Arthur Hailey - Evening News

She had better have an excuse for summoning Vicente, Jessica reasoned, and decided she would ask by gestures if she could go into Nicky's cell. The request would be refused, but at this point that didn't matter.

She had no idea what Harry had in mind. She only knew, while her anxiety and tension grew, that this was the moment she had dreamed about, yet feared might never come.

* * *

Crouched low beneath the window, Partridge gripped his nine-millimeter Browning pistol, the silencer extending from the barrel. So far tonight, everything had gone exactly as planned, but he knew the most difficult and crucial part of the action was about to begin.

The next few seconds would offer him limited alternatives, one of which he would have to choose in an instant's decision. The way it looked now, he might be able to hold up the guard, using the Browning as a threat, after which the guard would either be bound securely, gagged and left, or taken with them as a captive. The second choice would be least preferable. There was a third possibility—to kill the guard, but that was something he would prefer not to do.

One thing was working in his favon Jessica was resourceful, quick to think and understand—exactly as he remembered her.

He listened to her call twice, heard minor noises from somewhere out of sight, then footsteps as the guard walked over. Partridge held his breath, ready to slump below the window level entirely if the guard was looking in his direction.

He wasn't. The man had his back to Partridge and faced Jessica, which gave Partridge an extra second to assess the scene.

The first thing he recognized was that the guard was carrying a Kalashnikov automatic rifle, a weapon Partridge knew well, and from the way it was being handled, the guard knew how to use it. Compared with the Kalashnikov, Partridge's Browning was a peashooter.

The conclusion was inevitable and inescapable: Partridge would have to kill the guard and get his shot in first, which meant surprise.

But there was an obstacle. Jessica. She was now exactly in line with the guard and Partridge. A shot aimed at the guard could hit Jessica too.

Partridge had to gamble. There would be no other chance, could be no other choice. And the gamble would be on Jessica's fast thinking and instant action.

Taking a breath, Partridge called out loudly, clearly, "Jessica, drop to the floor— now !”

Instantly, the guard spun around, his rifle raised, the safety off. But Partridge already had the Browning raised and sighted. A moment earlier he had remembered the advice of a firearms instructor who taught him to use weapons: "If you want to kill a person, don't aim for the head. Chances are, no matter how gently you squeeze the trigger, the gun will rise and the bullet will go high, perhaps clear over the head. So aim for the heart, or slightly below. That way, even if the bullet's higher than the heart, it will do a lot of damage, probably kill, and if it doesn't, you'll have time for a second shot.”

Partridge squeezed the trigger and the Browning fired with a near-silent "pfft!” Even though he had had experience with silencers, their quietness always surprised him. He peered down the sights, ready for a second shot, but it wasn't needed. The first had hit the guard in the chest, just about where the heart should be and where blood was beginning to appear. For an instant the man looked surprised, then he fell where he was, dropping the rifle, which created the only noise.

Even before it happened, Partridge had seen Jessica drop flat to the ground, obeying his command instantly. In a crevice of his mind he was relieved and grateful. Now Jessica was scrambling to her feet.

Partridge turned toward the outside doorway to the shack, but a swiftly moving shadow was ahead of him. It was Minh Van Canh, who had stayed positioned at Partridge's rear, as ordered, but now changed places, going forward. Minh went swiftly to the guard, his own Uzi at the ready, then confirmed with a nod to Partridge, just entering, that the man was dead. Next, Minh moved to Jessica's cell, inspected the padlock which secured it and asked, "Where is the key?”

Jessica told him, "Somewhere over where the guard was sitting. Nicky's too.”

In the adjoining cell, Nicky stirred from sleep. Abruptly, he sat upright.”Mom, what's happenine.”

Jessica assured him, "It's good, Nicky. All good!”

Nicky took in the new arrivals—Partridge, approaching and holding the Kalashnikov rifle he had just picked up, and Minh collecting keys which were hanging from a nail.”Who are they, Mom?”

"Friends, dear. Very good friends.”

Nicky, still sleepy, brightened. Then he saw the fallen, still figure on the ground amid a widening pool of blood and cried out, "It's Vicente! They shot Vicente! Why?”

"Hush, Nicky!” Jessica warned.

Keeping his voice low, Partridge answered.”I didn't like doing it, Nicholas. But he was going to shoot me. If he had, I couldn't have taken you and your mother away from here, which is what we've come to do.”

With a flash of recognition, Nicky said, "You're Mr. Partridge, aren't you?”

"Yes, I am.”

Jessica said emotionally, "Oh, bless you, Harry! Dear Harry!”

Still speaking softly, Partridge cautioned, "We're not out of this yet, and we've a way to go. We all have to move quickly.”

Minh had returned with the keys and was trying them, one by one, in the padlock of Jessica's cell. Suddenly the lock opened. An instant later the door swung wide and Jessica walked out. Minh went to Nicky's cell and tried out keys there. Within seconds Nicky was free too, and he and Jessica embraced briefly in the area between the cells and the outside door.

”Help me!” Partridge told Minh. He had been dragging the body of the guard toward Nicky's cell and together they lifted the dead man onto the low wooden bed. The action would not prevent discovery of the prisoners' escape, Partridge thought, but might delay it slightly. With the same motive, he lowered the light in the kerosene lamp so it was merely a glimmer, the hut interior receding into darkness.

Nicky left Jessica and moved close to Partridge. In a stilted monotone, he said, "It's all right about shooting Vicente, Mr. Partridge. He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them. They killed my granddad and cut off two of my fingers, so I can't play the piano anymore.” He held up his bandaged hand.

"Call me Harry,” Partridge said.”Yes, I knew about your grandfather and the fingers. And I'm terribly sorry.”

Again the uptight, rigid voice.”Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome, Harry? My mom does. If you'd like her to, she'll tell you.”

Without answering, Partridge looked closely at Nicky. He had encountered shock before—in individuals affected by more exposure to danger or disaster than their minds could handleand the boy's tone and choice of words within the past few minutes held symptoms of shock. He was going to need help soon. Meanwhile, doing the best he could, Partridge reached out and put his arm around Nicky's shoulders. He felt the boy respond by drawing closer to him.

Partridge saw Jessica watching, her face showing the same concern as his own. She, too, wished the guard could have been someone other than Vicente. If it had been Ramon, she would not have been troubled in the least. Just the same, she was taken aback by Nicky's words and manner.

Partridge shook his head, trying to convey reassurance to Jessica, at the same time ordering, "Let's go.”

In his free hand he kept the Kalashnikov; it was a good fighting weapon and might be useful. He had also pocketed two spare magazines he found on the body of the guard.

Minh was ahead of them at the doorway. He had retrieved his camera from outside and now had it raised, recording their departure with the cells as background. Minh was using a special night lens, Partridge noted—infrared didn't work with tape —and he would have passable pictures, even in this dimmest light.