William Bernhardt: Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

“Yes. Every week at the Chinese Boxing Institute. Lately we’ve been practicing dropkicks and back flips.”

“Are you any good?”

“Better than I was.”

“Fast?”

Ben frowned. “Not faster than a shotgun.” He watched as the crazed man paced the length of the classroom. “I wish I could get him to calm down and just tell us what it is he wants.”

“Don’t even try, Ben. It’s too dangerous. And you wouldn’t learn anything. He’s delusional.”

“Maybe. But if I could at least find out what he’s after, then maybe—”

Christina clamped down on his arm. “Ben, please. It would be suicide.”

“We can’t just sit here and—”

“What are you two whispering about?”

Ben leapt back—because he suddenly found the business end of the shotgun shoved between them.

“Answer me! What were you saying? Were you plotting against me?” Sweat flew from the man’s brow as he whipped his head back and forth. “Is that what it was?”

“N-no, of course not,” Ben answered, trying to remain as calm as possible. “We’re just … hungry, that’s all.”

“You’ve got the merchandise, don’t you? You’re the one keeping what’s mine.”

“That’s not true. I just—”

The man shoved the shotgun barrel directly under Ben’s nose. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t you lie to me!”

Ben threw up his hands. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you ever lie to me!”

“I won’t. I promise.”

The man’s face flushed with crazed desperation. “All I want is what’s coming to me.”

“I know that. I know it.”

His voice boomed. “All I want is what’s mine!”

“Stop it!” This shout came from behind the man with the gun. Mr. Brunner. “Stop shouting at him! Just stop!”

My God, Ben thought, Brunner’s expression is almost as demented as the gunman’s. He’s cracked. He’s gone over the edge.

“I’m tired of this!” Brunner shouted. “I want out of here! I want out now!” He turned his back to the shotgun and started toward the door.

“Stop!” the man with the gun warned. “Don’t do it!”

“I can’t take this anymore!” Brunner bellowed. “Don’t you understand? I can’t take it!”

“I’m warning you.” The man drew the shotgun up to his eye, sighting carefully. “Come back.”

“Well … if you insist.” Brunner turned, seemingly resigned, and then, all at once, he sprang forward. Moving like quicksilver, he flew across the classroom on a line drive toward the man with the gun.

He was fast … but not fast enough. The shotgun blast hit Brunner in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He cried out in pain, then curled up like a fetus, clutching his abdomen.

Screams and shouts pierced the air. A new level of panic swept through the classroom. Most of the students ran in terror to the opposite corner.

Christina knelt down beside Brunner, oblivious to the shotgun tracking her every move.

“How is he?” Ben asked.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The gaping hole and the blood-soaked shirt said more than enough.

Brunner was still breathing, but just barely. He was still bleeding, too.

The hostage negotiators had been working the cell phone doubletime, trying to get the man with the gun to allow a medic in to treat Brunner. No luck. Ben remembered attending a seminar with Mike Morelli where he had learned about the FBI’s four touchstones for successful hostage negotiation: honesty, conciliation, containment, and resolution. Unfortunately, even after ten hours, these negotiators couldn’t get past honesty. Their standard scripts weren’t working. They were trained to deal with men who were desperate—but still fundamentally rational. With this crazed paranoid, the standard operating procedures were useless.

More than once, Ben had managed to take a slow stroll behind the third tier of seats, glancing out the windows. He no longer saw the fleeting figures in green. But he was certain they were there. He thought he had heard a muffled drilling sound earlier; possibly they were poking a hole through one of the walls, making an opening for a fiber-optic camera, or even a high-powered rifle. Meanwhile, there were probably half a dozen sights trained on those rear windows, just waiting for the man to show himself. But the man with the shotgun stayed out of sight, safely tucked away on the lowest level of the classroom.

The students" spirits were dwindling. The attack on Brunner had sucked the life out of the best of them. Several simply lay prostrate, not moving, waiting for the end they feared was inevitable. Others were praying, had been praying nonstop for hours. And a few still managed to maintain a stiff upper lip. But Ben knew that was just for show. They couldn’t last forever. None of them.

Ben wiped his brow, then stared at the profuse sweat that dampened his hand. None of us, that is.

“Damn you! Damn you all! You will give me what I want!”

Ben watched in horror as their captor threw the cell phone across the room. It hit the wall, shattering into pieces. Apparently that wasn’t enough for him. He fired a shot after it, breaking the phone into still more pieces and leaving a sizable indentation in the wall.

“I know what you think!” the man shouted, to no one in particular. “You think you can cheat me and get away with it. But you can’t. You can’t! ”

Another blast went into the ceiling, knocking out several panels and shattering a fluorescent light. Bits of glass and neon tubing flew across the room.

That’s it, Ben thought, biting down on his lower lip. What little hope we had was on the other end of that cell phone. And now even that is gone.

Ben walked down to the lowest level of the classroom, where Christina was huddled over Brunner’s agonized body. She had been nursing him since his injury, holding his hand, talking to him, trying to keep him alive.

“I know you’re in pain,” Ben heard her whisper to him. “I know it must be excruciating. But you’ve got to hold on. Please. Help is on its way.”

Ben placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You’re worn out. Want me to spell you for a bit?”

“No. I’m fine.” She tossed her head back, trying to knock the hair out of her eyes, but the hair was wet with sweat and stuck tenaciously to her forehead and cheeks.

Ben reached down and brushed it back. “Don’t exhaust yourself.”

If she heard him, she gave no indication of it. Her eyes were focused on Brunner. “Don’t give up. Please don’t give up.”

But even as she said it, Brunner’s eyelids slowly closed.

“No!” Christina cried. “Please, no!”

Ben felt his teeth grinding together. This had gone on too long. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt—not even the man with the shotgun. But Brunner was fading fast—maybe gone already. If he didn’t get medical attention quickly, there would be no hope. And after Brunner, who would be next? One of the other students? Christina?

Ben closed his eyes, forming his resolve. If he started this, he would have to stick with it to the end—no matter what the consequences.

He made up his mind. “I’m leaving,” he said. His voice was oddly flat, but definitely audible.

The man with the shotgun looked up abruptly. “What?”

“I’m leaving.” Ben turned slowly and started toward the back of the classroom.

“Ben?” Christina said. “What are you doing?” I’m leaving.

Their captor raised his gun. “You’re not.”

“I am.” Ben continued moving, with the same slow but steady pace. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re not!” The man ran toward the first-tier table and cocked his shotgun. “I’ll stop you!”