Amber Morn (22 page)

Jack signaled for Harley to go. He reversed the van up Second along the right curb and stopped within inches of the Wicksell truck’s rear bumper. The APC now provided cover for occupants of the van should anyone run out of Java Joint and fire diagonally down Second.

With the two vehicles in place, Jack headed for the mobile command post. From inside he would watch all points of action on multiple monitors, communicating with his men via radio. The three snipers remained in their rooftop positions.

Jack disappeared into the mobile unit, then radioed. “Everybody set?”

Lightning radioed back. “Goose and Lightning ready.” “Swank and Frenchie ready.”

“Dust-up ready.”

“Harley ready.”

“Okay,” Jack answered. “Chief Edwards, we’re set.”

“Got your vehicles on Second in sight.” Vince’s voice filtered back. “I’ll tell Wicksell you’re coming.”

Roger looked to the two men who would follow him, providing cover. Lightning’s helmeted head wagged back and forth, black-gloved hands cradling his M4. Goose — surely called that because of his beaklike nose and beady eyes, pointed up Lake-shore. “Heave ho.”

Roger placed his hands on the TV table and began to push.

FIFTY-TWO

Lenora Wicksell peeked through the dusty blinds she’d yanked down over the kitchen windows. The reporter was still there — in her
backyard
. How dare he trespass on her property! But what could she do — call the police? As if they’d care.

No need to look through the shades on the front windows — she already knew two other reporters had set up camp practically on her porch. Another man and a woman. They’d called her name, rung her doorbell who knew how many times. And phoned her. Over and over. Every time she’d answered, then banged down the receiver.

She couldn’t afford not to answer. What if it was Kent calling?

Her pail of dirty water, brush, and cloths stood where she’d left them by the baseboards. No desire to touch them now. Even with the blinds closed, she imagined the TV camera somehow filming right through the slats, catching her on both knees, scrubbing. She could hear the lead-in to the story now:
Wife cleans kitchen while her husband holds a dozen people hostage
.

They would never understand.

As if sensing her presence, the backyard reporter turned, caught her eye. “Mrs. Wicksell, Mrs. Wicksell!” He lurched toward the window, thrusting out his microphone. She jerked back and dropped the blind.

Lenora stood before the dirty dishes in her sink, palms together, fingers pressed to her mouth. Nowhere to go. No one to turn to. A prisoner in her own home.

The sound of a car out front. Her shoulders slumped. Another reporter come to torment her.

She heard the voices of the two reporters who’d already staked out their territory. And a new man: “Is Lenora Wicksell in there?”

“Yes.” The male reporter. “But she’s not talking to us. Who are you?”

“A friend? Relative?” The woman.

“What can you tell us about Lenora Wicksell?”

“Sorry, I can’t talk to you now,” the new arrival said. “I’m here to see Lenora.”

Who
was
this? One of Kent’s friends? She didn’t recognize the voice.

Lenora slipped into the den and muted the TV, then sidled toward the front door. Cocked her head, listening. Rapid footsteps climbed the porch steps. Stopped.

Loud banging on the door. She jumped.

“Lenora Wicksell! Please let me in!” The voice sounded desperate, driven. “Please. I’m not a reporter. I need to talk to you about your husband.”

He knew something about Kent?

Was this a trick? What if she opened the door and the reporters barreled inside?

“Lenora,
please
.” The voice muffled, as if he cupped his hands around the door to keep the reporters from hearing. “I was there this morning. I saw Kent and your sons. Please let me in.”

Before she knew it, Lenora found herself at the door. She threw back the bolt, stood aside, hidden from any outside cameras, and opened the door a few feet. The man hurried through. On the porch the reporters clamored. Lenora slammed the door and rebolted it.

She and the man faced each other, breathing hard, in the dingy entryway.

FIFTY-THREE

Vince focused on the monitor as he connected to Wicksell. The helicopter camera fixed downward on a waiting Main Street and the CRT members on Second and Lakeshore. The view seemed surreal, as if Vince were playing some video game.

If only.

Tension bunched his shoulders, hardened the muscles in his neck. Five minutes, that was all. Five minutes, and those two girls could be right there in the station, safe.

Justin leaned forward in his chair across the desk, headphones on, pen and notebook ready. His gaze, like Vince’s, was glued to the aerial shot. He looked as nervous as Vince felt. Larry stood four feet away, arms crossed, chewing on his lip.

The tac radio sat nearby on the desk, ready to grab if needed. Its volume was turned low so Wicksell couldn’t hear any CRT communications through the phone.

Wicksell answered on the first ring. “Yeah.” His voice sounded tight. Anxious.

“We’re set. TV’s just started on its way. You’ll hear the knock in about two minutes.”

“’Bout
time
.”

“I’ll stay on the phone with you.” “Whatever.”

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah, now it is. We just got a lot goin’ on.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No
. Just get your man here.”

“Understood.”

Vince watched Roger pushing the TV as the camera panned in on him a third of the way up Second Street. Two CRT members escorted him, one in front, one in back.

“It won’t be long until the reporters read T.J.’s story, right? That’s what you said.” Wicksell’s tone had hardened.

“Right. As soon as you’re ready and we give them the go-ahead.”

Wicksell heaved a sigh.

“You all right, Kent?”

“I’m fine — stop bugging me. Just want this to be done with.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You’d better come through on this, Edwards. You’d better come through, or things are gonna get real bad around here.”

“I’ll come through, Kent. I don’t want anyone in there getting hurt.”

Roger passed the alley, midway up Second, then pushed on, the APC and waiting van on his right.

