The Masked Truth (5 page)

As I creep over his way, Max smiles at me. The guy actually smiles, then says, jauntily, “Just cutting through the bull—”

“Sit. Down.” I stop beside him and lean over to whisper, “Are you trying to get us killed? They have guns.”

The smile broadens, his voice lowering, mock-conspiratorial. “Are you sure? Maybe we’re imagining it. We are a little nuts, after all.”

Something surges inside me. Something I haven’t felt in months, and it takes a moment to identify it. Anger.

“Sit the hell down,” I whisper, and to my shock, he does. I lower myself beside him, to make sure he stays there.

“Now,” X-Files says, “while most of you seem to understand the seriousness of the situation, let’s go over some basic rules. I promise I’ll keep them simple enough that even blondie there”—he nods at Brienne, who bristles—“can follow. Are you ready?”

His gaze travels over us, as if he’s waiting for agreement. I feel foolish, but I nod. Max mutters, “Get on with it,” but he has the sense to keep his voice low enough that only I hear.

“Rule one: if you do anything to piss me off, I’ll shoot you. Rule two: there is only one rule, and I just gave it. No excuses. No exceptions. How do you piss me off? Well, let’s keep that one simple too: if in doubt, don’t take a chance. We’re going to be here for a few hours. Get comfortable. With any luck, you’ll be home by midnight.” He looks at Max. “Well, except you, Maximus. I might shoot you just on principle. Or to save you from a lifetime with that name.”

Max doesn’t react to the insult or the threat. He does seem to be paying attention, though. Thankfully.

“Can I say something?” Aaron asks, and I wince.
Please don’t pull a Max. Please, please
.

“I don’t know,” X-Files says. “Can you? Seems like you can. I hear words coming out of your mouth.”

“
May
I say something?”

Good lord, this really is kindergarten.

“That’s better. And the answer is no.” X-Files starts to
turn away, then says, “Oh, all right. But remember the rules and don’t think I won’t shoot you just because you’re valuable. Well, no. Actually, I won’t. You, Mr. Highgate, would get this.” He pulls a blade from his pocket. “You have ten fingers, ten toes and other optional body parts that you might value even more. Piss me off and you lose one of them. My choice. Now ask your question.”

“I’m the star here, right?” Aaron says. “The rest are just extras?”

“That is correct.”

“Which means you won’t get nearly as much money from their families, because they don’t exactly hang out in the same social circles as mine.”

“Whoa, get a grip on that ego, mate,” Max says. “If it inflates any more, it’ll burst.”

Aaron turns toward him. “You might not like what I’m saying, but it’s the truth. How many of you guys showed up tonight in a chauffeured car?”

“How many of us would
want
to?” Max says.

“The point”—Aaron turns back to X-Files—“is that they aren’t worth a fraction of what I am. Therefore they shouldn’t need to go through this just because
my
dad’s an asshole one-percenter. I’m asking you to let them go.”

X-Files laughs.

“I’m serious,” Aaron says. “My dad can get you seven figures with one phone call. Their families would be scrounging all night to get you five. It’s not worth the hassle. This will be much easier for you if you’ve got only one kid to handle.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Aaron. Very thoughtful. And the answer is: hell, no. Do you know why?”

After a moment of silence, X-Files turns to me. “Miss Riley Vasquez, answer my question.”

I blink. “What?”

“Wrong answer. Come on, girl. You’re a cop’s daughter. And, yes, I know exactly who we have with us tonight. Miss Riley here is quite the local celebrity. Her dearly departed daddy was a detective, formerly a member of the local SWAT team, which, with any luck, is pulling up out front as we speak. Tell me, Miss Riley, why will I not let you all leave?”

“Because you’re a tosser?” Max says, and I shoot him a glare.

“You need backup hostages,” I say. “It’s not about the money. You …” My heart thumps so hard I can’t get the rest out. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the one to put it into words.

“Come on, Miss Riley.” X-Files moves forward, waving the gun, and my gaze locks on that.

My blood rushes in my ears, voices coming as if from a mile away, barely penetrating, and Aaron’s telling him to stop, leave me alone, and X-Files makes some mocking reply and then Max says, “You can’t kill Aaron.”

“What’s that, Maximus?” X-Files swings the gun from me and a hand squeezes my arm and I jump to see Maria there, giving me a strained smile.

