Into the Devil's Underground (2 page)

But the man sitting next to her was calm. Serene. And he scared her to death.

“Why are you here?” Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. Sweat rolled down her forehead and stung her eyes.

Laugh lines appeared at the corners of the man’s eyes. “You don’t know, Miss Emilie?”

Her heart skidded to a stop.
How does he know my name?
Throat constricted, she shook her head.

“For you, Miss Emilie. I’m here for you.”

*   *   *   *

N
ATHAN SURVEYED THE
scene at WestOne Bank on Fremont Street. A swell of nosy assholes pressed against the yellow crime tape as annoyed officers repeatedly warned the spectators to back off. Most used their cellphones to record the drama with little thought to the helpless souls trapped inside. The blazing Nevada sun had been relentless all day, and the air was ripe with the smell of sweat, dust, and the Chinese restaurant a block east. Car horns blared in the distance as drivers displayed their irritation at being re-routed.

Surveillance continued to work on getting a wireless camera inside via the air ducts but so far had come up empty.

“We don’t even know if there are casualties,” said the lieutenant in charge. “There’s been no response.”

Nathan took the megaphone from the lieutenant. “This is Nathan Madigan. I’m a hostage negotiator. I want to help you. You need to answer the phone so we can get you out of there safely.”

He pushed ‘send’ on the department-issued cellphone and settled in for the wait. Fifteen rings later, he picked up the megaphone again. “If you don’t talk to me, you’re going to be at the mercy of the police. The only way your demands will be considered is to pick up that phone.”

Dead air and then a gruff voice came over the cellphone. “I’m in charge here, not you, got it?”

“Absolutely.” Nathan handed the megaphone to the lieutenant.

“Where you at? You all look the same out there.”

Nathan waved his free arm. “Here. See me?”

“With the black hair? You look like a kid. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” Nathan shaded his eyes with his hand to combat the sun reflecting off the bank’s front windows. Someone peeped through one of the blinds on the far left. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Joe.”

“What’s it going to take to bring this to a peaceful end, Joe?”

“Me walking out of here with my money.”

“What about your partner?”

“If there’s room for two.”

“What are your demands?”

“A way out,” Joe shouted. “This was supposed to be quick, but my partner dragged his feet, and now we’re stuck in here. Get me a car, a chopper, something.”

What an amateur.
Either the partner was the mastermind behind the plot or Joe had gotten lucky.

“That’s going to take some time,” Nathan said. “As a show of good faith, can I talk to the branch manager?”

“Why the hell do I gotta show you good faith? I’m doing you a favor just by talking to you.”

“Because I’ve got to convince the people in charge to help you out. Letting me talk to the branch manager will make you look cooperative.”

Nathan waited. Joe needed to believe he called the shots.

Static crackled in his ear as Chris’s voice came over the mic. “Tech found a vent opening on the west side. They’re setting up the camera now.”

“One minute,” Joe snapped. “Talk, woman.”

“Hello?” A soft female voice came over the line.

“Emilie, my name’s Nathan Madigan. I’m a hostage negotiator. Is anyone inside injured?”

“No.”

“Did you get a look at either of the men, Emilie?”

“Sort of. They’re wearing masks.” She breathed hard. “Please, you have to get us out of here.”

“I’m working on it, I promise.”

“I have a cat.” Her voice cracked.

“I’m sorry?” Talking to a victim was always emotional and took far more out of him than negotiating with psychos like Joe.

“His name is Otis. There’s no one but me to take care of him. You’ve got to get us out of here.” A rasping sob echoed over the line, followed by a sharp, sucking sound. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough.” Joe’s harsh voice echoed in the background. “Give me the phone.”

“Not yet.” Sweat stung Nathan’s eyes. The heat made him feel heavy and sluggish. He shook off the discomfort and looked at the bank’s blueprints. “The bank has three exits, right? Front, rear, and side door.”

“Yes. I—” Her shaky words were cut short by the sound of skin slamming skin, and then the poignant sound of Emilie sobbing.

“I told you to give me the phone,” Joe snapped. He’d regained control. “Now you better stop crying before I teach you another lesson. And you, partner. What are you looking at?”

