Amber Morn (8 page)

She
had
to get on her feet. Couldn’t crawl. Too much glass.

“Jesus, help me get up.”

Sarah could use only her right arm. The left hung useless, screaming at its wound.

She pulled in two deep breaths. Managed to get on her knees. Then pushed to a tentative, swaying hunch. Dizziness clawed at her. She forced it back, lifted one foot in front of the other. Step by slow step, moaning and praying aloud, she picked her way through the battered store. Soft blankets, glittery bracelets and purses, sets of wine glasses, flower arrangements, and knickknacks — so many on the floor, broken to bits. Her beloved store, tattered and ruined. Sobs rose within her — for her store, for the pain, for whatever was happening in the now ghost-silent town.

She veered into the back wall and bounced off. Shook her head. Closed her eyes against the light and felt the familiar way with her good hand. Into the short hall, right into her office. Across the floor to her desk and phone.

Sarah sank into her chair, fumbled the receiver off its base. Laid it down, forefinger extended, searching for the right buttons. For a moment her mind froze, unable to recall the three digits.

Her finger moved of its own accord. She raised the phone to her right ear.

“911. What is your emergency?”

Words meshed on her tongue. How to describe it?

“This is 911. Caller, are you there?”

“Yes. I… somebody’s shooting up Kanner Lake. And I think they got me.”

TWENTY-TWO

In Java Joint, Leslie sat at a table with Ted and Paige, their arms visible on the tabletop as all the hostages had been commanded. Leslie’s insides boiled and seethed, and that’s just the way she wanted it. Cut through the outrage and she’d reach her terror. And
that
ran so deep and strong she didn’t dare face it.

Wicksell
. All too well she knew that name. Had covered the trial not long ago for the
Kanner Lake Times
. She’d recognized the three faces the minute they stormed through the door.

Wound around her anger — prayers. First for Frank, then for herself and the other hostages.
Frank
. Leslie had once been crazy about him, until she started dating Ted. Now Frank and Paige were so much in love. Leslie sneaked a sideways glance at her roommate. Paige pressed back in her chair, eyes downcast, her beautiful features carved from ice. Leslie’s heart clutched. She knew her friend all too well. Paige had retreated deep within herself — her ancient method of survival. Nearly two years of slow healing in Kanner Lake, and in two minutes and three gunshots, it had all been torn away.

Dear God, I can’t believe Frank is dead.

The attackers had herded everyone out from behind the counter and told them to drag enough of the small, round tables toward the back wall of the café so they all could sit jammed together, at least partially facing the street. The rest of the tables and chairs were pushed against the wall on the right. Which left the center clear for pacing.

Well, Mitch paced. And jerked and sweated. Guy had to be high as a kite, probably on meth. Three steps toward the counter, three steps the other direction. Back and forth, back and forth. Torso twisted so his gun pointed at his hostages. And a twitchy finger near the trigger of a weapon that could blow them all to smithereens in seconds.

At Leslie’s table, Ted faced the front door with Paige on his left, Leslie on his right. Leslie had a good view of the counter, where Bad Boy Brad had positioned himself. Behind Leslie sat the corner table that held Java Joint’s computer. A glance over her shoulder caught Kent perched in front of the monitor, his gun on the floor to his right, within a second’s reach. Lucky Bailey got to sit on his left, between him and Leslie.

Brad had moved their duffel bag of extra ammunition behind the counter.

Leslie focused on Brad. He stood in front of Wilbur’s stool, feet apart, gun aimed at their group. A fox in a henhouse.

Frank.
Revenge slimed through Leslie. She didn’t want to see Kent and his two sons go to prison for this. She wanted to see them
die
.

Brad caught her eye and glared. If his father was stone, this guy was steel. He had an overconfident air about him that read,
Yeah, I’m younger, but I’m meaner and smarter, so don’t push me
. His finger, too, edged a trigger. Like he’d pull it just to prove a point.

Leslie looked away.

Oh, for pen and paper. Her reporter’s mind catalogued the position of every other hostage in the room. Farthest away, at the table closest to the hall, were Bev, facing her, Angie in the middle, and Jared, with his back to Leslie. Next table, Carla, sitting between Brittany on her left and Ali on her right. Carla held hands with both girls. One thing Leslie knew — if any of the Wicksells touched those girls, mama bear Carla would launch a full-on attack — and get her head blown off in the process. Leslie wouldn’t be far behind. She was too close to Ali to sit back and watch something terrible happen to the girl.

Leslie surveyed Brittany. How was she holding up? Only eight months ago her entire life had turned upside down. The only father she’d known was a U.S. senator from Washington, on his way to the White House. Now his political career lay in tatters. Given his history, the media would jump on this story even more when they learned Brittany was among the hostages.

Leslie’s gaze moved to the third and closest table — where Wilbur and Pastor Hank sat. Wilbur faced her, but she could see only Pastor Hank’s back. Wilbur was studying Meth Mitch with the venom of a cobra.

Ted inched his hand over and laid it on top of Leslie’s. Tears bit her eyes. Her wonderful S-Man, trying to comfort.

How can I leave him in two weeks?

She swallowed hard. Hey, who said she’d live till then?

Behind her, Kent cursed. “Come on, what’s
taking
him so long?”

Mitch yanked to a stop. “How long’s it been since we got here?”

Brad’s eyes flicked to the wall clock. “Twenty-five minutes. Dad, let me take over the computer. I know what I’m doing.”

“Stay at the counter and shut up! This was
my
job before you decided to tag along.”

Brad’s eyes narrowed to slits.

Great
,
can’t even get along with each other. Where’s that leave us?