“You can’t let us go,” Max says, “because you need someone you can kill. It can’t be Aaron. So we’re cannon fodder.”

“What the hell?” Gideon scrambles to his feet and looks ready to go after Max until Aaron grabs his arm. Gideon throws Aaron off and says, “Did you hear what he said? You’re trying to get us out of this, and
he’s
trying to get us killed. Giving them ideas.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate. I’m giving them ideas, because that’s not what they’re thinking at all.”

“Max is right,” I say as I rise. “They need us to be the stick and the carrot. If things go well, they can release one of us.”

“And if they don’t, we shoot you,” X-Files says. “Well done, Maximus and Miss Riley. At least we have two kids with brains. Which is more than I can say for Mr. Highgate, but that’s what one expects of rich brats, isn’t it?”

As we sit, I whisper to Aaron, “Thank you. For trying.”

He frowns as if the suggestion that we be released was so obvious it doesn’t require comment. It does, though. He offered to take this all on himself—let eight strangers leave him to bear the brunt of the kidnappers’ wrath and frustration if their plan doesn’t go well. It’s not what I expected from him.

“The next thing—” X-Files begins. Then his cell phone rings. He takes it out and smiles at the screen. “Well, well, it seems we’ve made first contact.” He clicks the speaker button and answers the phone with “Good evening. To whom am I speaking?”

“Agent William Salas,” a deep voice says. “I’ll be working with you to resolve this matter.”

“Ooh, I score the hostage negotiator from the first call. Excellent. That will save us some time. I’m the party host tonight, and that’s all you need to know about me. My guests are far more important. Let’s get them to say hi. We’ll start with you.” He points to Maria. “State your name for the nice policeman.”

“Maria Lawrence,” she says, and we continue across the room.

Everything’s going fine. At least, as fine as one might expect from a hostage negotiation. Outwardly, I think I seem calm enough. Inwardly, everything’s equally quiet … if you don’t count that little girl at the back of my brain, running in circles, shouting, “We’re all going to die! Die!”

I’m a little concerned about how well I’m ignoring that girl. Just like I’ve been concerned about how well I handled the Porters’ deaths. I suppose the fact that I’m spending the weekend in therapy camp suggests I’m not handling it well at all, but I think I’d feel more normal if I spent my days huddled in bed, sobbing and seeing their bloodied bodies every time I close my eyes. This emptiness feels callous. The anxiety and the depression feels selfish, as if a horrible tragedy befell Darla and her parents and all I can think is “me, me, me.” I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I jump at every noise. It’s all about me.

Now, having been kidnapped, I should be a wreck. Instead, after I managed to rouse myself a couple of times, I only feel more numb than ever. As if tragedy is my new life. As if it’s all I can expect. The temptation to giggle at that is almost overwhelming. First my father gets shot in the line of duty. Then I’m in the house when my babysitting clients are
shot to death. Finally I get taken captive—by armed men—in the therapy camp that’s supposed to help me deal with all that trauma. Ironic, huh? Not piss-my-pants terrifying. Not even but-it-isn’t-fair self-centered. Just ironic.

As for the others, all I know is that they’ve gone quiet, and with nothing to break through my numbness, I don’t rouse myself enough to look around. They’re in shock or they’re silent with terror or they’re calmly waiting for the next step, because that’s all they can do, all anyone can do. At least they aren’t causing trouble anymore. That’s what counts.

The hostage negotiator is asking questions. X-Files takes the phone off speaker and walks out of the room. Before he goes, he says, “You kids get a little more comfy. Talk about cute boys and cool movies and hot music and whatever else teens natter on about these days. Just don’t let the word ‘escape’ leave your mouths. My guys have good ears and itchy trigger fingers.”

After he leaves, there’s two minutes of silence. Then Aimee stands and clears her throat and says, “I think we should—”

“Oh, wait,” Brienne says, rising. “Are you still here? Didn’t they drug you guys or something?” She looks from Aimee to Lorenzo. “I was sure you two must have been sedated, because otherwise you’d have taken charge. Calmed us down. Told us it would be okay. Got in Max’s face when he started mouthing off.”

“I told Max—” Aimee began.

“You said his name. That’s not exactly taking charge. Riley had to handle it. Then Aaron had to handle Gideon. You two just kept your mouths shut and hoped no one noticed you. I think there are some blankets in the corner. Should we grab a couple so you can hide under them?”