Wicksell made a sound in his throat. “Cops ain’t exactly been our friends, know what I mean? They’re the ones arrested T.J. Cops, lawyers — we ain’t been able to trust any one of them.”

Vince had the impression Wicksell was talking just to fill dead air. “You wrote your letter to me, Kent. You reached out to me. You must have thought I could be trusted.”

“Who else would I talk to? You’re the head of this town. I seen what you done for it in the last two years. Figured you could make things happen for my son.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do right now.”

The CRT member in front of Roger reached the corner of Second and Main. He checked around the building, then signaled to Roger an all clear. Roger turned left — alone. The CRT members hung back, just beyond the corner of the building. Vince could see the two frontal snipers on rooftops, covering Roger.

Wicksell exhaled. “Just know I got my gun in my hand. I see anything through that door I shouldn’t see, we’re gonna have trouble.”

“You’ll see a television, Kent. That’s it. Right now —”

“Where
is
that guy?”

Vince kept his voice calm. “He’s almost to your door. Any second now.”

“If he don’t —” Wicksell cut off abruptly. “He just knocked.” The phone muffled. Wicksell’s command was hurled at someone in the café. “Don’t move! I’ll open the door.”

The clack of plastic against wood. Wicksell had put down his receiver.

Vince reached for his radio and turned up the volume.

FIFTY-FOUR

Ali stood near the door, Brittany clinging to her from behind. She could feel Brittany shaking. Ali brushed a hand across her face. Her muscles were tight enough to break. And her heart was fluttering.

She thought of her parents. Did they know she was coming out? Were they okay? How soon would she see them? She wanted to fly straight into their arms. Just picturing their faces made her legs weak.

Her eyes were going crossed from staring at the door. As if the harder she stared, the quicker the man with the TV would come. She closed her eyes, took a long, slow breath. Kent was talking on the phone to Chief Edwards. What was taking so long? Every second seemed like forever. If this fell through now, if she and Brittany had to go back to their seats at that table, Ali would come totally unglued. Now that they were this close…

Please, God, get us
out
of here.

Specks of dust mixed with the stifling air and swirled into Ali’s nose. She hiccupped, then sneezed.

She needed water. Why didn’t she drink the rest of her bottle when she had the chance? Her body felt so hot. She needed to
breathe
.

Two hard knocks banged on the door. Ali nearly jumped a foot.

“Don’t move!” Kent commanded. “I’ll open the door.”

He tossed down the phone, picked up his gun, and strode over. Ali and Brittany shrank from him. He stank from sweat, and the evil around him felt like a live beast ready to pounce.

“Move!” Kent pushed her shoulder.

She and Brittany shuffled back farther.

Kent undid the locks with his left hand, gripped the handle. Cautiously, he opened the door, the muscles in his arms and neck tense. His head disappeared as he stuck it in the opening. Ali saw the movement of his body as he turned his head right and left, surveying the street.

All of a sudden somebody outside spoke. A man’s voice. “Okay, Kent, there’s your TV. Where are the girls?”

“Yeah, yeah, just checkin’ things out first.”

Kent pulled his head back inside, grabbed Ali’s arm, and yanked her forward. “Go! And you behind her.” He turned hard eyes on Brittany, then stood with feet apart and aimed his gun at them.

Ali didn’t look back. Heart beating in her throat, she squeezed through the foot-wide opening.

Air and bright light hit her like two fists. Her eyes squinted shut. The fresh, clean,
breathable
air. It swarmed into her nostrils, down to her lungs, almost too much to take. Was this what good air felt like? The café had been a dungeon.

She fumbled a blind step, then forced her eyes open. Directly in front of her, on the sidewalk near the curb, sat a TV on a table.

The air made her feel all dizzy. Her brain lifted right out of her head. Waves of joy at being rescued surged through her, so strong she was going to drown.

Maybe this wasn’t really happening. Maybe she was back in the café, dreaming.

The happiness melted away.

Ali wobbled. Her muscles turned soft.

Brittany ran into the back of her.

To her right — a man. He was reaching for her, saying something, but she couldn’t hear for all the blood pounding in her ears. Her thoughts gummed up. What now? Where should she go?

The man gripped her arm. “This way, hurry. Hang on to each other.”

A fog covered Ali’s brain. Her thoughts got lost in it.

Go, girl. Breathe. Run
.

She tried. Hard. Were those her legs?
Somebody’s
legs were running beneath her. She felt Brittany’s hand in hers, heard the stomps of their feet and her own heartbeat. The man half pulled them up the sidewalk. They were almost to the curb…

Sudden panic clawed at her.

Where was Kent surely he was following he would grab them both and force them back inside he wasn’t really going to let them go, he would never let them…

Ali’s vision clouded.

Those legs under her. She couldn’t feel them anymore. Brittany’s hand fell out of hers. The running man turned and caught hold of Brittany. Ali stumbled. Swayed to her left. She felt the horrible sensation of one heel on the sidewalk, her toes in empty air…

The curb
.

Ali fell.

She hit the pavement hard on her left hip. Her hand scraped. Burning pain shot through her palm and one ankle.

“Go, I’ve got her!”

Who was that some other man’s voice —

Somebody gripped her hard. Pulled her up.
No, no, it’s Kent!

“Come on, get around the corner!”

Her bleary eyes saw this
thing
a person all clad in black with a big gun helmet on his head pulling her up the curb down the sidewalk. He gripped her
hard
.

She ran blindly.

“Hey!”

Kent’s voice. That
was
Kent, behind her, coming to get her… Running down the street, bricks on her right — the side of a building.