Of all things, Kent was waiting for a comment to appear on the current Scenes and Beans blog post. He’d drafted Bailey to show him how it worked. Leslie listened as Bailey popped the comments box up on-screen, then showed him how to close out of it and get back in, checking for a new comment. The man had to be clicking the thing a good three times a minute. Every time he apparently found no change, he cursed louder. Before long he’d bust right out of his skin.

Leslie looked at Ted. If only she could lean against him, feel him hold her. But they were not to move their arms from the tables, were not to talk.

Mitch scratched his cheek and went back to pacing.

Minutes dragged by. The clock ticked. In the hundreds of times Leslie had been in Java Joint, she’d never noticed the faint sound of its second hand. Java Joint usually bustled with talk and laughter, the stutter of chair legs against the floor, the gurgle of the espresso machine. The café’s smell was an inviting blend of coffee and pastries and milk. Now the place stank with sweat, some of it her own.

Brad stared at her. The clock ticked. Mitch clomped.

Kent clicked the mouse and cursed.

Clicked and cursed.

Mitch paced.

Brad fingered his weapon.

One of them was going to blow here. Soon.

Mitch jerked to a halt. His dark eyes burned. “It’s taking too long.”

“Yeah,” Brad spat. “I say we shoot another one.”

TWENTY-THREE

Vince reverse-rounded the corner from Hanley onto Main and backed straight up the first block. The seconds played out, sights and sounds bombarding his senses. Shops whizzing by, glass shot out of almost every one on his right. His back tires eating up asphalt, the roar of his engine. The distant sound of a siren.

Ambulance.

Any minute the door to Java Joint could burst open, bullets flying down the street. His weapons were ready for a shoot-out, but he didn’t want that — not here, not now. Any gunman who survived would only be harder to reach in negotiations, his adrenaline and anger pumping, likely spilling out to his hostages…

Vince’s vehicle hit the intersection of Main and First.

Now.

He cranked the wheel hard, veering backward onto First, passing Stan’s truck at an angle, then straightened even with the sidewalk. Stepped on the gas to jump the curb.

His rear tires hit, and the car jounced. Vince’s right hand hung tightly to the back of his seat. He shot backward, gripping the wheel, no room for error. His car barely squeezed between buildings and cars parked at the curb. He passed the bait shop, hoping Stan and John were ready with Frank. No time to look. After speeding by he hit his brakes, head whipping front to back to gauge his stop.

He slid to a halt one car length above the bait shop. If the gunmen burst out of Java Joint, they’d have to shoot right through his vehicle to get to the rescue team.

Jim braked in front of Vince’s vehicle, his back door lined up with the recessed entry.

Perfect.

Vince’s hand wouldn’t loose from the steering wheel. He checked over his shoulder. All clear.

Jim leapt from his car, flung open its back door. The edge of the door’s frame disappeared into the recessed entry.

Come on, come on!

Stan and John ran forward with Frank, one holding his legs, the other carrying his torso. Jim helped support Frank while Stan dove onto the backseat.

Vince cast another look toward Java Joint. Still clear.

His eyes caught a flash of dark at the café. He jerked. A man?

No. The windows. They were covered in black.

These men had come prepared.

Vince twisted back toward Jim’s vehicle.

Stan gripped Frank’s shoulders and slid across the seat, pulling the officer with him. John and Stan loaded Frank’s legs onto the seat. John jumped in last, crouching on the backseat floor. Jim slammed their door and threw himself behind the wheel. His car surged down the sidewalk and onto the street at First. Vince followed.

They swerved left around the corner onto Hanley and to a stop one block down at Lakeshore. An ambulance stood ready, EMTs pulling out a gurney. Jim waved them over to his car and leapt out, opening the back door for them.

Vince checked his watch. They’d done the sneak and snatch in two minutes.

He sucked in a long breath. Only then did he feel the heavy
pump-pump
of his heart. He lifted his hands from the wheel, fingers stiff from their hard clutch.
Thank You, God.

He slid out of his car, gave a quick nod to Jim. “Good job.”

Jim wiped his forehead. “You too.”

John Truitt leaned against the front of Jim’s vehicle, out of the EMTs’ way. The man looked mighty haggard. Stan stood next to him, a comforting hand on his arm. Vince pointed at them. “Be right with you.”

The EMTs lifted Frank onto their gurney and began checking his vitals as they rushed toward the ambulance. Vince jogged over as they started to load him in and took a long — last? — look at Frank’s face. The kid was ghostly pale. Emotion flooded Vince, and he steeled himself. Frank was only a few years older than his own son, Tim, who’d died serving in Iraq. Vince studied Frank’s wounds. The two bullet holes in his chest had bled little. Could be a good sign. The one in his stomach was a little bloodier, but no apparent hemorrhage. Question was — what was happening on the
inside
?

Gently, he patted his deputy’s arm. “Frank, it’s Vince. Can you hear me?”

One EMT shook his head.

Vince’s gaze met the medical technician’s —
Will he make it?

The EMT lifted his shoulders. “We got vitals. Weak, but they’re there.”

Vince flexed his jaw. “Take good care of him.” His voice sounded gruff.

As soon as the ambulance drove away, another arrived, this one responding to a call from Sarah Wray at Simple Pleasures. Apparently shot in the arm.

Sarah?
Vince had thought she was among the hostages. Relief that she was safe dissolved into concern about her wound. He gazed up Hanley, calculating the line of fire from Java Joint.

“See that alley, one block north of Main?” He pointed it out to the ambulance driver. “It runs between the rear of the buildings that front Main and Baxter — the next street over. It’s narrow, but you can get in there.”

A similar alley ran between the buildings fronting the south side of Main and those on Lakeshore. It dead-ended at Third Street into a long building that stretched the entire block between Main and Lakeshore, then picked up again at the beginning of Fourth. The back door of Java Joint opened onto the first section of that alley — a fact Vince was already calculating.