My hands begin to shake. I watch her telling them off, and all I can think about is that afternoon at the Porters’, how I did exactly that. I kept my mouth shut and prayed that
the intruders wouldn’t notice me. I let them kill two people and did nothing, because it kept me alive.

Coward
.

That’s what Brienne was calling Aimee and Lorenzo, for doing exactly what I’d done. No one says that to me. No one dares. But I want them to. I dream that someday I’ll meet Darla again and she’ll do exactly what Brienne is doing: call me out as a coward. It’s a nightmare, but it’s a fantasy too, and in the dream I break down in a puddle of regret and self-hate and relief. Thank God someone finally said the word. Thank God someone finally saw me for what I am.

Not a hero. A coward.

I clench my fists, trying to stop trembling. Then I glance up to see Max, right beside me, watching.

I turn away fast.

“Brienne,” I say, and my voice trembles too.

Luckily, Aaron takes over, saying, “That’s not helping, Brienne. If those two aren’t taking charge, screw them.” He turns to me. “So your dad really did stuff like this? Hostage negotiations?”

I nod.

“Can you walk us through it? What to expect?” He shoots a look at Max. “You can leave out the part about what happens if we mess up. I think we all get that.”

“Except you,” Gideon says to Aaron. “They won’t kill you.”

“They will if my dad doesn’t pony up.”

“Can we stop this?” It’s Sandy. She hasn’t said a word until now, and she looks like she’s about to throw up. “Can we stop bickering?”

“Riley?” Lorenzo says. “If you can walk us through it, that might calm some nerves. Tell us what to expect.”

“But you don’t have to,” Brienne adds quickly. “I know this must be harder on you than anyone else.”

“How do you know that?” Gideon says. “It might be easier for her. At least she’s been through something like this.”

“Which is why she’s here, jerk-off.
Dealing
with it. She watched people
die
. That doesn’t just go away. It’s called post-traumatic—”

“I’m okay,” I cut in. “I’ll explain for anyone who wants to listen. If you’d rather not, just move over there, and I’ll keep my voice down.”

No one leaves. I explain that there will be two main people out there: the commander and the negotiator. The commander is in charge of the SWAT team, leaving the negotiator to deal with our captors. The first thing Agent Salas will do is gather information. Some of that comes from X-Files and some from the officers on the team, trying to get a sense of the building and where we’re located inside it and so on.

With X-Files, we aren’t dealing with a mentally ill guy who randomly grabbed some kids. He knows what he is doing, so negotiations will proceed rationally, meaning there is little danger he’ll suddenly start shooting us for no reason. He’ll make his demands and Agent Salas will chip away at them while the team tries to figure out if there is a safe way to infiltrate the building.

I’m still talking when X-Files returns.

“All right, kiddies,” he says, in that smarmy, I’m-such-a-clever-boy way that grates on my nerves. “Remember how Miss Riley said we might let a few of you go, as an act of goodwill? Wrong. Well, okay, not entirely wrong. One of you lucky children gets to go home in time to enjoy your evening. Negotiator Will is playing nice, and so will we.”

Gideon jumps to his feet. “I have asthma.”

“And I’m sure you didn’t come to sleepover camp without your inhaler. Sit down, boy.” X-Files paces in front of us and stops at Max. “I’d really like to let you go, because you’re a pain in the ass. But if I do that, then all your therapy
buddies here will give me grief, hoping it’ll buy their ticket out. You stay. However, you are on the top of list number two: kids I’ll shoot if Negotiator Will misbehaves.”

Max doesn’t seem the least perturbed. Hell, he doesn’t seem to have even heard. He is paying attention, though, watching X-Files,
studying
the man, frowning slightly, as if he needs to read lips and he’s not quite managing. It’s enough to make me wonder if he has a hearing problem. It might explain the lack of attention and the smart-ass comments to cover it up.

“Who’s the lucky one, then?” X-Files says.

There’s a moment of silence, and I want to say Sandy. She looks closest to breaking, and given that she just survived a suicide attempt, she really doesn’t need this. But before I can suggest her, Brienne says, “It should be Riley. Like I said, this is going to be harder on her than anyone, after what happened with … well, before.”

“She’s right,” Aaron says. “Plus it looks good. People know who she is. She’s, like, a local hero.”