Nathan felt sick. He shouldn’t have pushed the issue. “Joe, come on, man. Talk to me. Don’t worry about them.”

“Told you I was in charge.” Joe panted like an overweight dog. “She’s talking to you about her cat like we got all damned day, and my partner’s hanging on her. He’s the reason we’re still stuck here.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Told you! We was supposed to be in and out with the money, but he took too long in the vault. Like we’re on a Sunday stroll. Next thing I know you assholes are outside. You getting me a car or what, kid?”

“We’re working on it.” Guilt swarmed Nathan. Hopefully Chris could get eyes and see how badly Emilie was injured.

“Get it done. Otherwise I’ll have to ignore my partner and go play with Red. She’s a pretty thing, even with a bruised up face. Curves in all the right places, dark-red hair, nice skin. Smells good too.”

Nathan gritted his teeth but didn’t take the bait. “Joe, I’m going to talk to my boss now and see what I can do about getting you out of there. I’ll call back in twenty minutes. Will you answer the phone?”

“Maybe. I might be busy with Red.”

“That definitely wouldn’t help your cause, man.” He barely managed to keep his voice even. “Gotta think about the future here, Joe.”

“Just get me out of here.”

The line went dead. Nathan spoke into his shoulder mic. “We’ve got to get eyes in there now. This guy’s a loose cannon, and I want to know how bad the branch manager’s hurt.”

“Tech says five minutes,” Johnson said. “Sounds like Joe busted her one. What’s your plan?”

“Keep him talking. He’s edgy and impatient. I don’t think he’s made for the long haul.”

“What about the partner?”

“He’s the one I’m worried about.”

2

C
RAZY
J
OE HUNG
up the phone and resumed his pacing. His footsteps ground the shards of security camera glass into the expensive tile floor.

Cheek throbbing and blood oozing on her already swelling lip, Emilie drew her knees to her chest. The creepy, silent partner had bolted to his feet as soon as Joe leveled her, practically dragging her back to sit next to him.

None of this made sense. Crazy Joe had rushed around, trying to get the money and get out, while this man hovered, as if the police wouldn’t be here any second. The men had to have expected authorities would be alerted. Why had he stalled? Did he want to be trapped inside? With her?

She swallowed back the scream and kept her eyes on the floor, trying not to be hyperaware of the quiet man’s steady, almost serene breathing. Trying not to cry, she stretched her cheek and jaw. She didn’t think it was broken.

Why had she brought up Otis? Her landlord knew she had the cat. Someone would take care of him if the worst happened. She’d wasted the negotiator’s time and paid for it.

Joe stomped across the lobby. The sole of one of his boots had come loose and flapped against the floor as he walked. Creepy turned to watch him. Emilie studied her captor. His nondescript black boots were new, and the scent of floral fabric softener clung to his clothes. Completely relaxed, he hummed a soulful tune, moving his head to the beat. He was nothing like his fidgety colleague, who looked and smelled like he’d just crawled out of a dumpster.

Creepy caught her staring. He held her gaze. “I’m sorry he struck you.”

She said nothing.

“Did you like the flowers?”

Shock exploded in her head and slithered down to her feet. “Excuse me?”

“The lilies, did you like them?” His looked at the vase sitting on the kiosk. “Casablanca lilies mean ‘celebration.’ A perfect flower for today’s occasion.” His carefully controlled voice slipped, and Emilie heard the slightest of accents. She couldn’t place it.

“You sent those lilies?” Nausea built in Emilie’s stomach. Casablancas meant only death to her. And now, unrelenting terror.

“Yes. Did you like them?”

A scream clawed its way up her throat. The flowers weren’t a mistake. This man, this freak posing as some kind of old-fashioned gentleman, had sent them to her. How had he known of her love for William Blake?

Emilie swallowed her building panic. She had to stay calm. “They were lovely.”

His eyes turned up—he was definitely smiling. “I knew you would. Those were just the beginning, Miss Emilie. Just the beginning.”

*   *   *   *

“
W
E’VE GOT EYES,”
Chris said.

Nathan flipped his mic back on. “What do you see?”

“Hostages are in front of the teller counter. Joe’s pacing the lobby. Looks like he’s packing a standard nine mil. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. Might have another weapon stashed.”

