a woman who’d slapped him as he’d carried her out under fire. Jennifer Barclay’s anger was a coping technique. She’d been holding her emotions in check for hours and now she was going to erupt.