“What about the other guy?”

“He and Davis are separated from the others. This feed sucks. Looks like she’s got a little blood on her face, but she’s conscious.”

“You sure it’s her?”

“Got a copy of her driver’s license right here.”

Johnson’s voice came over the radio. “You think she’s in on this?”

“I don’t think so,” Chris said. “She’s got her head in her hands, rocks back and forth sometimes. Looks like she’s pretty scared. Unless she’s a damned good actress and doesn’t mind getting whaled on.”

“So why does the other guy have her separated from the rest? Just because she’s the manager, or are we missing something?” Nathan stared at the bank’s front windows. He couldn’t stop thinking about Joe’s complaints of the partner hovering around Emilie. Instinct told him to move quickly. “We need to get a hostage out, find out exactly what’s going on.”

“Madigan, get back on the phone. Holt, you got audio yet?”

“Working on it.”

“Get it done.”

*   *   *   *

C
RAZY
J
OE STOOD
with the phone jammed against his ear shouting into it. “I ain’t releasing no hostage. They’re all we got to work with.”

Emilie shifted, her tailbone hurting from the tile floor. The man beside her moved as well, as if he thought they needed to be in sync. He’d never allow her to be released.

Did he intend to waltz out of the bank with her as his personal hostage? She’d seen things like that on television. The victim’s story never ended well.

“Did you know Las Vegas was founded as a city on May 15, 1905? Before then, this whole area was agricultural. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

Emilie stared at him. What kind of game was he playing?

“But the railroad came and changed everything, as it often did. One hundred ten acres of land between Main Street and Fifth Street—which is now Las Vegas Boulevard—were auctioned off.” He fiddled with his gloved left hand, turning what must be a ring.

Emilie focused on the tile floor and counted the blue flecks in the pattern. She thought back to the books she’d read about serial killers. The unimaginable fear the victims must have felt had always struck her, and she thought she’d have just died of fright on the spot. But it wasn’t that kind of fright. It didn’t shock her heart or quell her breath. It wound itself through her body like a boa constrictor, slowly squeezing out her will to stay calm.

“One of the city’s original buildings sat on this very spot: the Wildwood Hotel. Fifty rooms, a huge parlor, and a breakfast room. Very popular among the travelers riding the new rails.”

“Listen to me.” He laughed. “You must think I’m a boring well of facts. But I do love history. It’s such a vital part of who we are as a people and as a culture. Don’t you agree, Miss Emilie?”

Her lips pursed, fighting an inner battle. Common sense said to keep her mouth shut and not play his games, but her quick-tempered, irrational side wanted to demand answers.

“Miss Emilie, are you listening?”

“How could I not?” She chewed the inside of her cheek, pain shooting through her face into her eye. Talking to this man was stupid. It would only fuel his rambling nonsense.

“It’s fascinating, no?” He sounded pleased. Emilie finally peeked at the man.

Of course, he still regarded her like she was something to worship. “Now, after World War II, the Wildwood fell behind the times,” Creepy Guy continued. “It resurged in the eighties with new owners but just wasn’t glamorous enough. The hotel sat empty for several years before it was purchased by your bank.”

He messed with the ring again. “It’s a shame the city didn’t refurbish it. The Fremont Street Experience is nearby. The old hotel would have fit perfectly into the antiquated theme.”

Emilie wet her dry lips. If Creepy Guy wanted to talk, she’d oblige. Maybe she’d stay alive longer. “The place was falling down. It was an eyesore with cracked windows, rotting floorboards, and faded paint. Millions would have gone into repairing the place. Nobody wanted the burden.”

He leaned toward her. His hot breath leaked from the tiny pores of the facemask. “We know all about burdens, don’t we, Miss Emilie?”

She couldn’t speak. His tone was too familiar, kind. As if he felt sorry for her.

As if he knew.

“Now you listen to me,” Joe’s shouting turned deadly calm. “You want a hostage, you got one option.”

Nathan ended the call and turned to Sergeant Johnson.

Grim lines aged the man’s face. “What?”

“He says the only way he’ll release a hostage is if I come to the door and get him myself.”

Johnson snapped his head back and forth. “No chance. You know he’s going to try something.”

“We need a hostage.”